Title - Eye of the Beholder, The (1/10)
Author - Nascent
E-Mail address - nascen...@hotmail.com
Rating - NC-17 (violence, language)
Category - XA
Spoilers - Emily
Keywords - Mulder/Scully Friendship/UST
Summary - Mulder and Scully are called in to help track a serial killer
whose victims have a guilty past. But the killer draws their personal
lives into a high-stakes game of vengeance, which poses a risky
opportunity for to learn more about the Syndicate and lots of
opportunities for almost-gratuitous Angst. =)

Archive - yes to Gossamer, ask me for others

Feedback - yes please! =)

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"The Eye of the Beholder" part 1 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

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NOTES: I've been writing this one for a long time, hope it was worth
the effort. I started writing right around Schizogeny (when I was bored
with TV), so this is supposed to take place in February, 1998, but I
think it does some completely unintentional setup for The Red and the
Black without spoiling it. It's a MOTW, but it's also just an
opportunity for Mulder and Scully to examine the relationship of
perception to truth. It's pretty long, but if you can get through it,
I'd love to hear what you think. This is my very first real story, and
I hope I managed to pull it off--it's always nice to write something
with a plot. =)

I'm not a shipper myself, but the story is friendly for both ends of the
spectrum--has some touchy feely stuff that could go both ways. UST
galore!!!

WARNING: This story contains graphically explicit violence, abuse and
rape (but only of MY characters, not Chris'). If you're not old enough
to read this legally go away and come back in a few years.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to all other fanfic writers and archivists.
I've just discovered this world (both of fanfic and the X-Files), and am
in awe of all the innovation, dedication and friendly people I've
encountered. Thanks also to Pellinor's great page explaining the FBI
structure (no, I didn't just pull things like "Critical Incident
Response Group" out of my ass).

DISCLAIMER: What follows is a completely shameless rip-off of The
X-Files, which is the intellectual property of Chris Carter, 1013
Productions and Fox, not me. No profit was made in this enterprise (in
fact, anti-profit was probably the result =) ). No animals, fictional
or otherwise, were harmed in the making of this story, except for when I
fell off my chair at work and spilled my coffee all over myself since I
had been forgoing sleep to finish this.

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February, 1998
Garnet Plaza Office Complex
3:25 a.m.
Tuesday

The large man was cowering on the concrete floor, mumbling around the
dirty blue gag. A powerful flashlight beam illuminated the top of his
balding head. He was lying on his side, handcuffed at the wrists and
ankles, and as he shivered his belly jiggled grotesquely.

A second man, small and feral, watched his captive seriously from a
plain wooden chair. He held the flashlight, pointing it directly at the
bound man, perhaps to disorient him. He glanced at his watch. Five
more minutes.

The time passed in almost-silence, as the gibbering man on the floor
quivered and turned ineffectually. The second man waited woodenly,
regarding the dusty old office furniture, which he had pushed against
the walls to make space.

Finally, it was time. The small man lifted a loose, black hood which
had been sitting in his lap. He slipped it over his head and stood,
walked toward the cowering man on the floor and stooped down.

The frightened captive saw a figure whose face was shrouded in black,
two holes for eyes. He saw the man raise his arm, and the glimmer of
steel. The man moved his hands so that the length of the knife was
fully visible, and the bound figure began twisting ineffectually and
protesting more loudly against the gag.

He felt a hand at the button of his jeans. Oh jesus, no! He heard the
sound of the zipper, felt his pants and underwear tugged roughly down
his hips as he was turned onto his stomach. Please, no, please....He
bucked and kicked, but stilled as he felt the cold steel blade at his
throat.

He began to sob as he felt something cold and hard press between his
buttocks. He screamed as the something was plunged inside of him
without warning, tearing mercilessly at his tender, tightened anus.
Just as ruthlessly, it was ripped out, then made to skewer him a second
time, while he writhed and sobbed brokenly.

A voice by his ear, rough and edgy. "How's it feel, Hank?"

Again. He was in agony, all dignity lost. He tried to beg for mercy,
but the gag was so tight he could only make more noise. Again.
ohpleasejesusnonono Again.

Suddenly, there was a clatter as the thing was flung aside, and he was
roughly rolled onto his back. He looked up at the black-clad figure
looming over him, and in horror saw the knife begin to descend, slowly,
toward his exposed groin. He shook his head, trying to scream, crying
helplessly. Still, the knife descended with inexorable slowness.

When he felt the edge of the blade at the base of his penis, he went
utterly still, chanting what might have been the word "no" over and over
again.   It came out sounding oddly sexual, a rhythmic
"unh...unh...unh...unh...." The hooded man paused deliberately, then
his hand surged violently forward. The man called Hank screamed in
horrible agony, and, mercifully, passed out a few seconds later.

The hooded man stared in confusion as arterial blood spurted out. He
seemed not to know what to do next.

But with a sudden decisive move, he simply drew the knife across Hank's
throat, slitting it cleanly. Blood gushed onto his gloved hands and his
robe, and in a moment he was drenched. But he did not move away, merely
stared at the knife he held. Slowly, slowly, the knife twisted in his
hands until the blade was pointed toward his own body.

As the blade plunged into his belly, he felt oddly peaceful. Even
though he couldn't help moaning in misery as his lifeblood pooled with
Hank's, he was glad of this rest.

---------------------------------------------------

Washington, D. C.
Wednesday
4:25 a.m.

She was walking on water. Or, rather, she was walking in water, but
also on it. She could feel it sloshing around her ankles, but she was
distinctly aware that her feet pushed against, not solid ground, but the
water itself. When she looked down, she could see her own body, naked
and thinner than it used to be, and the ocean, deeper than she'd ever
imagined it. Despite it's depth, she could see clear to the bottom,
miles below. She thought she could perceive the blurred outline of a
shipwreck there--a pile of decaying, rusted metal edges and the
almost-clear outline of a prow. She did not know where she was walking,
only that she had to keep going or she would start to sink. The water
was very cold, and even as she hesitated between steps, she would sink a
little, and the water lapped her calves. She wanted to stop, to peer
down at the boat over which she walked--she thought she could make out
letters on its side--but she know that to do so would be to court
death. Even so, the sun overhead was bright and hot, and a part of her
longed to be immersed in the cold, still water.

A loud ringing penetrated the eerie surroundings, and she instinctively
groped for her cell phone, but then remembered that she was naked, and
there are few places a naked person can stash a cell phone. That's when
she knew she was dreaming. Even as the phone rang again, she found it
difficult to jar herself from sleep. "You're in bed, Dana," she said
aloud in as reassuring a tone as possible. She wondered what bed she
was in--was it hers or a motel's? Or a hospital's? That thought was
sufficient to undo all the hard work she'd done trying to rouse
herself. The phone rang again, though, reinforcing her grip on reality,
and by an act of will she wrenched herself out of the water-world, only
to surface in her own bedroom. The phone rang again, and she grabbed it
viciously, as if by proving her mastery of it she could regain her
position in this world.

She saw the clock before she spoke. Immediately, she assessed the three
possibilities-Mulder was in trouble, Mulder had a case, Mulder couldn't
sleep. She decided to keep her options open. Half a second later, she
answered. "Mulder."

"Scully, are you developing psychic tendencies?" Not in trouble.

"Statistics, Mulder," she muttered. "It's 4:30."

"Good morning to you, too, Sunshine," he said cheerily. Too cheerily.
He had a case. And she had plans: she'd hoped to be completely caught
up on paperwork by the end of the week and happily skiing in Vermont
this weekend.

"Please tell me you're at home," she said hopelessly. "Please don't
tell me to pack a bag."

"Well, whether you want extra clothes is your own personal decision,
Scully, but if you want to know my personal preference as the person
most likely to be affected by your lack of extra attire, I'd rather you
bring at least a _couple_ of extra outfits. But if you don't want to,
I'll always respect your choices. I want you to know that."

She smiled despite herself, and he must have heard her inadvertant and
amused expulsion of breath, because he immediately continued,
encouraged. "But as for me, considerate soul I am, I would like to be
springtime fresh every morning, so if you could stop by my place and
pack me a bag, we'll both appreciate it."

She was sitting now, running a hand through her rumpled hair. "Do I get
to know where we're going?" she asked. "I take it this isn't a surprise
trip to the Caymans."

"Sorry, I only take women there if there's a promise of great sex. For
you, it's Lima, Ohio. But I'll try to requisition a Honda especially
for you, if it'll make you feel better."

"You'll spoil me," she rejoined. "Lima, huh? So I'll pack your Bermuda
shorts."

"Scully, if you can find a pair of Bermuda shorts anywhere _near_ my
possessions at any time, I will wear them to any event of your
choosing. Under my trenchcoat, of course."

"That'll get you arrested real fast, badge or no badge, and I won't be
bailing you out," she replied. She was fully awake now. "Seriously,
Mulder, what is this case and why didn't you go home last night?"

"How do you know I didn't go home?"

"You wouldn't be asking me to pick up your clothes. You could've had
some relevatory flash of insight on a file you'd been thinking about,
but I _know_ you promised to finish the paperwork on the last two cases
before running off again, so I hope that this is about a phone call you
received sometime since I last saw you."

"Which was 9 p.m. last night. Who'd call me between then and now?"

She was getting annoyed. "Why don't you tell me?"

He considered telling her the truth: _Because I like to see how your
mind works. I like to see how you come to conclusions, especially when
I already know you're right._ But he knew she would (justifiably) be
angry at such an obvious psychoanalysis game, so he just told her.

"You're right, I didn't go home. You'll be glad to hear I was finishing
up the report on the Oklahoma case. Two hours ago, I got a call from
the Cleveland regional office. Guy I knew from the VCS, name of
Markworth. He's an ASAC in Cleveland, and they've got a serial killer
they could use a little help on. He remembered me, and specifically
called Skinner to ask for us."

"Why? Does it look like an X-File?" Scully hauled her suitcase out from
under the bed.

"Only in that the killer seems to kill himself every time. Maybe. The
victims come in pairs, and the scene is made to appear as if one man--or
woman--killed the other, then killed himself. But the autopsies don't
preclude third-party involvement."

"Sounds like the guy just wants you to do a profile." Scully popped
open her suitcase.

"Yeah, a profile's definitely part of the deal, but I don't think
Skinner would have agreed if that were all."

"Mulder, if you don't think this is an X-File..." she let the sentence
hang.

"I know. I know you were going skiing with Ellen this weekend and you
haven't seen her in months. It'll probably take me a couple of days to
do the profile, and you can come back if you want. But just come out
with me, look over the reports. Jacobs asked for the X-Files _team_
specifically."

Scully sighed. "Doesn't sound like it to me. Sounds to me like they
wanted an available profiler and jumped at the chance to get a free
pathologist thrown into the deal."

"I definitely feel like there's more to this than a free pathologist.
The obvious explanation is third-party involvement, and we're not the
VCS. But Markworth is a good agent--I don't think he'd call us in
unless he was pretty confident that the obvious was not the answer. You
don't have to go, obviously, but I'd like to see what you think."

"No, of course I'll come." Scully selected three suits from her closet,
folded them and added them to the suitcase. She felt a little resentful
that after all this time Skinner would still pull them off the X-Files,
hiring them out to other branches, but then again, maybe he wouldn't.
She smiled to herself. Once, she would have been relieved to work on a
normal case. "What's the M.O., besides the two-victims thing?"

"That's the thing. It's inconsistent. His victims--there are eight
I.D.ed so far--are male and female, young and old. Some he tortures,
some he doesn't, but he never does it the same way. It's as if he's not
getting off through the act of killing--the killing takes backseat to
something else. Something that determines the method. But we have to
catch a 7 a.m. flight to Dayton, Scully. I'll explain more on the
plane."

"Okay, I'm on my way."

"Scully?"

"What?"

"Don't forget my running shoes."

"Mulder, do you know how cold northern Ohio is in February?"

"I'll meet you at the airport. We're flying American."

"Okay." She hung up.

---------------------------------------------------

Washington, D. C.
Wednesday
6:45 a.m.

Mulder finished stowing Scully's laptop and coat in the overhead bin,
handed her a file from his briefcase and took his customary aisle seat.
The plane was sparsely filled, making discussion of the case a lot more
convenient.

Scully browsed through the file. It had been opened two months earlier,
after the first double murder, which the local PD had put down as
homicide-suicide. The second occurrence, a month later, had piqued the
FBI's interest, but she noted that it was still marked homicide-suicide
by the AIC (a man named Roberts, not Jacobs). The third pair had been
found two weeks after that, and now was labeled double homicide, and the
fourth report was incomplete, the bodies having been discovered the
previous night. All four events shared only one obvious commonality:
the "suicide" victim had been wearing a black hood or ski-mask.

