CHAPTER EIGHT
Mind Games


Smoke curled up to the ceiling, unnoticed by the room's only occupant.
He'd quit caring about his smoking long ago, quit caring about much of
anything, as a matter of fact.  Maybe if he ended up speaking through a
hole in his neck, his body ravaged by cancer, he might care then, but he
doubted it.  Regret was not a luxury he allowed himself to feel.  He had a
job to do, a necessary and often thankless job, and regret just didn't
figure into the picture.  Even when things didn't turn out exactly as
planned, he never regretted his actions.  He just cleaned up the mess and
moved on.


He took a long swig of beer as he watched the action on his new television.
He'd had to move from his last apartment rather suddenly and had been
forced to leave his meager possessions behind.  Another late night visit
from a certain troublesome FBI agent was something he wished to avoid, and
the simplest way had been just to disappear into the urban sprawl that
surrounded the nation's capital.  If it had been any other agent, he would
have stayed in his old apartment and the agent would have disappeared.  But
for reasons known to only a select few, this particular agent could not be
directly eliminated.  If he managed to get himself killed on the job, well,
that was just one of those things.


Picking up the channel changer, he set his beer down on the end table next
to the report that had been faxed to him earlier.  Terse and to the point,
the report informed him of the escape of three criminally insane convicts.
Mitchell Tyler was one of the escapees.  Mitchell Tyler -- a mess he
thought he had dealt with years ago, but one that had reappeared like some
magician's disappearing/reappearing ink.  Only Mitchell Tyler wasn't some
magician's slight of hand.  Tyler was real, flesh and blood, and was no
doubt headed back to D.C. to even the score.  Sitting there in the darkened
room, letting the smoke escape through his parted lips, he felt the first
glimmer of fear he had felt in a long, long time.  I'll be damned, he
thought to himself.  There was something left to care about after all.


The wind howled outside the tiny precinct building like a rabid wolf,
blowing a nearly solid curtain of white across the empty streets, giving
the town the eerie, deserted feel of a ghost town.    Anyone with any
smarts at all was inside patiently waiting out the storm, gearing
themselves up for the inevitable hard work of digging out from under Mother
Nature's latest blast.


Agent Hestor was not a patient man.  He nodded and grunted intermittently
as he paced the floor, phone in hand.  He'd never been fond of waiting,
especially when he knew time wasn't on his side.  Now he had to contend
with the impending arrival of Assistant Director Skinner, of all people.
Why would the Assistant Director of the FBI directly involve himself with
two field agents?  Spooky Mulder must be a whole lot more important than he
gave him credit for.


Well, Skinner might be on his way but he sure as hell wasn't gonna get here
tonight...at least not in this weather.  Hestor had a half dozen snow plows
on standby, nearly the town's entire fleet, ready to clear the roads as
soon as the storm let up.  He'd done everything he could in the way of
preparations for a raid on the Scully house, up to and including, having
emergency medical backup on standby.  He snorted once, frowned, and slammed
the phone receiver into its cradle with a resounding crack.


"Careful Hestor," McGuire intoned patiently, "Don't mistreat the equipment
just because you didn't like the message.  I'm getting fed up with having
to fill out all those damn requisition forms for all the damaged equipment
that you've destroyed."  Hestor ignored her, not that she really expected a
reply.  Waiting was grating on all their nerves.


Agent McGuire studied the young man sitting on the edge of the cot on the
other side of the office window.  He wrung his hands anxiously, shoulders
tense and drawn tight as he leaned tiredly over his knees.  She wished she
had some good news to tell him but unfortunately, he'd just have to wait
along with everybody else.


The phone  interrupted her thoughts with its obnoxious, infernal buzzing.
Someday she was gonna have them put a real 'ringer' on that goddamn thing.
"Yeah, McGuire," she answered with the monotony of routine.  Her posture
suddenly straightened and her tone grew formal, prompting Hestor to give
her his undivided attention.  "Yes, Sir...I'll tell him, sir.  If the
weather clears before you arrive...go without you.  She paused to listen,
and her eyes grew wide.  Oh, God.  Goodbye Sir...."  McGuire didn't bother
to hang up the phone, but turned and threw it against the wall.  "Shit!!!"
she shouted at the top of her lungs as the phone hit the cinderblock with a
crash.


Hestor stared at her open mouthed.  "Jesus, McGuire," he breathed.  "Now
who's gonna have to fill out the goddamn forms?   What the hell happened?
Who was that?"


"That, dear partner, was Assistant Director Skinner with some very
disturbing information."  McGuire's eyes bored into her partner.  "It seems
that not only are we dealing with some full fledged psychotic loony tunes
but one of them is some weird unusual case study.  It appears that this guy
kills in some kind of frenzy.  He doesn't need a weapon, Hestor.  He rips
people apart with his bare hands like a rabid animal.  They had him drugged
to control his 'seizures' and what they'd given him will wear off soon if
it hasn't already.  God, I hate this," she said, beginning to pace to try
and work out her frustration.  "We're running out of time and there's not a
damn thing we can do about it.  I'm afraid we're not gonna find much left
when we finally get through.  Better prepare that poor man in there for the
worst."


Skinner drove along the snow covered roads, his face a study in
concentration.  Motorpool had tried to talk him out of going, even in the
Bureau's best equipped four wheel drive, but one look from him had silenced
their protests.  In spite of the reports he'd heard earlier, the roads were
not quite as bad as he'd expected.  Even though the tail end of the vehicle
had slid sickeningly several times, he'd managed to keep it under control.
He'd been through worse weather and he was determined to get as close as he
could to his destination before giving up for the night.


Damn you, Mulder, he cursed silently.  What the hell is it with you and
fucking trouble??  Answer me that.  But there was no one to answer him
except his own inner voice, and for some unknown reason, it had decided to
take a more reasonable tone tonight.  It reminded him that in    all
fairness, this time Mulder hadn't done anything to elicit the trouble he
and the Scullys were in.  Trouble  just seemed to seek him out like ants to
sugar.


Skinner had always thought Mulder was special and he did the best he could
to keep the young man's ass out of hot water whenever possible.  But lately
keeping Mulder's body and soul intact was becoming a full time job.  Weird
shit just kept gravitating in Mulder's direction no matter what he did.
"Shit, Mulder," Skinner mumbled out loud, "Why couldn't you just attract a
normal psychotic serial killer like everybody else?"  Walter cringed at the
fact that he'd just entertained such an absurd thought.  He feared he might
be contracting a severe case of Mulderitis and with his luck there probably
wasn't a damn cure.


Keith stood motionless on the stairs, silent and brooding, watching while
Mulder shifted his weight, uncomfortably trying to find a position that
didn't seem to press his bladder into his kidneys.  This wasn't an easy
feat since he felt like the entire liquid volume of the Potomac had been
bottled up and deposited into the organs in question.


"Dana," Mulder groaned softly, "I sure hope your mom is an expert in
microwave cuisine because if she doesn't get out here real soon, I'm not
going to be responsible for the ensuing flood."


His lower back throbbed with a dull, pounding ache and a sharp, scraping
sensation beneath his lower ribs made him wince in pain whenever he tried
to move.  Needless to say, the extra water pressure didn't help matters
much either.  This was ridiculous.  Didn't anybody else have to go besides
him?  Hell, Dana was always in the bathroom lately but now all of the
sudden she was the pillar of control.  'Wait for mom,' yeah, right... <Back
off Mulder, you're whining like a five year old.  Dana always has a logical
reason for what she does, just hang on and hope you don't explode before
you find out what it is.>


Dana hated to see him suffer so, but she wasn't exactly without discomfort
either.  She just wasn't as caustically vocal about it as Mulder.  Looking
over at Melissa and the kids, she noticed that Meredith was squirming
around, and even Matthew was looking like he was trying to find a
comfortable position.  It was obvious that they'd all need a break...and
soon.  Perhaps she could arrange something when her mom returned to the
room.


Keith got up and looked at them, then walked back over to his chair.
"Feeling a little 'backed up', huh, Agent Mulder?"  Keith laughed
scornfully.


Dana stifled her smoldering anger and bit back an angry reply.  No sense
making their situation any worse than it was by antagonizing this asshole.
Dana wondered just how much Keith had heard of her conversation with Fox.
She hadn't thought that he'd been listening since he'd exhibited no
reaction or sign of interest.  Evidently she'd been wrong.  They'd have to
be a lot more careful of what they said to one another in the future.  It
wouldn't be beyond these spitefully deranged men to deny their hostages the
dignity of attending to their basic needs.  Jordan Chambers, for one,
seemed to thrive on the humiliation, intimidation, and degradation of
others.


Mulder, however, was not inclined to let Keith's acid question stand
without a challenge.  He'd given it his best shot but had been unable to
break through the barriers of this man's psychosis.  Now he was just plain
fed up with this little creep deciding when he could and couldn't go pee.
He was just about ready to cut this little bastard down to size with a
biting retort of his own when he caught the all too familiar 'shut up,
Mulder' grimace on Dana's lovely face.


Granted, even though half of Mulder's brain was on auto pilot, he could
still sit here all night trading barbs with this malevolent, maladjusted
Miscreant and not even break a sweat, but for once he took the time to
consider what repercussions might be directed at his adoptive family should
he give in to his impulses.  Letting out a deep breath, he slowly closed
his eyes, settled back and quietly accepted Keith's taunts without comment
or expression.  A little indignation was a small price to pay to keep this
moron happy and unfocused.


Above all, Mulder didn't want to risk a repeat of another Jordan
Chambers-type incident with Keith.  They'd all endured enough suffering for
one day and he'd be damned if he'd incite any further occurrences by way of
his temper and big mouth if he could help it.  Of course that wasn't his
only motivation for backing off.  He'd already exceeded his allotted quota
for butt kickings in  a 24 hour period.  If he managed to get himself
pummeled one more time tonight, Dana would probably save everyone the
trouble and just kill him herself.


Dana had tensed and braced herself for what she thought would be the
inevitable Mulder reaction to Keith's jeers but to her surprise, no
responding remarks were forthcoming.  This was not   Mulder's normal
behavior pattern at all.  Dana knew he'd been tempted to indulge in a
verbal fencing match with this lunatic.  She could tell by the slight
telltale shift of his shoulders, the determined set of his jaw, not to
mention the cant of one brow and the undeniable flash of challenge that had
flickered through his eyes.


