From: sonny Date: Tue, 28 Sep 99 06:20:15 +1000 Subject: xfc: NEW Mind Games 4; The Engineer 1 of 7 Source: xfc From: sonny Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 1 of 7 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 1 Day 12 - Wednesday Seattle 7:50 a.m. "...just like that old movie," West continued, "Remember the look on Charlton Heston's face when he came down from Mount Sinai? Enrapturement is the best way I can describe it. Although Mulder had a tan and he didn't say anything about burning bushes," she added dryly. Smith shook his head and glanced sideways at his agnostic partner as she ate. "You're kidding, right?" West spread her toast. "You're not kidding..." West just shook her head. "Wait till you see him for yourself. I tell you, I always shook off those spooky stories. Even after the other night on the roof, I could come to grips with it, but this morning?" She shook her head again. "So did he say what had happened to him?" "Nope, just sat there with the biggest shit-eating grin you can imagine and told Scully he'd tell her later." "And she just accepted that?" "When I picked her up from the airport the other day, she said he had a whole repertoire of ditches. I think that one is a heretofore unknown species." ***************************************** He placed his hands on her shoulder, grinned beatifically in her face and replied, "Look Scully...I promise, I'll talk about it later, right now, I've got an idea about their location." "Mulder, you just disappeared for fifteen hours...we've got Seattle P.D. out looking for you, we've got agents..." "All right, well pull them in! Scully, we don't have time for this! They're going to take another kid today or tomorrow. Have they come up with a name yet?" Scully sucked in a deep breath, tucked her chin in and glared at her ridiculously healthy-looking partner. While she looked disheveled and baggy-eyed from lack of sleep and worry, he looked like he'd just stepped out of an advertisement for a two week cruise to the Caribbean. And for crying out loud, he looked...happy! How in hell did he do it? But Mulder at his most obtuse was a lost cause. Scully knew there were certain times in her partnership when she had to concede defeat to him. And this was one of them. But she *was* going to get some answers out of him. Eventually. "Okay, Mulder, let's go across to the operations room. They've covered a lot of territory and we've an 8 a.m. with the team leaders." Scully pulled her lips to one side in annoyance as he gave her one last million dollar smile and strode jauntily...yep, that was definitely the word, she thought, out the door. ******************************************* Day 13 - Thursday Central Hotel, Seattle >From the journal of Crystal Palmer Dad's on top of the moon, but he's also feeling somewhat guilty. I keep telling him its not blood money, but he's a bit manic-depressive over it. The mortgage was paid off last week and the hotel and, well, everything, right down to the plate warmers, is finally his and his alone. It's due mostly to having the FBI here for so long. As Dad said, even if they solved the crime and all checked out tomorrow, the contract states two months notice. Being a businessman's hotel, we'll be up to our usual seventy to eighty percent capacity within two weeks, despite being off line for so long. Anyway, Dad has always kept the hotel in top condition, that's why it's run so well for so long. But now he can afford to get in another manager and additional staff. He'll do it once the FBI leave. We could do it now, of course, but they'd have to run background checks and, well, with just the nine of us it's okay. And I really think Dulcie should be put out to pasture. She won't know what to do with herself so she'll want to work, but Dad agrees with me, she deserves a rest. Dad's talking about taking time off himself, too. I'd like that. I'd like him to meet a nice woman and have a fling. I know that sounds odd coming from a daughter, but he is only fifty four and he looks a lot younger. Of course he laughs when I tell him that, and I see the pain in his eyes because he sure as hell misses Mom, even after seven years. I'm still not certain which way I want to jump on this. I had numerous companies ready to take me on, but didn't feel willing to make a hard commitment until my doctorate was official. I'd pretty well decided pure research is not my forte, at least for the moment, nor is academia, so that cuts out the various teaching, post doctoral and research positions. That narrowed the field by about sixty percent. Big multinational corporations don't really grab me either. Dad is keen to have me stay close, of course. At the same time he pointed out that I was about to begin my life again, after having it derailed seven years ago, well, twelve years ago if you count one failed marriage. But I don't really think that way. They were periods in my life and I enjoyed them even if they ended badly. After seeing some of the victims' families here, and seeing the harshness of lives and learning about the marriage break-ups of these guys, my life hasn't been bad, just interesting. Dad told me I should seriously consider moving to a different part of the country and start fresh, really fresh. Make new friends, start a new career, take up a safer sport than cycling -- as if! And find a man to keep my bed warm. That's my Dad, he might be Greek, but he's a pragmatist. So I made the appointments in Chicago, D.C. and New York. They looked the best, by far. They're crammed into less than a week but that suits my budget fine. I'd like the chance to look around and see if I'd like living east, but I don't think I'll have that luxury. I was reluctant to leave until the FBI finished here. I suppose it's because I've come this far with them, it's like going to a ball game and leaving ten minutes before the final. And because it leaves Dad short staffed by one. But he was keen to see me get moving on the offers, so I'm off tomorrow. I don't owe anything to the finance companies anymore, but I also own little except a few leftover mementos from our marriage, a couple of good bikes and some average clothes. It will be nice to start afresh, with money of my own. And the offers on the table are financially attractive, to say the least. Mulder and Scully came in for lunch on Tuesday, but she didn't stay. She was on her mobile phone just as I came down to take over from Gemma. The place was pretty well deserted, and Gemma told me most of them had asked for lunch to be delivered to their work stations. Something big was obviously afoot. Mulder came over to the bar and had his lunch there. He actually ate a decent meal for once. In fact he looked better than I'd seen him in days. That...thing...that happened to him the previous night seemed to have left him for now. We talked for a bit, then he mentioned that idiot newspaper headline. I was surprised, but by the way he talked, got the feeling he wanted to hear my take on it. I couldn't say, of course, that I was the last person to ask because I'd been made privy to what really happened to him, so I told him the other truth. "I read Skinner's press release and I think it effectively squashes anyone stupid enough to lend weight to it. Right about now I think Freddie Baxter will be on paper clip duty." He looked at me blankly. "Fred Baxter is the idiot that wrote that byline. How he convinced even his boss to a front page headline as asinine and ignorant as that I can only speculate, but the afternoon papers will be so full of that stuff you've given them, this," I gestured to a copy of the paper under the bar, "Will be relegated to page 183 of the National Enquirer." "The National Enquirer is not that thick." "Exactly." He grinned at me. Boy, I would do a lot to see that grin more often. We talked for a bit and he asked me the weirdest questions. Did I know anything about mythological creatures like, for example, flying horses and where could he buy a map of the eastern parts of Seattle? I wasn't going to even try and speculate how those two items fitted in that convoluted mind of his, so I rummaged around and gave him a couple of online addresses. They've got big printers across the road so he could print out reasonable scale maps there. About 4 p.m. I heard he'd gone missing. There was something close to panic around here. I think after the press leaked his name, there was a feeling that the suspects might have killed him. Skinner spent a good part of the night in and out of here. I can't honestly remember what we talked about, but it covered a lot of ground. I think he just needed to get his mind off Mulder's disappearance. I had a lot of trouble figuring out what I should call him. A.D. didn't quite cut it and sir might have worked if I'd remained just a hotel staff member. But we'd developed something a little beyond that. Walt reminded me of Disney and Walter, or heaven forbid, Wally?...No, no way. Mr. Skinner? Nobody called him that and it seemed as formal as sir. In the end I settled on Skinner. He looked like a Skinner. Well, more than he looked like a Wally. What the hell, most of the agents around here call each other by their last names, it didn't seem out of place. Next morning, Mulder shows up looking like he'd been on vacation in Bermuda for about two weeks. Goddamned spooky, really! He looked fit and healthy and sported a tan! But the weirdest of all was that he just appeared. I mean, just seemed to appear out of thin air. Scully and West were parked at a gas station out east. They'd found his car abandoned the night before in the same area. Scully had this idea he had gone off searching for particular kind of barn. This was after I'd told them what he'd asked me. Anyway, next thing, poof, Mulder's in the back seat, a bit dazed and no memory of how he'd gotten there. Their first thought was that he had hared out again and just lost track of time, saw the car and wandered across and got in. But West insists nobody got in the car. She had not had her back turned as she pumped gas. Scully had gone to the ladies' room, so Scully's convinced West she must have missed it when she was paying the bill. But I don't buy it. I can't see West making a mistake like that. Besides, he looked far too healthy. I was cleaning the rooms opposite Skinner's that morning. I hate being privy to someone's private conversation, but Skinner just about tore strips off Mulder for his Houdini act. He demanded a full explanation of where in hell Mulder had been. I didn't catch much of Mulder's reply because he was a lot calmer than Skinner, but he said something about being unable to fully recall. Skinner answered that Mulder had gotten away with far too many unexplained disappearing acts and breaches of protocol in the past, taking up FBI and SPD manpower that were desperately overworked as it was, and so on. I wanted to leave the room and come back later, but I'm ashamed to admit, I was just as curious as everyone else over Mulder's disappearance. After a few minutes of this tirade, I could tell Skinner wasn't so much angry as frustrated...and relieved and the conversation, by necessity, turned to the profiling aspects of the case. The whole thing sure as hell enhanced Mulder's Spooky reputation. I'm pretty certain the matter would have been examined more thoroughly, but the fact was, it blew over fast because by then, they had a very, very short list of suspects and had started pulling in the net. And that's when things really began to heat up. Later that morning I helped the technicians flown in from D.C. to work through some of the bugs in their antiquated systems. They complained that this was nothing like the stuff they had to work with at home, then spent most of the time sending stuff back to D.C. That made sense, sheesh. I spent most of mine making sure no glitches held up the transfer of data. It was scud work, I know 12-year-olds who could do it, but the point was, I had the time now, and these guys had more important things to do. The tension had gone through the roof, although everyone was happier now Mulder was back. I'm not so sure if it was because they were glad to see him, or thankful they could walk anywhere within fifty feet of Scully without having their balls retreat into their throats. They continued to talk freely around me. I know they weren't supposed to, but I would never betray their trust. They were narrowing the field down and it all seemed to be coming to a head, so I didn't feel so bad when I told them I was off the next day. I think it suddenly hit a few of the techs who'd been there a while that I was an unpaid volunteer, so they bought me a farewell bottle of champagne and all signed a card. They made me promise I'd visit them if I was still in the D.C. area when they got home. It was nice, really nice of them and for the first time, I thought I'd miss them. Skinner came down about midnight. I had only started my shift a few minutes before and it crossed my mind that his arrival might have been planned. It always seemed to work that way. But I shook that off as plain silly. None of them have time to scratch themselves at the moment, certainly not the A.D. I'd come to enjoy these late night sessions with him. By then, we were like old friends. He asked me if he could get something to eat, so I handed him the menu and told him he could have anything he wanted. He ordered a steak with heaps of mushrooms and onions and black pepper and garlic sauce and a big salad. He followed me to the kitchen and we talked all over the place while I made him dinner. Very casual, very domestic. It was easy to forget for a while why he was there. I broke my own rules and agreed to share a half bottle of red wine with him while he ate. The restaurant was surprisingly empty and he said it was because things were getting very close and everyone had been told to get a good night's sleep. I asked what about him and he replied he never followed his own rules. Besides, he'd manage to get five straight hours that afternoon. A few nights back I found myself talking about career options. I hadn't meant to, but he's a good cop. He asked a few questions and next thing you know, I'm spilling it all. I said detectives probably made the best lovers because they knew how to listen. He laughed then. Honestly laughed. I'd never seen him do that before and he looked fantastic. His whole face just came alive and his cheeks actually reddened. It was just wonderful. Best of all, the laughter stayed in his eyes for a long time. I suppose I'd taken for granted he knew I was leaving for D.C. in a few hours. But of course he didn't. Stupid assumption on my behalf. It's not like he discusses such things with the technicians and other agents. But I was a bit taken back by the look on his face when I said something about catching up with sleep on the plane. "You're flying somewhere?" "D.C., job interviews." He actually stopped chewing and blinked at me. "I didn't realize." I chuckled, hiding my own surprise. "Why would you?" I went on to tell him how the guys across the road had given me the champagne and how sweet I thought they were. He had pretty well finished by then and pushed his plate aside. "How long are you going down for?" "A week. I'm stopping in Chicago on the way, I have five interviews there late today and Friday, then on to D.C. I'd like to stay two or three weeks, to get a feel for the area, but I can't afford to live in hotels, even at industry rates, until I'm a wage earner again." I grinned. He asked me where I was staying and I replied. He sort of grimaced and I said, well, that was my budget. Then he looked thoughtful for a moment and promptly floored me. "You can stay in my apartment if you like. I won't be getting back to D.C. until this is over and as much as I'd like to think that will be within a week, I doubt it. Even if I do, it's a big place and I'm rarely there." I must have looked as shocked as I felt so he added "Frankly, you'd be doing me a favor. It's a secure building but I don't like leaving the place empty for long and after ten days, the plants start dying." I really didn't know what to say. I was a perfect stranger and here he was offering me his apartment. Okay, sure, he knew my background and that I was circumspect, but still, it was his home and he was an assistant director with the FBI. Oh, boy, how do I say no? Then I thought, why should I say no? He was just a man, someone I might have called a friend if the circumstances had differed. Then it struck me that for someone like this, when would the circumstances be different? When he was out dinner partying and playing politics? Were those people friends or necessary professional acquaintances? I had, over the course of a short, intense and painful week, developed a friendship with this man. And to be honest, felt more than a little attracted to him. The silence stretched a bit but before it became embarrassing I replied "That's very generous of you, but you really don't know me that well and I..." "I know you." That's it. That's all he said, but I could see it in his eyes. He trusted me. And for the second time that week I felt both humbled and honored. By saying no I would be throwing