The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Other stories by Jess From: "Jessica Minier Mabe" Date: Thu, 28 Oct 1999 11:03:26 PDT Subject: xfc: University (1/5) by Jess Source: xfc From: "Jessica Minier Mabe" TITLE: University (1/5) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: Um... in the immortal words of DKS "yeah, sure, whatever". DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: Up through season six, but nothing too obvious. RATING: Believe it or not, PG-13 CONTENT WARNING: Bad movie references? CLASSIFICATION: Angst, UST, a small X-File SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully go undercover at a University and come in contact with a whole lot of subliminal messages :) AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ok, I know you're all waiting for The Video 3. It'll happen when I'm inspired. Maybe. I will never promise a sequel again, put it that way. And I said I would release a New Years Eve story to some of you. That's coming too. Soon. And there's not much smut in this, so Darla, I'm sorry *sniff*. But the bathroom scene is in there. Ok? Redlands is a "real" university. I should know, I went there. And Miles was a real cat. And I did have a prof who dressed like Hemingway, though he taught painting. And I did know someone who majored in "Self". And Erica is based on my first roommate in college, who didn't attempt to kill me, but EVERYTHING else about her is true. EVERYTHING. You'll know what I mean at the end. Pity me. SO EMAIL ME, Snarkypup bites my heals if I don't feed it. Oh, and read through the beginning folks, it only SEEMS like I've lost my mind... UNIVERSITY He knew she was waiting for him, ready to devour him whole like an anaconda with a rat. Running his fingers through his thick, dark hair, he stepped out of the leer jet onto the blazing tarmac. There was nothing there to greet him except the knowledge that she was ahead, somewhere in the encroaching night. He checked the double holster at his back instinctively. Tonight, he was either going to kill her, or fuck her. It would all depend on whether she was wearing that black latex number that clung to her curves like obscenely shiny body paint. The custom black Jeep was waiting at the edge of the runway, engine running, just like he'd requested. According to plan, an extra clip and a small semi-automatic weapon were tucked into the lock box. He doubted he'd actually need them, but you never knew where she was concerned. Once, he felt he knew her... but now... all he knew was that she must be his and no one else's. He slid into the driver's seat and peeled out, shifting straight into third and popping the clutch in one swift motion. His long, black leather trench coat blew out behind him, hovering next to the car like a raven. She was waiting. Pushing open the door to the warehouse, he could already feel her presence, hot and liquid like rain in a tropical climate. As his footsteps echoed through the building, a flock of doves wheeled overhead, casting dull gray shadows onto the stark concrete floor. "Mulder," she said, stepping out from behind a row of boxes. He turned and froze. God, that catsuit. It griped her body and hung on for the ride, skimming and caressing her in a thin layer of latex. She was aiming her Sig at his head, but she was looking lower. As well she should be. "Agent Scully," he answered, voice like gravel. "I'm glad to see you're looking well, considering the company you keep these days." "You don't need to address me as Agent anymore," she growled. "I don't answer to your government." "Indeed," he said, licking his lips. "But now you'll have to answer to me." He watched as her eyes moved slowly down his body. Taking a chance, he spun and kicked high, knocking the Sig across the room to slide under a bench on the opposite wall. In the same moment, he drew both his guns and landed with them aimed at her head. "Shit," she hissed. "You've gained a few talents." "That's not the half of it," he murmured, and stepped up to tower above her. "Scully," he whispered, holstering one gun. "I think you know what I want." Her breaths came in hot little gasps now, whether from shock or anger or desire, he didn't know. Running the barrel of the gun down the side of her breast, he bent and kissed her neck. She stiffened, but didn't move. "I won't give it to you," she whispered. "Then I'll take it," he said and she actually moaned and reached over to clasp his ass. "This is a dangerous game we're playing, Agent." "Don't call me that," she groaned as he ground his hand between her legs. "Not now, of all times." "Not now," he agreed and backed away to point the gun at her face. "Take off that damn thing." She hesitated only a moment and then slid the zipper down between her breasts. "You're the one in control, right Mulder?" Stopping at her waist, she slipped the rubber off her shoulders to reveal her creamy skin. His hand actually shook. "Good," he said through gritted teeth. "Now all the way off." She nodded and bent over, rising suddenly in a flash of black and cream to kick the gun from his hand and knock him to the floor. Instantly, she was on him, mouth on his, body rubbing against him. He moaned and shoved up toward her. "God Scully," he sighed. "I've wanted you for so long." "Shut up," she said. "Don't make it something it's not." And then he heard the alarms, ringing wildly. "What the hell is that?" He cried as she sprung off him. From doors he'd never even noticed came trucks filled with soldiers. But not his soldiers. Hers. "I'm sorry," she said, pulling her top back on. "But not too much. After all, Mulder, this isn't..." she hesitated and he saw the pain and anger in her gaze, "... personal." The alarm didn't stop. She raised a gun handed to her by one of her officers. "Scully, nooooo!" he screamed, but saw the flash of light from her gun and oddly, the bullet barreling toward him in glorious slo-mo. Mulder woke up, alone and sweaty in his new bed and decided in that moment to stop watching John Woo movies at midnight on Pay-per-view and stick to straight porn. His cel phone was ringing next to his head, shrill in the morning silence. Ah, the alarm. "Mulder," he said, rubbing his eyes against the daylight. Daylight. Shit. "So, Mulder, did you deliberately leave me here with my ass in the wind or is this another one of your accidental ditchings?" He was suddenly struck with a vision of his latex-suited partner delivering a karate-kick to his hang-dog head like a girl from one of those Japanese anime videos. "Jesus Scully, I am so sorry..." he began, looking frantically for the alarm clock. Oh there it was, on the floor. Unplugged. What the hell was he doing in his sleep? Watch, where was his watch? There. 10:15. Crap. "Sorry does not even begin to cut it, Mulder. You had better be deathly ill or the recipient of a massive head wound or you are dead. Do you understand?" He did. He had missed their meeting with Skinner. He was... gee, only two hours late. No problem. How to explain it? "Scully, I think I overslept..." There was an icy silence from the other end of the line. At last her voice, clipped and light. "Clearly. And you missed the briefing on our new assignment, which I'm sure you would have enjoyed. Immensely. And now I'm going to have to come over there, kick your ass three ways from Sunday and then explain the whole obnoxious scheme to you myself. I do not appreciate this. I'll be there in fifteen minutes and so help me God, Mulder, if you are not showered, sweet-smelling and packed to travel undercover, I will never forgive you." And then she hung up. Mulder gave a little moan and sat up. So he was going to enjoy this new assignment and she... obviously wasn't. That could mean many things, but he understood Scully well enough to know that he had better be as polished as his childhood rock collection when she arrived, or he was in seriously deep shit. Laying back, he pondered for a moment the vision of Scully in her catsuit. He was a psychologist, he understood the nature of dreams, and he had always dreamed of Scully. Usually she was simply there, accompanying him on his nightly romps into monster-land like the faithful sidekick in a tv western. Occasionally, the dreams were something else entirely, horned beasts and all that. But lately... lately they had taken on not only a decidedly sexual nature all the time, but the Scully of his dreams was no longer the passive little girl following him around. She had begun to take on an air of dissatisfied authority that both frightened him and turned him on. And getting turned on by his partner, while a fact of life he had long ago come to accept, was something he would never allow himself to dwell on. There was a respect between them that he knew she relied on completely, trusted even, to hold him back. He wouldn't want to disappoint her, not in this. Not in anything. But then there was that damn catsuit. Where the hell had that come from? Too many Avengers episodes as a child? And would she really look that good in one? She was, after all, a tad on the compact side. He smiled and glanced at his watch again. Ten minutes left. Rubbing his hand across his stubble-covered chin, he bounded out of bed to head for the shower. xxxxxxxxx Walking briskly through the airport toward their terminal, Mulder was suddenly aware of Scully trailing at least fifteen feet behind him, loaded down with bags and an annoyed expression. "I'm glad you're so perky this morning," she growled as he slowed down to let her catch up. "So