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

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 6 of 10

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

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

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

After Roberts had left, Scully turned slowly to Jacobs.

"He can't take you off the case," Jacobs told her. "And as for his
blackmail attempt--if he does start blabbing that story I'll tell them
that door was closed and locked."

"You don't have to tell them anything, Alan, but thank you," Scully said
with a sigh. "Listen, I suspect Mulder's been drugged somehow--I want
to draw some blood and have it analyzed. Can you do me a favor and take
a sample to the hospital? They'll be able to prepare it correctly to be
sent to the lab."

"Of course, Dana. Do you have a syringe with you?"

She nodded. "In the car. Stay with him a moment." She went to get her
shoes and car keys.

When she returned, Mulder was sitting, his hand still chained to the
chair. Jacobs was on one knee in front of him, a hand on his shoulder.
Mulder looked groggy but calm.

Scully knelt in front of him. "Are you okay now, Mulder?" she asked
him. "Look at me." She perfunctorily checked his pupils.

His face twisted in confusion. "I have absolutely no idea why I'm
chained to this chair or why my head feels like it had a ton of bricks
dropped on it, but otherwise I think I'm okay...."

She put her fingers at his neck, checking his pulse. "You were storming
around the room shouting that you had forgotten something and that you
were going home to get it."

"Was I?"

"I handcuffed you because you were insisting on leaving, and you
definitely weren't...yourself." She fumbled for the key, unlocked him.
He rubbed his wrist.

"Roberts knocked you out, Mulder."

"How did he get here?"

"You were shouting. He heard you and came over."

"Why'd he hit me?"

"I think he thought you were about to hit _me,_ Mulder."

"I wasn't, was I?"

"I don't know," she said dismissively. She held up the syringe. "I
want to take some blood for a tox screen. Although it's looking less
likely that this was drug-induced, if you're out of it so fast."

"I don't think it could have been," Mulder answered. "I haven't eaten
or drank since dinner, except for a glass of water before bed,
and....was my door locked?"

"I don't know." She gripped his arm, opened an iodine gauze pad. As
she began to scrub, Mulder seemed to realize for the first time that
Jacobs was in the room.

"Hi, Jacobs," he said.

"Hi."

He flinched as the needle entered, looked away as the tube filled with
blood. Scully removed the needle, guided his free hand to the gauze
pad, and extracted the tube. When she'd capped it, she handed it to
Jacobs.

"Carry it in that ice container," she told him. "And get there as fast
as possible. It's best if the blood isn't clotted."

"Will do," Jacobs replied.

"Alan?" Scully said as he reached for the door handle. He turned back.
"Thanks." She flashed a smile of genuine gratitude.

He grinned, obviously pleased, then exited.

Mulder was still pressing the gauze to the inside of his elbow. Scully
reached for it. "It's not going to bleed anymore. Here, I have a
band-aid."

He watched her apply it. Then she got up and went for the bathroom.
When she returned, she had a wet cloth, a glass of water, and two white
pills. "Take these," she told him, extending her hand.

"What are they?" he asked suspiciously.

"Excedrin."

"'My doctor says 'Excedrin,''" Mulder quipped, imitating the
commercial. Scully looked at him quizzically, missing the joke. Mulder
shook his head dismissively, a move he immediately regretted.

Scully sponged the iodine off his arm. "So you really remember
nothing?" she asked.

"All I remember is going to bed and waking up on the floor, handcuffed
to a chair, with a really sore head. And that last part hasn't
changed."

"Here, lie down on the bed." She helped him up, and he obediently
stretched out over the rumpled sheets. He closed his eyes and she
folded the cloth, placed it across his forehead.

"Was I really going to hit you?" he asked finally.

"You were being pretty...forceful," she answered carefully. Her arms
were still sore and undoubtedly bruised, but there was no need to tell
him that. "And when I cuffed you to the chair you looked pretty angry."

"Maybe we should be locking that door."

"What, so I have to chase you down in a car?"

He changed the subject. "Where's Roberts?"

"I told him to get out of here after he hit you. He said he wants us
off this case, but he seemed to recognize he didn't have the authority
to dismiss us, so he told us to leave voluntarily, threatening to tell
our superiors we're sleeping together if we don't."

Mulder sat up. "That's exactly what someone wants, Scully, that's what
this is about!"

"What--someone wants to discredit us?"

"No! Well, sort of--someone wants us off this case, which means we're
close to...something...."

Scully frowned. "You think this has something to do with our enemies?
How would they have gotten to you? And what could this case possibly
have to do with them?"

"I don't know, but we've bumped into their little science projects
before.... And if anyone could get to me, with a drug or whatever, it
would be them. A common criminal wouldn't know enough about the
agency--about _us_--to have staged this. Scully, I believe you about
Atkins--I think _that's_ where we got close--everything else has been a
dead end. But he only met you and Roberts. Why would he or anyone he
talked to target me?"

"He could've found out you're my partner..." Scully said uncertainly.
"But, Mulder, it doesn't have to be about discrediting us. You were
acting so strangely, incoherently. First you told me to leave you
alone, then you were telling me to get packed and leave with you because
you needed my help, and then you were yelling at me not to tell you what
to do. It wasn't very...orchestrated."

"It wouldn't have to be, if it was just some drug."

"I can't think of any drug that would exit your system just because you
were punched in the head."

"Well, what about some kind of hypnotic suggestion?" Mulder sat up,
reflected for a moment. "Come on, Scully, we can't answer this now. If
it _is_ them, they'll be cleaning up and disappearing as fast as
possible. We've got to be faster. Let's go back to Atkins' place."

"Mulder, it's five in the morning! On a Saturday!"

Mulder was already pulling on a dress shirt from his discarded
suitcase. "Well, we can wait a few hours to wake him up. Maybe. But I
want to look around his place, it's better if he's asleep anyway."

Scully sighed. "Okay, I'll get dressed. What about your head?"

He grinned at her, knocked on his temple. "Nothing sounds loose in
there."

"Nothing that wasn't already, you mean," she answered before she left
the room.

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

808 Rte. 235
Sunday
5:25 a.m.

They parked the car on the main road and walked up the long driveway in
silence. When they neared the farmhouse, Mulder began walking off to
the right, so Scully took the left.

Mulder kept the beam of his flashlight as low as possible, pointed at
the foundation of the house. He wasn't sure what they were looking for,
but there was a feeling about this place. He was sure there was
something to be found.

He stood on tiptoe to peer into the kitchen windows. All was dark, but
he could make out the counters and refrigerator--nothing out of the
ordinary. He rounded the corner of the house and presumed her was
moving back toward a family room of some sort (the bedrooms were
probably on the top floor). Then he noticed the barn. He was halfway
across the field when Scully's call drew him back.

"Mulder!"

He turned and raced back to the house, ignoring the awful pain in his
head perpetuated by the pounding of his feet. All manner of horrible
scenarios raced through his head. He reached the front porch, called
out her name, heard her answer from inside. He tried the door--locked.
He slammed his shoulder into it as hard as he could, but it didn't
budge. He drew back for another lunge, and just then the door was
opened. He lunged straight onto the floor, and looked up to see Scully
staring down at him, holding the door.

"Sorry," she said, extending a hand to help him up.

"Why'd you call?" He rubbed his arm, anticipating the new bruises.

She was already moving away from him. He followed her into the next
room and saw the object of her concern. A man was lying sprawled on the
living room floor, his mouth hanging open. He looked very pale. She
dropped to her knees beside him, checked his pupils.

"Is that Atkins?" he asked.

"Yes."

"So we're too late."

"No--Mulder, he's alive. He's just unconscious."

Incredulously, Mulder dropped to his knees beside her and felt for the
man's pulse. Scully was now running her hands through the man's hair.
"I don't feel any bumps," she said. "I'm calling an ambulance. Do you
see anything around here that could have been used to knock him out?
Check around for drugs or alcohol. And look in his medicine cabinet for
insulin."

Mulder stood and looked around the room. It was sparsely but pleasantly
furnished, and nothing looked out of place. There were certainly no
blunt objects lying around. He frowned and began exploring the house.
Distantly, he heard Scully's voice.

"Caucasian male, mid-thirties, about 200 pounds. Found unconscious on
the floor of his home with no obvious injuries.....No, I don't know how
he got this way....I told you, I'm an FBI agent....I don't know,
possibly drugs, maybe diabetes.....No, there's no sign of
vomiting....Yes, that's the address....Thank you."

Mulder checked the sink for glasses, but there were none. He opened the
refrigerator. There were a few cans of beer, but he could see no empty
bottles lying around. A few liquor bottles were arrayed on the counter,
but none less than three-quarters full. He went upstairs.

The bathroom cabinet contained a few amber prescription
bottles--chlopromazine, sodium benzodiazepine, kanamycin. They meant
nothing to him. He slipped on a rubber glove and dropped them into an
evidence bag drawn from his coat. He scoured the bathroom but found no
diabetes testing kits.

He crossed the hall into what appeared to be a study of sorts. The room
was scattered with crumpled paper and pages of cramped writing. A desk
was pushed against the wall, but its owner apparently preferred the
floor, judging by the number of pens scattered around the room. Mulder
bent over, glancing at the pages. Several featured rough sketches of
faces and buildings, accompanied by tight, messy cursive. One of the
pictures in the center of the room caught his eye and he reached for the
page with a deep breath of surprise.

The sketch was rough, but very recognizable. It was the picture from
his desk--Samantha smiling from the bar of a jungle gym.

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

Scully had prodded Atkins' gut for signs of distress, palpated his
throat for possible constrictions and checked his pupils a dozen times
to make sure they were equally sized, ruling out concussion. She tried
waking him by splashing cold water on his face, by slapping him, by
talking to him. But he was unmovable. The operator had told her it
could take half-an-hour for the ambulance to reach them, and at first
she'd worried, but his condition seemed stable enough. Just as she'd got
up to see what Mulder was doing, her partner came through the doorway.

He held out a stack of papers. "I think it was him who tried to get rid
of us this morning, but I don't think this has anything to do with any
conspiracy," he said grimly.

She took the papers, curious, and began leafing through them. The
cramped writing was difficult to read, but her eyes were drawn
immediately to the pictures. The faces leapt out at her and her heart
caught in her throat.

Here was Melissa Scully, here the child Emily. Samantha, Bill Mulder,
Bill Scully. Ellen. The unmistakable visage of Donnie Pfaster. The
Bounty Hunter. X.

She looked up at Mulder, aghast. "Where--?"

"Upstairs," he answered. "There's a whole roomful. I only picked up
what pertains to us."

She pushed past him, needing to see for herself. He followed her
upstairs, stood in the doorway as she looked among the papers. She
uncrumpled one, squinted to make out the writing. "Mulder, this
mentions Lichtman. I talked to his son yesterday about his father's
unexpected suicide." She grabbed another page that caught her eye.
"And here's a picture of Vandesky's wife."

Mulder nodded. "There's a picture of McClusky's kids over there. And I
saw some mention of the name 'Dillhoy' over here--that's one of the
suicides whose wife I talked to yesterday."

"This is--" Scully looked about her, searching for the right word.

"Frightening?" Mulder supplied. "What's more frightening is how many of
these names and faces I _don't_ recognize."

"You think he's killed others?"

"I don't know. I don't even know for sure that he's the killer. He
could just be...seeing things...but...."

Scully looked back at the papers in her hand, tried reading the first
page. _I can see her she is beneath me there is blood and i raise the
knife again and she screams my name...._

"This is your dream, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"He must have heard us. He must have been there, or the room was
bugged, or..." she trailed off. Mulder only looked at her, knowing she
didn't believe what she was saying. Atkins had somehow seen their
dreams.

"What are we going to do with this?"

He took the papers from her. "For now," he said, "Nothing." He folded
them in half and tucked them into his coat.

"That's evidence," she protested, but he knew she agreed with him.
Those pages were far too personal and potentially dangerous. There was
more than enough evidence scattered on the floor around them.

They both heard the sound from downstairs, and rushed down together.

Atkins was on his feet, dashing for the door. Scully whipped out her
gun, and her voice cut the air with deadly precision. "Freeze. Federal
Agent. Hands in the air."