something far more than just the offer of a clean bed back in his face, I would be repudiating his trust. I smiled and said "I'd be very grateful...but you may have to kick me out because if I decide anything while I'm there, negotiations may drag out." He grinned. It was almost as good as his laugh. I'm sure few if any of the agents had ever seen that grin and I found myself with one more reason to hope this case finished soon. "I'll call my building manager and get him to let you in. There are spare keys and security codes with him. What time does your flight get in?" "Five thirty tomorrow evening." "Fine, I'll have a car pick you up and..." "Whoa!" I put my hand up and laughed, "You don't have to do that! I can catch a cab." He looked at me with a peculiar expression then said in an uncompromising voice "I believe the FBI owes you considerably more than a cab fare for the assistance you have given us." I think my face must have dropped a little because suddenly his offer seemed less personal. And I don't know why it should have but it saddened me. Before I could comment, he put his hand on mine and added gently, "But the apartment is mine, not the FBI's." And so help me I actually blushed. When I thought about it later, my reaction had been pretty stupid because Skinner *was* the FBI. Everything he did and said and touched and breathed was as much FBI as Skinner. There was no distinction and if I was to respect that friendship, I had to reconcile that right now. Fortunately, he didn't see the blush because Mulder interrupted us. Skinner nodded a good night and left with him. Mulder smiled at me in recognition, said good morning and wished me luck in D.C. That floored me. Floored Skinner, too. "Thanks," I replied. "And good luck to you guys...Not that you'll need it. The way you're going you'll have them nailed before I get back." Mulder smiled. "I wish!" I often think about Mulder when I make a wish now. ****************************** End Chapter 1 The Engineer Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 2 of 7 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated R ********************* CHAPTER 2 Day 14 - Friday FBI Headquarters - Seattle 11:50 p.m. Mulder bit a sunflower seed between his teeth as he half- listened to the briefing. Scully stood close to him, her hip touching his upper thigh. She leaned more heavily into him as two additional men entered, crowing a room already overflowing with bodies, tension and excitement. None of them had expected the situation to develop this rapidly, but now, with a child's life at stake, they had no choice. Mulder normally took his partner's proximity for granted, but as his senses were heightened for the coming raid, so he became acutely aware of the press of her body, her unique scent, the texture of her soft hair. The new kevlar jacket bulked her out disproportionately. Although they came in various sizes, the manufacturers had not considered frames as small as Scully's. He glanced down at her affectionately as she nudged him in the ribs for his constant, irritable cracking. He found one of her hands with his and tried to pour some of the seeds in, but she rolled her eyes in displeasure. God, he loved teasing her, she was so easily baited in a nice, Scully way. Skinner finished up quickly and agents and SWAT team members exited the room. Six hours previously they had names, a possible location and what they'd hoped would be at least three or four days to verify and cross check everything. They wanted the entire team caught up in one net. By then, Mulder was certain of five perpetrators. They had the names of two -- Sarah Jefferson and Steve Baxter. Their known associates -- Adam James and Jacob Milner -- were also high on the list of suspects,. James was a definite hit. He was known as dickless by those who'd known him in San Diego, because he lacked certain physical attributes. He also fitted Mulder's profile like a glove. These then, were their four primary suspects involved in the abduction, rape, murder and dismemberment of dozens of children. Mulder had written an in-depth profile on what he said was the fifth man, the wealthy client who liked to watch. At this stage, Mulder's biggest fear was that the net would close too soon to capture this fifth man. "Mulder..." Skinner made the younger agent wait up. "You know we can't risk leaving it any longer. Another day, another few hours..." Skinner did not have to elaborate. The child, a 10-year-old boy name Geoff Murphy, had not arrived home from school that afternoon. In what amounted to a real break, one of his friends told them that about a week before he'd seen Geoff talking to a woman with some fingers missing from one of her hands. When shown a picture of Sarah, the witness' eyes had lit up. Yep, that was the woman. It was not definite that their suspects had abducted Geoff, but the coincidence was too chilling to ignore. Mulder had flown across the farm in a helicopter just after dark. Night vision goggles limited his perception, but he knew. Christ, he knew. The minute the chopper flew across the trees he'd ordered the pilot to veer away. Although the chopper, at 3,000 feet at 8:30 p.m., was unlikely to alert the suspects, Mulder was taking no chances. That was the farm. There was the barn he had almost leaped from in his empathic mirroring with Rod Fowler, whose dismembered body had been discovered that morning. It was tearing at Mulder, and Skinner knew it. Mulder wanted then to wait. He was convinced the fifth man, the client, would arrive before...shit... Mulder also knew that if Adam James was at the farm, once the boy arrived, he wouldn't wait. It was possible, no, more than possible -- likely -- that James had already sexually assaulted the boy. Only Sarah could control James and there was no guarantees she was at the farm, either. "Sir, this is a wild pig shoot. We're going in blind. All we know is that the farm is occupied by an unknown number of suspects who may be armed to the teeth. For all we know the entire place is booby trapped. We don't even know for sure they have the boy there!" Scully touched her partner's arm, sympathizing with his plight. Skinner nodded his agreement. "Yet, we can't wait." Mulder sighed and nodded. Shit. They approached in teams of four. Three teams had been designated around the perimeter, searching for possible entrances to underground bunkers. There had been momentary panic when a dog began barking. A silenced bullet ceased the animal's alarm and Mulder cursed. Fuck it! They had needed time to find all this shit out! Dogs! How many? Goddamn the unanswered questions starting to pile up in his brain as he approached the barn with his team. He knew this building. He'd been inside before. Would they keep young Geoff in here half frozen to death as they had Rod Fowler? Had Geoff already been sodomized by that bastard and now lay huddling in a corner, terrified as well as freezing? Or would he take Rod's way out and try to kill himself after the first assault, knowing the second would be more brutal, wondering if he, too, would be cut into small pieces? Scully motioned her side was clear. He waved for Murdoch to go ahead. In moments they were hidden among the shadows along the side of the barn. But if someone in the house threw on an outdoor light, their footprints would be clearly visible in the fresh snow. Fuck it, they had to get in fast. He could just make out a dark shape, then another near the back door of the large farmhouse. Scully motioned again; they'd gained entrance to the barn. Circle, cover, watch your back. Yeah, he knew this place. He could recall the smell now. Acidic, caustic like industrial strength detergents. Bleach. He blinked, clearing away the memories. Stop, listen. A whimper? Motion to Murdoch, yeah, he heard it too. Where was Scully? Okay, yep, up the ladder but it exposes her to strong moonlight. Of all the fucking times for the weather to be clear, and an almost full moon hanging two thirds the way up the sky. Yeah, yeah, that was definitely a whimper. Gunshots echoed from a hundred meters away. He caught Henderson's eye in the dark. No. Stay. We find the boy first. A scream "No..! Please, I promise...I'll do whatever you want, just don't...don't cut me." "Team leader, this is Mulder," he whispered quietly, "We have at least one, repeat one, suspect holding the boy inside the barn." "Copy, Mulder." Some miles away, an intrepid police groupie had been listening avidly to what the Seattle P.D. jokingly thought was a secure radio channel. He picked up his telephone and dialed the local news service. The 200-buck finder fee would be a nice little bonus for the weekend's fun. Scully froze on the ladder, then dropped quietly back down and moved into the shadows as a second voice echoed through the barn. "Shut the fuck up! Something's wrong and we're gonna see what it is." But Jacob Milner had caught sight of movement on the ladder. And it sure weren't no rat, it was too big for that. "Who's there? Is that you, Steve? What's going on?" No answer, although Scully roundly cursed herself for being seen. Mulder pointed to Henderson to cover the main doors. He remembered the barn had a second entrance on the far side and he motioned for Murdoch to cover the back part of the huge barn, indicating with his hands a second door. The two men separated and became invisible in the dark as a passing cloud briefly covered the moon. More gunshots sounded from the house, now followed by shouts and screams. Scully stood in shadow beneath the ladder. "What the fuck is going on?" Milner cried, "Who's there?" Silence. Mulder glanced at his watch, it was almost dawn. "Fuck it! Answer me or I'll slit the kids throat!" "Noooo...please mista!" Sounds of squirming and crying and grunting, a heavy slap "No shut up, ya little shit, before I use this to shut ya up!" Wracking sobs, slowing. "Now answer me! I know ya down there! I want to know what the fuck's going on or I'll pig stick him!" Mulder motioned for Scully to answer. Then he took off into the shadows. She looked at him mutely, but there was no time for an explanation now. "This is the FBI, sir, please leave the boy and come on down." "Fuck! Fucking cunt! What do you mean, what the fuck do you want?" "We'd just like you to come down so we can talk to you!" "Yeah? So you and your buddies can shoot me? Fuck, what's going on over in the house, what's all the shooting?" Mulder heard his partner's gentle voice try to pacify the man he was sure was Milner, but he knew he had only minutes, perhaps less, before Milner panicked and killed Geoff. Jacob Milner was weak, like Adam James. He would need Steve Baxter to guide him. As if to emphasize Mulder's thought, Milner asked where Steve was. Scully tried to tell him if he's just come down, she'd take him to Steve. By now, Scully would have heard through her ear implant, as Mulder had, that Sarah Jefferson, Adam James and Steve Baxter were dead. Two agents were down, Jawolski and Myers and an unnamed SPD officer. And the barn was being surrounded by dozens of law enforcement officers. Mulder moved out the door and caught Skinner's bulky shape in the pre-dawn light. "Sir!" "Talk to me." "He's in the loft, holding the boy. Scully's trying to talk him down but she won't do any good. Delay at best...I have to get up there." "We'll send a couple of the SWAT guys," "Sir, I know the layout, I'm the only one who knows exactly how to get in and stay hidden." Skinner glared at him. He might be FBI, but in unarmed combat, the SWAT team members were better. "Sir there is no more *time*!" Skinner nodded and explained the situation in his mike. It would be relayed to the backup teams and EMT's on standby. Mulder glanced up at the window. All he needed was a boost up. "Sir?" Skinner cupped his hands and hoisted the much lighter man. Mulder stepped on his shoulder while four or five agents and SWAT team members came around, keeping to the shadows. Skinner cursed lightly and Mulder apologized, thinking he might have kicked his A.D. in the head, but as he looked down, he heard in his earpiece. "Media's here." Shit! How did they find out? Mulder ignored it and reaching up with both hands, grasped the window frame and pulled himself up until he could look inside. No sign of Milner. Okay. He lowered himself down for a moment then used momentum to pull himself all the way up onto the ledge. Fragments of glass stick stuck out from the long broken window, but Mulder eased quietly over them and inside. Scully was telling Milner she would go outside and find Steve and bring him back. "Don't you trick me you cunt! I'm giving you two minutes and that's it! I wanna know what all the shooting was about!" He all but screamed the last words. Good. It gave Mulder a location. Around there in the next corner. Excellent. Milner had his back to Mulder, but he held the boy in front of him. Not good. If Mulder shot him without warning, the bullet would likely go through him and into the boy. He had to get them separated. Mulder kept to the wall and approached closer, but his foot caught on a piece of machinery buried amongst the accumulated filth. Milner turned, "What the fuck! Who are you?" In his stupid fear he had let the boy go, swung on Mulder and dived at the agent. Mulder still could not fire his weapon because the boy, tall for his age remained directly behind the Milner, now only a few feet away. A bullet to the torso would go right through them both. A bullet to the head then, but Mulder couldn't see in the dark shadows. He simply could not risk the shot. Mulder blocked the tackle, but it was too late. Jacob Milner was a big man, bigger than Skinner and just as muscular. He knew he was dead and he lashed out at Mulder, a blood lust overtaking him, determined to kill. Determined to see and touch and taste blood one last time. He lunged past Mulder's defenses, slamming the blade into the agent's throat. Mulder thought he'd been punched and fell back with it, to lessen the blow. If he hadn't, the knife would have plunged through into his spinal column. As it was he simply staggered backwards then countered with a violet twisting kick that should have felled the bigger man. In his peripheral vision Mulder could see shapes swarming up the ladder, but he was too busy trying to avoid the flashing blade of the knife. He was also slightly annoyed that he couldn't seem to breathe properly and his throat seemed oddly congested. The pain of the punch had not yet registered but a small part of his brain wondered if his throat had been damaged from the blow. "Freeze!" The oddly powerful voice of his partner penetrated the loud scuffles and shouts from down below. But Milner was incapable of anything but completing the kill. He lashed out at Mulder, who, stepping back, tripped on a bundled rope. As he fell, he saw the blade slash at him and this time he felt the sharp sting and well of blood. But the fall, moving him out of effective range, saved his life. Scully fired an instant later, splattering Mulder with blood and bone and gray matter as Miller's body hit the floor with a resounding thunk. Mulder went to curse in pain, but his mouth filled with blood. Panic clawed at him as he found he could not draw air. Scully was by his side in an instant, telling him to lie still while the EMT's came. "They're just outside, they'll be here in a sec, Mulder are you injured anywhere else?" As compared to what? He thought. My fucking throat's cut and I can't breathe, isn't that enough? Scully's eyes widened at his frantic motion to stand. He pushed her out of the way and staggered into the dawn light now shining through the window. A small part of his mind thought well, at least if you're gonna die, it's a pretty nice sunrise to take with you. Scully immediately grasped what the problem was, "Mulder sit down! Your trachea's probably damaged, we need to get your airway open!" No shit, Dr. Watson. He put his hands to his throat as he staggered and sat, trying to find what he knew must be happening, life blood pumping out through his carotid. Scully brushed his hands aside. "It's not that bad Mulder, stop fighting me! You're not going to bleed to death but you may pass out from lack of oxygen before we can clear the passageway. Now just lay down and let me have a look!" Easy for you to say. His body was panicking now. What drives us to breathe is not, as most people assume, the need for oxygen, it is the need to clear our bodies of poisonous carbon dioxide. Additionally, lack of breathing will eventually lead to oxygen starvation, causing the victim to pass out. However in the time frame between CO2 buildup ordering the body to breathe and oxygen-deprived fainting, the human body will flail about desperately, seeking a way to breathe. Mulder knew that he had to lie still in order for Scully to save him, but it fought against every human instinct in him to...to what? His logical brain asked him. The EMTs arrived in seconds. He heard Scully telling them what to do, but his brain screamed at him so loudly he could hardly hear. Then intense pain as someone pulled the grotesque lips of his wounded neck and trachea apart and plunged a tube down his throat. Oh God! Blessed air! They