full of vim and vigor; go FBI, go." Mulder mused that while he was used to icy-Scully and upset-Scully and angry-Scully and even jealous-Scully, his arsenal had never contained the proper weapons for seriously-sarcastic-Scully. "Scully, for the millionth time this morning, please let me carry your bags." "This morning, Mulder? This morning ended two hours ago, for those of us who actually got up in time to remember it." He sighed and, ignoring her concealed weapon and all those she wasn't bothering to hide, grabbed a bag from her left hand and slung it over his shoulder. "So do I actually get to hear about this case on the plane, or will I be flying blind, so to speak?" he asked as they checked their luggage. Scully hoisted yet another bag onto the conveyor belt and Mulder wondered, not for the first time, why this case necessitated so much packing. "I will explain the entire thing to you in detail, Mulder, but not until I've had a cup of coffee and a bagel with an entire package of cream cheese and I better not hear a word from the stewardess on how much cream cheese I'm requesting or..." It must be bad, was all he could think. It must involve... what, stripping for money? No, too many clothes in those bags for that... undercover as a prostitute? No, same problem. And why would HE enjoy that? And they weren't going somewhere cold, which would explain a lot, but instead were flying into somewhere called Ontario, California. At the gate she sipped water and shot daggers at passers-by. Mulder smiled genially at them in an attempt to lighten the collective plane-flying mood. When the woman at the ticket counter announced their third delay, Scully reached into her carry-on and shoved a file into his lap. "There," she said grimly. "Some light reading to help you while away the next few hours." Opening the file, he saw the University of Redlands prospectus lying on top and wondered what the hell they were getting into. xxxxxxxx "Scully," he said for the third time in as many minutes. "I swear I had nothing to do with this." "Mulder," she replied. "I realize that. I'm not blaming you, exactly. But I'm nearly thirty-five years old. I'm way, way too old to do this." "I don't know, Scully. Think of all the cute little co-eds. The shared bathrooms, the three am keggers, guys pissing in the kitchen sink..." She gripped the arm rest with a force that made him wince. "You are not helping. I'm the one with teaching experience. I'm the one used to the classroom. Why the hell do you get to play professor and I get to play student? Mulder, explain this to me again." "Because, Scully, it's male teachers and female students, not the other way around." "We don't know that for sure," she insisted. "There could be an exception." Mulder laid one hand gently over hers and squeezed. He knew she wasn't, for once, actually mad at him and it made him bold. "Admit it, Scully, it's the whole roommate thing that's getting to you." She moaned and dropped her head to her chest. "I can't do this, Mulder. I hated college. I never fit in there. I worked too hard and studied too hard..." "And dated your teachers... come on, Scully, it's just for a few weeks. Maybe it'll be fun. Get in touch with your inner freshman." "Mulder," she said with absolute solemnity, "I have no inner freshman." He sighed. Truth be told, he was looking forward to this. It wasn't that he couldn't understand Scully's reluctance. She had definitely gotten the bum end of the stick. Living in a dorm room with a roommate... being awakened by rowdy post-pubescents singing "Blister in the Sun" or whatever it was they listened to now... homework... shared showers... Ok, she really did have it bad. But to be back in college, teaching, trying to look up all the undergrads' skirts as they sat raptly listening to him lecture on the paranormal... God, it would be like heaven. And best of all, Scully would have to sit there in class. Pretending, at least, to believe he was an expert in his field. She would have to actually hear him out, for once, without a single snide comment. And he knew, without even having to ask, that it was that arrangement: student to teacher, that was driving her insane with rage. "Look Scully, at least you know you're a guaranteed A-plus plus." Tiredly, and with a touch of disdain, she raised her head and stared at him. "First things first, Mulder. There is no such thing as an A-plus plus." "You are determined to make my life just as miserable as yours, aren't you?" She smirked. "Well, I got news for you, sister... and it's called off-campus housing." The plane gave a small dip and he leaned back in satisfaction as she began to sweat. xxxxxxxxxx End part 1 of 5 TITLE: University (2/5) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@hotmail.com He couldn't believe his luck. Professor Mark Jacobson, away on sabbatical to write angst-filled poetry in Slovenia, had a fucking marvelous house. The massive old two-story craftsman had been lovingly restored to its original glory. Stained glass windows vaguely reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright looked over the edge of campus and the mature orange and lemon trees in the front yard, fracturing the scene like a painting by Chagal. A reading nook, complete with aged wooden benches and a stone fireplace, constituted the library and the dining room... well, Mulder could barely absorb the merest concept of a dining room, much less that there was one at his disposal with a Czech cut-glass chandelier. They must pay these people pretty well, he thought, setting his bags down in the living room and admiring the tasteful butter-soft gray leather sofas. They made his own look like he had assembled it himself from IKEA. Upstairs, the master bedroom was decorated with a Japanese austerity that somehow suited the farmhouse. Plain white sheers let in light and color, but no form. The king bed had pristinely white bedding and, Mulder discovered when he flopped down heavily, a feather cover. Nothing else marred the smooth white lines of the room except a low wooden chair in the corner, oiled till it shone like glass. Yes, Mulder thought, staring at the peeked ceiling and listening to the gentle sound of the breeze pushing the curtain out, this would do just fine. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to Scully. She had taken a separate taxi to her dorm, not wanting to spoil their cover by arriving together. It was the start of a new semester and as an adult transfer student, she was supposed to blend in quickly. Ha, he thought, as if no one would notice a beautiful, self-assured woman in the midst of all the struggling teens. He would be alone tonight. Without her. Of course, he was alone without her every night, but this seemed different somehow. He wanted to know how her day had been, what her roommate was like, how annoyed and frustrated she was. This is what happens, he told himself, when you only have one friend. Idly, he picked at his cel phone, wondering... could he call her? Why not? Who would know their actual relationship? He dialed the number and waited, watching the light on the ceiling shift like water. "Sally," she said in her usual phone voice, tight and professional. "Hey... Sally. It's me." There was a pause. "What's up?" she said, her voice artificially happy. "Pretend I'm your boyfriend." The same pause, longer this time. "Why?" "C'mon, Scully, it'll be fun. Want me to talk dirty?" "No, I don't. What's... up...." He sighed and pictured her, still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, hair back from her face to make her look younger. "Just wondering how it's going? How's your room?" "Small." Tighter still. She must be speaking though gritted teeth. "Un-air-conditioned. Muggy." "And the roommate?" "Erica is very nice, Mulder. She's out right now at a Campus Crusade for Christ meeting." He was quiet for a moment, thinking about this. "The first day of school?" "Yes," Scully said coolly. "She told me before she left that she had accepted Jesus Christ as her personal savior and she hoped I would too." "But you're Catholic already, Scully," Mulder sputtered. "She said she wouldn't hold that against me," Scully answered. "Oh Scully," Mulder said softly, holding in his mirth, "I'm so sorry." "No you're not. You're tempted to laugh. I can hear it in your voice." He wasn't stupid enough to admit it. "How's your house?" she asked, voice even and modulated, not a hint of jealousy there. He grinned. "Beautiful. Glorious. Big. Lonely..." He tried to drag the last word out and elicit sympathy. It didn't work. "What, Mulder, no video collection?" "Not that kind, anyway." She sighed and he could hear her shift on the other end of the line, adjusting her position on her bed. At least, he assumed it was her bed. He wondered idly if she had room for a chair. "So are you prepared to start class tomorrow, Mulder?" "I am, Scully. I have one or two thoughts on the paranormal." "Really?" He could practically hear her smirking. "Don't we have a meeting in the morning with the Dean?" "Yeah," he said. "But that's just to get lesson plans from the previous teachers, textbooks, etc. Piece of cake." She was quiet for a moment and then she began to giggle. "What?" he said. "Oh Mulder, you're such a little innocent..." "What are you talking about, Scully?" "Well, Erica told me today that she had signed up for your class." That was a surprise, but not too terrifying. "Why?" "She said she wants to rid the campus of devil-worshipping claptrap." Mulder felt a sinking in his