From: Dryad Date: Wed, 8 Aug 2001 15:10:17 -0400 Subject: Manitou by Dryad Source: direct Manitou, by Dryad 9/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "Deep in the bosom of the gentle night Is when I search for the light Pick up my pen and start to write I struggle, I fight dark forces in the clear moonlight Without fear Insomnia - I can't get no sleep I used to worry Thought I was going mad in a hurry Getting stressed, making excess mess in darkness No electricity, something's all over me, greasy insomnia please release me And let me dream of making mad love to my girl on the heath Tearing off tights with my teeth But there's no release, no peace I toss and turn without cease Like a curse, open my eyes and rise like yeast At least a couple of weeks since I last slept, kept taking sleepers But now I keep myself pepped Deeper still, that night I write by candlelight, I find insight Fundamental movement, hm, so when it's black This insomniac, take an original tack Keep the beast in my nature Under ceaseless attack I gets no sleep I can't get no sleep I need to sleep, I can't get no sleep" Faithless/Insomnia/Reverence Of murder, Richard Ramirez once said: "The power is indescribable...out there, you can feel the draining of their energy, the total ecstasy. Get your mind into it. Savor it." How best to savor the taking of a life than to do it over and over again? Memory becomes stale over time without repeated doses of blood, terror, and agony. Why feel remorse for killing? Do drug addicts feel sorry for the needle or the pipe? Their ugliness only adds to the experience. For are they not unhappy in their existence, those poor, less than perfect beings? Is not God merciful? Mulder rolled his head from side to side, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. He checked his watch - midnight. Hours to go yet and he was too jittery to sleep. He'd had three cups of coffee after dinner, chatting with Mae and learning more about Lincoln. She was in the process of self-publishing a short history for the Lincoln Preservation Society. Besides being a stop of the Underground Railroad - both of her great grandparents had been runaway slaves - Lincoln had been a small logging and mill town until the Indian River had been dammed. Before that it had been a trading camp for the five tribes of the Iroquois Confederation and then another for the English and French settlers as the Natives were decimated by war, alcohol, and disease. Ethan Allen himself had recruited 10 men for the battle of Fort Ticonderoga, and two had died during the Battle of Quebec. And another squad of boys and men joined the Union army during the Civil War. All that history and now Lincoln was just a sleepy little town near the US-Canadian border. Yet perhaps that went a long way to figuring out Kaspar. Both town and man were isolated, away from what the majority of people would call 'a life'. However Mae and Whitlow and everyone else he and Scully had met, even the waitress as the Chat 'N' Chew, seemed happy enough. Maybe that was all that mattered. And it was easy to see how a person could retain a shell of normality while living a life of horror. Small towns were the kind of places where everyone knew one another's business, and so never bothered to inquire more deeply into the true nature of each other's lives. Good fences make good neighbors. Stretching out on the bed, Mulder stared at the ceiling, made a half- hearted attempt to create hand shadow-puppets before resting his hands on his chest and stomach. It was all about the nature of evil. How did you recognize the evil in your midst? What's more, what did you do once you knew it? Did you carry on as before, or try to call attention to it, make it move on? Such silly questions, ultimately. History had proven that the majority of people chose to be sheep, going nervously to the slaughter, waiting for someone to speak up and save them. The shepherds had proclaimed their intentions and no one had done a damned thing until it was far too late. Any high school student could name them: Hitler, Pol Pot, Mao, Stalin. But what about more recent events? People had ignored Milosevic and Ceaucescou, Hussein and Pinochet, Amin and Duvalier, trying to keep themselves safe from the knowledge that in other circumstances it could be them living lives of quiet desperation. Okay, maybe not Amin and Duvalier, but it had still taken a damned long time for people to prod themselves to a moral awakening. And that list didn't even include the multitudes of mass murderers who dealt their trade of death through doomsday cults. The banality of evil. Another seemingly trite phrase that was nothing more than the truth about a baffling part of human nature. Kaspar was a living example of it, one of many. He said hello and goodbye and probably pulled his forelock when the occasion demanded it. He also killed and mutilated without hesitation, murdered people he'd doubtlessly known for a good few years. A child who'd never had the chance to grow up in a normal environment, or what had passed for 'normal enough' in those days. In Mulder's limited experience, children were chaotic little creatures with no innate sense of right or wrong. Given a rotten home life, was it any wonder that so many people had difficulty steering their way through life? But that didn't explain the majority, who lived to tell the tale yet made the decision not to inflict the same upon their offspring. Hell, he was living proof of that, or he would be when he eventually got around to having children. And of course it didn't explain why so few women became serial killers. Maybe they only brought the proverbial guns out when they were threatened in some way? Different strategies between predator and nurturer, hunter and gatherer? Aileen Wuornos aside, he couldn't think of another woman who had repeatedly killed for everything but economic gain. Mulder flipped over onto his stomach, shoving his journal to one side. He propped his chin on his folded hands and closed his eyes again. It was a mystery. If Kaspar had been female, he and Scully wouldn't even be here. Nope, it would be Whitlow and maybe an agent from the Burlington office, looking at a case of 'accidental' poisoning or shooting. Women, Mulder felt, were far meaner, far colder, than men. They had an inborn ruthlessness that he found shocking. Even Scully had her moments. Men, by contrast, were obsessive. Men were the temperamental creatures, full of passion and heartbreak, ruled by their hormones. God knew his own passions had ruled his head for long enough, at least until Scully had joined the X-Files. Hot hearts versus cold. Did she think evil had touched her life? Or was it merely coincidence and the actions of men who pursued different goals? Would he ever have the balls to ask her face to face? '"God only knows what happened in that house"' Mae had said. Without the modern social services, hell, even with the CPS and SS, if was often impossible to separate fact from fiction. But, he supposed, better to have both to investigate than neither. Which still didn't answer his questions. Esoteric ideas of philosophy aside, what was Kaspar's passion? What drove him to do the things he did? Why had it taken so long for things to come to the boil? Was there no pattern of violence against townsfolk throughout the years after the death of his mother and the disappearance and presumed death of his father? Kaspar's rage obviously hadn't been spent in his youth...maybe he was just a slow learner. No, Mae had called him bright. He should have asked her why she liked Kaspar, what she saw in him that made him seem harmless when others, notably people under forty years old, found him creepy. Then again, maybe seeing only the good in people was part and parcel of running a B 'n' B. Maybe Kaspar'd gone too long without long term human contact. Odd jobs around town weren't the same thing as having lunch with your best friend, or dinner with your wife. Ha, he was hardly one to talk. Mulder sighed heavily, checked the time again. Ye gods, but it was going to be a long night. Manitou, by Dryad 10/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "The night is still, but the sinner is awake and the hour of the wolf is here" Hedningarna/Vargtimmen/Tra (trans.) Whitlow was on the phone when they entered his 'office'. His eyes flicked towards them and away. "Colette, ma petite, I don't have the time - " Mulder stuck his hands in his pockets, rolled a loose coin between his fingers. Four in the morning and the world was dead save this last outpost, this one building holding on to the warmth and the light. He'd spent the majority of the night on Venus and Mars, in the company of Northwest Smith, C.L. Moore's enigmatic hero. Mae had been blessed with fine taste when it came to Golden Age science fiction, the small bookcase in his room stuffed with Brackett, Van Vogt, Piper, Cordwainer Smith. He'd particularly enjoyed rereading Smith's 'Alpha Ralpha Boulevard' and 'Golden the Ship Was - Oh! Oh! Oh!'. "I know it hurts, Ethan. Try to get back to sleep and it'll all be better when you wake up. Let me talk to mommy, ok? Colette? Listen, I don't know when I'll be back - " Stifling a yawn - why did he always tire at the precise moment he had to do something important - Mulder stepped over to Scully and studied the topographical map taped to the backs of one wall of cabinets. Red x-marks- the-spot crosses showed where Chapman, Mahoney, and Dubois had been found. There was no pattern. The killer - Kaspar, he knew it was Kaspar - didn't care if the bodies were found or not. Who cared what happened to the used needle or crack pipe? Yet Mulder couldn't leave it up to carelessness, either. Kaspar didn't care if they were found - but he arranged them for maximum impact just in case. No doubt he, like most serial killers, felt even more powerful, knowing he was going to shock and horrify beyond the victim. Whitlow cleared his throat and joined them at the map, circled an x in the south. "The old Kaspar place is a couple of miles from South Trail, and about ten miles from East-West Road as the crow flies. There used to be a road to their farm, shouldn't be too difficult to find now that all the undergrowth is covered. Okay, everybody ready?" They arrived at South Trail almost two hours later. Somebody had forgotten to load the snowmobiles on Whitlow's truck the day before, and then they had to check to see if the tanks were full and so on. Whitlow was still embarrassed and trying not to show it. Crandall kept cracking asinine comments until Scully had had a quiet word, spoken too softly for Mulder to hear. Whatever she said, it worked, because he shut up immediately thereafter. Eager as he was to get to Kaspar, Mulder didn't relish the