Title: Fox the Fugitive VI: Healing 
Spirits

Author/feedback: Karoshi12@ameritech.net 

Your comments/feedback are always welcome 
and I will respond to all who take the time to 
write (thanks in advance). 

Rating: NC-17 for one 'little' sex scene. 
Laura told me I had to warn you. 

Summary: An ex-student of Mulder's 
(Lessons Learned) introduces him to the 
infamous Bachelor's Grove Cemetery (see 
Web Site: 
http://www.graveyards.com/bachelors/). 
Here he encounters kindred spirits and 
together, they find the courage to face 
their fears. Oh yeah, Mulder has sex (on 
film). 

Disclaimer: All X-Files characters belong 
to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox Network. 

There is no Evansville University in 
Evansville, Illinois, I made it up. 

In order to recognize certain story 
elements, I recommend you read the third 
story in this series, Lessons Learned. It 
was here that I introduced a character 
named, Jackson. 

Thank you once again to Laura, my beta 
reader, who consistently provides me with 
feedback and suggestions that allow me 
(little by little) to become a better 
storyteller. Thank you, Laura. 

Special thanks to Leathie for her help in 
writing the scenes that required medical 
knowledge (of which I have none). Without 
you I would have simply put a band aid on 
it and gently patted his head. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

EVANSVILLE UNIVERSITY
Evansville, Illinois 

Jackson Vasquez sat in the last row of the 
lecture hall. Seated as far back and as 
close to the corner as possible, he 
wondered again at the temporary insanity 
that caused him to sign up for this class. 
The instructor was boring him to tears. He 
slouched further into his chair and gazed 
at the nearby wall. There were some perks 
to a writer's imagination, he could create 
a window into existence anytime, any 
place. As soon as he thought it, the 
portal appeared. Smiling slightly, he 
nodded as Nancy, a beautiful girl from his 
English Literature class strolled by. 
Chewing the inside of his cheek lightly, 
he sighed. It was good to have a rich 
fantasy life. 

The droning continued and, forcibly, he 
pulled his attention back to Dr. Whyte's 
monotone voice. Who would have thought a 
class titled, 'Paranormal Crimes in the 
20th Century,' could be so boring? 
Everyone told him it would be an easy 
elective requiring little effort on his 
part. Credit for simply showing up, what 
could be better? In reality, the topic 
might have been very interesting. 
Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to get 
past the man's dry, tedious tone. Dr. 
Whyte was cursed with a voice so bland; it 
made grown men want to drive sharp objects 
into their own ears! Okay, that was 
probably an over exaggeration. 

Jackson's eyes scanned the classroom for 
signs of life. Perhaps it wasn't such an 
exaggeration after all. Instead of sharp 
items, small ear pieces could be seen here 
and there and, if one watched close, you 
might even be able to guess the song title 
being played by the gentle bobbing of a 
student's head. Others had simply pulled 
out their homework for the next class and 
begun studying, their minds miles away. 

His eyes wandered back to the front of the 
class to inspect their instructor, Dr. 
Jerry Whyte. Short, slightly overweight, 
he reminded Jackson of a drug dealer that 
used to work the corner near his house. 
Put just the right hat on that man and the 
war on drugs could be won in no time. 
Given a choice between listening to him 
talk every time you wanted a hit, few 
people would have trouble just saying NO. 
Thinking back to his home in Maywood, 
Illinois, he remembered another teacher 
with a similar tone. Mr. Waters, no, 
correct that, Mulder, used to lecture in a 
flat, seemingly unemotional voice. The 
style differences between Mulder and Whyte 
were in their awareness of the students. 
Mulder had always watched their faces for 
understanding, paying special attention to 
the quieter students. He would often pull 
them gently into the conversation, few 
ever guessing they'd been targeted to 
learn. Instead they sensed in Mulder's 
interest someone who truly cared about 
them and their opinions. Jackson had 
watched on many occasions as Mulder gave 
even the most timid students the 
confidence to state their opinions. 
Surprisingly, no matter how ridiculous 
some of them sounded, he always took them 
seriously - - never laughed. Mr. Waters, 
no, Mulder was a wonderful teacher and 
friend. 

His Sominex-dealing instructor droned on. 
Jackson watched the man's mouth move. He 
was sure Dr. Whyte was talking in full 
sentences, but for the life of him, all he 
could hear was, "blah, blah, blah, 
haunted, blah, blah, murders, blah, blah, 
FBI, blah, blah, blah, Agent Fox Mulder, 
blah, blah, blah..." Jackson straightened, 
his sudden action causing his books to 
drop to the floor. 

Dr. Whyte, possibly startled by the fact 
that someone was still awake in his class, 
cleared his throat and cast an annoyed 
glare Jackson's way. "Young man, do you 
have a question?" 

Jackson struggled to recall the content of 
the previous twenty minutes, but his mind 
could only remember the last few words. 
"Yes, sir, um, I was just wondering if you 
would repeat the last section, about the 
FBI?" 

Dr. Whyte nodded, apparently appeased by 
this student's sudden interest. Dr. Whyte 
was not as unobservant as most thought, he 
knew half his class had zoned out. These 
students today took nothing seriously, he 
thought arrogantly. He was unwilling to 
admit that the blame might actually belong 
to him. "I was just saying that these 
crimes are cared for by a specific unit. 
The FBI has a Special Agent Fox Mulder who 
has published and, on rare occasions, sat 
on panels where this subject has been 
discussed." 

Jackson leaned forward in his chair, his 
body language clearly conveying his 
interest. 

Seeing he had the young man's full 
attention, he continued, "in fact I have 
personally sent several invitations to 
Agent Mulder inviting him to speak at this 
university." Puffing his chest out a bit, 
he claimed, "I hope to hear from him 
shortly." 

"So you think he will agree to speak?" 
asked Jackson curiously. He knew Mulder 
was a FBI agent, but he never considered 
that an agent could be a specialist in 
paranormal crimes. If he paid taxes, he 
might be offended by the use of his funds 
in such a manner. Remembering a few unusual 
lectures from Mr. Waters back at Atkins, 
Jackson asked, "is he involved in UFO stuff 
too?" 

Several of the other students in the room 
perked up at his question. UFOs were very 
popular nowadays. Small toys, allegedly 
shaped like aliens could be found 
everywhere. They were extremely popular 
among his friends. Dr. Whyte reddened 
slightly and pulled at his collar 
obviously uncomfortable with the inquiry. 
"Well, young man, in answer to your first 
question, I'm not sure if Agent Mulder 
will agree to speak. He's very difficult 
to reach because of the nature of his 
work." Translation, thought Jackson, 
Mulder hasn't given this guy the time of 
day. "As to your question about UFOs, yes, 
I understand he has a history of some sort 
with the subject." Dr. Whyte's lips pursed 
in distaste, "I don't personally believe 
in UFOs, so I hesitate to comment on Agent 
Mulder's, uh - - hobby." 

