Profiles in Caring IV (4/4)Subject: Profiles IV part 4 of 4
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1998

Title: Profiles in Caring IV (4/4)
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R to NC-17 for violence and disturbing imagery
Category: SA - character exploration
Spoilers: None
Keywords: MSR - M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please! 
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully
brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox
if they sue me, because I am poor and have nothing material they can
profit from. 
Summary: Mulder discovers Harold Roberson is not in the Federal
Institution for the Criminally Insane. In searching for Roberson,
he finds more than he bargained for. 
Profiles in Caring IV 13/17 
Scully, trailed at a discreet distance by the young agent
Gerrolds, walked quietly to stand beside Skinner, her eyes
on Mulder. He paced less frenetically than before, but
was working on wearing a path between a large oak and
a much smaller dogwood that graced the yard by the drive. 
He still mumbled the occasionally half-heard, and even less
understood comment, but was broodingly silent for the
most part. Shortly before Scully arrived, he had darted
past Skinner to the car, yanked open the door, rummaged
amongst his papers, and emerged with a notepad covered
in his tight, spidery writing. He looked at it for a moment,
then dropped it on the ground and went back to his pacing
track. 
Skinner had slipped over and picked up the discarded
pad, looking down to see it was the same type of list
as he had started when he had begun to develop target
ratios. Mulder's list was quite similar to his own with
one very noticeable exception. On Mulder's list, John
Bikowski had been moved up to beneath Mitchell.
Skinner had his friend quite far down on the list. 
"Well," Scully said softly, "guess I better go talk to
him. He's really on a tear, isn't he? Any idea what
set it off?" 
"He saw something? Figured something out?" Skinner
held out the tablet, pointing at the rearranged list of
names. Both stood with heads lowered slightly as they
studied the list, each working in their own way to fathom
the changes Mulder had made. 
Scully tapped Bikowski's name with her fingernail, and
opened her mouth to speak, but before she could complete
her thought, Gerrolds exclaimed, "Hey, is he all right?" 
Both Scully and Skinner turned to see Mulder standing
before the old oak, fists clenched, chest heaving, staring
unseeingly into the weathered bark. 
"I don't think so," she said, and began to run in her partner's
direction. As she moved, Mulder let out a roar of desperation,
lifted his fists, and began to slam them into the tree. His
display of temper was short-lived, as Scully simply kept
moving and tackled him, preventing him from taking more
than three or four shots at the tree. 
Mulder rolled beneath Scully, almost dislodging her smaller
form. He was gasping for breath, hissing from between
clenched teeth, "You won't win, you son of a bitch. You
can't have *me!*" 
Scully was calling him, almost chanting his name, but
he showed no signs of recognition. He drew back his
fist, and she slipped to the side to avoid the blow he
aimed at her head, but found her move unnecessary,
as Skinner caught Mulder's arms and held him immobile. 
At the feel of Skinner's restraint, Mulder stopped
fighting. He lay still amongst the last of summer's grass
and the sporadic covering of leaves on the yard. His eyes
were glazed and his thoughts turned inward as Scully
scrambled to her knees and crept to his side. 
"Mulder," she crooned to him, "c'mon, Mulder. You need
to tell me what's going on here. What's happening that's
so bad?" She continued to speak softly to him, her voice
low and her tone gentle and accepting. She touched him
frequently, stroking his chest and arms, rubbing his
shoulders. Her fingers delicately caressed his face and she
bent often to kiss his now still form. 
When he closed his eyes, she looked up at Skinner and
indicated he should release him. Skinner complied
reluctantly, but Mulder only brought his arms down
and crossed them over his chest. "I'm sorry," he
whispered. 
Skinner patted Mulder's shoulder, then rose and beckoned
Gerrolds to follow. They walked a short distance away,
but both continued to observe Scully and Mulder. 
She was whispering to him now, and he responded at
times. His eyes were still closed, but he'd relaxed his
arms and Scully now held one of his hands in her lap.
She reached out and placed her hand on his brow, letting
it linger for a long moment, then drew it down his cheek
before returning to place it on the hand she held resting
on her knees. 
"You feeling better?" she asked after a while. 
He nodded. 
"Ready to take on sitting up?" She helped him shift to
a sitting position. 
"I acted like an ass, Scully. I'm sorry." 
"It's all right, Mulder. But I want to get you up off
the ground. Can you stand up?" 
"Head hurts. And I'm dizzy again." 
"OK, we'll take it slow. I'm gonna get Skinner over
here to help." She lifted her head and waved the big
man over. 
"Mulder's feeling a bit dizzy. Would you mind helping
him up?" 
Skinner extended a hand to Scully first, helping
her rise, then he leaned over and took Mulder's forearms
in his hands in a tight grip. "You ready, Mulder?" 
The agent nodded and Skinner pulled. Mulder came
easily to his feet, but swayed as another bout of dizziness
swept over him. "Scully? What's going on? I thought
I was better?" 
"Maybe you better tell me what brought this -- rage attack --
on. Then we can try to figure out why you're feeling bad
again." 
Mulder nodded, then said, "I need to sit." Skinner walked
with him to the car, then opened the back door and assisted
him in. He sank gratefully into the seat, leaning back fully
and closing his eyes again. Scully and Skinner stood by
the open door, quietly observing as Mulder visibly relaxed. 
"I suddenly realized I knew what Roberson did with
Mitchell. And then I realized I knew, because it's what I
would have done, if I was Harold." He opened tortured
eyes and looked up at them. "I knew what he would
do, and I understood why. It all made perfect sense. And
then I realized," he paused, shuddering. He tensed again,
then clutched his stomach and leaned out the door. 
Skinner and Scully both took hasty steps backwards as
Mulder began heaving. In between choked gasps for air,
he fought to get the words out, "I." He gritted his teeth
and drew a deep, shuddery breath. "Understood." He
began to choke and Skinner stepped forward, pounding
him on the back until the choke turned into a cough that
eventually subsided. He leaned back into the car and
sighed. "Do you know what a sick fuck you have to be
to *understand* a man like Roberson?" 
********************************************* 
The drive back to the Hoover was surprisingly quiet.
Mulder was subdued, sitting silently in the rear with
Scully, her hand clutched tightly in his own. 
She spoke to him softly several times, but he seemed
most content to have her next to him, the physical
reassurance of her presence more settling than her
words at this point. Though Skinner was a friend,
Scully was very aware of the ever present Agent
Gerrolds, and had been reluctant to compromise Mulder's
professional reputation any more than the stress he
was reacting to had already done. 
Scully had initially been uncomfortable in being
overtly physical with Mulder in the car. Her earlier
actions in the yard had been done without thinking,
her whole world having narrowed to the man she loved
and the pain he was suffering. And now, his need once
more outweighed her reserve and she had slipped over
on the back seat, moving close to her lover until she was
snuggled in next to him. He moved again, slightly
agitated, and she whispered reassurances to him, running
her hand gently up his thigh and resting her head
more fully against his shoulder. 
He lifted his arm and encircled her, pulling her
against his chest and began to stroke her hair with
a rhythmic motion she was sure was intended as
much for his own comfort as to reassure her. She
murmured against his shirt and he leaned down
to hear her better. 
"Hmmm?" His ear was next to her face now, and
she snuck a quick peek at the front seat as she lifted
her head and whispered to him. 
"I said, I'd really like some *alone* time with you." 
Her tongue snaked out quickly and tickled his ear,
as her hot breath brushed against his neck, and she
felt him stir beneath the hand she had laid in his lap. 
His other arm came across and he wrapped her in
a tight embrace, murmuring, "Oh, God, Scully, I
need you so bad. I'm losing myself in this monster
and I'm so afraid I won't be able to find my way back." 
His breathing shifted again, and she felt as much as
heard the beginning of a ragged sob as he fought to
contain it. 
"Shhh," she whispered. "I'm not going to let you
get lost, you understand? You're too important,
much too valuable to allow that to happen." She
lifted her head and kissed him gently, her lips brushing
softly against his own. She met his eyes, willing
him to accept the truth of her words, then dropped her
own as she confessed, "I need you, too, Mulder. I'd
be just as lost without you." 
Mulder's hand had dropped from her hair to
her back and he was gently rubbing small circles
around and beneath her bra. She felt a rush of
warmth as his hand strayed to her side and grazed
against her breast. 
She looked to the front, but saw only the backs of
Skinner and Gerrolds' heads, then looked up to see
Mulder smirking slightly as he recognized her
reaction to his touch. She discreetly moved her
hand across his lap, feeling him jump once more,
then drew her fingers up his chest to settle against
his cheek. 
"This case *will* end. You'll get through it.
*We'll* get through it. And then," she drew his
head down and whispered directly into his ear
for a long minute. 
Skinner glanced in the mirror at that moment
and smirked as he watched Scully murmuring
to Mulder, a huge blush rising from the man's
chest to completely cover his face. When she
finished whatever she was saying, she ducked
her head again, a satisfied smile just visible on
her face, and rested her head in the hollow of
Mulder's shoulder. 
Mulder rode the rest of the way in silence, his
face flushed and Scully pulled close to his side. 
********************************************* 
It had taken a long time to get Mulder to sleep. It was
nearly three in the morning now, and they were all back
at the Hoover. Skinner had not intended to have them
spend the night there, but it was secure, Mulder's meds
were there, and when he'd suggested they return there in
the late afternoon, he'd had no idea it would take hours to
convince Mulder to move beyond his afternoon's outburst
and get some sleep. 
Scully had finally persuaded him to take the Xanax,
under pain of a return visit to the ER, and he had reluctantly
complied. He was now sleeping on the couch in Skinner's
office, and he and Scully were conferring in Kim's office. 
"They actually found him in the penguin pit?" 
Skinner nodded. "Naked as a jay bird and blue as a summer
sky. From the amount of water splashed in and out of the
pool, they're hypothesizing that he was made to get in
and out a number of times before he was too cold to pull
himself out anymore." 
Scully shivered, and Skinner nodded again. "Yeah. It
does seem like an awfully fitting death, doesn't it?" 