"Executioner," she muttered reflexively.

"I thought so too," said Mulder.

"Who's this Roberts guy?"

"Field Agent working out of the Cleveland office. I've never heard of
him. I did some checking on him though. He's been with the Bureau five
years, has a law degree from Oklahoma State. He started out in the
Critical Incident Response Group in D.C., trained there for two years
and put in a request to stay, but got transferred to Ohio. He's been
through three partners since then and he's partnerless now--I get the
impression he's hard to get along with. But it's his 302. He's
probably hoping to get this case closed before the the VCS swoops down
on it--it would mean all the glory would be his and maybe get him
reinstated in the eyes of superiors. But all that's a guess."

"Where does Jacobs fit, then?" A stewardess started her airline safety
routine.

"Jacobs is G-12, technically Roberts' superior," Mulder answered,
leaning in so Scully could hear over the stewardess. "Markworth told me
he joined the case because Roberts needed a partner. At his age, he
should be an ASAC by now. I actually knew him when I was in the the
BSU--he was in training at VICAP. He's a good agent but he had a
reputation for being a little...soft. He has trouble telling people
what to do, that kind of thing. I had lunch with him a few times.
Anyway, he requested the transfer to Columbus when his wife took a
faculty position at Case Western. Has two kids."

"Sounds like you did more research on these two than the case," Scully
noted.

"Well, since the ASAC requested our help, I figured it would be
important to know who _didn't_ ask for us." He grinned. "There'll be
plenty of time for the case."

"So are we working _with_ them or just looking around and telling them
our impressions?"

"I'm not quite sure," Mulder answered. "Jacobs said they'd meet us in
Lima and already have hotel rooms for us, which they offered to put on
their R.O. expense account to save us the paperwork. So I guess we'll
all be one happy FBI family up there."

Scully gave a suggestive eyebrow raise. "Does that mean we have extra
cash in our per diem?"

"You wish. I know how much you were looking forward to that fine Lima
dining, but Skinner brokered the deal so we'll have to settle for Bob
Evans and Cracker Barrel."

"That's too bad," Scully murmured, returning her attention to the file.
The plane began to taxi.

She studied the reports. The first pair of murders were not
remarkable. Drug dealers with criminal records. Blood work-ups had
revealed high levels of both methamphetamines and barbituites in their
system and the autopsies reported extensive, recent damage to all
lateral veins--trackmarks. They had been found in an abandoned
warehouse. The first victim had died from bullet wounds to both knees
and the stomach. The second victim, the apparent suicide, had bled to
death from a stomach wound. Jacobs hadn't faxed any crime scene photos,
probably anticipating that they wouldn't come out in the fax, but she
didn't need to see them to understand why this first murder had been
shelved by local officials.

The second pair was much stranger. A fifty-five-year-old man, a
director of a nursing home, was the "executioner" this time. The deaths
had occurred in a wooded plot at the edge of his family's farm.   He had
apparently bludgeoned a hand-cuffed man to death with a tree branch,
then impaled his stomach on a nearby metal fence post. Again, the
stomach. Multiple puncture wounds suggested that the impalement had
taken several tries. The other victim had been an older man, a banker
who neither lived nor worked anywhere near the farm where he'd died.
His wife, adult son and employees had been no help.

The third pair. A teenaged boy had been the "executioner" of a
forty-three-year-old woman, an elementary school teacher and mother of
two. Again, there was no discernible connection between the two
victims. The deaths had occurred in the garage attached to the boy's
house. The woman had been doused with gasoline and lit on fire, and the
boy had shot himself in the stomach with his father's rifle, a feat
accomplished by sitting on the floor, holding the gun between his feet
and pulling the trigger via a string attached to his toe.

"A string attached to his toe," Scully repeated aloud, mostly so Mulder
would know where she was.

"Yeah, pretty tough way to kill yourself. Plenty of time to think it
over."

Then the most recent case, for which only a few notes were scribbled.
The victims were both middle-aged men, both with families. One was a
night watchman (at whose place of employment the bodies had been found),
the other a construction worker. The watchman, who had been hooded, had
only one injury, a knife wound to the stomach. The other had received
an extremely old-fashioned vasectomy and died when his throat was slit.

Except for the first pair, there was no evidence of drug use in the
toxicology screens, although the last pair of course had not been
completed--somehow she had a feeling she'd end up doing those
autopsies. All the deaths were estimated to have occurred between 12
a.m. and 5 a.m. None of the victims had any psychiatric history. The
construction worker had been in jail for two years for robbing a gas
station, and the banker's wife had twice retracted claims of domestic
violence, but except for the druggies, no others had police records.

"Well, Mulder," she said finally, turning to meet his eyes. "I hate to
say it, but this looks like an X-File to me. Motiveless, unconnected
killings and complicated suicides? Even if a third party were
responsible, the M.O. is all over the place. There's nothing cohesive
enough to indicate a single killer. It looks as if these people were
somehow similarly influenced or compelled to perform these acts."

"You're thinking along the lines of some common experience, or exposure
to some psychoactive compound?"

"Maybe."

"Roberts' notes seem to indicate he thinks it's a third party staging
everything."

"Yes, I see that. But he offers no compelling motive...."

"He acknowledges that. But it's the only explanation he can fathom."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know yet, although I'm leaning toward the third party idea.
Although I think the third party may be a group of people."

"What, Satan worshipers or something?" Scully couldn't help thinking
with amusement that a few years ago she'd never have believed she'd be
saying this so seriously.

Mulder grinned, obviously having had the same thought. But he spoke
with equal seriousness. "Maybe. I don't know, it has a really familiar
feel. I want to see the crime scene photos and talk to a couple of
people before I say anything definite."

"Well, I have a feeling I'm going to be canceling my ski trip."

"You don't have to," Mulder assured her, knowing she would. "I know you
haven't seen your friend since before..." He meant to add "the cancer,"
but decided to leave the sentence where it was.

Scully didn't reply, skimming back through the file. "It's interesting
that the 'suicides' were all stomach wounds."

"Why?" Mulder asked, although he had an idea.

"Pretty painful, messy way to go. Whatever happened to good
old-fashioned sleeping pills or a gun in the mouth?"

Mulder winced and Scully leaned into him a little but continued. "And
the location is strange. The report says none of the victims are
connected but in three cases they end up on the home-turf of the
'suicide' victim. Why would the 'homicide' victims go to these places?"

"Maybe they were brought there."

"By their killers?"

"Or by the third party. But back to the suicide thing...bizarre,
overdone suicides, doesn't that remind you of someone?"

Scully shuddered involuntarily. "Mulder, if this is anything like
Modell and company, let's get one thing straight right now." She put
her hand on his forearm. "The code word is 'girlie scream,' okay?"

Mulder didn't think that was very funny, but he covered her hand with
his own. "I really have to watch the stories I tell you," he said.

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END 1/10

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"The Eye of the Beholder" part 2 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

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Lima, Ohio
Wednesday
12:31 p.m.

"The hotel should be on the left," said Mulder, reading from his
directions.

They had driven through ninety minutes of farm country from Dayton to
find themselves in the mostly blue-collar city of Lima. Except for
Mulder's excitement at the sight of the big, golf-ball-esque Wapokaneta
Air and Space Museum from the highway, the trip had been uneventful.
Mulder had slept most of the way.

Now they were pulling into an anonymous motel, the kind without indoor
hallways, where they were supposed to meet Agents Roberts and Jacobs.

"My dad used to say, 'Never trust anyone with two first names,'" Scully
had quipped earlier. "And here's a pair of them."

"Your father was a smart man, Scully," Mulder had answered. "I'd have
to extend that to anyone with any first names at all, though. Oh, and
anyone without a name--them too."

Scully parked the car and they made the rush through the freezing air to
the hotel lobby, which was in actuality just a room with a counter.
Inside were two trenchcoat-clad men who had "FBI" written all over them.

The older man, his hair already greying, approached and took Mulder's
hand, clapping him warmly on the shoulder. "Agent Fox Mulder!" he
grinned. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Hey, Alan," Mulder answered, and there was genuine warmth in his
greeting. "It's good to see you."

Alan Jacobs disengaged himself and approached Scully, hand extended.
Mulder introduced them. "Alan Jacobs, Dana Scully."

"So you're the one who's been stuck with this boy all these years, huh?"
Jacobs said, pumping her hand. "We've heard about you even way out
here, Dr. Scully."

Scully could only imagine what they'd heard--apart from the Ms. Spooky
myths, her abduction, her jail time, and her assistance in the staged
suicide of her partner were just a few of the stories that were
inevitably circling. But Jacobs seemed earnest enough, so she smiled
and nodded. "Mulder's told me about you as well, Agent Jacobs."

Jacobs turned and ushered his companion forward. The man was in his
early thirties and quite attractive--blond and well-built. "This is
Mark Roberts," he said. Roberts shook Mulder's hand coolly with a false
smile Scully instantly disliked. Then he turned to her, and as he
extended his hand, his smile morphed into one of rehearsed charm which
she liked even less.

"Your rooms aren't ready yet," Jacobs informed them. "But we were
hoping to brief you over lunch, if you're not too tired."

"Not at all," Mulder answered.

Jacobs suggested they take his car, and Scully tried to engineer the
sides from which they approached it so she'd end up in the back with
Mulder. Conversations were always easier when they could see each
other. But Roberts was a step ahead of her, gracefully offering Mulder
the front seat and suddenly she was in the back with the blond man.

"So, Dr. Scully," he began immediately as the car pulled out. He had a
slight southern drawl. "We were hoping you'd feel up to performing a
couple of autopsies for us this afternoon."

Mulder turned around and shot her an amused glance which said both "free
pathologist" and that he'd noticed the maneuvering surrounding the
seating arrangement.

"Of course," Scully replied evenly, looking at Roberts. "I'd expected
to."

"It's pretty bad," Roberts continued. "The guy whose dick is nearly
off--excuse me, but there's no nicer way to put it--it looks like he'd
been raped as well."

"None of the previous victims bore evidence of sexual assault," Scully
stated.

"No," agreed Roberts. "Just another grocery item to add to this guy's
list."

"You think it's one man," Mulder stated.

"Yeah, that's right." Roberts voice had a hint of a challenge in it.

"The grocery list analogy is an interesting one. Do you think he's
ticking off a list of experiences, like an agenda?"

Roberts frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Instead of clarifying himself, Mulder turned to Jacobs. "So how're
Amanda and the kids?" he asked.

Jacobs answered amiably, and discussion of the case was dropped until
they were halfway through lunch at the local Bob Evans.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Memorial Hospital
Wednesday
2:45 p.m.

Scully stripped off her suit in the tiny locker-room down the hall from
the autopsy bay. The discussion at lunch had made it apparent that
Roberts did not want them there, but that he expected to be kept abreast
of all their activities--they were clearly not on their own. Although
he'd been outwardly courteous, his attitude had been clear: he
considered it his case, and he wanted to be the one to break it open.

"What we could use from you, Mulder," he'd said, pointing at Mulder with
his marinara-covered fork, "is a profile. I'll be honest--I can't make
heads or tails of this M.O. This is certainly no textbook case. But if
you can get us rolling with just a rough outline, I think we'll be
fine."

"I've been thinking about it," Mulder had answered. "But I need to talk
to some of the victims' families. It could take a couple of days."

"All of the family members have been interviewed and the tapes are in
the file," Roberts answered. "I'll get all of that to you right after
lunch."

"That's good, but I'll still need to talk to them myself," Mulder said.

"Why? What do you want to ask them?" Roberts had asked.

"I'm not sure yet. I'll also want to visit the crime scenes."

Roberts had not bothered to disguise his irritation. "When I worked
with CRIG, profilers weren't field agents. This guy has killed roughly
every two weeks for the last month: time is not a commodity we have."

Mulder had nodded calmly. "I know. But, as you pointed out, this isn't
a textbook case. I'm going to need information which the textbook
doesn't tell you to ask for. I'm just as concerned about time as you,
but if we want the profile to mean anything, we have to do it right."

Scully knew Mulder was restraining himself, but she felt it was
important to point out that field work was far from foreign to them.
"My understanding is that we were called in because of our work with the
X-Files, of which this case is somewhat reminiscent, so I think it's
perfectly within our role to do the same sort of field investigation
we've been doing for the last five years."

Roberts ignored her. "Look, I know you only by reputation, Mulder, so
correct me if I'm jumping to conclusions. But if you're going to start
looking for ghosts or...or _aliens_...in this, then you're not going to
be much help."