"But Agent Mulder does actually 
investigate crimes that have a paranormal 
connection?" Jackson confirmed. 

Dr. Whyte noted the time, "we can continue 
this discussion after class if you like, 
Jackson. For the rest of you, read 
chapters four through nine and come 
prepared with your topic next class." With 
that the students made a hasty exit from 
the room. Only Jackson lagged behind. 

"Dr. Whyte, if I could somehow get Agent 
Mulder to come down here and speak, would 
that be of value to the class?" Jackson 
asked innocently. With any luck, he could 
work this situation to his advantage. 

Whyte raised his eyebrows in disbelief. 
Arrogantly, he answered, "I hardly think 
he would respond to your request, Jackson. 
The man receives these types of inquires 
all the time." 

"But if he did," Jackson pushed. 

Whyte sobered and considered the 
possibility, humoring the brash young man. 
"Well, let me think." He tapped his index 
finger against his chin for affect, "if 
you could get Agent Mulder here, we would 
probably have to move the class to a 
larger room. I have several colleagues who 
would welcome the opportunity to interact 
with the man. Eccentric he may be," Whyte 
added with a smile, "but a brilliant 
eccentric based on some of his published 
works." 

Jackson nodded his understanding, "thanks, 
Dr. Whyte. See you next class." He turned 
and left the room quickly, already 
planning his next move. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

HOOVER BUILDING - BASEMENT OFFICE
Washington DC - Wednesday Afternoon 

The back of Mulder's chair squeaked 
angrily as he leaned back and pushed all 
his weight upon it. Eyes glued to the 
ceiling, he was attempting to spell his 
name with pencils. Mildly successful, 
'MUI' was in firmly in place. 
Unfortunately, the effort had taken almost 
the whole morning and he was left to 
wonder if Fox was not such a bad name 
after all. His fingers carefully prepared 
another pencil for flight while his mind 
mentally reviewed the presentation he 
would give this Friday. It was originally 
scheduled weeks ago and he'd managed to 
have it rescheduled twice. Upon his third 
attempt, both Skinner and Kelliher had 
refused and, at this point, nothing short 
of drilling another hole in his head was 
going to get him out of it. 

As the profiler on the Neubeck case, he 
was expected to provide a full accounting 
of his actions. Members from VCS, students 
and a few honored visitors would be at the 
review and although he wasn't prone to 
stage fright, he did not enjoy this type 
of exercise. Yes, he understood the 
intent. Reviews such as these allowed 
teams to learn from each other. As a new 
agent in VCS, he had attended many of 
these lectures. They had taught him a 
great deal. He remembered one session 
where he had questioned the actions of an 
established profiler and his queries had 
actually pointed the team in a new 
direction eventually leading to the 
capture of the real killer. Now, standing 
in the shoes of that established profiler, 
Mulder was always waiting for a young 
agent to stand up and ask a question in 
such an obvious way that everyone would 
know he was a fuck up. He knew the day 
would come, he just hoped it wasn't this 
Friday. 

Fingers rolled the next pencil missile 
anxiously. The absolute worst part of the 
whole experience was when someone asked 
THE QUESTION. His wrist snapped crisply, 
sending the pencil upwards. God, how he 
hated when they asked it. There was no 
doubt in his mind that someone on Friday 
was going to ask him to explain his 
thought process. His voice slightly 
raised, he mimicked aloud, "Agent Mulder, 
what exactly was your thought process when 
you realized the killer wanted to keep you 
as his bitch?" God, he hated that 
question. Didn't they know he would 
explain it if he could. In all honesty, 
there were times he just knew. In fact, if 
he were not investigating X-Files, he 
suspected his talent might be an X-File. 
This, however, was not something he was 
willing to share with his level-headed 
partner, Agent Dana Scully. She would 
laugh herself silly at his arrogance and 
the last thing he needed was Scully having 
another laugh at this expense. 

Frustrated, he grabbed another pencil and 
whirled it towards the bulletin board on 
the opposite wall. If he were really 
honest with himself, he'd admit it had 
little to do with all his other 
insecurities. He pushed himself out of his 
chair and began to pace the small confines 
of the office. Hair a little too long, 
dark shadows under his intense green eyes, 
his whole body exuded nervous energy. The 
reality of the situation was that some of 
the newer agents in VCS had actually 
stopped with the Spooky jokes. In fact, 
only yesterday, Agent Martinez had 
actually asked him to join them at their 
table for coffee. Hesitantly he had done 
so and been surprised by how much he 
enjoyed the camaraderie and sense of team 
about the group. He could almost see 
himself working daily with them. And here 
lay the real crux of the problem. They 
would all be at the lecture, and he was 
just so afraid of shattering the gossamer 
thin relationship that had begun to build 
between their two teams. 

Recently, Mulder and Kelliher had formed 
an informal agreement. Mulder would 
consult, when available, on complex VCS 
cases. Kelliher's team, under his 
enlightened leadership, no longer looked 
at Mulder as the paranoid guy in the 
basement and actually sought him out. Day 
or night, it was not unusual to hear a 
light tap on the door and find an agent 
standing before him, file in hand. 
Sometimes they wanted to debate his 
observations on a case. Other times they 
simply wanted to talk through their own 
theories. Regardless of how busy he was, 
he always made time. On high traffic days, 
he went home completely exhausted, the 
combination of his own case load and the 
additional consulting sometimes too much. 
Still, he would not, no could not turn 
them away. 

Scully entered, catching him in his caged 
panther routine. He stopped immediately 
and plastered a pleasant smile on his 
face. "Good morning, Scully, how are you 
today?" he asked, his voice generically 
cheerful. 

She scowled at him. Scully had been doing 
a lot of that lately and it was confusing 
the heck out of him. It seemed whenever 
they talked nowadays, she would turn it 
into an argument. He knew she was angry 
about something, had actually gone so far 
as reviewing each day of the last month in 
an effort to understand why. Was it 
because he no longer called her in the 
middle of the night? Maybe she was feeling 
a little neglected, Mulder's ego supplied. 
His mind considered that theory and then 
rejected it. No, Scully would welcome the 
fact that he no longer woke her at all 
hours. In fact, he grimaced as he 
considered the possibility. Rumor had it, 
Scully had a, uh, companion, a significant 
other. His sources indicated she and some 
guy from finance had been out a few times. 
Mulder was left to wonder as to how 
significant the guy could really be if it 
were truly only a few times. 

Scully moved to sit behind her desk and 
logged on to her computer. Without looking 
up, she asked, "so, Mulder, you never told 
me how your weekend went. What did you end 
up doing?" 

