From: Parrotfish Subject: Sub Rosa 1/8 (resend) (NC-17) (To all those who've written begging for part 1 -- Thanks to Monica, I've learned that the Majordomo bounces messages in which the first word on a line is "sub." Go figure! Hope it works this time.) Please do not forward to ATXC. Archivists: Please archive separately as Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa Title -- Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa Author -- Parrotfish (parrotfish@ibm.net) Rating --- NC-17 ( sex, violence, language) Classification -- X (X file), R (Mulder-Scully romance), A (Angst) Summary -- Mulder and Scully go undercover to rescue a kidnapped child from a white supremacist militia group. Success could mean the salvation of the duo's partnership -- if it doesn't destroy them first. Completed -- 6/1/97 WARNING -- This story is about people with reprehensible beliefs. Their racist ideology is presented without sympathy but in great detail. If you can't bear reading about such things, please turn back now. Author's Note -- When I wrote Caught in the Act, it was meant as a stand-alone story, part erotica, part musing on society's double standard when it comes to sex. I got a lot of e-mail asking for a sequel. Caught in the Act II: No Win Situation was more of the same. But when I sat down to write the story before you now, I found that a lot of other interesting questions had come up along the way. Questions about sexuality and identity; about the way we see ourselves and our actions as opposed to the way others see us; about the relationship between our inner lives and our external lives. Next thing I know, I've got 160k. There's still some erotica here, but it's coupled with a huge dose of angst and some very brutal character exploration. I found it fascinating to write, and I hope you find it interesting to read. While you are more than welcome to read the first two stories on the archive, this one can be read on its own. And by the way: I am actually a sad little gnome sitting in a box. Nothing ever happens in my box, and my life is an endless misery of isolation. But every so often, through a tiny crack somewhere just above my head, a little note drops in saying somebody read my story, and my tragic existence is momentarily transformed into one of great joy and fulfillment. In the meantime, I just sit here in this box all alone, waiting... Thank yous: To Chris Carter for creating The X-Files; to David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson and the entire cast and crew for bringing this marvelous series to life; and to Fox for putting it on the air. ________________________________ Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 1/8 by Parrotfish (parrotfish@ibm.net) "Whatever you do, don't look at the painting." "The painting." Hugh Lester looked at his partner with mingled disbelief and disdain. "That's right. The painting over the mantle in the dining room. It's a portrait of his grandfather. Don't look at it." "Is it that bad? Maybe we should call the NEA for backup." "I'm not kidding, Hugh!" "All right! All right! Let's just get this over with." "Okay. You take the back door. If I haven't let you in within two minutes, break it down. Let's go." Fox Mulder got out of the car and approached the front of the large, Victorian house as his partner circled around back. He waited a minute to give Lester time to get into position, then rapped sharply on the door. "Open up! Federal agents!" He was met with dead silence. Mulder tried the doorknob. It turned easily, and the large wood- and-glass door swung open. He entered and found himself in a spacious, wood-paneled foyer. "Sheffield? Sheffield! I know you're here!" Silence. Mulder headed toward the back of the house to let his partner in. He didn't make it. A large man with a startling mass of white hair and a jagged scar across his forehead stood in Mulder's way. He'd been standing there all along, Mulder guessed, waiting. "I know it's you, Sheffield. I know how your cousins wound up dead." A loud crash came from the direction of the kitchen. "We're here to arrest you and take you out of this house," Mulder said. For a moment, he saw fear in the big man's eyes. Just for a moment. He watched as the fear turned into gleeful hatred. "Lester! Get out of there!" Mulder yelled. Too late. He tried to close his eyes, but he had lost control over them. And then the blue bolts seared them. Like twin lasers, the fiery beams leaped from Sheffield's eyes into his, and an agonizing pain overwhelmed him. Another couple of seconds, and his brain would simply shut down under the assault. "NO!" He could no longer see, but from somewhere behind the burning pain, Mulder heard a voice scream the single syllable. And then the pain stopped. He sank to his knees, dazed, blinking back the tears that poured out in the aftermath of the attack. His vision was still blurred when he looked up, and at first he thought he was hallucinating. As his eyes cleared, a surge of relief washed over him. Sheffield lay face down on the floor. Scully had her knee in his back, and she was snapping on the cuffs. "What are you doing here?" Mulder croaked with whatever voice he could find. "When you told me you thought Sheffield's mother was coming here and that she was in danger, I knew you'd try something like this," she said. "I thought you could use some help." "Lester -- go check on him. I'll keep an eye on Sheffield." Mulder got to his feet. "Where is he?" "Dining room. He must have looked at the painting." Scully dashed out. It only took her a minute to find him. "Mulder! Call an ambulance!" ____________________________ It was just like old times -- sitting side by side in Assistant Director Skinner's office, prepared for the worst. "Agent Lester is in intensive care," Skinner was saying. "He's in a coma, and the doctors can't find any cause. No trauma. No pathology. Nothing. I suspect you have a theory...?" This last was addressed directly to Mulder. "I know what happened to him. Not that it's going to make any difference." Scully gripped the arms of her chair tighter. Mulder was throwing all the bad attitude he had in Skinner's face, flipping him a mental bird. He'd always been prone to disrespectful behavior, but ever since he'd lost her as a partner, he'd been so flippant that Scully feared for his job. "Agent Mulder," Skinner spat through clenched teeth, "I have a severely injured agent who may not survive the night. I'm in no mood for your snide comments. Tell me what happened. NOW!" "What happened? Hugh Lester refused to believe me. If he had, he'd be here talking to you now." "What do you mean?" Mulder sighed, knowing he was about to sound crazy. Again. "Sheffield has the ability to channel one person's psychic energy and use it against another person. But he can only do it by means of an intermediate device -- a painting in his house. I told Lester not to look at the painting. He ignored my warning. Scully found him collapsed in front of the painting." "You mean to tell me that Agent Lester is in a coma because Sheffield sapped his psychic energy in order to attach you?" Mulder merely nodded sullenly. "Agent Scully, what were you doing at Sheffield's house last night?" "I thought Mulder could use some help," she replied cryptically. "Agent Scully has the ability to balance the outrageousness of my ideas with the empirical evidence of their validity," Mulder said. "In other words, she believes you?" "Not always. But she trusts me, just as I trust her." Scully glanced at her former partner, thinking he had gone too far. He was flaunting the special nature of their relationship, and that was a dangerous card to play. Their superiors didn't understand that, together, she and Mulder made a whole that was so much greater than its parts. She didn't think there was any point trying to explain it to them. "I know this will come as a shock, Mulder," Skinner said, "but I'm convinced that this episode provides compelling evidence that you cannot be effective on your cases with any partner other than Agent Scully." Well, what do you know. Skinner was quite a surprising man. Then again, Scully knew he would never have broken them up if it hadn't been for the scandal. Hell, Skinner would happily have turned a blind eye if it would have helped. But when that boob, D'Amico, had walked in on her and Mulder in bed and had filed an official report, there hadn't been much Skinner could do about it. Until now. "I'm temporarily assigning you a new partner, Mulder." The six- foot-two FBI agent slumped down on his chair and hunched his shoulders like a defiant teen-ager told he'd have to spend time in detention. "You'll work with Agent Scully until a permanent