Title: Profiler or Prophet  01/07
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R - language and violence
Category: SA
Spoilers: None
Keywords: M/S UST; M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.  
Feedback: Yes!  Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc.  They are wonderfully 
brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and 
Mitch Pileggi.  I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox 
if they sue me, for I am exceedingly poor and have nothing material 
they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought 
to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire!
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/

Summary: A case file appears on Mulder's desk and he is
drawn into a stalled murder investigation; one that puts 
someone close to him at risk.


Profiler or Prophet  01/07

Monday
0800 hours

"Good morning, Mulder," Scully said as she walked into
the office Monday morning.  She paused by her desk, 
setting briefcase and coffee down, then looked more
closely at the man.  He was staring at a dog-eared
folder that lay open on his desk, his bottom lip held
tight between thumb and forefinger.  Papers and photos
had overflowed the folder and lay strewn in what 
appeared to be a haphazard fashion across his desk.
But Scully knew her partner, and when he was on 
the hunt, there was nothing haphazard about anything
he did.

She studied him for a long moment, noting that he
had yet to return her greeting.  He stared dully at
whatever he was reading, and she could see the dark,
bruised looking rings that circled his normally bright
eyes.  There was a glazed look to his eyes now, worry
and lack of sleep making their presence known.  His
hair was disheveled and his face bore more thn a day's
stubble of new growth beard.  She furrowed her brow 
as she took in his sweat-stained shirt and rumpled suit.
Her eyes suddenly widened and she drew in a sharp
breath.  Was that the same suit he had worn Friday?

She took one last look around, searching for signs
of food and drink.  Empty styrofoam coffee cups
from the machine down the hall littered the desk 
and surrounding floor, many in little pieces.  None
of this boded well for the near future.  Sleep-deprived,
unable to eat, working on dehydration, and totally
focused on *something,* this was Mulder on a tear
at his worst.

She walked over to his desk and gently laid her
hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump, then
look up guiltily at her.  "Geez, Scully, give a guy
a heart attack, why don't you?" he groused.

"Mulder, I've already spoken, and I've been here
over five minutes, so don't give me that."  She 
took a moment to study him up close, then said,
"You look like shit, Mulder," as she rubbed his back
in a tiny little circle.

He nodded and said, "Yeah, well, that's about what I
feel like."  His eyes drifted across the room and he
noted the steaming coffee on her desk.  "Fresh?" he
asked with a nod at the cup.

She followed his gaze, then shook her head.  "From 
the looks of you, more coffee is the last thing you need."
When he started to rise, she exerted a slight pressure,
and he acquiesced, remaining in his seat.  "Have you
been here all weekend?"

He nodded, then folded his arms over the papers on
his desk and wearily lay his head down.

"Sleep?"

He shook his head marginally.  "I was working," he
mumbled.

"Did you remember to eat?"

He looked up briefly, a quizzical expression on his 
face as if he didn't understand the question, or had 
no clue to its answer.

She shook her head.  "Never mind."

His head dropped again and he let out a barely audible
sigh.

"What," she gestured at the desk, "is this all about?"

He sighed again, a bit more loudly, and pulled himself
back up to sit, slouching back in the chair this time.  He
closed hi eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "VCS."

"Kersch loan us out and forget to tell me?" she asked
tartly, one eyebrow arched over a piercing blue eye.

He shook his head.  "Kersch doesn't know."  He frowned
as if just realizing the import of what he had said.  His 
eyes popped open again and he stared up at her.  "At
least I don't think Kersch knows."  His hand came up
and he scrubbed at his face.  "After you left Friday,
I was ready to go.  I went down the hall to the little agent's
room, and when I came back to get my coat, I found this."

"And *this* is?" she prompted gently.

"Case file.  Murders in Virginia.  Norfolk field office is
in charge."

"How'd it get to you?"

He shrugged.  "I wasn't going to look."  He lifted his
eyes again, pleading with her to believe him, and then 
smiled slightly when she nodded.  "I only opened it to 
take a peek, but this fell out."  He picked through the 
pictures on his desk, finding the one he was looking for, 
and passed it to her.  He waited a moment, then nodded
grimly when a gasp escaped her.

She looked at him, then back at the picture again, 
morbid fascination making it impossible not to keep
staring at the photo in her hand.  "Is it - I mean, did
you ..."  Her voice drifted away, as if she was unsure
or unable to form the question.

"No, it's not him.  I called him."  Mulder gave a tight
laugh.  "He really thinks I'm nuts now, calling to check
up on him."

"Then -- who?"

Mulder shrugged again.  "They're all like that.  Same
general appearance, same build.  That one was the most
striking."

"So?"

"So, there have been five of them.  And Norfolk isn't 
anywhere close to ending it.  They are so far off the map,
it's amazing any of them can find their way to the office
in the morning."  He snorted in disgust, then rose to pace.

"Mulder, there isn't anything you can do about this,"
she said warningly.  "You know how Kersch feels about
you."

"You think I haven't thought about that?" he said, snapping
the words at her.  "It's just about all I thought about all 
weeked."

She arched her brow again.  "I hardly believe that."

He flushed, then smiled sheepishly.  "Well, I did consider
it."  He took several steps toward her, arms reaching out, then
falling uselessly to his sides.  "I was actually thinking it
could be a good thing."  He smiled again.  "You know --
Kersch could be my ticket out of this.  There's no way he's
going to turn me loose on this."  He turned away and began
his pacing pattern again.  "In addition to reading through
that," he pointed at the folder again, "I've spent the weekend
trying to find a way to avoid doing this."  He whirled and 
slammed a fist on the desk.  "Damn it all!  It's the resemblance
that makes it so hard to walk away."

He lifted his hand again, fist clenched, and Scully reached out
and snagged his arm before he could complete the move.  She
held him gently for a moment, then let him go.

He sagged visibly before her, and she hurriedly snaked an
arm around his waist and moved him back to his chair, 
pushing him down into it.  "Mulder, you have to get some
sleep.  You're into the fourth day now -- you know you can't
function like this."

"I can sleep on the plane."  He lifted eyes, haunted and full
of pain, then added, "I have to go, you know."

"I know," she said.  "*We* have to go."  She reached out
and cupped his face gently, her fingers tickling the scratchy
whiskers on his cheek.  "You need to clean up," she looked
pointedly at his three day old suit, "and take care of this,"
her fingers tugged the new beard softly, "and eat, then we'll
go."

"We're back to square one.  Kersch won't let me go."

"I'm going to Skinner."  She scooped the folder up, 
stuffing pictures into it as she spoke.  "He's still head of
VCS and he'll take your help and welcome it."

He started to rise, and she pushed him down again.  "No,
you stay here."  Her hand moved from his shoulder to his
chest, resting on his breastbone over his heart.  "You *stay*
here, you understand?" she repeated.  "The profile is
wrong, you say?"

He nodded glumly.

"And you have a diferent direction?"

He nodded again.

"All right.  That's all Skinner will need to authorize us."  She
wiggled her fingers against his chest, and when he glanced 
down, brought her hand up quickly, catching him gently on 
the chin.  "Gotcha," she whispered, and was rewarded with
a small laugh.  "Wait for me here.  He's always in early."

Mulder nodded and she strode away briskly.

*************************************************

Monday 
1430 hours

"You said you would sleep on the plane,"
Scully said, a slight accusation in her tone.

Mulder snorted.  "It's a 45 minute flight.  How
am I supposed to sleep?  Besides," he looked
up from the laptop keyboard and briefly shuffled
through papers that lay in the seat between them,
"I need to get this down so I can make sense to
the SAC.  They're already going to be pissed that
I'm involved."

"I know you, Mulder," Scully said, reaching out  
to still his frenetically bouncing knee.  "You 
already have it down.  You know what you're
looking for, or you wouldn't be here."

He nodded, still typing, then looked up to smile
slightly at her as she tightened her grip on his
leg.  "I may know, but I need to put it into a form
that others will believe.  They're not going to like
that my profile is 180 from what they have established."

The flight attendant walked up then, carrying two
bottles of juice.  Scully took them, thanked the man,
and turned back to Mulder.  "Put it up," she said.
"We're landing in about ten minutes, and I want you
to get some fluids down."

He stopped his tapping for a moment, taking in the
level of her determination, then sighed.  "I'm not
going to win this one, am I?"

"Nope," she said cheerfully.  "Either you close it up
and take a break, or I'll babble the last little bit of the
flight, making it impossible for you to concentrate
anyway.  I haven't told you about the latest video
we had of Matty, have I?"

He raised his hand in mock surrender, hit save, and
powered down the laptop.  Once folded and stowed 
in its carry bag, he reached out for the juce she still
held, took a long swig, then laid his head back against
the seat.  

She took a moment to gather up the papers from 
the seat next to him, tucking them back in the
dog-eared manila folder that was tucked between
cushion and arm rest.  When she looked back at
him, his mouth had fallen open and she could just
make out a gentle snore as he breathed.  She rescued
the juice from his loose grasp and finished packing
their belongings.  She'd fibbed a bit about the time;
if he stayed asleep, he'd get almost twenty minutes,
not the ten she had mentioned earlier.

She settled back in her seat, opened the folder, and
began to read the autopsies, making her own notes
on the reports and where they contradicted Mulder's
musings.  And where they agreed.

*******************************************

Monday 
1750 hours

"Why the hell do you think *that,* Mulder?"  Douglas
Leard was a ball of barely contained violence, and his
hand flew out and pounded the table before Mulder,
that containment gone for the moment.

"Doug, look," Mulder pleaded, "I didn't ask for this.
I didn't seek this out.  And I sure as hell didn't *want*
this!  But when the damn folder showed up on my 
desk, what was I supposed to do?"

"I don't believe any of that shit, Mulder!" Leard stormed.
"I don't know why you had to pick me as your latest
target for humiliation ..."  He was a big man, well over six 
feet tall, and heavily muscled.  He reached out and suddenly 
grabbed Mulder by the shirt, lifting him to his feet and 
slamming him against the wall of the small conference room.

Mulder closed his eyes, shuddering slightly as exhaustion
robbed him of the energy and the will for self-defense.
His eyes opened again when Scully rose to her feet and 
insinuated herself between him and Leard.  She knocked 
the bigger man's hand from Mulder's shirt then shoved 
hard against his chest.

"*I* don't know what the hell your problem is, Agent 
Leard, but whatever it is, get over it.  How Agent Mulder 
came to have the file is not important.  What is imprtant 
is that five men are dead and you don't have a clue as to 
how or why, and seem to be more concerned with your 
own image than with finding out what happened to your 
victims."

She dropped her hand as Leard took a step back, and the 
tension in the room ratcheted down a few notches.
Adopting a less confrontational but still firm tone now, 
she continued, "We are here at the direction of Assistant 
Director Skinner.  If you have any further objections to our 
involvement, take them up with him.  In the meantime, I 
expect only the most professional demeanor from you, or I 
will take that up with the AD.  Do I make myself clear?"  

The man stared at her for a moment, then nodded.  He paced
to the far side of the room and stood silently, then turned
and extended his hands placatingly.  He took a deep breath
and said, "Look, I'm sorry.  We've gotten off on the wrong
foot and it's my fault.  I'm frustrated by the lack of progress
on the case and I took it out on you both, inappropriately
I must add.  Can we start again?"

"Of course," Scully said smoothly, nudging Mulder, who 
nodded.  She took Mulder's arm and tugged him back
toward the table, stopping immediately when he began
to sag.  

"What's wrong with him?" Leard asked as he moved 
forward to help support Mulder.

"He was up all weekend working on your case.  I'd say
he's running close to four days with no sleep, and it's
catching up with him."  She pushed Mulder down into
the seat, then lifted his wrist and began to count silently.

"Scully, I'm OK," he said, as he tried to shake her hold
off.  

She shook her head and continued to take his pulse.
"You're exhausted, and you need to eat and sleep."
She shifted her focus from the second hand on her
watch and noted the time.  "It's almost 6:00.  What 
else do you have to do?"

He was silent, thinking.  "Have you finished reviewing
the autopsies?"

She nodded.  

"And?"

"I can find some substantiation for some of your
hypotheses, but not all of them."

Leard interrupted.  "You two work together all the
ime, and I'm sure you know what you're talking about,
but I don't.  Slow it down and run it by me, and use
complete sentences."

"I'm not sure we need to do all of this tonight, Agent
Leard.  And as I said, Agent Mulder needs sleep.  We
can do a full briefing for the task force in the morning."

"No, Scully, it's all right."  He smiled up at her, then 
pulled the chair next to him out.  "Sit.  I'm about to
announce to the whole task force that the bulk of their
work has been in the wrong direction.  Leard's been
in charge; he deserves to hear what I have to say in private."
Mulder stopped and began to cough, a dry, scratchy sound.

She nodded reluctantly, then sat.  "Agent Leard, can we
get some water, please?"

Leard ducked out into the hallway, and returned with
three bottles of water.  "Well, then Agent Mulder," the man 
said as he walked back to the table, "enlighten me on how
we've gone so wrong."

Mulder opened his bottle, took a long drink, then said, 
"Let's recap.  You've got five men, all with a single stab
wound through the heart, no other signs of violence.  All 
forty-five to fifty-five years old; all bald.  All found nude.
You've ended your similarities there."

Leard started to bluster again, and Mulder raised a hand.
"No, I can understand why.  Different ethnicities, different
jobs, different marital situations.  The other connections
are a bit more tenuous, but they're there.  You've also
proposed that the victims knew the perpetrator because there
was no sign of a struggle."

"And what do you propose?"

"Well," Mulder leaned back and his eyes glazed over slightly.
"All males, forty-five to fifty-five years old.  Bald.  Three
wore glasses, two wore contacts."  His voice was sliding into
that monotone that Scully recognized as detached, profiler 
Mulder.  "But maybe they were wearing glasses when they were 
targeted?"  It was a question, more to himself than his listeners.
"Ethnicity doesn't matter -- it's the build that's important.  They're
all big men, over six feet, muscular."  He directed a lance at
Leard.  "Good thing you have hair, Leard," he commented.

"He doesn't know them.  He just sees them and they're *right.*
They're what he's looking for.  They're all in positions of
authority, all important men."  Mulder's eyes slid closed, and
his breathing grew heavy.  Before he could slip away, Scully
grasped his arm, and shook him, forcing him to look at her.
She shook her head warningly, and he nodded.  "I think he
keeps them for a while before he kills them.  He's looking for
something, either questioning them or testing them."

"Why do you say that?" Leard was interested now, in spite
of himself.  What Mulder was saying did make sense.  At
least it was possible.

"The men were all last seen between 48 and 72 hours before 
the bodies were found.  But they were fresh kills when found."

"That doesn't prove abduction."

"Doesn't disprove it either," Mulder muttered.

"All right," Scully interrupted again, before another 
disagreement could develop.  "Are those the main points
for now, Mulder?"

He nodded wearily, and she rose.

"Agent Leard, Agent Mulder and I are going to our hotel.
We'll be back in the morning for the briefing -- 7:30?"

Leard nodded and a phone rang.  All three agents 
scrambled for their cellulars, and Leard emerged
triumphant.  He held his up, then opened it and spoke.
"Leard."  Scully and Mulder watched as the man's face
fell.  "Where?" he asked, then "We'll be right there."
There was another pause, then, "Yes, *we.*  Assistant
Director Skinner has detailed a profiler and forensic
pathologist to us.  They'll be accompanying me."
He closed the phone, then looked at Scully and Mulder.

"They've just found another body -- in Newport News
this time."

*******************************************

Monday 
1910 hours

Mulder was squatting by the body.  He looked up at
Scully, question in his face, and she nodded.  He reached
out and took the dead man's hand, looking closely at the
fingers.  "Here," he pointed, "and here.  These are 
abrasions if I ever saw any.  Any mention of this onthe
other reports?"

Scully was shaking her head.  "No, but you know that
Mulder."  She smiled fondly at him.  "You and your 
memory."

Mulder pointed again, this time to barely noticeable
marks on the powerful thighs.  "Here, too," he said,
nodding as if this confirmed something for him.

She bent and looked more closely.  "Maybe."

He nodded.  "It is.  You'll see."  He placed the 
man's hand on the ground, then shifted slightly.
His eyes narrowed as he took in the naked form
before him.  One hand reached out, touched the 
dried blood that marred the otherwise unmarked
chest.  His breathing deepened and he closed his
eyes, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"He's looking for someone.  Someone important.
They all look like him -- enough that the reminder
is there.  Color doesn't matter; it's the build, the
size, the position that's important."  Mulder's
palm was flat over the wound now, and he fell
forward, weight resting on his knees on the
dirty ground.  

"Mulder?" Scully called, growing concerned.
She tugged at his arm, and was relieved when
he looked up and focused on her.  "C'mon, now,
that's enough."