Atkins looked like he was about to wet himself. He gave a panicked look
around, then turned to face them, hands up. Mulder went to cuff him.
"You got a lot of explaining to do," he said roughly to the man, jerking
his arms behind him. Over his voice they could hear the sirens of the
now unnecessary ambulance.

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

Lima Police Department
Saturday
10:31 a.m.

"Please leave me alone. I haven't done anything wrong." Jeremiah
Atkins was seated at the table, his head in his hands. His voice was
quiet, soft, afraid.

Mulder was seated across from him, a lawyer beside him. Scully paced
the room slowly behind Mulder.

Mulder leaned forward. "You caused people's deaths, didn't you?" His
tone was reasonable, helpful.

Atkins looked up, a spark in his eyes. "I didn't do anything _wrong_!"
he insisted.

"Because they were guilty, right? They deserved to die."

Atkins said nothing, regarding Mulder fearfully.

"You made that construction worker go to the office building a few
nights ago. You made him handcuff his own hands and feet and present
himself to McClusky, who was asleep on duty, wasn't he? Then you went
into McClusky's mind and made him--"

"This is absurd!" the lawyer interrupted with a cry, leaping to his
feet. "Agent Mulder, if these are the charges you're booking this man
on, I'll have you...."

He trailed off, mouth open. Both Scully and Mulder were glaring coldly
at him.

He sat back down, looked at Atkins. "Mr. Atkins," he said. "You don't
have to say anything."

"I know, sir," Atkins answered. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Who are you to decide who deserves to die?" Mulder asked sharply.

Atkins gave a little whimper. "Look, it's not what you think. It's not
that simple." He reached across the table urgently, grabbed Mulder's
wrist. His voice dropped to an intense whisper. "You're good people.
I can _see_ that--you know I can! I don't want to hurt you. You have a
quest, a mission--I do too! Can't we just both stay out of each others'
way? I'm almost done, I promise. I promise!"

The lawyer started to interrupt, but Atkins shrugged him off. "I have
to finish what's been started. If I don't....she'll never leave me
alone."

"Who won't?" Scully asked.

"You killed your wife, didn't you," Mulder said, extracting his arm from
Atkins' grip. It was not a question.

Atkins threw back his head and howled. "No! I didn't! I didn't
mean--I didn't. I mean, I was never a good husband, but I've learned
now, now I know how bad I was...."

"What is your mission, Atkins?" Mulder asked deliberately.

"My--my--oh God. Please, I don't want to have to hurt you, I just have
to finish."

"What did she say before she died, Atkins?" Mulder persisted. "What did
Michelle say to you? She can't have died very quickly. A stomach wound
can take hours to kill. It's probably the worst way to die. Your blood
leaks out into all your internal cavities, you're staring at your own
guts--"

"No!" Atkins cried again. He was breathing hard.

"Mr. Atkins--" the lawyer began.

"Okay!" Atkins shouted. "I killed her, all right? I killed her, and I'm
so so so sorry! I didn't mean to. I was just angry, it just
happened...."

Scully cut in. "Did you kill the others?"

"They deserved to die! Deserved it!"

"The dreams," Scully persisted. "How do you see the dreams?"

"I don't know!" Atkins gasped. "Please, leave me alone!"

The lawyer seemed both shocked and fascinated. And very nervous.

"What did she say to you?" Mulder asked again.

Atkins snapped his gaze over to Mulder. "How did you know?" he asked.

"She told you you would pay, didn't she?" Mulder continued. "What did
she tell you?"

"Ten times over," Atkins said softly. "She said I would have to pay ten
times over."

"And so you've killed others."

Atkins was silent now, staring at his hands.

"In those papers in your house," Mulder continued, "we found
descriptions of others' dreams. That's how you find out if they're
guilty, isn't it. How do you do it?"

"I don't know," he repeated resolutely. "I just do. Ever since she
died."

"Can you control the dreams?"

"I don't know. I can choose what I see...you know...memories, hopes,
fears...it's hard, though."

"Is it hard to control someone's body?"

Atkins looked at him.

"That's why you were passed out when we found you this morning, wasn't
it?"

Atkins looked at him.

There was complete silence in the room.

Atkins swallowed. "Listen," he whispered urgently, and now he looked up
at Scully. "I can help you. In your quest, I mean. I can show you her
memories. She just has to let me know when she's going to sleep, okay?
I've seen enough now--I've even seen some of what you want to know."

"What have you seen?" Scully's voice was clipped and tight. Mulder
looked at her.

"I'll tell you if you'll leave me alone. Let me finish."

"You've killed at least twelve people. That's more than ten times
over," Mulder said. "That's your quest, isn't it?"

For the first time, Atkins smiled. He seemed to be amused by some
private joke. "It doesn't count if I wasn't inside."

"You can feel everything the person feels, can't you," Mulder continued.
"That's how you pay. Why do you kill the others, the ones you're not
inside?"

"It's harder," Atkins began.

Finally, the lawyer interrupted. "I'm sorry," he said. "This man needs
a psychiatric evaluation. I'm not going to allow this to continue."

Surprisingly, Mulder didn't argue. "I think we've heard enough," he
said, turning to look at Scully. Scully looked thoughtful.

As they exited the room, Atkins called out, "Don't forget! I can help
you! I know what you want to remember!"

They stopped just outside the door.

"What do you think?" Mulder said to her.

"Mulder," she answered. "I can't explain it, but I think you're right.
He killed his wife, and now he feels he has to pay for it--"

"--or she's _making_ him pay for it. He said he didn't have these
powers until after she died. Maybe she's helping him."

"Or he thinks she is," Scully amended. "But if we give him four of the
suicide victims--Michelle doesn't count--and four of the paired
victims--the ones suspected of suicide--that's eight. Do you think he
meant the ten times thing literally?"

"Absolutely," Mulder said. "He has to kill twice more. I just don't
know why he killed those other four, the paired ones, the homicides.
Why he started with individuals and moved on to pairs."

"His 'quest' is personal--he thinks he has to pay. And he's careful to
choose his victims so that they have a guilty history. He's not
finished."

"Two more. At least. And being in jail won't stop him."

"Think he's already picked the targets?"

"I think we should check out his files. See if we can figure out who
his possibilities are."

Scully nodded and was about to reply when her cell phone rang. She
started to answer it.

"I'll talk to the chief," Mulder said quickly, and disappeared down the
hall.

Scully nodded at him, then answered her phone. "Scully."

"Agent Scully, it's Walter Skinner."

Scully's stomach sank. "Yes, sir?"

"I got a call from the Cleveland office this morning."

Scully sighed, thinking of Roberts' threat that morning. "Sir, I can
explain."

"Explain what? To my knowledge you've done nothing wrong."

"Well, I certainly don't think so. I'm glad you agree, sir. I can see
how it might appear to an outsider that Mulder and I were acting
unprofessionally last night, but--"

Skinner cut her off quickly. "Scully, I have no idea what you're
talking about and I don't think I want to know. The call I got this
morning regarded the fact that Agent Mulder hasn't produced the profile
he was sent there to produce."

Scully blushed deeply. "Oh. Yes. Well. Mulder wrote the profile last
night, actually, after the discovery of four additional deaths not
originally attributed to the killer. But I believe we apprehended the
actual killer just a few hours ago."

"Agent Roberts seemed to think you had apprehended the killer several
days ago."

"I don't believe we had the right man, sir. Agent Roberts thought we
did. Our man has confessed."

"Excellent. I was sure you two could handle it. You'll be back in
Washington soon, then."

"Actually, sir, we're afraid he might kill again. We'll need a few days
to ensure security."

"I thought you said you apprehended him. Is he not in custody?"

Scully steeled herself. "Yes, sir, yes he is. But he...doesn't appear
to need to be present at a site to do the killing. He appears to kill
telekinetically."

There was silence at the other end. "Agent Scully," Skinner said
finally. "Do _you_ believe this?" His emphasis was deliberate.

"I believe it is a strong possibility, sir," she answered carefully.

"Okay. Stay on for a few days. But--I don't want to be called again by
this Roberts person."

"I'll try to see that you aren't, sir. Pardon my asking, but--is
Roberts in Cleveland?"

"You didn't know that?"

"No, I didn't. He was here early this morning."

"He said he had gone back to the Cleveland R.O. for the weekend to run
some lab tests on _his_ suspect. I assumed you knew."

"No."

"I take it you're not making friends."

She permitted herself a small smile. "Our reputation precedes us, sir."

Skinner's voice smiled as well. "Excellent," he said. "I'll expect
your reports soon."

"Yes sir."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Scully disconnected and went to find Mulder.

He was standing outside the police chief's office. He answered her
question before she asked it. "They'll be moving him to Lima State
Correctional Facility. He'll be charged on Monday. I asked them to
keep him under 24 hour surveillance, but they thought I was crazy, said
they couldn't afford that anyway."

"So he may be able to kill again."

"Maybe. Or throw us off track. We can't sleep anymore, you realize.
"Your dreams about Ellen--the scene I apparently made this morning--he
was trying to get rid of us. He knew we knew these things. He could
find out anything--what we know about the investigation, any number of
things he could use against us...."

"Well, I'm glad you're not suggesting we try to take him up on his
offer?"

"What--about your memories? I thought about that. I wonder if he really
knows something."

"Mulder." Her voice warned him.

"Just a thought, Scully," he replied mildly. "Just a thought."

"Agent Roberts went to Cleveland," she told him, changing the subject.

"Was that him on the phone? Looking for a date?"

She looked irritated and Mulder mentally kicked himself. It had sounded
too bitter--they had both been reminded of last night's argument.

"No, it was Skinner," she answered. "Roberts called him."

"Ah. Did he ask how good I was between the sheets?"

Scully snorted, looked away. "I don't think Roberts told him. I think
he's still holding it over our heads. He did say you hadn't done your
profile like a good boy. Skinner was very irritated at having been
disturbed on a Saturday morning."

"As are we all."

"I told him we had the killer, that we needed a few more days to nail
things shut."

"That's an unpleasant metaphor."

"Unintentional. Mulder--do you really think he was inside your body
this morning?"

"I don't know--I have absolutely no memory of the event. You'd be the
best person to answer that."

"If he can get inside us like that--control us.... That at least
explains why McClusky was left-handed but held the club in his right
hand."

"And the handcuffs," Mulder reminded her.

"Yes" she agreed. Then: "Mulder, you may be able to go for three days
without sleeping, but I don't think I'm gonna make it."

"You can sleep," Mulder answered. "We both can. Just not alone and not
at the same time. And not much."

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

END 6/10

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

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 7 of 10

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

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

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

Lyman Residence
Saturday
8:15 p.m.

The rain pounded on the roof of the porch. Scully and Mulder had both
been soaked just walking from the car.

They were talking to a very dry, older man--Henry Lyman. After several
hours of study and legwork, the two of them and Jacobs had deduced the
identities of four possible targets from Atkins' lunatic writings. One
was implicated in a murder, the other in several thefts. Working with
the police and Atkins' clues, they'd been able to collect enough
evidence to arrest these two, which had the obvious benefit of putting
two criminals in jail while protecting them from Atkins' forced
suicides. Although the police had thought it a little strange that the
agents had insisted on standard anti-suicide practices for these men's
cells--no belts, no toilet seats, beds secured to the floor--they had
gone along in the end. It hadn't cost any money.

Evidence to arrest the other two was much harder to come by. One had
been a man, Clay, who was, according to Atkins' notes, the child abuser
whose written dream Scully had found on Atkins' kitchen table. Social
services wouldn't be available until Monday, and the wife had refused to
testify that anything was wrong. However, they'd been able to frighten
Clay into accepting protective custody by telling him he was the target
of a serial killer. Clay was spending the night in jail as well.

This last one was going to be the problem. Mary Lyman was a 19-year-old
girl who lived with her parents. Atkins' notes painted her as selfish
and a little stupid, but the crime for which he had chosen her was
apparently the killing of her own baby. No one had even known she was
pregnant. And when Mulder suggested to her parents that she had been
,their reaction had not been helpful.

"You get off my property right now! I got rights! You goddamn feds are
always tramplin' all over the constitution but I know my rights!" Mr.
Lyman was getting very red and Scully was concerned that he might burst
an aneurism.

"Mr. Lyman," she said placatingly. "We're trying to help you. Whether
or not your daughter has ever done anything wrong, she's in danger now.
We just want to take her somewhere where she'll be safe."