She'd sent Mulder her customary glare of warning that usually preceded one
of their spats about him refusing to heed her 'warnings.'  This time,
however, he'd acknowledged her unspoken concern with a covert nod.
Deferring to her judgment in this instance without argument or objection,
Dana had watched Mulder bite back his impulses and settle back into an
uncharacteristic reticence.


Now  he projected a calm, quiet acceptance that she was finding extremely
disturbing...abnormal, at least for him.  She was beginning to worry.  What
the hell was he up to, she wondered anxiously.  The bland facial expression
he presented to Keith was a far  cry from the anger and humiliation that
she *knew* boiled just under the surface.  She'd been with him long enough
to recognize when he was overcompensating the control over his emotions and
right now she could almost hear the gate slam shut and the drawbridge raise
as he clamped down on all expression with an iron will.  The answer
appeared in her head, and she knew it was true almost the instant she
thought it.  He's afraid, she realized,  afraid to do or say anything that
might result in retaliation against my family...*our* family, she amended.



Keith, meanwhile, seized the opportunity that Mulder's silence offered and
continued his relentless verbal attack on Mulder with a vengeance.  His
tirade covered a wide variety of topics that ranged from questioning the
legitimacy of his lineage to insinuations concerning his sexual
preferences.


Mulder stoically endured the abuse, refusing Keith the satisfaction of a
reaction.  After all, he wasn't totally unfamiliar with this type of
treatment, he thought with a strange sense of deja vu.    Keith's  face
suddenly wavered from view and was replaced by the tormenting features of
Mulder's father.  'Tune out and turn off,' Mulder told himself with
practiced skill.  Funny how defense mechanisms work, he pondered
objectively.  It was the only useful thing that his relationship with his
father had taught him and somehow the knowledge of that tragedy, though
painful and sad, reinforced his vow to never, ever, inflict that kind of
experience on his own children...should he ever have any, that is.


Mulder may have been able to tune Keith out, but Dana had just about had
enough.  Her eyes blazing, she opened her mouth to give Keith a piece of
her mind when she felt Mulder's grip tighten on her arm.  He slowly shook
his head and smiled, ever so slightly.  "It's not worth it, Dana," he
murmured in a voice that only she could hear.  She locked eyes with him.
Knowing that he was speaking from experience, she had to admit that perhaps
he was right and she let her anger dissipate.  Instead she reached out and
lightly caressed the side of his face, making him wince.  She noticed with
sympathy that his face had swollen considerably, nearly closing one eye.


>From the kitchen, Dana could hear the clanging of pots and pans and an
occasional muttered curse.  Soon the warm, friendly aroma of spaghetti
sauce filled the house and belied the turmoil and danger that harbored
itself within its sturdy walls.  The speed with which the aroma filled the
air told Dana that it definitely wasn't her mom's homemade sauce, but to
these guys, Ragu was probably a gourmet treat so it really didn't matter.


A new scent made Dana's empty stomach rumble loudly.  Garlic bread... just
the thought made her mouth water.  She began to wonder if their captors
would allow them to eat or force them to watch in suffering silence.


Though it would be uncomfortable, especially with her appetite as out of
hand as it had been lately, she knew she could survive missing a couple of
meals without any ill effects.  Just think of it as a diet, she told
herself convincingly.  Your clothes have gotten a little tight lately.
Mulder, on the other hand, was prone to bouts of hypoglycemia, which he
would deny if asked, so he tended to snack on a continual basis to
compensate for it - namely those blasted seeds.  The fact that he'd had
nothing to eat since early this morning gave her cause for concern.  His
blood sugar levels had to be bottoming out by now, she figured with forced
medical objectivity, yet he failed to mention having any difficulties with
it to her.  Small wonder. Between his pre-existing injuries, the beatings,
and a lingering hangover, the headache, dizziness, and nausea that usually
accompanied missed meals probably blended in with everything else.


She also worried about the children, especially Matt.  Even though he'd
been squirming a little, along with the rest of them, he still continued to
be withdrawn and unresponsive.  He'd only eaten  his lunch earlier today
after Melissa had fed him like a baby.


Physical wounds she could handle.  They were concrete -- black and white --
like her beloved science, but this kind of emotional trauma was vague and
shadowy, not unlike Mulder's unexplained phenomena.  Where she excelled in
the scientific method and the certainty of fact and proof, he rejoiced in
the pursuit of unknown possibilities and the discovery of spiritual truths.
Mulder was one of the few adults that she'd ever known who could
consistently view the world with awe through the wondering eyes of a child.


Lord knows, she didn't know what to do for Matt, but she had absolute faith
that Mulder could help him.  If not now, then later, when everything was
over.  He had trained, for God's sake, at one of the most prestigious
universities in the world.  That training, added to his natural compassion,
empathy, and seemingly unending patience, seemed to evoke a feeling of
comfort and trust, especially with children.  If anyone could get through
to Matt, it would be Fox.
Perhaps someday, when Mulder found his truth and the X-Files were behind
him, he would use his rare gifts to help purge other young victims of their
demons and in doing so, exorcise some of his own.


For now... for now, Dana Scully would work on the more immediate physical
problems.  First and foremost among those was getting everyone who needed
to go, to a bathroom and everyone who was hungry, fed. <One crisis at a
time, Dana, one crisis at a time....>

******
continued in 8b


From xangst@frii.com Fri Oct 25 17:18:04 1996
Sanctuary part eight continues....



Dana got to her feet slowly, ignoring Mulder's pull on her arm.  Someone
had to get things rolling here.  Sparing only a glance toward Keith, she
approached Mitchell cautiously.  When he wasn't having one of his violently
strange seizure-like episodes, he seemed to be the most rational of the
three criminals.  Trying to find an inner strength, she positioned herself
In her most demanding stance, standing above Mitchell as he sat in the
chair.  Forcing herself to be calm, she made her request. "Look," she said
fiercely, "you people have been to the bathroom several times since you've
been here and we haven't been allowed to go once.  If you don't want this
place to start smelling like a urinal, somebody better make some
arrangements -- and fast."  Shit!  She hadn't meant for it to come out
quite  that way, but she was just so damn pissed... literally, she thought
with a silent giggle.  <That's it, Dana, you've lost it.>


Oh God, Mulder cringed.  Sometimes Dana could still surprise the hell out
of him and scare him to death at the same time.  Fearing the worst, he
tensed and readied himself to move, regardless of how much it hurt.  But an
unexpected bemused expression appeared on Mitchell's face instead of the
anger that Mulder had feared, and Mulder let himself relax a little.


Mitchell looked up at this tiny little sprite of a woman, her eyes bright
with indignation, her hair wildly framing her face in a mass of flame as
fiery as her temper.  She sort of reminded him of a pixie... a very angry
pixie.  A slight smile crept onto his lips.  That's twice now, he thought
with some alarm.  He hadn't smiled in years.  Sure, he'd had no reason to
smile for longer than he could remember, but today he'd caught himself
indulging in that expression not once, but twice.
Mitchell shook his head slowly.  What was it with these people? he
wondered.  In his long and varied career he'd had experience with more than
a few hostage situations, but never in all his years had any hostages acted
like this one little family. He got up from the chair,  thinking that his
height would intimidate this woman, but the stubborn little nymph refused
to back down and obstinately stood her ground, even though her head barely
reached his chin.  Her head was tilted back, and he could still see the
fire in her eyes.


"Oh, all right," Mitchell growled, giving in.  He didn't like being
bullied, particularly not by someone this small.  Something inside him,
however, insisted that he accommodate her.  "One at a time... and leave the
door open," he demanded.


"Open?!!?" she sputtered with undisguised disgust.


"Yeah, open," Mitchell repeated.  "I don't want to take any chances of
getting another door slammed in my face.  If you have a problem with that,
we can forget the whole thing."  He glared back at her, waiting to see if
she would back down a little.


<Stop while you're ahead, Dana.  Don't push too hard or you'll lose
everything.>  "Fine," she conceded reluctantly, dropping her eyes from his.
Turning in a huff, she marched over to the far wall to Melissa and the
children.


Keith began to protest, but one look at Mitchell silenced any comments he
might have had.  Jordan didn't say they could do this.  Oh, he was gonna be
mad when he found out, yes he would be.  No one made decisions but Jordan,
no siree.  Keith sure wouldn't want to be in Mitchell's shoes when Jordan
found out.


One by one they took turns in the bathroom relieving themselves, while the
others stood guard with their backs to the doorway in and effort to
preserve modesty.  Dana didn't think anything had ever felt so damn good in
her whole life.  Well.... maybe *one* thing felt better, she thought with a
sardonic smirk.


Dana was the last of the women and children to take advantage of the
bathroom break.  She was just emerging from behind the others when Jordan
strode into the room, dragging Margaret roughly behind him.  He took in the
small group huddled by the bathroom in a single glance, and the anger
practically jumped off his face.  "What the hell is going on here,
Mitchell?" he screamed.


The big man turned his head slowly towards Jordan, seeming to barely
register his presence even though Jordan's scream had made the rest of them
jump.  He motioned lazily with his hand as he
addressed Jordan's strident voice. "Head call," Mitchell said with a
nonchalant air, "and if you don't want the place smelling like a fucking
latrine, you'll let em' finish," he continued with a sly look at Dana.


Jordan thought for a minute and decided that, no, he wouldn't like that at
all.  He'd had enough of that smell in prison and he certainly didn't want
to smell it here if he didn't have to.  He shoved Margaret toward the
group. "Go on, do what you gotta do and be quick about it," he instructed
her with a condescending tone of voice.


When they'd all finished, Dana and Margaret went to the couch to try and
help Fox to his feet.  Well, so he'll be a little embarrassed, Dana thought
with a small grin.  It'd still be better than the alternative.


"What do you two think you're doing?" Jordan snarled as he walked over and
pulled the two woman roughly away from Mulder.


"He hasn't been yet," Dana pleaded while Mulder tiredly slumped back into
the cushions.


"Time's up," Jordan laughed harshly.  He grabbed Mulder's swollen face
tightly  just below his cheekbones with one hand, squeezing the tender
flesh within his grip until his victim's eyes watered in agony.   Margaret
and Dana looked on, helpless to do anything, for in Jordan's other hand he
held the gun.


Jordan slowly rotated Mulder's face from one side to the other as if he
were appraising a prize piece of livestock.  "What do you think, Keith?"
Jordan asked his protÇgÇ', turning Mulder's head toward the young man who
now held Dana and her mother by their arms.


