TITLE: Jack AUTHOR: Exley_61 (typo@clam.rutgers.edu) RATING: NC-17 for violence and sexual content SPOILER: NONE CATEGORY: casefile, msr, oh and it's a WIP DISCLAIMER: not mine FEEDBACK: absolutely!!! this is my first casefile!!! NOTE: This is a departure for me. . . and the writing will probably seem different, as it should. SUMMARY: At the age of innocence, a child witnessed the brutal murder of his mother at the hands of a monster. Ten years later, can Mulder and Scully prevent such brutality from happening again, risking more than their lives, but their hearts as well. . . . XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Jack" by Exley_61 (typo@clam.rutgers.edu) XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Philadelphia, PA 5th and Pine ST. Center City Eleanor Layne's Townhouse July 21, 1989 "Jack, get in the closet baby, hurry... hurry now... GO!" Jack blinked slowly, peering up at his mother's hovering face. "What?" he mumbled, turning to crawl his way out of the fluffy bed covers. Plopping onto the floor with a dull thud, he landed his batman-slippered feet onto the plush carpeting. Jack looked around the shadowed blackness, weeble- wobbling his head around to search out his mother. Spying her as she hurriedly rounded the other side of the bed, he stumbled toward her. His right foot caught on the hard plastic edge of his Robota Man just as he felt the warmth of his mother's hands scooping him up. Her palms slid under his arms, carrying him the rest of the way to the double doors of the bedroom closet. "Mommy?" he sleepily whined, reaching over her shoulder for his blanket left lonely on the floor. "Shhh... shhh,"she whispered, her wet breath tickling his ear as they stopped in front of the doors. He rubbed a hand against his the ear, rubbing away the tickle. She set him on the floor again. "Now, don't say anything- " A loud crash was heard from downstairs. Both turned their heads toward the bedroom doorway. Jack found himself quickly pushed back into the depths of the closet. Oh, he didn't like it in here, not at night, no, no, no - but he kept quiet. He didn't want to get in trouble and Mommy looked kinda mad or. . . or. . . he didn't know but he really didn't like it. Tripping over shoes, he landed against basketed laundry as the warmth of his mother's hand steadied him. "Stay. . . in. . . here. . . ," she ordered, rubbing a palm against his cheek before she quickly stood back, closing the doors and shutting the deep darkness in with him. Jack peeled himself off the container, splitting the curtain of his mother's clothing that hung before him. Leaning forward, he pressed his nose against the cool, slatted doors, peering through the cracks. Moving his head back, he clumsily fisted a hand against his eye, trying to clear his vision so he could see better. Having rubbed the collection of sleep from the stubborn corner, he yawned as the last fingers of sleep slipped away from him. Jack leaned forward again, peering out just in time to see his mother's nightgown sway through the air and disappear from his limited view. Cautiously stepping back deeper into the closet, he sunk into the gripping darkness. Unable to make out anything within the blackness, he felt his heart beating real fast and. . . and he was scared. Huddling his body to thwart against the nighttime spookies, he looked through the bottom slats of the door, his eyes narrowing into a stare, his breath growing harsher and harsher. Jack jumped, stringing his arms inside of his pajama top and hugging his body as he heard his mother scream. He wanted to go out, wanted to go to her, but he. . . he couldn't move. Instead he stayed glued to where he was, his feet pressed against the door as his upper body rocked back and forth, back and forth. "You really shouldn't talk, it's not good when you do that." Jack's movement, along with his slight whimpering, froze in his throat upon hearing the strange male voice. Biting his lip, he pushed back further into the three foot depth of closet, his back hitting against the wall as he crab walked backward, sitting on an invisibl e mound of shoes. The clothes basket rested beside him and the hanging shirts above just barely brushed the top of his head. He tried to make himself as small as he could, tucking his legs against his chest and resting his chin on his knees as he picked up the the neglected rocking motion once more. Another scream and a crash -- the sound was getting louder. Jack squeezed his eyes closed. He licked his lips and tasted salt. He began to silently chant, his lips forming the word, Mommy, over and over again. A thud, this time very close. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. He pried open his eyes and stared at his mother's face through the slatted doors. She lie against the carpet in front of him. Her eyes were staring. He felt like she could see him through the door, but knew she couldn't cuz he'd hidden here lots and she never, ever saw him. But maybe. . . maybe this time? He smiled, tears shaking out of his eyes and dripping down his cheeks. He unfolded his body and leaned forward, reaching for the door handle, keeping his stare pinned on his mother's features. Then he saw it. It was so small at first that he thought he'd imagined it but when he started to twist the handle, he then heard his mother hiss. "No. . . ." He looked at her, watching as her head slowly pivoted "no" against the threads of carpet while her mouth opened in a silent imitation of the word. He fell back from the door, mimicking his mom's head shake as his fingers slipped free of the chilled handle. Jack's eyes widened further as his mother seemed lifted off the floor, like she was flying. Jack quickly stood up to find her through the higher slats of the door and saw the side of her leg on the recently abandoned bed. The bed springs squeaked, it was the squeaks that always snitched on him whenever his mom let him sleep with her. He would try to sneak off the bed in the morning and go into the kitchen to pour himself the largest glass of chocolate milk he could find. Sometimes he made it, but other times, just as he was home free of the bed, she would spring up and snatch him, bringing his wiggling body against her as she tickle attacked him into uncontrollable giggles. It was no fair, but he did like that game, it. . . "So much better, the silence. . . like a symphony of beauty, really." Jack cringed. It was that same voice, that heavy voice he heard just minutes ago. "I appreciate you making this bit of work easier for me, Eleanor." Jack tuned the man out, listening for only his mother's words, words that squeezed at his heart and made his tummy hurt. "Please. . . please. . . ." Mommy, no! He didn't know what was happening but he knew that she shouldn't cry. . . the man had said not to cry, right? But her sobs grew louder, clutching Jack's heart in complete fear. He was shuttering.... his arms convulsively squeezing his waist as the speed of his rocking increased. Again the man spoke, but Jack did not listen, only struggling to hear his mother. Her cries grew louder until they eventually evolved into shrieks, shrieks that began to sound in stereo as Jack slid his hands through the neck of his pj top and clamped his hands over his ears, crying out with her. He wanted out of the closet. He wanted out, he wanted out, he wanted out! He no longer saw the barred view of the bedroom nor the suffocating blackness around him. His eyes saw one thing. His mommy shaking her head and mouthing, No... over and over and over again. It was suddenly silent in the outer room, but not in the closet as Jack chanted in a wobbly voice threaded with fear and tears, "No Mommy, No Mommy. . ." His mantra was interrupted by his mother's piercing scream, a final scream that cracked his catatonia, shredding him and making him jump up, rustling the clothes and hangers as his body spread them. He stepped forward but his feet tripped on the shoe littered floor and he fell, his hand reaching out before him. The door pushed open and he landed half in and half out of the closet. "Well, look at you," the man said. Jack raised his tear-bleary gaze to face the shadowed form of the man whom he heard climbing off the bed. He quickly glanced away to see the outline of his mother's hand dangling off the side of the bed. A dark wetness slowly dripped from it. "Yes, look at you." Jack quickly turned his head back to the approaching figure. He began to stutter, his head shaking back and forth as he crawled backward, back to the safety of the closet. His body trembled as the man stopped, his shoes filling Jack's view of the carpet. Then he heard that song, that song that had tickled his ears before but he tried to block out as he listened for his Mommy. "Bye... bye... blackbird." The refrain repeated over and over as he was lifted off the floor by the arms of his Batman pajama top. Jack was pulled close to the man's face. He could smell stinky cigarettes on the man's breath. His hands squeezed Jack's upper arms, long fingers digging into his skin and causing Jack to gasp as he was roughly pulled closer, tears spilled down his cheeks in torrents. "Shh. . . now. Close your eyes, it's so much better when you're quiet." Jack closed his eyes and. . . and he made sure to be quiet. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Philadelphia, PA City Hall 10 YEARS LATER Monday, 11 A.M. Fox Mulder crossed into the Broad Street entrance of Philadelphia's City Hall. He was immediately consumed by the bombarding cacophony of lawyers, litigants, and hovering news crews. Great, a shark frenzy. "Scully," Mulder yelled into his cell phone as he began to work his way through the congestion of people. "What did the Rodriquez body turn up? Anything?" Mulder plugged a finger into his other ear, but was still unsuccessful in deciphering Scully's words. He craned his head around, scanning the over packed hallway with aggravation. "Scully. . . Scully. . . hold on, I can't hear you," Mulder said, searching out the corridor for possible refuge. Spying a train of telephone booths flushed into the wall, he forced his way through the pack. Exasperated, he slammed the glass door shut and sat on the booth's bench. "Okay what was that?" Mulder asked. "No, what was *that*, Mulder," Scully asked, her voice coming through loud and clear. "Mostly media. This parole hearing has brought out the piranhas, not that I can blame them," Mulder answered, squeezing the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily. "Sounds like you're having a great time already," Scully replied. The sarcasm was not lost on him. As he was about to retort, she continued, "Rodriquez's body turned up nothing. The victim had been deceased for twelve hours, cause of death massive cardiac arrest. So, no ghosties or foul play. It's an open and shut case." "No 'ghosties', Scully?" Mulder prodded, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief, a smile on his face and in his tone. "Not this time,"Scully responded in kind. They both fell silent. "I miss you," Mulder said, sinking his voice to a deep register. No response. "Scully?" He waited. "You've only been in Philadelphia all of five hours, Mulder." "Yes, but. . . Scully," his voice seductively admonished. He used his handkerchief to wipe some kind of unidentifiable sticky substance from his hand. His face crunched in disgust as he glanced at the side of the phone with annoyance, the side that coated his hand with grime. "Why didn't you wake me before you left?" she asked, her own voice lowered. Mulder squeezed his eyes closed as her words licked his senses, gripping him through the telephone wires. "Scully, if I'd awakened you this morning. . . I wouldn't have left," Mulder finally replied, feeling stirred and simmered in all the incredibly right places as he recalled the picture of her bared back, draped within his white bed sheets. A definite moan was working it's way past his lips. He heard Scully's breath speed up as she gave a breathy, "Oh." "Yeah, Scully, oh," Mulder seconded, leaning his back against the glass door and facing the wall for a bit of much needed privacy. He was immensely thankful for the concealing abilities of his trench coat. "You were so beaut -- Fuck!" Mulder jumped. Swinging around on the little bench, he banged his knee against the phone box as he turned to glare at whoever dared to interrupt his conversation. "Damn it!" Mulder growled again, rubbing his kneecap as he squinted up at the soon-to-be-dead intruder who so soundly announced his presence on the glass door. "Mike?" Mulder said, letting go of his knee to push open the glass. "What's happening, Mulder? Hello?" Scully called, her voice annoyed and slightly worried. Mulder shook his head, holding a hand up to Michael Vaughn as he turned his attention back to the phone and Scully's voice. "Ahh, listen Scully, I gotta go. Nothing to worry about, I'll call you later." With that, he stood up and depressed the 'end' button. Pocketing the phone with one hand, he reached out with the other to shake Detective Michael Vaughn's, one of "Philly's finest". "Yo, Mulder, how the hell ya been?" Vaughn asked, slapping Mulder's back as he shook his hand. "Not bad, not bad," Mulder replied taking in Vaughn's appearance. He nearly didn't recognize the guy. He last saw Vaughn ten years ago, and back then the man had a paunch on him like a seasoned Sipowitz. Now, Vaughn looked like he'd misplaced a good half of himself. Mulder took a few seconds to also note that the good detective's blonde hair now mixed with strands of silver and was a bit thinner on the top. Again, he saw that he had a slim, yet solid bulk to his body. Vaughn's face also had that haggard, seasoned look depicted in his slightly poxed skin and his eyes that were the color of faded blue jeans. Mulder supposed that, from a distance, Vaughn could be considered to resemble Robert Redford. Yet, up close and personal-like, it was all Nick Nolte. Basically, the detective was someone who'd seen a lot on the force, and life in general. He carried that aura around him so strongly that it was almost tangible. Definitely a recognizable look. Mulder was glad to discern that Vaughn still had that easy going edge about him as well. It mixed with the detective's sense of competence and danger. No one fucked with Lieutenant Detective Mike Vaughn. The Lieutenant put up with very little bullshit. In return he didn't dish much of it, himself. The man could be an overbearing son of a bitch, but when it came to victims and their families, he was as soft as the inside of a Philly pretzel. "Vaughn, where the hell's the rest of you?" Mulder asked, looking him over. "Yeah, maybe you should do one of those X file investigations on Jenny Craig, "Vaughn replied, slapping Mulder on the back. Mulder chuckled. "Anyway, I saw you duck into here," Vaughn explained, indicating the phone booth and then looking around the herded hallway. "It's a fuckin' circus 'round here," Vaughn continued, tilting a nodding a head toward the crowd. "More like a shark fest," Mulder replied. TV camera lights glared against the pool of reporters. They circled the courtroom as if a bloodied fish was about to be dropped into their tank. "I see what you mean," Vaughn agreed, turning to walk beside Mulder as they slowly approached the crowd. "So, what are you doin' here, anyway?" "Pearl Clayton," Mulder answered. "No shit?" Vaughn asked, meeting Mulder's gaze. "No shit," Mulder answered, searching the inside pocket of his trench coat for his badge. He didn't want to struggle for it within that media mob for longer than necessary. "Well, you ready?" Vaughn asked, speaking over the rolling waves of sound. He pulled his hands free from his pants pocket and casted a glance beyond Mulder toward the courtroom door. "After you," Mulder answered, indicating Vaughn lead the way. "Ahh, always the gentleman, ain't ya Mulder," Vaughn chided, smirking. "Yeah, Vaughn, maybe you'll learn something from me someday," Mulder quipped. "Maybe," Vaughn agreed. They began to cut their way through the gathering when Mulder blinked, blinded by the turn of camera lights flaring into his view. "Detective Vaughn! Detective Vaughn, do you think "The Switchblade" will be paroled? "Did you find the lack of evidence to convict Keenswan of all seven murders. . . ." "Detective Vaughn, Vaughn, a statement?" "Detective Vaughn?" Mulder slipped past Vaughn's side unnoticed and unquestioned. He turned his head away from the lights and met the security officer at the courtroom door. Mulder flipped open his ID and passed through. Shouts of "Detective Vaughn" still rang through the air from the piranha of reporters. "No comment at this time ladies and gentlemen, thank you." Mulder heard Vaughn say as the doors closed and blocked the crescendo of questions into a masked murmur. Vaughn came up to stand beside him. Mulder peered around the courtroom as he walked further down the isle. He discovered that the room was filled near to capacity. As he looked around, he recognized the faces of the victims' families from ten years ago. All of them. Each of them had a stake in this parole hearing. It didn't matter that there had been insufficient evidence to link Keenswan to the series of murders. Terms such as "reasonable doubt" or "questionable state of mind" meant nothing other than a failure of the legal system. Everyone, including the judge, believed that Keenswan was a serial killer. But even serial killers have attorneys, and his would have given Johnny Cochran a run for his money. Only one count of murder had made it to the jury. The ither six counts were dismissed in a suppression hearing. The prosecution had "screwed up". Those were the exact words of the judge who was as furious with the prosecution as he was with the letter of the law. But, he was a judge. An elected official. He managed to keep the seventh count of murder intact. . . which Keenswan's attorney promptly tore apart. There was testimony from a renown neurologist that said that Keenswan suffered from a seizure-like disorder, which manifested itself in acute, psychotic impulses. According to this expert witness, had Keenswan been diagnosed and treated, he would have never committed such a vile act. While it failed to sway the jury of convicting Keenswan for murder one, it did remove the premeditated intent. He was convicted of a lesser charge, thus allowing a life sentence that gave him an opportunity at parole. So, it didn't matter if Keenswan wasn't convicted of those murders, the family knew -- hell, Mulder and the rest of the Philly PD knew that Keenswan should be rotting in the darkest depths of hell. "Agent Mulder?" called a purposed voice from behind him. Mulder swung around and saw the diminutive form of Pearl Clayton. "I'll catch up with you later, Vaughn," Mulder said, pulling from him. "Good, cuz since you're here, I wanna talk to you about something, a new case," Vaughn further explained before turning away and leaving Mulder to watch Pearl determinedly work her way over to him. Mulder held his hand out but Pearl just slapped it away, instead clamping him in a vice-like grip that could vaguely be described as a hug. "Ohh, Fox! I'm so glad you could make it," Pearl cried out with an accompanied squeeze to each word she uttered. "Pearl, Pearl. . . I. can't. breathe," Mulder gasped. Pearl released him, pulling back to look up at his face. She saw the grin and slapped a hand at him, "Oh, you!" Mulder gave a full-out smile, leaning down to kiss her cheek and return her embrace, "You're looking fetching as usual, Pearl." "Fetching? Well, a girl's gotta try." Mulder took in the coiffed quasi-bee hive/helmet of dyed black hair down to the black cotton two piece set with accompanying Nikes. She was the 'Liz Taylor and then some' of Olde City, Philadelphia. "Besides, I ain't dead yet, baby!" Pearl crowed, jabbing an unexpected elbow into Mulder's side and causing him to grunt. disclaimers in part 1. . . "Besides, I ain't dead yet, baby!" Pearl crowed, jabbing an unexpected elbow into Mulder's side, causing him to grunt. Pearl Clayton had to be the antithesis of the poster image of a sixty-seven year old woman. She shattered expectations with just opening her mouth. No taller than five foot, Pearl's voice carried the hushed baritone and power of a tractor trailer disguised in the packaging of a timid Pinto. Mulder could swear that she sprouted ten inches whenever she demanded to be heard, which as he recalled, was pretty much all the time. When the term, "force of nature" came about there was no doubt in his mind that Pearl Clayton was the inspiration. Mulder's association with both Pearl and Vaughn had begun those ten years ago, back when he was still a profiler with the VCU. He was called in to help locate what Philly feared was a serial killer. Mulder as SAC to his federal team and Mike Vaughn as Detective in Charge of the local efforts, established a relationship over beer and Pat's cheese steaks. The animosity that had festered between the Feds and local PD was discussed and soon to be handled between them both, for Mulder welcomed -- no, demanded Vaughn's insight and knowledge of his twenty years of experience on the Philly force. The latest victim was one, Eleanor Layne, twenty-nine years old, Caucasian female. She was a resident of the Society Hill section of Center City -- better known as the half a million dollar property section. Society Hill was composed of historic town houses too small to be worth more than a quarter of the market price without the location tagged along with it. Layne, a single mother, successful Philadelphia businesswoman, was found in her home raped and butchered -- and she was Pearl Clayton's daughter. Jack Layne, the six year old son, was found locked in the mother's bedroom closet. The door was a slatted, off-white wood that allowed air into the closet and exposed a shuttered view for anyone left inside. Little Jack had seen it all, heard it all. A witness. Pearl's grandson. . . . A witness that was found nearly comatose in shocked fear. Several city psychologists, psychiatrists and various other city health care agents tried and failed to elicit any information from the child. He was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder and no amount of stimuli was working to break the shell of protection he built around himself. Time had begun to slip away. Days turned into weeks and still nothing. The pattern of attacks were spaced two months, and two days apart, exactly. Jack Layne was the only possible lead they had and he was silent. Then one day, as many of the days that past, Mulder was, again, watching through the observation window into the children's hospital playroom. Jack had been sitting on the rug, playing with his favorite Batman action figure. "Batman", the movie, had been released that summer and everywhere you went were displays and toys of the Caped Crusader. And no matter how many other toys were left in the room for Jack to play with, anything BATMAN was what he zoned in on. Mulder had narrowed his eyes as he crossed his arms against his chest. He bit the inside of his lip as inspiration began to trickle in. Five minutes later, he was running out of the hospital and looking for the nearest toy store. Upon returning to the psychiatric wing, he shed his suit jacket and then tore his newly purchased toy from the Kay-Bee bag and it's plastic casing. He piled his jacket and trash paraphernalia on top of the nurses' station's desk. The "Agent Mulder's you can't leave these heres.. ." were ignored as he crossed over to the playroom door. Pausing, he stuffed the action figure under his arm and undid his tie, stripping it from his neck and stuffing it into a pocket. Unbuttoning the top couple of shirt buttons, he rolled his sleeves up, and grabbed the toy out from under his arm as he turned the door handle, entering the room. Mulder walked in front of Jack, sitting down on the floor and facing away from him. He then proceeded to play with the BATMAN figure, raising it above his head and making it fly in the air. Not once did he turn around or acknowledge Jack. He just continued to play with the toy. "No!" the boy shouted. Mulder heard him get up from the rug and then felt the toy pulled from his fingers. Mulder turned around, watching him, cautious. "No what?" he asked, his voice soft, gentle -- reassuring. "Batman doesn't fly, not without his BatShip," Jack said, cradling the doll against his chest and staring down at the piece of plastic. "Do we have one of those, here?" Mulder asked, his eyes flitting around the collected pile of toys. "No," Jack whispered, not looking up at Mulder. "Oh, okay then," Mulder replied, pulling himself off the floor. He neither stopped nor turned around as he walked out of the room. The next day he brought with him the BatShip. And slowly, Jack began to speak and play. After three weeks and tightened hope, Jack revealed viable information. Having called up children psychologist, Piaget, Mulder had remembered one of the fundamental tenets. Children developed cognitively in four stages, from 2-7 years was called pre-operational. This meant that children learned something one way and refused to bend to any other interpretation. Often, they cannot handle abstractions. They're unable to accept or develop tolerance for more than one interpretation. Mulder challenged that theory and proved its validity, eliciting the response he hoped for from Jack by his impropriety of his play. Batman doesn't fly and you can't make him! Previously, Mulder had been watching how Jack had systematically played with his toys. . . careful not to make them do things that he learned they were unable to do. It had been just the break through they needed with Jack. Mulder never pushed. During their following sessions together, he would slip in a question that seemed to fit within their play scenario and Jack would answer. "What does the bad guy look like?" Mulder asked, as they prepared a surprise ambush against the city's number one nemesis, Mr. Blade. "Like you," Jack answered, moving the figure's arms and placing it in position, his answer given without a stutter or pause in action. Mulder adjusted the Batmobile's front wheels, rolling it across the rainbowed carpet as he continued with his questions, "how like me?" Jack stopped this time, raising his little arms over his head, "He's really, really tall." "Tall, huh?" Mulder asked, picking up a Joker figure. "Does he have green skin like this?" "Noooooooo," Jack answered, rolling his eyes. "He has a cut on his face though, like when Spiderman fell on that glass and he couldn't get up and he looked like he was all bloody, and his hand was hanging over the bed and. . . and that." Jack finished the last of his description in a whisper. "Ahh, I didn't know," Mulder said, his insides tight. He threw a glance at the mirrored wall, as if trying to discern what the people behind the glass were thinking. "What else does he look like?" Mulder asked, grabbing a Bat-hook and rolling the grappling wire into place, " I wouldn't want to miss him." Jack froze, and Mulder's hope diminished but he did not call to the boy, he waited. The wait paid off. "His hair is black, long like snakes, and he. . . he smells like paint. He has paint on his pants." Mulder watched, silent. Jack shook himself from his stare and smiled at Mulder, his eyes watery, "That's what Mr. Blade looks like." After that, Pearl's gratitude toward Mulder had shown no bounds but, particularly when Mulder had sought Pearl out to speak with her. He believed that there was an even deeper, underlying problem with Jack. During one of their sessions, before the Mr. Blade break through, it seemed that Jack had suffered some type of seizure. It didn't last very long, but the point was that it had occurred. Mulder worried that something serious had been overlooked within the battery of tests that the state had provided. He told her he'd found a top neurologist, a Dr. Levitz, for her grandson to see. Pearl, with what Mulder was discovering to be her indomitable style, did not break down upon hearing his beliefs. On the contrary, she took the lead he offered, grabbed it with both her hands and immediately followed up on Mulder's suggestion. Pearl just about feel in love with Mulder after that. She was beyond grateful for his help with her grandson. During the desperate process that Mulder worked on getting Jack to talk again, to give any helpful information, she would insist upon having Mulder to her home and cooking for him. She was pleased with the treatments that Dr. Levitz was giving to her grandson and she felt that both Mulder's gentleness, to which she had witnessed while in the observation window, coupled with the visits to Levitz, held, in her opinion, the best prognosis for her little Jack. Due to her pleasure, Mulder found her insistence becoming policy and no matter how much he would protest, telling her it wasn't necessary for her to feed him, she would become even more adamant. She almost become insulted or so she would let on, forcing Mulder to sigh in defeat. It was a good kind of defeat for he had soon come to realize that he enjoyed Pearl's motherly treatment. It was something that he wasn't particularly used to, this abundance of warmth. As it turned out, after several visits and treatments with Dr. Levitz, Mulder's suspicions about Jack had been proven correct. In the process of trying to treat Jack, the seizure that Mulder had witnessed surfaced again. Further, different, batteries of tests were performed and it was found that Jack exhibited unusual brain wave activity. This activity was classified as a possible precursor to epileptic or seizure type behavior. The doctor assured Pearl that it could be controlled medically. Not long after, and almost to deadline for his next victim, Jacob Keenswan had been arrested thanks to the information that Jack had innocently provided. And once the medication had been administered, Jack's small finger of truth had been able to point to the face of guilt without causing himself any undo stress. In a police line up. . . Keenswan was identified as the killer. XXX Just three weeks ago, Mulder had submitted his written testimony to the parole board, supporting the retainment of Keenswan. Mulder's profile of the man didn't fit in with a man "cured" by medication. His alleged "psychotic impulse triggered by uncurtailed seizures " had become a driving mission that he was determined to invalidate. But today, the killer was also "cured". . . according to his psychiatrists. Ten years had passed in which Keenswan was the model prisoner. He was up for his first parole hearing and rumor had it that he was likely to get his freedom. The city was in an uproar once again. Mulder focused back on the present, looking over Pearl. "How are you holding up, Pearl?" Mulder asked, cutting through her rambunctious veneer. Pearl's breath held, he could see tears glimmering in her violet eyes, but she determinedly tucked them away, straightening her spine and rolling her neck. "I'm good, good as can be expected." "I'm glad to hear that," Mulder replied as he was jostled by people seeking seating within the courtroom. "We should sit," Mulder suggested. "Oh, yes, lets. . . I want you to meet my sister." Pearl lead the way back to her seat. Mulder found himself sitting sandwiched in between the Clayton sisters as Pearl plowed on, making the introductions. "Hello Mrs. Goodrich," Mulder interjected, as Pearl paused to take a breath. He offered his hand but soon found himself snaked again as Alice Goodrich took her turn squeezing the life out of him. He was beginning to believe that bone crushing was definitely a family trait. "Call me Alice. I'm so glad to finally meet you! Pearl told me all about how wonderful you'd been to our family. I only wish I could have been there but my Ryan. . . my Ryan was sick in California back then and I just couldn't leave him." "Now that's all right, Al, don't you go torturing yourself over this again," Pearl admonished, leaning forward to speak past Mulder and meet her sister's teary gaze. "It's nice to meet you, Alice," Mulder said, a genuine smile tugging at his eyes as he felt submerged in the warmth of these two women. "How's Jack?" Mulder asked, turning to Pearl. "He's fine, been busy with his computer work. Holing up in his bedroom like a lot of teenagers these days. I asked him if he wanted to be here, but he said, no. Can't blame him, no, not at all. I would never want to see the monster again if I'd been there. . . been. . . ," Pearl's voice caught in her throat. Mulder reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. He grimaced, seeing and remembering the greased spot on the cloth. Searching out another pocket for his back-up, he found it and gave it over to Pearl. "I'm sorry," she muttered into the linen, then sighed. "Don't be sorry, don't be," Mulder said, wrapping an arm around Pearl's shoulder and hugging her close against the side of his chest. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Philadelphia Olde City, Center City Monday, 100 P.M. Dimness pervaded the inner sanctum of Jack Layne's bedroom, the smell of days old Doritos permeated the air. The flickering glimmer of a computer screen was obscured by Jack as he typed in the following command "Merlin reads the dreams of men, influencing their future." Jack pushed a greasy strand of black hair behind his ear and straightened his glasses as he clicked the die icon in the corner of the screen. He waited to see if the roll would make his actions successful in the online role playing game. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX City Hall, Philadelphia Monday, 130 P.M. "It is our finding that Jacob Keenswan should remain remanded- " The declaration of the parole board was drowned out by a victorious wave of cheers. Mulder found himself once again pulled into Pearl's arms before she gratefully released him only to lean over him and hug her sister. Mulder had to smile. He let his head fall back and thanked the stars above that Keenswan remained not quite were he belonged. . . but he guessed hell would have to wait a bit longer. "Mulder!" Mulder looked over to the aisle. Pearl and Alice had stood up, freeing him. Mulder scooted down the bench to get around Pearl so he could stand up. He saw Vaughn standing at the end of his row, waiting for him. "Excuse me, Pearl, I have to speak to someone," Mulder said. "Oh well, sure. You're coming to dinner?" Pearl asked, reminding Mulder. "Chicken parm, right?" "Of course!" she replied, winking. "I'm there," Mulder replied, bending down and placing a swift kiss on Pearl's temple. He quickly stepped away, escaping another onslaught of crushed ribs. "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Goodrich," Mulder said, nodding toward her. "See you later, Mr. Mulder," Alice replied, waving. He nodded his head and then turned away. Working around the milling people, he finally slipped free of the benches and met up with Vaughn. "Listen, you able to stop by the precinct this afternoon?" Vaughn asked, looking around at the celebratory crowd. "Sure, I didn't rent a car yet, taxi'd it here. So, if I could hitch a ride back with you, I'm available right now." "Sounds good,"Vaughn agreed. Suddenly a loud yell disrupted the cacophony of elation, leaving the room in harsh silence. In a solid, slow and concise voice, Keenswan spoke. "This is all FAR from over. You understand? Oh yes, I'd say it's definitely far from over." Bailiffs tried to usher the straining Keenswan through the doors. Mulder watched as Keenswan purposefully set features unclenched into an almost beatific smile as his gaze pinned Mulder. "Why, I do believe you just might understand," Keenswan said, winking at Mulder. Finally the Bailiffs succeeded in pulling Keenswan through the doorway. The room was silent as the heavy door closed with a loud vacuumed click. "Well," Mulder said, feeling a shiver run through his spine despite himself. He finally turned away from the closed door and met Vaughn's weary gaze. The detective shook his head. "What is it, Lieutenant?" Vaughn's voice was low and steeled, "He may be right . . . he just may be right at that." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Green Tree Hotel, Center City, Philadelphia Monday 330 P.M. "Hey, Scully, if you're real quick, you can catch me on the six o'clock news - my name in lights and everything," Mulder wearily sighed as he collapsed back upon his hotel bed. "All right, I'll play. . . a.) why would I see you on the news? And b.) why would I be coming to Philadelphia?" "Well," Mulder began, throwing an arm over his eyes, "first, Keenswan was denied parole." "Okay, that's great news, but what's the "but". . ." "Not a "but", more of a "well". . ." "Mulder!" "Okay, *well*, when I left the courtroom, I was viciously attacked by spiked microphones and blinding camera lights." "What?" Scully asked, incredulous. "It seems that someone remembered me from this case and my days of celebrity have begun again." "Well, since you're coming back to DC tomorrow, I don't see as how that would be a problem," Scully paused, ". . .but you're not coming back tomorrow, are you?" "Nope." "Which leads me to my next question b.) Why am I coming to Philadelphia?" Mulder could hear her rustling with something on the other end of the connection and he liked to think that it was that sexy black skirt, the short number that rises up her thigh and kindly exposes more leg for him to memorize. "Mulder?" she prompted. "Does, *I miss you* mean anything?" "Mulder," she growled. Man, even in words, he could see her brow arched and her eyes rolling. "How about this then I miss you AND there have been three copycat killings. The killings began when news of Keenswan's parole hearing first started to saturate the media waves ," Mulder revealed, sitting up and toeing off his shoes. They fell onto the carpet with a satisfying clunk. "If they're copycat, why is it necessary for you to participate in this investigation? It's a new case." "Because my dear, Scully, these murders are copied to the last degree, ergo including details that weren't released to the public, ergo, very spooky." "Ergo, I'm coming to Philadelphia," Scully finished on a sigh. "That about sums it up. I mean, as much as I get turned on by the mere sound and cadence of your voice. . . ,"Mulder paused, licking his lips and running a hand against his stomach. " Imagine how much more. . . *stimulated* I would be having you here in the flesh. You doing your forensic pathology the way that you do it." "The way that I do it?" "Oh yeah, Scully, " Mulder answered, pulling his shirt and t-shirt free of his pants. His fingers skimmed against the soft line of fuzz on his abdomen. "I'm on the next flight," Scully said. He heard the rustle again and his breath quickened. He didn't care if she was shifting papers or stapling thumbs, he let his imagination identify her actions. "I wouldn't want to miss you on the news." Mulder depressed the 'end' button, tossing the phone on the bed beside him and trailing the hand down lower, beneath the waistband of his pants and lower still. . . XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Philadelphia International Airport Monday, 540 P.M. Scully walked up the jetway leading from United Airlines, flight 451 -- a 737 shuttle traveling straight from DC's Dulles to Philadelphia International. It was a flight she almost didn't make. When Scully arrived at the district airport, she was forced to wait stand-by as a result of her last minute reservation. Fortunately, her wait didn't last long as United made arrangements to accommodate her. Now, following the flow of passengers, Scully continued to wind her path through the jetway. As she walked on, she could feel her laptop case begin to slip. Pausing, Scully hiked the strap more securely across her shoulder. While adjusting it, she felt herself roughly jostled to the side by impatient passengers scurrying their way to cross into the terminal. "So much for the City of Brotherly Love," she whispered under her breath. Finally exiting the jetway, she walked down the ramp and crossed into the bustling airport activity. Walking down the United Airlines' wing of Philly International, the unmistakable scent of the city's soft pretzels wafted across her senses, causing her steps to falter as she suddenly began to feel a bit ill at ease. Philadelphia held a lot of memories for her. And, they weren't good ones. She had the proof of her last trip imprinted on her back. The tattoo. She still had it. Her stigmata. Proof of her recklessness, a symbol that reminded her of a time where agitation eclipsed rational thought. Because she wasn't the type to self-flagellate, Scully dismissed the experience as a prelude to the constraints of an even darker time. It was only a few weeks later that she was diagnosed with cancer. For a brief moment, she wondered what ever happened to Ed Jerse. She had no lingering ill feelings over the man, just an odd sense of curiosity and empathy for a soul that had been as lost as hers. Except her soul had found its mate. Mulder.... Where the heck was he, anyway? She checked her watch, 547 PM. Peering around the terminal, her gaze cut through the crowd, finally landing on Mulder. He stood leaning against a wall, almost directly across from her, near the edge of another waiting lounge. He stood there, staring -- at her. She wondered how long he'd been watching her -- a second, a minute, more? Scully's heartbeat raced beneath her breast bone as she felt herself touched by the mere intensity of his gaze. He paid no attention to the passing travelers that would temporarily obscure his view of her. Scully maneuvered through the crowd, cutting her way across the stream of traffic. As she approached him, she let her eyes roam over his well-tailored body, noting how his suit draped across his skin. He had that effortless ability to look GQ even while maintaining a casual stance -- his arms crossed, his leg bent as his foot rested against the wall. His posture appeared casual. Yet, why did she feel like he was tensed to strike, ready to consume her. It was his eyes. She noticed his hair was mussed, most probably from his habit of finger combing his hair whenever he was in thought. Scully also saw that his bangs continued their stubborn tendency to dip over his forehead. Seeing him again, she swallowed, wondering how much he missed her with seven more hours on top of this morning's previous five. By the look he was giving her, she'd guess it to be a lot more. Walking over to him, she let a smile spread across her features. "Can I interest you. . . ," he began, cocking his head as she approached. "Can you interest me in what?" Scully asked, stopping before him, "A pretzel?" "Nothing. . . just, can I interest you?" Mulder asked again, peeling himself off the wall and stepping a foot between hers. He gripped her arms as he pulled them back into a side alcove. His hands slid up to her shoulders, cradling her neck. Scully leaned up and met his lips, her eyes closing as she tasted him once again. Tingles beaded her skin in an array of goose bumps while her breathing hitched in her throat. The heat and touch of his body so close to hers provoked a moan from her lips. Finally, he pulled back a few inches and searched her face. "Welcome to the Ccty of Brotherly Love, Scully," he whispered, tilting her face to place a chaste kiss on her forehead, nose, and lips. "But, if it's a pretzel you're looking for, I can be more than willing to. . . accommodate you." 'Oh, it was very heady being able to touch Mulder in public,' Scully thought, 'Well, being able to touch Mulder, period.' And for some reason, they both felt more free to touch each other, to be more openly affectionate outside the nation's capital. Eventually though, she hoped that the feeling of reserve will fade away. But for right now, things between them are relatively new and although they aren't necessarily hiding their relationship, they're not exactly advertising, it either -- not at work nor in public. Yet, being away from the DC area made Scully feel a relaxing sense of freedom. She knew Mulder felt it too. A low groan rumbled against her lips and Scully echoed it. As the kiss deepened, the world filled with babies crying, people talking, and loud speakers squawking, faded away. Oh, she was in trouble! The ability of his touch to scatter her thoughts was a bit unnerving, but she already knew that she'd rather be unnerved than never touched by him again. "I've been here before, we've been here before. . . are you going to make me see the Liberty Bell for real this time?" Scully asked, playing petulant as she pulled away from his lips. "The Bell is the place to be," Mulder replied, shaking his head as he stepped back from her. "You gotta get in the know, Scully." "Fine, then," she replied, letting her bag slip softly to the ground. Mulder leaned in for a final, greeting kiss, his tongue deliciously tangling with hers. He tasted of Certs and smelled of cologne -- a scent that was making her knees feel weak. She absently wondered if he'd always worn that fragrance. "Mmm, down boy, "Scully murmured around his lips, "or we're going to get kicked out of here for public lewdness. "Come on, Scully, you know you're a closet exhibitionist," Mulder whispered against her mouth. "Mulder, that's an oxymoron." "Oh, Ms. Scully, teach me some more," he teased, coaxing another kiss from her. Mulder reluctantly pulled back and leaned down to grab her laptop. Stringing it over his shoulder, he wrapped his free arm about her back. "Let's get your luggage, Scully. Then I've someone you've got to experience." Scully gave Mulder a questioning look. "Experience?" "Let's just say that words -- they can't do Pearl justice," Mulder warned, bracing her. Scully was intrigued. He'd mentioned her before, but nothing too specific. What she knew of this Pearl was that Mulder seemed to care for her a great deal. Scully looped her arm around his back. "Then I can't wait to meet her." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Rittenhouse Square District Rittenhouse Apartments Penthouse Monday, 617 P.M. Tick. Tick. Tick. I love how a clock sounds off the last seconds of life. There's something almost peaceful about it. I lick my lips, excitement infusing my actions. Watching her, I sit on some kind of couch. I think I once read that it was called a settee. It's nice enough, I suppose. Good enough for what I am doing now, anyway -- watching her that is. There's something about the way she always trembles for me. I stand up and walk over to her so she can see me. I want her to see me, I need her to see me now. She's moving her tits, rising them up and down for me to fuck around with, trying to distract me, trying to get me to stop what has to be done, what must be done. Nice try. Reaching over her, I methodically untie the gag from around her lips, making sure not to tug the blood encrusted cloth too hard because I can see her bottom lip is swollen from where I punched her. She whimpers. And I like that. It's one of the things that really lets me know I'm doing my job right. I stand back, staring at her again. She's a vision, she always is, and coupled with those whimpers, well, I just really do love them. It's kinda like a stamp of success. Often she's tried to pull away from my touch and I really don't mind that because. . . well, because she can't get away. She can never get away and never does. It's all right if she doesn't instantly understand that fact. She eventually comes to realize it -- before the end that is, and that's enough for me. The whimper, though, I can't stress enough. It's like payment in full, my metaphorical pat on the back. I sit on the side of the bed, my weight depressing the mattress. Resting my elbow on my thigh and cupping the side of my head in my palm, I gaze at her, running an absentminded hand over her chest and stomach. No, I'm not insulted when she tries to pull away, not at all. Finally she speaks, like she always does. "You bastard, do you know who you're fuckin' with!" "A dead woman." I get up and walk around the bed, watching her and her fear. She's not whimpering anymore but sobbing. "Shh, now, it's better when you don't cry so loud," I tell her, running my hand over her quivering stomach again. Like always, her whole body is spread eagle and ready for the next step. I grab my cock, deliberating on whether I should fuck her again. I always allow myself the opportunity for more than once but I think this time, I'm just gonna move on. With slight reluctance, I squeeze my cock again, tugging it against my jeans before letting go. I reach for her calf, letting my hand slide down, over her thigh, lower. . . lower. . . until I reach her stomach. Punching her, I hear the familiar choked grunt spring from her mouth. I climb onto the bed, on top of her, ready to complete my business. I reach into my back pocket and pull my switchblade out, flicking it open and lowering it against her warm, flushed skin. I can smell her sweat filling the air. It's another sign that I am doing things right, doing more than an okay job. She's whimpering again. "Thank you," I say, trailing the blade against her chest. It's time. I start to sing, it's a favorite of mine. "Byeee... Byeee.. blackbird..." Bye bye. Like every time, the tick of clockwork, the look of disbelief as I cut into her flutters over her features. It's always the same, always. As I do my work, I try not to get too much blood on me. I continue singing. The whimpers have transformed into screams, almost matching each slice I place into her skin. Having scored the various sides of her arms, chest and stomach, not to mention cheeks, I bend down, my face filling her vision so there is no mistake about what the last thing on earth she will see will be. It's probably the biggest perk to doing all of this, this moment, I mean. I whisper into her face, slow and heavy, "Byeee, byeee, blackbird!" It's the moment when she screams the loudest and it's the moment when I like that to happen because the scream never gets to end as I draw my blade, deep, across her throat, cutting the vocal chords and silencing the terror I've helped to create. Finished, I climb off her, checking my clothes for her blood. There's a little bit, but not too much. I'm satisfied. I look back to the bed and see the river of red collecting around her, I can even hear her still gurgling a bit, but that will end soon enough. Turning away from the bed, for the first time, I let myself look at the closet doors for a few moments until I hear it. I smile, stepping toward the french doors as I sing in a loud, joyous voice, "Byeee, byee, blackbird!" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Monday, 739 P.M. 'Oh My God!' was Scully's thought underpinning all others as Mulder's usual tendency for overstatement was thrown into reverse. Pearl Clayton *was* an experience. They'd finished dinner, having chicken that was so fattingly good that she wouldn't doubt Mulder was going to have to peel her out of her chair. They were sitting at the dinning room table, talking. Well, they talked and Scully listened for the most part. "Fox, I was telling Alice about your latest e-mail you sent me before you arrived." Scully pulled out of her sluggish satiety, her ears perking up at Pearl's comment. She leaned over the table, looking at Pearl questioningly, "E-mail?" "Oh yes, Dana, didn't Fox tell you? We've kept in touch. Letters at first, then emails," she informed, turning to Alice. "You know, thank the Lord Jack's into computers, otherwise I'd totally be left in the stone age." She looked over at Scully again. "Jack taught me how to use it, he's a regular computer whiz. Always doing stuff on it, damned if I could do as much at his age." "Where *is* Jack, I was hoping to see him," Mulder asked after chewing the ice cube he'd been sucking on. "Oh, Jack? He was tired. Been a pretty bad day. He's sleeping," Pearl answered, staring down at the table, trying to contain the tears quickly filling her eyes. Sighing, she pulled her gaze from the lace table cloth, her chin jutting out determinedly. "No, that's not right. It's been a pretty bad few months. Ever since news of that monster's parole hearing hit the airwaves, it's been bad. Today? Well, today was actually a good day what with that animal staying right where he belongs." "Pearl, honey," Alice said around her cigarette. She grabbed her sister's spotted hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "No. no, no. . . I'm fine, just fine," Pearl assured, rubbing Alice's hand. "It's a good day today." "Well, maybe I'll catch him tomorrow, then," Mulder suggested. "Oh definitely, I think that'd be nice," Pearl agreed, smiling over at him. "Now, let me get you two some dessert, I've got some peach pie cooling in the kitchen." "Oh no, I couldn't possibly eat-" "That's nonsense, I'll just be a minute," Pearl said, pulling from the table. "Wait a minute, honey, you got that. . . ," Alice said, following Pearl through the swinging door into the kitchen. "But I -" "Give it up, Scully, there's no winning in this with Pearl," Mulder sagely advised, recalling his own experiences at refusal. Scully turned to look at him, her hand resting against her stomach as she spoke her thought from earlier. "You're going to have to roll me out that door." "We'll roll out together," Mulder said, gripping his own stomach before leaning toward her. Scully's eyes widened. "Mulder!" Mulder paused inches before her face, his eyes searching her's, his nose rubbing against her own. "What?" he asked softly. "Pearl?" she said, her eyes darting toward the door and back to Mulder. "Pearl isn't blind, Scully," Mulder said, closing the distance, his lips pulling on hers in small, gentle touches. "But, Mulder, , I," Scully gave up as his tongue reached out and tangled with her own. "Mmm, you taste like chicken," he said, releasing her mouth as he leaned his forehead against hers. Scully couldn't help herself, she shook her head back and forth, chuckling as Mulder caught her lips again, petaling her with another kiss as he caught her laughter. "All right now, here you go," Pearl announced, coming back into the dining room. Scully quickly pulled away from Mulder while he casually sat back in his chair. "Now, Dana. . . what are you doing, jumping like that?" Pearl asked, setting the pie down on the table. "I think showing affection for your man is sweet, isn't that right, Al?" Pearl turned to look over her shoulder as Alice entered into the room, shaking out another cigarette from her pack. Pearl shucked her oven mitts, leaving them on the credenza behind her. "Damn straight! I remember when my Ryan and I were young. Hell, even when we weren't. Ain't nothing wrong showing the one you love a little sweetness," Alice agreed, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs. She reached into her cigarette case, extracting her lighter. Scully felt her cheeks burning, as embarrassment coated her. She refused to look at Mulder. A few moments later, she felt his hand rubbing against her back, hidden from the view of the two women. "You know what, you're absolutely right, Pearl," Mulder continued, still stroking Scully's back until she relaxed into her seat once more. "Don't I know it!" Pearl agreed, smiling up at him. Mulder removed his hand from Scully and crossed his arms, leaning his forearms against the table as if getting ready to tell a secret, "That pie smells delicious." Pearl, met his gaze, smiling and nodding her head. "All right, then. " Scully saw that Pearl had caught Mulder's pointed attempt at redirection. Pearl sliced the pie, passing pieces down to everyone. The aroma rose from Scully's portion, tickling her senses and making her realize that she just might have room for this after all. "How long have you two been an item?" Alice asked, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray and directing her gaze at them. Mulder looked to Scully. She shrugged her shoulders, and held her hand out, indicating that he go ahead and answer. "Scully and I, we've been partners at the FBI for a little over seven years, but we started seeing each other about four months ago," Mulder informed them. "July 4th," Scully interjected, her eyes narrowing as she recalled the night Mulder showed up on her door step, insisting she come with him and not telling her where it was they were going. Normally her mother would have thrown some kind of barbecue that day but she'd decided to treat herself and had gone on a cruise with an old friend of hers. So, Mulder abducted her and as it turned out, took her to a firework display. It was a display that ended up dulling in comparison to the sparks that flew between them when he unexpectedly leaned over, giving them their first kiss. Scully smiled, remembering the moment. "Ah, fourth of July. . . say no more," Pearl said, winking at them and nudging Alice under the table. "Owww, I ah. . . well, that's nice." Scully watched Alice give Pearl a dirty look as she reached down under the table to rub her shin. Scully bit back a chuckle, not daring to meet Mulder's gaze. If she looked at him, she knew she wouldn't be able to contain the laughter that was close to spilling out. "I'll tell you, Dana, I was so ecstatic when Fox called this afternoon and asked if he could bring you to dinner. I nearly died. I never thought I'd get to meet *His Scully*," she said, winking again. Scully chanced a glance at Mulder at that comment. He just shrugged his shoulders in response, feigning innocence. Scully just shook her head at him, before looking back to Pearl. "Well, I'm glad I've meet you too," Scully said, and she meant it. Although she was beginning to feel tired, listening, watching and trying to keep up with the buoyant Pearl. She had to say that after only a couple of hours in her presence, Scully could understand Mulder's affection for her. Yes, Pearl definitely was an "experience" as Mulder had warned... but an experience worth having. "Pearl, this is really good," Scully said, taking another bite of the peach pie that melted against her taste buds. "Oh, it was noth-" The trilling of a cell phone interrupted Pearl's response. "It's mine, I'll be right back, I left it in my jacket," Mulder said, standing up. "If you will excuse me?" "Of course, Fox," Pearl said, wiping her mouth with a napkin then waving her hands at him for to go. Scully watched him round the corner, turning out of view. "So, Pearl. . . ," Scully began, looking back at the two women. She took a sip of her coffee, "I hear. . . ." XXXXX "Mulder," he said, answering his phone. "Listen, Mulder, could you meet me at the precinct?" Mike Vaughn asked through the line. "Yeah, sure what's up?" he asked, staring down at the way his shoes smooshed the plush rug while he paced back and forth in the warmly lit living room. "We got another one," Vaughn replied, sighing. "All right, be right--" "Bye. . . byee. . . blackbird. . . ." Mulder looked up, his gaze traveling down the darkened hallway that lead off the living room. He saw what had to be the back of Jack Layne entering the bathroom as he yawned out a muffled song. When Jack turned around to shut the door, his singing stopped, his whole body pausing. Mulder could see embarrassment coloring his features -- what he could see of his features that is. The boy's black hair hung down in front of his face. Mulder gave a little wave and shrug of his shoulders. Jack tilted his head up, his eyes rounding as he quickly slammed the door closed. "Mulder?" Mike called out from the receiver. Mulder shrugged again, smiling as he shook his head. He turned his gaze towards the front windows as he answered Mike. "My partner and I'll be right there," Mulder answered, clicking the 'end' button. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Rittenhouse Square District Rittenhouse Apartments Penthouse Monday, 827 P.M. Scully followed behind Mulder, letting him cut a path through the barrage of forensic examiners, detectives, and patrolmen crawling over the penthouse. Passing the study, Scully spotted a man sitting on a black leather couch, he was dressed in an expensive business suit. His head lie hanging down, his shoulders slumped and shaking in sobs while a detective stood over him, notepad and pen in hand. They moved on, continuing down the main hallway toward more forensic personnel fingerprint brushing, toward the strobing light from the crime scene photographer, and toward the body that awaited them. All around the apartment could be heard the dull hum of varied conversations. Cresting the doorway to the master bedroom, Scully stepped out from behind Mulder to witness the scene. She almost wished she hadn't. No stranger to violent crime, it nevertheless wasn't a treat to observe the sight before her, but she did it, anyway. She began by tracking her eyes from the sprawled hands above the victim's head, trailing down the victim's face, down the body and sliding over her legs. The corpse was severely lacerated from the head to the bottom of the torso. The lower extremities were almost blatantly left untouched. The victim's legs were left spread-eagle. Scully blinked, the camera flash disturbing her perusal as the photographer documented every angle of the woman's body. Scully blinked again as the camera turned toward her and Mulder, the flash bulb glaring in her eyes as it splashed the room in white light. Scully sighed, feeling the partnering sadness at such a loss. Brutality never gets easier to see and the day that it does was the day that she would quit. "Scully. . . Hey, Scully," Mulder called over to her, tapping her shoulder. "Hmm, what?" she asked, turning away from the body to look at Mulder. A rather tall, grizzled blonde man stepped forward, holding out his hand. Scully gripped it. "Hi there, Lieutenant Detective Mike Vaughn," introduced the detective, as he followed her gaze which had landed back on the body again. "What a waste, hunh?" Scully had to agree, his disgusted tone matching her feelings. "Nice to finally meet you," Scully said, looking back to him. She couldn't help feeling like she'd seen him before, her eyes narrowing. Mulder walked over, standing beside Scully. Mike watched her, smiling. "Nick Nolte," he provided. "That's it!" Scully cried, nodding her head and then smiling sheepishly. "Yeah, well it's a curse I'm forced to live with," he responded, joking. Scully smiled in reply, but the grin drained from her face as the corner of her eye caught the crimson colored skin laid bare on the bed. "What happened, here?" Scully asked, arms crossing and waiting for the debrief, "Any leads?" "Looks like this is number four, the same MO, but nothing specific yet," Vaughn sighed, glancing over the body. "Mulder tells me you're a forensic pathologist. Would it be too much to ask if you'd perform the autopsy? We could use a fresh pair of eyes on this one, not to mention a pair of experienced hands." "Not a problem." Scully reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Snapping them into place before taking a deep, settling breath, she walked over to the body and began her preliminary examination. "Her arms and her feet are spread out as if they were tied," Scully began, pointing to the victim's wrists and ankles. "And there appears to be bruising along with chafing around the wrist and ankle areas, indicating that she had been." Scully looked over at Vaughn who had been writing down her notes. "Has anyone found the bounds?" "No, nothing's been found," Vaughn sighed, rubbing a hand to his forehead, careful not to get the pen ink near his skin. "Damn it, it's just like the others. The same incisions from what I can tell -- ah, Christ." Scully nodded her head as she worked around the body. "Of course, I'll be able to tell you more once I've autopsied the victim, but death seems to be by the massive amount of blood loss, as if the ultimate form of death was intended to *be* the letting of her blood." Scully walked around the body repeatedly, examining the varied cuts. She always found herself taking away the sex of the victim as she did this. Sex was secondary to the hidden mysteries to be discovered. By not allowing herself to allow sex to enter her examination process, she was more successful at distancing herself, leaving her mind open to further possibilities. "All right, I'm seeing that the wounds are definitely only deep enough for the blood loss. It appears that no vital organs have been punctured. The laceration on the victim's throat is deeper than the rest, but would not guarantee instant death." "You tellin' me that she was alive as the blood was draining out of her?" Vaughn asked. Scully looked up and saw his eyes flitting over the violated body. "Quite possibly, due to the thickness of the blood. I also suspect that she has been raped, the pubis area is irritated and swollen. I'll be able to tell more once I have the proper equipment," Scully replied, snapping her gloves off and dumping them in a biohazard bag that a patrolmen held open for her. Scully stood back as a gurney was wheeled into the room. "Time of death was fairly recent. Her body is still retaining warmth," Scully said, walking over to Mulder and Vaughn, both of whom stood listening to her findings. Scully watched Vaughn flip his notebook open again, a pen trailing down his notes as he began to read off his gathered information. "The maid found her, according to Mrs. Lopez. Mrs. Isabel Spencer, the victim, had gone to lie down for a nap before attending her husband's business party tonight," Vaughn informed, biting the cap of his pen. "Has the husband been notified?" Mulder asked, his brow furrowed. "Yeah, actually, he's here in another room. Came home 'round the same time that the first units arrived and that was about an hour and half ago. Seems he's clean. He came home with three suits, all of them vouching that they'd just come from drinks at the Cardinal Room," Vaughn continued, flipping his notebook closed and looking up at Scully and Mulder, again. "And no one saw anyone suspicious, coming in or out, I take it," Mulder asked, sighing as if knowing the answer already. "Not a one," Vaughn replied, tapping the notepad against his thigh. "What?" Scully questioned, looking back and forth between the two men. "It's just like ten years ago," Mulder informed her, walking away to step beside the bed before softly repeating. "Just like ten years ago." Mulder turned around, hands on his waist as he regarded Scully and Vaughn. "We need to speak with Keenswan," Mulder said. "He's sharing his tricks of the trade, you think?" Vaughn asked, stuffing a hand into his pocket and jiggling the keys within. "Something's going on Mike, I mean, hell, the last detail," Mulder said. Scully watched him meet Vaughn's leveled gaze. She felt significantly out of the loop. She wasn't familiarized yet with the previous cases and felt inadequately prepared. "I'll do the autopsy," Scully agreed, turning her gaze from one man to the other "But tomorrow, I need to be caught up with the information on these past homicides so I'll at least know what to keep an eye out for." "We can arrange to have an autopsy bay ready for you tomorrow morning," Vaughn nodded in agreement. "I'll be ready by nine," Scully said, turning around to watch the coroner's team lift Isabel Spencer's body from the bed. "Can you furnish me with the necessary files as soon as possible?" "Of course, I'll call down to the precinct and get them pulled," Vaughn answered, reaching into his leather jacket and pulling out his cell phone. "All right," Scully replied, staring back at the pool of blood left on the now empty bed. "Good." "Okay, all set," Vaughn informed, stepping toward her. "I appreciate your help in this. Listen, we're almost through here for tonight. How 'bout we go back to the station and then I take you guys to Anthony's. Mulder and I can begin to brief you on the old cases while I add the latest info." "Yes, let's do that," Scully replied, cocking her head toward Mulder, "Mulder?" "Yeah, I'm liking the idea, besides it'll be nice to catch up," Mulder said, bending down beside the bed and pulling the bed sheet back with a pair of tweezers. "Find anything, Mulder?" Vaughn asked. Mulder bobbed his head back and forth, then sighed, standing up again. "No, nothing." "All right, well, let me go talk to the other dick in charge, then we'll be off," Vaughn said leaving Mulder and Scully to themselves. Scully's gaze went back to the bed again. She'd managed to keep the threat of bile in check but as she looked at the pool of blood still saturating the bed sheets and dripping onto the floor, she felt a burgeoning wave of nausea. Taking a deep breath, she turned away from the sight. "You all right, Scully?" Mulder asked, touching her arm. Scully lifted her eyes, shaking her head, "I'm fine." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City Section Anthony's Tavern Between 2nd and 3rd, Market Street. 1132 PM "Lacey, another Sam Adams," Vaughn ordered, raising his hand. "Comin' right up, Lieutenant." Scully watched the waitress look up, giving Mike a wink while seemingly not missing any of the order she was currently taking down a few tables away. The owner, as Vaughn had explained upon entering the tavern, was now Anthony's son, Rich Spinelli. And the bar, as Vaughn had further explained, has been a staple on Market street since 1889. Rich still tended the bar, Vaughn told them. Scully saw that Rich Spinelli was a small, rotund man that reminded her of everyone's grandfather. Rich also knew everyone who came into his place, which now included Scully and Mulder. Scully liked this pub. It was small, warmly lit, and filled with the owner's amazing collection of local memorabilia. Everything from a Phillies pennant to a Mom and Pop five and dime sign dated back to 1897, were displayed on the walls throughout the bar. She noticed that the only windows to the place were the big bay window at the front, and the door. Two TV's playing ESPN, sat above either end of the long mahogany bar. The bar itself stretched to almost the entire length of the room. On the other half of the pub, separated by tables, were the booths to which she, Mulder and Vaughn now sat. The place was filled with low murmurs, clinking glasses and the smell of the usual tavern fare, simple yet hearty. Mulder and she were going to have to come back here for dinner. Actually, now that she thought about it, Anthony's reminded her of a place back in San Fransico where her dad used to go with some of his Navy buddies. She sighed, it was here. "Scully, you should have seen Vaughn -" Scully turned back to face Mulder. "Oh, come on, man- " "No, no. . . ," Mulder interjected giving the detective a pointed look. "What?" Scully asked, taking another draught of her beer. "Well -- " "Well, things were going to shit real quick. . . egos were slapping against each other and people were gettin' bruised," Vaughn cut in. " So Mulder here, he's the one that sought me out first.... " "Yeah, but Vaughny," Mulder laughed, running a hand through his hair, his eyes a bit bright. Scully could see the buzz of alcohol hallo-ing him. "After we had our little tete-a-tete. "Tete-a-tete?" Scully smirked, eyebrow raised. Mulder just gave her a look, before smiling. A few moments later she felt his hand against her knee. He began rubbing it in little circular motions. "Yeah, Scully, tete-a-tete," he continued, turning to look at across the table at the detective. "So Vaughn here, goes to speak to the troops-" "God, we were hard asses, every last one of us," Vaughn interjected as Lacey placed the requested beer and a steaming cup of coffee on their table. He looked at the coffee. "Orders from, Rich," she said, explaining it away. "Thanks, hun," Vaughn said slightly subdued as he nodded his head. "No problem, Lieutenant," Lacey responded squeezing his shoulder before walking away. Scully watched the display without comment. Mike raised his eyes and caught Scully's knowing look. "Sober," he mouthed, holding up two fingers. Scully gave a reassuring smile. Mike smiled back then directed his attention on Mulder again, ending their coded conversation. "Anyway, we gather the gang and Vaughn breaks right in saying -" "Okay ladies, you can either shit or get off the fuckin' pot," Mulder began only to be joined by Vaughn. "Let's find this bastard and make our mommies proud." Scully's glance pivoted back and forth, watching the verbal volley between the two men. They were definitely feeling no pain. It amazed her that they hadn't seen each other for ten years. If she were a stranger observing them she'd have said they'd been separated all of ten seconds. "Seriously though, the city was in a panic. Six murders, different locales, ranging from Center City to South Philly... all the same MO," Mulder said, stringing his right arm along the back of the booth behind Scully's head. "Yeah, after the third victim surfaced, the words *serial killer* blared all the way from the city sewers to the skyscrapers," Vaughn said, sighing as he took another drink from his bottle and slammed it on the table with a loud clink. " With the murders continuing, the city's women were more and more terrified. . . Shit, I was worried about my Lisa and the kids, big time." Scully's brow narrowed in confusion as Mulder's arm slipped from the back of the booth to string around Scully's shoulders. At first she was stiff, shooting a glance at Mulder but then relaxed. . . they weren't in DC and this was a friend. "How are Lisa and the little monsters?" Mulder interjected, turning to wink at Scully. "Not so little anymore, "Vaughn answered, tearing his gaze from the beer bottle to look up at Mulder and Scully, his voice full of pride. "Good, actually. Mikey Jr. is up at U Penn. Freshman there, playin' junior varsity ball, and Lisa and the girls, they're doing well, too. Went to some concert at the Spectrum tonight. . . Backstreet Boys or somethin' like that." "How old are your children, Vaughn?"Scully asked, leaning on the table toward him. "Mike, Scully. Call me Mike," he said, admonishing her as he waggled his finger. "Dana, then," Scully responded in kind. "Hey, he gets to call you Dana?" "Shut-up, Mulder," Scully said, throwing a smile toward him. "Well, let's see. Mikey's nineteen, bigger than me but I carry a gun and he remembers that. . . ," Mike laughed. Scully could see the proud smile hanging on his lips when he thought on his son, the affection near brimming over. Mike sighed, "Ah, anyway, my oldest girl, Christina -- she's fifteen -- quite the scholar. Then there's little Paige, she's nine -- a collected ball of energy, for sure. Chrissy looks like Lisa while Paige was blessed with my coloring and stunning good looks." Scully smiled, shaking her head. "Poor girl," Mulder quipped. Scully rounded her head, giving Mulder a stare. "What?" She shook her head and looked back at Mike. "*All* of 'em are beautiful kids, " Mike finished, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He leaned over the table toward Scully, flipping the worn brown leather open, displaying a family photo. She looked at it. Lisa Vaughn was a fairly tall woman with straight, long black hair and green eyes -- slim and very beautiful. She looked to be in her late thirties. The children, Mike Jr. was indeed taller than Mike Sr., topping his father's six foot three inches by a good two more. . . a definite, solid football type. Christina, the fifteen year old was very small, fragile looking and a bit pale, but had her mother's beauty whereas Paige did indeed take after her father. Her hair was long, blonde and curly. She was also tall for her age and just very adorable. The whole family was gorgeous. Looking at the picture, Scully couldn't help but feel a small pang of remorse that such a photo would never grace the inside of her wallet. It was something she tried not to think about, but with a mix of alcohol in her, the door against such thoughts was a bit off its hinges. "Very beautiful family, Mike." "Thanks, Dana," he replied, pocketing his wallet again. "Yeah, Vaughn great family, there," Mulder said sincerely, squeezing Scully's shoulder. "Yeah, well. . . you guys should get yourself one of these, I highly recommend it," he responded, winking at Scully. Scully kept a smile framed on her lips but inside she felt slightly kicked askew. She felt Mulder slip his arm off her shoulder, letting his hand fall to the center of her back. He rubbed between her shoulder blades in small concentric circles, pulling the tinges of pain from her chest with his hand. She nearly cried at that, at his intuitiveness coming through once again. Scully leaned back into his touch and turned to meet his eyes, giving him a small smile. He smiled back, sliding his hand up her back to her neck and giving it gentle, rhythmic squeezes. "So, the UNSUB's MO was to rape, then slice and dice his victim's bodies," Mulder said, bringing the subject back to the murders and turning his glance back to Vaughn. Scully followed suit but relaxed into the soothing touch of Mulder's hand against her neck. 'She just might love him after all,' she jokingly thought because there was no "might" about it. "Yeah, with a final cut across their throats using a switchblade. Hence the media title for Keenswan, "The Switchblade". We hadn't even classified these as serial homicides, at least not publicly... but somehow it got leaked to the damn press," Vaughn said, pausing. Scully watched as Mike's lips curled in disgust and she empathized with him. "All the press did was offer that sick fuck some celebrity. We had put a release out for women to beware of a stalker, then this broke. I tell ya, the wide spread panic had escalated like wild fire. Talk about the piranhas this morning, Mulder. . . ," he said, eyebrows raised as he was caught in memories. Scully looked at Mulder nodding his head while he quietly listened along with her. "It wasn't a good time for Philly. We were sure that we'd be able to catch the bastard, we were close a few times or so we thought." Mike took another draught of his second beer, rolling the bottle between his hands, his wedding band clinking against the glass as he continued. "When news of the serial murders broke, we had an angry mob of protesters outside of city hall. Turns out it was the best thing that could have happened. . . it forced Mayor Goode to work toward swifter action, meaning alerting the FBI that we indeed had a serial killer and that we needed help... no matter how much we wanted to deny that. I mean, hell, it was our city, right? Take care of our own." Mike tossed two spoons of sugar into his coffee before continuing. "So you fibbies arrived. . . " "It was rough going at first," Mulder interjected. "Well Mulder over there, he wined and dined me. You see, I was the dick in charge and he the SAC. We ended up getting ourselves on the same page," he teased, placing his spoon on the saucer as he leaned back in the booth seat, smiling. "Yeah well, I was always told to respect my elders," Mulder said, taking a swig of his beer. "You remember that, old man," Mike said, nodding his head. "You're no spring chicken anymore." "What?" Mulder said, aghast, leaning back against the booth seat, mocking insult. Scully chuckled, her nail tracing the wood grain on the table before picking up her own drink. All things considered, she was unexpectedly enjoying this trip to Philadephia and this more intimate glimpse into Mulder's past. "Hey," she cried as Mulder picked her beer out of her fingers, stealing a draught of it for himself, "You have your own." Mulder leaned his head back and downed nearly half of what Scully had left of her beer before slapping it on the table with an accompanying "ah". "S'empty," he replied. Wiping a hand against his mouth, he turned to give Scully a silly smile as he slid his hand from her neck to slowly let it drift down her back again, his eyes capturing hers. Scully felt her heart skipping a few beats, her skin feeling a bit flushed from more than just alcohol. "Should I leave you two alone?" Mike interjected. Both Mulder and Scully jumped, turning back to face Vaughn, their posture becoming a bit more stiffer at his teasing tone. "No, no. . . go on. . . I need to know the back history of this case," Scully answered as Lacey placed two more cups of coffee on the table. One in front of Mulder and one in front of Scully as she made her way to another table. "I swear, Rich is worse than my own mother," Mike griped good-naturedly before pushing the dish of sugar toward them. Scully looked over at the bartender. He waved at her and gave a wink. She smiled in return. "Well, unfortunately, even with us Fibbies and the local PD finally all in a row. . . ," Mulder pointedly said, using Vaughn's description. Scully turned her full attention back to the conversation. Mike smirked, raising his coffee cup in salute. Mulder nodded his head at him. "Even with us there, egos handled, all of us working cohesively, and the profile I'd worked up, even with all that, we were still left hitting dead ends." "No witnesses, either" Mike added. "All the victims were single women, attacked in their own homes." "Then the last victim, Eleanor Layne, surfaced along with Jack and you know the rest of that story, " Mulder said, turning a glance to Scully as he picked up his coffee and sipped at it tentatively. And she did know. At least some. Mulder had told her a bit about Jack and his relationship with Pearl before Skinner had given him the approval to appear at the parole hearing. Speaking of which. . . . "Skinner wants us to call him tomorrow with a report on the current status of this new case." "I know, I spoke to him before you arrived," Mulder replied, looking at her then turning to Vaughn. "Skinner's our Assistant Director at the Fibbie bureau." "Fibbie?" Vaughn asked, eyebrows raised. Scully could see the teasing glint in his eye. Mulder looked at him with his own set of raised brows, head cocked. All was quiet between them, until Scully broke into laughter and the other two followed. "Okay, Mulder," Mike said. Giving an eye roll, he looked at Scully which only made her laugh more. Mike was a man who truly knew the art of eye movement. Well, if she wasn't before she was definitely feeling no pain now. She decided to sugar her coffee and get down to drinking it even though she knew it wouldn't really make her more sober. "The copycats?" she said, getting back on task before taking a sip of the hot liquid. "Well, I don't know how much Mulder's told you but it's basically the same MO as previous and that's including the little incidentals that weren't released to the press. Makes me believe in those X-Files of yours, what with how similar this new crop of murders are turning out to be." Scully's back stiffened, preparing for an attack. She sighed. She had been getting along so well with Vaughn. "They are legitimate cases," Scully responded, stiffly. "Oh, no. . . I believe that. Hell, lord knows the mysteries goin' on around this world. . . Why things happen the way they do, things happening out of the blue and causing such pain, such . . . ah well. You know, you work'em," Mike said, pulling out of his diatribe. Scully relaxed, leaning back into Mulder's touch again. "Well, I think we need to get a cab, cuz Lisa and the girls gotta be home by now and I'm sure the girls'll wanna talk my ear off about the show before hitting the sack." "Yes, I have the casefiles for the latest three victims," Scully said as she followed Mike's action of exiting the booth, Mulder right behind her. "Yeah, and the autopsy bay will be ready for you at 10 AM, tomorrow, it'll give you some time in the morning to read over what we got here. Hey, is it tomorrow or is it today?" Mike lifted his arm, pushing the wool sleeve of his overcoat back. "Yup, just. . . twelve oh three in the AM." "Sounds good, Mike," Scully said as Mulder held her coat open for her to slip her arms through. She turned to grab her briefcase filled with the newest files but Mulder took it, slinging it over his own shoulder. That was fine by her. "Let's get the taxi, I don't wanna be standing out in that freezing cold for too long. Taxis start arriving down this strip and get occupied real quick starting right about now." "Let's go then," Mulder said. "See ya later, Lacey, Rich," Mike said, waving as they weaved their way back to the front door, passing the waitress and bartender. "See ya, Mike," Rich answered, waving a bar rag. "Later, Lieutenant," Lacey echoed, crossing back to the rear of the small pub, a tray of food balanced over her shoulder as the three of them exited the building. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX GreenTree Hotel Center City, Philadelphia Broad St. and Locust Tuesday, 132 A.M. Scully squeezed the bridge of her nose, pushing her glasses up as she shook her head. She'd been reading through the two casefiles and piecing together further information that might be of help with the autopsy she was performing in. . . She looked at the large numbered, digital clock that was sitting on the bureau . . . the autopsy she was performing in less than nine hours. She groaned then turned to look across the bed, toward the bathroom door on the other side of the room. "You and Mike seem like really good friends -- you've been holding out on me, Mulder," Scully teasingly accused, calling out. "I haven't *seen* him in ten years, but we've kept in touch," Mulder replied, his voice muffled yet amplified behind the bathroom door that was left cracked open. She heard him pushing the shower curtain back, the rungs scraping against the rail before he continued. "He's helped me out on a few cases, kept me up to date on his family . . . shit . . . ouch. . . ." "You all right in there, Mulder?" Scully asked, looking toward the bathroom again. "Yeah, just stubbed my damn toe," he answered then continued with his train of thought. "Mike's called to harass me about the Sixers whenever they've defeated my Lakers -- No wait, reverse that, that's what I do. Sixers suck." Scully shook her head, smiling. Her eyes once again landed on the paperwork spread across the bed. She sighed. "Mulder, explain this to me again, how'd you get Jack Layne to talk to you when nobody else could?" Scully questioned as she leaned over and began to gather the folders into a pile atop the king-sized bedding. "Well, I'd like to say that my boyish enthusiasm hit a chord with him, but that wasn't quite it," was Mulder's muffled reply. Towel drying his hair, he opened the door all the way, flicked off the light switch and stepped out into the bedroom. The remaining shower steam billowed, following a bit behind him as he approached his side of the bed. Another towel rode low, wrapped around his hips. Scully's breath caught while Mulder's head was covered beneath the towel he was dragging over his hair. Quickly, she uncrossed her legs and occupied herself by unhooking her glasses from behind her ears. She placed them on the bedside table and grabbed the pile of folders, turning to place them on the nightstand beside her glasses. She wanted to talk with Mulder first, but she knew herself. No, she now knew Mulder and if she displayed how excited she already was, talk would be put on indefinite hold while they occupied each other with more personal things. "Continue," she said, her voice calm as she slid from the bed and opened the bedside table, playing at being busy. "Well, Dr. Scully, I did what any self respecting person with a doctorate in psychology would do. . . ." "Which was?" Scully asked, closing the drawer and turning to face him across the width of the bed, her face composed in what she hoped was an inscrutable mask. "Well, I referred back to my Intro to Psychology 101. That Piaget really knew what he was talking about," Mulder concluded, smiling at her with that little boy smile he used against her as he tossed the wet towel on the floor behind him, taking another step toward the bed, toward her. Uh oh, she was in trouble. "Mulder, you should hang that up to dry," Scully said, fidgeting as she watched him. She had to pull her gaze from his, so she looked at his chest. Mistake! Scully watched as he searched his hair smattered skin for whatever, then rubbed a hand on his muscled abdomen. He bent his head, leaning down to capture Scully's eyes, a dangerous smile tickling his face and tumbling her stomach. "Did I miss a spot, Scully?" She let her breath nearly whistle through her teeth before looking past him at the towel on the floor. She would never get tired of seeing his chest, the way the muscles defined themselves in different areas depending on which way he turned his torso. She loved to trace the sculpted areas of his stomach muscle with her index finger, drawing her nail over his skin in a torturously slow decline that got him completely worked up. Mulder caught her eye again, and stepped into her line of vision as he tugged the towel around his hips off. Continuing to hold her gaze, he tossed that towel behind him as well, where she saw it landed on top of the other one with amazing accuracy. Scully, by a shear force of superhuman will, held her complacent gaze as she spoke again, meeting his eyes. "You are such a slob, you know that?" "So I've been told," he replied taking a step forward with that unhinging, 'melt her bones and boil her blood' smile of his. "Just as long as you know," Scully softly choked out, her chest rapidly rising and falling as her facade of calm began to fray at the edges. "Oh, I know," he seductively assured. Crossing his arm over his chest, he reached to rub at his shoulder, his fingers playing over his skin in slow strokes as he examined it. Scully had to close her eyes, as she began to breathe heavily out her nostrils. She shook her head while crossing her arms over her pajama top and rocking back and forth on her feet. "Besides, Scully," he said, pinning his gaze on her again. "You love me, slob or no slob." Scully thought that at this moment, should she try, she'd be unable to get an accurate heart rate because, as it seemed to her, her heart had just burst out of her chest. She swallowed back a moan. Mentally shaking herself, she retook control of her emotions, if only temporarily. "Yes, well, some might say I've become demented, breathing in all that musty basement air," Scully responded, proud of herself that she'd been able to talk at all, let alone formulate a comeback. "I don't *even* want to infer what that means about me," Mulder said, absently rubbing a hand against his chest again while still holding her gaze. Scully desperately wanted to lower her eyes to his nether regions but if she did, then she would lose this round in the game they were playing, the game that always excited her, the game of maintaining an air of nonchalance when it totally wasn't there. "So, Piaget helped you how, Mulder," Scully asked, breaking the eye contact. Walking from the side of the bed, she crossed to the bureau. Scully opened the drawer and pulled out her bottle of body lotion. When she raised her eyes to the mirror in front of her, she saw Mulder still standing on his side of the bed, waiting. Straightening her shoulders and telling her heart rate to behave, she walked around the bed to stand in front of Mulder. Handing him the lotion bottle, she turned around and stripped her night shirt off, exposing her bare back. Without instruction, Mulder caught the shirt and laid it against the nightstand. She then saw Mulder squeeze some of the vanilla scented lotion into his palm, watching him through the mirror across the room. She saw Mulder look up from the lotion. Before touching her with his hands, he instead, through the mirror, took a moment to caress her face with his eyes. Scully breath caught in her throat. It took her a few moments to swallow and begin the breathing process again. Mulder released her stare and turned his attention to her back as he started to dab spots of the lotion against her skin. Scully's teeth dug into her lips hard, as she barely stifled a moan. "How did I get Jack to talk to me? Well, I'm so glad you asked, Dr. Scully," Mulder softly said, leaning forward and letting his breath fan the back of her neck. Scully quivered, her nipples hardening from the cool air mixed with the warmth of his exhalation. She was tossed in savage sensation and had no clue what he was talking about anymore, but she offered a token, "Uh huh." Mulder started to rub the dollops into her shoulder blades and down her backbone in slow, measured strokes that were doing more to excite then simply soothe. "You see, I'd been watching him for days, conferring with various people and none of the tricks of the trade were working. He just wouldn't respond to any of us. Though, he would play with this one Batman toy." Respond. Batman toy . . . oh right, Jack. She gave herself a mental shake, refocusing her attention on his words and trying not to focus on his hands that were moving lower, massaging deeper into her skin. "Let's move to the bed, Scully." "Good idea," she breathed in response. Her legs were beginning to get frighteningly weak. Crawling on top of the bed and lying down on her chest, she crossed her arms to pillow her head against them. Mulder climbed over her, straddling her pajama-clad hips. She grunted at the feel of his weight on top of her. Christ, Mulder on top of her. Mulder naked and on top of her. She was one damn lucky woman! His voice washed over her, soft and lulling. As she listened to him, his hands sinfully manipulated her muscles, causing Richter scale reactions just beneath the surface of her flesh. And to her credit, Scully actually listened as Mulder further explained what happened, about challenging the development of Jack's six-year-old brain with the noted child psychologist's philosophies. "So, the Caped Crusader saves the day," Scully murmured against her arm. "I wasn't wearing a cape then," Mulder replied, sliding his hands down the sides of her waist. Scully was almost falling asleep. She was drifting until she felt Mulder's fingers pause. Both of them froze, and then all hell broke loose as he danced his fingertips over her body, launching an excruciating tickle attack. "Oh God, Mulder stop, stop, stoooppp!" Scully screamed twisting and writhing beneath his naked body and his fingers as he leaned over her, his hands eliciting deep throated and desperate gasps of breaths and laughter. "Oh, please, please, pleeease," Scully gasped, struggling to suck air into her lungs, tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. "Say it!" Mulder demanded, his fingers playing over her waist, reaching under her to attack her stomach then sliding into her arm pits. "Never!" Scully cried, prying his hands off of one area only to have him place them somewhere else. Mulder reached back and clamped a hand on her pajama covered thigh, squeezing and causing Scully to arch her back, howling in gales of uncontrollable giggles as she tried to push him off and away from her. "Say it!" Mulder demanded, attacking her behind the knees, alternating between tummy and knees and reaching down to her calves. "Come on, Dr. Scully, you can end this undignified spectacle you're creating, if you *just* say it." "Nee . . . never," Scully continued obstinate as energy began to seep out of her and she began to feel like a wet noodle, her protests, weakening as well. "I'm waaAAAaaiting," Mulder sung, bending over her. She twisted her head to look at him. He clasped her chin, planting a kiss upon her lips then let her go, quickly pulling away. Which was good he did because Scully was seriously wondering if she could bite him and free herself. "Okay, okay, okay," Scully conceded in defeat. Mulder instantly stopped his torture as she tried to recover her breath. He sat up on his knees and she slid across the comforter, putting distance between them, a false sense of tickle-free security. "I'm still waiting," Mulder reminded, threateningly flexing his fingers as Scully flipped over to her back. Her eyes widened, transfixed on the pleasure-turned-torture tools. "I said okay!" Scully breathlessly whined, laughter still tinging her voice as the air finally decided to settle back into her lungs. Mulder raised an eyebrow, his lips curved in that smile. "Elvis lives," Scully said, rolling her eyes. She knew that he knew she'd said it without the strength of conviction. It didn't matter. It seemed to be enough because Mulder then began to break out into song, to which she dreaded, mockingly searching for a pillow to put over her head. "Wise . . . men . . . say. . . Only fools, rush, in . . . but I, can't, help, falling in love with you. . . ." "Ugh!" Scully rolled her eyes, groaning and falling back against the mattress. Mulder reached over and tugged her pajama bottoms off, proceeding to make her as naked as he was before climbing over her, and singing in his best version of an Elvis swagger. He punctuated each word with a kiss. First his lips touched her forehead, then her cheeks, followed by her chin as he skipped over her lips. His tongue slid out and licked down her neck to that indent at her collar bone. His lips clamped onto her skin, giving her a resounding suck before continuing his musical journey downward. Suddenly his body left hers, causing Scully to groan in protest until she felt her big toe sliding into the warmth of his mouth. Oh, Jesus Christ! His lips slipped off her toe and climbed up, kissing the inside of her ankles, then the bottom of her knee cap. His tongue slid out again and licked over the knee. Scully felt that she really didn't mind Elvis at this moment. He continued to sing, his mouth ever crawling upward, cresting her thigh, his hands rubbing up and down beneath them. Scully body responded, feeling herself slick at his most minimal of his touches. She moaned as his breath fanned her center. Suddenly he tugged her closer, sliding her across the bed as he reached down to delve into her apex, his tongue licking her sensory perceptions into an inferno. "Mulder," she gasped, reaching for him and running a hand through his chocolate strands. Mulder lifted his face and she met his eyes, her view feeling glazed as she saw his pleased smile. "I love you," she mouthed, looking at him. Mulder smile widened. He reached up and laced his fingers within hers. "I love you, too," Mulder replied. Scully dropped her head back against the mattress. Mulder kissed her center, restoking her flames with his mouth. She was quivering all over as he manipulated her senses, causing her heart to trip beat -- pausing to fall and then be caught again in the heat and wetness of his tongue. He nuzzled and stroked, exploring the deep ravines of her desire, causing her to get lost in the wet darkness of his tongue. Scully cracked her eyes open, turning her head. She could see them in the bureau mirror, his head moving between her legs, kneeling on the floor while she lie sprawled open for him. The light from the bedside lamp cast the vision of them in a warm, comforting glow. Scully raised her hips in the air as another wave of pleasure pulsed from her center. Her eyes closed, her head tossing back and forth, back and forth. Mulder increased his speed, stroking her, sucking her between his lips and teasing her with his teeth. She squeezed her eyes shut harder, feeling and losing all sense of time and space as a deluge of firecracker heat rumbled over her body. With each flick, stroke, and nip, his head moved faster and faster between her thighs, his hand squeezing hers in response to the tugging on his. "Mulder, Mulder," she chanted over and over until she couldn't say anything, curling into herself and out of herself, slowly shimmying back to earth and registering the down of the comforter and the kisses Mulder was now placing on her inside thigh. Finally, her breathing became more even and she was able to open her eyes. Mulder crawled up over her, resting his weight against her body, pressing her hot, flushed skin against his. Her legs hugged the sides of his stomach, her knees bent in the air. She loved the warm, hot feel of his hairy chest against her sensitive breasts as he adjusted their embrace, instantly compensating so they could lie face to face, chest to chest. Mulder held some of his upper body weight off of her by sliding his elbows on either side of her chest, his arms threading under hers so his hands could play with the back of her neck and linger in her auburn strands. Scully opened her eyes, looking up into his face. His hazel eyes twinkled in shades of green and brown, each color struggling to reign supreme. She raised her hands to cup his face. Leaning up from the bed, her hair slid off her shoulders and draped behind her as she kept her eyes open, placing a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. Mulder closed his eyes at the contact, slowly reopening them as she pulled slightly away. Scully smiled, a smirk really, as she said, "Long live the King!" Mulder looked at her, confused for a second, then burst out laughing, meeting her chuckles as he buried his face into the crook of her shoulder. Mulder whispered in her ear, "Thank you, thank you verrae much." Scully's body convulsed with more laughter, feeling his body join hers in a small chuckle fest as they rested against each other. Mulder flipped over, dragging her on top of him. They laid there for a while, bundling themselves in the bedding and relaxing. Just as Scully was about to drift into sleep, Mulder spoke. "So, tell me, how did you like Vaughn? What did you think of him?" Scully sighed, opening her eyes and meeting his. She knew what he was doing. She knew he hoped that she would like him. It was important to Mulder. Scully stroked his hair from his face as she thought about Mike Vaughn, and Mulder, particularly. XXXXXXXXXX It seemed Mulder had created a family for himself by silently surrogating people into one to replace his own. A lover with her, a mother figure with Pearl, a brother with Mike -- it was something an orphan might do and in many ways Mulder was an orphan, emotionally anyway. Scully was glad he was able to make ties with people, that he was able to overcome the trappings of the refined, denied emotional environment that he had grown up in. Scully could see how easy Mulder got along with Mike. She had watched them talking at the tavern, watching the way that they shared opinions about this case and other things. There was a companionship between the two men that she'd never witnessed Mulder having before. It actually made her very happy to know that he did have it -- had that certain something that Scully felt she had always shared with her sister, Melissa, and to some extent her brother, Charlie. There was a mutual respect between the two men. Most surprisingly of all, at least to her, was that a hardened -- well, maybe not so hardened, but that a Philly cop would support Mulder and the X-Files. It seemed Lieutenant Detective Mike Vaughn wasn't a man to judge another's mission in life and that was the type of thing that guaranteed Mulder's loyalty and trust. Mike's acceptance was an almost foreign experience, yet the lieutenant proffered it without recrimination. Thinking on Mulder's surrogate family ties, she couldn't stop herself from dwelling on Pearl, the other quasi-family member she'd met tonight. Pearl, well, how could she not like Pearl? Pearl was such a passionate, sprightly woman that you couldn't help but find yourself hanging on nearly every word she said to you. There was a genuine goodness about her, a goodness that had suffered through extremely hard times. Losing a daughter was something Scully could relate to on the most basic of levels. She didn't know if she could truly imagine losing a child after having them be a part of your life for over twenty-nine years. It was something she didn't want to contemplate, to do so would bring up more emotions than she wanted to deal with. She remembered Pearl's words of quiet calm when Scully asked about her daughter as Mulder had left the dining room to answer his cell phone. . . . "A parent should never have to outlive their child. Never," Pearl said vehemently. Scully felt tears welling in her eyes, a tunnel narrowing her spectrum of sight until Pearl spoke again widening her siphoning view with the outstretched hand of her voice. " I suspect you've experienced that knowledge first hand." "Did Mulder tell you that?" Scully asked, her voice wavering. "No, child, he did not," Pearl said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. Scully wondered if Pearl was so intuitive that she could sense a similar loss. Or, was she becoming more transparent with her feelings? Was it an unspoken affinity that women shared, the loss of a child, a loss so profound and painful that words could not begin to explain it. Scully wasn't about to try. But, Pearl knew that and the gentle touch of her hand confirmed that words weren't necessary. Just then Mulder had returned coming up to stand behind her. Pearl released Scully's hand, and turned to smile at Mulder. Scully sat still, blinking her eyes and secreting away a few fallen tears. She looked across the table at Alice, almost forgetting she was in the room. To Alice's credit, she seemed to be busying herself with her cigarette case. When they were leaving Pearl's, Scully found herself hugging the older woman just as tightly as Pearl was hugging her, both of them seemingly squeezing the very life out of one another. "See you later, Dana, Fox, be good," Pearl said, catching the screen door as they walked down the steps. "I'll be back tomorrow morning if that's all right," Mulder said, pausing on the bottom step. "I'll have breakfast and Jack waiting for you, just give us a call before you come," Pearl agreed, smiling. "Pearl, you're going to ruin me for all women," Mulder said, wrapping an arm around Scully's waist. "I highly doubt that. Wouldn't you agree, Dana?" Scully just smiled, feeling a refreshment she hadn't realized she was needing. Stringing her arm around Mulder's waist as they turned away, they walked across the cobbled street toward their rental car. XXXXXXXX "Um, Scully, earth to Scully?" Mulder called, tugging his teeth on her ear. Scully playfully smacked the back of his head as he leaned over her, his teeth tightened on her ear lobe, "Ouch, stop that!" The pain was immediately replaced by a long lick of his tongue. She found herself twining her fingers into his hair and scraping her nails against his skin. "What do you think of Vaughn?" Mulder repeated. "I like both Mike and Pearl. They seem to be great people to have in your corner, and they are, Mulder . . . in your corner, I mean." "I know, Scully, I know," he agreed, his eyes serious as he searched her face. "You're very lucky to have them, Mulder," Scully said, kissing his nose and letting her head slowly sink back against her pillow. She gave him one of her impish grins. Mulder returned the smile, a light dancing in his eyes. "Well, Scully, third times a charm. I mean, I lucked out with you, too." "Are you comparing me to a rabbit's foot, Mulder?" Scully teased, playing dense to lighten the suddenly serious mood. The air was getting entirely too heavy for 230 in the AM. Yet, given a choice, she would gladly accept this heaviness if that's what it took to counteract against the cruel, outside world of serial murders who soaked beds in dripping pools of red. Scully gave herself a mental shake. Yeah, she would accept it, want it, whatever, even if it only worked for a little while. "Come here, Scully, let me rub ya," Mulder said, playing along and dropping his voice down another register. "For more luck, of course." "Ohhh," Scully moaned as she felt his hand slide between their bodies and cup her breast, kneading it between his fingers and sliding his hand over it until he clasped the tip of her nipple between his fingertips. He successfully washed away the red horror of death and pain as his touch began to apply coats of pleasure against, within, and without her body. "Hey, Scully?" Mulder said, his voice deep, throaty. "Hmm?" she gasped, meeting his eyes. "Are you ready for this hunka, hunka burnin' love?" Mulder swaggered, cutting off her giggles with a kiss that sealed her lips to his. Oh yeah, she was definitely ready. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pearl's Row Home Tuesday, 947 A.M. Mulder stood outside Pearl's townhouse, waiting for the door to open. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he squinted his eyes and tilted his head to give a leery glance at the sky. A canopy of bright steel-gray bolted by drifting strips of charcoal hid the morning sun. Turning, he looked down the street at the corner light. The usual, busy AM cross traffic was muted, a hush of sorts coating the surrounding streets. Mulder felt a shiver course down his spine. It was more than the promise of dismal weather. It was like a premonition of gloom, a pervading melancholy that hinted from the facade of this house. So different from the day before, when Pearl's home was bustling with activity and optimism. He used the door knocker again. Grabbing the railing, he leaned over the metal work, trying to peer through the living room window. No luck. Standing back, he pulled the sleeve of his trench coat up, checking the time. 953 A.M. Mulder was starting to get a bit worried, he'd been standing out on her front stoop for nearly five minutes with no response. As instructed, he gave fair warning, calling after dropping Scully off at the precinct. As he was about to knock for the third time, he cocked his head to the side, hearing muffled voices. One was deeper than the other, then silence. Finally the front door swung open and Mulder couldn't help but catch the tail end of a raised voice accompanied by a loud slamming door. Mulder raised an eyebrow, before asking, "Is it not a good time, Pearl?" "It's never a good time, anymore," Pearl grumbled, her gaze staring back into the direction of the slammed door. "Pearl?" Mulder prompted, drawing her attention. "I'm sorry Fox, come in, come in," Pearl offered, stepping back. Mulder opened the screen door as she welcomed him in. Standing in the creme accented living room, he could smell the promised breakfast cooking. Mixed with the delicious aroma of morning fare was another scent. "Pearl, I think something's burning," Mulder said, audibly sniffing the air. "Oh shit!" Pearl exclaimed, scrambling down the small hallway into the kitchen. Mulder walked back to the front door and pushed it closed before following after her. As he crossed into the kitchen, he saw a black iron skillet of eggs billowing a brownish stream of smoke. Pearl grabbed a pot holder and wrapped it around the cast iron handle while Mulder walked around her and turned on the kitchen faucet. Stepping back to let her run the skillet under the water, Mulder reached over to turn the oven burner off. Pearl sat the pan in the sink, submerging it under the stream of water before reaching over the sink to open the window. Suddenly a sound burst into the room with loud, droning beeps that stemmed from the fire alarm. Mulder followed the noise back down the hallway and reached up, pulling the batteries away from the connection. When he came back into the kitchen, Pearl was standing at the sink. The faucet still ran and the rising water threatened to overflow as she remained motionless. Motionless with the exception of the hitching sobs that caused her body to tremble. Mulder came up behind her, reached over to switch off the faucet and pulled the drain. Placing his hands on Pearl's shoulders, he gave her a comforting squeeze. She reached a hand a top of his, patting her thanks. "Oh, sometimes I wish my Robert were still here," Pearl whispered to herself, but not too quietly that Mulder hadn't heard her. "I know, Pearl." Mulder turned her around to face him. He turned her hand over in his and dropped his eyes to her open palm. Such a tiny hand ... yet so strong. The type of hand that was capable of carrying a pallet of bricks to fortify the foundation of her family. He studied the lines of her skin, and although he was no palm reader, he knew enough to recognize the solid curve of her life line. For once, he didn't smile in response to his own skepticism. When it came to Pearl, there was truth to what ordinarily would be the signs of a cheap parlor trick. Her life line was thick and distinct, despite all the tragedies that could have easily impeded it. Mulder was aware of them all. The first loss had been her husband. US Army Captain Robert Clayton had been killed in action while stationed in the Mekong Delta, not far from Saigon. He was the victim of an oxymoron known as "friendly fire". A bullet intended for the enemy claimed his life and turned Pearl into a thirty year old widow. But rather than be bitter, she was proud. She would not mourn his death or soil his memory with her despair. To do so would be to dishonor a fine man, and she was adamant that she would someday be with him again. As she explained to Mulder years ago, "I found my soul mate..." At the time, Mulder hadn't understood the significance to Pearl's words. The concept of a soul mate was as foreign as the notion that he had a soul worth preserving, much less a partner who would bind with it. But he knew different now. He had found Scully. She was more than just his partner in work. She had become his partner in life, the woman who used her own soul to piece his back together. And, like Pearl, her strength was the indomitable type. Another pair of small hands that were capable of carrying the weight of the world, including the tonnage of his past. While she was the type who offered comfort but was reluctant to receive it. It was the same with Scully. They were givers, not takers. The type of women who nourished others, children and adults alike. The tragedy was that both had experienced the greatest loss of all . . . with Pearl is was her daughter, Eleanor. . . With Scully . . . it was Emily. . . . But, the two of them were resilience personified . . . and the comparison didn't stop there. When Pearl tried to withdraw her hand, Mulder found himself hanging onto to it tightly. "Talk to me, Pearl," Mulder coaxed, his voice rough as he lead her to a kitchen chair, sitting her down. How many times had he said those exact words to Scully? He turned back to the kitchen counter, blew out a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Reaching for the stove again, he turned the fire off from under the crackling cajun'd bacon. On the corner of the Formica counter, Mulder spotted a coffee machine. Having finished percolating, it was ready to be poured. Plucking two mugs from the wall hooks, he set them down onto the table for Pearl and himself before walking back to grab the coffee pot. Hearing the legs of her chair scrape against the linoleum, Mulder said over his shoulder before turning around, "Don't get up, everything's under control." "Now Fox, I'm just gettin' the creamer from the refrigerator door, " she admonished. Mulder nodded his head as he poured the rich liquid into both mugs. A few moments later, decanter back on its heating pad, Mulder and Pearl came back to the table at the same time. He held her chair out for her, pushing it in once she'd settled on it. "Oh, I'm not used to this royal treatment," Pearl gasped, her palm fluttering before her. Mulder watched her shaking hands and reached across the table, clasping one within his own. He waited for Pearl to meet his eyes before speaking. "That's because you've always given it rather than received it," Mulder affirmed, accompanying the decree with a slight, reassuring squeeze before releasing her. Shrugging off his suit jacket, he laid it against the back of the wooden chair beside him before attending to his coffee. Pouring extra creamer into his mug, he prodded Pearl to talk. "Tell me, what's going on with Jack?" Pearl nodded her head before turning a weary smile up at him. "I. . . Oh, Lordy, I just don't know where to begin," she stalled, blindly stirring her coffee as she gazed introspectively. "I don't know if I want to. . . ." "Pearl," Mulder said, bending down to catch her view. "Tell me, it's all right." "Well, it's just that. . . I mean, he's sixteen, a teenager. He's into the terrible teens, I know that but. . . ." "Go on," Mulder said, sipping his coffee, his eyes narrowing as he watched her becoming more agitated. ". . .but it's different from that, " Pearl continued, adjusting her seat position as she looked up to meet Mulder's gaze. "I said last night that things have been bad since this Keenswan parole hearing -- they . . . things I mean, really have been." Pearl paused to take a sip of her coffee before setting the cup onto the table with a clink. "Jack. Jack's always been, well. . . a quiet, introspective kind of child. He doesn't really have any friends, least none I know of." Pearl shook her head, raising a hand to pat at the black hair piled tightly atop of it. She sighed. "He spends so much of his time on that computer that he barely even bothers to say a 'how ya do' to me anymore. That ... well, I suppose that could be considered normal. . . ." Pearl paused, crossing her arms and rubbing them before continuing. "I'm tellin' ya, Fox, since this whole Keenswan's come up again, he's been . . . and I don't know that I could blame him, really, but he's been a bit different." "Standoffish?" Mulder questioned, watching her. "No, worse than that. . . I'd have to say, hostile, but not always. . . . No, not always. He just gets into these . . . tirades, funks -- something, and I never know when one's gonna come on. It's getting so that I feel like I'm walkin' around here on egg shells." "Is he still seeing a therapist?" Mulder asked. "Yes, as you know, he's been seeing one since Eleanor . . . since she died," Pearl answered. She cupped her hands around her mug, causing her wedding bands to tap lightly against the porcelain. Mulder looked at the large diamond engagement ring and accompanying wedding band, both were slightly tarnished due to wear and age. She still wore them. Soul mates. Mulder slightly shook his head before leaning toward her. "What's the therapist have to say?" "Nothing, when Jack sees her he isn't like . . . like he has been, " Pearl sighed. "I don't understand it. I mean, I've tried to talk to him about his feelings, figuring he needed an outlet other than an office visit. I wanted him to talk to me like he . . . like he used to, but he shuts me out at every turn." Pearl stared at the rising steam coming from the mug. "You just came in on the latest failed attempt." Pearl picked out a napkin from it's holder and started playing with it. "I just . . . oh God, I hate to say it . . . but I just feel tired. I feel like I'm at my wit's end, like I'm lost. I never had anything near to this type of problem with Eleanor," Pearl paused, her voice catching. Mulder could see a tear streaming from the corner of her eye. Placing a hand over hers, he stopped her from shredding the paper napkin into teeny tiny bits. He looked at her hands within his. He stared at the added wrinkles that were now new to him, but old to her. Mulder noted more of the olive-colored aged spots that weren't there before. Closing his eyes, he found himself caught in the memories from long ago. Shaking his head clear of his wandering thoughts, he pulled his chair over to her. Leaning over, he tugged Pearl into an embrace that rivaled the very first one, tucking her head beneath his chin, "Let me speak to him, Pearl. Maybe I can help, see what's going on." "I couldn't ask you to do that, Fox. This has nothing to do with you," Pearl said against his shirt. "Nothing? If we hadn't found Keenswan sooner then maybe your-" "Don't even say it!" she admonished, pulling back and staring into his eyes with an angered force. She reached and grabbed hold of his hand, clasping it in a tight squeeze. "I'm tired of playing the blame game of 'what ifs'. . . I've done that for way longer than I ever should have." Mulder smiled, nodding his head before meeting her eyes again. "Okay, all right, Pearl," he agreed, rubbing his free hand against her back. "But, I'd still like to talk to him after we finish our coffee. I have a feeling I'm going to need to fortify my nerves," he paused to wink at her. "What with the terrible teens syndrome and all." Mulder mock shuddered, letting Pearl go as she did him and sitting back against his chair. She smiled, giving a slight laugh and her permission. "You better have two cups before you go into the lair." Softly laughing, he shook his head. Mulder took another tentative sip from his mug and smiled. At least Pearl still wasn't ready for 'Sainted June Cleaverhood' yet -- She still made a horrible cup of joe. XXXXXXXXXXXXX "Jack?" Mulder called, leaning toward the teenager's bedroom door. He rapped against the oak, waiting. No response. "Jack, I'm opening the door," Mulder warned, gripping the chilled knob. Suddenly the door swung open, the handle slipping from his fingertips. Standing back, he lingered in the hallway, an eyebrow cocked. He could feel the poorly disguised curiosity brimming within the youth, yet the skinny teenager managed to keep his gaze averted, staring down at Mulder's shoes. Jack stepped back, allowing Mulder to enter into his inner sanctum. Crossing the threshold, Mulder's eyes scanned around the room, noting the decor. For that 'all purpose cave effect', the mini blinds remained closed, and the only lights in the room came from the dull blush off of the computer screen, accompanied by the black light housed in the corner of the bedroom. Folded clothes were heaped on his bureau, some having tumbled to the floor. Mulder wrinkled his nose, his gaze searching for the origin of the decaying bouquet of 'Food Past', searching without success. Hearing Jack sit, Mulder turned at the sound of creaking leather. With Jack facing away, he stole a few seconds to inspect the teenager. His hair was long, black and stringy. The bulk of which was fastened at the nape of his neck by a rubber band, leaving a few inches left to hang between his shoulder blades. Mulder continued the inspection, noting the black T-shirt Jack wore along with a matching pair of black jeans. The Goth chic look would have fulfilled completion if not for the faded white sneaks. Mulder peered over Jack's shoulder, keeping the distance he allotted the boy. He could see that Jack'd been playing a computer game, the screen action frozen in place. Taking a step closer, he leaned in and saw that the screen characters looked to be from the game Langly had him playing in the gunmen lair about three weeks ago. Jack fidgeted and Mulder pulled back. He studied the walls. Tacked up on the back of the bedroom door resided a Marilyn Manson poster, over the bed -- "Rage Against the Machine", which shimmered in shades of neon purple from the black light. On the far wall was some kind of Dungeons and Dragons concoction. Looking at him again, he saw, and heard, the boy's leg jack-hammering against the floor boards, his back stiff. Accompanying the percussion beat, Mulder could also hear the distinct popping of Jack's knuckles. "Jack, I'd like to talk with you . . . and I've found it's easier to do that face to face," Mulder said, studying the boy for a response. Jack stopped the symphonics and slowly swiveled the squeaking chair around, affording Mulder his first open view of him. He saw that Jack had Pearl's violet eyes, only his shifted uneasily behind a pair of too large silver-framed glasses. He was also inordinately pale, suffering from what Mulder suspected to be a severe case of computer screen burn. Jack was actually pretty tall -- skinny -- and a bit gangly. He kind of reminded Mulder of himself at sixteen all elbows, hands and feet and no idea quite what to do with them. Mulder watched as Jack nervously picked at his elbows, his arms crossed against his chest in a defensive posture and his legs finally settling down to cross at the ankles. Ending the scrutiny, he spoke. "So . . . how have you been, Jack?" Mulder asked, looking around for a place to sit. He decided on the rumpled bed. The whole room had a definite unpleasant aroma to it. Sitting down, it became stronger, giving Mulder vague memories of his own teenage sanctuary. Pearl was right, this definitely was a lair. Jack glanced away toward the shaded window. When he answered, his voice was a mixture of maturity and childhood. "I'm okay." Mulder nodded his head as if processing Jack's answer. He watched Jack's leg wind-up again, beating a staccato to his own drummer. Mulder made a mental note of the teenager's agitation before speaking. "You're grandmother tells me --" "What the hell she tell you!" Jack interrupted, gripping the arms of his chair, his knuckles whitening, his leg speeding. Mulder remained silent, observing him. Jack didn't quite fit with the profile of a child who'd suffered post traumatic stress disorder, at least not at that moment. The timid, reserved persona usually associated with adolescent survivors did not manifest in such a manner as Jack was behaving -- just as Pearl had suggested it wouldn't. "-- that you're into computers. Is this Magic of the Realms?" Mulder asked, peering at the screen and nodding with his head. Jack swung around at nearly mock speed, his eyes exceptionally bright and glaring. "Yeah, how'd you know that?" Mulder shrugged his shoulders. Sitting with his long legs apart, one hand rested on a thigh while he leaned on the other forearm that was resting on his other thigh. He answered Jack, his tone casual. "I've played it before." "What's your high score?" Jack asked, his demeanor softening as he rolled himself toward Mulder. Silently wracking his brain, Mulder tried to remember from the one time that Langly and he had played. It didn't help that the event was colored in shades of Frohicke's cheap beer and stale potato chips. "123 Golden Rings and I think . . . no, I know. 64 diamond chalices," Mulder replied, impressed with himself. "Wow, not bad, how long you been playing," Jack asked, uncrossing his arms and leaning toward Mulder. "Not long," Mulder answered, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He watched Jack begin to relax further. "What's your character name?" Jack questioned, reaching behind him and burying a hand into a hidden bag of chips. Ah, so that was what it was, of course! Now he knew where the perpetrating stench was emanating from. "Lexicor, I was a bad ass with spells," Mulder replied, draping his forearms against his thighs and letting his hands hang between his knees. "Yeah, spells? Me too, I'm Merlin," Jack said, slightly turning to grab and click the mouse, allowing the computer screen to display a figure in rich robes. Based on his earlier inspection, Mulder had figured his character to be a wizard of some sort. Besides the large posters were pictures nestled on Jack's desk and hanging from the far wall, beyond the computer monitor. There was another magician or wizard, whatever, drawn that resembled the figures on the Dungeons and Dragon's poster above Jack's bed. Mulder nodded his head toward the picture on the wall. "Did you draw that?" Jack swiveled his head and looked, a smile crossing over his face as he looked back at Mulder. "Yeah, that's one of mine." "That's pretty good," Mulder complimented, gauging the boys reactions. He noted Jack's guard slipping further. The boy was becoming even more calm, complacent. He'd crossed his arms again but his demeanor was not as confrontational. Mulder skillfully navigated around Jack, plucking further clues to Jack's likes from his room. "Hey, you see that new flick came out this year, 'Marquin's Spell'?" Jack asked, taking his turn to study Mulder. "I haven't had a chance, been suffering through some heavy case loads," Mulder explained. Jack was silent, staring at Mulder, looking at him from the tips of his leather shoes, up his tailored pants, crawling over the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt, until finally looking into Mulder's face. Mulder sat passively, allowing Jack to openly examine him. "I remember you, you know?" Jack spit out, his voice suddenly sharp, playing against the image of moments ago. Mulder's eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue, nodding his head for him to continue. Jack stood up, walked past the bed, past Mulder, in a wide arc as he went over to his closet. Struggling against a pile of worn clothing that blocked the closet door, he finally wrenched it open after angrily kicking the pile aside. Mulder watched, curious, as Jack disappeared into his closet then came back out again, carrying a shoe box. "Here," Jack said, tossing the cardboard box at him. Mulder snatched it from the air, his eyes following Jack as he sat back in his desk chair. Mulder turned his eyes back to the box. It wasn't heavy yet he could definitely feel something substantial within it. Pulling the lid off, Mulder uncovered the Batman toy he'd given Jack those many years ago. His eyes widened, he hadn't expected Jack to remember him, not really. And for Jack to still have the toy Mulder gave, well . . . it was a surprise. Jack had only been six years old then . . . and although Mulder kept in touch with Pearl, both of them thought it best if he stayed beyond Jack's fragile psyche, not wanting to cause any undo stress with the harsh memories that Mulder's presence could be associated with. "Wow, you do remember," Mulder said, his tone soft as he let the box fall to the floor while pulling out the car. Mulder smiled and started raising it above his head, imitating his actions from long ago. "No, you don't do it like that," Jack admonished, repeating verbatim the tone and words he'd said to Mulder. Mulder looked back at Jack and saw him smiling. Slowly lowering the car to his lap, he held the boy's gaze and softly asked, "How've you been, Jack?" Jack ducked his head, slightly turning away. "I've been okay." He turned back to face Mulder, grabbing hold of his stare. "You know, I remember everything. My grandmom, she don't think I do, that I was too young, too traumatized. But I remember. . . ." Mulder remained silent, letting him talk. Jack looked away and back again, trying to decide whether to continue holding Mulder's gaze. He held it. "You . . . you. . . I couldn't talk to anyone, you know. I. . . I don't know why, maybe it was cuz they treated me like I was gonna break or something'. . . I . . . I dunno. Maybe I woulda, though I couldn't understand that. Then you come in and just . . . just start playin'. Not with me, just playin' and actin' like you could give a shit that I was there. You weren't, ah. . . Christ, dissectin' me. Or least, you didn't show it." Mulder nodded his head, "We were afraid. You hadn't responded to anything for a very long time. I decided to go against protocol," Mulder took his turn to lean toward Jack. "Apparently, I'm told I tend to do that often." "I never got to thank you," Jack said, his voice soft and unsure. "Back then, what I did know was that I didn't know who to trust. No one really talked to me. I mean "to me". They talked "at me". You didn't do that and I guess. . . I guess . . . hell, thanks man." Mulder felt his heart squeeze within his chest, his breath catching in his throat. He never took himself to be a sentimental sap, but damned if he didn't look at Jack and see the boy, not as he was now, but catching a glimmer of the six year old child who hadn't known how to reach out. Mulder shook his head, seeing the teenager before him, again. "You're welcome," Mulder replied, looking down at the car he found himself clutching in his hands. He carefully placed it back in the shoe box, closing the lid with a soft whooshing sound. Mulder nodded again. Jack chanced a quick glance back at him before speaking. "I saw you last night with that lady." "My partner," Mulder replied, trying to clear his thoughts and play catch up with Jack's. "Yeah, her," he answered and Mulder could almost hear the boy swallowing. Mulder had to grin, the similarities to himself deepening with Jack's veiled interest in Scully. Excepting the decor and vampiric apparel, this boy might just have some taste, yet. "You should meet her, I'm sure she'd like that," Mulder suggested. "You should have come out at dinner last night." Jack crossed his arms again, reflexively picking at his elbows. "No! I mean, I was kinda tired. I couldn't have done that, it would have been wrong." Jack finished in a mutter, staring off into space. "Excuse me?" Mulder asked, standing up as he plunged his hands into his pants pockets. His eyes narrowed, trying to puzzle out Jack's last comment. "Nuh. . . nothing, nothing," Jack answered, reaching over to his monitor and flicking the screen off. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm starvin'. Pearl burned breakfast," Mulder said, shaking his head. "Does *she* do that often?" Jack smirked, then laughed, "No." "Well, I don't know 'bout you but I'm in the mood for a sloppy dog." "There's a vendor on Market St., his stuff's pretty decent, I usually get'um there," Jack said, while toying with a piece of torn plastic on his chair. "Wanna go?" Mulder calmly asked, keeping "cool", making the request no big deal. "Your treat?" "This time," Mulder agreed, grinning. Jack met that grin. "Hell yeah, then," Jack answered, standing up and pulling his Eagle's football jacket off the floor by his feet. His actions began to slow down as he strung his arms through the sleeves. "What is it?" Mulder asked, turning a questioning look on Jack. "Would you um . . . you know . . . tell me what it's like. . . I mean, what you do at the FBI? That is, as long as you don't have to kill me after?" Mulder smirked, before giving a shake to his head. Jack flinched and Mulder saw it. Soldiering his features into a calmer expression, he smiled, apologizing. "I'm sorry, it's just. . . I think you're really gonna like what I've got to tell you. My uh, specialty in the FBI is just about beyond what you could imagine." "Whaddya mean?" "Come on, let's go and we'll talk," Mulder said, waving his hand. Mulder opened the door and saw Pearl standing at the mouth of the kitchen entryway. "We're gonna go for a walk, we won't be long," Mulder said, holding her stare. Pearl quickly disappeared into the kitchen then hurried on down the hallway to them, handing Mulder his jacket and trench coat. Nodding her head, she smiled a smile of complete gratitude. Mulder met that smile, reassuring her. Jack stood at the now open front door. "We'll be back, Grams," he informed. Mulder watched as the boy craned his neck beyond him to meet Pearl's eyes before walking out the door. "Thank you," Pearl whispered, touching Mulder's forearm. "Don't thank me yet, Pearl," Mulder warned, his tone and gaze serious. She nodded her head again, following behind him as he made his way to the door. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "You're shittin' me? How old do you think I am, I mean, come on?" Jack said, giving Mulder a leery glance, his breath crystallizing before him. "It's no joke, Jack. It was a parasite really, a flukeman in the sewer systems," Mulder assured, taking a finishing bit of his steaming dog while they made their way back. "Whatever," Jack sighed. "Don't tell me what you do, then." Jack glanced at Mulder as he jumped over a bundled pile of newspapers. "Hey, kid watch it," someone yelled. Mulder turned around looking back to see a craggy old man hobbling out of the alley, wearing a "Ralph's Newsprint Media" apron. He hunkered down and hoisted the bundle onto his shoulder. "You're not kiddin' me?" Jack questioned again around a mouthful of relish and dog. The teenager refused to believe, yet at the same time, wasn't quite sure not to. "I'm not kiddin' you," Mulder assured, wiping his hands on a small napkin as he huddled his shoulders against the wind and the tiny sprinkles of rain that began spitting from the clouds above. Turning, they came onto Jack's street. "How you been feelin', Jack?" Mulder asked, slanting his gaze on him as he dug into his coat pocket for another napkin, pilfering one from the stack he stuffed into it. "Pearl tells me . . . you don't seem to be feeling too well." Mulder kept walking, concentrating on getting the mustard that snuck its way under his finger nails. He turned to say something more and noticed that Jack was no longer beside him. "Jack?" Mulder turned around and saw that the boy had stopped a couple yards back, the wind tugging at the end of his ponytail, whipping it over his shoulder. Walking again, Jack didn't acknowledge or look at Mulder, instead he past him, quickening his pace. Mulder's confusion grew, matching his step. "Hey, almost lost ya there, pal." "Oh yeah? You wanna psycho analyze me too? Wanna fuck with my mind like those damn doctors and the poison they push on me," Jack snarled, stopping short, his sneakers squeaking on the pavement as he faced Mulder. "Grams thinks she's so smart, like I'm a fuckin' retard or something. Vitamins, what a friggin' joke," Jack said, storming ahead again. Mulder didn't pull his gaze off of the rattled movements Jack displayed as irrational anger and nerves attacked the teenager. "Jack?" Mulder calmly called, secreting the perplexity within his voice. He made to halt Jack, lightly touching the boy's forearm. Jack flung his arm, Mulder's fingers sliding free as he snarled. Mulder withheld his reactions with the exception of his eyes narrowing as he catalogued and classified the manic reactions. "Jack, what are you talking about, *vitamins*?" Mulder questioned to the boy's back. Jack stopped, turned around and spit on the sidewalk before him. Mulder watched him, concerned and undeniably fascinated by the almost polar transformation. He mentally marked all of Jack's actions. His hypersensitivity. His violent, reactive nature. Mulder proceeded to tread lightly, attempting to garner more information from Jack. "Vitamins?" Mulder asked again as Jack stalled, facing him. "Yeah *vitamins*. That's what she calls 'em. She thinks I'm fuckin' stupid, that I don't know what they are. They're fuckin' drugs to keep me the way *she* thinks is normal, but they cloud my thinking, man," he pleadingly explained. "I can't do shit . . . can't score diddly with "Magic of the Realms", that takes God damn strategy, ya know?" Mulder shook his head, watching, noting the jittery gait and the storm of emotions ravaging the boy's flushed features. Mulder knew there was nothing he could say to reach him at this point. So he kept his council and followed a suddenly exhausted Jack up his front stoop. Jamming the key in the door, Jack threw it open, making his presence known as he slowly stormed through the house and back into his bedroom, soundly slamming the door behind him. Pearl, wandered into the living room, looking at Mulder, her eyes were sad, and her shoulders slumped. "I just don't know what to do with him," she said, repeating her words from earlier. "Come on Pearl, I think I do. Let's go into the kitchen and talk," Mulder said. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he ushered her through the living room, back to the kitchen doorway. Just then his cell phone chirped. Mulder sighed, digging it out of his inside pocket. "Mulder." Raising a palm to his forehead, he rubbed his fingers against his temples. "Okay, yeah, shit. . . I forgot the time. It is, isn't it. . . All right. . . Hmm?. . . Yeah, be right there. Thanks, Vaughn," Mulder hit the end button and closed his phone, placing it back within his trench coat. "Pearl, I've gotta go right now, but . . . we need to talk --" "Go Fox, it can hold, go on," she ushered him to the front door. "I'll be back later," Mulder assured. Pearl nodded her head. Mulder felt like complete shit. He could see the exhaustion on Pearl's face but there was nothing he could do about it. Vaughn had finagled Scully and him an interview with Keenswan and they had to be there by 1230. Shit. "I promise, I'll be back later today," Mulder assured again, touching his palm to Pearl's cheek. Pearl nodded her head and stepped back, grabbing the door. "All right, Fox, see you later then," Pearl said. Mulder looked at her for one last moment and then gave an irritated sigh. In the few minutes he'd returned to Pearl's the rain had broke, lightening sizzled the sky. The raindrops pinged on the surrounding metal while tapping against the sidewalk and streets with a growing roar. Damn. He wished he'd listened to Scully and brought that umbrella. "Later, Pearl," he called over his shoulder as he made a break for it, hurrying down the steps and toward his rental car. The smell of refreshed motor oil already mingling in the air. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TITLE: Jack AUTHOR: Exley_61 (typo@clam.rutgers.edu) Rikersmith Prison Philadelphia, PA Tuesday, 10 AM Scully scrunched her nose, accustoming herself to the ammonia scented urine that fouled the air. Turning a corner, she was escorted down another long corridor -- raised, barred windows on one side, jail cells occupying the other. Tap. Tap. Tap. Her heels sounded stark and precise against the cement. Inmates, the cells staggered apart in this block, remained almost suspiciously quiet. There were none of the usual catcalls or other rambunctious behavior that Scully had become accustomed to from previous jailhouse forays. She filtered a sigh of relief through her lips, grateful for the reprieve. Quickening her pace, she hurried to meet up with Mulder. Unfortunately, the autopsy this morning had taken longer than anticipated and she was now running late. As suspected, the Rittenhouse body yielded the same findings of the previous two victims, and a match to the original MO established ten years previous. Scully closed her eyes, thankful that despite the media frenzy circulating Keenswan's parole hearing, the craziness seemed to have ended there. As of now, word had not leaked to the press regarding this latest rash of killings. Yet, Scully couldn't help thinking that it was merely a matter of time before the media piranha did find out about the murders, especially if the killer continued to remain at large. Scully checked her watch, 1243 PM. "Damn." She hadn't had a chance to talk with Mulder since he'd dropped her off this morning. Elbows deep into the upper thorax of the latest victim, Mike had come into the morgue, informing her that he'd gotten them in to see Keenswan. As she stripped off her bloodied gloves, he offered to take her over to the jail. Mike had another prisoner to speak with the Warden about, but soon as he was through he'd be at the Keenswan interrogation. It was all fine with her. Now, here she was, glancing at her watch and seeing that she was almost twenty minutes late. 1247 PM. She quickened her steps, the tap, tap, tap of her heels echoing around her. She straightened her blazer, keeping her gaze straight ahead, and mentally prayed that the foreign silence would remain. It didn't. "Dana!" Scully's pace faltered, slowing down. Tap. Tap. "Dana!" Stopping, she froze. Tilting her head, she tried to listen, discern whether she'd heard correctly. She had. "Dana!" Turning on her heel, she slowly looked back over her shoulder before completely facing the person, the prisoner who'd called out to her. Reluctantly proceeding back toward him, she halted her ricocheting footsteps before a set of metal bars, and peered through. "I knew it was you, knew it, knew it, knew it," he said, his voice deep yet softly laughing. His eyes blinked erratically as his body shuddered beneath his orange jumper, his sleeves rolled up. Taking another step closer, she saw his face spotted with brown lesions. Scully felt her skin tingling, her heart rate fluttering in shock. "Ed?" Scully gasped, her eyes rounding as she beheld his appearance. Gone was the trim, muscled body, replaced by ropey tendons and skeletal gauntness. She concluded that his total body weight couldn't have massed more than a hundred and twenty pounds on his six foot frame. She recoiled, shaking her head as if to do so would negate, would clear the image of the man who now stood before, restlessly rocking back and forth. "It's me, Dana," Ed confirmed what she knew to be true. Horrified pity marked her features. Oh God, it . . . it really was him. "Oh. . . ," Scully breathed, her eyes unable to quit examining his body, noting the level of sickness he'd succumbed to. Scully shook her head, unable to stop herself from recalling with a faint sense of irony, her fleeting thoughts of Ed Jerse when she'd woven her way through the airport early last night. Never. Never in her wildest imaginings had she ever contemplated seeing him . . . let alone facing him like . . . like this. Two years ago, Scully had come to Philadelphia, met Ed Jerse and spent a night with him, drinking, talking - having a good time getting lost, a tattoo and almost killed -- all in that order. The tattoo she would still take, but the whole of that experience she'd rather have left buried, tucked away as only a memory -- locked and labeled as not worth contemplating. She'd only reluctantly reopened that door once, when Mulder had asked her to. He didn't have to tell her why he'd asked her of this. She knew he'd wanted to understand her, the confusing low times as well as the enjoyable highs. But that had been a dark time for her, for their partnership. She'd been restless and felt under-appreciated by him -- a flunky to the "Caped Crusader". She didn't want to be his "Girl Wonder", and she still didn't. This time in her life, though, she knew she wasn't. They were equals, partners in work, life and finally ... partners in the best sense of the word ... in love. Over three months ago, he'd brought the 'City of Brotherly Love' and Ed Jerse up as they laid looking at the moon that had peeked through her chenille curtains. She remembered so vividly the summertime breeze rustling the lace against the window and goose pimpling her skin as she tucked herself against the warmth of Mulder's body. She recalled the newness of his salty taste against her taste buds. Things were still so new as well as wonderful. They were learning each other, the little things that were kept tucked away, were slowly being brought out. It never crossed her mind that he would ask her about Philadelphia, not when it had been such a horrible time in her life, the prelude to a worse hardship that should have blighted out the experiences that had taken place back then. But it hadn't, not for Mulder. He wanted to understand, wanted to know what he'd failed to comprehend those two years ago. In fact, it surprised her that he hadn't made mention of her previous visit on this particular trip. Then again, thinking about it, she wasn't surprised. As dark as it had been for her, the cloud of that experience also hovered, to a lesser degree, above Mulder. He'd asked her . . . he'd wanted to know if she had slept with Jerse. And as much as Scully wanted to yell at him and tell him it was none of his business what she had or hadn't done, that it had been her life, her decision . . . she said none of those things. She looked into his eyes and saw the vulnerability there . . . the answer he needed to hear. The answer that could alter his concept of who she was and what they were. They'd been only been partners, friends at that time. Yet those facts wouldn't have mattered. Facts rarely had a place with one who swam in a sea of his ideals. She knew that. She saw her answer in the green-flecked darkness of his eyes and for the first time in her life she answered him . . . answered him and lied. She had wanted to stay in the light, in the idealized role that nearly was an honest composition of her. So she lied, denied having slept with Jerse because she was afraid to tarnish the beginning of a life with Mulder that promised so much more than what a one night fling had the strength to destroy. She chose to stay in the light. Philadelphia wasn't her favorite city . . . she remembered thinking that at the airport. It still wasn't. "Dana," Ed whispered, shuffling toward her. She didn't know how long he had called to her, but she soon found herself, shaking clear of her recollections and peering at Jerse once again. "What's happened to you?" Scully asked, her hand lacing around the cold metal bars, the chill seeping through her skin and whipping its way into her heart. Ed Jerse reached shaking fingers out and softly closed them over hers, staring at her nails. Scully still felt shock, shock that mixed with an unbidden rush of sympathy. No one should have to suffer as he was . . . no matter what they had done in their lifetime. "What's happened to me? Isn't it obvious," he asked bitterly, yet he continued to stroke her fingers, staring at them as he touched her appendages with a feathered softness. "How did you contract AIDS?" Scully asked, clearing her throat and feeling afraid of his answer, for herself. Perhaps it showed in her sudden stiff stance or the slight tremble in her words because Ed backed away, sneering. "Don't worry Dana, I didn't have it when we were together," Ed replied, crossing his arms as another shudder rocked through his rail thin body. "But so rapid the symptoms?" Scully whispered. "A lucky benefit of prison life, didn't you know that Dr. Scully?" Jerse whispered back, mimicking her tone. Yes, she knew that was a possibility, lack of monies to supply the strongest AZT cocktail. "Ma'am, we need to get going. We have Keenswan in a conference room for you," the security guard intruded, stepping up to Scully. She'd been so shocked over seeing Ed, she had forgotten about the guard. Scully didn't turn to face the man, her gaze locked, instead, on Ed as she spoke. "I would appreciate you affording me a few minutes with this prisoner, please." It wasn't really a request; there was no denying that. Scully heard the guard step away. "I wasn't worried --" "LIAR!" he shouted, then laughed, almost giggled, shaking his head. "You wanna know how I got this? Hmm? Well, I can tell ya it wasn't by any "shared" needle." "Ed," Scully sighed, shuttering her eyes. "That's right, Dana, I finally know what it's like to be a bitch." Ed laughed, almost maniacally. His cackles echoed off the cement as he stepped back toward her, his face inches away from her own. His breath covered the foul order that permeated the air. "It's good to see you, Dana," he said, stroking her fingers again and adding pressure to hold her hand against the bars. Scully opened her eyes, breaking her mental paralysis and finally tugging her hand from beneath his. She felt a cocktail of revulsion, fear and pity mixing together and drowning her. Jerse sniffed deeply. "You were the last woman I was with, Dana. I still remember the smell of you, the taste of you . . . your legs wrapped around me. We didn't even take all our clothes off, just tugged down our pants and we fucked against my apartment wall. You liked it rough as I recall, the way I grabbed you -- do you remember that? Do YOU REMEMBER ME?" Scully shook her head back and forth, tears trapped in her eyes as she watched the frantic, hurky-jerky movements of Jerse's body accompanying his impassioned, strangled cry that echoed into her heart, compounding her regret. She looked at his left arm, noticing how he cradled it against his side, the tattoo gone and the skin a cross work of burn scars. "I remember you," Scully answered softly, meeting his gaze despite herself, despite not wanting to look into his empty eyes. "Goodbye, Ed," Scully told him. Stepping back, her heels sounded against the cement floor again as she followed the guard once more. Moving toward the interrogation room, toward Mulder. Caught between her caged past and her uncertain future, she tried to leave the smudged fingerprints of that past behind. Yet, as she walked on, she couldn't help feeling the lie renewed and bleeding inside her again, heating her cheeks with the red of hidden shame. "Wait, Wait, Wait," Ed chanted. She could imagine his mind switching gears and propelling around undirected. He had lost himself completely, she'd barely recognized this man at all. Nor did she want to. . . Didn't want to. . . . "You're going to see Keenswan aren't you?" Ed asked, his voice rushed and conspiratol. "I heard the guard say it. Listen, listen, listen. Tell him, tell him for me will ya, that his little Eddy isn't mad at him anymore . . . that I don't. . . I mean, that he don't care about the scratches those other bitches put on him. Will you, will you tell him?" Jerse's tone was completely maniacal. "What?" Scully gasped, pausing in shock, unable to stop herself from turning back to look at him. Jerse prattled on as she froze, incredulous. He was associated with Keenswan? "Dana, those bitches, he feels those bitches, they cut him, but I don't do that. NoooOOOOOOooo. . .ahh," Jerse's eyes were blinking erratically again, his head tilting back before leveling to face Scully once more, his face pressed against the bars as he looked at her, into her. "I remember your nails, Dana, remember them scratching my arms, my back as we fucked . . . you were my bitch then, Dana . . . you remember that, huh? REMEMBER DANA. . .???" Scully snapped out of her stare, straightened her spine and turned on her heel, walking away in strong even strides. Tap.Tap.Tap.Tap. . . . Tears slid down her cheek. She angrily swiped them away as Jerse's voice followed behind her She refused to turn around. There was nothing left to see. Behind her was the past. "Dana, tell him I don't mind those bitches, not one bit, noooOOOooo, not one bit!" Scully cringed, shuttering her eyes for a moment, but continued on. Tap.Tap.Tap.Tap. . . . Walking beside the guard, she continued down the long hallway toward the door that stood waiting for her. Leaving Jerse's cackles behind her where they belonged, she quickened her pace towards Mulder, and her future. Tap.Tap.Tap.Tap. . . . "Scully!" Tap.Tap. Scrape. No. She raised her eyes and looked at the guard who'd stopped ahead of her but now stood, staring past her, beyond her. No, not beyond her! Scully felt her blood spindle down her spine, draining from her limbs and collecting into the pit of her stomach. No. Nononononono! "Scully!" Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. They were not her shoes. She felt heat and then cold splotch her cheeks, her hand just a yard away from the door. She'd almost made it, almost left the past where the past was supposed to remain. Tap. Tap. Tap. Silence. Squeezing her eyes closed, Scully slowly opened them and turned around. Mulder. He stood a few feet away from her. She tracked her eyes up his pants, noting the fists that clenched, white, at his sides, tracking higher, seeing his chest that heaved as if he'd ran a marathon. But he hadn't run . . . he hadn't. Her gaze raised higher, finally landing on the thin line of his compressed lips, raising damnably higher and meeting his eyes. Tears pricked at her, her eyes itching for them to spill over as she saw the eviscerated trust dangling between them. Mulder stood before her, emotionally raw and exposed. He'd heard it all. He knew it all, a secret that was hers that he'd wanted to be his. . . a secret she denied because to admit to it could make him see her differently, could have tainted, crushed, their new beginning. And so she had made her choice. An act that could have altered them, and now has . . . now has. . . The tears broke through her self-imposed barriers, silently screaming down her cheeks, the flood begging for him to understand, to wash away the hurt that pulsed between them. Mulder stepped forward. Tap. The whole experience had been something she'd wanted to forget, wanted lost and unknown but now he'd heard it all. Knew it all. . . . Scully felt her world kaleidoscoping into the narrowing of his eyes. There wasn't even rage reflected on his face. There was nothing. Nothing. . . . Nothing but the empty look of betrayed trust, betrayed love. Scully was tempted to step back for every step he started to take forward, but she held her stance as he stopped inches away from her, his eyes impassively staring down at her as if he were looking at a bug. He reached a hand up, brushed it against her cheek, against the tears that trickled down and failed in cleansing as he flicked them off his fingertips. He slide his hand behind her neck, as if in an embrace, tilting forward. The heat of his body pressed against and above her. He came close so he could whisper in her ear, his lips touching, her skin. "Before I came into this jail, I'd thought how I'd found my soul mate, how there was nothing that could come between us because we'd told each other everything. How your hands so small, yet fragile held me, my trust. WE were who we could trust in when there was no one else." He pulled away, looking past her, at the door, through her, until lowering a last glance that flashed red, his voice shaking. "Why don't you tell me where you got yours so I can get 'Fucking Fool' tattoo'd across my forehead." He released her, and she feel back a bit as he stepped away -- taking her heat and her heart as he opened the door and left her standing there. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX RIKERSMITH PRISON PHILADELPHIA, PA INTERROGATION ROOM 3B TUESDAY 457 PM 'Christ, I'm tired,' Vaughn thought, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. He folded his arms against his chest again, widely blinking his eyelids to keep them from staying shut. A tired sigh tripped past his lips and he soon found himself rubbing the back of his neck. It had been a fucking long day. First this Robinson shit with the Warden, and now here, hours later with this Keenswan Fuck, and nothing. That self satisfying piece of shit. Look at him over there. They're here to interrogate him. Mulder's trying to profile ... but it seems that Keenswan's profiling them . . . no correction, he's profiling Mulder and Scully. Not that it's hard to do . . . something is definitely off with these two agents today. Something's amiss in blissville. Vaughn sighed again, mentally swearing, remembering that his wife, Lisa had asked him to pick up his youngest daughter, Paige, tonight after work. So much for going straight home and crappin' out in front of the big screen TV. Shit, and the Eagles were playing tonight. "Long fucking day," Vaughn muttered to himself, turning his attention back to the ongoing interrogation. Vaughn watched the fourth quarter of the live game going down here. A game that wasn't scoring any points as far as he could see. From what was going on, Keenswan had the ball and the only one fumbling was Mulder. He looked at Scully, noting how she seemed to let Mulder quarterback the plays. Asking a question here and there, but for the most part allowing him to throw the ball. The only problem was that Mulder wasn't waiting for her to catch the pass. Definitely something wrong with the home team. Shit, he was tired, and the fact that he was thinking of this interrogation in football analogies just confirmed that. It was definitely time to call it a day. The problem was that Vaughn knew Mulder's abilities and the only reason for him to be in this room was for appearance's sake. Mulder was the profiler, he was the one that had requested this interview, and Vaughn was glad to let his expertise go to good use. He didn't mind hanging on the sidelines with this go around, the less he had to talk to that bastard, the better. But, something was going on here. Christ, he could be feel it almost as deeply as the exhaustion taking hold of his bones. Shaking his head, Vaughn reached for the small of his back, muttering again. "Damn back's acting up again." Yet, despite allowing Mulder and Scully their lead, Vaughn was tired of standing around with all of them holding their dicks in their hands. He knew that this cock sucker wasn't gonna say a God Damn thing. Frankly he was getting tired of hearing the same bull shit out of the asshole's mouth. <<>> 'Doctor's honest truth, my ass!' Vaughn thought. Vaughn watched Keenswan. The man was tall, thin with a bit of jailhouse muscle on him. Not an ugly sonofabitch, but not too pretty, either. His hair was shaved off, eyes set apart and blue. No facial hair, he looked at the man's arms and saw red angry welts and scratches decorating his pale skin. "What's with the scratches, Keenswan? You've been in isolation for the past two days?" Vaughn asked, cocking his head and waiting for a reply. All eyes turned toward him. He'd been quiet for so long he guessed they figured he wasn't even in the room anymore or that he'd cut his damn tongue out. "Scratches?" Keenswan asked, slowly bending his head to look down at the angry, jagged lines that covered his forearms. He slowly looked up, meeting Vaughn's gaze and answering his question. About fucking time! "They're love taps from . . . the other day," Keenswan responded, a wide, sick smile blooming on his face as his lips stretched over his even teeth. Vaughn grunted, rolling his eyes. Keenswan truly was a sick fuck. He didn't care what those quack doctors said at that joke of a parole hearing, this man was far from not being a danger to society. Keenswan exhibited an air of untouchability that made Vaughn want to punch that shit-eating grin off his face. If it weren't for those damn surveillance cameras, he'd give the asshole something to smile about, give a real need for that prison dental work. Vaughn looked from Keenswan to Mulder again. He had to hand it to the Fibbies . . . even though he could tell for a fact that some shit was going down between them, they remained topnotch professionals. Even with Keenswan being uncooperative. And that bastard was being uncooperative. The fucker knows something. It was in his eyes ... in the way he talked, that lazy way he told them jack, yet not really saying shit. The bastard was letting them know he was a sonofabitch without actually coming out and saying as much. Mother fucker! There was a power struggle going on here and it had nothing to do with Vaughn. He could feel that too. The dynamics of this coup DE Gras was left between the triangle of individuals who were playing center stage right under the mesh covered lighting fixture. It's dim glow illuminated the faces of Mulder, Scully and the sick fuck. Vaughn sneered. Cured his ass! The sound of thunder intruded into his thoughts, flickering the lights. It was still raining like a sonofabitch out there. You could hear it pounding on the metal roofs and screwing with the power. "Mr. Keenswan, do you correspond to anyone on a regular basis?" At Scully's voice, Vaughn focused his attention on her, watching as she sketched notes on the pad laid open in front of her. She sat directly across the length of the table from Keenswan. "Any outgoing mail is read before being sent off and vice versa for incoming. His weekly telephone calls are monitored or would be except he don't make any," Vaughn supplied, reading from his notebook before flipping it closed. He clutched the worn leather in his palm, tapping the pad against the side of his leg. "I do not write to anyone, Agent. . .Scully," Keenswan answered, cocking his head and staring at the woman. "I have other . . . fulfilling pursuits." "Other--" "Like bragging about how you murdered those women ten years ago? Would that be one of your more. . . fulfilling pursuits," Mulder interrupted, breaking off Scully's questioning again, yet doing so without acknowledging it. What was Mulder up to? Scully, Vaughn noted, kept silent. She showed no sign of anger or effrontery. Her posture remained relaxed, assured ... maybe too assured. It seemed too contrived for Vaughn's taste. It appeared to be an over compensation, but for what, he was clueless. "I told you Agent Mulder," Keenswan began, his eyes wide and innocent. 'Innocent my ass!' Vaughn thought watching the punk. "I am deeply ashamed of my previous transgressions on humanity and society as a whole. I was sick, but my doctors have helped me through therapy and drug rehabilitation," Keenswan assured, but, damned if the corner of his lip didn't curl up resembling a smirk. "I owe them such a debt of gratitude for curing me." Mulder stood there, a hand laid open on the metal table in front of the ring that kept Keenswan cuffed to the surface. His other hand gripped his hip as he leaned toward the wacko. "You said that this was all far from over in the courtroom yesterday? What did you mean?" Mulder questioned, his voice soft yet filled with force. "It was a. . . momentary lapse on my part, I was feeling a bit . . . rattled," Keenswan answered, his voice losing a sliver of his saccharine sweetness and having no ounce of contrition whatsoever. Vaughn watched the prisoner's face close off, shut down into a narrow line that his eyes seemed to follow for a bit, staring at his nose. Mulder pushed off the table and stood back, his hands on his hips as he began to pace. Vaughn knew from Mulder that the two agents before him now had seen their share of scum, Keenswan wasn't any new type of filth. This agitation seemed, off . . . it didn't gel with the situation, further confirming that this current *situation* had little to no influence on Mulder's actions. Something else was definitely behind them. Keenswan unclasped his fingers, unfolding them to place each fingertip in a spread arc spanning the width of his hands. He pressed his fingertips onto the table, the ends turning a bit white. He watched himself do it with slow deliberation. Raising his head he met Scully's gaze. "You know . . . my little Eddie was right. You do smell . . . good. Like Vanilla and . . . what is that scent? Hmm? Oh yes, like vanilla with a hint of. . . *musk*," Keenswan said, his voice level, his words smoothly delivered as he ignored Mulder and held Scully's gaze. 