She pulled on him, and he rose obediently,
coming to his feet but refusing to move from
beside the body.  His eyes were glazed, and he
shivered.  One hand slid into his pants pocket 
and clenched around something there.

"He's looking for something, Scully.  He needs
something.  The men, they're a way for him to
meet his needs."  His voice was low and scratchy,
words rasped out between deep, gulping breaths.

"Mulder, not now, not here," she said quietly.
"Don't do this.  Don't let this do this to you."
But he was gone, lost in a place she could not
follow, and she could only wait for him to 
return.  She looked around, taking in the agents
who stood watching.  They were all keeping their 
distance, she noted.  Wouldn't do to get too close
to Spooky Mulder.  Even as they shifted uncomfortably
and whispered amongst themselves, their eyes,
every one of their eyes, were drawn repeatedly,
inexorably back to te profiler.  Morbid fascination
kept them riveted to this journey through the mind
of a madman.  Whether they believed Mulder or
not, whether they agreed or not, they all wanted
to hear, to be able to say, "I saw Spooky Mulder 
in action."

He was speaking again, and she dismissed the 
others from her mind, her total concentration now
on the man who stood swaying beside her.  She
wrapped an arm around his waist, and tugged,
but he was rooted in place.  "He's looking for --
Father?  The ultimate authority figure -- the father.
Father."  Mulder paused a moment, chewing his
bottom lip, "No, that's not right.  It just doesn't
feel right.  He's looking for -- Daddy.  Yes, Daddy.
Daddy was bad.  He hurt the boy.  And now, the
boy is grown.  The boy can hurt Daddy."  He turned
to her, his voice rising into the tones and cadence
of a small boy.  "Daddy died," he whispered.  "Daddy
died and left me."

Scully's eyes widened.  Left *me?*  She reached up
and took Mulder's chin in her hand, forcing his
eyes to meet her own.  "Mulder, enough," she
said sharply.  He shivered again, and she could
feel the cold stealing over him, sapping his strength
further.

"He put them in a box.  Daddy used to put the boy
in a box.  Small box.  For -- punishment?"  Mulder's 
eyes were closed, his thoughts far away in a madman's
mind.  "Sometimes punishment, sometimes discipline.
To teach control.  Self-control.  A man's gotta have
self-control.  But he was just a small boy and he
couldn't be in control all the time."  Mulder's breathing
had shifted from heaving gulps to small, shallow
puffs of air, drifting upwards into the night.  He
shivered once more, and Scully felt his muscles
clench as he struggled to remain upright.

"He could control himself when Daddy was alive,
but Daddy's gone now, and now there is no self-control.
He's making them pay because Daddy left him."
His eyes opened and he stared at Scully, almost
through her.  "He puts them in a box.  They fight --
the abrasions on the hands and legs.  He doesn't
want them to fight, butthey do.  Daddy wouldn't
like it -- no self-control.  He gives them time to
learn, to be quiet and discipline themselves, but they
cry, and call, and bang, and finally, he can't stand 
it anymore.  He opens the box, but they won't get
up.  He pulls and pulls, but they won't stand --
the box is so small and they've been in it so long,
they can't stand on their own.  But they have to,"
Mulder's voice was rising, growing louder, "they
have to," shriller, " they have to," hysteria creeping
in, "THEY HAVE TO STAND UP!"  The last was
roared upward into the night sky.  

He whirled, pulling from Scully's grasp and stepped
back on unsteady feet.  "They won't be quiet, they
won't stand, they won't learn."  His hand crept from 
his pocket, a knife just visible in his palm.  Scully
gasped, and cried, "Help me," as she leapt toward
him.

The knife popped open and Mulder clenched the 
blade, cold steel biting deeply into his hand.  Scully
had his wrist in one hand and was wrestling for the
knife, Mulder's blood flowing over them both.  "I
need some help here," she called again, and finally
agents were moving, stepping forward, grabbing
Mulder's arms.  His eyes rolled back in his head
and his legs gave out and he sank to the ground.  
She managed to pry his fingers apart, and another
agent plucked the bloody knife from Mulder's grip.

"Lay him down," she ordered, "and get my bag 
from the car."  Two agents stretched Mulder out
before her, and she could hear another one scurrying
off to the car behind her.  "Did anyone call 911?"
She had pulled his tie from around his neck and was 
using it to bandage his hand.

Around her, there was silence.  Agents and police
looked on in stunned disbelief.  

"Jesus Christ," Leard muttered, "what is he?  A
profiler or a fucking prophet?"

End part 01/07

Profiler or Prophet  02/07

Monday 
2025 hours

"I'm sorry, Agent Leard," the AD interrupted, "but could 
you repeat what you just said?"

"Which part?" Leard sneered.  "Where the wonder boy 
tells me my whole case is wrong?  Where he almost collapses
in the office?  Or where he freaks at the crime scene and
starts spouting off stuff he could not possibly know unless
he's the killer himself?"

Skinner's voice was cold as he spoke into the phone.  "The
part where you mention in passing that my agent -- the best
agent I have, I might add, was injured at your crime scene and
taken to the hospital."

Skinner could hear the other man swallow, and when he
spoke again, the sneer was gone.

"Mulder was taken to Riverside Hospital, Sir," he said
meekly.  "I understand he will be treated and released."

"Do you understand that *I* requested Agents Mulder
and Scully get involved in this case?"

"I thought Mulder just found te file on his desk," Leard
whined.

"Be that as it may, Agent Leard, when it was brought to
my attention that Agent Mulder was willing, *willing* 
mind you, to involve himself in this, I was quite pleased
and would think you would be too.  He was the top Bureau
profiler for several years, and no longer does that work.
That he was willing to take on your case, speaks to me
not of any lack on your part, but of his own desire to put
an end to these murders.  Are we clear on that, Agent
Leard?"

"Yes, Sir," Leard squeaked.

"Very good."  Skinner took a deep breath.  He hated 
dealing with dickheads like this.  "Now, where are my
agents staying?"

"Airport Hilton.  It's right down the road from the 
field office."

"I'm on the next flight from DC -- have someone meet me
at the airport at 11:30."

"You're," Leard swallowed hard again, "you're coming
down, Sir?"

"One of my agents has been injured, Leard."  Skinner 
paused.  "Yes, I'm coming down."  He closed the phone,
then quickly opened and dialed again.  

"One way to Norfolk, Virginia, from Dulles," he said.
"Next flight out."

****************************************

Monday 
2100 hours

"C'mon, Scully," Mulder whined, "make 'em spring
me.  I'm OK now."  She stood slightly behind him,
one hand laid loosely on his shoulder.  He looked up
into her eyes and added a silent entreaty to his
verbal plea.  

She tilted her head, one eyebrow up, and said, "Oh
really?  And passing out in front of a dozen FBI agents
and local cops is your idea of OK?"  She spoke sharply,
but her actions belied her words.  Her hand came up 
and brushed his hair from his eyes, resting gently
against his brow.

"Well, I didn't say I was OK then, just that I'm OK
now."  He smiled up as he spoke and was rewarded
with a slight quirk of her lips as she fought to hold 
back her own smile.

The emergency room doctor walked in then.  He reached 
for Mulder's hand, peeling back the gauze.  "All
right, sir, let's stitch this up and get you out of here."

Mulder gave Scully a smug smirk, but then his fae
fell as she cleared her throat and the doctor looked 
up at her.

"Yes?" he asked impatiently.

"I believe Agent Mulder is dehydrated, as well."

"And you are?"

"Agent Mulder's partner."  

The doctor had turned back to Mulder and was
preparing to stitch the wound in his palm.

"And why do you believe he's dehydrated?" the
man asked wearily.

"Well, the fact that he's had nothing to eat or drink
except coffee, a swallow of juice, and a half a bottle
of water in four days ..."

The doctor paused, looking up at her in disbelief.

"And then, there is the issue that he passed out when
he cut his hand."

"Traitor," Mulder muttered under his breath.  

The doctor narrowed his eyes and looked back at
Mulder.  "You didn't mention any of this in your
history."

"I didn't have to," he mumbled.  "I knew *she'd*
bring it up."

She laughed softly then, and squeezed his shoulder. 
"You're here, Mulder.  Might as well take care 
of everything so we don't have to come back."

The man looked back and forth between the two 
partners staring at one another.  He sighed.  "Fine.
I'm going to stitch this, then start an IV.  We'll
run a couple liters of fluid into you, then send you 
home.  With instructions.  You need to eat, sleep, 
and above all, drink plenty of liquids."  He took in
the slightly tense body language of the two, then added,
"Perhaps you'd like to get him a drink now, Miss ..?"

Her eyes were locked on Mulder's.  "Scully.  Dana 
Scully."  She shifted her focus and took in the doctor
who was staring at her.  "*Doctor* Dana Scully, and
I'll go get him a drink."  She looked back to Mulder.
"*You* stay here," she said, then turned and walked 
away.  

The doctor almost laughed as the tension seeped
out of his patient.  "She always like that?" he
asked conversationally.

"You have no idea," Mulder replied.

"Well, I have a suggestion."

"Yes?"

"Eat, sleep, drink plenty of fluids, and above all,
*be here* when she gets back!"

*****************************************

Monday 
2230 hours

"Scully, no more."  Mulder raied his hands in
entreaty.  "I'm gonna be up all night as it is.  With 
what they put in me at the hospital and all the liquid
you've been pumping into me, I'll be amazed if I don't 
float right out of the bed."

She smiled at him and put the juice on the table.
"All right, no more juice, but you have to sleep now,
OK?"  He was sitting on the bed, exhaustion oozing
from his pores.  She reached out and touched his
head, that wayward strand of hair seeming to draw
her attention more and more these days.  She pushed
it back, letting her hand linger on his brow a moment.

He had closed his eyes at her touch, letting himself
relax into her care.  When she withdrew, he forced
his eyes open, then pushed himself to his feet.  "I need
a shower," he said, smiling at her.  

He could see she wanted to veto him, but she caught 
herself, only saying, "Make it short, please?"

He nodded, then held out his hand for her to wrap in
plastic before he headed for the shower. 

She watched him go, shaking her head.  He had forgotten
she would be here waiting when he came out, and he hadn't
taken any clean clothes in with him.  She rummaged in his
bag, finding fresh boxers and a clean T-shirt, then knocked 
on the door.  At his surprised "Yeah?" she stuck her head in 
and left the clothes on the sink.  

"You forgot something," she said as she backed out of
the room.  

As she shut the door, she could just hear him mutter, 
barely audible above the flow of the water, "Yeah, you."
She smiled and pulled the door tight, then went back
to work on the files while she waited for Mulder to 
reemerge.

He came out a few minutes later, toweling his hair with
one hand, the plastic already stripped from his injured 
palm.

She closed the file she was reading and rose, saying,
"Here, let me do that."

He handed her the towel and sat on the bed so she could 
reach him.  She laid the towel over his head and began 
to rub gently.  Almost immediately, she could feel him
relax beneath her touch.  She continued tousling his
hair until it was nearly dry then let the towel fall and
began a light massage of his temple.  Her fingers ran
through his still damp hair, and he sighed softly, making
her smile.

"You know, Scully," he murmured, "you make it very
hard for me to stay angry about what you did at the 
hospital when you do -- ahhhh -- that."

"I don't want you angry; I want you asleep."  She removed
her hands and gently pushed him back onto the bed, 
helping to lift the covers and get him settled.

"I want to go in early tomorrow, Scully, there's still a
lot to do."

"You sleep 6 hours uninterrupted, Mulder, and we'll 
go in right then, OK?"

He snorted.  "At 4:30?  Yeah, right."

"I promise -- six hours and I'll drive you to the field office
myself."

He yawned despite himself.  "Shit.  I'll probably still be
dead to the world at noon tomorrow."  He threw an arm
over his eyes.  "God, I'm tired."

Scully turned the TV on, then muted it, not seeing the
smile that crossed his face as he realized how well she
knew him.  

"Sleep, Mulder," she said as she moved to the door
to her room.  "I want you to sleep."  

He turned his head slightly and stared at the open
doorway -- empty now.  She was in her room.  

"And I want you, Scully," he whispered to himself.
"I want you."

*****************************************

Monday
2320 hours

Scully turned in the bed, no longer fully asleep.  There
was a sound, a noise, nagging for her attention.  She
sighed and plumped the pillow, almost half-consciously,
knowing full well that 4:30 would come soon, and Mulder
would hold her to her promise.

Mulder!

She sat up in bed listening.  The sound was coming from
his room.  It was soft mewling, a tiny whimper that punctured
the stillness with increasing frequency.  She was amazed
she'd heard it.  She'd been awakened by Mulder in the
night before, but usually it was a full-fledged scream, a roar
of uncontrolled anguish that drew her shaking from her 
bed to race through the connecting door and find him
struggling wordlessly in his sleep, unable to wake, unable 
to free himself fom the night terrors that haunted him.

Never before had it been this helpless little cry, this almost
soundless plea.  Never before had he sounded so alone and
abandoned.  Terror she had seen.  Panic she could deal with.
Even his rages were familiar to her now.  But this, this was
something different, something new, and her heart broke to
think there were still unknown demons within him, rising
in the dark of night to torture his fragmented soul.

She slipped from her bed and made her way to his room.
In the flickering light of the TV, she could just make out
his form silhouetted under the bed sheets.  He was drawn
up into a ball, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs,
his forehead pressed against his knees.  He rocked minutely,
tiny little back and forth motions that barely stirred the
bed frame.  Tears streamed unhindered down his cheeks
and he drew breath in small little gasps interspersed with
the almost inaudible whimpers that had awakened her.

What the hell was happening to him?

She moved to the bed and sat, prepared to battle his 
demons and drag him back to the land of wakefulness.
But no battle was required, for when she settled next to 
him, her hip grazing his back, her hand resting on
his shoulder, he turned immediately, rolling over and
curling himself around her.  His head was in her lap, 
pressed tight against her abdomen, his arms circled
her waist, holding her in a steel-like grip, and his legs 
drew up behind her, adding their bit in holding her in 
place.  She could feel the T-shirt she wore growing 
damp beneath him, his tears soaking the thin cotton
material.

"Shhhh," she soothed, her hand stroking his hair, a
gesture now familiar from countless other nights spent
in just this type of arrangement.  She thought once more
how patently unfair it was that one man should bear 
enough pain for entire civilizations, and yet he still rose
each morning, still found reasons to smile and laugh, 
still fought valiantly for what he believed in.  

"Scully," he whispered, his voice low and gravelly
her name a hardly heard sough murmured into the
soft cotton of her shirt.

"I'm here, Mulder," she answered, her fingers
dancing lightly through his tousled locks.  "What
is it?"

He sniffed, and his shoulders hitched slightly,
his thin frame shuddering within her embrace.  She
wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly
and leaned over to rest her cheek against his hair,
murmuring comforting sounds into his ear.  As 
she continued to hold him, to stroke him, to pet
him, she could feel the tension slip away, and he
began to relax within her arms.  He loosened his
hold on her somewhat, letting his arms drape
around her gently, the death grip he started with
mere history now.  His breathing slowed and began
to even out and she thought he was falling back to 
sleep when he mumbled something.

"What?" she asked, her cheek still next to his,
her lips speaking directly to his ear.

" 's alone," he repeated.  "All alone."

She lifted her head, but hastened to resume
her gentle touches to his brow and hair, willing
him to stay calmed and easy.  Her forehead
furrowed as she tried to connect his last comment
with his past, the case, with anything at all.

"Shhh," she murmured again, finally deciding
on a tack to take.  "You're not alone."  She petted
his hair gently, her hands moving down to rub
his back in soothing circles, fingers pressing to
smooth the kinks from his taut muscles.  "You're
not alone," she repeated, "I'm here."

She could feel him calm, his limbs growing slack
as she continued to caress him, easing his distress,
quieting his unease.  He sniffled again, burrowing 
into her belly, arms tightening convulsively once 
more, and she heard another barely uttered sound.  
She leaned down once more.  "What?" she asked
again.  "What is it, Mulder?"

"Tired," he whimpered, and she could just see 
the crease in his forehead as he struggled to 
speak.

"I know," she murmured back to him.  "I know
you're tired.  You're overtired; makes it hard to
sleep.  But you can rest now.  I've got you."  She
continued to sroke him, her hands running freely
over his body, nonsense sounds of comfort and
love spilling effortlessly from her lips.

"Stay?" he asked plaintively, the first really clear
word he had spoken.  She watched as he twisted
his head to look up at her, tears still visible in the
corners of his eyes.  She brought both hands down
to cup his face, her thumbs wiping the last tears
away.

"Of course, I'll stay," she answered softly.  She
shifted slightly, moving to lean against the headboard,
waiting for him to adjust accordingly but he clung 
to her, refusing to slide up with her.

"No," he whimpered, a catch in his voice, panic
barely contained.