"How the hell does this man get in and out of mental
institutions, college campuses, high school gymnasiums,
and the kind of security Mitchell had on his place? To
say nothing of the National Zoo?" Scully asked in
frustration. 
"That's one of many I'd like an answer to," Skinner
replied. He yawned. "We both need to get some sleep." 
"I'm good," Scully said. At Skinner's speculative
look, she repeated, "No, really, I am. I napped for
several hours with Mulder this afternoon, and then
I slept in the car on the way back from Cumberland.
What I'd really like to do is go look at the body myself,
maybe have something else for Mulder when he wakes
up." 
Skinner nodded. "Take -- hell, who's here tonight?
Anyway, take whoever's on duty -- don't go alone.
And I need to call the lab and see if the duty tech
has anything on the paper that was over the last child
we found." He started to pick up the phone, then
looked at Scully. "Did Mulder say how he knew
internal organs would be missing on the last body?" 
"Yeah, he did. When he saw the evisceration, he
figured there had to be a meaning to it since none
of the other children were desecrated in that manner." 
"And?" 
"The spleen was missing. And the spleen is often
considered to be the seat of ill-humor or malevolence.
And there was blood on the child's teeth. Mulder
thinks the boy bit him and this was Harold's
way of getting even." 
Skinner shuddered. "Pretty heavy way of getting
even." 
Scully shrugged. "He's insane." She looked over
to where Skinner was still seated behind Kim's
desk. "Mulder thinks we made him insane." 
"We?" 
"Yeah. Us. The military. The government.
Whatever was done to him. We did it. He's not
only sick at himself, he's sick over what was
done to Roberson." 
Skinner shuddered again, exhaustion cracking
his usual emotional control. "How the hell does
Mulder do this? How does he know this stuff?
Or guess this stuff? Or figure it out when no one
else can?" 
Scully shrugged again. "Who knows? All I know
is that he really wishes he couldn't. This is one
gift, or talent, or ability, that no one should have." 
"His ability lets us put killers away," Skinner
reminded her. 
"But at what cost to him?" she retorted. "At
what cost to him?" 
They stared at one another across the room,
until Skinner finally dropped his eyes. 
"I'm sorry," he muttered. 
"I know," she responded softly. "He doesn't
blame you. Neither do I. We're all just doing
what has to be done." 
Scully excused herself and went to arrange for her
escort, while Skinner placed his call. When she
returned, he was sitting behind Kim's desk, a
thoughtful look on his face. 
"What did you find out?" 
He looked up. "Mmm? Oh, the, uh, paper. It was from
a town not all that far from the cabin. Couldn't get a
date, but there was an almost complete article and the
paper is doing a search on when it ran. If it's old, then
it probably doesn't mean anything." 
"But if it's new," Scully completed the thought, "he
could still be in that area. At least some of the time." 
Skinner nodded grimly. "Sheriff Talbot commented
that Roberson had to have a 'lair' -- his word -- somewhere
within a couple hours of DC. This certainly would fit."
He shook his head, then smiled slightly. "I need to grab
a couple hours sleep. Can you be back by 6:00?" 
"I'll come back, even if I'm not done. I'm gonna check
on Mulder, then I'm outta here." She walked to the closed
door to Skinner's office and peeked in. Mulder's long,
lanky frame filled the couch and a trench coat served as
a loose blanket. He lay on his back, mouth open, and a
lock of hair flopped across his brow. She was tempted
to go and push it back from his face, but she restrained
herself and quietly closed the door. 
Skinner had already moved to the couch in Kim's office
and was stretched out as best he could, his 6 foot plus
frame dwarfing the smaller sofa. She smiled as she
watched him shift uncomfortably, then said, "Sleep
well." 
He snorted. "Oh, yeah. Sure." 
She giggled, then said, "Well, sleep fast then. It'll
be 6:00 before you know it." 
***************************************** 
Everything was happening at once. In his dream,
Skinner was pursuing Harold Roberson, and he
held a small child under his arm. As the suspect
ran out of the woods, he crossed a street and a
bell began to ring. 
Skinner slowly came to full awareness and the
bell dissolved into a ringing phone. He picked
it up and croaked, "Skinner." 
Another bell rang as the elevator dinged its
arrival and Scully soon entered the office.
She walked in, smiling in greeting, until
she took in Skinner's countenance. He was
totally AD -- all traces of the exhausted man
from three hours ago were gone as he listened
intently to whoever was speaking into his
phone. 
"All right," he said grimly. "I'll have people
there immediately. Don't let anyone move or
touch anything. This is a repeat killer and we
need the scene as intact as possible." 
He closed the phone then looked up at Scully.
"I put Denali and Irvington on Bikowski. Neighbor
out for a jog this morning found them both dead
in the car. Called for police. They confirmed
identity, then correctly assumed they were watching
one of the houses in the area. No one answered
at Bikowski's. They entered and found the wife
dead, husband and son missing. Turned out John
had gone for donuts as a breakfast surprise for his
family. He walked in on the police -- then fell apart.
They've had to sedate him." 
"Oh, God," Scully moaned, "what else can happen?"
She closed her eyes, taking a moment to gather herself.
"No, don't answer that, I don't want to know." She
took a deep breath, then said, "Denali just got married." 
"I know," Skinner said. "I went to the wedding." 
"We have to wake Mulder. He's got to know. And
he needs to get out there." 
"I know that, too. C'mon -- let's do the deed." 
They walked together to the office door and Skinner
reached out and opened it, then indicated Scully should
precede him into the room. She stepped through and
looked at the couch. The empty couch. Skinner pushed
past her, and swept the room with his eyes. He strode
to the washroom and pushed the door open, uncaring
of courtesy or modesty. But the small room was empty
as well. He walked back out to his desk, his eyes lighting
on the panel across the room. The panel that concealed
the other exit from this room. The panel that let unwanted
people in at times, and kept them hidden from view at
other times. The panel that was now slightly ajar. 
End part 13/17


Profiles in Caring IV 14/17 
Scully looked up from her papers. "The cabin area. It's the
only place I can build even the flimsiest case for." 
"Let me see if we can get any more info on that paper,"
Skinner said as he lifted his phone. 
"I'm getting a car," Scully said distractedly. "We need
to head up there." 
"Gerrolds will be here any minute. Let him get the
car." Skinner glanced up from his desk. "I don't
want to be separated from you, even in the building." 
He returned his attention to the phone, speaking
urgently to the lab tech on the other end. Scully
nodded reluctantly, then went and sat on Skinner's
couch, pulling Mulder's coat onto her lap. 
There was a knock on the door as Skinner hung up,
and Gerrolds stuck his head in the door. "Sir?
Security said you wanted to see me first thing?" 
"Agent Mulder went missing last night and
Agent Scully and I will be leaving shortly to try
and track him down. Would you requisition
2 vehicles and meet us in the garage in," he
looked at his watch, "15 minutes. Find out if
Mulder took a Bureau car while you're at it. And
I've already informed Stevens you'll be with us." 
"Yes, Sir," Gerrolds responded, ducking out the
door with alacrity. 
Skinner went and sat by Scully. She held herself
rigid on the couch, her fingers clutched in the
folds of Mulder's coat. "Scully?" 
"Yes, Sir?" she whispered, her voice breaking
as she struggled to maintain her control. 
He watched her, thinking how much he respected
this woman. Even now, she grappled with
putting her feelings to one side to focus on the
immediate task of finding Mulder. But he
could see the strain she was under already, and
knew it would only increase with each passing
minute. 
"The techs said they haven't heard from the paper
yet. Parker is trying to reach the owner at home and
get her in to resume the search. We can help when
we get there." 
"We're going?" She looked up, her eyes slightly
more hopeful. "Now?" 
"Yes, now." He reached out and touched her
lightly. "And Dana? We'll find him." 
**************************************** 
It was a long drive and Mulder's head was pounding.
His nausea and dizziness were back in full force.
Despite the pain in his head, he was inclined to
believe that his bodily pains were more manifestations
of his increasing stress levels, than any real somatic
injury. After all, he was not a psychologist for nothing.
Even he could self-diagnose with the proper incentives. 
'Yeah, right,' he thought as his vision blurred again,
and he raised his hand to clear his eyes. 
The upcoming confrontation with Roberson was doing
nothing to alleviate those rising stress levels. And the
sure knowledge that, if he lived through said confrontation
with Roberson, Scully was quite likely to kill him anyway,
was not a reassuring thought. 
The sun was coming up now, but it was still dark enough
that he had to turn on the interior lamp to glance at the
dog-eared map he had placed on the seat next to him.
If he'd managed to read the damn thing correctly, the
little town he was seeking should be coming up in another
mile or two. He turned the light back off, and half folded
the map with one hand. 
By the time he had completed that task, he'd reached
the town. It was a slice of Norman Rockwell's Americana,
complete with a grassy town square and gazebo, surrounded
by the courthouse/jail, two churches; the Baptist a white frame
building and the Episcopal church made of stone; a library,
post office, volunteer fire department, and -- what he was
looking for -- the town weekly. 
This small town business district was deserted in the early
dawn hours, but Mulder knew that small town work ethic would
have people streaming in within the hour. He drove slowly
around the small square, admiring the beauty and calm
of this apparent piece of the country's history -- a place
that seemed to recall different times, a different era. An
era when children could be left alone to roam in summer,
when people didn't lock their doors, and everyone was on
a first name basis with their neighbor. 
Mulder shivered slightly as he thought of how this small
town in the mountains reminded him in so many ways
of Chilmark, another small town that showed its charming,
peaceful side to visitors, but wars were waged beneath
the smiling exterior. He lifted his hand and rubbed his
temple. The headache was in full force. Thinking of the
past only seemed to intensify the agony in his skull. It felt
as if he was caught in a vice, unable to release the pressure,
unable to stop the increasing tension. 
He pulled his dark blue Taurus around to the back of the
newspaper office and slipped out. And though his hands
shook as he worked, opening the locked door was a mere
minute's work, and he was inside. As the sun continued
its steady climb, the sky was growing progressively brighter,
and the large plate glass window fronting the square allowed
enough light in that he could just make out the details of the
crowded interior. Off to one side was a closed door, a
hand-lettered sign indicating "Press." In front of him were
two desks separated from the tiny reception area by a chest
high counter. To the other side was another door, this one
marked "Archive." That was what he wanted. 