arrangement can be made." Mulder sat up in surprise. "But sir, the Internal Affairs Committee said..." "You leave the IAC to me. Last I heard, they preferred our agents alive -- almost as much as I do." "Sir," Scully began hesitantly, "is there any chance these events might be presented in such a manner as to alter the committee's decision and make the arrangement permanent?" Skinner took a long moment before answering. "I don't know," he said. _______________________________ The snick of a door latch woke Mulder from a deep, dreamless sleep. He bolted upright, startled, but a look around calmed his instinctive reaction. Scully must be home. He'd gone straight to her place after work. She hadn't arrived yet, and, having slept little the previous night in the wake of events at the Sheffield house, he'd thrown himself, exhausted, onto Scully's bed. He stretched languidly and got up. The room was dark. It must be late. Scully's last-minute autopsy must have been a complicated affair. He padded barefoot into the hallway and was about to turn to the living room when he heard the water go on in the bathroom. Turning that way instead, he saw Scully kicking off her heels as she reached for the bubble bath. "S..." The barest whisper of her name escaped when he clamped down on it. She was reaching back for the zipper of her skirt. Mulder stood in the dim hallway and watched through the open bathroom door as Scully unzipped herself and slid the skirt off, folding it neatly and laying it on top of the hamper. Then she pulled her panty hose down and off, bending over to remove them, her richly rounded, silk-encased bottom turned toward him. Oh, God. He and Scully had been intimate long enough now so that he could generally watch her undress without completely losing it. But standing there in the dark, unbeknownst to her, watching her prepare for a bath, was too much. One small part of his mind told him to step forward, to say something, to announce his presence. The other ninety percent was taking instructions from somewhere south of his belt. She sat on the closed toilet, her blouse hanging loosely to her thighs, and bent one leg to take her foot in her hands, massaging the sole with her thumbs. He took note of the way she began at the heel and worked up toward the ball, digging hard at the high point of the arch along the way. He filed it away for future reference. He would do it for her just that way sometime. He leaned against the wall as she started on the other foot, her head bent forward so that a sweep of auburn hair veiled her face. With a final wiggle of her toes, she released her foot and sat up, her hair falling back to reveal her striking profile: the tiny nose, the high cheeks, the lush lips. She looks so delicate, he thought. Yeah. Delicate enough to take down a 250 pound man and cuff him before he knew what hit him, he mused, smiling. Scully stood, turned toward the mirror and began unbuttoning her blouse. She seemed to be eyeing herself critically, crinkling her forehead and baring her teeth. Mulder wondered if she was considering some imagined flaw that no one but she would notice. She slid the blouse off and stood before him in white silk bra and panties. He became aware of the pressure growing in his groin. She reached back and unhooked the bra, throwing it on top of the hamper with the rest of her clothes. Still watching herself in the mirror, she raised her hands to her breasts and cupped them, pushing them up so that the valley between them became an invitingly tight crease. I should say something now, Mulder thought guiltily. This is too good. He said nothing. He watched, riveted, as she lowered her hands and smoothed them across the tight skin of her belly, hooked her fingers at the waist of her panties and bent to lower them. Mulder was rock hard inside his suit pants at the sight of her, nude and unaware of him. Lazily, she raised her arms high and stretched, then turned to the bathtub and leaned over to shut the water off, offering another beautiful view of her now naked ass. She turned and sat on the edge of the tub, facing him. He was sure the game was up. She would see him standing there. He should say something now. But instead of calling to him, she closed her eyes, moved her legs apart and began stroking lazy circles against a silky thigh. Oh, sweet Jesus. The hand was creeping higher, heading into the red flesh nestled inside the curls between her legs. Slowly, enticingly, her middle finger disappeared. Mulder was quite sure he had never been so rigid without first experiencing any actual physical contact. Not since he was sixteen, anyway. Scully drew the finger out slowly and then pushed it back in, bringing the other hand to her breast to pinch the nipple. When her finger withdrew completely and she touched her clitoris, he reached for his own zipper, slowly pulling it down, careful to make no noise as she began her steady stroking, her head falling back to bare her long, ivory throat. Mulder stripped silently, never removing his eyes from the spectacle of her self-indulgence. Her head rolled from side to side as she increased the pace, dipping a finger inside herself from time to time to capture the moisture she needed. He held back, watching as droplets of sweat beaded her brow in the steamy bathroom. She took a nipple firmly between thumb and forefinger, rolling and pulling at it hard enough to make her bite her lip in exquisite pain. Still, he held back. Her hand reached a rapid machine gun-fire pace across the swollen flesh of her clitoris, and a low moan escaped her. A sheen of sweat covered her chest, and every muscle grew taut with anticipation. He dug his fingernails hard into the palms of his hands and held back. The low moan became a guttural yell as her hips bucked, and she plunged two fingers deep inside. He surged forward, reaching her in three long strides. He grabbed her hand in an iron grip and pulled it away. As he dropped to his knees between her legs, her eyes sprang open in shock. Before she could speak, he had rammed himself in to the root, his hands holding her hips firmly in place so that she wouldn't slide back away from him. Her already-orgasmic cunt clenched hard around him, the sensation wrenching a scream from her. He gasped at the feeling of pulling out while her strong muscles worked to suck him in, then rammed himself home again. Her climax, which had begun before he'd even entered her, continued to build. She was twitching and writhing in his arms so that he could barely hold her still as he slammed into her again and again in a ball-tightening frenzy of hot, hard flesh inside hot, wet flesh. His blood seemed to rush straight from his heart to his cock to his head, pounding in his ears to the rhythm of his hips and the melody of her keening orgasm, and then his insides surged through and out, streaming into her fiery depths, pumping a white-hot stream of desire and need and infinite pleasure. She ground her pelvis against him in a circular motion, milking the last drop from him as his head fell onto her shoulder. God. Could he possibly want anything more from life? This was perfect. She nuzzled his ear. "Hi, partner," he whispered. ___________________________ END 1/8 Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 2/8 by Parrotfish (parrotfish@ibm.net) "No, Mulder!" "What do you mean, 'No?'" "It's a pretty simple concept. Which part were you having trouble with?" "The part where you refuse an assignment." "Assignment? Now you're handing out assignments?" Scully was furious. In the past ten days, Mulder had dragged her on two of the wildest goose chases of her career. First, they'd spent three miserable, mosquito-bitten days in the Louisiana bayous, tracking down rumors of zombies. Zombies! And then there had been the four straight days slogging through freezing New Hampshire rain, investigating allegations of human sacrifices conducted at one of the nation's most bizarre tourist traps, known to the locals as "America's Stonehenge." Needless to say, both cases had been dead-ends. And now Mulder wanted to re-open a thirty-five-year-old file on a haunted house. "What the hell is wrong with you, Scully?" "There is nothing wrong with me, Mulder, other than the fact that you're taking advantage of me." "Excuse me?" "Don't expect me to swallow every crackpot theory of yours just because I'm not Hugh Lester!" "Crackpot?" Scully was on a tear, and she wasn't about to let him get a word in edgewise. "I'm going home, Mulder. Alone. I don't want to see you or hear from you tonight. I need one night of sanity before I can cope with your skewed world view again. We'll talk about this tomorrow." With that, she stormed out. "Shit!" Mulder cursed aloud to the empty room. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They'd fought hard for the right to work together again, but now that they were doing it, it was a disaster. Okay, maybe he was trying to cram a lot of the more unconventional cases into a short period of time. But their partnership was only temporary. Who knew what kind of starched shirt with a pole up the ass he'd be paired with next time? Why couldn't Scully understand that? The worst part was that it hadn't just been their professional relationship that had suffered. They hadn't made love since the night Skinner had teamed them up. Sure, they'd been on the road a lot, and they'd stuck by their hands-off-while-on-a-case rule. And, on the couple of nights they'd had off, they'd both been bone-tired. But Mulder was afraid there was more to it than that. Shit. He didn't want to admit it, but he was really scared. They'd always said they could pull it off -- balancing their professional and personal relationships. Had they been wrong? He couldn't afford to think about that. Because that would mean he'd have to lose Dana Scully, either as a partner or as a lover. If things got bad enough, maybe even as both. Any way he looked at it, the operative word was, "lose." That was not a prospect he cared to consider. _________________________ When Scully came in the next morning, she wasn't surprised to find Mulder looking haggard and exhausted. She knew he wouldn't sleep well after she'd walked out on him. But what choice did she have? If they'd seen each other after work, they would only have argued, and the result would have been the same -- separate beds. Still, the sight of his tired and anxious face tugged at her heartstrings. She took her coat off. "Mulder ... I'm sorry. It's just that ..." "No, Scully, it's all right. I know you ..." The phone rang, cutting them both off mid-sentence. "Mulder ... Okay. We'll be right up." He hung up. "Skinner wants us." Scully tensed. So soon? They hadn't even had time to settle into a rhythm. She was sure they could, given just a little more time. They just needed time. That was the problem, really. Knowing it was temporary. Feeling rushed. That's why Mulder had chosen the screwiest cases. He knew he wouldn't be able to pursue them once he got a new partner who, like Lester, would think he was one fry short of a Happy Meal. And that was why she had no patience with him. It was hard to have patience when you were always hearing a clock ticking in the background. Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "Okay, let's get it over with." He followed her out of the basement office with his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. They entered Skinner's office the same way. He waved them into seats and picked up the phone. "Hold my calls, Kimberly," he barked. The two agents exchanged glances. "This isn't about reassignment, is it?" Mulder asked. "No." Skinner eyed them before continuing, looking as though he were running some complicated calculations through his mind. "It's about a case," he said, seeming to have arrived at an answer. "A very important case." He paused to collect his thoughts, then continued. "Before I give you the details, I must warn you that when you walk out of this office, several things will have changed. First, you will be undercover, with false identities. Second, you will have information that you will not be permitted to discuss with anyone but each other and myself, ever. And third, the fate of a vital piece of American foreign policy that could affect not just national, but global security will be in your hands." "Our hands?" Mulder repeated incredulously. Skinner ignored him and went on. "As you know, the Chinese Foreign Minister was killed in an explosion six months ago during a visit to the U.S. The public story was a gas leak." "A lot of people didn't buy that," Mulder said, remembering a conversation he'd had at the time with the Lone Gunmen. "A lot of people were right. It was a bomb. The CIA had reason to believe that the attack was carried out by a right-wing, white- supremacist militia group called the White Hand, based in Pennsylvania. But they needed evidence. To get it, they sent a man undercover to infiltrate the organization. He succeeded in making contact with a disgruntled member of the group who agreed with the White Hand's political aims, but not with its violent tactics. This man agreed to turn state's evidence." "So where do we come in?" Scully asked. "There's been a ... development. The informant's position has been compromised. His contact with the CIA was discovered by members of his group." "Did they kill him?" "No, surprisingly. It would seem that the group's leader, a man by the name of George Flood, has a rather twisted sense of justice. Instead of silencing the informant the old-fashioned way, he's chosen a more sadistic but equally effective method. Skinner's voice tightened. "Flood has kidnapped the informant's six-year-old son. He's holding the boy as insurance." "But that doesn't make any sense," Scully said. "Once the boy is either released or killed, the informant would have no reason to remain silent. Flood would be implicated." "They're not going to release him or kill him, are they?" Mulder said quietly. "No." "I don't understand," Scully said. "They're going to hold him indefinitely. The boy is a hostage for life," Mulder explained. "Oh my God." "We've managed to extricate the informant from his situation. He's safely hidden away. But we can't pursue conventional avenues to retrieve the boy. Nothing must compromise the investigation of the bombing. Any premature information leak that could affect Sino-American relations must be avoided at all costs. For that reason, we cannot involve local law enforcement. You two are going to have to find that boy entirely on your own." "You want us to find the kid," Mulder said. "Yes. And you must retrieve the boy at a moment when all our suspects' locations are known so that they can be immediately apprehended. If any of them were to slip through our fingers, and they knew their insurance was gone, they would disappear and probably flee the country. We cannot allow that." "You're kidding." "No, Agent Mulder. I'm not." "And they say I'm crazy. This is an impossible assignment." "Not entirely," Skinner said. "You have one major advantage." "Which is?" "The perfect cover. Last week, a black minister, his wife and two children were murdered, their bodies mutilated with swastikas carved on the faces. We managed to nab the killers -- a man and a woman, Robert Gorman and Mary Deene -- with absolutely no publicity. They're on deep ice. They -- you -- are exactly George Flood's kind of people. Gain his confidence. Discover where they're holding the boy." "Yeah, and while we're at it, we'll just use our Spidey powers to make everyone give themselves up and confess." "That would be acceptable," Skinner deadpanned. There was a long silence. "You said this was a matter of global security," Scully said at last. "The Chinese know damn well that was no gas explosion that killed their man. They believe it was a CIA hit. What very few people know is that before the incident, the U.S. and China were very close to announcing an agreement on nuclear disarmament. The Chinese halted those talks immediately after Xia Feng was killed. The only way to get them back to the table is to nail the real killers. And that won't happen unless you retrieve the kidnapped boy. You'll have one contact -- a phone number. You will not use it unless absolutely necessary." "But why us?" Scully asked. "Let me put it this way," Skinner said, his eyes locking on hers. "If you pull this off, the most powerful people at the White House, the CIA, the NSA, the State Department and the FBI will owe you an enormous debt. They will give you anything you request to repay it." His meaning was clear. "Here are your instructions," Skinner said. They took the folders and left. __________________ Back in the safety of the basement, the two agents sat staring at the walls for quite some time. "Have you ever gone undercover?" Scully asked at last. "Once. You?" "Never." "It was terrible. I was terrified I'd slip up and blow my cover. And this ..." "This is insane." Mulder turned to look at her. Her face, her posture, everything about her was tense, drawn tight as a violin string. She was right. This was insane. It was incredibly dangerous. Incredibly difficult. Incredibly unlikely to succeed. It was one step short of suicide. "We don't have to do this, Scully." "We don't?" "No." "It's an assignment. Last I checked, following orders wasn't voluntary." "Come on, Scully. You know why Skinner gave this to us. It