Jordan was asking *his* opinion.  Keith was overwhelmed with joy, but then
a thought struck him.  What if he said the wrong thing?  Jordan's question
hadn't exactly told him what he expected for an answer.  Keith finally
decided that since he wasn't exactly sure what Jordan was asking him, the
best thing would be just to nod and say the first noncommittal thing that
he could think of.  "I think he's kinda pretty to be FBI," Keith hedged
expectantly.


Jordan took another look at his captive and smiled.  "Too pretty to waste,"
he leered suggestively.


Mulder gagged with revulsion, the meaning behind Jordan's comment more than
apparent.  "Fuck you!" he managed to whisper hoarsely through clenched
teeth.


"Exactly," Jordan hissed as his eyes bore into Mulder's with hideous
intent.  He brought his face down to within inches of Mulder's.  "I have
ushered many souls into heaven's sanctuary, Mr. FBI man.  God has no sexual
preferences, you know." He laughed harshly at Mulder's expression, then
shoved Mulder violently back down on the couch, bouncing his head off its
wooden armrest


Mulder's stomach wretched -- there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Between the innuendo in that last little exchange, added to the almost
palpable evil he felt emanating from that man, his stomach simply rebelled.
If there had actually been anything in it, he would have thrown up as
well.  As it was, he simply gagged, coughed, and endured a nasty bout of
dry heaves.


Satisfied that he'd gotten the desired reaction, Jordan walked away and
headed back to the kitchen.  "Time to eat.  Everyone into the kitchen...
except *you* of course," he announced as he pointed at  Mulder's ashen
face.


"I'll stay here, too," Dana informed him as she broke away from Keith's
hold on her arm.  "You don't understand h...."


Jordan interrupted her.  "That wasn't a request," he snarled. "I said
*everyone* but him, and that means you, too. Leave him," he ordered as they
all filed into the kitchen.  Everyone, that is, except... Mitchell.  "You
coming, Mitchell?" Jordan turned to ask him, slightly annoyed that once
again Mitchell had managed to disobey a direct order.


"I'll eat later.  Someone has to stay here and watch this guy if your gonna
leave him here, or did that ever occur to you?" Mitchell commented
sarcastically.  Fucking brain donor.  Jordan chose to ignore that last
remark, mainly because he knew he thought better on a full stomach than an
empty one.  He'd figure out what to do about Mitchell *after* he ate.


Mulder lay back on the couch, exhausted from his last exchange with Jordan.
The room was empty except for Mitchell and himself.  Jesus Christ,  he
really felt like shit.  Mitchell's eyes were closed, but he couldn't trust
the man to be asleep.  Mulder was amazed that he'd finally discovered
someone who actually slept less than he did.


He didn't waste too much brain power on Mitchell.  Right now he had his own
problems.  His bladder had gone from uncomfortably full to downright
painful.  If he didn't get relief soon, he would simply burst... not a
pleasant thought.  He looked at the bottle on the end table.  Originally
he'd joked about alternate uses for said bottle, but now... now that damn
thing was looking better and better.


So this was Jordan's version of 'fun and games', huh?  Humiliate the
hostages, a variation on the dog pack theory -- brow beat everyone until
they accepted that you were top dog and everyone else was shit, and then no
one would give you any trouble.  It was a time-honored way of intimidating
people.  Mulder had no doubt that sooner or later it would get worse than
this, but for now at least it was just humiliation.  Okay, he'd play along.
There were, however, just a couple of things that Jordan didn't know about
him.  He hated to lose and he wasn't above cheating to avoid it. <Ethics
don't have any place in a situation where the players don't understand the
concept.>  Fuck the rules, he decided.  If Jordan wants to play dirty... he
could stoop to his level, even if he had to cut his legs of to do it.  How
did that saying go again???  How low can you go?  When he was this angry?
Pretty damn low.  He took another look at Mitchell, eyes still closed...
steady breathing.  Well, Mulder, it's now or never.


Fox reached over and grasped the whiskey bottle in one hand.  No sense
wasting good booze, he rationalized as he took several hefty swigs from the
remaining liquid before pouring out what was left between the couch and the
table, leaving about a third in the bottle.  <Gotta leave a little to
retain color, ambiance, and bouquet.  Oh yeah, that's wine... don't worry
about it, *asshole* won't know the difference.>  Besides, if Jordan fell
for it, Mulder was almost certain that having a good buzz would be a
definite plus in his favor.  Damn, he really enjoyed it when he allowed his
mind to be devious and underhanded.

The whiskey hit his empty stomach like a bomb, and its effects on his mind
were practically instantaneous.  Sneaking another look at the
apparently-asleep Mitchell, Mulder's face screwed up into a 'little boy
with his hand in the cookie jar' grin.  So what's the big deal here anyway?
he thought belligerently to himself.  He'd had to suffer the humiliation of
randomly pissing in a fucking cup for the government's benefit on a regular
basis, so a bottle was just a little bigger that's all, although the neck
of the bottle was a little narrower than what he was used to.  Hell, now
that he thought about it, he bet the government doctors couldn't even
identify half the stuff floating around in his pee anyway.  What a waste of
taxpayer's money. The near empty
whiskey bottle disappeared under the blanket, and after a few seconds'
worth of fumbling and adjusting, a look of pure ecstasy and relief covered
his features.  All right, so it wasn't as good as
sex, but he'd sure rate it a close second.  A few seconds later a nearly
full whiskey bottle took its place back on the end table and a much happier
Fox Mulder contentedly waited for Jordan's return.


Mitchell Tyler peeked out from beneath a heavy lidded eye and allowed  just
one more covert smile to grace his lips.  He'd seen the whole thing, of
course.  It was amazing what people would do when they thought no one was
watching, although he knew that in this
instance Mulder had little choice.  Under different circumstances, he could
really learn to like this guy.


That was a surprising thought.  In his line of work -- back when he had
been working and before he became an unwilling science experiment -- he'd
gone out of his way not to like anyone, to avoid making friends.  Keeping
himself free of friendships and emotional entanglements had been just one
more way of ensuring that his soul was his and his alone.  If the bastards
he worked for -- and against, at times -- had discovered anything or anyone
that Mitchell cared about, they would have used that information to control
him.  But in the end they'd found another way to control him, and his soul
had been lost in the process anyway.  Now feeling that budding spark of
kinship, maybe even friendship, glowing faintly within himself, Mitchell
wondered if the price he'd paid all these years was too high. This unusual
thought was abruptly interrupted as he found himself needing to rally his
control against the escalating pressure of his mutated evil.


Mulder looked up suddenly as something penetrated the fuzzy blanket the
whiskey had created in his brain.  A dark mind reached into his
consciousness, groping for a ray of light to sustain its sanity.  He nearly
succumbed to its black depths before realizing it was Mitchell's struggling
human essence that was searching his mind for order and stability.  Mulder
trembled at the unfamiliar contact.  Whatever demon possessed this man must
be regaining control once
more, and for Mitchell to seek strength from *his* mind, the situation must
be grave indeed.


Mulder had never considered himself psychic or telepathic in any way.
Instead, he'd  always written off occurrences of that nature, in regard to
himself, as hunches, luck, or coincidence.  Although he was eager to accept
extreme possibilities in others, he had never been able to consider them in
connection with himself.  Now, however, denial became more difficult.  He
felt Mitchell's inner battle explode within his own mind just as clearly as
he'd heard the voices in his head those many ears ago that told him not to
be afraid.


But now he was taxed way beyond his own limits.  Exhaustion, hunger, and
pain consumed whatever strength he'd had, and Mulder wasn't sure he had any
left to give or if he should even try.  This man had tried to kill him and
threatened his family. Why on earth should he help sustain him at the risk
of his own life and of those he loved?


Mitchell sensed the conflict, anger, and vulnerability raging within this
outwardly calm man laying before him.  Mitchell knew he needed a little
push, something to demonstrate that no matter how bad he thought things
were, they could get infinitely worse.  Gathering up the control he had
left, Mitchell dropped a small portion of his mental barrier, allowing a
vestige of the rampaging evil to penetrate Mulder's unprepared mental
defenses.


Mulder reeled with horror at the unbridled power of darkness that
momentarily assaulted his senses and he understood.  This could not be set
loose here or they could *all* die -- sadistically, with a prolonged agony
that would only serve to feed this monster's insatiable hunger.  He stared
up at Mitchell, his mouth partially open in an involuntary gasp.


As Mitchell withdrew the unwanted visions from Mulder's unprotected psyche,
another image took its place.  An all too familiar silhouette reclined in
the shadows, rings of white smoke circling the figure's smug, uncaring
face. 'Cancer Man,' Mulder's brain registered without conscious effort.
The scene changed abruptly and Cancer Man now lay before him, sprawled on
the floor in an almost unidentifiable heap of bloody pulp.  Waves and waves
of violent loathing and hatred mixed with an unparalleled lust for revenge
permeated his being like a saturated sponge.  Mulder felt sick in mind and
body as he realized that some of these 'thoughts' could very well have been
his own.


Mitchell nodded as if sensing Mulder's unspoken fears.  "The thoughts were
*mine,* Agent Mulder," Mitchell uttered contemptuously.


Mulder appeared startled and confused by the answer to the question that
he'd only 'thought.'  Telepathy...??  Is that possible?


Mitchell focused his unwavering gaze on Mulder and answered the young man's
questioning eyes.  "Just another side effect of yet another unsuccessful
government experiment," Mitchell explained sourly.  "You wanted to kill
that scum.  I felt it... yet you didn't.  Why?  Perhaps our missions are
much more similar than you
realize. Maybe you'd like another chance."  Mitchell raised his brow in inquiry.


"No!" Mulder replied hoarsely, with barely leashed emotion. "I can't murder
another human being in cold blood, not even if the bastard deserves to burn
in hell.  I don't have that right."


"That sir, is your weakness... and possibly, your strength," Mitchell
sighed.  "I, on the other hand, am no longer quite human, as you can see,
and am no longer bound to your lofty, ethical ideals."


"What happened to you?" Mulder asked softly.


"Someone somewhere decided they needed a more efficient killing machine,
Agent Mulder," Mitchell said, his strange eyes flat and emotionless, yet
Mulder knew there was enormous anger bottled up inside.  "They decided to
use someone already trained to kill, and trained very well.  I was never
told, never asked if this was what I wanted.  Just one more injection in a
series of injections for diseases with names I couldn't pronounce.  Only
the experiment failed, and they never had a backup plan, a way to bring me
back to what I was.  The man you call 'Cancer Man' was my superior.  What
was done to me couldn't have been done without his authorization.  You've
been to his home, you know where he lives.  You will help me find him,
Agent Mulder."