"What?" she asked with concern.  "Mulder, what's
wrong?"

"Not like that."  He tugged at her, trying to pull her
under the covers to lie beside him.

She froze.  Her hands had been stroking him, moving
easily over his back and arms, her fingers tangling 
gently in his hair, but now she stilled her movement.
She was used to this -- coming to Mulder in the middle
of the night.  She was his anchor, she knew that.  His
port in the storm.  His safe place.  But always they
had maintained a pretense of distance.  He below
the covers; she above.  He laying down; she sitting up.
He curled about her; she holding him.  But tonight,
it seemed all pretense was gone.  

She looked down at the man beside her, his eyes
haunted, pleading with her.  Was this a line they dared
to cross?  Mulder's nightmares, Mulder's demons had
always belonged to the dark, kept separate from their
waking lives by the distance they put between themselves.
But if she lay with him, slept with him, held him through
the night, then the reality of the night would be there
in the morning light.

She stared into Mulder's eyes, those burning orbs
of shifting color branded her as she met his gaze.
He was part of her.  What did it matter where they
woke in the morning?

"Please?" 

She smiled at him, then slipped beneath the covers,
his arm coming around her, her head resting in the
hollow of his shoulder.  Further downthe bed, their
legs tangled and she could feel her T-shirt ride up, 
the hairs on his legs tickling her own smooth shaven
skin.  He tightened his grip on her, and it was her
turn to sigh, as she settled in beside him.

"Sleep, Mulder," she murmured, looking up to see
his eyes slip shut, a contented smile on his lips.
"Sleep," she whispered again.  "I've got you."

************************************

Midnight

It seemed she had just fallen asleep when there
was a rhythmic noise, a pounding that seemed
to reverberate even within her skull.  She pried
her sleep-crusted eyes apart and looked around.
Mulder's room.  Mulder's bed.  His arms still
circled her, holding her to him even in his sleep.

She blinked fuzzily, struggling toward wakefulness
as she tried to sort out the sounds she was hearing.
The door.  There was someone at the door.  The
pounding started again, and Mulder began to move
uncomfortably in the bed.  She hurried to coo to
him, seeing him settle immediately, even as she
slipped from the bed and moved to the door.  

Reaching it, she lifted herself on her toes and peered
through the peephole.  She frowned, her brow furrowed
as she recognized the man standing there.  Why 
was he here?

Still half asleep, she pulled the door open, staring
at the large man that stood there.  "Sir?" she 
questioned.

There was a long silence as Skinner stared at her,
at the thin T-shirt that was all she wore, then past 
her into the room where Mulder lay sleeping in the
only bed that was disturbed.

The silence stretched as Scully slowly realized how
things must appear to the AD.  She blushed furiously,
hating her fair coloring for betraying her, when there
was nothing she need be ashamed of.  She glanced
down at herself, wishing she'd at least worn pajamas 
tonight, but knowing there was nothing she could do
about it now.

Skinner cleared his throat and she jerked her attention
back to him.  She looked up at him.  One hand rested
on his hip, his glasses held loosely in his fingers.  His
right hand hovered before his fce and he pinched the
bridge of his nose in a gesture she had learned to 
recognize as frustration.  He gave a little sigh as he
took in the scene before him one more time, then 
replaced the lenses on his face. 

He gave her one last wry glance, then stepped past
her into the room.

End part 02/07

Profiler or Prophet  03/07

Midnight

Scully stood unmoving by the door for a moment longer,
then closed it quietly and turned to find Skinner standing
by the bed, staring down at Mulder.

"What happened?" he asked gently.

She swallowed hard, realizing that regardless of the
appearance she and her partner gave, their boss was
more concerned with Mulder's welfare.  Once more,
she wa grateful this man was on their side.  

"He had been working on the case all weekend -- before
I found him and then came to you.  No sleep, no food.  He
was already exhausted when we got here."

Skinner was nodding, his attention divided between the
man sleeping in the bed, and the woman making a report.

"I know he had a lot of it put together before we even
got here, but he just hadn't figured out how to present
it so others could understand."  She paused, frustrated.
"Hell, he couldn't even explain it to me."  One hand was
on her hip and she pushed her hair back with the other
one.  "Then that jerk Leard," she stopped a moment, looking 
up at Skinner guiltily.

He nodded, saying, "I've had a couple of conversations
with Agent Leard myself."

"Well, Leard gave Mulder a bit of a hard time.  But
I thought he was coming around.  He seemed to listen
when Mulder was explaining what he felt was wrong
with the direction in which the investigation was proceeding.
We'd covered the basics and agreed to meet back in the
morning to brief the task force, and make some changes
in how things were being done -- arrange to pursue some
new avenues."  She sighed.  "And then we got the call
that there'd been another one."

Mulder moaned in his sleep then, tossing around slightly
and Scully hurried over to calm him.  She reached out,
touched his brow, murmuring, "Shhh, I'm here," and 
he grabbed her hand, then slid back into an easy rest.
She looked up at Skinner.  "He's just ..."  There was a 
pause as she searched for a word, then she finished, "tired.
Tired of it all."  Her other hand snaked back out to gently
rub her partner's shoulder.

Skinner nodded, understanding in his face, and she
continued.

"We got to the scene and Mulder noticed some things
about the body that had not been noted on the other
bodies.  Things that he was sure were there, but just
went without remark."  She disentangled her hand
from Mulder's and rose.  As she stood, she seemed 
to realize her state of dress, or undress, in this case,
and she quickly ecused herself to change.  

When she came back several minutes later, Skinner 
stood awkwardly by the bed, Mulder's injured hand
cradled gently in his own larger one.  Her eyes
widened in surprise as she took in the sight before
her.  

Mulder moved again, and the AD touched his shoulder,
murmuring something she couldn't hear.  She watched
as Mulder settled immediately, and Skinner tucked his
hand back under the covers.  The older man straightened,
then turned to face her.  "What happened at the crime
scene?" he asked.

She sighed again, showing her frustration with her own 
inability to follow Mulder's leaps of -- logic?  Or was it 
intuition?  Given enough time, Mulder would be able to 
show the connections that had led him to the conclusions 
he had uttered in Newport News.  But for now -- she 
glanced over at the man, sleeping exhaustedly on the 
bed -- for now she would have to draw her own conclusions.

"He noticed abrasions on the victim's hands and fingers,
slight, but visible.  He felt the victim had been confined 
and the abrasions were acquired in an attempt to get 
free.  There were some very slight marks on the victim's
thighs as well.  Mulder felt this indicated confinement 
in a very small space.  'A box,' he said."

"That doesn't explain the bandage on his hand, or why
he collapsed," Skinner said.       

"No, Sir.  He felt the UnSub was seeking a father figure,                     
someone to take the place of his deceased father.  Mulder,"
she paused again, her eyes drawn back to her partner, 
"felt that the UnSub had been punished by use of a similar
confinement system and was now exacting revenge on
the surrogate father figures."  Her gaze turned back to
Skinner.  "At least I think that's what he thinks.  With
Mulder, I'm never positive."  She smiled slightly and
was surprised when Skinner smiled back at her.

"The knife wound?" he prodded gently.

"Oh.  He had a pocket knife in his, well, in his pocket,
and ..."  Her voice trailed away as she thought back 
to Mulder's chilling statements at he crime scene.  
She looked at Skinner and saw he was waiting patiently,
then shook herself and went on.  "He indicated that
the victims protested their confinement, and that was
the triggering act for the murders.  The UnSub apparently
did not want them to demonstrate such a lack of control.
When they refused to be compliant, the UnSub knifed
them."

"And Agent Mulder's wound?"

Scully stared at Skinner, gauging his reaction thus far.
Was he genuinely concerned about her partner, or looking
for a reason to pull him off the case and send him home?
She frowned as she weighed the options, shifting her attention
to Mulder who still slumbered, oblivious to the conversation
going on around him.  Skinner was still waiting, and she
looked at him again, still unsure of how to phrase this
last part.

"I believe Agent Mulder produced the knife to demonstrate
the UnSub's actions, and inadvertently injured himself in
doing so."

Skinner stared at her with no flicker of emotion for a full
sixty seconds, then said flatly, "Bullshit."  He watched as
she stiffened, then added, "He hared out, didn't he Scully?"

"Is this an official report, Sir?"

He narrowed his eyes as he studied her.  "Do you want 
it to be?  Or maybe I should ask, does it *need* to be?"

Both of them turned to look at Mulder.

"He'll be so pissed if we make it official."

Skinner nodded agreement to her assessment.  "But I will
not compromise his safety."

Mulder stirred then, sitting up in the bed and looking 
around.  His eyes fell on Scully first, and he asked, 
"Whose safety?" in a voice still groggy from sleep.

"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked.

Mulder swiveled in the bed, turning to face Skinner,
his body stiffening as he woke fully and realized that
the AD was, in fact, here.  "You can't be here," he
gasped, panic evident in his tone.  He was kicking 
off the covers, rising to his feet.  "You've got to get
out of here," he said forcefully.  He advanced on 
Skinner, his proximity making the older man 
unconsciously take a step back. 

"Mulder, what is it?  Settle down."  Skinner had his voice
back now and he was trying to calm the younger agent.
Scully had moved to stand beside him and together
they took in Mulder's appearance.  His face was pale,
the blood drained from it by emotion.  A light sheen
of perspiration covered his forehead and upper lip.
Dark circles still ringed his eyes and his hand trembled
as he reached for Skinner, the white bandage on his 
hand a stark contrast to his skin tone.

"You don't understand," Mulder said, and he reached 
out and gripped Skinner by the shoulders.  "You have
to go home."  He clutched Skinner as if he could
convince him by sheer force of will.  Turning haunted
eyes to Scully, he pleaded, "Tell him.  Make him see.
He has to go."

"Tell him what, Mulder?  What don't we understand?"
she cried, his obvious fear transferring itself to her.

"He's not safe here.  He has to go."  Mulder's fingers
bit deeply into Skinner's arms, and he staggered slightly.
"He -- he's ..."  The younger man was struggling to stay
erect now, and Skinner reached out to brace him.

As Skinner and Scully watched in stunned silence, 
Mulder's voice took on a singsong tone, a small boy
speaking to the adults in his world.  His knees began 
to buckle, and Skinner shifted to catch him as he
began to collapse.

"You're just like Daddy," he whispered, and slipped
into unconsciousness.

*****************************************

Tuesday
0445 hours

Skinner stayed the rest of the night.  He and Scully
slept in shifts, one always awake to calm Mulder
when he began to toss and turn.  Though, he had
to admit, Scully seemed to do a better job of comforting
the man, and it was much easier for her as well.  He
smiled wryly.  How would Personnel put this 
particular detail in an AD's job description?

"Responsible for the safety, health, and welfare of
agents subordinate to him.  May include all night
babysitting and hand-holding of criminal profilers."

He looked down at the bed where Mulder clutched
his hand in a death grip.  Even in his seep, he was
tense, unable to fully relax.  Skinner found himself
wondering what the man's dreams were like.  Did he
ever have pleasant ones?  Mulder moved, and Skinner
was quick to murmur to him, trying desperately to
keep him calm.  

He'd awakened twice more since his collapse, 
frantic both times but not able to clearly articulate
his concerns.  Scully had soothed him, but she
was exhausted as well, and Skinner had finally
insisted she lay down and rest.  He glanced at the
other bed.  She was asleep now, and he wanted 
her to stay that way.  If that meant he had to hold
Mulder's hand, then so be it.

He hitched the chair a little closer to the bed, thinking
this pretense for the sake of decorum was a bit forced.
He should have just had the good sense to tuck Scully 
back up into the bed with Mulder, and then he could
have retired to her room for the remainder of the night.
But something told him she wouldn't have gotten 
any sleep that way.  Awkward as this arrangement 
might be, at least she was going to get a few hours 
rest before morning.

He stifled a yawn, then glanced at his watch.  Almost
5:00.  He was tired too.  He'd been up since this time
yesterday.  Well, once the task force had been redistributed,
and the new profile released, maybe he could slip back 
to the hotel and catch a nap.  Leard had said the hotel
wasn't that far from the field office.  He yawned again,
letting it go this time, then raised a hand to pat Mulder's
shoulder when the younger man began to stir.  Skinner
leaned forward, his hand rubbing Mulder's neck and
could just make out a sound.

"Hmmm?" he asked without thinking.  The man was
asleep.  He wasn't going to repeat himself.  You *are*
tired, Walt.

"Careful, Daddy," Mulder said, and Skinner felt his blood
turn cold.

********************************************

Tuesday 
0800 hours

Mulder woke to the sound of Scully's shower.  Skinner 
had called the field office and moved the meeting to 
10:00, wanting to give both his agents some additional 
time to sleep.  The younger ma had been almost humorous 
upon waking.  He rolled in the bed, hands reaching out for 
his companion.  When he realized the bed was empty but 
for himself, he'd started, sitting up quickly and calling 
"Scully?"

But the really humorous part, the thing which 
Skinner was still amused about, was Mulder's
reaction when he had answered, instead of Scully.

"She's in the shower, Agent Mulder," he'd said
from his chair by the bed.

Mulder had whirled in the bed, tangling himself 
in the sheets, his eyes wide and mouth open.  He'd
moved to get out of the bed, tripping on the 
bedclothes and falling almost into Skinner's lap. 
He'd stared up at Skinner, then began to stammer. 
"But, but, you -- how did -- why are -- where's ..."

Skinner had laughed then, causing Mulder to frown,
and just remembering it caused him to chuckle
again.  Mulder looked up from where he sat at
the small table and scowled.  "It's really *not*
that funny," he said for the third time.

"You should have seen the look on your face,"
Skinner countered.

Mulder shook his head quickly, then waved his
hand as if dismissing the whole subject.  "Look,"
he said, "I don't remember this conversation we
supposedly had, but if I told you to go home then,
I was right.  You need to get out of here."

"I understand your concern, Agent Mulder, but
I believe the resources of the FBI should be able
to keep me safe."  Skinner smiled wryly, tilting his
head to one side as he spoke.

"It's not that, Sir," Mulder answered.  "I just have
a very bad feeling about you being here.  Like
something is going to happen."

"Something *is* going to happen, Mulder," the AD
said grimly.  "I can assure you of that.  SAC Leard
is going to cooperate, you are going to finalize your
profile, and we -- all of us -- are going to take a killer 
off the streets."

Mulder shook his head again.  "You're not listening
to me, Sir."

"Oh, yes, I am, Mulder.  One thing I have learned in
six years as your supervisor, I *always* listen to you.
I don't always agree," Skinner smiled as he spoke, 
"ut I do always listen."

*******************************************

Tuesday 
1115 hours

"This is ridiculous," Leard said, rising to his feet.
"There's no way he can know this, not for sure,
and yet you're redirecting the path of the entire
investigation based on 'Spooky's' best guess!"

Mulder stood beside Skinner at the front of the
small conference room filled to overflowing with
agents and local police.  They had been covering
the same ground for almost an hour now, and Leard
was still issuing the same objections.  At Leard's 
verbal attack, his face assumed a totally neutral 
expression, one that Scully was all too familiar with.  
Mulder was distancing himself from the attacks of 
his co-workers, attacks he couldn't defend himself 
against.  She sighed, knowing that these situations 
were at least as much of the reason for his refusal to
work in VCS as the distress from the crimes themselves.

"That's enough, Agent Leard," Skinner responded,
and Scully cheered silently.  It was nice to have
a defender.  

"Agent Mulder's hypotheses have historically
proven to be accurate.  We're going to follow
his lead for the time being."  The AD lowered his
voice, speaking directly to the SAC.  "As I told 
you on the phone, this in no way reflects on your
abilities -- yet."

"Yes, Sir," Leard responded stiffly, slowly sitting
back down, and Mulder relaxed marginally.  
Skinner reached out and gently tapped Mulder's 
arm, his hand lingering slightly longer than normal 
for such a gesture, but not long enough to attract undue 
attention.

"Continue, Agent Mulder," he prompted.

Mulder took a deep breath, then said, "Investigations
needs to split into several teams: Crime Scene;
Victim Background; Weapons; and a new one;
UnSub.  I want a listing of all men who have
died in the last six to twelve years who physically
match the victim description, and have a son who
meets the criteria of the initial profile."

"What the fuck???" Leard exploded, leaping back 
to his feet and advancing on Mulder.  Scully rose 
as well, standng between the big SAC and Mulder,
and she could see out of the corner of her eye that
Skinner was flanking her.

"Agent Leard," Skinner said forcefully, "I will
not tolerate this behavior from my agents."

"Oh, you won't, will you?" Leard sneered.
"You won't tolerate someone questioning an
irrational line of investigation, but you will 
tolerate these off the wall suspicions and
accusations!"  Leard's face was red, his fists
clenched tightly.  He was staring at Skinner,
breathing heavily, and Skinner remained motionless,
staring back, but not giving any ground.  Around 
the room, agents shifted uncomfortably until
another Norfolk agent stepped forward.  