Scully felt it was time to intervene. But before she could start,
Jacobs spoke. "Mark, no one can turn out a profile overnight. Mulder's
one of the best at what he does, and if his methods are a little
different, well, apparently they work. The X-Files have a very high
solvency rate."

Roberts only nodded curtly in a manner that clearly indicated that he
did not share the same definition of 'solution.'

Mulder had been right, she thought as she donned her scrubs. Roberts
was going to be a pain in the ass, and in more ways than one. Despite
his professional insults, he had almost immediately begun making obvious
advances after discussion of the case had been dropped in the car.
While Mulder and Jacobs talked, he'd asked her if she had any family and
what her husband did, feigning surprise when she informed him that she
wasn't married. She had pointedly asked nothing about him.

Jacobs seemed well-intentioned, but she was so far unimpressed.
Although he had been more receptive to Mulder than Roberts, even
offering to help follow up a suggestion Roberts clearly hadn't liked.

"Has anyone looked into other recent suicides in the area?" Mulder had
asked.

"Of course," Roberts snorted, as if it should have been obvious. "But
there haven't been many. And none of them appear at all connected. A
couple of slit wrists, a guy running his car in the garage, a teenage
girl with some sleeping pills, that kind of thing. Certainly no
suicides paired with homicides."

"How far back did you look?" Mulder asked.

"Since the killings began."

Mulder shook his head, putting down his fork. "We'll need to go back
farther than that."

"Why?" Roberts' tone was indignant.

Scully knew what Mulder was going for, and she suspected he was right.

"Because what we're seeing now looks more like an escalation than the
beginning of a killing spree," Mulder answered. "The short time periods
between killings, the increased violence....it's likely that there were
earlier incidents that were much more mild, and it was his taste for
those that created the appetite for what we're seeing now."

"So you're convinced of the third party thing too?" Roberts asked, a
little less sharply.

"I'm not convinced of anything yet," Mulder answered carefully. "But
I'd recommend you check all suicides back at least three years within a
fifty-mile radius."

"Three years?" sputtered Roberts. "And fifty miles includes Columbus,
Toledo..."

Scully jumped in. "He could have just moved to the area," she
suggested.

"I don't think so," Mulder answered, turning to her. "His--if there is
a 'he'--choice of locations suggests some familiarity with the region.
You don't think it's worth checking?"

"Yes, I do," she answered. "I'm just hashing out all the
possibilities."

"We've nowhere near hashed out all the possibilities," Mulder told her
with a smile.

She pursed her lips and regarded him with shared amusement. If there
weren't other people at the table, she would have rattled off every
extreme possibility she could think of--and there were quite a few--just
to prove she could. But she settled for fixing him with a cool gaze and
a kicking him lightly under the table.

"Ahem," Roberts began pointedly. "I don't know if I want to waste
manpower chasing down suicides from years ago. Even if this is an
escalation, we can look for the early victims later and charge him with
them after we've got him. We should focus all our efforts on getting
him first."

Mulder spoke carefully. "My profile will be incomplete without all the
victims."

Abruptly, Jacobs interjected, speaking to Roberts. "Look, Mark, I can
do get the suicide info. You don't need me to stand next to you while
you talk to the police chief. I'll call the departments and have them
assemble the files."

Roberts had finally agreed.

Scully entered the autopsy bay, sighed. Things went so much more
smoothly when they were on their own.

---------------------------------------------------

Garnet Plaza Office Complex
Wednesday
6:10 p.m.

Mulder stood still, brooding over the scene before him. He'd been here
almost an hour, but had found nothing so far that hadn't already been
observed by the agents and police who'd combed the place earlier.

The blood had been mostly cleaned, but a dark stain remained. If he
squinted, he could make out the outlines of the two bodies that had lain
in this room. Office furniture had been pushed back against the walls
as if to make room for the frenzy, but there were no overt signs of
struggle. Mulder had studied the report carefully--to all appearances
it had been a homicide-suicide. But how had the watchman so easily
subdued the construction worker, who had wound up handcuffed on the
floor, here. Ah, the handcuffs. That was important, Mulder felt. If
only because the police had been unable to find one small critical
thing--the handcuff keys. Had the construction worker been _brought_
here, already cuffed?

He was startled out of his reverie by the shrill ringing of his cell
phone. He reached for it, flipped it open. "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me."

He ran his hand through his hair. "Whatcha got?"

"Not much." Scully's voice was professional and detached, but to him
she sounded tired. "It's pretty much like the report said. The
watchman--McClusky--was killed by a knife wound to the stomach and had
no other apparent injuries. The construction worker had been knocked
around quite a bit with a night stick. Judging from the blood spatter
pattern on McClusky's hand and arm, he'd been holding the stick--there's
a clearly bordered bloodless region across his right palm. His prints
are the only ones on the stick. The worker was beaten, then sodomized
with the stick, then his penis was almost completely severed by the
knife, also held by McClusky. The blade penetrated his testicles, and
judging by the stains, he bled for at least a little while before
McClusky killed him by slitting his throat."

Mulder winced and closed his eyes.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Don't take this personally--just a little constructive
criticism: if you're gonna tell a guy something like that, you gotta
work up to it a little more slowly, and give him a little time to
recover."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, okay. So. There was no evidence of McClusky having been in a
struggle?"

"No."

"Drugs?"

"Blood workup and tox screens won't be available until tomorrow. The
labs close down at 5 around here."

"Hmmmm. Okay."

"You found anything?"

"Well, I don't think there was anyone else here," Mulder said. "I'm
looking at where McClusky was lying right now. It's a little intriguing
that he didn't appear to stumble around after his stomach wound...but I
don't know what that means."

"That knife was in deep," Scully said. "Pierced his liver and kidney.
He was probably in enormous pain, and died relatively quickly. I'm not
surprised he wasn't walking around."

"Were there any hesitation cuts?"

"No, looks like he just plunged it right in. I think that, in forensic
terms at least, it was exactly what it looks like--a homicide, then a
suicide. Listen, I have to finish cleaning up and we're supposed to
meet Jacobs and Roberts back at the PD in an hour."

"Okay. I'll be there." Mulder disconnected and returned the phone to
his coat, frowning at the filing cabinets pushed up against the wall.

Something caught his eye and he moved over to the nearest cabinet. It
was tall, green, four drawers. At the top was a single lock for all the
drawers, on which he fixed all his attention. There was a key on a ring
fitted in the lock, but something else dangled from the same ring. Two
much smaller keys, with a different shape. Exhaling with satisfaction,
Mulder extracted them with a gloved hand and dropped them into a plastic
bag.

---------------------------------------------------

Motel 6, Lima
Wednesday
8:17 p.m.

The four agents had met for hamburgers at a greasy fast food place
called Cupie's, which Jacobs had insisted was a critical component of
local color. By the end of the meal, the only thing they had agreed on
was that they'd had enough of the local color.

They'd argued over whether this was truly an escalation, and whether
their third party was one man or more. It hadn't been the productive
sort of argument she was accustomed to with Mulder either--mainly just
sniping and derision. When Mulder finally admitted to his suspicion of
psychokinetic control, Roberts had gone utterly cold and detached,
apparently concluding that Mulder wasn't worth his time.

He had apparently made a different conclusion about Scully. Although
she'd backed up Mulder out of principle--if only Roberts knew how tame
his theory actually was--he had ignored her during most discussion of
the case, and when they returned to the hotel, walked with her to her
room.

He looked surprised when Mulder silently walked into room 37 and she
stopped at room 38, fumbling for her key. "I thought you two were in 36
and 37," he said. "I checked them out this morning."

"Yeah, the faucet in 36 was leaking, so I asked for a different room
before dinner," answered Scully neutrally, opening the door. "I'll see
you in the morning, Roberts."

"You can call me Mark." He put a hand on the door in a casual pose
which coincidentally prevented her from closing it. "So...you and
Mulder have been partners a long time."

"Yes," she answered.

"But he still calls you 'Scully?'"

"You can call me Dana if you want," she said, and though her words
should have been inviting, her indifferent tone was anything but.

Nonetheless, Roberts persisted. "I'm going across the street to that
little bar for a drink. Want to join me, Dana?"

"No thanks, I'm pretty tired," Scully answered coolly. "Good night,
Agent Roberts."

He looked like he was about to say something else, but she turned away
and closed her door before he could speak. She dropped her coat on the
bed and then tapped softly at the connecting room door, which opened at
her touch.

Mulder was hunched over her computer at the small hotel table, typing.

"You're writing already?" Scully was surprised.

"Just compiling some notes," Mulder answered. He smirked suggestively.
"Looks like 'Mark' wants to get to know you better, 'Dana.'"

She raised an eyebrow at him, chose to otherwise ignore the comment.
"Are you going to use my laptop all night? I need to finish transcribing
my autopsy notes."

"No, just give me fifteen minutes and I'll go back to pen and paper."

"All right, I'm going to take a shower then." She disappeared back into
her own room, closing the door but not shutting it.

---------------------------------------------------

808 Rte. 235
Wednesday
10:19 p.m.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease..." the incessant whisper was the only
sound in the darkened farmhouse.

A man crouched on the floor, curled into a fetal position. No one was
there to see him.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease--arrrghhhhh!" The man screamed and
rocked into a sitting position, clutching at his forehead. "No! I
can't! No! Please!"

_Finish. Finish what you started._

"They're onto me," he pleaded, gasping in ragged breaths.
"They...they..."

_Get them off of you, idiot._

"There are more of them, I saw. Please, Shelly, I can't do it, I'm
sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry don't make me do it...."

_Finish it._

The man screamed as if in horrible pain, clutching his head. "Leave me
alone, you goddamn bitch!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when he howled like an animal and
began seizing on the floor. His body twitched and jerked as he
whimpered, rolling from side to side. God. Please, stop....

Minutes passed, and the agony drained out of him, leaving him to sob and
cough brokenly on the floor.

"Please..." he whispered again.

_No more games. Finish it._

He knew there was no way out. Finish it all right all right. But there
wasn't time--too much too fast. He needed to distract the cops, get the
job done. Quick but quiet. Oh God.

---------------------------------------------------

Thursday
1:13 a.m.

Dana was sitting on the edge of a small twin bed, in which a small child
slept. She looked at the child, at her smooth features, the straight
brown hair spread across the pillow, the tiny, soft eyelids. She leaned
forward to press her ear to the child's chest, careful not to wake her.
She was suffused with wonder at the consistency of the hollow sound
within, the firm beating of that tiny heart. She timed her own breaths
to rise and fall with the child's chest, trying in every way to connect
every fiber to this little girl. Holding on for dearest life.

"Mommy?" the little voice whispered.

Dana felt a rush of guilt at having woken her, followed immediately by a
secret pleasure at the sight of those eyes, bright and trusting. She
smoothed her hand across the child's forehead. "It's ok, sweetheart, go
back to sleep. Close your eyes, now."

The child did as she bade, and, as is possible only for children, was
asleep again in moments. Her lips were parted slightly, and Dana
listened greedily for each intake of breath. She was amazed at her own
enormous capacity to love this small creature.

She heard a noise outside the door, which was slightly ajar. It did not
occur to her to wonder about the room she was in--a child's room--it
seemed intimately and automatically familiar. It did not occur to her
to fear the footstep or shadow she saw outside the door; in fact, she
knew who was there.

Melissa entered the room silently, eying the sleeping child by the
orange glow of the corner nightlight. She smiled at mother and
daughter, then bent down to brush her lips against the child's
forehead. She straightened and gestured toward the door.

Dana exited beside her, and the two were careful not to speak until they
had left the hallway and entered the kitchen. Margaret Scully was
sitting at the kitchen table, where cups of tea were steaming, one for
each of them. Dana sat down with the older women, who were now laughing
at a story Charles was telling--she saw him now in the corner. What
they were saying didn't register, it didn't matter, she understood what
they _should_ be saying. She understood that this was her kitchen, and
that her family was here. She couldn't see him, but she knew Bill was
in the living room with his wife and child. Was it Christmas? She
thought so, because she could feel a fire in the fireplace.

The phone rang, and she was afraid it would be the Bureau, calling with
another case. Not that that was bad. She loved her job. She saved
lives, she kept people safe, she stood on the side of justice, and
uncovering the truth was a matter of dispassionate analysis of clues,
evidence, data. But she didn't want to be called in tonight, because
her family was there tonight.

It wasn't the Bureau. It was just a wrong number.

There was the padding of little pajama-clad feet approaching from the
hallway. They had woken her up. Dana started to usher the child,
sleepy-eyed, back to bed, but Melissa laughed and shook her head. "Let
her sit up with us awhile, Dana, it won't kill her."