"I don't know where he is now," Mulder replied truthfully.


Mitchell shrugged.  "Maybe not, but he knows how to find you and when he
does... he'll find me, too.  That's why you have to help me to control this
horror in my soul.  My last mission -- my *only* mission -- is to find him
and show him exactly what he's created and what it's capable of.  If the
animal wins and I kill you and the others, I may never be able to complete
that mission.  And *that*, Agent Mulder, is the only thing left that has
any meaning for me now."


Mulder studied the man intently.  "I feel you're losing the battle," he
replied softly.  He wriggled his hand into the pocket of his jeans and
withdrew a handful of the tiny white tranquilizer pills that he'd
confiscated from the bathroom that morning and offered them to Mitchell.
"Here, they're tranquilizers... take them.  Maybe they'll help for a little
while."  Where there is life, there is hope, Mulder thought to himself.  If
Mitchell's maniac impulses went unchecked, life would most certainly cease
and hope along with it.


Mitchell took the pills from Mulder's outstretched hand and swallowed them
all in one giant gulp.  As the medication hit his bloodstream, he felt the
urge to kill recede and his vision clear.  He had no way of knowing how
long the medication would last, but for now they would be spared.

******
end part eight


From xangst@frii.com Sat Oct 26 06:27:52 1996
SANCTUARY
BY:
CHERYL COHEN
(ALIAS-THE STINKER)
AND
ANNIE REED
(ALIAS- FANCYKATZ)


Forward
************************************


Annie and I started this story several months ago.  In fact we started
bouncing around ideas for a sequel right after we finished "Devil's
Advocate.  Okay, we didn't expect it to take this long or be this long but
somehow the characters seemed to take on a life of their own and each
insisted that they have their moment in the sun.  Hence, what follows is
ninety pages of love, sadness, joy, sex, misunderstandings, violence,
insanity, aggravation, frustration, humor, death...and life.


Please be warned, this tale contains, graphic violence, adult language, and
adult situations.  Although there is sex involved in several scenes, it is
not what I would consider graphic nor is it out of context with the story.
I like to leave a little bit to the imagination.


DISCLAIMERS ETC.
********************************


This story is based on the characters and situations created by Chris
Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions.  As such, the
characters named are the property of those entities and are used without
permission, although no copyright infringements are intended.


************************************






CHAPTER NINE
Revenge is Sweet


The black government issue four-wheel drive pressed onward through the
blowing snow, traveling much too fast for the prevailing weather
conditions, even with the on-the-fly four-wheel drive engaged.  Walter
Skinner gave up trying to see the road and just aimed the car toward the
glowing lights of the small town in the distance, trying to stay somewhere
in between the trees that lined each side of what he hoped was the road.


What the hell was he doing driving in a snowstorm anyway?  "I must be out
of my fucking mind," he grumbled belligerently.  Why did Mulder always
affect him this way?  He wasn't Fox Mulder's legal guardian, damn it, so
why was it that he felt so... so... responsible for him?  Skinner tried to
be optimistic about the outcome of this situation but it didn't help
knowing that Mulder had the survival instincts of a fucking lemming.   All
right, so he'd broken the
ultimate unwritten rule and allowed himself to become attached to this
stubborn pain in the ass.  In a weird sort of way, Skinner realized that
sometimes he felt an almost fatherly pride in both of his troublesome
agents.  They continually crossed that line, the one he was afraid to step
over, and they managed to do their job with precious little support from
the Bureau.  Yes, he was proud of them, although he'd damn sure never let
them know it.


Skinner's car finally slid to a stop in front of the local precinct
building. Cursing softly, he forced the car door open against the wind and
snow.  Muttering to himself again about what kind of an idiot would be out
in weather like this, he made his way to the front door and trudged inside,
shaking snow off his topcoat and stamping it off his feet.


A sputtering desk sergeant told Skinner where to find the special agents in
charge of this case and he headed back toward the interrogation rooms.
Amusement flickered across Skinner's features as surprised field agents
snapped to attention when he walked by.  It was somehow comforting knowing
that his position could still evoke a little intimidation in his
subordinates.  Lord knows, he'd never get that kind of reaction from
Mulder.  Position and power never had made much of an impression on that
one.  In fact, now that he thought about it, unlike the ever present horde
of back stabbing,  ladder climbing wannabes,  Mulder was one of the few
people in the Bureau who actually felt his work took priority over making
the necessary, correct, butt kissing, career moves.


Skinner knew that Mulder could have made that ladder-climb to power rather
quickly if he'd been so inclined.  He'd had the connections, the
intelligence, and the talent, but unfortunately, he also had a conscience.
Perhaps that partly explained Mulder's unusual knack for accumulating the
support of some pretty powerful people.  They knew he had no interest in
ousting them from their precious positions and had no ulterior motives
other than his own unrelenting search for the truth.  Mulder was a rare
treat for these people... someone they could actually trust.


Skinner's introspection was interrupted when he reached the small, warm
room that had become 'home' to Agents Hestor and McGuire while they
searched for three insidious killers.  He opened the door without knocking.
McGuire stood up suddenly, seeing Skinner's figure filling the doorway
behind Hestor, who'd had his back to the door.


"Good evening, Sir," McGuire said respectfully.  Few field agents ever
really got to see the Assistant Director in person and she felt just a
little nervous.


Hestor took a quick glance over his shoulder at the sound of her greeting,
mumbled a quick hello, and returned his gaze to the printout he was
studying.  He'd met the Assistant Director before and wasn't nearly as
nervous as his partner.  Besides, he wanted to finish what he was reading.
This could be important to the operation... very important.


"Oh, really?" Skinner intoned crankily. "What's so good about it, Agent
McGuire?  I missed dinner.  My workout's canceled.  I had to drive out here
in the worst snowstorm of the year.  And two of my best agents are more
than likely holed up with three serial killers, one of whom would like
nothing better than to skewer one of the aforementioned agents like a
shish-ka-bob and burn him at the stake.  And you say it's a 'good
evening'?"


Assistant Director or no Assistant Director, she didn't have to put up with
that kind of attitude, McGuire fumed.  "Excuse me for asking, *sir,*" she
replied testily.


Skinner took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out.  She had a
right to be annoyed, he thought.  "I apologize, Agent McGuire.  I'm tired,
frustrated, and more than a little concerned.  How about starting over?" he
conceded.


McGuire pulled her lips into a slight grin.  "Sure," she answered, willing
to give him the benefit of the doubt.  She'd heard about Bulldog Skinner,
and she'd just experienced his bark first-hand.  Luckily, he'd stopped
there.  This time.  She had no doubt that if she ever screwed up, she would
experience much more than she just had, and that was something she
seriously hoped to avoid.


"What do you have so far?" Skinner asked, slipping back into his usual
clipped, voice of authority mode.


McGuire proceeded to fill him in on the situation that they suspected was
going down at Margaret Scully's house, as well as the counter-measures they
were implementing.  Hestor looked up occasionally to comment but directed
most of his attention to the printouts on his lap and the information that
glowed eerily on his computer screen.  "The National Weather Service
predicts about a three or four hour window of calm between the fronts
around eight o' clock tonight," Hestor commented with a hopeful expression.
"Do you think it's feasible that we could get in and out of there in three
hours?  I checked with the snow plow drivers and they tell me the plows can
handle it."


"I suppose it just depends on what we find when we get there," Skinner
theorized.  "Are you reasonably sure these men are actually in the house?"


Hestor pointed to the man in the other room who sat at a desk, intently
drawing something on a large piece of paper.  "*He* thinks  so, and so far
all of the evidence we could gather seems to support that suspicion.  I've
got him drawing a floor plan of the house for us, not that we really need
it.  I had a full set of blueprints sent over here from the county
recorder's office. It's just that giving him something concrete to do
seemed to help calm him down."


"Scully's brother?" Skinner inquired.  He thought he could see a family
resemblance.


Hestor nodded.  "Yeah, his two little kids are stuck in that house, not to
mention his mom and his two sisters.  I think he's taking it pretty well.
If it were *my* family stuck out there, I'd probably be throwing things by
now."  Hestor looked over at McGuire and then turned his attention back to
Skinner.  "Sir," Hestor began tentatively, "may I ask what would prompt the
Assistant Director of the FBI to take such a special interest in a field
agent like Spooky Mulder?"


"You can ask," Skinner told him with a sigh.  " *Agent* Mulder's not just a
field agent, he's the supervisor of his own department and as such, answers
directly to me. I was responsible for assigning him to the Chambers case in
the first place, so it's only right that I should be here now."  There were
other reasons for his presence, of course, but this was all these people
needed to know, and all he was going to tell them.  Skinner's mouth drew
into a hard thin line.  "I want all your manpower and equipment ready to go
by eight o' clock just in case for once, the blasted  weather service is
right and we do get that three hour window."  Skinner glanced at his watch.
"That gives us about two hours to come up with some kind of plan.  I
suggest that we use our time wisely."


To the casual observer, they would have appeared to be the essence of a
perfect family portrait.  It could have bee a scene right out of  Norman
Rockwell's American Dream, a quiet family dinner in a cozy kitchen, warm
and safe from the blizzard howling outside. It could have been had it not
been for the fact that the men seated at the kitchen table were violently
insane, and the women and children were hostages to the madness of their
unwelcome guests..


Jordan and Keith served themselves first, if you could call diving into the
spaghetti like a couple of hunger crazed hyenas,'serving themselves.'
Margaret was hesitant to interfere in their feeding frenzy by  venturing to
ask about food for the children, so she settled for placing a plate in
front of each daughter and grandchild, then set an extra one aside just in
case they changed their minds about Fox. She waited patiently for some sign
that would indicate Jordan's willingness to let them eat, but after being
soundly ignored for several minutes, Margaret took the initiative and began
to serve the spaghetti and bread to her family.


Dana thought that perhaps she could somehow palm a piece of bread during
the meal to give to Mulder later, but the two men watched her too closely.
She also noticed the same attention
being paid to her mom and sister so, any chance of getting food to him died
with the thought.


Dana hated the tight, anxious feeling that festered in the pit of her
stomach.  She hated the rage she felt at what was being done to her family,
especially to Mulder.  Jordan would kill him if he could, of that she had
no doubt.  Her only hope lay in the agony of knowing that Jordan would
prolong his suffering for as long as possible before he did.  It was ironic
that Mulder's pain might actually be the instrument that would buy him
time, time enough to get out of this mess in one piece.