"Doug," he said quietly, putting a hand on 
Leard's arm, "This is not the way."

Leard looked down at the smaller man, then shook
him off roughly.  "You're damn straight it's not
the way, Frank," he spat.  "Digging into people's
lives when they're most vulnerable, dragging up
the dead."

He turned his attention back to Skinner.  "Well, I 
won't be a party to it!  And if you have any compassion
at all, you won't allow it!"  He turned on his heel
and stormed from the room.

There was a long silence as everyone stared at the
door Leard had exited through, then Frank Eagleton
looked apologetically back at the trio at the front
of the room.  "I apologize, Sir, Agent Scully, Agent
Mulder.  Doug's not always like this.  He's a really
good agent, a good SAC."

Skinner looked thoughtful.  "Do you have any idea
what is causing this volatile behavior, Agent
Eagleton?"

"May I speak with you privately after the briefing,
Sir?" Eagleton responded.

"Of course."  Skinner turned his attention back
to Mulder.  The man looked better than he had
last night.  Sleep and food had improved his appearance,
but this direct confrontation had not helped and
there was an ashen cast to his complexion.  

"Agent Mulder, are we done here?"

Mulder nodded slowly, his eyes still on the door
Leard had gone through.

"All right, people, that's it.  Reassignments effective
immediately.  Let's gt busy."

*************************************

Tuesday  
1125 hours

Scully waited till the room cleared, then grabbed
Mulder's arm and pulled him to a chair.  "All right,
out with it," she said.

Mulder shook his head.  "I'm not sure what it is,"
he muttered.  "Leard is -- overreacting -- to something."

"He's reacting to having his stalled investigation pulled
from him," she said angrily.  

Mulder nodded slowly.  "Maybe," he said, "but it
feels like something more."  He shook his head, then
looked up at her and smiled.  "What are you doing 
now?"

"I'm going to go do the autopsy on last night's
victim."

"Check the marks on his thighs."  Mulder sighed
wearily, and she reached out and touched his shoulder.
He rolled his head, trying to loosen taut muscles there,
and she glanced around hurriedly, noted they were 
alone, and began to rub at the tight cords in his
neck.  He sighed again, then hitched his shoulders and
rose.  

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Dig around some, check some things out, try to keep
Skinner alive, piss some more people off.  You know,
the usual."

"Try to keep yourself alive while you're at it, or I'm 
going to be on that list of pissed off people."

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiled up at him and had turned to leave, when his
hand caught her wrist.

"Thanks," he said softly, "for everything."

*****************************************

Tuesday  
1125 hours

"Agent Eagleton," Skinner caught the man quickly,
and pulled him to a stop, "is there a place we can
talk?"

Eagleton looked around quickly, then nodded and
led the way to a small office.  The two men entered
and Skinner shut the door.

"So, what is it that you wanted to tell me about
SAC Leard?"

"Well, Sir, he's not usually like this.  This is a
difficult time for him."

Skinner cocked an eyebrow, waiting impassively
for the explanation.  

"Doug's a good agent.  He's always been very in
control, makes good decisions.  Have you looked
at his record?"

Skinner nodded.  "Yes, I have.  And I must say, I
agreed with your assessmentprior to the several 
interactions I have had with Agent Leard."

Eagleton paused, obviously uncomfortable with
the conversation.  He took a deep breath, appeared
to reach some sort of inner decision, and spoke
again.  "This case has been bothering him since
the beginning.  Doug's been a little 'off' all along,
but everyone's been cutting him some slack."

"Why?"

Eagleton blew out through his mouth, a soft
sough that rang in the quiet room.  He began to
pace, moving nervously back and forth in front 
of the door.  "I think Mulder's new area of inquiry 
is what's getting to him."  He paused, finally
fixing Skinner with a look halfway between 
anger at the invasion of his friend's privacy,
halfway entreaty for understanding his friend's
distress.

"Doug's father died about six months ago."

***********************************

Tuesday 
1135 hours

Mulder was still in the conference room when
Skinner returned.  He looked up briefly, noted
it was the AD then returned his attention to 
the pad before him.  Skinner stood silently for
a while, waiting, but when it became obvious
Mulder wasn't going to speak, he cleared his
throat.

Mulder jumped at the sound, and Skinner 
realized the man hadn't been ignoring him,
he'd just returned his focus to the task at hand
and had forgotten him.  

"Sorry, Sir," the younger man said sheepishly,
"I'm trying to get this out of my head and down
on paper."

"Any luck?"

"Some.  It makes sense to me, but I don't know
if I can get everyone else to buy it -- especially 
Leard."

"There are some mitigating circumstances 
surrounding Agent Leard's behavior of late."

"Care to enlighten me," Mulder said drolly,
"since I seem to be the target of his hostility?"

Skinner shook his head.  "Don't worry.  I'll 
talk to him."  The AD yawned then, and Mulder
stood quickly.  

"You should get some sleep," he said.

"I was thinking the same thing, Mulder," Skinner
said.  "I think I'll head back over to the hotel and
get checked in, maybe catch a few winks."

Mulder was bundling up his papers, packng his
briefcase as he nodded agreement to Skinner's
proposal.

"Mulder?"

The agent stopped and looked up.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting ready to come with you."  Mulder made
the statement as if it were the most obvious action
possible.

"Why?"

Mulder stopped in mid-movement, then straightened
from where he was bent over the desk, shoving papers
into the briefcase.  "Why?" he began.  "Why?  Didn't
you tell me this morning you always listened to me?
Didn't you hear what I said?"  

"I did listen, and I did hear," Skinner said quietly.

"Well then, you should realize you can't be alone.
You might as well have a target painted on your back.
If you insist on staying here, you have to have security
24/7.  I'm volunteering to take the first shift."

Skinner shook his head.  "Don't you have things you 
need to be doing?"

Mulder shrugged.  "Keeping you alive is pretty high
up on my priority list."

"I really don't think I am in that much danger."

Mulder just looked at the older man, refusing to
back down.  Finally Skinner sighed.  "Fine.  If
you feel I need a bodyguard, I'll take Leard.  I need
to talk to him anyway."

Mulder studied Skinner for a minute longer, then
nodded.  "Make sure he understands he is to stay
with you until you are ready to come back."

Skinner snorted, but agreed.  "This is a waste of
time, Mulder, but if it'll make you feel better ..."

"It will."

"All right," Skinner sighed.  "I'll be back for the
evening briefing."  He turned and walked to the
door, then paused, hand on the knob.  "Don't
forget to eat," he said warningly, "or I'll put a
guard on you."

The look of bemusement that crossed Mulder's 
face was just what Skinner had been waiting for,
and he went quickly through the door, hiding the
smile that crossed his own face.

*******************************************

Tuesday  
1810 hours

Mulder was pacing agitatedly in front of the room
full of agents.  "Scully, try his cell again," he muttered
under his breath as he looked at his watch.  "I'm 
giving him about three more minutes nd then we're
going to go get him."

Mulder's tension had relayed itself to the room.  Agents
fidgeted in their seats and conversation was subdued.
Scully had pulled her cell and was dialing when the
door opened and all conversation ceased as all eyes 
turned to watch as SAC Leard entered the room.

There was a pause as everyone waited for the AD to
enter next but Leard stood in the doorway, unmoving.

"What?" he asked, looking around the room curiously.

"AD Skinner," Mulder said tightly.  "Where is he?"

"How the hell should I know?" Leard asked, irritated.
"And why the fuck is everyone staring at me?"

Mulder was moving toward Leard now, hands extended,
but Scully cut him off smoothly, halting him with her
body even as she addressed the SAC.

"Doug," she said quietly, "we were under the impression
you were staying with the AD."

Leard was shaking his head, bewilderment in his face.
"Why would I be staying with him?"

"Did you talk to him at all?" she asked.

Leard glowered.  "That's none of your goddamned business."

Mulder moved forward again, barely allowing himself
to be restrained by Scully's hand on his arm.

"He wanted to talk to you.  Then he was supposed to
have you stay with him for the rest of the day.  As a 
precaution."  Mulder was practically hissing as he
spoke, contempt dripping from each word.  "Since he
fits the victim profile."

Things were becoming clearer to Leard now, and his
expression changed from one of anger to concern.
"I went with him to the hotel.  We talked.  Then he 
dismissed me.  He never said a word about being in
danger or the need for agents for guard duty."

"Fuck!" Mulder exploded.  He whirled, moving quickly
back to the front of the room and scooping up his jacket.
He was slipping it on and heading out the door, shoving
past Leard in his haste to gain the outside.  Scully was
right behind him, several other agents tailing her.

The trip to the hotel was made in haste and grim silence,
Scully and Mulder in the lead car, local agents following.
Mulder stopped in the lobby oly long enough to grab a
manager with a master keycard, and within moments 
they were standing in the hall outside the AD's room.

A click of the lock and they were in the room, weapons
drawn.  Skinner's gear had been neatly stowed, his
personal kit sat on the sink in the bathroom.  Clothing 
hung soldier straight from the closet rods, shoes marched
in perfect order on the floor beneath.  

But of the AD himself, there was no sign.

Profiler or Prophet  04/07

Tuesday
1525 hours

Skinner woke to a cramp in his leg.  He gasped as the
pain ricocheted through the calf muscles and he tried
in vain to massage it and make it go away.  He tried
flexing themuscle, but he was too confined for that to
be effective.  He took a deep breath, forcing himself
to calm and settling in to ride the pain out.  He 
concentrated on his breathing, slow, deep in and out
breaths, distancing himself from the pain.  When
it finally subsided, he sighed, then shifted minutely,
and took stock of his situation.

He was still in the box.  He could feel the rough 
wood where it scraped against his bare thighs and
buttocks.  Knees pulled up tight to his chest, arms
wrapped around them, chin tucked, he estimated
the box to be about 3 X 3 x 2 1/2 -- the 2 1/2 the
bare width of his hips.  His head hurt and he could
feel a wet, sticky spot at the base of his skull where
he'd been struck when he'd balked at crawling
peacefully into the box.  He'd been ordered to strip 
and climb into the box, but he had refused and the
man had been forced to knock him out to get him
in this small wooden box.  It was entirely too
reminiscent of his time in Nam, and if he let his
thoughts stray there, he knew panic would not
be far behind.

He began the breathing exercises again, focusing
on the in and out of air, noting that it was fresh,
the small holes in the box providing adequate
ventilation, if too little light.  The steady rise and
fall of his chest was soothing in a way, and he
let the steady "whoosh" of oxygen through his
lips settle him, using it as a focal point, and let
himself slip away into a self-induced meditative
trance.  

His last thought while fully aware was that 
Mulder and Scully better find him quick.  He 
wouldn't be able to hold the panic at bay for
much longer.  

*************************************************

Tuesday  
1830 hours

Scully finally holstered her weapon, then walked over
to Mulder and took his arm.  She tugged gently at him,
until he lowered the Sig, slipping it into the holster
silently.  He walked over to the bed and lowered himself
slowly, his arms folding across his chest as he seemed
almost to be fighting to hold himself together.

"Forty-eight hours, Scully," he hispered, "at the
most, seventy-two.  If he got him this morning, it
could be as little as forty hours."

"We'll find him," she said confidently, her hand
resting on his shoulder.  "Where do you want to start?"
She waited a moment, but there was no response.  
"Mulder?" she called softly, "Start?  Where do you 
want to start?"  

When he still didn't answer her, or even acknowledge 
her presence, she shifted to kneel before him, one hand 
holding his chin as she looked up into his eyes.  She 
reached out and touched his brow, startled by the cold,
clammy feel of his skin.  His eyes were dull, pupils dilated,
and he was breathing in shallow little gasps.  "Breathe,
Mulder," she said quietly, as she forced him to focus
on her.  He took several more of the shallow breaths,
then drew a long, deep gulp of air, and nodded slightly.

She patted his knee, then rose and addressed the room.
"Get forensics in here.  I doubt we'll find anything, but
we can't afford to take chances."  She scanned the room,
now crowded with agents from the field office.  "I want
to see Leard, now," she commanded and was rewarded
when the SAC appeared in the doorway.

"Get the teams Agent Mulder established this morning
back in operation.  No one goes home; we're not working
shifts on this one.  I want 110% from everyone until the
AD is found."

Leard cleared his throat, then stepped forward, trying
to use his superior size to his advantage.  "This is my
investigation, Agent Scully, and we will pursue it as
I see fit," he said tersely.

Scully glanced down at Mulder, but he was hardly 
listening.  She could see the gears turning as he worked
out new angles, new possibilities in his mind.

"No," she said quietly.  "We will proceed as Agent
Mulder directed, *and as the AD approved* this 
morning.  *Do not* challenge me on this, Leard;
you won't win.  Either back me up, or get the hell
out of the way."  

When the man didn't move, she took a few steps to 
the side, improving her line of sight to the other agents 
in the room and spilling into thehallway.  "Eagleton,"
she directed, "get forensics in here, then take charge of
the new UnSub team."

"NO!" Leard bellowed.  "Wasn't anyone listening to me?
We are not going to drag hurting people into this.  NO!"

Leard was glaring at Eagleton now, and Scully almost
felt sorry for the man.  It was an awkward position to
be in.  Before Eagleton could respond, Leard turned again,
advancing on Scully.  He halted mere inches from her,
hands clenched at his side, chest heaving, towering over
her.  She calmly held her ground, looking up at the
big man.  "Step back, Agent Leard," she ordered.  "I
will not be intimidated by your size, and I will not 
tolerate your non-verbal bullying."  She lowered her
voice so that only he could hear her.  "I'm only going
to say this one more time, Leard.  Back me or get the
hell out of my way."

Leard's face turned scarlet and his barely restrained 
anger seemed to burst.  He lunged at Scully suddenly,
but Mulder had risen, and this time it was he who
stepped between Leard and his target, in a reversal 
of the situation from yesterday.  While slighter in
build than the SAC, Mulder had the strength derived
from pure fury on his side, and he held Leard in a
steel vise.

The room was frozen, suspended in time for a long
moment as a silent battle of wills ensued.  It was
Leard who conceded first, violently shaking off
Mulder's hand with an inarticulate roar of rage, 
then whirling to storm from the room.  The silence
lasted a minute longer, then there was a collective
sigh of relief.  Mulder touched Scully gently, then
sat back on the bed, leaving her to sort out the rest
of it.

"Agent Eagleton," she said, "can we get this room
cleared and get things moving, please?  The clock
is ticking."  Even as she spoke, agents were filing
out singly and in pairs, cell phones were being pulled
as agents called home to explain, and additional
people were being called in to assist.  

Eagleton swallowed hard, nodded, then began to
issue directives to the remaining agents.  When 
the room and hall wer cleared, he came back into
the AD's room.  He stood silently in the door for
a long moment, watching the tableau before him.
Scully sat on the bed making notes, as Mulder
spoke quietly to her.  She was nodding as she wrote,
asking occasional questions, then nodding again.

He watched a moment longer, then said, "Excuse
me, Agent Scully?"

She looked up, touching Mulder briefly on the arm.
He looked at Eagleton, then took the pad from Scully
and began to make his own notes, effectively dismissing
them both from his awareness.

She noted his shift in attention, then rose.  "Yes?"

"It appears you are in charge for the time being."

"Only temporarily, Frank," she said with a small
smile.  "It's still Norfolk's case."

He shook his head, dismissing her comment.  "No, 
I'm not worried about that.  I --" he paused, shifting
uncomfortably where he stood in the doorway, "I
called DC, explained the situation.  They've put
Doug on indefinite administrative leave.  We're to
report to you, Dana.  And the Director wants to be
kept apprised of the status of the investigation, 
particularly with regards to AD Skinner's whereabouts."

Mulder stood at that moment, his voice carrying that
faraway, detached tone he affected when things got
too close to home.  "AD Skinner is in a box, a very
small box," he said.  "And he's going to die in that
box if we don't find him soon."

***************************************

Wednesday 
0230 hours

"Mulder," Scully said softly, shaking him back
to full awareness.  "We're not getting anything
done here.  Won't you sleep some?  Please?"

Mulder shook his head and stood, forcing himself
to move as he began to pace back and forth again.
"I doubt that Skinner is sleeping," he said quietly.

"What else can we do then?" Scully asked.  "Just
give me a direction, a clue, a hint of where to go
and I'll track it down.  But I'm at a loss.  I don't 
have your ability to 'see' things; I can't make the 
connections you make."  She slowed the words
that were tumbling from her mouth in frustration.
Her voic dropped and her shoulders slumped.
"I just don't know what else to do."

"It's there," Mulder said.  "I can almost grab it.
Something -- so close I can feel it."  He stopped
walking, swaying in place as he rubbed his eyes.
Scully hurried over to put her arm around him,
lending him her support.  He leaned into her
gratefully, and when she led him to the door, he
followed with no further protest.