stomach. "We prefer to refer to him as Beelzebub," he said icily. She giggled again and the sinking feeling lifted. Impulsively, he said: "There's an extra bedroom here, Scully, if you ever feel like giving your roommate a scare." "Double bed?" she asked, a bit wistful. "Queen," he whispered, and then added, with a bit of the growl he knew made her eyes roll, "and I've got a big, fluffy, down-topped king size bed if you really want to get her panties in a bunch." "God, Mulder, you have no idea how tempting that is. The bed, not you." He laughed. It was so Scully. Something creaked in the background and he heard her greet someone and then: "Frank, my roommate just came in. I gotta go, sweetie." Sweetie? Frank? "Oh, ok honeybunch," he replied, chagrinned. "I love you," she cooed. He swallowed. Oh God. "Frank?" she said, chirpy and innocent. "I love you too," he answered, in a very low and serious voice. She was quiet. With a smile, he hung up on her. xxxxxx By the time he rolled out of bed and put on a pair of faded jeans and worn t-shirt, Mulder was feeling that perhaps there was something to the life of an academic. Especially since it involved rising at ten and eating a leisurely breakfast on funky Slovenian stoneware under a Czech cut-glass chandelier. Mulder found the Psychology Department easily enough and wandered down the cool interior hallway till he found the right nameplate. The Dean's office was a pleasantly gloomy little space, lined with books and plants and occupied by anxious co-eds and a six-toed orange tabby cat named Miles. It was the sort of dusty clutter that appealed to Mulder's intellectually snobbish heart. The Dean himself, Dr. Arnold Lovejoy, was sufficiently eccentric, wearing floppy canvas sun hats and multi-pocketed safari vests. He had a booming laugh and thick white beard that screamed Hemingway. Turfing Miles off a canvas safari chair, Mulder watched as Dr. Lovejoy soothed the ruffled co-eds and sent them back to their work before closing the door. "So, Mr. Mulder, this is terribly exciting. Very cloak and dagger stuff," the older man said, sitting on a carved African stool and squinting. "Well," Mulder said demurely, "it pays the rent." "I'm sure. Special Agent though... must work wonders with women in bars." "You'd be surprised how little time I spend in bars," Mulder said a tad too grimly. The old man dropped it. "So, here's the rub, Mr. Mulder. Five years ago we started offering this class... Psychology of the Paranormal. I know how silly it sounds, but Redlands prides itself on being a nicely untraditional liberal arts school. For instance, we offer our students the option of evaluations instead of grades, and certain segments of the student body can design their own majors. I've got a kid majoring in Self, if you can believe it." Mulder smiled and nodded. "Well, you know how popular all this stuff has become lately... alien abductions, television shows about paranormal investigators, crap like that." Suppressing a wince, Mulder merely continued to nod. "And so we decided, why not teach it? Fun, fun, right? But then something strange started happening." "The deaths," Mulder supplied. "Right. Professors... nice, stable men with no history of problems with students being knocked off in rather dramatic ways by nice, stable students. We've lost three paranormal profs in the last three years. Frankly, we were going to discontinue the class, until we heard about you." "Well, I do have something of a specialty in the paranormal," Mulder answered. "Really?" Dr. Lovejoy said, grinning. "Been abducted by little gray men, have you?" "Not personally," Mulder said with a smile. Lovejoy's grin faded slightly. "Right. Now, didn't you have a partner here with you?" Then it struck him. Scully was late. It was rather like discovering that the Eiffel tower is actually only ten feet tall. "Yeah, come to think of it..." But before they could dwell on it, there was a gentle knock on the door and Scully poked her head in. "Dr. Lovejoy?" she asked. He was up immediately, beaming at her. "I'm sorry, my dear. I'm in a departmental meeting at the moment. You must be one of my freshmen?" Scully smiled warmly and Mulder congratulated the Doctor, even if it wasn't purposeful. "Actually, I'm Agent Mulder's partner. Dana Scully." She stepped into the room and Mulder could see why the Doctor had been confused. Normally buttoned-up-in-black Dana Scully was dressed in a pair of loose cut-offs and a tiny white t-shirt with "X-Men" on the front in red letters. Her baby feet were laced into dark blue tennis shoes with no socks and she wore no make-up. It was easy to believe that she was indeed a twenty-five year-old student. Mulder felt his heart constrict gently. "Hey Scully," he said, "Nice of you to join us." She glared. "Class ran late." Class. He fought the urge to laugh hysterically. To make the subterfuge more effective, they had enrolled her in several other classes, including beginning biology and freshman chem. He tried to imagine her, sitting in a lecture class, eyes glazing over as the professor explained exactly why gas mains explode. Dr. Lovejoy nodded. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, please come in. Your partner and I were just going over the previous deaths." He ushered her over to another camp chair, where she flopped down and shot Mulder a bitter look that said "I've been up since seven. Don't fuck with me." He knew it well. "I spent last night going over the case file," Scully said, opening a backpack and pulling out the file. Mulder noted spiral-bound notebooks and an Egyptian mummy pencil case inside. Typical Scully to actually take notes in beginning chem. "I think I've found something rather interesting here." Mulder sank into the seat a bit, thinking guiltily of lying in the big white bed last night reading a first edition copy of "Ivanhoe" from downstairs instead of reviewing the case. "Yeah?" he said weakly. Dr. Lovejoy smiled at Scully and nodded. "All the previous killers claimed to have had no desire to actually kill anyone. Tara Philips, who committed the last murder, stated she felt 'overcome by an urge to shoot' and 'not in control' of her own actions. This is the first common thread between the women. When I dug deeper, I found a doosy of a similarity. All three claimed to have been..." she sighed and Mulder could practically hear it coming, "alien abductees." There was a moment's silence before Dr. Lovejoy coughed gently. "That was why they took the course, I assume." "Exactly," Scully said. "Whatever is going on here, it is primarily affecting young women who believe, accurately or not, that they have been abducted by aliens. It would seem to benefit Agent Mulder and myself, therefore, to establish as quickly as possible which of his students for this quarter may be interested in his class for far more personal reasons than the others. Wouldn't you concur, Mulder?" "Yep," he said cheerfully. Dr. Lovejoy let out something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker, then reached behind him to a stack of books. "I have the textbook here, a copy for both of you. Agent Mulder will of course provide you with another one once class begins tomorrow, Agent Scully, but I imagine you'd like to look it over tonight. You should start with the first chapter and progress logically from there. I know it's an unusual class, but we do have certain standards to abide by." He handed each of them a slim hardcover book. Mulder read the title. "Searching for Meaning: the Psychology of the Paranormal," by Anne Makepeace. "Never heard of her," he remarked curiously. "Oh, she used to teach here," Dr. Lovejoy said. "Died four years ago of cancer." Scully and Mulder looked up in unison. "What sort of cancer, if you don't mind me asking?" Scully said quietly. "Oh God... some long name... basically I remember it as cancer of the nasal passages." They both looked quickly at each other. "I'll look her up," Mulder said. "She may be in MUFON's records somewhere." Scully nodded. "Dr. Lovejoy, thank you for briefing us. Agent Mulder will keep you updated on what we find out." "Absolutely," Dr. Lovejoy said. "It's all fascinating. Do you have to go so soon, Agent Scully?" She smiled radiantly, then shot Mulder a glare. "Yes, I have another class at noon. I'll talk to you later, Mulder." From the tone in which she said his name, he knew she was beyond angry. He should have been the one to find that connection. It was, after all, his specialty. But a strange lassitude had settled over him from the moment he arrived on this case, and he simply couldn't shake it. His only desires were to schlep around campus in bare feet and let his hair grow and call co-eds "sweetie" while leering at them. He was almost old enough to pull that off, he thought. Especially if he cultivated a small gut. She shook Dr. Lovejoy's hand and let herself out. Mulder sighed and stood up himself. Dr. Lovejoy was positively twinkling. "I think I understand why you don't go to bars much," was all he said. xxxxxx By six o'clock, Mulder developed an entire lesson plan for the whole semester, including outside reading (he made sure to list Jose Chung first). He had surfed the MUFON sites, finding no mention of Anne Makepeace. He had eaten, washed the Slovenian stoneware, wiped down the table, perused the bookshelves and scanned the video collection. Nothing appealed. He could, he knew, dig into the case, but it seemed so... work-like. In the end, what it came down to was that he missed Scully. Normally, he