thought of trying to find the old road and the burned out shell of a farmhouse on a bitterly cold winter morning. Nerves and the beyond crappy cup of coffee he'd gotten at the office got the better of him and he spent a brief minute behind a tree, fingers and other parts numbed in seconds. As he zipped up, Crandall hurried over. Crandall said, "Wind's picked up. Must be an Alberta Clipper coming in. Hope we're not out here too long - " Mulder nodded and walked away, leaving Crandall to his business. For the umpteenth time he wondered why female officers and agents never seemed to be perturbed enough to have to duck behind a bush during stakeouts and the like. Maybe they all went before they left the building. The moon was full and riding midway between frozen earth and pinprick stars. It was so bright he and Scully almost didn't need to use their flashlights to spot Whitlow and Crandall as they unloaded the snowmobiles. The forest was beautiful, a secret sanctuary from the daytime hustle and bustle of humanity. He turned off the flashlight and a millisecond later Scully turned hers off as well. He looked down at her to remark upon the serendipity of their actions, only to see her gazing up at him, smiling and making a promise with her eyes he didn't dare decipher until later. Their private moment of shared blissful serenity shattered as a snowmobile roared to life. With mutual, unspoken consent, Scully headed towards Whitlow while he took the seat behind Crandall. The world beyond the headlights was filled with black tree trunks, moonshadow blue snow, the brilliant coal red square of a brake light. The snow was icy and hard, glittering as the white lights struck it. The ride was uncomfortable, the Ski-Doo careening from side to side from the lack of good grip on the sugar snow of the track. Worst of all, the wind crept in through his clothes, fingering his collar and slipping icy fingers down the back of his neck. At least the helmet kept his ears and head warm. Time passed in a blur of man-made thunder and exhaust, the 'road' little more than a meandering trail once wide enough for a single car, now overgrown with saplings and brush. Crandall swerved often, but even so, whip thin branches occasionally lashed Mulder's legs and slapped his helmet. Learning to drive a snowmobile was the latest item to go on his personal list of things to accomplish Real Soon Now. He wondered if Crandall could really see anything or if he was simply following Whitlow's taillight, the arboreal abuse Mulder received an unlooked for benefit. Still, it was eerie, especially now, with the woods vigilant, waiting to see if he was going to mete out justice as he had promised. He felt, oddly enough, both welcomed and opposed. Welcome so long as punishment was given, yet pray not overstay that welcome. '"Anthropomorphizing again, Mulder?"' Scully teased in his head. Yeah, well. Crandall drew even with Whitlow, slowed, stopped. The deep silence was shocking when Mulder removed his helmet. They were in a small clearing, an equally small, one storey building before them and to the right. A secondary, scaled down roof was raised over the primary. Plastic sheeting puffed and crackled in the gaps between the rooves. The snow was lumpy in front of the house. If the road continued on through the now widely spaced trees, he couldn't tell. "We must have passed the farm, this here's the sugarhouse," Whitlow said, putting his helmet on the seat of his snowmobile. "Sugarhouse?" Crandall asked. "It's how they used to make maple syrup," Mulder answered, playing his flashlight over the lumps. Most of them were too small to be bodies, and one was definitely a car. Rusty metal traps, hoes, rakes, and a shovel hung on nails on the outer wall of the house. "Actually, it's still how they make it," Whitlow said. "It's just more sanitized, no more sap buckets hanging from nails in the tree. Now you've got tap lines left up all year round. Did y'know that forty gallons of sap boils down to one gallon of syrup?" "Gah," Crandall shook his head. "to think I'm eating tree blood." Weapon drawn, Mulder carefully followed Scully to the front door, said softly, "Pretty gnarly, dude." Scully flashed him an amused look, raised her free hand to knock. The whipcrack of a gunshot broke the stillness, echoing away into the distance as Mulder spun and crouched. Whitlow was staring at Crandall, who was lying flat on the ground, gun pointed at the sky. "False alarm! He slipped!" Heart racing, Mulder exhaled and stood up. The damned fool hadn't had his safety on - if he'd been facing any of them - christ, he could killed someone! "Sorry, sorry," Crandall called, sitting up and cautiously getting to his feet. He grimaced and gingerly felt the back of his head, looked at his fingers. "I'm all right, I'll be alright. Let's get on with this." Scully turned around and knocked. "Federal Agent! Hello? Mr. Kaspar? I'm Special Agent Dana Scully - could I speak with you?" There was no answer. "I doubt he's here," Whitlow called, chipping hard snow off the car- lump with the butt of his flashlight. "He would've heard us coming from miles away, even with this wind. I told you he likes to keep to himself." And if he wasn't aware of them before, he sure as hell was now. Mulder moved to the right while Scully took the left, then pounded on the door. "Mr. Kaspar?" After a moment Scully raised an eyebrow, crouched and tried the old fashioned iron latch. The door swung open, bounced against something behind it. Mulder gave the single room a quick once over with the flashlight, then motioned Scully inside. She moved in with him one step behind, facing the door all the while. Keeping an eye out for any surprises, Mulder shone the light behind the door - there was nothing there but two 100 lbs bags of flour. "Nobody home," Scully said, holstering her gun. Whitlow poked his head in and said, "Agent Crandall's feeling a little woozy. I'll keep an eye on him while you two have a gander in here." Mulder nodded. From the inside the double roof abruptly made sense. If you were boiling away lots of liquid, what better way to let all the steam escape than to raise the roof and open up vents that could double as windows? Plastic was certainly cheaper than glass, although it wouldn't let in as much light during the day. The building had been insulated, however, pink fiberglass looking like bagged cotton candy behind even more plastic sheeting that had been stapled to the walls. It was noticeably warmer once the door was closed. "God, this place is filthy," Scully murmured, surveying the room. The house - shack - whatever - was crammed but smelled of nothing in particular except woodsmoke. Furniture consisted of an iron frame double bed covered with a number of motheaten and stained wool blankets, a crudely made chair and a rough table constructed out of two-by-fours. A black pot bellied parlor stove was in the corner next to the table, the fiberglass insulation protected by two-by-four makeshift walls. Three Coleman kerosene lanterns hung from the ceiling and a box of candles on the table provided evidence of lighting. The stove was warm, the iron frying pan on top of it filled with grease just going opaque. "Look at this, Mulder," Scully stood on the other side of the stove. "He's got everything you need for the non-refrigerated life." Sure enough, the shelves held cans of Spam, corned beef hash, Campbell's soups, 5 O'Clock Coffee, Carnation Condensed milk, molasses, a gallon can of maple syrup, Crisco, a small jar of salt. Kaspar had also bought multiples of sardines and tuna, creamed corn, tomatoes, green 99c stickers still on the plastic wrapping. On a raised pallet close to the door were a 100 lbs bag of salt, another of rolled oats and a 50 lbs bag of kindey beans. What Mulder found most surprising were the books. They were stacked everywhere, on the table, the floor, the shelves. He moved closer to check the authors and got an even greater shock. Kaspar had gone far with his eighth grade education - Heidegger, Proust, DesCartes, Plato, Socrates, even Aquinas, all of them in their original languages. Surely Kaspar didn't speak more than English? No, he was bright, not a genius. As if to balance the great thinkers, the opposite end of the spectrum was also well represented - underneath the table were stacks of 60's and 70's Playboys and an 80's Hustler. Scully hadn't commented on that particular find. Maybe she hadn't noticed? Yeah...riiight. Elsewhere, clothing hung from nails and hooks on the walls away from the stove. A green tin of something called Bag Balm and a turquoise can of Drum tobacco were on the shelf above the bed, plus rolling papers, more matches, and several black and white Composition notebooks. Mulder pulled one down at random and flipped it open. The chicken scrawl was tiny and illegible. Scully came up and looked over his arm. "Anything interesting?" "Hell if I know, can't read a damn thing," Mulder answered. He picked another notebook, tossed it onto the bed after a cursory glance. "He's probably giving Ted Kaczynski a run for his money." "So now what? Do we stake the place out?" Mulder shook his head in frustration. "Yes, no, I don't know. I don't want to give him any more time, but if we stay here he'll just pick us off one by one." She nodded. "Okay. I'll have Whitlow put out an APB, plus a PSA on the radio and posters around town," she paused, regarded him with understanding, or maybe it was pity. "It's the best we can do for the moment, Mulder." "Let's hope the best we can do doesn't get another person killed," he said morosely. Her head snapped towards the door. She threw up one hand to silence him. "What?" "Did you hear something?" Mulder listened for a couple of heartbeats, frowned. Switching off her flashlight, she walked softly to the door and put her ear up to it, then opened it a crack. After a moment she removed her jacket to prevent unnecessary noise, drew her gun and thumbed off the safety. He did the same, followed her outside. Dawn had broken and spears of sunlight penetrated the forest, little fingers of god touching the snow. Crandall and Whitlow were nowhere in sight. Stepping away from Scully, he signed towards the snowmobiles in two directions. She bobbed her head and broke to the left. Eyes wide, he went right, scanning the trees while trying to avoid the bigger snowy lumps at the same time. He skirted between the car and the house, noted the fresh yellow stains in the snow. Christ, had Kaspar been there all along, biding his time while they were dithering about how maple syrup was made? He circled wide to make sure there wasn't anyone behind the house, then headed for the snowmobiles. The trees made him nervous. Kaspar could be lurking behind any of them, watching their every