He opened the unlocked door, entered and shut it behind him.
With the door closed, he was in complete darkness, and
he risked turning on a light. The room was surprisingly tidy
for a newspaper office, with neatly marked hanging files holding
the archival copies of the paper for at least - Mulder checked
a rack at random - 6 years. On the table in the center of the
room lay several racks of paper, and it was obvious that a
research project was in progress. Mulder glanced at the
papers and realized they were still trying to get a date on the
scrap of newsprint that had been found with the dead child. 
He shook his head and moved to the racks. He was not
interested in the date on the paper. He *knew* Roberson
was in the area. He knew it in the same way he had known
where to find the dead baby, and where Mitchell would
be found. It was what he would do, if he were Roberson.
He'd want the security of familiar territory, but just enough
distance to be safe. "Or," Mulder muttered grimly, "at least
to give the illusion of safety." 
What he needed were the obituaries. He needed to know
who had died in the past year -- and left an empty house.
He began to run through the papers, starting with the older
ones first. There wasn't time to re-rack them, so he left
them lying on the table and just placed the next rack on top.
It would be obvious that someone had been in here, but
he knew that Scully and Skinner would be behind him
anyway. Leaving a trail at this point wouldn't hurt. He
should be finished with his business with Roberson before
they could find him. 
At 7:15, he walked out of the office and started the car.
He had a more detailed map of the area he had lifted from
the counter in the reception area, and, more importantly,
a list of potential hide-outs for Roberson. He spent a few
more precious moments marking out a circuit on the
map that would let him check the houses, then pulled
out and began the hunt. 
*********************************************** 
"Try his cell again, Scully," Skinner ordered. 
She dutifully flipped open her phone, pushed speed 1 for
Mulder and waited as it rang without answer and the
cellular company's recording kicked in. 
"Still not answering," she said wearily. 
"Well," Skinner muttered under his breath, "I hope
to hell we're annoying the shit out of him!" 
Smiling in total understanding of Skinner's frustration,
Scully asked, "How long?" 
Skinner glanced at his watch, then his eyes darted to the
speedometer, noting that he was still doing in excess of
90, and returned his entire concentration to keeping
the car *on* the road at those speeds. "We were at
least 3 hours behind him, damn him. He had to have
taken off right after you slipped out of my office, thinking
he was asleep." 
"He *was* asleep. I know him, and he can't fake it
with me." 
The double entendre slipped out, and she found herself
blushing furiously, but Skinner seemed not to notice. 
"Yes, well, the garage showed he checked out at 3:42 am,
not too long after we left him alone." His grip tightened
on the wheel, and he mumbled, "When will I ever learn?" 
Scully nodded her head, then said, "But we're moving
much faster than he would have dared." 
"I won't be able to buy us much more than 45 minutes,
maybe an hour. It was slow getting out of the city, and
once we hit those winding mountain roads, speed goes
out the window. Still," he paused, calculating in his
head, "I think we'll be there by - 8:15? Maybe 8:00 if
we're lucky." 
"But then where do we go?" 
"Try the town PD again. See what they've found at the
paper. Or anywhere else for that matter." 
Scully nodded and began to dial, then stopped. "When's
the team due to arrive?" 
"As fast as Stevens can get them assembled. Gerrolds
and that young woman, Jacobs, should be close behind
us. She was on duty and available, though I'm not sure
I like taking an untried rookie into this situation. At
least Gerrolds has been around a few more months." 
"Don't worry about Sara, Sir. If she got through the
shit they throw at women at the Academy, a run of
the mill, crazy murderer like Roberson should be nothing."
She smiled to take the sting from her comments, but
Skinner glanced sharply at her anyway. 
"Now, chasing Mulder -- that might require a whole
'nother level of experience." 
"And what experience would you suggest, as someone
who has had the privilege of chasing Agent Mulder on
numerous occasions?" 
"Well, Sir," Scully said in mock seriousness, "I've found
a medical background to be extremely helpful in working
with Agent Mulder. I'm quite sure that I've saved the
Bureau thousands of dollars by treating him myself, instead
of hauling him off to the hospital." 
Skinner grinned and Scully smiled back. "And a forensic
specialty has been most useful in stress reduction." 
"Stress reduction? I'm afraid I don't follow." 
"I am quite well versed in death and its many manifestations.
You would be amazed at the painful ends I can cook up for
Mulder when he pulls a stunt like this." Though her words
were said lightly, they served to remind them both that Mulder
was quite probably facing, or going to be facing one of those
manifestations of death at any time now. 
There was a long silence as the two people who cared for
Mulder contemplated just what could come of his rash
behavior. Skinner eased the accelerator down just a bit
more and watched as the speedometer needle crept up.
Scully took a deep breath, then lowered her head and
began to dial. Maybe Spencerville would have something
worth hearing. 
*********************************************** 
The first two houses Mulder had checked had been
wrong. Too visible, too close to the neighbors,
just not what was needed for stashing and killing
kidnapped children. But this third one? This was
perfect. 
Empty since the elderly owner had died 8 months
ago, the only relative a nephew in the Navy, currently
stationed in California. It was situated on almost 5
acres of land on the side of the mountain, the house
almost in the middle of the acreage. Mulder pulled
down the road a bit, left the car on the shoulder, and
set off parallel to the gravel road bed that led to the
old homestead -- and to Harold Roberson. 
He'd been walking for a while when the cell
phone in his pocket began to chirp. He glanced
around hurriedly, then, realizing he was entirely
in the middle of nowhere, shamefacedly pulled the
phone and answered. "Hey, Scully." 
"Mulder! Where the hell are you? What do you mean
taking off on me like this? I thought we had an
agreement?" She paused, taking a deep breath,
then added in a softer tone, "Are you all right?" 
"Yeah, I'm OK. I'm sorry I left on you like that,
but I need to do this alone. I can't risk Roberson
hurting you, and I did promise I wouldn't involve
you in this. I know it -- bothers -- you." 
Mulder resumed walking towards the house at the
end of the road. The phone was still pressed to
his ear, and in his inmost heart, he was reveling
in the sound of Scully's voice. He glanced at his
watch, buckled awkwardly over the bandages that
still covered his wrists, then added, "Where are
*you,* Scully?" 
"I'm with Skinner and we're, mmm, wait a -- "
he could hear her muffled voice as she conferred
with the AD. "We're about half an hour out of
DC, Mulder. Now where are you?" 
Mulder laughed into the phone, "No dice, Scully,
but good try. I bet you're within an hour, at the
most, from here. And I'm where you expected
me to be. Spencerville. You can find me when you
get here." He paused, knowing he needed to hang
up, but not ready to break the connection, possibly
the last connection he would have with the woman
he loved. 
"Mulder," she was saying, "please be more specific.
Tell me how to find you. Please, please, don't go
face him alone." 
"You'll find me, Scully, you always do." Despite
the desperate pleading in her voice, Mulder found
himself smiling. She was telling him, in every way
except by saying it, how much she loved him. 
"Mulder, don't do this, please. We're coming, we're
not that far away. If you won't wait for the team, just
wait for me and Skinner. You don't have to do this
alone, Mulder. You don't." 
"Scully," Mulder said soothingly, "hey, Scully."
He waited for her to wind down, then started again.
"Scully." His voice was low as he sought to let
his feelings flow through the phone. "I have to do
this. He's got at least one of the boys here, maybe
both. And I'm worried about Michael Mitchell. At
17, Roberson may not consider him a child." 
He paused again, rubbing his still throbbing temple,
then said, "But Scully, I don't want to talk about
Roberson. I want to talk about us." 
"Us, Mulder? What about us?" 
"You weren't really going to leave me, were you?" 
Scully looked at Skinner who had been concentrating
on the road, and yet still listening attentively to her
side of the conversation. She flushed slightly, then
answered, "I told you, I was confused. And no, Mulder,
I would never leave you." 
Mulder sighed, content, then said, "Hey, Scully?" 
"Yes?" 
"I love you." He closed the phone and tossed it
behind him, then broke into a trot as he caught sight
of the house on a ridge a ways before him. 
***************************************** 
Scully sat looking at the open phone until it began
to buzz, then slowly closed it and set it on the seat, next
to Skinner. "He says we'll know how to find him." 
"Damn it!" Skinner roared. He raised his fist and
pounded on the interior ceiling repeatedly, as he
let out an angry "Grrrrr." The car veered suddenly
and he quickly lowered his hand and grasped the wheel.
He eased off on the gas pedal, noting that the
road had begun the characteristic winds and
curves that led to the mountain. "Spencerville
is still about half an hour away." 
He looked at Scully, but her eyes were averted, her
head turned toward the window. He continued to
ease up on the accelerator, till the car was traveling at
a more reasonable 65 mph, then he tentatively reached
out and touched her arm. "Dana?" 
She shook slightly beneath his touch, but did not
respond. "Dana?" he asked again. "Please look
at me." 
She shook her head, and he watched as her hand stole
up to her face, then wiped quickly at her eyes. "You
don't have to hide from me, Dana," he said softly. 
"He, uh, said he loved me." 
"Ahh." Skinner was silent for a moment, then let
his hand find hers, taking it gently into his own. She
finally turned to face him, eyes still brimming with
tears, but otherwise, more in control. He squeezed
her hand, then said conversationally, "We're going to
find him, you know. If only so that I can write his ass
up for this little stunt." He gave her a crooked smile,
and was pleased to see she tried to return it. 
"We'll go to the paper," she said in a still shaky voice.
"The locals said there was a break in there last night.
Could've been Mulder." 
He squeezed her hand once more, then let her go, and
returned to his driving. 
"Check in with Gerrolds and Jacobs, then touch base
with Stevens, find out when they left." 
Scully nodded and lifted the phone again. 
******************************************* 
Mulder crept up to the window and peered in. There
was a car in the drive and several lights still burned
within the house. The kitchen, however, was empty.
As were all the rooms he could see from the outside.
He was going to have to go in blind. And this was as
good a door as any to go through. 
