NC-17 material. If you are under the age of 18, go away. If the idea of bondage and discipline disturbs you, you might want to go away. Mistress 5/21 by Amperage "New lead." Scully's voice was dry as Mulder entered the office. "Good morning to you too." Mulder said casually, putting down his briefcase, taking off his trenchcoat. "And yes, thank you, I slept fine after I took some Advil." Fine? He'd kept starting awake, dreaming that the killer was in his apartment. That Tanny was lying beside him in the bed, gutted and cleaned and unmistakably dead. "A neighbor, a new neighbor, a Mrs. Geiger, saw a man slipping out of the Tower residence around 11:30 the night of the murder." Mulder frowned, shrugged. "That's too early, isn't it?" "It's right above the high end of my estimate, yes. But she could be mistaken as to time." "How did she time it?" Mulder asked, not even bothering to try and grab the file away from his partner. "Letterman was just coming on." Mulder gave her a stare. Thank God for Television. If a show was just coming on or just going off you knew the time within a minute or two. Scully sighed. "Anyway, our guy's too good to be seen by a neighbor. I bet Tower had a male lover." "The investigation team asked Tower's daughter that. She was rather indignant." Mulder grinned. "I bet she was. I bet she still denies that her father used to play sexual games with a woman named Tanneka Bonet too. She's a devoted daughter. Like you were." Finally she would let him have the folder. "Ask someone else. His wife, for example. In private." "What's that supposed to me?" Scully's voice was sharp, even as she let him have the folder. Ouch. "You know what it means. You were a daddy's girl." Mulder found his reading glasses in a pocket and put them on. Then threw them down. He only had one working eye, after all. "Nothing bad about it, unless you let it blind you to flaws in his nature. . ." He read through the report. "Just some poor little fellow, turning tricks with Tower. . ." Mulder sighed. "You don't like him because he doesn't fit the profile." Scully's voice was teasing, but also a little hurt. Mulder looked up. "I'm sorry about that crack. I didn't mean. . ." "I know what you meant. And I'm not really upset." Scully replied. "You look like hell. How do you feel?" "I'll be okay once the swelling goes down." "It should start doing that today. I'm surprised it didn't happen last night." Yeah well, you run into a cabinet knob at 3 a.m. chasing ghosts around your apartment while leveling your Sig-Sauer at imaginary men and the swelling in your eye just doesn't go down as fast. Mulder shrugged. "Do you think the. . .male prostitute. . .knew Tanneka Bonet?" Mulder shrugged again. "I doubt it. It doesn't feel like her style." He closed his good eye, thought a moment. Remembered Tanny dressed in a short black slip that barely covered her cunny, with black stockings and black silk garters. Dancing, her perfect figure sinuous and erotic, voluptuous. Laughing as her hair shone and spun behind her, a perfect veil to break the honey bright light. She glowed like the chimera of gold. "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree. Where Aelph the Sacred River ran in caverns measureless to man." Her voice had rolled across the searing, lovely words, Oh, it hurt so much. A quiet day, intentionally so. Doing reports, letting other agents chase down their leads. Sometimes, Scully forgot that she was a G-12 and that Mulder was a G-14. She forgot that if someone just read their rank the automatic assumption would be that they were both successes in their chosen field. She forgot that on a case outside the X-files there would be grunts to do the busy work. "Agent Mulder?" The voice was young and nervous. Scully looked up from her comparison of autopsy reports. "Hmm?" Mulder pulled himself out of a file, peered around the glass divider. A page came into the office, laden with a bouquet of blood red roses and shasta daisies. "This arrived for you." The kid handed it off, happy to be ridding himself of the load. Looking around, getting a good eyeful and the infamous den of the elusive Spooky Mulder. Mulder took the roses, face turning pale, watching the kid leave. Okay, Scully blinked. Nice bouquet. "Who're they from?" She asked, smiling. "Nobody. There's no note." Mulder said distractedly, setting it down on a counter, one of his hands snaked out and stroked a half-opened rose. Stroked it as though it were a man's penis, as though it would respond to his ministrations with pleasure. His eyes were distant. Far distant. Scully blinked, narrowed her eyes. Listened to him breath. Mulder closed his eyes, wrapped his free hand around his chest. His face was white. "Come on." She took him by the elbows, pulled him away from the counter. Mulder did not resist. "Come on. You're hyperventilating. Mulder. Take deep breaths. Come on. Take a deep breath and then let it out slowly." Mulder collapsed into a chair but did not listen to her. His breath came in puffs and spurts and he was trembling. "You're going to faint if you don't stop that." Scully made her voice harsh and firm. A doctor's condescending voice. "Now stop that and start breathing slowly." She plucked his wrist between fingers and took a pulse. 120. "Come on. You don't have any choice. Just calm down. Calm down." Soothing now. Placative. "Mulder, I'm going to breathe with you. You've got to breathe with me." "I'm okay." He forced trembling words into his mouth. "I'm okay. I'm okay." "No. You're not. You're having problems. It looks like an anxiety attack. Is that what it is or do I need to call an ambulance?" Mulder gave a brief nod. "Come on." She took a cold, tense hand in hers, began rubbing it, massaging the smoothness. Oh fuck, Mulder. Oh fuck, what's happening to you? "I'd like him to be placed in mandatory counselling." Scully finished, staring not at Skinner but at the pen set on the front of his desk. Skinner was simply staring at blank space, listening to her rendition of the past 4 days. "Is he able to do his work?" He asked suddenly. "As far as I'm aware." Scully replied. Skinner nodded. "He cannot afford to screw this case up, you know that?" Scully nodded. "I think that's okay. I don't think he's having any problems there. I think this is a personal problem possibly associated with the stress of the holidays." Skinner sighed. "How much assistance will mandatory therapy be to Agent Mulder?" "I don't know." Scully admitted. "But he won't talk to me and his behavior is beginning to frighten me." Skinner considered this. "Agent Mulder may know the identity of Tanneka Bonet's FBI client." He said flatly. Scully blinked, surprised. "He came in here aching to tell me, but he didn't. I wish I knew who. It isn't myself or the Director. Other than that I have no idea. Every damn director in the FBI fits his profile to a T. Hell, half the SACS and ASACs fit it too." Skinner considered the form lying on top of Mulder's personnel file. Signed his name to it. Scribbled something in sharp, angular print. The roses and the daisies were gone. Mulder remembered the feel on his skin, remembered Tanny's rooms overflowing with roses and daisies. Blood red bright roses, symbols of her trade. Tanny's bouquet. He knew Scully was up in Skinner's office. He knew Skinner was signing the form she would have brought with her. He knew he would be forced in the next couple of days to go to a therapist. He did not know what to say to a therapist. He got his coat, scribbled a note to Scully. Usually he wouldn't have left the note, but now, right now, he knew she would be on edge, worried about him. She'd just gone to sign him up for day camp at Club Psych after all. He didn't know where he was going, what he was going to do. But he had to do something. He could not stay here. He could not stand for her to come back from her little meeting with Skinner, for her to come in and talk to him, to tell him in a soft, placid little voice that he had to go into therapy because he needed some help dealing with whatever-it-was. That Skinner had already signed the papers and she had a friend in psych services who'd agreed to see him tomorrow morning, bright and early. . . He could not stand that at all. There was Tanny's house. Tanny's quiet house populated with silent, uncomfortable ghosts. Tanny's house and his latex gloves and touching the smooth, cool roundness of heavy globes, swirls and patterns, globules of color trapped inside, suggesting beautiful patterns. Maker's marks trapped on the underside. Some were very old. He was halfway out the building, walking fast, walking steady when he heard her feet. Don't turn around. Don't listen. Ignore it. Ignore her. Mulder thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat. Burberry. 