move. Couldn't be helped. He took another step into a sunny spot, silently cursed as his foot broke through the hard top crust of snow, scaring the crap out of him. Luckily, it wasn't too deep and he didn't fall. Mulder drew even with the snowmobiles, saw Crandall and Whitlow lying on the ground, a pool of blood staining the snow beneath them. He motioned to Scully, senses heightened as she scooted to where the men lay. She bent down and felt their necks, nodded. Still alive, then. He opened his mouth to speak and heard the faint crunch of brittle snow to his left. He glanced towards Scully - Go, she mouthed, holstering her gun. Trying to run on the hard, slick crust of snow while at the same time looking and listening for Kaspar was difficult at best, especially when he was breaking through with every other step. Mulder found the spot where Kaspar had broken through and stopped, surveying the woods. Miraculously, the wind died down. God, he hadn't thought it possible for him to forget what really cold weather was like, yet somehow, back in the supposed real world, he had. And now here he was, trying to stifle the coughs threatening to rip his lungs apart. Oh yeah, bitter cold dry air meets warm, wet lung - what a winning combination! There was sudden moment to his left, a single branch waving in the non-existent breeze. Mulder pointed his gun and cautiously arced around the tree. Nothing. Nothing apart from the strong stench of urine and wet bark. What the hell was Kaspar doing, marking his territory? "Damnit," he whispered. He made another circuit of the area, looking for further signs of...pee. Christ, he could scarcely feel his fingers, he'd be lucky if he could pull the trigger. Kaspar could keep him running in circles all day, bringing him further into the woods until he dropped from exhaustion. Mulder cursed under his breath again, then searched for a good ten minutes until he found the wet tree once more. From there it only took a moment to find his own trail, and then he was on his way. Unfortunately he came to the spot where he hadn't broken the crust, losing his direction. He was getting frantic when the preliminary cough of an engine failing to catch caught his attention. Staggering and slipping, he raced towards the sound, falling hard on one knee and ripping both jeans and longjohns. The side of the sugarhouse was visible through the trees when he heard Scully yell, "Federal Agent! I'm armed!" Clearing the last tree before the house, he saw Scully make a flying tackle towards the back of the snowmobile that Kaspar was driving away. A body was slung over the backseat, it looked like Whitlow, although he couldn't be sure. The snowmobile was picking up speed, but Scully hung on, one arm around Kaspar's neck, trying to pull him off. Instead, she forced Kaspar to turn the vehicle in Mulder's direction. Kaspar gunned the engine, reached up and tore her arm away. She fell off with a piercing cry, the body on the back tumbling on top of her. Mulder launched himself towards the moving snowmobile, grabbing hold of Kaspar's jacket, his waist. The engine was horribly loud, and he was terrified of the rear treads running over his legs. He hooked one leg over the backseat, using Kaspar for leverage. The man looked down and snarled, cuffed him hard on the side of his head, making his ears ring. He refused to let go, even though he was hanging on only by the skin of his teeth. Kaspar swerved to the right and Mulder lost his grip on the jacket. Back muscles protested as he twisted, momentum flinging his right arm out into the air. He managed to regain a handhold on the seat, only to feel an incredible burn along his left side. With a knee on the tail-end of the running board, he hitched himself off the snowcrust, trying to pull Kaspar off at the same time. Kaspar wasn't having any of it, though. Mulder clung to him as he whipped the snowmobile from side to side. When he abruptly glanced down and grinned - oral hygiene obviously not high on his priorities - Mulder had an awful foreboding of what was coming. He looked straight ahead and immediately let go of Kaspar, kicking away from the Yamaha. Energy and mass kept him going forward, however, the friction of skin and cloth against the icy sugar snow not enough to keep him from hitting the tree, spinning him around to face the opposite direction on the other side of the tree. Pain flared from hip to bottom rib and he wept from the shock of it as the forest returned to silence. When he could get his muddled thoughts together, he slowly rolled onto his hands and knees, pressed a hand to his left side. He was going to have one hell of a bruise, if not internal injuries. His skin was raw where his sweater and shirt had been pulled out of his pants, and it felt like a cheese grater had been run across his side, but at least there didn't seem to be any fractured ribs. Using the tree to lean on, he got to his feet and followed the broken snow and torn bits of clothing back to Scully. As he neared the remaining snowmobile, he called out, strangling his cry into the loudest of whispers. "Scully!" Where the hell was she? "Mulder!" Scully called from door of the sugarhouse. "Are you okay?" Mulder grimaced and nodded, limped over to where she stood. "You?" She stepped back to let him in. "Wrenched my shoulder when I pulled Crandall back here, did it again when I grabbed for Whitlow after Kaspar pushed me off the Yamaha. Where is he, anyway?" No room on the bed, not with Whitlow and Crandall taking up all the room. Whitlow's head was wrapped in bloodstained cloth. He shook his head, perched on the edge of the table instead. "I don't know, I couldn't track right after he ditched me." "God, let me take a look at you...what the hell happened out there?" Mulder raised what remained of his shirt and sweater, hissed as Scully gently probed his side. "Let's just say that being dragged in real life is not as easy as the movies make it look," he said, noting how stiffly she moved as she took one of Kaspar's shirts from the wall. He took it from her after she gasped, folded it and held it against his side. "How are they?" Scully turned her whole body to look at the two men on the bed. "They need hospital treatment. Whitlow...isn't looking good. He's got a concussion at best, and I suspect a fractured skull. Crandall's got a goose-egg on the back of his head, although I don't know if that's from his fall or from Kaspar." He may not have liked the man, but he didn't wish him severe injury, either. Not from a suspect, at least. "How long until the cavalry arrive?" Scully sighed and carefully sat down in the single chair. "Kaspar took all the radio equipement and the keys to the other snowmobile, so we're stuck here for the moment. I put a couple of logs in the stove, hopefully it'll get warmer fairly soon. I've already tried my phone but we're out of range." Wonderful. "Let's make ourselves at home then, shall we?" "Oh, by all means, Mulder. Knock yourself out." As it turned out, they didn't wait for more than half the day before the noise of multiple snowmobile engines permeated the woods. Three hours after that they were in Waterloo's tiny hospital, where Crandall was diagnosed with a cracked skull, a simple fracture which required no further attention. Whitlow, on the other hand, was immediately flown to the neurology unit at Fletcher Allen in Burlington. Mulder spent the next two days under observation - he wasn't up to facing the Wrath of Scully by trying for an early release. Indeed, in all honesty, the prospect of internal bleeding or peritonitis from unknown internal injuries didn't particularly appeal. His blood-tinged urine and the ache in his back was bad enough, indication of the bruising his left kidney had taken when he'd hit the tree. And anyway, he needed the sleep. He bullied Scully into letting him drive after he was released. Normally he would have been happy enough to let her drive back to Lincoln and then on to Burlington, but although she made a gallant try, she couldn't hide her winces and audible whimpers. He sympathized. Wrenched muscles were never nice, and back muscles were the worst, as the pain effected everything you took for granted, like turning your head and sleeping. "I don't suppose you left our things back at the Inn?" She didn't look at him as she replied. "Nope." Trust Scully to try and make things easier on him when he could have handled it himself. At least the journey back to Lincoln was pleasant. Crandall's Alberta Clipper had given hell on its way to the Atlantic, leaving clear blue skies and bright sunshine behind along with two feet of fresh powder on the ground. Oona MacArthur slopped coffee all over the table when she spied them walking through the front door of the church. "Agent Mulder, how are you feeling?" "Much better, thank you," he replied. "Is there any word on Sheriff Whitlow?" asked Scully. Mopping up the spilled coffee with a couple of napkins, Oona shook her head. "He's in a coma. As to whether he'll survive..." Mulder certainly hoped he would, declined her offer at her enquiring lift of the coffee pot. "Wise man," she said. "What about Kaspar?" "Haven't found him yet, although we've got a massive manhunt out for him. He might be an oldtimer, but we've got modern technology on our side. Unfortunately all this new snow is making things both simpler and more difficult. He'll be easier to track, but harder to get to," Oona added creamer to her cup, stirred. "What I don't understand is how he got around. I mean, he doesn't have a car or a snowmobile, and although the assumption's that he's been using Jenny's ski's for the past few days..." "Would people have given him a lift if they saw him walking down the road?" "Sure." "Then maybe Chapman picked him up - " "But there's no evidence of that, Mulder," interrupted Scully. "In fact there was no physical evidence that another person had been at any of the crime scenes, the bootprints on Chapman excepted. You both know how much that verges on the impossible." "Well, those women certainly didn't kill themselves, Scully," Mulder said, ignoring her unusually weak mini-glare. It was excusable, she wasn't her normal self. "Why do you think he murdered them?" Oona asked. She blew on her cup, tested the temperature with a tiny sip. "As for what triggered him, who knows? Maybe he got up on the wrong side of the bed." "Oh, I did tell you about the root cellar, right?" she asked, glancing from Mulder to Scully. "Ah, I didn't. They found it early this morning when they were dismantling his house. A trapdoor underneath the table which they probably never would have noticed if his stack of porn hadn't fallen over." Ah, there was Scully's self-satisfied little smirk. He knew she had seen them, but he'd figured she wasn't