Meredith watched the grownups eat dinner.  The bad men paid absolutely no
attention to her.  Good, she thought.  She took a small bite out of her
bread and skillfully slid the remainder into her palm and then up into the
sleeve of her sweatshirt.  Feeding Kelly from the table had honed her
ability to pilfer just about anything from her plate, even under the
watchful eyes of well meaning adults, and this time no one was even
watching.  Uncle Fox was hungry, she could tell, and the tall man with the
cold blue eyes had been really mean to him, had hurt him and made him sick.
Maybe some bread would make him feel better.  Food always made *her* feel
better.


Margaret was the last one to be seated and she knew that she'd be the last
one to get up.  Going through the motions, she wasn't even certain that she
was really even hungry anymore.  Quietly she watched Dana push the food
around her plate and stare off into space... a far cry from her joyous
eating binge at breakfast, Margaret thought despondently.  Next to her,
Melissa was trying to get an indifferent Matt to taste some of his
spaghetti.  While he wouldn't serve himself, if she actually fed him he
would eat.  The sight brought tears to Margaret's eyes and she had to turn
away.  She'd be damned if she'd cry in front of these animals.


Picking at the pasta on her dish, Dana suddenly felt nauseous.  What if
this was to be her 'last meal'?  She'd always pictured her last entree'
enjoyed in this life as something just a little more exotic than Ragu and
Bahama Bread with garlic.  She twisted another forkful of spaghetti and
forced herself to eat it in spite of her upset stomach.  You might not get
another chance, she convinced herself as she swallowed with difficulty.


Melissa was relieved that the meal was proceeding so far without incident
... a lull in an angry sea of fear, her intuition echoed through her mind.
She didn't have to be psychic to know it would not last.


It was nearly 8 o' clock when Jordan scarfed down the last piece of bread
after sopping up the remaining sauce on his plate with it.  He arose from
the table and stretched languidly while rubbing his stomach with one hand.
"Dinner's over," he announced in a commanding tone.  This had been a long,
eventful day and he was getting tired.  Slowly, he wandered over to the
counter and started rummaging through the drawers until he found what he
was looking for.


"Heads up," Jordan yelled at Keith as he tossed the roll of duck tape
across the room.  Keith expertly snatch the roll from the air, immediately
deducing Jordan's intentions.


"Tape em' up, Keith," Jordan instructed, "all except for grandma and the
kids, and our favorite FBI agent out there.  I'll take care of him myself."


Keith nodded and began tearing off long, dangling pieces of tape.  He stuck
each piece  to the edge of the table until he had the correct number of
strips he thought would be needed to complete his task.


Oh shit, duck tape, Dana thought desperately.  She despised duck tape.  It
was too damn efficient.  She'd been tied up with a number of materials but
duck tape was the worst.  Unlike rope or cord, duck tape had no loose ends
to work at, very little space to get anything between, no knots to work
free, or rough edges to catch on anything.  And on top of everything else,
when and if you finally got someone to take the damn stuff off, it quite
effectively removed all of your hair and a good part of your skin with it.


Melissa cringed at the sensation of Keith's touch as he lifted her from her
chair.  She shuddered involuntarily as he purposely traced his fingers down
the length of her bare arms before grasping her wrists, jerking them behind
her back and securing them with tape.  Making sure the tape was secure, he
pushed Melissa forcefully back down in her chair, then reach out his hand
to grab Dana and repeat the procedure.


"I don't need your *help*, " Dana told him as she stood up on her own and
positioned  her hands behind her back.


Keith stared at her suspiciously.  She was being much too cooperative and
it put him on edge.  He pulled her arms back tightly and wrapped the tape
around her wrists a few more times than he'd originally intended, trailing
the tape halfway up her forearms.  With her arms pulled together
unnaturally tight behind her back, Dana was forced into an awkward posture
which had the net effect of stretching her shirt tight against her chest.


Jordan stood back from the table and leered in appreciation at the sight of
Dana's full breasts straining against the soft fabric of her shirt.  Dana
knew damn well what he was looking at and glared back at him, but deep
inside she experienced a glimmer of fear.  She didn't like feeling
helpless, and having her arms taped up behind her back left her very few
options if anyone decided to take advantage of her.


Keith followed Jordan's gaze and began to feel the familiar tingle he'd
experienced hours before as a result of his fear.  And something more.  For
the first time, he thought he sensed fear in this woman, and that only
added to his excitement.


Jordan, mindful of Keith's reactions, smiled knowingly.  "Not yet, Keith,"
he purred.  "Not just yet."


Agent Hestor paced the room and looked out the window one more time. The
snow had piled up in drifts against the buildings but the gale force winds
had abated, at least temporarily, and the snow wasn't falling nearly as
heavily as before.  He turned around abruptly, nearly bowling over McGuire
who had come up behind him to look over his shoulder.


"I say we go for it,"  Hestor announced rapidly.  "The winds have died down
and even though I've never had the utmost faith in the National Weather
Service, it appears that they're right on the money this time."  He walked
across the room to stand in front of Skinner.  "I'd say it's now or never
sir, your call."  Hestor stepped back and held his breath, waiting
impatiently for a reply.


A shadow of indecision crossed Skinner's face briefly, then disappeared.
Right or wrong, there was no time and he had to act.  <That's why you get
paid those big bucks, right, Walter?>  He shook his head once then looked
directly into Hestor's eyes.  "Do it," Skinner stated decisively.


The quiet of the office suddenly erupted with a flurry of activity.  "It's
a GO!!  It's a GO!! " McGuire shouted almost simultaneously over the radio
and telephone.


Bill Scully stood amid the ensuing activity clutching the floor plan he'd
drawn in his right hand,  and looking every bit like a little boy who'd
suddenly found himself lost at the fair.  Skinner noticed Bill's look of
confusion and made another command decision.  He just hoped it wasn't the
wrong one.  He crossed the room and grabbed the young man by the elbow.
"Put your coat on," Skinner said as he lifted Bill's jacket off the back of
the chair.  He guided Bill toward the front door and into the street.
"Come on, you can ride with me."  Skinner opened the door and gently shoved
Bill into the back seat of his four-wheel drive. "Must be getting soft in
my old age," Walter mumbled grudgingly under his breath as he reached out
to  attach the bubble light on the vehicle's hood.


The powerful sound of the snowplows' engines pierced the silent night as
they rumbled into action.  Lined up in a diagonal row across the
snow-covered street, their solemn parade of flashing lights made an eerie
sight in the otherwise still night as they headed out of town.
It would still take about an hour or more for this strange caravan to reach
their destination, but at least now they were doing *something.* Keep
telling yourself that, Walter, Skinner thought as he followed the trailing
snowplow at a maddenly slow pace.


Keith ran his fingertips down the side of Dana's neck and lightly across
her collar bone before dipping down to unfasten the first button on her
shirt. "There, that looks more... comfortable," he whispered behind her
ear, licking his lips.


Dana closed her eyes, trying to shut out the revulsion she felt at Keith's
obscene caress.  She told herself to ignore the body that was behind her,
pressing up against her, making its intentions clear.  Instead, in her mind
she pictured Mulder's laughing eyes, the strong yet gentle arms that held
her so tenderly, the long elegant fingers that sent tingles down her spine,
the way his soft, full lips felt on her own, his breath in her hair.  Keith
may touch her physically but there was only one person who touched her
mind, her soul, and her heart as well, and he was on a couch in the living
room, waiting for her.


Margaret wasn't about to watch her baby girl be molested right in front of
her eyes.  She moved forward to grab Keith's hand but she wasn't quick
enough to avoid being backhanded by Jordan's blow to her face.  She fell
heavily to the floor only to be jerked roughly upward by her arm and
plopped unceremoniously into a kitchen chair.   Her hands flew to  mouth
which was already beginning to swell, and reluctant tears fell from her
eyes.


"Like I said, Keith... later," Jordan said, pulling Dana away to stand
behind her sister. "Good things come to those who wait, my son. Rest before
recreation,"  Jordan sneered as he gathered up the cowering children,
Margaret, and the two sisters, herding them back into the living room.


The first thing that met Dana's gaze as she entered through the doorway was
Mulder's relaxed form still keeping the couch company.  She sighed with
relief.  He was still there and still in one piece, relatively speaking.
Leaving him behind with Mitchell had weighed heavy on her mind for she had
sensed a violence in the man that went far beyond anything that she could
attribute to insanity.


The second thing Dana noticed was the fire in the fireplace.  Mitchell must
have started it.  It gave the living room a warm glow.  No, more than that,
she realized.  Mitchell hadn't shut the glass doors that covered the
fireplace, and even the screen wasn't pulled shut all the way, so the
warmth of the fire itself spread out across the room.  Under different
circumstances, the fire would have given the living room a romantic look.
But right now romance was the last thing on Dana's mind.  She just hoped
they all got out of this situation in one piece.


Before they could stop her, Meredith broke free, ran to the couch, and
knelt beside her adopted uncle.  She placed one hand on his forehead and
held his hand with the other.  Mulder opened his eyes wide with surprise
and smiled shyly, then wryly as he felt the young girl press the piece of
bread into his palm.  "Thank you," he whispered, touched that she had taken
such a risk for him.  Even through a whiskey haze, he'd recognized the
potential sacrifice she'd made by giving it to him.  "Any time, Uncle Fox,"
she whispered back into his ear as she lightly kissed his cheek.

******
continued in part 9b


From xangst@frii.com Sat Oct 26 06:28:30 1996
Sanctuary part nine continues...



Margaret moved quickly to the couch to pull Meredith away.  Whatever Jordan
had planned, it most certainly would involve Fox and she didn't want her
granddaughter anywhere near Jordan.  She gently pulled Meredith away with
one hand and deftly removed the gun from beneath the sofa cushion with the
other, placing it in the oversized pocket of the apron that she still wore.
She exchanged a solemn look with Fox and knew that he had seen what she
had done and he had regretted that she felt she had to do it.  Margaret
didn't.  The captain had always said to 'always take advantage of your
opportunities...'  Who was she to argue with sound advice?