"Are you out of your goddamn mind? Safe? With you? You're tellin' me
that some goddamn murderer is gonna' kill her, but he's in jail? What
kind of _bull_ is this?"

"Sir--" Mulder began.

"I said, 'No!' You'd have to be an idiot to listen to you! Now get out
of here!"

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. Mulder tried one more time. "We
only want to protect your daughter."

"My daughter should be protected _from_ you, you goddamn feds. Not _by_
you. You protect her as well as you protect those folks at Ruby Ridge?
Or those kids in Waco? My ass."

Mulder started to speak again, but Scully cut him off.

"We're sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Lyman. Please keep a close eye
on your daughter tonight."

"Is that a threat? Is that a _threat_?"

The agents were already headed for the car. The rain pounded on
them--neither had thought to bring an umbrella.

In the car, Scully finally spoke. "So, Mulder. If it'll get me to the
Caymans, okay, I'll sleep with you."

He made a show of trailing his eyes slowly over her from toe to dripping
head. She waited for the inevitable innuendo, but all he ended up
saying was, "Scully, you're having a very bad hair day."

She couldn't help it--she laughed. The rare sound cheered them both.
As he started the car, she commented, "Rain in Ohio in February.
Shouldn't this be snow?"

"Damn El Nino," Mulder answered. "Wonder if that affects the Caymans."

"It does," she told him.

"Oh. Guess we'll have to wait until next year."

"I'm not promising anything then."

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

Lyman Residence
Sunday
2:35 a.m.

Fortunately, although the Lyman property extended acres back away from
the road, the house was located immediately on the road and could be
clearly observed from their car, which Mulder had surreptitiously parked
near a cluster of bushes on the other side of the road. Scully scanned
the windows through a pair of binoculars. She was very tired.

"So you actually think he might be able to tell me something about my
abduction," she said finally. "But not, for example, about your
sister."

He didn't want to have this conversation yet. He knew he shouldn't, but
he hoped that something happened soon.

"Mulder?"

He sighed. "Scully, I just think he might be able to tell us
something. And I'm not saying I wouldn't learn anything about Samantha,
but I do think what you might have to say might be more useful."

"Mulder, I wouldn't be saying anything."

"But you would," he answered. "Your mind would be telling you-"

"How is this any different from regression hypnosis?"

"It isn't, but it might be more efficient. I think. I don't think it's
very therapeutic, though."

Scully put the binoculars down. "Mulder, he's already demonstrated that
he can show us fiction as well as fact. Lots of what we'd been dreaming
wasn't true."

"There was truth in it, though," Mulder said quietly. "He didn't make
it up."

"No. We did. And it would be very simple to make something up now,
since we already have suspicions. So what if I dream I'm tied down on a
table while all kinds of instruments and needles are stuck in me? I'm
pretty confident of that much, but do we know anything then? What if I
dream of aliens hovering over me, what if I dream I'm lighting up with
Cancerman in a dark hotel room somewhere? None of it says anything about
the truth."

"That's why I don't think it would be any good for me to try. Because I
already have a set of images to associate with my sister's abduction,
whether they're real or not, it'll be what my subconscious resorts to.
But what if you saw something you've never seen before? Something we
haven't imagined? Scully, I would never ask you to do this. I just want
you to consider that, even if it told us nothing, it might...help
you...to have some real images."

"Unless they're true ones, I'd rather not, thanks," Scully replied
shortly.

Mulder reached over to touch her hand, but she jerked it away, staring
silently out the window. He sighed, raised the binoculars. Still
nothing moving.

An hour passed in silence, but for the soft chatter of the radio.
Mulder was achingly tired, and he could tell that Scully was fighting
sleep as well. She occasionally leaned her head against the window,
then sat up straight again, deliberately holding her head high.

"You can sleep if you want to," he said finally. She gave him a
withering look and he mentally kicked himself.

After another long silence, she spoke. Her face was turned toward the
window, and he had to turn off the radio and ask her to repeat herself.

"I tried regression hypnosis, you know," she said, still not turning
toward him.

He was surprised, but he knew this was somehow a peace offering.
"When?"

"Years ago. When you were...in New Mexico."

"Oh." He paused. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Well...maybe something. But I don't think it was working."

He waited for her to continue.

"Missy...Melissa wanted me to do it. She said I was afraid of my own
memories. That I wasn't in touch with myself. That was the last time I
saw her."

Oh. He wanted to touch her, but from the way she was leaning, he knew
it was better not to. So he said the only thing he could think of to
say. "She told me the same thing once."

"I know," Scully replied.

Mulder thought about Melissa, and inevitably the sketch of her from
Atkins' "DKS" file arose in his mind. He thought about Scully's dream,
the one she hadn't told him about. She knew he'd read it, of course,
but she hadn't said anything. What was there to say? Of course she
wanted her sister back, of course she would be happier if.... If what?
If she'd never met him? Maybe.

"What are you thinking?" she said quietly. She was looking at him now.

He hesitated. "That Melissa was a very wise woman."

Scully heard the hesitation rather than the words, knew that she had to
say something now. She chose her words carefully, deliberately. "It
was a terrible dream, Mulder. Not because I had to wake up and have it
not be true, but because it never would have been true. Even if it had
happened, it would have been a lie. Justice and security, Emily and a
perfect family--all lies, even if good ones." She looked at him to make
sure he was listening. She would only say this once. "The truth,
Mulder, is that I stayed that night with you for my sake as well as
yours."

His throat caught, and he couldn't reply. He only met her gaze and
nodded.

She turned back toward the window, raised the binoculars. "Mulder! The
door's open!"

"Oh, shit!" Mulder responded immediately. Quickly and silently he
opened the car door and slipped outside. Scully was beside him a moment
later.

"I can't see anything," she said, peering through the binoculars.

"Okay. Split up."

Mulder ran silently off to the right of the house, so Scully ducked
around to the left.

She approached the front porch, saw a robed figure coming down the
stairs just inside. Mr. Lyman.

"Hey!" he called out angrily.

Scully stopped momentarily, looked up at him from the ground below the
porch. It was starting to rain again. "Sir," she cried in her best
authoritative voice. He recognized her.

"What the hell are _you_ doin' here? Didn't' I tell you we're fine?"

"Sir, is your daughter in the house?"

"What? Of course she is."

"Could you check, sir." Scully enunciated clearly, making it an order.

For a moment, Mr. Lyman looked uncertain. He turned back to the house,
called up the stairs to someone she couldn't see. "Is Mary in her
room?"

A moment later Mrs. Lyman's cry of fear answered the question.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll find her," Scully assured him, then ran around
the side of the house.

Where would the girl go? Away from the house, certainly. If Atkins
really had possession of her, he wouldn't want to be interrupted. Could
Clay be here? Was she going to kill him?

Scully ran along the dirt road that led up to the barn, searching left
and right with her flashlight. "Mary!" she called. Distantly, she
could hear Mulder doing the same.

Then she saw the light highlighting the cracks of a distant barn.

She raced toward it.

When she arrived, slightly out of breath, she found Mary standing in the
middle of the dilapidated barn, holding a long, ugly blade that looked
like it attached to some farm implement. The girl was breathing hard,
but was otherwise unhurt and composed.

"Mary," Scully said carefully, her gun drawn. "Put down the knife."

"Go away," Mary said quietly.

"I want to help you, Mary," Scully assured her, inching closer. "You
don't have to do this." As she spoke, she flipped her cell phone out of
her coat with a free hand, hit a speed dial button.

"Why can't you leave me alone! I'm not doing anything wrong!" Mary
screamed suddenly.

"In the barn," Scully said tightly into the phone. "Call for backup and
an ambulance."

She hung up. "Who are you?" she said to the girl.

"You _know_ who I am!" Mary's voice cried. "Please, I told you, I don't
want to hurt you. But I have to finish."

"Mary--"

"You don't know what she did." Mary gritted her teeth, and her voice
became low and fierce. "She killed her baby."

"Who killed her baby?" Scully inched closer and Mary tried to step
back, but a tractor blocked her.

"Mary," answered Mary. "Mary Lyman killed her own baby. She never even
told anyone she was pregnant, except the father, and when it was born,
they killed it."

Scully's expression didn't change. She didn't know whether to believe
the accusation, but it didn't matter. "That doesn't mean she deserves
to die," she said firmly. "Put down the knife."

"I can't. I have to finish."

Scully took a breath. Should she shoot the girl to wound her? Would
that be enough? What if Mulder was wrong? Shooting people to prevent
them from killing themselves wasn't exactly standard operating
procedure.

Scully put the gun on the ground and moved slowly toward the girl.
"See, Mary? I'm not going to hurt you. Let's put the knife down and
talk, okay?"

"Do what she says, Atkins," Mulder's voice, at the door.

Scully turned to look at him, and in that moment, Mary Lyman gave a
sudden groan of anger and exasperation and leapt at Dana Scully. Scully
heard a shot fired, then was knocked to the floor with a searing pain in
her side. Abruptly, that pain was supplanted by an even worse pain in
her shoulder, then the weight of the younger woman was lifted from her
and she opened her eyes just in time to see Mary Lyman running for the
back of the barn.

Then Mulder was kneeling beside her, calling her name frantically. She
locked his gaze, said one word: "Go."

Mulder looked from her face to the back of the barn, obviously torn,
then briefly touched her cheek and ran.

Scully lay still and waited. It was hard to breathe, and her right side
felt wet. Experimentally, she touched it with her left hand. Her hand
came back covered with blood. It hurt, but not as much as it should.
Which, she reflected rationally, was probably not a good thing.

Footsteps, running. Crunching on the hay. She groped with her left
hand for her fallen gun.

"Scully!" It was Mulder, and she relaxed, tried to sit. But then he
was on the floor beside her, pushing her back with one hand on her
shoulder, one hand behind her head. "Don't move, Scully," he told her.
She tried to focus on him, but the light from his flashlight blinded
her. Abruptly, the light dropped beside them, and she heard him talking
into his phone. She heard the words, but most of them didn't make
sense. "...ambulance...officer down..."

Was she really hurt that badly?

She heard the sound of her blouse ripping, and felt cold air on her
chest. She could feel Mulder's cool hands on her stomach; he tried to
ease her over to her left side. She tried to suppress a cry of pain; it
came out like a soft moan. "Mulder--" she began.

"This is no time for modesty, Scully," he told her, gently. She felt
relieved, sure he wouldn't joke if it was _too_ serious. She heard him
removing his jacket, felt his hands pressing hard against the side of
her right breast and belly. It hurt, but she bit her lip and turned her
face to the cold floor, silent. How bad was it?

He seemed to have heard her unspoken question. "It's a nasty cut,
Scully," he told her gently. "And there's a stab wound on your
shoulder. I shouldn't've left you. How do you feel?"

"Shit," she mumbled. "Cold...."

The pressure was lessened slightly, and she felt him trying to rearrange
his coat to better cover her, felt his body lean down against hers.
"Ok," he said, close to her ear. "It's going to be ok. The medics'll
be here in a minute."

"Did she...get away?"

"Don't worry," Mulder told her. "Others are coming, we'll find her. Her
father might find her."

She took that to mean 'yes.' If Mary had stabbed herself in her
stomach, would they find her before she died? Certainly. Would they
find her before it was too late to save her? Probably not. Scully
gritted her teeth.

She didn't know how long she lay there. She could hear Mulder's
voice--after a few minutes the words no longer made sense. But his
voice alone was comforting. Even then, she could regard herself with
clinical detachment, noting that blood loss and shock were taking their
toll. The sirens and loud voices jerked her back up into
consciousness. Suddenly, bright lights shone on her. She felt strange
hands clawing at her, ripping at her clothing, talking in quick, urgent
tones above her head, and as a piece of plastic was pushed against her
face she desperately shoved it away with a cry of protest, looking
wildly at the blurred faces above her for Mulder's. The sense of
helplessness, these strangers cutting off her clothes, touching her--it
was too familiar. "Mul--" she began, as the paramedics tried to hold her
down.

Someone grabbed her left hand, squeezed it tightly. Mulder's voice
again. "Dana, I'm not going anywhere. It's ok. Let them help you."
Firm.