going to comment. "What they found..." Oona wrinkled her nose in disgust. "The faces. The organs, stuffed and hanging from the joists like sausages." There was a special horror in cannibalism which wasn't merely from the desecration of the dead. Of course it was different if there was a cultural precedent, or if it was a matter of survival. The hunting and harvesting of humans for no other reason than lunch was one of only a few taboos that modern people didn't break. It was a line Mulder was glad the overwhelming majority chose not to cross. He wondered, though, what would happen should enough people do it once...? Would the effect be the same one as the Hundredth Monkey, learned cannibalism cascading from person to person, culture to culture, country to country? He shivered at the thought. But it also begged the further question - when had their ancestors stopped eating one another in the first place, what was once common and practically ordinary? Forensic anthropology suggested ritualistic cannibalism, but he wasn't so sure it was...what if those rituals had just been the end play of a very very long game? In that light, couldn't Kaspar and others like Jeffrey Dahmer be the last gasps in a long chain of people throughout history? Only time would tell, and Mulder suspected that Homo Sapiens Sapiens, being the product of millions of years of evolution and a few thousand years of civilization would never get the taste, so to speak, out of its collective mouth. Scully had been right after all, humanity did need its civilized mask of behavior. "Oona, we've got to go," Scully said, checking her watch. "But if you're ever in Washington, give us a call. We'll take you to lunch." Mulder looked at Scully in surprise. He couldn't recall her ever having extended an invitation to someone they'd met on a case. He shook hands with Oona as well, only to be caught off guard when she suddenly leaned forward. Her warm breath tickled his ear as she spoke. "Blessed be, Agent Mulder. Peace be upon you." He thanked her and headed out the door. Getting into the car, he noticed the he ghost of a smile haunting Scully's lips. "What?" "She likes you, Mulder." He stared at her. "Who - Oona?" She gave him the 'no duh' Look. "Um, yeah." "'Like' like me, or just like me?" "The former." Pondering this new information for a brief moment, he turned the key in the ignition. "Jealous?" "Oh, please." Mulder smiled and put the car in reverse. "Y'know, the only thing about this town I'm going to miss is that bathtub," she muttered. '"The Trego's, we realized that Watkins had been attacked by what the Algonquin call a manitou, an evil spirit capable of changing a man into a beast. To be attacked by a manitou causes the victim to become one...a manitou overtakes a man by night, not by full moon. But when its blood lust builds to an uncontrollable level, the man changes to a sickening creature. It kills, releasing savage energy...The cycle begins anew the next day. This continues until death."' Ish, "Shapes" 1X18 Manitou, by Dryad 11/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "I'm talking loud and clear saying just what I feel lying in the grass with the sun on our backs it doesn't really matter what we do or what we say with every little movement, we give ourselves away Opposite and opposite decisions are reversed facing one another with words that couldn't hurt with every little move you're getting closer to me talking loud and clear saying just what you feel today" OMD/Talking Loud and Clear/Best of OMD (Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark) Rain pounded against the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep the glass clear enough for Mulder to see the road. The bright afternoon light of northern Vermont had degraded into the dull, rainswept evening of the mid-Atlantic seaboard. Crimson taillights led the way home. He yawned and glanced over at Scully. She'd taken painkillers on the way to Lincoln and at the airport, and was now slumped against the passenger door, fast asleep. Arriving at the turnoff which would bring them to her apartment, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and made a snap decision. If he was lucky she wouldn't hurt him too much for his assumption. She woke at his light touch on her shoulder, didn't say a word about being in the parking lot of his apartment building instead of her own. Once inside she headed directly for the bathroom. Mulder dropped their bags on the floor and took off his coat, hung it up on the red nine ball of the coatrack. Food, that was what they both needed. He was too hungry to wait for take out, so he popped a container of frozen chicken noodle soup in the microwave, ate a couple of slices of toast to stave off his complaining stomach. When Scully didn't reappear by the time it was ready, he poured himself a mug of soup, grabbed a spoon and headed into the living room. He really hoped she wasn't taking a bath, he had the feeling she wouldn't come out until she looked like a prune, and he wanted a shower before he went to bed. To couch. Halfway through dinner, fishing for the remaining noodle that simply refused to stay on the damned spoon, he heard the bathroom door open, then Scully rustling around the bedroom. She came out a few minutes later, hair damp, dressed in plum colored satin pj's. He said, "There's soup if you're hungry." "God, yes, I'm starved." Mulder laced his fingers together around the mug, let its warmth soak into his bones. Funny, he felt colder here than he had in Vermont. "Did you make this?" she enquired, dropping down slowly next to him, her own mug of soup in hand. "Does that surprise you so much?" "No." He raised an eyebrow. She had the grace to look a bit embarassed. "Well, what do you expect? Everytime I come over here we end up having pizza or chinese." "Before Samantha left, I loved to cook with my mother. I even know how to make Kugel. Of course this isn't real Jewish chicken soup, but what the hell, I like noodles." "And here's me beginning to think your cooking skills were poor enough to burn water." "My momma din't raise no foo'," he said, complete with sneer and snaking head. And then, at her wide-eyed gaze, "If you're going to keep up with slang, Scully, you have to watch late night Jerry Springer." "Mulder, you're really beginning to scare me now." "Shut up and eat your soup, woman," he growled affectionately, getting up. Time for a quick shower, then he was going to pass out on the couch. Two days in the hospital in a semi-private room with a man who had brought new meaning to the phrase 'coughing your lungs out' had afforded him little rest. The numerous tests at all hours hadn't helped much either. Mulder showered, used Scully's damp towel because he kept forgetting to add another one to the rack. He didn't know which was sillier, that he had thought of it in the first place despite the fact that she had never bathed here before, or his sniffing the towel before he used it. "I got it bad, and that ain't good," he softly sang, scrutinizing his eyes in the semi-clear mirror. A sad song, but that was alright, it was only the title that mattered. And even then it was off - he had it bad, but it was good. Of course he'd had it bad for years, but some lines weren't meant to be crossed once, never mind twice, or so he kept telling himself. His inner critic correctly diagnosed the problem - he was a chickenshit - while heart and soul clung to hope like a drowning man to a life preserver. Forget being rational and actually bringing the subject up in conversation, oh no, the fear of rejection and consequential abandonment was far too frightening to contemplate. Hell, he didn't even like thinking of it now. So he avoided the issue entirely, and they went their merry way as if nothing at all had happened between them in the past year. Disgusted with himself, he roughly toweled as much water out of his hair as he could, then reached for the clean pair of boxers...which he'd left on the bed. He eyed his trousers, decided to risk seeing if Scully was in bed yet instead. Opening the door a crack, he peeked out, spied her form under the covers, facing towards the living room. Was she asleep? Well...it wasn't like she hadn't seen him naked before...nonetheless, he wrapped the towel around his waist, scooted out to snag his boxers and draw them on, his actions silhouetted on the far wall by the bathroom light, steam curling around his body with a phantom's caress. The living room and kitchen were dark, and although he knew she had cleaned and locked everything up, making his apartment safe, he went through the motions anyway. He glanced from couch to bedroom. The covers on the empty half of the bed had been flung back in open invitation. If he were smart he'd take the couch...but the bed looked far more comfy, especially with his own personal red-headed water bottle hotting up the sheets. His back and side would appreciate it too. Yeah, that was it, it would be better for his injuries. Choice made, he turned off the bathroom light and lay down on the bed. It took a few minutes to find a postiion which didn't hurt. He ended up on his right side, the wrong side, back to back with Scully instead of spooning as he was wont to do. He sighed and snuggled beneath the blankets. Mulder sits at a desk in a white field. The desk is that of a child's from the turn of the century, wooden, slanted, initials carving themselves into the top. Evergreens wave in the distance, and he feels a stiff breeze against his face, ruffling his hair. The sky is flatly overcast, pale metallic winter gray. He feels like he should be cold, but he isn't, due maybe to the fact that he wears his favorite suit and his black wool coat. There's a scalpel in his hand, which strikes him funny, so he laughs, because the tools of his trade are razor sharp words under the guidance of his equally honed wit. Mere tools are blunt by comparison. He sets the scalpel to the parchment on the desk. He presses down, draws a thin line, the paper, no, the vellum - parchment colored vellum - bleeds magenta ink. The vellum dimples here and there, the ink creeps around to form a face. Four lines and two dots for eyes, a T for brows and nose, three lines for a full, pouty mouth. He leans back in the chair, watches a fine paint brush sketch his mother's place in Greenwich in indigo, his father's in West Tisbury, the old house in Chilmark with the white Hydrangea's in the front. And, strangely, Bill Scully's former abode in San Diego. Peaks and valleys appear as the face pushes up the vellum and becomes three dimensional. Panic engulfs Mulder as it opens its mouth in a wide, silent scream. It floats towards him, equally threatens and accuses him of not doing enough, of not saving - who is he supposed