would take something of this magnitude to get the Bureau to reinstate our partnership. But..." "But what?" "But the way things have been going these last couple of weeks, maybe it's just as well if they don't. Partner us, I mean. We could probably tell Skinner it's not worth it to us, and he'd let us off the hook." Scully was thunderstruck. What was he saying? Not worth it? She looked at him in shock. Her mind whirled around the words, "Not worth it." Not worth it? And then she understood. It was a question. He wasn't telling her. He was asking her. She rose, crossed the room and knelt before him. "Oh, Mulder. Of course it's worth it." He searched her eyes. "Do you think we can pull this off, Scully?" "We have to, Mulder. Even if there were no disarmament treaty, no CIA operation, no chance to collect a debt of gratitude." She paused, placing a hand on his arm. "There's a six-year-old boy facing life in hell." _________________________ For once, Mulder was happy to let Scully drive. It wasn't that he was tired, or that he needed to review the case. He didn't have a headache, and there was no need to read the map. It was the miniskirt. Last night, they'd carefully studied their profiles, memorizing the details and using their imaginations to fill in the rest. Included in their necessary preparations was the choice of a wardrobe in which to play the parts. For Mulder, it had been easy -- jeans and T-shirts. What else would a high school dropout auto mechanic wear? But when Scully had started to pack, she dug out articles of clothing he'd never dreamed she owned. Halter tops. Hot pants. Skin-tight jeans. Motorcycle boots. And the tiny scrap of denim she'd told him was a skirt, which she now barely wore as she drove. It covered her crotch and no more. Mulder was quite satisfied with his role as passenger-observer. "We're almost there," Scully said, interrupting a particularly spicy fantasy that would have worked much better in a car with a stick shift. "Mulder? Did you hear me?" "What? Yeah." Neither spoke again until they passed the sign that welcomed them to Lemington, Pennsylvania. "We're going to some very seedy dives. Are you sure you want to be wearing that?" "This is exactly what Mary Deene would wear." "That's not exactly terribly reassuring." "Look, Mulder. Things are going to get a lot uglier than a few drunken passes in a sleazy bar before we get through this. And the only way we'll get through this at all is by being as absolutely credible in these roles as we can be." "I know that," he replied peevishly and lapsed back into silence. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a place called Willy's Bar. Scully turned to Mulder. "This is it. From here on in, you're Bobby and I'm Mary. You ready?" "I'm ready." "You sure?" He grinned broadly. "As sure as a homicidal grease monkey can be." She smacked his leg and got out of the car. As they entered the bar, Mulder surprised her by draping an arm across her shoulders, his hand hanging carelessly over her breast. The transformation had begun. _____________________________ The Five Spot was their third bar. Scully was amazed at how many such places there were in a town the size of Lemington. One ought to have been more than enough. She and Mulder wove their way to the bar and ordered bourbons, just as they had at the previous two places. She was just slightly tipsy, having finished only half of each drink. The trick was to walk into each place looking like you'd had three at the last one. At Willy's Bar and The Station House, all she and Mulder had accomplished were a couple of loud, suggestive conversations that no one seemed to notice. In the car, they'd agreed they'd have to do better. Fate handed them their chance. A middle-aged black man wearing jeans and a work shirt perched himself on the stool next to Scully's. She waited several minutes before starting. "Get your filthy hands off of me!" The man looked at her, startled. "I said, get your filthy hands off of me!" Louder this time. "I didn't touch you," the man replied, surprised. Mulder took up the game. He stood and moved to invade the man's space. "If you touch her again, I'll kill you, nigger." Scully swallowed a surge of nausea. The man stood and squared off with Mulder. "I suggest you watch your tongue," he said threateningly. "I don't think so -- nigger." This time, Mulder emphasized the foul word, throwing it out as a purposeful challenge. "If you don't apologize," the man said with barely restrained fury, "you will regret it." "Apologize?" Mulder barked out a harsh laugh. "I don't apologize to niggers. Me and Mary, we know how to teach niggers like you a lesson. If you won't go back where you belong, we'll just have to get rid of you. Like we done before." Mulder was braced and ready when the first blow came, but the man had at least fifty pounds on him. He managed to come back with a few solid punches to the stomach before the enraged stranger brought him down and kicked him five or six times for good measure, then stormed out. Scully could do nothing but watch. "Come on, Bobby," she said, helping him to his feet when it was all over. "Let's get out of here. This place makes me sick." _________________________ She washed the blood off his split lip and checked to make sure nothing was broken. He'd been lucky. He was lying shirtless on the queen-sized bed in a seedy motel room she'd found for them while he'd lain groaning in the back seat of the car. Sitting beside him now, she realized this rat hole was going to be home for a while. "Jesus, I feel filthy," she said quietly. "Me too." "Do you think it worked?" "Who knows? Depends who happened to be there. We'll have to go back tomorrow and see if anyone takes the bait." "That poor guy," Scully sighed. "Him? What about me?" "You started it." "Actually, as I recall, you started it. Buy I have to admit, it was a stroke of genius." "Yeah, just like Hitler was a genius. Maybe tomorrow we can invade Poland and launch the Final Solution." "Come on, Scully. It wasn't really you." "That man doesn't know that." "We can't help that. Come here." He reached for her and drew her down on top of him, instantly regretting it when his bruised ribs complained. She rolled off him and lay on her side, propping her head on one hand and resting the other gently on his chest. "Thank God you're here," she said. "I don't think I could do this alone." He grinned, then winced from the pain. "Actually, I quite enjoyed watching you do it alone the other day." She returned his wicked smile. "Yeah, but it was even better when you got in on the act." He rolled over and hooked one long leg over hers, pulling her hips firmly against his. "This time, you don't have to start without me," he said. "You sure you're up to it?" "What do you think?" He thrust his hips forward so she could feel the hard bulge in his jeans. "Your spirit is willing, but your flesh..." "...is begging you to go for the zipper." "Begging, huh? I like that." Despite his bravado, Scully could tell from his stiff, awkward movements that he was still in pain. She determined to take his mind off it. "Lie back," she whispered, pushing gently on his shoulder. With careful fingers, she stroked his bruised torso, running up his side, across the slight double slope of his chest, down his stomach and around again. A low vibration that sounded like a cat's purr began deep in his chest. She leaned in and pressed her lips firmly into the soft flesh where his neck met his collarbone, then tickled the spot with the tip of her tongue. The sound grew louder. She licked her way up his neck, savoring his unique blend of salt and musk, stopping at the corner where his beautiful lower lip was just starting to swell with its injury, planting a light kiss there. The quality of the sound changed. At first, she thought she'd hurt him. The she realized it was a snore. He was sound asleep. She smiled and whispered in his ear, "Sweet dreams, grease monkey." _________________________ END 2/8 Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 3/8 by Parrotfish (parrotfish@ibm.net) On the streets of Lemington, working stiffs were wandering out to lunch counters, McDonalds, Roy Rogers, ATMs, the post office, wherever they needed to go during their midday break. Two men sat together on a bench in a small park near the construction site where they'd worked all morning. "I tell you, it was them," the younger man said. "How can you be so sure?" the other man asked suspiciously. He was older, in his 50s, balding. "What they said. How they acted. You get a feeling about these things, y'know? And besides, the man said they'd done it before." "Done what? Did he say?" "Not exactly. But the way he was telling