She relaxed for a moment, then felt a mask pressed over her mouth and
nose. She heard herself whimper, and a moment later all went dark.

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

END 7/10

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

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 8 of 10

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

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

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

Lima Memorial Hospital
Sunday
3:18 p.m.

The first thing she heard was the steady beep of the heart monitor.
Familiar sound, but it was not a welcome familiarity. She forced her
eyes open.

Hospital room. Which hospital? Why did they all look the same? Her
right side was sore, and she felt dizzy, but otherwise all right. She
could see the television perched above her head, the bars on either side
of the bed, IV bag on her right. With an effort, she turned her head to
the left. Mulder was beside her, seated in an armchair and studying a
legal pad on his lap.

She tried to speak, but her voice was dry with disuse and thirst--only a
raw noise came out.

He turned toward her immediately, smiled. Good--it was a happy smile,
not a relieved smile. He had expected her to wake, to be ok.

"Got to stop meeting like this," he said. Predictably. "Can I express
my relief by touching your shoulder, or is that not allowed?"

His tone was light, not bitter, but she nonetheless felt a surge of
discomfort at the reintroduction of their earlier fight. Instead of
answering, she stretched out her uninjured arm, reaching blindly for his
hand.

He clasped it tightly, and stood to bend over her. He kissed her
forehead softly and she knew with great relief that they understood each
other; all was forgiven.

She tried to speak, but only a weak sound issued forth. She tried
again.

"How long?"

"How long what?" he asked, drawing back. His fingers smoothed back her
hair. "How long were you out? Just a few hours. Well,"--he glanced at
his watch--"maybe twelve hours. They had to give you some new blood, do
a lot of stitching. The painkillers put you out."

"Water..."

Mulder released her hand and poured a cup from the pitcher on her
bedside table, helped her raise up with a deft arm beneath her neck. He
held the cup to her lips until she'd emptied it, then lowered her gently
back to the bed. "You want more?" he asked.

"In a minute. Did the hospital call my mom?"

"Yeah. I called her right after, though. She's ok, I think. I'll call
her again in a minute, she'll want to know you're awake. You're going
to have a couple of nasty scars, but other than that...."

"No more bikinis, huh?" she said hoarsely.

He laughed, and she felt warmer. He rested his palm against her cheek.
"How do you feel?"

"Drugged, but I'm ok. Was there any internal organ damage?" she asked.

"No. The site of the stab wound was mainly"--he hesitated
awkwardly--"soft tissue. He dragged the knife down along your side but
the cut was shallower there. Actually, the doctor thinks your underwire
bra might have saved the day."

"Mulder!"

He grinned. She was going to be fine. "Hey, relax, Scully. As many
times as you've seen me in the all-together--"

"I've never _talked_ about it afterward."

"It was a forensic detail," he argued, still grinning. "Here, let me
get you some more water."

She accepted the peace offering without further comment, but this time
held the cup herself.

"My mom?" she reminded him when she finished.

"Yeah, I'll call now," he answered, reaching over to the chair where his
jacket hung. He fished around in the pocket, produced his cell phone.
She craned her neck around, trying to see her right side, felt the bed
sag as he sat down beside her. She heard him dialing.

"Mrs. Scully?"

She could only see the bulk of the bandages. She wanted to see her
chart.

"Yes, it's me...Yes, she's ok, just a little sore. She just woke up,
she's asking for you....Dana--"
He pressed the phone against her ear.

"Hi, Mom," she answered, trying not to sound weak. "I'm ok. Just a
cut. I'm sorry the hospital even called you....Yes, he did."

Mulder held the phone for her, listening to the one-sided conversation
with bemusement. He turned abruptly as a doctor entered the room.

"Mom, the doctor's here, I have to go....Yes, I'm all right....Okay, I
will....Bye."

Mulder took the phone from her but didn't move away from the bed.

"Dr. Scully," the man said, with a curious glance at Mulder. "I'm
Gerald Mannheim. How are you feeling?"

"Drugged, but fine," Scully answered.

"Good," Mannheim replied. "Well, the injuries are not serious, but I'm
assuming since you're a pathologist you're going to want all the gory
details."

Scully steadied her left hand against Mulder's arm and pulled herself to
a sitting position.

"If I could just see my chart, I'd appreciate it," she answered calmly.

"Certainly," the man answered, retrieving it from the foot of the bed.

Scully studied the pages. The first cut had sunk into the side of her
right breast, then dragged down along her side. The second wound was
actually less severe--although the stab could have been deadly, the
knife had glanced upward and just grazed her collarbone. Mary was
neither very strong nor coordinated. Scully nodded. "I hope you won't
insist on my staying the night," she told the doctor. "We're on a
case."

Mannheim looked surprised. "Well, there's no absolute need for you to
stay, but I would strongly recommend that you do. You should take it
easy for a few days at least, and even if none of the stitches break,
the bandages should be changed and antibiotics applied at least twice a
day. And I think you'll want to stay on the painkillers--you really
shouldn't be working."

"I can take care of the bandages, and I'll come in if I break a stitch,"
Scully answered. "As for the drugs, I'm capable of deciding what I need
and what I should do based on what I take. I appreciate your concern,
doctor, but I've really been through much worse."

"Well, I can't keep you here," Mannheim answered reluctantly. "But your
insurance is willing to pay."

Mulder chuckled at that. "We have very good insurance," he interjected.

"All right then," Mannheim said. "I'll go sign the release papers." He
rose officiously and headed for the door. When he reached the doorway
he turned. "I want to go over the bandaging with you before you leave,
just to make sure. I don't think you'll be able to do it effectively

one-handed.  Will your--er--partner--be helping you?"

"I hope not," Scully answered, sternly fixing Mulder's amused eyes with
hers. "But I guess he can if someone has to. Let me try it by myself
first."

Mulder only grinned as Mannheim disappeared.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, Agent Mulder," Scully told him, leaning
back into the pillows. Her head felt cloudy and maybe slightly painful.

Mulder complied. "Scully, seriously, why don't you stay here?"

"Did you find Mary?"

"They found her in a field after a couple of hours. They couldn't save
her."

"She'd stabbed herself?"

"Yes."

"And Atkins?"

"I haven't talked to him yet. Jacobs is at the prison, trying to get
the DA to let him talk to Atkins."

"Why didn't you confront him?"

"You were asleep," he answered quietly.

She nodded, knowing he wasn't just being sentimental. "That's why I
can't stay here, Mulder. We have to be able to keep an eye on each
other. Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

"Right," she said, as if she'd proven a point. "We can get out of here,
go back to the motel and let you sleep for awhile. Figure out our next
move. It's Sunday, right?"

"Yes."

"The DA probably won't come out to the prison on a weekend anyway."

"We'll talk to Atkins in the morning," Mulder said. He poured Scully
another glass of water.

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

Lima Motel 6
Monday
1:13 p.m.

He actually slept without incident. Although they had agreed to
five-hour shifts, he woke naturally eight hours after he had gone to
bed. At first, he didn't see Scully, but he only had to roll over. She
was seated beside him on the bed, propped up against a few pillows,
reading the book she'd brought. Her right arm was secure in its sling.

"Five hours," he said.

She looked at him. "I wasn't tired. And you were actually sleeping
well. Right?"

"Yeah. Your turn."

"I'm not really tired. I got to sleep in the hospital."

"Where you had about 3 liters of blood pumped into you." He looked up
at her. Even in the dim light, he could see the dark lines under her
eyes, her drawn cheeks. Her hair was drawn up into a ponytail, making
her appear even smaller and thinner. "C'mon, Scully." He sat up,
patted the pillow.

She didn't put down the book. He could see her misgivings.

"Scully," he said gently. "I'll be right here."

She nodded once, and to his surprise, readjusted her pillows and lay
back without further protest.

"Here, under the covers," Mulder insisted, standing to vacate the place
where he'd lain.

Obediently she moved over, actually permitted him to pull the blankets
up over her. He considered tucking her in, but decided not to push his
luck. He settled for touching the rubberband that held her ponytail.
"You want this in?"

"No," she answered, and she was sleepy. She pulled it out herself,
turned more fully into the pillow. The painkillers had been making her
drowsy, and she did want to sleep. But carefully.

Mulder settled back on the bed beside her. He considered flipping on
the TV, but Scully, unlike him, wouldn't appreciate the background noise
for sleeping. Besides, the only programming at this hour in a motel
would be things he couldn't exactly watch with Scully around anyway. So
he picked up her book and began to read.

About an hour after she'd gone to sleep, she moaned, soft and low.
Mulder stiffened, watching her with concern. A minute passed, and he
turned back to the book. Scully turned away from him in her sleep, onto
her injured arm, but did not awaken. Mulder gingerly reached across to
pull her onto her back, but at his touch her eyes flared open and shoved
him away, bolting upright.

"Scully, it's okay, it's me," Mulder assured her, reaching for her good
arm. She looked him directly in the eye he saw something unfamiliar
there. It terrified him.

"Scully?"

Her features softened, and the familiar glint of Scullyness returned to
her eyes. Mulder relaxed and reached for her again, clasped her
shoulder.

"Were you dreaming?"

She gingerly adjusted her sling. "I think I may have broken a stitch,"
she said faintly.

Mulder cursed himself for not being more vigilant, for not restraining
her immediately. "Where?"

She probed her side with her left hand. "Maybe here." She lifted her
shirt and Mulder immediately turned away to give her privacy.

He heard her soft expulsion of breath. "Damn," she murmured. Her voice
was still faint.

"Do you need to go back to the hospital?" Mulder asked, already heading
for the keys on the dresser.

"No, it's just one stitch, just some blood. Bring me one of those gauze
patches and the neomycin. And the tape. It's okay, you can look."

Mulder retrieved the items from the dresser and returned to the bed.
Scully was leaning back against the headboard. She had extracted her
arm from the sling and tugged her sweatshirt up over her right breast,
which was swathed in bandages. She was pressing her hand against the
the place just below and to the right of her breast.

Mulder put the supplies down, glanced at her for permission, then leaned
forward to examine the reemergent wound. He peeled back the edge of the
bandage and wrinkled his nose. The cut looked much worse when
punctuated by those little black stitches. Blood was leaking steadily
from one point in the cut, where a thread hung loose.

"Can you put the bandage on?" she asked him.

"Just put the gauze over the cut, right?"

"Actually, put a little neomycin on the cut, then put the tape directly
across it, pulling it tight. Then tape the gauze over that."

Mulder began to follow her instructions, trying with exaggerated care
not to brush his hand against any part of his partner that it wasn't
supposed to brush against. But Scully wasn't paying attention.

"I was dreaming about Mary. If it was him, he knows she's dead," she
told him as he worked. "And then"--she swallowed--"then I was dreaming
about you."

Under any other circumstances, Mulder wouldn't have let such an
opportunity for innuendo pass, but this time he wisely let it go. He
finished taping down the gauze, folded the larger bandage back over it,
and pressed his fingers tightly over the patch, applying pressure. He
waited for her to continue.

"It was so strange, Mulder. I dreamt...I dreamt I was you. Looking
down at me. I--that is, me, Scully--I was lying in a hospital bed and
you watched me for a little while, then dropped down beside me and...you
were...upset. But I was you, I was seeing me through your eyes, seeing
my own hand...."

Mulder said nothing, aware only of how rapidly his heart was beating.
Did that man really have this power?

"Why are you looking like that, Mulder?" she asked finally. "_Was_ it
you?"

He lifted his eyes to hers and nodded mutely. "It sounds about right,"
he said. "It... it was the night I last saw my sis--whatever she was.
You were in the hospital."

"Oh," Scully answered softly, understanding coming to her eyes. "Oh,
Mulder. You should have woken me."

Mulder looked at her for a long moment, saying with his eyes what he
couldn't say with words. There was a long silence. Then, "What
happened after that, Scully? In your dream, I mean."

"Nothing. I--you--sat in the chair for a little while. I could see me
sleeping. And that's all I remember."

Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. There had been no angry words, no
bounty hunter. Then he realized the implications of her dream.
"Scully," he said, "if he can really do that, make someone see the
memories of other people, memories which he took out of their own
brain....Can you imagine how valuable that would be?"

She knew what he was thinking. "Mulder, it's not reliable. It wouldn't
be...proof. And anyway--need I remind you again?--the man is a killer."