Well, so far the weather was holding off, thought Skinner as he watched the
white countryside go slowly by through the artificial illumination of his
headlights.  Not that the snowplows weren't doing their jobs... they were
actually making good time considering the conditions.  It was the urgency
of the situation that made the seconds tick by agonizingly slow.  Fifteen,
perhaps twenty more minutes until they would arrive.  A lot could happen in
fifteen or twenty minutes.  <Don't think about that, Walter.  You can't
make time stand still or change the weather. You just do whatever is
humanly possible to do... well, at least most of the time when you have the
power and authority to do it.>  He thought of the man that Mulder referred
to as 'Cancer Man' and his mood suddenly soured.  Dammit, he helped when he
could.  Mulder certainly didn't make it easy for him.  At least this time
he didn't have to rage against orders he didn't agree with and couldn't
understand.  At least this time he wasn't losing his balance trying to stay
on that fine line.


Dana and Melissa were dropped to the floor against the opposite wall near
the fireplace, facing the couch. Mitchell took notice of Magaret's swollen
and bruised mouth and Dana's unbuttoned shirt.  These people didn't deserve
this, he thought angrily.  He'd only hooked up with Jordan and his asshole
sidekick Keith to get out of prison and get where he needed to go.  Well,
he didn't need them anymore now that he had Mulder.  It was just about time
to lighten the load.


He felt the monster within him begin to stir even with the help of the
pills Mulder had given him.  Anger was his demon's natural state, and his
anger at Keith and Jordan was fueling its fire.  This was a losing battle,
he knew that.  He would kill again just as sure as the sun rose and the
Marly smoking bastard wouldn't die of cancer.  Soon it would only be a
question of who, and Mitchell prayed that when the demon finally did break
free, he would have enough control left to determine who lived and who
died.


Dana's gaze drifted back to Mulder, noticing the uncharacteristic glaze in
his eyes, and the unsteadiness of motion when he moved.  He should have
been unbelievably stressed by now but he appeared almost jovial... and by
the looks of his blanket, still 'dry.'  The man must have kidneys of steel.
<Wait a minute. What's wrong with this picture?>  She knew this behavior.
He was, at the very least, semi-polluted again, but how?  Looking at the
whiskey bottle, she noticed that it was nearly full... too
full...<Nooo....Mulder, you didn't?...>  She looked back at him, then back
at the bottle, then back again at him.  He caught her questioning stare and
just winked at her goofily with his good eye.  <Oh Sweet Jesus...he did!! >
She would never underestimate him again.  Stifling a laugh, she lowered
her eyes to the floor for the simple reason that she couldn't look at him
and maintain a straight face. <Mulder, you're a piece of work...you really
are.>


Why was Dana staring at him?  What'd she want?  Mulder knew what he wanted
and tried to wink at her with the wrong eye and rediscovered that it was
already closed.  Then his alcohol soaked brain remembered the bottle and
whined amid the crackle of misfiring synapses, 'but I didn't drink that
much,' to which the minority of sober neurons replied, 'empty stomach,
stupid.'  It's really difficult to be suave and debonair when all the
components of your brain are in the midst of a civil war.  <Damn, now she
won't even look at me. What? Did I sprout a third eye or something????>


Mulder thought he was turning his head.    Whoa.... he watched the room
sway at an odd angle.  How'd it do that?  Must be an earthquake, he
reasoned with all the logic that Jack Daniels would allow.
<No...no...wait..I know!!! suspension of the gravitational pull, I'm
floating!!!>  He winced and groaned audibly as his head bounced off the
wooden floor.  <Guess not... another Mulder theory down the tubes, out the
window, into the shitter...>


He found himself looking up into the rather angry face of Jordan Chambers
just before Chambers grabbed his arm and hauled him upward at what felt
like the speed of light.  Shit, no one told him he was going to experience
gee force training on top of everything else.   Some things you just don't
do to people who are prone to motion sickness and that was one of them.  He
didn't know why Mr. Serial Killer Asshole was so upset with him.  So he
puked on his fucking shoes.  Big deal.  There'd been nothing in his stomach
except some sour booze.  He suddenly wished he'd eaten a lot of something
really gross ...like sushi, or chili, or even better... sushi and chili.
He grinned at the thought.


Jordan cursed and threw Mulder back on the couch, violently jerking his
arms behind him as he wrapped the duck tape agonizingly tight around his
wrists. Mulder gasped as he felt something tear low, inside his ribcage.
Even through the haze, he'd felt *that*.  He was sobering up fast.


Dana strained at her bonds uselessly.  The look in Jordan's eyes suggested
that he was tired of playing games and meant business, and suddenly she was
very afraid for Mulder.  Throwing up on Jordan's shoes was definitely *not*
the way to keep yourself in one piece.


"What's the matter, Jordan?" Mitchell jeered, a rusty laugh forcing its way
out from his tortured soul.  "Can't handle a few women and an injured drunk
without throwing your weight around?"


"Shut up!" Jordan screamed at him.  "Shut UP!!"


"Mr. Big Man," Mitchell continued, egging Jordan on.  "Why don't you come
try to tape *me* up?"


Jordan glared at Mitchell, almost ready to take him up on his offer.  Then
he saw the glint in Mitchell's eye, the familiar bunching of his muscles
under his clothes, and felt the comforting weight of the gun in his pocket.
No, now was not the time.  He turned his attention back to Mulder.


"No more booze for you, Mr. FBI," Jordan snarled.  "Torture's no fun when
the subject can't feel it," he laughed, reaching for the whiskey bottle.
"I'll just take care of this for you, remove the temptation, shall we say."


"You don't want that," Mulder slurred, wrinkling up his nose.


Jordan narrowed his eyes as he spoke.  "How would you know what *I'd* want?"


Mulder tried his damnedest to squint with his good eye.  "Oh, I juss
thought you'd go for those sissy drinks... like daquirs... daqueras..., you
know thooose stupid little drinks with the umbrella thingees in em', or
shirrlllyy timples...temples.  Whiskey's a *man's* drink," he managed to
blurt out.


Jordan scowled, somewhat taken aback that given the predicament he was in,
this guy had the audacity to taunt him.  Jordan raised the whiskey bottle
to his lips.


"I'm tellin' you...don't ddrinnnk that..." Mulder stated with as much
emphasis as he could muster.  <Please, please don't throw me in the briar
patch.>  He knew there was a reason he liked that story.  Dana exchanged
glances with her mom and sister, sighed heavily, then rolled her eyes
heavenward.  "Mom, when this is over,  lock up the liquor cabinet and throw
away the key.  I don't want him anywhere near the stuff," she muttered.


Jordan's features took on the appearance of superiority as he raised the
bottle to his lips, and he chugged down half the contents of the bottle
before the taste hit him.  "Shit!!!!!" he screamed, gagging on the
remaining liquid he was spraying from his mouth onto the floor.  "This
tastes like piss!!!"


"I told you not to drink it,"  Mulder said with an innocent smile.  "Juss
call it home-brew," he snickered drunkenly. "Mulder, 1960...it was a verry
good year."  He didn't immediately register the backhand that split his
bottom lip, but he could taste the blood in his mouth, uncertain of exactly
where it came from.  Funny, he didn't remember being able to see stars in
the living room before.  The weather must be clearing up, his fuzzy brain
reasoned.


They'd finally passed the abandoned car... Lucy's car.  Bill Scully had
been correct. The snowplows had almost hit it when they plowed by it.  Now
it was buried in the dirty snow the plows had thrown off the road.  Skinner
wondered how much hard evidence would be left in the car by the time they
dug it out and the snow thawed.


Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Skinner could make out the
lights of the Scully house in the distance.  If the men were in there, he
hoped they weren't too late.


They came closer and closer to the lights until the outline of the house
stood out against the blackness of the night and the pristine whiteness of
the snow.  "How in the hell are we going to know if those monsters are
really in there?" Skinner wondered out loud.


"Oh, they're in there alright," Bill Scully said with conviction.


Skinner gave him a questioning look, then followed Bill's pointing finger
toward the house.  Skinner didn't have to ask twice.  He was well aware of
the meaning of an inverted flag.


"Hestor, get your men in position," Skinner spoke into the communications
link. "But don't do anything until I give the word."


Skinner turned back to Bill Scully.  "Mr. Scully, where in the house would
your family most likely be? " Skinner asked.


Bill ran his hand through his hair, trying to second guess his family.
Skinner had no idea of what he was asking.  "I had to help Mulder
downstairs this morning and I don't think he'd be able to get back upstairs
without my help.  If he's downstairs, chances are so is Dana, and if Dana's
downstairs, mom and Melissa are with her.  I guess, they'd either be in the
kitchen or the living room.  At this time of night... I'd say living room."
Bill looked back toward the house and saw the faint puffs of smoke rising
from the chimney.  "They've got the fireplace going.  So I'd say the living
room's the best bet."


Jordan glared at Mulder with an intense hatred.  He wanted to hurt him, he
wanted to hurt him more than physical pain would allow.  He wanted to rip
every shred of humanity from this man, rip out his heart and hand it to
him, and have him know that Jordan Chambers was the one who destroyed *his*
life.  And he knew just how to do it.  Jordan slowly allowed his gaze to
fall on the petite redhead who'd been such a pain in the ass.  He smiled
with demonic pleasure.


Mulder followed Jordan's eyes and his heart froze in panic.  The man knew
his weakness, what he feared most.  He knew and he was going to deliver a
punishment that Mulder knew was worse than death.


"Keith," Jordan began slowly, "I have decided to give you a second chance
to achieve sanctuary for a wayward soul.  Not many people get a second
chance, Keith, but I  have faith in you."


Mitchell wrestled with his demon.  He was losing the battle, and he didn't
like the direction this situation was taking.  He had  tried to taunt
Jordan into attacking him before, knowing that his demon would be
satisfied, at least for the moment, with Jordan's death and no doubt
Keith's shortly following, but Jordan had failed to take the bait.

He knew from experience what Jordan had in mind for this young woman and he
also knew that Fox Mulder did, too.  He sensed the young man's terror in
his own mind.  The thoughts were fragmented and confused, possibly because
of his alcoholic ingestion but he was aware enough to deduce Jordan's
intentions and frightened enough for the woman to act irrationally.  Mulder
would die to protect this woman, and Mitchell could not allow Mulder to be
killed, no matter what Jordan wanted.  He hadn't come all this way to
abandon his mission now.  Mitchell felt the adrenaline shoot into his
veins, along with the strange substance that loosed his demon, and he
noticed the color leaving his eyesight.  His blood boiled.


