Title: Self Revealed 01/03 Author: Daydreamer Author E--mail: Daydream59@aol.com Rating: NC--17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery Category: SAR -- character exploration Spoilers: none Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; budding MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please! Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den Http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113 Summary: Mulder's profiling ability reveals the terrible toll it takes on him as the search for Priest continues. Part of the Self Serial. Series in order is: Self Lost Self Unknown Self Revealed Self Torment Self Complete Self Revealed 01/03 The drive to the old tenement building seemed to take forever. Skinner was pleased that Nowak had provided a driver -- a taciturn, older man who remained silent, eyes focused on the road -- but there was just no avoiding New York traffic. He and Scully discussed the case, discussed Mulder, but they were both tired and soon lapsed into a companionable silence. He glanced over at her. Her head was down and she was reading a report that she held in one hand while she jotted notes with the other. She'd finally changed into the clothes he had retrieved from her motel room -- a navy blue suit with a pale blue blouse. She looked professional, as always, but his eyes were drawn to her feet. Navy blue pumps with a heel -- not a high heel, mind you -- but a heel nonetheless. He'd always wondered how women managed to walk in those things. He looked up to find her gazing at him, a puzzled expression on her face. He shrugged. "Women's shoes," he said. "I've never understood them." She arched an eyebrow and looked down at her feet. "If society dictates it long enough and hard enough, you can get used to anything." He nodded then looked at his own sturdy, flat-soled shoes. "Still, if I have to run, I'd rather be wearing these." She laughed, then quickly put her pen and papers away as their driver announced, "This is it." As Skinner and Scully climbed out of the car, he added, "I'll wait here." The apartment was run-down, decaying, with boards over some windows and others that gaped open to the elements. The front stoop was occupied by several old men, swathed in multiple layers of dirty clothes as protection from the cold. Skinner shivered inside his trench coat and wished he'd brought his heavier winter coat when he'd first come up, as he knocked. Hard to believe there would be this much difference in the weather just four hours north, but the cool, late autumn days in DC were cold, pre-winter days in New York. "Mrs. Priest?" "I'm busy," the woman said shortly. She had a hard face, made harder by the severe steel-gray bun that was pulled up tightly on her head. "I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI." Skinner held up his credentials, then gestured at Scully. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully. We have some questions for you. May we come in?" "You got a warrant or something?" The woman held the door cracked and Scully could feel the heat rolling out of the opening. Skinner looked at Scully and didn't bother to sigh. "No, we don't. But we can get one. And if you force me to go that route, I can assure you, it will be for more than just a few questions." Skinner narrowed his eyes, giving Mrs. Priest his best AD glare. "If I have to get a warrant, I'm going to take your place apart." "I don't like cops in my home." It was said with a whine but she opened the door. She pointed at the mat on the floor. "You wipe your feet. Wipe your dirty cop feet and don't track on my floors." Scully stepped onto the mat and wiped her feet dutifully. It gave her another moment to study the woman before her. The woman was gray, gray-haired, gray-eyed, even gray skinned. The heat pouring out of the house vents was making Scully uncomfortably warm. Just looking at the heavy corduroy pants and flannel shirt the woman wore increased her discomfort. Scully took one step forward, as far as she could move with the woman blocking her way. She felt Skinner move onto the mat behind her. She had to suppress a smile as she thought of how the three of them must look, crammed into the tiny foyer this way. "Close the door," the woman barked. "You're costing me a fortune, just letting the heat pour out like that." Skinner moved forward an inch to close the door and was rammed up against Scully's back. Mrs. Priest still stood glowering, arms folded across her chest. "Ask. You got questions, then ask." "It's a bit tight in here, Mrs. Priest. Maybe we could go to the living room?" "Hmmmph," the woman grunted. "You be fast. I got housework to do." But she yielded, turning grudgingly to lead them down the hall to a tiny living room. "He's done something, hasn't he?" The words were spoken in a scathing tone, dripping with disgust. "He?" Scully asked as she walked down a plastic runner in the hall to the neat living room. "Fenton. He's the only reason you could be here." "When did you last see your son, Mrs. Priest?" Scully scanned the room as she listened to the woman tell them she hadn't seen him in years. The room was spotless -- painfully clean with not an item out of place. The sofa and single chair were slicked with clear plastic. The books on the shelves were aligned perfectly, all the same size, with spines marching together like well-trained soldiers. In addition to the plastic on the sofa, the lamps each bore a plastic covering on their shade. The windows were draped in a dark material, completely shrouding the windows but for a single thin crack. The inch-wide slit let in the only light. The tables, windowsills, and mantle all were crammed with dust catchers, but there was no dust. As antiseptically neat as this place was, Scully imagined any mote of dust that dared enter would soon be running in fear for its life. While institutionally clean, there was nothing about the place that felt like a home. Skinner took up a position by the drapes, planting himself firmly and nodded in Scully's