He sat down behind his own desk and 
mirrored her actions. This last weekend he 
had been in Texas, making plans for this 
weekend. He could not share that information
with her though. Feeling slightly guilty, 
he lied, "oh, nothing much. Did a little 
running, caught up on some reading." 

She stopped typing and raised her head, 
meeting his stare head on. Her eyes 
clearly said, you are a liar, Mulder. Her 
words, however, "so, did Skinner go with 
you?" 

Shocked, Mulder replied a bit too quickly, 
"why would Skinner go with me, Scully?" 

Her lips curved into a small smile, "no 
reason. It's just that you two seem rather 
close lately." Her eyes twinkled 
mischievously, "Spender thinks you two are 
sleeping together." 

Mulder stood quickly and began to pace the 
room again. "Scully, Skinner and I are not 
sleeping together!" 

She grinned, enjoying his discomfort, 
"well, to be honest, Mulder, he didn't 
actually say sleeping." She wrinkled her 
nose in distaste, sparkling eyes 
contradicting the gesture. 

Mulder sputtered, unsure how to respond. 
Then, a calm fell upon him. After all, 
which rumor was worse? He and Skinner 
plotting the overthrow of the Consortium 
or Skinner and him doing the rear wheel drive 
thing.  Actually, neither was preferable, but 
one  would get you killed and one would get 
you socially ostracized. He was used to being 
ostracized. Slowly, he lowered himself 
down into his chair. "Ah, Scully, I've 
gotten this kind of thing for years." 
Grinning, he explained, "it has something 
to do with my boyish good looks" 

She smirked, but before she could say 
anything, he continued, "for years in VCS 
rumors were flying that I was doing 
Patterson. Then they assigned me 
Krycek..." he let that thought trail off. 
Completely serious now, he shared, "you 
know Phoebe used to say my looks were 
androgynous." He pouted before confessing, 
"I considered that an insult for most of 
my twenties." 

She began to type, doing her best to 
ignore him. When he was on one of his 
rolls, there was nothing stopping him. 

As if to prove the point, he cast her his 
most seductive stare and slowly slid his 
fingers over his long, silk tie. Huskily, 
he rasped, "when you look this good, 
Scully, you just have to expect this 
type of thing." 

She rolled her eyes and struggled not to 
laugh, "you're an ass, Mulder." 

"So you keep telling me, Scully, so you 
keep telling me." 

She began to type again, "did you hear 
about CSM and that green dye?" 

Mulder immediately denied, "I swear I 
didn't do it, Scully." He snickered a 
little at the thought of the old bastard 
with green dye around his lips wishing he 
could have witnessed the event. "It was a 
good prank, but I've been careful not to 
humiliate him in public. The guy's a 
little too unstable." 

She nodded silently, her expression 
suddenly grave. Mulder studied her. There 
was something in the set of her shoulders, 
her body language, that he couldn't read. 
Before he could pursue it further the 
phone rang. Reaching for it, he answered, 
"Mulder." 

"Mr. Wat - I mean, Mulder, hey, this is 
Jackson," a young voice announced 
cheerfully. 

Mulder's smile was genuine when he 
realized the identity of his caller. 
Jackson was one of his students from 
Maywood. A gifted  writer, he was now 
 attending college at Evansville University, 
courtesy of the  Mulder trust fund. Out 
 of the corner of his eye, he could see 
 Scully listening curiously. "So, how 
 have you been, Jackson?" 

"Pretty good. Thanks for the tutor 
suggestion, she's really helping me with 
the mechanics of writing." 

Mulder did not acknowledge the thanks, 
"have you written anything lately you'd 
like to share?" He always looked forward 
to reading Jackson's essays and stories. 
The boy was amazing and Mulder was pleased 
to have enabled him to continue his 
education. 

"Well, actually, I'm writing something now 
that you may like," he tempted, secretly 
pleased that Mulder showed an interest. 
Before he lost his nerve, he rushed on, 
"but that's not why I called." 

Mulder's brow raised, something was up, 
something was definitely up. "What do you
need, Jackson?" He felt like a parent 
about to be hit up for party money. 

"Mulder, you never told me you were 
famous?" Jackson queried carefully. 

Mulder pulled at his tie and answered 
slowly, "that would be because I'm not," 
he denied. 

"Well according to my instructor, Dr. 
Whyte, you are a pretty hot commodity on 
the lecture tour." 

Mulder's hand moved to cover his eyes. 
Warning bells were going off all over the 
place. He received at least a half a dozen 
offers every month to speak, but refused 
almost all. Selfishly, he would only 
attend if the event benefited him and then 
only as an observer. Never one to dance 
around an issue, he  asked, "Jackson, what 
are you getting at?" 

"Oh, nothing, I just thought it would be 
fun if you could, you know, come down here 
and visit," the boy's voice stated 
nonchalantly. "After all, Mr. Wat-- , 
Mulder, you are my mentor and a good 
mentor usually makes a visit once in a 
while." 

"If I come down there you're going to ace 
the class, aren't you?" Mulder asked 
dryly. 

He could hear Scully's snort in the 
background. 

"Acing the class is not nearly as 
important to me as getting to spend a 
little quality time with you, Mulder," 
Jackson responded smoothly. 

Mulder, who had been munching on sunflower 
seeds during the whole conversation, 
choked. Scully shot up from her desk at 
his gasp and whacked him soundly on his 
back causing several seeds to shoot across 
the room. He could hear Jackson's voice 
shouting, "Mulder, are you okay?" 

Nodding Scully a watery-eyed thanks, he 
returned to the call. "Jackson, have you 
ever considered politics?" 

Obviously insulted at the insinuation, 
Jackson snapped, "hell no!" 

"Listen, Jackson, I need to check my 
schedule, how about if I call you back 
later this week?" 

"Okay, but the quarter only lasts four 
more weeks, if I'm going to ace this 
class, I need to do it fast," the boy 
urged. 

"Ever thought of studying?" 

"You've never heard this guy speak, 
Mulder!" 

"Later, Jackson," Mulder ended. 

"Talk to you soon," the younger man 
answered hopefully. The line disconnected. 

Mulder looked up at Scully, a paternal 
gleam in his eye, "kids, the only time 
they call is when they need something." 
The soft smile on his face belied the 
irritation of his words. It was obvious he 
enjoyed Jackson's comfort with calling and 
asking for help. Mulder was, if nothing 
else, a man who loved to take care of 
others. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

HOOVER BUILDING
Friday Morning - 9:27am 

Mulder rushed into the room, laptop, disks 
and file folders balanced precariously 
under his arm. His review was scheduled to 
begin in an hour. A quick stop in the 
control booth to drop off his presentation 
disk and he would be ready. He caught his 
reflection in the clear glass of a nearby 
storage cabinet. Nervously, he 
straightened his tie and ran his fingers 
through his hair hoping it was enough to 
make him presentable. Still, he had the 
feeling he was forgetting something. 
Scanning the room one last time, his eyes 
stopped on the phone. "Jackson," he 
mumbled and quickly dialed his young 
friend's dorm room. 