He slowly turned the knob and was surprised to find
the door moved at his touch, sliding open silently. He
took a cautious step into the room, weapon drawn, eyes
moving all around the bright, airy kitchen. Though
several months worth of accumulated dust covered
many surfaces, others had been wiped clean, and a
cup, a bowl, a spoon, and a small pot rested in the
dish drainer by the sink. 
He was just about to move to the next room, when
he heard a faint sound from within what he had
taken to be a broom closet. He hurried over and
opened the door, to find a terrified teenage boy
staring up at him from where he was tightly bound
on the floor. 
Mulder knelt and whispered, "Michael? Michael
Mitchell?" 
The boy nodded, eyes huge as saucers. 
"All right, Michael, I'm an FBI agent. I've come to
get you out." He stuffed his gun in the waistband of
his pants, and then he was cutting the cords that bound
the boy as he spoke. "Michael, I need you to be absolutely
quiet. Can you do that?" He spoke softly, soothingly,
as one would to a child much younger than this youth.
But the boy was terrified and the gentle tone of voice,
the nonstop murmur of reassurances seemed to be
helping to calm him. 
Mulder removed the gag, and the boy said, "My
Dad?" 
"Not here. Let's just get you out, OK? One thing
at a time. You go by Michael, or Mike?" 
"Michael," the boy responded in a muted whisper.
He started to rise, then sank back to his knees. 
"What's the matter, Michael? Are you hurt?" 
A brilliant flush colored the boy's cheeks and he
lowered his head as he said, "I'm, uh, you know, wet." 
"It's OK, Michael. Happens to the best of us." Mulder
had taken the boy's arm and was pulling him slowly
to his feet. "I'm afraid I've been in that condition
myself a few times. Nothing to be ashamed of; just
the way we humans react to stress at times." 
The boy was on his feet now, moving slowly and painfully
as the circulation was restored to his extremities. They
were at the door and ready to step out, when a voice from
behind them said, "Leaving so soon, Agent Mulder? And
here I thought you had come to see me." 
End of part 14/17 
Title: Profiles in Caring IV 15/17
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R to NC-17 for violence and disturbing imagery
Category: SA - character exploration
Spoilers: None
Keywords: MSR - M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please! 
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully
brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox
if they sue me, because I am poor and have nothing material they can
profit from. 
Summary: Mulder discovers Harold Roberson is not in the Federal
Institution for the Criminally Insane. In searching for Roberson,
he finds more than he bargained for. 
Profiles in Caring IV 15/17 
The editor of the town paper met them at the door.
"You're the FBI people I've been waiting for?" 
"Yes, Ma'am," Skinner replied, showing his ID.
"I'm Assistant Director Skinner, and this is Special
Agent Scully. We need to know what happened here
last night, take a look around if you'd let us." 
The woman nodded then ushered them in. "Broke
in through the back door. Didn't take anything but
one of these maps I keep for the tourists in color season."
She extended a small map with pictures of vividly
colored trees covering the front, and Scully accepted
it. 
Leading them through a cut-out in the counter, she
turned and opened a door marked "Archive,"
then stepped inside and flipped on the light. She
waved at the stacks of racked newspapers laying on
the work table in the center of the room. "All from
about 6 months to a year ago. You know what they
were looking for?" 
Skinner shook his head and stepped to the papers.
The top one was open to the obituaries and one name
had been circled. He turned and looked quizzically
at Scully. "Is this for real? Would he leave us such
a clear trail?" 
Scully shrugged, writing the address from the obituary
onto a small notepad she had produced. "Find the
next one," she ordered. 
Skinner began to work through the pile backwards,
eventually reaching the bottom. They had made note
of 5 addresses, all clearly circled, all fairly recent
deaths, all with no local relatives. "Mulder, what are
you doing?" Scully murmured as she stared at the list,
willing it to explain itself. 
"Nothing to do but start checking them out," Skinner
said. He turned to the older woman, waiting patiently,
and said, "Thank you for your assistance. I'm sorry
about the mess." He nodded at the table. "If there are
any damages or expenses," he extended a white business
card, embossed with the FBI logo and his name and title,
"you can reach me here and I'll make good on it." 
The woman nodded. "Good luck on finding your man,"
she said. 
Scully was already almost to the door, when Skinner stopped
and called her back. "Mrs. Carleton, could you show us
where these addresses are?" 
"Most likely," the woman answered. "Let me see that list
again." 
Scully held the notepad out, and opened the map on the counter.
Mrs. Carleton looked at the list, then began to trace the map
with her finger. She stopped and placed an X on the map, using
a bright yellow highlighter. "Middle of town, that," she
commented. 
Scully and Skinner exchanged an understanding glance.
"Ma'am," Scully began, "just the ones that are isolated,
please. Out from town, away from neighbors." 
"Oh, that's easy, then." The yellow marker was tracing a
line out from the center of town, winding through the outskirts
and finally heading up what appeared to be marked as the
mountain itself. "Only one like that. Right," she drew
a bold X, then circled it, "here!" 
Scully grabbed up the map. "That's got to be it!" she
exclaimed. Turning back to the older woman, she added,
"Thank you so much," and dashed for the car. 
Skinner followed closely behind and within moments they
were heading out of town, following the yellow trail on the
map as they raced toward Mulder -- and Harold Roberson. 
********************************************** 
"Michael," Roberson said, "I want you to take hold of
Agent Mulder's hands. Both his hands. I want you to
hold hands and walk into the living room." 
The boy didn't move, and Roberson waved his gun again.
"Michael? Do you remember what I said would happen
if you didn't listen to me?" 
The boy was frozen in place, his fear making him unable
to move, and Mulder knew he couldn't get his own weapon
fast enough to prevent Roberson from firing, and the
gun was held once more on the youth. Moving very slowly,
and speaking in the same soft, reassuring tone, Mulder
extended his hands. "Michael," he murmured, "you need
to take my hands now. C'mon, you can do that." The
boy's hands twitched, and Mulder continued. "That's right,
just take my hands." The boy moved with an agonizing
lack of speed, but Mulder waited patiently, and so, surprisingly,
did Roberson. 
Once their hands were linked, Mulder looked questioningly
at Roberson. The gun moved marginally, pointing to the
living area, then returned to Michael. With Michael walking
backward, and Mulder uttering encouragement every step
of the way, they made it to the living room. Once inside,
Roberson ordered them to stop, then stood silent as the seconds
stretched into minutes. 
Mulder was growing more concerned as the calm and
collected Roberson seemed to change before his eyes.
Never taking his eyes off the boy, he began to mutter,
"Not a child. Why is he here?" 
"How old are you, boy?" Roberson suddenly demanded. 
Michael was frozen again, unable to move, unable to
speak. Mulder looked at the boy, taking in his height
and build, the obvious signs of beard that shadowed his
still youthful face, and rapidly calculated down. How
low could he get away with? 
"He's only 15, Harold," he said. "Just turned 15 two
weeks ago." 
"I'm 17," Michael said, his voice suddenly returned to
him, his adolescent pride stung. 
Mulder's shoulders sagged as Roberson glared at him. 
"Give me the gun, Agent Mulder," he demanded, "and
let's let Michael answer his own questions. After all,"
his voice dropped and a threatening, icy chill crept into
the tone, "he *is* almost a man." 
Mulder dropped Michael's hand and carefully pulled
his weapon from the waistband of his pants. He stood
there, gun dangling from the middle finger of his left
hand, and waited for Roberson to tell him what to do.
He cocked his head and asked, "Where's Thomas? He's
just a boy, too." The added emphasis was for effect,
but Mulder had a sinking feeling that Roberson had
already categorized Michael, and it wasn't as "child." 
"Thomas is my last message," Harold responded.
"You think you understand. You think you know what
happened. You don't know anything. You don't begin
to understand. But when you find Thomas, you'll
finally understand it all." 
"He's just a child, Harold," Mulder pleaded. "They
both are." 
"Then they need to be strong, don't they? Now, the
gun. On the floor, then kick it to me." 
Mulder complied, whispering reassurances to Michael,
who appeared to have lost his voice again. The boy
looked panicked, well aware he had betrayed himself, and
unsure what, if anything, he could do to fix it. While
Mulder continued to speak softly to Michael, Roberson
bent carefully, and retrieved Mulder's weapon. 
"Sig? Very nice," he commented. He rapidly switched weapons,
replacing his own with Mulder's. Looking at his watch, he
glanced to the side and said, "I believe your rescuers are
here, Mr. Mulder. Or shall we just call them additional
hostages?" 
************************************************** 
"This is it, Sir," Scully said. "Go on a bit, and we'll cut
through to the house." 
Skinner drove on then stopped when they came to the
blue Taurus Mulder had taken. "Well, that answers
any lingering question over whether or not he's here."
He made a Y turn and headed back for the drive. 
"What are you doing?" 
"We don't have time to mess around, Scully. Jacobs
and Gerrolds are still 20 minutes away, Stevens' team
is further behind them. We're going straight in. I don't
think even Roberson will be expecting a full frontal
assault." 
"But we don't have an assault team," Scully reminded
him. "And Mulder is probably in there. We can't risk
him being in the line of fire." 
Skinner was driving slowly up the gravel drive, the
car bumping over the uneven surface. He glanced at
the woman who sat beside him, took in the fear and
concern that etched her features, and said, "I don't
think we have time to wait, Dana. I think we need
to move. Now." She was watching him, her eyes
wide as he spoke. "We'll both be very careful where
we aim our weapons, OK? And we'll get him out."
He smiled encouragingly at her, and received a
tremulous smile in return. 
They could see the house now, and with the cloud of
dust they had been kicking up, anyone looking for them
would have easily been able to see them as well. This
wasn't going to be a surprise attack, unless Roberson was
occupied elsewhere and hadn't noticed their approach. 
Skinner pulled the car halfway off the dirt road, and
turned off the engine. "We'll go in on foot from here.
Even if he's seen us, we'll come in from each side,
and he won't be able to cover them both." He looked
at his watch, then estimated the distance to the house.
"Left or right?" 
It was probably a bit longer to come in from the right,
but there was a tree line fairly close to the house on that
side, offering some cover. The left was more direct, but
it was also fairly open. She shrugged. "No difference.