knew where she was, what she was doing. He could recite her schedule from memory. But tonight... he thought she'd be at the dorm, but he couldn't picture her there, having never seen the inside of the building. She could be at the library, or out walking. She could be with her roommate, eating dinner. It was terrible to not know. Contemplating the cel phone, he wondered what she would think if he called her now. Would that seem needy? He felt like a sorority girl reading "The Rules". Wait two days before calling your partner just to hear her voice. My God, he thought, I'm so whipped. It was almost a revelation, but not quite. Secretly he'd known he was head-over-heals for her for some time now, but it just seemed so crazy to admit it. Instead of driving her mad, he settled on watching one of the movies downstairs. Flipping through titles he'd already seen and a few that looked far too poncy for words, he decided to try "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" because he remembered hearing it was sexy. When without porn, improvise. The big house seemed rather gloomy with the lights out, but the movie was entertaining. At first. It was after he had watched it all the way through that he realized his friends had lied about it. Yes, it was sexy, but it was also unbearably sad. To find love that actually fulfilled you... made you a whole person, so to speak, and then to die together. Well, it was romantic, and Mulder was nothing if not romantic, but somehow it was also terribly disappointing. It bore too many strange similarities to his own life. He went to bed feeling miserable and lonely. The cavernous old room yawned over him, car headlights made the ceiling seem to move and shift until he felt he might be crushed by the walls of the farmhouse, but the intense age of it, by history. Beds that size were not meant for lone occupants, he realized, kicking out into the cool sheets. xxxxxx end part 2 of 5 TITLE: University (3/5) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@hotmail.com He woke sticky and cool in the night, having wrapped himself in nothing but the sheet. A dream crept around the edges of his consciousness. He and Scully, making passionate love on his bed in his apartment... watching himself, watching them in the mirror above it... Scully in a bowler hat and later in a see-through yellow dress with flowers, trying to catch a pig with him... Groaning, he pressed his hands to his eyes and searched for his watch on the bedside table. Six am. Too early to call her, too early for anything but showering and padding around the Mediterranean tile floor of the kitchen searching for sweet things. God, but the dream had been intense. He could remember clasping her around the waist and lifting her onto his lap to cradle her like a baby. For a moment the reality of his life invaded the fantasy and he remembered holding her on the floor of his apartment after the whole Padgett nightmare, her body tacky with blood. He had to get out, get up. It was all too strange, this sudden wild need for her. She depended on him to keep their lives light, their emotions in check with his banter and with his ditching and with his wolf-like independence. What would she make of this night, of his desire to touch her? Probably just what she had made of his occasional aborted attempts to express his feelings: nothing. After the hallway last summer he had expected a "Mulder, let's talk." Or at least a less incredulous reaction to his declaration of love. Had he really made her so cynical that she couldn't believe something she seemed at one time to want to hear? The hunger for her was so strong he could feel her skin beneath his fingertips the way an amputee still feels their arm. Class. In less than four hours. He rose and stretched. Time to prepare. xxxxxx At first, it almost seemed like she wasn't going to show. He stood awkwardly at the front of the class, wishing he'd picked a longer name so he'd have something to do now that he'd written it on the blackboard. Blackboard. What the hell was he doing? Students filed in around him, some shy, others chatting with friends. When the clock ticked over to ten am, he saw that only ten or so people sat at the semicircle of tables in front of him. Scully wasn't one of them. Damn her. He needed her here. There was no way to do it without her. The clock ticked off another minute and the students were suddenly quiet. He took a deep breath and began. "Good morning," he said. His voice sounded very loud to him, suddenly. Loud and high-pitched. God, did he always sound like that? There was a general rumbling of response. "My name is Ward Cleaver, and I'll be your paranormal prof for the semester. I intend to survive long enough to finish out the class and grade you all, so please keep that in mind over the next few months." A gentle snickering. Why did he insist on torturing himself with silly names? Maybe he wouldn't feel right with something normal. Maybe he was just a ham. Where the fuck was Scully? "So, I thought we could begin this morning by introducing ourselves and talking about why we wanted to take this class. I'll start." At that moment, the door opened and she slid in, looking guilty and flushed. Mulder smiled as if he had no further interest in this new student than a brief moment of annoyance. "A late-comer. Please, sit down. We were just getting ready to talk about ourselves and why we chose to take this class." Scully nodded and sat quickly in the first available seat, brushing a lock of rusty hair from her face. She looked so young and sweet that morning, that Mulder felt a bit guilty for his passionate dream of the night before. Diaper rape, so to speak. "So, as I was saying... My name is Ward Cleaver and no, I'm not married to June and I don't have two loveable kids named Wally and Beaver. I'm actually a retired FBI agent, with nearly fifteen years of field experience. I used to work in a division called the U-Files, for Unexplained Phenomena, so I guess I'm a bit of an expert in the field. And yes, I have seen plenty of paranormal activities over the years, so we'll get to talk about that. Before I joined the Bureau, I graduated from Yale with a degree in Psychology, but I never practiced. Ok, enough about me..." He paused and nodded to the next student. A pretty girl, tall and thin, she nodded and smiled at her peers. "Um... my name is Marcie Draheim, and I'm um... taking this class because I've always been interested in stuff like this, aliens and stuff." He nodded. Good. "What interests you about aliens, Marcie?" She blushed. "Well, my mom once claimed to have seen them, so I guess I've always wondered if she was lying, or what." No good. Well, maybe... alien fertilization scenarios coursed through his mind briefly. Clones. Then he saw Emily's small face and shook his head at himself. "Great. We'll talk about visitations, and abduction scenarios later. Ok. Next?" The girl sitting next to her sat up. She was also tall, with a smooth pale face and strangely blank features. It was then he noticed the "I love Jesus" sun visor, "I love Jesus" button on her backpack, and so help him, the "I love Jesus" water bottle. "My name is Erica Wilson. I enrolled in this class because I believe in the true scripture and frankly, this all sounds like a bunch of satanic nonsense. I wanted to see for myself and try to counteract the satanic messages." "Ah ha," Mulder said gently. Oh Scully, you poor thing. "Well, everyone is entitled to their opinion, Erica, and I'm sure you'll find the class interesting." "Right," she said firmly. Mulder sighed and then took at deep breath. "Next? Miss Tardy?" "My name is Sally Burroughs," Scully said softly. "And I'm taking this class because... well... Mr. Cleaver, do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?" He smiled at her. God bless Scully, the predictable little soldier. "Yes, Sally, I do." "That's good," she said, sounding breathless. "Because I believe I was abducted by them when I was fifteen." xxxxxx Leaning back in one of the slat-backed antique country dining chairs beneath the glittering chandelier, Mulder pondered his first day of class. It had gone fairly well, besides the fact that none of the other students had told him they had been abducted. Scully's revelation had stunned the class, certainly, but in the way that any admission of personal freakishness is bound to do. It also made her immediately the most interesting thing the teenage boys sitting around her had ever seen. The mild stirrings of jealousy he felt were easily stilled. He might be nearly forty, but he knew himself well enough to know that no pimply college kid was going to win Scully's heart. Especially, he thought, if he hadn't quite done it after six years. His cel phone shrilled in the empty room, causing him to jump and search frantically for it, as if he were sitting in the library. "Mulder," he said breathlessly. "Jesus, Mulder, what's wrong?" Ah, Scully. Her voice was like cool water on his burning mind. Drench me, Baby. "Nothing. The phone startled me." She was quiet for a moment and then said: "Yeah, ok, whatever. Listen, Mulder, have you cracked open this textbook?" "Huh? Why? What don't I know from paranormal?" She snorted at his bad Italian accent. "It's just... I don't know, Mulder, the damn thing gives me the creeps, and I can't explain why. Did you find anything on her?" "Nope. Guess she was one of those nameless victims that never found MUFON." "Poor woman," Scully said softly. "I'd hate to have been alone when