connected him to on oxygen unit immediately. He really didn't need it, just the mere fact of being able to breathe again was the most phenomenal sensation he could imagine. He closed his eyes a moment, then opened them as Scully asked if he was hurt anywhere else. He blinked as he realized the back of his head actually hurt more than his throat. So he tried a small grin and winked at his partner. Scully allowed herself to calm down. He would be all right. This time. But, Jesus, how many lives did he have left? **************************************** End Chapter 2 The Engineer Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 3 of 7 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated R ********************* CHAPTER 3 DAY 15 - Saturday Crystal City, Virginia >From the journal of Crystal Palmer I really had no idea what to expect in a successful professional Washington bachelor's apartment. Being chauffeured from the airport by a FBI driver was one thing, then the building manager's polite, downright gracious treatment was something else again. But when I stepped foot into Skinner's apartment I was not pleasantly surprised. I was delighted. I suppose one's expectations are bound to be clichd, even if I hadn't decided what a cliche would look like. Certainly neat and modern, but light, airy and casually comfortable was not it. No dark walnut roll top desks, no black leather lounges. Nope, Skinner had elegant and practical taste. And not a bargain basement piece in sight. The building manager had been in earlier and made sure the heat was on, so I stripped off my overcoat and explored. After a quick once over I went upstairs. Two bedrooms, one clearly his and the other clearly unprepared for guests. That made me feel better. Everything about him was just a little too neat and tidy for a bachelor. The guest room was not exactly a mess, but would need twenty minutes work to make tidy and make livable. I had to go through his bedroom closet to find spare sheets, although there were plenty of pillows and blankets in the guest room. I have absolutely no inclination to rummage through people's closets. It's one thing I really hated about cleaning in the hotel. You're invading the personal space of strangers and it makes you feel unpleasantly voyeuristic. But I couldn't stop peeking a bit at Skinner's things. I told myself if he had anything serious to hide, he would never have invited me to stay. Anyway, it was just a quick look, just to see the man beneath the suit. Yep, there was. Casual jeans, some pretty old and worn. Pure wool sweaters and expensive, casual shirts. He had simple, good taste. I closed the door quickly, already feeling a little guilty for lingering. Chicago had been a nightmare. No way could I live there or work with those people. But timing my arrival in D.C. on a Friday night, at the same time as every other damned inbound and outbound commuter flight, was a major blunder. Baggage collection had been the usual interminable nightmare and I reminded myself to thank Skinner big time, for having a car waiting. Cabs were like hens teeth. My prospective employees worked seven day weeks, so I'd organized interviews over the weekend. I had a few more on Monday in D.C., then the remainder in N.Y. on Tuesday and Wednesday. It was a tight schedule but I'd planned it that way to get my head inside the whole thing and make a decision without vacillating. If all went well, I'd be down to two or three choices and could go home, let them rummage around in my mind and one would pop out the clear winner. I hadn't had much sleep the previous night. Lumpy mattress, neon lights outside the window and disappointment that once promising jobs turned out to be flops. By the time I'd stacked a few files and cases out of the way and made the bed in Skinner's spare room, all I wanted was to shower and sleep. There was only one bathroom and it was fairly neat and tidy. Not so clean as to inspire paranoia, but a hell of a lot better than most bachelor bathrooms I'd been in. For starters, apart from one sorry looking fern, there were no undiscovered life forms peeking through insalubrious cracks. I cheered up the plant by producing lots of nice steam, then hit the bed for an amazing, at least for me, ten hours straight sleep. The following two days were a blur of hand shakes and artificial smiles, endless cups of coffee and getting to know you interviews. I got lost. Twice. And splurged huge amounts of money on cabs to the far reaches of rural Columbia. Staying at Skinner's meant the budget was well under track, so I stopped berating myself and took in some of the scenery. One good thing, D.C. seems to understand cyclists' needs better than Seattle. Not exactly the number one reason for living somewhere, but high on my priority list. By Saturday night, I had smiled myself out and sat tiredly curled up on Skinner's cream-colored couch with a thick company prospectus in hand. I'd managed to find a gym on the way home, having carried some stuff with me, just in case. I'm the sort of person that gets very antsy after a few days, especially days like the last three, unless I can work it out. A lot of the agents back in Seattle couldn't figure out why Mulder needed to run in all weather. Despite the odd hours, I knew, I get the same way unless I can ride. And no bike means running -- not an attractive prospect in a strange city at night, so I'd settled on a gym. So there I was post shower, wrapped in Skinner's unbelievably comfortable bathrobe, turbaned hair and not a scrap of makeup, when I heard the front door open. I just about jumped out of my skin as two big burly black clad figures came in. I'm not a small person. I stand five ten in bare feet and weigh one hundred and thirty. I'm no Barbie doll, that's for sure. Well, yeah, my legs are long, but I'm essentially an athlete. That's how I put myself through college as an undergraduate. I just missed out on the Olympic cycling team way back when, and have never given it up. But these guys were big, muscle and bone big, not overweight big and I felt very vulnerable and small in my undressed state until I saw who it was. Then I just felt like an idiot. The only saving grace was the priceless look on the other agent's face. If I hadn't been so embarrassed myself, I would have laughed. As it was, all I wanted to do was explain why in hell I was wearing Skinner's bathrobe. Not much you can really say in a situation like that, but I managed to compound my idiocy with an utterly brilliant observation. "You're back!" Skinner offered me a quick smile and hello, turned to the other agent and thanked him for helping with his bags. He introduced us but offered no explanation, then simply said to the other man, "I'll see you in the morning." "Yes, sir, good night sir, good night Dr. Palmer, nice to meet you." Make no mistake, those "sirs" were quite emphatic. "Good night, Agent Rostler." Then he was gone. Meanwhile, Skinner had pulled off his coat and loosened his tie. He looked like a man who desperately needed a drink. "Scotch or tequila?" was all I could think to say as I stood up and headed for the kitchen. He snorted a dry laugh and looked up at me. "That obvious, huh?" "I bought some Cointreau and limes. I might be of Greek descent but I make a mean margarita." "As long as it comes in an 8-ounce glass." "That bad, huh?" He shrugged, sat down heavily and laid his head back. A few minutes later I handed him a large, salt-rimmed brandy glass. I made a much smaller one for myself. He must have heard me coming because he sat up, opened his eyes and took the drink from me. I wasn't sure what to say, so started by apologizing for pilfering his bath robe. "It's just so much thicker and warmer than mine. See what you let yourself in for when you have house guests like me?" His face screwed up as he took a long sip of his drink and he replied. "Keep making margaritas like than and you can be my house guest anytime." He twisted the rim slightly to lick the salt, took another drink, closed his eyes and let it slide down his throat. I make a mean belly-warming brain-numbing drink and if he hadn't eaten on the plane, I knew it would already be having an effect. He opened his eyes, looked at me then said, "It's over." "What?" I was stunned. I mean I'd been on the hop for three days and hadn't heard a scrap of news or seen a headline. I glanced at my watch, looked across at the television and flicked my eyes to him. His eyebrows indicated yes, so I turned it on, channel-surfed until I found a news cast and lo and behold, there was Skinner giving a press briefing. Before I had a chance to adjust the volume, the image changed to a scene outside a farmhouse with a barn in the background. There were flashing lights and paramedic vehicles and police cars and SWAT teams and FBI jackets crawling all over the place. "In a dawn raid on a farmhouse just outside Seattle SWAT teams and FBI combined with local police, swooped in on..." Swooped in on? I thought, who writes this crap? "...the house of the primary suspects in what has become know as the Seattle Line Killings. Following the arrival of one of the FBI's crack profilers on the case, Special Agent Fox Mulder," here they inserted a photo of Mulder that would have had top modeling agencies vying for him, "...and forensic pathologist Special Agent Dana Scully," another modeling agency photo "...a case that had become all but deadlocked until two weeks ago was cracked wide open. The dawn raid led to a shootout resulting in the deaths of all four suspects..." "Oh, shit..." I muttered as I watched the controlled pandemonium on screen. "Yep, a real rat fuck." Skinner muttered. "...two FBI agents and a police officer were killed and three injured, including the FBI's profiler Fox Mulder..." "Oh, no..." I put my hand to my mouth as FBI agents and paramedics carried a stretcher towards the camera. A saline drip and a flash of Scully's distinctive red hair came into view, then her anguished face, then Mulder's face, neck swaddled in bandages with a tube sticking out. They carried him past the camera and into the ambulance. I kept watching the unfolding scene but turned the volume down and looked at Skinner, suddenly fearful of what he was going to say. He saw my face and knew immediately. "He's okay. Caught a knife in the throat. Won't be able to talk for a couple of weeks but I don't know that's a bad thing, keep him out of trouble." I closed my eyes, feeling tears prick them. It wasn't like I'd known them that well. I think part of it was me feeling guilty at how much I'd resented their presence when they'd been prepared to put themselves on the line to protect us from such monsters. And now three of them were dead. Shit. It hurt. The only saving grace was that Mulder would be all right. Skinner's eyes were still closed so I turned off the television and sat quietly for a few minutes. He'd finished the drink, so I reached for his glass to top it up. Our hands touched and his eyes flew open and pierced me. There are certain moments in time we are destined never to forget. Profound moments when words are useless, but meaning is thick and heavy in the air. At that moment I saw in Skinner a raw need, a desire that was almost staggering in its intensity. My own emotions were more than a little raw and I knew, we both knew, that all it would take would be a blink to set it off. An intense wave of desire flooded me, a need to give and also take solace in this mans arms. Despite every nerve in me screaming, I knew it was wrong. Oh I'm not against a roll in the hay for fun, or in this case because two human beings just needed a little comfort in one another. But just because you desire someone intensely, almost painfully, does not mean getting into bed with them should automatically result, despite the circumstances. People like Mulder and Scully for example. God only knows they would have felt a much more powerful need than what we felt that night, but professional restraint both binds them and keeps them at arm's length. That they can sublimate natural, raw desire for each other and focus it into their work and dedication for one another is a testimony to that professionalism. Even if I personally thought their denial was folly, I knew it was not folly denying myself. At least not for now. I think Skinner realized it the moment I did. He suddenly looked away. I swallowed and asked if he wanted another drink and he nodded wordlessly. When I returned from the kitchen, I asked him to tell me what had happened. "Pretty much what you saw." I sat on the couch beside him. Given what had passed between us a few moments before, the proximity was risky, but I sensed him closing down behind professional walls and wanted to get inside. "Skinner, don't shut me out of this, I'm already part of it. Hell, I was part of before you and I think, under the circumstances, I deserve to know." He breathed deeply and replied "ABC covered it pretty well." "Hey," I risked touching his arm "I'm no psychologist, but you refused to talk about this to your wife and family and friends because by blocking it off, you kept them in a safe, clean place. You wanted to come home to that safe place and ease your soul. But that's not who you are. You are FBI and it never leaves you. Shutting it out meant shutting yourself out from those around you. Skinner, you learned that mistake once. Don't shut me out, it's too late for that because I am already a part of it. I have an emotional investment in it and I need closure just as much as you." He looked at me oddly, his head turned to one side, then he abruptly nodded and began. ******************************************************** CHAPTER 4 Day 17 - Monday Harborview Medical Center Mulder spent the following forty eight hours in considerable discomfort from the throat surgery. Although Scully would have preferred to remain in Seattle, at least until her partner was more alert, it was deemed more important for her to return to D.C. to tidy up the loose forensic ends. A small collection of videotapes, the gruesome trophies, and the statement from the last boy, Geoff Murphy, were sufficiently damning evidence to lay the blame for the Seattle Line Killings on the four dead suspects. The mercurial press hailed the agents, particularly Mulder, as heroes. For once Mulder was not ungrateful for being wounded, especially in the throat. It was the perfect foil for nosy reporters. He did, however, have another form of communication -- his laptop computer and a phone line. After two days communicating with his partner by a semi- continuous stream of e-mail, his thoughts and notes faltered from the case and became increasingly introspective and personal. At other times he would have confined such thoughts to his personal journal, but his inability to talk with her, and the revelations by the Meta, dissolved many of the boundaries they normally kept in place. What he had learned, what he had experienced had changed him, in ways he would never have believed. And now it was time to discover if his partner could face his new truths or if this was truly to become his solitary journey once more. Seattle the To: D_Scully@fbi.gov From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 1:15 p.m. local time I know it frustrates the hell out of you that you I have not answered your question as to what happened to me last Tuesday. In truth, with the events thereafter, it has taken me some time to consider what I have learned. After our debriefing of the morgue incident, I believed I slept, but the incident on the rooftop overshadowed what I would naturally have ascribed to a dream. In retrospect it predicted my later disappearance. Scully, I have at times been less than empathic with your religious convictions. I could not take faith in that which might in any way negate my ability to control my own fate. Perhaps my inability to trust a so called higher authority comes in part from being manipulated so long by lesser beings. Perverse, isn't it, considering my thoughts on fate versus free will? I once asked you if you could prove the existence of God, would you not seek to do so? At that time you seemed content to accept faith alone was sufficient but I believe your cancer had necessarily impacted on your world view. I know you have taken great comfort in your faith. I both respected and in many ways envied that. Forgive me, but I could never reconcile this with your inability to accept the existence of extraterrestrials. The evidence for this has been considerably more tangible than that of God, despite that physical evidence once eluded me. As you have indulged and respected my journey for so long, I too have respected your need for your faith in a God. But what I learned during the time of my absence has led me to believe that perhaps the two are one and the same. And therefore I must ask you once more, now that the circumstances of the question differ, if you could prove the existence of God, would you not seek to do so? M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov From: D_Scully@fbi.gov 9:30 p.m. local time You have led me on a journey that has been both enlightening and mystifying. You have challenged my beliefs in science and pushed the barriers of my thinking. And for that, despite my often seeming antagonistic, I am grateful. The tenets of faith are such that it is faith by which we believe. You cannot prove the existence of God to me any more or less than that which I believe now. I cannot follow you on such a journey Mulder, for it leads nowhere. What happened to you that day? Are you trying to tell me that your suntan and good health was in some way and act of God and thus offer it as proof of His existence? If so, Mulder, then I would remind you that my proof of God lies all around me. Our very existence is evidence of God. I have no need for such an explanation. I would, however, suggest this theological discussion be postponed until your medication is terminated. S. ********************************** Day 18 - Tuesday Harborview Medical Center He smiled broadly at her e-mail. He had stopped taking anything stronger than aspirin. The damage to his throat was, although debilitating, not as painful as he might have expected. Ah, how typically Scully! If he offered the evidence of his own body as proof that extraterrestrials existed, she would hmm and haw and demand an alternative explanation. If he offered her this as proof of God, she would necessarily deny that proof could be found. Another explanation must suffice. He smiled a little sadly, knowing that she would never truly accept his world, no matter what proof he could give her. And now that his depth of understanding had broadened beyond his wildest dreams, he felt a deep melancholy that she could not share it with him. At least while she lived. But in other ways his heart was lightened for he had begun to suspect a truth only hinted at by the Meta. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 8:15 a.m. local time From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov Ah, Scully! If I tell you the truth, that I was abducted by aliens, it would in fact be a lie. For as we suspected we are all, in part, alien. Do me a favor, would you, and do a background check on a Navy Seal named Nicholas Page? I can't access the database. I've been reworking the profile of the last UNSUB, the man I suspect was the orchestrator. I no longer fear mirroring as I once did. In that time away I learned the true nature of evil and feel assured that even should it bring me death, I will never succumb to that particular form of madness. Of course that does not prevent other forms from taking me . One final indulgence if you would. Did Clyde Bruckman ever tell you how you would die? I phrase the question lightly because I can assure you after this wound, autoerotic asphyxiation will most definitely not be a factor leading to my own demise. M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 6:15 p.m. local time From: D_Scully@fbi.gov I've attached Nicholas Page's file. The Gunmen lifted most of it. He's listed as MIA during a raid in the Gulf War. Top class honors, brilliant strategist. He had a nickname... okay, I see the connection. His success rate was so high they called him Spooky. Who was he Mulder, a long-lost cousin? What does he have to do with this case? I'm finishing up all my reports and will have them copied to you tomorrow. I'm not sure how to answer you about Clyde Bruckman. I confess I did ask, but his answer made no sense. He replied, "You don't." Why do you ask? S. Mulder read his partner's e-mail, sat back and closed his eyes. It all fell into place now. Scully was destined for a very different path than his. He typed a quick reply, hoping she would still be online. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 3:30 p.m. local time From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov You still there? Can you check Page's religious affiliations? Was he an active church or synagogue attendee? M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 6:30 p.m. local time From: D_Scully@fbi.gov Yeah, I'm still here. There is nothing in his background check except the annotation that he was agnostic. Mulder, who is this guy? I'm logging off now, I need to get some shopping done, then get back to these reports. S. It made sense, he thought. Religion did not make one righteous, or worthy. Scully needed to believe. That she was a doctor, that she was a practicing Catholic, did not stop her from putting a bullet in a man. Because it was the necessary thing to do. She did not need her religion to tell her it was right, or wrong, although he knew certain priests who would have said she should not have fired, but let God play it out as He saw fit. Scully never allowed her religious beliefs to cloud her moral convictions. He glanced through the attached documents on Nicholas Page. Here, to, was an honorable man. A man who had not died, but had become...a Meta. Now, Mulder, too, had something more to believe in. He sat and thought for a long time, wondering at the strange fate that had brought them together. He had made a pact with himself that he would not love her in a more physical sense if he could just retain her as a partner. But, now, he began to recognize that his need for her was undeniably selfish. He had been given something by Page, and that something was a renewed faith in his own ability to go on, alone if necessary. And yet, it pained him. How could he reconcile the conflict within him? Let her go...beg her to stay. But he knew there was only one answer, she must accept the truth or abandon the journey. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 8:10 p.m. local time From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov Thanks for the information on Page. No, he has nothing to do with the case. I met him while I was...away. Don't ask me to explain that one, Scully, until you think I'm well enough to hold a theological conversation with you. And to answer your other question, I can only tell you that as sure as I have been of anything in my life, I am sure Bruckman was right. Webster from SPD came in today. Scully, I can't get it through to these trilobites that he's still out there. He's not going to let this stop him. The videos will keep him going for a while, but he'll pick up a new team to begin again. I've attached my reports for your perusal. Should we give Skinner heart failure by signing off on the same one? M. ***************************** End Chapter 4 The Engineer Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 4 of 7 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated R ********************* CHAPTER 5 DAY 20 - Thursday Crystal City, Virginia >From the journal of Crystal Palmer The last few days were a blur of meetings and interviews. I loved New York but decided I couldn't live there. Maybe I could live further north and commute each day, nah...You'd think all these years in Seattle I would have ridden a few boats, but it took a trip to New York to find out I get seasick, on a ferry no less! He had warned me he was rarely home, so it came as no surprise I'd hardly seen Skinner since Saturday night. He came in late, usually after midnight and was gone before I got up at five am. That pattern followed every day, I knew he'd been home only because the shower had been used, the toilet seat was invariably up and a glass might appear in the sink. He has a cleaning lady come twice weekly. I bumped into her Monday and she apologized for the unprepared state of the guest room. By the time I came back that night it had virtually been redecorated. All the boxes and archive files were neatly stacked in one half of the closet and a clock radio sat on a bedside table. The bed sheets and cover matched and cut flowers sat on the table. She'd washed and dried my clothes and even started on the ironing. I was beginning to feel spoiled. I should have told her not to bother since I'd planned to leave on Friday. Thursday night finally came. I skipped the gym and got back to Skinner's place early, determined to leave him a good, home cooked meal as a thank you before flying out the next day. I really wanted to say goodbye personally but given the little time he spent there, figured it might not be possible. I'd decided on a large, easy to heat chicken curry, with all the trimmings diced and stirred in small containers. I was laying out the table for my own final meal there when Skinner came in. "Something smells good." I turned in surprise. "Hey stranger! I was just about to eat. You hungry?" "With that aroma, who wouldn't be?" He went upstairs while I laid out a second setting and placed the assorted side dishes in separate bowls. By the time he returned, the chapattis were cooked and meal ready. I'd taken the liberty of buying a couple of bottles of wine to go with the curry, wondering if he would drink them alone. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans and casual sweater and at my invitation, sat at the table. I made a brief but solemn toast to Greggs, the SPD officer and Jawolski and Myers, the agents who had died last Friday morning. He told me the agents were to be buried in Arlington the next day. I asked if it would be inappropriate for me to attend the service. My flight wasn't due out until three. "No, no it wouldn't be inappropriate. Where are you flying to?" "Seattle." "You're leaving?" He looked surprised. "I'd only budgeted to stay a week. The interviews are finished." "And you've made a decision?" I finished serving and picked up a fork, not to eat, but to give my hand something to do. "No...no it's not that easy. I suppose I should stay on a bit and spend time in the area, get a feel for what it would be like to live here. Maybe that would help me make a decision." "Then why don't you?" I looked up and smiled "I don't want to over stay my welcome." He looked at me, I suppose a little exasperated, and said, "I can't say it's been a burden, I've hardly seen you, and then only long enough to be fed deadly drinks and deadlier curries." "Too hot?" I frowned. He'd ordered hot curries in Seattle. "No...I like them deadly. Seriously, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. I presumed you'd take a few weeks to, as you said, look around." I'm not one for being coy and the look on his face was genuine, so I replied, "To be honest, I suppose I'm just not feeling the enthusiasm I once thought I had for some of these offers. I think I want to go back home and rethink the entire thing." I sighed in frustration "I suppose if I go back over their prospectuses and maybe drive around and get a feel for living in the area, I might feel differently. But I can't waver on this. I need to start earning a living and if it's not going to be in D.C., I need to look elsewhere." "Why don't you at least stay 'til Monday. I can get away for the weekend. How about letting me show you around?" I grinned and replied, "Please don't tell me that includes the Lincoln Memorial and the White House tour." He laughed. "No, no I mean the parts of D.C. that long time residents know about and keep very secret from the tourists and foreign diplomats." "Ooh, that sound more my style. Okay, I'd be crazy to pass an offer like that up, I'd love to stay on a few days." "So the places you're looking at, they big corporations?" "Mostly. A couple of research institutes, but my side of it is more practical applications. But...I don't know, none of them are really grabbing me." "Do you want me to run a background check run on them?" I blinked. "You can do that?" His eyebrow just raised and I chuckled. "Well...I've gone into them pretty thoroughly, but if the FBI knows of any skeletons, I'd like to know just so I can scratch them off my list permanently." The long and short of it was, I ended up agreeing to accompany Skinner back to the Hoover building after the service at Arlington. He'd get the lab boys to take me through some of the technical areas, a prospect that rather thrilled me given the sorts of things they'd talked about in Seattle, and he'd have someone check out my prospective employees. *********************************************** CHAPTER 6 DAY 20 - Thursday To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 7:45 p.m. local time From: D_Scully@fbi.gov I've finished my own report and attached a copy. I'm meeting with Skinner tomorrow afternoon with certain recommendations. Mulder, without further evidence there can be no justification in keeping this file open. All the evidence points to the four deceased murderers, nothing except the absence of film equipment indicates a fifth. I am by no means disagreeing with you, nor do I think Skinner disagrees, but you know as well as me, better than me, the necessity of closure. We have nothing to go on except your word to indicate a fifth person. That your profiles so accurately defined these four should give weight to your prediction, however it is no longer in the hands of the bureau. Mulder the case is closed. We can only hope that, as horrific as such a thought might be, videos may suffice to keep him at bay. The director came down to the basement this morning to offer congratulations. He wants to see you when you get back. He looked...he looked like he wanted to apologize. I suppose I can best sum up my reaction to that by an old maxim my father taught me. If you can't say something nice, say, "Yes, sir." Mulder, I am reluctant to tell you this by e-mail, but I will not risk a telephone call that you will necessarily wish to turn into a conversation. And I do not want for you to learn of it only after your return to D.C. on Monday, for I feel you need the weekend to consider it. As the supervisory agent in charge of the X-files, you will be notified officially by Skinner that the director has offered me a new position. A newly restructured D.C.- based forensics and pathology team is being seriously considered in the budget. Should it come to pass, I have been offered a supervisory role. It would elevate me to just one step below A.D., in fact in some ways on the same level with an A.D. It will mean a pay raise and more responsibility. The money, of course, is not the issue, but the position and status would give me access to a much broader scope that currently available in the X-files. As you will see by the attached proposed structuring, the X- files will be in a far more advantageous position with instant uncluttered access to facilities it currently has to wait in line for. Mulder, I know you will see this as another conspiracy to break us up. But if you closely examine the proposal, you will see this opens the X-files into the main stream, giving it credibility and thus ensuring its future where once it was considered a mere indulgence. With an increasing number of unresolved cases, the X-files would be allocated the more *mainstream* unusual as well as out and out X-files, a larger budget, a clerk/typist as well as two agents under you. They're not attempting to desk jockey you by any means, but it will give you certain freedoms to pick and chose what cases you personally handle, leaving the more mainstream ones to the agents under you. My only regret, of course, is that we will no longer be partnered, however it will still mean you can consult me here in D.C. and I will have the discretion of giving you priority treatment. The benefits of having a forensic pathologist in the field as an active agent have not been lost on the hierarchy. Part of my job will be to supervise agents under me and let them loose with you in the field. With any luck, I'll be able to get away occasionally and accompany you on some of your more interesting excursions. Please Mulder, look this over carefully, and I believe you will agree it will benefit you greatly. We both know there is no such thing as maintaining the status quo in the FBI. Better this than dissolution. The offer is not yet conclusive, it has yet to be budgeted and the director has said he will personally listen to your opinions on the matter before a final decision is made. S. Mulder read her e-mail twice, then absorbed the proposal. He pushed the laptop aside and got out of bed. The various leads and machinery had long since been removed. The four walls crowded him as a numbing pain filled his soul. The Meta told him Scully understood and accepted him and his abilities. He needed to get out, to run it out of his system to run his mind into oblivion and let the pain sooth him in mindless pounding. The decision was no longer his. He stood and closed his eyes momentarily. Had it ever been? He rummaged through the closet for the sweats and running shoes Scully had left him as casual hospital attire. Scully. She was leaving him. Donning them, he was out the door of his room and the hospital before anyone considered stopping him. Pound, pound, thump, thump, but this time it was his own blood in his own ears. The Meta had shown him the truth. Not just about the consortium, about evil and good, but about himself. He had to find a way to control this ability. The cold brought tears to his eyes and tried to freeze them in place. He rubbed his hand over his face and told himself it was only the cold. Nothing else. Why? It made complete sense. In fact why they hadn't thought of it before amazed him. Entice her from him with a stunningly- wrapped package of logic. An expanded forensics