You call it." She climbed out of the car, and he followed. 
Circling to the trunk, he popped it and they both pulled
vests from its recesses. They pulled the bulky Kevlar
on over their clothes, then each made their own weapons
check. Skinner looked up first, then nodded when Scully
met his eye. 
"Time till backup?" she asked. 
"About 15 minutes." He looked at his watch again. "We
go in together, ready to roll and raising a ruckus, you got
that? Get in position, then hold. We rumble at 9:00 sharp." 
She nodded, checked her own watch against his, then slipped
off to begin the longer climb to the right hand side of the house.
Skinner bent low and set off at a jog over the open ground
and his self-assigned position. He reached the side porch with
two minutes to spare. 
Panting, he willed himself to wait, consciously working to
slow his breathing, watching as the seconds ticked by. He
turned to look back up the driveway, longing for Gerrolds'
vehicle to come over the slight rise, but no such vision
appeared. He glanced at his watch again, saw the minute
switch to seconds and began his countdown. He crouched
by a window -- it wasn't the neatest way in but it would
raise a ruckus as he had said, and he wouldn't have to
worry about not being able to get through a locked door
without a ram. 
As he counted off the last ten seconds, he pictured Scully
in similar position on the other side of the house. With
5 seconds left to go, he silently wished her Godspeed, then
launched himself through the window, into the house, and
rolled forward into a crouch. 
He heard the crash from the right as Scully rolled through
the window. Almost simultaneously, he moved, and there
was a second crash. He could see Scully rising in the living
room, her weapon trained slightly past Mulder. Skinner
moved to the doorway of the dining room and crouched,
his gun pointing directly at Harold Roberson. 
"Drop the gun, Roberson," Scully ordered. 
"Do it now," Skinner growled. 
"Actually, I believe that you two should drop your weapons."
Then, without pausing, he raised the Sig, took aim, and shot
Mulder in the leg. There was a yelp of pain, and Mulder
collapsed. "The next one will not be in such a healable
area. Now, you drop your weapons." 
"They can't do that Roberson, you know that." Mulder
bit the words off through teeth clenched in pain. 
"They have no choice. I don't want to kill you Agent
Mulder. You're my one hope that my message will
get out, that people will know what they've done, and
that it will finally be stopped." His eyes narrowed as
he glanced again at Skinner and Scully, both unmoving
and both still holding their weapons on him. "But I
will if your friends don't *back off,* right now!" 
Neither Scully nor Skinner moved. The stand off
continued. Mulder was clutching his leg in a vain
attempt to stem the bleeding, and hoping that nothing
vital had been hit. He could feel himself growing
weaker, and the headache, dizziness, and nausea he
had been fighting all morning were threatening to
overwhelm him. He pushed the blackness away by
force of will, and said, "What message, Harold? What
message am I supposed to spread?" 
"What they did to me. To me and all the others. They
didn't *ask* us. We didn't *volunteer.* We were
*taken.*" 
"Like you took the children, Harold?" 
"No! I didn't want to hurt them. They were bad,
contaminated. I thought they could be saved but they
were weak. They couldn't withstand the tests." 
Michael chose that moment to moan, and Roberson's
attention was pulled to the youth. "Harold," Mulder
called hoarsely, "talk to me. Tell me about the tests." 
But it was too late. Harold's attention was firmly on
the boy. "Come here, Michael," he ordered. 
The youth shook his head. 
"I'll shoot him again, if you don't move." 
Michael looked at Mulder, his leg bleeding, then
turned pleading eyes on Scully, then Skinner. Neither
moved, afraid to break the tableau, afraid their action
would cost someone's life. 
"No, Michael, don't move," Mulder gasped, but the boy
was already dragging one reluctant foot behind the other.
Mulder reached out, attempting to grab the boy, but
from his position on the floor, he couldn't reach him.
"Don't get near him." 
But the boy was moving, eyes fastened to Roberson's,
seemingly mesmerized as he took the last few steps to
the murderer's side. "You're 17, right boy?" Harold
asked. 
Michael nodded. 
"And you've shown compassion for someone else. You
put Agent Mulder before yourself, knowing that I would
have shot him if you didn't move." 
The boy nodded again, and Mulder knew with a certainty
what was happening. "Harold," he begged, "he's just
a boy. He's not -- *he's not* an adult. Not yet." But
Roberson ignored him. 
Michael was standing docilely next to Roberson now,
head bowed, tears running down his cheeks. Roberson
reached out and gently patted the boy with the hand that
didn't hold the gun. "Now, now, young Michael," he
said, "it's always hard at first. But you've shown yourself
to be a man. That's something to be proud of." 
"He's not," Mulder cried hoarsely. "He's not a man. He's
a child. Scully, tell him, he's still a boy. He hasn't fully
developed yet, he hasn't begun to live." Mulder was struggling
to rise, grappling with furniture to pull himself to his feet. 
"Harold, listen to her, she's a doctor, she'll tell you. Seventeen
is not an adult. Scully, say something. Tell him!" Mulder
could hear the panicked frenzy in his voice -- he knew
where this would lead. 
"Roberson," Scully said, trying to adapt the right tone of
placating understanding and forceful knowledge, "Mulder's
right. He's just a boy. Seventeen is a long way from
adult." 
"Don't hurt the boy, Harold," Skinner called. "Nothing
so bad has happened yet, here, that you can't walk out
of here alive. Everyone knows that you've been wronged.
Your message did get out. You've done what needed to be
done. Don't do anything more." 
"You don't understand!" Roberson roared. "None of you
understand! They're all dead. All but me! I'm the one
success from the whole damn thing." He stopped ranting,
his chest heaving from the exertion, and his prisoners
could see him make a visible effort to pull himself together.
"I'll walk out of here alive, no matter what. Well, I may
not walk, but I'll be alive." Roberson's voice dropped
to a whisper, and he said, "I can't be killed. No matter
what they do, I don't die." 
Shocked silence filled the room, and Scully murmured,
"Everyone dies, Roberson. Everyone." 
"Not me," Harold said plaintively. 
There was an ineffable sadness in his voice, and Mulder
found himself sympathizing with the sorrow just being
alive could bring. 
There was a long stunned silence, and then Roberson's
eyes clouded, he cocked his head and turned to Skinner.
"How old were you when you went to Nam, Mr. Skinner?"
he asked. 
"No!" Mulder cried again. "Michael is not Skinner. He's
not you. He can't be judged by your standards." Mulder was
on his feet, swaying as he fought the dizziness and pain. 
Roberson looked thoughtful for a moment. "How old,
Mr. Skinner, or I shoot the boy." 
Skinner's face turned ashen, then he lied and said, "I
was 19." 
"Liar," Roberson said. His voice dropped to a deeper
register and he began to speak in a monotone. "You
were 17. I looked you up. I was 17, too. They were
so hungry for bodies, they took us at 17. Were you a
man, Mr. Skinner?" 
Skinner looked at Mulder. What to say? He was the
psychologist for Christ's sake. "No. No, I was still
a child." 
"So was I," Harold commented, his voice ringing
dully in the silence of the room. "But death makes
you a man, doesn't it, Skinner?" 
Without even realizing he was doing it, Skinner
was nodding in agreement. His eyes met Mulder's and
he knew he'd made a fatal mistake. He tensed to
attack, but Roberson saw the movement and
fired at Mulder, missing his shoulder by inches.
"I don't miss unless I want to," he said. 
The room was totally still. No one moved, no
one spoke. At last, Mulder broke the silence, "Harold,
tell me about your message. Talk to me about what
happened." 
"You are trying to divert my attention from this
fine young man, Agent Mulder, and I won't have it." 
Mulder felt the panic rising again. Roberson was
going to kill Michael and there was nothing he could
do, nothing any of them could do. His mind churned
as he sorted through one thing after another, anything
he could say that might turn the tide. All it would take
was for Scully or Skinner to fire, but neither of them
would, not unless they were certain Roberson was
ready to shoot. And Roberson was too canny. He
wouldn't give any warning at all. 
Mulder looked at the trembling boy, took in the tears
that fell from his eyes, the trembling body, his arms
wrapped tightly around himself, and the large wet stain
on the front of his pants. 'Michael, keep your mouth
shut this time.' He offered a silent prayer, then said,
"Roberson, look at him. He's pissed himself. Is that
what a man does?" He loaded his tone with as much
loathing and disgust as he could muster. 
Roberson looked down at the boy's crotch, then met
Mulder's eyes. And in that moment, Mulder knew that
of all the wrong things to say, that had been the most wrong.
He looked in Roberson's eyes and saw the years of fear
and torture and rejection, and realized he had made
the biggest mistake of his life. Or even worse, the
biggest mistake of Michael Mitchell's life. Before
Harold could open his mouth to speak, Mulder was moving,
launching himself forward, his injured leg dragging
crookedly behind him as he struggled to get to Roberson. 
Roberson continued to stare at Mulder as time slowed,
and he watched Mulder's struggles to reach him. "It's
all part of becoming a man. Right, Skinner? He
raised the Sig, took aim, and fired straight at Mulder,
saying, "As a matter of fact, I wet myself the first time
I killed someone." 
He was turning as he spoke, firing again, the second shot
hitting Michael, and then he went down as both Scully
and Skinner unloaded their clips into the man. 
Time suddenly began to move at its normal pace, and chaos
reigned in that small living room. Scully went to Mulder
checking for a pulse. "To the abdomen. It's bad. We need
to get him out of here now!" 
She raced over to Michael, knowing it was a lost cause,
but forcing herself to check. A small entrance wound
marred the boy's unlined forehead, but the back of his
head was missing. Scully had felt sure there was not hope
for the boy, as she was wearing a good bit of his blood and
gray matter splattered across her vest and pants. "He's
gone," she pronounced, then scuttled back to Mulder. 
"Where the fuck is Gerrolds?" Skinner asked, rummaging
in Roberson's pockets for car keys. Successful at last,
he stood and raced to the front door, yanked it open and was
met by the barrel of an automatic assault rifle. 