So she took the little girl onto her lap, and Margaret Scully warmed a
glass of milk in the microwave. Dana could feel the child's body close
against her own, and it fit so well, so perfectly well. She felt a hand
on her shoulder and looked up to see Bill, smiling down at her.

It all felt so good, so warm, so safe, so immediate. The back of her
mind was occupied with cases, yes, but trivial things too--a date, a
friend's birthday.

And when she woke, alone in a dark motel room, she felt as if she'd been
painfully torn from that place, leaving pieces of her skin behind. She
felt the tears on her face with her hands before her cheeks were aware.
Suddenly, helplessly, she began to sob brokenly.

Her tears disgusted her. Such obvious melodrama, Dana? Come on, are you
going to let your subconscious manipulate you in such a completely
_obvious_ way?

But these thoughts only made her cry harder. She bit her lip and buried
her face in her pillow, to silence herself, painfully aware that Mulder
was on the other side of the wall behind her head. It wasn't the
stereotypical soupy features of her dream that bothered her (surely her
subconscious was more creative?), but the intense memory of how that
child had felt pressed against her body. The clear image of Melissa
Scully, standing there right beside her. And the _feeling_, so
complete, of safety. She had forgotten what it felt like, to feel
secure. To not automatically check outside your window when you closed
the blinds, to not assume that anything and anyone you loved could be
dangled in front of you like a doll and then ripped away again at any
second. To believe that truth and justice existed, and that what you
were doing would unambiguously further such causes. Not to keep a gun
beside her when she slept.

She couldn't remember now what that felt like. Only that the sense of
loss she was left with was overpowering. She felt horribly, achingly
sad.

Dana Scully wept. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried,
certainly not like that. When she had no tears left, she sat up,
feeling broken and empty and certainly incapable of sleep.

She stumbled into the bathroom, blinked at the light, and splashed her
face with cold water. Her head was already beginning to hurt from the
tears--it _had_ been a long time--so she took two aspirin from her
suitcase. She looked at her face in the mirror, drawn and hollow, eyes
red and swollen. She shook her head, equally unable to shake the
feeling of sadness and the feeling of self-reproach at having been so
affected. She turned off the light and made her way back to the bed.

She sat there in the dark, leaned back against the headboard. She
considered waking her partner, but decided against it as soon as the
idea occurred to her. She knew she couldn't tell him about the dream,
and she certainly was in no mood to discuss the case. All she wanted
was his presence, but, she reminded herself, he was only a foot or so
away from her right now, on the other side of the thin wall. Let him
sleep.

She was reaching morosely for the TV remote when she heard him. No
words, just a long, low moan. She waited, listening. Again, louder
this time.

Over the years, she had saved him from his nightmares a dozen times, and
on the worst occasions had stayed beside him through the night. His
tortured dreams were not revelations she ever looked forward to.
Tonight, though, she was almost relieved by the excuse, and went quickly
to the door that adjoined their rooms. Her hand was on the doorknob
when it occurred to her that a moan did not necessarily demand her
presence. In fact, it might specifically mandate that she stay where
she was.

She heard the sound again, more urgent now. She let her hand fall. The
cries that had woken her on prior occasions had not been like this--in
fact, she would probably have slept through this on any other night.
All right, then. None of her business.

She returned to the bed, still wrapped in profound emptiness.

"No!"

At his cry she immediately rose and went through the door.

---------------------------------------------------

END 2/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 3 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Mulder sat, panting, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. Dark,
shabby. Double bed, bright light in the window. Motel, obviously.
Where? He must have spoken aloud--or maybe he hadn't--but he distinctly
heard Scully's voice: "Ohio, Mulder."

He relaxed.

He saw her shape now, on the floor near the foot of the bed. "What are
you doing?" he said stupidly. "I had this dream, Scully..."

"I know," she said. She slowly stood up, sat opposite him on the bed.
She was wearing her blue silk pajamas, and her hair stood out from the
sides of her head in wisps. He couldn't see her face. He was aware of
the sheen of sweat on his body, his still pounding heart. The horror of
eight-year-old Samantha's blood-drenched body had not yet faded from his
memory, and he shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Are you all right?" Scully asked, leaning toward him.

He saw her face, dimly, in the light from the parking lot, and the
terror of his dream was immediately supplanted by a new terror.
"Scully!" he cried, reaching out to touch her upper lip. She was
bleeding.

She pushed his hand away and touched her face, looked without interest
at the blood on her fingers. "Don't worry, I'm okay," she said.

"What do you mean, you're okay?" he cried. "The cancer--"

She gave a small laugh. "No Mulder, it's not cancer. Nothing more than
an ordinary bloody nose. Remind me not to get so close to you next time
you're shouting in your sleep."

He was momentarily relieved, then realized what she was saying. "I did
that?" he asked in a small voice.

"Yeah, and knocked me onto the floor as well." She grinned and wiped at
her face with the back of her hand. "Always got to prove who's
stronger, huh?"

"That's not funny," he said, and meant it.

With a change in the set of her shoulders and tilt of her head, she
simultaneously apologized and forgave him. She stood and walked into
the bathroom. The light came on and he heard the sink running. He
pinched the bridge of his nose, swung his legs over the side of the
bed. He tried not to remember the dream, but the images were so vividly
burned upon his brain that he couldn't forget. He was accustomed to
nightmares, but no dream had ever seemed as real, had ever encompassed
all his senses so completely. Or wrenched his gut so forcefully.

Scully returned, her face clean, a moist washcloth in her hand. She sat
down beside him on the bed, pressed the cool cloth to his naked
shoulders and back to sponge away the sweat. It felt wonderful, and as
his breathing slowed he leaned forward, elbows on knees, letting her
touch silence the clamor of his mind.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked finally.

He sighed, considering. "Was I saying anything?"

"Of course. I heard you, that's why I came in. A lot of it was
nonsense, but..." The cloth paused against his neck, waiting. He sat
up and looked at her.

"Christ, you're still bleeding," he observed guiltily. "Lay down, tilt
your head back." He didn't like the feelings that rose unbidden at the
sight of blood on her face. The memories flooded back: the months of
waiting, the doctors, the constant re-diagnoses. And it wasn't
necessarily over, he reminded himself.

She licked her lip experimentally, then did as he said, stretching out
in the space he'd occupied that night. He took the cloth from her hand
and gently wiped the blood from her face, then put it aside and returned
his elbows to his knees, studied the floor.

"I heard you cry out for Samantha," Scully prompted softly. When he
still said nothing, she continued. "When I came in, you were sitting up
and your eyes were open. You weren't saying anything but you looked
really angry."

"Is that when I hit you?"

"You didn't hit me--just pushed me away. Just had my face in the wrong
place." He could hear her smiling in the dark, but he winced.

"I was...seeing myself, Scully. Seeing me--my body--killing her.
Stabbing her again and again, and she was screaming my name, and there
was so much blood...." his voice trailed off.

"Were you a boy or an adult?" A rational, matter-of-fact tone,
grounding him.

"I...I don't know."

"You said you were seeing yourself, though. Are you sure?"

He didn't answer immediately, trying to think.

"Do you not want to talk about this?" she asked, gently.

"No, it's not that...I just don't _know_, Scully. It's so strange that
I can't remember how I looked, because everything in the dream was so
vivid, more real than reality. I mean, not more real than _you_ are,
right now, but I think that's only because it's dark." He knew he was
being incomprehensible, but it made sense to him.

He heard her intake and release of breath, as if she were about to speak
but decided against it. After a few seconds, she only said, "I think I
understand."

And she did. He meant that the dream had shown him the world as he
really saw it, and unlike reality did not contradict his perception in
any way. Just as darkness and her words, which were mostly questions,
not content, could not contradict his perception of her, as reality
occasionally did in tiny was, subtle but distressing. She couldn't
explain that, though, because her words would be suspect even if her
intent was not. Even though he would know it wasn't true, he'd fear she
was suggesting he thought he'd killed his sister, and that he did not
sufficiently know her. Words were an obstacle, for the same reason that
reality so often subverted perception.

She also understood him, though, because in the dark, the border between
reality and the very vivid memory of her own dream was blurred. The
sight of her anguished partner had subdued some of her own dream-borne
emotions, but they still lurked at the back of her mind, well within the
realm of consciousness. She suspected they would be gone by morning,
remnants of the dark night.

He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. With an air of decision,
he pressed his hands against the bed and propelled himself forward. He
took the washcloth back into the bathroom, blinking at the bright
light. The white cloth was splotched with Scully's blood, and the sight
disturbed him on several levels. He thrust it under the tap and rinsed
it out, squeezing it fiercely. When he decided it wasn't going to come
clean, he tossed it in the trash can. He didn't want it staring at him
in the morning.

He splashed his face with water and regarded himself in the mirror. He
looked haggard, tired, older. Older than what? Well, older than he used
to be, he supposed. Maybe even older than he should be. Scully, he'd
noticed lately, looked older than she should be. She was tired, too.
She hadn't gained back the weight taken by the cancer, and her cheeks
were sunken and paler than they used to be. He tried to remember what
she'd looked like when she first came to him in his basement office,
innocent and fierce. Now she just looked fierce.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head, and ran his fingers over the stubble
already apparent on his chin. The cheap fluorescent light and the
mirror had reminded him of the real world, and although he could still
see the horrible vision of his dream, it no longer seemed quite as
haunting. He'd dreamt of Samantha's mutilated body countless times
before, and this wasn't the first time his brain had cast him as the
mutilator. He knew what any second-rate psychologist would read into
that, but he knew--and Scully knew--that it was so much more complex.
How much of his life had been devoted just to chasing these dreams from
his head?

He glanced at the watch on the sink. He'd been standing there for
almost twenty minutes. He flipped off the light and returned to the bed,
relishing the darkness. As his eyes readjusted, he made out Scully's
form, lying on her side with her back to him. Had she fallen asleep
already?

Her pajama top was parted just slightly from her pajama bottoms. The
muted light from the parking lot revealed just a tiny dark line, the
lower curve of the tattoo. _That_ tattoo. In the dimness, its form was
indistinct, but he didn't need to see it to remember exactly what it
looked like. Almost involuntarily he reached out to brush his fingers
against that mark, recalling how he'd brushed his fingers against that
very same place nearly five years ago, assuring her that the bumps were
only bugbites. Now there was nothing he could assure her of; indeed,
the only assurances between them these days flowed unidirectionally
toward him. A wave of sadness and guilt threatened to overwhelm him.

She'd turned toward him at his touch.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Were you asleep?"

"No, just almost," she answered. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he replied.

She nodded once, then turned back onto her side. She made no move to
leave. He waited long enough to be sure of her intentions, then made
his way to the other side of the bed, pulled back the covers.   "You
sure you want to sleep with me?" he asked, settling into the bed. "I've
been known to give people bloody noses." He paused. "Really, Scully,
I'll be okay."

Rather than play to his guilt, she deliberately twisted his words,
knowing he'd appreciate it more. "Mulder, the day I sleep with _you_ is
the day pigs fly."

He grinned; he couldn't resist. "Stranger things have happened.
Remember the flying toads?"

"No parachutes," she answered. She smiled in the darkness, but it was a
melancholy smile, not an amused one. The desperation and sadness
brought on by her own dream had resolved itself into a quiet funk. It
made her very certain that she did not want to go back to her own room's
pointed loneliness, though she couldn't tell him that. It irritated her
a little that he had assumed she was staying only for his sake. _Not
everything is about you, Mulder._ But in a way, his assumption was
reassuring as well. That this man, who had seen her weakest moments,
put so much faith in her strength was comfort in its own right.

Impulsively, she moved toward him until their bodies were touching and
felt his arm encircle her, pulling her head onto his shoulder. It felt
wonderfully comfortable and she felt the loneliness retreat beyond
memory. She could count on her fingers the number of times they had
slept like this, always with some excuse--cold, nightmares, injury--and
wondered, just for a second, what it would be like not to use an
excuse. But she knew that the very interdependence of their partnership
mandated otherwise--it was important to maintain at least some semblance
of independence and strength. Or so she believed.

He sighed comfortably and she envied his apparent lack of internal
debate about the rightness of where they lay. She felt his fingers
briefly caress her hair as he whispered, "Sweet dreams."

That was the last thing she wanted, but she was grateful for the intent.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Thursday
6:53 a.m.

The soft knock startled him awake. He opened his eyes to a mass of red
hair, and the previous night came back to him in a flash. He could feel
his partner's warmth against him and was suddenly angry at whoever was
knocking on the door--for once, the Insomniac had been sleeping
comfortably.