She loaded him into the car, a quiet, "Buckle up,"
the only thing said.  When she walked around to
the driver's side and entered, she noted he was 
struggling, the latch on the seat belt refusing to
catch.  She reached over, pushed hard, and heard
a click.  Mulder smiled, then laid his head back
on the seat rest.  

"God, I'm tired, Scully," he said.

"You're not Superman, Mulder," she said as he
yawned once more.  "You can't help Skinner if
you're dead on your feet.  Sleep.  It'll be clearer
in a few hours."

"You need to rest, too, Scully," he said, eyes
closing even as he spoke.  His hand reached out,
taking hers, and his thumb rubbed the back of
it gently.  She enjoyed his caress for a moment
longer, then pulled her hand back and headed for
the motel.

***************************************

Wednesday 
0415 hours

He was waking up again, or coming to, or whatever
it should be called.  Emerging from a trance, maybe?
Returning to reality?  Whatever it was, he didn't want
it to happen, and he shuddered violently as full
awareness crashed over him.

He was cold.  It was dark.  There were cramps.  It
was too much.  He'd been here before and he'd 
sworn he'd never come here again.  Despite the
close quarters, he drew his legs up even tighter
to his chest and snuffled.  He buried his face
against his knees and realized he must have been
crying at some point, for his nose was running
and his cheeks were wet.

That wasn't good.  He'd been crying and he didn't
remember.  Not good at all.  The crying or the fact
that he didn't remember.  He took a deep breath,
feeling his shoulders hitch.  The panic was a palpable
force, almot visible, hovering at the edges of his
vision, threatening to overwhelm his consciousness.
The cold he'd felt upon waking was turning into 
a burning heat.  He could feel the sweat begin to
pour from his skin, dripping into his eyes and
stinging. 

He clamped down, teeth biting into tender skin where
knee rounded into thigh and felt the acid taste of 
blood fill his mouth.  He focused on the pain, trying
to drive the fear back.  'Must maintain control,
must maintain control.'  It was becoming a chant,
repeating over and over in his mind.

Control was important for two reasons.  The man 
who had put him in this box didn't like people
who couldn't stay in control.  Mulder had felt loss
of control by the victim was the triggering act for
the murder.  A very good reason to remain calm
and stay in control.

But the real reason, and Skinner had to be honest
with himself, was that he couldn't bear to think
of his mind set free if he lost control.  He couldn't
face the demons of the past that would be freed
if his iron grip on sanity slipped.  He moved his 
mouth, letting the blood drip down his chin, then
found a new spot and bit again.  Salty sweat ran
into the new wounds, and fresh pain washed
over him.  He focused, straining to feel every
nerve ending, every synapse that opened and closed
as the pain surged through him anew.

It was too much.  He saw something flutter out of
the corner of his eye, and whipped his head around,
his scalp brushing the top of the box, scraping the
delicate skin there as he strained for a better look.  
But the box was dark.  And there was too little room
to move.  Somehow, it was escaping him that there 
couldn't be anyone or anything in here with him.  
The box was too small. 

The box was too small.  The box was too small.  He
was nineteen years old, and the box was too small. 
There was no way he could fold his six foot two frame
into the space.  No way he could make himself fit,
but the small, dark man behind him, grunting orders
in a language he couldn't understand, prodded him 
wth the barrel of the gun, and he dropped to his knees.

He looked at the box again.  Tin sides and roof that
would be blistering hot as the sun rose higher and
higher, never really cooling even in the dark of night.
A cube, maybe three feet on each side, dark and
dry inside.  The packed dirt floor would offer the only
hope for relief from the heat.  He swallowed hard, then 
felt the gun press again, harder, more insistent.  

He looked up.  The noon sun was directly overhead,
and it blinded him as he struggled to see his captor's
face.  Tears spilled over, his body's reaction to the
fierceness of the sun -- or so he told himself -- and he 
shook them away, then stared up, pleading wordlessly 
with the man with the gun.  But there was no relief.  
The rifle barrel prodded him mercilessly, and he turned 
and reluctantly crawled into the confining space.  It 
wasn't until he was in, and the door clicked and locked 
behind him, that he realized he wasn't alone.  

As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he gazed into
the staring eyes of the skeletal figure crammed against
one side of the box.  The decaying remains of the former
occupant.  A rat looked up from where it was working 
on the figure's finger, then resumed its meal.  Skinner 
scuttled backward, no more than five or six inches 
movement, then hissed as his arm contacted the red hot 
metal and he felt his skin begin to burn.  His eyes were 
locked on the dead man's eyes, his nose filled with the 
stench of decay.  Heedless of the burns he knew would 
come, he began to pound on the metal door, screaming 
without end.

******************************************

Wednesday 
0415 hours

Mulder was screaming.  One minute, they were curled
together on the bed, sleeping peacefully, the next,
he had pulled -- no, yanked -- his arm from around her,
curled into a ball, and was screaming at the top of his
lungs.  She pulled back quickly as he flung his hand
out, fist clenched, almost as if he was expecting to meet
a wall or door.  The hand came back, and he drew himelf
up, cowering back against the headboard, his legs still
tucked tight against his chest.  Still screaming.

She jumped from the bed and moved to his side,
standing by the bed, her hands reaching out to stroke
him between the ineffective blows he cast at the air
before him.  His mouth was pulled open, an unending 
anguished cry issuing forth.  His eyes were open
wide, staring at something only he could see, as
he continued to bat the empty space in front of him.

"Mulder, Mulder," she called, reaching behind him
to touch his shoulders, rub his neck, as she dodged
the still flailing arms.  "Wake up, Mulder, it's just
a dream."  Dream, my ass.  This was full-fledged
night terrors.  "C'mon Mulder, wake up!"  She shook
him, gently at first then harder, as he continued
to scream.  

He bent suddenly, arms coming around his legs,
pulling them tighter to his chest, and she watched in
horror as he lowered his mouth and bit deeply into
his thigh, just above the knee.  He was sweating now,
water pouring off of him, and she could feel the
heat radiate from his fevered skin.  She continued
to speak to him, trying desperately to calm him, but
he remained unresponsive.  When she saw blood drip
down his leg, she raced to the bedroom, drenched a 
towel in cold water and ran with it dripping back to 
the bed.  Without pause, she threw the wet towel over 
him, seeing him start at the shock, then he lifted his 
mouth from his leg, and raised pain-filled, confused 
eyes in her direction.

"Scully?" 

"Shhh, Mulder," she said quietly, her hand coming
out to brush the wet hair from his face.  She pulled
the wet towel off him, using one corner to wipe the
blood from his face.  He was shivering, the fever
from mere moments ago gone completely.  

"C-c-c-cold," he stammered, and she dropped the
towel to the ground, then took his hands.  

"I know," she said, smiling into his face.  "I'm
sorry.  You with me now?"

He nodded cautiously, then looked down at the bite
on his leg.  "Wha - ?" he murmured.

"Not now," she said firmly.  "I wan you to get 
into dry clothes, then we'll clean that up and
figure out what happened."

He nodded again, then let her help him as he
climbed to his feet, shaking, teeth chattering
now.  He was still unsteady, but becoming more
aware, more alert with each passing moment.
She led him to the bathroom, seating him on
the closed toilet lid and pulled his wet T-shirt
up over his head.  At his involuntary hiss of
pain, she froze, dropping the wet shirt, then
turning back to look at him.  

"What?" she asked.

"Hurts.  My arm," he mumbled.

She took his wrist gently, then turned the arm so
she could get a better look.  She drew a shocked
gasp as she looked at a vivid red burn, about
two inches long, on his left bicep.  

He was staring at it as well, then lifted his gaze
to meet hers.  He swallowed hard, then croaked,
"How?"

She shook her head, then shrugged marginally.  
"Maybe you hit it on the coffee maker on the table 
by the bed."

"It's not on."

She shrugged again.  "What else could it be?  It
must have been the coffee maker."

He tilted his head and gave her a skeptical look,
but was too tired to argue.  

"Stay here," she said softly, seeing he was sagging
again as the adrenaline rush faded.  She moved quickly,
slipping back into the room to get her bag.

Half an hour later, Mulder sported new bandages
on his leg and arm, and she had rewrapped his
hand as well.  He was warm again, dressed in
dry clothes, and wearily pacing the hotel room.  
Exhaustion dogged his every step, but this time 
Scully was too tired herself to try and make him sit.

She sat slumped in a chair, watching as her partner
worked on wearing a path in the room's carpet, 
his steps a steady rhythm that threatened to have
her nodding any minute.

"Something's not right.  We have to find him, Scully.  
Something's just not right."

"Of course it's not right.  Skinner's missing."  She
immediately regretted her sharp tone when she saw
the wounded look Mulder cast in her direction.
She softened her tone.  "I mean, it's *very* personal
this time, ulder."  She dropped her eyes to study
her hands in her lap, unable to look at Mulder
any longer.  She was feeling helpless.  Unable to
help Skinner, not sure what to do to help her partner.

The pacing was slowing now, as Mulder mulled
the events of the last few hours over.  Knowing him
as she did, she knew he would place great importance
on his dream.  Whatever he could remember, he 
would treat as if it was concrete evidence.  And who
knew?  Maybe it was.  Who could understand how
his mind worked, how he made the connections he
did.  It was just as likely to occur in the framework
of a dream as anything else.

She looked up.  Mulder had stopped before her
chair, and he knelt as she shifted to a more erect
posture.  He winced as his movement stressed
the bite on his leg, then settled on his haunches
before her.  His eyes were worried, tired, whirling
with unknown emotions, but, she noted thankfully,
madness was no longer one of them.

She reached out and cradled his face in her hands,
her thumbs gently stroking his cheeks.  "I know,"
she said softly.  "We're trying."

"I'm so close," he whispered, his eyes closing
briefly as frustration crashed across his features.

She tugged and he fell forward slowly, his head
resting in her lap.  "I don't understand what's
happening," he whispered in a broken voice.

"You're tired," she responded.  "Things never
make sense when you're tired."  She held him
close for a while, stroking his neck and back,
murmuring soothing sounds to him.  "It's hard,
I know, but you're doing all you can."

"I have to figure it out."  His voice was so low,
she could barely understand him.  "He's depending
on me to figure it out."

"You will," she reassured him.  "We will."

He rested there, content to be held, and she was
content to hold him.  Her hands never stopped 
moving, and she blessed him with small kisses
on his head and cheek, and he gave himself up 
to her, letting her touch soothe the pain for now.

He rose at length, pulling her to her feet and
enfolding her in his arms.  Her headrested over
his heart, and he rested his chin against her hair.

"I'm not going to sleep anymore tonight," he
said.  "You?"

She shook her head, then leaned into him again.
This was a time to be cherished.  Even in the midst 
of the chaos and confusion, the pain and the fear,
the madness of chasing yet another murderer, this
was a time to be cherished.  Nestled against Mulder, 
his arms around her, connected to him in a very
real way, this was a time to be cherished.  She stood 
still, listening to his heart beating steadily now, no 
more sign of the terror that had sent it racing 
less than an hour ago.  

"Let's go back to the office then, Scully," he
said, the words whispered soft as a caress against
her hair.

This was Mulder at his best.  Strong, and determined,
noble, and good.  Willing to take on anything for
what he believed in, for those he cared for.

"Let's go find the AD."

End part 04/07

Profiler or Prophet  05/07


Wednesday 
0830 hours

"Are there any further questions?" Mulder asked the
room.  Heads were shaking, a few agents murmured
'no,' and people began to rise and stretch.  "Well then,"
he continued, and Scully was amazed at the energy he
seemed to project.  He was back on the hunt.  "Let's
get to it."  Agents had begun to gather notes, small
conferences going on between team members as all
prepared to go back to their assigned tasks, when the
door flew open, slamming heavily into the wall.
Leard stood in the doorway, red-faced, with chest
heaving.

"What the fuck is this about?" he demanded.  "Who
the hell had me put on administrative leave?"

Scully glanced at Eagleton, seeing him shift uncomfortably,
but making no move to speak.  She had opened her mouth
to explain but Mulder beat her to it, smoothly stepping
forward with one hand held out in appeasement.

"Doug," he began, "it isn't personal."

"You did this, you son of a bitch!" Leard roared, moving
swiftly through the room as other agents scurried out
of his way.  Even as Leard advanced, Mulder found
himself thinking that he moved very quickly for such a 
big man.  

He was still thinking that as Leard's fist struck his chin 
and he felt himself going down, his injured hand coming 
up in an ineffective attempt to block the second blow 
that followed, this one catching the side of his face. 
Even as he felt the blackness beckoning, he could see
Scully moving, angling to get between him and his attacker,
and all he could envision was the damage someone the 
size of Leard would do to someone the size of Scully.  He
tried to shift, to move, to do something to prevent her
from getting in Leard's way, but he was already on his
knees and still sliding down.

He looked up, everything was happening in slow moton,
and watched in surprise and awe, as his partner stepped
smoothly in front of Leard, caught the arm that was
heading his way, and stepped back, turned, and pulled.
Then Leard was flipping through the air, landing with
a heavy "whuff," and Scully was kneeling next to him,
her attention totally focused on him.

"Mulder?" 

She was calling his name now, and he wanted to answer,
wanted to say something to tell her he was all right, he 
would be all right.  Tell her how impressed he was with
her ability to take care of herself, to take care of him.  But 
the darkness was calling him, and he couldn't hold it back
much longer.  He looked up into her face, her hands 
cupping his cheeks as he slid further down.  Her eyes were
worried and her brow knit with concern.  

He gambled a smile, hoping it came out as a smile, but 
fearing it was more of a grimace.  "You go, girl," he
whispered, then gave himself up to the black.

"Mulder!  Mulder!" Scully was calling but he slid through
her grasp and she settled him gently on the floor.  "Someone
get the paramedics!" she ordered and was gratified to see
an agent -- she thought her name was Alton -- pulling a
phone and making the call.  She had help now; Eagleton
was straightening Mulder's legs out, and someone else
had produced a folded up jacket to lay under his head.

"I have a bag," she said, "in the car.  Can someone ..?"

"On it," Eagleton responded and was gone.  

She pried Mulder's eyelid open, noting the dilated pupil,
then turned his head slightly to study the rapidly darkening
cheek and chin.  "Ice," she commanded, and another
agent scurried away.  She rocked back on her heels, 
scanning the room.  Something was wrong but she
couldn't place it.  She looked again, her eyes tracking
slowly through the whole room.  

Leard was gone!

She looked up as Eagleton reentered the room, her
black bag in hand.  "Please tell me you arrested Leard
and that's why he's not here," she said slowly.

Eagleton colored, then hung his head sheepishly.  
"Everyone was so focused on AgentMulder, I'm 
afraid he just got up and left.  No one even remembers
seeing him leave."  He shook his head in disgust.
"Obviously, our powers of observation leave a lot to
be desired on home turf."

Scully had taken a flashlight from her bag and was
checking Mulder's eyes again.  She refrained from
commenting, not looking up again.  Ice wrapped
in a towel appeared and she held it against her partner's
cheek, checking her watch as she waited for the 
paramedics.

Beneath her hand, Mulder moved minutely, and she
heard a slight groan.  She lifted the ice-pack, then
stroked his face gently.  "Hey, partner," she whispered,
her head low and close to his.  "You with me?"

"Wha' happened?"

Alarm crossed her features and she quickly asked, "You
don't remember?"

" 'member you flipped Leard," he said, smiling.

"Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did," she muttered.

"What?"  

Mulder was sounding better, and to her practiced eye, he 
was looking better as well.  He was struggling to sit up,
but she restrained him.  "Not yet," she said.  "Just lay
there and rest a bit."

"But Scully, I feel fine -- well, better."

"Good," she responded.  "And if you lay there and rest,
you'll feel even better."  He fidgeted beneath her grasp
and she added with exasperation, "Just be still and wait
for the paramedics.  Once you get to the hospital, you 
can tell them how good you feel all you want."

"Hospital?  Not the hospital?  C'mon, Scully, give a
guy a break.  Don't make me go to the hospital."

Scully had taken a deep breath, preparing for another
Mulderbattle, but was interrupted when Eagleton
hesitantly cleared his throat.  She looked up, noting 
that Mulder did too, focusing with no effort.

"Agents," he began, "I just want to offer my apologies
on behalf of the Norfolk office."  He gave an embarrassed
chuckle.  "We're not always this incompetent.  Honest."
He smiled, then turned serious when he received no response.
"Anyway," he continued, "I've got two people on Doug's
house, and another at the gym he goes to.  I'm sure he'll
turn p quickly.  He's not like this all the time; really, he's
not.  Like I told AD Skinner, he's been going through a 
particularly rough time of late."  He shrugged, still
embarrassed.