After three rings, a voice answered. It 
was difficult to tell who it was over the 
loud music blaring in the background. 
"Jackson," Mulder shouted, "is that you?" 

"Yeah, hold on," Jackson responded just as 
loudly. A moment later the music 
disappeared and he returned to the phone, 
"so when you coming?" he asked cockily. 

"Pretty sure of yourself," Mulder teased, 
pleased at the boy's growing confidence. 

"Nah, I just remember how you were at 
Atkins." 

Mulder looked at the receiver, confused at 
the cryptic statement. For the time being, 
he chose to ignore it, "actually, I'm 
hoping to take off a few days next week. 
I'm still awaiting approval." 

"What should I tell Dr. Whyte?" 

"Tell him I'm trying for Tuesday, so if he 
wants to schedule a class lecture, make it 
that night." Mulder added in warning, 
"this is just a class lecture, right 
Jackson?" 

"Oh, uh, sure, Mulder. Just a lecture." 

"And I can't guarantee I'll be there. If a 
case comes in that I can't delay, I won't 
make it." 

"Yeah, yeah, Mulder," Jackson responded 
impatiently. "There's a great little pub 
here. You're going to love it," he 
tempted. 

"Jackson, you're too young to drink," 
Mulder reminded. The line was suddenly 
filled with a loud sound which, to the 
untrained ear, might actually appear to be 
static. "Stop crumpling the potato chip 
bag, Jackson," Mulder ordered flatly. 

The static continued, Jackson refusing to 
admit to his hoax. "Can't hear you, 
Mulder. See you soon." With that the line 
disconnected and, if Mulder had time, he 
would have been irritated. Looking down at 
his watch, he grumbled, "damn, almost 
ten." Grabbing his notes, he walked 
quickly from the room. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

LECTURE HALL - 11:15am 

"Excuse me, Agent Mulder," a woman, who 
couldn't possibly be older than twenty, 
called out. 

Mulder immediately acknowledged her, "yes, 
you have a question?" He fought to keep 
the impatience from his voice. They'd been 
going at it now for over an hour and the 
end did not seem to be anywhere in sight. 
Everything he said led to queries for more 
detail or additional questions! They were 
good questions, intelligent, but Mulder 
was beginning to feel a little, well, off. 
It was as though his body knew something 
was going to happen, but had not bothered 
to inform his brain. 

The woman asked the dreaded question, 
"Agent Mulder, what was your thought 
process when you were on the phone with 
Neubeck? Why were you so sure you could 
convince him to meet with you?" 

His shoulders drooped and he sighed 
impatiently. Looking around, he caught 
Scully and Skinner standing in the far, 
back corner. Skinner maintained his 
serious stance, but Scully was shooting 
him that oh so amused, arched eyebrow 
look. She knew he hated this. Looking back 
towards the questioning female agent, he 
countered, "well technically, he convinced 
me to meet with him." 

The woman was not backing down, "but, sir, 
surely there was something you sensed in 
his behavior that caused you to lead the 
conversation in that direction?" 

Mulder shrugged, in truth, he had just 
allowed the conversation to flow. His plan 
was simply to learn as much about the man 
during that call. The perp's offer to meet 
him in a public place was a bonus. His 
expression darkened as he recalled their 
telephone conversation. 

"Agent Mulder," the young woman prompted. 

He pulled his mind away from the emotions 
of those days and answered, "it was 
obvious the man wanted an audience. It was 
also obvious the man had fixated on me for 
some reason. Perhaps because, as an 
inexperienced operator, I could not hide 
my horror at listening to a woman being 
fucked then murdered over the phone." The 
young woman gasped at his choice of words. 
He shrugged again, somewhat apologetic, 
"sorry, but what was happening on that 
call had nothing to do with making love." 
He continued, "the man wanted me to not 
just listen, but to watch. He was 
overconfident and his ego was enormous. 
That combination alone marked him as someone 
who would eventually err." The woman nodded 
her acceptance of his answer. Before another 
question could be asked, he suggested, "let's 
turn the lights down and take a look at the 
crime scenes." 

The lights dimmed and suddenly, instead of 
crime scene slides, a film began to play. 
Mulder turned and stared at the video for 
a moment before realizing, to his absolute 
horror, what it revealed. His back 
remained to the audience as he looked up 
at oversized images of himself and Sally. 
The background clearly displayed the 
stairwell and Mulder, eidetic memory or 
not, knew exactly where this scene was 
going. The audience behind him seemed to 
be psychic as well. A "woof, woof," shout 
could already be heard from behind. Doing 
his best to remain calm, he called out, 
"hey, you up in the booth, you've got the 
wrong slides. Turn it off!" his voice, an 
octave higher than usual, demanded. He 
reached up and rubbed his hand nervously 
over his face daring a quick glance at the 
crowd. They were mesmerized by the scene 
being played. Mulder looked up at the 
booth again and waved his arms a bit 
frantically. Sally was on her knees and by 
the sounds he was making on the film, he 
knew he was in trouble. "All right, funny, 
ha ha. Turn it off guys!" The glow of a 
cigarette could be clearly seen through 
the small slit that housed the camera. 
CSM! CSM was responsible for his 
humiliation! 

The audience was definitely getting 
restless. There were some obviously 
shocked whispers from the back, but 
Martinez could clearly be heard saying, 
"GO, Spooky!" He turned and looked at the 
film again unsure exactly how to continue, 
there was no way he would let CSM get the 
best of him. On the film, Mulder pulled 
Sally up from her knees and kissed her 
passionately, massaging her ass with great 
appreciation. His fingers twitched at the 
memory, yes, he definitely remembered this 
part. Turning one eye back to the crowd 
and keeping the other on the film, he made 
his decision. "Let me explain my thought 
process during this, uh, exercise," he 
announced, sarcasm dripping from his
dry, monotone voice. "As much as I enjoyed 
the service this woman was providing, I 
felt a real need to give something back." 
He paused and allowed his eyes to slowly 
scan the crowd. Lower lip pouted ever so 
slightly, eyes shaded, his face exuded 
sensuality. "I'm not a selfish lover, I 
always try to make sure my partner's needs 
are met." 

A woman, approximately thirty, suddenly 
released her hair from the clip that held 
it neatly in place. Eyes on Mulder, she 
allowed the long waves of her chestnut 
tresses to fall over her shoulders. Mulder 
held her gaze for a full thirty seconds 
before releasing her. 