She stirred against him and he heard her draw breath to speak. Quickly
he put his finger against her lips. Understanding, she sat up, breaking
the contact, and without a word slipped away into her room. To cover
the noise of the closing door, Mulder grumbled loudly. "I'm coming, I'm
coming."

He checked the peephole--Jacobs. Fully dressed. He undid the chain and
unlatched the door. "What?"

"Police have a suspect in custody," the older man said curtly. "I told
them we'd be there. You got fifteen minutes."

Mulder nodded. "I'll be right there."

"Great. I knocked on Scully's door, but she didn't answer. She a heavy
sleeper?"

"She can be." Mulder lied easily. "I'll get her up."

"Okay. Fifteen minutes."

Mulder shut the door. He suddenly felt energized, even though he was
certain they didn't have the right man. He tapped on the door to
Scully's room, pushed it open. He could hear the sink running in the
bathroom.

"You hear that?" he called.

"Yeah," she answered. "Fifteen minutes."

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Police Station
Thursday
8:15 a.m.

The detective ushered the four agents down the hall to the holding
room. One by one, they peered through the window set in the door.

"Bastard was caught right in the act," the detective was telling them.
"Had a knife to the kid's throat, his pants on the ground, ready to go.
The kid's mother called the police when she heard someone in the house,
but Haight here had locked the door to her son's room and she couldn't
see anything."

"He was trying to rape the boy?" Jacobs asked.

Mulder looked at Haight. The man was already dressed in blue prison
uniform, cuffed. A middle-aged man, staring sullenly at the floor.

"No doubt about it," answered the detective.

"I want to see the file," Roberts announced. He turned on his heel and
headed back for the police offices.

"What makes you think this has anything to do with the other murders?"
Scully asked coolly. Mulder restrained a smile. He knew that tone of
voice very well: the detective was as good as dead.

The man didn't know what he was headed for. "He has no alibi for the
nights of the murders. And he's connected to one of the victims--he was
John Stiltly's basketball coach--Stiltly, the kid with the rifle wound
in his stomach."

Mulder tilted his head. Better than he'd expected.

Scully wasn't impressed. "You took his prints?"

"Yes."

"Were they at any of the sites?"

"No."

"Was he wearing gloves last night?"

"No. But he had no alibi...."

"Does the man live alone?"

"Yes. His wife recently left him--we've been unable to contact her."

"What did he say he was doing at 4 a.m. of the nights in question?"

"Sleeping, but...."

"How many high schools are in Lima?"

"Two..."

"And he was the coach where Stiltly attended?"

"Yes."

"He had a thing for teenaged boys."

"Yes."

"Was the boy he tried to rape one of his students?"

"No, that boy went to the Catholic high school. It was his neighbor."
The detective was beginning to show signs of nervousness.

"It was his neighbor," Scully repeated. Mulder felt an enormous surge
of affection for his partner. "So, he broke into the house where the
boy and his mother were sleeping, made enough noise to wake the mother,
locked himself in the boy's room, threatened him with a knife and
started undressing."

"That's pretty much the story, yes."

"Pretty much?"

"Okay, exactly."

Mulder leaned back against the door, silent. Jacobs kept looking from
the small woman to the detective and back. For a moment, he looked like
he was going to speak, but Mulder caught his eye and shook his head.

"Did he threaten to kill the boy?"

"He told the boy he didn't want to kill him, that he wanted to be
friends."

"Was he wearing or carrying a black hood?"

"He had a nylon pulled over his head...."

"So, apart from the attempted rape, which was a feature of only the most
recent killing, there is absolutely no similarity between this man's
M.O. and that of our suspected killer, which is admittedly inconsistent,
but at least features two things: intelligence and wounds to the
stomach. And there's no evidence to place him at any of the scenes."

"Not yet," the detective answered boldly. "But listen, ma'am, there
just aren't that many killings around here."

Scully chose her words carefully. "And there were none last night. I'm
very sorry about the boy, but I don't see how this has anything to do
with our case."

"We're working on that, ma'am," the detective said in a slightly
strained voice.

Mulder stepped in. "Keep doing that," he told the man. "You've got
plenty to book this guy on. Keep going through the evidence. If you
find out anything more, let us know."

---------------------------------------------------

"Haight's a waste of time," Mulder announced once the four agents were
alone in a borrowed office.

"I'm not so sure, Mulder," Roberts said, studying the file in front of
him. "The connection to Stiltly is compelling."

"Coincidence," Mulder announced dismissively.

"Look," Roberts said, leaning back in his chair. "You're here to work
up a profile. Why don't you do that? We'll handle the investigation."

"Why do you want a profile if you think they caught the guy?"

"I don't know for sure that he's the one."

"He isn't," Scully said firmly. "The police are just eager to clamp
down on this, tell the press they've got everything under control. They
have absolutely no evidence."

There was a knock at the door. Jacobs answered it, spoke in a low voice
to someone outside, then came back in holding a paper. "The prints
lifted from the handcuff keys match those of the construction worker,
not McClusky," he told them.

Mulder clapped his hands together and inhaled.

Roberts looked puzzled. "You mean the man handcuffed himself? The
prints had to have been forced--someone could have held his fingers over
them."

"The smudging suggests he turned the key," Jacobs answered, reading from
the paper he held.

"Hmmmm," Roberts said. "Hmmmm. He must have been forced to."

"Still fixed on this Haight guy?" Mulder asked. Out of the corner of
his eye, he caught Scully's reproving look. _Play nice._

"He's all we've got," Roberts answered. "Unless you want to give us
someone else with that profile."

Mulder nodded. "I still think the clues are in the victims. I want to
split up and check them out."

"The profile?"

"It's building up here." Mulder tapped his head. "But I need to know
why he choose the people he choose. Even if it was Haight, we're going
to have to have a motive, right? The victims are important.

"I want to talk to McClusky's wife. Scully, can you check out the
nursing home director? Jacobs--I think you'd be good on the
banker--Vandesky. He doesn't have a family, but you should talk to
people at the bank, people he worked with. Look for anything out of the
ordinary. Roberts--"

"I'll be following up with Haight," Roberts interrupted. "Check out the
victims if that's what you have to do, but I'm going to follow the only
lead we have."

"Hopefully not for long," answered Mulder.

Sans Roberts, the agents confirmed their strategies and separated.

---------------------------------------------------

McClusky Residence
Thursday
4:37 p.m.

"I know this is very difficult for you, Mrs. McClusky," Mulder murmured
gently.

The woman was sitting on her sofa, clenching and unclenching her fist
around a tissue that Mulder had offered her earlier.

"I just don't know what else you want to know," she told him.

Mulder pinched the bridge of his nose. This had been a long day. He
hadn't been able to find the woman this morning, so had gone to talk to
the dead schoolteacher's family instead. Her two children were living
with their father's sister, and from the three of them he'd learned more
than he could have hoped for. The sister hadn't seemed upset enough,
and was religiously protective of the children. Sensing there was
something beneath her bravado, Mulder had asked a few pointed
questions. Although the police hadn't included it in their report,
apparently thinking it irrelevant since the schoolteacher was the
victim, the children's aunt insisted she'd mentioned her suspicions of
child abuse before.

She'd told him more, confessing that since her brother's death two years
ago, she'd suspected her sister-in-law had been guilty of neglect and
occasional physical violence with her children. She had threatened on
several occasions to call the authorities, but she'd always relented
when the beleaguered mother had chalked it up to stress, sworn it
wouldn't happen again.

The woman only let him speak a few words to the children themselves, but
they seemed to corroborate her story. Mulder made a few phone calls,
arranging for them to speak with social workers, and had resumed his
search for Mrs. McClusky.

He'd found her, but she wasn't being very helpful. Of course, she'd
just lost her husband, who'd been accused of sodomizing and murdering
another man before killing himself--Mulder felt deeply for her and knew
not to expect too much. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she
wasn't telling him something.

"Mrs. McClusky," he tried again, ever so gently. "I believe you've told
me everything that could relate to the case. I know this is very hard.
I think you should know, I don't believe your husband actually did what
he's accused of--I think he was made to do it by someone else. Do you
think that could be possible?"

She looked at him as if startled. "How? Did you find out there was
someone else there? The police said--"

"No," he answered, stopping her. "No, we haven't found much else
yet--it's just a suspicion. Not an unreasonable one, given the
existence of similar homicide-suicides in the area. Was there anyone
who had a grudge against your husband? Anyone he was angry at?"

"I already told you, he didn't have many friends. But no enemies, no."

"Is there anything else you can tell me, even things you don't think
relate to the case?"

She choked on a sob, but he didn't relent.

"It's okay to tell me, Mrs. McClusky. I want to help you."
Tentatively, Mulder reached out a hand, placing it very near hers on the
table. Not touching her, but letting her know he was there, that she
could touch him.

"Sometimes pain is easier when you talk about it," he told her. "It's
okay to talk about it."

She gave another sob and Mulder's heart twitched. He hoped he wasn't
manipulating this woman, knowing that in a way, he was. He should refer
her to a psychologist and leave her alone. But when she started
talking, he didn't stop her.

"I--I...it's just that...I don't feel sad enough. What Norm did, it
was...it was _horrible_, and I never thought he could've but...." She
trailed off.

Mulder finished for her. "But he had been violent before."

She seized his hand, met his eyes, nodded mutely.

He squeezed her hand. "I know it's hard to feel bad things about
someone who has died," he told her. "You think you should remember the
good things only, that you shouldn't corrupt his memory. And you think
others will think you're selfish for talking about the problems you had
with him, now that he's gone. But, Virginia, it's always okay to tell
the truth. It may not seem like it now, but in the long run, the truth
is always better."

She was looking at him so trustingly, tears bright in her eyes. He
almost couldn't hold her gaze, sick at what he was doing. _Please,_ he
thought. _Please don't let her feel betrayed when I walk out of here._

He asked the question he had to as neutrally as possible. "Virginia, did
your husband ever abuse you or your children?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice strangling on a sob.

Mulder breathed a sigh. "Often?"

"Pretty often," she answered. "Once, twice a week...this night job, it
was better. When he didn't come home at night, I mean."

Mulder was nodding. "I think you should consider talking to a
professional about this. I can recommend someone if you like."

She looked panicked. "I--I just don't think I'm ready....Agent Mulder,
are you going to put this in your report?"

"I have to note it," Mulder told her gently, squeezing her hand again.
"I might need to come back for a statement later. But I don't think
anyone will ask you to testify. I'm very sorry this had to happen this
way."

To his great relief, she withdrew her hand and straightened. "It's all
right," she told him. "You're right, it deserves to be said. I should
have said something a long time ago."

"It can be hard," Mulder answered. He backed up, breaking the contact
he'd been so afraid of forging. "Let me give you this number anyway--"

He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He snapped it out,
answered: "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me."

"Scully. Where are you?"

"At the nursing home. I've got something."

"I bet I know what it is."

"What?"

"Not now. I'll meet you back at the station."

"Okay." She disconnected.

Mulder gave Virginia McClusky the phone number he'd given the
schoolteacher's sister-in-law and headed for the door. On his way out,
he passed the computer in the living room. Something caught his eye.

"Are you left-handed, Mrs. McClusky?"

She looked bewildered. "Why?"

He gestured at the computer. "The mouse is on the left side. I was
just curious."

"Oh. No--I'm right-handed. I never touch that thing. Wouldn't even
know how to turn it on. Norm tried to get me to try it a hundred times,
but..." she trailed off, sniffled and dabbed at her nose with her
kleenex. "It's his toy," she concluded, regaining control. "He was
left-handed. Is that important?"

"Maybe," Mulder said. "The pathology work suggested he'd held the
night-stick in his right hand."

Mrs. McClusky looked hopeful.

---------------------------------------------------

End 3/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 4 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Waffle House
Thursday
6:50 p.m.

Thursday's dinner should have been better than Wednesday's, since the
agents had something to go on now, but the new data only made the
arguments more heated, as Roberts sparred with Mulder over how to
interpret it. It didn't help that Roberts had more to back up his
Haight theory, and Mulder had still not produced anything resembling a
profile.

Scully was getting increasingly irritated. She had tried to interrupt
the argument several times to point out to the agents that the bickering
was pointless, that since they were lucky enough to have four people
working on this, they could have the luxury of pursuing two avenues.
That the argument was more about egos than refinement.

But each time she jumped in, even though she was trying to be neutral,
Roberts seemed to push her into defending Mulder. And that was a good
response; mostly, he just ignored her completely. She could tell Mulder
got the point, even agreed with her, but each time he tried to change
the subject, Roberts goaded him back into defending his psychokinesis
theory. She was surprised at him--usually he wasn't so easily
manipulated.