Mulder's eyes had narrowed at the comment of Leard's
rough time, and he forced himself up, sitting despite
Scully's attempts to keep him prone.  He tried to get to
his feet, but she was determined to keep him down,
almost sitting on him in the process.  He gave in, settling
for being upright, and gazed steadily up at Eagleton.

"Exactly what did you tell AD Skinner?" he asked, and
Scully tensed beside him, noting the intensity in his 
voice.  She wasn't sure what Mulder was going for, but
it was important.  Of that much, she was certain.

Eagleton colored, then looked awkwardly around the
room.  "It's really Doug's personal business.  I wouldn't
have said anything except he's been acting so out of
character, and Skinner was his boss.  I just didn't want
him to ..."

"What did you tell Skinner?" Mulder interrupted, biting 
the words off.

Eagleton looked down at Mulder, then swallowed hard.
"I, uh, I told the AD about how things have been tough
for Doug for a while now."

"Tough how?"

"He just hasn't been himself.  Seems to lose control a 
bit too easily."  Eagleton waved in Mulder's direction.
"Like this."

"And when did this atypical behavior begin?"

Scully stared at Mulder.  The bruise on his chin was
becoming quite visible, as was the one on his cheek.  His
eye was swelling - if it continued, it would swell shut. 
But he was on to something.  And Mulder would not be
stopped when he was on to something.  She shook her
head fractionally then focused on Eagleton, waiting for
his answer.

"About six months ago.  When his dad ..."

"... died," Mulder finished, and the other agent just
nodded.

Mulder dropped his head, staring at his lap for a long
moment, then lifted his eyes to meet Scully's.

"Forget about the paramedics.  Forget about the 
hospital.  We don't have time for any of that."  He 
shook his head at  her quizzical expresion.  It's 
him, Scully," he whispered.  "Leard's the killer.
And he's got Skinner."

********************************************

Wednesday
1220 hours

Skinner woke again, drawing a deep breath, then gagging.
The stench was overpowering.  The box was too small to
allow him any movement to attend to his bodily functions,
and the immediacy of need had finally overtaken him.  
God knows what they'd think when they finally found him.
He knew it was an irrational concern, but it still bothered
him; hell, it embarrassed him to think of being found in
this state, dead or alive.

He shifted slightly, all the movement he could manage, 
and realized that the reason he didn't feel cramps anymore
was because he'd lost all feeling in both his legs.  They 
were completely numb.  His back ached and the muscles
in his neck screamed in protest at the lowered position in
which he was forced to keep his head.

He took another breath, shallow this time, the smell not
so overpowering when he breathed through his mouth in
shallow little puffs.  He was alert for now.  The panic had
receded and he was determined to keep it at a distance.
He forced himself to think of the search.  How long had
he been gone?  He frowned, realizing he had completely 
lost track of time.  And if his captor remained true to 
his modus operandi, then knowing the time could be
very important indeed, since it could tell him how 
long he had left to live.

He focused on the hunt again.  Had Mulder figured it
out yet?  Did they know who had him?  Did Mulder
know it was Leard, or were they still working with
him as if he were just another agent, just another
hard working upholder of the law?  He shuddered
violently, unable to think of Leard working side by
side with his agents, masquerading as a protector, 
a defender, someone who should be safe.

His stomach heaved at that thought and he fought 
to swallow the bile that filled his mouth without
losing it, knowing that would only add to the reek
already present if he let go.  He moved again, laying
his cheek aainst the rough wood of the side wall,
close to the tiny holes Leard had drilled for ventilation.

It was better here -- amazing that four or five inches 
could make a difference.  He could feel the wood dig 
into his cheek, but he welcomed the pain.  So much
of his body, especially his limbs, had gone numb.  It felt 
almost *good* to feel anything.  

Safe.  The word rose again in his mind.  Safe.  Leard
should be a safe person.  The world was divided into
safe people and unsafe.  He'd learned that at an early
age.  

He was nineteen, and the jungle was hot and clingy 
and filled with unsafe people.  He moved slowly through 
the dense underbrush, working his way steadily forward,
pushing on as he'd been ordered, and every fiber of his
being was screaming out 'Unsafe!' 'Unsafe!' but still
he pressed on.  And then there was an explosion to
his right, and he was running, and men were screaming.
The air filled with smoke and his eyes filled with water.
There was fire all around, and he couldn't breathe, but
he moved forward relentlessly, the noise and the fire,
the heat and the smoke, driving him, pushing him, 
making him keep moving.

And then -- it was there.  The firm presence of a rifle
barrel square in the middle of his back.  He froze and
looked over his shoulder to see the man, the small
Vietnamese man, with the gun jammed firmly against
him.  He was saying something, issuing orders, but
nineteen year old Walter Skinner had no idea what 
he was saying.  The man gestured with his head, then
pulled gently on the trigger, and Skinner dropped to his
knees. 

He had no concept of time, no way of knowing how long
he knelt there amidst the fire and the smoke, in the heavy
jungle heat.  Slowly, others from his company appeared,
riding a rifle barrel as he was, and they knelt beside him
until there was a long scraggly line beneath the blazing
sun.  The men with the guns were talking, fast and furious
and Skinner didn't have to understand to know that their
fates were being decided.  

It grew silent suddenly, and he new a decision of some
sort had been made.  The gun in his back moved up, and
settled against his neck, the sun heated metal almost
burning as it touched the bare skin there.  He bowed his 
head, and thought of God, the God of his parents, the God
of love, of peace, of safety.  The God who seemed strangely
absent in this Hell on earth.  He was drifting away on his
thoughts -- nineteen years seemed too short a time for this
earth -- when there was the retort of rifle, right in his ear,
and he felt his bladder release, felt the urine soak his 
pants, dripping down his legs to form a puddle under his 
knees.  The dark urine flowed and merged with the blood
and brains of the man who had knelt beside him, and
Skinner stared down at the now deformed head of his
friend and comrade, watching as their fluids mingled.

That was all he remembered.  It was as if his mind shut 
down, closing him off from anything else that might hurt
him.  His body's way of protecting him from all that was
unsafe.  

And in the box, in the present, Walter Skinner, Assistant
Director of the FBI, repeated his long ago coping 
mechanism.  As his bladder released again, and he relived 
that time from so long ago, he shut down, retreating far 
into himself, searching for someplace safe.

*******************************************

Wednesday
1605 hours

"Got it!"  Agent Alton came running into the conference
room, waving a piece of paper.  "It was in his mother's
maiden name -- that's why it took so long to find.  But this
is definitely it.  This is the house Leard grew up in, the 
house his father left him when he died."

Mulder had been moving since the woman entered the
room.  He had his coat on, had checked his weapon, and
was through the door, grabbing the address as he passed,
before she finished speaking.  

"Scramble everyone," he ordered.  "I want the whole
damn team there.  Alton?"  He stopped, searching for
the young woman amidst the mass of people following
him.  "You know where this place is?"  At her nod, he
continued, "Then you're ith us."  He paused as he 
reached the door to the parking lot, ushering Scully, then
Alton through first.  "And get an ambulance over 
there," he called back over his shoulder, "just in case."

*******************************************

Wednesday
1650 hours

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

The shouts rang from the various rooms of the house
as agents continued their search.  Mulder stood slumped
in the kitchen, slowly shaking his head.  

"I should have known, Scully," he murmured.  "I should 
have known it was too easy."

"Shhh, Mulder," she said, "it's not your fault.  There was
no way you could have known."

His shoulders hitched as he drew in a deep breath, an
almost sob escaping from his lips.  "I'm stuck, Scully,"
he whispered, "I don't know where to look next."

She walked over to him and laid one hand on his
arm, waiting patiently until he lifted his head and 
looked at her.  She smiled at him, encouraging,
supportive, and ran her hand lightly up and down
his arm, a gentle massage that was all the comfort
she could offer in this public place.  He looked so
tired, so sad, so forlorn.  As if the weight of the
whole world was on him.  As if he alone bore the
responsibility for making things right.  Not for the
first time, she found herself cursing his parents for
allowing him to assume such responsibility in order
to assuage their own guilt.  But he straightened
somewhat beneath her touch, drawing strength from
her.  She patted his arm, then reached up to touch 
his hair, her hand lingering on his brow once more.  

He was staring at her uncomprehendingly, as if
her actions were foreign, and she was reminded again
of how circumscribed their interaction always was.
How, despite being closer than brother and sister,
closer than husband and wife, they had yet to touch
each other intimately.  She smiled wryly, studying 
her hand on his brow, then slid her fingers down,
past his temple, her dainty touch tracing what she
knew to be a fever trail across his cheek.  And when
he groaned quietly, she knew it was not from the
ain of the bruises that shadowed his face, but from
something else, something primal, something elemental.
Something that couldn't be summed up in words, but 
that was the apotheosis of who they were, what they
had.  The connection between them, the bond forged
in fear, strengthened in pain, that linked them together
forever.  

Mulder's eyes were closed now, and he groaned 
again beneath her touch.  She found herself wondering 
idly if her earlier thought on the lack of intimacy between
them might not be wrong.  In this context at least, it 
seemed every touch was intimate.  Extremely intimate.
She leaned forward, ready to bless him, bless *them,* 
with a kiss, but was interrupted when a throat cleared 
behind her.  She jumped back, startled, and Mulder's 
lids flew open, confusion warring with dawning passion 
in his changing eyes.  

"Excuse me, agents," Eagleton said, "but there's something 
in the back bedroom I think you should see."

Mulder's shoulders slumped again, and she could see
him pulling back into himself, detaching himself to
deal with all that was unpleasant and distasteful.  "A
box?" Mulder asked.  "You found a box?  In the closet,
maybe?"

Eagleton's eyes grew wide.  "How -- how'd you know?"
he asked in amazement.

Mulder closed his eyes once more, head hanging low, 
exhaustion etched in his bearing.  "It makes sense.  
Leard didn't just dream up the box concept himself.
His father used the box to discipline him.  Probably
until he was well into his twenties, and possibly up
until the time the elder Leard died."  Mulder sighed, 
opening his eyes and glancing around.  "Show me," 
he said wearily.

They walked slowly back to the bedroom -- Eagleton,
then Mulder, then Scully.  The closet door was slid
open revealing a wooden box about three feet square.
Mulder winced as he stared at it, taking an involuntary
step backwards.  "I need to be alone," he mumbled,
and Scully shooed Eagleton out the door.

"Don't let anyone come in here, Frank," she admonished
as she stood in the doorway to the bedroom  "No matter 
what, no matter how long."

The other agent nodded, then asked tentatively, "What's
he going to do, Dana?"

She shook her head.  "I don't know.  And I'm sure it won't
be fun for him.  But when he's done, he'll probably have
a new direction for us."  She closed the door firmly and
returned to stand by her partner.

Mulder was taking off his clothes, folding the suit coat 
and trousers neatly on the bed.  Shoes sat on the floor,
socks tucked into the toes.  His tie came off next, then
his shirt, and finally the T-shirt.  He stood next to her
in boxers, and for a moment she wondered if those were
coming off as well, but he seemed to feel it was enough.

He was staring at the box, and she knew then what he was 
going to do.  "Don't, Mulder," she said quietly.  "There
has to be another way."

He shook his head, then shivered in the cool air.  "I
don't know what else to do.  I need to see what it's like.
I need to know what it makes him feel, how it makes
him think."  He shuddered again, but when she reached 
out to him, he pulled back.  "No," he said sharply.  "Don't 
touch me right now.  Just stay away."  He took two shaky
steps toward the closet, then stopped again, breathing
heavily.

Scully drew a breath to speak, but he waved her 
silent, and stepped closer still to the box in the 
closet.  Taking a deep breath, he lifted the lid on
the box and looked down into the dark and cramped
space.  "I may be in here a while," he said miserably.
He looked up and offered her a tremulous smile.
"Wait for me?"

"Always," she said quietly, and watched as he climbed
into the box and pulled the lid down on himself.

End part 05/07


Profiler or Prophet  06/07

Wednesday 
2045 hours

He had been so quiet, so still, for so long, she was
really getting worried.  But he'd told her he might
be a while, and she'd promised to wait, so wait she
would.  But patience was a hard virtue to come by
when someone you cared about was suffering, even
if it was by his own design.  

She sighed and looked at her watch.  Almost four
hours.  How long was "a while?"  How long should
she wait without checking on him?  She knew 
instinctively that the dark in the box and the
quiet in the room were imperative for whatever
connections Mulder was trying to make, whatever
link to Leard he was trying to achieve.  

But she also knew that prolonged dark and quiet
could be a potentially dangerous combination for
someone like Mulder.  Someone who was already
walking the line, living on the edge.  Someone who
had his own dragons to slay.  After the several 
cases they had worked where Mulder was forced
into using his profiling skills, she knew unequivocally
why Mulder had had to get out of VCS.  It was too
much like gazing ito the darkest parts of his soul, 
too much like grappling with his own demons.

It was the inherent darkness in himself that let him 
connect with killers; the destructive tendencies he
fought that let him *know* what someone who had
given into those same tendencies would do.  There 
were some who said Mulder was nothing more than
a trained sociopath; trained by the Bureau to use his
psychoses in the tracking and catching of other, more
disturbed kindred.  

She snorted softly at the thought, rejecting that line 
of reasoning outright.  She knew, if no one else did, 
that it was Mulder's empathy, his ability to feel another's
pain, be it victim's or perpetrator's, that made him so
good at climbing into the mind of the killers he pursued.
His incredible memory and powerful intellect combined
to allow him to process more information, retaining 
more of what he had seen and heard, and that allowed
the connections to be made that had earned him the
nickname "Spooky."  Once he began crunching data,
collating facts, and assembling the bits and pieces
of informational detritus that surrounded a case, he
could not be beat.  Add the empathic link to both
victim and perpetrator, and Mulder could follow any
lead, figure out any crime, find any killer.  

But the price such success exacted from him was often
overwhelming.  From the time spent wallowing in the
sewers of a depraved mind, to the pain of reliving a
victim's torturous end, Mulder paid for every killer
caught, every murderer arrested, with a little bit of
his very soul.  A high price indeed, for the salvation
of mankind.  Particularly when he tormented himself
with his ability to save society at large from the 
psychopaths that preyed on the innocent and yet was
unable to protect the one person he most wanted to see
saved.

She sighed then, an expulsion of air that echoed loudly
in the silence of the room, and was startled when there
was an answering sound from within the box.  Not quite
a sigh, not quite a groan; rather, a cross between a moan 
and a whimper.  he rose from the bed and walked 
quietly to the box, stopping a few paces from its side.  

"Mulder?" she called softly, then held her breath as
she waited for a response.

There was a sob, muted by the wooden box, and she
moved forward to throw open the lid but was halted 
by a strangled cry of, "Don't!"

She froze, hands resting on the lid, the decision 
to follow his lead, let him decide, see this through 
to the end waging silent battle with her own instinctive 
desire to rip the rough top from the terrible box.  She 
wanted to pull her partner from the dark of whatever 
evil he was immersed in and into the light of the world 
again.

"Family," he murmured, and she had to strain to
hear him.  "Family is important."  His voice was
cracked, broken, and she could make out the tears
he shed even as he spoke.  His words were punctuated
with soft sobs and tiny sniffles and her heart broke anew
with every pained sound he made.  "Everything depends
on," sniff, "keeping the family together," sob, "not letting
the family down." 

He made another sound, more a whimper this time, and
she ignored his earlier plea, yanking the wooden plank
that covered the box back and reaching in unerringly 
to find his shoulders, stroke his hair, lift his face upward
so she could see his eyes.  Haunted eyes, swollen and 
red, that took a moment to focus on her before recognition
appeared.  

"Scully," he breathed, and her name was a caress on
his lips.  "Scully."

"I'm here, Mulder," she soothed, "I'm here.  I waited, like
I promised.  I'm here."  She realized she was rambling but
the need to reassure him was overwhelming.  He looked so
tired, so *broken,* as if something vital to who he was
had been taken from him, stolen by his time in the
box.  

"Family, Scully," Mulder whispered.  "Family is 
important."

"Shhh," she murmured back, her hands never leaving
his face.  She held his cheeks cupped in her palms, her
thumbs wiping the tears as they fell in a seemingly 
endless stream down his face.  He began to shiver, 
uncontrollably vioent little movements that rocked
the tiny box and splattered salty tears across her wrists
and arms.  She was cooing nonsense sounds now, trying 
to still the frantic rocking he had started, rocking that
propelled him from the back of the box to the front,
first his spine colliding with the side, then his knees.

"Mulder, stop," she urged gently, "stop now."  He continued
to rock, and shifted her touch from his face to his shoulders,
trying to stop his motion by sheer force.  "You need to get up,
get out of the box," she begged.    