to save? And from what? Every muscle in his body tenses, trembles with the urge to flee, even though the face is gone. Now he runs through syrup, sugar on the snow hardens and locks his feet his ankles his knees in place, heart near to bursting as it pounds. Sweat rolls off his forehead as he looks over his shoulder. The figure he runs from is Inuit, Eskimo of old, the face invisible in the darkness of its fur rimmed hood. It is neither man nor woman. It walks towards him endlessly, booted legs disappearing half-way down the calf. It is not walking on the snow but above. The figure frightens him immensely, omniscient and omnipotent, menacing with unknown intent. Tears slip down his cheeks as he struggles to remember the magic words which will release him from this prison. Mulder woke with a gasp. He stared at the ceiling wide-eyed, blood thudding in his ears. Jesus, he hadn't had that dream in years, not since the early days of working on the X-Files. They had been most frequent when he'd worked in the ISU and VCS, gradually dying away after he'd left. But to dream of the Inuit now was extraordinary. The unknown no longer startled him as it once had, becoming, in fact, more ordinary with each passing day. This wasn't to say that it no longer excited him or made the cases any less interesting, only that time and experience had tempered his enthusiasm. Scully's goddamned rationalism and science had infiltrated after all despite his determination for the opposite to occur. The truth was that the Inuit was but one in a host of repetitive dreams. It wasn't the worst, although it was one of the most frightening, for reasons he still didn't understand. The only parts which varied were the buildings drawn on the vellum. The other dreams were more graphic, filled with gore and smoke and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Physician, heal thyself, he mused. Patient dreams of unidentifiable mythic figure, symbolic both of the unknown and apprehension of it. As for its genderless state, well, danger lurked in all shapes and sizes. Scully entered, bearing two cups. "Morning." "Coffee," he murmured, pushing himself into a sitting position against the headboard. "Scully, you're a goddess." "And you've only just reached this conclusion after how many years of working together?" She tucked one leg underneath her as she sat. "How're you feeling?" "I've survived worse," he said. Ah, caffeine, lifeblood of the modern working man and woman. He stretched and wondered just how domestic Scully was feeling. Unless his judgement was way off, she was in a fairly good mood in spite of the pain she was obviously suffering from. The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave man but one. "I'm ravenous." If he hadn't been gazing hopefully at her, visions of hot buttered toast running through his mind, he might have missed her lips moving and chalked what she said up to his imagination. She beheld the contents of her cup with a Mona Lisa smile and said very softly, "You could always eat me." Mulder blinked. '"You could always eat me"'. Like it was something he heard from her every other day. The phone rang in the other room, and neither of them moved. Machine could get it. "Agent Mulder, uh, this is Bill Scully, I was wondering if you'd - " Scully flew off the bed faster than Superman. Jaw slack with astonishment that turned into a yawn, he stretched and shifted to ease the soreness in his back. He couldn't believe she'd actually said that. Scully always made and responded to innuendo with sarcasm so sharp it could make stone bleed, but she never made outright suggestions concerning herself. Especially not to him, not anymore. He took another sip, then got up and used the toilet, washed his face. She was back on the bed when he returned, drinking her coffee as if she hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. "That was Bill," She unnecessarily explained. "He says 'hello'." "Your brother has my home number?" He felt a bit...nervous...happy...nervously happy...at the prospect. "Mm." Well, well, well. Mulder hoped his delight didn't show. Bill Scully had his home phone number. It was incredible, this recognition and so public announcement of his standing in her life. He wished he had someone he could tell, someone who would understand the significance of Scully's actions. Of course, the only person he could talk to was her. "So what are you saying here, Scully? You moving in?" "Only if you get rid of that coatrack," She looked askance at him briefly before studying everything in the room besides himself. Women just didn't like the thing for reasons he couldn't fathom. Then, with an eye-roll and a slightly raised brow, "Mulder, I'm joking." That's what he got for letting his fantasies run away with his common sense. "This place is way too small for the both of us." "Scully, I haven't had enough coffee to keep up with this conversation," he said. Max Pfennig had pegged it right when he'd called her enigmatic. Just when Mulder was sure their...relationship, for lack of a better word, wasn't progressing at its usual snail's pace, she threw the proverbial spanner in the works. Jesus. "I'd better get ready," she said. "Are you staying home today?" "Mm," No, he wouldn't let her get away so easily. He grabbed her free hand, held it loosely in his own. "I would, y'know." She didn't say anything, but her eyes, her eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. The corner of her mouth curled up every so slightly, and he released her. Non-verbal communication, they had it in spades. "How is he, anyway?" Her lips quirked, then. "He's fine. He wants to me to go camping this weekend, if I'm free." "In December?" "Yep. My father used to take the boys up to this winter camp in Virginia, going fishing, hiking, doing man things." "No room for the girls, hunh," he muttered, feeling obscurely envious for her. And for himself. She flashed him an understanding smile. "It was a different time." "Well, it'll be good for you to get away for awhile," Mulder slid to the edge of the bed and carefully got to his feet. What on earth had possessed him to sleep on his back? He knew better, for godsakes. He headed towards the living room so she could dress in private. "You'd better not ditch me - " Her voice continued for a moment longer after he closed the door. He suspected the words she used might just have included 'ass' and 'hole'. Anyway, time to hunt something down for breakfast. By the time she emerged from the bedroom he was at his desk, laboriously typing his field notes into the pc. He stopped to eat a slice of toast, watched as she got ready for work. She was dressed impeccably in the navy trouser suit which he'd never let her know he adored. "Hey Scully?" "Yeah?" she answered absentmindedly. "How do you run in those shoes?" She looked down and then up at him like he was out of his mind. "What?" "Heels. You never have any problems running in heels." "Well, first of all, these are pumps," she said, drawing one trouser leg up and turning her pretty foot to one side. She wore black suede two inch lace-ups which must have cost a mint. "And second, natural born talent," she gathered purse and laptop, stepped towards the door, stepped back again. "Why?" Mulder shrugged. "It's been bugging me for years, and everytime I remembered to ask you weren't around. Didn't seem worth waking you up at two in the morning for." "Got that right," she muttered. "You don't mind if I leave my bag here?" "Course not," he was about to offer her the use of his car, but then thought better of it. She read his mind yet again, though, and said, "I've already called a taxi. See you later." He took a break in the middle of the afternoon, made yet more soup even though he really wanted a burger and fries. He was hungry, but more solid food didn't seem like an especially wise idea. Thankfully Scully called and saved him from the tedium of filling out the expense report. "Mulder, it's me." He leaned back in his chair, regretted it immediately as his bruised kidney took offense. "Mulder?" "Yeah, I'm here." "Word just came down from Vermont - they got Kaspar." "Where did they catch him?" "You won't believe this, but Mae Lincoln brought him in." "Is she alright?" "She's fine. Apparently he turned up on her back porch, hungry and tired." "So much for the mountain man surviving on his own." "Two skeletons were found inside the car outside of the sugarhouse. One's been identified as Guillaume LaGrange, a forty-five year old father of eight who disappeared in '92 on his way home from a conference in Nashua, New Hampshire. The other was Leland Smith, an eighteen year-old college student hiking the Appalachian Trail, also lost in '92." "One might say he was a little off the beaten path, eh?" "You're losing your touch, Mulder. Marks on the bone would seem to indicate tool marks, although it's difficult to be absolutely positive at this stage." "Bambi's revenge?" he quipped. Scully ignored him. "The really good news is that Sheriff Whitlow's come out of the coma. So far it doesn't look as if he's going to have any permanent damage, but only time will tell." Mulder fiddled with a pen. "What about Crandall?" "He's alive," He grinned. "Unfortunately?" She snorted. "I'm going straight home, Mulder, so I'll come by tomorrow to pick up my stuff, okay?" "No problem. I'll bring it in - " "No, you won't. I don't want you straining your torso any more than you absolutely have to, so that means no heavy lifting." "Scully, when was the last time I ever disobeyed doctor's orders? No, wait, don't answer that." "Does this mean you're going to listen to me for once?" Mulder sighed. "Yes. Don't let it get to your head." Manitou, by Dryad 12/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "Don't say you want me don't say you need me Don't say you love me it's understood Don't say you're happy out there without me I know you can't be 'cause it's no good" Depeche Mode/It's No Good/House Collection (comp) (Paul Oakenfold Rare Mix) Mulder reluctantly got out of his car, hoped Scully wouldn't comment on his foolishness. He'd figured painkillers would get him through the day, but he'd been oh-so-wrong. What was even worse was the fact that he'd had to resort to Scullyism's - "I'm fine," he'd said on numerous occasions throughout the day, not that she believed him. She'd just pursed her lips and gave him sharp glances everytime he winced, smugly ignored the way he had to lean on his desk to get up by the afternoon. God, she certainly knew how to make her point. And if she offered to get him anything else that required lifting or stretching he was going to have to take revenge in one way or another as soon as he could think of something. "Come on, slowpoke, I haven't got all night," she