department, assistance and expansion of the X-files division. Everything they could ever asked for. Except the one thing he wanted. Scully. He stumbled once and grabbed on to the cold metal of a street sign. His bare fingers pulled away, leaving remnants of skin. He glanced down at his hand as he ran. Pound, pound see the blood flow, see the blood run. This was who and what he was. Patterson was right, always right. Men like Mulder didn't marry pretty women and come home to warm smells and loving embraces. He would never know a woman's love because... Shit, what was he thinking? He knew at the outset this would destroy their partnership. Why was it every time he thought he'd escaped the frying pan and the fucking fire, he turned around to see hell itself bearing down on him? And life without Scully by his side would be the greatest hell of all. Pound, pound, feel the beat of the ground, the solid thump as each foot contacts the earth. Solid, complete, whole, as pure as the act of running. Oh, God, it was so much more than he had ever imagined. He was not a man, he was a weapon. A weapon forged to fight the future. He had no right thinking he could drag her into this fray. Run, run, pound, pound. He snorted a short laugh. Scully was right after all, he *was* like Ahab. His disability was not a physical loss, not a pegleg, but something metaphysical he had gained, through pain and guilt and horror. The images of his childhood assailed him. His father knew. All this time his father knew and could never tell him, for it was the journey itself that shaped the weapon that was Fox William Mulder. The very fact that he had never been told the entire truth should have been a clue in itself. Scully. She would never believe what had happened to him. And as much as his heart ached and he despaired for the loss, he knew this must be the way it was. For him. For Lucy and God help him perhaps for Gibson. Pound, pound, feel the numbness, comfortable numbness of grief and pain. Lucy had been too broken inside and chose the only way out. But he did not have that luxury, at least not yet. There was too much at stake. And there was still Samantha. That journey had never ceased. He ran back into the hospital, to his room, stripped and showered. It now seemed an inevitability that they should separate. Scully deserved this, Christ she deserved every bit of it. It really didn't matter what happened to him. He wasn't a normal man anymore. Perhaps he never had been. All that mattered was that he stop hurting her. God, he loved her and he would take pleasure in the knowledge that letting her go could be his greatest gift. He felt a warmth seep through his heart, the same warmth that encompassed his soul when Nik let him go. It was not like Scully, never like that all too human embrace. But this warmth, this truth allowed him to smile, almost without regret, as he opened the laptop and reread her thoughts. Perhaps she might accompany him in the field...It would never happen, of course. They would each climb separate pyramids. Hers would grow tall and strong and his, well, he no longer feared the effect mirroring had on him, except it had become clear to him now that it would be while undertaking one such journey that Clyde Bruckman's prophesy would come to pass. He had not lied to Scully, for it would not be him with the rope around his neck. He would continue to profile. And he would mirror and attempt to hone his skills. That he would fall seemed inevitable without Scully. But she would be safe and warm. And perhaps his small efforts in this raging war would be sufficient to hold the wolves at bay until someone stronger, perhaps Gibson Praise, took up the reigns. He picked up the telephone to call her. His vocal cords had not been as damaged as first thought and he was now capable of holding a limited, carefully modulated conversation. But he had always found the written word a more eloquent medium to formulate his thoughts. Besides, Scully would spend half the conversation berating him for talking and this way, he could not give in to the overwhelming desire to beg. Scully had made her decision and for once in his sorry son of a bitch life, he was going to do the right thing. He pulled the laptop closer and began to type. Oddly enough, the warmth spread through him and a catharsis that had begun on a beach on the other side of the planet only a week before, continued its metamorphosis of Fox William Mulder. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 5:30 PM local time From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov "Your news comes as no surprise. I am both delighted and in no small part relieved. "Since El Rico and our reassignment to the X-files, I, in my usually blinkered manner, have been unmindful of the effects upon you. This enforced hospital stay has allowed me to consider much that has happened in the past few months. Your news has consolidated my thoughts and I trust you will bear with my necessarily lengthy diatribe one last time, as I answer some of your unspoken questions. "I have come to understand at least in part, something of which motivated my father and I thus regret his passing even more. I would like to add, and forgive him, but there is nothing to forgive. "After his death and my discovery of his apparently willing role in Samantha's abduction, I found the burden of guilt he placed upon me incomprehensible. That engendered in me a hatred for him beyond measure. The months following Samantha's disappearance were a parody; the police investigations, the accusations, the taunts and suspicious looks by neighbors and erstwhile friends, the unspoken loathing of my mother all served to enforce in me that I alone was responsible for my sister's loss and our family's destruction. "That my father allowed this sick farce to play out, that he allowed me to take the burden of guilt and carry it into my adult years, I now know must have been as agonizing to him as Samantha's loss. I recall times he looked at me, drowning in his scotch, his eyes rheumy from pain and alcohol. I thought he despised me. I feared those looks because they bored into my soul and said I was weak, worthless, despicable. "I have now come to understand his bitterness was not from my failure, but from his own. Were I in his place, as much as I might hope my decisions would have been wiser, age has necessarily taught me otherwise. For on my journey I too, have made countless errors, painful mistakes that have risked your life, your health and destroyed what happiness you might have known with a whole family and children. "What I learned from El Rico gave me more than pause, Scully. What I learned on Tuesday gave me even greater understanding. I have learned a painful and bitter truth, that my naive search for a greater truth was more destructive than my father's efforts to hide it. "I'm not martyring myself here, Scully. As I have come to understand my father, so, too, I accept it is only the clarity of twenty-twenty hindsight that allows me to see my own errors. I cannot go on with you in this way. Our journeys joined early in our time together and became one, but they have once more parted. Melissa was right, those who did this to you and in turn murdered her, suffered a greater horror. Your journey is complete, your truths understood from your perspective, your answers given and accepted. It brings no joy to you, I know, but it brings closure. Take it, Scully, take it and get on with your life. "I perforce, am on a different journey. I hold a different truth than yours and thus I must continue the journey alone, for in one thing it has never wavered -- to find Samantha. I know the truth now, but it is not enough. Like you, now I want answers, I want her returned. And even were that to come to pass, my truths tell me the world is in an even greater danger than I once believed. I cannot conscionably walk away from that. "You see, my father allowed this burden upon me because he knew he could not take it upon himself. He forged me, with the bitter tools of guilt and remorse and regret. He shaped my spirit, creating a vengeful tool within me to fight a future he feared beyond all else. In a very real sense, Kritschgau was right, I am an artifact. Not a pawn as Kritschgau would have had me believe, but a weapon." Mulder stopped writing for a moment. In the cool darkness of the early evening night, the sounds of the hospital seemed to be magnified. Food carts, footsteps and voices filled the halls outside. But it all faded into white noise and the complexity of his life took on a surprising simplicity. The way before him lay very clear. Three years previously when they'd found the alien body in the Canadian Rockies, he had been so close to the truth, the real truth. They had employed a brilliant and complex diversionary tactic, an almost universally effective brainwashing technique. They sent Kritschgau to cut his belief system from beneath him, to artfully destroy the entire construct by which his very existence depended -- his belief in extraterrestrials and his life quest search for his sister. Kritschgau convinced Mulder that his entire life was a fabrication of false memories and half truths, that Mulder had been created as a pawn to hide and in fact further a government sponsored agenda of heinous crimes against humanity. The perversion was compounded, Kritschgau implied, because they used Mulder's extraordinary sense of honor and justice to cover their gross crimes with a blanket fantasy of little green men. The void created in Mulder left him floundering and guilt- ridden. Then they severed his final lifeline by convincing Scully, and in turn him, that she'd been given the cancer in order to make him believe the fabricated alien stories. The destruction of Fox Mulder was so effective he'd seriously contemplated suicide. Worse was yet to come. They finally tried to tear out his soul by having him believe his sister was not simply returned, but that she had been fathered by the one human he despised most of all, a man that might in fact be his real father. The first stage of the brainwashing completed, they introduced a new belief system to fill the void, to create for him a new world view of things. In this incarnation they incorporated his still intact paranoia and suspicion into new truths that encapsulated a lie made ridiculously easy to swallow. They had him believing an evil but very human government experimented on civilians in order to develop hybrids immune to radiation and biological weapons. And he'd bought it, hook line and sinker...until Ruskin Dam. He shook his head. When that lie dissolved in the face of things learned after Ruskin, they tried a less subtle psychological destruction; the burning of his office, the removal of the X-files and his support structure -- Scully. C.G.B. Spender should really have learned his mistake when he'd tried to buy Mulder's soul as Scully lay dying of cancer. True, Mulder bought the lie for a time, but he remained an honorable man. And after Ruskin his recovered beliefs were forged even stronger by his experience recovering Scully in Antarctica. Yet, perversely, the whole truth, when finally given to him, left him empty-handed. CGB Spender gave him that truth in Diana's apartment and within hours, no thanks to Mulder, the alien rebels had destroyed the Consortium. Yes, he had his truth, but he did not have his quest. He did not have Samantha. Then, the Meta changed it all again. He gave Mulder focus and a foundation upon which to work, while simultaneously rocking the very foundations of all religious beliefs. And this time he had been left with undeniable proof. That Scully would refuse to accept his truth somehow no longer mattered in the face of the greater war raging. It was no surprise that she could no longer follow him, but chose to step back into the mainstream of life. He would not reveal to her what he had learned, what a Meta who had once been a man had taught him about the true nature of evil. Let Scully keep her philosophical crutch, her belief in a God, for he now knew it was not without foundation. While a part of him sincerely hoped that she might have opened her mind to this new reality, that the heavenly hosts were a benevolent alien force and that evil was as real as her God, he smiled regretfully and knew she was safer without such knowledge. One day, she would be called upon to fight that greater evil. What she had learned in this life would serve her well. He chuckled, yeah, she'd make a pretty impressive avenging angel. He began typing again: "I continue on this journey, Scully, with the albatross of guilt over Samantha now gone. But the absence of guilt does not reduce my need to find her, it simply hones my focus. And having divested myself of that one guilt, the burden of your losses weighed yet more heavily. "Your news gives me hope and lightens that burden. As a friend, a fellow traveler on a journey that was once mine alone, I ask of you now to leave without regret and let me continue on my way. By taking up this newly-offered journey along roads you once hoped to tread, you give me some measure of peace and happiness in the knowledge that you will continue with your life as it should have been, after a seven-year detour. I know you will take that which you have learned in your time with me and use it to good measure. Take also this new offer with my blessing and thanks and yes, my love, and know that this makes me far happier than to have you stay by my side. M. He sat back, spiritually tired, emotionally exhausted, yet somehow also freed, knowing she would be safe from the evil to come. He sent the e-mail, made one reservation, unplugged the cords and got up from the bed. Time now to put many things to rest. ************************************************** CHAPTER 7 Day 20 - Thursday Georgetown 11:31 p.m. Scully read the e-mail twice before blinking back the tears. Goddamned the man for doing this! She was *not* leaving him, couldn't he see that? Had he not read the proposal before answering her e-mail? She sighed. Of course he had. And he read what she had not written. Damn him! It was always about him! How dare he wax so poetic, so damned formal, yet lyrical, and drive her to tears this way? I'm not martyring myself, he said. Huh, not much! She sat curled on the couch with her head in her arms, worrying over the proposal yet again. It was an opportunity of a life time and it *would* benefit him! It wasn't as if they wouldn't be spending time together. Dammit! She had a right to her life, to what she wanted in her life! And this was the best of both worlds; the challenge and stimulation of the X-files and the opportunity to progress in the FBI hierarchy. Then why did she feel like he had already left her behind, like he had ditched her and gone off by himself, when it was the other way around? No dammit, it was *not* a ditch, at least not on her behalf. It was a way of giving further credibility to his work! But she knew him, oh, God, help her she knew him. In his mind, she was gone to him. And she remembered his eyes after the morgue. His eyes said it then, that what might have been never should. He had begun to close off from her then. Oh it was subtle, so subtle, so *let's just be partners* friendly that it made her ill. Then on the rooftop, as she'd told him she needed him, only that had dragged him back from the abyss. God, she could kick herself. Of course, she should have known this is how he would react! She'd made it abundantly clear she no longer felt his journey had any meaning. She had been offered something to boost her career and thank you very much, Mulder, but I've found my answers, it's been an interesting ride and goodbye but yeah, we'll keep in touch, exchange Christmas cards and all. Fuck it! It wasn't that way at all! Damn him! Was this is how it would end, not with a bang, not even with a whimper, but a simple e-mail? Couldn't it equally be a beginning? Since they would no longer exactly be partners, couldn't they then be more than simple friends? But Mulder didn't think like that. With him, it was all or nothing, you're either with me, or ag'in' me. You're either his partner and...whatever, or you are an acquaintance, a fellow worker who might be of some use to his precious damned quest! His sister...Samantha...