"The next move you will see was especially 
helpful in allowing both of us to achieve
our - - goal." His voice remained steady 
as though describing a junior high health 
film. On screen, Mulder grasped Sally's 
buttocks firmly and swung her around so 
that her back was up against the wall and 
her legs were firmly wrapped around his 
waist. In one smooth stroke, he entered 
her. She groaned loudly and he could not 
completely suppress the wave of machismo 
that rushed over him. Surreptitiously, he 
checked out his own ass and was immediately 
thankful he jogged. Muscles tight and firm, 
it didn't look bad, if he had to say so 
himself. It appeared he did not have to 
say so himself. 

"Nice ass, Mulder," a voice called out 
from the back. Mulder was unsure if the 
voice was male or female, muted as it was 
by the loud murmurs in the room. 

Suddenly the room was filled with a 
combination of Mulder's rapid breathing 
and Sally's cries, "oh, yes, Marty. 
Harder! Harder! Oh, my God, you're so - - 
" the sentence was left incomplete as she 
moaned her satisfaction. 

Mulder felt himself cringe at her 
satisfied screams. He anxiously ran his 
hand through his now unruly hair. Flushed, 
eyes wide, teeth chewing on the same lip 
Sally had explored so completely with her 
own, he had no idea the picture he 
presented to the room. Mulder
watched the film with the others, unsure 
how to end this waking nightmare. The film 
finally stopped and the room went quiet. 
Another minute passed before the lights 
went on and Mulder could clearly see 
Skinner and Scully off in the corner. 
Skinner was coughing into his hand, and 
Scully, well Scully, just looked 
uncomfortable. He wiped his sweaty palms 
on the sides of his pants and struggled to 
suppress the blush he felt heating his 
face. Keeping his voice as neutral as 
possible, he asked, "any questions?" He 
allowed his eyes to meet his fellow 
agents. He would not let them see his 
humiliation and pain as a result of this 
little prank. The respect that he'd worked 
so hard to regain since his return was 
obviously gone. Kelliher sat in the third 
row, his head down on the small table 
attached to his chair, body convulsing in 
silent spasms. Suddenly, a woman's voice, 
extremely husky, called out from somewhere 
in the middle of the room, "yeah, Fox, 
what are you doing Friday night?" 

Before anyone could react, Agent Jack 
Nagurski, the only openly gay agent in 
VCS, added, "or Saturday?" 

Mulder raised his right hand to the bridge 
of his nose and pinched. Eyes closed, head 
down, he attempted to hide the smile that 
was forming of its own volition. The room, 
filled with people who had for the most 
part, seen it all, roared. Laughter, cat 
calls and offers reverberated against the 
walls. Mulder let it continue for a good 
five minutes before raising his hands for 
silence. His expression grave, he 
attempted to explain. "Obviously, the lady 
in question and," he cast a warning glare 
around the room, "make no mistake, she is 
a lady, did not know we were being filmed. 
Also very obvious is the fact that I have 
been the victim of a rather elaborate 
practical joke." Without thought, his 
fingers slipped beneath his jacket and 
nervously began stroking his own taut 
stomach, "as to the earlier questions. I 
am busy THIS Friday."" His eyes then 
searched and found Jack, "as to Saturday," 
he paused and gave the man a quirky smile, 
"let me think about it." Jack gave him the 
thumbs up sign and grinned widely. Before 
anything more could be said, Mulder 
quickly gathered up his notes and left the 
room. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

CONTROL BOOTH 

CSM stood silent in the control booth, its 
sole occupant. His little joke had 
backfired. The intent had been to 
embarrass and exile Mulder from his 
recently formed relationship with VCS. Oh 
hell, who was he kidding, he just wanted 
to get back at the kid for the three days 
he had spent with green dye on his mouth -
- time being the only cleanser that worked 
on the foul substance. Instead of the 
others ridiculing him as a result of the 
film, it actually appeared to endear his 
wayward son to his coworkers. Admitting 
defeat, he stubbed out his cigarette on 
the wall and left. His mind already 
imagining Mulder's brain churning and 
chugging as he plotted his revenge. What 
would it be this time? Something with his 
clothes, he looked down suspiciously. Or 
maybe a bug of some type in his apartment. 
In fact, maybe Mulder, having discovered 
CSM's irrational fear of moths, was going 
to release thousands of them into his 
current home. CSM shuddered at the 
thought. Distracted by his own fears, he 
walked through the bureau's corridors 
mumbling to himself. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

FBI RESTROOM STALL
(furthest from the door) 

Locked within the comfort and security of 
a restroom stall, Mulder stood and pressed 
his burning face against the cool wall. 
Over and over he flashed back on the 
moments the film had played. There was no 
doubt in his mind. This gave them all the 
additional material needed to make his 
life a living hell around here. He could 
already hear the jokes, the comments. God, 
he should have never come back to the 
bureau! Life on the road had its 
advantages, a stairwell rendezvous being 
just one example of such. 

And then there was Sally. She did not 
deserve this fate. Granted she was a 
little wild. But being a little wild and 
someone filming you being a little wild 
were two very different things. Dreading 
the thought, he knew he had to call and 
explain what happened. After all, the last 
thing he wanted was for someone else to 
approach her with the film. Reaching for 
his cell phone, he stopped when he heard 
the shuffle of at least one person, 
possibly two outside his door. Fuck, it 
was going to start already! 

"Mulder," Skinner's deep baritone called, 
"Mulder, are you in there?" 

"No," Mulder denied, making no attempt to 
disguise his voice. 

He heard a snort of laughter, Kelliher, it 
had to be Kelliher. "C'mon, Mulder, it was 
funny. I don't think I've had that much 
fun at one of these reviews in a long 
time," Kelliher taunted. 

Mulder sat down on the toilet and cupped 
his face in his hands, "go away!" 

Skinner threatened, "Mulder, get your ass 
out here right now or I'm knocking this 
stall door down." 

Kelliher was doing his best not to laugh, 
"better do what he says, Mulder, he looks 
like he can do it!" 

Skinner eyed him nastily, not appreciating 
the other man's humor. He was just pushing 
his shoulder against the door when Mulder 
opened it with a simple twist of the knob. 
The door swung inward to reveal the red-
faced agent sitting on the edge of the 
toilet, fully clothed. "If either of you 
has a camera, I swear, I'll shoot," Mulder 
proclaimed dramatically. 

Skinner bit the inside of his cheek in an 
effort to keep a straight face. "I take it 
you knew nothing about this?" 

Incredulous, Mulder answered, "of course 
not! I watch porn, I don't star in it!" 

Kelliher smiled, "well at least you have 
something to fall back on." He flicked his 
head towards the hallway, "half of your 
audience are now out on the smoking deck." 