it happened to me." He sat up, straining to be closer to her. "But you weren't alone," he reminded her, listening to her breaths, thrilled by the sound of them, as he was every day. "No, Mulder, I wasn't. I had you, I had my mother, my family... and I had Penny." "And you didn't die," he said quietly. "Thank God." "Mulder," her voice was immediately stern. "This isn't about me. You need to look at this textbook." "I will," he promised, wondering if he even knew where he'd put the damn thing. "So, Scully, what are you doing tonight?" "Homework," she said bitterly. "I have to write up an experiment I did in chem today. And read chapter one for your class, though I've already done that. And then there's the essay you assigned today... what was it, Mulder, 'what I saw on my summer vacation'?" "You know, Scully, you could blow it off. It's not like you need a great GPA to get into grad school." She sighed. "Mulder, you know it would be contrary to my nature to blow something off." He pondered the double entendres dripping from that sentence, but decided he wanted to live. "Well, Scully, if you're bored, you could come over and watch a movie on my big screen tv..." "First of all, Mulder, it isn't your tv. Secondly, I won't be bored, you will be. And thirdly..." She paused and he heard her roommate come in, humming Sheep May Safely Graze. "Thirdly, Sally?" he prompted, grinning. "Thirdly, Frank, what time tonight?" xxxxxx He felt... he couldn't explain it. Mulder found himself plumping throw pillows and flicking lint balls off of bookcases. It was ridiculous. As she had pointed out, it wasn't even his house. But he wanted her to like it, to be envious, to need him and he wanted all of that rolled into one sick little dysfunctional package tonight. God, what was he doing? This was Scully. Scully who depended on him to be reasonable. Scully who depended on him to be in control. Scully of the soft hair and the curves and the small cupid lips and... The doorbell. Ok, he could deal with this. Mulder opened the door and smiled warmly. "Mia casa es su casa," he said, feeling immediately stupid. "It ain't su casa," she said and stepped inside. Mulder rarely noticed what she wore. Certainly, he saw the whole effect of it, the lean line of dark pants or the sharp tilt of her padded shoulder, but on occasion, she shocked him into sight. The dark blue suit at the hearing, the one with the matching four inch stacked heels. She'd never worn it again, though he mentally begged for it nearly every night in what constituted his prayers. Her soft little button-me-up sweaters. That fifties-fuck-me sweater set in Arcadia with the little school-girl skirt. Those white satin pajamas. He felt like Homer Simpson, drooling slightly, eyes glazed over, whispering "aaggg... pajamas... aggghh". And tonight. Loose Levis that sat low on her hips and the "X-men" t-shirt. Where the hell had she gotten that thing? Oh, and the suede tennies with no socks so that her delicate ankle bone peeked out like the soft inside surface of a clam shell. He wondered what it would be like to kiss that bone, to suckle on it. She raised an eyebrow, waiting. "Hey, c'mon in and see the palazzo," he said, nerves tingling as if she bore an electrical charge. "It's very nice," she said, stepping into the foyer and looking up at the Venetian glass sconces. "Arts and Crafts period. More William Morris than Frank Lloyd Wright. These Italian?" "Scully," he rasped in her ear, "are you wearing sexy underwear? Because you've just lit my fire." "Speaking of which..." She brushed past him. "Does that thing work?" It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the fireplace and not in some way implying something about his own internal state of combustibility. "Don't know. You wanna try it out?" She turned and nodded, smiling, and for a moment he was transformed. He was not Fox Mulder, Special Agent for the FBI. He was another man, a normal man, who when faced with a beautiful woman in his house, asking him to light a romantic fire, could not find a single reason to turn her down. He crossed the expensive Arabic carpet, hand-knotted in Tunisia (it said so on the back), and stood in front of her. "It's far too beautiful to sit around looking cold and damp," she whispered. The temptation to slide his hands down the tight sides of her body was nearly irresistible. "Agreed," he said roughly, dangerous and giddy, like an excited puppy. He wanted to race around the room and jump on the furniture. "So..." She drew the word out, looking him in the eye, feeding his energy. "Are you going to give me the full tour tonight, Mulder?" God. He nodded weakly. Let me start with the French Kiss, he thought. Then we'll work up to the entire Kama Sutra. "The living room," he said, and taking her small hand in his, he led her into the gray Italian haven. She nodded, appreciative, and ran one hand over the smooth surface of the couch. "Nice," she said. "Think this professor-guy is selling crank in the bad part of town?" He grinned. "Is there a bad part of town, Scully?" "Sure," she answered, "over by the liquor store where all the underage drinkers are buying twelve-packs of Schmidt." "Agent Scully, I don't suppose you've witnessed this underage drinking?" She looked up from her perusal of the bookcase and said coolly, "Well, I'm supposed to try to fit in, right? And how better to fit in than to buy my new 'friends' a case of the cheapest, weakest brew on the market?" "You didn't!" he said, trying to look personally scandalized. Glaring, she started into the next room. "Czech cut-glass chandelier. Antique farmhouse oak table and chairs." She nodded, eyeing the crystal in the glassed-in display case. "Mulder, you live well." "I do," he affirmed and took her through the kitchen, pointing out the ceiling-high glass-fronted authentic cabinetry, the Italian tile floor, the authentically worn Mexican pine picnic table, the Irish linen and of course, the funky Slovakian stoneware. "It's like the upscale version of Pier One," she said, and he was secretly pleased. At least they could return to their own apartments without too much pain. He led her upstairs, taking her hand again, really just for the excuse to stroke his thumb over the soft skin connecting her thumb to her palm. "This is my bedroom," he said, letting her in. She squeaked with a delight that surprised him and threw herself onto the bed, arms and legs out, stretching like a kid in her parents' room. "God, this is heaven. I never realized it until this week, but this, Mulder, is heaven." He dared himself to lay down next to her and lost, or won, depending on which side of him you asked. She scooted over and rolled on her side to look at him. "You are the luckiest bastard alive, Mulder. This is positively sickening. When we get home you are going to owe me some major chocolate and... and a backrub. Maybe two backrubs." She was leaning on her elbow, hair falling softly around her cheeks. As in Arcadia, she hadn't straightened it and he marveled at the sly waves that tickled - they must tickle, he was so sure of it - the edges of her ears. Without makeup, in the moon-pale frosted light, her eyes were the exact color of a distant mountain range. "Anything you want, Scully," he said and her name sounded like "my love" or maybe "darling", even to his own ears. She was quiet then, watching him, and he felt like prey. "I want..." she began and he swallowed the surge of adrenaline. "I think we'd better go watch that movie, Mulder, since I have class in the morning." He recovered quickly. "You can spend the night, you know," he said. "Tempting," she admitted, "but you know how that would look." "Come see the guest room." He tugged her up and pulled her after him into the hallway to the other door. "There's a big, fluffy comforter with your name on it." Opening the door, he pushed her gently inside. The room was smaller and papered in a blue twenties stripe. In the corner squatted a queen-sized bed with a floral duvet and about three hundred down pillows in shapes and sizes that defied explanation. She let out a small sigh, really just a puff of air, and walked over to the window. "There's an apple tree out there," he told her. "And rose bushes." Her reflection in the darkened glass was strangely distorted and sad. "Come on, Scully. What harm would it do to feel good tonight? I bet we can even drum up an extra toothbrush." He stood with his hands on her shoulders and plucked at the tightness he found there. "Alright," she whispered, leaning back into him, "just for tonight." And then she did something unexpected. The sort of thing he would play over in his mind for days, like a teenage boy. She turned in his arms and buried her face in his chest, gripping him tightly. Scully rarely touched him, much less embraced him, and then one of them had to be near death. Almost too frightened to respond, he managed to talk his arms into the caress, chin resting on her head. She was so compact, so contained, it was like holding a pulsar. "Just for tonight," she said again, and ran her hand up his back, tracing his spine. He shuddered and wondered if it were physically possible to get closer to her without hurting her. "For as long as you want, Scully," he whispered into her hair, almost sorry to ruffle it. He knew she would pull back when he spoke, and he was right. She separated and smiled up at him. "Did you get popcorn?" she asked, moving around him toward the door. "I did," he said. "Extra butter." "You rock," she told him, and they headed back