*nothing else matters to me* ...it was all, all in that phrase. Here she sat seven years later and she had forgotten, somehow that those words still drove him. She had been thrust into orbit around his whirlwind journey and circumstance had thrust that same journey upon her shoulders. Circumstance had allowed her to complete her journey, to find resolution, but it left him still barren and wanting. He had always expected that she would leave, as every other woman in his life left. First, Samantha, then his mother's emotional withdrawal, then Phoebe's betrayal and Diana's departure. And, God help him, his wife. And now, of course, it was her turn. What's it to be, Dana? If she left, he would never follow. If she remained in his shadow she would not be true unto herself. Is this the way Diana had felt? Betray him, or betray yourself? Hadn't she promised to continue on this journey with him? No, she had regretted leaving him before it was complete. Now that it was complete, now the consortium was dead, so was the journey. But what about Samantha? The wheel hath come full circle, and it has left us both barren and empty. Tears drowning her pillow, she finally slept. ********************************* End Chapter 7 The Engineer Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 5 of 7 Disclaimers: See Part 1 ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 8 DAY 21 - Friday Crystal City, Virginia >From the journal of Crystal Palmer I was up at 5 a.m., wishing like hell I could go for a ride. Skinner's bedroom light was on and his door half open. I had to pass his room to get to the bathroom and couldn't help but notice him sitting on the end of his bed tying the laces on his runners. The words were out of my mouth before I realized it. "You run?" He looked up. "Not as much as I should. This is the first chance in a few weeks." I almost bounced up and down on my heels. "Don't suppose I could join you, could I? I've wanted to since I got here, but...strange city and all." He blinked in surprise. "Sure." I'm not much of a runner, really, my knees can't take the pounding, but it's better than going to a gym. I'd started to regret my outburst almost before we were out the front door. Most male runners are faster than women. My ex hated me slowing him down. But maybe Skinner was more of a jogger. No such luck, but he admitted to being out of condition and it seemed to slow him enough for me to keep pace. After about a mile I realized the bulge under his sweatsuit was probably a gun. "D'you always carry that?" He saw the direction of my eyes and nodded. "And I.D., never hurts." I thought about that for a mile or two then added, "Because it's D.C., or because you're a paranoid cop?" He grinned and replied, "Both." That kept me quiet for another couple of miles then I asked, "Ever needed it on a run?" "Twice. Both times on someone assailing somebody else. Does it bother you?" "What are the statistics of gun owners in D.C.? Highest in the country, isn't it?" He nodded and I could tell he was tiring. "No," I added. "I'm just an idealist. I'd like to live in a world where only law enforcement officers and the military were allowed to own and carry them." He looked at me oddly and slowed slightly, then said in a carefully neutral voice, "And yet you showed no hesitation in using one when it was necessary." I pulled up suddenly. Oh, shit. Of course he would have known. He ran a few paces before realizing I'd stopped. I guess we'd done about eight miles and my knees were feeling it. As I said, I'm not much of a runner, the impact gets to me where cycling doesn't. He walked back to me, but said nothing, waiting for my reaction. "How much do you know?" "That you were given a commendation for bravery for saving a police officer." "You know I killed him?" "The assailant? Yeah." By mutual consent we started walking back to his apartment. It was only a block or so away. "How do you feel about that?" He asked me. "Killing him? Honestly? I was horrified at the damage one bullet, one soft little squeeze of a trigger could do. I'm sure the average person just does not think about that tiny little piece of metal shredding its way through flesh and organs and bone and causing such incalculable havoc on a human being. I know all I wanted to do was stop him and I knew there was no other way. Even if I could have pulled myself out from my bike and tackled him, it wouldn't have been soon enough. So although I was horrified, although I felt bad he died, I never felt guilty, never lost any sleep over it. I was just...sad that it had happened and unbelievably grateful Johns lived. "I upchucked in the gutter afterwards, and got a bad case of the shakes, but only for a few minutes. But I can't honestly say how much of that was just an overall reaction. I mean I thought about it again after the FBI took over the hotel and I saw the photos. I was so sick the first time I refused to clean the rooms. But that...that was different, that was...evil, beyond comprehension. Casey was a dog gone mad, although I felt guilty for a while for not feeling guilty. Can you understand that?" He looked at me and nodded. "You know he was on his way to kill his ex-girlfriend and her boyfriend?" "Yeah, I found out later. I suppose, thinking back, I was upset for a while. But it was mostly because I felt I had no right to decide he should die. And anyone who pulls a trigger should always have that in the back of their mind, that they may be killing someone and they had better make damned certain there really is no alternative." "Would you do the same thing again?" I wasn't sure how he wanted me to answer, but I could only be honest. "Without batting an eyelid. I'd never given guns much thought, never wanted to own one or fire one, but in that moment, I knew there was no alternative. I made the right decision and I do not regret that. I only regret the circumstances that brought him to that point and that he died as a result. Look, no one wants a police state, but our justice system works to give offenders a second chance. I've often thought it would be fairer to give an innocent potential victim a first chance and there are at least three people alive today because Casey is dead." I knew I was rambling and probably sounded overly defensive. We'd reached his apartment building and he turned to face me and said, "Crystal, I'm not suggesting you should feel anything different. Killing someone, no matter how justifiable the reason, will always have an effect on you. Hopefully, you can accept it like you have. How did you end up with the gun?" "Fluke, pure and simple. You know his car hit me while I was riding, don't you?" "Mm, and you were knocked into the gutter, directly behind an unmarked detective's car." "Traffic was heavy, so Casey couldn't drive out of there, even if he'd wanted to. Detective Johns got out of his vehicle and leaned over me and asked if I was okay. Next thing I knew, Casey had tackled him and was hitting him over the head with this flashlight. Johns said later he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and started pulling his gun. It was so fast I couldn't tell, but it makes sense because all I can remember is this painful whack in my face, seeing stars, then the gun in my lap and I'm screaming at Casey to stop or I'll shoot him. "I expected someone to tackle Casey, you know? But everyone just froze. And that's what I mean about no choice. I was angry that no one was trying to help Johns. Until then I would have said that no one who calls themselves human could sit by and watch a man beaten to death." "Happens every day in this city," he replied as we stepped into the elevator. "Well, that may be, but its wrong. I'm no police groupie, I avoid trouble like the plague, but in a situation like that, well, I'm not going to apologize to anyone for doing what was morally right." I paused as the lift doors opened. It had never crossed my mind to consider it. Just because he was FBI didn't mean he'd ever used his gun, let alone shot anyone. But I already knew the answer because...because of his eyes, the way he carried himself. I asked anyway, "Have you ever killed anyone?" He nodded as he opened his apartment door. "First time when I was 18. A 10-year-old Vietnamese boy, booby- trapped." "Oh, Jesus..." I felt my stomach lurch, not in horror but in sympathy at such a moral dilemma. I put my hand on his arm and he smiled at me without humor. "And no," he added, "it doesn't get any easier with time. But you either learn to deal with it, to believe you can make a difference, even if only a slight one, or you become indifferent and stand by and do nothing while people, civilians as well as detectives, are beaten to death." I had the feeling he was telling me something more than just that. But let it slide. I showered first, while Skinner made eggs for breakfast. He was just getting off the phone when I came downstairs. "All right, Scully, call me back if you hear anything more. I'll be leaving in an hour." As we ate I asked how Mulder was. His nose twitched in annoyance. "He checked himself out last night, then checked out of the hotel. I'm betting he's on a flight." "Can he talk yet?" Hid lips curled. "Not much, which just might keep him out of trouble." Skinner showered while I changed. The phone rang and the machine didn't get it, I suppose he'd forgotten to put it back on after talking to Scully. I let it go for a moment, thinking Skinner might hear it, but he didn't so I went to his room and answered the cordless extension sitting on his bedside table. "Hello?" "Oh...I'm sorry, is this Walter Skinner's residence?" "Yes, just a minute," I went back in to the hallway and knocked on the bathroom door. "Phone!" The shower turned off and he called, "Who is it?" "It sounds like Agent Scully, hang on." I asked who was calling and she confirmed it. But she didn't sound too happy to tell me, in fact I don't think she would have, except I'd already guessed. "He won't be long..." The bathroom door opened and Skinner took the phone from me with a mouthed thanks. I turned to go back into my room to give him some privacy, but not before noticing how he looked in a skimpy white towel and nothing else. Oh...the temptation to ogle was almost overwhelming. Well, what did you expect? I'm only human. ************************************** Arlington National Cemetery Arlington, Virginia >From the Journal of Crystal Palmer Thank God for waterproof mascara. I didn't gush buckets, but I couldn't help tears. I'd hardly known these men, but felt their loss in the stone faced-solemnity of their colleagues, at the loss of a comrade in arms. Their wives stood proud and tall and I wondered if I could have been so dignified in the face of such loss. To be honest, I've never liked funerals because they seem artificial. A minister or priest or rabbi saying artificial words of supposed comfort over a person he'd never known. But as I stood there that bleak morning, in a cemetery that honored the bravery of its dead, I felt an overwhelming respect for not only these two men, but all who rested by their side. These men knew they might one day be called to give up their lives to protect others. To protect us. I wished that I might have such courage, such strength of spirit and I was, once more, humbled. Scully stood very close to Mulder during the service. As I said before, they were like two parts of a whole. Now, their contact seemed like a form of solidarity. There but for the grace of God lay Mulder, I thought. I could see it in the eyes of those who surrounded us. They thought the same. For all many of them might belittle him and his beliefs, I saw also a respect bordering on awe. He'd arrived just as the service began. Scully hadn't seen him at first, but I noticed him walk up behind her. She turned to see who it was and the look of sheer relief on her face was almost palpable. He'd lost his strange tan and his face was marked and bruised in places, but the bandage at his throat was flesh colored. From ten feet away he looked almost normal. Although their coats only brushed, it seemed they were one. Scully wasn't surprised to see me. After the morning's phone call, she must have put two and two together. Although I could tell by the quizzical look, she wondered if the numbers were meant to add up higher. Mulder just grinned at me, looked me over and rocked his head to one side in a gesture of delighted approval. He had definitely added up the numbers. I stayed poker-faced, but was secretly pleased, even if he had guessed wrong. The man could send whole paragraphs of conversation with his body language and eyes. He didn't need vocal cords. I had felt strangely out of place until then, not unwelcome but undeserving of being there. A few moments later, the light drizzle turned to rain. Skinner put his arm about me, gently pulling me close to share his umbrella as the rain set in. At the end of the service, I glanced at Scully. She seemed to be looking up at Mulder as if she had lost something and was trying to find it in his face. Afterwards, he left without her. I don't know, but something about their bearing sent a shiver down my spine. I had a bad feeling about it. Skinner left me for a few minutes to talk to the wives. Scully came up and spoke to me. We talked for a bit, but it was superficial. She looked distracted, upset, yet it didn't seem to stem from the service. I asked her if everything was okay and she said she was fine and turned on an artificial smile. I really was at a loss because Mulder looked, well, happy was not the right word because it was a funeral. But he seemed to have been freed of a burden. I suppose it was the case being closed. So why was Scully so concerned? A driver chauffeured Skinner and I to the Hoover building. The flag was flying at half mast. I didn't say anything. Skinner saw me frown and look down at my hands. It was not melancholy that I felt, but solemnity. We are so hardened in our society, so indifferent, so cynical, especially in this singularly cynical city of politicians and bureaucrats. I don't think I could have explained that to anyone, but I also felt guilt, for having disliked, even hated these men and women when they first came to our home. Now I felt wanting in the face of such honor. In strange contrast, perhaps in part because of the funeral, the hours that followed were more than uplifting, they were exhilarating. For the first time since coming to D.C., I felt alive. These men and women were really achieving something. For all most of it was technical dog work, they were really making a difference. I lusted after their equipment, longing for the sort of lengthy jam sessions we used to have in our offices at university. This was so far removed from the dry corporate worlds I'd been mindlessly wandering through this past week, it touched something in me. I did not know what, exactly, but I suddenly knew that I could never work in any of the places I had prospectuses for. Skinner told me to call him at lunch, after leaving me with a technician named Sam Peaton, but to be honest, I'd forgotten. He eventually tracked me down in one of the photo labs at about 5:30. I was starving and exuberant and practically fell over myself telling him what I had seen and what could be done to improve certain things. He ended up practically dragging me out of there by the elbow. About a mile of halls and elevators later, I was in his office and he was telling Kimberly, his assistant, that she could go home for the night. Scully was there with him and that's when he dropped the bomb shell. *************************** End Chapter 8 the Engineer Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 6 of 7 Disclaimers: See Part 1 ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 9 DAY 21 - Friday Washington, D.C. >From the journal of Crystal Palmer When he said he wanted to take me out for dinner I warned him it had to be casual because I had no evening clothes. He smiled and replied it was just around the corner at a pub and we could go there straight from his office. I relaxed a bit because for all we had developed a closeness, I felt nervous about the direction things were going. In fact, I was now at a loss to know what direction that was. "Is this standard FBI recruiting protocol?" I asked after my first sip of wine. He had the grace to chuckle. "No." He wanted to say more but he looked me up and down, evaluating me, but in a nice way, a way I would have said was part seduction except that he managed to look chagrined at the same time. "When did you decide to make this offer?" He looked thoughtful, then sipped his drink and replied, "I think I'd subconsciously been considering it since last Thursday, but it took me until yesterday to wade through the paperwork. Among it were three recommendations that you be recruited as an FBI candidate." "So, why didn't you say something last night?" "I wanted to let you see where you'd be working, meet the people you'd be working with." "How long before I have to make a decision?" "It's an open offer, but if you do decide quickly, we can get the preliminary interviews and medicals over and done with by the end of next week. The background checks have already thoroughly been covered. A little paper-shuffling, but there's a new class due to start at Quantico three weeks after that I can get you in. You should stay in D.C., meanwhile, because there will likely be routine follow ups." "Mm, three weeks in D.C. Kind of expensive." "Crystal, you can stay as my guest as long as you like, you know that." "Do you think that's a very good idea, under the circumstances?" He played dumb. "What circumstances?" I pulled my lips in and frowned. Had I imagined things? Was Skinner so far into the FBI that this seduction was purely professional? I felt a little adrift, so stabbed another oyster and swallowed before answering. "I mean you are an A.D. Isn't there some sort of protocol?" He tossed his head back and grinned broadly, then looked at me with amazingly bright eyes. "The FBI is a political bureaucracy. A good many have secured their position in the agency