Mulder rolled his eyes finding it hard to 
stop the corners of his mouth from turning 
up. "God," he sighed, "that was quite 
possibly the most humiliating experience 
of my whole life." 

Scully, who had been observing quietly 
from the door quipped, "oh, Mulder, you're 
forgetting when Skinner had you committed 
and then there was that vampire thing in 
Texas. Besides," she added in what he 
supposed was a comforting voice, "if 
Bruckman is right no one will remember you 
for today's incident once you're gone." 

His eyes narrowed throwing small daggers 
her way, "hang out in the mens room much, 
Scully?" 

"I'm a doctor, Mulder. Been there, seen 
that," she snapped. 

Skinner gestured for Kelliher to leave. He 
did so reluctantly. "Scully, lock the door 
behind him." 

She turned the lock and stepped forward to 
join them. Skinner suggested, "it was CSM, 
wasn't it? You have been playing a lot of 
pranks on him lately and that green dye 
thing was way over the edge, Mulder." 

Mulder nodded, "yeah, I saw the glow of 
his cigarette up in the booth. But," he 
denied adamantly, "I didn't do it. 
Tempting as it may be there's no way I 
would publicly humiliate that bastard. 
Christ, give me some credit. How long did 
I study psychology?" 

"Well if you didn't do it then who did?" 
Skinner asked, puzzled. 

Scully's eyes stay glued to the wall just 
above Mulder's left shoulder. Mulder 
finally stood, "I can't stay in here 
forever, tempting as it may be." Walking 
over to the sink, he took a moment to 
splash some cool water on his face. 
Slowly, he dried off his hands, 
straightened his shoulders and headed for 
the door completely missing the suspicious 
look Skinner shot Scully's way. 

Stepping out the door, he paused as all 
eyes turned his way. Like a deer in the 
headlights, he froze. Amused and, 
strangely enough, affectionate stares were 
cast in his direction. He lowered his eyes 
quickly and took a step forward longing 
for the privacy and quiet of his basement 
office. A slight smattering of applause 
marked his first step forward and he 
raised his hand in the air, using his best 
no comment gesture. This acknowledgement 
only elicited more chuckles. Inside his 
head, he talked himself through it. 

Keep walking, Mulder. Get to your office, 
his brain demanded. 

A few steps further. 

A wolf whistle sounded shrilly through the 
hallway. He cringed. 

C'mon, Mulder, just get to your office. He 
took a deep breath and continued forward 
picturing his office door with the secure 
lock. 

"Call me, Marty," someone whispered. 

He quickened his pace. 

As he passed two women, he overheard one 
say to the other, "see, I told you size 
matters." 

Oh God, he thought, just let me get to my 
office. 

Several minutes later he walked through 
his beloved door almost locking Scully out in 
his haste to shut it. Somewhere along the way, 
he had lost Skinner. It was just Scully 
and him now. Still silent, he moved to the 
phone and checked for messages. When he 
dialed in, he was shocked to learn he had 
twenty seven. In reviewing them, he 
realized most were film reviews. "Shit," 
he moaned, completely missing the unusual 
silence of his partner. Giving up on the 
phone, he logged in to his e-mail. It was 
just as bad. Either blatant sexual 
invitations or sarcastic reviews of his 
latest performance. Enough, he decided, 
I'm going home! Standing, he began shoving 
papers into his bag. "Scully, I'm leaving 
early today. I'm, uh, going to work from 
home." 

She nodded, "I understand, Mulder. Go 
ahead, I'll cover for you." 

No comments, no complaints. He couldn't 
help but wonder, "Scully, are you all 
right?" His eyes expressed his sincere 
concern for her. How selfish could he be? 
He'd only been thinking of himself, 
completely forgetting how this might 
affect her. Would she want to continue to 
work with a man who had, granted without 
consent, starred in a porno film. His 
stomach turned sour at the thought. He 
sent a silent promise to God that he would 
never watch another porno film if Scully 
just stayed. In fact, he added, he would 
call Frohike tonight and tell him to come 
by and pick them all up. 

Reality reared its ugly head and he 
reconsidered his offer immediately. After 
all, working as a 900 number operator had 
taken all the fun out of that hobby, 
losing his other vice would leave him with 
nothing but sunflower seeds. Frohike might 
have to wait another day or two while he 
worked out the details. Pulling his 
thoughts back to Scully, he waited for her 
response. 

She nodded, face impassive, "I'm fine, 
Mulder. Really go ahead." 

"Scully, I hope this won't change anything 
between us." His voice reflected his 
uncertainty, "does it, Scully, does it 
change anything? 

She smiled, "well, Mulder, now that I've 
seen you in action, I would like to 
reconsider our conversation in 
Minneapolis." Her eyes were twinkled. 

He remembered the night they'd 'slept' 
together. It was the first full night of 
sleep he'd had in months and it had been 
wonderful. Grabbing his coat, he shrugged 
it on, "don't be making me promises you 
don't intend to keep, Red," he teased and 
moved towards the door. 

"Hey, Mulder." 

He stopped and turned at her call, "yeah." 

"When you walk out," her head cocked to 
the side, obviously admiring his lower 
half, "walk slow." 

He could not remember blushing so much in 
such a short time. He didn't answer, just 
turned and walked out -- slowly. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

SATURDAY NIGHT - 10:07pm 

Something had gone terribly wrong! They 
had moved in, their goal to break in, gain 
access to the files, transfer them and 
move out. Simple, it should have been 
simple. Instead Mulder and his team had 
been startled by a blinding light from the 
sky and the appearance of rebel invaders. 
The rebels' goal, quite obviously, just as 
simple. Destroy this facility and everyone 
in it. His two other team members had made 
a hasty escape into the woods. Skinner and 
Mulder were attempting to follow when 
their path was cut off by one of the 
faceless creatures. 

Skinner, a few steps ahead of Mulder, 
swerved to avoid the no longer hidden 
figure. He shouted a warning, "Mulder, 
watch out!" 

The creature, having heard Skinner's 
warning, froze. 

Mulder cut to the left, passing only 
inches from it's side and accidentally 
igniting his jacket. Skinner watched in 
horror as the panicked agent attempted to 
climb out of the burning garment. Ignoring 
the creature, he rushed  forward and tackled 
Mulder. Jacket removed, he rolled him over 
the damp floor of the forest until all signs 
of flames had disappeared. Easing the heavily 
breathing man over slowly, he attempted to 
assess the damage, "Mulder, c'mon man, 
talk to me." 

Mulder's eyes opened and he struggled to 
sit, Skinner held him down. "Steady, 
Mulder, tell me where you're hurt." 
Skinner's eyes searched for and found the 
creature approximately twenty feet away, 
sheltered under a tree. It maintained its 
position giving one the impression of an 
observer. 