499.95, on sale. Lined with thinsulate, then with wool. Treated on the outside to shed water. Warm and light and goodly scratchy. "Mulder. I'm going with you." Her breathy, scratchy with running. Panting. He did not slow his pace. He did not stop. He did not acknowledge the figure puffing beside him. At the car he stopped. Held out a hand. Scully stared at him, puzzled. "I know Skinner signed." Mulder said. "Is that what this is about?" Scully asked, reaching into an inside pocket the lined the outer pocket where she kept her gloves and tissue. A sheet of paper folded twice. The carbon. Thin and Yellow. The third carbon for the intended patient. The original went to records, first copy to the signer, second copy to psych services. Third copy to him. Only Scully would have a copy too. Mulder didn't know where she would have gotten her copy. Probably a Xerox of Skinner's. "I'm sorry I had to do that. I told you what I was going to do." "I know." Mulder opened the sheet. All very civil and polite. If he didn't show up for the session the next message would be more bluntly phrased. Right now they were all smiling and asking "pretty please." Dr. Rose Crane. "She's not the one you used." He said bluntly. Scully stared at him, silently asking how he knew she had used a therapist. Mulder stared back, blank faced. "She's. . . knows her. She's a clinical psychologist. She's very good." "She sees the crack-ups, the ones they want to give a waiver to." Scully paused, closed her eyes. "You don't know who she is." "I know the type." "Then you know why you're going to Crane and not someone else." "Because it's not voluntary and I have a bad history with staff shrinks?" "Yes." No denying it. "Mulder, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to do this." "You're *not* sorry." It was a snarl. Mulder stared at her coldly. "You are *not* sorry." He whirled, hating the sound of his voice, clenching and unclenching his leather gloved fists. Staring across the parking garage at concrete walls. At directions telling government employees how to go up and down, how to get in and out. Where to go in case of fire or other emergency. "Yes. Yes, I am. I didn't want to. I honestly didn't want to. But you're falling apart in front of me. And I can't let you do that. I can't." "Shut up!" The words were out there, in the air between them and Mulder did not know where they had come from. He had no idea who had yelled them. Oh he knew, but he could not believe it. They were not his. He would not claim them. He turned to the door handle, put a hand on the latch. "Where do you want to go?" She asked. Mulder stared at her, saw that her face was sharp and white and that yes, this was hurting her like fuck too. "I'm. . ." He did not know where he was going. "I'm going to talk to Tower's widow." "Oh. Why?" "Social call," Mulder replied, swallowing any trace of a anger or fear. "Let me drive." "I'm not on any kind of restriction?" He asked, glancing at her. Scully opened her mouth to answer and then saw Mulder's questioning face. His hand was off the Taurus latch. "No," she said quietly. Sick to her stomach. "No. No restrictions. Just go see Dr. Crane tomorrow at 9 a.m. and do what she tells you to." "You're the young man Michael hit," Mrs. Tower stared at his face curiously. Mulder gave a half-smile. As much of one as he could. They were sitting in the front parlor, staring at a roaring fire. "How are you feeling?" "I'm fine," he lied facily. "I'm sorry for Michael's actions. It's just. . .it hit him so hard, and then seeing all the police in here. . .people don't know what it feels like. . ." Mulder bit his tongue. Let the old biddy ramble on. Of course he knew what it felt like. People don't think. When a tragedy happens it happens to you and to you only. It wrapped people up inside themselves and they forgot that the faceless men with their badges were human. That they had families who were not exempt from tragedy. That bad things happen to everyone. It is, for some reason, much easier, much more comforting, to believe that you are the only one. That no one else in the world has ever been hurt like you are hurt. That it has never happened before and will never happen again. That it certainly didn't happen to the people you look at on the street. And most certainly to the police who were sent out to the scene of a crime. But that was untrue. Completely and unequivocally not true. He focused in on her words as the extended, self-pitying apology wore to a close. "I need to ask you some questions about your husband." He said in a soft, reassuring voice. "You're going to ask me if he visited the dominatrix, the woman who was just killed?" Mulder did not deny it. "I used to think. . ." She sighed. "I knew he had affairs. He had a few. I had a few." She fixed her eyes first on Scully then on Mulder, daring them to condemn her. "We. . .I still loved him. He still loved me. But it gets. . .it's like it's a straight jacket, being perfect, being everything they tell you to be. It's. . .sometimes you just want to scream and scream and scream. I would go out and there would be the current piece of manflesh, all muscles and good looks and willing to have sex all night and I wasn't Mrs. Robert Tower. I wasn't the good mother and the good wife, the socialite's socialite, good works with the Junior Leaguers. . ." She sighed. "I was someone else." She paused as a housekeeper came into the room laden with a coffee service. Mulder took a large, delicate, porcelain cup and saucer. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm telling you this. I suppose you're wondering what happened to the nice matron you saw yesterday with her children." Mrs. Tower sipped her coffee a moment. "But I know Robert saw Tanneka Bonet. I didn't know her name, but I knew he was seeing someone who left welts on his bottom. . .I knew she existed, and it didn't bother me. And I'm tired of being the matron you saw yesterday." Her eyes closed and a few tears trickled down the sides of her face. "I don't care if it gets out. I'm not staying here anymore. My sister lives in Palo Alto. She wants me come out there. We'll go shopping and waste tons of money. We'll travel. With Robert we could only go on the nice trips of Europe and the Orient. We could only do what people in our set do." Her voice was bitter. "I loved him so much. But I'm so tired. I'm so tired." Mulder exchanged a glance with Scully. But his heart ached to talk to this woman truthfully, to tell her she was not alone. That he understood. Everything. "There is the report of someone leaving your home around 11:30." Scully began in soft, confidential tones. "We asked your daughter if . . ." "Kathy doesn't know anything about us. To us we're her Momma and her Dadda." Mrs. Tower sighed. "It was Luke." "Luke?" "This sweet young man. Robert's play buddy. They fucked each other. He came in to see me before he left. He's a very sweet young man. Very cute." Mrs. Tower waved it away. "Katherine thinks she was conceived by immaculate conception. She can't even imagine us having sex with each other, much less with people outside the marriage bed." "Are you sure your husband was alive at 11:30?" "Quite sure. I went across the hall and teased him about Luke leaving so early." Mrs. Tower sighed. "The best thing about money is that even when your own body sags, you can still afford to stroke firm, hard flesh. I would like for you to protect the truth from my children, they're so innocent and arrogant. But if it comes down to their protection or putting away the killer, I want you to know, that our sex secrets are unimportant." Her voice was steady and firm and granite. "I don't care. Just catch the fucking killer and fry him." NC-17, tres' disturbing stuff. If you are underage, or don't want to be disturbed, back out NOW. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 6/21 by Amperage "Agent Mulder." Her grip was firm. Bright violet eyes, tall and thin. She was not overly pretty, but neither was she ugly. Plain. "Come on in. Have a seat." A tiny little office. Just enough room for her desk and for two comfortable chairs. Mulder sat, staring at the stacked paperwork lining her desk. "I understand you're a psychologist yourself." "Yes." She was trying to be polite. A nod. "And that this is mandated counselling, initiated by your partner, Dr. Dana Scully." "Yes." "I've spoken with Dr. Scully and with Director Skinner. They both feel that you're going to be a difficult client." Mulder shrugged his shoulders. Crane looked down at the sheaf of papers on her desk. "Agent Scully reports that you've had an anxiety attack or two. . .that your behavior is erratic. Depressed. Is that correct?" Mulder swallowed. Nodded. He could see some relief, some guarded relief in Crane's posture. He admitted to problems. One thing she did not have to fight. "But you refuse to talk about what's causing it. It started at Christmas. Christmas Eve?" She looked up, blinked. Wanting Mulder to confirm or deny. Mulder did neither. "Do you want to talk about what's going on?" She asked simply "No." "If I try to draw you out is this only going to turn into a game playing session, with you proving that you're smarter and better educated than I am?" Mulder swallowed. Stared at her. "Yes." He admitted. "I don't have time to waste. I'm overworked and underpaid. There are a lot of people who want to talk to me, who need to talk to me. I don't have time for games." Crane said, staring at him levelly. "I rearranged my schedule to see you." "I'm sorry. I don't want to be here." "And yet. Here you are." Crane sighed. "You know I can't talk about whatever you tell me." "I know." "But you won't talk about it?" Mulder swallowed. Tell her. Just tell her and get it out of your way. She can't talk. She can't tell. She *can* however, recommend that you be taken off this case. That's what you'd do if you were in her shoes. She can make you take a leave of absence. You know that's what she *should* do. "I can't." He whispered, slipping past one or two strands on the shining web that surrounded him and held him. A bug in a spider's web, that's what he was. In storage until the spider came sliding down the wire, ready to suck the blood right out of him. Crane's posture softened. "Is it something work related?" Mulder sighed, closed his eyes. "Can't you just send me to a psychiatrist, get me something, some drugs or something, to make it through this case. I don't care. I honestly don't care." Crane swallowed, cold. "What's happened?" She asked softly. Mulder opened his eyes and threw the veil between them again. Stared at her cocksure, arrogant. A look he used to piss women off, a look that said "I'm hotshit because I have a cock and you don't." Crane did not blink. Her expression did not change. "Your partner seems to think you're depressed. Are you?" The word no was on his lips but he did not say it. It was a lie and Crane knew it was a lie, she just wanted to know if there was any openness any receptiveness. Mulder swallowed. "Yes." He replied. "How depressed?" "Just depressed." Mulder shrugged. "A lot of people suffer from seasonal depression. You've been through a lot recently. Your father