"But there could be clues...." Mulder paused, considering.

"Mulder, listen to yourself," she urged. "You're talking
about...._dealing_ with a murderer who has attacked us both. I don't
pretend to know how he's done it, but--"

"But what if we could find out how? What if he knows?"

"Mulder, I hardly think it's a practiced technique that anyone can
learn. The man is uneducated, immature, vindictive and insane. I don't
think he studied to acquire this...talent...and I doubt he could explain
it himself. It's like Modell--some strange quasi-physiological
phenomenon--"

"I find it ironic that _you're_ telling me this can't be explained." He
removed his fingers and gingerly lifted the bandage again to check that
no blood was seeping through the gauze. Satisfied, he leaned back and
pulled down her shirt. He gently began helping her maneuver her arm
back into the sling.

"I'm not saying that it can't be explained, I'm saying that it's
unlikely to be a learned skill," Scully was saying. "I think it's an
anomaly--a physiologically relevant anomaly, but an anomaly
nonetheless."

"There are many examples of directed soul trans-migration in Native
American mythology," Mulder replied. "I think this may be similar. I'm
not even sure that the dreaming is the important thing--I think it may
not be dreams at all--they're so vivid. We just don't have any other
word to give them. I think he may be somehow really reliving some part
of our consciousness."

"But so much of it is fiction!" Scully protested. "I agree that they
may not be physiologically the same as dreams--in fact I'd love to do an
EEG on someone while they were undergoing this, but--"

"Of course you would. Because it's worth studying. That's what I'm
saying, too. And as for the fiction--well, much of our consciousness is
fiction anyway--all consciousness must be filtered through our
perceptions."

"I agree that perception can affect a lot--how we see each other and the
world, and it may not accurately reflect reality. But our perceptions
don't concoct memories like you killing your own sister."

"No, but if that's how I perceived the event symbolically, my
consciousness might construct such a story."

"We're getting far away from the point here, Mulder. I need your
assurance that you're not actually considering dealing with this man."

Mulder nodded. "I'm not considering dealing with this man," he told
her. "But I do see enormous potential for his...gift."

"All right, I'll admit, I do too. But don't get your hopes up. I think
if more people could do this we'd've bumped into them after five years
on the X-Files."

"Well, we've seen cases of possession, maybe of soul-transmigration.
Don't forget your friend Jack--years ago."

"I'm still not entirely convinced about that," Scully answered.
"Anyway, this is very different. It's apparently very important that
the victim be asleep, and to control the victim's body seems to require
a very intimate connection--lots of dreaming."

"Yes. Which brings us back to the question of who his next target is."
He drew back. "But, Scully, we'll talk to him in the morning. You need
to get back to sleep."

"And let him back in?"

"I think he left voluntarily before," Mulder answered. "I think he's
done with us, for tonight. And I'll watch you more closely."

Scully swallowed, then nodded. She lay back down on the bed and let
Mulder pull the blankets up over her.

Mulder returned to the book. He thought she was asleep when she
abruptly turned toward him, reached for his hand. He looked down at
her.

"Next time--and heaven forbid there is a 'next time' but--wake me up,
okay?"

He knew she wasn't referring to the dreams. He closed his eyes and
squeezed her hand in reply.

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

END 8/10

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

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 9 of 10

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

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

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

Lima State Correction Facility
Monday
9:17 a.m.

"You killed Mary Lyman." Scully's words were cold and angry. She was
leaning across the interrogation table, her face very near Atkins'. He
didn't seem to notice.

"Jeremiah," Mulder said, leaning forward. "We know you feel she
deserved it. But you can't make these decisions."

"Don't try the good-cop, bad-cop thing," Atkins said listlessly. He was
no longer afraid. "I know you two. I've been inside your heads. I can
tell when you're acting." He looked up at Scully. "Sorry about your
side."

She regarded him silently.

Atkins had refused the right to a lawyer today. Self-incrimination
seemed to be a moot point now. "I told you I didn't want to hurt you,"
he continued. "But I have to finish."

"How many more, Atkins?" Mulder asked. "How many more does she want."

Atkins gave a short bark of laughter. "God. Do you see people's dreams
too? No--I know you don't. But you get into my head almost as well as I
get into yours."

Mulder grimaced with distaste.

"You don't like that, do you." It was not a question. "I don't blame
you. I don't like it either. I think _she_ does it to me, makes me do
it. Maybe when I finish I won't have to do it anymore. It's hard,
seeing things through other people's eyes. Things look different, and
you start to question what's real, what's not....But you know that,
don't you Mulder."
Scully looked at her partner. He was watching the man intently, but
without emotion.

"Profiler," Atkins continued, and his tone was strangely sympathetic.
"Not a talent you wanted. You know, I'd make one hell of a profiler."

Mulder was silent.

"It tears you up, I know," Atkins said. "Seeing into other peoples'
minds. The evil things they do. People do lots of evil things. I'm no
exception, but I've tried to pick the most evil people I can find. I
didn't realize how evil people could be until I started the dreaming.
It makes you crazy, you know?" He looked directly at Mulder. "And when
you've got nobody, nothing, when you've lost everything, it's really
hard...." His eyes moved significantly to Scully, although he was still
addressing Mulder. "But you're luckier than me."

Mulder gave a short nod but revealed no emotion.

Atkins paused, then continued sadly.

"You want to know how many more. One. One makes ten. Nine times I've
died for her. For my sins." He looked up. "Sorry, Shelly."

Another pause.

"I had plans to finish myself off last, but I don't suppose you're going
to let me do that. You being good and just and all that. No, you're
going to try to stop me somehow, I know that. I should just wait, lie
low, for awhile, but she won't let me alone. I can't stand it, I
can't! Every night she's there, in my head, reminding me, reminding
me...."

"Reminding you what?" Scully prompted.

Atkins seemed not to hear her. "It was hard at first. Took months of
her torture to get me to do it that first time. And God! The pain!
You can't even imagine. It's like you're being ripped apart. For
hours. The burning, the blood, the agony...." His voice trailed off
and his eyes went unfocussed. "But I did it. It was a long time before
I could do it again. It was so hard, so hard...." He stopped.

"But it recently got easier," Mulder prompted. "You started moving
faster."

He let out another bark of bitter laughter. "Yeah, right again, G-man.
I found a way to make it easier. And Shelly didn't seem to care."

"Why did you bring in the second victims?"

Atkins smirked. "Vengeance," he said.

"Not justice?" Scully asked.

"No." Atkins looked down again. "No. I know that it wasn't justice,
not those times."

"Did you have something against those people?" she asked.

"I didn't know those people, except through their dreams."

"You said you were a bad husband," Scully persisted. "Why do you say
that?"

"Well, I _did_ kill my wife," Atkins said with a laugh.

"Before that. Did you abuse her?"

Atkins' downward look was all the acknowledgement they needed.

"What made you angry, Atkins?" Scully said. "What did she do that made
you angry?"

"She was a bitch," Atkins answered. His voice was a little louder now.
"She was a bitch. Sorry Shelly, but you were. You know it. You're a
bitch even now. Making me do this shit."

Abruptly, he threw his head back and screamed.

"No!!!!  Shelly!  God damn it, stop it!  Leave me alone!"  He screamed

again, began twitching and trembling. Scully reached for him but his
arm flailed out and knocked her away. Mulder was already at the door,
yelling into the hallway. "We need some help in here!"

A prison guard appeared, came running to help. The three managed to
hold Atkins' head and limbs as he seized and jerked. When the seizure
seemed to pass, Atkins lay still, looking up at them, breathing hard.

"This man needs to see a doctor," Scully told the guard. "Get him to
the clinic."

The guard nodded and radioed for help as Scully and Mulder left the
interrogation area. They were met in the prison lobby by Jacobs.

"Scully! Mulder!" he cried. "I've been waiting for you--I just got off
the phone."

"With who?" Mulder asked.

"You'd told me to check out Michelle Atkins. I talked to her mother
yesterday--she didn't have anything good to say about Atkins. Said he
was a jerk and she suspected him of having beaten her daughter."

"So he says," Scully said.

"Well, she gave me the names of e of her daughter's friends, and I just
talked to one. She said that the marriage had been going very badly
just before Michelle died. That Michelle had been seeing other men.
She'd been really depressed about her miscarriage, blamed Atkins. The
friend told me that for awhile she'd been thinking about saying he
_pushed_ her down the stairs, and wanted the friend to back her up. It
sounds like they were both having problems....anyway, it sure looks like
murder to me."

"Yes, he's confessed to that," Mulder said. "Hey, don't look
disappointed, Jacobs, that'll be useful in the arraignment today. Why
don't you stick around and give that info to the lawyers. We're going
to go check out the other possible victims. He's admitted he'll kill
again."

"Mulder?" Scully began. She was thinking.

"What?" He studied her face.

"Jacobs, how many lovers did the woman say Michelle had?" Scully didn't
look away from Mulder.

"What?" Jacobs thought a moment. "I don't think she said. But I had
the impression it was several. Four or five."

Scully raised her eyebrows significantly.

"I don't get it," Mulder told her. He wasn't sure what she wanted him
to see.

"Mulder, the second victims in the pairs--the ones originally classed as
homicides. Atkins said they were about vengeance. Maybe they
represented Michelle's lovers."

It clicked. "Or maybe they _were_ Michelle's lovers."

Scully raised one eyebrow. "Look, you're lucky I'm with you on the
telekinesis thing," she told him. "Are you now suggesting that he has
the power to _put_ another person into the body of a third person?"

He didn't bother to make an argument. "Yes," he said. "That is exactly
what I'm suggesting. I have an idea--let's go check out the local death
records for the night of the most recent murder."

Jacobs and the two agents separated. Only as they walked out to the car
did Mulder ask, "So, where did that little leap come from, Scully?"

She favored him with a smile. "Intuition," she answered.

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

Lima Memorial Hospital
Monday
4:13 p.m.

Scully stood over the opened chest cavity, bonesaw in hand. The body in
front of her had once been one Benjamin Walsh, known to his friends as
Ben. Known to his lovers as Ben.

He had been Michelle's lover, and, as Mulder had suspected, he had died
on the same night that the most recent murders had occured. The cause
of death had been listed as "respiratory failure"--pathological code for
"undetermined and we don't think it's worth an autopsy." The family had
not been able to afford an autopsy themselves, but when Scully offered,
they accepted, glad that someone seemed to care that their loved one had
died. The funeral had been held that morning--Scully had caught them
just in time.

Mulder had called Jacobs' contact--Michelle's friend to get the names of
the lovers, and Scully's "intuition" appeared correct. She could
remember four names. Mulder was looking into it now.

Scully started the bone saw and began cutting expertly through the
cranium. It was an awkward operation--she had removed her sling but had
to be careful not to stretch the stitches in her side. She extended the
incision around the head so that the top of the skull could be removed
like a cap, exposing the brain. This done, she began probing the edges
of the grey matter, sliding her scalpel down inside the skull to
separate the nervous tissue from the connective fibroblastic tissue that
held it in place. On the lower right side of the head, she found
something.

A pool of blood spilled out onto the table.

She heard the door open behind her, glanced backwards. Mulder had
entered. Seeing she was involved, he gestured for her to continue.

She dug a little deeper, then reached for a larger scalpel and began
sawing around the borders of the Circle of Willis at the base of the
brain. She placed the tissue into a plastic box and sealed it.

"Well," she said, her voice muffled through her mask. "I'll need a few
slides made of that tissue for sure, but I think I found the cause of
death."

"I'm waiting with bated breath," Mulder said.

"It looks like he died of an intracranial hemorrhage, outside the brain
but within the meningeal layers."

"Is that common?"

"Well, it's usually the result of a sub-arachnoid rupture of a small
berry aneurism.   It's commonly due to a congenital defect where the
muscle surrounding the artery wall is malformed--too thin. When the
arteries begin to swell, they press through that tissue, which is
normally thick enough to prevent aneurism. Then the artery bursts and
that's the end. I can't tell yet if this was a congenital case--a
histological section will reveal whether his muscle tissue was too thin,
but my initial impression is that it was normal."

"So do you think he died because he was inhabiting the body of someone
else who was killed?"

"Mulder, of course I don't _think_ that. But it is, I suppose, a
possibility."