End of part 15/17


Profiles in Caring IV 16/17 
Oh shit! AD Skinner was gonna have his head. Gerrolds
looked at the men in military style uniforms, holding rifles
on both him and Jacobs, and wondered for the 167th time
in the last 15 minutes, who the hell they were, and why
they had chosen to stop him. 
He stood with his hands palm down on the hood of the
car, legs spread-eagled behind him. Agent Jacobs stood
in a similar position on the other side of the car. They
hadn't taken his gun, or Sara's, but from this position,
there was no way he could pull himself erect and get to
his gun fast enough to be able to do anything except get
himself or Sara shot. He groaned softly, and thought
again, 'Why did they stop me?' 
The leader of the group was standing a short distance
away, speaking animatedly into a cell phone. "Yes,
Sir," he said, "I've got the chase car stopped. The
other team is still not within distance." The man paused,
as he listened intently, then said, "Yes, Sir, the primary
subject has been located. When alternate subject one
was lost, we pursued the secondaries, and they led us
straight to him. And *he* had located the prime." 
He moved restlessly, and Gerrolds wished he could work
off some of his tension that way. Gerrolds forced himself
to remain still and to listen and remember as much of this
one-sided conversation as he could. 
"One moment, Sir," the man said, then switched to a
hand-held radio. "Thornton," he said. 
"Shots fired, Sir!" an excited voice exclaimed through
the crackle of radio static. "We have shots fired!" 
"Can you confirm who was hit?" 
"No, Sir, we cannot get a visual at this time." 
"Damn!" Thornton returned to the cell phone. "We need to
move immediately, Sir. Shots have been fired. We need air
support with full medical." He paused, as if weighing his
words. "Dispatch the civilian air rescue as well. Have them
arrive 10 minutes behind us." 
Thornton turned and addressed the men milling about the
roadblock. "Let's go." He pointed at the makeshift
barricade of cars, each marked Spencerville Police Department.
"We're moving out." 
He walked back to Gerrolds' car and raised his gun. Gerrolds
could see Sara's jaw work as she struggled for control and knew
his own features revealed a similar battle. Thornton took
aim, then dropped the gun and shot the front tire between
Gerrolds legs. He then shot out the rear tire on both sides.
"Give me your cuffs, and the keys." 
Gerrolds slowly stood and reluctantly produced keys and
cuffs, watching as Jacobs did the same. Thornton rolled the
windows to the car down, then cuffed to the agents to the
door frame. "Your AD should be here to get you shortly.
And if he doesn't make it, SAC Stevens is on his way." 
******************************************** 
Skinner froze, unmoving, as the barrel of the rifle connected
with his abdomen. Another man reached out and relieved
him of his gun. He was prodded, none too gently, and he
stepped backwards into the living room again. Men in
uniform swarmed into the room, and Scully was jerked
to her feet, away from Mulder, her gun taken from her
as well. 
Skinner looked down at Mulder. He was barely conscious,
bleeding from leg and belly, his face a pasty white. A
thin line of sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead, and
he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. In the
distance he could hear the roar of a helicopter, and he
wondered who these men were that they commanded
such silent power. 
The leader, a youngish man with short blonde hair,
ordered, "On the couch, now." 
Skinner looked at him, then said, "Lt. Thornton, I
presume?" He was rewarded with a slight widening
of the man's eyes. Good. At least they couldn't plan
for every contingency. The roar of the chopper was
much closer now; in fact, it was right outside. Were
they landing in the clearing before the house? 
Thornton prodded Skinner again, and he began to
move toward the couch, where Scully already sat.
"She's a doctor," he began. "Let her help him." 
Thornton glanced at Mulder, then back at Scully.
"Medical is on the way for him. They'll be here
as soon as we leave. I've arranged an airlift to
Georgetown where he'll be met on arrival. The copter
coming for him has plenty of blood for him. He's
gonna be uncomfortable for a while, but he'll live." 
As Thornton was speaking, his men were loading
Roberson onto a gurney, and Skinner was shocked
when he thought he saw the man move on his own.
No, it couldn't be. He looked again, but the man was
still now, and there were no further movements while
Skinner watched. 
The men were out the door with Roberson, Thornton
the last to leave. "I'll leave your weapons outside. I
know what a pain it is to explain how you lost your gun."
He grinned at them, then nodded to Mulder. "Hey, Doc,
you can go to him now." He stepped out the door,
pulling it shut behind him, and raced to the copter.
Roberson was already loaded and the others were in
their vehicles and driving away even as the copter
lifted off. 
Skinner pulled the door open in time to see Thornton
throw the guns onto the ground as the helicopter
took off. He started to go through the door, when Scully's
voice halted him. 
"No!" she called. "The bleeding's worse. I need your
hands." 
Skinner stood for a moment, eyes closed as he battled
his desire to pursue, then turned and went back to help
his friends. 
********************************************* 
Soft. Everything was soft. That was his first thought.
Under his back was soft. Under his head was soft. The
hand stroking his arm was soft. But most importantly,
the lips caressing his own were very soft. He moved
just slightly, and his tongue snaked out to lightly
touch those soft lips. They pulled away, and for a moment
he was bereft, but then they were back, and he sighed
softly. "Hi," he whispered into the lips and they
answered, "Hi, yourself." 
He could feel her pulling away and he wanted to stop
her but he couldn't bring himself to move. He struggled
with eyelids that weighed 6 tons each, finally prying one
partly open, and he gazed into two crystal blue orbs
not 6 inches from his face. Directly under them were
those wonderful lips, those delicate lips, those so soft
lips that he wanted back so badly. 
"You're going to be OK, Mulder," the lips said
again. "Are you in any pain?" 
He thought about it for a moment, then tried to shake
his head, but that required more energy than he had.
The soft hand trailed down his arm, and small but
strong fingers grasped his own. "Can you squeeze?" 
He focused all his energy into closing his hand,
concentrating harder than he'd ever done before,
and finally his fingers twitched. 
"Good. That's very good. Now once more if you are
in pain." 
Mulder didn't move, didn't attempt that earth-shattering
feat of strength, and didn't know if he would have been
able to, even if he was in pain. As it was, he was in --
languor -- yeah, that was it. If you could be in languor.
He was drained of all energy and vitality, but not in a
bad way, at least not now. There was no pain, and he
was floating in a cloud of contentment. 
Scully was here, her hands tender as they stroked him,
her voice gentle as she crooned to him. He could no
longer make out the words, but the tone alone brought a
smile to his face. 
'Hey,' he thought, 'smiling was easy. Really must take
fewer muscles than a frown.' And her lips. Those wonderful
soft lips were wandering around his face, a butterfly's touch
to his closed eyelids, grazing his cheeks, returning to
caress his own dry, cracked lips, soothing them with delicate
pressure. He sighed again, then let himself go and drifted
away. 
******************************************* 
"He only woke up for those few minutes, enough to recognize
me and tell me he was in no pain. That was almost 36
hours ago." Scully was speaking quietly to Skinner as
they sat at Mulder's bedside. She was slowly breaking off
pieces of a sandwich, and then putting the pieces back on
the plate. 
"That's not doing you any good on the plate," Skinner
observed. "You need to eat." 
"I'm not hungry." 
"I know. But you still need to eat. Mulder's going to
be here a while, and you can't let yourself get sick. If
you get rundown while he's still like this, you'll never
be able to keep track of him once he starts feeling better." 
Skinner smiled and Scully gave a small laugh, but she
picked up a piece of the sandwich and popped it in her
mouth. Skinner sighed contentedly. "I think I may
have missed my calling," he mused. 
Scully's eyebrow went up and she asked, "Really? And
what do you think it should have been?" 
"Well," he said slyly, "I seem to spend an inordinate
amount of time trying to feed you or Mulder. Not at all
what one would expect from an Assistant Director of
the FBI. Perhaps, just perhaps, mind you, I should
have been a Jewish mother!" 
Scully broke out into a full laugh at that and she
shook her head. "No," she said, still laughing,
"it's just not you! You better stick with AD work!" 
They both laughed a bit more, then a weak voice said,
"Hey," in a raspy whisper. 
Scully put the plate on the table by the bed and went
to take Mulder's hand. "Hey, yourself," she answered.
"How you feeling?" 
"Water?" Mulder asked hopefully. 
"Not yet. Your belly is a mess. I can probably get the OK
for some ice chips though.' 
Mulder sagged. "How long?" he croaked. 
"How long what, Mulder?" Skinner asked. "How long have
you been here? A little over two days. How long were you
out? About 36 hours. How long do you have to stay? Until
the doctors release you. How long till you can eat?" He
shrugged. "You'll have to ask your doctor that one." 
Mulder focused on his hand again, concentrating to get
his fingers to close, and was rewarded as they twitched once
more within Scully's grasp. "My doctor," he whispered,
his fingers relaxing and his eyes sliding shut as he drifted
off once more. 
"Damn," Skinner commented. "I've never seen him
this docile. Whatever they're pumping into him, it might
be nice if we could keep some around for his more
truculent moments." 
Scully was still standing by the bed, and Skinner went
to stand behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders,
kneading gently. "He's going to be fine, Dana," he said
in a soft voice. 
She nodded, then released Mulder's hand and stood
stiffly for a moment. "It was close," she whimpered,
"so close." 
Beneath his hands, Skinner felt her shoulders quiver
as she fought back the sobs trying to escape. He turned
her to him, and pulled her into his embrace. "Shhh,"
he murmured soothingly, "Shhh, now, it's all right.
He's all right. He's just weak. And tired. But he's
all right." He continued to speak softly to her as the
pent up tears crested and then broke from her overfilled
eyes. He held her as she cried, marveling at the strength
of this woman, and honored that she would turn to him
when she needed this release. 
As her sobs quieted, she stilled in his arms, and he
stood there holding her, offering comfort and receiving it,
united by the care and concern they shared for each other
and the injured man who still lay sleeping. 
***************************************** 
"I swear to God, Scully, I'll take the damn thing out
myself if they don't remove it -- *today!*" 
"God, Mulder, I think I prefer you unconscious,"
Scully said in exasperation. "I've told you and told
you, your insides are a mess. Everything was damaged.
You've got more stitches inside you than my grandmother's
handmade quilt. Let the catheter do its job, and you do
yours. Rest and let yourself heal." 