His movement grew more frenetic, and she knew he was
seeking physical pain to detract from whatever emotional
abyss he had fallen into.  "Stop, Mulder," she begged
again, her voice rising as she felt the beginnings of panic
stir within her.  If he didn't stop soon, he would seriously
hurt himself.  She looked down, a reflexive motion that
thinking of his wound triggered as she sought it out,
wanting to see for herself that he had not injured his hand
further.  But the bandage that had covered the stitched
palm was gone, and the hand itself was bloody.  Oh, God,
what had he done to himself now?

"Mulder, you have to get out of the box," she begged again.
"I can't lift you."  This last was said even as she hooked 
her hands under his arms and tugged with all her might. 

"Family," he said again.  "Need family."

"You have family, Mulder," she answered, not knowing
if he was talking about himself or Leard.  "You have 
family.  You have your mom, and Samantha is out there
somewhere, Mulder.  You have family."

"Need family," he repeated in a broken sob.  " 's alone."

"You have family."  She was close to crying herself, the 
tears hovering in her eyes as she pulled again, straining
to lift Mulder to his feet.  "You have me, Mulder.  You 
are not alone.  You."  She tugged again, then gave a sob
of her own.  "Have."  Another pull, aborted as he shifted 
within the box and she realized his bare back was rubbing 
against the rough interior with each move she made.  "Me!" 
She cried aloud wih this, pushing to center him, then finally
ceding it was beyond her.

She returned her hands to his face, brushing away 
tears as she cooed to him again.  "You have me, Mulder.
Come back to me now."

He moaned then, pulling from her grasp and burying 
his face in his scrunched up knees.  She touched his
head one more time, murmuring, "Forgive me," then
rose and went swiftly to the door.  

"Frank," she said, sticking only her head out, "I need
you, please."  The man only nodded and followed her
into the room.   

She led him to the box, then reached in again, her hands
stroking Mulder, seeking to provide some form of tactile
reassurance that he was not alone.  She looked up at
Eagleton, her eyes filled with pain for Mulder.  "Get 
him out, Frank," she begged.  "I can't get him out."
She felt the tears on her own face as she pleaded, and 
some stray part of her mind hoped against hope that 
Eagleton would exercise the same discretion over this
that he had shown over his friend and supervisor's
personal situation.  "Please get him out.  I'm not
strong enough."

Eagleton took one look at the woman who huddled
over the box, the woman whose hands fluttered over
the man crouched in the too small space, the woman
whose hands never stopped touching, soothing, caressing,
even as she murmured unending sounds of comfort 
and support to the man in the box.  He reached in,
grabbed Mulder under his arms and hauled him up.
As soon as he was semi-upright, Scully grabbed his
knees and the two of them lifted him and carried 
him to the bed.  

They laid him there and she swept his clothes to the
floor, wrapping him in the bedclothes as he began
to shiver again.  "Blankets, Frank," she muttered,
"and something warm to drink."  She was bent
over Mulder, almost laying on him, as she moved
her hands over him, a tuneless hum accompanying 
her movements.

"On it, Dana," the agent responded, then reached out 
a hand, touching her gently on the shoulder.  He waited
until she focused on him, her agitation obvious at his
continued intrusin, then said, "And you're plenty
strong enough, Dana.  Never doubt that for a moment."

*********************************************

Thursday
0215 hours

"How many relatives can one man have?" Mulder asked
in disbelief as he studied the list in his hand.  "I swear,
he's related to half the people in the state."  They were 
back at the field office now, Mulder firmly convinced 
that Leard was using some relative's property to conduct
his exercises in self-control.  The problem was, the man
had a *huge* family and it was likely to take hours to
sort through all the property lists and find the one that
was vacant and available.

Mulder sighed, and lifted one hand to rub his face, then
stopped when he caught sight of the clean, new bandage
that covered his palm.  His eyes slid over to meet Scully's
and he found her watching him, a small, half-smile on
her lips.  He slid the bandaged hand out to her, then rubbed
his eyes with the other one.  Scully cast a quick look 
around the room, then took his hand in both of hers.
To anyone watching it would appear she was checking 
his wound, but they knew the reality.

He was saying "Thank you;" she was answering "Always."
He was saying "Don't leave me alone;" she was assuring
him "Never."  He was saying "I'm here for you;" she was
agreeing "I know you are."  Their eyes met once more, and
as he gazed into her clear blue orbs, he flipped his hand,
until he was holding hers, and squeezed gently.  This 
earned him another smile, and a nod, and he nodded back,
then withdrew from her touch.

"Keep looking," he directed the agent who still hovered 
near the door.  "Nothing jumps out at me.  It could be
any of them.  Just keep looking."  He stifled a yawn, then
nodded at the young agent.  "When you get the next group,
bring them to me.  I'll know it when I see it."

*********************************************

Thursday
0610 hours

"That's got to be it!"  Mulder slammed the paper on 
the table and rose rapidly.  At Scully's raised eyebrow,
he began to elaborate, even as he was puling on his 
jacket and holding her blazer out for her.  "His mother's
sister had a stroke four months ago -- right about the
time the murders began.  The aunt has been staying 
with her daughter out of state while recuperating, and
I'd be willing to bet dear nephew Leard's been taking
care of the house for them."

Scully was in her coat now, and Mulder was pulling
her toward the door with one hand, using the other to
hold his cell phone as he issued orders.  "Full strike
force, get the locals involved.  Fire and rescue, and
make sure there is an ambulance on scene.  But no one
goes in till we get there, understood?"  His voice
stopped a moment as he twisted his head looking for
the young agent who had brought the most recent list.

"How far away is this place -- Cape Charles?"  

"It's on the Eastern Shore, sir," the young man answered.
"SAC Leard's from the Shore -- most of his family is 
still over there."

"How far?" Mulder asked impatiently.  He didn't need
Leard's family history now, just a direct answer to what 
he had assumed was a fairly straightforward question.
"How long will it take us to get there?"

"Half hour?" the young man said tentatively.  "If the
bridge is open."

Mulder had opened his mouth to speak into the phone
again, but the young agent's last comment distracted 
him.

"What do you mean 'if the bridge is open?'"

They were outside now, heading for the Bureau car, 
the wind whipping wildly around them.  A storm was
brewing.  Though the sun should have been up by 
now, the dark clouds obscured it, and the morning 
might as well have been night for all the light there
was.  

The young agent who'd been gophering for them
shrugged, then held out a hand as if to indicate the
wind.  "Long bridge - seventeen miles.  They close
it when the wind is bad."

"Shit!" Mulder exclaimed.  He spoke into the phone
again.  "Frank, Rogers here seems to feel they may 
be closing some bridge we have to go over.  Yeah, 
that's right, the Bay Bridge Tunnel."  He cast a glance
at Scully, rolling his eyes as he litened.  "Well 
then, Frank, make that your priority.  I don't give 
a damn who they close that bridge to, *we* are
going across.  You make sure they understand that."
He waited a minute more, then, all patience at an
end, snarled, "If they're closing the fucking bridges,
what the hell makes you think a helicopter can 
fly in this?"  He flipped the phone shut just as
the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

"Fucking morons," he murmured under his breath,
then relaxed as Scully touched him, her hands
reaching out to take the keys from his fingers.

"Better let me," she advised.  "You're not in the
right frame of mind to be driving."  She beckoned
to Rogers.  "C'mon," she said, "you're with us.
You can navigate."  When the young man didn't 
move, she smiled slightly and added, "C'mon.
He won't bite, I promise."

She was unlocking the driver's door, pushing a 
button to unlock the other doors, and climbing 
in.  Mulder joined her in the front, watching 
silently as Rogers reluctantly slid into the back.

"All right, Rogers," he said, "start giving directions."

*****************************************

Thursday
0655 hours

Leard's Cherokee was parked in the drive -- a sure
sign they were at the right house.  But was it too late?
Scully had to reach out and grab Mulder to keep him
from sprinting into the house immediately.  He stood
now, to her side, vibrating with barely controlled
energy, and she continued to touch him periodically,
just to help keep him grounded.  They were waiting 
as the teams spread out.  Four teams, each going in
a different side of the house.  Mulder and Scully were
leading the team into the back -- the kitchen area.

Scully pulled her hand back from where it rested
on Mulder's arm, and he immediately began to
bounce on the toes of his feet.  She glanced at her 
watch, then made a motion to the two women 
behind her, the rest of their team.  

"On three," she whispered, and beside her Mulder
tensed.  From bouncing, vibrating with suppressed
energy, he was suddenly statue still.  From her antage
she could see every fiber of his being was straining,
holding back, listening, just waiting for her go
ahead.

"One," she lifted a finger.  "Two," a second finger
went up," and before she could move again, Mulder
was gone.  Off like a shot plowing straight through
the unlocked back door.

"Ah, shit!  Three!" she cried and then she was following 
her partner, wanting only to keep him in sight.  All
through the house they could hear the sounds of 
doors crashing open, and in one case, a window 
breaking as agents came in through a doorless side 
of the house.  She stormed through the door behind
Mulder, pulling into an abrupt stop as she almost 
slammed into him.  He was standing totally still in
the middle of the kitchen, eyes focused on a closed
door that appeared to lead to a basement or cellar.

"He's down there, Scully, and it's soundproofed.  
He doesn't know we're here."  His eyes were glazed
as he stared at the door, a morbid fascination chiseled
into his features.  "He had to soundproof it so that
the neighbors wouldn't hear.  Daddy wasn't as 
well-disciplined as Leard.  He --" Mulder shook himself,
then looked around and realized he had an audience.
He stopped his commentary and turned to Scully.
"I'm going down.  You coming?"

"Now," she said with a smile, "where else would I go?"

Mulder nodded, then with no further preliminaries,
yanked the door open and barreled down the steps,
weapon drawn, and again came to a complete stop at
the bottom of the stairs.  The basement was a warren
of rooms; tiny little areas divided by full and half walls,
some filled with boxes and trunks, others a jumble of
loose items ranging from mattresses and dressers to
bats and balls.  Despite the clutter, the layout reminded
Mulder of a movie he'd seen.  A young FBI agent
pursued a serial killer in a maze-like basement.  Only
in the movie, the basement was dark.

As if Leard had read his thoughts, the lights suddenly
went out, and behind him Scully gave a little gasp.

"He knows we're here," Mulder mumbled.  "I need a light."

Scully nodded to one of the women on the stairs and
she ran back up, returning in short order with two 
flashlights and more agents.

"Scully and I are the only ones going in here," Mulder
said, and sharply cut off the other agents' protests.
"I don't want us shooting each other in the dark.
Scully and I know each other."  He smiled in the inky
blackness, then grappled for her hand, giving it a quick
squeeze.  "We know each other's patterns so that's
not a problem for us.  You stay here."

The women nodded reluctantly, and Mulder added,
"And don't let anyone else down until Agent Scully or
I declare the area secure."

"I don't like this, sir," one of the women ventured to
say.

"Then file a report, *after* the situation is under
control," Scully snapped at her.

The two stepped forward into the murky basement,
lights slicing through the dark.  "You find the box
and Skinner," Mulder said, "and I'll track Leard."

"I don't think so."  Scully had stopped, forcing Mulder
to do the same.  "I know I'm not going to be able to
get the AD out of the box, Mulder.  Hell, I couldn't 
get you out without help and Skinner outweighs you
by forty pounds and has several inches on you to boot."
She stared up at her partner, determination in her
face.  "You find Skinner.  *I'll* go after Leard."

Mulder was shaking his head, but she reached out
and touched him, using a gentle grasp on his wrist 
to still him.  "Just like it made sense for us to be
the only two down here, this makes sense too.  You
go find the AD.  I'll take care of Leard."  

Mulder nodded slowly, then moved forward while
Scully veered off, heading to the left through a doorway
in one of the half walls.  

"Be careful, Scully," he murmured and was surprised
when she answered.

"Always."


Profiler or Prophet  07/07

Thursday
0715 hours

Mulder stood outside a closed door.  This was it -- he could 
feel it.  He paused a moment, head darting back and forth
in a useless gesture in the dark as he sought his partner.
She was still involved in her own hunt -- but Mulder
had hit the jackpot.  He could hear a muffled voice through
the wooden barrier -- a voice lifted in anger.

"Get up!  You have to stand up!"  The voice was strident,
a tinge of petulance creeping in, as if the speaker couldn't
understand why his audience would defy him.  "You've
been good.  You can go now, Daddy.  But you have to 
STAND UP!"

Mulder shifted nervously one last time, made another
useless circle with his head, still hoping Scully would
appear and be with him when he went through the door
to face Leard.  He took two steps back, bracing himself,
then shuddered violently as the voice screamed once
more, "STAND UP, DADDY!"  There was another
soud, perhaps a muffled blow, and he knew he could
stall no more.  He had to get in there -- *now.*

He took a deep breath, poised to crash the door, and
had actually leaned forward and lifted his foot, when
his arm was caught in an iron grip, and he was whirled
around to find his partner staring up at him.  "What 
is it?" she hissed.

"In there," he whispered.

"Back up?"

"No time.  I haven't heard Skinner at all, and I think
Leard is getting violent with him.  I thought I heard
blows."

She nodded.  "Let's go then."

He turned back to the door, took another deep breath,
then hit the door running.  He could feel the impact 
deep in his shoulder and he wondered if he'd torn
something this time, but he kept moving.  His 
momentum carried him several steps into the room,
and he finally halted, mere feet from where Leard
stared at him from behind the box.

He looked around, startled by the fact that he could
see in here, then realized that Leard had some kind 
of camp lantern lit, illuminating the small room.  
There was a smell in the room as well, something
rank and fetid.  His eyes were locked on Leard's, 
as some weird communion threatened to draw him 
into the man's madness.  He staggered a bit, then 
regained his balance and took another step.

Behind him, he heard Scully shout, "Drop your
weapon, Leard!" and he noticed for the first time that
the former SAC was pointing a Sig Sauer, twin to his
own, at him.  At *them.*

"Give it up, Leard," he ordered hoarsely.  "It's over."

"Daddy won't get out of the box," the man said
peevishly.  "He was good.  He stayed quiet.  He
stayed in control.  But he won't get out of the box
now."

Mulder risked a glance at Scully and saw her trying
to make assessments of the AD's condition based
on this information.  She shrugged fractionally --
not enough to go on.

"Let me help him," Mulder said, and was shocked 
as Leard began to scream.

"NO!  NO!  NO!  You don't get help.  You have to 
be a MAN!"

"He's not your father, Leard," Mulder said.  "Your
father died six months ago!"
"No!  No!  He wouldn't leave me.  He wouldn't go
away.  He knows I need help to stay in control."
The man stared down into the box, one hand caressing
what Mulder assumed was Skinner's head.  "Daddy
wouldn't leave me, would you?"

There was no answer from within, and Mulder glanced
at Scully.  Concern was visible on her face and she once
more shrugged, the movement not reaching her arms, for
the gun she held never wavered.  

How to reach this man?  Was he too far gone into insanity
to ever be reached again?  Mulder paused, the exhaustion
of the past week almost overwhelming him.  His thinking
was slow, his reaction time down.  He wasn't sure what
direction to take to move Leard, but move him he must.
There was no telling what condition Skinner was in, and
they needed to get help to him.  Mulder narrowed his eyes,
making his own assessment.  Skinner was the priority; he'd
save Leard if he could.

"Your father is gone, Leard, long gone.  Why would you
think he'd want to help an out of control freak like you?"

He'd known he was pushing the man's buttons.  He'd 
counted on it.  What he hadn't counted on was the speed
with which the man lifted his weapon and fired, a shot
that came right at him.  Scully shoved him as Leard's
weapon discharged, her own gun echoing the first shot,
but this one sailing past him.  

He saw the scarlet blossom on Leard's chest at the same
time he felt the fire explode on his hip.

"Mulder, are you OK?" Scully was asking, and he was
reassuring her, sending her to check on Leard and Skinner.

He hadn't even fallen; that alone would have been enough
to tell him he'd only been grazed.  It still hurt like hell
though.  Scully had kicked Leard's gun from him, and
she was shaking her head as she felt for the non-existent
pulse in the man's neck.  "Dead," she muttered, then 
pulled herself up to stare down at the AD, folded into 
himself to fit in the confining space, and still not moving.

He took several steps forward, wincing with the movement,
until he was next to the box.  "Sir?" Mulder aked 
softly, as Scully reached out to touch Skinner.  "It's over, 
Sir."

Scully shook him gently, her hand on his shoulder, 
then she reached down to grasp his chin and lift his
face up.  They both stared down into open but unseeing
brown eyes.  Eyes devoid of hope.  Eyes that focused
on something that existed in another time, another
place.

"This isn't physical, Mulder," Scully said slowly.
"At least I don't think it is."  She looked over at her
partner, holding the sides of the box to hold himself
erect.  "Can you get him out, or do I need to call for
someone?"