Jacobs was, as usual, quiet. His investigation of the banker Vandesky
had been as efficient as it was thorough; in a few hours he had
uncovered more than the local P.D. had in weeks, mainly because he knew
his way through a ledger. For there was where the mystery had been
uncovered: several million dollars of embezzled cash had been tracked
to Vandesky's overseas accounts. Scully had revised her opinion of the
man; although mostly silent, he was helpful, and he was clearly very
good at tracking white-collar crime. Previously, she'd been wondering
why someone so unassertive had made it into the Bureau at all, but
Jacobs' calling was clear. Why he was on a serial killer case was
anyone's guess. But he had loosened his tongue for fifteen minutes at
the beginning of dinner, summarizing his findings in a succinct and
damning manner.

Her own investigation had revealed a shadowy past for the nursing home
director as well. Since he had been the homicide victim, he had not
been investigated very extensively--questions had been limited to his
immediate family and his secretary. But a brief tour of the Grove Hill
Community and a few minutes' chat with several of its residents had
struck a familiar chord in Scully's memory. Everywhere were signs of
neglect and abuse; it only took a few interviews with staff members to
find someone ready to blow the whistle, provided she put it to his
lips. Armed with his confessions, she had confronted other staff
members, and as soon as it became clear to them that their own careers
were in jeopardy, they were no longer silent: the accusations fairly
flew. The director had permitted, encouraged the neglect, had lied to
family members, had threatened anyone who tried to correct the
problems. He had been an extraordinarily unpopular man, but he held in
his thrall thirty paychecks, which went to people whose jobs were in
actuality made easier by the director's tendency to give an order then
turn the other way.   In about nine hours, Scully had set in motion a
full investigation of the home, and left with promises that the new
director would be an expert in geriatric care reform.

And the compilations of suicides in the last three years had come in.

All in all, it had been an enormously productive day--not even Roberts
could contest that. And he didn't. But he did contest that their work
had advanced the case, while his own, he felt, had.

Through examination of Haight's finances and through a subsequent
interrogation, Roberts had linked Haight to one of the dead drug
dealers, from the first-murdered pair. Haight had been a longtime
buyer. Further, the man had a military background--eleven years in the
Marines, a Gulf War veteran. He was well-versed in combat and stealth
training. His bumbled rape attempt had been chalked up to the high
levels of cocaine in his system at the time, but Roberts pointed out
that the killer's apparent intelligence in the first several murders may
have represented what this man was capable of when sober. Haight, he
contended, had made a mistake and was caught.

Mulder had argued that there was a significance to the history of
abuse--financial, physical or neglectful--uncovered in each victim.
There was still the question of John Stiltly's--the boy's--innocence,
and the construction worker had not yet been examined, although he had
served two jail terms. Mulder was confident that investigations of
these two would reveal spotty pasts as well. It fit very well with the
black hood motif--the executioner only executed the guilty. Except in
this case, the executioner was guilty as well. How, he asked, did this
fit into Roberts' scenario?

Roberts only answered that it didn't have to--profiler clues like that
were merely clues, and once one had the suspect, clues were no longer
necessary.

Although Scully was beginning to be persuaded that Haight was more
worthy of attention than she had originally assumed, she felt the need
to remind Roberts that if he really wanted it to be Haight, he needed to
demonstrate a motive.   Roberts gave her a condescending smile, asked if
she'd like to help him work on that tomorrow. She replied that they had
better wait to make plans until after she had reviewed the suicide
reports with Mulder that night, a task with which, of course, Roberts
did not offer to help.

Mulder looked at his partner, trying to decide where she stood. She had
seen enough examples of psychokinesis not to reject his theory offhand,
but she had obviously been persuaded that Haight might be of interest.
That was okay with him, of course--if Roberts wanted to spend his time
pursuing that avenue, it kept the man out of their way. Yet she had
been so adamant that morning about Haight's irrelevance--surely she saw
now that the apparent connections were mere coincidence, surely she
could see through Roberts' posturing.

Finally, the bill came and provided the excuse to end the discussion.
Mulder noted with irritation how Roberts scooted ahead to open the door
for Scully. He even touched her back to guide her out, and at the feel
of his fingers she immediately jumped forward, to Mulder's immense
satisfaction.

Later, he would insist in all honesty that he had not meant anything by
it; in fact, had not thought about it at all. The gesture was so
automatic, so accustomed, that it couldn't have occurred to him to
examine it. Just after they had said their good nights in the hotel
parking lot, he had put his hand on the small of her back and turned her
toward their rooms, before Roberts and Jacobs headed for their
stairway. He'd only left his hand there for a few seconds, not even
long enough to reach their rooms. But he had no sooner dropped the
suicide files onto her hotel room table, preparing for a long evening of
review, than the door shut and she rounded on him.

"Mulder, I'd appreciate it if you didn't feel the need to assert your
ownership of me around Roberts," she said.

Mulder was caught completely off-guard. He looked at her. Her arms
were crossed, her head tilted slightly. She was very serious.

He was confused. "Do you mean just now in the parking lot?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't 'asserting my ownership'--Scully, where the hell did that come
from?"

"Mulder, that _is_ what you were doing, that's what you're always
doing."

Mulder made his face go cold. He should've expected this: they'd gotten
too close last night and now she felt she had to assert their distance.
She wanted to play this game? Okay. Fine. "I wasn't aware that you
disapproved of my touching you in public. I would have expected that
after doing that for nearly five years, you would have informed me had
you minded. It won't happen again."

She looked annoyed. "Mulder, I _don't_ mind. You _know_ that. I'm
just asking you to be more careful on this one case. I'm having enough
trouble trying to get respect from Roberts--it doesn't help to have you
practically peeing on me."

He snorted at her analogy. "What other people think has never bothered
you before."

"It's not what he thinks," she answered. "It's what he _does_ because
of what he thinks. He's bad enough as it is. Your possessiveness makes
it worse."

"I'm not being any more possessive than I usually am. You're my partner
and my friend. Don't I have that right?"

Her face didn't soften. "Yes, you do. I'm just saying it would help me
out on this case if you were more careful about this." She hesitated.
"And, besides, it felt different tonight. After he tried to usher me
out the door in the restaurant, your doing the same thing in the parking
lot felt like you were proving that you have privileges he doesn't, just
for the sake of proving it. Which, to him, underscores that I'm an
object or trophy, not an equal."

"Scully, I had no such intentions, and although you'd look pretty good
mounted on my mantle, I don't have one, so..." he trailed off--he wasn't
in the mood for humor. "But I don't understand why you seem to care so
much about what _this_ asshole, out of all the assholes we've
encountered over the years, thinks of you. Tonight at dinner--were you
helping him out hoping to get his respect?"

"Helping _him?_ I ended up defending you almost the entire time."

"Seemed to me you were starting to buy what he was saying."

"See, Mulder, there you go again. You make it seem like a
competition--that's how it felt at the table, too. I didn't buy what he
was saying, although I don't think we can completely rule Haight out of
the equation. I do think that Haight may keep Roberts out of the way,
which is good for both of us. But even though the jury's still out on
your psychokinesis theory, I was backing you up most of the time, even
though my real intentions was to shut you both up because you were going
nowhere productive. You were just raising hackles at each other."

Mulder felt immensely irritated and a little hurt, but he didn't have
the energy to continue. "Fuck this, Scully," he said dismissively.
"This isn't useful."

"You're willing to say that about _our_ argument, but not about yours
and his?"

Mulder tried to sound reasonable. "Look, we obviously have very
different interpretations of what happened tonight, but that doesn't get
us any further on this case and we've got a lot of files to sort through
tonight. You don't want me to touch you, fine, I won't touch you--"

"--I didn't say that--"

"--and we'll get through with this godawful case and get back to working
alone. Although I have to say I think it's pretty pathetic that after
all these years a two-bit chauvinist like Mark Roberts can fuck with us
like this."

She was unwilling to end the discussion.   "Mulder, it's not that I care
what he thinks, but there are certain realities we have to act on when
dealing with other people, and I just don't think we've ever come up
against something this extreme for this extended a period. It's natural
that, as a man, you're not going to see what I see here. I'm just
asking you to--this once--even though you disagree, take my word on this
and respect it."

Although his words were infinitely deep, his face and tone were cold.
"I always respect your word, Scully."

She nodded, understanding in her eyes although the irritation was not
dispelled. "I know that. Thank you. Where do you want to start in
these files?"

"I take it you're not going skiing in Vermont this weekend."

She sat down at the table and lifted the first folder. "Of course I'm
not. I canceled yesterday."

---------------------------------------------------

808 Rte. 235
Thursday
11:31 p.m.

The man was kneeling on the floor, hunched over and propped up on his
elbows. His head jerked from one side and then to the other, a
sporadic, painful motion that looked as if it might snap his neck. All
around the room were single sheets of white paper, crammed with clumsy
sketches of faces and buildings outlined by tight, sloppy handwriting.
The papers were intermixed with manila folders, which were stuffed with
papers as well.

He was scribbling now, writing very fast.

_i can feel it coming i am pushing oh god it hurts so much hurts so much
ohgodohgodohgod but kevin is holding my hand kevin my love he will help
me it will be okay. its inside me i cant believe its inside me, its
real, real, real. i never thought this far i never thought--_

_ohGODJESUSFUCKFUCKFUCK_

_its out! i cant see anything. but now i hear it wailing crying big
lungs oh god please nobody hear. kevin hands it to me and it is the
ugliest thing i have ever seen, covered in blood, all blue and red and
wrinkled. the twisted blue rope coming out of my privates, going into
its belly it is the most horrible disgusting thing i have ever seen._

_"you have to do it" he says. "have to. has to be you."_

_i know he's right, he hands me the plastic bag. its easier than i
thought it would be, just shove it inside, tie it off. so ugly that
thing i want to hide it, not hard at all. waiting waiting waiting, this
mess is coming out of me now and i have to ignore the bag beside me.
what a mess, what a mess. god i'm glad kevin's here._

_it takes longer than i would have thought. i open the bag, check for a
pulse. fuck, its still alive! kevin its not working!_

_hit it he says_ i look around desperate. golf club. smack. one smack
on top of the bag._

_oh yes its dead now._

_i know i should feel sorry, but all i feel is relief._

_dead._

The man dropped his pen and rolled onto his side, breathing hard. His
eyes popped open--they had been closed the whole time.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Friday
2:22 a.m.

Mulder awoke with a start to find himself sitting upright in bed. He
rubbed the back of his neck. Christ--what was happening to him?

Mulder was no stranger to nightmares. Ever since his regression
hypnosis, and to some degree even before that, he had been tortured by
his dreams often, sometimes as frequently as once a week. Recently
though, in the months since Scully's cancer went into remission, he had
been sleeping better. Perhaps it had to do with her, with the fact that
he had finally acknowledged that she had replaced his sister as the
single most important thing in his life. She was always there--across
the office, across town, in the next room--maybe he didn't need to dream
anymore.

But he suspected that wasn't the reason. He suspected that his growing
doubts about what he'd believed for so long were undermining the power
of the nightmares. And he feared that they were undermining his passion
as well. From the few brief discussions they'd had about it, he knew
Scully feared it as well. Ironic.

Not so long ago, he might have postulated that the victims in this case
were abductees. Psychokinesis was mundane by comparison.

But his dreams these past two nights called into question his
assumptions about his recent freedom from nightmares. Tonight he had
dreamt restlessly of the case, and those dreams had fluidly merged with
a dream of a shack in Puerto Rico, a bright white light, a silhouette in
the doorway. He'd been rushed forward in time to his father's
apartment, the pool of blood on the floor. The bodies in the boxcar.
His sister, an adult. His sister, a child. The beehives, the cold
Alaskan arctic. Another train car in another place.

And Scully. The memories flipped and flashed as if engineered by
someone with little patience and a remote control. But she was there
through almost all of it--a sideways glance, a raised eyebrow, running
footsteps, the barrel of a gun. Occasionally, he heard her voice, but
she was never very coherent--he could only catch a few words, maybe a
sentence.

He saw her unconscious in a hospital bed. Twice he had wept over her
while she lay like this, oblivious. The first time had been years ago,
when she lay dying, after her disappearance and return. The second time
had been recently--too recently--she hadn't been unconscious that time.
Just asleep.

He saw her again, her prone form a barely living testament to his stupid
stubbornness. His gullability had placed her in that bed, had all but
given her that cancer. The guilt, the grief, the terror--it came
flooding back to his dreamself, and he found himself once again bent
over her hand, hoping his scream of rage and desperation was silent.