"I'm okay, I think the jacket took the 
worst of it," he assured. Gritting his 
teeth, he forced himself to his knees. 
Skinner moved to assist, grabbing his 
upper arm. Mulder pulled back in pain and 
fell forward to his knees. "Where is it?" 
Mulder whispered harshly. 

Skinner lowered himself next to Mulder, 
afraid to touch him. "Its off to your 
left, standing near a tree. We've got to 
get out of here, Mulder." 

Mulder nodded. Then, with a seemingly 
superhuman effort, he stood. Mulder turned 
to face the creature, stance aggressive. 
It stood silent, making no attempt to 
approach. Skinner reached for what he 
hoped was Mulder's uninjured arm and 
pulled him away. Together they jogged into 
the forest, never looking back. 

The creature, after ensuring they exited 
safely, turned and joined the others. He 
had much to report. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

LOCATION UNDISCLOSED:
10:30pm 

Mulder's arm thrown over Skinner's 
shoulder, the two stumbled through the 
final steps needed to reach their vehicle. 
Skinner opened the back door and gently 
pushed Mulder down on the seat, taking 
extra care with his injured shoulder. 
Mulder, exhausted, lay down without 
complaint. Trembling, his stomach 
convulsing, he longed for the comfort of 
unconsciousness. 

Mulder, jacket lost, shivered in only a 
tee-shirt and jeans. His lack of 
outerwear, allowed Skinner to determine 
the extent of the injury. Flashlight in 
hand, he could see the reddened flesh 
through the burnt fabric. Bits of leather 
melded with his skin. He reached up and 
stroked Mulder's forehead and whispered, 
"hang on, Mulder, I'm going to get you 
some help." 

Mulder stuttered, "burns, s-s-sir." 

"I know, Mulder." Skinner glanced into the 
front seat and found Mulder's bag of 
sunflower seeds. Reaching for them, he 
shook a few out in his hand and gently 
placed one between Mulder's lips. 

Mulder's confused eyes raised to his. "You 
need salt, Mulder. Just suck on it until I 
can get you some real help," Skinner 
explained. 

Mulder nodded and began sucking on the 
shell. Skinner shoved several more into 
Mulder's hand and then climbed into the 
front seat. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

CONVENIENCE STORE PARKING LOT:
11:05PM 

Skinner tossed several bottles of 
Gatorade, a bag of ice and five overly 
thick Sunday papers on the counter. The 
clerk eyed him suspiciously. His usual 
customers this late either purchased 
cigarettes or beer. "How much?" Skinner 
snapped, uncomfortable with leaving Mulder 
alone for even a minute. 

The clerk rang up the order wanting 
nothing more than to get this odd man out 
of his store. Skinner dropped a ten dollar 
bill on the counter and asked, "where's 
your restroom?" 

The clerk directed him to the back of the 
store. He grabbed his purchases and change 
and headed into the restroom. Once inside, 
he tossed the bag of ice in the sink and 
opened it. Next, he removed his shirt, 
followed quickly by his tee shirt. Quickly 
pulling his shirt back over his head, he 
took his tee-shirt and pushed it into the 
bag of ice thoroughly drenching it. It was 
not the most sanitary method, but it would 
have to do as the store didn't sell any 
non-food items. He twisted the shirt, 
expelling the excess moisture. Then, 
knotting the ice bag to avoid spillage, he 
grabbed his other items and headed out to 
the car. 

Mulder was pulled from his pain-filled 
haze by the deep voice of Skinner. 
"Mulder, I need to cool down your 
shoulder. Do you understand?" 

Vaguely, Mulder did understand, at least 
he thought he did until the ice cold cloth 
touched his skin. He started and attempted 
to pull away, the cold on his burned skin 
both startling and soothing. Skinner held 
him firmly, not allowing movement. 
"Mulder, you have to lay still!" 

"Sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes 
against the tears that formed. It was a 
mistake, every time he closed them, he saw 
the flames flicker over his jacket. 

Skinner could see Mulder's discomfort, but 
was helpless to do more than stop the burn 
from causing further damage. Mulder would 
have to deal with the physical and 
emotional pain on his own until he could 
get him to help. He pulled the younger man 
forward and placed the bag of ice between 
his damaged shoulder and the back seat. 
Gently, he placed Mulder against the bag 
allowing the ice to continue to cool down 
the burn. Below his feet he piled up the 
newspapers, elevating them as a 
precaution.

Next, shrugging off his jacket, Skinner 
laid it carefully over the heavily 
breathing Mulder. "It'll take a few hours 
to get home, Mulder. Can you make it?" 

Mulder gritted his teeth and nodded. 
"yeah," he rasped dryly, "I'll be okay." 
The tightness around his eyes betrayed his 
words. 

Skinner realized only now that he'd 
forgotten the Gatorade. Reaching into the 
bag, he pulled out a bottle of the urine-
colored fluid and twisted off the cap. 
Placing a straw in it, he moved it to 
Mulder's lips. "You need to drink, 
Mulder," he urged. 

Mulder, hearing the urgency in Skinner's 
voice, obeyed. He sipped the foul tasting 
liquid, gagging slightly as he attempted 
to swallow. 

"I know it's bad, son, but you have to 
replace the fluids you lost. Try to drink 
a little more." 

Mulder dared another sip and swallowed 
hard, forcing the fluid down his throat. 
His stomach turned and he pushed down the 
nausea that threatened. "Can't - - no 
more," he whimpered weakly. 

"All right, Mulder, no more. You rest," 
Skinner calmed. He replaced the cap on the 
bottle and placed it on the seat beside 
him. He climbed into the front seat, 
started the car and headed towards home. 
Grabbing his cell phone, he punched in 
Scully's home number. 

A sleepy voice answered, "Scully." 

Skinner stated simply, "Scully, could you 
please meet Mulder and I at his place in 
approximately two hours." 

Immediately awake, she demanded, "what's 
wrong?" 

"Nothing like that, Scully," he lied 
badly, "we have some details to discuss." 

"Sir, may I speak to Mulder please?" she 
asked. 

"He's unavailable at this time, Scully. 
Can I count on you to be there?" he asked, 
his tone grave. 

A long pause met his question. Finally, 
she answered, "of course, sir. I'll be 
there." 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

MULDER'S APARTMENT - 12:45AM
Abandoned alley on side of building 

Scully watched as the Jeep Cherokee 
approached. She'd been parked in the alley 
for approximately thirty minutes. The 
abandoned streets provided her with a 
guarantee that she had not been followed. 
She pulled her car forward and flashed her 
lights. Skinner returned the signal and 
activated the garage entrance. She 
followed him in quickly, the door closing 
securely behind them. 