at least in part due to...sponsorship." He shook his head. "You're not the sort of person to use an...association to your advantage. And even if you were, in the initial stages, no one has any sway over an entire board of doctors and psychologists who'll screen you. As an agent, you would never be placed under my command because your expertise lies in a completely different area. When you undergo training at Quantico, you will pass or fail on your merits alone. And if you fail, you should not be ashamed, because the process is designed to filter only those who can meet its unique demands. Not meeting those demands does not make you a lesser person. Not everyone is suited for the FBI. Not everyone should be." He stopped for moment then added, "But you won't fail. You have all the qualities of an excellent agent. You have integrity and honesty, you've been offered money, good money to betray unspoken confidences. You could have taken that money in all good conscience for you signed nothing to prevent you from doing so. You've shown an ability to work independently and yet you work well on a team in less than ideal conditions." "I threw up when I first saw those photos in Seattle." I grimaced. "So you should have. But you adjusted. You are sensible enough to avoid violence, but when confronted with it, you display courage and cool thinking. You didn't tell me your ankle was broken by Casey when he sideswiped your bike." I frowned at him. "Why did you ask about it when you knew?" "I wanted to feel your reaction, especially to killing a man." I looked away again. A cop, a typical cop. "Crystal, I'm sorry if you think I deceived you, I didn't. It's just that..." He looked uncomfortable. "I...The FBI is not for everyone. You need to rapidly adjust to...circumstances. You might go twenty years and never have to pull a gun. But if you're ever put in that situation again, I needed to know you wouldn't hesitate. Sure, the psych screening will pick that up, but *I* needed to know before recommending you. "You warned Casey three times before pulling that trigger. And if you'd hesitated any longer, Johns would be dead. I also know that despite the pain, you hobbled to his car and called officer down, then sat with him and staunched the blood flow and talked with him until the paramedics arrived. I've seen trained agents lose it and have to retire after killing a man. Yet while you fully comprehend and regret the consequences of shooting a man, you would do so again if the situation called for it." And as I sat there, I realized that yes, this is what I wanted. This felt right. But it didn't answer a second question. Could I have both? ************************************************* Scully parked her car just outside his apartment building. She counted her blessings that she hadn't had to walk half a mile in the drizzling, half-formed snow. Her heart thudded in keeping with her short, sharp footsteps. The only good thing about the conversation she was about to have was that it would be completely one-sided. Finally, a chance to tell Mulder exactly what she thought without him somehow arguing...oh, shit. She pulled up short outside of his elevator. Who was she kidding? What exactly did she want, anyway? For him to beg and grovel and ask her not to leave? Was that it? No, damn him! She wanted him to accept a future where they could work together, albeit not as closely...Oh, what was the point? He wouldn't listen, he never listened to her... She sighed deeply. No, that was just plain wrong. The truth was, he always listened. He fed her reasoning into that great dumb genius brain of his and processed it into the most improbable reasoning. But he had always respected her and her opinions. He always listened even if he did not agree. As she had always listened to him...Well, no she hadn't. Sometimes she outright refused. Oh, hell, what was the point trying to talk to him when he couldn't respond? Scully decided to leave, but his apartment door opened and he came out with a bag of trash in hand. He looked up and the genuine delight on his face at seeing her tore down her wallsentirely. She had rarely seen that totally carefree smile. It made his face look so damned funny. His nose sort of flattened out and his cheeks edged up to his eyes and oh...her own face couldn't help smiling in return. "Hey, FBI woman." "Mulder!" her face dropped. "You shouldn't be talking!" He took her by the arm and kissed her cheek in welcome, then motioned her to wait in his apartment while he took out the trash. Scully stared at the elevator doors, dumbfounded. He *never* kissed her unless she was half-dead in a hospital bed. Could she have been mistaken? Was this new affection a sign that they could pick up exactly where they'd left off three weeks before? Her brows knitted in confusion, she walked slowly into his apartment, pulled off her coat and made herself comfortable on the couch. Mulder reappeared in minutes. He rubbed his hands together as he entered the apartment, trying to ward off the chill from outside. "Want some coffee?" He asked in a soft voice. "Mulder, why are you talking?" "Scully, I'm fine. Not as much damage as they first thought. I can't shout or sing, but apart from that, I'm fine." Scully stood, wanting to get a closer look at the dressing on his throat. "Have you changed that since you checked yourself out last night?" Her accusation was on many levels. He shrugged, but kept grinning at her. God, what had gotten in to him? "I thought as much. Okay Mulder, come here, I want to have a look." "Wait till I put the coffee on." In his typically manic style, he bounded into the kitchen, started the brew, then dutifully placed himself on the couch while Scully raided her medical kit kept in her spare travel bag in his hall closet. Scully gently eased the dressing from his throat. The second cut had been relatively long, the leading and tapering edges however were quite shallow. They had healed to bright pink skin. She was delighted to see the initial stab had completely sealed, the stitches having already been removed. But she could see why he'd kept the skin colored dressing in place. The livid purple color of the scar stood out like a beacon. It would take some weeks to fade and it was likely the scar would be permanent. Then she was suddenly reminded that he said he no longer scarred. "Mulder, what happened to you when you disappeared?" It was not what she had come by to discuss, but that seemed to be the best place to start. He held his hand up for her to wait, then disappeared into the kitchen to make the coffee. When he returned, he sat down next to her on the couch, turned slightly to face her. He placed the mugs on his coffee table and picked up one of her hands in his. His untroubled face continued to bother her. As much as she should have been grateful he seemed happy, it just didn't fit. Could he really, genuinely want her to accept the director's offer? She closed her eyes again, distracted by the feel of his thumb stroking her hand. Why in hell couldn't she be happy if he was? What was wrong with her? "Scully," he began in a soft voice, "I asked if I could prove to you the existence of God, would you let me? You said you could not follow me on that journey. Then when you told me about the offer, it became clear to me that you were right. You have your own journeys to make, your own beliefs and I have no right to challenge your convictions. I once thought if I could prove to you the existence of estraterrestrials, I would be able to convince the world. But I have come to believe that there are in fact some truths best left alone. What I learned, what was shown to me on that Tuesday, was that truth." He reached across and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. She leaned into his hand a little, but then an awful feeling hit her again. As it had since this case began, his gestures were tender, but lacked any hidden passion. So often in the past his fleeting touches were hot fire wrapped in gentleness, harnessed only by professional constraints. But this time, she felt a coldness creep up her spine. He had shut her out. She sucked her breath in. She did not have the courage to face this and desperately scrambled to pull all her professional walls around her. Betray him, or betray herself? His gesture said it all. He was giving her freedom. She would not betray him, she could be true to herself and it was okay, really okay, Then why did she feel like her heart and soul had been ripped out? Why, goddamn it, what had happened to him? Was this still part of his fear for her witnessing his mirroring? If she could just understand what he had seen that Tuesday, she might be able to sort one from the other. "Then Mulder, tell me that truth, tell me what you found? I'm not saying I can or will accept it, but at least give me some understanding of why you are pulling away like this!" His head turned to one side in mild confusion. "I'm not pulling away from you, Scully." "Yes you are, goddamn it! The director gives you, us, an opportunity to change the direction of the X-files and your answer implies I'm leaving you and by the way, have a nice life!" He frowned. He knew he could be singularly dense sometimes, especially trying to decipher Scully language. He was absolutely sure that when it came to interpreting meanings, she used a completely different thesaurus than him. "Scully, you ask me what I saw and in order to explain it to you, I asked you about proving God's existence. You tell me you don't want to hear that...so where does that leave me? I can't tell you what happened unless you let me prove that which you do not want proved." "Mulder, are you trying to tell me you had some sort of...of religious experience on Tuesday?" He chuckled, released her hand and reached for his coffee cup. "Or would you prefer the abduction by aliens take on it?" To give herself time to think, Scully reached for her coffee and sipped. "Okay, Mulder, I'm listening. What happened?" He stood, pulled off his sweater and T shirt, then unbuttoned his jeans. "Mulder..?" Scully's eyes widened in surprise. He grinned disarmingly as he pulled his pants down, "Don't worry Scully, I'm not coming on to you, I just want to show you something. Besides, it's not like you haven't seen it all before, right?" Her instinct was to turn away, but as he bent over, her eyes glanced across his shoulder. It wasn't there. It had to be, it must have faded, that's all. Then her eyes cornered the area. There had been some scarring from the Jersey Devil and mothmen attack. Thin dark lines and puckering that had never quite faded. They were gone. Her brows now knitted in disbelief, she looked down at his left thigh, to the distinctive thick scarring of the bullet wound. Gone. Scully deposited her coffee cup on the table and leaned forward, oblivious now of her proximity to Mulder's groin. She reached her physician's hands to his thigh and moved the muscle back and forth. There was absolutely no sign of the slight thickening of muscle around where the scar should have been. She stood, baffled, scouring every inch of his body, searching for a dozen small scars she knew he had. Nothing. The entry and much larger exit hole in his shoulder, where she herself had shot him. Gone. She kept poking and prodding at him, turning his body this way and that, determined to find a cause. Then it dawned on her and she gasped in horror, pulled away, withdrew her weapon and aimed it at him. It all made sense now. It all fell into place. "Who the fuck are you and where is Mulder?" Mulder grinned. "I wondered when you'd come to that conclusion, but this time, Scully, you're wrong." Scully's eyes narrowed "Bullshit. It's the one explanation that *does* make sense." Mulder cocked his head to one side. "Oh, sure, if you believed like me, it would all make sense. But you *don't* believe in shape-shifting aliens or clones, do you Scully? Any time you see one you consign it to a blow to the head, or some other *scientific* explanation!" Scully's eyebrows furrowed at the edge of bitterness in his voice. But it disappeared as he continued. "C'mon, Scully, use that patented logic of yours. If I was replaced on Tuesday, how come I ended up in the hospital Friday with my head half off? I bled *red* blood and I would have *died* if I hadn't been ventilated in time. "Then...then it happened in hospital, or on the way here..." But her frown deepened. "Okay, let's say you're right... If I am a clone, or an alien, I must have been right about everything, all along...here, look," he snatched the pocket knife from his computer table and flicked it open. Scully repositioned herself in case he lunged at her, but before she could stop him he sliced a shallow cut across the back of his hand. Her eyes widened but he lifted the blade to his torso and made a further knick just under his ribs. Red blood welled up and a single drop fell. "You pick a place at random, Scully, anywhere on my body to prove it's no elaborate trick. Don't worry, I won't scar." He grinned. Her face screwed up in confusion and she reluctantly lowered her weapon. But her eyes continued to travel his body, searching for a clue. "Can I get dressed now Scully? It's kind of cold in here...or do you just want to keep leering at me?" She pulled her lips to one side, replaced her weapon, then picked up the mug and drank the contents, a thoughtful look on her face. "Mulder, what happened to you?" "I'm not an alien, or a clone, but it still begs the question. When convention and science offer us no answers, might we not finally turn to the fantastic as a plausibility?" She glared at him with her patented look but refused to be baited. "Scully, unless you can give me a scientific explanation, or concede that you cannot, I can't...I won't answer you. I'm not going to allow you to make that journey unless you are really prepared to concede to other...possibilities." So he'd finally called her on it. A part of her knew that he would one day. She'd seen far too much to not admit science did not have all the answers. And hadn't her inability to admit to the fantastic caused him such pain after the mirroring in the morgue? Hadn't she castigated herself then for refusing to admit the possibility? Could she not, just once, concede the point? What was she so frightened of. The truth? "Okay, Mulder, I concede I have no explanation for the absence of scar tissue on your body." "Nuh uh." Mulder shook his head. "Not good enough, Scully." "You're really going to force this, aren't you?" He had accepted that she must be left behind but oh, God, he hoped, like a man holding a lottery ticket, that he might yet have it all. Yet it must be for the right reasons. It must be real and honest and if it meant pushing her away to keep her safe in her world, so be it. "I want you to be truthful to yourself, Scully because if you can't be that, you are not ready for this journey and I can't take you along." "So, give in to your point of view or get ditched, is that it, Mulder? Whatever happened to that trite little speech you gave me, not fifty feet away, about me saving you, making you a whole person with my rationalism?" "Scully, in this case you have proof and denying it is irrational. I'm asking for the same rationalism again. *I* am the proof, the hard core proof that science cannot give you all our answers. Unless you can concede that, you need to stick to your own safe world." He downed the last of his coffee, collected her cup and took them back into the kitchen. He berated himself for trying. He was pushing her beyond her limits when there really was no point. She would be leaving him soon, it was for the best. But could he have one thing, please, just one thing, that they depart as friends, not antagonists? In the long term, she would come to know the truth. One day, she would disappear just as Nicholas Page had and then she would know. Whether he lived to see that day, the day she disappeared for good, he didn't know. Oh, hell, it didn't matter. Really. He hurt like shit but he would not succumb to a lie. He needed to put some distance between them now. "Scully, it's getting late, maybe you should go home." She stood rooted to the spot. He had never, ever asked her to leave. Betray him or betray herself. That's what it came down to. But what was it about herself that was she betraying? Those damned scars had *gone*! She had no rational explanation for that! Couldn't she concede that point! Her face started to crumble, not in tears, she could not let herself concede that, but in loss, confusion. "Hey, Scully." He came back out of the kitchen, more than a little surprised to see her lost, confused look. He pulled her to him and held her. "Scully, you don't...hm," He sighed. "You don't have to go, I didn't mean it like that." He lifted her chin and peered into her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I just thought that, I think that you are better off living with your own belief systems intact. God knows I've had mine strung up and spat out enough times to wonder what the hell the truth really was." "And you think that hasn't happened to me, Mulder? You think you're the only one who CGB Spender played his little