died, you nearly died, your partner's sister died. There's good reason for you to. . ." "Shut up!" The outburst was unexpected from both parties. "I'm okay. It isn't that. Stop thinking it's that. It isn't that!" He was aware as he yelled it that he was not yelling so much at Crane as he was at Scully. Scully who was not in this room, but whose influence had put him here. Crane was staring at him, vaguely stunned by his outburst. But not upset. A great many outbursts had echoed off these papered walls. A great many FBI agents had yelled here. And cried here. "And you won't talk about what it is?" Crane asked, not really expecting an answer. Mulder swallowed. "What are you so afraid of telling me?" Her voice was soft and lulling and confidential. He closed his eyes. Felt his body trembling. Oh God, he could not cry here. "I would really like to know what's going on." More of the softness. He was drowsy, had taken a nap and now Tanny's hands, playing with his cock and with his balls had brought him into some kind of awareness. He was not awake, not conscious, not in control. But he was in an odd way aware of the strong fingers along his growing length of the pulling of his sac. He knew her fingers were digging into the fold along his bottom. He knew that she was lying with her head on his chest. Her hair smelt sweet and her body was soft. He knew that, and he knew she was there. No thoughts. Tanny was simply there, urging his body on in animal sensation. "Would you like some Kleenex?" Crane's voice was gentle. Razor edged, deadly with softness. Deep breath and hold it until you think you'll burst. Then let it out slowly through your nose. "No. I'm okay." Mulder pinched his legs cruelly, letting the pain, the small bruises that would bloom on the outside of his thigh, cauterize the pain inside him. "I'm fine." Pinch, pinch, pinch. "Nothing's happened. I'm fine." Crane was staring at him. Bullshit. Fucking bullshit. Something terrible has happened to you and I want to know what it is. I want to know, because you're acting really hurt right now. Mulder gave her his best arrogant, fuckyou look. "How long do I have to stay here?" He asked. "Why? So you can go to the bathroom and cry?" That was exactly why he wanted know. Mulder was unaware how like a 15 year old he looked as he rolled his eyes and manipulated his face and body into an "oh puhleeeasse" look and posture. "We have about 4 more minutes. I'm going to schedule 20 minute sessions twice a week." Crane scribbled something on a card. "I've already given Agent Scully this." She handed the card to Mulder. "The front is my business card. The back has my personal number. Did you know I saw your file a little over a year ago and again in May?" Mulder blinked. "After Scully disappeared and then when I attacked Skinner?" Crane nodded. "Director Skinner had it handed to me for a purview. Your behavior wasn't any more. . .disturbing at those junctures, I wouldn't say. But we had reasons for those. If this is a reaction to some significant stressor, I can write up something and you can just come in if you have significant problems like more anxiety attacks." Mulder smiled. Nice try, bitch. "Okay. I believe the secretary set you up for Tuesday. Now you can go to the bathroom and bawl your eyes out." Bitch. He had been quiet all day, since coming in from his meeting with Crane. Quiet and working on things that had nothing to do with what was increasingly being referred to as the "Dominatrix Murders." "Big plans for the weekend?" Scully asked at 5:30, watching as the modem uploaded her opinion on an autopsy report to a Sheriff's department in Alabama. Mulder gave a half-smile, shrugged. It was unlike him. "I'll probably do some work up here on Saturday." "You going out?" He shook his head. No need to ask why. She could see that he simply didn't feel like it. "You know that if you need me, you can call. Anytime." "I'm not going to take a walk off my roof. I promise." Mulder replied, flashing what he could of a real smile. "I know. But you might get lonely." "I won't." A sigh. Scully stared at him. "Why don't you come over tonight? We'll order pizza." Mulder shook his head. "Thanks. I'd rather not." It was exasperating. "I'm going to call around 8." She was treating him like he was fragile, like he needed special handling. Mulder knew he should be angry, but he couldn't find the energy for anger. It was as though the colors had run on a painting and all that was left was a washed-out version of what had been. He just wanted to curl up somewhere and be alone. Faded and about as thick as a china cup. He did not have the strength to even be upset at Scully's overconcern. "Are you sure you don't want to come over?" "No thanks. It's a nice offer though." Scully sighed. She'd hated his anger and his flare ups, but anything seemed better than the dead way he'd moved all day, as though going to see the therapist had drawn the life from him and all that was left was an empty husk. He was quiet and withdrawn and she knew he'd cried twice during the day, just gone out and come back with puffy red eyes. It hurt to see Mulder like this and to know that she wasn't trusted. "Who owns you?" Tanny's whisper, warm and wet. "You. . .you do. . ." "And can I do whatever I want to you?" It was a dangerous purr. He closed his eyes, looked at the floor. "You're my mistress." "Does the mistress always know what is best for her slave?" "Yes." Hesitant. Nervous. "Put this in your hands. Remember that I am your mistress. Get on the bed and hold the rail." He felt the thrill of fear, listening to the soft rustled behind his vision. Fingers clenching and unclenching around the bar. He arched his back as the strop fell across the rounded halves of his bottom. Arched his back and cried out, howling at the pain that issued in electric currents. He could not think of anything, nothing. No thoughts, no reasons, only the sharp, sharp biting, charge of the strop as it fell. He held the anal plug that she had given him. fingers squashing the deep red rubber that would soon force its way into his anal passage. The stropping stopped. For a moment, he could not understand that it had stopped. His mind, lodged into a place where the leather meeting flesh in a caliphony of pain and desire could not touch him, refused to acknowledge. For a moment his mouth was still filled with the awful tang of metal. "Are you my Secret?" There was a purr of love in the words. "Yesssss!" He could not help but cry. He felt Tanny's fingers draw his hands from round wooden knewls, felt her hands push him down. He fell onto a cushion of pillows, penis pressing against embroidery and summer white drawn irish lace. Drawing into his mouth the odor of thick cotton sheets dried in cracking summer light. The anal plug taken from his hand and the feel of cold lubricant against his rectum. Visceral, preternatural, incorporeal, ecclesiastical pain. Pain without meaning or motion. The round curve of a man's bottom. The vulnerable touch and crawl of his skin. To be tortured without cause. Exposed. Unprotected. Defenseless. Without defenses or recourse. Quiet the feel and the plug stretching, straining. Silent her movements and the heat emanating from tortured flesh consumed his thoughts. In the half-darkness of a summer's evening she worked without sound, punishing his body. His mind delighted and revelled in the agony. His soul took consolation in the appeasement of corporeal submission. The pain mingled with the mouth of lustful desire. Secret. Owned by Tanneka. He was Secret. "Hi Mulder. Just calling to see if you're all right. I said I'd call about now. Call me back." Scully's voice. Careful and precise and uneasy. Mulder stared at the answering machine as the message was created and the small wheels of the microcassette recorded her concern. He thought about picking up the phone, shaping his hands around the smooth black surface of cordless. But he did not move. He did not move, fingers clutching a cheap pair of chopsticks, fried rice clinging to tiny strands of loose wood. Mulder made no move, listening to the calm logic of one of the sane. His feet ached from the jog he had taken. The jog which had pumped his adrenalin, which had taken away aches and given him hunger where there had been none. 8 miles, then 10, finally 12 The pit of despondency had lifted for a moment, even though the smooth, razor core remained untouched. Enough that he could eat. The red light of the machine flashed once. Blinked against the smooth surface of open blind. He wanted to roll against the back of his couch and simply hold his body close, staring at nothing. He had felt okay, not great, but okay until this moment, until Scully's voice invaded the quiet cocoon. But the box of fried rice kept him sitting upright in the dark shadows of night. He could not put it down, his fingers, his hands, his arms would not make the fluid motion and set the paper cup elsewhere. He could not make any move that might be calm. Not without breaking some ancient, inviolatile code a shaman from another age was wiring through his body. The square paper was warm and grease made soft what his hand held. Inside bits of pork and vegetable dotted the beige bits of starch. Warm and the smell had been good, he had wanted this after his jog. The smell had made his stomach growl in desire. The smell would make him vomit if he held it any longer. The box hit a picture and fell from there. When the small box hit the floor it tumped to one side and rice spilled onto the floor, a small bright flood. Mulder thought about kicking the coffee table away from him, thought about going into the bathroom and finding his razor and tearing apart skin on his body, thought about finding some visceral pain to calm the seething, raging, shaking misery that had sprung up at the lucid sound of Scully's voice. He realized that the thought should frighten him. But it did not. He could see the blood and his skin parting as the bright red blood trickled