'What the fuck was that shit?' Vaughn thought, pulling himself off the wall and walking toward the gathered threesome. Suddenly Keenswan threw his head back, audibly sniffing the air before looking down again, his gaze this time solely encompassing Mulder. Mulder. Vaughn saw the agent had stood back, his pants leg brushing the edge of the table, his fists clenched. Mulder's jaw tensed and his gaze was hard as fucking nails. Vaughn stepped closer, standing behind Scully's chair. "Doesn't she smell . . . ready?" Keenswan questioned, his eyes sincere and his tone inquiring, continuing in the same vein. Mulder leaped and Vaughn grabbed, pulling him away from Keenswan and throwing him back toward the door. "Mulder! God Damn it, you don't say shit! You don't do shit!" Vaughn ordered in a low, piercing tone, stepping up to Mulder and holding his stare. In a lower tone, "Don't you let that sick fuck provoke you, don't make this whole afternoon worthless . . . you understand? I got this interview for you, for us. . . I won't see it screwed up now, not after all this fucking time." "Mulder, this is getting us no where, he's not going to tell us anything," Scully said, coming over to stand beside Vaughn. "Yeah, Scully? Well....I'm used to that by now," Mulder replied, glaring at her. Vaughn watched Mulder's chest heaving, his breath hitched and his face flushed with anger. He'd seen it coming, seen Keenswan getting ready to pounce. Mulder had been primed and primped for that animal, susceptible due to whatever the hell went down between Scully and him. "Do you understand what I've just said to you?" Vaughn questioned again, demanding an answer. He watches Mulder's eyes lose some of the fire that the sick fuck flicked to life. Mulder lips twisted in a grimace, his hand running through his hair. He nodded his head, pacing back and forth in small circles. He stopped, schooling his features and relaxing his shoulders as he stared beyond Vaughn. The detective allowed Mulder to walk past them, knowing that for now, the agent was in control. Mulder would not be bested again. Vaughn could sense the fury for allowing it to happen at all. The Lieutenant understood that fury, it was fury that was going to elicit responses from that chained beast, not the other way around. Hearing a heel tap, he turned and looked at Scully who had begun to step away. "What the hell is going on between you two?" Vaughn asked, grabbing Scully's elbow and halting her. "We're fine," Scully answered without turning around, pulling away and following Mulder back to the table. They're fine. . . BULLshit! Vaughn followed after her, standing at a corner of the table rather than the wall. He figured it would be best to stay close just in case. "You know Ed Jerse?" Mulder asked, his voice rough as he resumed his position beside the table. Vaughn noted Mulder threading his hand through his hair again, while planting and unplanting his hands on his hips. "I've known him . . . many times," Keenswan responded, a smile faintly hanging around his lips. "You are aware that Mr. Jerse is HIV positive, is that correct?" Scully asked, the tone hard as nails, consistent, brooking no comment on any past action within the room. "Do I know?" Keenswan asked, leaning forward. "It's written all over his arms and face . . . as well as my chest." "You infected him?" Scully followed. "You know what, Agent Scully," Keenswan began, disregarding her question. "Answer her, Keenswan," Mulder ordered, his voice tight. "But of course, I will. . . ," Keenswan replied, without looking at Mulder. "One thing, though, just among us girls as it were. I heard that you and I share more than just a tattoo when it comes to my little Eddie. Excuse me, I mean *our* little Eddie, now is that true?" What the hell was that fucker talking about? Vaughn saw Scully's contrived posture dissolve to be replaced by one of stiff affront. "Mulder!" Vaughn tore his gaze from the female agent, his body tense and ready to stop Mulder at his partner's warning cry of control. He once again seemed more agitated, more so than ever before, but he held himself together, if only barely. Vaughn felt lost. Who the fuck was this Eddie? Ed Jerse? Whatever ... and what the hell did he have to do with this case? "You are one sick sonofabitch, you know that, Keenswan?" Mulder asked, leaning in, his hands planted on the table as he spit the words in Keenswan's face. Vaughn stepped closer, prepared for another outburst but Mulder pushed himself off the table, stepping back and beyond the light, beyond Scully. Vaughn followed his agitated movements. The room was silent. "You don't know what I am...Agent Mulder....what I'm capable of....what my lineage is...! You all think you know me. You. know. nothing. It's almost pitiful!" Vaughn turned and looked at Keenswan who had leaned forward, his face losing his cultivated composure as he glared at Mulder, ignoring everyone and everything else in the room as he focused on the senior agent. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Vaughn asked, and was left unanswered. "Are you threatening a federal officer, Mr. Keenswan?" Scully asked. Keenswan ignored her, his gaze full of Mulder as he slowly lowered himself back into his metal chair. "Bye. . . Bye. . . Blackbird," Keenswan began to sing in a whisper his eyes never leaving Mulder. Both Scully and Vaughn turned from Keenswan and looked at Mulder. Mulder stood frozen, his head cocked, his features confused then flushed, his eyes narrowed and blazed with what seemed to be some unspoken recognition. "Bye. . . Bye. . . BLACKBIRD!" Keenswan started to scream the lyrics. Vaughn turned from Mulder to Keenswan, who's face was contorted as he repeated the words. "Shut the hell up!" Vaughn ordered, glaring down at Keenswan from his side of the long table. Looking back at Mulder again, Vaughn saw the agent take two steps toward Keenswan. "You son of a bitch," Mulder growled. "You don't know what I am," Keenswan yelled, before plopping down on his seat again, his chair legs scraping against the floor. Keenswan's' face lost it's contortion, and his fingers clasped once more. He became a portrait of complete calm, a total transformation back to how he'd been previously. "We're done!" Mulder said, turning away and opening the door. Scully and Vaughn followed after, Vaughn catching the door handle before it closed shut. He heard Keenswan giggling behind him, but didn't bother to turn around as he walked through the door. He figured that prick had put on a show long enough. He wasn't playing up to that asshole's shit. "Mulder!" Scully called out, following after him. She grabbed his sleeve but Vaughn watched him tear his arm out of her grip. Vaughn, Scully and Mulder stood in the narrow, empty corridor. The outside guard had gone in behind Vaughn to take care of Keenswan. "Where the hell are you going? We need to talk, here," Scully said, her voice low yet still carrying back to Vaughn. "You want to talk now? Is it convenient for you now?" Mulder asked, his voice echoing off the cement walls. "Mulder, please?" Scully asked, embarrassed, her arms crossed before her. Vaughn could hear the anger at having to confront Mulder with an audience. Vaughn'd be pissed too, Mulder wasn't winning any partner of the year awards with his vote. The Lieutenant could discern the barely veiled pain in her voice, anyone could have, just as they could have easily heard the absolute anger within Mulder's. "That song he was singing. I've heard it before today. I heard it last night at Pearl's," Mulder cryptically answered. "And? It's a popular song, I'm sure it plays on radio stations all the time," Scully asked, confused. "Thank you, my thoughts exactly," Vaughn silently muttered. He took a few steps closer, coming up to the two agents. "I didn't hear it on the radio station," Mulder revealed, sighing as he finished. "I heard it from Jack's lips." "Jack? Jack Layne? What's the connection?" Vaughn asked, rubbing his chin. Scully stiffened, her head raising, "So? Again . . . wait a minute, what are you implying Mulder? I know you . . . it's the lineage line that Keenswan feed you, isn't it?" Mulder nodded his head finally looking her in the eye as his words built in intensity. "Why leave Jack alive, Scully? All those years I've wondered, why leave a witness?" "Mulder, you're not suggesting that Jack is the killer?" Scully asked, incredulous. "Wait? that boy'd be a teenager now," Vaughn interrupted. "Yeah, he is . . . sixteen, actually. And I'm not suggesting that Jack is the killer, I know there's no evidence on that. Give me some credit . . . but there's a connection. I know it and I'm gonna find out what that is," Mulder declared, looking from Vaughn to Scully. "But Mulder, that still doesn't prove anything. A song? Heard on the radio?" Scully asked skeptically. "Yeah, might as well be those Backstreet Boys," Vaughn agreed, looking at Mulder, confused. He still couldn't see any clear connection. "It's a loose lead if anything," Scully began. Mulder nodded his head knowingly, finally staring at Scully. "Mulder, I'm not saying I don't believe you...." Vaughn watched him give her "a look", something he was discovering often happened between them -- this seamless, silent conversational ability. Mulder crossed his arms and nodded his head again. Even Vaughn was starting to get good at reading this sign language the two agents shared, watching Mulder's body language take in Scully's expectant response. Communication of any kind was suddenly halted. The door to the interrogation room opened and Keenswan was lead out. This time he was humming that damn tune. Vaughn looked from Keenswan back to Mulder and Scully. Mulder was no longer looking at her, his gaze followed Keenswan as he was lead by. "Have a good evening Agent Mulder, Lieutenant and . . . sweet dreams Agent Scully," Keenswan said over his shoulder as he was lead off, disappearing with the guard beyond the metal door at the end of the hallway. "Mulder this link, it's nonexistent. Nothing can be substantiated," Scully replied, her gaze holding Mulder's. Mulder looked over at Vaughn then back at Scully, his gaze staring at her and his features becoming flushed, hardened again. "I've got a job to do," Mulder said, turning toward the door. "We have a job, Mulder, WE," Scully called out, her tone becoming just as angered, just as hard. Vaughn felt like a friggin' interloper. He kept his eyes averted, becoming fascinated with the way the cinder blocks lined up against one another. This had more to do than with this supposed "lead" or whatever the hell it is. "Don't worry Scully, I won't leave you out of the loop, I'll make sure to tell you *everything*, I mean, you'd do that for me, right? " Mulder asked, stepping away. "What the fuck is going down here?" Vaughn asked, directing the question to Mulder then Scully. Unable to stand this coded bullshit. Mulder stopped and turned around to face Vaughn, staring past Scully. "My life. . . ." Mulder replied, then turned, walking away as he wrenched the door open. "Mulder!" Scully called again as the door closed, shutting him out of their sight. She growled in frustration. Vaughn saw her shoulders start to crumble, hearing another sigh. She seemed defeated, lost -- no matter how she tried to disguise it. Vaughn made a decision right then and there. "Come, come with me, Dana. We're gonna go to my place for dinner," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. He felt her stiffen then relax into his embrace. "I have to go after Mulder," Scully croaked, then cleared her voice," I have to go to Pearl Clayton's." "Look, Dana . . . what he needs right now is to cool off a bit, take a step back. I'm sure whatever problems you're havin' now just needs for the two of you to find neutral end zones. So, listen, come with me and taste some of Lisa's delicious stuffed chicken," Vaughn suggested, trying to tantalize her with his wife's best dish. "Mulder will be safe at Pearl Clayton's I'm sure. Time apart always seems to do Lisa and me real well when we're at each other's throats, maybe it will work for you two." "I. . . ," Scully stammered, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. "First we have to pick my daughter up from her girlfriend's but afterwards, Lisa's delicacy, I'll just give her a ring on the cell once we get to the jeep, the walls in here screw up reception," Vaughn said, pulling her toward the metal door, their combined footsteps echoing off the wall. "All right," Scully agreed, smiling at Vaughn. "I'd love to meet your family from that photo you flashed me the other night." "See, it's settled then," Vaughn replied, letting her go and opening the door. "Besides, you wouldn't believe how friggin' good this dinner is. I'm tellin' ya." Scully smiled, nodding her head as she passed through the door. Vaughn gave a mental sigh, still tired but glad to help the home team. Shit, he was doing it again. Damn Football analogies. The Eagles better win tonight, Vaughn didn't think he could take more shit. Hiding a yawn, he just prayed that Lisa'd have enough food to go around tonight. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District 5th & Pine Pearl's Townhouse Tuesday, 630 PM "Hello Pearl. Sorry for not calling, I just. . . I guess I've been a bit preoccupied... I just didn't think of it," Mulder said, stepping through her front door. Entering the living room, Mulder noted the gold figurines and various bric-a-brac hanging on the walls. Hanging over the sofa was a massive landscape painting. He leaned forward, reading the artist's name. "My Bill painted that, years ago, when we were in college," Pearl informed him, coming to stand beside Mulder. "It's very good," Mulder complimented turning to look at Pearl. He saw her staring at the painting before she could tear her gaze away. "Yes, he was very talented," Pearl agreed. Taking a deep breath, she clapped her hands together, looking at Mulder. "So . . . can I get you a drink?" "No, I'm all right, Pearl, but thanks," Mulder answered. Shouldering off his trench coat, he draped it over his arm. He turned around and took a few steps toward the front window, staring through the gauzy curtain. Walking back to the couch, he chanced a glance down the hallway leading off from the room. The corridor was lit with a dimmed hanging light. He noticed the bathroom door stood slightly open and remembered seeing Jack enter the room that first night Scully and he had come to see Pearl. 'The makings of a true Karaoke star.' Mulder smirked. *That night.* He paused as the phrasing of his thoughts as they registered with him. Letting his eyes fall shut, he sighed. Christ, *that* night had only been *last* night. "If you're sure, it's no trouble," Pearl said, touching Mulder's back. "Fox? Are you all right?" He quickly opened his eyes at her question and turned around to face her searching gaze, perhaps making a mistake. Pearl had the eyes of hawk. Mulder squinted his own eyes, shaking his head as he tilted his head as if listening to something. But he wasn't listening, he was trying to hold in a growl of frustrated hurt and anger. Pearl's caring gaze rattled the lock he had fastened over his heart. He wasn't sure if he could hide from eyes so discernable, so adept at finding the key to his emotions. Pearl nodded her head, saying nothing more as she pulled his trench coat from his arm. He watched her lay the coat against the back of a strip-upholstered, four-legged, plush chair. Mulder watched her neatly arrange it on the chair, making sure it wouldn't lay and wrinkle before turning back to face him. He stood still as Pearl closed some of the distance between them. "What's the matter, Fox?" Pearl asked, giving him a look of encouragement. The matter? Oh, just that my life is going down the shitter and I can't seem to see straight anymore. You? Mulder shook his head, trying to get ahold of himself. He felt a chill in soul that mimicked the damp October air. He wanted to close his pores, block the pricking thoughts that were trying to filter through his skin. But he could feel them seeping through, into his blood, slicking their way up his veins to infect, to burn his heart. He refused to allow that burn to touch him... Oh, who the hell was he kidding? They not only touched him, but figuratively knocked him to his knees, gasping. "Fox?" Pearl called, touching his arm. He softly closed his eyes and reopened them to glance down at her. Damn it! He wished. . . . "I... I'm sorry, Pearl," Mulder stammered, his throat thick and his voice choked. Clearing the lump away, he let a breath hiss out between his lips before meeting Pearl's gaze. Pearl pulled him over to the sofa, sitting him down with her. Mulder sunk gracelessly on to the smooth fabric. Grabbing hold of his hand, she twined her fingers within his own, squeezing. Mulder's head shook back and forth as he tried to push away the waterfall of twisted emotions that were successfully drowning him. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to feel nothing, focus on nothing as he answered Pearl. "Scully and I. . . things aren't. . . ," Mulder stammered, his vision tunneling before him, witness to flickering images of Scully and him entwined lips touching, hands caressing. Her soft breath ruffling his chest hair as he held her, sleeping against his body. How often had he watched in incredulity -- not with feelings of unworthiness, but with the incredible reality that they were together at all ... that they were able to smash through their own reservations and fears. So many nights, he'd just hold her, his finger tracing over her and running over the light hair of her forearm. Her body was warm, soft and weighted against his own, her eyelids fluttering as she dreamed. So many times he wondered what dreams she had and were they ever the same as his own ... dreams of what their future could be. Their future ... so open and full of possibility. Mulder grimaced, pulling his hand from Pearl's as he leaned forward. He felt the sensation of being kicked in the stomach once again. His forearms slide against his pants legs, leaving his hands to dangle between his knees. Mulder's breath was heavy, rough and tore at his throat with each inhalation. He felt the soft circling pressure of Pearl's hand rubbing his back and found himself wishing that such a touch could wipe away the dagger of hurt knifing him. He wished that the blade could be pulled out, that the sharp steel could stop cutting through his memories and tainting them with shades of pain. Memories tainted by the power and pain of a lie. "Fox, you can talk to me. It might help if you talk to someone," Pearl suggested, her other hand reaching and grabbing hold of his chin. He felt her paper soft skin, cool against his burning flesh, as she tilted, turning his face toward her own features. Mulder kept his eyes closed, but a tear succeeded in trailing out the corner of his eye. His breathing remained rough. The temptation to bury his head against her breast and let her touch brush away the hurt was so, so tempting. At that moment, he believed she might have the power to do that, to wash away the pain -- a mother's touch to heal his wounded soul. A sensation he never thought would be available to him. But he knew, now, here with Pearl, that all it would take was for him to lean forward and claim that balm. Yet, he couldn't do it. So many years without, so many years creating a habit of isolation just couldn't be broken, not even with the soft looks and comforting caresses that Pearl bestowed on him. They just weren't powerful enough to break tradition. And ... and in his heart of hearts he resented that fact. Pearl was so close, her hand still against his chin. He could smell her peppermint breath pushing past his own, bathing his face. He could feel her gaze on him, reaching, comforting. Opening his eyes, more tears fell but meeting her gaze, he pulled a feeling of solace from it, and was able to let that be enough, able to curtail the ill-fated temptation to crumble within her arms. "What is it, Fox?" "Scully ... she . . . lied to me about something and I'm," Mulder paused, pulling her hand off his face and sitting back from her, needing the space. He suddenly felt stifled, suffocated. Still holding Pearl's hand, he squeezed it, absently rubbing his thumb back and forth against her pale skin as he stared down at their clasped palms. Such small hands ... so capable of... Mulder clenched his teeth, his lips tightening. His eyes screwed shut, unable to stop the memory of his earlier comparison about Pearl, how her hands were so much like Scully's. Mulder straightened his spine and released her palm from his. He took a steadying breath then turned to look at Pearl's features. Trying and succeeding, if only barely, he projected a sense of composure. "I'm having a bit of trouble processing it . . . the lie." "Is it something that can be repaired?" Pearl softly asked, her voice floating against his ears in soft tones. She studied him. "I've seen you two together, Fox. Is this, this lie something that can destroy what you two have?" Pearl questioned, sitting back, her hands clasped as her gaze bathed him in sympathy and support. "I... I honestly don't know, Pearl, " Mulder finally replied, disturbing the sound of the ticking grandfather clock, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat again. "I just... I just don't know." "Lies. Words, or the lack of them, are often given, or left lacking, done so to protect that which is most precious to a person. Fear can be such a strong motivator and perhaps you know that," Pearl said, her hand reaching out to stroke a fallen lock of hair from Mulder's forehead. He ached at the touch, a touch so often performed by Scully. His head gently nodded, his eyes closed once more as Pearl continued. Her voice usually so loud and full of fire, now washed over his tattered heart -- an ointment giving him a slight sense of soothing relief. "But, even if you do know the powers of Fear, knowing and understanding, particularly when its you who is involved ... well, those are two separate, two different things all together," she continued, pulling her hand away. "Mistakes happen all the time. Right now, you have the overwhelming power to decide your future. Right now, with each passing moment. The power of forgiveness is yours and yours alone." All was quiet again except for that clock. Slowly, Mulder's eyelids fluttered open and he looked at Pearl for a long stretch of moments. "I. . . thank you, Pearl." Mulder let out a jagged sigh, pulling himself off of the sofa, he stood looking around the warmly lit room. Pearl's words echoed and magnified within his ears. He wanted so badly for them to be enough, for them to help him see past this hurt. He wasn't blind, he'd seen the regret, the stricken look on Scully's features. It wasn't just a look of being caught, but one of empathetic pain. He could feel her reaching out to him, could feel her understanding his reaction and that, that just made him angrier. Angry that she would offer comfort while giving him pain -- a double edged sword. Oh, he was sure she had her reasons for everything. Yet those reasons didn't blunt the fact that he never, never in his life, in their life together ... never did he once believe that she would lie to him -- lie to him about anything. The one person he trusted implicitly, the one above all others. The one person who knew him so intimately, knew what his response would be, knew the pressing pain he would feel. He tried to distance himself from the emotions and see the facts. But he couldn't. No matter how hard he tried in these passing hours, he was still unable to see straight. Truth, the intimacy of it, was something so sacred to him. And it wasn't just the lie, the lack of truth. He could be honest about that. It was also the act that the lying words had cloaked from him. He couldn't help but close his eyes and see flashes of her with ... with Jerse. Those flashes mixed with the vision of their own embraces, seeing her wrapped in his own arms, watching her breathing, innocent, against his chest as she slept. Well, no one is innocent, and he now knew that more clearly, more poignantly then ever. He had let himself be naive. Shaking his head, he silently screamed, trying to block out the thoughts within his mind, trying to leave nothing there but work. He was here to do a job. He'd come here to speak to Jack and damn it, that's what he was going to do. His voice was hard, devoid of any emotion as he spoke again. "Pearl, I think something is going on with Jack, but I'm not sure. That's why I came here, actually," Mulder said, his arms crossed against his chest. He paused, biting the inside of his lower lip. "Something? You mean you think there might be a reason for his...for his behavior?" Pearl hopefully asked, pulling off of the sofa and coming to stand before Mulder. He lifted a hand and ran it through his hair. He refused to allow himself to be distracted by his own problems. He felt angered that he'd wasted the time he already had. There was a job to do, a case to be solved. This was no time for personal ... for ... there was no time, period. "I'm not sure, and I don't want to speculate. That's why I'd like to spend some more time with him. I know he left this morning angry, but I'm betting he's calmed down by now. I'd like to sort things out with him, if I can," Mulder explained, stepping back to glance down the hallway again, as if expressing his desire would materialize Jack. He needed this distraction, needed his work to block out the thoughts that even the silent screams could not extinguish. "Well, he's not here right now. He took his skateboard and went out a while ago, but he usually isn't out late. He doesn't like to be away from his lair for too long," Pearl informed, giving a soft chuckle at her description as she followed Mulder's gaze, hugging her arms against her chest. Mulder gave a weak smile in response, turning to meet Pearl's eyes. "Why don't you stay for dinner? It's no trouble," Pearl suggested, her tone turning more toward command than question. Ah, what a little general. If given the chance, she just might be able to put Skinner to shame. "No, I better head out," Mulder replied, turning to grab his trench coat off the chair. He threaded his arms through the sleeves and adjusted the collar. "You need to eat. I've a roast cooking and it's got your name on it. I don't want to hear anything more about it, come now," Pearl persuaded, her tone becoming loud and insistent, sweetly cajoling as she stepped toward him, her violet eyes smiling. "You need meat on those bones of yours." "No." Mulder said the word with such force that Pearl abruptly stopped talking, stepping back as if slapped, her eyes hiding beneath her black bangs as she tilted her head to look at the floor. Mulder sighed, mentally kicking himself as he softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Pearl. But, I need to be on my own right now. And, I wouldn't be any type of company for you. I'll try Jack later. For now, it's best I be going." Pearl raised her head, giving an understanding smile as she nodded. He could see her eyes full of compassion, compassion and sadness. He recognized within her the same inability he'd often felt whenever he was unable to comfort. Now, more than ever, he wished he hadn't, that he hadn't... Christ, he wished this whole day just hadn't happened. But wishing is the game of fools, and he was tired of being foolish. He was just ... just tired. Mulder ran his hand over his face, his fingers pausing to massage his temples before sliding through his hair again. He quickly looked down at Pearl once more. "I'm sorry. Another time?" "Yes, Fox. Another time then," Pearl agreed, walking him over the plush carpeting toward the front door. Mulder exited the townhouse, walking down the front steps. He pulled his trench tightly against him. The rain had definitely stopped, yet everything glistened with the street lamps lighting puddles, water-beaded cars and damp cobble stone. It had also gotten colder. Mulder found his breath passing through his lips in a white vaporous cloud. Stepping off the curb between two parked automobiles, he turned back to look at Pearl. She stood with the screen door ajar, the yellowish overhead stoop lamp illuminating her features. "Good luck, Fox," she said, slowly stepping back to close her front door, the screen door softly hissing closed. Turning away, he crossed the cobble-stoned street, searching out his car. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia University City District Vaughns' Household Tuesday, 827 PM "Here you are, Dana," Lisa Vaughn said, handing Scully a glass of Iced Tea. "Give me that back, Paige!" a voice was heard beyond the den, filtering from upstairs. A loud giggle/scream followed it, accompanied by rapid pounding down what seemed to be the main stairway. A jump, from the second landing to the main floor, could be heard along with a trailing chase of footsteps pounding after the first set. "Mommy.... MOM!" another voice squeaked, "Protect me ... she's gonna get me!! Help!" Suddenly a whirlwind mop of long blondish-red curls came careening through the double doors of the den, plowing into the arms of Lisa. A loud oof could be heard out of the woman as Paige clutched her mother, then rounded behind her, using her as a shield against the ever-approaching footfalls. "Paige, whaddya doin' to Chris?" Vaughn asked, whirling around in his leather lazy boy, remote still in hand after muting the football game playing on the big screen TV. "I didn't do anything!" Paige said, burying her nose into her mother's back, her arms tightly locked around her mother's waist. "Give it back, Paige!!" Christina said, coming up short as she entered the room, almost colliding into her mother who stood a few feet away from the doorway. Christina, as in the picture, was a slightly smaller version of her mother's lithe form. She had long, silky black hair and wide blue eyes like her father. Her complexion was rather pale, contrasting against the ruddiness of Paige. Paige had long curly blonde hair just as in the picture. In person, Scully could see how much more Paige resembled her father, not only in looks but in personality as well. Scully thought back the dinner. It had been a loud boisterous affair as everyone chatted about topics ranging from school, the concert the night before, boys and who was going to have to feed the dogs, feed them and also let them in that night. Scully wasn't sure if that issue had been resolved. Smiling at the memory, she thought that, either way, the distraction of chaotic Vaughn family life was something she desperately needed. It helped temper the anger and anxiety she felt. She knew Mulder was talking to Pearl and Jack and that was fine with her. Mike was right, a bit of distance would probably end up doing both of them a bit of good. So, she tried not to repeatedly see Mulder's look of devastated hurt, a look that had been quickly replaced by a mask of total indifference. She tried not to think about the tension of the interrogation room and she tried not to think of Keenswan and what Jerse might or might not have told him. Damn it, she tried! Yes, Scully's attempt at pulling herself away from these merry-go-round of thoughts almost succeeded. Almost. Scully focused back on the scene before her. Twisting around, Lisa pulled a resisting Paige in front of her but the girl snuck back behind her mother again. Lisa had her arm reaching backward, wrapped around Paige's shoulder. Paige stood against her mother, molded like a second skin against her mother's back. Scully smiled at the scene. "What's going on? Did you *borrow* Chris's CD again? I told you about that," Lisa said, looking behind her at the top of Paige's head. Her tone sounded stern yet there was an underlining hint of amusement lacing the admonishment. "She has my 16 Magazine with Kevin Richardson on the cover. He was voted not only the sexiest Backstreet boy, but the sexist pop star and she took it, didn't even ask," Christina accused, trying to reach beyond her mother to grab at Paige who had stuck her tongue out at Christina. Paige yipped, pulling back farther. Her sister had almost got her. Upon moving back, she soon found her waist encircled by Mike, who'd snuck out of his chair and dragged his youngest girl onto his lap, falling back against the seat. Starting to tickle her, his fingers raced under her armpits, beneath her knee caps, her body wiggling around with her cries begging him to stop. "Is that true, is that true? Is it? Is it? I'm gonna tickle you to death if you don't tell me!" "Yes, it's true!" Christina declared, not letting Paige answer -- not that she could -- gasping and giggling as she was. Scully saw Christina shake off her anger as an evil smile framed her face, her fingers flexing. Scully watched as the eldest girl raced around her mother and joined her father in his attack of little Paige. Scully was stuck in utter amusement. She watched Mike whisper something in Paige's ear and suddenly the tables were turned as he released the youngest girl and grabbed Christina, causing her to topple onto the other side of Mike's lap. Paige and Mike then proceeded to join forces in having Christina's pale complexion blotch with splashes of red while the poor girl gasped for breath. Mike captured his eldest daughter's legs between his own so she couldn't kick away. "Are you guys finished yet?" Lisa asked, crossing her arms. "We do have a guest here and I'm sure she'd like to talk with your father. Right, Michael?" The bunch stopped attacking one another. Both girls laying against Mike. All three of them were gasping for breath, exerted from their efforts as they draped on top of one another like a bunch of rag dolls. Scully smiled at the image. "Paige, give Chris back the magazine and ask next time, 'kay?" Mike said, kissing the top of her head. "Fine, Dad," Paige agreed. Turning toward Christina she grabbed the sides of her head and planted a long kissing smack against her forehead before dragging herself off of her father and trudging past Lisa and out of the room. "And you, Chris, don't go chasing Paige 'round the house. I don't wanna hear either of ya clod hoppin' down those steps... What if one of you fell? You know better... Come to us, we'll handle it. Now get lost, I'm missing the game," Mike said, kissing Christina's cheek as she stayed lounging against him, her head beside his. "I think I'll stay here," Christina decided, rubbing the side of her head against Mike's, pretending to settle in, her black hair draping across Mike's features. "Listen, Pretty Girl," Mike began to threaten, making a show of spitting out her hair. "Get off me or I'll be forced to unleash the fingers tickle's death again." Scully didn't think she saw someone leave a room so fast in her entire life. "No Running!" Lisa called after the girls, before turning to Mike and Scully. "And you, Michael, you encourage them." "Me?" Mike asked, his eyes innocent. "You're out of your mind, woman!" "I'll woman you!" Lisa said, mock-hitting his shoulder and stepping away toward the doorway. Turning, she looked at Scully who sat completely relaxed, completely different from when she first had entered the house. Being around this family, Scully realized that it actually had helped take her mind off of Mulder, if only for small snatches at a time. "I'll leave you two to talk shop." "Oh, don't go," Scully requested. She really liked Lisa. She was, well for wont of a better word, sassy. She was a great mother, and the love between Mike and her was abundantly clear. It was nice to see. "No, no... I have to go, gotta get the girls settled. It's a school night... Oh Mike, I'm calling Mikey Jr. I'll let him know about us being there for Saturday's game against Villanova. It's at Penn's stadium right?" "Yeah, baby," Mike responded. "Anyway Dana, unfortunately I've got things to do and kids to torment," Lisa said, smiling. "It was nice meeting you. Figure I'll say my good-byes now in case I don't get to see you later on." "Well, I've had a great time, and your family's wonderful. Thanks for having me," Scully said, matching Lisa's smile. "Okay then," Lisa responded, turning to Mike once more. "And listen you, no falling asleep in that chair. I don't wanna hear how your back is bothering you tomorrow. High tail it up to bed sometime tonight, okay Lieutenant?" "Yes, sir, Chief!" Mike replied, saluting Lisa. She walked over and planted a quick kiss on Mike's cheek. "I'm not kidding," she warned as she pulled back. "Oh, I know you're not," Mike replied, winking at her. Scully watched as Lisa left the room, closing the doors behind her. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Corner of 8th and Market Tuesday, 749 PM Mulder slammed the car door, parking it around the corner from the Burger King he'd just spotted. He'd been aimlessly driving around the city for the past hour or so, trying to think or not think -- he hadn't quite decided what modus operandi he was working within. During his city crawl, his stomach had sent up a flare, grumbling, alerting him to the fact that he hadn't had anything to eat since, well, since seeing Jack that morning -- not that he'd had any type of appetite. In fact, Mulder had been feeling decidedly nauseated for more hours than he cared to count. Letting out a weary sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face and let out a low growl. Walking around his car, he stepped out of the passing headlights of oncoming traffic and crested the sidewalk. Mulder noticed that the nighttime air had retained the freezing autumn chill from earlier, keeping the city scents of leaked oil, gasoline, trash and the ever present unidentifiable, tamped down. He was at least thankful that the rain had finally quit. He'd seriously begun to feel water-logged. Mulder's ears continued to be assaulted by the sound of car horns, the occasional whistle and creaking car axles as he rounded the corner of 8th and Market. Passing by the amber, halogen lit subway entrance, he glanced down the wide stairs leading to ticket booths, turnstiles, and Patco trains. The rumblings of a train departing crawled up the stairway walls, but that wasn't what caused Mulder to stop in his tracks. "Jack?" Mulder called out to the teenager walking up the steps, skateboard clutched in hand. The boy looked up, meeting Mulder's glance, then quickly averted his gaze as he finished his climb. Mulder couldn't believe it. Finally! One thing was actually going his way today. "Hey Agent Mulder," Jack said, his gaze ping-ponging between the steps ahead of him and Mulder. "On your way home?" Mulder questioned as Jack hit the sidewalk, standing a little away from him. "Yeah, I took the "L", I'm... uh, yeah," Jack stammered. Tucking his skateboard under his arm, he jammed his hands into his coat pockets. Mulder eyes traveled over Jack. The boy was definitely cagey, nervous, but then Mulder suspected there weren't many times when the kid wasn't. He took a few more seconds to look Jack over. The teenager's face was wind blushed, his hair mussed, the strands slipping from his pony tail and laying against his pale features. Jack's glasses kept sliding down his thin nose and Mulder watched as he used a fingerless glove-clad hand to repeatedly push the silver frames back up the bridge of his nose. Mulder and Jack stood there for a few moments. The occasional person walked past or filtered up and down the stairs, weaving their paths around them. "I'm glad I ran into you," Mulder said, motioning for Jack to stand to the side of the sidewalk with him, outside of the direct flow of pedestrian traffic. "Listen, I'm about to get something to eat, interested in a Big Mac?" Mulder asked, pointing to the Burger King. "They don't have Big Macs there, you're thinking Mickey D's," Jack said. Mulder watched him cough then glance around at the passing traffic, the surrounding buildings and the empty parking lot across the street. "Well, how 'bout a burger, then. Gotta have that, right? I mean, being the king and all that," Mulder replied, smiling. "Right?" "Yeah, uh, I guess I could go for a burger," Jack said, shrugging his shoulder, then froze. "But, I don't have to pay this time, do I?" Mulder chuckled, remembering the conversation from earlier as they had gone to get hot dogs. "Naah, I'm feeling flush tonight," Mulder assured. He tossed his head toward the direction of the glowing burger, "Come on, let's go on in. And . . . uh, Jack, you can loose the "Agent", Mulder's good enough for me." Jack nodded his head in response. Adjusting his skateboard, he followed after Mulder. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia University City District Vaughns' Household Tuesday, 848 PM "That's my Pretty Girl," Mike whispered, staring at a photo of Christina sitting under the lamp light beside his chair. Shaking his head, he turned his gaze toward Scully. "She's very beautiful, both of your girls are," Scully said, smiling and feeling as if she were intruding on a private moment of Vaughn's. "She's a survivor too," Vaughn informed her, nodding his head to the 8x10. Scully stiffened, confused. "I'm sorry?" "Oh shit, *I'm* sorry. Mulder, well, he and I as you know, been keepin' in touch through the phone. And it just hit me, remembering that Christina was sick when you were sick," Mike revealed. "Christina was sick, how?" Scully asked, concerned. She leaned forward, her hand resting on the arm of the sofa. "She had cancer," Mike explained. Sighing, he continued. "It was a bad time, Dana, I don't mind telling you that. Chris, Chrissy was diagnosed with Acute Lymphatic Leukemia about four years ago. She'd a really hard time of it. We thought she'd gone into remission, the doctor's at CHOPS, that's the Children's Hospital here in Philly, the doctors had been positive and we were as well ... for a while anyway. But, then ... then it came back, right around when you became ill." "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry," Scully said, feeling her heart ache for the Vaughns. "She'd had to get a bone marrow transplant. We were lucky. Paige was a match. Hell, that little girl was five years old and such the little trouper, wanting to help her sister so much. And she was so upset, almost inconsolable ... their bond ... it's strange, but I've never had anything like that, like they have. But those two girls are each other's lives, " Mike said, rubbing a hand against his forearm as Scully watched him slipping into memories. He chuckled, looking to Scully again. "Despite how contrary tonight's antics seemed." He looked back at his hand he had resting on his thigh, becoming pensive once more. "That's when I fell off the wagon again. I'd been sober for, Christ, 10 years, 265 days. But that day, that whole time period, I hadn't wanted to talk to anyone. If I wasn't at the hospital, I was at work or pounding them back at Anthony's," Mike said, looking up and meeting Scully's gaze. "Lisa, I just ... it was a bad time for us ... we were both not dealing with this set back, with each other, really. Then one day, during that time, I get this phone call and what do you know? It's Mulder." Scully closed her eyes, nodding her head, wanting to hear this story, yet feeling her heart breaking as she remembered that time of her illness and the desperation and feverent hoping Mulder had found himself in trying to save her. "Here he was calling me, trying out some lead and could I help him out? I asked him why he needed it. I knew I was being a sonofabitch. Normally I'd just go on ahead and get any info I could for him.... Well, he finally tells me about you," Mike explained, standing up and pacing. He stopped, looking at Scully. "I hope I'm not bending your ear too much here." Scully shook her head. "No, no ... go on... I... I didn't know about this." Mike nodded, smiling. "Well, good. Cuz I think you should know. I think you need to know, maybe today more than any other day." Scully closed her eyes, absorbing Mike's words. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he was more right then he would ever know. "Well, anyway, he was there for me. Dana. I don't know how much help I coulda been for him, but I found myself spilling my guts and Mulder listening then yellin' at me, tellin' me to get off my ass and shit. I don't know why it made more of an impact coming from him. No, that's not true. I think his determination that he would find something to help you, his determination, period, was what lit the fire under my backside, knocking the *booze* out while knocking some *sense* in." Vaughn smiled, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. "Hell, I mean... I knew I needed to be there for Lisa, knew she needed me. I knew I also needed to be there for Paige and Christina, not hidin' out at some bar. I'd been such an asshole and Mulder ... he had no problem reminding me of that fact. I can't tell ya how may times I hung up on that bastard." Vaughn affectionately chuckled before continuing. "And not two minutes later, he'd be calling back, continuing to give me shit. I don't know. Maybe he needed to feel useful when I recognized how he felt ... helpless. And, when he wasn't trying to get through my thick skull, he'd talk about you, Dana. He'd tell me about his fears, fears that so sharply mirrored my own." Mike stopped pacing, and held Scully's gaze. "Then, I didn't hear from him all of a sudden, which was actually all right cuz Chrissy, she started gettin' better and Lisa and I, well, we actually started talkin'." Pausing, Mike looked away, out the front bay window before staring down at the carpet. "When I did finally hear from the SOB again, he gave me the good news. Told me about how your cancer had gone into remission. He was happier than a pig in shit, I mean... I should know, it was how I was feelin' about my Pretty Girl, about Chrissy." "I didn't... It's nice to know he had someone to talk to," Scully weakly responded, her throat suddenly constricted with an emotional lump. It would figure that Mulder would disregard his own feelings in order to help a friend, a man who was like a brother to him. It would figure that he would be the open ear for Mike's sorrows and fears. It would figure that Mulder would get on Mike to get his act together. He'd done the same exact things to her, for her, when Missy had died ... he'd been there for her. His consideration, the little things. He would just sit with her. They wouldn't talk, they'd sit at the reflecting pool, in her living room, a coffee shop.. anywhere. He'd... he'd helped her the way she needed to be helped, needed to be supported. Most times, he'd help without even uttering a word but by just being there. When she was sick, well, he refused to let her ever give up. And there were times, times when she lost her courage, times when she lost that fire of determination, when she'd been weak physically and emotionally. It was at those times that he would lend her his fire, lend her his faith ... this faith from a person who didn't believe in much, but seemed to absolutely trust in her and her survival. Scully believed that the strength of his hope and his determination was, is, what ultimately helped her through those dark times, what made her able to fight as hard and as long as she had needed to. Her family ... her mother, Father McGee, they were all an integral part of her recovery, but she felt that it was Mulder who had made the final difference. And, it was more than his finding any chip that may or may not have stopped the cancer. It was him. His utter faith that not only "could" she be well again, but that she "would" be. His faith, his trust in that knowledge, in her. His trust ... in ... her. Scully felt the tears prick her eyes and begin to trickle down her cheeks in a steady flow. She turned her gaze down, blindly seeing the black skirt she was wearing. Bending her head, her tears splashed onto her clasped hands, falling before she had a chance to ferret them away with the back of her palm. Taking deep breaths, she tried to get a hold of herself and found that she was failing, horribly. Next thing she knew, a box of tissues appeared under the tilted veil of her hair. Pulling out a few tissues, she glanced up, meeting Mike's concerned gaze before turning away to blow her nose. "I'm sorry... I'm... I don't know what came over me," Scully stammered, trying to tamp down on her riotous emotions. How? How was Mulder ever going to forgive her? She soon found herself following up that question with how was she ever going to forgive herself? She never, never should have lied to him ... she never should have doubted the level of commitment, the level of love between them. She'd let her irrational fear get in the way of her heart ... her lack of faith, a faith that never should have been missing. Mulder, would, and had gone to the ends of the earth for her. Whatever she may have done in the past, with whomever, would not have destroyed their beginning as she had rationalized to herself. Mulder wasn't like other men, like other relationships she'd thought were serious. She'd been foolish and now she was paying and paying dearly. She ... she was the one who had done it. She had been the one to crush the person she loved the most in her life -- the one person, however cliched as it might sound, but the one person who'd slowly become her world when she hadn't even been looking. Scully shook her head, still trying to calm herself, to tether the stampede of thoughts that broke her heart in tiny little fragments, thoughts that refused to stop assaulting her. She quickly stood up, facing Mike. "May I use your bathroom?" "Yeah, sure ... it's right across the hall, off of the dining room," Mike said, letting her go on her own. She was grateful for his consideration. She hurried to the bathroom, quickly closing the door behind her. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Philadelphia Art Museum Tuesday, 901 PM "You like coming here, Jack?" Mulder asked, licking his fingers clean of mayonaise. The Philadelphia Art Museum sat isolated on top a large, elevated terrain. Its impressive, columned visage loomed over the roadway stretched out before it. "Yeah, It's a good spot to skateboard, that is, until the cops chase ya off the steps," Jack answered before biting into his Whopper. Mulder and Jack sat parked at the top of the tiered steps in front of the museum. They had driven up the side entrance, crawling up the road that weaved its way to the back parking lot. Mulder had circumvented the lot, driving past slanted parking along the side of the museum and had turned at the building's corner to finally stop the car above the center of the front stairs. If he squinted his eyes real hard, Mulder could imagine good ol'Rocky Balboa jogging up the tiered stairs. He smiled at the image. Yeah, he could be a typical tourist. Laid out before the museum was the spectacular sight of the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. Mulder's gaze traveled over the multi-laned traffic, peppered by the red/green glow of traffic lights, break lights and the white of approaching headlights. "It's nice up here," Mulder said, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. Directly across the traffic passing in front of the museum was an island of land that held a magnificent bronze statue. Mulder's gaze traveled to the dormant fountain a few yards away. Looking beyond the statue and fountain, Mulder spied an empty parking lot sandwiched between a collection of large oak trees. "Yeah, it's cool, I guess," Jack replied. Mulder turned back to him, seeing the teenager's fingers dig into a container of onion rings. Mulder gave a relaxed sigh. Being up here actually made him feel the most relaxed he'd felt all day. He appreciated the twinkling lights of the cityscape before him. Beyond the island of land was the straight stretch of parkway leading into the heart of center city. The parkway was lit by a continuous string of street lamps, each sporting a national flag from the various world nations. The heart of center city. It loomed up in the distance, tall skyscrapers dictating the layout of the sky but among them stood a lone statue of Ben Franklin striding high a top one of the older buildings, a building that competed with the new glass and metal giants surrounding it. All in all, it was a breathtaking view, especially with the twinkling of nighttime lights. Mulder heard the empty slurp of soda and turned to look at Jack. Leaning against the side door, he studied the teenager before speaking. "You know, this is just what I needed, Jack -- to get away from it all. I'm glad you suggested it," Mulder began, leaning the side of his head in his palm, his elbow resting along the window track. The car reeked of take out. Scully would have complained if she'd had to sit within it. Mulder was finding that he was deriving a particular joy out of said odor. "I like to come here," Jack replied, quickly glancing at Mulder then back to the view sprawled out before them. Mulder sighed, closing his eyes, groaning. "What?" Jack asked, startling him. Mulder looked at the boy, observing Jack for a few moments before speaking. "You have a girl, Jack?" Jack turned away, looking out the side window. "Uh, no, not right now." Mulder saw Jack's breath fog the window. "You're lucky," Mulder said, rubbing the back of his head within his palm. Jack turned around to face Mulder, no doubt piqued at Mulder's comment. "Yeah? Why? Is it that lady you were with?" Jack asked, showing his interest. "Scully? Yeah. . . ," Mulder replied, shaking his head as he watched Jack. "I thought she was your FBI partner?" Jack asked, watching Mulder. Mulder smiled or grimaced, he wasn't quite sure how he would classify it. "Yeah, she's my partner, um . . . among other things." "She's pretty," Jack said, and even without the benefit of a light, Mulder was able to see Jack's skin tingeing red. "Yes, she is," Mulder agreed, jutting his chin out as he wobbled his jaw back and forth. Taking a deep breath, he sighed again. "What... uh, what happened? Something happened, right?" Jack questioned, looking away then back again. "I found out about something that she . . . she'd rather I hadn't," Mulder finally revealed, careful how he phrased it and really not quite sure how to or how he wanted to phrase it. At this moment though, he knew one thing. He knew he wanted to gain or regain Jack's trust. He wanted to have Jack feel open toward him. Mulder wanted to ask the teenager questions and he felt it only fair that he give of himself if he was going to ask Jack to do the same. "She lied to you?" Jack asked, his voice turning bitter, his eyes narrowed. "Something like that," Mulder replied, watching how Jack's posture straightened, his back stiffening. "I have a feeling you've been there." Jack looked back at Mulder and held his gaze. "I'm not the hermit my grandmother thinks I am." Mulder laughed, meeting Jack's gaze. The boy smiled in shared amusement. "Oh yeah?" "Yeah, I know what she thinks. She just don't get it," Jack continued. "How'd you meet your girl," Mulder questioned, his fingers playing with the steering wheel. "Met her in a chat room online." "Ah, the 90's dating service," Mulder said, shaking his head in understanding. "You've used it?" Jack questioned, looking over at Mulder. Mulder straightened in his seat, turning his head to face Jack. "Um, no. But, I've chatted with professionals, professional to professional." Jack snorted, chuckling. "Yeah, right!" Mulder said nothing, looking out at the flowing traffic. "What was her name?" Mulder asked, putting the conversation back on track. "Miranda, she . . . she was a Goth girl," Jack said, crumbling the sandwich wrapper and stuffing it in the empty Burger King bag. "Broke your heart, huh?" Mulder asked, sympathetic. "No!" Jack shouted out, his posture stiffening again. "I wouldn't let her." Mulder redirected his approach, cautious. "I hear ya, buddy," Mulder said, careful to keep his gaze averted as Jack collected his emotions. "You gonna let your Scully break your heart?" Jack asked, redirecting Mulder's question. Mulder stiffened. Touche' Shit. "I don't think it's a matter of letting at this point," Mulder finally answered. His gaze narrowed as his vision blurred into nothingness. "It's already done, the . . . the dream's shattered." "I'd rather have no dreams at all," Jack growled, his voice rough. Mulder shook his head, turning at the tone in Jack's voice. He studied the boy, his whole demeanor changing to one of nervousness, and perhaps something more. Jack's hand raised to rest on the door handle and Mulder saw that his fingers were shaking. "What do you mean, Jack?" Mulder asked, his voice soft, curious. "Naa.. Nothing," he replied, still looking out the side car window. Mulder followed his gaze and saw the huge PSFS building's electronic message board telling them to be sure to "Race for the Cure" this Sunday. "Jack," Mulder called, letting his name rest between them. "I... let's just say that I don't have sweet dreams," Jack replied, his voice hardening. Mulder's skin felt like it were tingling. His senses kicking into gear. Sweet Dreams? //.. and sweet dreams to you Agent Scully....// Mulder closed his eyes, again seeing Keenswan smile before being lead out of the corridor. "Sweet Dreams, Jack?" Mulder questioned, his voice taking on a demanding tone. Jack looked at him, his gaze catching within Mulder's. Mulder watched as Jack's pupils fluctuated, opening and closing. "Why don't you tell me about someone?" Mulder suggested, holding Jack's nervous gaze. "I don't know anything," Jack said, his voice shaking. Mulder just looked at him. He nodded his head, running a hand through his hair before speaking again. "I think, perhaps you do, Jack." Jack tore his gaze away, staring down at his lap. "Tell me about your dreams," Mulder prompted, letting the question be spoken. "Tell me about that song you were humming last night...." Mulder leaned forward, waiting for Jack to meet his eyes before speaking again. "Tell me about Jacob Keenswan." Tears began to slip down Jack's cheeks. His lip began to tremble. Suddenly Jack began to rock back and forth, mumbling, staring forward. "It's dark ... the closet ... so dark... darkdarkdark...," Jack whispered. Mulder watched as the teenager began to suddenly shrink into himself, his shoulders hunching. The boy's arms crossed, wrapping around the legs he pulled up and pressed against his chest, his feet, against the seat cushion. "The closet, Jack?" Mulder questioned, keeping his voice gentle yet coaxing. "I... I can't get out of the closet," Jack muttered, his voice breaking into sobs. Mulder cringed, his eyes closing as he remembered how they had found Jack, locked in his mother's closet. "Shh . . . now. Close your eyes, it's so much better when you're quiet... quietquietquiet...." Jack murmured, rocking faster. Mulder had to lean toward Jack to hear him. When the words registered, Mulder was almost shocked at the regressed state Jack was slipping into. "Can't get out ... can't... Bye.... Bye ... blackbird," Jack warbled, his voice loud and scratchy, his gaze seeing nothing. "Jack? Jack!" Mulder called, out his arm, touching Jack's shoulder. "JACK!" Jack whipped his head around to face Mulder, his cheeks tear soaked, slipping past the frames of his glasses. His eyes were drowning in more tears. "I can't break out of the dreams... I see... I see horrible ... horrible things." "Jack, it's okay, it's all right, they're just memories," Mulder said, grabbing hold of Jack's hand. "Memories." Jack frantically shook his head back and forth. "Noooo, no, Agent Mulder there not ... there not!!! I see these women ... these women I've seen in the subways, in the parks... I see them in my dreams ... and then I see him. I see HIM WITH THEM!" Mulder leaned back against the side door, biting his lower lip. "You see Keenswan? With these women in your ... in your dreams?" Jack, tucked his face against his knees, his glasses pressing against the black jeans, his escaped hair, shielding his face. "Jack, I think you're just remembering. I think with all the news coverage dealing with Keenswan . . . that . . . your subconscious is releasing your memories, memories that you buried to protect yourself." "Nononononono... he keeps me in there, he makes me watch. . . I can't get out of the closet . . . can't get out!" Jack stammered, his whole body shivering. "Jack, it's okay.. It's okay. . . ," Mulder assured, holding on to Jack, his hand brushing over his hair. "Listen, that song ... he must have sung it years ago, right? Not today, not now," Mulder said, his hand moving back to rest against Jack's hitching shoulders. Jack twisted his head, letting the side of it rest on his knees as he looked over at Mulder. "Yes,. he ... he sung it. I... I remember it when he picked me up and...." Mulder stiffened. Picked him up? "He told me if I was good, if I was quiet, that it would be so much better... I think that's why he . . . that's why he let me live. I stayed quiet, Agent Mulder. Oh Fucking H. Christ, it's coming back to me. Fuck it!" Jack cried out, kicking the glove compartment in front of him. "I don't want to remember! I don't want to know anymore!" "It's all right, Jack ... memories can't hurt you," Mulder said, his voice steady and sure, soothing. "You're safe now, safe." Jack sobs continued. He took of his glasses and used his arms to rub the tears off his face. "Jack, these dreams... I think that you're remembering because you've stopped taking your medication," Mulder suggested. Jack sat back against the car seat, trapping Mulder's palm. Pulling it free, he looked at Jack, waiting. "No, no way ... those drugs mess me up ... fuck with my mind, trap me ... do you know what it's like to ... to finally feel like a curtain was lifted ... like you were experiencing things for the first time when you've already done them a hundred times over? No ... no, you don't know ... you aren't drugged up to be made "normal." I've been doped up all my life, Agent Mulder. All my life!" Jack cried out, anger lacing every syllable he spoke. "Jack, they're meant to help you function, to keep you on an even keel. You're old enough to know, to realize that you've been having severe mood swings." "Is that what Grams told you?" Jack snarled, his eyes hard. "No, that's what I saw this morning and that's what I'm seeing right now," Mulder replied, his tone hard and forceful, his gaze caring. "You need to see your doctors, Jack. You could go into an epileptic fit, you could seizure, possibly choke ... possibly die. Do you understand that? Do you understand what I am saying to you? They're not just mood modifiers. I remember when you were little, I remember the doctors that had to see you. You have a physical condition that demands you take those prescriptions." Jack looked away, wincing at the warning bite of Mulder's words. Curbing his tone, Mulder spoke softly, yet certain. "I don't wanna see that happen to you... I don't wanna see your grandmother loose another person she loves ... and she loves you...loves ya a whole hell of a lot. But she's scared, Jack. She shouldn't have to be afraid." Jack raised his head, meeting Mulder's gaze again, his tone tremulous as he spoke. "She's.... She's scared? Of ... of me?" Mulder sighed, his thumb tapping against the steering wheel before he met Jack's gaze. "She's scared of loosing you. She's scared because she doesn't understand what's been happening." Jack bit his lip, rubbing a forearm over his eyes again. Mulder could hear him sniffing. Reaching across the seat, he grabbed a wad of napkins that had fallen to the floor. He held them out and Jack snatched a few. Mulder watched him blow his nose while the boy's gaze averted from Mulder. "Jack, take the medication again. I think that it'll not only help you feel better, but it will also help you deal with these repressed memories that have begun to surface." Mulder leaned forward. "Listen, you are the one who is in control. You are the one who has the power. You do not have to be helpless in your dreams, take over. Be strong, tell yourself you will be when you fall asleep. If you do that, there's a good chance that what you say will happen." Mulder looked at Jack, searching his face. "But, doing that won't be enough. You need to take your medication again. Tomorrow Pearl and you can set an appointment with your doctors, call them. They can experiment with what would be the best dosage, the best medication for you. Talk to your doctors. Tell them what's going on, they'll be able to help you handle all this." Jack let out a shaky sigh and Mulder waited, watching him. And to be honest, Mulder felt almost relieved. Hearing Jack and what he was going through explained some of the connections he'd been reluctant to make. But Mulder knew, perhaps more than most, how memories had a tendency of snaking through your dreams, littering your subconscious. It made sense that Jack would be experiencing these recollections. Vaughn and Pearl, both, had mentioned how crazy the media frenzy had been these past months. Keenswan's image and story had probably saturated the airwaves, the Philadelphians hungry for the cry of justice to be satisfied when it hadn't ten years ago. The people in that courtroom yesterday were not the only ones demanding Keenswan stay right where he belonged. The whole city had called for it as well. Mulder had stood by his profile and consequently, the majority of those very people. And after being in that interrogation room with him earlier, Mulder was more certain than ever that Keenswan did not fit the diagnosis of a man "cured" by medication. The murderer's alleged "psychotic impulses triggered by uncurtailed seizures" was not reliable but a cooked up Cochranian defense. Mulder was glad to see that he'd been able to invalidate that *medical* finding. Touching Jack's arm, he gave him a reassuring smile. "Jack?" Jack met Mulder's gaze, shivering yet nodding his head. "I... I'll take them." "Good, I really think... no, I know they're gonna help you out," Mulder assured. Jack nodded his head. "Ah shit! Is that what time it is?" Mulder asked looking beyond Jack at the top of PSFS skyscraper. The time scrolled across the electronic board. 930 PM. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his cell phone. Turning the power button on, he hit Scully's number on speed dial. "What?" Jack asked, curious, concerned. Mulder glanced over at him. "Uh, nothing, nothing... I just... I've gotta make a phone call." Mulder waited and waited with still no answer. He felt a bit worried. Scully always answered her phone. Disconnecting, he quickly dialed Vaughn's home phone number. After three rings, the connection picked up. "Hey, Vaughn? Did Scully get home all right?" Mulder asked, feeling a bit anxious. "Oh, she is? Well, I called her and there was no ... the bathroom?... Uh huh...all right, would you tell her I'll be around in about twenty minutes to pick her up, then. Thanks Vaughn." Hitting the 'end' button, he lowered it from his ear. Snapping the cell phone closed, he began to tap the cell against the steering wheel. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder turned and faced Jack. The boy still sat with his legs against his chest, but, Mulder did note Jack'd stopped shaking and his voice was strong, his gaze steady. "I told you, Jack ... it's just *Mulder*," Mulder admonished, giving the teenager a smile of reassurance. Jack smiled back. "Mulder ... you okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine," Mulder assured, chancing a hand out to rub against the top of Jack's head. Jack smiled, staring at Mulder while ducking away from the touch. "I'm not a kid." "Yeah, I know," Mulder replied, winking. Jack rolled his eyes. "Listen, let's blow this popsicle stand," Mulder suggested, turning the car back on, and throwing the gear shift into reverse. "Yeah, Grams is probably havin' kittens," Jack joked, chuckling. Mulder nodded his head in agreement Turning around, he followed along the other side of the museum toward the back of the building and the back exit. "Well, let's halt the litter." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia University City District The Vaughns' Household Tuesday, 938 PM Scully walked back into the den, having somewhat collected her emotions enough. She'd splashed some water on her face, wiping the streaking lines of eye make-up off that the tissues had missed. Seeing Vaughn hang up his phone, she gave him a questioning look. "That was Mulder, he said he'd be around in 'bout twenty minutes or so to take you guys back to the hotel," Vaughn informed her, tapping his hand against his thigh. Scully felt a sense of nervousness, a weakness in her legs. She tried to scold herself, tried to tell herself she was being a fool, that this was ridiculous. "Dana, I'm sure things will work out," Mike assured, reaching over to rub her arm. Scully looked up, meeting his gaze. His certainty did not assure her for he didn't know what had happened. But, she nodded her head anyway, giving a weak smile of thanks. "We'll... we'll be fine," Scully agreed yet her heart continued to hold a sinking sense of dread. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pearl's Townhouse Tuesday 950 PM "Sorry if I worried you, Pearl," Mulder said, standing within the living room again. "I ran into Jack and bribed him with food." Pearl smiled. "Well, the way to a teenager's heart is through the bottomless stomach." Mulder chuckled, nodding his head in agreement. "I don't doubt that. It's the way to mine and I've been accused of being an eternal teenage...." Mulder stopped, his heart racing. Scully had accused him of that particular behavior pattern. "Well, I don't doubt it is all," Mulder said, editing his remark. "Listen, about Jack, he hasn't been taking his medication, I think that's what's been causing his manic behavior. I didn't ask him how long he's been off the prescriptions, but it's obviously been long enough. Pearl, he's starting to experience repressed memories about.... about that night." "Oh dear God!" Pearl gasped, clutching Mulder's hand. She looked up to meet his eyes. "That poor child." "He's going to need to see his doctors again. The prescriptions have been bothering him ... that's why he stopped taking them. Body chemistries change, particularly in developing adolescents. I just think he hasn't alerted his doctors about how uncomfortable he's been," Mulder continued to explain. "Oh that's ... that's... Well, we'll be fixing that tout suite!" Pearl declared, straightening her stance, fire burning in her eyes. "I'll call his doctors tomorrow." "Now wait, Pearl, listen. Jack is not feeling very comfortable. I don't think you approaching this subject with him is the best route. Let him come to you. I think he will. I think he needs to feel in control and being able to approach you, being able to suggest the change, will do a lot to improve his outlook. If he does not mention anything to you by tomorrow night, then I'll come over and we'll all talk together," Mulder suggested, turning his palm over to hold her hand in his. "But... But I want...." Pearl stammered, then sighed, defeated. "I just want him to get better, to be the best he can be." "I know Pearl, but Jack is very fragile right now, with his repressed memories cropping up, his manic mood swings. He may see your attempt as an attack against his sense of dependence. He needs to approach you... I feel that very strongly," Mulder said, reaching out to hold Pearl's chin. "Please, you don't want to provoke any negative reactions from him." "I. . . I. . . all right, Fox, if you believe this is the best course," Pearl reluctantly agreed. Mulder leaned down and kissed her temple. "I do, I really, really do." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Greentree Hotel Broad & Locust St. Tuesday, 1047 PM Mulder stood in front of their large hotel window. His hand pushed aside the vertical blinds, allowing him to stare down from his 18th floor hotel room at the street below. The traffic below was sporadic at this hour, across the street sat both the Philadelphia Academy of Music and Merriam Theater Each building lie dark and empty at this time of night. He recalled the traffic and noise of theater and concert hall patrons exiting the buildings as Scully and he had pulled up to the Greentree. Now, everything was so quiet. Up here, the city sounds were silenced by the thick pane of glass before him, the glass that held a shadowy reflection of himself, the warm glow from the bedside lamps illuminating his form against the darkness outside the window. Everything was piercingly quiet as Mulder let go of the blinds. He reached over and grabbed the string, wrenching the diagonal slats halfway open, enough to allow him a clear view of the city below and beyond. Yes, everything was silent -- pregnant, with the except of Scully in the bathroom, preparing for bed. Mulder kept staring out the window. He heard the sound of the heater kicking on and felt a warm gust of air begin to circle around his legs. He sighed, tired, as he looked down at the tiny matchbox cars that drove down the street, driving beyond their hotel, beyond the theater halls, some of them hitting the traffic light a few blocks away at Broad and City Hall. Mulder could make out their stopped tail lights. Unthreading his tie, Mulder let the loose ends lay across his necks. His suit jacket and trench coat sat in tandem in a heap in one of the chairs by the door. He hadn't bothered to hang either one up. Since having picked Scully up from Vaughn's, neither of them had bothered to say much, almost declaring a silent truce as they prepared for the conversation to come. Mulder felt nauseated again, his stomach clenching into tight knots. He didn't know if he was ready, but he supposed it didn't matter if he was or not. Lifting his hands to his face, he pressed his features into his palms, rubbing his fingers up and down until letting them thread through his hair. He twisted his neck, relaxing the kinks that had bunched up and taken hold of him. He continued to stand in front of this window, the outside world a silent movie before him. Hearing the bathroom door open, Scully's footsteps could also be heard as she padded across the carpet, coming to stand behind him. Mulder could feel her presence, feel her keeping her distance as she ran her gaze over him, not saying anything ... waiting. And waiting. Now even the room was silent. Mulder continued to stare out the window, his ears burning from the quiet, his heart pounding in his chest. His throat was sore, clogged with a lump of anxiety and pain. Being in this room now, being alone with her, had twisted his insides just as tightly as it had earlier. Mulder's gaze no longer witnessed the scene available to him as he stared blindly out the window. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he felt everything. "Mulder, I'm sorry," Scully said, her voice reaching out to him, trying to turn him around, to face her. He didn't know if he was ready, didn't think he was ready. He felt sensitive to everything The clothes on his back, the sounds in the room, the smell of her vanilla bathwash. Vanilla.... ////". . . my little Eddie was right. You do smell . . . good. Like Vanilla and . . . what is that scent? Hmm? Oh yes, like vanilla with a hint of. . . *musk*. . . ."//// Mulder cringed as he heard Keenswan's words from earlier, heard the truth of her deception, of her lies from a fucking murderer. Mulder tossed his head back, gasping in pain. "Mulder?" Scully asked, her voice concerned Mulder held a hand off, staving her off. He didn't want to see her, he didn't want to smell her ... but yet, he did ... he did. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and clutch her to him, he wanted to bury his face in her stomach as he kneeled before her, clasping onto her for dear life. But he couldn't. Because as much as he wanted to do those things, he wanted to hurt her, hurt her as she was hurting him, destroying him. But he wouldn't, he couldn't because as soon as he wanted to strike out he also wanted to sooth. He wanted to tell her to forget it all, that it's all right, that he understood. But damn it, he didn't understand. He tried to see out of her eyes but when he did, all he saw was Jerse on top of her. "Mulder, I'm so sorry," Scully said again, keeping her distance. Mulder let his chin fall to his chest, his back to her -- straight, stiff. He replied in a pained whisper. "I know you are, Scully." "I was wrong, afraid," Scully continued. He heard her take a few more steps, her voice closer. The hairs on his neck raised and the walls were beginning to feel as if they were shrinking in on him. Mulder finally turned around, slowly, his hands fisted at his side as he looked at her. She stood before him, devoid of make up, forsaking humility, pride. Her hair was wet and combed from her face Her eyes were wet and silent, tears trickled down her cheeks. "Oh, Scully," Mulder gasped, the knifing pain bleeding his heart as he finally looked at her. He could feel his own tears slipping out the corner of his eyes. Standing before her, he tilted his chin down toward his chest again, shuttering his eyes, clearing her pained face from his view. It hurt to see her like that. It hurt to see his pain shared within her gaze. Scully took another step forward, he heard it. The distance between them was less than a yard now, almost close enough to reach out, almost close enough to touch her, to hold her. The one person, the one place he had always found solace and now, now it was not available to him. Mulder raised his head, looking at her, a tear sliding off of his jaw. Anger entered his pained voice, his tone hardening, strong and questioning. "Why Scully? Why were you afraid? No. . . Why didn't you trust me enough?" He watched her blink, a hand going up to wipe the tears off her face before returning to clasp within her other hand. "I. . . it wasn't you, Mulder. It was me. It was life. It was so many fears that somehow, for that moment when you asked me about . . . about Ed, it was that moment that fear wiped away what I knew in my heart. Jesus, Mulder, it was stupid. I know that. . . But . . . but we'd been through so much to finally be together," Scully paused, searching his face before continuing. "I was afraid, not of you. . . I was afraid of another bee." Mulder turned his head to the side, shuttering his eyes. His hands rested on his hips and his breath was labored, ragged. "It wasn't you, never you," Scully continued, reaching out a hand to turn his face toward her. He opened his eyes and looked down at her upturned features. His tears mimicked hers as they continued to fall quietly, as quiet as the city outside. He gave a weak sigh. His mouth trembled as a sob screwed up his features, threatening to break the quiet. "I'm sorry, Mulder, God, I'm so, so sorry." "I know," Mulder gasped out in a strangled voice. Scully leaned in against him, releasing his face, she threaded both arms around his waist resting her head against his chest, against his heart. Mulder looked down at the top of her hair, felt the heat of her body on his. This woman that he loved so much, so much that it hurt, could debilitate. He let his head fall back on his neck, his eyes blindly staring at the ceiling as his mouth opened in a silent, hidden cry. So much silence ... so much. When he lowered his chin, he looked across the room and caught their reflection in the bureau mirror. Just last night that pane of glass held a different image, one of two people embraced, loving. Mulder just stared at them, his heart beating faster within his chest. His throat going dry. "Mulder?" Scully asked, tilting her head up, her hand coming to rest over his breast. Mulder's mouth moved like a fish, his head turning from side to side as he looked at her, helpless. He pulled his gaze away from their embraced image to look down at Scully's upturned face. His arms fell to sides. Scully's gaze was stricken, he could see it, identify it as his own. She stepped away, taking the heat of her and pieces of his heart. Her eyes pooled with tears again. He saw himself within her gaze, within her stance of dejected hope. "I'm sorry, Scully," he choked, swiftly turning his gaze away from her then back again. "I know you're sorry and I want. . . I want to forgive you. I want it so badly but I. . . I can't yet. I just can't and it's, it's tearing me apart." The damn of silence was truly broken, and the sound of sobs emanating from both of them littered the room. Mulder took a step toward her, a hand reaching out the halting as he closed it in a fist, dropping it against his leg. "I. . . oh, Scully," Mulder cried. His voice was hoarse as he looked at her, the pain so tangible within him, around them, that it bleed. "Will you...," Scully began, stammering. He could see her uncertainty, could feel it mixed with a familiar desperate hope. She rocked back and forth, her arms crossed over her satin pajama top, the color blue that matched her eyes. Her gaze stared off to the side as her lips pursed, trying to ask the question that he was asking himself. "Can you for. . . ." "I think so, Scully," Mulder replied, answering the unspoken question. "I just, I need to go right now." Mulder shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to see clearly. Walking past her, he grabbed his jacket off the chair, putting it on. Picking up his trench coat, he clutched it within his hand. "I just... I've gotta go... I need to be alone." Mulder looked up as he turned the door handle to the room. Scully's arms were crossed against her chest and she hadn't turned around to follow his movements. She stood facing the window. He looked past her, seeing her lone reflection where his had been only a few moments ago. He looked away from the glass, looking at Scully once again, trying to say something else, feeling as if he had to. "I . . . ." Mulder opened the door, standing in the doorway for a moment. He saw Scully's back shaking from sobs, tears that fell silent once again. Slowly closing his eyes, he stepped through the door, shutting it as if doing that simple act could close out the last vision of her. But it couldn't, it stayed with him for a long time after. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Tuesday, 1153 PM Like a round exploding from a gun chamber, the water leaking from the faucet impacts against the sink basin, the droplets soaking the cracked and dank porcelain. It's hypnotic, standing here, watching as it splatters, hearing the ricochet of continuity, of passing time as it beads, falling from the rusted barrel -- the faucet's mouth. I don't think I would have noticed that before, the little things, I mean. Everything is different, better. And that makes me smile. Rubbing my eyes, I let my hand fall back to the sink, watch as my finger nail traces against the chilled surface. I see things now, do things I've never had the nerve, never had a thought to do. I had been trapped, trapped within a prison built so many years ago, jailed like a God Damn Animal! But no more. . . I'm unleashed, maybe even a bit unhinged, but I'll pay that price, gladly. Learning, that's what I have been doing. Confused at first, it took me some time to slowly come to the realization about just what it was I'm now able to do. It took me some time to fully comprehend what it is I've always been meant for. I don't even remember fighting it, not really. It just seemed natural, seemed right. I'd been mesmerized, even scared shitless, at least at first. I can admit that. In the beginning I had observed and been observed, and maybe ... maybe I hated that. Not now, though, never now. I anticipate it, the thirst to watch, to learn. It quickens my heart and races my blood. Blood -- it's become a funny thing to me, what with how and where it flows. There is a grittiness, a scent, and if I even catch a whiff, a hint of that metallic liquid, I'm excited. It's like I can feel the blood rushing through my veins as I watch it spilling out of others. Ha, just the smell, the letting of it -- it really makes me feel, well, makes me feel more alive as nothing ever has. Have I always had the potential to appreciate this? Perhaps. The past doesn't really matter, though. Today is what counts. I finally feel in control and not controlled, not by anything or anyone. There might be some debate on the *controlled* aspect. But they ... they don't know and *he*, well, he doesn't either. But he will. I blink my eyes, pulling my gaze from my hands and looking up at my reflection in the mirror before me. The light is strong in here, glaring, showing all the cracks and crevices of my thoughts, of my intention broiling deep within my gaze. I lean forward, cocking my head as I widen my eyes, my stare. I welcome in that illumination, stepping out from behind the role I've played. Here, in this room, right now ... there's no one who can see me, the real me, not one person who knows the truth. No one but myself. I stand here, isolated among the cement and mortar, the barred window securing me from the outside world. But it's too late ... too late. Twisting the faucet handle, the water becomes a stream of rapid fire as I lean over the sink. Scooping up the wetness, I bathe my face with it, feel each bullet of wetness soak into my skin, cleanse me, prepare me. Straightening, I look into the mirror again. I stare so hard and for so long that I can see the pores of my skin expanding, catching the water. I blink and call up my worn, counterfeit tears, watching them perform as they track down my cheeks. I smile, feeling laughter claw up my throat and cause my lips to spread in a grin. Oh, yes. Complete joy. Within these past months, I have known true liberation, broken out of my confinement, freed of my cell like no one could ever suspect, like no one could ever know. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the padlock that had withheld my total liberation. It is the barrier that had, up until these past few months, prevented me my complete freedom from a different type of jail I hadn't even known I was trapped within. Holding it up, I look at it. "Jack, you almost thru in there, honey?" Yes, almost. Smiling, I pick up my glasses from the sink, thread them over my ears. I brush a hand over my face, lacing a thick strand of hair back behind my ear. I want to clearly witness this final commitment to my liberty. Popping the cap, I open the bottle, tipping it. I listen to the machine gun fire as the pills hit the basin. The tablets cascade into the sink, and as they do, I hear the hinges creak open. I hear the doors release as my jailor slips down the drain. "Jack?" Slips. "Just a minute, Grams." It's time to fall into sweet dreams, time to meet dear old dad once more. Mulder was right. I am in control. I do have the power to master my dreams, to become the ultimate power player in them because the thing is, I always have been. In dreams, I'm the magician, the master manipulator ... the wizard Merlin hidden behind today's twisted King Arthur. I am all those things, not the fucking pawn his majesty believes me to be... ...not the victim I have pretended to be. Tonight the student will master the teacher, the son will become the father. It's time to succeed the thrown. Turning the knob, the bathroom light dims, the room slowly fading into complete blackness. I can't help but smile again. Sweet dreams, indeed. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City Section Anthony's Tavern Between 2nd and 3rd, Market Street. Wednesday, 1210 AM Vaughn passed through the door, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dim interior of 'Anthony's' bar. The usual murmuring voices, clinking glass and the low hum from the dueling televisions, could be heard as he shouldered off his coat and unwrapped the scarf from around his neck. Running his fingers through his blonde, wind-tangled hair, Vaughn took a deep breath, breathing in the blessed warmth. Bringing both hands together, he rubbed them to get some blood circulating. It was friggin' cold out and he'd forgotten his damn gloves. Looking over toward the stretch of bar, he spotted Rich Spinelli, proprietor extra-ordinare. "So, Rich, where's he at?" Vaughn asked, peering around the room as he lumbered over to the bar. He leaned against the mahogany surface, pushing a bowl of pretzels away as his foot came to rest on the brass foot rail. "He's over there in the corner," Rich responded, nodding his head toward the back of the room as he poured out a draft beer. "Figured I should call ya, him bein' a friend of yours." Vaughn looked beyond and over the heads of the throng of patrons, toward the rear of the bar. Sure enough, there was Mulder taking up residence in the furthest booth. "Thanks, Tone, you figured right," Vaughn assured. Giving the bar a quick rap, he turned, threading a path through the late night crowd as he made his way toward Mulder. He stopped before his table, rattling the change in his pants pocket. Pants, he noted, that he'd already taken off, having already been in his nice toasty bed, curled up with Lisa when the phone rang. "Mulder." He watched his friend raise his glassy eyes to him then turn away with a short grunt. "Well, don't get all gushy on me, tell me how ya really feel" Vaughn replied, smirking. Hanging up his scarf and jacket on the side of the booth, he sat down opposite Mulder, smiling. "Bet you're all warm and fuzzy inside just seeing me." Mulder just looked at him before replying. "Oh yeah, I feel just like that." "See, betcha didn't know I was all clary-voyant," Vaughn replied, leaning back in his seat, the vinyl squeaking. Counting the shot glasses, Vaughn saw that there were five of them, not including the half-empty mug of beer. That's also not counting whatever Lacey might have already cleared away. "This used to be my gig, Mulder. What the hell you doing playin' at it?" "Figured I'd reprise the role," Mulder grumbled, staring down at the beer foam clinging to the sides of his mug. Vaughn sighed. Stringing his arm along the back of the booth, he figured he'd better get himself comfortable. He had a feeling this was gonna be a long night. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pearl's Townhouse Wednesday, 1214 AM "Goodnight, Grams." Closing my bedroom door, I hear the lock click into place. I turn around and look at my room. My black light is on, drawing my gaze to the poster above my bed and the stack of underwear on my bureau, both have turned purple in the light. Making my way across the room, I step around a pile of CD ROMs to finally sit down before my desk. My Merlin's staff screen saver glows then explodes across the computer monitor, the shards multicolored. Moving the mouse, I click the screen and the figure of Merlin from my 'Magic of the Realms' program appears. I click on the figure and it speaks. ""Merlin says "The blades of death come your way, the question is will you play?" Smiling, I cross my arms against my chest. Leaning back, I hear the chair wheels squeak as they roll across the carpet. "I'm ready." Lunging to my feet, I walk over to my rumbled bed and sit down. I unlace my sneakers, toeing them off, listening as they thud to the floor. Pulling my hair tie off, I shake my head while scratching my scalp. Gathering the wayward strands, I tie my hair back once more. I lay back on the mattress. Lacing my fingers, I rest them against my chest, letting a breath slip past my lips as I get settled. The computer screen speaks again, repeating the question. "Merlin says "The blades of death come your way, the question is will you play?" Rubbing my head back and forth against the pillow, I close my eyes, shutting out the purple glow of the black light. When the speakers let loose the question again, I speak with it. This was how it all started. A refrain used to help combat my insomnia. I'd only been able to fall asleep with the sound of the computer on. Then, one night, instead of oblivion, I awoke, not in my room, but a familiar space, a familiar closet. The same closet I now found myself waking up within yet again. When I look out through the slatted doors, the figure of Keenswan appears, along with another bound woman. It is the same sight I always awake to, when I try. Tonight, though, tonight will be different from the other nights. The final outcome irrevocably different. I smile, letting my hand rest against the door frame. My lips move, speaking in silence, the refrain that has helped change my life, helped in giving me freedom. "Merlin says "The blades of death come your way, the question is will you play?" "Yes. I. will." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City Section Anthony's Tavern Wednesday, 1229 AM "What can I get you, Lieutenant?" Lacey asked balancing a brown, plastic tray against her hip. "You workin' tonight?" "That's right," she replied, stringing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, don't Rich let you have off?" Vaughn asked, resting his elbow on the table, his chin within his palm as he looked at her. "How you supposed to study for your graduate exams, they're coming up next month, right?" "Well, I'm off tomorrow night," Lacey responded, smiling. "And yeah, the exams are mid-November." "You tell Rich I said not to be working you too hard," Vaughn ordered, mock gruffness coating his voice. "Will do," she replied, rocking back and forth as she waited. "Now, what can I get for you, tonight? "Whelp, I guess I'll go straight to the coffee this fine freezing evening. Need something to warm these old bones," Vaughn answered. "Good 'nough," Lacey replied walking off. Vaughn turned to look at Mulder, insulted. "Notice how she doesn't contradict that statement." That got a low chuckle out of him. Vaughn noted that Mulder sat across from him a bit bleary-eyed, and he'd bet it was more than the alcohol causing it. He had a look about him that was painfully familiar. "Whaddya doing here?" Mulder asked, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at Vaughn. "Can't a guy get a drink?" the detective responded, rubbing his hands together again. Vaughn could still feel a bite of the cold seeping into his palms. He chanced a glance over at Rich while he quickly blew on his fingers, trying to warm them up. "Not you. You don't drink anymore, least not alone," Mulder countered. Vaughn saw Mulder catch his stray glance toward the bar before he was able to turn his full attention back to the subject at hand. "So, the bartender called out the hounds?" Mulder asked, taking a sip of his beer and replacing it on the table with a loud thunk. "The hounds?" Vaughn laughed. Straightening from the back of his seat, he leaned across the table. "I've been called a shitload of things, but never a hound. You ARE wasted, Sherlock." The detective looked at Mulder deciding that he looked like pure crap. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair was going punk, and he had a five o'clock shadow George Michael would be envious of. "What's goin' on, man? You look like shit and..., "Vaughn began before audibly sniffing the air. "...smell even worse." "Fuck you." "Sorry, but you're just not pretty enough for me," Vaughn replied, not missing a beat. Mulder sighed, hunching his shoulders as he leaned on the table. "Listen, Vaughn, I'm fine. Why don't you go on back home to the brood?" "Oh, please? ... And miss your sparkling conversation?" Vaughn replied, making sure to keep his gaze open, innocent as he made a play at batting his eyelashes. "You are such an asshole, you know that?" Mulder accused. "So I've been told," Vaughn said, agreeing. "Fine then, as long as we got that straight, let's move on Anything new on Keenswan?" Mulder asked. "You are a smooth operator, aren't ya?" Vaughn sighed, rubbing his eyelids with his thumb and index finger. Sliding his fingers off his eyes, he squeezed the bridge of his nose as he answered. "Christ, I wish I could say yeah." Vaughn looked up, meeting Mulder's gaze. "Mulder, somehow, this asshole is gettin' over on us. I know it! What I don't know is how the hell he's doin' it." Mulder nodded his head. "I mean, what the hell, right? There's usually SOME kind of evidence, even if it's a partial print, something. Yet every God Damn crime scene has been clean. But in my gut, I can feel it, I know it... I know that Keenswan is somehow involved." "I agree," Mulder seconded before taking another swig of his beer. Vaughn looked at him, shaking his head. "It's so fucking frustrating." "Okay, so we know he's not had any outside contact. His mail has been checked, incoming and outgoing ... to which the most exciting thing he receives coming in are those hate letters. Phone calls and visits are recorded, both of which he hasn't had since being incarcerated. Only outside contact he's had is through his doctors," Mulder said, listing their evidence, or lack thereof. "You think there's something to that?" Vaughn asked, picking up a sugar packet and absently rubbing it back and forth against the table. Watching Mulder rub his index finger up and down the side of his face, Vaughn waited until Mulder gathered his thoughts. "Do I think there's something to it? It's possible. We should probably have them checked out tomorrow." "As good as done." Mulder nodded his head. "All right." "What about the other inmates, this Jerse for example?" Vaughn asked, meeting Mulder's gaze. He watched as Mulder's posture stiffened. His eyes seemed to darken and his voice became rough. "I don't think there is a connection through him." Vaughn nodded, "Why you say that?" "I say it because he was mentioned to provoke me, nothing more," Mulder answered, his voice hard, yet quiet. "I'd say it worked," Vaughn replied, remembering earlier that day when they interrogated Keenswan. He didn't think he'd have to hold Mulder back, let alone have a bit of a struggle to do so. It was an annoying reminder that he wasn't as young as he used to be, nor was he as in-shape. Mulder remained quiet. Vaughn found Mulder's response of silence as interesting, but let it go. If Mulder said this Jerse wasn't important to the case at hand, then he wasn't. He knew as much to trust him. "Well, Keenswan has been in solitary the past few days. Had some disturbance with another inmate. I'll get some men on the prisoners he comes in contact with. See what that gives us," Vaughn said, still twisting the sugar packet. "We know no one's been released from Keenswan's cell block for over the past two years, but that doesn't preclude another prisoner somehow relaying information," Mulder said. "What about this Jack Layne?" Vaughn questioned. "You left to go see him this afternoon, anything?" Mulder leaned forward, meeting Vaughn's stare. "I... I think there's something going on there but I'm not sure what, not yet anyway. He's a very troubled kid, more so than I originally thought. There's something I can't quite put my finger on." Vaughn nodded, dropping the sugar packet and sitting back against his seat. "So, what are your plans? You're the one with the relationship with him." "Yes, I'll have another talk with Jack tomorrow ... I'm telling you, Vaughn, this kid has to be handled very carefully. There's no telling what will set him off. Pearl Clayton had said that Jack hasn't been himself since this whole Keenswan parole hearing hit the press." "Poor kid, I don't blame the boy. What's he? Sixteen now?" Vaughn asked. He remembered a frightened little boy, a boy who had been through a horror Vaughn couldn't imagine any child having to suffer through. He shuddered. "Yeah, he's sixteen," Mulder confirmed. "We've got Keenswan tossing out cryptic bullshit at the hearing... "this is all far from over"..., then we get this third body last night at Rittenhouse," Vaughn paused, giving out a weary sigh. Scratching the back of his head, he let his hand rub down the back of his neck before continuing. "Mulder, how many more people gotta die before we get a break? That's what I'm starting to ask myself, you know? I mean, I'm feelin' at a loss here. I just can't see anything happenin' to stop this." He looked up and saw Mulder give a nod before he continued. "Usually the perp has some kind of slip up at this point. You and I both know the profile of a serial killer. And let's face it, that's what these murders have become ... but the profile, it dictates that this murdering bastard should be gettin' sloppy, and that ain't happenin'." Mulder nodded, letting out a heavy sigh. "I know." "GOD. DAMNIT. I HATE feeling so fucking useless," Vaughn muttered, pounding his hand on the table, staring at it. The assorted bottles on the table shook from the impact. Straightening his spine, Vaughn pulled his stare from the table and met Mulder's gaze again. "Tell ya what, let's talk about something else for now." "Talk about what?" Mulder asked. Vaughn could see him bracing himself. "Eagles played tonight, and lost," Vaughn sighed, dejected. He saw Mulder relax, smile even as he rested his hands on the table. "I told you, Vaughn, you gotta pick a winning team like the Redskins." "You gotta be kiddin' me," Vaughn replied his eyes wide, incredulous. Mulder snorted, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. "Hurts facing the truth, don't it?" "I'll let you know when I hear it," Vaughn replied, his voice gruff, mock-insulted as he sat back. Cracking out a weak smile, he let out a disbelieving huff. Mulder chuckled. "Ah, yes!" Vaughn cried out, leaning forward to take the mug of coffee from Lacey. He noticed the requisite amount of creamers and sugars he needed. "You're a life saver." "I know," she replied over her shoulder as she walked away. "This is where you used to come, isn't it?" Mulder quietly asked, rubbing his hand against his chin. Vaughn shot his head up, meeting Mulder's stare. There was no question to what he was referring to. "Quit profiling me, Fibbie," Vaughn warned, dumping the creamer and sugars into his cup. "But, to answer your question, yeah, this was where I came. Let's just say that Rich, and Lacey over there, along with Monique and Robby -- we all got to know each other real well a few years ago." "And now Rich looks after you. I saw him have the waitress bring you that coffee last night. Two beer minimum?" Mulder prodded. Vaughn nodded, sighing. "Something like that." "It's good to have friends who care," Mulder said. Vaughn noted a bit of wistfulness within his voice. "And family ... speaking of which, Lisa and the rugrats really seemed to take to Dana," Vaughn segued, picking up a leather coaster, rolling it against the table. "Lisa told me to tell you that it was about time you found someone to get on your ass." "Oh, I'm sure she said it just like that," Mulder replied, reserved, yet smirking. "Close enough, the gist being the important part," Vaughn agreed before taking a sip of his coffee. "Paige didn't run Scully over, did she?" Mulder asked, softly chuckling. Vaughn smiled, his voice deep as he laughed. "No, she refrained from hanging off her. You get to be the lucky one in that regard." "She is quite the ... uh ... climbing enthusiast," Mulder said, smiling. Vaughn laughed, picturing the last time Mulder had seen Paige. That girl of his had literally scaled Mulder's body, situating herself on his shoulders and demanding he be her horse, riding him around the house. She'd refused to leave him alone. Vaughn had always figured that Mulder would make a good father. "You know, you need to get a rugrat of your own. You and Dana should get down to business some point in the future. From what I can see, you're both good with children." He noted Mulder's sudden stillness. He figured it was a response to the fight he and Dana were currently in. He never suspected what came out of Mulder's mouth. "Scully ... she can't have children," Mulder whispered, looking grieved. "We found out she was barren over a year ago." "Oh Christ, do I feel like the asshole," Vaughn said, recalling the other night at the bar. "I feel like a shit. I said the same thing to her about kids last night ... she never said a word." "It's all right, you couldn't have known and she wouldn't have said anything," Mulder said, staring off toward the bar. "I still feel like a shit," Vaughn said, kicking himself. "Well, it's nice to get back to your roots," Mulder said, changing the tone of their conversation, bringing it back to safe ground. "Real funny, G-man." Mulder smiled and Vaughn met it with one of his own. "So, tell me, when ya gonna actually stay for a visit at the humble Vaughn abode?" Vaughn asked. "I mean, you hang out in the foyer and leave? What's that all about?" "It was late," Mulder quietly answered. Vaughn sighed. "I guess that's a good enough reason for tonight but you don't get off so easy next time." Mulder leaned back in his seat, the vinyl squeaking with every movement either of them made. "I'm serious, you gotta get over to my place at a decent hour, that's all there is to it. I know Lisa and the girls would love to see ya. And, between you and me, I think Chrissy still has that crush on you." He watched Mulder chuckle. "I'm telling ya, at dinner, when Dana mentioned your name, hell... Chrissy lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, "Vaughn informed, shaking his head, an eyebrow raised. "So, Mulder, the question I find myself asking is, 'what in the hell are ya doing to my girls?' Some kind of voodoo, freaky-deeky black magic you picked up in one of those X-files of yours?" "Vaughn, I can't help it if they can't resist the Mulder charm," Mulder laughed, sitting back. "And neither could your partner, apparently, "Vaughn said, his voice soft. He knew his words were undercutting. Mulder lost the smile, his lips clamping shut as Vaughn watched him look out into the slimming crowd. "That's ... that's complicated," Mulder finally said, his voice heavy. Vaughn noted the beaten posture of his friend. "When isn't it?" Vaughn said in agreement, echoing Mulder's sigh. "Women, I think THEY'RE the ones with some kind of voodoo magic. I mean, Lisa sure worked her stuff on me, even when I was bein' a bastard." He paused before continuing. "You know, it amazing to me that she put up with half the shit I put her through. I don't know if I would have been so ... so forgiving. No, scratch that. I know I would have. I, hell... I love the lady that much. It's pretty good to realize that she loves me just as much, if not more." Vaughn let Mulder process what he said. Mulder knew he'd been no picnic two years ago. He knew what a grade A asshole he'd been ... knew why, and how, Rich became such a good friend. And Mulder also knew that Lisa had taken him back, particularly at a time when things with Chrissy, their marriage, and his drinking had been at their worst. He didn't doubt that he owed part of the saving of his marriage to Mulder, to his constant pestering, to him throwing out a life line when he couldn't see anyone else's. Nope, he didn't doubt one bit that Fox Mulder helped him when he wouldn't allow anyone else, not even the one person he was closest to. Vaughn looked up and met Mulder's knowing glance. Smiling, he drummed his hands on the table. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get on home." Slipping out of the booth, Vaughn grabbed his scarf off the hook. Winding it around his neck, he then slipped into his jacket. "You walked, right? I didn't see your car outside." "Yeah," Mulder replied, following after him as he slid his arms into his trench coat. "I'll give ya a lift back to the Greentree," Vaughn offered, as he turned and lead the way through the bar. Looking around, he was surprised to see that he and Mulder had been the last ones left. He hadn't noticed the people leaving. Looking over at the bar, he saw Rich collecting glasses. Vaughn gave him a nod of thanks. Rich returned the gesture. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX JACK A Bedroom __________ "No one seems to love or understand me," a male voice sings, the tone deep, rich, as he continues. "Bye ... bye ... blackbird." There's a pause as he begins to speak, the tone soft, the words crisply enunciated. "Shh, there now. It's so much better when you're quiet." Leaning against the closet's interior door frame, my fingers trace along the door slats, dust coating the tips of them. I watch ... always watching. I tilt my head to the side, trying to avail myself a better view. Licking my lips, I watch as Keenswan straddles a woman. Beyond his bulk, I trace my gaze up the female's outstretched arms. Both appendages already have the blush of green-blue bruising. Her wrists and ankles are tied with vibrant, silk scarves. They are the kind of scarves I've always seen Grams wearing, the kind that is always pinned to her coats. I suppose that's why the women are always tied with the same material, a material familiar to me. I watch as the woman struggles beneath Keenswan -- as he moves over and in her, touches her, fucks her, singing. "Where somebody waits for me, sugar sweet, so is she... I say Bye... Bye. .. Blackbird." It has never escaped my notice that every woman would, and did, resemble my dead mother. It also hasn't escaped my notice that each woman I've seen beneath Keenswan's hulking body has been a lucky someone I've happened to notice that day. It always is a woman I've spotted either on the street, in the subway, or anywhere else. With each occasion I've found myself frozen within a crowd of passer-bys, frozen as I've watched the bounce of her hair, the tilt of her head or heard the tinkle of a laugh, all of which, or even individually, has seemed familiar to me. When confronted with these women, I find that my skin beads into a rapid sweat, flushing, while my heart races. Shock. Excitement. Desire all are intricately woven together. How those same women find their way tied, spread-eagle on a four poster bed? Well, I couldn't say. I didn't know the trick, the technique of it all. All I knew was that it was never a conscious effort on my part. Smacking my hand against the slatted door, I wait. Now is not the time for contemplation. Keenswan turns his head, looking over his shoulder at me, looking at the closet that I stand within. When he speaks his voice is instructive, measured. "Pay attention, son ... someday, yes ... someday this will all be yours." I shake my head, rolling my eyes. Sooner than you think, sooner than you know. On with the play... "Let me out of here, you sick fuck!" I cry as I crack my neck and get comfortable in this established role. I smack the door again, causing it to rattle against the frame. Blowing out a breath, I clear an irritating strand of hair that has fallen in front of my eyes. Keenswan grunts. I watch him slide off the woman. I watch as he reaches a hand over her chest, tracing his fingertips down her body. He gives a reluctant sigh, then stands, adjusting the fly of his jeans before turning toward where I stand, hidden. "Now ... son," Keenswan begins, his tone even, quiet with maybe even a bit of suppressed excitement. My eyes narrow, I don't like that reminder. It's not that I doubt Keenswan. Blood recognizes Blood. Like knows Like. And me, well, I suppose I instinctively knew I was my father's son even when I had wanted to deny it. But, there was no use denying it now. All of that was in the past. Yet regardless of all that, it didn't mean I had to like the twisted fuck. Keenswan stopped before the closet door, trying to see through the slats, trying to see me hidden within the darkness. But he's never seen me, just like everyone else ... and that is his mistake, too. "How are you going to learn the family trade, hmm? How are you going to take pride in your work? The satisfaction of knowing you did a job well done? How you going to do all that if you don't pay attention?" Keenswan asks, his tone reasoning, sincere. "I'm not your son!" I cry, banging the flat of my hand against the door. I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to suppress a wry chuckle. I'll admit it, I take a certain type of pleasure in the duplicity I am performing. I mean, I really do take pleasure in the expectation of what is soon to come. "How many times do I have to tell you, Jack?" Keenswan questions, letting his hand press against the door. I watch the barred view of Keenswan's body, my father's face is tilted sideways, almost pensive while I see him attempt to phrase his next words. "You're mother was a whore. I've told you time and time again that the bitch wouldn't let me see you. I mean, Jack ... you're my boy, flesh and bone... a boy needs his father." Keenswan begins to turn away, pulling his hand from the door only to suddenly twist around, slamming a fist against the surface. "Shut-up!" I cry, adding a sob to my tone. I fall back, deeper, into the closet. Well, that was one thing I still didn't like, the closet ... it seemed to retain the scent of my mother's wardrobe, the smell I couldn't stop remembering. No, I didn't like that, didn't like how the aroma made me, not only remember, but feel. Grinding my back teeth together, my tone is a growl. For a moment, I fail to make my response sound weak, frightened, as steel-backed anger chokes out of me. "Shut-up, Keenswan!" "Now, Jack, is that anyway to talk to your father?" Keenswan asks, smiling as he peers through the cracks. "But . . . but I forgive you. I do. I know you can be a bit high strung ... after all, it runs in the family." "You are not my father! You are NOT!" "Oh boy, when are you going to accept the truth? I've been schooling you these past months. I mean, hasn't it been long enough, hmm?" Keenswan's voice has lost its level tone, anger spits out the following words as he points back at the woman. "That whore ... right there on that bed, that image of your mother, of Eleanor, she can't deny me you any longer. She tried but I had to teach her, had to teach every woman who was like her, school them, her, as only I know how." Keenswan took a deep breath, breathing through his nose as he let his head fall back on his neck before leveling his gaze once more, reestablishing his sense of calm. "You're with me now, son, with me." Keenswan begins to laugh, the sound piercing and hollow. I look past him with indifference, looking at the woman laid out on the bed, my mother's bed. In fact, the room, it is my mother's bedroom. And the closet, the crushing space I always find myself waking up within -- also my mother's. Everything is a re-creation of ten years ago. I look at the woman again, my lip pulling back in a snarl. I peer at the woman who lays, gagged and struggling on the bed I once ran to, to escape the lingering tendrils of childhood nightmares. It is the same bed that had been a safe haven because within it laid my mother, a woman whose outstretched arms I would fall into, taking comfort. A mother I used to clutch, who ultimately couldn't protect me -- a woman who left me. Cocking my head, I observe this particular woman, her features so like the one who had betrayed me, who had destroyed my world by leaving, leaving me to the pitiful life I've struggled through. But no more! I grip my temples, mentally berating myself for allowing my thoughts to wander down that path, a path I'd closed off a long, long time ago. Shaking my head, I clear my thoughts. I peer past Keenswan, my heart jumping with that bit of excitement as I recognize the woman on the bed. I'd noticed her on the "L" train earlier that night. Her arms had been laded with groceries, her hair black and long like my mother's. Yes, that was it. Taking a deep breath, I plunge into my next words, continuing the masquerade. "That's not her! She's dead! You killed her, you bastard!!" I yell, banging on the door again. Amazingly, the door remains locked, even as it strains against the pressure put on it by both Keenswan and myself. He sucks his teeth, nodding his head as if to admonish his silly boy ... as if to admonish me. "Ohhhh, Jack. They're all her ... when are you going to understand that?" Keenswan replies, stepping away from the door. "And, the best part is, you bring them to me, every single one. I've never thanked you for that. It's such a pleasant thing for you to do." "I don't bring you shit!" I declare, my voice hoarse. I lick my lips again. I scratch my head, an itch popping up to take my immediate attention. The woman on the bed moans through her gag. I look past Keenswan and see that the woman is regaining consciousness, her head turning back and forth. "Daddy's gotta get back to work now, Jack," Keenswan says, pulling out a switchblade. I watch him sit beside the woman and gently remove her gag. "Don't do this, don't do this ... please, please, I won't tell anyone, I promise... I proooomise," she sobs. Keenswan slaps the woman, causing her head to snap to the side. "Shh, it's all right." Just beautiful. She begins to mumble, her voice getting stronger as she begins to plead, to beg to be set free. "Shhh, what did I tell you? hmm?" Keenswan asks, brandishing the blade before her eyes. Light glints off the silver surface. "Do be quiet now." I watch, compelled, as Keenswan lowers the switchblade against the woman's arm, cutting a long, yet superficial slit from elbow to wrist. It's enough to bleed her. He then copies the marking onto the other arm. And she begins to scream, long and deep cries. Oh, yes. Shaking my head, I check my own excitement and get back to the performance at hand. "No! Nooo!" I cry, twisting the handle to no result. Leaning forward, I press my nose against the door, mesmerized by the sight. The woman becomes more bloodied, more splashes of red coat her body and saturate the sheets. So much blood. My eyes roll into the back of my head as I devour the scent. I let my hands slid down my chest, past my waist as I reach and grip myself. My head falls forward again. Mulder's words surface, reminding me that now, tonight is the time. I have the power. I am in control. That's God Damn Right! Time to claim the crown. Reaching for the door handle, I turn it. This time the door swings open without a fight. I smile. Quietly stepping out of the darkened space, I let the door snap shut behind me. I lean my back against the wood, watching Keenswan's pure concentration. I count on that. His back is to me as he lightly carves into the woman, letting her blood ripple out. The metallic stench of blood is stronger out here, ripe with impending death. I rub a hand over my chin, feeling a slight growth of bristles. Reaching behind me, I withdraw a blade from my back pocket. Pulling my weight off of the door, I step forward and cross the room. When I am finally on top of Keenswan, I whisper into his ear. "I'm through learning ... the apprentice has become the master." Accompanying those words, I raise my own switchblade, stabbing into his back. Having been surprised, I pull Keenswan off the woman, grabbing the front of his bald head and pushing back. My blade slides out of his body as I throw him to the ground. Keenswan's own blade falls out of his hand, falling against the bed covers. He tries to roll away but I toss him back down, flat against the rough carpeting. Climbing on top of him, I pin Keenswan's body to the rug with my weight. I use my knees to squeeze his arms against his torso. I stare down at the man called 'father', the man who now lays beneath me, laying like my mother had so many years ago. I feel a flush of anger, my throat constricting with an unexpected wash of emotion. Reaching down again ... I slice my father's biceps. I cut through the shirt, cutting into him as he had cut into so many women, as he had cut into my mother. I become manic, slicing, slitting across his chest, arms -- reaching behind and digging the blade into the man's thigh. His blood soaks my hands, my clothes, splashes my face. Through it all, Keenswan remains silent, grunting but not uttering a cry. My breath is rapid as I notice the silence. Looking into his face, I growl, noticing my father's smile. "What? Happy to reach your death?" He turns his head from side to side, blood spilling from his mouth. "You don't know, Jack, do you?" I stare, my eyes narrowing. "What?" "I waited for you tonight, waited for you to leave that closet," Keenswan gasps, coughing. "You and I, we're connected, it's part of our lineage, our minds, our will and ability to know things, to be able to do things." "If that were true, why didn't you stop me?" I ask, furious at his lunacy, my own breathing raspy as I lean over him. "What do I have to live for? Nothing. AIDS is taking me slowly, now you're letting me go quick, giving me the ultimate freedom. You are your father's son -- you are a gift." "You think so?" I question, cocking an eyebrow, my heart racing. I hold my hand above my head, the switchblade handle clasped tightly, biting into my grip but I don't give a fuck. I hold it, hovering above my shoulder, ready to descend. "Oh yes, boy. A gift," Keenswan chokes, his teeth coated in blood, trickling out of his mouth and down his chin. His eyes begin to roll as he struggles to breath. In a shaky voice, he begins to sing. "Bye ... bye ... black--" I place the final slice across his throat, slicing his vocal cords and cutting my father's refrain short. It is a cut perfected by Keenswan on all his victims, all my mothers. Leaning down, I kiss Keenswan's warm cheek before speaking, looking into my father's quickly glazing stare. "I've always hated that song." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Greentree Hotel Broad & Locust St. Wednesday, 113 AM "Here we are," Vaughn declared, pulling his jeep up to the front of Mulder's hotel. "Listen, thanks for ... well, thanks," Mulder said, grabbing the door handle. "Talk to her Mulder," Vaughn said, his voice soft yet insistent as Mulder opened the door. "Don't make the mistake I almost did, everyone deserves a second chance." He watched as Mulder stepped out of the jeep, pausing before he shut the door. "Thank you, Mike," Mulder said again, nodding. "I'll see you tomorrow, say ... 9-ish, down at the precinct?" "Sounds good, now close the damn door, your lettin' in the freezin' cold," Vaughn griped good-naturedly as he watched Mulder do just that. Shivering, he put the jeep into gear and revved the engine, before pulling back out onto Broad Street. XXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia M&S Hotel Room Wednesday, 125 AM Scully heard the door opening and saw Mulder softly close it behind him. She'd been laying on the bed within the semidarkness, trying to fall asleep ... trying and failing. Mulder had left so suddenly earlier that worry had her mind scrambling onto a plethora of possibilities regarding what he was doing and where he went. As it became later, she started to be concerned about what might have happened to him to keep him out so late. Now, as he turned away from the door, she watched as he walked through the room. She saw him shed his trench coat and jacket, letting them fall on the floor as he crossed beyond her view, over to the bathroom. She heard him enter the room, the door snapping shut. A sliver of light spread across the carpet below the closed door. She waited for him to come out, her heart pounding within her chest. She was afraid. She knew Mulder, she knew his propensity to internalize things as she did. No, not things, pain. Hurt. She never imagined herself as being the genesis of any of them. But now she was and that scared her. She didn't want what her initial fears had prophesied those months ago. She didn't want to lose him. And she wasn't oblivious to the fact that Mulder wasn't exactly a contender for sainthood. How many times had he lied to her? Run off without her? How many times in the guise of doing what he thought was right -- how many times had he been less than honest with her? Probably more than she would ever know. Did that anger her? Of course it did. This time, though. This time it was different -- not just because it was her lie, but because it was a lie placed in the foundation of something new for them. It was a prefabricated sink hole that had made them stumble. She hoped, she prayed, that Mulder would help to lift her up from it, that they would help each other. Mulder never had the market on feeling guilty. She also had her own corner. The only difference being that she was just better at hiding the impact of her feelings. Now, she couldn't disguise her feelings. She couldn't remain the stoic Scully of the past. She couldn't remain that way and hope to mend the fissure of the present. She knew that. So she waited there, hearing him prepare for bed. She had smelled the lingering scent of cigarettes and alcohol as he had past by, could smell them clinging to his clothes and wondered what he had done, where he had been while she remained in their room, waiting for her absolution, her absolution or ... or damnation. Scully closed her eyes, a rough sob escaped her lips as she adjusted the position of her pillow, and pulled the blanket over her shoulder. Eventually she heard the bathroom door open again and her whole body tensed. The sound of a few more pieces of clothing hit the floor before Mulder's weight depressed the mattress. She waited, holding her breath. He knew she was awake. She knew she'd never been able to disguise that fact from him. Why should tonight be any different? Mulder laid back on the bed, adjusted the blankets and then was still. He hadn't touched her. He hadn't reached for her, and Scully felt her heart crumbling all over again. The room had become quiet with the exception of their breathing and the ticking of the wall clock that hung on the wall across the room. She turned from her side, onto her back. Mulder lay facing away, toward the window. Scully felt tears pricking her eyes as she saw Mulder with a pillow hugged against his chest, a pillow where she used to be. Biting her lip, her face crumbling, Scully silently turned back onto her side again, facing the door. She let her silent tears drip off her nose and absorb into the cotton pillow case. Damnation. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX JACK A BEDROOM _______________ Pulling away from Keenswan's corpse, I stand up, stumbling backward, stepping away from the body and walking around the bed. I begin to laugh, softly at first, then louder, the sound bouncing off the walls around me. I stare down at my hands gloved in my father's blood, dripping, staining. My laughter is cut short as I feel my stomach clench. I grab my stomach and bend over, vomiting on the floor before me. Taking a few deep breaths, I straighten. A whimper interrupts the room's sudden quiet. Turning back toward the bed, I see that the woman is still alive. I stumble to the end of the bed and begin to untie her legs. I walk over to the other side of the bed and free her arm. Leaning over, I also free her other arm. The woman sits up, her cuts are only deep enough to cause a lot of bleeding. She is weak as she leans against my shoulder. She grabs onto me, hugging my body tight against hers in desperation. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" The woman continues to cry against my shoulder, her fingers digging into my skin where she clutches me. I wrap my arms around the woman, burying my face against her neck and closing my eyes. "It's okay, it's all right... shh." Raising my head, I keep my eyes closed, breathing in the scent of the woman's hair. My hand continues to stroke her back. I feel tears pricking at my eyes. Holding her more tightly against my chest, my throat feels tight, choked. I rub her back, and begin sobbing. "Ohh, Mom." The woman is crying harder, clasping, grabbing. "I thought I was dead, I thought ... oh thank you." I smile, my heart beating faster, my blood pumping harder as I raise my other hand around the woman. "Shh, shh now... It's so much better when you're quiet." The woman stiffens in my arms, I feel it as I embed the blade within the center of her back. Pulling it out, the woman falls back on the bed, her eyes wide, disbelieving as she struggles to breathe. I brush a bloody hand against her temple, the blood smearing against her skin as a tear drops from my eye, splashing onto her cheek. "There now, so much better, mother." Raising my other hand above the woman, I watch as her eyes track the final descent of the blade. I slice against the woman's throat. I whisper, my eyes wide, excited. "You never should have left me, mother." I begin to laugh, feeling a sense of release, of pure joy. Mulder was right, I am ready to take control. I'm through just being an observer, through being anyone's pawn, anyone's victim. Through... XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TITLE: Jack AUTHOR: Exley_61 (typo@clam.rutgers.edu) Center City, Philadelphia Greentree Hotel Wednesday, 349 AM Scully snuggled into the warmth at her back, trying to wrap the heat around her as she slowly came awake. Her mind was fuzzy as she broke through the lingering fingers of slumber. Sighing, she made to turn over and found herself held in place. Her eyes shot open, surprise and hope raced through her blood and sped her heart. Looking down her body she saw Mulder's arm wrapped over her stomach, his hand nestled against her chest. Scully felt her lips begin to tremble, a soft shaky sigh of relief filtered past her lips. She heard the even breathing of Mulder against the top of her hair. And then her tears feel within the early morning darkness. Her relief vanishing, her heart crushing within her breast. He ... he was asleep, just asleep, his actions were subconscious, an embrace not meant to be given. She turned her face into her pillow to muffle her soft sobs, but it did nothing to stop the shaking of her body. "Shh, Scully." She let her tears be heard as Mulder turned her over, burying her face against his neck. "Mulder," she gasped, clutching his shoulder, his body against hers. She felt his hand thread into her hair, his fingers kneading the back of her scalp. "Shh... It's all-" Mulder's words were cut short. Scully pulled back to look at him. "What?" "My phone, it's ringing somewhere over there," Mulder said, nodding his head toward Scully's side of the bed. "It's what woke us up." Pulling out of his arms, she rubbed her eyes as she slid out of bed. Reaching for the lump of his suit jacket, she searched out his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. She walked back to the bed, handing the chirping device over to Mulder as she sat back down on the mattress. "Mulder." Scully watched as he answered the phone. "What?... When? Uh huh... Okay, yeah... Scully and I'll be there within the hour. Right, see you in a bit, Vaughn," Mulder said before pressing the end button and letting the phone fall to the bed, heavy within his hand. "What?" Scully asked, feeling her stomach tighten at Mulder's stillness. "Mulder, what is it?" He looked up and met her eyes. His voice was low as he spoke. "Keenswan was found dead." "What?" Scully asked, confused as Mulder got up and began to pick up his clothes. "But ... how? He was in solitary, under constant guard, surveillance ... it wasn't suicide, was it?" Mulder stopped, meeting her gaze in the darkness. "Not unless he gave himself multiple stab wounds and slit his own throat." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Philadelphia, PA RIKERSMITH PRISON Wednesday, 933 AM The electricity in Rikersmith prison left something to be desired. The overhead light flickered again, strobbing the prison morgue in it's garish, ugly glare. When Scully and Mulder had entered into Keenswan's cell, met by Vaughn, the familiar stench of death inundated the olfactory senses, causing her to breath out of her mouth. Peering around Mike's bulk, she could see the pool of blood on the cement floor. The spilt liquid puddled around Keenswan's body, fingers of red distending. She could imagine the last struggling heart beats pumping, squeezing the thick substance out. Rejected, unable to be absorbed by the cement, the blood reached, stretching to line the padded walls on either side of the small cell. Scully had closed her eyes, and took a few shallow breaths before facing Vaughn again. Only a moment's glance needed to imprint such a detailed and grizzly sight upon her psyche, a sight that was, unfortunately, not as uncommon as she would have liked it to have been. Once again it was death in all it's gruesome finery. Now, hours later, Scully's gloved hand slid over Keenswan's right arm as she spoke to the mini micro recorder hanging above the autopsy table. Pressing on the skin with her thumb and forefinger, she watched as the pigment retained the white pressure mark. "Subject Jacob Keenswan has been deceased for approximately seven - eight hours. Lividity has become fixed. Note that rigor mortis has also set in." Scully sighed, stepping back to rub her nose against the sleeve of her smock. She was tired and wasn't feeling very well. In fact, she began to feel a tightening in her stomach, along with a dull throb behind her right eye, a throb that was threatening to invade her consciousness completely. Looking at this man, examining this man ... it felt like too much. How much more was expected of her? How much more could she take? God, she hated Philadelphia, now more than ever. The city of brotherly love was far from it, in fact it was merciless. She couldn't even say that the city was assaulting her every day, it was more than that, it was hourly. She felt beaten and bruised, battered by circumstance and the history within. History is told by the men who write it, not often by the people who live it. Looking at this man before her, she felt anger. Because of him, her life had been flipped over and strangled. He was a monster that came and destroyed dreams ... dreams of people's futures -- a decimator of people's past. And she and Mulder were his victims as well. It wasn't enough to destroy the families of seven women ten years ago ... it wasn't enough to traumatize a little boy... a little boy that holds the echoes of Mulder's past and not just the past of ten years ago ... but the faint reflection of his own childhood, a childhood where monsters and deals had silenced Mulder's youth. It was no wonder Mulder was attached to Pearl. With Pearl he had someone to stopper the bleeding sores of emotional neglect ... someone who could touch him where even scully could not... a place that was not meant for her to tend. A mother ... it was at times like this when Scully felt such an overwhelming feeling of hatred for Teena Mulder. A chain of events, cause and effect, somehow irrevocably intermingled to bring them all, to bring her to this moment, standing inside a prison morgue with a body who still wields a power to destroy. A killer who, for some insane reason, has his acts copied, idolized, infecting AIDS to kill Jerse and a author of history to throw out details to a tale in which he did not participate. Scully shook her head, stepping back to Keenswan, her feet shuffling against the cement floor. Reaching her hand against the body's arm, she leaned over as her finger traced the smattering of scratches and bruises. "Subject has contusions marking the bicep and forearm. There also appears to be defensive cuts on the dorsal side of the hand and arm. Evidence indicates that subject struggled with assailant." Going down the length of the body, she examined the lacerations on both thighs. "Multiple lacerations on the quadriceps. Evidence of the blade did not penetrate the victim's sartorius muscle on either side, but did sever the length of the outer adductor muscles from hip to just 1.31 cm's short of the knee cap and tendons. Lacerations are consistent with previous victims. Consistent ... previous victims... Scully pressed the back of her hand against the side of her temple. The threat of a migraine was swiftly becoming a reality. She began to take deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves, to still her agitation which was growing with each passing moment she examined Keenswan's body. She was a professional, though, and she refused to allow her personal bias to ever impinge upon her job. There was no reason to change that modus operandi now, no matter how tempting it was to allow someone else to take over the duties. It wasn't like Philadelphia didn't have their own pathologists. But no, this was her job. Mulder had requested her for this autopsy, Vaughn had approved it ... so she was here ... and she would be damned to fall victim to personal strain. She reminded herself again that she was a professional. Professional. Before turning Keenswan on his side, Scully ran her hands over his ribs, searching for fractures. She paused. "Third intercostal rib on the right and fourth intercostal rib on the left are broken. Multiple stab wounds penetrate the chest and abdomen. All wounds continue to be consistent with previous victims." Cracking her neck, she walked around to Keenswan's shoulders. Again she ran her hand over his skin, tracing the slices that cut into the muscle. "Deltoids are also lacerated, cutting into the top wall of muscle. The neck...." Scully halted, taking a deep breath as she observed the mangled neck. Professional. She traced her hand lightly over the sliced wind pipe and surrounding muscle tissue as she continued her examination, noting a handle mark bruise. "Subject's sternocleidomastoid is severely lacerated, cutting into the trachea and esophagus. It is probable that such an incision was the killing stroke. There is also a hilt stamp marking the right side of the platsyma." Scully took a deep breath and stood on the side of Keenswan's body. Gripping the far shoulder and left arm she struggled to turn the body on it's side. With a final grunt she was able to examine the posterior. Blowing a strand of hair out of her face, she retained a tenuous hold upon the subject's weighted body as she furthered her examination. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Philadelphia, PA WARDEN'S OFFICE Wednesday, 1054 AM "Did Jacob Keenswan have problems with any of the prison guards here, Warden Jones?" Vaughn asked as Mulder entered the door. "Not that I know of, Lieutenant Vaughn, " the Warden replied, stationed behind his mammoth desk. "Not even Roger Carlson?" Mulder questioned, coming to stand before the remaining empty seat. "And your secretary told me I should come right in." "Of course, of course, have a seat, Agent Mulder, isn't it?" "Yes, sir," Mulder replied, taking the offered chair. The warden was a black, slightly overweight man, balding and, Mulder noted, relayed the nervous habit of adjusting and readjusting his glasses. "Warden, Roger Carlson?" Mulder prodded. "Well, I can't say-" "I just finished speaking with the fellow prison guards and the subsequent inmates that Keenswan had contact with. All of them confirm that Roger Carlson was the reason that Keenswan found himself in solitary to begin with. Some sort of flare up where he felt that Carlson, and I quote "Carlson was a Mother Fucker ... him and Keenswan never got along... Keenswan told him to suck his dick whereby Carlson proceeded to club his crazy ass with a billy stick?" He looked up at the Warden, "Didn't that occur just shy of 4 days ago?" "Yes, Agent Mulder," Warden Hayesmith responded, his eyes hardening. Though the man before Mulder had a few extra pounds, there was no doubt in his mind that Hayesmith could be a mean sonofabitch ... something needed in a prison. It hadn't escaped his notice that Hayesmith's walls were decorated by Marine plaques and city commendations. Hayesmith carried himself as someone who would knock you down before he'd help you up. Yes, exactly the type of image he needed to run a large facility such as this. "Roger Carlson was the last person to check on Keenswan before the shift change, isn't that correct?" Vaughn asked, his voice low, yet probing. "That is correct, but Carlson is innocent of this crime," the warden answered, his own tone matching Vaughn's. Mulder heard Vaughn grunt in response as he looked over his notepad. "Listen, Warden Hayesmith, we appreciate you taking your time to talk with us," Mulder said, suddenly standing. He ignored Vaughn's glaring look as he reluctantly mimicked Mulder, standing as well. "It was no trouble at all. This concerns me just as much as you. Murder may happen outside these walls, but it DOESN'T occur within them." "Until now," Mulder said, meeting Hayesmith's eyes, unblinking. "Until now," the warden agreed. "Thank you again, Warden," Mulder said, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. "Yes, thank you," Vaughn seconded as Mulder stepped back to allow Vaughn to offer his farewells. "We'll see ourselves out," Mulder said, reaching the door handle. Opening it, he let Vaughn pass him. They continued on past the secretary, and Mulder offering her a small smile as they exited the set of offices and stood in the outside corridor. "What the hell was that, Mulder?" Vaughn asked almost as soon as the door closed. Mulder knew Vaughn had not been ready to leave the warden, but Mulder also knew that Hayesmith could offer no further help. "It would just be a waste of time, Vaughn," Mulder began as they walked down the hallway. "He doesn't know anything. The surveillance tapes have Carlson leaving Keenswan's cell after dropping off dinner. There was no blood on his clothes, no finger prints or foot treads in the spilled blood. There was nothing. We have nothing, as usual." "Well, what the hell is goin' on then, Mulder? *Somebody* had to have killed the bastard," Vaughn griped, running a hand through his hair. Mulder looked up and saw the blonde strands sticking straight up. Vaughn caught his glance and smooshed it back down before speaking again. "Is this like some of that crazy shit you do in the X-Files?" "I... it's seeming like it," Mulder answered, smiling before his eyes turned serious again. "Scully should have the autopsy nearly finished by now. I'll go down to the morgue and see what she's turned up." "All right, I'll go gather the officers and head on back to the station. We have everything bagged, tagged and dusted. There's nothing more we can do here." "Sounds good, I'll see you back there," Mulder said as they split up, going opposite directions down the corridor. "Hey, Mulder?" Mulder turned at the sound of Vaughn's voice behind him, his hands in his pockets. "Yeah?" "You seem to be gettin' on better today," Vaughn offered, his voice carrying over to him, and within it, the hidden question. "Gettin' there, Vaughny, gettin' there," Mulder replied, turning away and continuing on down the hallway. And the truth was, that was exactly how he felt. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Philadelphia, PA Rikersmith Prison Morgue Wednesday, 1117 AM Equipped with a face mask and goggles, she washed off the cranium saw in the large metal sink. Having completed the Y incision and autopsied the brain matter as Mulder had requested, she was finally done. She was done dissecting, weighing and cataloguing the various stab wounds and body parts and so her head was now working on trying to ignore the gathering percussion section equipped with wind chimes. God, she felt tired, tired and sore. And not just physically ... her emotions had continued to threaten a jaundiced view throughout the examination. Yet, by a superhuman force of will, she had managed to push her personal concerns aside just long enough. But it was hard. Very. Very hard. She realized it wasn't just difficult because Keenswan was a slayer of women, a defiler of men ... though both travesties toward either group was worthy of her contempt. No, it wasn't that. How often was it that the case, wherever she was, whomever she was examining, didn't deal with such low lives and monsters? Not often. No, it was different here, now, and she hated that. She hated him... Keenswan, for making it so, for making her question her impartiality. Scully placed the saw on the side of the sink and walked over to the table standing a few feet away from Keenswan's body. Stepping back, she took off her goggles and threaded the face mask off, letting it hang around her neck. She stripped off her gloves and tossed them in the biohazard receptacle before closing her eyes and leaning her weight against the empty autopsy bay behind her. When she closed her eyes she was unexpectedly assaulted by the looming face of Ed Jerse. Not the man of her years old memories, but the skeletal parody of who he was today. The dementia that maneuvered his body like a puppet on strings. ////"I remember your nails, Dana, remember them scratching my arms, my back as we fucked . . . you were my bitch then, Dana . . . you remember that, huh? REMEMBER DANA. . .???" //// Yes, she did. She cracked her eyes open, yet still her vision was filled with the image of that beautiful, troubled, man left ravaged -- physically and mentally. Yes, he was by no means innocent ... not even of hurting her ... but he was a person, an individual, whom Scully believed suffered from causes that fate had cruelly thrown his way. She had sensed his danger those years ago, knew that it was that very visceral air about him that beckoned her attention. When she had seen Jerse, she had seen herself reflected, how she wanted to be if not for the conformity of what her life had felt like then. She wanted the recklessness that he afforded, needed it. And so, she clasped him with both hands. That was what she had needed, and he had given this infinitesimal part of himself to her without recrimination. He had given her a release that she might not have found anywhere, that might have distorted her present if not for her past, if not for him, Ed. Or so she had thought. Yet, even now, she didn't entirely classify Jerse, or her actions, as a regret. There was a small part of her, even despite the hell she was going through now, that was glad for him, no matter the consequences. And, maybe it was that small piece of recklessness, a recklessness that she knew would always reside within her, that made her relish her history with Jerse -- however much she also despised what it had, and was, currently doing to her present. ///"Dana, those bitches, he feels those bitches, they cut him, but I don't do that. Tell him I don't mind the bitches scratches, nope not at all.. not one bit. /// Scully hadn't failed to notice the days old lacerations cross-working Keenswan's forearms and biceps... a lot of them had almost faded away to nothing. They were even less pronounced than just yesterday at the interrogation. The interrogation where Keenswan had baited and hooked Mulder. The room where he had tugged the unraveling threads of her bruised and fraying heart. She hadn't been able to compartmentalize so quickly, to separate her personal life and professional life so cleanly when she'd entered that room. There was no way she'd been able to escape the hovering memory of Mulder's hollowed look. The look that told her that he'd heard every word, or enough of what Jerse had spoken. Yes, she would have known he'd heard without the following words he said to her, the words that punctured her soul. She had known he'd heard before he even spoke because the pain that had been so raw, so acidic to witness, was reflected in his eyes as he stared at her. He'd trapped her against the door without moving an inch. His words had been superfluous to the pain, to the blatant reflection of betrayal she had witnessed in his gaze was enough. That same reflection stayed mirrored before her. It was that hovering memory which stayed with her through the interrogation and beyond. So, she wasn't surprised when Keenswan had captured the scent of tension between them. Professional, they were professionals ... but how were they to maintain their professional personas when the world around them was moving so fast that it made you dizzy -- made you sick while you tried to grasp the spinning top that your existence had swiftly become? No, she wasn't surprised when Keenswan utilized their pain which had been unsuccessfully masked. He used it for his own enjoyment. /// "You know . . . my little Eddie was right. You do smell . . . good. Like Vanilla and . . . what is that scent? Hmm?//// Scully twisted around, grabbing the table behind her ... her fingers squeezed the metallic bay, clinging to the chilled metal lip as her breathing turned ragged. ///Oh yes, like vanilla with a hint of. . . *musk* ... Doesn't she smell . . . ready?"/// Scully let go of the metal, and turned around. She jumped, raising a hand to her chest. "Mulder, you startled me," Scully gasped. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the framework, staring at her. Rubbing her nose on the arm of her green smock, she took a few calming breaths. "Sorry," Mulder replied, straightening as he entered the room. Scully's gaze followed his casual stride. Pulling his hands out of his pockets, he crossed his arms against his chest as he walked toward her. Blocking her, preparing to face her. Scully felt a sadness at seeing that defensive posture and wondered when she wouldn't have to notice such things. His eyes were guarded she also noted, but not like they had been ... and that gave her a swell of hope. "Are you through with the autopsy?" Scully watched as he stopped before the shrouded body. Reaching a hand out, he turned back the white sheet she'd laid over Keenswan. The autopsy bay laid between them. It separated them physically just as surely as the murderer's words had helped manage to do so emotionally. "Yes, everything's completed, including the examination of the cranium and brain tissue per your request." "And?" Mulder questioned, rubbing his thumb under his lip as he looked at the body. Scully's eyes followed the flat pad of his thumb, remembering the feel of it sliding down her neck. She missed that, missed him, even now, here... Scully shook herself, now was not the time. "Well, you were right. He was decidedly not "cured", in fact, far from it. I can't fathom how a physician could, in good conscious, claim otherwise," Scully began, taking her turn to look down at Keenswan, almost driven to do so. "Why, what did you find?" She closed her eyes, rubbing at the pain still tramping around in her head. Sighing, she opened her eyes and looked up, meeting Mulder's questioning stare. "Mulder, it's a miracle that this man was even able to function on his own, let alone be given a clean bill of health -- relatively speaking that is." Scully paused to glance back down at Keenswan. She didn't understand this compulsion, this self-flagellating tendency to force herself to look upon such a man, at such a biting reminder of her current downward spiral. "Well, some seventy percent of the weight of the entire nervous system is accounted for by the cerebrum. Now, this is divided into two hemispheres, and each of those divided into four lobes." She waited for Mulder to nod. "Now, it's in the occipital lobe in which visual function is able to be controlled. It is also in the occipital lobe where I found signs of Mescalirtus Temporal Sclerosis*, an inherited affliction. MTS causes severe epileptic seizures, seizures that Keenswan should have systematically been experiencing, but wasn't." Scully turned away to the table behind her and picked up the medical file, turning a few pages, she found what she was looking for. "The reason *why* he should have systematically been having them is because, according to his medical records, his prescriptions were not strong enough to control such seizures." Scullly shook her head back and forth, pausing. "But...." "But what?" Mulder questioned, waiting. Scully looked up from the file. "Mulder, I found various growths, tumors in the occipital, frontal, parietal and temporal lobes." "What does that mean, exactly?" "Each section controls certain facets of the body. For instance, the parietal lobe is responsible for touch, spatial relations. The occipital lobe is responsible for vision and the ability to recognize color. The temporal lobe is responsible for memory and language skills ... but it's the frontal lobe, Mulder, the frontal lobe that had a very high concentration of foreign mass ... and it is that portion of the human brain that is responsible for motivation and emotional control. It's also responsible for social interaction." "So what does that mean, Scully, what's the bottom line?" Mulder questioned again. Scully rubbed at her temples, looking up at Mulder. "The bottom line is that Jacob Keenswan should have been dead long before somebody decided to kill him. That's the bottom line. The masses should have applied pressure to his cerebral cortex, he should have had massive headaches, multiple seizures ... he should have had a fatal stroke. All of which, he did not have. And that ... that doesn't fit. It's illogical, medically impossible. It makes no sense to me." Mulder looked down at the man. Scully watched his eyes stare into Keenswan's pallid features, Keenswan's eyes were cloudy, limpid, death's own window shades drawn. "So his doctors were wrong, I... I had to at least know that," Mulder said, softly. Scully waited, watching him blink slowly, his lips compressing into an angry line. She walked around the table to stand before him. "Mulder," Scully said softly, tentatively reaching a hand out to touch his arm. Fear caused her to pause in her actions. Uncertainty trembled her fingers. Would he accept her touch? She knew they had taken the first step toward healing one another. But it was only the first step. She squelched the concerns and grabbed hold of his bicep anyway, her fingers wrapping around his arm. Mulder looked up, blankly staring at her for a few moments. She rubbed his arm, coaxing his attention back from wherever it had wandered off to. A few rapid blinks and he was looking at her, not some trapping memory. He offered a weak smile, placing his hand over hers. He held it there for a moment before speaking. "I'm all right, Scully... Tell me, tell me about the rest." Scully felt a warmth paint over her skin, a heat seep into her pores and infuse her heart. That little touch, that little reassurance fortified her frayed nerves -- especially with the lingering memories of Jerse eating at her. She glanced beyond Mulder, looking directly at the manifestation of cruelty spread out, contained upon the table beside her. She looked back at Mulder, her smile soft. Yes, she needed something good, someone good -- she needed Mulder. It was important to her, *He* was important to her. She would not hide behind bravado. She was willing to expose her weaknesses when it came to Mulder, willing to reveal how just the mere touch of him could shape her world -- perhaps it was something she should have done long before now. The Scully pride was something that could help, yet also hinder. She knew that, but she also knew that it wasn't too late to do more than just *know*. She had to actually *understand* that there was no shame in sharing her feelings of vulnerability -- and she did understand. Scully reached her other hand on top of his and smiled before pulling away and getting back to the task at hand. "As to the actual murder... everything is consistent with all the previous homicides ... everything, that is, with one exception. I found a puncture wound in Keenswan's posterior deltoid. It infiltrated the teres minor and major. The puncture wound was found near the erector spinae-" "The what? In English, Scully..." Mulder teased, smiling. He rested his hands on his hip, waiting for her to continue. "There was a puncture wound between the shoulder blades near the spinal cord, on the left side. No other victim has ever had such a wound there before, it is the first inconsistency we've had to date." "And, from what I can surmise," Scully continued. "The assailant was tall, maybe five-eleven. The angle of the wounds suggest not only the height but also reveals that the injuries were received at a parallel angle, suggesting that the assailant either sat on top of Keenswan or stood above him while he laid prone on the floor for the final slice across the sternocleidomastoid." Mulder gave her a look, eyebrow raised. "The throat, Mulder, the throat," Scully finished. Blinking he turned his gaze on Scully. "One difference that still leaves us nowhere." "What about the surveillance tapes?" "There was nothing. The tapes monitor the outside corridor and there was never anyone there. The actual room is not equipped with surveillance as you know." "The tapes turned up nothing at all? But, Mulder, how could-" Scully paused as Mulder's cell phone chirped inside his jacket pocket. She watched and waited as he answered. "Mulder." "Good morning ... mmm hmm ... what?" Scully observed Mulder, wondering. She watched him as he began to pace, nodding his head and giving the requisite 'uh huhs' as he listened to the party on the other end. "Not good ... you believe that's true? ... I was, yes, I was coming there anyway ... yes ... yes... I think ... right. I can't right now ... something ... okay I will call you, talk to you then." Scully watched Mulder as he ended the phone conversation, huffing out an aggravated sigh, his head bowed, his hands stationed on his hips. "Damn it!" he growled, grabbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing. "Mulder, what? What's going on?" He turned and pinned Scully with a glare before blinking, softening his gaze if only slightly, his aggravation apparent. "That was Pearl. It seems she thinks Jack has been dumping his medication. She found a pill in the sink basin this morning ... damn it! After I talked to him about this...." He punctuated his words with a low, long growl. "Mulder, why is Jack medicated? You never told me that." Mulder sighed, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. "He's been medicated ever since ... ever since him." The "him" was said with such anger as Mulder pointed to Keenswan. Scully's eyes widened, watching as Mulder's lip snarled and his fists clasped to his side. "God damn you to hell, you bastard." Mulder whispered, his words said with a hushed, yet with force. "Mulder, talk to me." Scully said, closing the distance between them. She paused a moment, griping her temples again, her migraine was keeping to a steady pounding. "You know, Scully, I just can't understand how such a man, an animal could ... to a child... a child," Mulder muttered with venom, staring at Keenswan. "You never could," Scully whispered, slowly releasing her temples to lay her hand on his arm as she stepped even closer. Mulder swiftly looked up, catching her gaze. "Neither could you, Scully, neither could you." "I know," she replied. "But Mulder, he can't hurt anyone anymore." "Can't he, Scully?" Mulder questioned, turning to look at her. "Doesn't he still? Everyday ... every single day when people's daughters, mothers wives and ... and sisters aren't there anymore?" "Mulder, please, don't do this," Scully said, desperate -- not because he was wrong to think those thoughts, but because they so mirrored her own and one of them needed to have control of their perspectives. Maybe for the first time in her career, in her life, she actually wasn't able to maintain that valued clarity. Which lead her to her next question... Who was going to be the rock if both of them where shattered pieces? "Mulder, what's going on with, Jack?" Scully asked, again, gathering her thoughts and placing them back to the matter at hand, done so if only by a very thin thread. Mulder turned to look at her. His eyes were so deep, so full of riotous emotions. He reached up and touched her cheek, caressing it with his finger tips as he looked at her. Scully waited, her breath shallow, expectant. He blinked, closing his eyes and lowering his hand, but Scully caught it, holding it against her skin. Mulder opened his eyes again, looking at her, questioning her. "Mulder ... please, talk ... talk to *me*," Scully softly ordered, trying to make sure he saw her, that she reached him from where he had regressed to. It didn't take much to know that he was seeing himself reflected in the history of another. She knew him. And she would not let him shut her out -- not without a fight. Always together they had strength. When they were a part, they were hampered. It probably wasn't the most healthy of situations, but it was theirs. And if Scully realized anything during these past few days, it was that she needed him, and she needed him without regret or reason. Mulder pulled his hand away, but nodded his head. "Jack ... you haven't seen him yet. I, I guess I forgot that." "What's going on, Mulder?" Scully listened as Mulder relayed Pearl's concerns about Jack. He told her of Pearl's fears, of Jack's mood swings that had become unpredictable. He also told her about his conversation with Jack. His fears of repressed memories surfacing and causing the chaotic nature of Jack's persona. Finally he told her that Jack had stopped taking his medications, medications that regulated his personality and controlled any possible seizures ... that he told her that Jack'd been on them ever since he was six years old. "But he promised me that he would take them again, promised me that he would talk to Pearl about going to see his doctor." "And he dumped them down the drain instead," Scully finished for him as she registered and analyzed what Mulder said. "Scully, he's in such a fragile state right now... I told him the consequences, the risks, the pills have been bothering him ... damn it, I should have realized he was just shutting me up... I should have known... I mean, that's probably what I would have done." "What's he supposed to be currently taking?" "Dilantin," Mulder replied. "And something else.. um..." "Dilantin or (phenytoin) is used for people who suffer from a tonic-clonic seizures. They are very severe. The person loses consciousness, falls to the floor, and has convulsions of the arms and legs, often losing consciousness... he should never have stopped taking them. Tell me, what was the other drug?" "Haloperidol," Mulder answered quickly, the name coming back to him. "Mulder ...haloperidol, that drug is an anti-psychotic ... you do know that, don't you?" "No, I... not the specifics of it." Scully felt dread unfurling in her stomach,fear of what her mind was telling her to be a very distinct possibility. Her synapses were firing, flashing bright connectors to the muddled pieces of evidence that laid across the floor of her mind. She gripped her temples again, pressing hard, unable to stop herself from releasing a shaky sigh. She walked over to a side table where she'd laid Keenswan's medical file. Grabbing it, she paged through the papers again, searching.... All the while she felt her heart begin to beat faster, sweat taint her skin. She turned around to face Mulder, raising her gaze from the file. "Mulder, Keenswan has taken haloperidol as well. Not that it's uncommon to use such a drug, but it's a high potency and commonly used to alleviate agitation and psychosis, usually in schizophrenias, though not exclusively... but both of them taking it... it makes me-" "What? What are you saying, Scully?" Scully lowered the folder back to the table, placing it behind her. Her shoulders slumped a bit as she paused before speaking. "Who ... who is Jack's father?" She watched the transformation, watched as Mulder's face harden into the stone cold visage that anger and disbelief cultivated. "Jack's father is dead." "Perhaps he is, now." Scully whispered, not looking away, holding Mulder's stare. "I don't believe that, Scully," Mulder said, his lips moving while the rest of him stayed mobile. His hands remained fisted at his sides, his back ramrod straight as they observed each other across the width of Keenswan's body, the table separating them again. "That drug is an anti-psychotic, Mulder. Jack has a very similar condition which can induce seizures, his attitude is possibly manic -- two variants that are the same between them, even having used the same medication... Mulder, what if ... what if Keen-" "No, Pearl would have said.... WE would have known something like that." "Would you have known, Mulder? Would you? You said it yourself when you first briefed me. Keenswan had a history of part time employment, nothing ever steady ... not the type of person that a wealthy Philadelphia business woman keeps around, but maybe just the type she could use and lose. What if they'd had an affair, Mulder?" "And those past murders were revenge? Scully, you always accuse me of grandiose leaps of logic? What do you call what you are doing now?" "I don't know ... but what I do know is that nothing is ever coincidence, not when it comes to cases we're involved in. I guess... I guess I'm learning from you, playing averages. I mean, how is it that both Jack and Jacob Keenswan have so many uncommon commonalities...? You said... *you said*, that Jack's been acting different... Mulder ... what if ... what if Jack..." "NO, Scully, don't even go there ... he's isn't-" "Mulder. I don't want to believe it possible ... who would? But, we've been doing this for too long. It's something that I find myself unable to entirely rule out. It's quite possible that being off his medication might *cause* this manic behavior and-" "This is insane!" "Is it? Maybe, but I want to do a DNA test and I want to get a sample from Jack, we could at least rule it out." "Scully, you don't know him, you haven't even met Jack ... he's a troubled boy, I'll give you that. I think all he's suffering from is a reemergence of a past that won't let him be, a past that has been silently strangling him ever since news of Keenswan's parole hearing surfaced. Mulder continued. "I will even go so far as to say he is desperate to escape. That could be why he stopped taking the medication... a way to rebel, to disappear from his thoughts. Only it didn't work, it backfired and now he's a mess." "Oh Mulder...," Scully sighed, seeing the torture, the almost *manic* need in Mulder to believe in his own theory, to deny any such possibility of what Scully was saying. "You're right, I don't know him. I haven't met him." Mulder breathing was ragged, harsh. Scully walked to him, clasping both of his forearms and forcing him to look into her face. "We ... we're in trouble here, Mulder. Maybe I'm wrong-" "You are," Mulder interrupted, looking down at her upturned face. "Maybe," Scully acquiesced, "but neither of us have had an easy time the past couple of days. Memories and histories have been gnawing at us, biting at us. I think that there is a chance here that you are too close to see the possibilities in this situation. I think you're-" "I'm compromised?" "I didn't say that," Scully replied, her voice going out on a whisper. "You just did." Mulder clamped his lips closed. Scully stepped back, releasing him. "If, what you're suggesting ... and let's be perfectly clear ... you believe that Jack is Keenswan's son, that they both have the same disease?" "Mulder, MTS, it inherited through the father," Scully said. "Even so, say you are right. It still doesn't mean that Jack has the same proclivity ... that he's just gonna take up where dear ol' dad left off. This is just a recent thing, his not taking the pills." "And so was the reemergence of this parole hearing... Mulder, you said it yourself, so did Pearl. Ever since this trial has come up again, Jack has not been himself. Also, ever since the trial has come up, so have these homicides." "Not being himself doesn't mean he'd turn murderer instead." "Mulder... how well do you really know Jack? Hmm? Answer me that? No, better yet, ask yourself this, 'when you look at him ... do you really see who he is now or the memory of that six year old boy ... or ... or do you even see yourself? "That's not fair, Scully," Mulder said, his voice soft as he looked away. "Maybe not," Scully agreed. "But, Mulder, he's not a child anymore ... and you don't know him ... and he is not you." Mulder remained quiet, still. "Have you ever thought of this, Mulder," Scully began, cautious, careful. "Jack ... he's the only one alive who has witnessed Keenswan's violence. He saw it happening ... everything.... he would-" "Don't say it!" "He would know exactly what to do," Scully finished, feeling tears catch in her throat as she witnessed Mulder starting to shake, seeing his anguish, his refusal to believe, yet unable to block the questions she raised. Mulder stilled, stiffening his spine as he raised his eyes and looked at her. "There's just one thing, Scully," Mulder began, confidence returning to his voice where she had knocked it away. "How do you explain Keenswan's death? The murder of a man who was, by all rights, under lock and key?" "That... I can't explain," Scully admitted. Scully sucked in a breath as another round of pounding felt like it was jack-hammering her skull. She licked her lips, stepping toward Mulder as she tried to ignore her discomfort. "I know you're close to Jack and Pearl. I understand that." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "I have faith in you, Mulder, I do. It's not a matter of trusting *you*, but in trusting in your emotions. As I said, both of us have been through so much recently. Everything is heightened, sensitive. Tensions are high. You know that. I know that. For now, all I'm asking is to see Jack, for us to go together." She touched his arm again. "I want to talk to him and take a blood sample. If I'm wrong then ... well, I hope I am wrong, but we need to at least find out either way." She could see the battle waging within Mulder. She knew him. She knew that he wanted to toss her words out and never think on them again. But it didn't matter what he wanted, he would do what was right. She knew he would not let his feelings get in the way, not in the end ... not in the final hour. And maybe that's what this was, the defining moment where they both exposed their vulnerabilities, their desires ... their faith in one another. It was more than just the work. She was asking him to believe, believe in her again. The question was, 'would he?' "Let's go then," Mulder said, his voice ragged, the inner battle strangling. "Let's see." Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pearl's Townhouse Wednesday, 152 PM "You said that you're taking Dilantin and Haloperidol, " Scully affirmed, restating his answer. She sat back in her chair, the wood spindles pressing against her spine. Keeping her tone cordial, she invited an answer to her follow-up question. "So tell me, Jack, why are you taking them?" "Don't you know? You're the doctor," he answered, his attention split between Scully's questions and the loose thread dangling from the sleeve of his T-shirt. Scully watched as Jack sighed, relinquishing his consuming fascination with his apparel. Instead, he moved on to concentrating his main efforts at rubbing his hand back and forth against the oak tabletop situated before them. Playing spectator to his digit gymnastics, she took a few moments to observe his passive-aggressive posturing. She watched as his fingertips began to turn white under the apparent pressure he exerted on the wooden surface. The color seemed to offset the dirty, black grime beneath his jagged finger nails. Tracking her gaze up from the boy's hand, she let her view encompass his whole upper body from his too thin arms, to his torso and chest. As she concluded her cursory examination, she was made witness to yet another round of subdued tremors coursing through his body. Letting out a measured sigh, she tilted her head, pulling herself forward. She leaned toward him as she made sure to keep her tone soft, non-threatening. "Yes, I am a doctor and I'm aware of the drug effects. But, Jack, my question to you is Do you know? Do you understand the reasons for which you've been prescribed these narcotics?" "Well, *Dana*, one's to control my seizures, the other's supposed to make me normal." Jack snickered at his choice of terms, pushing his lanky frame back up in his chair, his fingers turning whiter in their repetitive treks across the tabletop. Scully caught his gaze, recognizing instantly that the boy was simmering with both insolence and insecurity. She refused to look away, giving him a steady, yet placating look, hoping to reach past his defense mechanism of anger. She waited, the room silent but for their breathing. Finally, he grunted, shaking his head as he looked away, staring off toward the sudden intruding hum of the refrigerator's fan kicking on. Having lost his attention, Scully blinked, allowing herself a quick moment to combat against the overhead light. The harsh glow was provoking a keen desire to just curl up in a ball and duck her head, cringing away from the enhanced pain. Her headache of earlier had finally matured into the promised, full-scale migraine. Sitting here at this table with Jack, she swiftly discovered that dealing with a troubled teenager seemed only to antagonize the hammering staccato behind her right temple. She half-expected a lump to rise in response to the constant, tattooing pain. Yet her own discomfort was not what was important right now. Jack was a child in crisis, from his body language to his responses ... everything she had observed thus far screamed danger. But, she had to wonder if the danger was solely for his sake, or also for those he came in contact with. Something was unsettling about him, something beyond the teenage angst. It was a sensation that she felt sliding beneath her skin and prickling her mind with a warning that left her confused and leery. Was Jack capable of the acts her earlier theory laid claim to? She would like to say no, and may still yet, but she'd seen no proof either way, and that ... that unnerved her. Sighing, she refocused her attention on Jack. He'd begun tapping out an uneven cadence against the tabletop, each tap meeting up with the pain behind her right temple. Scully reached across the surface, stilling his hand, refusing to let go when he tried to tug it away. Raising his gaze to meet her own, his eyes were a wide sea of angry violet. "Let ... go ... of ... me." "Only if you agree to say what's on your mind, rather than tap it out in Morse code...." Why did she feel she was playing with fire? She tamped down such nonsense, keeping her mind focused on helping him, reaching him. Jack twisted in his chair, turning to face her straight on. He looked at her, studying her face as if she were the one to be questioned. Strands of loose hair fell before his face, threading before his eyes as he took his turn to examine her, stare at her. He smiled, a full-tooth grin that dissipated behind his thin veneer of compressed lips. "Doctor, heal thyself." "Let's stick with discussing you, Jack. That's why I'm here, to help you," Scully said, cataloguing his movements. He no longer trembled. The petulance of moments ago was gone; in it's place was an exuding confidence, a cockiness. Again, she felt disconcerted. He was acting as ... not a boy, but ... a man. "You do believe that, Jack, don't you? That I'm here to help you?" Jack reached a hand out and touched her leg, tracing his index finger down her thigh until he grabbed her knee. Scully gasped at the impudence. "I believe, a great many things ... none of which are the words coming out of your mouth, Agent Scully." She clamped her own hand over his, her eyes narrowing. "You should believe what I say. I *am* here to help you." "You don't even know why you're here, do you Dana?" Jack questioned. He tsked, slowly shaking his head. "Well, I'll tell you. You're here because I wanted you to be. I wanted to meet you before...." Scully felt a shiver riding beneath her skin. The sensation paired with the prickling rise of goose bumps playing traitor to her show of confidence as his voice tempered off. "Jack, what is it that you think you are doing?" "Don't you know? Don't you know what's happening, here?" Jack replied, leaning forward, meeting her face in a near kiss. His tone was soft, confident -- like a lover's. She refused to back away. "No, you don't really know, but you will ... in fact, I think you'll know more intimately than anyone else." "Why is that, Jack?" Scully demanded, her tone matching his as she grabbed his chin, forcing his laconic gaze to stop sweeping over her body. Jack blinked, his eyes shuttering closed, the shy tremors of before suddenly became viciously brazen, rocking his body. Scully became concerned, tapping his cheek. "Jack?" Grabbing a spoon off the table, she pulled it from the sugar bowl and made to place it in Jack's mouth. Just as suddenly as the trembling overtook his body, a few moments later it stopped. Jack caught the utensil in his fist, blocking its intended pathway. When he opened his eyes again, they were nervous -- embarrassed. "What ... what did you say?" Jack asked in a halo of apparent confusion. His voice was small, hesitant as his gaze reconnected with Scully's. Letting him go, she watched as he huddled into himself, pushing his chair out of her reach. He pulled his knees onto his seat, hugging them to his chest. Scully watched, astonished as his actions regressed into those of a frightened child, lost and uncertain. "Are you all right, Jack?" Scully questioned, watching the trembling boy before her. He stopped shivering, released his shins and re-placed his feet on the floor. She watched as he crossed his arms over his chest. An occasional tremor passed over him but as she looked at his face, she observed that the kaleidoscope of emotions had dwindled down into indifference. "I'm fine," Jack retorted, watching his hand pick at some lint on his pants. "You should really do something about that migraine of yours." Scully just looked at him, scrutinizing the change. "How did you know...?" she asked, her mouth clamping shut when he snickered softly. "Rather than worry about my meds, Agent Scully, maybe you should investigate getting some of your own," he told her, not bothering to look up and meet her stare until his last words. "Or, better yet...maybe you should go and get some sleep." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Meanwhile PEARL'S LIVING ROOM Mulder paced the length of the living room, continuing the same circuit of loveseat, window, curio cabinet, loveseat, window, curio cabinet. "Is everything all right Fox, and please, you're wearing a path on my oriental carpet, here," Pearl joked. Mulder halted his steps, and met her inquiring gaze. She stared up at him from the couch, a painted eyebrow cocked. "Sorry, Pearl," Mulder replied a bit sheepish. "I do my best thinking on my feet." Pearl patted a spot next to her, tapping the beige sofa. "How are ya off your feet, Fox? Or is that something I should leave for Dana to answer?" Mulder smirked, nodding his head as he sat down beside her. "You're a saucy old broad, I'll give ya that," he remarked, his voice tired as he looked around the warmly lit room. The outside world might be gray, but inside Pearl's, the warm earth tones and subdued lighting helped to combat against the bone weary exhaustion threatening Mulder, both mentally and physically. "So I've been told, so I've been told," Pearl responded, placing a warm palm against his own. Mulder could smell the subtle floral perfume Pearl wore. It blended with the underlying peach fragrance that burned from her large candle situated on her coffee table. "So, here you are ... cozying up next to my problems rather than dealing with your own," Pearl began, launching her admonishment with the accompaniment of a gentle squeeze of his palm -- his palm that gripped the top half of his thigh in instant response to her verbal assault. "It's how I am, Pearl." "It's an excuse, Fox...," she argued, giving another placating squeeze. "I know you two are here to help me ... to help Jack, and I appreciate that more than I can say. Yet, still ... I may be old, but as I've said before, I sure ain't blind." Pearl paused, tilting her head before continuing. "Well, seeing the two of you together today, I can't help but notice that both of you are not the same couple that walked into my house a little over two days ago." "I told you, Pearl, I'm... we're working things out," Mulder responded, not even attempting to avoid her questioning. Distraction just didn't work with Pearl. She'd say her piece come hell or high water, and Mulder had learned that a long time ago. "Working things out? Well, you sure as hell aren't trying hard enough," Pearl said, her tone gruff, admonishing. "We *are* working things out. It's just... well, there's something else, a professional disagreement at the moment," Mulder responded, amazed she'd gotten him to admit to anything. Though, he knew he really shouldn't be astounded in the least. "Well, it seems to me that professional has mixed with personal and what you both need to do is work on sorting them out," Pearl replied, her tone soft, gentle. "I'm old, so I'm allowed to butt in and call it like I see it. But, really... Fox, listen to me. You know, I've always thought of you as ... well...." "What, Pearl?" Mulder asked, watching a bittersweet smile frame her face. "Well, I just don't want to see you, or Dana now, covering up pain like my Eleanor did..." "Your daughter?" Mulder pulled back, surprised. He felt his heart flutter, his skin flush, warmed by the unspoken sentiment she bestowed on him and Scully. Yet, at the same time he couldn't help but be confused, questioning, as echoes of Scully's words from this morning intruded upon his consciousness. Jack's mother ... did she have a story as Scully believed? And, if there was one, would it ever be told? Sitting beside Pearl now, he had a feeling he was about to get his answer to both of those questions. "Pearl, what pain?" Mulder prodded, his eyes narrowing, senses open. He was ready to read beyond the surface, ready to sift through words spoken and not -- to interpret and yes, he was ready to profile. "She was really good at it, you know," Pearl said, staring down at her hands. She continued talking. "She was good at a lot of things, work, friendships, and parenting. God, but she loved Jack." Pearl broke from the contemplation of her wedding band and looked at Mulder again. "But she wasn't good at hiding things from me. Much like you aren't. They say that sometimes parents are the last to know, but what they neglect to mention are those times when we're the first." "What are you talking about, Pearl?" Mulder questioned, his gaze tracking over her face. "Hearing of that bastard's death today ... it's making me face a memory I tried... *we*, Eleanor and I, had tried hard to bury and forget. So much has happened ... so much. Now, I look at you ... and I know whatever has happened between Dana and yourself, whatever it is, it has hurt you deeply. Memories, the past, all of it has a way of unearthing itself despite your best efforts." Mulder swallowed, a breath shuddering past his lips as he waited for Pearl to continue. "I just... I didn't want to remember another layer of pain, another hurt that's never completely healed for my baby girl, and for me. You know, some people can say something never happened or never name what it is that's occurred and just go on living as if it were true -- but now with everything that has been going on with Jack and with you, Fox -- well, what's "never happened", seems to have suddenly occurred. In fact, I can feel it reaching out, finally demanding my attention, my voice...." "Pearl?" "Eleanor was raped before ... before she died," Pearl said, rolling her palms against her thighs. Mulder clasped her hands, halting their movement. "Yes, Pearl, we know that. She was, it-" "No Fox, before that. The first time, the time she never reported or never told anyone about, including me. We'd been fighting you see. Ohh, Eleanor was very independent. I don't know, maybe I clung to her too much, but she was the only one I had left in my family -- what with Bill having passed." She stared at her hands again. "Eleanor, she made sure to go to school as far away from me as possible. Berkley. She had to go clear across the country to find her freedom and she did. She loved it there but then without word or provocation she suddenly didn't like it there." "She wanted to come home, right in the middle of her last year of law school. It had been fall term. Well, when I finally saw her at the train station ... when I saw my baby, I knew. I knew something horrible had happened to her, but she would never say. Part of what she couldn't say had became evident, though." "She was pregnant," Mulder supplied for Pearl. "Yes, with Jack," she affirmed. "So, she eventually told you she was raped, then?" Mulder questioned. "No, Fox, she didn't tell me. She didn't have to. It seems like a secret society or something but victims ... victims seem to be able to recognize one another, something in the eyes. "What? Pearl, you-" "It was a long time ago, before Eleanor was even born, long before. It's not important now, I've reconciled myself to it," Pearl said, cutting Mulder off. She was quick to reassure. "But, you never forget ... never." Mulder remained quiet, in a state of semi-shock and kindled anger. He shook himself loose of his temporary paralysis of disbelief and waited for Pearl to continue her story. "Although she knew I knew what had happened, still she refused to talk about it. She would say that her life was here. Now -- that it was time to move on, forget the past. She needed me to forget the past. Christ, I can still remember, still hear her voice cracking under her desperate demand for the only closure she felt she was going to get...." "And...?" "And eventually, I did forget. I never brought it up again. Instead, I was there for her through it all. Through Jack's birth, her completion of law school. I even took care of him when Eleanor landed a lucrative position in one of Philly's finest law firms. We were close again, and I cherished that, cherished and hated it. I hated it for why it happened, for the way it should never have happened. Still, we were happy together, the three of us, for just over six years. We were really happy...." "Pearl?" Mulder said, touching her cheek. She blinked, then shook her head as she let out a sigh. "I'm just glad he's finally dead, maybe now this never-ending cycle of pain will stop," Pearl answered, resting her cheek against his hand, holding his fingers against her skin. Mulder could feel the paper-thin skin beneath his fingertips. Pearl spoke again. "Eleanor hid a lot of truths from me, Fox....something about sparing those you love, but ultimately, she couldn't hide them all ... and even still, I never got the chance to tell her that it was all right -- that everything would be okay ... that ... that I loved her no matter what." "I never thought of it like that before," Mulder replied, thoughts of Jerse knocking on his conscience. "Never...." Pearl met his gaze, holding it. "I know..., perhaps it's time you should, Fox." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx PEARL'S KITCHEN "Rather than worry about my meds, Agent Scully, maybe you should investigate getting some of your own," he told her. "Or, better yet...maybe you should go and get some sleep." "I'm here to talk about you, Jack. Now, please, tell me how long have you been taking these medications?" Scully questioned, ready to move on and complete her analysis. Jack rolled his eyes, jamming his hands under his crossed arms. "I dunno, all my life, whatever." "Can you be more specific?" Scully asked, reigning in her exasperation. Jack had upgraded from a precocious boy to an arrogant adolescent. She didn't like the mood swings, they displayed a level of displacement and psychosis that was not comfortable for her to witness. He interrupted her thoughts, finally answering her. "I've been taking the meds since my mother died ... since she's been dead ... murdered." "When did you stop taking the pills?" "Three months ago." "Why did you stop taking your prescriptions?" "I don't need them, they .. they mess with me... they... I just don't need'em." "Jack, do you realize that the medication you're taking for seizures shouldn't *just* be stopped? They control the chemical imbalance of your brain...without them you could very possibly stroke out." "I'm fine...." "Jack, you're not fine. Look at your hands, they're shaking, and what about the episode from twenty minutes ago," Scully questioned, her tone insistent. "Your grandmother says your behavior has been erratic, and I can't help but agree with her having spent some time with you." "No, you're wrong, I'm clear headed, straight for once in my life... no fucking cloud to block my thoughts, to stop me from reaching my full potential..." "Jack, please...," Scully pleaded with him. "The only potential you'll realize is an event in your brain that will make that cloud turn dark and strike without warning...." "Don't play shrink with me, doctor," Jack raged, standing up, his chair skittering back and hitting the wall. "Not when you don't have a fucking clue of what's going on here...with me or yourself...NOT A FUCKING CLUE...!" "JACK!" Scully turned her head to find Pearl in the doorway. Behind her was Mulder, his eyes instantly meeting hers, not in question as much as concern. "You okay, Scully?" He asked in a tight voice. "I'm fine, Mulder," Scully shifted her chair back from the table. "But, Jack's not." "I would have been if you hadn't opened your fat fucking mouth!" Jack growled, his finger pointing at his grandmother, his posture hunched and cagey. "Jack!" Mulder said, his voice sharp and cutting. "What? What do you have to say to me? You pretend to be my friend then you bring this bitch to stop me up," Jack accused, pointing to Scully, his body rocking side to side." You wanna put me out to pasture again... well that ain't gonna happen...you all can just go to hell!" "Jack, come on now, please?" Pearl pleaded, stepping closer for each agitated step he took back. Pearl kept her hands outstretched, imploring. "Please? PLEASE? What about me, huh? What about me? I ain't your little baby anymore... You can just get away from me. And you sure as hell aren't my mother! My mother is DEAD!!... DEAD!!" Pearl fell back, as if slapped, her hands falling to her sides, her own posture crumbling at his assaulting words. Scully watched in silent disbelief. His acidic words aimed at and wounded Pearl with a perfect bull's eye. Stunned, the three adults watched Jack as he shot out of the kitchen. Like an uncalibrated bullet, he grazed Mulder's shoulder with his, spitting his fury like gunpowder. "You'll regret this...." Scully turned up and looked at Mulder and Pearl. "Mulder...." "I...," he began. An incessant chirping sounded within his jacket pocket, interrupting the tableau of stilted silence. Scully sighed. "Your phone, Mulder." She watched him cast a look to Pearl. He reached within the charcoal suit jacket to pull out his cell. "Mulder." Scully stood up from the table, walking over to Pearl. She wrapped an arm around her, the other hand rubbing Pearl's palm in soothing circles. Scully's breath caught in her throat as the elder woman looked up, tears rolling down her lined cheeks. Her countenance had deflated into an overly weary and battered visage. Jack's words had managed to burn away Pearl's mask of capability. She looked lost. "Dana, what's happening to my little boy?" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pine St., en route to Greentree Hotel Wednesday, 259 PM Scully sat in the passenger seat, the right side of her forehead resting against the chilled side window. She could barely keep her eyes open against the onslaught of pain riding behind her right temple. "Mulder, I'm not going to this new homicide site," Scully informed him, her breath fogging a patch on the passenger window. "What?" Mulder asked, tightening his seat belt as he pulled out of his parking space. "Why, Scully? I need you." "You don't need me. The Philadelphia police are quite proficient. They've their own, qualified pathologists," Scully began, looking out the window. Her elbow braced against the door as her hand cradled her chin. "I've been fighting a migraine all day... and it's won. I can't... I need to lay down, sleep it off." "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?" Mulder asked, his tone a bit accusatory as he turned onto Market St. They were heading back to their hotel, and in Scully's estimation, they couldn't get there soon enough. "Scully?" "I... I thought it'd go away, but it hasn't," Scully finally answered, sighing. "I just need to take some aspirin and keep my eyes closed for a long, long time." Mulder stopped the rental behind the length of cars idling at the red traffic light. The day was still as gray as yesterday. Funny, she hadn't really paid attention to that earlier. Morning traces of rainfall still slicked the pavements. The cars swished through the crowded city streets, treading puddles of water beneath them. The city backdrop of wet noise was beginning to lull Scully to sleep. She was beyond tired from the autopsy she'd performed and the emotional stress that the entire day continued to bestow upon her. Mulder interrupted her descent into temporary oblivion, speaking in the silence of the car. "What about Jack...?" Scully cracked her eyes open before answering. "While you were saying your good-byes to Pearl, I put in a call to the doctor's number she gave us. They're going to courier an on-file blood sample of Jack's to Philadelphia PD. If you can have Vaughn call in a comparison lab test when you meet up with him, we should have the results by five, tomorrow. The test takes less than twenty-four hours." "You're still going through with this...," Mulder began, his voice dropping off before hitting his turn signal and inching into the other lane. Scully closed her eyes again, blocking out the traffic and silently wishing to blot out Mulder's questions. She didn't have the energy or the inclination to do anything more than escape the pounding cadence of pain drumming on the right side of her head. Unfortunately, she heard Mulder take a deep breath, before continuing. "No, wait, Scully. I want to know what you're current thoughts are regarding your theory?" "Mulder, I don't want to arg... I don't want to talk about this at the moment. I can't think right now. After I've rested, please?" Scully replied, her voice soft as her eyes opened, catching onto the Liberty Bell, and behind it, the steeple of Independance Hall as their car crawled through the afternoon traffic. She closed her eyes once more, remembering her question she'd asked on the phone before she ever arrived in this city again. //"Do we really get to see the Liberty Bell, this time?"/// Well, let freedom ring for all she cared. Right now, all she wanted to see was the back of her eyelids. "Okay, Scully, we'll talk about it later," Mulder answered. Scully moaned in response, letting the movement of the car rock her to sleep. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia University City District Vaughns' Household Wednesday, 821 PM "Ohh! Nothing but air," Mulder called out as the basketball bounced off the backboard with a resounding thwack. Snagging the errant ball, Mulder dribbled it, going on the offensive as he swapped places with Vaughn. Mulder stood, toeing the foul line -- a rather stylish one drawn with a scavenged piece of Vaughn's youngest daughter's chalk. Letting the ball travel from hand to hand, Mulder tried to decide on his next play. "Like you got a chance to beat me, Fibbie," Vaughn taunted, coming to stand before Mulder. "Mmm Hmm," Mulder smirked, giving a quick nod. He stood back, watching as Vaughn bunched his pants legs up, hunkering down and ready to defend and defeat. "I think you overestimate your prowess there, Vaughny," Mulder responded, stuffing the ball under his arm. He made a show of wiping his forehead against his bicep before rolling his shirt sleeves back up to his elbows. "Cuz, you're going down, Lieutenant." "Keep dreamin', tough guy!" Vaughn bantered, a smirk pulling at his face. Mulder let out a labored breath, the exhalation meeting up with Vaughn's. There was a definite chill in the air but both men paid little attention to the actual weather. They were heated by the fire of their exertion. Bending slightly, he met Vaughn's stance. Dribbling the ball from hand to hand, Mulder's eyes fired with determination. "Think you got what it takes to bring me down?" "Do I think? Hell, man, I know," Vaughn answered back, emphasizing each word as he met the challenging tone in Mulder's voice. All grins were put aside as Mulder got ready for his next move. Studying the jockeying motion Vaughn took up, the agent smiled. "Didn't anybody ever tell you, Vaughny?" Mulder asked, his features turning determined. "I got Game." Mulder quickly faked left then spun right, successfully edging past Vaughn. His motions culminated in a lay-up having him twisted around in the air. Playing accompaniment to his moves was the satisfying sound of a ball swishing through the hoop's metal netting. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pearl's Townhouse Wednesday, 817 PM Jack left the shuttered blackness of his bedroom. The house had been quiet for a while now. He'd been left alone and he preferred that. The early darkness of autumn was now shadowing the hallways and rooms as he walked down the thin corridor toward the kitchen. As he approached the room, his hand trailing against the wall. Jack could hear the vague cadence of his grandmother's voice. Cresting the doorway, he leaned against the frame, overhearing his grandmother's teary conversation, he suddenly felt deeply... ...betrayed. "Yes, when can I bring him in? I... I think he needs to see someone right away. Yes, ... his seizures could ... no ... he hasn't been.... I'm scared ... scared for him ... yes, we can be there, tomorrow morning ... eight-thirty, not a problem. Thank you for calling me back, Dr. Wesling." Jack watched her, his heart rate accelerating, his face flushing with the rapidly rising heat of outrage. He felt tears pricking at his eyes while he stood there, waiting, waiting for her to turn around. His gaze followed her hand as she placed the telephone receiver back in its cradle. She stilled, facing the wall, facing the phone, as her shoulders shook and the sound of muffled sobs could be heard. Jack waited for her to turn around, he wanted her to. He needed her to. He had to see her face. "Why...?" He asked, pulling his weight off the door frame and stepping into the room. He swiped at his own face, scrubbing away fallen tears. His voice was soft yet admonishing as he spoke to her back. "Why'd you have to go and do that?" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia University City District Vaughns' Household Wednesday, 854 PM "Ah, you sonofabitch," Vaughn griped, shaking his head as he passed a smug Mulder. "Hey, I warned you," Mulder replied. He chuckled as he tossed Vaughn the ball. "Here, think fast." Vaughn grunted, catching it. Mulder bent over, gripping his knees, trying to catch his breath. He was a bit annoyed to have his breathing so labored so easily. They'd only been playing for over an hour or so. But then again, Vaughn was a hard-assed player to keep up with. Of course, he'd have to be drawn and quartered to admit that to the Lieutenant. At any rate, he made a solemn oath that he'd be getting his ass back on a regular running schedule, pronto. "I think you wore yourself out there, old man," Vaughn ribbed, giving a deep chuckle to accompany his words. Still holding his knees, Mulder tilted his head up, peering through his eyelashes and meeting Vaughn's stare. He soon found himself echoing the detective's chuckle. It looked like he wouldn't have to admit a word. He was flat-out busted. Vaughn began bouncing the ball against the cemented driveway, the rubber twang echoing in the quiet neighborhood. "Who you calling old," Mulder questioned, standing up and leaning his back into a stretch. Truth be told, he was feeling pretty run down. It'd been a long couple of days. Playing some basketball always seemed to have this bizarre Zen quality for him. As a result, he hadn't hesitated taking up Vaughn's offer for a little one on one. His breathing once more under control, he twisted his neck, cracking it, before turning to face Vaughn. Mulder smirked as he watched the Lieutenant walk behind the foul line. Taking up his position before his friend, Mulder caught the ball. They checked it back and forth. Finally, Vaughn took sole possession, gripping the ball in preparation. "You know what, Mulder? I've got one thing to tell ya." "While I'm young, Vaughn," Mulder provoked, taking his turn to taunt. "And that, my friend is You're goin' down!" Vaughn declared, dribbling the ball a final time before plowing forward. Mulder felt the detective's hard court press knock him back. Toppling him to the ground with a grunt. He shook his head, watching as Vaughn slammed the ball through the hoop. "Oh yeah, who's your daddy!" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pearl's Townhouse Wednesday, 836 PM Pearl twisted around, a hand fluttering to her chest. "Jesus, Jack ... you scared the living life out of me." He crossed over to the table, his hands closing over the back of a chair. "That's what I'm countin' on." "Jack?" He watched confusion spread over her features. She took a step forward, shaking her head, her voice raw from her tears. "Listen, Jack ... we're goin' to Dr. Wesling's tomorrow morning, eight-thirty. We need to get you back on the right seizure medication... I don't want anything happening to you ... you've been ... well, you've been extremely lucky so far." Jack placed his palm on the tabletop, retracing the same groove of earlier. He looked up, catching Pearl's gaze as he began to trail his index finger along the surface. "Nothing'll happen to me," he began, walking toward the end of the table, slowly approaching her. "See, that's what you all fail to get. Nothing *can* happen to me... not anymore. I'm finally free ... of ... well, free of everything or rather, I soon will be." "Jack...," she stammered, taking a step backward, but there really was no place for her to go. Betrayed. "I won't allow anyone, and that includes you, Grams, to take that away from me. You do understand, right?" Jack asked, watching as the confusion on her face melted into fear. Lifting his hand off the table, he saw Pearl jump as if slapped. He held her gaze, refusing to let it go. She was an enemy, someone who stood in the way of his full potential, but not for long. Oh no, not for long. "Jack, baby, you're scaring me, stop that," Pearl said, stepping back again, trying to keep the distance between them. He watched her with an air of fascination. Her gaze pleaded with him as did her voice. "I'm not trying to take anything away from you, Sweetie. Why don't you tell me ... tell me what's wrong? Please, let me help you ... talk to me Jack, talk ... to ... me..., you could always tell me anything." Jack took another step forward. Pearl took an accompanying one back, hitting against the dining room's swinging door. "*I* don't ... have... a... problem. I've been TRYING to tell you that again and again and AGAIN!" With each utterance of "again", Jack's fist slammed against the face of the refrigerator, causing various magnets to clatter to the floor. "Jack, please..." Pearl asked, the dinning room door pushing open against her back as she stepped away, keeping the distance between them. "I'm scaring you? *I'M* scaring YOU!?!" Jack repeated, his fists clenching to his sides. "You shoulda thought of that before you betrayed me. You shoulda thought of that before you had some bitch doctor try and tell me that I'm insane, tell me I'm not normal... Well, she was right... *I'M* not normal..." He shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. Letting out a steady sigh, he reopened his eyes, his voice calm again. "I'm not normal, Grams.... I'm better than that." "Please Jack," Pearl repeated the request again, tears coloring her words. The dining room door now stood completely open as she crossed the threshold, backing into the room. "Please, don't be like this. I love you... Why are you...? You Are Scaring Me, please. Just stop it!" "Stop it?" Jack asked, taking a quick step forward. Pearl cried out, stepping away from the door. As it swung back, Jack caught it against his palm, continuing to approach her. His gaze never deviated from hers as she backed further into the room, bumping into the dining room table. "Stop? But, Grams, I've just begun." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia University City District Vaughns' Household Wednesday, 903 PM Mulder let out a tired sigh, laying out defeated on the driveway where Vaughn's full-impact collision left him. That was it, he was through for the night. He continued to just lay there, amending his new resolution, his oath. Not only was he going to be running more, but a bit of weight training might be in order as well. "We needed this," Vaughn said, letting the ball fall to the driveway and roll against Mulder's side. He held a hand out and Mulder clasped it, letting the Lieutenant pull him to his feet. Sniffing from the cold, Mulder nodded his head as he took up a seat on the piled high railroad cords which held the lawn back on either side of the sunken driveway. "I know *I* sure needed it. On the shit-o-meter, this week -- I'd say this day is ranking pretty high up. Add onto everything the press... I mean... I knew we'd only be lucky for so long until they got wind of the murders, but still...." "Yeah, was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots. I gotta agree with ya. I do consider us pretty damn lucky we haven't had to contend with that nuisance, but now the honeymoon's over," Vaughn said, sighing. Mulder looked over and caught him rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead. Grunting in acquiescence, Mulder continued the thought. "Now we're high profile. Which, as I'm sure you remember ... can prove tantalizing to the killer's appetite." "Well, welcome back to the lime light, Agent Mulder," Vaughn said, rotating his shoulder. "I don't mind sharing it, would rather there wasn't one to begin with." Mulder nodded. Looking over at Vaughn, he watched him massaging his bicep. "My bag of bones clip ya on that last go around?" "Hmm ... what? Oh yeah, my pile driving strategy might be goin' on hiatus," Vaughn answered, giving a final squeeze to his strained muscle. He dropped his hands into his lap. "I tell ya, Mulder, I know I've said it before, but I really don't know how much I can take on this. It's gettin' so as the boys at the precinct know this routine down to a T, including the end result of all our forensics." Mulder shook his head in agreement. Vaughn's frustration was not only shared with the Philadelphia PD, but Mulder, as well. It was an exasperation tempered with an unshakable sense of foreboding, a feeling that had been steadily creeping up on Mulder all day -- pestering him. "And now? Now, we got the damn media focus highlightin' just how "inept" the Philly PD is," Vaughn continued, giving a weary chuckle. The Lieutenant grunted, slapping a hand down to his thigh. He looked over at Mulder. "And I'll tell ya what, I'm feeling a bit 'inept'." "Vaughn, something's gotta give," he replied, feeling his own level of discouragement deepening. "I can feel it." As to where this sense of apprehension was originating from, he couldn't quite say. There were so many issues, feelings and problems to sift through that he fleetingly wished he could just wake up from what was relentlessly taking on the texture of an epic nightmare. The culmination of these past few days was running him ragged. Scully ... what about her? He couldn't even say if he was still angry because the moment he allowed himself to contemplate their situation, another issue stormed to the forefront. Jack. He didn't like what he saw today, didn't appreciate having to leave Pearl as they had. He would have liked to have stayed with her, see what more he could have done for them. Jack, he'd degenerated far more within twenty-four hours than Mulder felt comfortable with. He hoped Pearl had been able to get him to his doctors. "Well, while you're 'feeling something', we're still left without answers," Vaughn said, interrupting his thoughts. Mulder looked over at the detective, meeting his gaze. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Ah, nothing, ignore me," Vaughn answered, standing up to pace the driveway again. "I'm just frustrated." "We all are, Vaughny," Mulder said, rubbing his hands on his pants legs. "Yeah, I know it," the Lieutenant replied, his shoes scraping against the cement as he kicked away a loose stone. "I'm just not looking forward to more questions that we can't possibly answer. The whole Philly police force is gonna really take it on the chin again with this new media circus brewin'." Mulder sighed, recalling his arrival at the victim's high-rise apartment this afternoon. Greeted by a horde of newscasters with their protruding microphones and glaring camera lights, he'd stepped out of his rental car ready to dive through the congestion of bodies. He wasn't that successful. Immediately, he'd been consumed by the familiar piranha spouting their questions and chomping for answers. And of course, his presence on the scene hadn't helped calm matters, not that that was a particular surprise. Fox Mulder was synonymous in Philadelphia with the Keenswan serial murders, an investigation the city would be hard pressed to ever forget. Now, to be a part of a crime scene painted in the same colors of the past was a bit too much of a coincidence for the general public. At least, that was according to the local newscaster he'd been watching while waiting to partake of Lisa Vaughn's roast beef dinner. While he'd been waiting with Vaughn, he'd caught his image from two days ago and today, watching himself shoulder his way through the mob of reporters while offering the requisite reply of, "No comment." "Mulder... Mulder?!?" "I'm sorry, what?" Mulder answered, scratching a hand over his face and through his hair. He followed that action by pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, elevating the itch of exhaustion. "I asked you how Dana was. Have you talked with her tonight? "Umm ... no, I figured I'd let her sleep," Mulder answered, taking in a deep breath as he lowered his hands. Slowly blinking, he opened his eyes and focused on Vaughn. "Her migraine was really bad this afternoon." "Oh, is that what you figured," Vaughn provoked, his words cutting into Mulder, gaining his immediate attention. "And that was this afternoon, Mulder, it's past nine, now." "Vaughn," he warned, sighing as he rubbed at his neck. "What'd I say?" Vaughn asked, his query dressed in the tone of innocence. "It just seems to me that if you're gonna make nice with her, that it's best done in her presence." "You know, Vaughn, you've no idea what the hell you're talking about," Mulder informed him, his tone showing amazement at his friend's audacity. Mulder stared at him until he couldn't stop himself from releasing a wry chuckle. The man stood there with his "who me" posturing, pressing his hands against his chest. "So, why don't you enlighten me ... or better yet, no ... don't tell me...," Vaughn said, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets while successfully cutting off Mulder's next attempt to speak. He stood before Mulder, his tone turning serious. "It's like I told you last night, Mulder. Everybody deserves a second chance. I've benefited from that. And even when I did ... even when Lisa should have kicked my ass to the curb, she didn't. And gettin' back what we lost? Well, it wasn't easy and not exactly the same ... it became better." Vaughn took another step closer, holding Mulder's gaze, his tone softer, reminiscent. "The fact is the whole process can be fucking hard as Hell. So, don't let what's happened between you two get to where Lisa and I were." The detective paused and Mulder didn't interrupt. "I'm tellin' ya man, if you love her half as much as I think you do ... you need to get your ass off my driveway, out of this friggin' cold. Go see that pretty lady." They stared at one another, the moments ticking away. "Oh? Is that what I should do, then?" Mulder finally responded, his voice raising to shouting level within the nighttime quiet. He broke their stare to look his friend up and down. "Yeah, that's what you should do," Vaughn replied, switching his weight to his left foot as he raised his voice higher than Mulder's. "Well fine, I will!" Mulder said, standing up to come nose to nose with the Lieutenant. Their breath mingled once more, becoming a cloud between them. Suddenly Mulder cracked a grin, breaking the stare-off. He spoke again, his voice quiet and full of an unspoken depth of gratitude. He laid a hand on Vaughn's shoulder. "Thanks, Vaughny." Vaughn gave a quick nod to his head. "Not a problem, mi amigo." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Center City, Philadelphia Olde City District Pearl's Townhouse Wednesday, 930 PM Jack was shivering, his body tensing off and on as he walked around his bedroom, preparing to go to sleep. No, not preparing to sleep so much as preparing to be completely free. In his dreams, there were no medicines or doctors ... no barriers. There was no one and nothing to hold him back. He walked over to his computer and hit play, hearing the familiar and welcomed refrain... "Merlin says "The blades of death come your way, the question is will you play?" He stepped back, straightening his spine. It was time to make his own magic. Turning, he walked over to his bed and sat down on it. He made sure to untie his shoes before toeing them off. Pushing his comforter back, he slid under his blankets. "Merlin says "The blades of death come your way, the question is will you play?" Jack laid back, adjusting his position on the bed, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He made sure to stick his arms beneath the softness. "Merlin says "The blades of death come your way, the question is will you play?" Jack looked over to the computer screen. "Yes, I will." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Center City, Philadelphia Greentree Hotel Broad & Locust St. Wednesday, 1016 PM Mulder crossed through the hotel lobby. As he passed the concierge, he heard his name. Clenching his jaw, Mulder ground the back of his teeth. He'd been stopped at least three times already from the valet to the doorman, and now the concierge... all inquiring about the latest murders. God, he hated being high profile. Turning on his heel, he walked over to the marble counter, an inner voice reminding him to put on a smile. "Yes?" "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there's a phone message for you," the man informed him, handing over an envelope. "Oh, well, thank you," Mulder replied. He nodded his thanks and turned away. Didn't this place have voice mail? Walking back to the elevator, he passed through the open doors as he opened the envelope. "Floor, sir?" "Uh, seventeen," Mulder replied, unfolding the paper. It was from A.D. Skinner. He was to call him tomorrow by nine AM. The message detailed that Skinner had left a message at the precinct as well as having tried to reach both agents on their cell phones and at the hotel -- all avenues unsuccessful. Mulder crinkled his brow, perplexed. Pushing his trench coat aside, he reached into his suit jacket and unearthed his cell, flicking it open. When he hit power, nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. He gave an exasperated sigh, realizing he must not have hit the end button hard enough on the last call. It'd happened before. The phone was new and the buttons apparently weren't very responsive to his touch. Figures. As to the precinct, the time of the message was marked eight-forty-five, PM. He'd been at Vaughn's. So, that explained Skinner not reaching *him*, but what about Scully? She hadn't answered the phone? She'd explicitly told him that she was going to lay down for the night. Mulder stuffed his phone back into his jacket, letting both hands fall to his side, his fingers tapping against his legs. Maybe she took something a little bit stronger than aspirin. He knew her pain had to be pretty severe if she had to leave the investigation, but still, even if she'd taken something stronger, that explanation didn't really fly with him. His earlier apprehension was beginning to crawl over him again, the little hairs on the back of his neck were rising. Instead of just pestering him, the sensation was demanding his sole attention. He didn't like this ... not at all. Looking up at the floor numbers, he wondered if this thing could possibly go any slower. It was taking forever to hit their floor. He began tapping his foot, waiting for the doors to ding open onto his floor. The elevator must have stopped six times already, letting off various passengers. Why the hell did he have to get a floor so high, anyway? That's right, he wanted a nice view of the city. When Scully had seen it, she'd nearly passed out, surprised at the near splendor of the room. She was in shock as she compared the room to the usual places he'd book for himself. She'd thought it was beautiful -- romantic, and he agreed. He remembered seeing her standing before the windows, dressed in her robe, silhouetted against the city lights illuminating the night. Very romantic. Damn it ... something was wrong ... he knew it. The sense of urgency was increasing tenfold with each moment that was passing by. He glanced up at the number panel, watching each number light up as the elevator continued to climb. Finally, the bell chimed for his floor. Mulder found himself pushing past a young couple, speeding his step as he made his way down the corridor. He turned a corner and began to run. Scully ... he had to get to her. He didn't know what was going on or why the rush of certainty, but his very being screamed danger. The warning cry sizzled up his spine, pebbling his skin as he obliterated the remaining distance to their room. His hand reached into his holster and he unsheathed his gun, cocking the trigger. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Center City, Philadelphia Greentree Hotel Room 1762 Wednesday, 1005 PM Scully stretched on the bed, feeling the blankets hot against her skin. Her eyes filtered open and she stilled her movements, afraid to feel the beating tattoo of her migraine once more. Reaching her arm out for the phone, she attempted to grab the receiver. Successful, she brought the mouth piece to her lips. "Scully." There was no reply. "Hello?" Nothing. She dropped the receiver back into the cradle with an extended arm. Slowly, her mind cleared itself of cobwebs as she began to fully awaken. Still feeling cautious, she waited to feel a reprisal of the percussion ensemble that had played her off into dreamland. Relief coursed through her as she realized the band seemed to have left the building, as it were. Tossing the bed sheets back, she prepared to get up and go to the bathroom. She reached over and flicked the bedside lamp on, finally chasing away the thick blackness of night. Turning around, Scully looked over her shoulder toward the window. She hoped to catch sight of a few stars and not the familiar masses of cloud coverage which had been obscuring the sky almost since she'd arrived in Philadelphia. Rubbing a hand over her face, she let out a yawn while finally opening her eyes. She froze. Scully felt her throat become parched, her heart beat accelerating, pounding against her rib cage. She let out a shocked gasp. Never, in her entire time with Mulder, through hundreds of investigations and theories and whatever ... never had she ever wished for a theory of hers to be wrong... ...But there's always a first time. Sitting on the far corner of the king sized bed was Jack Layne. Scully felt a wet cold fear wash over her. She swallowed, the sound magnified in her ears, her body starting to tremble despite her best efforts to remain calm. He sat there, taking up that small corner of the king-sized bed. He sat there watching how the light from the lamp she'd just flicked on, caught upon the switchblade he twisted within his hand. Finally, as if just noticing she were there, he looked up. A peaceful, confident smile spread across his face as he spoke. "Merlin says "The blades of death come your way, the question is will you play?" Scully slowly reached a hand over toward the night stand, searching for her gun and grasping only air. "Well, are you ready to play, Dana?" Jack asked, standing up and walking toward her side of the bed. He paused, staring into her eyes. "Because I am." Center City, Philadelphia Greentree Hotel Outside Room 1762 Wednesday, 1007 PM Feeling the adrenaline rush of anxiety, Mulder stood at the door, his sweaty palm wrapped around the handle, preparing to enter and confront what lay beyond the two inch thickness of wood. He braced himself while controlling his breath and centering his resolve. But, despite his best efforts, Mulder could not banish the escalating sense of trepidation. It dangled before his psyche, demanding this response. Rarely had such a warning led him wrong. It fueled the pumping rhythm of his heart, the throbbing beat roaring a rapid cadence within his ears. It ravaged his skin with apprehension, drenching it with sweat. The hallway lights flickered within their sconces, the staggered fixtures trailing down the length of the hallway. The trembling intrusion plucked at his attention -- a moment's distraction catching his gaze. His eyes blindly watched the display of fluttering amber. Mulder closed his eyes, wrapping his vision in transient blackness. He slowed his breath, feeling it tickle his upper lip in a stream of exhalation. Reopening his eyes, his concentration and resolve merged, leaving the time for preparation behind him. Raising his gun, the safety off and bullet chambered, Mulder threw the door open, stepping inside. Darkness. Black clutched at the room and enveloped the furniture. His eyes inspected the darkened shadows, identifying the various pieces of furniture with the helping splash of hallway lighting. As he clutched his SIG with steady hands, he stepped deeper into the room, his body sliding free of the door. It snicked closed behind him, taking away the hallway's added illuminant. Mulder took a moment, his eyes adjusting to the murky glow. Blinking, his pupils dilated, widened to register the climbing city lights reaching through the window. The vertical blinds, open but not pulled back, cast the room in striped shades of luminous indigo. Reaching a hand back, his finger crawled over the wall, searching for the light switch. With an audible click, the ceiling lamp was turned on, suffusing the room with brightness. His gaze fastened onto the solitary figure on the bed, her body swathed in a tangle of blankets, her hair peeking out of the cocoon of bedding. He felt a wash of relief splash through his body -- a relief tempered by the need to verify all was as it appeared. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Center City, Philadelphia Greentree Hotel Room 1762 Wednesday, 1005 PM Scully slowly reached a hand over toward the night stand, searching for her gun and grasping only air. "Well, are you ready to play, Dana?" Jack asked, standing up and walking toward her side of the bed. He paused, staring into her eyes. "Because I am." Scully watched him, his gaze meeting hers. "Nothing's there," he said, nodding his head to indicate the bedside table. "Go ahead, take a look." Scully chanced a quick glance. He was right, her gun was no longer there, yet she could have sworn she'd left it holstered beside the lamp. She turned back, meeting his gaze again, schooling her features and voice in confident authority. "Jack, put the knife down. NOW," Scully directed. He stood before her, toward the end of the bed, exuding confidence, assurance. "Put the knife down and let's talk." "Talking's all I've ever done," Jack said, the smile leaving his face. "I'm tired of talking." "Jack," Scully warned, commanding. "Dana," he mocked, parroting her tone. "I can't listen to you, not with that in your hand," Scully informed him, looking pointedly at the switchblade. She tried to reach him, to push down her rising alarm. Attempting not to drown in her own escalating fear, she felt the need to soothe him as she would a terrified child. Calm, sure, non-threatening. Already, she could see his confidence slipping, his veneer of assurance merely a mask painted on his face. She had to be very careful. Jack's violet eyes rapidly tracked back and forth. She saw the raw edge of riotous emotions glimmering through. His countenance took on the appearance of a cornered, wounded animal. "That's all right, cause you don't gotta hear me. You just gotta sit there and ... not ... move," he informed her, as he closed the minuscule distance between them. Scully tried to defy his orders, but failed. Her body remained frozen, not complying with her survival instinct for flight. She became confused at her inability, fear and adrenaline mixing, magnifying her senses and speeding the rhythm of her heart. Why couldn't she move? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Scully," he called, walking over to the closet. Mulder's hand still clasped his gun, the metal heavy in his palm. Pushing the louvered doors open, the wheels squeaked, sliding on their tracks. His gaze quickly catalogued their clothes, finding his two other suits mingling with her three. Casting a quick glance to the floor, he spied their empty suitcases cluttering the narrow expanse. Another tidal wave of relief soaked through him, teasing his intellect into regarding his actions as foolish. "Scully?" he called over his shoulder, noting her lack of response. His assumption must have been right. She must have taken something stronger than aspirin. It would certainly explain her not answering him, now, and the phone, earlier. Still, something continued to taunt him, needled him, despite the apparent lack of danger. His gaze left the closet, tracking toward the bathroom. He felt his skin tingle, his senses recharge with trepidation. Perhaps he wasn't wrong. Raising his SIG again, he cautiously approached the room. Pausing, he listened. The only sound greeting him through the closed door was the sound of a leaky faucet. Yet ... still. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Why couldn't she move? She looked down at her body and back at Jack. Her heart was knocking against her chest. The inner turmoil became an imitation of the outer struggle she was unable to perform. "You drugged me?" Scully questioned, her voice breathy. She could feel the unfolding spread of a paralytic slide over her skin, submerging her body in chemical incarceration. Jack sat there, silent, sullen, as though evaluating her words. Scully, repeated, "Jack...what did you do? What did you give me? How could you ...?" Her rational mind began sorting through all the possible drugs he could have used on her. A blanket of dread wrapped around her, covering her mind's eye in images of crime scenes, of blood ... of horror. Again, she wished she'd been wrong, so very, very wrong. But now was not the time for wishing, now was the time for surviving. She concentrated her efforts on achieving that one goal. "Did I drug you? Sure..." Jack said, breaking into her rampant thoughts. He smiled and sat down beside her, the blade still clasped within his palm. Scully's eyes left his face and focused on the long knife. "Sure, I drugged you...that's what I did," Jack confirmed, his confidence returning. She looked up, meeting his eyes as he continued. "I mean, if that's what you wanna believe, then that's what I did." His free hand raised above her left arm, his fingers trailing down the sleeve of her pajamas. The tiny hairs beneath the silk material rose, complimenting her apprehension. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Taking a deep breath, he twisted the handle, propelling the door open to reveal an empty room. Mulder cocked his head, perplexed. He scanned over their neatly arranged toiletries, spotting Scully's compulsive need to place his deodorant next to his shaving cream, his razor cradled in a soap dish. Mulder let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head. She always tidied up after him... something he liked to tease her about. She needed order, she would explain, blowing a piece of hair off her face. She would then proceed to call him a slob. Which, compared to her, he supposed he was. He holstered his gun and stepped out of the bathroom. His gaze caught a strip of burgundy laying across one of the room's plush chairs. It was a rogue bath towel draped across its back. He smiled, recalling how he had teased her only two nights ago. He remembered that excited catch in her breath when she had caught his reflection within the bureau mirror, when she had spotted him staring at her. He had shed his towel, letting it pile at his feet, beginning one of their games. In this one, as in all of them, they both won. The object was to challenge the other to a round of unflappability -- who could abstain from touching the other? Who could hold out the longest, playing at being impervious. It was always a quick game. 'Long live the King' had been right, as long as the King could have his Queen. And he wanted that. He wanted that playful frivolity, that level of acceptance and trust ... he wanted it all back. Walking to the bed, he solidified his decision, pushing away the whispered intrusion of another, of someone who never should have mattered ... not now. He'd initially come back to this room tonight with the intent to submerge the ghosts of the past with the joy of the present. And it was a joy -- Holding her, touching her ... making love to her. A Joy. He loved her. In the end of this emotional maelstrom, the simple truth was that he loved her, that he cherished her. It was just that simple. Everyone deserved a second chance -- that's what Vaughn had said. And sure as Hell, she had bestowed that forgiving grace often enough on him. He crossed the room, sitting down beside her, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. Second chances ... it struck him that he was due for another one, himself. He had pushed her away, wounding her as she had him. He had struck out with his words, stabbing her with his pain. Quite simply, he had wanted her to hurt as he had been hurt. He'd been vindictive; he'd been a fool. He smirked as he took in the twisted mass of blankets woven around her body. She always did like to horde the covers. Pushing the comforter down, he exposed her face to his view. His eyebrows drew together, his eyes confused as he noted the pallor of her skin. Had he been so wrapped up in his own concerns that he hadn't noticed her condition? Possibly, but he didn't think so... this was beyond her earlier symptoms of a migraine. He stroked the back of his fingers against her cheek. Touching her clammy skin, his feeling of unease surged again, drowning him in escalating concern ... concern and fear. He placed his palm against her forehead and felt her skin burning against his own. Pushing her hair back, he noticed the edge of her hairline soaked in perspiration. "Scully... Scully wake-up!" Mulder felt his throat drying. He swallowed, his heart beat accelerating. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX She tried to negate her reality, attempting to pull away from his intrusive touch, yet failing. Panic gripped her, mounting terror forcing her tongue. "What did you give me? What, the hell, did you give to ME!?!" "Shhh, relax...," Jack suggested, placing a finger against her trembling lips. She violently twisted her head away, relieved she had that little bit of movement available to her. Suddenly, she felt her breathing slow, her heart rate decrease its marathon pace. She was responding to his commands, made prisoner to the effects of the narcotic in her system. This calming response was a blessing in disguise, a benefit. She could not risk submitting to panicked fear. She needed to be able to work with him, talk to him...reach him. Scully had to step beyond the immediacy of the moment and attempt to direct her future. She recalled their session from that afternoon. She'd kept her tone, her approach soothing, supportive as she attempted to coax answers and information from him. Ultimately, that had failed, garnering his insolence instead. She would need to try another method. "Jack, you are holding an FBI Agent against her will...I am not just some friend of Mulder's but a Federal Officer. You cannot get away with this. Before it goes too far, stop whatever you are intending, right now." Jack laughed, the sound scratching against her ear drums and rattling her taut nerves. Tears trickled from his eyes as hilarity consumed him. She expected a reaction from him but nothing like the one she was receiving. His hysterics made her more confused, more nervous, illustrating the unpredictability of his mental state. Jack wiped his eyes, his head lowered. He gave himself a little shake before raising his face and looking at her, meeting her stare. Gone was the bravado of laughter and merriment. In its place was a grim, uncompromising countenance that left no hint of his previous mirth. It was as if a switch had been flicked, altering him yet again. Scully's fear escalated. She remembered Jack's volatile mood swings, his unpredictable reactions emerging when challenged. Options were running out for her. Everything she tried risked failure, yet to remain silent, to blindly be further victimized to his want was unacceptable. This mental instability marked him as most dangerous, particularly here, now, when she was unable to defend herself. So despite failure, Scully relied on her remaining weapon words...mere words that could save, or damn her. Either way, it was a chance she would have to take. "You don't have any power here, any authority, Special Agent Dana Scully," he said, finally speaking. He leaned forward, his breath fanning her face. "You got no idea where you are, do you?" He didn't wait for her response. "It don't matter. You're where I want you to be and that's all you need to know." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Finding the edge of the blanket, he began to unwrap her like a mother unswaddling a newborn. He lifted her up into a sitting position, leaning her rag-doll weight against him as he freed her from her nocturnally woven cocoon. Clasping her arms, he gently laid her back against the pillows, pushing the blankets down to the end of the bed and away from her sweat-soaked pajamas. "Scully ... come on, wake-up. It's time for you to wake-up, now," Mulder coaxed, his voice cracking as thoughts of infection or accidental overdose flitted through his mind. She began to moan, her lips parting, her breath becoming labored -- agitated. "Scully ... it's me, Mulder ... your favorite pain in the ass," Mulder chided, an edge of panic rimming his attempt at levity. Suddenly she began to thrash, her arms slamming against the bed, her agitation escalating. "No...," she gasped, her voice hoarse yet loud in the quiet room. Mulder felt his fear abate some, pacified that she was conscious enough to dream, not lost within a medicinal coma. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Mulder will be back any minute, Jack...this can't go on," she warned changing her tactics. Pleading was appalling to her, yet she felt compelled to do so. Desperation directed her actions, and if she had to rely on that alone, she would. "Mulder? Mulder can't help you." Jack's lips broke into an assured grin. He lifted his arm, implicating the room around them. "No one's gonna help you, not here." Fighting to control her own fear, Scully tried to get a handle on Jack's mercurial emotions. She tried a different tact, "You don't need to be this way, Jack." "'This way'?" he questioned, confusion coloring his expression. "What way's that?" "You are not your father; you do not have to behave this way," Scully suggested. "Ahhh....I gotcha," he responded, tracing a pattern with his hand, running it over the percale sheets. He watched his fingers splay open and closed, his attention seemingly lost in the complexities of the pattern. Scully took another chance, continuing in the same thread. "Please, Jack, you don't have to give into this..." "Ahhh...but you don't get it ... I do. I'm not gonna pretend I don't know who you mean or what you're talkin' about. I feel we're, you and me, past all that crap," Jack began, his voice hard. "Pops, he knew you, you know? Told me I had to make you quiet. In fact, Dana ..." he said, raising his gaze from his trailing fingers, he focused on her eyes. "...he said, if you didn't believe me, I should tell you something ... a little greeting from the grave ... the grave I put him in. You wanna know what he said?" Scully shook her head. She didn't want to know, didn't want to hear, didn't want to comprehend what Jack was alluding to. Anything he said regarding Keenswan was an impossibility. He and Keenswan had never talked, had never met beyond ten years prior. There was no way that what Jack was saying was even possible ... It was just another twisted delusion ... his mind playing sad, morbid tricks on him. Jack leaned in closer, placing his face against her breast. He sniffed, drawing his head up, his nose touching her skin till he pulled back, his eyes meeting hers. And she knew, knew what could not be possible, knew what Jack was about to say. "He said, he told me that you smelled, 'smelled like vanilla'," Jack revealed, grinning. " And I think I gotta agree." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Gently clutching Scully's arms, Mulder held her, trying to calm her down from the gripping nightmare she was suffering through. He began to rub her upper arms in soothing, concentric circles. She began to moan again, her lips chapped as her tongue slid over them. He pulled his left hand from her arm, holding her chin within his fingertips. "Come on, Scully ... wake-up ... it's all right," Mulder said. She did not wake. Sighing, he released her face and froze, his whole body tensing. Two dabs of red blighted her skin where his fingers had been. As if in slow motion, Mulder turned his hand over, balking at the image before him. He had simply thought it was sweat but as he stared at his left palm, he saw his skin covered in blood ... covered in Scully's blood. "Oh Christ!" Mulder exclaimed. He quickly looked at his other hand, afraid to find a matching shade. Thankfully, it was clean. Puzzled that her pajamas were unscathed, Mulder struggled to examine the wound. Not hesitating a moment longer, he gripped the buttoned edges of her night shirt, tearing them apart and exposing her chest. Quickly threading the top over her shoulders, he lifted her unconscious body up against him again and carefully tugged the garment off her arms, being cautious not to irritate the injury further. He felt his heart stutter once able to inspect the damage. Her whole left arm was drenched in an ever-blossoming red, her blood flowing from the obscured laceration. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Scully felt a cold fear wash over her, saturating in its acrid scent. It wasn't possible, it couldn't be possible. The thought continued to repeat itself in the back of her mind, a soundtrack to the nightmarish reality surrounding her. That Jack had been emotionally scarred -- followed in his father's twisted footsteps, plausible. That they'd suffered similar psychosis, conceivable. That he had spoken or had even seen Keenswan beyond a court room ten years ago, impossible. It couldn't have happened ... Keenswan had no visitors, no phone calls, no mail ... nothing. Yet, how ... how could Jack know? How could he repeat the very words Keenswan had said to her? She'd only met him two days ago. Her skin, slick with sweat, soaked her pajamas, adhering them to her body. She itched, but was unable to alleviate the sensation. Swallowing, her breathing became labored. Her heartbeat jumped, racing as she responded to the boy's words. "He was sick, Jack. He needed help." "So do I...so do I... That's why you're here, Dana -- to help me," Jack said, his confidence shifting to an air of desperation. "I need you." Scully remained silent, not daring to interrupt him. "I needed you, Dana. Needed you more than anyone else," Jack explained, letting his hand linger over her collar bone to slide down the V of her pajama top. It rested at the first button. He unhooked it, revealing more of her skin, his fingers swirling circles against her chest. Her breast rose and fell beneath his touch, trepidation escalating her breath, conscious of his continued caresses. Jack spoke again. "You may not understand everything...but you knew...I could hear it behind your questions, see it in your eyes. He taught me that...to see into a woman's eyes...see the fear ... like the fear I see in yours, in you...now..." "What are you talking about?" Scully asked, willing herself not to flinch beneath his touch, trying to keep him talking, distracted. "I think you know," Jack quickly responded, dropping his hand from her. She blinked in relief, letting out a low, shaky breath. She watched a tremor shake his body. He pulled back from her prone form, gasping. He roughly shook his head, letting out an angered growl. "Fuck!" His eyes began to flicker, quickly blinking. She watched, captivated, as he tried to rein in his own breathing. Jack took a few deep breaths, regaining some of his control. Speaking again, his voice changed, becoming weak, choked. "I'm so tired, Dana...so damn tired." She heard him sigh, a deep, bone weary exhalation. It echoed his statement and the subsequent slump of his shoulders. All she could do was watch, unable to protect herself, made an unwilling witness and participant in Jack's twisted whims and words. Yet, through all his touches and declarations Scully had not, and did not, lose sight of the blade clutched within his right fist. "Jack, I am a 'Federal Agent' ... can you not understand the trouble you are in just being here? Please...put the knife down." Jack looked up, his eyes narrowing. "I don't think so, Dana. I can't ... Besides, I told ya already ... you don't got any power here. Why can't you just understand that? Why do you have to make me show you? Scully stilled, her skin tingling in apprehension. Tears slipped down his face, his voice ragged behind an emotion-choked whisper. "Why? Why do you have to ... to make me show you, Dana? ... why?" He drew his trembling arm up, the blade angling above both their heads. With swift descent, the metal sliced through the air, slashing her right arm from shoulder to elbow. Scully screamed, the pain burning. She felt the blood seeping out of the wound, trickling over her skin. "No ... Stop ... Please!" Scully yelled, her body shaking as she tried to control the pain." I understand ...I understand ... stop ... STOP!" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Mulder used her shirt to wipe the injury clear of blood so he could examine it. His eyes hop-scotched back and forth between her arm and her face ... trying to gauge if he was causing her any further distress. She moaned again and he hissed in sympathetic response, removing the now blood soaked pajama top from her skin and tossing it on the floor. Leaning over her, he saw a clean slice parting the exterior layer of her skin. Though it was not life threatening, there was no doubt in his mind that she would need stitches -- but for right now, what he needed was to find something to wrap the wound. His gaze glanced up and spied the bed pillows. Leaning over her, he grabbed one, ripping off the case. He made quick work of wrapping her arm with the cloth, successfully stanching the blood flow. His heart was racing within his chest. The wound was achingly familiar, yet singular. His relentless mind played back the graphic occurrences of similar injuries. All of the mental snapshots were recent, all of them were of butchered and bled women.... Mulder gasped, shaking his head to negate the thread of his thoughts. Scully moaned again, pulling Mulder's piqued attention down to her body. Without deliberation, he hopped off the bed, grabbed her pajama bottoms and tugged them free of her body. He was consumed with a frantic need to make certain there were no other sickeningly familiar wounds. Her legs were bare, free of injury. He ran his hands up them, needed the tactile assurance as well as the visual. His seeking, searching palms ran over her panties and up her stomach. He lifted his hands and gripped her shoulders, sliding his fingers down her uninjured arm. All was clear, yet still a sense of hovering sense of dread suffusing the air. The phantom aura of expectancy tingled his skin, raising the hairs at the back of his neck in stark warning. His eyes roamed over her body again, searching, double checking. "Nooo. ... please...," Scully cried. Mulder felt his heart tackling his rib cage, demanding freedom. He saw tears squeezing out of her eyes and trailing down the sides of her face, falling into her hair. She screamed, loudly, the sound causing him to jump. He looked at her, his eyes, like magnets, polarized toward her other arm. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "You gotta learn ... gotta learn by example, Dana. I know ... I understand ... you need proof ... I'm just givin' it to you ... that's all ... that's all. You need to be made to believe ... so I'm making you believe," Jack said, pausing to wipe his tears off his face with his upper arm. Scully felt the terror gather within her as the blade descended once more, tearing open her other arm in an identical laceration. She cried out again, raising her head off the pillow and gritting her teeth in an attempt to manage the agony. She could feel sweat dappling her face, mixing with her tears. Both cuts bled, the pain throbbing, growing in intensity. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Holy Fucking Shit!" Mulder cursed, his gaze widening as he watched her arm splay open like a fish being gutted before him. Her pain-dipped whimpers accompanied the display. Her blood began to bead and pool down her arm in red rivulets. The cut grew, coming to her elbow, mirroring the laceration on her left arm. "Scully! ... Jesus, wake the fuck up!" Mulder cried, desperate as he ripped another case off a pillow and proceeded to wrap it around the new injury. Why the hell wouldn't she wake?!? He felt sick, physically ill. His stomach rolled as his view became consumed, reacquainted with the images of others ... the images of mutilated women from ten years ago and today. What the fuck was going on, here? How was this happening? How was this fucking happening? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX She needed to assess the damage, judge the severity of the wound, but it was obscured by her pajama top. Not knowing the degree of injury added to her barely contained terror, allowing her imagination to magnify her suffering. "Do you believe now?" Jack asked, gripping her chin. Scully trembled. "Jack, I need ... I need to stop the bleeding ... you don't want to be responsible for ... for my ... just please ... please help me," Scully asked, reduced to begging. "Don't worry, Dana ... they aren't that deep. They don't need to be. He taught me well ... besides, I was only illustrating a point...and that point is...?" Jack questioned, waiting. Scully was breathing heavily through her nose, her head wobbling back and forth, trying to will herself to relax. Jack's cryptic words rolled over her, drowned out beneath her moans. "I said ... 'And the point is'?" Jack repeated, raising his voice and the switchblade. She caught the glint of light reflecting off the elevated knife, the brilliance shining in her eyes and garnering her attention as it slashed down again, just pausing at her throat, the tip nicking her skin. Scully cried out, screaming her response. "You're...you have the power! Oh Jesus Christ ... you have the power, all right!?!" "Right...yes ... that's right ... good, good, good," Jack complimented, his voice gaining strength again. He gripped her chin then released it. Her head fell to her chest, sliding off his fingertips. She no longer had the energy nor the inclination to make a show of rebellion. She didn't dare exasperate his temper, didn't dare make herself victim to his wrath once more. If she learned anything, she learned that. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Scully -- Damn you! Wake up right now! Don't you pull this shit on me!!" One thing he did know, deep and humming in his bones, was the certainty that she must wake-up from this ... this dream... Like a painful flash, Mulder's thoughts ripped across his mind, gutting his soul and leaving a hollowed cave of fear. Dream... Sweet dreams. //"I... let's just say that I don't have sweet dreams," Jack replied, his voice hardening.// Mulder's skin began to prick, needled with apprehension. Like a pinball, his thoughts slapped against obstacles, crashing through the barriers in his mind, clearing a direct path to Keenswan. Keenswan had used that very phrase while being led from interrogation. //.. and sweet dreams to you, Agent Scully...// He could not stop the freight train of comprehension from barreling down the short distance between Keenswan and Jack. Mulder's nausea rose, but he swallowed it down, barely. He had thought the boy was suffering from repressed memories, something Mulder himself was achingly familiar with -- but what if he were wrong? What if he were wrong? Yet how? Keenswan was dead... Keenswan was .... ""What do you want, Jack," Scully rasped, her moans turning into words, words that made his blood run cold. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "What do you want, Jack," Scully rasped, feeling tired, drained as her emotions spiked her adrenaline, becoming a cocktail with her constant anxiety, wearing her out. Her tears slowed to a trickle as she became accustomed to the, now, simmering pain. Her throat felt raw, aching from her earlier cries. She didn't want to give up, yet she was feeling beaten with each passing second, feeling so very tired -- a probable combination of blood loss and emotional strain. "What do you want ... from me?" "I want you to hear my confession," Jack said, his finger trailing back to her throat and hooking her cross. "What? That you killed those woman? That you watched and learned ... and now you've got me, here ... to what? To listen to you and die?" she gasped out, throwing her head back, blindly staring at the ceiling. Weakness was pervading her body. Jack pulled on the necklace, snapping it off her neck. Scully dipped her head forward, watching as he cradled the cross in his hands. She whimpered, feeling the loss of warmed metal, the security of its symbol and her memories with it, watching it become tarnished in his hands. He was no longer a child to her. He had become an enemy and as such, she knew she needed to fight...but still found herself incapable. Frustration coursed through her, mixing with a whisper ... a desire emerging again, demanding a need to keep trying. She had to survive; she had to live. Giving up was a fleeting fancy that her renewed determination pushed out of her mind. His eyes shifted from the tiny piece of gold laying against his fingers, meeting her gaze. His voice was soft. "Ten years ago, no. Last night, Dana, and a few nights before ... and before ... I watched him ... brought him to these women in my mind! In my head!" He paused, fisting the cross and rubbing the back of his hand against his lips before continuing. "I guess, in a way ... I did kill them; I brought them to him and they suffered, suffered so much, dying ... dying just like ... just like my mother -- over and over and over again. Just like before and always, I was forced to watch it all. I even begun to think I wanted it all, too, but I know now ... I know now that I was wrong. I want more than that. I was wrong ... wrong, wrong, wrong." He began to sob, opening his hand and staring at the cross again, rubbing his thumb against it. "And there's nothing, nobody ... I'm alone." "You're not alone," Scully said, desperate to clasp onto anything. She had to fight with the only weapon left to her, her intuition. She hoped it would be enough. "You have Pearl...she loves you. She's always been there for you, Jack." "Grams is dead," Jack said, his voice turning monotone, his eyes empty. "What?" Scully gasped, shaking her head back and forth, shocked. "No..." But she saw, saw the undeniable truth shining from his soulless eyes. Pearl was dead, and Jack had killed her. "She betrayed me...like everyone else in my life. She left me ... way before I made her leave ... left me, everyone leaves ... everyone ... but not you ... no, you're not gonna have that chance." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Oh Jesus Christ, no! Her words partnered, validated, Mulder's unwanted realizations. Her head flailed from side to side against the mattress. Her arm reached out, slamming against the hotel phone. It slid across the night stand, taking the lamp out as it fell behind the table. The noise was abrupt, loud and shattering. He caught hold of her arm, tugging her up, pulling her body against his in a fierce hug, his lips beside her ear. "Scully, please wake-up ... you have to wake up, honey," he pleaded, his voice cracking. Mulder squinted his eyes, his face screwing up, yet unsuccessful at halting the merry-go-round of recollections whirling before him. He recalled Scully's words from the prison... //"That drug is an anti-psychotic, Mulder. Jack has a very similar condition which can induce seizures, his attitude is possibly manic -- // Combined with Jack's lashing words at Pearl's... //"What? What do you have to say to me? You pretend to be my friend then you bring this bitch to stop me up," Jack accused, pointing to Scully, his body rocking side to side.// Mulder's skin crawled, his despair becoming a tangible force. His lips pressed against her ear, his voice whispering his repetitive demand to wake. The import of Jack's pledge started to build, to resonate and amplify within his memory, sizzling through his mind and deafening his ears, washing out his instructive refrain as he rocked her, clutching her against him. // "You wanna put me out to pasture again ... well that ain't gonna happen...you all can just go to hell!"// And he was, in Hell's fiery pit, right now. Shifting Scully, he reached a shaky hand into his coat, grabbing his cell phone. Holding the phone up before his eyes, he pressed the power button over and over, desperate to call Pearl ... for her to get to Jack, for her to stop him. Growling, Mulder threw the phone against the wall, frustrated. He heard the plastic casing crack against the painted sheet rock and fall, clattering behind the headboard. It was still dead, useless as it had been in the elevator. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Mingled with the horror of his words, Scully felt a returning strength flow through her body. Despite his revelation about Pearl's death, or maybe because of it ... a desperate need to take back control gripped her. She tentatively attempted to fist her hands ... remarkably finding that she could. She kept her eyes on him, not daring to look away. Not daring to draw his attention to her new found movement. His black hair had escaped his trademark hair tie, strands of it falling over his face, threading before his eyes. She could see tear tracks, new and old, against his pale skin. His eyes were submerged in moisture as he continued talking, losing himself in his thoughts. "I don't wanna be closeted away anymore, instruction is over ... it's over ... over, over, over." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX As much as his sixth sense had piggybacked him all day, so did the absolute knowledge that if she did not begin to battle back, she would finally be lost to him forever and that ... that was incomprehensible. Scully moaned again and Mulder clutched her face within his palms, his tone desperate. "You listen to me ... you listen. Fight, Scully ... you fucking fight like you've never fought in your entire life... Come on, now ... you hear me, God Damn it?!" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Scully moved her arm, slightly, her desire to hiss from the pain staunched, losing to her desire to meet Jack with the element of surprise. Instead she bit her lip, keeping her gaze focused on him as she bent her ankles, bent her legs, barely moving them. Hope became reality as she ascertained the return of her mobility, the key to her survival. The drugs must be wearing off, freeing her. She couldn't take any more chances, couldn't remain passive any longer. Time was swiftly running out, she could see the certainty of that within his breakdown. She had to act now ... had to move now. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Mulder laid his head against her chest. He could feel tears of desperation squeezing out, trailing down his nose. His mind would not release him from the whirlwind of understanding. It flaunted the connections he'd previously been blinded to, displaying them all in a fun house, Technicolor brilliance. Scully's voice echoed in his mind again.... her theories, her suggestions which he'd tried to completely dismiss... // "If, what you're suggesting ... and let's be perfectly clear ... you believe that Jack is Keenswan's son, that they both have the same disease?" "Mulder, MTS, it inherited through the father," Scully said. "Even so, say you are right. It still doesn't mean that Jack has the same proclivity ... that he's just gonna take up where dear ol' dad left off."// For all his subliminal warnings, all his alarm... he'd foolishly shrugged it all away, preoccupied by the case, conflicted with Scully and concerned with Pearl ... with Jack. ... with Jack. He'd laugh if he weren't already crying tears of frustration, stupidity ... and horror. His mind continued to sucker punch him, swiping the breath from him as his thoughts returned to the prison morgue. //"... Pearl would have said.... WE would have known ... " "Would we have...?" Scully countered.// A rapid succession of uppercuts left him bruised and gasping, recalling Pearl's revealing words later that day... //Well, when I finally saw her at the train station ... when I saw my baby, I knew. I knew something horrible had happened to her...." "So, she eventually told you she was raped, then?"// He clutched Scully closer, pressing her chest to his as she lay limp against his body. He could feel her heart beating, pressing against his own and it was that sensation keeping him grounded, hopeful, in his despair. Jack's father had been unknown, yet he had a stricken certainty that somehow ... someway ... that was no longer the case. "Scully.... You fight back, you hear me ... you fight back!" As the whirling Merry go-round of his thoughts slowed to a final stop, Mulder began to place together the remaining connections... the final puzzle pieces slipping into their slots. There was no evidence left behind at these murders because there was no evidence to leave. How could you fingerprint the ultimate boogie man? "Sweet dreams" had turned into final nightmares for these present day victims. "Please, Scully? Oh God, please!" he cried. Her body had begun to shake, twitching and thrashing within his arms. He held her against his chest, rocking as her legs had begun to kick and tremors had started to run through her body. Tears tracked down his face, he buried his nose in her hair, speaking. "Scully, come on ... come on ...." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Scully reached up, climbing to her knees, but she wasn't fast enough. Her hands met with Jack's, the knife aiming toward her. "I'm ready ... over ... It's OVER!!!" he screamed, as they twisted on the bed, struggling for control. Scully's limbs sizzled, her returning circulation causing pins and needles to ravage her body. Grunting she applied more force as the their hands twined over each other, the blade raising above them, she ignored the pain of her wounds while their bodies came chest to chest, face to face. Jack looked into her eyes, his gaze was fanatical, determined. "It's over Dana, it's over and you are the last ... the last!" She was violently pushed back, shoved off his body while their hands still struggled to hold the knife between them, as she struggled to hold the blade away from her. Suddenly the resistance was gone and Scully found herself falling forward, falling against Jack, her arms crashing against his chest. "It's over," Jack gasped, falling backward, away from her as he sat back on his legs to reveal the blade imbedded in his heart. Their joined hands wrapped around its handle. He smiled, lifting his palms away to allow her hands to slide free. He fell backward, pulling the covers and consequently, her with him, as he toppled off the side of the bed, He fell on his back, Scully slipping down beside him. His voice was losing strength, blood began to trickle out of his mouth. He spoke, stuttering. "Tha ... thank you." Amidst the tussled bed clothes, Scully sat on her knees, stunned with the sight before her. She didn't understand what had happened ... what ... he ... he had ... Scully gasped, "Oh my, God!" She scrambled to lean over Jack, pulling the sheets against his chest, applying pressure around the knife. She didn't remove the blade, aware that to do so would cause the blood loss to quicken, to worsen. His head slowly began to turn from side to side. He began choking on his own blood as it now coated the inside of his mouth and streamed passed his lips. His violet eyes began to glaze, dimming as the lingering fingers of life fled his body. Looking down, she saw red blossoming through the white sheets, staining her hands. "It'll be all right ... it'll be all right," she whispered, the full realization of what Jack had wanted, what he had done, gripping her. He weakly lifted his hand, touching it to hers. His gaze connecting with hers, asking her to stop before his whispered words could. "Please ... don't." Scully bit her lip, shaking her head, seeing, perhaps for the first time, the little boy Mulder had known ... and she wept. Tears dripped off her nose as she leaned over him. They splashed against his cheek as she slowly stopped applying pressure. Leaning down, she whispered against his ear, "Okay, Jack, Okay." She pulled back and let him go, not prolonging the few moments he had left. He smiled again, then grunted, his features betraying fear. His eyes started rolling up, than came back to land on Scully's hovering form. His smile returned, widening. "Mom." Jack's breathing slowed, his head falling sideways as the last death rattle issued past his lips. Scully closed her eyes, shaking her head, feeling the enormity of his desperate actions. Suddenly, arms enveloped her, trapping. She screamed, fighting against the embrace, trying to break free, her motions frantic. "Scully... Scully, it's me... Mulder ... it's Mulder, you're all right ... you're all right ... it's me ... Jesus Christ, Scully... It's me!" Scully blinked, focusing her eyes onto Mulder's hovering visage above her. "Mulder?" she gasped, confused. He gripped her face, holding it to his, pressing his lips against her cheek, his voice brushing across her ear. "You're alive ... you're alive ... it's okay ... you're safe now ... safe." "He's dead ... Jack ... where ... where is he? He ... he killed himself, Mulder ... Jack's dead," she cried, tears bursting from her chest in great, forceful sobs. Her sight was stemmed in the horrific vision that had been before her. She was confused, stricken. How could Mulder be here, and where had Jack's body gone ... where had ... ? Oh, lord! "Shh ... shh...," Mulder said, clutching her, rocking her against him. He placed gentle kisses over her face, his hands roaming over her, soothing. She could feel her heart thumping, beating against her breast to rap against Mulder's. She felt his warm, strong hands on her, touching her ... grounding her. "Mulder?" she asked, pulling back. She could see his matching, watery gaze reflected in the light peeking through the windows, the cityscape looming beyond. Pained confusion filled her, reflected on her face as she whispered, questioning again."Mulder? What's happening?" He pulled her head back against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his body, the side of her face over his heart. She could feel the rapid beating beneath her cheek as it began to slow. Her sobs had ceased but silent tears continued to fall down her face, her breathing ragged. She found herself staring through the open blinds, looking beyond the glass. She blinked, finally seeing the night stars fastened between the skyscrapers yet all the while the same refrain skipped through her thoughts. She didn't understand ... didn't understand ... Letting out another heavy sigh, she relaxed within the safety of Mulder's arms, savoring the deep, calming timber of his voice as it washed over her. Scully slowly closed her eyes, unable to stop herself from falling into an exhausted slumber. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 4 DAYS LATER Northeast, Philadelphia St. Julian's Cemetary 331PM Mulder stood, staring ahead toward the distant sun dipping below the tree line. The glaring white-light shimmered over the crystallized snow coating the ground. Shadows danced with the fading light, growing, spindling out from trees, graves and surrounding mausoleums. Each one crept further across the ground, forever reaching. Still, the sun's lingering brightness was strong where Mulder stood within a small clearing. It attacked his eyes, forcing him to don sun glasses. His hands, gloved in leather, sat anchored within his trench-coat pockets. A large black scarf lay woven around his neck, the tail ends whipping in the random wind. The air was crisp and iced, the cemetery enveloped in early winter. Mulder was cold ... frozen. Scully reached up and pulled his glasses off, pocketing them inside his jacket. She smiled, stepping closer to twine her arm around his, her fingers pressing against his forearm, squeezing. He gently leaned into her, accepting, needing, her strength and warmth... needing her touch to chase the chill, to melt the cold within himself. Stepping behind Scully, he wrapped his arm around her waist, his gloved hand splayed across her stomach. He was careful, very careful, not to put too much pressure on her lacerated arm. Her cuts ... they had needed more stitches than he ever wanted to see gracing her body. The snow crunched beneath his feet as he stepped back from her. Looking up he spied Vaughn, one arm around Lisa, the other, Chrissy. Paige walked ahead of them, cutting their path through the maze of gravestones, her arm linked with their son, Mike Jr. Vaughn nodded, offering the barest of smiles, before turning his attention back to his family. As they continued on their way, Mulder reflected on how broken dreams could be made whole once more. He sighed, the exhalation clouding them from sight. Blinking,he looked around the clearing Pearl had many friends if not family. He watched them struggle through the wind, burrowing into coats, muffling their faces within scarves as they ambled back to their respective cars. Without flinching, Mulder let the wind burn his face, denying himself added comfort. Scully broke their lingering silence."DNA results came back this morning ... Keenswan ... he was Jack's biological father." Mulder nodded his head, his eyes tearing from the wind. "Sixteen years ago Jacob Keenswan was questioned for the attempted rape and follow-up phone harassment of three college girls. He'd been released due to lack of evidence. None of the women claimed to have seen their attacker's face and the partnered harassment came from campus phone booths," Scully said. He could feel her waiting for his response. "I know ... Scully, it was part of the evidence thrown out in his pre-trial. It'd been deemed circumspect and inadmissible because he'd never been charged." "But ... what about Eleanor ... surely the connection was made between her stay in California and his?" "No ... as I said, that evidence was circumstantial and Eleanor Layne had never reported being raped." Scully looked at him. He could feel her eyes trying to scrutinize his countenance, but he remained impassive, his face stone as he continued. "Pearl ...," Mulder paused, swallowing as he tore his stare from the ground and met Scully's questioning one. "She told me she'd suspected ... no, that she knew her daughter had been violated. She told me about it just ... she told me that day." Scully lowered her head for a moment, seemingly digesting his words. "That day" ... had been only four days ago. He'd asked her only one time about Jack. He'd asked her about him the next day, when everything had begun to settle down. Her response had been simple and expected They'd stood, alone, in the elevator, on their way back to the hotel room after hours spent at the police station. "I ... I don't know how to explain it, Mulder," she'd begun, twisting the edge of her jacket within her fist, her gaze aimed at the carpeted floor. She paused, blinking before lifting her head to meet his eyes. "... And the thing of it is ... is I don't want to begin to try." Mulder had turned toward her. He slid his hands under her chin, cradling her neck, his fingers weaving into the back of her hair. Holding her watery gaze, he watched as she licked her lips. He could feel her anticipation, her waiting or his response. What could he say to that? What did he need to say? She was alive ... she was here. Tilting her face down, he leaned over, kissing her forehead, her eyes, and finally her lips. Before responding any further, he had drawn her into an embrace, resting her head against his chest as he kissed the top of her head. "Okay, Scully... okay," "Mulder ... about Jerse ....," Scully began, her voice muffled, shaky. "Shh ... I was stupid ... an asshole -- not something unusual, I know," he softly chuckled. He felt her smile against him. "What I also know is that you were just trying to protect me ... you know me ... like I know you, and ... and I love you ... I *trust* you. Please ...?" He paused, letting out a shuddering breath as he pulled back. Scully turned her head up to meet his gaze. "Forgive me, Scully ...?," he finished on a whisper, visibly swallowing back a lump of burgeoning emotions. Scully bit her lip, letting it slide slowly past her teeth as she met his gaze. "Mulder, let's ... let's forgive each other." "Deal," he breathed, leaning down and capturing her mouth with his, feeling the missed and familiar velvet softness of her lips against his own. He spoke again, whispering into her mouth. "Deal." Mulder blinked, pulling out of the memory as Scully raised her chin, meeting his eyes once again. He could see his recent memory shared and reflected in her own gaze. She continued. "So ... when Eleanor fled the university, she'd really been escaping Keenswan." "But somehow, he'd managed to follow her back to Philadelphia.,"Mulder added, squeezing his hands into fists, hidden within his coat pockets. "Where his crimes escalated, "Scully softly finished, the wind helping to ferret her words away. "Fox....," Mulder nodded, turning to meet the new voice. "I'm glad to see you, Pearl," Mulder said, walking over to her. She stood before them, her sister supporting her by the elbow. Her diminutive form looked even smaller, wrapped in scarf, hat, bandages and distilled grief. Jack had managed to break two of her ribs, making it painful for her to breath and walk. Her left arm was broken while also having suffered a severe concussion. They'd found her in her living room, unconscious, beneath a toppled curio cabinet. Unconscious, yet very, very much alive. "I'm glad to see you both, too," she replied, trying to walk toward them. Alice walked with her, still clasping hold of her arm. Pearl stopped, turning her head to face her sister. "Could you just relax, Alice. I'll be fine... some breathing room, please?" "Well, if you fall, I don't wanna hear it," Alice huffed, releasing Pearl and crossing her arms over her ample chest. "I need a cigarette." Pearl lifted her face to the clouds, rolling her eyes. "I've got her, " Mulder intervened, stepping forward and clasping Pearl's hand. Pearl grunted her annoyance but then smiled up at Mulder, meeting his eyes. "Okay .. fine. I know when I've lost." She leaned forward, resting her weight on his arm and signaling for him to bend down. With an exaggerated stage whisper, she smiled "... And if I gotta lose, I'd rather it be to a looker like you than ol'pruneface over there." Mulder chuckled, watching as Pearl cast a glance over her shoulder at Scully, winking. "Keep it up, ya old bag," Alice taunted, then breaking into a smile, chuckled. Mulder and Scully looked at each other, a bit taken aback at the sisters' antics. "It's a private joke," Pearl explained, chuckling, herself. Mulder nodded his head before she continued. "I wanted to thank you for ... for coming, today." "I wouldn't have been anywhere else," Mulder replied, staring into her violet eyes. He raised his hand, tenderly stroking her cheek, holding her glance. Making sure she heard, understood, he repeated himself. "I wouldn't have been anywhere else." Pearl nodded her head, tears falling from the corner of her eye and landing on his glove. He wiped them away, bent over and kissed her cheek. "You better get out of this cold." "So much violence, Fox ... so much," she whispered, ignoring his suggestion. She slowly blinked, staring up at Mulder and for a moment he felt her level of desolation grip him. She was strong, but so was her grief. "He got his freedom after all, didn't he?" Mulder held her gaze. She looked so much older now, loss and tragedy clearly etching new wrinkles and shadows upon her features. He continued to stroke her wind-burned cheeks, finally answering her. "Yes, Pearl, he did." He watched her gaze leave him and turn to Scully. Pearl reached out and clasped her hand, squeezing it within her own. "He used to bury his face in his mother's lap, making up the most wonderful stories . He did it for both of us ... talking about adventures he took while napping," she paused, the tears falling faster, unheeded as she stepped back into the memories. " ... such a beautiful, passionate little boy ... so very beautiful." Taking another deep breath, she broke her trance, meeting Scully's gaze. "I'm sorry ... sorry." Scully stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Pearl's body, both of them careful of each other's wounds, both external and internal. Two very strong women, two survivors. Finally pulling away, Pearl nodded again, reaching a hand back. Alice stepped forward, clasping it. Mulder watched the two sisters as they began their slow, painstaking walk through the cemetery, back to the road where their limousine awaited. Everyone else had left, or were in the process of leaving. Doors slammed and engines revved. Their part of the ritual was over. Mulder turned away, looking back across the cemetery, toward the ever-growing shadows stretching across the stone garden. Scully walked over to him, pulling his chin toward her. She leaned up and he met her, their lips touching. "I'll let you have a few moments." Mulder didn't say anything, he didn't have to. He heard her footsteps receding, crunching through the snow until they were too indistinct to make out anymore. He stepped forward, feeling the wind snapping against his coat, pulling at his scarf. His lips were chapped, his eyes watering again. He stopped before the stone marker, touching the top of the marbleized surface. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head. Reopening them, he removed his gloves from his hands. Drawing his fingers to his mouth, he gently placed a kiss on their tips. Placing his fingers on the polished stone, he rubbed the surface and spoke. "Sweet Dreams, Jack." Stepping back, Mulder turned around, the wind and sun behind him as he walked away. JACK LAYNE b. 1983 - d. 1999 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX T H E E N D "JACK" by Exley_61 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ************************************** P L E A S E F E E D B A C K BLATANTLY WANTED AND CHERISHED AT typo@clam.rutgers.edu ************************************** AUTHOR'S NOTES Well.... well... well... well.... we finally got here, gang. Four months of posting... and "Jack" is finally, complete. Man, what a bittersweet moment for me. You all have made writing this novel such a fantastic, supportive experience. I wasn't sure if I could do it; now I know I can. My first casefile, which I had foolishly believed would be... ahh, near about 200k ... it has more than doubled that ... nearing 500k, and you all came with me. Thank you, and thank you to those who came aboard along the way and at the end. Thank you. I'd like to thank my beta supreme, partner in crime, Paige Caldwell who kept nagging me to not give this story up... asking me every day had I written more Jack. Then she suggested I do it as WIP.... and it's been down, up and all around hill, ever since. Thank you, Paige, for those hours ICQ chats...your friendship and help with Jack and so much more. I would also like to thank Mich, aka. Onlnwidow... who was another staple, a constant in the effort to make "Jack" as good as I could. I've valued our friendship and your right on edits... you little grammarian, you awesome friend. Next, I'd like to thank Kimberly, web mistress of Clinique's Hidden Gems ... who supported me through all my stories and is always there to lend an ear or her thoughts. Thank you too, to Mojo for creating a fantastic book cover, for being able to take my words and make exactly what I had envisioned, Speaking of which, thank you, Galia ... for your support and detailed comments that let me know I was doing exactly what I hoped.... I valued your interpretations and friendship. Dlynn .... Dlynn.... well... you saved my butt. I put you through hell, I'm sure... having major spaztastic attacks with the final chapters. You helped me soo much, told me , "Yes, you were hitting, it... yes that is clear... stop worrying... go have a kahlua and creme." hehheeh stole my team of betas but Dlynn stepped in and was there for me all the way... thank you, girl! > Mary Sebasky ... your comments and support were wonderful and helped verify that I had done what I finally hoped I had. Sabine ... you were of invaluable help, coming in when I needed you most. Iona ... thank you... thank you for keeping me in your thoughts. It meant a lot. Ruby, who loves ya baby? Telly Savlas, I don't think so! ;) And my bastard, aka. my abusive Muse, thanks for not leaving me indefinitely ... you're one piece of work, but when you do finally work.. you do wonders. ;D AND thank you all again, the readers, for your support and kind words... that's what ultimately got me through to the end. Best Regards, Exley_61 -Exley_61 Woman! Get back in here and make me a sandwich! Exley_61's Xtravaganza http//members.dencity.com/Exley_61/ "JACK" Completed Novel with Book Cover at GALIA'S VISON OF TRUE ARCHIVE http//galias.webprovider.com/jack.htm