said, breezing past him insouciantly. He followed, watched the delicate sway of her hips as she walked up the front steps of his apartment building. She was wearing his second favorite skirt suit, the one that fell below the knee and had a long slit which exposed the back of her leg with each stride. Best of all, it was that peculiar shade of gray, he didn't know its name, but it was a cross between storm and lead. Whatever the color, it turned her hair into gold- streaked flame, her skin alabaster, her eyes, well, as cliché as it was, a man could easily drown. Scully turned and looked at him, brows drawn down quizzically. "What?" Breaking out his keys, he said, "Nothing." While she got her bag he changed into jeans and a white pullover, contemplated taking another painkiller. Lord, he wasn't going to do anything tonight except make himself comfortable on the couch, maybe catch up on all those back issues of UFO UK and Abductee International. Both hands on his lower back, he headed out of his bedroom. "You are taking tomorrow off, right?" she said, eyeing him with a frown. "Uh hunh. I've learned my lesson." "As well you should." He trailed her to the door as she slowed and put her bag down. She looked up at him shyly beneath lowered lashes, which always made his breath catch in his throat. Damn, how did she do that? And why did she look so serious? "Something else I can do for you, Scully?" "Yeah..." She put one hand on his chest, leaned forward and kissed him chastely on the lips. Mulder stared at the top of her bent head. She stood in front of him, refusing to meet his eyes, leaving him in ignorance as to the cause of this sudden shift. Did she think he was unwilling to explore the unknown? He wanted to touch those bee-stung lips again, but there was a question to be answered, first. "Why? Why now? Why after six months?" Scully contemplated his shirt, looked down at her clasped hands. "I was exploring my options." Bitterness and bad memories flew out of his mouth. "Oh yeah? What's his name?" She said, very softly, "Anonymous." Mulder rubbed his face with both hands. Could he fuck this up anymore, whatever 'this' was? He wanted to apologize, he wanted her to forget what he had just said, he wanted her to understand he wasn't angry with her, although he was, if he was brutally honest with himself. He wanted her to lay it on the line. "What the hell does that mean?" "I...needed to..." she shrugged helplessly, finally looking at him. "I don't know what I needed. To regroup, I guess. I don't - " "Scully, you're not making any sense," he interrupted, silently berating himself for his assumptions. Fool, he raged, breaking away to pace in front of his computer. He felt sick. There had been no guarantee that what had happened one weekend in June would ever happen again. He had fallen into the same old man-trap as always. But he wasn't the boy he used to be, nor was she the kind of woman to toy with a man for the sake of her own amusement. Get this thing over with, man, ponder it all later. "What are you trying to tell me?" "I wanted to see," she slowly began. "If I could still work with you without being distracted." Mulder put his hands on his hips in the tremendous effort to hold himself back from slamming his fist against the wall. Son of a *bitch*. "You don't give me any credit for self-restraint, do you?" "Damnit, Mulder, this isn't about you!" she cried, stalking over to stand in front of him. "God knows we probably have more self-restraint than any other two people on the face of the goddamned planet, but that's not what I'm talking about here!" "What, then?" he rasped back, stepping closer to tower above her. "Just tell me, one way or the other, Scully, what you want. Do you even know?" "As a matter of fact, I do," she snapped. "I always have, but until a few moments before a bee stung me on the back of the neck in that outer hallway I wasn't sure what you wanted!" Jesus H. Christ. On a gods-be-damned Pogo stick. "Mulder," Eyes bright, Scully swallowed and grasped his hand, stroked the knuckles lightly with her thumb. "I knew you cared about me, loved me. You've saved my life...you're the most compassionate man I know. Loyal to a fault, honest beyond reproach. I trust you as I trust no one else. Yet for all that, until that moment you never gave me a sign that we could have something beyond the merely physical, beyond work. And now, this year - shit. I'm not saying this right, this isn't coming out right," She covered her eyes with her free hand and shook her head. "I can't find the words - " He'd been too subtle. Once upon a time, he had put his heart out on a silver platter, never seeing the skewer or the spit he was subsequently roasted on. Lesson learned, the next time he'd been more careful, and not shown how much he'd been smitten, yet had still failed to keep himself intact. He'd been lucky, though, in that he'd been taken at face value. He'd thought he'd learned control by the time Scully arrived in his life. She'd snuck in somehow, crept into the cracks and crevices which age and stress had put in the walls around his heart, and had held him together when everyone else had left and forgotten his very existence. He'd responded by showing her his intentions in all but the most obvious of ways. Fool, fool, thrice again a fool. Pulling her into his embrace, he pressed his lips to her hair, inhaling the faded odor of her conditioner before resting his chin on top of her head. "We're a pair, aren't we?" Scully put her arms around his waist and carefully hugged him back. He was happy to stand with her, body to body, holding on tight to this promise of companionship if nothing else. Anger at his own stupidity gradually drained away to be replaced with fear-spiked contentment. He rubbed her back slowly, listened to her croon with pleasure as he worked her sore muscles. Eventually he became aware that she was kissing his chest and the base of his neck. He reciprocated with little brushes of his lips on her hairline, forehead, cheekbones, until their mouths met in the middle. After awhile he straightened, a little lightheaded and in no small amount of pain. He made a face and pulled away a bit, regarded her steadily. "I, um, don't think I can do this right now." If anything, she looked relieved. "Me neither. Although you've worked wonders, my neck and back are still killing me. And I should go, I've got things to do." As always. He smiled, she smiled, and everything was all right with the world once more. Maybe it was a fragile peace, but he was convinced their relationship was such that it would only be made the stronger for it. She was the only person he knew with whom he could both fight and cry with, yet still love and be loved. The only one who knew him well enough to hurt him more than anyone else in the entire world. One corner of her mouth curled up slyly. "Before I leave, I have a proposal for you, should you choose to accept it." "Ah, I know this one! I accept, I accept." "Without even knowing what it is?" Her eyebrows were raised, but she looked delighted. "You know me, I can charge right in without thought for the specifics." "Mm." "And...?" Hands still on her hips, he shook her a little bit. "We wait until we're feeling better." He blinked. Didn't sound impossible to him. She laid a finger against his mouth. "But you can't touch yourself until then." "Jesus, Scully," Could he actually last that long considering the night's events? "And yourself?" She was innocence personified. "Same deal." He eyed her suspiciously. "You seem thrilled at the prospect." She gave him a smug little smile. "It'll be easier for me. Different plumbing." And very nice plumbing it was, too. Releasing his grasp on her, he once more walked over and opened the door, stepped back. "Then I guess it's good night." Saying nothing, she picked up her bag and headed to the elevator, waggling the fingers of one hand as the doors closed. He sighed, sternly told his body to improve as rapidly as possible. Manitou, by Dryad 13/13 disclaimer in part one (NC17) "There are so many tomorrows that I'm never sure until, my love, You're mine once more" The Orb/Once More/Cydonia Mulder kicked the door closed, dropped his bag on the floor, hung up his coat. His back ached. Two field cases in two weeks and his brain felt like mush. His body wasn't too happy, either. At least his pee wasn't bloody any more. Yeah, he was healing nicely, although his hip was still bruised. In his bedroom he changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. The couch was calling his name more loudly than the kitchen, and he laid down with a sigh, leaving the lights off. A moment later the phone rang. "Go away," he moaned as the machine did its thing. "Mulder, it's - " He lunged up and grabbed the handset. "I'm here. Where are you?" "Home. I missed getting on your flight by a measly ten minutes." "More's the pity." "Tell me about it," she said, grunting a little. "I was in the middle, and you know how much I hate being in the middle." He smiled, put his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back against the couchback. It had to be window or aisle with her, although she always switched with him if he didn't get the aisle and she did. "What's worse, I'm surrounded by the freshmen girls from hell. I'm not kidding, Mulder. Four hours debating the merits of N'Sync versus the Backstreet Boys and whether or not burritos are better than tacos. If they're supposed to be our future, I say we let the aliens take over." He laughed out loud. "You mean you weren't the same your first year in college?" Dead silence. "I'm going to forget you ever asked me that." Oo, dangerous waters. "I'm sure you had your moments as well," she grumbled. "I never," he said, grinning. He heard rustling in the background. "What are you doing?" "I just went shopping." Hm, take advantage of the open door and risk her hanging up on him? Nah, he liked hearing her voice. "I needed something fresh to eat, y'know? Damn, my ice cream's starting to melt." "Well, I s'pose I'll let you get cracking. See you on Monday, Scully." "'Kay." He hung up. Food was a good idea. A brief scavenge in the kitchen provided an apple, sliced and smeared with the last of the crunchy peanut butter, and a mint Snapple iced tea. It was enough to hold him while he did the laundry and ran a few errands. In the basement he loaded up the machine, then ran out to do a drop off and pick up at the dry cleaners, read the July/August double issue of UFO UK while his clothes dried. Another fifteen minutes for folding, and he was done. Back upstairs, he heard the faint strains of Zero 7 coming through his door, which he'd locked. And his gun was in the living room. He put the basket and SwiffyKleen bag on the floor, cautiously stood out of