from a spot of sharp, vibrant pain. It would drip warm then cold and he could release deep breaths in his body and everything would be all right. He could call Scully and tell her everything was all right. He could call Scully and laugh at her worry and her overprotective nature and when he went and saw Dr. Rose Crane she would wonder that he had ever yelled at anyone. That he had ever looked so unstable. He found the strength somewhere, strength he hadn't quite known was there, and curled his body around itself, hands tucked deep into the center, pressed against his penis, which was just a flaccid instrument for dispelling urine from his body, after all. Curled his body deep and tried to breathe, to hold on. To wait. "Hi." Mulder's voice still slurry with stitches. Scully took a deep breath of relief. "Where were you? I called and. . ." "First I went jogging and then I got hung up at the Chinese take-out. . .they had a new kid working there, he mixed up my order. And then I didn't check my machine." Mulder's voice was tolerant, bemused. "You got Chinese?" "Yeah. General Tso's chicken." "Which place?" "Jesus Chinese." "Which tract did they give you?" "The one on fornication. I always get that one. I think someone's tipped them off to my porn collection. . .why do I keep going there?" "They're cheap and good and the owner always slips you extra eggrolls because you work for the FBI." Scully relaxed against her couch. "I'm going to come in tomorrow." "Why, because I am?" "Well, that and the fact that I'm behind on regular work because of all the Tanny stuff." "As your supervisor and official boss I hereby give you an extension on all of it." "Thanks, but you never have set a deadline in the 3 years we've been working together." "Well. . ." Mulder sighed patiently. "There is that. I could start." "Oh right." Scully chuckled. "When you start filling out my evaluation reports instead of chucking them over to me." "I delegate. I don't need a handholder. I'm fine." "No handholding. You get the full dinner or the half dinner?" "I paid for the half, but they gave me the full." "Bring the leftovers and I'll bring some guacamole and chips." "Internationale." "Ole." "Listen, I've got *The Day the Earth Caught Fire* in my VCR. Let me let you go." "All right. See you tomorrow." Mulder hung up the phone and stared at the gash across his bare thigh and shivered at the crossed line. Felt fear in his mouth. Oh God, Tanny. Oh God. NC-17 Material. Do not read if you are underage! Usual disclaimers apply. Mistress 7/21 by Amperage "Agent Mulder?" He blinked at the soft, husky voice. It was nearly Tanny's voice. "Yes?" "This is Marina Sullivan. I'm Tan's cousin. The police said that I should call the FBI for information and the switchboard said you were the only member of the taskforce working today." "Oh. Listen, Ms. Sullivan. . ." "Mrs." "Mrs. Sullivan, can I have your number and I'll call you back to save on your long distance bill." Mulder replied. "I don't think that's necessary." "Well, I'd really like to speak with you and. . ." "Are you suffering from a hangover?" "No ma'am." His mouth hurt suddenly. "I have stitches in my mouth." "Oh. Well it's not necessary. I'm at the DC Hilton." "Don't take your coat off." Mulder was drawing on his own winter trench the moment Scully entered the room. She frowned. "What?" "Tanneka Bonet's cousin has arrived; she's at the Hilton." "And this is important to us?" "There are a lot of things I don't know about that woman. If the killer had a special attraction to Tanneka, I want to know about her life." Blonde hair in a soft, gentle pile atop an aristocratic head. A perfect posture. Long, thin fingers, shaped around a spoon. In his mind, Mulder could hear the soft dusky voice, urging him on, forcing him to do, making him bear, tripping his secrets from him. "Mrs. Sullivan?" The woman looked up. Tanneka's body, Tanneka's face. Tanneka without benefit of makeup or her beautiful exotic clothes. Tanneka with wrinkles around her mouth and eyes that Tanneka never allowed herself to get. "Mrs. Sullivan, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder and this is my partner Dana Scully." He opened his badge for her. Keen eyes inspected the stitches along his mouth as though searching for trickery. This was not Tanny. This was not Tanny. His breath was hot in his nose. "Please, have a seat." A soft voice, not Tanny's. Oh not Tanny's, but something in the gentle inflection was something in Tanny's velvet. Tanny. This woman was not Tanny nor would she ever be. But she was alive and walking and breathing and Tanneka Bonet was dead and always would be. Scully and the woman were exchanging pleasantries. So sorry about your loss, no that's all right, were you close. . . Were you close? Mrs. Sullivan stiffened at this question. Mulder sniffed at it, examined the nature and texture of her reticence. "Were you?" He asked softly. "When we were children, yes. We were." Mrs. Sullivan whispered. "And then there were those long years when Tan was gone. . .and then when. . .I guess she wanted to still be close, but I couldn't. . .not with her living in sin and depravity like that." "Gone?" Mulder seized the words. "Mrs. Sullivan, the FBI's records are rather. . .sketchy. Could you tell us about your cousin?" The small blonde woman with Tanny's large full breasts, and Tanny's doe soft mouth swallowed. "I guess I figured you'd just know." "No ma'am." "We allay's played together. Our houses were across an alley from each other." A sigh. "Tan's Momma died. That was my momma's sister. Her daddy wasn't really a good Christian man. He was. . .mean. He used to belt her for everything. Anything. When he was gone or drunk, or asleep, she'd sneak over and Momma would put salve on her and feed her." Her eyes closed. Her voice was dusky and gentle, innocently sensuous. Grief and remembrance gathering in the dust. "When Tan was 14, she disappeared. Her dad, he said that she was in boarding school. But we knew better, because he didn't have the money for no boarding school he could afford and Tan wasn't a straight A student. When her momma was alive she was. . .I guess, her daddy was probably using her too." She added as an afterthought, glancing at Mulder and Scully, begging them not to say it aloud, to leave it at that. "Her father sexually abused her?" Scully asked gently. "He raped her." The voice was harsh and sharp and nasal. Tired. She sounded so fucking tired. "Over and over again. . .you'd think with that in her past she'd hate sex. You'd think she. . ." a sigh. "What had happened to Tanneka?" Mulder asked softly. "He'd sold her. To this rich old geezer. Tanny told me that she went to live in an estate. As a slave. But she was special. Tan told me that he didn't touch her for two years after she was sold. No one touched her. She had a tutor and new clothes and her only duties were to read to him and help her master in his garden. Then he asked if she was ready to be a good slave and she said yes." A swallow. "There's more. . .I tried to talk to my pastor once, but he didn't understand. He was so. . .stupid about it. I used to think my pastor knew everything. When I tried to talk to him about Tan and he started calling her a fornicator and a devil woman and how evil she was. . .I think he was trying to convince himself she was evil. Not me. That's not what Tanny was. . .she was living in sin and she was doing evil, but it wasn't like she decided that was what she would do." "Her profession?" A nod, a soft sorrowful nod. Mulder felt his mouth go dry, staring at this woman, this woman who might have been his Tanny. He felt the urge to vomit and covered it, pinching his legs underneath the table cloth. "What happened after that?" Scully. Let Scully ask. "When she was 21, he let her go. . .she worked for a place for a while. She said she would go back to visit her old master sometimes. Stay for the weekend. . ." "Worked for a place?" Scully questioned, frowning. "You know. Like what she did. But she did both things." "Sadism and Maschoism?" Mrs. Sullivan nodded. "And after that?" "He died a year and a half later. In a plane crash. He left her good money and a letter. That's what Tan said. Letter told her who to call and she could be a dominatrix. The highest paid dominatrix in the city." "Do you know the name of. . .of her owner?" Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. "Tan never said." Oh God. The list. Who to call. Had *his* name been on that list? The list. She'd had a list. Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, opened them. Her eyes were wildcat green. "She didn't contact me until Elise was born." "Elise?" "My daughter. Elise has Spina Bifida. Tan called me then. . .I was so unhappy to know what she. . .Tan sent money every month. Wired it to an account in Elise's name. My husband didn't want to take the money, because it's sinful money. But we did. Because it was the only way we could get good treatment for Elise. The state gives her some, but not enough. That's when she called. She'd been watching out for me. But she hadn't ever called, because she knew I was a good strong Christian woman, and she knew I would be ashamed. . .I felt so sad when I heard that. Every letter I sent I tried to get her to turn from Evil and repent. I know that she didn't even read most of them. . ." Tanny's eyes closed and tears rolled down the careworn, lovely face. "She was my cousin. She was my best friend. I didn't care." Soft sobs and tears. Weeping and a man's handkerchief from a tiny leather purse. Mulder swallowed, felt his own sympathy. You couldn't ever do that. Let their world become your world. But it was his world. His legs stung with the weight of the pinching. Bruises. There were already bruises enough. He hated himself and he hated this woman with her Tanny face and her Tanny hair and her Tanny body. Hated her for being strong like Tanny. For being gentle, like Tanny. For telling him that his Tanny was scarred, that his Tanny. . .he hadn't wanted to know this. Oh God, of all the things he hadn't wanted to know, to see Tanny trapped under the weight of her father. . . His stomach and chest hurt. Mulder blinked at the woman with her blonde hair and her wildcat green eyes. He blinked away the image of a small frame home and a girl trapped inside. He blinked away the idea of Tanny's fragility and pain. The woman with her delicate face, with her calm acceptance of things too unbearable to name sat across from him. She and Scully were discussing names and birth certificates and people in Tanny's life and clue and hints and bank account numbers. Tanny's long fingers rested on the table. Oh God, what part of this woman was her father. If Tanny was this woman's cousin, they were only a quarter the same blood. So why did this woman have to fucking look so much like her cousin? Where were all those other genes? Blonde hair was recessive, even if green eyes weren't. And as Mulder well knew, recalling the moist heat of warm cunny burying his face alive, Tanneka Bonet's blonde hair was not man made. The breasts, the body, Mulder did not know what body types were recessive and which were dominant. Dominant? Everything about Tanneka Bonet had been dominant. "He asked her if she wanted to be a good slave and she said yes." He could not even whisper his apologies as he fled the table. "You okay?" Scully stared at her partner on the ride home, trying to analyze his tight, white face. "I'm fine." A fragile, careful voice. "What happened back there?" Mulder swallowed, made no response. "Do you think you might need to see a doctor?" "I am seeing a doctor. Don't you remember?" His voice was angry and sarcastic. "A medical doctor. A psychiatrist." "I'm okay. You've already roped me into Crane. Let her deal with it." Scully closed her eyes. "There are drugs that can help you deal with these anxiety attacks." "I didn't have an anxiety attack." "I see." Stop fucking lying to me. "Do you want to call Crane and ask about who you could go see or should I do it for you?" The question was innocently framed and innocuous. Will you call her and talk while I'm hovering in the background or will I have to call her? No real choice involved. Mulder pulled the Taurus off the street and into an alleyway. Shifted the car into park. "Fuck you. Fuck you! Stop controlling me. Stop telling me the fuck what to do. I'm okay. I'm okay. I don't need fucking nursemaids or therapists or shrinks prescribing drugs. I don't fucking need anything from anyone. You want me to talk and to tell you everything and just fuck you! Leave me the fuck alone, I'm not your child, I'm not your fucking charge. No one has fucking given you any papers assigning you as my conservator." He opened the door, began sliding out. "Mulder, what the hell are you. . ." Scully was stunned by his outburst, but not so stunned that she just sat there. "You can take the fucking car back to the Bureau. I'll walk." "We're in the worst part of D.C. You can't. . ." "Why the fuck can't I?" He snarled. They stood over the car, staring at one another across a glossy maroon surface. "You *don't* tell *me* what to do." Scully opened her mouth and closed it. Right now, right at this moment, what she had to do was to calm him down. What she had to do was to get him back into the car. Everything after that she could think of later. It wasn't about her winning. It wasn't about who was right and who was wrong and whether or not Mulder was willing to see a shrink. It was about his behavior right this instant. The horrible rage and pain and the fact that she had to get him in this fucking car. And it didn't matter what she had to say or had to do, because she could worry about that later. "I won't." She said quietly. Mulder wasn't listening. He was walking down the length of the car. "Mulder, please. I won't talk about it again. I won't." He wasn't listening to her. Tears stood out on his eyes and Scully got an awful feeling watching him that he was balancing on some delicate tightrope and that if he could not keep balance nothing was underneath to catch his fall. "Mulder. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't. . .I shouldn't have tried to control you." She dashed out before she could really think about it, and came to stand in front of him. "Mulder stop. Please. Stop. Please. I'm sorry I treated you like a child. I'm sorry. Come on. Please." His hands clenched and unclenched and she could see that his entire body was stiff and his face was a snarl. And suddenly she felt fear. Felt a cold, paralyzing terror settled into her bones as if sent there with a thousand stabbing needles. With the realization that he was coming very close to simply tossing her aside, that if he did that it would be because he simply had no control. That his control was so fine and thin that at this moment she could not count on it. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way." Each word distinct through angry, clenched teeth. Each word a separate growl. She was about to step aside, frightened of the fury and the misery twisting around him like a storm, when a voice at their backs interrupted the drama. "May I help you?" Cotton Candy in Hell. The voice was fresh apples and pumpkin pie. The shock made her shiver. She didn't have to turn her head to see the D.C. Policeman. Two white people in expensive clothes in a black district. Arguing. The man towered over the woman and his fists were clenched. She watched Mulder swallow. He was trying terribly hard now. Terribly hard. He did not want. . .what didn't he want? She turned, not frightened of his leaving. The officer was very young. Tall, gawky. She smiled. "May I get my credentials?" She asked, striving for a friendly tone. It came out in a quaver. The officer eyed them both. "You a cop?" He asked her. "We're FBI agents." The squawk sounded weak even to her own ears. She made a move to her trench pocket. The patrolman nodded, eyes on Mulder. She drew out her badge and opened it. Put it to her face. The officer held out a hand and she gave him the leather folder. He read it carefully. Glanced at the photo three times. "You got one?" Mulder pulled a hand up to his pocket but his hand started shaking. Adrenalin. How much fucking adrenalin was pumping through his system? He could not complete the action. Scully saw the warning signs. Oh fuck. Not here. Not now. Oh fucking hell. Don't lose it in front of the cop. Mulder jerked his hand up again. The badge came out. It trembled. It wavered and he tossed it to the cop. His breath was fast and his skin was fast gaining the pallor of a corpse. The cop examined Mulder's badge. "We were. . .having a difference of opinion." There. It was almost normal. Her stomach was in upheaval. She was trembling and she didn't know how much longer Mulder would be vertical. But her voice was perfect. "You must have thought something. . .unusual. . ." She smiled. Conscious of the fact that Mulder was going to keel over any minute. The cop handed Mulder back his credentials. "Is anything wrong?" "We're on the serial killer task force. . .It can be. . . stressful." Scully shrugged. Mulder was breathing quietly through his mouth. He didn't act like this conversation had anything to do with him. He probably had no idea what was going on. "Are you all right, ma'am?" "I'm fine. . .why would anything be wrong?" "I saw. . ." "You saw us having an argument." Scully lowered her brows. "I can't argue with my partner, officer?" "I. . ." The kid glanced at Mulder. "He looks sick." "He is sick. With the flu. And he needs to be in bed. Now. If you'll excuse us." She did not wait for his dismissal to grab Mulder by the elbow. She was taking occasional breaths through her mouth, trying to think. "I'm sorry." His voice was soft. Scully took a glance at her partner, who was slumped in the seat beside her. "Yeah. Well." Scully replied, curling and uncurling her fingers around the steering wheel. "I'll go to your psychiatrist." It was a mewling, defeated voice. Like a kitten that knows it is going to die. The words "I think you need to take a leave of absence" were in her mouth, wanting to come out. Hard to push into her vocal cords. Wanting to come out, but they were dragged back from sound by the weight and the fear in her stomach. "I think. . ." She paused. Wimp. Wimp. Wussy. "I think. . .I think that's a good idea. I can call Crane for you." "I'll do it." He wrapped his hands around his chest. There was not much else to say. NC-17, do not read if underage. Usual Disclaimers. Mistress 8/21 by Amperage "Agent Scully?" It was a soft, pleasant voice. "Yes?" "This is Dr. Crane. Mulder called. He said it would be all right for me to call you." "Oh. Dr. Crane. How did he sound?" "Very sad." The voice was practiced and even. "He said that you wanted him to see a psychiatrist. Can you tell me a little more about why?" Scully swallowed. Explained his behavior. She did not mean to, she had no intentions of doing so, but she found herself de- emphasizing the most erratic, most frightening aspects of Mulder's behavior. She found herself leaving out the incident with the cop. ". . .it's just those anxiety attacks. . ." She summed up. Oh God, it wasn't just anxiety attacks. ". . .if he had something to calm him down. I think he'd be able to function to par. . .I mean, he's still doing okay. But, Mulder pushes himself and he's not able to do that. . .he just needs a little help." She had made it sound as though he were having a few problems. As though he had not nearly lost it and struck out. Would he have hit her? If he had hit her, what would she have done? If he had hit her, what would he have done to himself? How close to the edge had they come? Crane's voice was relieved. "I kind of figured. . .he thought. . .your partner felt sure that you thought he was losing it. . .he's got such an extensive psych record for an agent of his standing that he must sometimes wonder about his stability. I'll get a