direction. She perched gingerly on the slippery plastic, digging her heels into the carpet as surreptitiously as she could to keep from sliding onto the floor. "We need to talk to you about your son, Mrs. Priest." Scully looked politely at the woman and waited. When she didn't answer, didn't even look her way, Scully asked again. "Do you understand, Mrs. Priest? We need to talk about your son." "I understand you're here in my home unwanted and you're keeping me from my work." She turned slowly to meet Scully's eyes. "Get on with it." Scully exchanged a quick glance with Skinner. While psychological evaluations were more Mulder's province, she was growing increasingly convinced that Mrs. Priest wasn't playing with a full deck. "You said you haven't seen Fenton in years? How many years?" She shrugged, cold eyes playing back and forth between them. "Since he moved out." Scully swallowed hard, biting back the quick flash of rage. This woman might be able to give them a hint -- a clue, for god's sake -- and it was like pulling teeth just to get a straight answer out of her. "When did he move out?" The words were bit off, spit out through clenched teeth. "He used to go with his father, go down in the tunnels." The woman shuddered slightly, eyes dropping to stare at the floor as she picked at her shirt. "I didn't like it." "Didn't like what?" "It was dirty." She shuddered again. Scully made a fist and grit her teeth. She was about to start asking questions in a slightly different manner if this dizzy old bat didn't straighten up and give her something she could use. She started to rise and was surprised to find Skinner's hand on her shoulder. "Why did his father take him?" the big man asked quietly. "He wanted to." The woman shrugged again. "It bothered the boy at first, but ..." "Why did you let him go if it bothered him?" The gray eyes looked at him. The hard, angry gaze had been replaced with puzzlement. "Because his father wanted it." She said it as if it explained everything. When Skinner just looked at her, she went on. "He needed Fenton." "But Fenton didn't like the tunnels?" Skinner was feeling a bit frustrated now, but he drew a deep breath and pushed on. "Fenton didn't like the tunnels but he had to go?" "It was punishment. When Fenton was bad, his father took him to the tunnels." She closed her eyes now as if she were pushing away a bad dream. "He'd come home crying, making a mess ..." "Did he hurt the boy?" The woman shuddered again, a slight quiver across her frame. "It wasn't my business. My husband took care of that. It was my job to meet my husband's needs. To keep a clean house." She looked around at the spotless room. "You're keeping me from my housework." "Weren't you worried about what your husband was doing to your son in the tunnels?" Scully couldn't keep the disbelief from her voice. "He was your son; he didn't like to go, but you let your husband force him. Didn't you care about that?" "I gave birth to him, didn't I?" She leaned forward angrily. "I carried him inside me for nine months, let him stretch my body all apart. I birthed him in pain and blood, and did what I was supposed to. I kept him clean, kept him fed, got up in the middle of the night when he squalled. I cleaned up after him." Her face had shifted from gray to red and she rose, strode to the bookcase and attacked it with a tattered dust rag. "Nothing dirtier than that boy. I worked my fingers to the bone keeping this house clean with that boy here." "Mrs Priest, did your husband abuse your son?" Skinner's voice was hard, the anger thrumming just below the surface. "That boy was trouble. Couldn't keep anything clean with the boy around." She rubbed harder at the spotless wood. "He just wouldn't do as he was told. And messy. All those chemicals. House always smelled." "Chemicals?" Skinner glanced at Scully. "One set after another. He was always cooking something up. I told him and told him. His father used to make him stop. He'd take him to the tunnels and then the boy wouldn't be so messy anymore." She sighed -- a long-suffering sound. "But after his father died ..." "Let me get this right, Mrs. Priest." Skinner took a few steps toward the woman, waited until she turned to look at him and then spoke. "Your son was experimenting with chemicals?" She nodded. "I suppose he was pretty good. Got a scholarship to some fancy school, but he didn't go. He went to work in the tunnels." She shrugged. "He said we needed the money." "When did your son move out, Mrs. Priest?" "Years," she muttered. "Years ago. Don't remember. He said we needed the money, but ... he just stopped coming home." ************************************************ He'd been in the hospital a month. About half-way through, they'd talked about it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He would be weak, he knew that, and when Scully had offered to stay, he'd accepted. But now, he wasn't so sure. It wouldn't have been a problem BDL, but now, just the sight of her jacket thrown casually over his chair caused him to stir. It was ridiculous after all that had happened. How could they even think about each other when Priest was still loose, still killing? Feeling himself tense, he lifted the jacket, brought it to his face, and breathed deeply. The soft scent of her perfume calmed him, soothed him, not to mention turned him on. He went to the closet and pulled out a hanger, taking care to place the dark green blazer on it carefully. The trip from New York home had tired them both, and she was currently in his shower, cleaning up. He knew he should be resting -- that had been her last command before she announced she was going to take a shower. But he wanted nothing more than to walk down that hall, tap on the closed door, stick his head in, and see a gloriously naked Scully in his shower. The water turned off, startling him from his reverie. He shoved the blazer in the closet and went back to his room to change. He felt like a high-school kid unable to control his body's responses. It was crazy. After all, it