the line of fire as he gently turned the brass knob. No one sprang out at him. Quietly moving inside, he closed the door and practically jumped out of his skin when a familiar face appeared. Scully wiped her hands on a dishcloth, viewed him with amused concern. "You okay, Mulder?" He nodded sharply, fearing his voice would crack if he tried to speak, not that she was fooled, judging by the set of her eyebrows. "I used my key." No shit. Mulder retrieved his laundry and deposited it in the bedroom, Scully a few steps behind. She watched him hang the bag in the closet, shove underwear and socks willy nilly into the bureau. "I'm sorry if I scared you," she said softly. "What are you doing here, Scully?" he asked, unable to meet her eyes. She was giving him that look, he just knew it, and he couldn't handle it. "I thought you were fixing yourself dinner." "I didn't feel like eating alone." He stopped, shirt unfolding itself in his hands. What the hell was happening inside her pretty little head? It wasn't like her to simply show up at his apartment and let herself in, not when he wasn't away. She smiled at him guilelessly and left the room. Hell if he was ever going to figure her out. When he was finished with the laundry, he changed into plaid drawstring sleeping pants and a ratty UNLV tee. In the living room he flopped on the couch and closed his eyes. Zero 7 ended, but he didn't feel like getting up and putting in another cd. The clicking of Scully's heels came closer, stopped. "You want the tv on?" "Yeah, thanks." "How about some dinner?" He cracked open one eyelid. "Are you feeling alright?" "Yes or no?" she asked, turning the sound low. He hesitated. It hadn't been his imagination, she had been unusually solicitous ever since her arrival in San Francisco. Because of Detective Quinnan? Nah, they'd gotten along fabulously, once Quinnan had gotten over her reticence. Toby, nice name for a woman. Besides, Quinnan hadn't even hit on him. "Earth to Mulder." "What are you making?" "Lasagne, salad." "Sounds yummy," he said. Not that it mattered, whatever she made was bound to be good, although it felt decidedly odd, her cooking for him - for them - in his apartment. Things had changed between them after their...conversation. She'd gone on her camping trip with Bill, although he wasn't sure she'd enjoyed it. The friends Bill had brought along, Giles Darling and Rob Petrie - Rob Petrie! - sounded like complete jerks. Apparently she'd had to kick a little ass at the general store, arresting two dumb cracks who didn't have a synapse to rub between them, given that they'd tried to rob the place with a novelty lighter and a bottle of RC Cola. Shit, he'd have loved to seen their faces when they'd been busted. Scully with a gun was frighteningly intense, very erotic. He'd certainly entertained the fantasy before, completely at her will. No whips or chains or anything like that, just Scully in her black trouser suit and him in a pair of handcuffs. Oh yeah. Well hello there, he wasn't as tired as he'd thought. The only lights in the room came from the tv and the fish tank. Half the excitement was in the risk, hoping she'd notice the battle of the bulge, so to speak. He opened one eye, glanced down - his pants tented a little more. Resisting the urge to give himself a firm couple of strokes - he'd promised, after all - he turned his mind to other things. Like Scully in that blue and white outfit she'd worn in June. Scully sleeping in his bed in plum pj's. Scully naked, period. Mulder sighed in frustration. Something other than her...Toby Quinnan. Although he hadn't told her, he'd written a strong commendation to her superiors, and suggested they point her towards the agency should she ever appear to waver over her choice of career. So like Scully, if ten years older. On the outside they were completely different. Dark versus light, the strength of an amazon versus the fragility of porcelain, yet both were tougher than nails outside and in, forthright, outspoken, fiercely intelligent, stunningly unaware of their own beauty. He dozed fitfully, catching an occasional burst of noise from the commercials they swore the volume wasn't turned up on, the fainter sounds of cursing and clink of dishes from the kitchen. Every now and then he roused, surprised it wasn't his imagination. He unashamedly basked in contentment, ignoring any anxious thoughts. Yeah, his apartment had been trashed, and those bastards Krycek and Cancerman had both made themselves more than comfortable on the occasion, but he'd somehow managed to retain his sense of home-equals-safety. He refused to allow their intrusions to destroy his security...although they had done their best. Air wafted across Mulder's face, once, twice, then the couch gave way at his side as Scully sat down. He kept his eyes closed, happy to be in her presence. She shifted again, maybe looking down at him. He'd done the same plenty of times. In the car, when she fell asleep in the passenger seat, on planes, over morning coffee in the office. Nonetheless, he was shocked by the featherlight brush of lips on his cheek. Maybe she'd do it again if he feigned inattention. Another kiss, this one further along, closer to his left ear. He must have given some indication that he was awake, for he felt a finger on his mouth. "Shh." He gasped. Still leaning over him, she suckled on his earlobe ever so briefly. Desire, which had fled in the midst of his dozing, returned with a vengeance. He had the feeling that she didn't want his interference, though. Well, whatever floated her boat, as long as she didn't stop. Scully peppered his face with little kisses, trailed her tongue down his neck. She uncrossed his arms, whispered, "Put your hands behind your back. And keep your eyes closed." Wondering what she was up to, he quickly complied. Maybe she shared his handcuff fantasy? Of course if she had it was probably for completely different reasons. Laughter bubbled up in him at the thought, only to be chased away at the sensation of heat and moisture on his chest. He squirmed, arched when she grazed her teeth on his nipple through his tee. First the one, then the other, until the pleasure verged on pain. She pulled his shirt up, caressed him from armpit to waist a few times until he'd gotten control - ha - over his breathing. Of course he lost it again when she stroked the length of him, nails teasing through the flannel. Once she had him wriggling and practically begging for more, she loosed the drawstring and took him in her warm hands. Eyes closed, he reminded himself, hastily squinching them shut after the initial surprise of her mouth enveloping him in one smooth swoop. He couldn't keep his hands away from her after that. Strands of silk slipped between his fingers as he ran one hand through her hair. She wasn't familiar yet with all of his likes and dislikes, but her guesses were damn fine. Even the occasional scrape of her teeth was exciting, proof of where she was and god, what she was doing. Plenty of women had told him how much they hated the sudden thrust into their mouths, the clamp of hands in their hair, so he bit his lower lip and somehow managed to keep from grabbing her head and forcing it down. Oh, she knew what she was doing...the advantage of being a doctor? Or merely being a woman? And whatever the hell was she doing with her tongue, it was certainly working! Moist heat swallowed him whole and pulled further contemplation right out of his skull. His balls tightened, waves of pleasure swamping his gut while his legs trembled. One of her hands joined the action with her mouth until she was working him like a Tootsie Pop. How many licks would it take - not very damn many. He lost all control and bucked up, crying out her name. She let him calm down before drawing his pants up and his shirt down, making him flinch when she patted his belly. There was no way Mulder could let her go without showing his...appreciation wasn't the right word. Gratitude? He couldn't think of one that didn't include a sense of obligation, which was far from how he felt. And undying respect didn't really cut it either. 'Dear Scully, you know how much I respect you for that blowjob, right?' God. He caught her arm and pulled her down to face level, kissed her deeply, tasting his own salty bitterness on her tongue. Scully understood, acknowledgement of the unspeakable present in her gaze. She smiled, pleased at having pleased him. "Why don't you get some sleep until dinner's ready." Dinner, shminner. "You could lie down with me instead," he suggested. "No," she said, getting to her feet. "I've still got a salad to make." Oh, there was no arguing with her when it came to food. Besides, it would give him time to think, ponder his plan of action. 'Plan of Action', christ, what was he, fifteen? He'd like to meet the man who could get Scully to do anything she didn't want to do. On second thought, he wouldn't, because then she wouldn't be the person he thought he knew. What would he be like, that man, that stranger? He'd hate to see her obedient. Mulder sighed, flicked through the sports channels. Juventus versus Manchester United. Celtics versus Lakers. Curling. Curling? Olympic preview show. Summer X-Games highlights - how appropriate. He winced all throughout the Thrills 'n' Spills segment, Scully wincing too after bringing out two plates loaded with food and a glass of wine for herself. After watching yet another kid literally kiss the ground after landing badly on the Vert Bike segment, she grabbed the remote and muttered under her breath until she found Comedy Central. They practically laughed themselves sick through Spaced and The League of Gentlemen and Whose Line Is It Anyway?, British comedy apparently appealing to both of them. Odd, how he knew both so much and so little about her. He wondered if she felt the same about him. "Hey!" She abruptly leapt to her feet. "Jesus, Scully, where's the fire?" She stared down at him in wide-eyed innocence. Yeah, pure as the driven gravel. "I forgot the ice cream." Okay, he could see her point. Still, though, no reason to give a guy a heart attack. He followed her into the kitchen and spooned himself an extra huge helping of New York Super Fudge Chunk, followed her back into the living room. Sighing from the chocolate overload of the first spoonful, he said, "Scully, you *are* a goddess." She smirked. An hour later she was fast asleep, head pillowed on the armrest. Mulder quietly gathered their empty dishes and took them into the kitchen, rinsed them off. Washing could wait for the morning. He turned the tv off, debated whether or not he should wake her or cover her with the blanket. She might want to go home. Crouching down, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Scully, hey." "Mph, g'way," she