psychiatrist. We'll get him on some drugs to help him through this." "Good." Scully closed her eyes. Mulder had been honest and she had. . .minimalized. He had been worried that if he did not level, that Scully would and it would be much worse. But she had covered and now. . now Crane believed he was much better than he was. Crane probably thought that Scully herself was overexagerating, not underreporting. Oh fucking hell. His bathroom floor would have to be cleaned. Mulder closed his eyes, putting his head against the cold toilet lid. He'd cut himself and called Crane and then come back and cut himself again and the long parallel cuts along his hip, hidden where even his swimsuit would not reveal them, were deep. He knew that this behavior was self-destructive. He knew that with the blood he felt trickling down onto his legs, onto his cock and balls, into the fold of his bottom, with that blood he had crossed lines. Lines that he should not have crossed. Scully. He'd been ready to hit her. He could see the blood on her nose if he had. He could see the way her body would have landed against the side of a brick building. He could see her stumble. He could see bright red blood. Scully's blood. Oh God, he'd almost hit Scully. Of all people. Scully. And he couldn't blame this one on drugs or aliens or anything except his own fragile temper. He told Crane about his behavior. Every detail of his behavior except for the cop, and he didn't know why he hadn't told her about the cop. But he hadn't. She'd been very calming. He suspected that she hadn't believed him. When she asked to talk to Scully he knew she didn't. He wondered when she would call back and tell him that she was filling out paper work for a psychiatric waiver. A leave of absence and his insurance could pay for a hospital. They could do a short term psych disability for him. Meanwhile the blood spilled onto a towel. He felt better seeing the blood. His own castigation for behavior this afternoon. It was not that he felt *good* when it was over. It was simply that he could not stand himself if he didn't. "Agent Mulder?" The voice was strong, measured, precise. "Yes." He rolled over in the futon, felt his hip stick to the sheets. "This is Agent Dunne. There's been another murder." There was crime tape everywhere. And a woman screaming. Mulder swallowed, reflexively. There were FBI agents everywhere. Of course. You send out the forces when it's one of your own. He finished pulling on his latex gloves, strode up to the hedges. He hadn't needed to show his badge to the cop. The cop had an agent by his side, pointing out the family from the outsiders. Through the open door of a tall two story Colonial. A hallway. There was the source of the screams, right there in a room to his right. Sitting on formal furniture, knees politely together. Her church dress was bunched. Stained. Someone else sat beside her still in a heavy cashmere coat. Holding the widow who was sobbing. Who had two griefs. The stairs were beside him and he went up, stopping at a toy filled landing. Big Bird and the Pink Ranger were askant in a corner like dust. You could smell it in here. Smell blood and death and "Agent Mulder." King was pale. Mulder nodded. Swallowed. "Director Martin is in his study." "Has Agent Scully. . ." "She's in with him." Not she's in with the body. She's in with him. "Was he a friend?" Mulder asked. King nodded. "We went back, oh God, 12 years. We were both in Los Angeles for years. Your profile was dead on." Mulder swallowed. Nodded. I bullshitted that profile. That profile was bullshit. He may fit the fucking profile. But he's not. . . Was he? Mulder wondered. A director would have the money. A director would know. . .enough to recommend. . . "Hey." Scully almost smiled. "Hi." Mulder stared around him at the small room. An agent came to him. "I have to check credentials." So there was sensitive material in this room. Mulder opened his badge. Found out that G-14 was quite high enough to be allowed access. But he was one of the few. Blood and the smell of blood. It overwhelmed the air. The body. The organs and the smell. He'd had a cinnamon colored carpet. Cinnamon didn't show the blood as much. A dark, generic stain mostly. If you looked closely it was rusty burgundy. But mostly it was just a dark stain. Spreading and crusting on the carpet. Scully was discussing the temperature of the body from the thermometer. Scully was feeling the fingers and the buttocks for blood. Scully's hands were coated in drying blood and she did not even notice as she made her clinical notations. He wanted to leave this room. This room was Martin's room. This room had all the information he would need. He just had to find it. King was still in the hall. Mulder could look through an open door and see a child's room. Bright. And posters lining the walls. "Do I have clearance to go through everything in the desk?" King swallowed. His brain kicked into gear. He sighed. "I don't know. I'll call and see. What are you looking for?" "I don't know." King nodded, defeated, wandered down the hall, found someone who could take orders. She undressed him. Tanny's fingers were soft. He didn't even see why she had called him. Why she had wanted this appointment. But he was here and she was undressing him. His feet were heavy and hot as she slipped his shoes off. His pants. His shirt. Finally his cotton boxers. She put his arms through a heavy flannel robe, tied it at his waist. "Come on." The drink was warm and sweet. Chocolate. There had been whipped cream, but she had already stirred it in. Her fingers shaped his around the steaming mug. She put it to his mouth and he drank mechanically. "Why're you being so nice to me?" His voice was quiet as she let the mug go and it slid down to rest in both hands, half dranken. "You need to have someone be nice to you. You're my Secret." "I'm your supplicant. You spank me." "I take care of you. Right now, it's not spankings you want or need. Tonight, just let me take care of you. I'll bathe you and feed you and put you to bed. You'll sleep with your head against my body and when you have nightmares I'll hold you until you fall into more pleasant dreams. You don't have to do anything but be here and let me take care of you." He nodded silently. Closed his eyes. Felt the tears slip down his face. He wandered through the kitchen. Stared at the sink. A nice stainless steel sink with a middle thingy for vegetables. You could see a swingset out the window. Tile floors and tile counters. A glasstop range. A breakfast nook and the Sunday paper lay opened on top. With a cup of coffee. Mulder swallowed, piecing the murder together. He saw Martin in his grey sweats and his tee, stumbling down the stairs. Not a regular churchgoer. His wife and child went without him. The Sunday. He got the Sunday paper and sat down with a cuppa joe and the Sunday paper. Not even halfway through. The door was open and the killer came in. . . Mulder glanced around the kitchen. There was a backdoor. His fingers tried it. Locked. Of course. The patio door leading to a postage stamp backyard. Locked. One way in. One way out. Into the hallway. The door. Mulder went into the yard. Houses were almost stacked on top of one another. Small yards. What was the cost of real estate in this exclusive little suburb? He did not know. But he could guess. Where would this guy have gotten cash for Tanny? This guy hadn't fucked Tanny. This guy had simply fit Mulder's profile to a T. Mulder went to the driveway. It was full and useless now. But the killer had parked here. Here? Why? Couldn't he have. . .walked? In this neighborhood? Not likely. The carefully manicured sidewalk to the house, edged by tiny little shrubs. Into the house. A short trip into the kitchen. Martin. . .Martin hadn't been reading. Mulder saw the bread open. The bread was open. Martin had been making something. In the other deaths the victims had known, had seen, had not. . .The killer had been here, waiting. Waiting until Martin's back was turned. Oh fuck. This guy hadn't been Tanny's. The killer never would have waited and surprised the guy. Where? Mulder went to the counter where the bread bag sat innocently open. He was making a sandwich or toast. . .need stuff from the fridge. Mulder turned around and edged towards the refrigerator. . .There. The pantry. The two double doors revealed a shallow space lined with shelves. Mulder considered the small space. His eyes roamed the kitchen, past the kitchen into the den. She hadn't been the best housekeeper in the world. Okay, but not the best. Not real anal- retentive or anything. Sometimes, Mulder bet, sometimes pantry doors got left open. The killer had to be in far enough to almost close the door. There was scarcely enough room. But enough. Oh fuck. Mulder went back through the house. Scully was still with the body. Measuring and photographing. It had been laid in a perfect diagonal to corners of the room. The arms were perfect, palms down, fingers spread. His legs were arranged. What did you do, you bastard? Drug him? Drug him and bring him here and lay him on the carpet and open him up like a carp? What did you do? He wasn't yours to take. Tanny never knew him. He fit the profile. The killer had gone shopping. Martin fit the profile. And for some reason the killer had chosen Martin. Mulder had no idea why. But this man was not Tanny's. Tanny never knew him. His fingers curled and uncurled, crunching latex under his fingers. "This guy wasn't one of Bonet's customers." Mulder's voice was soft as he and his partner watched the body being carted out of the room. Scully blinked. "What?" "He wasn't one of her customers." "He fits your profile." Mulder glanced at his partner. Never mind. "Why do you think he wasn't?" Scully asked, sensing that he wasn't going to play thrust and parry with her the way he normally did. "The killer had to surprise him. The UNSUB hid in the pantry. The moment Martin's back was turned, and he was