wasn't as though a naked woman had never been in his apartment before. Fact was, there had been plenty -- more than plenty. He was good- looking, attractive, and eligible. But there had never been a naked Scully in his apartment before, and his breath caught at the thought. He plowed through the drawers looking for something loose and pulled out sweats but there was only one clean comfy shirt. He grabbed the Redskins shirt, soft and faded from years of use as a local fan, then slipped into a clean dress shirt, frowning as he tried to do up the buttons with his broken fingers. Back down the hall, he knocked on the bathroom door, opened it a crack, and stuck the Redskins shirt through. "Thought you might want this," he called, then pulled his hand back and shut the door when his offering was accepted. He shivered slightly -- it was still cold -- and bumped the thermostat up a bit, wishing he had a fireplace to light for her. Of course, there was no fire that could possibly match the one already roaring inside of him. But for once, he was determined to ignore his raging hormones and do the right thing. It was as simple as that. He turned to find her coming down the hall dressed in his shirt and his groin tightened. The shirt hung long on her, but he could see well-shaped calves, and got hints of firm, smooth thighs. No, there would be absolutely nothing simple about this. "Mulder," she said looking up at him. "You should be resting." Instead of moving to sit, he stared. Her wet hair glistened. Her cheeks were ruddy from too much hot water. Her pace was slow, almost hesitant. It was as if the water had washed away her normal reserve. A hidden vulnerability exposed itself in her clear blue eyes. "Mulder?" He reached out and took her hand, drawing her to the sofa, gently pulling her down beside him. One shoulder of the faded shirt slid down her arm. He was immediately distracted by her smooth, creamy skin, the beginning swell of her breasts, the curve of her neck, the fresh scent of her hair and skin. He felt light-headed, and already he was hard. How could he touch her and not want to do more? It was stupid. He needed to concentrate and ignore his erection for once in his life. He was Fox Mulder, partner to Dana Scully, not Marty the porn king. One hand came out, his open palm running over the top of her shoulder, continuing in a slow caress down her arm. She was still beneath his touch, an unreadable expression on her face, as if she knew he needed to touch her, needed to be sure she was here. His hand finished the journey he wished his mouth could make, ending with her smaller hand in his own. Her back had straightened, her body alert to the electricity he could feel leaping from his fingers. His hand lingered, enjoying the sensation of her silky skin. Then gently, reluctantly, he lifted the shirt back over her shoulder, covering the beautiful skin. She hesitated, as if surprised, as if expecting something more, then leaned into him for a moment, resting her head against his chest. "Mulder," she sighed softly. "Thanks for the shirt." He nodded, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, then pulled away. "You want something? I could fix soup, maybe a sandwich?" "You sit," she replied. "You're the one who's supposed to be resting. That's why I'm here." She rose and he was treated to another vision of velvet soft skin and luscious curves. He pulled the old afghan off the back of the sofa and across his lap. He watched her pad across the room and disappear into the kitchen. God, he loved that woman! No one else in his entire life had ever cared about him the way she did. No one else would have ever come after him, tracking him to Priest's lair and pulling him back from the brink of destruction. He shook his head, sliding further down on the couch, pulling the afghan tighter. He could hear Scully rummaging in his cupboards and gave a silent prayer that there was something to find. She wore his shirt and she was in his kitchen, using his food to make him something to eat. He felt very proprietary all of a sudden; Scully would surely clout him if she knew how he felt. But it didn't change his feelings. She was here -- with him. And she loved him. End part 01/03 Self Revealed 02/03 "We have to go back," he said again. "Where?" she answered in disgust. There were reports, and maps, and pictures spread all over the room. "Where do you propose we look?" He was exhausted. Having Scully here, knowing she was going to stay, had given him an adrenaline surge, but it was gone and he was fading fast now. She looked at him, then looked at the clock. "Damn, Mulder, you should have been in bed hours ago!" She began to gather the papers into a neat stack. "I keep telling you, you're supposed to be resting." She finished one pile, and moved on to another. "How did you ever talk me into letting you work on this tonight?" He shrugged, suddenly unsure of himself. Scully was staying and he didn't know what to do. Who got the bed? Who got the couch? He usually slept on the couch, but would she take his bed? And could he even sleep knowing she was in his bed? Maybe she should go. "Look, it's late. We're both wiped out." She ducked into the kitchen and returned with a pill and a glass of water for him. His antibiotic. "Let's just try and get some sleep." He swallowed obediently, then emptied his glass and set it aside on the floor. He stretched his legs out under the afghan, claiming the sofa for himself. "Maybe you should go," he echoed his thoughts out loud. She looked at him, one hand on her hip and her head tilted at a very attractive angle. "Why? What's wrong?" "Uhmmm ..." He was suddenly very uncomfortable. She was there, looked great and was willing to stay. She cared about him -- loved him even -- and wanted to be with him. She was wearing his shirt -- and he just wasn't able to deal with it all. He was sick, he hurt, and there was no way he could ... Oh, God! What if she wanted to and he couldn't? Never mind the what if. He knew he couldn't. As if she read his