"No," Mulder answered sharply.  "Don't call anyone."
He paused a moment, studying the man in the box.
"Actually, do call.  Have them bring your bag, and 
soap and water, and clothes for the AD.  No one needs
to see him like this.  If he's not in serious medical need,
then let's clean him up and see if he won't come back
to us on his own."

She was nodding, but still appraising Mulder, taking
in his haggard appearance.  "That's all fine and good,
Mulder," she said, "but *can* you get him out?"

"I have to."  He shrugged.  "I'm not sure what's happening
with Skinner, but I don't think having an audience will 
help him deal with it."

She made the call quickly, waited as Mulder grabbed
the AD under his arms and lifted.  In a repeat of the
movements she had made when Eagleton lifted Mulder,
she grabbed Skinner's knees and together they laid him 
on the ground.  

"He's," Mulder paused again, wrinkling his nose slightly,
"pretty dirty," he finished diplomatically.

"He was in the box for almost two days, Mulder.  It was
bound to happen," Scully said pragmatically.

"Yeah, well, nobody else needs to know *it* happened.
For some reason, I think Skinner would be sensitive about
this."

There was a knock on the door, and Scully moved swiftly
to open it, accepting her medical bag, blankets, a bucket
of warm water, soap, towels.  Mulder could hear muffled
conversation, then Scully said, "I don't *care* who is
demanding to see him.  *He* doesn't want to see anyoe
now."  More conversation, then Scully again.  "Yes, shots
were fired."  Another hum on unintelligible wording.  
"Yes, SAC Leard is dead."  More words, spoken quietly
this time, but they must have been the wrong words because
Scully lashed out.  "You, the local police chief, the rest of
the FBI, and the Director himself can just wait until I file my
report.  You'll get all the details you need then!  And where
the hell are the clothes I requested for the AD?"  There 
was one more almost silent conversation, and Mulder 
fancied he detected a trace of meekness in the woman's
tone, before Scully said sharply, "Then find someone his
size and make them strip, but get me some clothes.  *Now!*"

She slammed the door, picked up the towels and soap, 
then headed over to where Mulder now sat, Skinner's head
cradled in his lap.  The AD's eyes were still open, still
staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.  She laid the supplies
by Mulder, then went back and got the rest of the materials.
When she returned, Mulder hadn't moved.  "I thought
you wanted to clean him up?" she asked curiously as she
began to wash the nude body of the man before her.

"I did.  I do," Mulder said sheepishly.  "I'm not, that
is, I didn't think I should move."

Scully looked up.  "Mulder are you OK?  Really?"

He sighed.  "No.  But we need to get Skinner cleaned
up and dressed.  I can't explain it.  But he's not
coming back from wherever he's gone until this
is done."  He smiled at his partner.  "I'll make it,
Scully.  Just get it done, then you can have the privilege
of ushering me and the boss off to the hospital."

"Privilege, my ass," Scully muttered as she returned
to her ministrations.  "More like shit job of the century,"
and was rewarded with Mulder's husky laugh.  

He looked at Scully, where she was now cleaning
the AD's abdomen and heading lower.  "I think you 
already have that job," he whispered, then laughed
again when she rolled her eyes as she continued to 
bathe Skinner.

There was another knock and she rose and crossed
to the door. This time he could make out the other
person's words.  "I made Abernathy strip down, like
you said.  Let him keep his jockeys though."

Scully laughed and took the proffered clothing.  
"That's OK," she said, "I think the AD is a boxers
man."  She pushed the door shut on the very stunned
face of Frank Eagleton and went back to her partner.

There was another knock, and she went quickly 
back, once more opening the door just a peek.  "I've
been instructed to tell you, you have fifteen minutes,
then everyone and their brother is coming in."

Scully glanced back at Mulder and he nodded.

"I think the AD will be ready to face people by then,"
she said, shutting the door one more time.  She walked
back to her partner and her boss, saying, "God, Mulder,
fifteen minutes.  How are we supposed to have him up
and talking in fifteen minutes?"

"We're not."  Mulder pointed at Skinner's eyes.  They
flickered as they watched.  "He's doing it himself."  He
leaned over, long fingers gently touching Skinner's cheek.
"C'mon, Sir," he said, "you need to come back now.  The
Norfolk office is just waiting to screw this up too.  Only
you can keep things from getting too screwy."  He waited
a moment, noting that the man's eyes continued to flick
back and forth, then looked up at his partner.  "Let's
get him dressed."

With Mulder lifting and Scully sliding the clothes on,
they managed to get Skinner into a pair of trousers and 
a dress shirt.  It wasn't the full business attire the AD
was accustomed to, but it was more clothing than he had
worn in two days.  As Scully buttoned the shirt, Mulder 
felt the AD stiffen and cautiously released the man, 
ready to catch him if he keeled.  But Skinner remained
erect, on the floor, but sitting on his own.  His eyes
had gone from flickering across the room without 
lighting on anything, to moving slowly from object to
object, but there was still no sign of recognition in the
dark brown gaze.

Mulder watched a bit longer, then lifted his head and
struck himself in the forehead.  "I'm an idiot,"he said
and he began to dig in the inside pocket of his coat.

"What?" Scully asked, one eye on Skinner, one on
her partner.  

"He can't focus because he can't *see!*"  Mulder pulled
a pair of wire rim glasses from his pocket, opened them
and seated them on the bridge of Skinner's nose. 

"Mulder, you amaze me," Scully breathed.  "I would
never ..."

"Agents?" a deep, but very hoarse voice interrupted.
"Where am I?"

******************************************

Thursday
0750 hours

"Let them put you on the god damned gurney, Mulder,
or I swear, I'll shoot you myself!"

"But, Scully ..."

"I'm serious, Mulder.  And you should know by now
that I mean it when I say I'll shoot you."

"Aw, shit!"  Mulder stopped resisting and let the 
paramedics lift him onto the waiting gurney.

He noted Skinner was strapped down on one next
to him, watching with a slight smirk on his face.
"No need to look so smug, Sir," he remarked.  "I'm
willing to bet she insists you stay overnight, too."

The look on Skinner's face shifted from one of
amusement at Mulder's predicament to concern for
his own.  "Agent Scully," he began.

She turned from where she stood by Mulder's 
gurney and reached out to Skinner, gently taking his
hand.  "Shhh," she said before he could continue,
"you've had a rough couple of days.  You need to
be in a controlled environment."

At the word "controlled," both men shuddered.  
"Don't say that, Scully," Mulder admonished.

She smiled sheepishly and said, "Sorry.  But the
fact remains," she shifted slightly, retaining her
grasp of Skinner's hand and addressed both men,
"you've both had a very trying week.  The last few 
days especially.  If nothing else, a stay in the 
hospital will make you rest.  And you both need
rest, don't try and deny *that!*"

"All right, Scully," Skinner said softly, "no more
complaints from me."  It was strange to be laying 
here, looking up at her, and to have her cradling his
large hand in her own small ones, but it was oddly
comforting too.  He'd never been a man to accept
comfort veryeasily, but here, with these two, it
seemed natural to relax and let them care for him.

She smiled down at him, then frowned as he began 
to pull his hand loose from hers.  "They're taking 
Mulder," Skinner said.  "You should go with him."

She squeezed his hand quickly then turned and
followed the gurney.  She walked swiftly out the
door, catching up to Mulder and reaching out to
take his hand.  He had an IV in one wrist and his
cut palm still wore its coat of gauze.  His pants
had been cut away to allow the paramedics access
to the wound on his hip.  His life wasn't in danger
this time, but she had this irrational fear that if 
she left him, he'd find a way to complicate things.

"Are you coming with us, ma'am?" the male medic
asked respectfully.  He'd already experienced the 
back side of Dr. Dana Scully's tongue and had no
desire to feel it again.

"Yes," she said.

"No," Mulder said at the same time.

She looked down at him, eyes wide in surprise, then
narrowing slightly as she tried to figure out his plan.

"No, Scully," he said wearily, "I'm not planning
the 'Great Escape.'"  It's just, well, I think Skinner
needs you more right now.  Maybe you should ride
with him."

"Mulder, his injuries are minor compared to yours. 
I know you don't think you're too badly hurt, but
*any* gunshot wound can be dangerous.  I don't
want to let anything happen to you."

He dismissed her comments.  "I'm OK, Scully. 
Really.  Nothing a few pain pills and some sleep
won't cure.  But Skinner?  He needs someone now.
You're -- it's really lonely in that box."  He cleared 
his throat as he spoke, uncomfortable with voicing
this particular feeling.  

"You're not alone," she reminded him.

"I know," he said softly.  His hand reached out, 
straining to find hers, and she quickly took it in
her own.  "But I know how I felt after four hours
in the box.  Like I was the only person in the
world.  And that was knowing you were right
outside and I could get out anytime I wanted.
Skinner was alone in that box for *two days,*
Scully, *two ays.*  He needs to know he's not
alone."

She looked down at him again, a tiny smile
on his lips, eyes soft with that *something* 
that was there when he looked at her.  She was 
reminded of how she felt -- my God, was it just 
yesterday? -- when Mulder had enfolded her in
his arms and she had known what true goodness
resided in this man.  She could see in his eyes
that he wanted her to stay with him.  Maybe 
even needed her to stay with him.  But he was
sending her off to be with Skinner, because the
AD needed that human connection even more.
She suppressed a small snort.  As if *anyone*
could need human contact more than Fox
Mulder.

She gazed down at him, her own eyes filled
with emotions they had yet to name, and she
knew he could tell she had made her decision.
He nodded slightly, then said, "You better go.
They've gotten him out of the house too."

She was still staring at him, amazed at the 
sacrifices he would make for those he cared
about.  Oh yes, he was annoying, troublesome,
too foolhardy for his own welfare.  But he was
also strong and caring and kind and most of
all -- good.  His eyes had a question in them
now, wondering why she hadn't gone to be
with the AD.  She continued to gaze down at 
him, a soft smile on her lips.  And then she
was lowering her head, his eyes growing wide
as she came closer.  And then her lips brushed
his, a feather touch, more benediction than
kiss.  She lingered there a moment more,
then pulled away.  "I'll go to the AD now,"
she said as she stood up.  "See you at the
hospital."  She turned away and didn't see
the delight that crossed her partner's face,
or the way his hand crept slowly up to touch
his lips and stay there.

********************************

Thursday
0840 hours

"I'll be fine, Agent Scully," Skinner said
gruffly as she climbed into the ambulance
with him.

"I know you will, Sir," she responded.  
"Mulder and I just thought you might enjoy
some company."

Skinner swallowed hard at that.  They were
right.  He had had enough of being alone to
last a very longtime.  But he hated to think
that Mulder was making the trip to the hospital
by himself just so that he, Walter Skinner, 
wouldn't have to.  He closed his eyes wearily
and a wall of fire shot up before him, causing him
to gasp and his eyes to fly open.  He looked 
around, struggling once more to get his
bearings.  Scully was hovering uncomfortably
close, but when he looked at her she seemed 
to realize that and she moved back a bit.

"What is it, Sir?" she asked gently.  

"When I -- the box," he began, then stopped as
his throat suddenly closed up.  Scully was offering
water in a small cup and she helped lift his head
up so he could swallow.  Her hands were soft and
cool on the bare skin of his neck and he missed
her touch when she pulled away.

She studied him a bit longer, then reached out 
and stroked his face.  Both of them were astonished
when his eyes filled with tears, but Scully recovered
quickly and wiped them away with a tissue.  "Can
you tell me about it, Sir?" she asked softly, her hand
now snugged inside his own.  

He looked up at her face, so beautiful and so 
concerned -- for him.  Her partner had been 
shot and God knows what else, but she was here
with him, ready to hear his story.  He wiped his
face with his other hand, unwilling to release her
for the moment.  "I was in Viet Nam," he began,
and she nodded, and he knew it would be all 
right.

*************************************

Friday
1800 hours

"I hate CNN," Mulder whined.  "And besides,
Sightings is on."

"We are not watching some show about UFOs,
Mulder," Skinner growled, eyes fastened to the
TV overhead.  He shook his head.  This was 
Scully's idea of getting him to rest?  It had
been OK when Mulder was still sleeping a lot.
Yesterday it had been pretty good actually,
knowing there was someone in the room with
him.  Knowing he wasn't alone.  And last night.
That had been good too.  Mulder had slept, the
painkillers he was on doing their thing to keep
him out.  And Skinner had not slept, waking
frequently throughout the night.  But ithad
been comforting to know that there was someone
with him, someone he knew and cared about. 
Someone who cared about him.

But now?  Now the man was a downright nuisance.
Whining about every little thing.  He didn't like
the green jello.  He didn't understand why they
made him use a bedpan -- definitely more information
than Skinner had needed to know.  He didn't
understand why the IV couldn't come out.  Skinner
had had it up to here with the man's complaints.
And apparently so had Scully because she had left
just after their dinner was served.  Though she had
made some cryptic comment about the two of
them driving her nuts and deserving each other.

Why she would say that was beyond him.  He certainly
wasn't whining or being annoying.  When he'd found 
green jello on his plate, he'd simply pointed out, politely
but firmly, that no one over the age of five ate green jello,
and the nurse had brought him and Mulder both
a dish of red jello.  Not so hard.  And when they'd
tried to make him use a bedpan, he had politely but
firmly refused, and then refused to be cowed with their
threats of a catheter until finally, they had allowed him
to use the facilities on his own.  All with no fuss, no muss.
Not at all like Mulder and his whining.  God, the man
was irritating.  He looked down at his own IV-free hand.
That one had been easy.  When they wouldn't listen to
reason, he had simply shut the IV pump off and removed 
the damn thing himself.  No fuss, no muss.  Oh, they'd 
been a little miffed with him, but they'd gotten over
it.  The important thing was he hadn't whined and made
people crazy over his own little discomforts.  He was
more mature than that.

He tried to focus on the news, but Mulder was making
these long-suffering little sounds now, and he began 
to wonder where they'd put his weapon.  He was seriously
contemplating getting out of bed and "checking" on the
man himself when Scully breezed back in.  She had
two full bags in one hand and a drink tray in the other.  
She stopped at his bed first, and he realzed he was 
salivating at the smell of the fresh coffee she carried.
How the hell had she gotten that past the Nazi nurses
on the floor?  No matter.  He reached out greedily,
almost burning himself in his haste, then forced himself
to slow.  "Thank you, Agent Scully," he said politely,
and her eyes twinkled at him.  

"I thought you might need a cup of this.  It's decaf,
but it tastes pretty good."

Skinner took a long swallow and nodded.  "It is.  
Good, I mean."  He nodded again, then sighed.
"Thank you.  This is just what I needed."  He
realized then he might have been a bit too
rough on Mulder.  After all, the man had been shot.
And when Scully opened the bag and produced
a huge cinnamon pastry, he knew he was being
overly harsh.  Skinner lifted the pastry and took
a bite, then sighed again.  It wasn't Mulder's
fault he didn't have the people skills of an AD.

"Thank you again, Scully," he said sincerely,
and she grinned.

"I'm going to remember this.  Coffee and danish
makes a grumpy AD into a cuddly bear.  Could be
useful information to have."

"Harumph!" Skinner replied as she moved over
to Mulder's bed.  

"Whadja bring me?" Mulder asked, with all the
tact of a four year old on Christmas Day.  But 
Scully only laughed at him.  

"Iced tea -- also decaf.  But cold and fresh brewed.
And a great big greaseburger with all the trimmings.
She opened another bag and produced a burger
wrapped in paper.  

"Ah, Scully," Mulder sighed, "you know what I like."

She giggled then, and Skinner realized he had never 
heard Dana Scully giggle before.  It was a nice sound.
He chanced a glance to the side and saw his two 
agents staring -- no, *gazing* -- at one another.  Oh,
shit.  This could be trouble.  As he watched, Mulder's
eyes slid closed and Scully leaned over the bed, her lips
resting first on his forehead, then his nose, then his lips.

She pulled back and murmured to him, "I know you
hate being cooped up like this."  She kissed him again
when he nodded.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.  "I'll try harder to get 
alog."

Hmmm.  Maybe this wasn't trouble after all.  If any
two people were meant to be together it was these two.
And if a kiss could get Mulder to apologize *and*
vow to do better ... well, then, this could have 
promise.

He watched as Scully bent again to kiss her partner,
waiting for her to rise before he spoke.  But she didn't
rise, and Mulder's hand came up and encircled her 
neck, holding her to him, drinking her in.

Skinner smiled to himself and took another sip of 
the *wonderful* coffee Scully had brought, then
cleared his throat.  He laughed when they pulled
apart guiltily, two pairs of worried eyes turning 
to stare at him.  

"If you're going to do that all night, Agents, pull
the curtain."  He smiled at them, a huge grin that
covered his face and removed all traces of the stern
and dour Assistant Director.  "There are some things
a boss just doesn't need to know."

End