distracted, the killer got him. I'd suspect something wickedly fast acting. You'll find it when you do your autopsy." Scully nodded. "You're sure of this?" A tight nod from Mulder. King entered the tiny room. "You're allowed to go through his things as long as another agent is present." "I don't need to." Mulder surveyed the office disinterestedly. "He wasn't one of Tanneka Bonet's submissives." King blinked. "He was killed in the same. . .hell, he even fucking fits the profile. He was my friend, and I hate to admit it, but he was everything you said." Mulder blinked at the shorter man. "In every other death the victim wasn't surprised, wasn't startled. It was almost like the UNSUB was invited in." King's eyes narrowed. "Martin was reading the Sunday paper. He got up, to make a sandwich or toast. The moment he did so, the moment Martin turned his back, the killer attacked. This guy. . .our UNSUB may have gotten hold of my profile or just decided to go after the FBI, because we're on his tail. So he picked someone similar to the people he's been killing." Weak. It sounded weak, even to Mulder. Skinner had told King, in private, unofficially, not to go any farther: Mulder was having major problems. He was seeing a shrink and the shrink was going to have him in her office three or four times a week. Skinner was telling King so King would know if Mulder was. . .well, not quite with it, to just go with the flow. So if Mulder said he couldn't be here or there, it was because he couldn't. Because he was going to be busy on a couch. King glanced at Scully. Who wasn't convinced, but wasn't unconvinced. "Besides, where would Martin get the money? It's pretty obvious most of his money is sunk right here and what isn't is probably going into retirement." That much was true. "Bonet didn't strike me as someone who took people in out of the kindness of her heart." Mulder added, seeing the way King was eyeing him. King shrugged. "Maybe." Oh fucking shit. Mulder sighed. "I'm not crazy." "No. But what are you basing your information on?" "The bread's open downstairs." King lifted an eyebrow. Right. Weak. Real Weak. NC-17, do not read if underage. Usual Disclaimers. Mistress 9/21 by Amperage Quantico on New Year's Day. As you drove in you saw the jarheads. But the FBI wasn't here. The cadets. A few instructors. . .not many cars at all. There was no reason to perform the autopsy today. It could wait until Tuesday. But Tuesday she had to be sure Mulder made it to an emergency appointment with a psychiatrist named Pandya. Oh fuck, with everything in his life, she was making him go to a psychiatrist *now*. He'd gone psychotic once and she had just tried to handle it. Her mother's report of his behavior when she'd been comatose had been. . .well, frankly, scary. The months after their reinstatement to the bureau, they'd each seen therapists, by Skinner's order. But that hadn't been. . .that had been one of those grief things that make human resources feel necessary and needed when they weren't. She knew the area by heart. Walked in like she still owned the place. Teaching at Quantico was supposed to be an honor. For Scully, only a year and a half ago, it had been a doghouse. Still. She enjoyed the place. She enjoyed the long wooded drive in, and she enjoyed the recognition of this place. The safety. Another Autopsy bay. Everything in order the way she liked it. There was that. The techs here knew her. He had been to two different appointments with two different mental health professionals before he even entered his office. When Mulder trudged in at 9, he looked as though he'd already had a full day. Scully blinked, staring at her partner. He looked like hell. He looked like fucking hell. "Hey. Happy New Year." She said in greeting. Mulder had a styrofoam cup of coffee that he unceremoniously dumped into the mug on his desk. The white mug that Scully's godson had made for her in 1st grade. With the flying saucer and the men from Mars and a redhead with a power suit. Mulder had appropriated it from the first and she knew he appreciated the humour even more than she did, so she had let him. "Hey." He replied. No discussion of New Year's celebrations. Those were for other people. Their world was the world of the murders. Mulder had spent New Year's day here, in the office, catching up on *other* work so that he could focus completely on the Martin killing. "Whatcha' got on the autopsy?" Scully sighed. "Less care was taken than with any other victim and he was given some kind of injection. I found it on his shoulder. "Stabbed with a syringe in the back." Mulder commented. "I'm right." "I sent the toxicologicals down, but even with the priority of this case, it's going to be a while before we get anything back." "I'd put a good dinner down that he was drugged." Scully sighed. "So he struggled, no one is going to agree with you. He matches the profile that you wrote. He was killed in the same way as the other victims." "He was killed sloppily. The others were killed neatly." "Still." Scully wiped her eyes. "How did your appointments go?" She might have been talking about the weather. Mulder shrugged. He seemed much too calm, Scully realized. Entirely too calm. "Did you get a prescription?" "Prescriptions." Mulder emphasized the s. "Crane wants to see me tomorrow too. I'm a popular guy. I don't know why. We just sit there and stare at each other." "Pandya?" "I have to get a blood test on Monday. He'll see me that afternoon. He didn't even have a preamble, he just told me that if I don't take the anti-depressant he'd see me in a hospital." His voice was dead when he said it, as though the humiliation of being told rules and consequences like a small boy did not bother him. As though he were reading something that didn't interest or excite him. As though it weren't important at all to him. It terrified Scully and if this was what Crane had seen it was no wonder she wanted him back. Mulder was travelling deeper and deeper into the dark and the thought terrified her. "You have a meeting with Skinner." She said, leaning back in her chair. "He wants you up there whenever you're ready." Mulder nodded. "Do you know what background info has been recovered on Tanny?" "Bonet?" "Yeah." "No. There's a team meeting at 11. You can ask." "I think our UNSUB knew Tanny when she was a slave." Scully nodded at this. "And?" "And it wasn't a servant of the house. It wouldn't be. . ." Mulder sighed. "All these people invited him in. Why? Because was their best buddy? They *let* him in. Why? Think about it. . .Someone charismatic. . ." His eyes were focused inward. This was why he was on this case, Scully reminded herself. The high-level drudge work thus far was good and appreciated, the profiles he had written were useful and were serving just causes, but this was what the brass wanted right now. This was the legend of Spooky. And right now it was hard to remember that. The jolt of reality came back to her as she realized that this man had to get a prescription of TofranilPM filled before he went home tonight. That despite whatever he was going through, he was still here, spinning insane theories that turned out to be true. "But he had a need to dominate Tanny. . .If we put this into the terms of the sexual dysfunction of Sadism and Maschosim. . ." Mulder paused. "Then he's the dominator." Scully replied. "How do we know it's a he?" Mulder asked craftily. "We don't. It's a safe assumption though." "Yeah. It is. Not only are most Serial killers men, but the few that were females are entire kilometers different from our UNSUB." Scully nodded, she knew all this. She could read. "So he dominates by killing?" "Possessing maybe." Mulder replied, absently staring at a wall. "Ownership. He's the master, he can do what he wants with the slaves. . ." His voice trailed off into a far distance. "Why did he kill Martin?" Scully stared at Mulder a long moment. "To show his power, his frustration, his. . ." She began the rote answers, trying to find one that fit. "He read my profile. I know that." "How do you know that? Because Martin fits your profile?" "Because Martin didn't see it coming. Where would Martin get that kind of money?" "I don't know. Where do you get money for Armani suits?" Mulder shot her a glare. Scully smiled sardonically, secretly thrilled with this normal behavior. "He killed Martin because Martin fit the profile and Martin was easy." Mulder's voice was soft. "I wrote a throw together profile and the killer. . ." He turned to stare at his partner. Eyes a deep, abiding dark wetness in the uncertain basement light. "The killer read it and used it as a shopping list." Assistant Director Skinner's office caught the afternoon sun very well, turning the room a vibrant gold. However, this also meant that on cold winter mornings, his office was on the chilly side, huddled in metropolis shadows, waiting for a glance from the light. "There's a task force meeting in an hour." Skinner said, unnecessarily as they both sat. "Yes sir." Mulder was polite. "There are two issues we need to deal with here, Agent Mulder. The first is that you are advancing the idea the Director Martin was not a customer of Tanneka Bonet." "Yes sir." Skinner nodded. "King doesn't like it and he doesn't know how to tell you to stop, he's used to stomping on GS-7's, not people like you. You wrote a profile and Martin fits the profile." "Respectfully sir, so do you." Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his leather executive chair. "I'm aware of that. Why do you think King doesn't want you to advance your idea?" He stared at Mulder. This was not the usual confrontation with Director Skinner. Mulder stared at the man, trying to figure out why he was being coddled. He was being coddled, right? Was he or not? He didn't know. There was a second possibility but Mulder didn't think it was the case. King and Skinner were friends. "All due respect, if King admits that Martin wasn't a client he has to deal with that fact. That the killer read my profile. And that the killer isn't following just one populace. Skinner nodded. "This is King's game now, agent Mulder, but I will not reel you in because it makes him sweat to have too many variables." Ahah. He wasn't being coddled. Skinner wasn't questioning Mulder. He was questioning *King*. Friend or no. "If you are right then the killer has access to our databases?" Mulder swallowed. "He has access to something." The pen. Had he written any of the profile when he'd found that fucking pen? He thought he had. Not enough though to kill Martin. The UNSUB would have had to come back. Come back again. Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Do you realize what that implies, Agent Mulder?" "That he knows everything about our investigation, about us and we know nothing about him? Yes sir." This was the conversation he *should* be having with King. That fact reflected in Skinner's eyes. "Due to those security questions, I'll be sitting in on the task force meeting." Skinner said. Mulder nodded. "Yes sir." "The second matter I have to discuss with you concerns a short note from Dr. Crane. She has sent an unofficial memo." Skinner sighed. "She has asked that you be removed from the Bonet case, that your duties be restricted." Mulder swallowed nervously and shifted in his chair. "It's unofficial at this point. Just a request. No power to back it up." "Yes sir." "Do you think you need to be placed on some kind of light duties?" "No sir." Skinner nodded. "Do you want to continue on the task force?" "Yes sir." "Very well then, I'll call Dr. Crane and tell her that I'm terribly sorry, but I don't see that we can spare you." "Thank you, sir." Mulder was quiet, settling into his spot at the long conference table. Lesser agents were gathered in leather chairs pressed against a wall, taking notes on their knees. Scully was a coroner and Mulder was the prize analyst. Spooky and his missus might be outcasts, but outcasts only in the way that a magic user might have been outcast in a primitive village. He did not seem to notice anyone as he sat, thumbing through files, making sure his legal pad had plenty of room for notes. In the time she had known him, Scully had never seen her partner scribble one legitimate note onto an investigative notebook or a legal pad. His idea of a note was a silent comment to Scully. She wondered sometimes if he had been that annoying in school or if this was a learned behavior since he had joined the Bureau. He seemed so oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in a room not scribbling furiously at meetings like this that Scully could only conclude that he'd always just sat, sprawled in his chair, watching, thinking, punching holes. King thanked everyone, discussed the passing of Director Martin. A report. Mulder's eyes were glazed and it was painfully obvious to everyone that he wasn't listening, but he wasn't asking his usual asinine, unanswerable questions so no one bothered him. "Did anyone do the background work on Tanneka, following up Agent Scully and my interview with her cousin?" Mulder asked as the speaker sat down. He looked around at the assemblage, silently noting the ones who had come up the ladder through politics and couldn't find a goat if it had been staked out on a hillside marking them and separating them from the ones who were simply damn good agents. Agent Rebecca Lewis cleared her throat, she was sitting at a chair against the wall. "I did." Mulder appraised her. "Did we found out who her first master was?" "No sir. But I was able to narrow the field to three men who were wealthy and died in plane crashes around the time Ms. Bonet would have been starting her. . .services." "And did they all have large scale political influence?" "Only one did, sir. Ian Long." Mulder nodded at this information as though unimpressed. "What about the story about her father?" "That is unverifiable. But her mother did die when Bonet was 10. Her father still lives in Missoula Texas. He's a welder and he is reported as having been very . . .hostile to the field agents who visited him." Lewis sat down, nervously. Mulder stared at King. Scully cringed. "You seem to have definite theories on this case, Agent Mulder." King's voice carried silk. "Yes sir." Mulder replied. "You know I hold that Director Martin was not Bonet's client." "I'm aware of it." King's voice was tired now, grating. Mulder nodded. "It's possible that the killer knew Bonet when she was in her master's house or living with her father?" Someone else at the table asked. Mulder shrugged. "Why not? Timing, opportunity, motive. . ." He shrugged languidly again. The door opened and Skinner slipped in, displacing an agent from his chair. "Director Skinner." King acknowledged his superior almost nervously. Skinner merely nodded and stared at the back of Mulder's neck. Mulder did not turn. "Can I get Agent Lewis to come down tomorrow morning? I'd like to get a more detailed look at her findings." Mulder's voice was easy and territorial. As though he were a male lion, secure in the domination of his own territory, as though he had no need to be defensive because he knew what his claws could do. King blinked. There was no answer but yes to that question. And Mulder knew it. "That's fine, Agent Mulder." He tried to make it dismissive, to make it easy. Make it nothing, a bone thrown to the hungry vagabond. Mulder and King exchanged glances. They both felt the presence of Skinner. Nothing personal, King's glance said. I just can't handle any more variables. Mulder gave a half-lidded nod. Nothing personal, but if you can't handle the job, get out. Under another director, King would be promoted, and thus be off the force, and Mulder would be reprimanded. King would be protected because of his friendships and Mulder would get his due for not playing the game. Under yet another director, King would be taken off the assignment and the title given to Mulder, and both parties would be punished for their inability to play the game with each other. Under Skinner things would be played only to the benefit of the case. They went to another report. Analysis of carpets and clothing and hairs. DNA analysis. Everything that was boring and non- essential. Their morning would be eaten up by this. Scully had already teased all the useful information from preliminary copies of these reports, or from the raw datum itself. Pointless, a waste. Mulder reminded himself of how lucky he was to have a good partner and not to be stuck with this nonsense on a daily basis. Scully's autopsy. Mulder watched his partner stand, glance at her careful notes and delineate the differences between Martin's murder and all the others. "He's getting sloppier." Someone at the table said casually. Toady. "He was neater with Bonet." Mulder mused as though it didn't make much difference. "Experience shows us that as Serial killers escalate they get sloppier." Another toady. Scully smoothed her skirt as she sat down. So fucking comfortable doing this. "Since when was it decided that this guy was escalating?" Mulder asked, again mild as milktoast. Several agents blinked. "I thought it had been generally assumed. . ." One began. Mulder shrugged. "It's about 2 or 3 days between all the various murders. Admittedly 2 between these most recent. But no longer than 4 on any of our murders. He started out fast and he's going to keep going fast. Speed is not escalation. You have to start going faster to escalate." Uncomfortable silence for just a moment. Glances at Mulder and Skinner and King. Everyone knew that Mulder thought Martin wasn't one of Tanny's, that he'd been picked like a product off a market shelf because he fit the description. Everyone knew that King didn't agree. What bugged them was Skinner. Mulder was one of Skinner's pet lambs, admittedly, but that was because Mulder upped Skinner's efficiency ratings--he solved all the nasty cases that would be otherwise marked unsolvable. But King was an old buddy of Skinner's. Mulder didn't really care. He would say what he thought and let King respond, and he was almost perfectly certain that he would provide enough of a case for his viewpoint that Skinner would not ignore it. King was glancing at Skinner too. But he obviously had not been let into the confidence that Skinner thought King wasn't quite up to the challenge. He thought Mulder might be in for a reaming. No doubt he'd gone in ranting and raving about Mulder and expecting Mulder's ass to get kicked and Skinner had merely said that he'd take care of things. "Martin was making toast when he was stabbed in the shoulder and sedated with Ketamin. The UNSUB never used Ketamin before. Not once. But he had to have the sedative with this one. Because this one didn't belong to Tanneka Bonet." Mulder began. "Once the Ketamin took affect, it was a simple matter for the killer to haul him to his own study--his study full of sensitive papers from the FBI--and kill him. He was sloppy because he didn't care. Because Martin didn't mean to him what the others meant to him. Martin wasn't the one he was dominating. This one was a thumbing of his nose at the FBI. At us. He put Martin in the study because that was as close to the actual building as was safe. If he'd had his wet dream, it would be to have done Martin on the seal in the lobby. He had my profile. He thought about all the people who fit it and who would cause a hole and who would be easy to get and kill. And Martin fit the bill all around. "Director Martin had a wife and a baby and a retirement fund. No amount of money large enough to pay for the kinds of services that Tanneka Bonet provided was missing. I wrote a profile and our killer supplied us with the appropriate victim. He's laughing at us. I wouldn't be surprised if he knew everything that's gone on in this case thus far." Mulder stared around the room at the empty, disbelieving faces. He felt a movement behind him. Skinner was up, putting his coat on. end Section II