All of it was merely memory. Until she'd sat up and looked down at him.

Her eyes had been cold. He looked up at her, apology and need in his
eyes. But she'd only extracted her hand distastefully from his. "What
are you doing here, Mulder?" she'd asked him. "Get away from me."

"But, Scully..." he'd began, trying to stand. His legs wouldn't work.

"Get away from me," she'd hissed again. "Get out of here. Haven't you
made me suffer enough?"

"Scully, I'm sorry, I never meant--I never wanted--"

"Get out!" she'd cried, and the door had swung open.

A pale-haired, well-built man had burst into the room. Mulder gasped,
groped for his gun. The bounty hunter. Mulder couldn't stand up. He
looked desperately to Scully, willing her to run, to scream, to do
something, but she only watched him coldly, nonplused.

There was a soft hiss as the bounty hunter produced a stilleto-thin
blade. He grinned and bent over Mulder, raising his arm.

Mulder felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck.

And then he'd woken up.

He sat still in bed, breathing roughly. What the hell was happening to
him? It had been so clear, so vivid, so real--the terror and guilt were
still close to his consciousness.

He looked around the room apprehensively, needing to shake off the
peculiar feeling that he wasn't alone. Satisfied by his eyes if not his
heart, he turned on the light, headed for the shower. He needed to
clear his head.

---------------------------------------------------

Friday
7:15 a.m.

Scully and Mulder had shared a silent breakfast, having agreed to meet
Roberts and Jacobs at the police station. They had been up until 1 the
previous night, studying the hundred-odd suicide case files and
compiling long and short lists of potentially related incidents. The
myriad ways people could come up with to end their lives was surprising.

They had argued over the longer lists, but the short list had been easy
to agree on. Eight suicides by massive internal organ damage--wounds to
the chest, sides or stomach--all within the last two years.

They had avoided discussion of anything not related to the case. The
silence over breakfast and now in the car was not comfortable, but
oppressive. The implications of last night's accusations hung over them
like a fog. Even though Mulder knew what she had meant last night, he
couldn't help feeling she'd treated him like a child whose behavior had
been merely tolerated for years and had finally pushed her into
confronting it. And even though Scully understood how he could have
seen her attempts to intervene in the dinner conversation as
gratuitously conciliatory toward Roberts, she couldn't help feeling that
he was demanding she compromise her arguments to accommodate Roberts'
presence--in other words that she back him unconditionally. And though
she was more than willing to do that in every other aspect of their
relationship, she would not do it for his hypotheses.

Finally, though, Scully grew tired of the silence. "Did you sleep
well?" she asked, staring out the passenger window.

"Yes," he lied guardedly. "You?"

She must have heard the lie, because he could feel her looking at him.
"I didn't," she said carefully. "I had a terrible dream. I dreamt
Ellen was in a skiing accident and died of exposure before she was
found."

"Scully, if the cancellation of a ski trip is all it takes for your
subconscious to immerse itself in guilt, I'm more relieved than ever
that I wasn't raised Catholic."

Fuck, that hadn't come out the way he'd meant. He stole a sideways
glance at her. She had returned to gazing out the window; her
expression was unreadable. He considered apologizing, but knew somehow
that acknowledgement would make it worse. Thankfully, they had reached
the police station.

One of the secretaries approached them as soon as they entered, handed
several fax pages to Scully. Mulder looked over her shoulder--they were
the results of the tox screens and blood work-ups done on the two most
recent victims. He waited.

Scully scanned them slowly. Finally, she announced, "Well, nothing out
of the ordinary here. Except for elevated acetylcholine and adrenalin
levels, but that's not uncommon for episodes of violence."

"Did the earlier victims also have high adrenalin levels?" Mulder asked.

"Yes, but, again, that's expected," Scully answered, and he nodded.

Just then they were joined by Roberts and Jacobs.

"Okay, Mulder," Roberts said. "What'd you get from the suicide
reports?"

"Scully has the lists," Mulder answered, deliberately forcing him to
address her.

Her eyes slid sideways to rake over him once before she turned to
Roberts. Damn, he should know better than to try for naked
appeasement--it could appear condescending. But what the hell was he
supposed to do?

"The short list contains eight pretty plausibly related deaths," Scully
said. "Less than one percent of suicide attempts involve blows to the
torso by a gun or other object, but all eight of these do. And all
occurred within the last two years. Five occurred in Lima, one in
Findlay, one in Wapakoneta and one in Ada. All close."

"What do you suggest we do, Dana?" Roberts asked. He seemed genuinely
curious.

"We need to track down family members of the dead, ideally two per
person, and ask them if they believed their relatives were
suicide-prone. We also need to find out if they had anything in common,
if they were connected in any way. If we split up in pairs, it's a
day's work. Or did you plan to spend today on the Haight possibility,
Agent Roberts?"

"Actually, I had planned that," Roberts answered. "But the local P.D.
has several men working on that, so I think they could spare me."

Mulder felt an almost overwhelming disgust for this man. It had had to
practically jump up and bite him, but he recognized the suicides were a
clue. So he was suddenly conciliatory, agreeing to help out. Roberts
was a yes-man, no doubt about it. Let other people do the risky
part--come up with the ideas--then jump onto whatever bandwagon was
going the fastest and hope to reach the finish line first to bask in the
glory.

"Great," Mulder said. "Why don't you and Scully take all the in-town
cases except the most recent one, and Jacobs and I will do the recent
case and all the required driving."

Amazingly (or perhaps not so amazingly, given the suggested pairing),
Roberts agreed.

Scully didn't give him the look of ire he'd been dreading. He hoped
that meant she understood that he'd split them up because he trusted her
investigative eye over Roberts' and Jacobs'--he didn't want them to miss
anything. And pairing himself with Roberts would have been disaster.

They separated to begin hunting for addresses.

---------------------------------------------------

END 4/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 5 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Atkins Residence
Friday
5:37 p.m.

Scully pressed the doorbell. She was tired and frustrated. Although
potentially productive, the day had been exhausting and, thanks to
Roberts, irritating. She had to admit, his interrogative manner wasn't
bad, but he had no instincts for working with a partner. He would cut
off her lines of questioning, or jump ahead to a conclusion she was
trying to draw out of whoever they were talking to. And he usually took
the lead without asking. After the first two interviews, she had
contented herself with drawing back, pacing the room, appearing to study
pictures on the walls while covertly watching the interrogation. She
would speak only when Roberts had finished, and hope he hadn't ruined
her lines beforehand.

Adaptation: a useful skill in any career.

They'd spoken to family members of three suicide victims, all of whom
had shot themselves in the chest or stomach. In only one case had the
death not surprised the family; all the others insisted that their
relative had led what they'd thought was a happy life. The medical
records of one of these revealed treatment for depression, which Scully
believed ruled him out as a possible homicide victim. The other
one--who could tell? She wasn't sure yet what they were looking for.
She had lists of details, though, details which could be compared with
other potential victims to find a common thread.

This was the last one. He hadn't been home earlier, though he had no
job. Jeremiah Atkins had been collecting unemployment for about three
months now, after he'd been fired from his job assembling brake
components at a local factory. His wife, Michelle, had died two years
earlier, of a knife wound to the stomach. The wound had apparently been
self-inflicted, although a preliminary investigation into the
possibility of homicide had been conducted, but no evidence had been
found. Atkins had testified that Michelle had been depressed for months
after her miscarriage, and Michelle's medical records had confirmed
this, although she had not sought treatment for her depression.

Scully pressed the doorbell again. She heard slow footsteps, and at
last a man opened the door.

She studied him. He was only a little taller than her and overweight.
He squinted as if he needed glasses. His hair was uncombed and greasy,
and he was dressed in Ohio State sweats.

"Mr. Atkins?" she asked.

"Yes?"

Roberts cut in, producing his badge. "I'm Agent Mark Roberts, and this
is Agent Dana Scully. We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
and we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?"

"Uhhhhhh..." Atkins looked from one to the other, leaned forward to peer
at Scully's badge. "I don't know nothing you'd want to ask about,
but....okay. Sure. C'mon in."

He stood aside and they entered. It was a decently sized rural
farmhouse, about a hundred yards off the road. The living room was
sparsely furnished, but the house was large enough that it hinted at a
past luxury.

"You've got quite a tract of land here," Scully observed, taking a stand
behind the couch. "And a nice house. Why don't you farm this land?"

"Oh. My dad did. But now...government pays us--er, me--to keep the
plow off the land. Keeps the market prices up and stops erosion and
stuff. You know. Environmental stuff."

"Hey, what a deal, huh?" Roberts responded. Scully could feel him
sliding his eyes to her, hoping to exchange a glance of shared
amusement, but she didn't look at him.

Roberts made himself comfortable on the couch. "Have a seat, Mr.
Atkins," he directed.

Atkins ambled over to a chair, the only other place to sit in the room.
He stared at them silently, chewing on the corner of his upper lip.
Scully watched him, letting Roberts take the lead.

"So, Mr. Atkins. I'm afraid we have some rather personal questions to
ask you. Things which might bring up some painful memories."

To Scully, it seemed Atkins' eyes widened. His fingers, clasped in his
lap, tightened. She frowned. But Atkins still didn't speak.

"We--ah--we'd like to ask you about your wife, Michelle."

"She's dead," Atkins said. He looked at Scully.

"Yes, we're very sorry," Roberts answered. "I know this might be
difficult to talk about, but...was Michelle's death...a surprise to
you?"

"Ummm...no. She'd--she'd had a miscarriage. Fell down the stairs.
Ever since, she'd been really depressed, and I knew she was upset but I
didn't know how upset. I should've known, though. I should've seen
it. Looking back."

"Um-hum," Roberts said. "Listen, I have to ask you this--was Michelle a
frequent user of drugs or alcohol?"

"Look, what is this about?" Atkins said suddenly. He wet his lips. "I
mean, it was a suicide, two years ago."

Roberts chose his words carefully. "Well, we're here investigating a
murder, Mr. Atkins. We just needed to do some checking, that's all.
Michelle's name came up on a list."

"A list of what?"

"Of potentially related deaths," Roberts admitted. "We're talking to
lots of people, actually. It may be nothing. It's probably nothing.
But we have to ask, you understand."

"Oh." Atkins hesitated, staring again at Scully. "What murder are you
talking about?"

"I'm afraid we can't discuss that," Roberts answered. He flashed an
expert we-sympathisize-but-we're-in-control-here smile. "Now, if I
could just ask you a few more questions...."

Scully wandered into the hallway, listening to Roberts go through the
questions they had agreed on--what organizations Michelle had been
active in, who she knew, where she worked, where she'd grown up. She
listened to Atkins' answers for any similarity with the other interviews
she'd been through that day. But Roberts was taking notes, and so most
of her attention was on the home itself.

She didn't know what she was looking for. But something was telling her
that this man knew something. Ever since their arrival, he'd seemed
nervous, and it had taken him too long to ask why FBI agents were
ringing his doorbell. Of course, it could be that he'd killed his wife,
and while that was of course worth investigating, it wasn't the business
of the FBI. But something about the way he'd stared at her--

God. She'd been around Mulder for too long. She frowned. Mulder.
They had enough to deal with on this case without having to deal with
each other. She was anxious to get this case behind them, and if she
thought Roberts and Jacobs were at all competent, she would have
insisted Mulder just write the damn profile so they could get out of
there.    But.

She wandered into the kitchen, still within earshot of the two men. It
was an small, older kitchen, so immaculately clean that she wondered if
he used it. There was a piece of paper sitting on the kitchen table.
Curious, she walked over to examine it.

It looked like a letter--a page of cramped and furious writing, without
coherent paragraph breaks but with plenty of line breaks.
Amazing--there were still some people in the world who hadn't discovered
email yet. Scully had to bend over and squint to be able to read it.
She scanned a few sentences from different parts of the page.

_tell him to go to his room and wait for me i'm already getting hot..._

_...upstairs, wait until he's watching me to slide my belt off he looks
so scared and i am so hard now..._

_his little ass is clenched up, waiting for me he's whimpering i raise
my arm and..._

_he's screaming pleaseplease and i'm touching myself i'm so hard..._

"Agent Scully?"

Roberts' voice from the living room startled her out of her horror. She
thought quickly. There was certainly no evidence that this had anything
to do with the case. This man had no children, although that certainly
didn't mean he wasn't a child abuser. And it wasn't illegal to write
pornography in one's own home. She left the paper on the table and
walked quickly back to the living room.