downstairs. xxxxxx end part 3 of 5 TITLE: University (4/5) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@hotmail.com She was asleep. Wrapped around a throw pillow as if it were her teddy bear, mouth slightly open. She might even be drooling. Mulder stared at her in wonder. Watching Scully sleep was like sitting on the porch of the summer house as the sun descended slowly into the water. An everyday miracle. The movie had been a success. "Real Genius", a silly farce about college students with bad eighties hair and Val Kilmer before his head swelled to epic proportions. Scully had giggled along, content to press the bare bottoms of her feet against his own, nipping popcorn and sipping iced tea. Afterward they had curled into their respective ends of the couch, let the fire die slowly, and Mulder had told her his favorite memories of Oxford. It was only when he delved into Pheobe-ville that Scully drifted off. Standing, he bent over her and prepared to carry her to bed. She opened one sleepy eye and started at his proximity. "Mulder, what are you doing?" He wondered briefly if there would ever be a night where she would wake to see his face and not start away as if he'd slapped her. "Taking you to bed. To your bed. Upstairs," he covered, wanting to smack his wayward mouth. "Oh," she said in a tiny voice. "That's ok. I can walk up." "I can carry you," he offered. "You're so small... I don't mind." Shut up! his mind screamed to itself. Shut up shut up... "Alright," she said, and yawned. "Just tonight." "Just tonight," he affirmed and scooped her up like a baby. She put one arm around his neck and leaned her head there, her breath warm against the sensitive spot beneath his ear. "Are you sure I'm not too heavy?" she asked and the movement of her lips made him shiver. She felt like cotton in his arms, a cloud, a dense ghost. He shook his head and then pretended to stagger and was rewarded with a giggle. They climbed the stairs. He felt a bit like Clark Gable, only ravishing was not going to be an option at the end of this ascent. At her bedroom, he fumbled with the door knob and pushed his way in. She sighed and giggled again. "What?" he asked, moving over to lay her gently on the bed. "Just like man and wife," she said sleepily and then rolled over, avoiding his stunned reaction. "Oh yeah," he whispered, almost too bitterly. "Rob and Laura Petrie." "Goodnight, Rob," she said. "Goodnight, Laura." "Goodnight, Frank." Her voice has softened till he could barely hear her. "Goodnight, Sally." And he loped miserably to bed, knowing he was going to jack-off furiously and hating himself already. xxxxxx The music was loud, shuddering and rolling through his body like a wave. Next to him, one of his friends from Oxford stood, head bobbing to the sound, sipping the black Russian they had always ordered because it made them feel grown-up. "Why is it," the friend shouted over the noise, "that the girls in England are so fucking uptight?" "Maybe it's not them," he shouted back, "Maybe it's because you're a dysfunctional teenager with more libido than brains." "Huh?" the friend said. "Let's mingle," Mulder told him, and they began to thread their way through the crowd. Just ahead, a small group of girls were dancing, moving to the pounding club beat, shimmying. They stopped to admire the view and the girls parted to reveal Scully, dancing barefoot in the shaking light. He was mesmerized. She had her head down, eyes closed, and the music emanated from her. She set the rhythm, throwing out drum beats with each boiling movement of her hips. Her legs were bare beneath her short skirt and she danced without a bra. He was instantly, unbelievably turned on, watching the gentle sway of her breasts, the hint of her nipples beneath the white of her t-shirt. Moving toward her, he matched his hips to hers and touched her. Looking at him, seeing him as if for the first time, she grabbed him by the hips and pulled him into her till they were gyrating together, grinding against each other. His drink was gone, his friend had disappeared and they were alone on the dance floor, rubbing against one another like the kids they had become. "Scully," he moaned over the music and she pulled his head down to kiss him, never ceasing her movement. Her mouth opened before he'd even reached her and she felt like silk: damp and humid silk. Taking his hand, she led him toward the back, toward a hallway. He recognized the bar now, it was in his college in Oxford. When they reached the hallway, she turned and pulled him through the door to the woman's bathroom. It was empty and bright and in the strong light he saw how young she was, how enticing. She pushed open a door to a stall and they entered together, immediately resuming their dance as he fumbled to lock the door. The music was as soft now as a memory and his ears rang with it, supplying the missing tones. She unbuttoned his jeans and slid her hands over him. He was naked beneath her fingers and he wondered briefly why he wasn't wearing underwear before finding out it was because she wasn't wearing any either. Her body was warm and wet and he lifted her up and pushed her back against the bathroom wall, sliding into her as slickly as if she were liquid itself. They moved together then, because it was necessary and because it felt like a rebirth. Outside the stall, women came and went as if in fast-motion, applying their lipstick, peeing noisily, laughing with deep British voices. Inside they were protected, bubbled. He knew her body intimately, felt her cool skin where the t-shirt lifted up and revealed her hardened nipples to his fingers. It was so marvelous, this sex, so good it made him moan out loud and then he came like a surging river and they were nothing more than a long, shivering drink. Mulder woke and lay perfectly still in the large bed. He was filled with crushing loss. Every night now, it seemed, his dream would pull him into the realm of filmic fantasy, where he could have the one thing he wanted more than any other. It was frustrating the hell out of him, mainly because he had never really admitted how much he wanted her until now. It had always been so easy to resist her. Not because she was undesirable, on the contrary, but because he loved her so deeply, so intensely, that he would have done anything she wanted, even if it meant denying himself. But lately, if these dreams kept up... he was not sure how long he could go before he found he no longer had control. How did she do it and why did she never feel what he felt now, this crushing need? He sighed and got up, careful not to make any greater mess than he already had. Cleaning himself with his boxers, he pulled on another pair and slipped into the hall. He told himself he would just check on her, make sure she was all right. Her breathing was even and deep. Sliding across the wood floor to stand beside her bed, he listened for a moment and then, unable to resist, leaned slowly down pressed his lips to her warm cheek. She smiled. It killed him, but she smiled and sighed softly. Leaning down again, he pressed his lips to hers and was surprised to feel her respond, opening her mouth and kissing him back with an aroused fervor that made him grip the sheets in terror. Surely, surely she would wake and he would be discovered. He closed his eyes and reveled in her smoothness, her warm, smuggy scent. She smelled like sex and sleep, but that could be partially his own damp body. Breaking off the kiss at last, he waited for her to punish him, but she did not. Still asleep, she rolled over on her side and brought her hands up under her chin like a baby. "Scully," he whispered to no one in particular. "Mmmm." She snuggled further under the covers. "Are you awake?" No response. Desperate, he squatted on the cool floor and watched her. Finally, he nodded and stood back up, still reeling from the feel of her kiss. By the time he made it out to the hall, he had already decided to go for a run. A long, long run. Maybe for days. xxxxxx "So," he said evenly, watching his student's faces, "I could never prove conclusively that he could foresee the nature of others' deaths, but it was undeniably an uncanny knowledge of human nature that made him such an interesting man." A hand shot up in back. Erica. "Mr. Cleaver, it says in Revelations that the false prophet was thrown alive into the lake of fire that burns with sulfur. Do you think Clyde foresaw that?" "Well," Mulder said, thinking frantically, trying to figure out what the hell that had to do with anything, "he said he saw his own death... um, and no sulphurous lakes were mentioned." She smirked. "Then I wonder just how far after death he could foresee?" "There was rotting..." Mulder began, but then his attention was drawn to Scully. "I think what Mr. Cleaver is trying to say, Erica, is that while Clyde might be able to foresee his and others' actual deaths, he couldn't then foresee what happened to them after that." "Ah, so his knowledge was completely useless," Erica said smugly. "Yes," Mulder said slowly, "I think Clyde would agree with that." He was tired, having not slept well the last two nights, and he was missing Scully so intensely that their short phone conversations made him nearly crazy instead of alleviating anything. Teaching was far more exhausting than he'd thought it would be and right now, a good flukeman or simple mutant killing would have made him so happy... "Did Clyde ever tell you how you would die?" someone asked. Mulder couldn't help but wince. "No. I