mumbled, pulling a pillow over her head. He grinned and tucked her in, turned off the light. He snagged a clean tee, contemplated an old pair of boxers before grabbing them too and going into the bathroom to perform his nightly ablutions. He left the shirt and boxers on the edge of the tub, in case she wanted to change. She probably wouldn't have minded if he'd gone searching for pj's in her emergency bag, but he didn't want to invade her privacy. Lord, he was tired. He struggled out of sleep as the mattress dipped. "Scully?" "You should have woken me," she murmured, snuggling up to his side. "Um, you were pretty out of it." "Mm." Mulder lay still, felt her muscles relax, her breathing slow. He didn't think she even realized she'd thrown her arm across his chest. Unfortunately, lying on his back still wasn't all that comfortable a position. Moving slowly, he turned to face her, stopping when she tightened her grip and tucked her head under his chin. Lovely. Apart from Scully, he hadn't cuddled with a woman in a long time. The night with Diana didn't count. He considered it part of the madness of those few days. Enjoyable, in a stress relieving kind of way, but ultimately forgettable, nothing more than a one night stand with a woman he used to know. Diana Fowley. What had happened to her? Where had her idealism gone? Had it ever really been there? Had she lied to him from the very beginning? No, he couldn't believe that, she had been a believer. Hadn't she? And what the hell had he been thinking? No, that wasn't fair either. Finally being able to unobtrusively search for Samantha while legitimately exploring the realm of the paranormal had been a heady experience. Combined with his fevered desire to forget everything he'd gone through when working with the ISU, was it any wonder he'd lost his bearings? It was a miracle he'd been able to dress himself, never mind worrying about his partner's honesty. Indeed, he'd accepted her at face value, that's how far gone he'd been. How innocent, how naive. Boogeymen hadn't yet been discovered as real. Monsters had been no more than tales told to frighten misbehaving children. And, truth be told, he'd taken what Diana offered without a second thought. A beautiful, intelligent woman, who'd looked at him as if were a whole person. Curious. A believer. Was that the reason why he'd been so devastated when she'd left? She'd left the X-Files, but she'd left him as well. He'd hidden his hurt by doing what had always worked previously - he'd buried himself in the work, his work. She had believed in him...right? Would he have noticed if she hadn't? Would it have even mattered, ultimately, so long as she came to his bed warm and willing? He sighed and restlessly moved his legs. What an ass he'd been. The Great Profiler, the wunderkind who could figure out everyone elses motives except his own. He had been obsessed with his work...hadn't he? Or had he simply ignored the fact that she needed love and attention, too? He hated to think he could have been so callous of another person's feelings, and he hoped he hadn't treated Scully in the same manner. But she'd stuck with him for seven years, and Diana was gone, so he must have changed...right? Time to let it go? "Mul'r - " "Hm?" He was pretty sure Scully was dreaming. She didn't say anything further, rolled over out of his reach. Here he was, mulling over Diana when Scully was lying next to him. Yeah, time to let it go. Sleep, fool, sleep. Mulder gradually became aware of several things: he was half-erect, he was spooning Scully, and she was awake, rocking her hips in a barely perceptible motion. The delicate scent of her arousal reached his hindbrain, which promptly kicked his autonomic nervous system into high gear. He opened his mouth to say something witty, came out with, "What time is it?" She went perfectly still, and in a very quiet voice, said, "A little after four." He frantically searched his memory, which in this instance was fuzzy at best. "I don't recall you being naked, earlier?" "I got hot," she whispered. Apparently. He slipped his arm around her waist, let his fingers drift over the sweet soft swell of her belly, barren cradle that it was. Up to her ripe breasts, nipples already taut with anticipation. He rolled one between his fingers, heard her quick inhalation. Nuzzling the back of her neck, he blew her hair away to expose exquisitely sensitive skin. He plundered the area with his tongue, despoiled its paleness with his teeth. He was careful not to bruise, she wouldn't want to be marked any place which could be seen in public. Sometimes he wished he could hang a big sign around her neck - 'PROPERTY OF FOX MULDER'. Oh yeah, that would go over well. She'd once accused him of being territorial, and it was true. He was only human, after all. Little nips on her ear made her squirm and shiver and turn her head to kiss him. Her oversensitized nipple softened a bit, and he left it alone, hand creeping down to the vee between her thighs. Gentle caresses through damp curls, nothing more, until she moved flat on her back with a sighed moan. She lifted a knee to manouver better, wound one hand around his neck and pulled him down for a deep kiss. He loved the way she said his name. It was a plea, a warning, and a benediction all rolled into one mellifluous sound. Finally he dipped one finger into the dense pool of liquid, swirled more moisture through the hot folds of flesh. If only a light were on, so he could see her face clearly. Her sighs and exhalations told him what she liked, her hungry kisses proof of her need for this, for him. Dexterity was an issue, for he simply wasn't used to using his left hand for intimacies of this nature, and she was very antsy. She kept reaching down yet pulled back repeatedly at the last instant. The one finger thing was good, but it was making his wrist ache. He made a loose fist and lightly dragged his knuckles up and down. The effect was instantaneous. Scully grabbed his upper arm and froze. "Mulder - jesus - " Ah. He went geometric, teased her with triangles, trapezoids, squares and pentagons. High-pitched whimpers dripped like honey from her lips. He ran his fingers over the cowl of her most tender spot every time she attempted to kiss him, happily watched her arch away from the pleasure. The flush on her chest began to rise as he increased the pace of his circling, felt her arm grow slick with perspiration against his chest. She soundlessly jerked against his hand, then gasped his name once more. When the storm had passed, she gazed at him with a shy little smile. "You liked that, hunh," he teased, cupping his palm over her sex. "Maybe," she said, reaching for his hip. She tugged until he lay between her thighs, brought her knees up to her chest. Who was he to argue? Back bedamned, he entered her twice at the same time, mouth to mouth, part A in slot B. She was heaven, slick, hot, clamping down on him with each thrust. The fact that he could make her moan amazed him anew. Although this was not the best position for her, June being an extraordinary exception, she'd assured him that it did feel good, that she liked having his weight upon her, that if he ever hurt her she'd let him know. "Move, Mulder, move," she demanded, gripping his lower back tightly. Oh, his intentions were good, but she kept urging him on with her voice and her mouth, licking and biting wherever she could reach, from the inside of his wrist to his chest, stopping only when he was slamming into her so hard he thought the bed might break. He came with a hoarse cry, almost ill from the sheer pleasure of his release. He collapsed on top of her, desperate for air while she licked his neck. Finally he managed to move to over, curled up on his side and watched her watch him, inhaled the musk of sweat and semen. Tracing his lips with her fingers, Scully softly said, "Diana loved you." Mulder sighed, rolled onto his back. "You've been reading my mind again, Scully." She was silent, but her hand moved on to stroke his cheek. "I...used her. I wish I could say I didn't know it at the time, but I..." He trailed off and sighed again. "I hate to think I knew better and did it anyway." She shrugged. "Without her, we wouldn't be here now. And somehow, Mulder, I can't believe that you didn't return her affection in one way or another. Perhaps not in the manner she wanted, but I don't doubt you cared." If she believed, maybe he could too. She turned her back to him, and a moment later he curled around her, held her tight. "Scully...never think..." "I know," she murmured, bringing his hand up to kiss his palm. "Me too." Mulder sent a silent prayer to the universe for this greatest of blessings, the woman in his arms who soothed his very soul. Oona's face flashed through his mind, and he made another prayer, for the woman who had comforted him with her body and was now, hopefully, comforted herself. Author's Notes: Whew, this was a long one! I hadn't known Diana was going to show up, but I guess she was on Mulder's mind, Scully's too. Go figure, eh? In my world Mulder isn't color blind, otherwise Scully's hair wouldn't be so darned purty. Lincoln, Waterloo, and North Attlee are the products of my imagination. For the purposes of storytelling, I've ignored the high probability of Vermont having a Mobile Crime Lab. I highly recommend John Douglas and Robert Ressler's books on violent crime. Their books are informative, interesting, and very disturbing. Read at your own risk. I could not have written 'Manitou' without the aid of Douglas' 'The Anatomy of Motive'. Everyone should read Gavin De Becker's book. 2/13 Radiation poisoning - from 'Lightning', a story I wrote 6 years ago in a previous incarnation (DeviXF). Archived at EMXC. Plotting is a good thing. 3/13 The Skatellites and Mephiskapheles are ska bands from Massachusetts. The real Chat 'N' Chew is a diner around Ludlow, Vermont, while the Sud's 'N' Bud's bar-laundromat is, I believe, in Bellows Falls. Vermont did not get 911 until 1999. 4/13 Chicken story - p. 46, The Anatomy of Motive. Douglas, John and Mark Olshaker, Simon and Schuster, 1999. UVM - University of Vermont. 6/13 'Accelerated Decrepitude' is, of course, the disease JS has in 'Blade Runner'. 7/13 Intuition and Victimology - The Gift of Fear. De Becker, Gavin 9/13 Ramirez quote - p. 169, The Last Victim. Moss, Jason and Jeffrey Kottler, Warner, 1999 10/13 (!) Dream Inuit borrowed from the movie 'Nomads' 11/13 Black lace-ups like the goo-eaten ones Scully shows Mulder in 'Colony' 2X16 12/13 'Abductee' magazine is the product of another author, whose name and story I completely forget - if you know who you are, tell me so I can give you the credit. I came up with the International version. 13/13 UNLV - University of Las Vegas