"That's all I'm looking for," he answered.

"Why--what'd you find?"

"Before I tell you that--here's the lab work on the blood you drew from
me Saturday. High levels of adrenalin, just like the murder victims."

She nodded--she had expected that.

"But about Michelle," he continued. "All the other lovers are dead,
each on the night of one of the paired murders. Unfortunately, an
autopsy was only conducted on one--the family was willing to pay. But
the cause of death was listed as intracranial hemorrhage."

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

"Now do you think that these men were inhabiting the bodies of people
who were killed?"

Before she could answer, the door opened and Agent Roberts burst into
the room.

"Mulder. Scully. I'd like to know just what is going on here."

"A murder investigation, last I checked," Mulder answered.

"Who authorized this autopsy?"

"Put it on the X-Files' tab," Mulder replied. "This man is another
victim of Jeremiah Atkins."

"Yes, that's another thing. I read your arrest report--these charges
are outrageous! The man is obviously psychotic. But what you're
charging him with--it's lunacy!"

"It's the truth," Scully said coolly, lowering her surgical mask.

"Did you find anything on Haight this weekend?" Mulder asked pointedly.

"No," Roberts said, already defensive. "Did you write the damn
profile?"

"Who needs a profile--we have the killer. Our real perrogative now is
to keep him from killing again."

"The man's in jail!"

"Yes. But that won't matter to Reynold Clay, who's probably his next
target and is in protective custody now."

Roberts snorted. "Reynold Clay is at home with his family."

"What?" Scully and Mulder said at once.

Roberts looked very satisfied. "That's right. _I'm_ not wasting
taxpayer dollars on this nonsense. I told him what foolishness this is,
apologized for having made him spend two nights in jail, and he wanted
to go home. He was pretty upset. Can't say I blame him. If you two
weren't fucking around with--"

"God damn it, Roberts!" Mulder exploded. "What have you _done_ for this
case? What one single thing? Stay out of the way, take whatever credit
you want, but don't _fuck_ with our investigation without asking us
first."

"_Your_ investigation? Sonofabitch! This is my 302. I didn't want you
here in the first place--"

"No shit," Mulder answered. "But we're here now, and in the five days
we've been here we've done more than you have in a month. Now stay the
_fuck_ out of the way."

"Mulder--" Scully began, but a look from him silenced her.

"You just wait, you asshole," Roberts said, his voice suddenly low.
"I'll see you out of a job before morning. I'm gonna go make some phone
calls."

He stormed out of the room, leaving Mulder and Scully alone. Scully
found it amusing that he really thought he could get Mulder fired--if
only he knew how much worse things Mulder had done over the years than
fail to produce a profile and purportedly sleep with his partner.

Mulder took a deep breath and began pacing to calm down.

"Mulder." Scully's even voice broke through his rage. "Mulder, go talk
to Atkins. Find out if there were any more lovers, anyone else we have
to protect. I'll get this cleaned up and meet you back at the hotel.
Looks like we'll be spending the night watching Clay's house."

Mulder met her eyes and nodded, left the room.

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

Lima State Correction Facility
Monday
4:30 p.m.

Mulder slammed the file down on the interrogation table and Atkins
jumped. It was an autopsy report.

"Ben Walsh," Mulder said, watching Atkins for a reaction.

He was disappointed when he got none. "Well?" he said.

"Yeah, so you figured me out," Atkins finally said. "I'm not very just,
am I? I'm a bitter, evil man, just like most of the world. I deserve
everything that's coming to me."

"What's coming to you, Jeremiah?" Mulder asked intensely, leaning across
the table. "What, exactly, is coming to you? Tell me."

Atkins looked up and met his eyes. "Death," he said seriously.

Mulder pulled back. "Well I certainly hope so, because alive you are
one serious pain in the ass." He immediately regretted what he'd said,
took several calming breaths.

"I can have you sedated," he told the man. "That'll keep you down."

"That's against my constitutional rights," Atkins replied. "How stupid
do you think I am?"

"_Who is it?_" Mulder demanded. "Who do you want? Who has to die to
give you your peace?"

Atkins snorted derisively. "Honestly?" he asked. "You have no idea
what she's like, what she does to me.... Honestly, right now I'd take
anyone I could get. Even you, G-man."

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

END 9/10

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

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 10 of 10

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

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

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

Lima State Correction Facility
Monday
8:20 p.m.

Roberts pressed "record" on the tape player, set it on the table between
them. "Okay, Atkins," he said. "Off the record. This tape isn't
leaving my possession. Did you do it?"

Atkins looked at him. "Yes."

"How?"

"I can control people," Atkins answered. His voice was collected now,
even and calm. "I can see their thoughts, their dreams."

Roberts bit his lip nervously. "Can you see my dreams?"

"I have, yes."

"I've been having really weird dreams lately." He looked askance.

"That's because of me," Atkins answered. His voice was suave,
confident.

Roberts looked off into the distance. "I dreamt about that girl, back
in college. I never really liked that girl."

"She told you 'no,'" Atkins said. "And you did it anyway."

"Don't give me that crap. She had that leather miniskirt, those
shoes--she knew what I was after."

"What about your mother? Remember that?"

"The retirement checks? God. I dreamt...I dreamt she was coming after
me with a knife, saying I killed her--I didn't....." His voice trailed
off, but he abruptly jerked his head back up, looking at Roberts. "Did
you make that up?"

"No. You thought of that yourself. I just watched."

"Who do you think you are?" Roberts leaned across the table, speaking in
a harsh whisper. "What right do you have to get in my head like that?"

"What right do you have to blackmail your boss in Cleveland? He told you
about his lover because he thought you were his friend."

Roberts snorted. "So you saw that too. What else did you see?"

"I saw a lot of things. You're a theif, a rapist, a womanizer, a liar.
You're an evil man, Mark Roberts."

"There's no such thing as 'evil,'" Roberts told him. "There's getting
ahead and there's getting caught. But whatever I am, I have something
you want."

"What's that?" Atkins leaned back, crossed his arms, enjoying this.

"The key to your freedom. I can discredit this investigation. They
didn't get to book you today because of your clever little 'seizure'--I
can testify at the hearing tomorrow that Agents Mulder and Scully are
out of their minds. No one will believe their story if I provide an
alternate one."

"They have evidence and I've confessed to the double homicides. What
alternate story could there possibly be?"

"Oh, there _is_ one. I can tell one about a man named Haight...."

"Haight isn't involved."

"I can produce evidence that links him to the double homicides," the
twisted grin on Roberts' face indicated that he wasn't above producing
evidence in any manner possible. "There's no evidence the suicides were
anything but suicides, and no jury will buy that weird shit you wrote
down. Your lawyer can get you out of the confession with claims of
temporary insanity."

Atkins looked interested now. "What do you want in return?"

"Don't you know? I mean, since you've been in my head and all that."

"Tell me," Atkins insisted.

Roberts nodded. "Okay. I'll tell you. I'm a simple man--I want money
and power. I know I'm not going to last much longer in the FBI--they're
already considering dismissing me and after I tried to get that A.D. to
listen to me about Mulder and Scully today and _he_ chewed me out, I'm
gonna be out of here real quick. I'm just thinking, maybe you and I
could go to Vegas for a week. You could make some people hand me some
money, and then we'll go our separate ways."

"Not much of a lawman, are you, Roberts?" Atkins said.

Roberts laughed hoarsely. "Oh, stop, you're hurting my feelings. Look,
is it a deal or what? I can't stay here long."

Atkins studied Roberts' face for a long moment. Finally, he spoke.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it's a deal."

"Okay," Roberts said, pressing "stop" on the tape recorder and pocketing
the device. "Don't forget I got this tape here. I can make or break
you tomorrow."

"Play that tape and you'll break yourself as well."

"I'll say I was lying. Tricking you into confessing to the suicides.
Either way, I'm the hero."

"There'll be no need," Atkins answered slowly. "I told you. We have a
deal."

Roberts nodded curtly and left the room. A guard came a few minutes
later to escort Atkins back to his cell.

Alone in the dark, Atkins raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Okay,
Shelly. I told you I'd finish it and I will."

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

Lima Motel 6
Monday
10:35 p.m.

"Hurry up in there!" Mulder called to the closed door of his partner's
bathroom. He was sitting on her bed, channel-surfing aimlessly. They
had to get to Clay's house soon to start their planned
surveillence--they were already later than he wanted to be. They had to
be there before the man fell asleep.

A few minutes passed, and then he heard her, voice muffled through the
door. "Mulder, I need some help."

The strain in Scully's voice told Mulder not to make a sarcastic
comment, although the situation begged for it. This was not easy for
her. Not that it should be, he told himself. Women were socialized to
have more discomfort with their bodies than men--he shouldn't be
surprised. He wanted to convince her that it wasn't a big deal, but he
wasn't quite sure how to do that. And agonizing over it was quickly
making it into a big deal.

Mulder took a deep breath and went to the bathroom door. Knocked.

"Come on in," her voice told him.

He did. And was greeted by the sight of his partner dressed as he'd
never seen her before--professional from the waist down, naked from the
waist up. Thankfully, her back was to him. Mulder suddenly realized
that this might be a bigger deal than he'd thought, and prayed that his
body wouldn't betray him and embarrass them both.

"What can I do?" he asked her, careful to keep his voice even.

"I've applied the antibiotic, but I can't hold the gauze and tape it
too. I tried...." she gestured at the sink, in which were piled
several masses of tape and gauze. "...but it didn't work. Sorry to put
you in this position."

He took a step toward her. "There's no 'position,' Scully," Mulder
told her gently.

"'Ain't got nothing you haven't seen before, huh?" she quipped, trying
to make light of things.

"Literally," he reminded her. "I was in the ambulence, you know."

"Yeah, and I was unconscious."

Mulder decided to just get this over with. Quickly. "Okay, doctor,
what do you want me to do?" he asked, making his voice as efficient as
possible.

Her shoulders dropped and she seemed to relax. "We need to do the
shoulder wound first." She picked up a thick square of gauze, pressed
it against the stab wound on her right shoulder, which he couldn't see.
She picked up a length of tape, which had dangled from the counter,
pressed it over the lower portion of the patch. "Now, it goes over my
shoulder, I can't reach the back."

Mulder stepped forward and took the patch from her hands, pressed it
against her skin. He took another length of tape from the vanity and
firmly attached it.

"Okay," he said. He carefully trained his eyes only on her back,
although he could have easily looked over her shoulder.

"Okay," she repeated. She picked up another length of gauze. "Now, my
side. I need to wrap the gauze around--you saw how it was before. If
you hold it here"--she reached behind her for his hand, which he
provided, drew it back to press it against the place just above her
breast, over one end of the gauze.

Mulder closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly. Her skin
was smooth and warm beneath his hand, and he could just detect the
upward slope of her breast. _Please, please don't embarrass yourself,_
he chanted silently. _Or her._ He tried to think of the most unsexy
thing he could, and settled for the still-fresh image of Ben Walsh's
dissected chest cavity, which they'd been standing over only hours
before.

She was struggling, trying to wrap the bandage around her side and
shoulder, but the inflexibility of her right arm made it problematic,
and, he suspected, painful. He let her try for a minute or two,
carefully averting his eyes, but finally it was obvious to them both
that she was not succeeding. "Scully," he said. "Just let me do it,
okay?"

To his surprise, she acquiesced, handing him the gauze with a sigh of
resignation.

Mulder took a breath and stepped around to her side. For a moment, he
let himself take in the image of his fullly conscious, half-naked
partner. She wouldn't look at him. With relief, he found that his body
did not threaten to betray him at all--she was exquisitely beautiful,
yes, but in an artistic, sculpted way that could not under the
circumstances be construed as sexual. He considered telling her this,
but he wasn't sure whether it would comfort or offend, so he kept his
mouth shut.

He began to wrap the gauze around her, over her shoulder and under her
arm and back, being careful to cover her breast with the bandage while
not touching it with his hands. As he worked, he discreetly examined
the wound for infection. It was angry and jagged, extending from the
top half of her breast all the way down her side, but it did not look
unhealthy.

"The injury looks okay," he told her.

"I thought so too," she answered evenly. "I can see most of it."