Jordan walked away from the couch and over to the women sitting against the
wall.  He paced in a line before them, stopping in front of each one to
stare in silence.  He turned and pulled Dana to her feet, separated her
from the others, and threw her to the floor in front of the fireplace,
directly in Mulder's line of vision.   So intent on his revenge, Jordan
didn't notice the transformation taking place in the corner chair.
Instead, he motioned for Keith to come stand next to him.  "Here is a soul
for you to save, Keith... a candidate for sanctuary," he stated with
evangelical zeal.  "This is your final chance to prove yourself, Keith."


Dana's eyes grew wide as the full meaning of Jordan's words struck home.
Even death row inmates get a better last meal than Ragu', she thought
disjointedly.  Keith sensed her fear and his body responded hungrily.  This
would be better than the last one, he thought, and he threw himself on top
of her, ramming one leg up between her thighs.  Melissa sensed her sister's
fear and helplessness, and her own experience came rushing back at her.
Overlaying everything was a heavy, putrid odor of evil that was almost more
than she could bear, and she began to cry.


"NOOOOO....." Mulder cried as Keith began to rip away Dana's clothes and
fumble with his own.  "You bastard," Fox gasped, raising himself from the
cushions in an attempt to throw himself at Keith's form. But the alcohol
prevented him from moving with his normal grace, and he was unable to push
himself up with his hands. He landed instead on his knees, pushing himself
along the floor with his legs and drowning in a red sea of pain.  The only
thing that kept him moving was the pain and terror he saw in Dana's eyes
and the insane hunger on Keith's face.  He never even heard Jordan's
laughter.


"I have to be joined with you," Keith muttered, more to himself than to the
terrified woman under him.  "I have to join you, then remove your
temptation to sin again, and then you'll be ready for sanctuary."  The last
shred of clothing holding him back was gone, and he rested one arm on the
woman's collarbone to hold her down while he used his other hand to guide
himself towards the goal that was squirming underneath him.  He had never
been so ready in his entire life.


Mulder wasn't going to make it in time, he could see that, and ice settled
around his heart as he realized he was going to let Dana down.  He wasn't
go to be able to protect her.  He couldn't believe it when she turned her
head to look at him, letting him know with one glance that it was okay, she
didn't blame him. Then she cried out in pain as Keith slapped her face,
turning her head back toward him.  "Look at *me*," he hissed.  "I have to
see your fear."


The next cry Mulder heard was an unearthly scream that set his teeth on
edge and sent a shiver through his soul.  The dark fury that had once been
Mitchell Tyler slashed at Keith from behind, lifting the lighter man into
the air.  The momentum of the blow sent him rolling across the floor and
into the open fireplace.  Keith screamed as his hair caught on fire and he
began batting at his head with his hands.  Mitchell followed Keith with
blinding speed and savagely removed the only part of his anatomy that he
had seen fit to expose on his attempted attack on Dana.  Mitchell held the
detached member in his hand high above his head and  howled.  "May you find
sanctuary, you son of a bitch," he yelled, "and may you *never* be tempted
again."  With that, he reached down and with one final swipe, ripped out
most of Keith's neck.  The resulting spray of blood effectively doused the
fire that had burned Keith's hair, and Keith's body collapsed weakly on the
floor.


Mulder rolled on top of Dana, using his body as a protective cocoon, and
turned his head away from the gory scene.  He'd never witnessed anything
like *that* before and just the thought of it made his lower regions burn.


Mulder had just turned back toward Mitchell when gunshots rang out in rapid
succession.  Spurts of red blossomed on Mitchell's upper body.  The big man
took two steps before he fell forward and crashed to the floor next to
Margaret, Melissa, and the children.  They were huddled together with the
childrens' faces buried into their grandmother's side, all weeping softly.
Mulder shuddered as he felt the man's psyche reach out to him one final
time, and then it was gone.


Jordan stuffed the weapon back into his pants, stooped and pulled Mulder
away from Dana by his bound wrists.  The pain he felt was nearly unbearable
and he cried out as Jordan threw him against the wall.  Laughing insanely,
Jordan bent over him and pressed the cold steel of the gun against Mulder's
temple, his finger tightening on the trigger.


A gunshot rang out into the frigid night and Skinner gave the word to rush
the house.  There was no more time, and he feared he'd waited too long as
it was.  As the agents and local officers reached the front porch, another
shot echoed through the house followed by silence and the muffled sound of
a child crying.


They rammed the front door open in a dynamic entry but stopped dead in
their tracks, stunned by the scene of mayhem that met their eyes.  The
stench of death assaulted their senses.  Bodies covered the living room
floor and blood splattered in random patterns on the floor and part of the
wall.  The smell of burned flesh permeated the air. A single, small women
stood alone, trembling at the foot of the stairs as the gun slowly slid
from her hand and fell to floor with a thud. Clinging to her apron, a young
boy sobbed uncontrollably.


What the hell happened here?  It was only after the intial shock that
Skinner realized that some of the bodies were moving. Skinner quickly
located his wayward agents, and while he was relieved
that they were among those who were still alive, he was shocked by their
appearance.  Agent McGuire knelt beside Scully and gently cut away the duck
tape binding her wrists.  Skinner draped his jacket over Dana's shoulders
to cover what the shreds of her shirt did not, and he tried to avert his
eyes from the remainder of her torn clothing.  Recovering her senses, Dana
looked over at Mulder who was sprawled in an unnatural position about two
feet away from her.  "Mulder??" she asked hesitantly.


Skinner nodded in understanding and turned his attention to the slowly
moving form behind him, carefully cutting away the tape around wrists and
hands that had  nearly turned purple with lack of circulation.  He also
took note of the agent's condition, opting to leave him in the position he
was in until the paramedics got to him.  Skinner looked over his shoulder
and nodded to Scully. "Relax, he's alive.  Paramedics are here to take care
of him."


Reaching over toward the couch, Skinner retrieved an empty whiskey bottle
and studied it with curiosity.  He took one whiff and nearly dropped the
bottle.  He leaned over Mulder, placing his hand gently on his bare
shoulder, and stared into his slightly dazed, dilated pupils. "What
happened here, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked in mock sterness.


Mulder allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk up in an attempted grin.
"Gee, I guess he was pissed off cause I watered down the drinks," Mulder
whispered hoarsely before unconsciousness claimed him.


"Always a smartass," Skinner grinned, patting the shoulder gently before
leaving him to the paramedic who'd begun to treat him.


Margaret sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket that the EMTs had given her.
She was shivering violently, but not from the cold.  Skinner carefully sat
down beside her, silent for several minutes before venturing to speak.
"That was some shot, Mrs. Scully,"  he complimented with genuine
admiration.


"Margaret," she corrected him.  "My name is Margaret."  She stopped as
another shiver overtook her, and Skinner noticed that underneath the
far-away look in her eyes, there burned a bright,
angry fire, the same fire he'd seen in Scully's eyes from time to time.
Now he knew where she got it, not to mention the courage that seemed to run
in this family.  "The Captain was away a
lot," Margaret continued.  "He thought it was a good idea for me to learn
how to use a weapon.  I did." she stated matter of factly.


"Yes ma'am, you most certainly did," Skinner replied with a heartfelt smile.


He put the phone down and lit another cigarette, drawing the smoke down
deeply into his lungs.  Mitchell Tyler was dead, killed by one of the
lunatics he'd escaped with.  The autopsy would be botched, of course.  No
one would ever know the truth about Mitchell Tyler, but then again, no one
needed to know.  The experiment would not be repeated, at least not the
same exact experiment.  The right people knew not to try again.  As for the
rest of the world... what they
didn't know wouldn't hurt them.


He wondered if Mulder knew Mitchell Tyler's significance.  Maybe the man
had talked, had been coherent long enough to peek Mulder's interest.  He'd
find out soon enough, of that he had no doubt. He knew more about Mulder's
movements than the man did himself.


Strangely enough, he found he didn't care one way or the other whether
Mulder investigated Mitchell Tyler.  Even if Mulder was interested enough
to look into it, he would find no proof, no
answers to his questions.  And now there would be no one to help him.


He got up to get another beer from the fridge and allowed himself a small
moment of satisfaction.  Mitchell Tyler.  One more mess effectively, if not
efficiently, disposed of.  No regrets.

*******
end part nine





CHAPTER 10
Special Dispensation
EPILOGUE


"Oh, come on, Dana," Fox whined for the umpteenth time.   "Everybody's out
of here except me.   I've been stuck in this bed for three days with all
this crap hooked up to me.  I feel fine. I am fine.  Can I go now???"  Dana
didn't respond, just stood there gazing at him with those calm blue/grey
eyes of hers.  Well, I've got nothing to lose, he thought.  Might as well
keep going.  "And one other question..."  He lifted his right arm up
slightly until the clanging of metal on metal halted his motion. "Who in
the hell handcuffed me to the goddamn bed?"


"His eyebrow rose in suspicion as he looked at her.  "Halloween's over,
Dana.  Give me the key, okay?" he pleaded.


Dana calmly walked around the bed and sat down on its edge.  "First of all,
you're the only one of us who needed surgery.  Second, all that *crap* is
necessary to keep an eye on you or your doctor wouldn't have ordered it.
And third," she said, fingering the handcuff on his wrist, "I didn't cuff
you to the bed, although it's one hell of a good idea.  Let's just say that
the cuffer was a very tall distinguished man with a bald head and glasses."


"Skinner????!!!"  Mulder squeaked.


"Skinner," she confirmed.  "He muttered something about being tired of you
interfering with his workout schedule and for at least a few days, he'd
have some peace and quiet without having to wonder where in the hell you
were and what hospital to send all the damn insurance forms to," Dana said
with humor in her eyes.  She waited for Mulder to reply, but he was still
in shock at the idea that his *boss,* of all people, had chained him to the
bed.  How humiliating!
She was about to say something calculated to soothe his battered male ego
when she suddenly had that unsettling feeling of being watched.


"I really didn't expect to see you again quite so soon, my dear," a now
familiar voice admonished.


Startled by the unexpected visitor, Dana snapped her head up suddenly to
find that strange little man leaning nonchalantly against the hospital
green of the doorway.  For some reason she couldn't quite identify, he
always reminded her of a leprechaun in search of his pot o' gold... a very
wise leprechaun.


"Madam!!"  he looked at her indignantly.  "I have never been, nor shall I
ever be that mythological creature you so vividly picture in your very vast
imagination.  I may, however, audition for a part in Finnian's Rainbow,
should one ever become available.  Delightful play, don't you think?"


Dana snorted with amusement.  Where on earth did he come from?  She didn't
hear him arrive, but then, of course, she never did.  That particular
penchant of the man really irked Mulder, she thought with certain glee.