off that nigger, it don't take no Einstein to figure it out." The other man glared at his companion with hard, calculating eyes. "No, it don't take no Einstein. Which is lucky in your case." "You leave it to me," the younger man said, untouched by the point of the barb. "I'll get to the bottom of it." The two men packed up their trash and headed back to work. _________________________________ A lanky man in a nearby motel room whose handsome, sensual features were distorted by ugly bruises and a swollen lip stirred for the first time that day. He raised his arms over his head to stretch, and the motion wrenched a surprised moan from him. He opened his eyes cautiously, as though fearful that even such a small movement might hurt. It didn't, but his next action -- the smile he attempted as twin dots of blue and a splash of rich red resolved themselves into Scully -- did. She held a glass of water in one hand and reached out to him with the other. "Ibuprofen," she said. "Thanks," he managed, struggling to sit up. "How bad?" she asked as he downed the pills and took the water from her. He moved his arms and legs and rotated his torso, first one way and then the other, testing. "I've had worse." "That's not saying much," she replied, grinning. "You've got a point." He set the glass on the night table beside him, reached for her hand and pulled her onto the bed next to him. "I fell asleep on you last night, didn't I?" "Well, next to me." "Sorry." He leaned forward and nuzzled her elegant nose with his much larger and, he thought, uglier one. "You're forgiven," she whispered just before his teeth nipped at her lower lip, then worked past her chin and down her neck to her shoulder. "Shouldn't we hit the streets?" she asked, trying to back away. "Uh-uh." Mulder pulled her back. "Bobby and Mary drank a lot last night. They'd stay in bed all day." "Lucky Bobby and Mary," Scully murmured. Mulder reached for the belt of her robe and pulled. The robe fell open, revealing that she wore nothing underneath. He leaned forward and wrapped his lips around a hardened, red nipple. Scully pulled back again, this time pushing forcefully against his shoulders and standing up. "Wait...stop," she said, panting lightly. "What?" "It's just ... well, I woke up thinking, and I thought maybe we shouldn't. Not while we're here. I mean, we're on a case, and we have that rule..." "That rule doesn't apply, Scully. We're alone in this. Besides, last night..." "Last night I wasn't thinking." "This morning you're thinking too much." "Mulder..." "No! Don't you dare, Scully. I won't let you." "What? Let me what?" He reached out to her where she stood by the bed next to him and wrapped his arms around her, resting his face on her bare stomach. "I'm not going to let you punish yourself for someone else's sins. You're not Mary Steene. I know how pretending to be her makes you feel. But you're not her." Scully stroked his hair, marveling at his ability to leap wildly to a conclusion. A perfectly correct conclusion. "God, Mulder, this is so hard," she sighed. "I know. And it's going to get worse. But remember, Scully, that I always know exactly who and what you are, no matter what you say or do." "Do you?" she asked. He felt rigid tension in the muscles pressed against his face. How could she doubt it? He forced the thought away, forced himself to assume a lighter tone. "Now, where was I?" he murmured. "Oh, yeah. Right here." He turned his head and took her breast in his mouth again. This time, she arched her back as he pulled at her with his lips and bit down lightly. "Doesn't that hurt?" she asked, remembering his split lip. "Yes," he mumbled into her flesh. She put a hand on either side of his head and gently pulled him off her nipple. "Then don't do it." "I don't mind." A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "Let's see if we can find something else you don't mind." She pushed him down onto the bed, then slid the robe off her shoulders. Nude, she kneeled on the bed beside him. He reached for her, but she stopped his hand, bringing it to her face and kissing the tender flesh at the inside of his wrist, then the palm, then the tip of his middle finger. The kiss became a suck as she slid her lips down to the knuckle, then back up to the tip. She repeated the motion, her eyes locked on his. He didn't realize her hand had been moving until he felt her warm palm brush the tip of his erection as she pushed his boxers down. "I thought you didn't want to," he said, already losing himself in the sensation of her touch. "I didn't say that," she replied, removing her mouth from his finger. "I said maybe we shouldn't. Well, maybe we shouldn't. But I will anyway." With that, she drew his finger back into her mouth and took another trip down it, wrapping her hand firmly around his cock and stroking at the same time. She did it again, hand mimicking lips, down and then up. And again. Mulder gasped at the twin sensation, the movements of her hands and lips eroticizing his finger as much as his stiff penis. He stared into her foggy blue eyes in rapt fascination, giving himself over to her, telling her with his eyes and his body that he was hers to do with what she would. That was one of the things he loved about sex with Scully -- the giving over. Until the day she had first touched him in the heat of passion, he had never experienced the fullness of his own sexuality. Oh, he'd had sex. Lots of it. And he was pretty sure no one had ever left his bed complaining. But he had never totally given himself over to the experience. Surrendered to it. Because that would have meant giving himself over to someone. And until Scully came into his life, that had clearly been impossible. But now ... now, his body, his heart and his mind were hers to do with as she pleased. And her pleasure was most definitely pleasing to him. His thoughts floated as she shifted position, releasing his finger from her mouth. She stripped his underwear off with a vicious tug and straddled his thighs, lacing her fingers through his, pinning his hands at his sides. Leaning over until the heavy softness of her breasts rested on his legs, she kissed, then licked the head of his cock. He closed his eyes and felt her. Knew her. He understood that euphemism now. To know someone. Because that's what this was. The woman he knew opened her mouth and slipped her wet heat around him. The keen intelligence of her brilliant mind slid along the length of him. The iron band of her courage wrapped itself firmly around his sensitive, engorged flesh. The gentle tremors of her fear vibrated against his sweat- dampened skin. The blazing heat of her passion sucked at him. The cool grace of her inner and outer beauty blanketed his overwhelmed senses. And the magnificent, blinding light of her love carried him over the edge, swallowing the hot stream of his very essence as readily as he urgently offered it to her. He knew her. He would always know her. Even when she didn't know herself. ___________________________ Standing at the door of The Five Spot, Scully took a deep breath and let another woman's personality settle over her like a wet, mildewed blanket, close and heavy. She had convinced Mulder to let her work the place alone for an hour or so before he showed up. He'd fought like hell at first, but in the end, he'd known she was right. A lone woman was much more approachable. If someone wanted to establish contact, he'd be far less cautious about it if Mulder were absent. And besides, after yesterday the bartender might not even let Mulder in. The place was pretty empty -- it was barely 5:00 -- and she had her choice of seats. Deciding a booth would most inviting of strangers' confidences, she headed across the room, letting the part she played flow through her and control the sway of her hips, the way her eyes roved, the sultry set of her mouth. Wearing this alternate identity, she felt acutely aware of her body -- the way her thighs tensed with every high-heeled step; the exact line of skin just a couple of inches below her crotch where the hem of her skirt lay; the light tickle where the tip of her pony tail brushed against the back of her neck; the weight of her breasts resting inside the lacy black bra she knew was quite visible beneath the sheer fabric of her blouse. It was as though her mind were trapped inside someone else's body, causing it to take a constant, detailed inventory of its unfamiliar host. She slid into a corner booth and ordered a bourbon from the waitress. For half an hour, she found herself nursing the drink in an odd, state of combined boredom and hyperawareness. She startled when a voice suddenly addressed her from behind. "Hello there, gorgeous." She forced her mouth into a coy smile before turning her head. "Hello yourself." She sized up the man who had spoken, all the while carefully preserving a vacuous expression on her face. He was thirty or so, white, squarely built and obviously well-muscled, his body hard with the effects of years of manual labor. She let her eyes wander over him, knowing what motives he'd ascribe to her, willing to let him. Her pulse quickened when her gaze fell on a large tattoo that was partially hidden by the sleeve of his T-shirt. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked. "No. Go right ahead." He surprised her by sliding in beside her instead of taking a seat across the table. "Buy you a drink?" "Sure." He signaled the waitress, who returned quickly with another bourbon and a Southern Comfort. A regular, Scully thought. She knows what he takes. "I just love tattoos," she purred after downing her drink in two gulps. "Can I see?" The man reached his right hand across to lift his left sleeve to the shoulder, flexing his biceps just inches from her face. She took a good look at the green image of a fierce eagle. It had a small swastika on its breast. Paydirt. "Weren't you in here yesterday?" he asked. She brought her eyes up to his face as he pulled his sleeve down. "Yeah." "I noticed you didn't much like that guy pawing you. Was it just him, or are you like that with all the men?" Not very bright, she thought He was testing the waters, and none too subtly. "No. Only with guys like him." "Like him?" "Yeah. You know. I prefer white meat." The man grinned broadly. "Me too," he said. "So where's your boyfriend?" Here goes, Scully thought. I'll have to play it out. "I don't know. What, am I supposed to keep him on a leash?" "The real question is, does he keep you on a leash?" "Hell, no!" "Well now, that's what I call a healthy relationship. Umm, what's you name?" "Mary." "Mary." He raised his tattooed arm and brought it down along the back of the seat behind her. "I'm Frank." "Well, Frank, you gonna buy me another drink?" "Anything you want." He signaled the waitress again. The drinks showed up as fast as they had the first time. "So, Mary, you new in town? I would've noticed you if you was around." "Yeah. Just got here yesterday." "You don't say?" "Seems like a sleepy little dump." "Oh, there's plenty of action, if you know where to look." Frank put his big, rough hand on her thigh under the table. Scully willed herself not to flinch. "Oh yeah? That's good to hear. I was afraid nothing around here would get me very excited." A predatory gleam lit Frank's eyes, and he leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, his hand sliding up her leg so high that his fingertips brushed the elastic of her underwear. Scully bit the inside of her cheek to control her reaction, fighting the reflex to jerk away and slap the bastard. It was at that moment that Mulder appeared from nowhere, standing next to the table at a vantage point from which he could see it all. She offered up a silent prayer that their usual ability to communicate with their eyes was up to the task at hand. His message, at any rate, was clear. Jesus, she thought, timing doesn't get any worse than this. Realizing Frank had finished whispering some crude sexual remark in her ear, Scully forced herself to giggle. "Well, look who's here," she said aloud. Mulder took her cue and sat down across from them. Frank looked momentarily alarmed, like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "This is one pretty lady," he said with feeble bravado. Scully held her breath, afraid that their entire mission could end right then and there. He glanced at her, then back at the beefy man beside her. A wide, toothy grin split his face. "Hell, she's the best damn piece of tail in the state!" he bellowed. Scully felt Frank relax beside her. Crisis averted. "You don't look so good .... What's your name, anyway?" "Bobby. And you're...?" "Frank. You took a hell of a lickin' yesterday." Mulder just shrugged. "I saw it all. I saw that nigger kick you when you was down. Ain't it just like 'em to fight dirty?" "Yeah. Sure is." Within minutes, more drinks were ordered, and Scully was relieved that Frank seemed to have decided to keep his hands to himself in Bobby's presence. The conversation rambled on, mostly between the two men, mostly about nothing in particular: sports, cars, dirty jokes. It was going nowhere. At last, Scully piped up. "Bobby, honey, I gotta eat something. Wanna get outta here?" "Sure, baby. Let's go." Mulder stood up and slid out of the booth, adding as though it were an afterthought, "I'm glad you know who was right yesterday, Frank." "Of course, man! White is always right." Frank stood to let Scully out. "And listen, baby, any time you need some excitement, you know where to find some pure white meat. I'll be happy to cook." Scully's breath caught as she glanced over to see Mulder's reaction. "Mary's got such a big appetite," he said, catching her eye. "Sometimes one cook just ain't enough for her." Frank leered at her as she turned and walked away, staring blatantly at her tight, round ass. Mulder lingered until she was out of earshot. Then, in a voice as vicious as it had been jovial moments earlier, he said, "Touch her and you'll wind up as dead as a nigger preacher. You hear me?" And he sauntered after her. __________________________ "It's them! I'm sure." "You're sure." "Yeah. Gotta be. Can you believe the luck?" Frank squirmed under the older man's piercing gaze. "That's quite a piece of luck," his companion said at last. "I always said I was lucky," Frank boasted, missing the other man's implication. "What makes you so sure?" "Only that Bobby just about told me in so many words." "He told you? What did he say? 'Hi, I killed a family of niggers?'" "No!" Frank was at last catching on to the other man's skepticism. "In fact, he wasn't gonna say nothing. I kind of pushed him into it." The older man took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed before resuming the conversation. "And just how did you 'push him into it?'" Frank suddenly became reluctant, remembering that his motives the previous evening had not been all business. "I got him mad." "How clever of you. And how the hell did you do that?" "You don't have to get sore, George. I'm telling you. I just kind of admired his lady friend. That's all. He took offense and told me I'd better look out or I'd end up dead as a nigger preacher. That's exactly what he said." George Flood said nothing, chewing on this bit of information along with his lunch. "Where are they staying?" he said at last. "Uh...I don't know." "You didn't ask?" "I was..." "You were thinking with your dick again! Jesus, Frank, how can you be so fucking stupid?" "Fuck you, George! I found 'em for you!" "That's exactly what has me worried." The younger man's face clouded over with anger and a bright blue vein bulged in his forehead as he worked his jaw in frustration. "I don't have to take this shit!" he stormed, rising from the bench. "You better apologize or..." "Or what?" Flood rose slowly and squared off with Frank. His voice was quietly menacing, like a snake's warning hiss. "Or you'll do what?" "I'll...I'll... do something.," Frank finished lamely, his body folding in on itself in a clear signal of defeat. "I'll tell you what you'll do," Flood replied in the same calmly dangerous tone. "You'll do exactly what I tell you to do. You'll find them tonight, and you'll bring them to me. And you won't talk to anyone about this. You got it?" "I got it," Frank sulked. Flood turned on his heel and walked away without another word. _____________________ Mulder woke with a start and reached reflexively to his right. The bed next to him was empty. He turned his head and saw her standing at the window, staring at a gray drizzle. Swinging his feet to the floor, he rubbed his stubbled face and rose to join her. He came up behind her and put his hands on her hips, pulling her back against him, pushing his morning erection into her back. She squirmed out of his grasp and sidestepped away. "Scully? What's wrong?" His voice was thick with sleepy sandpaper. "Nothing." He reached for her again. She evaded him. "Come on -- what is it?" he asked, more awake now. "Nothing. I just... I don't want to." "Don't want to what?" She heard the amusement in his voice, and it irritated her. "Just don't, okay?" she snapped. "Did you sleep?" More gently now. He could tell she was really upset. "Not much." "What were you thinking about?" "Nothing. Mary." Her barely articulate reply actually clarified things for him. She was, after all, the straightest of arrows. Scully might not be especially good at confronting her own