A small part of him, still bitter about their fight several nights ago,
wondered if what he was doing now qualified as possessive. He certainly
hoped so. He looked up at her, trying to see if she was okay with
this. She was looking fixedly at the towel rack.

Suddenly she spoke. Her voice seemed strange, coming from above him for
once. "If you think he somehow put Ben Walsh's soul into the body of
that construction worker, and Walsh died when the other man did, why
doesn't Atkins die when he kills people?"

Mulder almost laughed. Even now, she could poke at his theories.
Although that _was_ an easy question. He was certain she'd already
guessed the answer, but he said it anyway. "I think that he pulls out
of people before they die, but if he didn't do that, he _would_ die with
them. He has to suffer what she did, ten times over, he said. But if
he died he wouldn't have suffered enough. I don't know, maybe Michelle
pulls him out."

He fixed the bandage to her skin with a length of tape and stood. She
looked at him now, and he looked down into her eyes very deliberately,
as if to emphasize what he was not looking at.

"Michelle is just a figment of his guilt-driven imagination," Scully
said. "I can buy that he can use his mind in ways we can't understand
to see what other people see, even make them do things through their
dreams but the pain may be in his mind. And there's certainly no need
to call on ghosts for an explaination here."

"Do you _still_ not believe in ghosts?" he asked her, genuinely curious.
He reached for her blouse, which lay discarded beside him on the toilet
seat, and held it over her head.

Obligingly, she slid her left arm through the sleeve and let him guide
her right wrist through the other sleeve. As she did so, she answered
him. "Mulder, I've seen things. You know that. But..."--she tugged
the blouse down and reached for her jacket--"but I can't trust my eyes
as much as you do. You know that too."

He did know. Maybe he even understood.

He helped her into the jacket, and then the sling, pleased that she did
not protest his assistance. Only then did she acknowledge what had just
happened with a simple, "Thank you, Mulder."

He figured it was safe to make a joke now that she was dressed.
"Anytime, Scully," he leered.

She looked like she wanted to deck him, so it must have been okay.

He draped her coat over her shoulders as they exited the room. They
were getting into the car when Jacobs' voice interrupted them.

"Mulder!" The man was running toward them from across the street.

Mulder stopped. "What is it?" he asked, his hand on the door.

"It's Roberts," Jacobs replied. "He's in the bar across the street. I
don't know what's happened to him."

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances, then jogged across the street with
Jacobs. They entered the small bar together.

It was surprisingly crowded for a Monday night. Loud country music was
blaring from the jukebox, and there were a few people dancing on the
small tiled floor. Everyone looked up as they came in.

Roberts was standing at the bar, talking loudly. "...a fucking
_murder_!" he cried with a laugh. "You just don't know what goes on
behind FBI doors! Couldn't imagine it, I guar-an-tee it."

Several people, including the bartender, were listening and snickering.
The patrons looked back and forth from the agents in the doorway to the
man at the bar, eager for a show.

"I tried to get him to come with me, but he pulled a gun on me," Jacobs
whispered urgently.

"He did _what?_" Scully cried. "Mulder--" She twisted to look at him,
gave a slight jerk of her head and then started across the room.

Mulder understood. He stayed in the doorway, one hand on Jacobs' elbow,
the other surreptitiously on his gun.

Scully crossed the room.

"The fuckin' assholes told the press that the guy had been beaten as a
kid and all that," Roberts was saying, gulping a beer, "but they didn't
want to admit he'd been arrested, like, _four_ times and no charges
pressed. So--"

"Roberts." Dana Scully's voice was firm, silencing.

He turned to her, and a huge grin spread over his face. "Dr. Scully!"
he cried with pleasure.

"Roberts, I need to talk to you alone. Can we step outside?"

Roberts grabbed her good arm tightly. He smiled an apology to his
audience, then jerked her over toward the jukebox, away from the bar.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mulder take a step forward, his
hand clearly on his gun. She shook her head at him imperceptibly.

"There," Roberts said. "Now we're _all_ alone. Jes' you an' me." His
grip moved higher on her arm.

"Agent Roberts, take your hand off me." Her voice was clipped and icy.

"Oh, c'mon, Dana--why?" His voice was that of a whiny child.

"Because I find your conduct unprofessional and unwarranted," she
replied coolly. "Now, please remove your hand from my arm."

"Listen, _Dr._ Scully," Roberts said fiercely, leaning over her and
gripping her arm more tightly. He was suddenly infinitely more
coherent. "Don't lecture _me_ about unprofessional. Now I'm not trying
to be an asshole here, but come on--you and your partner? Tell me
_that's_ professional."

She didn't blink. "Agent Roberts, if you don't step away from me right
now, I will report you."

Her refusal to rise to the bait seemed to enrage him. "You report me
for _anything_," he hissed, "and I'll make good on my promise to report
you and your fucking partner for misconduct. I know where you spend
your nights. Who else you been sleeping with? You must not be very good
in bed, or you would have made it out of that basement by now."

No reaction. He tried to look away, but her steely blue eyes nailed him
to the floor. "Agent Roberts, I'll ask you one last time, remove your
hand from my arm. Go back to the hotel, and sleep it off."

"You prim little--aarrrraagghh!" His insult was twisted into a cry of
pain, as, in a single motion, she twisted her pinioned arm sharply up
and around, bringing the side of her right hand down sharply on his
elbow. She gritted her teeth in pain as her stitches were stretched,
ignoring the looks they were getting from other patrons.

Roberts was bent over, rubbing his arm, looking angrily at her.

"We're taking you back to the hotel. Come," she said firmly, coldly.
Just then, Jacobs raced up to them. Scully saw him reach deftly into
Roberts' holster, slip out the gun. Roberts didn't notice.

"Agent Scully, I'm very sorry," Jacobs said. "I've never seen him like
this before--let me take him back."

She nodded shortly, then turned around and walked away.

Mulder was waiting for her by the door.

"Did you see that?" Scully asked him incredulously, as they crossed the
parking lot.

"Couldn't have missed it." Mulder's voice was light, amused.

"What an asshole! How did a little prick like that make it into the
Bureau?"

"There are lots of little pricks in the Bureau," he replied. "Most of
them have fifth floor offices."

She snorted, shaking her head. They arrived at the car, and she started
for the passenger side. "Where were you, macho man?" she asked, hand on
the door handle.

"I thought you didn't want to be rescued. Jacobs got away from me there
at the last minute." He grinned affectionately at her. "C'mon, Scully,
if you can handle liver-eating mutants, flukemen, possibly alien clones
with toxic blood and psychokinetic murderers, I have complete faith in
your ability to handle the local Bureau chauvinist." He feigned a
nervous glance from side to side. "Actually, why don't you drive?" He
tossed her the keys.

She caught them in her good hand, tossed them back. "No," she replied,
smirking. "I can tell a token gesture when I see one."

As they drove out of the parking lot, Mulder turned to her. "Are you
going to file a complaint against him?"

"I don't know," she answered. Then, abruptly, "Mulder, there was
something strange about him. I mean, he's been irritating the whole
time, but this was a little overboard."

Mulder grimaced. "He was just drunk."

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. She had taken slid out of the
left arm of her jacket to look at the place where he'd grabbed her.
Mulder glanced over, pursed his lips at the sight of the dark bruise
that was already apparent in the flash of a passed streetlight. "It
seemed to me there was more. He would switch from drunken mumbling to
coherent speech."

"I've been known to do that when I'm sober," Mulder quipped.

She ignored him. "And his eyes--his pupils were really dilated. And he
wasn't blinking frequently enough. I wonder if--"

"If he could have been under some external influence? Scully, isn't that
my line?"

"And you got to say it." She rolled down her sleeve. "I don't know,
Mulder. I'm seeing Atkins in everything now."

"I think it was just proof that assholes and alcohol don't mix. He's
angry that you're not playing along. He's been after you since we got
here, and you haven't responded--he's probably used to getting more
attention."

"I told him he could call me Dana."

Mulder chuckled. "Dana," he repeated, as if to prove his right to say
it. "Dana Katherine Scully."

Even though it was dark, he knew she was giving him a Look. "It's
definitely your turn to sleep, Mulder," she said. "I think you need
it."

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

Clay Residence
Tuesday
3:32 a.m.

Mulder had reclined his seat as far as it would go and was stretched out
with his feet on the dashboard, sleeping soundly. Scully was listening
to the quiet drone of the radio--the only station available was playing
a pre-taped Rush Limbaugh rampage and although she hated it, at least
hating it kept her awake.

She had been watching the house for hours. Nothing had moved. She was
tired.

She shifted with discomfort, trying to situate her sling so that her
elbow didn't rest against the bandages.

The ringing of Mulder's cellular phone startled them both.

Mulder sat bolt upright, fumbled around for a moment, then answered it.
"Mulder.....What is it, Jacobs?"

He leaned toward Scully, motioning that she should listen. She leaned
her head toward him until they were pressing the phone between them.

"It's Roberts!" Jacobs cried. "He's in the hotel lobby. He's taken the
hotel clerk hostage, is insisting on talking to you."

"To who?" Mulder asked sharply.

"You and Agent Scully. The police are here, SWAT team is on its way,
but--Roberts knows this routine. He says only you." Jacobs lowered his
voice. "Do you think it could be Atkins?"

Mulder pursed his lips. "We'll be right there. Don't let anyone go
in. Have the P.D. send a unit out here to the Clay residence to take
over for us."

"Okay," Jacobs answered, and Mulder disconnected.

"Roberts is a jerk but he's not insane. It has to be Atkins," Mulder
muttered.

"Do you think it's a diversion?" she asked. "We could be signing Clay's
death warrant."

"I know, but he's not giving us a choice. If he's controlling Roberts,
he will hopefully be too weak to go after Clay, but..." he paused. "But
I think we have to go. He's running the game."

"And if we go, we're playing along," she said fiercely, recalling
Modell. "Haven't we learned not to do that?"

"I think we have no choice," Mulder answered. He gripped her forearm
solidly. "We'll be careful."

She nodded her assent. Mulder turned the key in the ignition.

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

Lima Motel 6
Tuesday
3:57 a.m.

Louise Ella Parker had seen many things in her life. She had seen her
brother die when she was ten--he'd fallen out of a tree and broken his
neck. She'd pushed every one of her three babies out of her body and
watched them grow into young adulthood. She'd seen the sunset over the
Florida Keys. She'd seen her husband lying dead in a casket after being
attacked by his own heart, and she knew now what it took to become the
master of your own life. She'd taken over the management of her
husband's small hotel franchise, and prided herself on increasing the
profits every year. Bob would've been proud.

But she'd never seen anything like this, and if Bob was watching her,
she knew he'd be very, very upset.

The man who held Louise against his body also held a gun to her temple.

Flashing red and blue lights filtered through the mini-blinds. She
could hear the crowds murmuring outside, though the man with the
loudspeaker had stopped talking some time ago.

He'd told her repeatedly not to be afraid. That he'd make sure she
didn't get hurt. She'd tried to ask him what he wanted, but he only
jerked her roughly. "Shut up," he kept saying. "Please, I have to
_think_, just shut up!"

Louise was scared. She hoped her kids weren't outside, watching this.

The man had been staying at her hotel for days--she knew he was an FBI
agent. How could an FBI agent be doing this? She knew it was a
stressful job, but it wasn't the postal service, right? She almost
laughed at her own joke, but the cold pressure of the gun against her
forehead was too sobering.

The phone rang. Again.

Roberts switched his gun to the arm wrapped around her neck so that the
gun was pointing at her chest. He picked up the phone on the second
ring. "Hello?" he said roughly.

There was a pause.

"Agent Scully's there too, right?"

Pause.

"No, she comes too, or no deal. I don't give a fuck about her arm. If
it's fitting her in a bulletproof vest you're worried about, don't.
I'm not going to shoot her."

Pause.

"Yes, now. Both of you. Alone. And don't try anything. I've learned
a lot inside this guy's head--I know all about your tactics."

Pause.

"You got five minutes, Mulder. Five minutes and I blow her friggin'
head off. You know I got nothin' to lose....Yeah, she's right here.
Say hello, Louise."

He put the mouthpiece up to her face. "He--hello?" she said
uncertainly.

She could barely make out a tinny voice responding to her, but Roberts
jerked the phone away and hung up before she could hear.