Their visitor strolled over to the bed and stopped, crossed his arms in a
judgmental manner, and moved one finger up to his chin.  "Oh, what now?"
Dr. Jay shook his head in disbelief, taking in the bruised and battered
young man occupying the bed in front of him.


Mulder rolled his eyes upward, and squirmed uncomfortably under Dr. Jay's
piercing gaze.  "It's not as bad as it looks," Mulder tried to explain.
"They're just over-reacting.  I don't know why they insisted on hooking up
this damn EKG thing anyway.  I'm fine," he insisted.


"Oh, stop complaining, they'll disconnect it and send you packing tomorrow,
so just try and be civil in the meantime," Dana lectured him.


A playful grin danced over Dr. Jay's face as he turned to Dana. "Can't you
even keep him out of trouble long enough for his wounds to heal properly?"
he inquired lightly.   "I'm going to have to invest in Bioepidermal
rejuvenator stock just to keep him supplied."  Dr. Jay pointed an accusing
finger at Mulder.  Caught again, Mulder thought, and he could only shrug
apologetically.


"Bio what?" Dana asked, her voice laced with curiosity.


"'Green Goo', to you, dear girl," Dr. Jay replied, slightly amused by the
fact that he had inadvertently made one of those ridiculous rhymes.  "Thank
the heavens this little escapade will only require a minor sliming," he
added with an exaggerated sigh as he walked gingerly over to the side of
the bed and seated himself on its edge.  Pulling his hands from his
pockets, he produced a small bottle with one hand and a capsule filled with
green powder with the other.


Mulder eyed the substances with apprehension.  "What is that stuff and who
exactly are you?  How did you get in here?  Where are you from and what's
your interest in me?"  Mulder had stopped momentarily to catch his breath
and open his mouth to begin yet another flurry of questions when Dr. Jay
raised one hand in a halting motion, physically silencing Mulder's voice.
Mulder looked at Dana and back at Dr. Jay, surprise written plainly on his
face.  One hand went to his neck, rubbing his throat in a vain attempt to
bring his voice back.


Dr. Jay tilted his head back toward Dana, who was staring at him in
open-mouthed shock.  How in the hell did he do that to Mulder?  And could
he teach her that little trick?  He raised one eyebrow in contention, then
looked back at Mulder.  "My dear boy, some questions are best left
unanswered, at least for the time being.  You just can't let sleeping dogs
lie can you?"  Dr. Jay said with a smile.  Mulder's eyebrows furrowed,
betraying his irritability at not being able to respond vocally.


Before Mulder could protest, Dr. Jay emptied the small capsule of powder
over the sutured gash in Mulder's head, then added several drops of liquid
from the bottle to the powder.


Dana watched in amazement as the substance took on the slimy 'living'
quality that she remembered from the last time she'd seen it.  The goo
attached itself to the injury on Mulder's head and split, slowly sending
green slimy tendrils inching their way down his face and neck.  Finally
they oozed beneath his hospital gown and targeted his other wounds, binding
themselves to the painful areas like a living green band aide. Mulder
gasped as his pain eased and a tingling sensation took its place, making
him itch.


Dr. Jay, noticing the distinct annoyance plastered all over Mulder's face,
stared directly into the young man's dark eyes and raised his hand once
more.


"Don't call me 'dear boy'.  I'm 34 years old for crying out loud!" Mulder
blurted out, astonished at the sound of his own voice.


Dr. Jay smirked.  "In comparison to me, you *are* a 'dear boy.'  Of course,
I could always just call you Fox," he threatened.


"How did you do that?" Mulder mumbled, his curiosity winning out over the
frustration he felt at being so efficiently silenced.


"Merely a simple useful technique," Dr. Jay informed him with a
distinctively sly expression.


Dana's gaze drifted over to Mulder and mischief filled her clear bright
eyes. "Dr. Jay, can you teach me how to do that?" she asked with a chuckle.


"Ha, ha, Dana. Very funny," Mulder replied with a full pout registering on
those very sexy lips.


Dr. Jay looked slightly confused.  "I should think that under the
circumstances, Fox...excuse me, Mulder...  you would be inclined to be a
little more cautious.  A great deal of responsibility will soon rest upon
your shoulders, young man."


Mulder stared at him in confusion before sending a questioning look to
Dana.  What responsibility?  She answered him with a shrug of her
shoulders.  "What the hell are you talking about, now?" Mulder asked,
clearly puzzled.


Dr. Jay turned to Dana.  "You haven't told him?" he asked bluntly.


"Told him (me) what?" Dana and Mulder questioned as one.


Dr. Jay was astounded.  "For the life of me, I cannot comprehend how your
species could be so... out of touch," he grumbled under his breath as he
turned to leave.  "Of course, *I* knew immediately when your..."  Dr. Jay
broke off his train of thought, realizing that he nearly had said too much.
Again.  A huge smile lit his distinguished features.  "Fox Mulder... Dana
Scully.  Be good to each other.  You're all that you have---for now."


"Now what's that supposed to mean?" Mulder snickered, looking up to find
himself talking to thin air.  "I wonder if he realizes how annoying that
is," Mulder grumbled.


Unable to resist a sudden urge, Dana reached out and stuck her finger in
the living green mass that throbbed on the side of Mulder's head.


One corner of Fox's mouth drew slowly upward, his face a study in patient
tolerance.  "Dana..." Mulder's soft voice entreated her.


"What?" Dana asked absently, preoccupied by the green substance that had
yet to disintegrate from her finger.  That's odd, she thought.  Last time
it disappeared immediately.  Finally she looked up to meet his eyes.


"Get your fingers out of my goo," Mulder chuckled softly.  "There are a lot
more interesting things to finger than green goo," he added with a lustful
leer.


"Ooooo, you must be feeling better," Dana purred.  She walked over to the
curtain that separated Mulder's bed from the rest of the room. "Show me...
if you're up to an inspection," she leered back while slowly pulling the
curtain closed.


Mulder leaned back and closed his eyes, gasping when he felt her touch.
"Uh, Dana? Those aren't your fingers," he panted heatedly a few moments
later.


"So now you're an anatomy expert?" came the muffled response.


"Oh, Lord, far be it for me to instruct a doctor in the fine points of
anatomy," he gasped.


A shrill, high pitch tone sounded throughout the room.  Worried faces
studied monitors, looking for the source of the sound.


"Flatline in room 402!!!" yelled the nurse at her station.  Crepe-soled
shoes hit the floor at a dead run.


Frantic whispers emanated from behind the sterile white curtain.


"Uh, oh,"  Mulder cringed.


"It was an accident, Mulder."


"Put it back, maybe they won't notice."


"Of course, they'll notice.  You just flatlined!!"


"But I'm not dead -- in heaven maybe --" he winked.  "But definitely not dead."


"Believe me, Mulder," she let her gaze drop. "I am very well aware of the
fact that you're not dead."


"Yeah, but they don't know that.  Is this it?" he asked, picking up the
remains of the diode from the bed.


"Give it here, Mulder."


"You don't have to get nasty."


"Oops!"


"What do you mean...oops?"


"I dropped it on the floor..."<crunch>  "Shit!!"


"Dana......" he chided with feigned shock.


"Sorry.  Let me do the talking."


"Think I'll let you do the talking.  This is one explanation I've got to hear."


"Shut up, Mulder."


Medical personnel rushed through the door, crash cart in tow just as Dana
stepped out from behind the curtain.


"False alarm," she yelled. "Everything's under control," she added quickly.
"He just rolled over and accidentally pulled the wires off."


Orderlies and technicians slowly left the room, all except for one nurse
who'd noticed the flush reddening Dana's cheeks and who'd taken the time to
peek behind the curtain.  "Dr. Scully," she
whispered in a conspiring tone, "perhaps you should finish what you started
before that poor man in there explodes," she giggled loudly.  "I'll
consider any further 'alarms' as null and void. Have fun."  The nurse's
laughter could be heard echoing all the way down the hall.  Dana stepped
back inside the privacy of the curtain.


She couldn't be certain, but a rough estimate told her that the tent he'd
pitched could probably house a family of five, along with a couple of dogs,
a cat, and a two car garage.  She smiled to herself.  Let's see what she
could do to break camp....


"Mulder?  Oh, my...." she sighed as she pulled back the sheets.


"Sorry..." he grinned sheepishly.


"For what?"


"Embarrassing you?"


"Mulder, do I look embarrassed?" she eyed him seductively.


Nope, he knew a wide variety of Dana Scully expressions and there was
definitely no embarrassment here.  Her mood was obvious.  It was as obvious
as the soft pair of lips that slowly caressed their way down his chest.
She trailed her tongue lightly around his scars as if she could kiss away
the pain, and she didn't even notice when a tendril of green entered her
mouth and slid softly down her throat.


Mulder's body trembled with anticipation.  He felt wonderful, invincible,
contented, and unbelievably happy.  Total euphoria exploded all at once in
mind, body, and soul as his love for this beautiful woman expressed itself
in physical terms as well.


"Mulder, are you all right?" she gasped, still trembling.


"Oh... boy!!!"  he managed in a breathy moan.  Trying to watch out for all
the wires still attached to his body, not to mention the damn handcuffs, he
moved to pull her into a tender embrace.


The night nurse coming on duty pointed frantically at the monitor.  "Nurse
Walden, there's a flatline in 402!!!"


Nurse Walden calmly looked at the screen and smiled. "At it again, are we?"
she murmured.  She turned to the night nurse.  "Don't worry about it, hon.
Believe me, that man is very much alive.  Besides, his personal physician
is there to jump start him if he needs it and she's extremely...
competent."  Nurse Walden giggled in spite of herself as she turned down
the monitor's volume and left for the night.


Dr. Jay felt their encounter in his mind and smiled.  Fox Mulder had
finally chosen wisely.  Dr. Jay wished that he could tell him more. But for
all his searching for the truth, Dr. Jay did not think that, in the end,
Fox could handle what the truth actually was.  It could possibly destroy
the young man's gentle spirit and faith in his beliefs. Dr. Jay would
willing give his life to prevent that from ever happening again.  Was this
the feeling known as... love?  It was an extremely enlightening emotion. No
wonder most humans spent an inordinate amount of time in search of it.


He congratulated himself on having introduced the adaptogen to Dana without
her knowledge.  It would help and protect her with what was to come.
Hopefully it would make things... normal. They were all his responsibility
now.


                                     FINE