fears head-on, but she was singularly true to her own beliefs. She had a code of ethics that was built on a rock-solid foundation, and she was unwaveringly true to it. It got her through everything. It was what let her sleep at night, even when her life was being torn apart by threats of violence, betrayal and chaos. This assignment was the most difficult thing anyone could ever ask of her. It forced her to abandon herself. Item by item, her most closely held values had to be swapped out for their exact opposites. For justice, bias. For fairness, hatred. For truth, subterfuge. And knowing her, she was punishing herself for it. All right, then. He would be patient. He would wait until she was ready. But, God, he hoped she'd allow herself time off for good behavior. "Let's get some breakfast," he said. She smiled gratefully. "Yeah. I'm famished." __________________ END 3/8 Caught in the Act III: Sub Rosa 4/8 by Parrotfish (parrotfish@ibm.net) "Maybe you should hit me." "What?" "Or grab me." "Excuse me?" They had been sitting in Malone's for an hour and a half, trying once again to drink slowly without being obvious about it. They'd agreed not to go back to The Five Spot. Another visit there would look like they were on a fishing expedition. Mulder had been trying to keep himself amused watching the ebb and flow of humanity that came through the place. He would pick someone out and observe him or her carefully, mentally building a psychological profile as though every passerby were a potential serial killer. It was a morbid habit he had. But as the alcohol had slowly soaked through his brain, his alertness, and then his interest, had waned. They couldn't afford to get seriously drunk, but they were forced to get bleary just keep up appearances. So for the last half hour, he'd been morosely watching ice melt, seeing too much of himself in the fate of the shrinking cubes. And then Scully piped up out of the blue. "Bobby doesn't usually treat Mary so well," she said under her breath. "Oh, gimme a break, S..." She shot him a warning glance. "Gimme a break," he repeated. "We're too quiet. Too well-behaved," she muttered. "Too bored is more like it," he replied. She laughed, but it was loud and grating. "Stop it," he hissed. "Fuck you!" She was getting louder. "Shut up," he whispered urgently. "Make me!" She was yelling now. "No." "You're such a coward, Bobby." "Stop it!" "Fuck you!" "I'm warning you, Mary. Stop talking like that." "And I suppose you're gonna make me?" Mulder sprang to his feet. The sound of glasses clattering as his legs hit the table was loud, but it was nothing compared to the ear-splitting smack of his palm on the soft skin of her cheek. Scully raised a hand to touch the place he'd struck. "You bastard!" God, she said it even when she didn't. Conversations around them resumed as Mulder sat back down. "Hey, I'd be glad to take her off your hands." Mulder turned to see Frank standing behind him. "Try it and I'll kill you." The words came out with all the anger he felt at himself for what he'd just done, for the situation that had made him do it. For the fact that, for some disturbing reason, it had actually made him feel better. Judging from Frank's reaction, he was behaving quite convincingly. Damn Scully for being right. Frank certainly looked like he believed Bobby to be a very dangerous man. "Sit down," Mulder said. "Actually, I was gonna spring you from this lousy dive." "Who says we need springing?" "No one. But I got a friend wants to meet you." "What are you, the social director on this cruise?" "C'mon. I think you'll really like him." "I don't wanna meet your fucking friend!" Mulder caught a flash of fear in the beefy man's eyes. So. He was under orders to produce them. "Look, we can have a little party on the way. I got some great blow." Frank's ploy was so feeble, his tone so pleading, that Mulder doubted Bobby would go for it. Fortunately, he didn't have to. "Oh, c'mon, baby. I haven't had any coke in ages," Scully put in. "I said no!" "Please?" "Oh, okay." The three of them headed for the door and emerged from the bar into the soggy night. "C'mon. This way." Frank led them into the sheltered doorway of a nearby building. Huddled together in the dim yellow light that spilled from a naked bulb just inside the door, Frank produced a small glass tube from his shirt pocket. A tiny gold spoon was attached to the cap by a short chain. "Give it here," Scully said impatiently. "No way. Last time I handed my stash to someone in the rain, he dropped it and I watched $300 worth of Panama Blue melt into the sidewalk." Frank unscrewed the cap himself and dipped the spoon into the vial, then held it out to her. Damn, Mulder thought. She could have faked it if he'd handed it over. She didn't have much choice now. He wondered if she'd ever snorted cocaine before. She leaned over Frank's hand, closed her left nostril with her finger and inhaled the little pile of white powder from the end of the spoon. Well I'll be damned, Mulder thought. Frank dipped again and held the spoon out to him. "No thanks," Mulder said. Frank shrugged and offered it to Scully. She glanced sideways at Mulder as she efficiently snorted the second dose. Frank helped himself to two nostrils-full, and the tube disappeared back into his shirt pocket. "My car's this way," Frank said, starting off. "We'll follow you." Mulder hoped that didn't sound too suspicious, but he didn't relish getting stuck God knew where with no means of transportation. Frank just shrugged again. Obviously, all he cared about was fulfilling his mission of bringing them to his "friend." He walked off in the direction he'd indicated as Mulder and Scully headed the other way. "Where did you learn to do that?" Mulder asked when they were out of earshot. "I haven't always been an FBI agent, you know," she replied. "You all right?" "Fine. But I don't think I'll sleep for the next eight hours or so." Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up in front of a nondescript little house on an even more nondescript little street. Frank was already out of his car and waiting for them. "Oh, this looks really exciting," Mulder said with hostile sarcasm. He was finding he had no trouble at all projecting a really mean attitude tonight. He suspected that was exactly why Scully had done what she'd done in making him hit her. It had put him in one incredibly foul temper. "Trust me, Bobby. You're gonna thank me for this. George Flood is someone you wanna know." They followed Frank to the front door and waited as he knocked. A woman opened it, stepped aside wordlessly and admitted them. She was middle-aged, tired-looking, worn at the edges, with an air of studied detachment. They entered the living room where a balding man of medium height awaited them. At first glance, there was nothing in the least remarkable about him. The man said nothing by way of greeting. Mulder took advantage of the momentary stand-off to observe his surroundings. The place was as drab and shabby as the people in it. The furniture was neither old nor new. It had that ageless, Sears-Roebuck-tacky look. The room was lined with bookcases that were filled floor to ceiling with volumes of every description. Nowhere did Mulder's roving eye encounter a television set. Without introduction or preamble, the man walked up to Mulder and stopped just inches from him. "Did you do it?" "Did I do what?" "Did you kill those people?" Mulder was caught off guard. He hadn't been expecting Flood to come to the point so quickly. Think. What would Bobby do? "What the fuck kind of question is that?" "One with a yes or no answer." This guy was good. Really good. "Fuck you!" Mulder turned on his heel and headed toward the door. "Come on, Mary. We're leaving." "Stop!" The one-word command yanked Mulder to a halt. There was an almost irresistible authority in that voice, one that demanded obedience. It was all he could do to keep from turning around. "I'll take that as a yes," Flood said. "Nobody asked you to take nothing," Mulder said, his back still to the man. "Why'd you do it?" "Fuck you!" "Oh, come on, Bobby. You can trust me." Flood's voice dripped charm now, projecting a warm invitation to intimacy. Mulder turned slowly. "Why should I trust you?" "Tell me why you did it. Don't worry. Nothing said here tonight will ever leave these four walls." Mulder shot a nervous glance in Frank's direction. Flood understood, and Mulder thought he saw a glimmer of respect flare in the man's eyes. "You've done your job, Frank," Flood said. "You can go." "But..." "Now!" Frank looked from Flood to Mulder, who just glared at him. Defeated, he made his exit. "You too, Alice." The woman disappeared upstairs. "Now