The minutes passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Roberts' breathing was
harsh and labored in her ear--he didn't talk to her anymore. But his
grip around her was steel-tight, and he never let the gun slip.

Finally, a knock at the door. A man's voice. "Okay, Roberts,
Atkins--whoever you are, we're here. Let's talk."

Roberts released her and she spun away, breathing frantically. He was
pointing the gun straight at her. "Go open the door," he told her,
shifting his position so that he was standing behind the lobby counter,
out of the doorway's line of sight.

She gave a tiny whimper.

"Do it!"

Trembling, she went to the door. Very slowly, she unfastened the lock
and pushed the door ajar. "Stop!" he called when it was barely open.

She looked at him.

Suddenly, a hand curled around the door, starting to push it open.

"Back away, Louise," Roberts told her. "Come back toward me."

She did as he said, biting her lip.

When she was close enough, he grabbed her and pulled her to him, placing
the gun once again at her temple.

"Okay," he called to the door. "Come in. Slowly. Keep the door partly
closed."

A tall figure slid around the door, followed by a shorter one. Louise
recognized them--the other two FBI agents, who'd been staying in 37 and
38. When the reservation was made, they had been assigned 36 and 37,
but the redhead had come in on the first day and requested a room
adjoining her partner's. Louise had stifled a snicker at the time.

The two agents wore bullet-proof vests over their clothes and the
woman's right arm hung in a sling. Neither appeared armed. This did
not inspire Louise's confidence.

Roberts' arm pressed painfully against her throat.

"Let her go," the tall man said.

Roberts snorted. "_That's_ your negotiation technique? C'mon, Agent
Mulder, you can do better than that."

"What do you want?" The woman's voice was sharp and clear.

"That's a little better," Roberts said. "But surely you know what I
want--peace." As he said the last word his voice broke a little.
Louise started involuntarily, afraid he was cracking.

He jerked her roughly. "Hold _still_," he told her. "Now. Mulder. I
want you to come toward me. Slowly."

Mulder glanced at his partner, wet his lips. A second of silent speech
seemed to pass between them, and Mulder turned back to face Roberts.

"_Now!_" Roberts insisted, jamming the gun roughly against Louise's
cheek. She cried out.

Mulder swallowed and began crossing the small room. "I'm wide awake,
Atkins," he said. "You can't get inside of me. Killing any of us won't
appease Shelly."

"I got nothin' to lose and everything to gain," Roberts' mouth answered
gruffly. "C'mon, get over here and I'll let her go."

Their words made no sense to Louise. Again, she devoutly hoped her
children weren't outside. "Please let me go," she whispered. "I got
kids, a grandbaby, soon...."

"It'll be all right Mrs. Parker," the woman told her firmly.

Somehow this did not comfort Louise.

Mulder was close to them now, one hand outstretched.

"Stop." Roberts' voice cut through the room.

Mulder stopped, but didn't lower his hand.

"Face the wall. Hands on your head."

Mulder did as Roberts said.

Louise felt the grip on her neck loosen, then Roberts grabbed her
wrists. He produced a pair of handcuffs, and in a few quick clumsy
motions chained her arms to the low rail that surrounded the lobby
counter. The gun never wavered from her face.

"Okay," Roberts told her. "Stay there. Don't try anything or I'll kill
you, I swear to God."

Louise had no intention of trying anything. But she only nodded
mutely. As Roberts moved away from her, an immense relief washed over
her.

The gun was now turned on Mulder. Roberts went to him and began roughly
slapping the taller man's sides and legs, searching, Louise assumed, for
a weapon or a wire.

Mulder submitted to this treatment calmly, speaking slowly. "What'd
Louise Parker do, Atkins? Does she have a secret past evil enough to die
for? Whose justice are you executing this time?" He gave a significant
pause. "And who will execute justice on _you_?"

"Shut up!" Roberts cried suddenly. He struck Mulder's head with the
butt of the gun and Mulder _ooompphed_ in pain.

The woman stepped forward.

"Stay right there, Agent Scully," Roberts said firmly. He aimed his gun
again at Mulder's head, which Mulder was clutching in his hands, bent
forward.

"What do you want?" she asked again, her teeth clenched.

For a moment, Roberts' face seemed to change, was supplanted by a mask
of grief and pain. "Justice," he said quietly, and the word was like a
plea.

"This isn't the way," Scully told him. "Killing is not the answer.
There's no peace there."

"I can't!" Roberts moaned suddenly. "I can't finish it! Why can't I
finish it? You have to help me!"

"I want to help you," Scully said, taking another step. "I want to help
you find peace. Just put the gun down."

Roberts looked at her sadly, but the gun was still aimed directly at her
partner's head. Mulder held very still, one hand pressed against his
temple, his eyes focused brightly on Scully. Louise looked from one to
the other, taking in their intense gazes, and her breathing quickened.

"I'm sorry," Roberts said to Scully, and there was a click as the pistol
was cocked. "This is the only way."

"What do you hope to gain?" Scully cried, and there was suddenly real
emotion in her voice, the slightest hint that she might not be in
control.

"I told you," Roberts answered. "Peace."

Louise would not clearly remember what happened next. She was close to
Roberts--she saw his finger began to squeeze the trigger. She
screamed. The deafening crack of the gun seemed to split the world in
half and she reflexively closed her eyes.

She breathed heavily, sure that at any moment the gun would be turned on
her, but the next sound she heard was the voice of the other woman, very
near her. "Are you okay?"

Louise opened her eyes and stared in shock. Scully was holding a gun in
her left hand, and the man lying in a pool of blood on the floor was not
her partner, but Roberts.

Scully gently touched Louise's shoulder, then turned away and dropped to
the ground, where Mulder was crouched over the body. A voice came over
the loudspeaker from outside. "Roberts? What happened? We need to know
if anyone's hurt....Roberts?"

The phone began to ring. But none of these noises registered in her
head. She saw Scully bending down and gripping Mulder's face, turning
it in the light almost fiercely, looking for damage. Dimly, she heard
him tell her, "I'm okay."

Scully nodded and squeezed his shoulder tightly, then stood and reached
across Louise to answer the phone.

"This is Agent Scully. He's dead. We need paramedics. Come on in."

She hung up and was already fumbling with Louise's handcuffs when
Mulder's voice interrupted her.

"Scully."

She looked down at him. He had Roberts' gun in his hand.

"Mulder, don't touch that!" she cried. "It's evidence...."

Several men in uniforms burst through the door. They stopped at the
sight of Mulder holding a gun up toward Scully.

But he didn't fire. Instead, his other hand came up to release the
clip. He held it out to her.

Scully took it, felt its weight. She turned toward the men in the
doorway. "His gun wasn't loaded," she said, swallowing.

Mulder stood, pulled her aside as paramedics rushed in and surrounded
the dead man and Louise. He leaned down so that only she could hear.
"I was going to say, 'Thank God we had Roberts' sexism working for
us'--he didn't expect _you_ to be armed or shooting left handed. But it
looks like Atkins was counting on it."

"He _wanted_ me to kill him," Scully said, comprehension dawning.

"He wanted peace. He said he couldn't do it himself."

"And my dream--my dream of you. He wanted to make sure I would do
it--to make sure I knew...." she trailed off.

Mulder finished the sentence for her, holding her gaze as tenderly as
he'd on rare occasions held her body. "To make sure you knew how much I
needed you."

Before she could answer, the police chief interrupted them. "What
happened in here?" His eyes roved to Mulder's forehead, where an angry
bruise was already appearing. "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing," Mulder answered. "My doctor already checked it out."
He gave Scully a quick grin, then looked back to the chief. "We'll
start the report as soon as possible, but we'll need a blood work-up and
tox screen on this man." He gestured at Roberts.

The chief nodded, but looked bewildered. "Any guesses on how this
happened? He _is_ a federal agent, isn't he?"

"Yes he is. Listen, I suggest you have somebody at the station check on
Jeremiah Atkins. I think you'll find him in poor condition. How's Mrs.
Parker?"

In a few seconds, the two agents were separated in the flurry of
activity.

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

Somewhere Over Virginia
Tuesday
9:15 p.m.

Scully gazed at the grids of light far below her, her forehead pressed
to the plastic window. She was exhausted, and the constant ache of her
injury had brought on a massive headache.

Jeremiah Atkins, like Ben Walsh and presumably like all of Shelly's
other lovers, had died of a massive intracranial hemorrhage at
approximately the same time Special Agent Mark Richards had died of a
gunshot wound to the chest. Scully had not been surprised.

Mulder had caught her in a lull just after she'd completed Atkins'
autopsy, dragged her out onto a hospital fire escape. Before she could
make a smart ass remark about this, he'd pointed to a metal trashcan on
the grill beneath their feet and with a fluorish produced the pages she
recognized as Atkins' accounts of their dreams. He handed her half of
the stack, and began crumpling his half, gesturing for her to do the
same.

She'd understood immediately. "I don't know, Mulder," she'd said.
"They _are_ still our dreams."

Mulder had stopped and fixed her with that damn gaze of his. "No,
Scully," he'd said softly. "Our dreams are _behind_ our eyes, not in
front of them."

The truth of it had almost staggered her, and she'd joined him in
crumpling the pages, had happily lit the match he offered her. Now,
those pages were just so much ash, as Atkins himself would shortly be.

They were returning to mountains of paperwork in Washington. The death
of one agent at the hands of another was no small matter, psychokinesis
aside. The discovery of Roberts' interrogation tape, a conversation
with Atkins which implicated him in a dozen felonies hadn't assuaged her
conscience about that death. Learning that Roberts was facing sexual
harassment charges at the Cleveland R.O. and probably dismissal from the
FBI didn't make Scully feel any better about having shot the man. She
had reviewed that final scene a hundred times in her own mind, trying to
satisfy herself that she'd done only and exactly what she had to do, and
even though she knew she had, it felt wrong. He had been an awful man,
but he hadn't deserved to die.

She wondered what it would be like to be one of the people far below
her, someone who lived in an ordinary house, had an ordinary job and
ordinary hopes, expectations. She really, honestly couldn't imagine it,
although she knew that it had once been within her grasp. The people
down there looked at their lives and the world around them and saw
something so completely different from what she would see that the two
were unrecognizable as the same thing. It was amazing, she mused, that
people were capable of communication at all--and anyone who believed
themselves actually fully understood by another were drowning in
illusion.

But every perception is an illusion, she reasoned, in that it's just an
approximation of reality. Of the truth. Every perception is a point on
a curve asymptotically approaching the truth--some are just a little
closer than others.

She liked to think that her relentless pursuit of truth made her points
closer than most. The vast majority of the world was content to subsist
in their illusory existence, believing in authority--be it the
government, scientists, New Age spiritualists or God. Dana Scully
believed in a method, but not in an authority. Dana Scully's reality
was more real than that of the people below her.

That was a good thing, right? So why had that dream of a peaceful
existence affected her so deeply? Deep down, did she really want the
blinders back on her eyes?

Of course not. Maybe for a moment, now and then, but ultimately--no.
She glanced at her partner, asleep beside her.

His perceptions were vastly different from hers. It was amazing they
could speak at all, much less maintain the deep level of understanding
that was so integral to their partnership. She knew, as Jeremiah Atkins
had discovered, that their strength lay in the gap between their
perceptions. Their perceptions lay on either side of that chasm, in
which was buried the truth--by closing in on it from both sides, the
could pinch it tight, and though they might never see it, they'd be,
between them, as close as anyone had ever come.

Scully closed her eyes and leaned her head on Mulder's shoulder--she was
tired too. She felt Mulder shift lower to accommodate her, then felt
the weight of his head against hers.

_Beauty isn't the only thing that lay in the eye of the beholder,_ she
mused. _Perception is a necessary evil. It obfuscates reality as
surely as it provides the only window on the truth._

Yes, her partner's perceptions were vastly different from hers, but the
truth was the same. Atkins hadn't given them any clues about their
quest, but he had given them one thing: for a few moments, she had seen
the world through Mulder's eyes. She found it deeply reassuring that it
hadn't looked that different after all. They must be close.

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

End 10/10.

Whew. Thanks for finishing: if you made it this far I am in your debt.
I would really really love to hear what you think: email me at
nascen...@hotmail.com.