wanted him to tell me, but he... he beat around the bush." There was a snort from Scully's direction which was turned into a cough quickly enough that he wasn't sure he'd even heard it. "So," he said, "is there anything else you'd like to discuss?" A boy in the back raised his hand. "I'd like to talk about the alien abduction aspect. I read somewhere that people sometimes get special powers after they've been abducted." "Special powers?" Mulder said. "Like what?" "Uh... I don't know. But maybe Clyde's power came from that, you know?" "There's no such thing as aliens," Erica said firmly. "And if there were, in God's infinite wisdom, I don't see why they'd go around kidnapping people." "They want to learn from us," Mulder told her. "And exploit us." "To what purpose?" another boy asked. "Why bother?" "We have... things in our genetic make-up that they need," Scully replied. "What she said," Mulder agreed. "Testing is done to determine many things..." And suddenly Scully was standing, her eyes at her feet. "Excuse me, I feel ill. Do you mind if I step out for a moment?" "Sure..." Mulder watched her carefully. Was this part of the act? She looked briefly at him as she passed and he could see a pale sweat building on her brow. Fuck it, he thought, and brushed invisible lint off his jeans. "I'm just going to check on Sally. Why don't you talk about the philosophical issues inherent in Clyde's ability, ok?" He shut the door and looked wildly around the hall. Where the hell had she gone? A door swung open a few feet away and she stepped out, wiping her mouth. "Scully," he hissed. "Are you alright? What's going on?" She shook her head. "I just feel... strange. I think it's just a migraine." He wanted to touch her, sooth her. "Are you sure?" "Back off, Mulder," she said, a bit too loud. He stared at her. She sighed. "I'm sorry. Like I said, it's just a migraine." The door to the classroom opened and Erica stepped out. Mulder could hear silence behind her. So much for a spirited discussion. "Hey," Scully said quickly. "You feeling it too?" Erica nodded. "Lightheaded and dizzy." Mulder looked from one woman to the other. "Ok, look, clearly there's either a bug going around, or the air in there is bad. Let's call it quits for the day and you two can go rest up." xxxxxx He was sure of it now, he was going mad. Bouncing a basketball he'd stolen from the school gym on the Italian fucking tile floor, Mulder counted a hundred dribbles and then let fly against the wall, no doubt painted in historically correct casein-based paint. He wanted out. Out of this boring fucking job, away from the long hours of nothing and the lack of his personal effects. Hell, at this point at home, he could at least have called the gunmen and heard about Frohike's latest theories on the nature of the government betrayal over a good cheese-steak. Where was Scully? This was unbearable. He was even beginning to envy her busy existence, with its rounds of classes and friends and socializing. All right, he thought. Fine. I don't need her. He sat down on the couch and flipped on the TV. He recognized the movie playing immediately: "Crossing Delancy" with Amy Irving and that guy... the Pickle Man. He sometimes identified with the Pickle Man, though he would never have told anyone. An intellectual, kind, funny man, trapped in a job that dictated his acceptance in the eyes of everyone he met. Only he knew, really, that being in the FBI was fucking glam and he had nothing in common with the Pickle Man. But it was a nice conceit, and Amy Irving looked really good in that black dress. Great, he thought, now I'll have dreams of Scully in a big brown hat dancing with me while her grandmother sleeps and then we'll have sex and she'll talk about how my hands smell like vanilla. He switched the channel, studiously avoiding anything even vaguely sexual until he found PBS and felt like a man saved. "This Old House" wasn't so bad. Right? But after ten minutes of talk about authentic oak stairways and Venetian chandeliers, he turned it off. If a man can't watch PBS, what the hell was he supposed to do? Call her, his mind supplied. Call her, tell her you need her, ask her to come over. Whine. That sounded reasonable. end part 4 of 5 TITLE: University (5/5) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@hotmail.com "Sally," she said, her voice sounding to him like an entire symphony. "It's me." "Oh, hi Frank." She was bored all ready. "Gee, glad to hear from me?" "What do you want?" He sighed. What did he want? Love? Sex? Someone to listen to him? Someone to talk to him? What? "I'm lonely," he said, honestly. There was a moment's silence. "I'm sick," she said and at first he expected her to keep going with "of your..." but she didn't. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What's wrong?" "I don't know," she answered. "But my head hurts, my stomach hurts and I think my eyes are going to explode." "Jesus, Scully, do you need to go to a doctor?" He was genuinely worried. Scully never got sick. "No, I've just got the flu, I think. As long as I can stay right here in bed, I'll be fine." Well, there went that idea. Ok, regroup. He looked around frantically. "Can I bring you anything? Soup? A blanket? Do you want me to rub Vaporub onto your chest, Scully, because you know I will if you ask..." "You just can't leave it alone, can you?" she said, but she didn't sound angry. Maybe even amused. "Come on, Scully, you can't blame a guy for trying. Seriously, let me bring you something." Let me see you, Scully. "I don't think we'd be able to explain that one, Frank." He knew she was right. Wandering around her dorm, for any reason, would blow their cover completely, but he was so desperate to see her, he'd try almost anything... and then it struck him. "Why don't you come over here, Scully? You can have the big bed. I'll pamper you. It's quiet here, and peaceful. No awful roommates, no homework..." There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line and then her voice, small and tempted, he could hear it. "I don't know, Frank. I'm not sure that's a good idea." "Why not?" he said. "You trust me, right Scully? Let me take care of you, just like you've done for me a hundred times." She was hesitating. "Just this once," he breathed, barely able to keep his voice steady. "Just this once, Scully." "Ok," she said finally. "I have to admit, anything would be better than sitting here listening to the kids in the next room dry hump to Limp Bizkit." "To what?" he said, genuinely confused. "Nevermind. I need to take a shower and grab a few things, then I'll be over, ok? Get the comforter fluffed, will you?" His heart was pounding, and he felt a delicious sense of hope. "I'll have soup ready, Scully. Hot chicken soup. And pillows. Tons of them. And..." "Just be there and be quiet, ok?" "Sure, anything. See you in a few." He hung up and started to dash around the kitchen. What did he have? Surely this over-cultured bastard of a professor had a can of chicken soup in his cupboards? Hell, even he, Fox Empty-Fridge Mulder had a fucking can of Campbell's best... There it was. He opened the can of Baxters Chicken and Barley and dumped it into a glazed French porcelain dish. When Scully got here, he was going to nuke the shit out of it and hope for the best. Racing upstairs, he gave the comforter on the king bed a hefty pummeling and shook out the pillows, removing all trace of his own skin and hair as best he could. He wished he could wash the sheets for her, but then it occurred to him that his own smell, the scent of his body, might comfort her a bit. It had certainly comforted him when he was lying in her bed, ill. Was it so unreasonable to believe that Scully would enjoy being around him? He thought of kissing her as she slept and was instantly too turned on for the situation. She was sick, for heaven's sake. What kind of monster was he? He fussed with the curtains, then hurried back downstairs. Now what, he thought? Sitting back down on the couch, he contemplated lighting a fire, but decided the smoke might irritate her eyes. Hadn't she said something about her eyes? He thought so... but then... From the corner of his eye, he saw something sticking out from beneath the couch. Reaching down, he extracted the book. "Searching for Meaning: the Psychology of the Paranormal," by Anne Makepeace. Damn, the textbook. Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened the cover and began to flip through. It was on the second page that he began to notice it. Astounded, he turned the page sideways, then flipped madly through to the end. Every fucking page, he thought. Jesus. The doorbell rang and he went to answer it, carrying the open textbook, fascinated. "Hey Scully," he said as he opened the door, "you won't believe what's in this..." His voice faded when he realized it wasn't Scully. He was staring into the cold eyes of Erica Wilson, and the very cool tip of a Sig he was rather familiar with, pointed right at his chest. "Hey Erica," he said, trying to stay cool. "What's up?" She blinked once and her eyes filled with tears. What the hell? He dropped the textbook as she took a step forward. And then suddenly he knew. It was odd how his mind worked, gripping an idea and wrestling with it somewhere in its depths until it surfaced, perfectly formed as a water nymph, from the recesses of his subconscious. "Erica," he said. "They took you, didn't they?" She shook her head, and continued advancing, forcing him back into the house. She was a tall girl, and clearly strong. He wasn't about to mess with that damn Sig, either. He had felt its power before and wasn't anxious to repeat the experience. "Don't talk to me," she said, her voice strangely low and she kicked the door shut behind her. "You are the mouthpiece of the devil." "No," he said softly. "You don't believe that. Not really. The book, Erica. The textbook. There are things written..." "Shut up!" she shouted. Sweat had started to roll down her wide cheeks, dripping off her chin. "I don't want to do this!" She was shaking, her face as gray as the Italian leather couch. "Erica..." he tried again. "It's not you. This is not you. It's the book. It's making you do this." "I know," she said, sniffling. "I know, but I can't stop. I hear the words in my head... I hear their voices, just like before." Her voice was pleading, and he felt her desperation as a palpable thing. "Erica, try thinking of something else. Do the multiplication tables in your head, whatever." She nodded, the gun trembling in her hand. And then she began to speak, her voice a whisper. "And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth." Revelations, he realized. She was quoting revelations. How appropriate. Her hand steadied. "And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held: And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?" "That's right," he said softly. "Don't listen to them, Erica. Listen to what you know to be true." "And white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellowservants also and their brethren, that should be killed as they were, should be fulfilled." He took a step forward, careful not to spook her. She was watching him as she spoke, her eyes round and frightened. Was this what it had been like for her, he wondered. Alone in that place, with them, whoever they really were, whether alien or military? And who could do that to this girl, this child? He stepped closer. "Give me the gun," he whispered. "And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood..." She shook her head, holding fast to the Sig as if it were the only thing keeping her from exploding on the spot. He nodded. Ok, he thought. Duane Barry. Remember the fear. This is what it does to people. You know this, you've been through this. You know this fear. "Erica, lower the gun then, just lower it." "And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind." Behind her, he heard the sound of footsteps on the porch. Oh no, he thought wildly, not now. Erica's face hardened, the gun pushing against his sternum. "Don't even move," she said. He was as still as a house cat. Scully knocked and he heard her cough gently. "Mulder?" she called when he didn't answer. "I thought your name was Ward Cleaver," Erica said, her voice low. "Who's Mulder?" "I am," he said softly. "I'm a federal agent, Erica. My name is Fox Mulder. The woman on the porch is my partner, Dana Scully. We came here to find out why kids were killing their professors. I know the answer to that now, Erica. Let me help you." "No," she said. "I have to do this." "You don't," he admonished. "You can control this. Keep saying Bible verses." "Mulder?" Scully's voice came again, worried now. "I can hear you. Who's with you? Are you ok?" "Tell her you're fine," Erica said. "That would be a lie," he noted. "Lying's a sin." "Just tell her!" He sighed. "I'm fine, Scully." "No you're not," she called back. "Open this fucking door before I call the police." Oh great, he thought. That'll help, Scully. She was clearly ill. "Open the door." Erica yelled. "Yeah, Mulder, open the door," Scully called. He stepped carefully over to the door and opened it, resigned. Scully stared at him, her face as gray as Erica's, her eyes slightly glassy. "I don't have my gun," she announced. "I know," he said, pulling her gently into the room. "She does." Scully peered around him and her eyes widened. "Erica? What the fuck are you doing?" "Sally? Did they take you too?" For a moment the two women just stared at each other. Mulder felt oddly removed from the whole thing, as if he were watching it from another room. "Yes," Scully said softly. "Yes, Erica, they did." "Do you hear the voices?" the girl asked. "Do you hear them talking to you?" "Yes," Scully whispered. "But I recognize them for what they are, Erica. Just voices. They're gone. Whatever they did to you, they're gone now." Erica shook her head, tears running down her face to mingle with the sweat. Mulder watched in horrified fascination as a small trickle of blood appeared from one of Erica's nostrils, slipping onto her upper lip. Oh God, he thought. What the hell is happening here? "They're everywhere. I can hear them. And they're telling me to kill him." Scully smiled slightly. "That's not nearly as unlikely as you might think," she said. Mulder glared. "Listen to me, Erica. You can't do this. If you do, you will be just like them." "No!" Erica said. "I can't be like them. They're not human." "Yes they are," Scully countered. "I believe they are, Erica. They're just very, very evil humans. If you put down the gun, I'll tell you about them." "You know them," Erica said. "You've seen them. How can you say they're human?" Yeah, he felt like adding. Yeah, Scully, explain that one to me. "I have seen the men who took me, I know their names," she said. "And they were just men." Erica's hand wavered, and Mulder felt a sense of relief. Good old Scully, working for them both despite being on death's door. It was a familiar scenario. The bullet shattered the authentic leaded-glass window with one swift crash. Mulder threw himself at Scully, knocking her to the ground just as he heard the footsteps on the stairs and the words "Police" being shouted. When he raised his head, he was staring into the dead eyes of Erica Wilson, Scully's Sig sliding slowly from her hand. Beneath him, he heard Scully gasp. "Oh no," she said. "Oh no." He probably should have stood up, but he didn't. He wrapped his arms around his sobbing partner and lay very still, letting the Redlands police department step right over them. xxxxxx He hated waiting for her while she did an autopsy. Had it been anyone else, he might have gone in. But he couldn't look at Erica like that. It just wouldn't be right. Scully emerged at last, pulling off her hair net, brisk and efficient. A night in the hospital seemed to have removed all effects of the illness, whatever it might have been. They had argued over it last night, while he fed her hospital chicken soup. "Twenty-four hour flu," she said. "Subliminal messages, appearing to be an alien language, patterned in the text of the book." "How can they have been subliminal when you saw them, hmm Mulder?" "I'm probably the only completely red/green colorblind person to look at that textbook, Scully." "Unlikely," she said, sipping another spoonful, "most men suffer some degree of cone reduction." "Right," he said. "That's why they all call you 'Red.'" Her hair was a soft, dark color to him today. He knew it as "red", but felt a twinge of envy that he didn't really see it for what it was. She smiled at him, sort-of, but he knew it was mostly for show. The case had drained her. "Well?" he said. "Well," she stepped up beside him, "I found several interesting things. She did, as we suspected, have the cancer. It was small, but no doubt deadly. I don't know when she removed the chip, but it was gone. She had two implants, one in her sinus cavity, one in her chest. And finally, Mulder, though I'm not sure what this has to do with anything, she was hermaphroditic. Her external sex organs were female, but her internal plumbing was... I don't know, both and not either. I've never seen anything like it." "Do you think that's why she was taken?" he asked, opening the door to the clinic for her. She shrugged. "Maybe. God knows why any of us were." Us. It was a step. He placed one tentative hand in the small of her back. "Her adrenaline levels were elevated, which could explain her actions," she said. "Or it could have been alien subliminal messages," he replied, opening the passenger door. "Put there by a woman receiving dictation through a chip in her neck." She looked up at him as she sat, squinting at the sun behind his head. "Sure, Mulder. That's likely." He grinned at her and shut her door. "So, Scully," he said, sitting next to her. "What now?" "Dr. Lovejoy has agreed to pull the text and destroy any remaining copies," she said. "Not that I'm agreeing with your premise, you understand." "Of course," he said. "Erica's parents are going to fly out next week and bury her. We've been invited to attend the services, if we'd like." "Would you like?" he asked. "We're free to use the house for as long as we want." "I'll take that as a yes," he said, starting the car and heading back toward campus. "Hey Scully," he said. "You ever slept under genuine Norwegian goose down?" She glanced over at him, a small smile twisting from her bare lips. "No, Mulder, I don't think I have." "The king size bed has real 300-count Egyptian cotton sheets under that goose down, Scully. Not that you'd know, you know, unless..." "Unless?" she asked. "I'm too tall for the queen, Scully," he said and she laughed. "Nice try, Mulder," was all she said as the car sped toward the farm house. But she was smiling. end part 5 of 5 The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Other stories by Jess Please let us know if the site is not working properly. Do not archive stories elsewhere without permission from the author(s). See the Gossamer policies for more information.