mind, she said, "Look, Mulder, as glad as I am to have you home, and almost in one piece, I'm just too damn tired to make a pass at you, if that's what you're worried about." She pulled him up, gently pushed him to one side, and opened the sofa into a sleeper, something he never bothered with. Linens had appeared from who knows where and before he knew it, he was tucked up nice and tight, with clean sheets, a pillow, and the old afghan. "Go to sleep, Mulder." She gently touched his head. "I'm just going to clean up a bit." His body jerked at her touch, every muscle, every nerve ending seemed attuned to the proximity of her body. He watched her walk away and then called, "Scully?" She turned, waiting. "I, uh, don't usually sleep much. I, uh, just might end up keeping you awake." She came back to his side then and sat. She busied herself checking his bandages, the ones on his hand, his head, and then his belly. "What do you mean you don't sleep?" Her hands were like fire as they traced the line of the bandage around his abdomen. "I'm not the best sleeper in the best of times, but, uh, when I'm on this, uh, this kind of case, I, uh, I tend to have nightmares." He closed his eyes, afraid to see her reaction. She reached out and gently brushed her hand across his forehead. He felt the comforting touch as she pushed his hair back, then ran a single finger down to his lips. "I imagine with the stuff you see, it's hard not to have nightmares." "You see it, too." She was looking down at him. His body curled under the afghan. He needed to shave, knew that there was dark bristle on his face, yet her hand reached out to cup his cheek. He pulled himself up on one elbow, twisting open his half-buttoned shirt in the process, exposing a hard, muscular chest with tiny wisps of dark hair. Her other hand touched the bandage again, then ran up to caress the planes of his chest; he felt himself grow hard. "I have a remedy for nightmares," she said, smiling. "You just hold on to someone else while you fall asleep." His eyes met hers and he gestured with his broken hands. "I can't, Scully." He could feel the tears threaten. "I *want* to, but I can't." He dropped his eyes, staring at his rapidly softening lap. "Not the way I want to -- not the way you deserve." "Mulder." Her face was serious again. "I understand. I'm not trying to put you in an awkward position. I just want to help." She took his hand in hers. "Will you let me help?" He didn't answer -- he couldn't answer -- and she slid closer to him. Slowly, hesitantly, she slipped down onto the sofa bed until she was lying next to him. Each move she made was deliberate, giving him plenty of opportunity to protest. His erection was back -- damned hormones! What the hell -- she just wanted to help fight his demons. Wasn't that what she'd been doing for all these years anyway? He put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her into him so that her face rested hot against his chest. He could hear his heart, so he knew it must be pounding in her ear. Her cheek brushed against the opening in his shirt, her skin wonderfully soft against him. He rested his chin atop her head, content to stay that way forever. "Now relax," she murmured. "Nothing can get to you without going through me first. Even if you can't sleep, just close your eyes and rest." How could he possibly sleep with his entire body alive, alert, and on fire everywhere it touched hers? Nonetheless, he closed his eyes obediently, and eventually, sleep followed. ************************************************ Mulder awoke groggy, his arms and legs heavy. He was cold. The power had gone out. Scully was no longer beside him. He looked around the dark room and saw her, asleep in a chair across the room. He frowned, wondering what he had done that drove her away. A flicker of light in the kitchen caught his eye. He sat up. There it was again. A dark shadow passed the doorway. His heart began to pound. Priest was here. "Scully?" he whispered, but there was no movement. His mind raced. Where had he left his gun? "Scully?" he tried again. Still no response. The shadow moved again and he dropped to the floor crawling toward the front door. The room was lit only by the ghostly glow of the moon. He had taken his gun off when they first got in. He'd left it in the drawer in the table by the door, but the table was gone, moved, where? His eyes darted around the room. The pounding of his heart made his chest ache. It was cold, so cold his hands shook. Then he heard the steps, soft but firm sounds as someone paced in his kitchen. He looked around for a weapon, anything sharp, anything heavy. Priest was in the house with Scully! He grabbed a lamp with a heavy base and ripped off the shade. He listened. His breathing came in gasps and gulps. He tried to hold his breath as he listened again. He crawled back to the living room, crossing to the chair Scully slept in. The lamp was clutched in his broken hand. "Scully," he whispered and reached up to shake her. "Scully, wake up." He shoved her, and her body rolled toward him, tumbling onto the floor. His hand was smeared with blood. He looked down at her. Oh God, oh God, oh God. He stuffed his bloody hand into his mouth to prevent the scream, to stop the terror. Blood covered his Redskins shirt. Her throat was slashed, the gaping wound still bleeding. And where her beautiful blue eyes had once looked out, were only cold, ashy holes. He heard a sound behind and turned. He looked up into a smiling face. A face he recognized. It was the face of Fenton Priest. This time he awoke with a violent flailing of arms, beating and thrashing at anything nearby. Scully grabbed his wrists, preventing him from damaging himself more. He tried to breathe, but it only came in rapid gasps. His body shook with wild convulsions beyond his control. "Mulder, shhhh, it's okay." Her voice was soft and soothing but alarmed and urgent at the same time. "Mulder, you're safe." He stopped suddenly, though his body still shook. Scully stared into his eyes and he