She jumped out of her car and rushed 
towards the passenger side. Skinner 
gestured towards the back seat and she 
looked in. Mulder lay trembling on the 
back seat. She pulled the door open 
quickly and climbed in. Skin pale and 
clammy, he was shaking under the 
combination of damp tee-shirt and cool 
night air. She looked to Skinner for an 
explanation. 

"Watch his shoulder, Scully. His clothing 
caught on fire and he's been burned pretty 
badly. I've been stopping and making him 
sip Gatorade and chew on those damn 
sunflower seeds of his," he reported 
efficiently. "I covered the burn area with 
a cool cloth and packed the bag of ice 
against his shoulder." He climbed out of 
the front seat and opened the door nearest 
Mulder's head before continuing. "The 
wound needs to be cleaned though. My 
methods were not the most sanitary." He 
leaned in and stroked Mulder's forehead 
and said softly, "Mulder, Scully's here. 
We need to get you up to your apartment." 

Mulder opened his eyes carefully and found 
both Skinner and Scully hovering. 
Struggling, he pushed himself up into a 
sitting ignoring their protests. He took a 
deep breath and leaned forward whispering, 
"fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" 

"Mulder, I know it hurts, but we really 
need to get you upstairs," Scully 
explained. "Let Skinner help you walk." 

Head still down, he nodded his agreement. 

Skinner carefully placed his arm around 
Mulder's lower back, "on three, Mulder. 
One," he tightened his grip. 

"Two," Skinner warned. Mulder bit his 
lower lip, knowing what three would bring. 

"Three," Skinner grunted and pulled 
Mulder's weight against him. Within a few 
seconds Mulder was out of the car and 
balanced precariously against Skinner. 

"No matter what," Mulder quipped after he 
recovered his breath, "I'm not taking 
another shower with you." 

Skinner rolled his eyes in disbelief. 
Scully followed them into the elevator. 
She had yet to ask any questions, simply 
gripped her large black bag in her right 
hand and waited impatiently to get her 
hands on him. A soft chime announced their 
arrival and the elevator doors slid open. 
Scully rushed forward and pulled a blanket 
out of a nearby cupboard. She draped it 
over the couch and gestured for Skinner to 
lower him upon it. Mulder, relieved to no 
longer be standing, fell gratefully onto 
the cushions. Scully, snapped open her bag 
and went to work. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

MULDER'S APARTMENT - 2AM 

Mulder heard soft voices seemingly far 
away. Stretched out on his sofa, IV in his 
arm, antibiotics and a painkiller in his 
system, burn tended, he allowed his mind 
to float above the lazy clouds that 
cluttered his head. His eyes remained 
closed and soon, he began to doze. 
Suddenly he found himself in a long 
hallway, fire surrounding him on all 
sides. Children's voices called out 
anxiously for his help... He gasped and 
began to choke, throwing himself off the 
couch. 

"Mulder!" Scully shouted as she rushed 
towards him. His lightly wrapped shoulder 
brushed against the carpet, forcing him 
into consciousness. Consciousness that 
brought with it a pounding heartbeat that 
felt like it would burst from his chest at 
any moment. He pushed himself up on all 
fours, fighting for every breath. Sweat 
dripped from his brow and mixed with the 
tears that fell down his face. 

Skinner looked to Scully for direction, 
"what is this? What can we do?" he asked 
desperately. 

She knelt on the floor beside him and 
pulled him carefully into her lap. He fell 
easily, still panting hard, sobs escaping 
every few seconds. She stroked his hair 
gently and crooned, "it's okay, Mulder. 
There's no fire. C'mon now, take a deep 
breath for me here." Mulder's breathing 
slowed slightly as she pulled him more 
securely into her lap. She continued to 
stroke his brow as she explained to 
Skinner, "he's phobic about fire." She 
moved her head down and whispered 
nonsensical words in his ear. He calmed 
further, the sobs turning into hiccups. 
Looking up at Skinner, she continued, "it 
doesn't stop him, but it's always been a 
fear for him. I think the extraordinary 
events of the night have thrown him into a 
panic attack." She reached forward and 
untangled the IV, also taking advantage of 
the moment to check his pulse. Noticeably 
slower, she asked softly, "Mulder, can you 
hear me?" 

After a moment, he nodded his head, his 
eyes clenched tightly shut. 

"Do you trust Skinner and I?" she queried. 

His eyes opened at her question, confused 
hazel orbs studying them both. Again, he 
nodded. 

"The fire's gone, Mulder. I," she stopped 
and looked towards Skinner, "we won't let 
it touch you again." 

His eyelids fluttered shut and he allowed 
himself another moment in Scully's 
comfortable lap. "S-s-sorry, still b-burns," 
he groaned. 

Skinner stepped forward and placed his 
hand on Mulder's good arm. "Mulder," he 
ordered gently, "let me help you up." 

"C-can do it," Mulder mumbled and began to 
pull himself out of Scully's lap. 

Skinner sighed heavily, "I know you can do 
a lot of things, Mulder, but let me help 
you with this one." Before Mulder could 
respond, Skinner pulled him up and 
positioned him carefully back on the 
couch. As Mulder's head hit the pillow, he 
once again felt the overwhelming need to 
sleep. Eyes closed, breathing slightly 
rapid, he drifted off. 

Skinner rubbed his eyes tiredly. Scully, 
tired of having to constantly patch this 
man up, snapped at Skinner, "are you going 
to tell me what's going on here, sir?" 

Skinner moved to Mulder's computer and 
logged on, ignoring her questions. She 
waited patiently while he inserted a disk 
and e-mailed the contents to an unknown 
location. He signed off immediately and 
turned to her. "Scully, thank you for 
coming here tonight. I don't know what we 
would have done without you." 

"If I'm so invaluable, why didn't you 
include me in your evening activities?" 
she replied coldly. 

Skinner glanced towards Mulder's sleeping 
form. "It's not for me to say, Scully. 
It's Mulder's call." He moved to a nearby 
cabinet and pulled out a pillow and 
blanket. "Why don't you take the bed and 
I'll keep an eye on him," Skinner offered. 

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. She 
snatched the pillow and blanket from him 
and informed professionally, "I am a 
medical doctor, sir. If anyone is going to 
keep an eye on him, it's me!" 

He shrugged, unwilling to fight this 
battle. "Fine, whatever," he replied as he 
headed up the stairs, "I'll take the bed." 

"Fine," she answered sharply. She checked 
him one last time before crawling in to a 
nearby chair. Despite her anger, or 
perhaps because of it, she felt all her 
energy drain from her. Within minutes, she 
was asleep. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

UPSTAIRS: 

Sleep did not come easily to Walter 
Skinner. Not long ago, while Scully cared 
for Mulder, he had transferred the file 
content to the proper predefined e-mail 
account. The soft chime that indicated 
file received had given him more job 
satisfaction than all his years at the 
FBI. