From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:15:36 -0600 To: Subject: "Transition" (1/7) -- by Meredith Thank you for forwarding to ATXC and archiving. OK to forward to other sites/lists as long as author name and e-mail address remain firmly attached. Title: Redemption II: Transition Author: Meredith Summary: Mulder and Scully investigate a very different sort of witness to a series of murders -- and eventually discover they are more connected to the killer than expected. Or are they? Fourth-season brand UST. Category: X,UST,A Rating: R Spoilers: US4 through Elegy Disclaimer: Those whom you know in this story belong to Chris Carter and 20th Century Fox. No copyright infringement is intended. It should be fairly obvious that I'm not doing this for profit. In addition, all verses quoted out of context to fulfill my whims are by Dorothy Parker. Author's note: This is a continuation of a series that began with the story "The Favor." You do NOT have to read that to understand this story. I promise. Both stories are stand-alone pieces grouped under the banner title "Redemption." I plan on continuing the series. Longer author notes are at the end. Enormous thanks go to MC Akimoto, who is a fantastic editor (and writer!) as well as a cherished friend. Feedback: Please. Really. I eagerly respond to everyone. One word or a hundred -- good, bad or ugly -- please write carrie.stetz@mosby.com "Transition" by Meredith *************** Her mind lives tidily apart >From cold and noise and pain, And bolts the door against her heart, Out wailing in the rain. -- "Interior" *************** Beyond night, beyond death, beyond earth and sky was a nameless, horizonless void containing nothing but a corrosive, shrieking pain. The black was monstrous, consuming her whole. She clawed and fought the icy darkness, a blind, suspended prisoner in an endless chasm. She felt, rather than saw, him. She couldn't see. Wave after wave of undefinable panic emanated from his formless soul, his being without presence or shape. Fighting to perceive, to sense, was agonizing in its futility. She was above him, was within him, was consumed by him. She was him. Her powerless spirit strained to glimpse his precious shadow, to stop his misery, to stop the terror, stop its deadly goal of destroying his will. Consciousness was quick to arrive in the form of cold, wet feet and pajamas soaked through to her skin. Dana Scully woke standing outside her apartment building, rain mixing indistinguishably with the tears on her face. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tuesday, April 15, 1997 Wright City, Missouri Margaret Hanson was having a bad day. The kids had missed the bus, the hot water heater was on the blink, and she had a killer migraine. After doing without a shower or coffee and driving two screaming children to school, she was 20 minutes late for work. But the day's real kick in the pants, was, of course, the humiliation. Just yesterday all checkers had received a memo from their assistant supervisor at the Stop-N-Shop on the absolute necessity of punctuality. And that supervisor was Margaret. Nothing like bad timing to turn you into a hypocrite. And so she felt justified, really, in taking a look. Just a glance; what could it hurt? The endless waves of mechanical beeps triggered by items dragged across the scanner and the droning, lifeless conversations that are ritual in small towns were making her headache -- and mood -- unbearable. So when he showed up in her lane with that look on his face, she couldn't help herself. He was a soul at peace -- the blissful look on his face would tell anyone that. He radiated calm. She was mesmerized. Margaret so rarely indulged, almost never pried. She had learned the hard way to mind her own business. But a peek might be just what she needed -- a lift, so to speak... Her mind spiraled out of control and disintegrated. "Maggie!" "Someone call 911!" Warped and muted voices pulled her back to reality. Margaret Hanson slowly regained consciousness on the dusty floor behind her register, overcome by the images seared into her soul. She realized things weren't going to get better for a very long time. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thursday, April 17, 1997 FBI Headquarters Washington, D.C. Fox Mulder desperately wished he had some slides -- gruesome body parts, crop circles, rabid dogs -- anything. He hadn't put on a slide show for Scully in months, and he was beginning to miss their effects on his partner -- the way she concentrated on the usually grotesque or just plain weird images in the dim light, her brow creased in study. It was so sexy. He sighed. There was so much he missed these days. He was just about to check his watch for the fifth time when his partner breezed in the door juggling a styrofoam cup of coffee, an umbrella and her briefcase. "Morning, Mulder, sorry I'm late..." Scully tossed the items on her desk and began her morning routine -- turning on the computer, checking her voice mail. Mulder quietly studied his partner in what was now *his* morning routine. Outfit. Hair. Demeanor. Voice. Face. Damn. She still looked wiped out. Against her deep burgundy suit she was pale and drawn, as she had been all week. He suddenly fervently wished they weren't going back out in the field. His priorities were here, spending every spare moment chasing time and an elusive cure. He bit his tongue before he could ask the question he had already asked the past three days, and then reconsidered. What the hell. He was a glutton for punishment. "Morning, Scully. Did you sleep any better last night?" His tone was soft, gentle. "A little." She didn't meet his gaze, and he knew she was lying. They had come to a mutual understanding the past few months. He was allowed to ask how she was as often as he wanted, and she was allowed to lie -- or tell the truth. Mulder felt they were making progress; a few times she had actually admitted to a headache or feeling tired. She had confessed Tuesday that she hadn't been sleeping well. Mulder let her current lie stand. He knew Scully would eventually tell him why she wasn't sleeping, but only when the time was right. Until then, though, he would keep asking. They both accepted the routine. And so he dropped the topic in favor of a new one. "Guess what, Scully, we're about to make another trip to the land of wheat and corn." His tone was deceptively light. She looked up from her desk. "A case?" she asked interestedly. "What have you dug up?" Mulder was slightly startled at the eagerness apparent in her voice. For a moment he could almost pretend there was no insidious disease determined to underscore their every word with grave hidden meaning. For just a moment, he glimpsed his partner, their shared lives, before the cancer. "Psychics, Scully. Lying dormant and unused in the heart of America." She groaned. "After Clyde Bruckmann, I put out an unofficial 'call' for any Bureau office working with psychics -- proven or not -- to give me a heads-up. I thought we needed to start documenting..." "Mulder," she began. "I know where you're going with this, Scully, but hear me out. It's a well-known fact that the Bureau already keeps tabs on the so-called psychics that local law enforcement around the country use. Most of them are fairly bogus. I should know -- those files are some of the first ones I scoured when they let me reopen the X-Files -- that is, before I was saved from a thousand paper cuts by your arrival, Scully." He couldn't hide the smile that softened his features. "But seeing as you and I have had much more exciting things to pursue the past several years, you can understand why the dreary task of shifting through mountains of psychic BS fell the bottom of my priority list. I thought rather than follow-up on old reports, it might be easier to track any new cases that came up, and see if we can lend some professional expertise. And, well, I got a very interesting fax this morning..." He paused, allowing her entrance to the conversation. Scully let out a puff of air. "OK, spill it." "Wright City, Missouri. Four murders in three weeks. No connection among the victims except probably the same killer. All were found dead in their homes. The autopsy report in each case describes a blow to the head and death caused by a slashed throat." "Rather dull, Mulder," she interrupted. "Not even gory enough to pretend to be an X-File." "I agree. I don't think the killings are anything but mundane. But there is a catch. Victims are an 11-year-old boy, a housewife, a middle-aged bachelor construction worker, and a veterinarian. Local police aren't equipped for this sort of killing spree, and the state troopers haven't been able to lend any insight. Murders like these raise a lot of attention by being in such a rural area, so the St. Louis FBI office was called in. But by the time they got involved, the leads were going cold quick. That is, until Tuesday." Mulder stopped. Scully smirked slightly, familiar with this tactic by now. This was the dramatic pause, the silent tease before the punch -- the reason he wanted in on this particular game. Even though she rarely showed it, she loved every minute of this professional foreplay. "Well?" "So... on Tuesday, Wright City police got a call from a grocery checker at the local Stop-N-Shop who says she knows who the killer is. That morning, as she rang up his groceries, she *accidentally* looked into the dark recesses of his mind, and realized she was trading comments about the unseasonably hot weather with a mass murderer. Trouble is, she doesn't know his name or where he lives and can't even remember what he bought." Scully merely raised an eyebrow. "I assume he paid in cash?" "Correct, Watson. You seem to forget that I find sarcasm a particularly effective turn-on," he leered. She was warmed by the barb but didn't let it show. "And we are to believe this woman's story because...?" "Because every policeman in Wright City -- all four of them -- swears she is practically oozing psychic ability. She's also the local state representative's sister, not known to be a crackpot, but an outstanding citizen. That and the fact that the St. Louis agent in charge has requested our help in how to, quote, 'use a verifiable psychic to the greatest effect' unquote." "And Skinner gave his blessing?" Scully was genuinely surprised. Mulder's face darkened momentarily. "Yeah. I wanted to work the case from here, but Skinner knows the St. Louis agent from way back and believes that if *he* is even halfway convinced of this woman's ability, we should check it out. In fact, he's insisting that we go," he replied ruefully. It seemed to Scully that Mulder had certainly used the early morning hours to his greatest advantage. For some reason, she didn't mind the prospect of a few days on the road. The miserable nightmares that had been plaguing her might be persuaded to abate when confronted with a change of scenery. And maybe she could allow herself the luxury of pretending that life was normal -- that she and her partner were thriving among the living. At least for a few days. "When's our flight?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (end part 1/7) I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com -- End -- Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by pilot15.cl.msu.edu (8.7.5/MSU-2.10) id KAA37597; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 10:22:41 -0400 Received: (qmail 22743 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:29 -0000 Delivered-To: majordom-og-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22716 invoked by alias); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:27 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22648 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:17 -0000 Received: (qmail 22610 invoked from network); 11 Jun 1997 14:15:57 -0000 Received: from gateway.mosby.com (204.233.129.3) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 11 Jun 1997 14:15:57 -0000 Received: from smtp-gw.mosby.com (smtp-gw.mosby.com [198.181.209.197]) by gateway.Mosby.COM (8.7.3/8.6.9) with SMTP id JAA05842 for ; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 09:15:29 -0500 (CDT) From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com Received: from ccMail by smtp-gw.mosby.com (ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00) id AA866038554; Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:15:56 -0600 Message-Id: <9706118660.AA866038554@smtp-gw.mosby.com> X-Mailer: ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00 Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:16:07 -0600 To: Subject: "Transition" (2/7) MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk Restrict: no-external-archive ****************** My garden blossoms pink and white A place of decorous murmuring Where I am safe from August night And cannot feel the knife of Spring. -- "Story of Mrs. W" ****************** Thursday, April 17 Wright City, Missouri 7:30 p.m. It was a warm and muggy night when Mulder and Scully arrived at the Wright City police station, housed in a tiny brick building on a quiet stretch of state highway. "Agents Mulder and Scully?" A large, broad-chested man with a florid face met them outside the door. He stuck out a meaty hand. "I'm Buck Hermann, chief of police. Glad you could spare the time to give us a hand. God, it's gonna be a hot summer, with the humidity startin' this damn early," he wiped his brow and ushered the pair into the building. "Frankly, we're in a bad way. No leads, can't make any connections. We've just never had anything like this in our county before, and we're scared it ain't over. We called in the Feds early this week, we're so desperate. Did Special Agent Jackson fill ya in on our latest development?" "You have a woman who can ID the killer," Scully stated blandly. "Yeah, I'll be damned, but I really think we do. Margaret's got some sorta talent... I've know her for years and had no idea, no damn idea. But she convinced me in no time that she ain't makin' this up." The chief's face was earnest, if not a little sheepish. Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. They silently agreed Hermann was a typical good ol' boy, but he had an honesty about him that was appealing. "Can I ask what she did to convince you of her psychic ability?" Mulder questioned. "Well, son, you can ask, but I ain't gonna tell ya. She told me she could sense a real private problem I've been havin' that I haven't told anyone about. There's no way in hell she'd know about it, and I'm certainly not makin' it common knowledge. But suffice it to say I was convinced. "Now Hank here'll tell ya what she told him. HANK!" he bellowed to the back of the building. A wiry man in his early twenties shot out from the shadows of the nearly deserted office. "Yeah, Chief?" "Now Hank here's from the Bootheel, nowhere near this area. How long you been here now, son?" "Just under a year." "Yeah. So Maggie don't know him from Adam. This here's Mulder and Scully, the feds from D.C. Tell 'em what she told you." Hank blushed to the roots of his sandy hair. "Well, um, she told me she knew who I loved back in Cape Girardeau, where I'm from. Angela Dean. She knew her name, what she looked like, and, um... why I didn't marry her." He suddenly looked at the floor with embarrassment. "And that it was the biggest mistake I ever made." He brought his eyes back up to Mulder's. "No one here knows that part of my life, sir. There's no way she'd know that about me. "And she was sorry, she said, that she had to find that in my head. She apologized for invading my privacy, but had to let us know she was for real." "So when can we meet with her?" Mulder asked. "I've got her comin' in tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp," Hermann replied. "Would it be possible to get autopsy reports for the victims, Chief Hermann?" Scully inquired. "No problem, ma'am. The county ME will be here in the morning too." "Well, looks like we start tomorrow." Mulder stretched his back uncomfortably. "Can you point us in the direction of a decent motel?" "Sure thing, son. The Route 66 is just down the interstate a mile or so. It's small, but clean. You can't miss it - it's just next to the Elvis Museum." Mulder's eyes popped open. "Elvis Museum?" "Yeah. The "Elvis is Alive!" Museum. Can't miss that neither. Tackiest shack you ever saw. Don't bother -- it's a tourist trap, snappin' stupid folks up off the highway like rats." Mulder shot his partner a pleading look. "Scully..." "No way, Mulder. Listen to the man. I'm *sure* he knows what he's talking about," Scully warned. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Well, it may be clean, but there's no sure way to tell, Scully thought grimly as she surveyed Mulder's motel room. It was identical to hers -- a monochromatic study in the boredom of brown. Not soothing shades that reminded you of chocolate and coffee, but flat, dingy ones that reminded you of... something much less appealing. The walls were a pale shade of Dirt, the carpet a medium-toned Sand, and the bedspreads, in a polite term, were a stunning Dark Mud. No need to worry about people stealing the accessories, she mused. They spent the next two hours comparing Hermann's office case files with the information Agent Jackson had faxed them, spreading papers and photos across both beds and the small rickety table. "Well, this may be a backwoods town, but they've really done a good job on this investigation," Scully noted as she shuffled through the files. "The only thing missing is a background check on Margaret Hanson. I'll contact D.C. for that." "Yeah, they've been thorough," Mulder replied absently, stroking his chin. "Scully. Is there anything about the victims that strikes you as odd?" "Everything. Two killed here in Wright City, one in Truesville, and one in Foristell. We've gone over this before. The killings don't seem to be random; the killer knew how and when to catch each victim alone. Yet all the victims were ordinary people, and there seems to be no motive whatsoever in each case. "Perhaps if I were to note one peculiar thing, though, it would be that the third victim was a child," she mused. Mulder grinned. "Bingo. There's a profiler hidden in you somewhere, Scully. If these were ritual killings of some sort, or just random victims picked by a deranged mind, the choice of a child is still very strange. It doesn't fit any typical profile." "What are you suggesting?" "That there's a link between the victims somewhere. We just haven't found it yet." "I wonder if our *psychic* will be able to shed any light on the mysterious connection," Scully said dryly. "Not convinced?" "Are you?" "Nope," he replied truthfully. "This could all very well be a sham. We'll find out tomorrow, though, won't we?" Mulder stretched back languidly against the headboard of the bed he was sprawled on and flipped on the TV. "Not much more we can do tonight." Scully relaxed against the pillows on the other bed. She was suddenly exhausted. Yawning briefly, she stole a glance at her partner, who was flipping aimlessly through the channels. As usual, his rumpled appearance sent a wave of warmth and security flooding through her. Sometimes he seemed a relaxed, ungainly mass of arms and legs, but she knew part of him was always on alert, instincts finely tuned to his surroundings. With him she never felt vulnerable. When he was near, she was safe. After a few minutes of half-hearted surfing, Mulder noticed his partner was trying desperately to stay awake but wasn't making any move to go to her room. He quietly hoped she would fall asleep on the other bed so he could keep her within reach for the night. Nights were the hardest, evidently for both of them lately. He suddenly landed on a familiar black and white image flickering on the cheap set. "Ooh! Scully! Invasion of the Body Snatchers! You've got to stay and watch this -- it's a classic horror film." "Horror?" she said drowsily. "This movie isn't scary." "You are sadly mistaken, Dr. Scully. There's nothing scarier. Alien entities taking over bodies -- destroying the human personality and will without disturbing the individual's appearance. The aliens could be your brother, your neighbor, your *partner*," he leered at her briefly, "and you would never know. Sometimes the scariest things are not at all frightening in appearance." He regretted the offhand comment almost immediately as he saw a dark shadow pass over Scully's face. "That's true," she replied softly, staring down at the sad brown bedspread. He remained quiet. She continued, her gaze still focused away. "One of the worst nightmares I had as a child was on the surface so harmless, but for some reason the image always terrified me." Finally, he thought, determined to let her talk without interruption. "I was always on a swing in the playground, swinging higher and higher, enjoying the feel of weightlessness. Then a man would step out from behind the bushes and stare at me. He never moved or threatened, just stared. He was an ordinary man, not a scary monster. But I would feel this horrible, suffocating panic, and I would try desperately to stop the swing to hop off and get away. But I never got that far... I always woke up screaming...." her voice trailed away quietly, lost in memory. "You've been having nightmares," he stated softly, empathetically, after a moment. "Yes," she admitted, shaking herself out of reverie and meeting his gaze. "a few. Nothing concrete, though, just like when I was a kid. I guess that's why I haven't been sleeping." To Mulder's silent dismay, she instantly reverted from Dana the woman to Scully the agent. "But *this* movie surely won't give me nightmares. Now if we were watching "The Evil Dead" or "Psycho," perhaps..." she teased. He ignored her attempt to lighten the conversation. "Scully. If this case is going to be a waste of time, we're flying home tomorrow." His tone was serious, leaving no room for argument. "I'm fine, Mulder," she retorted instinctively. "I *know* you are. But I want you to stay that way." They locked gazes. "OK, Mulder," she sighed in exasperation. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Transformation was gradual, almost sensual. No need to move, for there was no above, no below, no left or right. She had no body, no confined, predetermined restriction of form. No need for hands or movement in the black of infinity. She was simply everywhere. But with no mouth or voice, she was powerless to scream. A flash of light illuminated the barren landscape, letting her see what her mind already sensed. He walked. He walked, oblivious of the rain coming down so hard he could barely keep his eyes open, barely keep breathing as the water stung his face. The icy darkness began plucking, tearing, biting at his will, slowing him to a desperate, agonized crawl. Her mind shrieked impotent words, ones he couldn't hear, would never know. Their souls were in a twisted union, she, able to feel his every torment, yet paralyzed, bound in silence. Terror. Raw, breathing terror, as tangible as the plodding form below, now drenched in icy water streaming down his body and soaking into the saturated ground. Seconds later, there was nothing. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He was standing in the middle of the room, gun in hand, before he even realized he was awake. Breathlessly, he strained to again hear the noise that had jarred him from sleep. Slight banging. A rattling of metal on metal. A muffled cry. Shit. Scully. He threw open the interconnecting door and fanned his gun across the shadowed recesses of her room. Nothing. The garish yellow light of the streetlamp outside filtered in through the curtains, just enough to allow his eyes to focus on the figure at the door exactly as his ears pinpointed the origin of the sounds. What had they been talking about earlier? His mind shuddered. The incongruous horror of nightmares -- simple, ordinary images that for some unearthly reason scared the shit out of you. And he was having one now. Scully was standing at the door, hands clumsily pulling at the locks, the doorknob -- softly calling his name with such sorrow and helplessness that he felt tears spring to his eyes. "Mulder... Mulder... Mulder..." In a flash he was standing next to her, his hand on her arm. "Scully. Scully, it's OK, Scully..." Suddenly his pulse began to hammer. Christ. Something was seriously wrong. She didn't hear him. Her eyes were open, glazed, unfocused. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The word pounded through his mind in time with his heartbeat. She couldn't see the door she so blindly fought to open, couldn't see that she hadn't unlocked the deadbolt. She couldn't see *him.* Part of his brain began functioning with that sudden realization, and his breathing slowed. "Scully," he whispered, slowly grasping her hands to stop their confused motions. "It's OK, I'm here. Everything's OK..." He gently stroked her face, desperately trying to keep his voice even and soothing. "C'mon, you need to go back to bed... go back to sleep..." His touch seemed to calm her and her uneven gasps began to fade. She remained oblivious to his presence but followed his lead easily back to the bed, where he carefully guided her down on the surface. She immediately curled into a tight ball. After stroking her back for a moment, Mulder noticed that her eyes had finally closed and her breathing had evened. He stood shakily, loathe to move too far away. Walking over to the window to close the curtains tighter, he realized his T-shirt was drenched in sweat. The room was now engulfed in darkness. As he felt his way back to the bed he heard her shift on top of the sheets. His hand met her back again, and he realized she had untucked herself and was now laying peacefully on her stomach. Her pajama top had ridden up and his palm was flat on her slightly damp skin. He left it there, grounding himself. What the hell had just happened? Now fully alert, his brain began analyzing. Had she ever mentioned sleepwalking before? No, he didn't think so. What could she have been dreaming about? The case? No. Her abduction? Maybe. And why was she calling his name? What was she running to? Or from? Cancer? Death? He swallowed, the tiny sound loud in the silence. Mulder knew it took superhuman effort for her to believe in him, in *his* belief that they would find a cure for her disease. Hell, it took superhuman effort for him at times. But he believed, with his heart and soul, that cancer couldn't separate them. Cancer. A far too mortal threat to *their* partnership. He grimaced in disgust. He believed there was an answer to be found. And he had to be strong, both for himself and her. But underneath the surface he was afraid. Terrified. Not of the poisonous growth that was slowing encroaching on her brain, but of time. Months ago he had begun measuring time from her diagnosis. Three days since the scan. Three weeks since the scan. Three months since the scan. Christ. Already it had been three months. Time had become his greatest fear. And he didn't want to share that with her. He knew, however, at times he had to -- it was the only way to convey how much she meant to him. Hiding his fear would make him seem callous, unconcerned. Now was not the time to be cavalier about death. But it was a difficult line to walk. A hell of a lot more difficult than the lines they usually drew between them. So why wouldn't she share her fears with him? Day after day she always presented him with a strong facade, even as she admitted to feeling a little tired, a little drained. Even when he let his control slip and he tended to hover. Was she suppressing her true emotions so much that she suffered to the extreme in her dreams? Didn't she understand how much he needed her to need *him*? He didn't know how long he sat on the edge of her bed, fingers gently tracing a pattern on herback, thoughts finally drifting from fear to familiarity. He absently caressed the delicate knobs of her spine between her shoulder blades and back down to her waist, taking refuge in the heat of her skin, the rhythm of her breath, all while trying to sort out the confusion in his head. Up and down, up and down.... For some reason, and for as long as he could remember, he had always had an erotic fascination with her back.... He froze. Guilt washed over him in the realization he was comforting himself more than her with his touch. Satisfied that her breathing was deep and peaceful, he rose and felt his way to the inner door. Turning back, he made sure the door was left open a few inches and whispered into the dark. "Sweet dreams, Dana." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nathaniel Bogg was a happy man. He was nearly always a joyful person, but this morning was special. The sun had dawned warm and welcoming, shining perfectly on his garden filled with tulips and hyacinths, some of the first flowers of spring. Life didn't get much better. "Hey, Rusty," he affectionately rubbed his German Shepard's head. "Gonna be a big day. I think I'm going to find him today. Just gotta good feeling about it." Yep, he thought. If he was lucky, and that old prick was home alone, it was going to be a *very* good day. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (end part 2/7) -- End -- Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by pilot14.cl.msu.edu (8.7.5/MSU-2.10) id KAA28457; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 10:28:50 -0400 Received: (qmail 22922 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:37 -0000 Delivered-To: majordom-og-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22888 invoked by alias); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:35 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22662 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:23 -0000 Received: (qmail 22619 invoked from network); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:01 -0000 Received: from gateway.mosby.com (204.233.129.3) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 11 Jun 1997 14:16:01 -0000 Received: from smtp-gw.mosby.com (smtp-gw.mosby.com [198.181.209.197]) by gateway.Mosby.COM (8.7.3/8.6.9) with SMTP id JAA05858 for ; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 09:15:32 -0500 (CDT) From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com Received: from ccMail by smtp-gw.mosby.com (ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00) id AA866038558; Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:16:00 -0600 Message-Id: <9706118660.AA866038558@smtp-gw.mosby.com> X-Mailer: ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00 Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:16:40 -0600 To: Subject: "Transition" (3/7) MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk Restrict: no-external-archive ************** Too long and quickly have I lived to vow The woe that stretches me shall never wane, Too often seen the end of endless pain To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow. I know, I know -- again the shriveled bough Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain, And these hard lands be quivering with grain, I tell you only: it is Winter now. -- "Transition" *************** Friday, April 18 Wright City Police Station 9:20 a.m. After four years of having her scientific knowledge and training assaulted by myriad encounters with the unexplainable, the mutated, and the simply horrific, Scully had become convinced that frequently the most terrifying phenomena came in the guise of the mundane. At first impression, Margaret Hanson was nothing if not mundane. She blew into the tiny conference room where Mulder and Scully were waiting, mumbling apologies and tripping over the chair closest to the door. She took a seat across from the agents, nervously glancing from one to the other. Her blonde hair was sloppily pulled back in a clip and her appearance gave the impression she might have dressed in the dark. Somewhere in the no-man's land between 30 and 40, Hanson was a slightly cherubic, open-featured woman whose days were spent negotiating the active terrain of children, a part-time job, and a household. Her harried demeanor defined Mother. Well, as far as psychics went, Scully mused, Margaret Hanson was more in line with Clyde Bruckmann than the Stupendous Yappi. Chalk up one point in her favor. "I'm sorry I'm late .... the kids have been so awful in the mornings recently, and, truthfully, I just haven't been feeling myself since the other day..." she trailed off weakly. "No problem, Mrs. Hanson. I'm Agent Mulder and this is Agent Scully. We've been called in to assist with this case. We were wondering if you could tell us exactly what happened Tuesday morning." "Well, I was working lane 6. It was a bad morning, what with the kids, and the hot water tank, and well... this man came in my lane, and he looked so *nice,* so peaceful. He had this warm, wonderful smile on his face... I just didn't -- I mean, it was an accident." she paled and shook her head as if the action might somehow organize her thoughts. After a deep breath she continued. "I did something I never do. I *shouldn't* do. I opened myself to his thoughts. He looked so happy, and I just wanted to share that for a moment." She stopped and fought back tears. "But I wish I never had. I wish to God I never had." "What exactly did you see, Mrs. Hanson?" Scully asked calmly. "I saw... images. Terrible images. Blood. Blood and the throat of a boy, just a baby -- my son's age. His throat had been... slashed. And that man was so *happy.* That's what was making that sick bastard happy." Her voice had picked up a tone of hatred laced with fear and disgust. "I don't know what happened next. They tell me I fainted." "Can you explain how you "saw" this?" Mulder questioned. "No. I've never been able to explain it. I... well, can pick up emotions from people -- what they love, hate, fear. That day I just... he looked so peaceful." She silently pleaded with them to understand. "So you can read anyone at any time?" Scully asked. "Oh, no -- not at all," she responded, seemingly horrified. "I can *control* it. I guess I'm lucky that way. If I concentrate, I pick up emotions from people. And I never do it. Well, almost never. "Don't you see what a curse it could be? I learned at a very young age that the power can be a terrible thing. To be able to sense everyone's fears and pain -- isn't one life's suffering enough?" Her eyes snapped into sudden intelligent focus, and Mulder was taken aback at the resulting change in her face. He realized this was a woman who understood far too much and took great pains to hide that knowledge. But what was the depth of that knowledge? Their mixed experiences with so-called psychics put even Mulder on the offensive when it came to distinguishing true ability from the fake. "So, Mrs. Hanson, can you tell me what my favorite NBA team is?" "I'm sorry, what? Oh, no, I can't see that. I can't predict lottery numbers, or see where I left my keys. I can only read people's emotions." "Well, I happen to be extremely fond of a particular NBA team -- some might call it love. You can't see that?" Mulder's dry wit was evidently lost on Hanson. "No, really, I don't think you understand..." "OK then. What's my biggest fear?" Hanson looked at him sadly. "I'd rather not do that, Agent Miller..." "Mulder." "Mulder. I've learned that if I have to prove myself to someone, it should be done privately," she said, glancing nervously at Scully. "I keep nothing from my partner," he said mildly. "But..." They were interrupted by a knock on the conference room door and the sudden appearance of another of Hermann's young, gangly officers. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully? Dr. Singh is here with the autopsy results for you." "Well, that'll save you some embarrassment, Mulder," Scully said innocently. "I'll give you a few minutes." Unwilling to drop the subject, Mulder continued as the door closed behind his partner. "So, shall we try that again? My greatest fear." Snakes. Big slimy snakes, thought Mulder. Hanson looked at him quizzically for a few moments and her face saddened perceptibly. So much fear. His fears were knotted so tightly with pain and, strangely, with love, that she had a hard time disassembling them. Impressions of deeply buried but overwhelming despair suddenly flooded her mind, exhausting and draining her. She broke the connection quickly. "I'm sorry, so sorry." Her face was etched with regret. "This may sound odd, but you're afraid of the future... I don't fully understand. Time... You're afraid of time. Your partner is running out of time." Mulder's face remained expressionless. "What did you see?" "With you? Words. Your fears are tangible, concrete." What do you mean, 'with me'?" "Everyone is different. Words, images, or both. It depends on the individual," she paused. "She's nearly everything to you, isn't she?" Hanson continued quietly. "I'm so sorry... I'm sorry she's dying." Mulder paled and quickly directed his gaze out the window. The lush green grass and newly planted marigolds outside the building taunted him. All the vestiges of a brand-new spring -- life was everywhere in all its mocking, spiteful glory. He felt his temper rise and sharpen in frustration. After a moment he spoke. "You saw that in her," he said flatly, trying to control his simmering, targetless anger. "No, I saw that in you." "Then what is she afraid of?" "I don't know, I didn't try to read her," Hanson responded tiredly. Mulder continued to fixate on the landscape outside. "*I* need to know," he said fiercely. Scully chose that awkward moment to reenter the conference room carrying a stack of files. She sensed the odd tension and shot Mulder a questioning look that he ignored. His gaze snapped from Scully to Hanson with determined intensity. "Words or pictures?" he stated curtly, angling his head toward Scully. "Whh..what?" Hanson stammered. "Agent Scully. Words or pictures?" His unspoken command was clear. "Pictures, Agent Mulder," she said softly after a moment. "Pictures." Scully warned her partner with a distinct clearing of her throat. Hanson quickly summoned her courage to speak again. "I'm sorry Agent Scully, Agent Mulder. I just don't know what to do. You can believe me or not -- it doesn't matter. But I've seen the man who's killed those people, and I had to come forward. I want to do the right thing." Seeing that Mulder had no intention of responding, Scully answered diplomatically, "Mrs. Hanson, at this time I don't know what to tell you. Whether you have seen the killer or not is beside the point. At this time, we need to rely on old-fashioned investigative work unless you can give us a name or pinpoint his location. Perhaps we'll be able to use your "skills" further down the road. However, we certainly appreciate your willingness to cooperate." Mulder stood, signaling the end of the interview. As they walked toward the door, Mulder pulled Hanson back into the room, letting Scully walk ahead of them. "What did you see?" A simple question, on which everything hinged. Hanson looked up at him with watery brown eyes. "She's not afraid of dying, Agent Mulder. She has come to peace with that possibility." Her tone was hesitant. "There's something else." "She walks a fine line in this life -- the line between life and death. Perhaps she always has. I believe she can see many things we can't." He nodded, intrinsically understanding her statement. "So you're saying she is not afraid." "Not for herself, no. Her greatest fear, Agent Mulder, is for you." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mulder and Scully spent the rest of the day familiarizing themselves with the unfaxable aspects of the investigation. Scully reviewed the autopsy reports and examined the most recent body, that of Dr. Owen Rogers, a veterinarian, at the county morgue. The laceration was hesitant and choppy, not made in haste or with a sharp knife. The cut indicated an inexperienced killer, or at least an uncoordinated one. Unimpressed with the obvious crudeness of the killing, she made a few notes regarding the clumsiness of the wound and the possible weapon used to render the victims unconscious -- points to discuss later with Mulder. As a mental exercise, Mulder had recently begun introducing her to the methods of profiling; she was a quick study, impressing him with her insight and willingness to make logical jumps when creating personality and character sketches. She was proud of her growing abilities, and had been mildly surprised at his praise and interest in her skills. She had had a lot of practice lately, working for VCS more than usual due to a lack of decent X-Files. Or at least that's what Mulder kept telling her. She thought he would be less excited at the prospect of learning more about *her* specialty. The sound of a rib cage cracking always made him come dangerously close to fainting. Mulder had spent several hours reviewing interview notes and getting to know Hermann's other two officers, who had done the initial investigation work on the murders. They seemed more than relieved that the federal cavalry had come to rescue them. Mulder genuinely felt sorry for the boisterous police chief -- his officers looked so young that Mulder wondered if they could all legally grab a beer together after work. They reconvened that afternoon at the station for a conference call with the referring St. Louis Agent Henry Jackson. Jackson, in a clipped, brief discussion, apologized for not being able to brief Mulder and Scully in person. Although he was nearly 100 miles away, Jackson's commanding presence could be felt even through the tinny speaker that emitted his resonant voice. Mulder felt a chill travel down his spine when he realized how similar Jackson's and Skinner's speaking styles were. It was eerie. Mulder had had just about enough of the cramped office for the day when Chief Hermann suggested the two of them "pack it in for the night," cheerfully insinuating that the agents looked peckish. Mulder had to laugh. "OK. Hey Scully, Hank told me there's a Big Boy Restaurant just a few miles down the Interstate -- whaddya say?" She grinned. Ever since a late-night drive through lower Michigan a few years back, Mulder had held a childlike fascination for the perennially revolving, demonically chipper boy and his hamburger hoisted high on a plate. "Oh, Lord, Mulder," she groaned. "Elvis and Big Boy in the same town?" Sure enough, this Boy was as huge and frighteningly cheerful as the one they had driven by in a small town outside Detroit. And the food wasn't bad, either. They both ordered thick hamburgers and dove in quickly. "So I'm thinking about calling Skinner tonight and asking to be pulled off this case," Mulder stated suddenly in between bites. "What?" she answered, shocked. "Scully, we didn't come here to profile. The RO can do that. We were sent to evaluate a possible psychic. That's it. I don't want VCS getting in the habit of thinking of us as the spare agents who can be ferried off to do grunt work. We've got better things to do." "So you're saying you don't believe Margaret Hanson is a psychic," she said, sipping her soda. "No. I'm just saying that even if she is, I have no idea how to use her abilities -- that is unless we drag her door to door throughout the county until she IDs this guy." He jabbed at his fries in irritation. Although more than a little taken aback by Mulder's uncharacteristic behavior, Scully didn't betray her surprise. "True. But you didn't answer my question," she prodded. "What did you think of her ...abilities?" He paused momentarily and stared fixedly at his napkin. "Her claims have some merit." His less than enthusiastic tone set off warning bells in Scully's head. So the atmosphere she'd sensed in the conference room wasn't her imagination -- Margaret Hanson *had* struck a nerve while Scully was talking with Dr. Singh. She chose her words carefully. "She said something that makes you believe." Mulder studied his bent butter knife, then the fascinating checkered tablecloth before responding. "Yes. But I'm not totally convinced. She claims to only be able to sense the intangible. That leaves a lot of room for error -- or a good con." "Jesus, Mulder, you sound like me." He looked at her intently. "She said something about you." Scully examined his face before responding. He was serious, but his eyes flickered with an odd hesitation. She bit back her defensive response. Whatever Hanson had said, whether right or wrong, it had clearly affected Mulder on more than a surface level. "What did she say?" "That... that you walk a fine line between life and death... that you can see things the rest of us can't." Scully let out the breath she didn't know she was holding. "That's a vague, unsubstantial comment that could mean anything. She knew I was a *pathologist,* for God's sake!" Lord, she thought, did that come out as defensive as I think it did? "Is it?" "Mulder, you're contradicting what you just said five minutes ago. By claiming to read emotions, she can toss out unsubstantial, maudlin statements that could pertain to anyone's life. She leaves the interpretation up to the recipient -- it's the oldest 'psychic' trick in the book." "You still refuse to acknowledge what you saw in that bathroom two weeks ago," he said flatly, then instantly regretted the comment. His accusation coiled cruelly around her heart, causing her eyes to sting in response. "So what you really mean is that you think I *am* dying," she said coldly. "No, that's not what I meant, Scully. I'm sorry," he quickly reached across the table and took her hand. "That's not what I meant." "Would it surprise you, Mulder, if I admitted I did see that girl? Admitted that what I saw was a... wraith," she hesitated only slightly over the word, "not a figment of my imagination, a result of a suggested image brought about by my own fear of death?" He thought for a moment. "Are you?" Her blue eyes looked directly at him, directly into him, to find that inner strength she needed to draw on to speak the truth. "Yes." "I'm glad," he said softly. "Because I think you saw her for a completely different reason than the fact that you have cancer." "But I don't know why, Mulder," she whispered. "I don't know why, and it scares me." When they left the restaurant, the sky had deepened to an indigo bleeding into violet. A heavy bank of clouds was beginning to encroach from the west. The air was thick and warm, holding sweet promises of a fertile, prosperous summer. A night, Mulder mused, that made you feel immortal. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (end part 3/7) I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com -- End -- Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by pilot14.cl.msu.edu (8.7.5/MSU-2.10) id KAA103162; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 10:20:32 -0400 Received: (qmail 22753 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:29 -0000 Delivered-To: majordom-og-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22724 invoked by alias); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:27 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22670 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:24 -0000 Received: (qmail 22620 invoked from network); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:01 -0000 Received: from gateway.mosby.com (204.233.129.3) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 11 Jun 1997 14:16:01 -0000 Received: from smtp-gw.mosby.com (smtp-gw.mosby.com [198.181.209.197]) by gateway.Mosby.COM (8.7.3/8.6.9) with SMTP id JAA05859 for ; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 09:15:32 -0500 (CDT) From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com Received: from ccMail by smtp-gw.mosby.com (ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00) id AA866038559; Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:16:00 -0600 Message-Id: <9706118660.AA866038559@smtp-gw.mosby.com> X-Mailer: ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00 Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:16:55 -0600 To: Subject: "Transition" (4/7) MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk Restrict: no-external-archive ************ The look of a laurel tree birthed for May Or a sycamore bared for a new November Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day -- What is it, what is it, I almost remember? -- "Temps Perdu" ************ With a grunt of irritation, Mulder tossed the TV remote on the bed, where it promptly disappeared in the folds of the umber sheets. There *were* disadvantages to the '90s, he mused. There weren't just 3 or 4 channels of mindless drivel at 1 a.m., but dozens and dozens of infomercials designed to send the rational viewer into bouts of marketing madness. He sighed, too restless to sleep, too weary to function. Scully had talked him out of calling Skinner, and he grudgingly admitted she was right -- disobeying a direct order would be a bad move. But he couldn't help his growing unease about being stuck on a decidedly nonparanormal case with cold and worthless leads in the middle of nowhere -- psychic or no psychic. And as Margaret Hanson had so recently reminded him, the clock never stopped ticking. A sudden bip from his laptop called him out of his thoughts, which had been lulled into distraction by the soft sounds of rain falling outside. He lunged to the desk in one large step. Please, he thought, let it be Byers... yes. He clicked open the e-mail. M -- Re our conversation last week. S was at University of Indiana, on staff past two months. Disappeared last Friday. Suspect something in trace triggered warning. Will be more careful next time. Sorry. -- B Fuck. Fucking son of a bitch. Mulder raged silently to himself and slammed the computer shut with exaggeraged force. Was he ever going to be a step ahead of the answers instead of always a step behind? One of the leads he'd been pursuing was trying to locate Dr. Scanlon. The fitful chase had been going on for months with no luck. Mulder had already been following every slim lead, every scrap of information, every path that led to nowhere. Skinner's recent confession of his "deal" had only increased Mulder's desperation -- it was obvious there *had* to be another way. Skinner had become living proof of his own prophetic words. He silently paced the room, stopping briefly to snap off the already-muted television set and plunging the room into blackness. He walked a mile, maybe two, in the confines of the 10 x 20 space before succumbing to a fretful exhaustion. Straying from his worn path in the bleak carpet, Mulder gently cracked open the connecting door before crawling under the sheets. Another dead lead. Time continued to pass. He would call Skinner tomorrow. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The rain begun unobtrusively, a trifling sprinkle, nothing more. Perhaps downpours were too furious, too impatient to find the crack hidden somewhere among the asphalt roofing tiles. A soft, easy rain, however, always managed to find the mysterious fault and gain entrance to the dining room and cascade down the western wall. How many times? How many times, dammit? Three, maybe four. At least three too many. Nathaniel drew his finger down the damp wall. He knew how to remedy this feeling of helplessness. It had gotten so easy, once he understood. So easy. He wished it hadn't taken so long to learn how to take control of his life, but God worked in mysterious ways. Joy came from such simple things. He had never been a man of action. So much in life had been forced on him. Forget it. Deny it. Take it. Accept it. Swallow it. How exhilarating it had been to fight back. He smiled as he walked into the study. It had become so easy. Yes, there it was, in the top left desk drawer. Joe Smizer Roofing, Guttering, Foundation Repairs Professional, Bonded Service 555-8183 He pulled open the next drawer and drew out a small notebook. Turning to the next blank page, he carefully taped the business card at the top. He flipped back a few pages and skimmed the words. Yes. Three times. That idiot had been out three times to repair the roof. That settled it. It was time for a new roofer. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The emptiness had become a chasm, which had become a landscape, which had become earth, which had become a wall. A door. A knob. She didn't see him. She didn't feel him. She could turn it, enter the realm of the tangible, the defined, the concrete. She could. The door was cold -- covered in a thin sheet of ice. The knob numbed her fingers as it turned in her hand. A room she had never seen but had known forever. A kitchen, awash in darkness, the floor tiled in modern black and white, black and white, black and white.... marred only by a great pooling crimson, congealing on the surface even as it continued to flow from her prone body crumpled on the floor. Her body. Throat slashed, eyes staring, vacant. Hair longer than now. Rings on the lifeless fingers of her outstretched hands. Reaching. Desperate. Dead. She didn't see him enter the room, only noticed as he fell to his knees, water cascading off his body and mixing with her blood. She was without herself and within him, descending into madness together as his soul was ripped out and sundered into a thousand irretrievable splinters. And looming above them was a round-faced man, smiling with the peace of angels, speaking to her soul in the language of dreams. "It's for my own good." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 3:40 a.m. Mulder's room Drifting, scattered, he let the gentle, capable hands gather him close and reassemble his frayed soul. Skin and spirit were caressed everywhere and nowhere; senses all consuming, yet slowly narrowing. Oh, to be able to lose himself in this exquisite peace, this desire... Every hair on his arm was attuned to the caress, which traveled a path to his brow, soothing, protecting. Calling. He concentrated on the sensations rippling from his perimeter to the warmth of his core, feebly trying to ignore the urgent whispering in the edges of his consciousness. The touch was so right, but the sounds, the sounds were so wrong... he couldn't ignore them, shouldn't. They were getting more persistent, and they seemed to come from the soft hands, which of course were *her* hands... Scully. "Mulder..." He painfully opened his eyes, a useless reaction in the dark of the room. He felt her kneeling next to his bed, her left hand grasping his forearm, the fingers of the right running over his forehead and through his hair. He blinked furiously, trying to adjust his vision to the dim. "Mulder," she whispered, "Mulder..." the sound barely audible as she fought the strange, lurching gasps that shook her body. His heart thudded unevenly. "Scully, can you hear me? Scully?" Leaning forward, he brought a hand up and tilted her face to look at him. Christ. She was dreaming again --her eyes were huge, unfocused and vacant, staring at some invisible point completely through and past him. "Scully, everything's OK, take a deep brea-" "No," she moaned, "No, Mulder, *don't*..." "Shh, Scully, it's OK, I'm-" "Don't, don't look..." "Scully..." Her face abruptly crumpled into a misery that belonged in Mulder's worst nightmares. Huge, breaking sobs escaped from her lungs in painfully heaving, choking gasps. Tears ran down her face unnoticed as she squeezed her eyes closed against the assault. Mulder had never been more terrified in his life. Acting solely on instinct, he pulled Scully clumsily onto the bed and into his arms. She immediately curled into the fetal position, her back pressed against his chest. She continued to sob, hard enough to rock them both. With shaky hands, he stroked her hair and wrapped an arm protectively around her. "It's OK -- everything's fine, trust me... we're OK." He whispered softly in her ear until he felt her sobs subside into quiet hiccups and the hiccups fade into shallow, hitching breaths. After what seemed an eternity, her breathing relaxed into the quiet rhythm of sleep. Mulder eventually joined her, slipping into a shallow slumber for a few hours, his chin resting against the top of her head. When reality woke him once again, it was to a certain self-conscious realization. Delicately removing his arms from around her, he stood and tucked the sheets back over her still-unconscious form. Sneaking into the other double bed and foregoing the warmth and comfort of her body, he thought, was highly preferable to waking in a position that would be compromising on far too many levels. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Saturday, April 19 7:50 a.m. The steaming water coursed through her hair and into her ears as she turned her head slowly to the left and then back to the right, easing the tension that had collected in the tendons of her neck. Scully had woken in a tightly curled ball, her shoulders bent at an uncomfortable angle. First light had begun creeping through the curtains, an early, strengthening light that was winning control of the change in seasons. The muted illumination helped define her growing sense of displacement. God. She wasn't in her room. A furtive glance to the left revealed her partner's sleeping form face down in the pillow on the other bed. She was in Mulder's room? How did she get here? Or rather, *why* was she here in his second bed? Desperate to maintain a sense of normalcy, Scully had carefully slipped out of bed and padded back to her room, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible. It must have been the nightmare, she decided, lathering the shampoo between her hands and scalp. She shivered, chilled despite the porcelain knob pointing directly toward the H. The dream had unnerved her in ways she never thought possible. The ache was so miserably, insistently real that it drove all else from her mind. Stopping his pain had been her only instinct. It was all that mattered. Scully was startled out of her reverie by a sharp knock at the bathroom door. "Scully?" "Yeah." "How are you doing?" "I'm fine, Mulder," she shouted over the drum of the water. "Breakfast, half an hour?" "OK." That was it. After four years, she knew the meaning of every inflection in Mulder's voice. Although not explicitly stated, the message was clear. Breakfast. Either you talk, or I will. I *must* have been shaken by the dream and checked on him, she thought. That's all. That had to be all. Then why did she feel so lost? The clattering of dishes back in the kitchen harshly interrupted Scully's exhausted thoughts. She continued to poke at her toast and fruit absentmindedly. God, she was tired. Thoughts bounced around her consciousness without purpose, leaving any sort of concentration out of the question. She let her eyes wander over to her partner, who was studiously inhaling his stack of pancakes. The hand stirring her coffee froze. A vivid - and very recent - memory of her fingers running through his hair crashed through to her conscious mind. She had to know. Best get it out in the open, where she could confront it, deal with it. Anyway, it had become obvious he was waiting for her to make the first move. "Mulder," she began, her voice quaking only mildly. "What exactly happened last night?" He met her gaze placidly, chewing thoughtfully, and without responding for a moment. Then he jabbed his fork at her untouched breakfast. "You eat that toast, with butter *and* jelly, and I'll tell you." He nonchalantly went back to cleaning his own plate. This can't be good, she thought, feeling the color rise to her face. She dutifully forced it down, however, with as much dignity as she could muster. "There's not much to tell, Scully. You had a nightmare," he started gently when she was finished. "I'm not well-versed in sleep disorders, but whatever your nightmare triggered, it was damned intense." He exhaled slowly, deliberately, and held her gaze. "You came into my room and knelt down by the bed. Initially I thought you were sleepwalking; your eyes were completely unfocused and you weren't responding to my voice. It was obvious you were in severe distress - you had a lot of trouble breathing." Scully felt her mind desperately search for confirmation and come up with nothing. Mulder continued. "I'm not sure what broke through, but you seemed to finally recognize me. You came back about halfway and then . . ." Mulder broke eye contact and stared at the half-empty juice glass in front of him. Why was this so damn hard? His words were barely above a whisper and he refused to look at her. "You were terrified, Scully. . ." He stopped for a moment and gathered courage. "Mulder, I ... I didn't tell you the entire truth the other day. It's true, I've been having nightmares lately. But I also think I've resumed an old habit from childhood." "Sleepwalking?" She nodded, strangely ashamed. "I used to go through periods of sleepwalking as a kid -- mostly after a move or a dramatic change, like after my father would ship out on an extended tour of duty." "I think we should go back to D.C. today," he stated flatly. "You need to see your doctor, and maybe a sleep specialist." "Mulder, I'm fi-" An intense glare from him had her swallowing her words. "Don't say it, Scully, unless you know for sure." A spark of anger rose at his insinuation. "It's just stress, Mulder. It's always been stress," she replied sharply. "Just because I haven't done it in years doesn't mean anything. I'm just reacting to the emotions in my dreams." She spoke deliberately, careful to attribute the stress to the nightmares, not daily life. His face remained stony, impassive. "What have your dreams been about?" Scully paled. "Just nameless images. Generic nightmare terrors." She looked away, praying he couldn't see she was lying. If he did, he was considerate enough to keep it unspoken. "You scared the shit out of me, Scully." "I'm sorry, Mulder... I didn't mean to involve you, not on any level. It's my problem, and I'll handle it." Her voice was pure, firm Scully. "But I'm sorry, no... embarrassed, that I..." "Scul-ly," he winced. "You were calling my name, for god's sake. *Please.* I'd like to think that some part of you needed me last night . . . that for once I could be there for *you.* I couldn't think of anything to do except keep you with me until whatever was happening in your mind had passed." He forced his eyes up again, where they met hers. "I. . . I just let you cry until you fell asleep. That's all. Please don't be sorry for that. *Never* be sorry for that." Relief and gratitude washed over Scully like a warm touch. She blinked back tears and took his hand in hers. "You're right, Mulder. I did need you. I always have." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (end part 4/7) -- End -- Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by pilot13.cl.msu.edu (8.7.5/MSU-2.10) id KAA73731; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 10:26:00 -0400 Received: (qmail 22899 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:35 -0000 Delivered-To: majordom-og-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22854 invoked by alias); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:34 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22658 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:22 -0000 Received: (qmail 22625 invoked from network); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:03 -0000 Received: from gateway.mosby.com (204.233.129.3) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 11 Jun 1997 14:16:03 -0000 Received: from smtp-gw.mosby.com (smtp-gw.mosby.com [198.181.209.197]) by gateway.Mosby.COM (8.7.3/8.6.9) with SMTP id JAA05873 for ; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 09:15:34 -0500 (CDT) From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com Received: from ccMail by smtp-gw.mosby.com (ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00) id AA866038562; Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:16:02 -0600 Message-Id: <9706118660.AA866038562@smtp-gw.mosby.com> X-Mailer: ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00 Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:17:22 -0600 To: Subject: "Transition" (5/7) MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk Restrict: no-external-archive ********************* Hope it was that tutored me, And Love that taught me more; And now I learn at Sorrow's knee The self-same lore. -- "Post-Graduate" ********************* The police station was bustling when Mulder and Scully arrived. An undercurrent of tension emanated from the mousy girl behind the switchboard who was nervously snapping and popping a wad of gum. "He's waiting for you in the conference room," she stated accusingly. "Chief Hermann?" Scully asked. "NO. Agent Jackson. The fed... I mean, *agent* from St. Louis. He wants to see you right away, he told me just a minute ago. I was just about to call you." "Here we go," Mulder sighed as they walked past the girl to the door behind her. Jackson stood in the corner of the room, staring critically at the damp grass just beginning to dry in the morning sun. Chief Hermann, sitting at the gunmetal grey table, flashed Mulder a combined look of panic and relief before standing. "Good, good, you're here. Assistant Director Jackson, this here's Agents Mulder and Scully, they're..." "Yes, I know. We spoke briefly yesterday," interrupted Jackson, snapping his head around to face the other agents. Jackson, a solid, broad-shouldered African-American, stood well over 6 feet and carried his impressive physique with commanding presence. His eyes glinted behind wire-rimmed glasses adorning his clean-shaven head. My god, it's Skinner's twin, Scully thought. Well, almost. If the military precision of Jackson's voice during yesterday's call was a mere undercurrent, it was a full-fledged force to be reckoned with in person. She felt Mulder instinctively straighten his spine in response to a glare from the senior agent. No need to exchange looks -- she *knew* Mulder was thinking the exact thing. "Chief Hermann informs me that there has been no progress since we spoke," Jackson stated. "No sir," said Scully. "We're afraid not." "Then let's cut to the chase. I spoke with AD Skinner last night, and he has agreed to my request that you both stay on to put together a profile of our killer. The St. Louis office is flooded with work, and I don't have the manpower to deal with this... situation." He emphasized the word with a piercing stare at Hermann. "I need your best assessment of the killer's next move, and I need it ASAP. A request to VCS can't be processed for at least 48 hours, and we don't need to waste that time when we've got a profiler right here." For the hundredth time, Mulder fervently wished he'd never stepped foot in the Behavioral Sciences Unit. Although he was inwardly seething at the situation, he realized the fruitlessness of protest. "Sir. If we provide a profile, and assuming nothing further can be ascertained from our psychic, Agent Scully and I will be allowed to return to D.C., correct?" Mulder's voice was clipped. Jackson narrowed his eyes. "You have somewhere to *be,* Agent Mulder?" he said icily. "Assistant Director Skinner led me to believe otherwise." "With all due respect, sir, I have been debating the necessity of our presence here and wondering if our further involvement is practical. And frankly, I haven't been a profiler in 5 years. We are not part of the VCS -- and that is for a reason," responded Mulder, deliberately walking a fine line between insolence and determination. What the hell, he mused. It was an approach that sometimes worked on Skinner. Hermann watched the power play between the agents in fascination, relieved to be, however temporarily, merely a spectator to Jackson's force. "All right, Agent Mulder." Jackson weighed his words with cold precision. "You may return to D.C. after you grace us with a profile. "I'm due back in St. Louis this afternoon. Call the RO for what resources you might need. I'll be in touch." And with a curt nod, he dismissed the agents. "Scully," Mulder began as they left the room. "Can you give me a rational, scientific explanation for the phenomenon we just witnessed in there?" "No, Mulder, I think that defies logic," she replied sardonically. "So, what's our next move?" "I'm going to get busy on that profile so we can disentangle ourselves from this case," he paused momentarily. "Can I ask you to do something for me?" She took in his pseudo-pitiful look and crossed her arms in a subconsciously defensive posture. "What?" "Talk to Margaret Hanson." "What about?" she retorted. "How she sees what she claims to have the ability to see. Any details at all that she can remember about talking with the killer. I'm going to need all the help I can get." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Margaret Hanson's residence Foristell, Missouri 10:30 a.m. "Agent Scully, right? Come in, please sit down -- whoops," Margaret Hanson quickly brushed away a fleet of Matchbox cars imminently threatening Scully's backside. "I'm sorry, I haven't had time to straighten up today," she laughed nervously. "I was just about to get ready for work. What can I do for you?" "Mrs. Hanson," Scully began. "Maggie, please," she responded earnestly. "Maggie. I'd like to get a little more information regarding the man you saw on Tuesday. Any physical features or details you can add to your previous statement." "I told the officers everything I can remember. He was medium height, slightly heavy, with short, dark hair. It's all in a file somewhere." "Yes, that's true," said Scully calmly. "But if you could think of any nonphysical... impressions," she winced slightly over the word, "that you sensed in this man, it could be helpful in generating a profile." "My impression as a psychic, Agent Scully, was that he was a sick, sick man -- full of hatred. My impression as a human being was that he was an ordinary, friendly person, with a countenance filled with love and peace. I can't explain the difference between appearance and reality. It horrifies me." Scully couldn't discount the emotions playing on Hanson's features. Whatever she saw or didn't see, the fact remained that she *believed* what she saw, and it had evidently been terrifying. "OK. Maggie, we didn't get to touch on your background yesterday. Maybe I should get some more clarification." Hanson's face crinkled into a slight smile. "Agent Mulder sent you to get a second opinion." Scully was taken aback. Had he? "No, we just need to..." "That's OK, really. It makes no difference to me. I just want to be of *some* help in this case. I don't want to see anyone else die." The sadness was evident in her face. "All right. When did you begin to believe you had psychic ability?" Hanson's brown eyes grew solemn. "I wasn't born with it, that I can tell you. When I was nine, I suddenly became quite ill. They didn't know what was wrong with me, but at one point I had a serious seizure. All I know is that when I recovered, my life was never the same again." "You believed you suddenly developed psychic abilities?" "I don't know if you'd call them that, especially not at first. I just noticed that I knew what everyone was feeling -- how they felt about me, how they felt about each other, God, life, death. It was terrifying." "Did you tell your parents?" Hanson's face hardened imperceptibly. "No. But they soon figured it out, though." Scully picked up on her subtle mood shift. "Did they make it difficult for you?" "No... I mean, yes. Well..." she rubbed her forehead in frustration. "They had me evaluated. And then sent away from home to be studied. I was treated like a lab rat for 5 years. It was humiliating -- and I lost my childhood." She paused. "But at the same time, I learned how to control it. I learned how to turn the power off and live a normal life. It's the only way I have survived." Hanson looked at Scully intently. "I think you might understand that." Scully blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" Hanson smiled softly and shook her head. "It's OK. Forget I mentioned it." Scully tried to concentrate on the cryptic words the woman had just spoken, but something was fogging up her thought processes. She was suddenly swept up in a profound sense of deja vu. The story seemed so familiar... "Maggie you said you were sent away. Do you remember where..." "Agent Scully?" Hanson's voice was sharp and insistent. "Agent Scully -- are you OK? You're bleeding..." Scully's hand flew instinctively to her nose, where it was met by a cruelly familiar hot, thick wetness. "I'm OK -- I'm OK. Um... can I use your bathroom..." Hanson quickly ushered Scully down the hall, expertly kicking toys out of their path. As the door closed, Hanson stood outside forlornly. Scully quickly washed the offending substance from her lip and took a deep breath for extra measure. Hesitating only briefly, she looked up to appraise herself in the mirror. No words. No wraiths. No disembodied souls. Just a calm, pale woman staring back at her. How deceptive appearances could be. She stared at herself a moment longer, struck once again by an odd feeling of familiarity. She had never been in this house, never met this woman before yesterday. Why did her thoughts keep fixating on her story? As she reached for a dry towel, Scully's gaze fell on a prescription bottle sitting on the counter. Paramethadione. An antiseizure medication, used to treat epileptic seizures. She inhaled sharply. A study. Psychic behavior. Epilepsy. St. Louis. No, no, no... What were the odds? Her mind scrambled frantically, putting together the pieces before she even realized there was a puzzle to solve. Maggie. The Beecher factor. Beecher was her maiden name according to the background check. It couldn't be. It had to be. Not three months previously she and Mulder had made a personal trip to St. Louis as a favor for Langly, whose cousin Danny Switzer had died under possibly mysterious circumstances. During the unofficial investigation, they had located the records to a medical study Switzer had been a participant in as a child -- one involving epilepsy and possible psychic activity. Some children in the study had been given an experimental drug, one that most likely caused deadly adult-onset aneurysms. The records were spotty and incomplete, but definitely suggestive. And most importantly, it suddenly occurred to Scully, they mentioned a mysterious participant cited only as "Maggie." Scully's thoughts were once again that day interrupted by a knock at the bathroom door. "Agent Scully? Are you OK? Chief Hermann is on the phone. He needs to talk to you -- there's been another murder." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (end part 5/7) I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com -- End -- Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by pilot05.cl.msu.edu (8.7.5/MSU-2.10) id KAA21370; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 10:24:17 -0400 Received: (qmail 22895 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:35 -0000 Delivered-To: majordom-og-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22849 invoked by alias); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:34 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 22669 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:24 -0000 Received: (qmail 22634 invoked from network); 11 Jun 1997 14:16:09 -0000 Received: from gateway.mosby.com (204.233.129.3) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 11 Jun 1997 14:16:09 -0000 Received: from smtp-gw.mosby.com (smtp-gw.mosby.com [198.181.209.197]) by gateway.Mosby.COM (8.7.3/8.6.9) with SMTP id JAA05887 for ; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 09:15:38 -0500 (CDT) From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com Received: from ccMail by smtp-gw.mosby.com (ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00) id AA866038564; Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:16:06 -0600 Message-Id: <9706118660.AA866038564@smtp-gw.mosby.com> X-Mailer: ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00 Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:17:56 -0600 To: Subject: "Transition" (6/7) MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk Restrict: no-external-archive ******************* When I was gay, when I was gay -- It's ninety years and nine! -- Oh, never I thought that Death could lay His terrible hand in mine. -- "Liebestod" ****************** "Mel Heitschmidt. Retired schoolteacher. Widower. Neighbor found the body," Officer Hank Murphy rattled off the particulars in a distant monotone, barely able to look anywhere but straight down. He swayed slightly and concentrated on the notes written in his pad. "Certainly looks like our man," Scully said, rolling the body carefully. "The victim shows a blow to the back of the skull and a deep cut severing the jugular vein. Probably been dead 24 to 36 hours." She peeled off her gloves and began to ask Murphy some detailed questions, turning the young man's complexion slightly greener with every sentence. Mulder was pacing slowly, examining the living room's musty, dated contents. Nearly every fixture, piece of furniture, and knick knack screamed 1970. The man was living in a self-made time capsule, Mulder thought, and an awful one at that. He took in the dark carpet and couch with a wrinkled nose. Just what *was* this town's fascination with brown? He pulled back a hideously patterned curtain from the window to gaze out on the back lawn, sneezing twice from the dust that flew up in a feeble cloud. The killer would have had little trouble approaching the back of the house unseen, he noted. The large lot was overgrown with a stand of maple trees, huge peony bushes, and untamed climbing roses engulfing a dozen weathered, collapsing trellises. The care that had once tended the yard had long since stopped, leaving the plants to revert to the wild, turning on themselves in the slow, inevitable process of choking each other out. The incongruous thought flitted across his mind, sweetly tempting in its inappropriate innocence. You can never run, Mulder. Never. "...he's standing right there. Is it, Agent Mulder?" Murphy's tremulous voice finally registered. "Wha - what?" Mulder managed to croak. "Is the back door unlocked?" said Scully. "Yeah, yeah, it is. I think the killer came in through the back," he said tiredly. Two paramedics entered the room almost unnoticed until one spoke. "God. This is so weird... someone offed Heitschmidt... Man..." Mulder and Scully simultaneously turned to look at the young woman. "Excuse me. Did you know the victim?" Scully asked. "Yeah, of course. He taught math at the high school for, like, 30 years. Mean old bastard. No telling how many people would have loved to have done this." "Great," growled Mulder, obviously disgusted. "Just great. Prime opportunity for a copycat." "I'll be able to tell from the autopsy, Mulder," Scully said calmly. "Give me a few hours and we'll know if it's the same killer." "Yeah, I know." He rubbed his hand absently through his hair. A selfish thought pressed its way to the forefront. Why couldn't he have finished the damn profile before this body was found? "C'mon, Mulder. Let's go back to the station," Scully gently laid a hand on his arm, where it trembled slightly. His attention immediately focused on her. "Scully. You OK?" "I'm fine," she reassured. "But I think I've got a bizarre story to tell you once things calm down a bit." The police radio crackled loudly as they left the small house and walked toward the squad car. Hermann was barking ferociously into the handset as Mulder and Scully approached. "Yeah. Gotcha. Well run an address, god dammit! Of course I'll wait!" He turned to the pair. "Maggie Hanson just phoned the station from the Stop-n-Shop. She saw him again, plain as day as she walked into the store to start her shift. Bought a giant bag of dog food and some milk. She followed him back out to the lot and got his plate!" Hermann guffawed in glee. "We're gonna get this son of a bitch if it's the..." The radio hissed and popped as a squeaky voice bled through. "Plates match a Nathaniel Bogg, Chief. Number 11, Rural Route 13." "OK. Me and Hank and the Feds are on the way. C'mon! Let's hog tie this bastard!" Mulder gave Scully a nervous glance. "He's kidding, Scully, isn't he?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mulder and Scully followed Hermann's squad car about 5 miles out of town into an unincorporated area of Warren County. Murphy motioned for them to stop about 100 yards from of an older wood-frame house set far back from the road. Scully guessed it to be an old farmhouse, although the land around it didn't look to have been farmed in quite some time. The agents got out and stood next to the Chief. "Looks like he's home," Mulder gesticulated toward a beat-up black Ford Galaxy parked next to the house. "Looks just like a serial murderer's car," he joked. "Should have put 'drives crappy car' in my profile." "That's the plate, Chief," said Hank Murphy eagerly. "Chief Hermann, whatever your intentions, be aware that we're merely going to ask the man some questions. We have no proof, much less *any* reason to assume he is responsible for five murders," Scully warned, also throwing an admonishing look at her big-mouthed parter. "Of course, Agent Scully, I realize that," Hand said sharply. "Let's just go ask the fella a few questions and see what happens. So's not to scare him off too much, Hank, you stay in the car. Three's a mite better'n four, at least when not tryin' to scare off a suspect." They approached the house casually, but noted no suspicious movement. Hermann knocked on the door. After a moment, he tried again. "Mr. Bogg? This is Chief Hermann from the Wright City Police. May I have a word with you, Sir?" They were met with silence. "Chief, let's head back and see if we can come up with enough information for a warrant. There may be a connection..." But before Mulder could complete the sentence, Hermann had turned the unlocked doorknob and was already leaning into the front hall. "Mr. Bogg?" "We have no probable cause," Scully warned. "I won't touch nothin', Agent Scully," Hermann called from the interior of the small home. Mulder shrugged as Scully sighed. "Let's just play nice like good feds," he murmured, following Hermann. Scully grumbled under her breath in futile protest. It didn't take long to determine no one was in the house. As the group headed back out the front door, Murphy barreled up the walk. "Chief, Missy just radioed. Dan's got some info on this Bogg fella. Wants you to come back to the station." "Good, good. Let's call Judge Calhoun. I wanna *talk* to this guy." Hermann marched through the grass with Murphy scurrying behind him. Scully began to follow when Mulder suddenly grabbed her elbow. "Hang on, Scully. Chief Hermann?" he called from the front porch. We'll be right behind you. I just want to take a walk around the property." The burly man quickly nodded his assent and continued toward his car. "Mulder, we're trespassing as it is. Let's just come back tomorrow with a warrant, if we find it's needed," Scully said. "You're right," he said absently, walking back inside. "But there's something -- I just want to look around for a minute. Something caught my attention." Mulder headed back into the den, uncertain as to what he was looking for, but knowing he'd eventually find what triggered the feeling of uncomfortable suspicion. Whoever Bogg was, he was an orderly man. The house was old, but neat as a pin. Mulder tried to absorb everything, mentally scouring for any visual break in the pattern, any oddity. He wandered into the kitchen. "Scully?" "Yeah," came a muffled reply. "Where are you?" "Bedroom, Mulder. I think you should come in here. I found what looks to be a journal, and Mel Heitschmidt's...." Her words were interrupted by a screen door slam and a series of barks and menacing growls. Unclipping her gun, she sprinted down the narrow hall toward the kitchen. Mulder lay face down on the green linoleum, a huge German Shepard viciously attached to his bloody right wrist. A man stood above him, one fist entangled in Mulder's hair, one hand holding a knife at his throat. "Federal Agent! Drop your weapon!" Bogg slowly twisted his head toward her and gazed directly at the woman leveling a gun at his torso. His hands never wavered. For a moment, time simply stopped. "Don't you see? I can't. It's for my own good." And he smiled. A beautiful, joyous smile that would have bestowed a feeling of peace on anyone who didn't see the languorous drip of blood begin snaking down Mulder's white shirt collar. In a second, numerous possible paths the future might take were lessened by one. The tip of Scully's gun rose almost imperceptibly before she fired. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sunday, April 20 St. Louis Regional Office 11:30 a.m. Special Agent Henry Jackson looked down at the papers on his immaculate desk and then back out the window to Market Street below, which was quiet on this weekend morning. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he turned back to the report for a fourth read. Perhaps it would have been an open-and-shut case. The journal was overwhelming proof of Nathaniel Bogg's guilt. A spiral-bound litany of all who had done him wrong, had insulted, harmed or slighted him. More than 100 names were carefully detailed in tidy block lettering -- some with addresses or daily schedules. Among them were Ethan Kamp, a boy who had blasted a baseball through Boggs' front window. Steven Hempel, a drunken construction worker who picked a bar fight with the killer. Olivia D'Cruz, unfortunate enough to rear-end the wrong person at the bank and then flee the scene. Dr. Owen Rogers, unable to save the life of Boggs' Irish Setter. And Mel Heitschmidt. Yes, it would probably have been a simple case, disregarding the illegal entry and improperly seized evidence. Probably. But it didn't matter now. Nathaniel Bogg was dead. Attack on a federal agent, refusal to put down a weapon. The shot was warranted. The angle was unusual, the suspect twisted and leaning down toward the agent on the ground. Not much room for error. None, actually. And so the bullet pierced his heart after traveling through his upper arm. Jackson pinched his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. After a moment, he picked up his pen and signed the report, in triplicate. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (end part 6/7) I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com -- End -- Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by pilot13.cl.msu.edu (8.7.5/MSU-2.10) id KAA139249; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 10:30:28 -0400 Received: (qmail 25312 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:21:12 -0000 Delivered-To: majordom-og-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 25305 invoked by alias); 11 Jun 1997 14:21:11 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail 25260 invoked by uid 1000); 11 Jun 1997 14:21:09 -0000 Received: (qmail 25222 invoked from network); 11 Jun 1997 14:21:04 -0000 Received: from gateway.mosby.com (204.233.129.3) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 11 Jun 1997 14:21:04 -0000 Received: from smtp-gw.mosby.com (smtp-gw.mosby.com [198.181.209.197]) by gateway.Mosby.COM (8.7.3/8.6.9) with SMTP id JAA06679 for ; Wed, 11 Jun 1997 09:20:34 -0500 (CDT) From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com Received: from ccMail by smtp-gw.mosby.com (ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00) id AA866038861; Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:21:01 -0600 Message-Id: <9706118660.AA866038861@smtp-gw.mosby.com> X-Mailer: ccMail Link to SMTP R8.00.00 Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97 09:18:28 -0600 To: Subject: "Transition" (7/7) MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk Restrict: no-external-archive ******************* Secrets, you said, would hold us two apart; You'd have me know of you your least transgression, And so the intimate places of your heart, Kneeling, you bared to me, as in confession. -- "Plea" ******************* Sunday, April 20 Dana Scully's Apartment 9:37 p.m. "So, are you calling Langly tonight?" Scully asked as she dropped her bag on the couch. "I'd better," Mulder responded, shutting the door behind them. "He might try to exact revenge if we hid the fact that we met the catalyst of his cousin's medical experimentation study. She seemed willing to meet him in the near future." Scully flipped on the lamp and checked her answering machine. No messages. No surprise. "Scully," said Mulder softly, shifting nervously in front of the door. "Tomorrow's Monday. Do you want a ride to GUMC for your scan?" She studied her partner for a moment, feeling the sands shift beneath her feet. So much was changing. Every time she thought she fully understood this man and what place she held in his world, circumstances would prove her wrong and reveal a new facet to their complex relationship. Always changing -- sometimes excruciating in its pain, sometimes breathtaking in its joy. But always, always inspiring in its strength. Perhaps because of her illness -- or maybe despite it -- she had only recently allowed herself to contemplate the tempting bittersweet implications. "Thanks, that would... that would be nice," she said, almost shyly. He smiled in quiet relief. "OK. See you at 9?" "Yeah." He smiled again and turned toward the door. Almost as an afterthought, he stopped and faced his partner, who had silently moved directly behind him. Startled at her sudden proximity, he searched her face for a moment before speaking. "I forgot something," he whispered. "What?" It came out nearly breathless. "To thank you. For telling me about your dream. About seeing Nathaniel Bogg." "Someone *like* him," she corrected gently. "There's no way I could have dreamed..." "Scul-ly," he interrupted easily. "You don't have to explain. I won't press you or try to convince you with my theories. I'm not going to open an X-File on your dreams. I just appreciate you telling me. I... I don't think I could bear it if you shut me out of your life." The last sentence was uttered so low that she barely heard it, despite their nearness. With a move that surprised them both, Scully raised her hand and cupped his cheek gently. "I need you to fight me, Mulder. I need you to push me at every turn. Don't let me hide anymore -- from you or myself. Please." She paused and looked deeply into his mournful eyes. "You once asked me why I never ask you for favors. Consider this a very important request." He delicately took her palm from his cheek and entwined their fingers. "Your wish is my command." Before turning to face the door, he squeezed her fingers gently and held her gaze, his face a study in warmth and compassion. "Tomorrow." And he was gone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Epilogue ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ FBI Headquarters Friday, May 2 8:05 p.m. Mulder shifted aimlessly through a packet of papers the Lone Gunmen had given him that evening. Margaret Hanson had made a trip to D.C. earlier in the week to meet with Langly and share as much as she could remember about her days as a test subject at Washington University. She had vivid memories of endless testing, constant dehumanizing exercises and treatment by the lab personnel, all for the purpose of data collection. Her value as an individual was not based on her intrinsic worth as a human being, but as a scientific anomaly. And the most disturbing part of it was that they had been trying to create more like her. Hanson remembered the other children. They were her only friends for five years, although her contact with them was limited at best. She was frightened and disgusted to learn that half had been subjected to an experimental drug in an effort to induce psychic ability, to artificially recreate the curse that had been naturally bestowed on her. And if that weren't enough guilt for one woman, she also had to face the fact that most of that subgroup, including Langly's cousin, were already dead -- killed by an inexplicable series of transient ischemic attacks culminating in deadly aneurysms. Innocent children, expendable pawns in the endless dark game of government conspiracy and cover-up. Mulder sighed in disgust as he flipped through the Gunmen's notes. His empathy for Hanson was genuine, but he was exhausted and having difficulty concentrating on the documents and photographs. It all seemed so trivial. Scully's latest scans had revealed that her cancer was metastasizing. His parter's life -- as well as his own -- was beginning to dissolve in front of his eyes. What did all this matter when the world was coming to an end? Photographs. Old, faded Polaroids of small groups of children, crooked and out of focus. At one point as a child Hanson had been given a gift of a cheap camera, and she had taken the silly pictures that a young girl would take. Giggling friends making faces at the camera, sticking tongues out and rolling eyes. How strange, she had told the Gunmen, that she had these photos after all these years and all the bad memories. Maybe it was a good thing she was a packrat. Mulder made a mental note to have the backgrounds in the photos enhanced to learn more about the lab itself. He carelessly tossed the pile on his desk and made a move to gather his things and head home, bending to pick up one blurry photo that had slipped off the desk. He gazed at it momentarily, and his breath caught in his throat. A small boy smiled at him from the picture, fair-haired and shy. Mulder had met this boy before. But in 1996, not 1974. His heart nearly skidded to a halt. In Canada. Working alongside Samantha under great black tarps. He had seen not only this boy, but a hundred of his clones. Mulder shuddered and closed his eyes. With trembling hands, he gathered the notes, the files, and the photographs in a plain brown envelope. He walked to the furthest file cabinet, the one with unmarked drawers, the one nearest Scully's desk. He opened the bottom drawer and silently placed the envelope inside, locking the cabinet when he was finished. It could wait. It had to wait. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END Please stay tuned to this list and the archives for more of Redemption, coming soon. Thanks very much for reading. Again, I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com As Warned, Longer Author Note for Those Who Care About Motivation: The more I ponder the second half of the fourth season and the episode Gesthemane, the more I worry. As a viewer who was lured in to the show by the brilliant episodes "Ascension" and "One Breath," I have started to fret over the Mulder portrayed in recent storylines. I am assuming that the writers of the show (for lack of a better theory) have grown careless in developing his character in relationship to the first, second, and even the third seasons. The Mulder I grew to like is a compassionate, intense, devoted partner who has been willing to trade his career, his life, even his *sister's* life for Scully's safety. As many of us have been moaning recently, "where is the Mulder that we know and love?" I therefore constructed this story around a concept of what Mulder *would* do if he were the same man portrayed in the first three seasons of this show. Perhaps if script writing this season had been more consistent and less self-serving (whoops! Pardon me!), this Mulder would have been more apparent in the last few episodes of the fourth season. But what the hell do I know? He's just a fictional character! :-) By the way, for all you road-trippers out there, the geographical details (including tacky tourist sites) of this story are real. -- End --