stared back. Stared at her beautiful blue eyes. They were clear and warm, filled with concern, and they were alive. The room was warm -- softly lit by the glow of two lamps, one on the table by the window, the other next to the couch. There was no power outage. There was no shadow in the kitchen. There was no sign of Fenton Priest. "Mulder, are you okay?" She held his bandaged hands against her chest, caressing his wrists. He looked into her eyes again. He was suddenly very tired. "It didn't work," he whispered. "It didn't work." "I'm sorry. You were sleeping peacefully for a while. Maybe I didn't hold you tight enough." She smiled. He relaxed his hands and she released him. He ran his unbandaged finger up her arms, soft and caressing movements that traveled over her elbows and inside the too large sleeves of his shirt. They went all the way to her shoulders before they began their slow descent. Inch by inch, he touched her, reminding himself that she was here, and she was alive. She leaned against him, radiating heat. Her cheek brushed against his shirt, but it wasn't enough. She pulled away, just far enough to give her fingers room while she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. He couldn't meet her eyes, but he felt his body stiffen. His own hands stopped. Perhaps his breathing had also. She opened his shirt, and lay her head against his heart. He trembled, though he wasn't cold. They lay there and she held him, embraced him, wrapped him in herself. Finally, he began to relax. His breathing began again, a little rapid at first, though he tried to steady it. His arms wrapped around her waist, but he allowed them no exploration, no caresses. He simply held her body close to his, and let her hold him tightly. *********************************************** He fired again, three more shots hitting the target squarely in the chest. It was a nice cluster of nine now, and almost without pause he sighted up slightly, drew a breath, squeezed gently, and watched a hole blossom in the center of the target's forehead. "Good shooting, Mulder." Scully nodded approvingly and removed her hearing protection. The range instructor walked over, initialed a piece of paper and dropped it on the shelf in front of Mulder. "Congratulations, Agent. Guess you're back on the job, now. Though why you wanted to come in on a Friday afternoon is beyond me..." Mulder grinned and Scully found herself grinning back. The terrible damage to his face had healed. You couldn't see the caps on his broken teeth and aside from one scar on his left cheek, back almost to his ear, there wasn't anything left to show of the devastation Priest had caused four months ago. No, his face was fine, she decided. More than fine, really. The scar just added character. He bore other scars now too -- his chest and belly had been sliced open, his left hand had a new line. She teased him and called it his second lifeline. There was just the slightest limp from the knee -- only when he was tired and only if you knew how to look for it. Three long months. She'd stayed with him for six weeks, feeding him, caring for him, encouraging him when the physical therapy got too hard or hurt too much. Not that he would ever admit that something was too hard or hurt. He'd just clench that jaw and push himself twice as hard. Six weeks of being with him, but not *with* him, being together, but not *together,* touching, but not *touching.* It was hard. He loved her. She loved him. But he was damaged, broken. The lost time with Priest, not knowing who he was, it scared him. He still had nightmares about the girl, the one he'd rescued, the one who'd led them to him. Only in his nightmares, he didn't manage to set her free. She died, and it wasn't at Priest's hand -- it was at his own. She watched as he began his after firing function check. He removed the magazine, locked the slide to the rear, and verified that the weapon did not have a round in the chamber. He looked, then inserted a crooked little finger into the chamber. It always amused her to watch him on the range. You'd never expect him to show such respect for his weapon, but he did. He let the slide move forward, then dry fired down the range. She suspected he had nightmares about other things as well. Sam, Priest, the dozens of unspeakable horrors he'd lived with in VCS. And if she knew her man, she'd likely be starring in the worst of his dreams. She couldn't imagine what tortures his mind dreamed up to torment him with. The nightmares were bad and he'd been embarrassed. At first she thought she was reaching him, but as he healed physically, he'd seemed to need more time alone. It was the nightmares that finally made him ask her to go home. She was sure of it. He'd laughed the last time it had happened. She'd awakened to his screaming in the front room, raced down the hall to find him shaking, his t-shirt plastered to his back with sweat. His hands were on his knees and his cheeks were cupped in his hands. He'd stared at the floor and she had gone to him, wrapped him in her arms. He'd let her hold him till the shaking had stopped, then he'd settled back, pulled her into his arms, rested his chin on her head, and laughed. "No use both of us going without sleep, Scully," he'd said, kissing the top of her head. "You'll have to go home, just so you can get some sleep." And because she didn't know what else to do, she had gone home. He inserted an empty magazine, racked the slide, making sure that it locked up. He caught her watching and grinned. One press on the magazine catch and the magazine fell freely out of the weapon. She'd been home for six weeks now, and she missed him terribly. And she knew he missed her. He wasn't sleeping like he should. She knew he was still working the Priest case. He'd expanded the search on known acquaintances so far out that they were talking to his second grade classmates and the man that used to bring the mail. In other words, grasping at straws. He pressed down on the slide catch lever and let the slide move forward. He was