mind games on?" "No, no, I don't. You've lost a great deal more than me in this damned quest. He's tried everything possible to drive you from me and yet you stayed. Beyond all logic and reasoning, you stayed with me. You're finally applying that logic to leave, and I respect that. But in this instance, in this one thing, I'm not asking you to abandon logic. I'm asking you to apply it. What logic explains the absence of these scars? You agree there is none. But you are a scientist, you must concede that an answer exists. I'm telling you I have the answer but you can't hear it if you have no ears to listen. Only when you accept that possibility that another explanation, outside of science, exists, can I give you your answer." "Mulder, all I have outside my science is my faith in a higher order." "Then there's your answer." She pulled back from him and looked at him and the calmness of his face. Had he really had some sort of religious experience? Could she accept that? "Are you trying to tell me that...God did this to you?" He dropped his hands to his side and smiled at her so gently, in that moment she could believe it. "God is an idea, a totality. You were right, all of us, everything in the universe is the sum total of God. But I can also tell you there are beings...forces that exist on a higher plane. There are also...lesser minions of this force, that fight raw evil. I guess you might call them...angels, but they call themselves Metas." She blinked at him and sat down on the corner of the couch. Could she deal with this? Could she accept a proof of spirituality? "Mulder, I still can't promise I'll accept what you tell me but...I admit I have...I have to admit that...that my science cannot explain what happened to you. My faith, perhaps, is the only thing that might." His smile lit his face again. "Then sit back, Scully, because I'm going to tell you a story that will knock your socks off." ********************* End Chapter 9 The Enginner Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 7 of 7 Disclaimers: See Part 1 ********************* This section rated NC17 for sexual situations ********************* CHAPTER 10 DAY 21 - Friday Crystal City >From the journal of Crystal Palmer We were back at his apartment before ten. I'd had enough to drink to lose any hesitancy I might feel, but I was certainly not drunk. It was dark inside. Only the residual illumination of the city lights peeked in through the balcony doors. Skinner closed and dead-bolted the front door, then helped me off with my coat. He turned and hung his own overcoat on the rack, but I didn't move. Instead, I reached my palm to his chest, just where his jacket parted. He was firm and warm beneath my hand. "I...I'm a little lost here." He didn't move away. In fact, by turning to face me he seemed to move closer. The darkness emphasized the smell of cologne and maleness, a scent that had become arousing by its recent familiarity. But I really was lost. Was I mistaken in his attraction to me? Was this...association, could I go so far as to say friendship, based on attributes he saw in me as a potential agent, or potential lover -- or both? I wore low heels and he stood about two inches taller than me. He slowly reached his right arm behind me, but did not pull me closer as he leaned across to kiss me. It was soft, at first, enough to tell me its intent was not chaste, but allowing me plenty of room to draw away. Oh, my...one kiss should not be sufficient to arouse me like that. His tongue hesitated at the edge of my lips, and I slowly slid my palm around his chest to his back, pulling myself closer to him. He moaned softly and I knew he was just as moved as me, but for all his power, perhaps because of his size and strength, he was being very, very careful. But I didn't want careful and controlled, I wanted to feel his strength. He broke off the kiss and pulled away slowly. Jesus, trust me to find an honorable man when all I wanted was to throw him on the floor and...but I considered the circumstances. I was his house guest, a guest of an FBI assistant director and someone he had recommended be taken into the fold. Whatever happened between us must be with my unequivocal agreement. I put my other hand to his face and leaned up to touch his lips with mine again. This time he didn't hesitate and his tongue reached in confidently, exploring me, sending warmth through my belly. As the kiss intensified his arms encompassed me and his grip became more possessive. I tried to pull him closer, to feel him against me, but he broke away, burying his face in my neck, trying to control his breathing. His reluctance bothered me, it was as if he feared letting me feel his arousal. What, did he think I'd want to take things slower? That I was some teenager on a first date? We both knew this was coming last Saturday night. I was not going to make him second guess this. He had to know now that I wanted him. "Skinner..." I whispered as his cheek slid across mine and his tongue stroked my earlobe. "I'm not a game player, I don't do things in half measure." Then I very deliberately reached in front of me until my palm rested on his thigh, and carefully brought it up to cup his groin. Oh, boy...all my birthdays come at once. They say that big men are less well endowed than smaller ones. Maybe. But that package waiting for me included something long and thick and very hard. I moaned, it felt sooo nice. Honestly, just the feel of him was so damned good, I was creaming. He groaned and all but attacked my neck. There would be a hickey there in the morning, absolutely no doubt of that. "Crystal..." It came out ragged but I stroked and cupped him in reply, unable to take my hands off that nice hard, soft bundle. Mine, all mine... He took my face in his hands and very carefully pulled me away to look at me. I remember thinking the first time I saw his eyes I could have drowned in them. I wasn't wrong. He took me by the hand and pulled me towards the stairs. Oh, you have no idea how good that felt. If he'd just thrown me down on the floor, or maybe the couch, I wouldn't have objected, but this was a very possessive move to take me to his bed. His bed. That required time to get up the stairs, giving me a chance to consider what was happening. Did I ever mention that anticipation is almost as good as the event itself? Well, maybe not that good, but very titillating. Okay, okay, so it was only a set of stairs to negotiate, but it was the determined way in which he did it. He reached across and knocked the phone off the hook, giving me a chance to divest myself of my shoes. He had his tie and coat jacket off by the bottom step and I'd also lost my jacket. About three steps up he had me pinned against the wall and finally, at long last, let me pull him against me. Oh God I almost came as he very slowly, very deliberately thrust his hips into mine once, twice and then again. I'm not sure what was more erotic, that or the tongue in my left ear. By the time we got moving again, I was soaked and both my panty hose and panties had been discarded. I heard a double clunk as his shoes fell down the stairs. How had he managed to use his tongue and hips while easing his shoes and my panties off? Ah, the famous executive level multi- tasking skills coming into play. Mm, I wondered what other multi tasks he was good at. About five steps later I found out. This time it was me pushing him into the wall. His tongue was very carefully exploring the continuous erogenous zone along my chin. Mind you, every square inch of my body had become an erogenous zone, so location was not a factor. Lo and behold, I found he'd divested me of my skirt and his socks. How does he do it? Just as we reach the turn, his trousers dropped and draped down a couple of steps. Proudly displaying my own temporarily lost undressing ability, I had single handedly undone my shirt buttons and managed to get the thing off. Now I know that sounds like a pretty basic maneuver, but at the time I felt proud of achieving something other than mindless groping. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, there was not much left except his underwear, and that found its way to the floor before we'd reached his bedroom. The biggest problem I could see was that we were both so over the top, this was bound to be over with all too soon. I wasn't wrong. I know he had all good intentions of making it last, but I wrapped my legs around him when we fell onto the bed, pulled him on top of me and thrust myself downward, impaling myself in the process. Common sense took over for about fifteen seconds while he held me absolutely rigidly. Squirm as I might, he was so powerful I could hardly move. "Crystal...sh," "Wha..?" But some higher function in my brain took over and told me he was fumbling in the bedside drawer. What in hell...? Oh, oh, yeah. Jesus I hate condoms! I wondered how fast we could get blood tests. I knew I was okay because I'm a blood donor. And I figured he was too, given his position. And I was on the pill, but I wasn't about to turn this into a discussion, I was far too gone for that. Give him his due, he had it on in no time flat. Before he could settle back down on me I'd arched back up again and reimpaled myself. I'm sure I lasted at least four strokes, but maybe it was less, I really wasn't counting. But that was it, I was gone and naturally enough, my legs wrapped around his back and groaning his and God's name all at once, Skinner lost it as well. "Jesus...Jesus, you are so beautiful," he managed to croak out between thrusts and groans. We gently pulled away from one another and I looked into his face. There was enough light coming from the street to see the grin quivering on his lips. I couldn't help it, the sight of it sent me off and I burst out laughing. He lost it as well and hung his head on my shoulder as his body quivered with laughter. I mean, it was funny. Here we are, two mature people and we can't get it on longer than a couple of 16-year-olds! We both tried to apologize at once and of course that set us off laughing again. And then a more thoughtful part of my mind finally clicked in and I realized I had never seen him this relaxed. Okay, under the circumstances that may sound a little odd, of course he'd be relaxed. But this man carried around with him an extraordinary presence of power and strength and dignity. Mulder, for instance, had bedroom eyes and a soulful face. You could easily imagine him making love. But Skinner was entirely different. I knew I'd never really be able to look at him completely straight- faced again. Something in those rich brown eyes would always remind me of this moment. I suppose it just surprised, and delighted me, that he could relax enough to think sex could be funny. He kissed me then, long and full and deep and I could feel my arousal growing. I slowly bucked against him, sliding up and down slightly, trying to get the right angle. He was still hard enough to stay inside me and he knew exactly what I was doing. He pulled back a little and cupped one of my breasts in his hand, then licked and suckled the nipple. I wrapped my legs around his thighs to hold him still, telling him with my body that I needed control of this. His mouth moved to the other breast and I continued in a sliding motion, rubbing his pelvis across my clitoris until the second orgasm started to hit me. He pulled away from my breast and thrust his tongue in my mouth, mimicking the thrust of his sex into mine and I exploded more powerfully than the first time. We slept then, for a time. I'm not sure who woke first but by mutual consent we headed for the bathroom. I cannot tell you how big I am on oral sex. I mean giving as well as receiving. I adore it, but I suppose like most people I like it clean. I cannot stand a man going down on me unless I've just stepped out of a shower. Although in this case, while still in the shower was even better. Oddly enough, I've never made love in the shower before, either. It always sounds like a good idea, but the practical difficulties generally outweigh the desire. Anytime I'd started, we'd given up and headed to the bedroom. But Skinner is so damned strong he can hold me above himself and lower me on to him while maintaining a good rhythm. I did wonder what would happen when he came, but practicalities took over again. Damn those condoms! In the end, though, he didn't climax, but held me gently until I came down from mine. Now, it was my turn for self-indulgence. I started to remove the condom and he stopped me and looked at me, his eyes questioning. I smiled and decided to tell him what I had in mind. From my experience, most men are pretty turned on when you give them a graphic description of what you are about to do to them. Skinner was no exception. "I am going wrap my tongue around *you* and to suck *you* not some piece of latex. And I'm asking you now, please, please come in my mouth. I want that very badly." Oh yeah, that worked. His nostrils flared and his jaw clamped and he went absolutely still. I teased and played with him unmercifully for some minutes, the logical part of my brain wondering when the hot water would run out. Skinner was gentle with me. Some men tend to lose it after a while and start plunging in recklessly, or grabbing your head and pulling you on to them. Skinner maintained a reasonable semblance of control until the very end. Even then, he only allowed himself to wrap his fingers through my hair as he moaned my name over and over. The water started to lose its heat soon after. At about the same time I could have sworn I heard a knocking sound. Skinner turned the shower off and grabbed a towel. He turned to face me, his eyes smiling as he systematically dried me. Then I heard the knocking sound again. He heard it this time as well. His brows knitted together and he answered my unspoken question. "Someone's at the door." Without further ado, he grabbed his thick bathrobe and wrapped it around himself as he headed out of the bathroom. I couldn't help but admire his naked butt along the way. I stood there toweling my hair, grinning like an idiot for about ten seconds. Then I remembered the telephone was off the hook and the trail of discarded clothing from the front door to the bedroom. I risked a glance outside. Oh, oh, Skinner had not turned on the hall light. It would be a miracle if he didn't trip and break his neck...on the other hand the darkness hid the evidence from anyone standing at the door. I scrambled around, then ran naked back into the guest room and found my own bathrobe. Definitely not as nice as Skinner's. I rushed back out in time to hear voices. Oh, shit, oh shit he's letting them in the front door! How in hell...didn't he realize...? Had he had time to pick up...? I ran down the first part of the stairs, clutching discarded apparel and tossing it to the top. I figured I could probably sneak down and grab the rest while Skinner kept whoever in hell it was occupied...who the hell was it anyway...? But the voices gave them away immediately. Mulder and Scully. Then I saw the light go on and Skinner called my name. There are absolutely no etiquette books dealing with such a situation, I'm sure. I tied my bathrobe, grabbed a towel from the floor and wrapped it around my head as I went downstairs. And there it all lay, the evidence of our lust, a trail of clothes and shoes and oh God help me my panties artfully draped across one of Skinner's shoes on the second step. Well, that pretty much summed it up, I thought. Three FBI agents in the living room, three pairs of eyes looking up at me and I'm supposed to descend the stairs with some dignity. Great, just fucking great. The question, of course, was do I step on or over or around the panty hose? The skirt and Skinner's jacket, well, they were definitely step around, but panty hose just don't rate, nor do men's socks, although in that regard I was luckier. One of them was scrunched up against the wall, somehow having wrapped itself in his tie. I navigated my way around this stuff, pretending that it was normal to ornament a stairway in this manner. The fact that we were both sopping wet and wearing bathrobes kind of added to the we-have-just-fucked-ourselves-silly ambiance. Oh, brother...I mean, he was their boss and it was just, well...it just seemed tacky when I wanted to scream out that tacky is far from what it had been. But something in their eyes pulled me up short. Skinner's brows were knitted and he stepped towards me and my heart just about burst out of my rib cage. "What's wrong?" was all I could manage. Skinner glanced at his two agents. They shared a look and I knew, God help me I knew. "It's Jace, isn't it?" My face must have turned white because Skinner suddenly had me by the elbow. "What...?" I tired to stammer out. "Jace...Justin's been abducted." Scully said quietly. "How...?" But as sure as I knew it was Jace, I guessed why. I turned to Mulder, my face cracking. "It's him, isn't it?" He swallowed and nodded and I could see pain and sympathy twist his face. He knew, perhaps more than anyone in that room, he knew what I was feeling. I crumpled back into Skinner's arms. ********************** End Chapter 10 The Enginner