Mulder had been silent through this tirade, waiting
patiently for her to finish. "Are you done?" he
asked when she paused. 
She narrowed her eyes at him, "What are you planning?
Mulder?" She was studying him closely, then jumped
as she saw the bed covers move over his groin. "Damn it,
Mulder!" She leapt to the bed, yanking back the covers,
and easily grasping his weakened hands in her own. "Do
I have to have them restrain you?" 
"Restrain him?" a deep voice asked from the doorway.
Skinner strolled in and took Mulder's hands from Scully
as she examined him to see what damage he had managed
to do. "Didn't you learn the last time that removing
the catheter yourself was not the way to go?" He looked
pointedly at the open door, then back at Mulder in his
very exposed position. 
Mulder flushed, then said, "It hurts and I hate it. I hurt
enough as it is. Why can't it come out?" He was whining
as he continued. "I always get a bladder infection when I
have a catheter in." 
"Mulder, will you keep your hands off if Skinner lets you
go?" 
At Mulder's nod, Skinner released him, and Scully asked
the AD, "Would you go get the nurse, please?" 
"Anyone in particular?" 
"Someone he hasn't completely pissed off yet, please. And
get them to page his doctor. I think the catheter is going
to have to come out or we'll be fighting this battle
every hour." 
Mulder was smiling in satisfaction, but the smile disappeared
when Scully turned to him. "However, you will stay right
here, in this hospital, for at least another 48 hours. And if
you give me any -- and I mean *any* -- crap about it, I'll
shoot you so full of dope you won't know up from down. 
*********************************************** 
She was almost asleep, curled in the chair by his bed. He
didn't really need 24 hour observation anymore, and
hadn't for several days, but he got into less trouble when
she was there. And, let's face it, she wanted to be there. 
The room was dark and she could feel sleep stealing over
her when she heard it. A sniffle. She remained perfectly
still, listening. There it was again. Definitely a sniffle.
And that was a gulp. Was he crying? 
She jumped up and went to stand by the bed. Mulder was
curled in a ball, his face buried in his pillow and sobs
wracked his long body. She reached out and stroked his
back, feeling him stiffen, then relax beneath her touch. 
"What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong? Are you in
pain?" 
He shook his head, then buried his face again, his
whole body shaking. She walked around to the other
side of the bed, lowered the rail, and sat beside him.
Tugging the pillow from his grip, she nudged him
toward her lap. He was resistant at first, then launched
himself at her, burying his head in her belly and weeping
uncontrollably. 
She stroked his hair and rubbed his shoulders, murmuring
to him as one would to a fussy baby. "Hush, now, shhh.
It's all right." She bent and planted little kisses all along
the side of his face, his ear, and in his hair. "Shhh, now,
please, Mulder, tell me what's wrong. Let me help." 
At this, he began to cry even harder, his body shuddering
from the force of his sobs. 
"Mulder," she asked, concerned, "what *is* it?" He was
beyond answering, and she let him cry a bit longer, but
as 15 minutes turned to 20, and then 20 to 30, she grew
more and more apprehensive. Something was definitely
wrong. 
"Mulder, you have to stop, you're going to injure yourself
again. Your insides are too newly knit to take this
abuse. Please," she pleaded, "please calm down. Tell me
what it is. We can talk about it." But it was no use,
he was beyond hearing her now. She reached out and
hit the nurse's button. When the woman answered, Scully
said, "Doesn't Mulder have a sedative ordered, sort of a
just in case thing?" 
"Why, yes, he does, Doctor Scully. Is there a problem?" 
"I think you better get it and come down." 
The nurse appeared in a few minutes, syringe in hand. She
took one look at the huddled mass on the bed, arms wrapped
around Scully's waist as his shoulders heaved and sobs
were ripped from his chest. She swiftly injected the contents
of the syringe into the IV, and within minutes, Mulder's
sobs quieted, his breathing began to even out, and he was
sleeping. 
As the nurse helped Scully to stretch him back out on the bed,
sponging the sweat from his body and straightening the linens
beneath him, she asked, "What was that about?" 
Scully shrugged helplessly. "By the time I realized he
was in distress, he was beyond talking. I couldn't get
a word from him." She leaned over and kissed him gently,
pushing the wayward lock of hair back from his brow.
Her hand lingered on his face, and she added in a whisper,
"But we'll talk tomorrow, won't we, Mulder?" 
************************************************ 
"I killed him, Scully. Me. I did it as surely as if I had
pulled the trigger." 
"No, Mulder," she responded vehemently, "You *did not!*" 
"I was the one who made that comment about his wet pants.
That was what set Roberson off. I should've known. He's
the perfect type for incontinence under stress. I bet he
was a bedwetter as a child too. I just didn't see it." 
He was sitting up, his first time out of bed since
the shooting, and he dropped his head into his hands.
He'd lost weight and the shabby hospital gown hung
from his gaunt frame. Scully eyed him appraisingly.
He needs to eat, and he needs to get this off his
chest -- now. 
"Mulder, Roberson was going to kill that boy, no
matter what you said or did. You were backed into
a corner with no way out. Roberson made his
decision; anything you said, he would have twisted
to support the decision to shoot." 
"You don't understand, Scully, you just don't
understand." 
"Then enlighten me. Make me understand." She
softened her tone and moved to crouch before him.
She rested her hands on his legs, careful of the wrapping
that protected the wounded thigh, and murmured. "I
want to understand." 
Mulder laughed harshly and looked away. "No," he
said, "you don't. You don't ever want to understand
that part of me." 
She took his chin in her hand, and turned him back
to face her. She took a deep breath and said, "Mulder.
I love you. All of you. Every last bit of you. Even the
parts you think are unlovable, I love." She leaned
forward and kissed him, not surprised by his lack of
response. 
"Who you are, the person that I love, is the sum of
all those parts. Those parts good, and those parts
not so good. It all goes into making you who you are."
She sighed. She still wasn't getting through. She
kissed him again, then rose and pushed the wheelchair
away from the window and in front of the chair. 
This time she sat, just on the edge of the seat, her hands
back on his legs, her knees brushing his own. She drew
a deep breath. This would be hard, but, God, this man
was so stubborn sometimes. He wouldn't take sweet
and loving? OK. She could deliver the same message
another way, and hopefully, it would sink in. 
"You think you let that boy down because you couldn't
read Roberson's mind." Her voice was harsh, her tone
accusing. 
Mulder blinked as he looked at her, then he muttered,
"You don't understand. It's not mind-reading." 
"Then what is it, Mr. Wunderkind? What is it that makes
you so capable of doing what you do? How exactly did
you fail that boy?" 
Mulder was getting angry now. She could see it in
the tense of his shoulders, the slightly sharper tone he
used to answer her. 
"I don't have to read minds, because their mind is my mind,
his mind is my mind. How the hell do you think I knew
where he'd be?" 
Anger, petulance, annoyance. Excellent. 
"So you can become someone else? That's what you do,
Mulder? You *become* someone else?" Her voice
dripped with scorn and disbelief, but her hands still
touched him gently, reminding him on some subconscious
level that she was still there, she still cared. 
He exploded at her. "Yes! That's exactly what I do. I walk
willingly into the sewers of Hell and consort with the filth
that resides there. I take up their mantle, and champion
their cause. I know what they know, I feel what they feel,
I want what they want. Oh, God, the things I want." His
voice dropped to a moan, anguish evident on his face. He
was struggling beneath her hands, and she knew if he could,
he would have risen and walked away. Walked away and
probably never made it back alive. 
She clutched at him, trying desperately to ground him, but
it wasn't all done yet. They weren't through, not yet. 
"So you feel, and you know, and you want," she jeered.
"Prove it to me. Prove to me you became Harold Roberson." 
He looked up at her, tears filling his eyes, anger and pain
etched into his features. Her heart was pulled apart and she
almost broke, but she held herself coldly, staring him down,
even as her hands played lightly across his thighs. 
"Prove to me that you became Harold Roberson." 
"I knew where he went. I knew where to find you, back at the
beginning." He was spitting words at her now, each comment
an attack on its own. "I knew where the baby would be.
I knew where Mitchell would be. And I knew where Roberson
would be. I knew everything, Scully! I knew it all! Is that
proof enough for you?" 
She arched her eyebrow and asked ruthlessly, "Everything,
Mulder? You knew everything?" 
"Yes, damn it, yes! I knew everything!" 
"And you knew everything because you became Harold
Roberson?" 
"It's. What. I. Do." Each word was an epithet, standing
alone, accusingly. "It's. Who. I. Am." 
"So you were Harold Roberson?" 
"Yes!" The word was torn from his lips. "Yes, yes, a
thousand times, yes!" 
"And you knew everything?" she continued implacably. 
"Yes!" 
"Then why didn't you know he wet his pants?" 
Mulder mouth was open to respond, but it just hung
there. He stared at her, as his mind worked to make sense
of her words. 
She dropped her angry pretense, and let the tears fill
her eyes as she reached out and gently nudged his jaw
shut. "You do not become these killers that you seek,
Mulder. You do not become them. You do not know
everything, and you *are not* responsible for Michael
Mitchell's death." 
He was staring at her hungrily now, all hope for his
absolution resting with her. Without her acceptance, her
understanding, her love, he could never go on. And
she was offering it all to him, right here, right now.
He need only accept. 
"I don't know how you do what you do, Mulder, but
it's not by becoming the killer. You are you. Mulder.
*My* Mulder." She leaned in and kissed him thoroughly,
reclaiming him through her touch. "And you are all I
want, or need." 
End part 16/17 
Profiles in Caring IV 17/17 
Three weeks later 
"That was good, Sir," Mulder sighed in contentment.
"We really do need to let you display your culinary
skills more often." 
Skinner snorted but was inwardly pleased at the
compliment. He had always enjoyed cooking, and
it was more fun to cook for an appreciative audience.
Even Scully had taken seconds, and Lord knows,
she could stand to gain some weight. He smiled,
satisfied with life for the time being. It was
a rare enough feeling, and finally, at this point in
his life, he'd learned to accept the pleasure when
it occurred. 
"I'm sorry, I must have been drifting." Skinner
smiled again at Scully. "What did you say?" 