humming under his breath and it made her smile again. Using the decocking lever, he dropped the hammer, pointing down range again. This time he dry fired double action, keeping the trigger pressed to the rear. Holding the trigger to the rear, he racked the slide. But being to recuperate had been hard on him. And since there'd been no sign of Priest, no indication that he was even still alive, grasping at straws was all he could do. She spent every minute of her off time helping him collect those straws, until it would grow late and he would send her home. She could hear the telltale "click" as he released the trigger and it reset itself. Taking one more turn down range, he dry fired single action, then nodded contentedly. He was demonstrative -- kissed her now, and loved to sit with his arm around her. Every touch delighted him -- his face would light up like a kid at Christmas. But it had gone no farther, and she worried about what went on in that complicated head of his. He took a full magazine and reloaded. Checked the safety twice, then holstered his weapon. "You done, Rambo?" she asked as she picked up the chit that would clear him back to duty. " 'cause if you are, we've got work to do." End part 02/03 Self Revealed 03/03 "You wanted to see us, Sir?" Scully led the way into Skinner's office, Mulder following. Skinner studied the younger man as he moved into the room. He could just make out the slightest limp as Mulder still favored the knee that had been injured three months ago. "You passed your range test, Mulder?" Skinner asked, as he gestured them to chairs, moving to lean against the front of his desk. "Back to full duty, Sir." Mulder nodded. "Knee still bothering you?" "Not really, Sir. You know they told me it may never be completely back. But it's not enough to slow me down. I passed the psychological and the physical, not just the range test." Mulder fought to keep himself from sounding defensive. "I'm ready to be back." "I know -- I know. Three months is a long time to be sidelined." Skinner cleared his throat and looked down at the file in his hands. "So, have you turned up anything new on Priest?" Skinner swallowed a smile at the look his agents exchanged. "What? Did you really think I was going to let all that work you've done while you were out stay in your hands?" He snorted. "I thought you gave me more credit than that. I'm well aware you have sources other than the Bureau. Those *sources* have saved your butt more than one time. And I'm not about to let anything that you've turned up go to waste. I want a full report on my desk as soon as possible. Everything you have gets read into the official record." The uneasy expression on Mulder's face faded. "I'm afraid nothing else has come to light." He shifted in the chair. "The boys have been tracking anyone with the slightest connection to our guy. No live hits there. They've put out flyers, notified all the hotels and flophouses he might have bolted to. NYPD's still been running searches in the tunnels." He shook his head. "They're not going to find him that way. He won't stay up top -- not in the city. And he knows the underground so well, we'll never find him unless he wants us to." Mulder's eyes lost focus as he stared through Skinner. "He didn't want to be there. His father took him. It wasn't allowed -- workers didn't bring their kids, but Priest's father did. It was secretive." Mulder shivered and Scully moved to stand behind him, her hands rubbing his shoulders. "He couldn't tell. His father would look at him -- stare -- and the ... the -- light -- would go out of his eyes. They'd be flat. Black." He pulled his gaze back slowly, focusing on Skinner. "Dead." "Mulder ..." Skinner started to speak but Scully shook her head violently. "Wait," she murmured." Skinner nodded, but he didn't like it. Mulder's own eyes had gone flat and black; it was a little eerie. "He couldn't stand for them to look at him. All dark and dead. Mean. But he was still small -- still a kid. He couldn't attack these grown men. Some of them -- the old, the sick -- he could take. But the really bad ones, he couldn't take them." Mulder was pale and shivering again. Scully was standing behind him, her hands running up and down his arms as if to try and warm him. Skinner reached out, touched Mulder's forehead. "He's like ice, Scully." "I know." Her eyes darted around the room. "I need a blanket." Skinner shrugged, but went and pulled his overcoat from the rack and handed it to her. "Can't you -- wake him up, or something?" "He's putting things together. He won't stop till he's done." Mulder slumped in the chair, shivering, and they both turned to look at him. Scully wrapped the big coat around him, trying to warm him. "So he put together the drug. He came up with it himself. Hours and hours of work. He tried it on animals. Stray dogs and cats. Birds. Rats. It killed; he didn't want it to kill. Just to immobilize. He wanted them alive when the knife went in." He closed his eyes in pain, shivering harder beneath the warm coat. "He's got another place. He has to finish -- but it won't ever be finished. He's just got to keep going. But not in the sewers. Not now. Maybe later, but not now. Now he's gone. Somewhere far enough away to feel safe, but ..." He shivered again; a strangled cry escaped his throat. "Mulder," Scully moved to kneel in front of the man. "Mulder, that's enough. C'mon on back to us, partner." "He knows we're looking now. He won't be found. He hasn't stopped -- he can't stop. It's like a drug -- addictive." Mulder shook violently, slowly focusing on Scully's face. His head dropped forward, his forehead resting against hers. "Mulder," she said softly. "You ok?" He shuddered again. "Why are my visions always worse than the reality?" "What?" Scully pushed away, looking up into exhausted eyes. She brushed his hair back from his face. "What do you mean?" "I'd have kept them alive when I took the eyes." *********************************************** "He's sleeping." Scully closed the bedroom door and walked up to the hall to where Skinner was pacing. "What the hell was that?" the AD demanded. "That," Scully replied, "was a perfect example of why Mulder doesn't do VCS work anymore." "Yeah, but what the hell happened? What did he do?" Skinner was baffled. "What he did was crawl inside Priest's mind. It's cold, it's dirty, and it's more than a little unpleasant." She headed for the kitchen. "And it's exhausting." "So he turns cold? Scully, the man was like ice! I touched him." Skinner followed her, watching as she put the kettle on and dug tea bags out of the cabinet. "I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't touched him." "I know!" She twisted the knob on the stove then turned to look at him. "I don't understand it. It defies explanation." A deep breath, and she was marginally calmer. "All I know is that he can see things that no one else can. Maybe these trances ... Let's call them trances for lack of a better word. Maybe these trances are just his method of detaching from the world enough to begin to synthesize all the raw data that's floating around in his head. He pulls back, puts it all together -- when he's done, he comes up with valid hypotheses." "But the cold?" "I don't know!" Scully exploded. "I wish I did. I wish I could make him stop." She moved to another cabinet, pulling out two mugs. "I don't think it's just the cold, Sir." Turning, she looked at him. "I think it -- hurts -- him in someway. Damages him." She exhaled, too loud for a breath, not loud enough for a snort. "I don't know. But I do know it exhausts him." "Is he fit to be on duty?" Now Scully laughed. It was a bitter sound. "How do you think he became the Wunderkind of VCS?" She shook her head as the kettle began to whistle. "He did this for all those years in VCS. And he was alone." She lifted the kettle. "Tea?" "Oh, uh, yes, please." Skinner took the mug she handed him. "Thanks." He waited while she made her own cup, then followed her back to the living room. "But he's not in VCS -- hasn't been for years." "No, but you and I both know the cases seem to follow him. How many times has he been called in, either officially or not, to provide a profile, give us mortals a glimpse into a killer's soul?" She shook her head, then kicked her shoes off and curled onto the sofa, pulling the afghan down and across her lap. Skinner sat as well, nodding. "Jesus ..." He took a sip from the cup, then placed it on the table next to the chair. "I've never seen it. I've never seen him -- working -- like this. Are you sure he can work?" Scully laughed again. "This is nothing." She pulled the afghan closer, closed her eyes and leaned back wearily, just as the air was split with a blood-curdling scream. She jerked up, staring at Skinner who was standing, too, his gun drawn at the ready. "You should see the nightmares," she said as she headed back down the hall. ********************************************** Mulder was still sleeping. She'd calmed him and insisted he take a shower. His clothes had been soaked in sweat, and while he cleaned up, she changed his sheets. It was a semi-habit they had developed while she had been staying with him. He hadn't wanted to go back to bed, but she'd insisted. He tried to argue with her, but when she pointed out that Skinner had been in the living room the whole time, she could see him decide to postpone having to face the boss. When she rejoined Skinner, he was sitting quietly at Mulder's desk, scanning something on the laptop. "He all right?" "As much as ever." "And he's struggled with this the whole time he's been in the FBI?" "As far as I can tell, yes. I want more tea. I didn't get to drink that last cup." She headed for the kitchen; Skinner rose and followed her. "I stayed with him when he first was released, you know that." It was not a question, but Skinner nodded anyway, watching as she emptied the kettle, refilled it, and placed it on the stove. "He made me go home. The nightmares." She turned on the stove then sat at the table, waiting for the water to boil. "He's got a microwave," Skinner commented. "Faster." She shook her head. "It's not the same." He leaned against the counter, studying her. "I wondered what had happened -- why you moved out." "I never really moved in, Sir. I mean, uh, we didn't ..." She trailed off, embarrassed. "Oh. Well." Now it was Skinner's turn to be embarrassed. "I didn't mean .. well, I just assumed ..." "I'm not sure why," Scully said softly. "He was sick, then the nightmares got worse, and he asked me to leave." "Maybe he just needed some time." Skinner stood awkwardly, unsure of what he should do. This was not a conversation he expected to be having with the female half of his best team. "Maybe ..." He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. "Excuse me." He moved into the living room, digging the phone out of the pocket of his suit coat. "Skinner." Scully followed, watching curiously. "All right. I appreciate the call. She'll be there as soon as possible." He closed the phone, looking at Scully. "Priest's mother is dead. Neighbor called in about a foul odor. The cops found her. You know she wasn't the sociable type -- nobody missed her." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "It had been over a week." Scully nodded, remembering the claustrophobic, aseptically clean little apartment. "Natural causes?" "Her eyes are gone." **************************************** He was in the kitchen when Mulder wandered up the hall. He had put on a pair of jeans, but no shirt and no shoes. "Hey, Scully. I told you not to stay." "She didn't." Skinner laughed to himself. If there were only some way to capture the range of expressions that crossed Mulder's face. Shock. Disbelief. Embarrassment as he looked down at his state of undress. Confusion as Skinner spoke. "I had a call while you were sleeping." "Where's Scully?" "Priest's mother is dead. Her eyes were burned out." "Where's Scully?" "NYPD wanted our opinion." Where. Is. Scully?" Mulder bit the words off. "Mulder, relax. She went to New York to look at the body." Skinner studied his agent. The man looked better -- rested. His skin had lost that horrible pallor from earlier. "By herself?" "Yes, by herself. Is there a problem with that, Agent? Something I should be aware of?" Mulder shook his head slowly, then looked down at himself. "Let me get some clothes on." Skinner called after him. "You hungry? I ordered Chinese and there's still some left." "Yeah, ok." Mulder's words were muffled behind the half closed door, but Skinner headed for the kitchen anyway. He was pulling containers out of the refrigerator when his agent appeared in the door behind him. He still wore the jeans, but had added a t-shirt and sneakers with no socks. "Scully's in New York?" Mulder rubbed one eye, shaking his head. "When did ... How long have I ... What's going on?" Skinner piled Kung Pao chicken on rice and stuck it in the microwave. "What do you remember?" Mulder snorted. "I'm not losing my memory, Sir. It doesn't work that way." He shook his head. "I remember everything." "Well, bear with me, will ya?" Skinner opened the fridge and looked in. "Whaddaya want to go with that? Coke? Tea? Beer?" Mulder shrugged and Skinner withdrew a coke. "This is all new to me. So, walk me through it. What happened, what you remember, why you're so worried about Scully." The microwave beeped and Skinner withdrew the plate, set it before Mulder, then added a fork from the dish drainer. He grabbed a coke for himself and sat. "I was thinking about Priest -- where he was, why he does what he does, where he's gonna go." He forked a bite to his mouth, swallowed, and nodded. "Good. Thanks, Sir ... uh, Walter." At Skinner's nod he continued. "I got a little -- dislocated." "Yeah, you certainly did," Skinner said brusquely. "It was disconcerting." "That your way of saying weird, Walt?" "Walter. And no, that is not my way of saying weird. It's my way of saying disconcerting." Skinner frowned at the other man. "I was concerned." Mulder shrugged. "It's how I work." "Mulder, you were like ice -- covered in a cold sweat, skin freezing, shaking like a leaf." "Yeah," Mulder shrugged again, shoveling the food in. "It's pretty intense." He finished the plate and looked around. "I was hungry. Anymore?" Skinner nodded and began to reload the dish. "So, you were thinking about Priest. Then what happened?" "Well, I was pretty wiped. Scully brought me back here." Mulder paused, studying the older man as he placed the now full plate in the microwave. "You and Scully brought me back here," he corrected. "Go on." Skinner was leaning against the counter in front of the microwave, waiting. "I went to bed ..." "Scully put you to bed," Skinner interrupted. Mulder frowned. "Yeah, well ... Scully put me to bed. I slept. I woke up." "You woke up screaming." "I do that." Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "So your partner tells me. She also tells me it's not infrequent." There was a beep and Skinner pulled the warm food out, passing it to Mulder. "It doesn't interfere with my work, if that's what you're worrying about." Mulder lowered his head and began to eat again. Skinner stepped across to him, placed one hand on his shoulder and said, "That's not what I was worried about, Mulder." He squeezed gently, then rounded the table and sat. "Go on." "I took a shower -- went back to bed." He looked at Skinner. "Now -- why don't you tell me what happened when I was sleeping?" Skinner nodded. "I got a call that Priest's mother was dead. Nowak asked for Scully -- wanted her to look at the body." Skinner glanced at his watch. "She caught a late flight -- probably already done the autopsy by now." "I don't like it." Mulder swallowed the last bite, pushed the plate away, and leaned back. "I don't like Scully being up there alone." "Anything specific you can base that on?" Skinner rose, snagging Mulder's plate and carrying it to the sink. The soft "shwooooosh" of water running filled the room as the AD washed and rinsed the plate. "No," Mulder admitted. "I'm just uncomfortable." "Well, I want us to head up there tomorrow anyway." "Is that a concession to my concerns about my partner?" Mulder yawned and shook his head. "No. I would have gone with her, but you were completely down for the count. She insisted we not wake you." Skinner dried his hands, then grabbed his soda and headed for the living room. "Coming?" he said over his shoulder when Mulder made no attempt to move. "What? Oh, yeah." Mulder shook himself, then rose and followed the AD. "I want you to look at this." Skinner moved to the desk, touching the keyboard on the laptop and reactivating the screen. An email appeared, from an address Mulder recognized. "How did you get this?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at the AD. "Oh, please, Mulder. You think your friends are the only ones who can do a little hacking?" He turned the screen so Mulder could read, then waited. "A house in Hyde Park?" Mulder looked shocked. "We ran all real estate records." "This was in his grandmother's maiden name -- a bit removed from the initial searches, but we got there because you insisted we keep widening the circle." "Does Scully know?" "Not yet. We'll call her tomorrow." When Mulder started to object, Skinner pointed to the clock. "Two thirty in the morning, Mulder." He shook his head. "She probably went right to the morgue and worked till midnight. Let the woman sleep." "All right." Mulder scrolled the screen and began to reread the report. "When do we leave?" "In the morning. In the meantime, why don't you go back to bed?" "Why don't you go home?" "That isn't going to happen, Mulder. If you don't want to sleep, you must have a video or two we can watch." "I don't need a babysitter, Sir." "I didn't say you did, Agent." Mulder stared defensively into Skinner's implacable face, then lowered his eyes, moving to a cabinet by the wall. He opened the door, knelt and glanced at the titles that appeared. "Men in Black? Independence Day? Armageddon?" End part 03/03 Story continues in Self Torment ... coming soon!