tell me," Flood said. Scully had been standing off to the side, taking careful note of everything. She was surprised when, in answer to the man's question, Mulder moved behind her, his body pressing up against her. "I did it for her," Mulder said quietly. "You mean to tell me a minister made a pass at your girl?" "Not exactly." Mulder reached around her and cupped her face in both hands, tilting her head up so the ceiling light shone full on her. "What do you see?" "She's quite lovely." "Exactly. Look at the red of her lips. The deep blue of her eyes. The perfect, white skin. This is a woman that makes a man want to sire children on her, to see beautiful babies suck life from her breast." Scully's heart beat furiously. Mulder's voice had taken on a hypnotic, singsong quality that frightened her. "So you see," he went on, still holding her face tightly, "I had to do it. That man ... that nigger ... I heard him on the radio. He was talking about tolerating the mixing of the races. About cross-breeding the colors. Now you look at my Mary. What would the thought of a dark animal mounting her clean, white body do to you?" Flood approached the two of them and looked first in her eyes, then in his. "You have the calling," he whispered. "I know what I know," Mulder replied. He suddenly realized how hard he had been gripping Scully's face. Forcing himself to relax, he slid his hands down to her shoulders. Only then did he feel that she was trembling beneath his touch. "It is a calling," Flood was saying. "And if you have it, I can show you how to use it." "We been getting along fine without you." "But you're not making a difference. Do you think stopping one nigger's mouth will change anything?" "Well, it sure shut him up." "Let's get out of here, Bobby," Scully interrupted in a voice as smooth as glass despite the nervousness Mulder sensed in her. "All this fancy talk is making me thirsty." "Okay, baby." They headed for the door. "Bobby," Flood said with the same authoritative tone he'd used earlier. "You're not alone. There are others who feel as you do. You and Mary could join in something that is much greater than the sum of its parts." "I don't know," Mulder said, suddenly eager to get out into the bracing rain. "Where are you staying?" Mulder was strangely silent. Scully looked at him. "Sunset Motel," Scully said as Mulder opened the door. He was halfway down the path before she caught up with him. __________________________ Scully stared at her reflection in the night-blackened car window, the rain seeming to run down her somber face. She took a deep, shaky breath. It's just an act, she told herself. An elaborate game of make-believe. But he had been so damn believable. It hadn't really been a surprise. She'd seen this ability of his before, this uncanny talent for tuning his mind to the wavelength of madmen and psychopaths. She'd witnessed it a number of times. And each time, it had scared the shit out of her. Before she'd come along, before he'd begun work on the X files, it had had been his life's work. His talent had been sharpened like a straight razor to a brutal edge so that he could profile serial killers with frightening -- and useful -- accuracy. From time to time since then, he'd been called upon to do it again as an expert consulted in especially difficult cases. But never had she seen him become the madman so completely. And never had the intensity of the madness been turned full on her. The heat of the hatred he'd projected so convincingly had burned her soul. But the most disconcerting part was that it had been a stroke of pure genius. The creativity of his little display, its shockingly unconventional daring, had been utterly compelling. It had been exactly what was needed to get past George Flood's suspicions. She turned to look at him as he drove. He was wrapped up entirely in himself, shielding himself from his own actions. Like the survivor of some great disaster, he had entered a state of shock -- not physical but moral. She closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of his iron grasp and his foul words. She shook her head. No. They would be with her forever. She knew it was just as well. Because their success in this insane endeavor depended entirely on their ability to act like -- no, to be -- Bobby Gorman and Mary Deene. All right, then. She would watch and learn. She knew what it took out of him to do this. It wasn't like this was a walk in the park for him, becoming a monster to snare a monster. He never entered that moral gray area without maiming some part of his soul. She marveled at his ability to overcome his terror and plunge head first into a nightmare. She vowed not to let him go there alone. But she would never tell him he had become her guide in this. It was a skill he'd never meant to teach her. _______________________ Mulder listened to the sound of the shower, hearing the volume and pitch change as Scully moved in and out of the water's flow. If only she could wash away the stain of the words he'd poured over her tonight. But that was impossible. Long ago, he'd learned a secret, a key that could unlock the door to any mind. Human motivation could be so well understood that it could be used to anticipate action. Simply put, by knowing what made someone tick, you could know what he'd do before he did it. It was necessary to understand not only how that person saw the world, but also how that person saw himself. He had, it turned out, a genius for it. Still, it wasn't all talent. It took practice. And Mulder had gotten lots of that by crawling into the minds of psychopathic serial killers, necrophiliacs, sadists, pedophiles and the like. The experience had taught him the most frightening thing he would ever learn. Something more shocking than the existence of extraterrestrials and malevolent government conspiracies. He'd learned that no one, not even a man who rapes, kills and mutilates small children, sees himself as evil. And to do the job, Mulder couldn't afford to see him that way, either. He'd tapped into that knowledge tonight in order to convince Flood that Bobby Gorman and Mary Deene were his kind of people. He'd allowed the passion of utterly righteous conviction to take hold of him, and he'd use it to espouse a deeply rooted, murderous hatred. But what the hell had made him turn it all on Scully? God. He'd spent most of his adult life avoiding intimacy for fear that someone would notice that he had some really fucked up personal boundary issues. He could sympathize with anyone, even people who kept a few severed body parts in the freezer. Then came Scully. He'd thought that side of him would somehow disappear, or maybe she just wouldn't notice. Who the fuck had he been trying to kid? Shit. And he was going to help her through this nightmare? That was like Jack the Ripper offering spiritual guidance to Joan of Arc. The shower stopped. She would be drying off in that efficient, brisk manner of hers. She'd be out in under a minute, wrapped in a terrycloth robe, a towel around her head. She'd open the bathroom door, maybe say something to him. He'd have to answer. He'd have to decide whether to go to her or not; whether to talk about it or not; whether to lie down in bed with her or... Not. As Scully opened the bathroom door, the room door closed behind him. _____________________ The ringing of the phone roused Scully from a not-very-restful slumber. She had the vague sense that her dreams had not been pleasant ones, though she could remember nothing about them. She opened her eyes and felt a rush of anxiety as she realized where she was, and that Mulder was not beside her. The phone was still ringing. Maybe it was him. "Hello?" "Mary, this is George Flood." She bolted upright, panicky. This was unexpected. She took a moment to tell her heart to slow down, to force her mind to focus. "Mary? Are you there?" Say something. "Umm ... yeah. I was sleeping." "Oh. I'm sorry for waking you. Shall I call back?" "No. I mean, I'm up now." "Well, I felt that we didn't really finish our conversation last night. And I was finding it very interesting. But I realize that you and Bobby weren't expecting to be cross-examined. How about a more relaxed meeting tonight?" The door opened, distracting her. Mulder entered. When he saw her on the phone, he threw her a quizzical look. "Tonight?" "Yes. You could come over for dinner." "Umm ... yeah. I guess that would be okay. What time?" "How about 7:30?" "Okay. See you then." She hung up. "That was Flood. We're invited for dinner." She caught the guilty look that crossed his face. "You been out all night?" "Yeah." She got up and headed for the bathroom without another word. ________________________ END 4/8