"I said, maybe you could help Mulder into the living
room and I'll get these dishes into the dishwasher." 
Skinner nodded and rose to assist Mulder. 
"I can make it on my own, Sir," he muttered. "She's
just being overprotective." 
"Then let her. You give her enough scares as it is.
If she wants to hover a bit, why not relax and go with
it?" He had Mulder on his feet now, and despite the
younger man's protestations, Skinner could feel
how very weak he still was. "Here," he slipped
an arm around Mulder's waist, careful of the still
noticeable bandage that wrapped his abdomen,
"lean on me a bit." 
Mulder's weight shifted slightly and Skinner took
up the slack. As the two men made their way
over to the couch, Mulder said, "We do, you know." 
Skinner was eyeing the coffee table and planning how
best to get his injured friend around it and safely
ensconced on the sofa. Behind him he could hear
the patter of Scully's feet as she ferried dishes and
silverware into the kitchen. "Excuse me?" 
"Lean on you." 
Skinner stopped and met Mulder's eyes. There was
a caring, a concern, a welcome and acceptance in them,
that he had seen all too infrequently in his life. He
swallowed hard, then nodded, incapable of speech, and
patted the younger man's shoulder. 
They stood for a minute more, then Skinner said gruffly,
"Let's get you off your feet." 
Mulder laughed. "You hover too, you know." 
"Yeah, but my hovering isn't as much fun is it?"
Skinner teased. 
"Well, Walt, old buddy, old pal, I hate to break this to
you but, no, it's not." 
Both men laughed and Scully stuck her head out of the
kitchen, "You two all right in there?" 
"Fine," Skinner replied. "We're just fine." 
"Good. I'm almost done. Anyone want coffee?" 
He eased Mulder down onto the cushions of the sofa,
settling him as comfortably as possible. "I do," Mulder
muttered, "but she won't let me have anything but
that decaf crap." 
"I'll take a cup, Scully," Skinner called, "and Mulder
wants decaf." 
"Yeah, right, Mulder *wants* decaf," Scully chortled.
"But decaf he gets, whether he wants it or not." 
Both men sat for a few minutes, then Skinner rose and
said, "Let me go see if she needs help with the cups.
Then, Mulder," he caught his agent's eye, "I need to
ask you something." 
Mulder nodded and Skinner rose and disappeared into
the kitchen. Mulder leaned back on the couch and closed
his eyes. He was better, much better, but he knew he was
still weak and he tired easily. He felt himself nodding
off and jerked awake when he heard Scully say, "Mulder,
you look done in. Do you want to go to bed? I'm sure
the AD will understand." 
Mulder was shaking his head. "It's the first time we've
all been able to spend any peaceful period of time
together. I'm not ready for it to end." He made a sound
in the back of his throat, "Jeez, Scully, I feel like a little
kid who has to ask to stay up with the adults." 
She went and sat by him, taking his hand, "I worry
about you," she said softly. "This was too close." 
"I know, I'm sorry. I'm just being grumpy. Here,
give me the damn decaf," he smiled crookedly to
take the sting from his words, "and come sit with me."
He pulled her closer to him, his arm snaking out to
wrap around her shoulders. He sipped the coffee she
handed him, grimaced, then said, "What did you want
to ask me?" 
Skinner looked cautiously at Scully. "I'm not sure this
is the right time. I don't want to upset you or wear you
out any more than I already have." 
"I'm OK, really. C'mon, people, you gotta cut me some
slack here. Yes, I get tired. Yes, I still ache a bit. Yes,
I move a bit slower and may need help now and again,
but I'm OK." He lowered his voice, deliberately waiting
until his breathing evened out and his heart rate slowed.
"I need to be included in what's going on around me. I
need things to start getting back to normal." 
"All right, Mulder," Skinner said, "this should make you
feel involved. John Bikowski called me again today. And
there's still nothing I can tell him about Thomas' whereabouts.
Is the boy dead?" 
Scully glanced reproachfully at Skinner but he only
shrugged. Mulder was a grown man, after all. And his
arguments made sense. Too much coddling wasn't good
either. He only hoped he hadn't gone too far the other
way. 
"I've been thinking about it, really I have," Mulder was
saying. "Roberson said Thomas was his last message, the
one no one could misunderstand. I think that means he's
alive. I just need to figure out where Roberson could
put him and keep him alive this long, without someone ...
finding ... out ..." 
Mulder's mouth fell open, "Of course!" he whispered.
"Of course. I am so blind. It all makes perfect sense."
He looked up and met Skinner's eyes. "I need to go
back to the FICI, back to where it all started." 
"No, Mulder, you're not ready. It's too early for you
to think about something like that." Skinner was
definitely feeling guilty now. Scully was likely to hand
him his head for starting Mulder on this. 
"I have to," the man was saying. "If the boy is still
alive, that's the only way I'm gonna find him. I have to
go back to the beginning. And we have to go now." 
Mulder was struggling to his feet, pushing off Scully's
attempts to hold him down. He stood, swaying, before
them both, then said, "C'mon, we've done this before.
I know I'm not 100%, but sometimes you just have to
go with what you've got. And I'm what you've got.
And we need to go. Now." 
He stepped cautiously toward the door and pulled his
jacket on. "Now, is someone going to drive me, or
do I need to take a cab?" 
Scully rose and picked up the coffee mugs. "So much
for a quiet evening at home with friends," she muttered.
As she reached the kitchen, she called back, "I'm coming
Mulder, let me get my shoes." 
They could hear the water running as she rinsed the cups,
then she disappeared down the hall to the bedroom,
appearing moments later, sturdy shoes on her feet, and
her shoulder holster in hand. 
She looked at Skinner, "You have yours?" 
He nodded, and at her quizzical look at his obviously
unholstered shoulders, he added, "Ankle." 
"Mine?" Mulder demanded. 
"NO!" Scully and Skinner responded simultaneously. 
He shrugged, then said, "Let's go. It's a two hour drive." 
*********************************************** 
The drive up had been completed in almost silence.
Mulder had nodded off shortly after they pulled out
and Scully and Skinner had talked quietly of everything
but the trip they were making, allowing him to sleep. 
It was after midnight when they reached the FICI.
Skinner's credentials got them through the gate and
into the compound, despite the hour and despite the
fact that Mulder looked either deathly ill or horribly
hung over. 
As they entered the facility, Mulder walking
between Skinner and Scully, and leaning heavily on
Skinner if the truth be told, the older man said,
"All right, Mulder, we're following blind here.
You need to explain." 
"Think about it. Think of the power that would have been
necessary to make the switch with Roberson and the
other man, the man who is now dead and beyond any
attempts at questioning. How do you get away with
something like that? How do you pull soldiers off the
combat fields of Viet Nam and never have anyone
ask questions? How do you lock people up in institutions,
and never have anyone notice that there is a basis in
reality for the patient's psychosis? Who have we
come in contact with who has that kind of power?" 
"You mean ... ?" 
Mulder nodded grimly. "The conspirators. The syndicate.
The consortium. Whatever they are. Who else has their
own army, and the power to keep it secret? Who walks
where they want, when they want, with impunity? Who
else has a proven track record in illicit experimentation?" 
They were approaching a desk now, and Mulder shook
off Skinner's hand, standing on his own as he identified
himself, and said, "I need to see room 116." 
The woman's eyes nodded. "Oh, no Sir, you can't do
that." 
"What do you mean, I can't do that?" 
"That patient is segregated from the population. There is
a separate guard that takes care of all that room's needs." 
"Are you saying you don't know who is in the room, and
you've never seen the patient?" Mulder was floored. 
"Yes, Sir, that's right. Regular staff has nothing to do with
that one. It happens like that sometimes, for the especially
violent ones." 
"You have a key?" 
"Well, yes, but it's only in case of emergency, like a fire
or some other need to evacuate." 
Skinner decided it was time to speak up. In his best command
voice, he said, "Get the key. We are going in that room, and
we are going now." 
"But, Sir ..." the woman stammered, "I can't. It'll be my
job." 
"And what will happen to your job when three FBI agents
open fire on the lock on that room?" Skinner boomed. 
The woman looked pleadingly at them, then opened a file
cabinet. Rifling through the folders, she withdrew one and
bent to a small safe. She worked the tumblers quickly and
soon produced the key. 
"Let's go," Skinner said, jerking his head towards the corridor. 
"I can't leave my desk unless it's an emergency," the woman
said, with a glance at the phone. 
"This is an emergency," Skinner responded. "Now move!" 
They walked down the hall, Skinner again supporting
Mulder; Scully keeping abreast of the nurse. They reached
room 116 and waited as the woman inserted the key and
began to turn the lock. 
"Think of what it would take to make someone disappear
in a place like this," Mulder murmured as they waited. "If
Roberson *did* live, this could be his ultimate bargaining
chip." 
"What do you mean?" Scully asked. 
"His cooperation in exchange for this." Mulder waved at
the door, beginning to open. 
"Exchange for what, Mulder?" Scully asked again. "You're
being cryptic." 
The door was open now, and Skinner pulled the nurse
back as Mulder pressed forward to see. He was searching
the wall, then fumbling with the light switch, and suddenly
the room was ablaze. Mulder took another step forward,
Skinner and Scully crowding in behind him. 
>From the bed on the far wall, a small form raised itself
and two brown eyes stared forlornly at them. 
"Exchange for this, Scully. The ultimate message. What
does it take to make a 12 year old disappear into a federal
institution for madmen?" 
Mulder took a few steps forward, then said softly, "Thomas?" 
The boy nodded. 
"Are you all right?" Mulder extended his hand and the boy
looked doubtfully at him. "It's OK, Thomas, we've come to
get you." 
The boy was sitting now, watching them with wary eyes. 
Mulder took another step forward. "It's all over, Thomas,
it's all over." 
The boy remained rooted to the bed for another long moment,
and no one dared to move. He seemed to be searching Mulder's
face, and then, like a dam bursting, he leapt out of the bed
and into Mulder's open arms, almost knocking the weakened
man over. Mulder held the boy tightly and whispered, "It's
time to go home, Thomas. Let's go home." 
The end of it all!!