Atkins was staring at her nervously. Roberts was looking at her
expectantly. Damn it--if she'd been with Mulder, he would have kept the
questions going until she returned. Actually, if she'd been with
Mulder, she'd probably have been asking the questions while _he_ checked
the place out--playing this part wasn't so bad.

"Are you ready to go, Agent Scully?" Roberts was asking.

There was something else. "Mr. Atkins," she said, speaking to him for
almost the first time. "Do you live alone here?"

He looked visibly startled by her question and she felt a twinge of
satisfaction.

"I--yes. Yes."

"How long have you lived alone, Mr. Atkins?"

"Since Michelle...died..."

She nodded. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Atkins." She didn't
apologize for the disruption--she wasn't sure she could stomach
apologizing for anything to this man. This man who wrote about beating
little boys and who had in all likelihood killed his wife.

Thankfully, Roberts waited until they were in the car to ask her. "What
was that last question about?"

"What?"

"About whether he lived alone."

"Because when we first arrived and you asked him about the farm, he
said, 'The government pays us--me--to keep the plow off the land,'" she
said patiently. She restrained a smile. Now she knew how Mulder had
felt years ago. Once it would have been her asking for an explanation.

"Oh. He probably just meant his wife."

"She's dead."

"Yeah, and he probably killed her. I don't know why the local PD didn't
catch that."

"There was an investigation," she reminded him. "There probably wasn't
enough evidence. But I agree--his nervousness was very suspicious."

"But it still has nothing to do with this case," Roberts observed.

Scully frowned. Roberts drove in silence for a few minutes.

"You know," he said finally. "You're pretty good at this stuff."

Scully gave him a Look, even though she knew it was wasted on him--he
wouldn't understand it.

---------------------------------------------------

Denny's
Friday
7:17 p.m.

The four agents managed to get through an entire meal that night without
bickering. Among them, they had narrowed the list to five probably
related deaths and had directed a few of the police detectives, who had
uncovered nothing new about Haight, to look into these suicides. In two
of the five cases, a history of abuse had already been uncovered. This,
Mulder believed, was the killer's trademark; he was confident that
investigation of the other "suicides" would reveal criminal pasts as
well.

"So you'll be working on that profile tonight?" Roberts asked Mulder
pointedly.

"I will," Mulder answered. "But I don't think you'll like it."

Roberts blew out air loudly, knowing Mulder was thinking of
psychokinesis again. "Look, the suicides thing was a good idea. But it
suggests more strongly than ever that we're dealing with an everyday
serial killer. He's just particularly clever."

"In the case of Danny Tyko's 'suicide,' the man was in a motel room with
all the windows and doors locked from the inside," Scully interjected.
"In none of the cases--paired or single deaths--was there any sign of a
third party's presence."

"Like I said," Roberts responded patiently, "he's clever. Do _you_
believe this psychokinesis crap, Agent Scully?"

Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her. "I can't rule it out," she said
carefully. "In fact, given the evidence we have, it's the most
plausible explanation. And I've seen enough to know it's possible."

God, she had come so far in five years. Suddenly, she and Mulder were
on the same page. She suspected, though, that they were still in
transition, that the things that moved them hadn't stopped changing.
Not yet.

"What about you, Alan?" Roberts asked. "Don't tell me _you_ buy this
too."

"I don't know, Mark. I...I don't know."

Mulder bit his lip. "Look, I'll write the profile. I'll tell you right
now, Haight won't fit it. But can we agree on this?--Our killer sees
himself as an arbiter of justice--he is judge, jury and executioner."

Roberts nodded. "Didn't take a top profiler to figure that out by now."

"Okay," Mulder replied. "Now, can you explain to me how our UNSUB
_meets_ his victims, who have no connections to each other except that
their criminal histories? And how, once he's met them, he knows their
pasts? In most cases, the police weren't able to figure that
out--families or coworkers hadn't reported it. And how does he do so
well at making it look like suicide?"

"That's your job," Roberts told him dismissively. "Look, you work on
that tonight. Unless you come up with something that gives us a _lead_
tomorrow, Jacobs and I will continue pursuing Haight. You and Scully
can work with the P.D. to go through past records looking for someone to
fit your profile. But if we have to start giving E.S.P. tests to our
suspects, I'm not gonna be happy."

Scully waited until they were alone in the car to tell Mulder about the
page of writing she'd found in Atkins' house.

"Hmmmm," Mulder said when she'd finished. "You said it was
handwritten?"

"Yes. With very poor punctuation. I don't know, it was probably just a
porn fantasy. I imagine some people write things like that. But it
seemed...strange...the way it was written. My first reaction was just
disgust, but now that I think about it more...." She trailed off.

"What?" Mulder prompted.

"I don't think it looked like pornography." She was furious at herself
for blushing, hoped he couldn't see it in the dark.

Mulder said the inevitable. "And you would know that how, Scully?"

She could hold her own. "Too bad I didn't bring it back to you, Mulder,
for your expert analysis."

"I can't recall that my tastes have ever run to beating little boys," he
said lightly, but there was a hint of warning in his voice.

It was clear to Scully that both their nerves were still raw from last
night's fight. So she cut to the chase, speaking with clinical
detachment. "The narrative was from the point of view of the abuser,
but it didn't waste details on what the man was _seeing_--it described
what he was _feeling._ Things like, 'I am watching him and I am hard.'
But I would expect something written for pornographic pleasure to
describe what the boy looked like, what he was doing. And there were no
classic pornographic descriptions of size or texture or...things like
that." She finished awkwardly.

Thankfully, Mulder didn't make a sarcastic comment. "It was like a
memory, you mean. Written by the person who did it, not for the person
reading it."

"Yes, I guess so," she agreed. "The abuser's memory."

He was looking at her significantly. "What?" she asked, irritated.

"You said, 'abuser,'" Mulder replied. "For the second time."

"Well, that's what he was. The man in the story, at least."

"Yes."

Oh. How had she missed that? The page had described the actions (and
motivations) of a violent child abuser.

"When did Michelle Atkins die?" Mulder asked.

"March of 1996," Scully answered. "Three months after a miscarriage."

"How did she miscarry?"

"She fell down some stairs in her house."

"Did she fall, or was she pushed?"

She saw where he was going. "Are you suggesting that Atkins is an
abuser? A killer? A--what?"

"I'm not sure," Mulder answered, pulling into the hotel parking lot. "I
think I want to meet him, though. What was it you said and Roberts
dismissed?"

She snorted. "Which part?"

"About him living alone."

"Oh. Just that he stumbled, said 'us' instead of 'me.' And reacted
when I asked him why he'd said that. Roberts thought it was just that
he wasn't used to his wife being gone. It's a little thing, I don't
know."

"Hmmmm." Mulder said.

They got out of the car just as Roberts and Jacobs pulled in.

"Profile!" Roberts called across the parking lot.

Mulder gave a thumbs-up signal, then turned to face Scully, his back to
the other car. He gave a twist of his lips, a grimace of shared
amusement over Roberts' behavior and his own restraint, and Scully
returned it, feeling better.

---------------------------------------------------

808 Rte. 235
Saturday
12:14 a.m.

The man was crouched on the floor, among the scattered papers and manila
file folders, sketching furiously. The picture was clumsy but
recognizable. A woman with long wavy hair and a black ribbon tied
around her neck. Beside the drawing, cramped words were apparent,
although only a few were legible.

_...died for me..._

_...files, files with my name my name..._

_...ohmygod..._

_...mulder..._

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Saturday
4:18 a.m.

A violent banging noise woke Scully. It had stopped when she opened her
eyes, and at first she thought someone had been knocking at her door,
but no, it had come from behind her. Mulder's room. Now she could hear
him walking. His pace was hurried, urgent. There was another bang--she
recognized it as the sound of a drawer being opened and slammed shut.
What was he doing?

She felt heavy with sleep and the memory of her dream, which was vivid
in her brain even though it hadn't woken her. Nonetheless, she hauled
herself out of bed and knocked on the adjoining door. "Mulder?"

He didn't answer for a long time. Then, "Go away." His voice was rough
and low.

"What are you doing, Mulder?" she called.

"Going home," he answered, still rough.

"_What?_" Scully turned the handle and it wasn't locked so she
entered. In a second Mulder was towering over her menacingly.

"I _said_ to go away," he hissed.

Scully felt confused. Was she still dreaming? She studied his face--it
was angry and taut. Beyond him she could see his suitcase open on the
bed, his clothes crammed into it, unfolded.

"What happened, Mulder?" she asked calmly. "Where are you going to go?"

"I _told_ you--" he began through clenched teeth. Then he stopped, his
face went blank. There was a long pause, then his eyes lit up. "You
should come too. Get your things. We have to leave."

"Mulder, what the hell are you talking about?" Scully demanded.

"We have to go. We have to leave. There's something we forgot to do."

"What did we forget? Where?"

"I mean, I forgot it. I can't tell you. But you have to help me, you
have to come with me."

"Mulder, you're talking nonsense." Scully attempted her best dismissal
under the circumstances--she felt much less powerful when clad in
pajamas. But then, Mulder was only wearing boxers. "You're not even
dressed."

Mulder looked down and swallowed, then went to his suitcase, pulled out
a pair of jeans. Hurriedly, he put them on.

"_Mulder,_" Scully said firmly. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell
me what's happening. And you're not going anywhere either."

Instantly he was towering over her again, gripping her upper arms
fiercely. "Don't you _dare_ tell me what to do!" he shouted.

"Be _quiet_," she hissed, squirming to get away from him. He didn't
release her. Was he drugged? "What have you eaten in the last few
hours?"

"None of your fucking business!" he shouted again, shaking her.

"Let go of me!"

"Don't _fucking_ tell me what to do!  Get your things! Now!" He

punctuated the last word with another shake.

"Mulder, let go," she said steadily, trying another tack. "You're
hurting me."

He shoved her into the doorjamb, releasing her. "Fine, if you won't
come, I'll go." He was still shouting. "I have to do what I forgot!"

For a moment, Scully had feared that this was not Mulder before her, but
she was increasingly convinced it was a drugged Mulder. But how could
anyone have gotten to him? And, more importantly, why?

She had to stop him until it was out of his system. She didn't think
she could shoot him (again), but if she had to....

She turned back to her own room, went for her gun and the handcuffs in
her coat. When she came back, he had closed the suitcase and was headed
for the door. She ran after him and seized his arm just as he opened
the door.

Roberts and Jacobs were both standing there, mouths open, guns in hand.
A few other people in bathrobes had gathered behind them.

For an instant, Scully considered what this must look like: herself
dressed in silk pajamas holding onto one handcuff clasp, the other
attached to a half-naked Mulder's arm. But she dismissed it quickly and
clamped the other cuff to the arm of the chair nearest the door.

Mulder turned to her with a look of pure hatred, raised his free hand as
if to strike her.

But Roberts was right behind him. He yanked Mulder's arm back at the
elbow and slammed a fist into the side of his head. Mulder sagged onto
the floor, his chained arm twisted awkwardly behind him.

Scully dropped to her knees immediately and leaned over him, opening
each eyelid and checking the pupils. Then she leapt to her feet and
turned on Roberts. "Get out," she said icily.

Roberts looked down at her. At least he was wearing a trenchcoat over
his pajamas. "Agent Scully," he said firmly. "I don't have anything
against you personally, and I think it's a shame that you don't realize
you could do better than _this_"--he gestured at Mulder--"both
professionally and personally. But I want at least _him_ on a plane to
D.C tomorrow, and I'm filing a complaint."

"You do that," Scully snapped. "But Mulder's not going anywhere. I
can't explain his actions tonight--yet.   But I assure you that he
should not be held responsible for them. Now, _get out._"

"You sound like a battered wife," Roberts told her with a smirk and a
sideways glance at the adjoining door. "That man is _crazy,_ Dana, and
I would've pegged you for smart enough to recognize it."

"Get _out_," Scully repeated. Jacobs, who had been clearing onlookers
from the doorway, entered the room.

"I think he should be locked up," said Roberts. He started to move
toward Mulder's inert form, but Scully blocked his way.

"I'm not going to repeat myself, Agent Roberts," she said firmly. "I'll
take care of him."

Jacobs cleared his throat.

When no one moved, Jacobs surprised them all by speaking. "Mark, go
back to bed." His tone was firm.

Roberts turned toward Jacobs with a look of shock, but after a moment's
hesitation, he went to the door. As he exited, he turned back to Scully
with a scathing glare. "I want you _both_ off this case. Good fucking
riddance. You go back to Washington and tell them you did all you
could, and everybody's happy. Otherwise, I'll let your supervisor know
about your sleeping arrangements." He slammed the door.

END 5/10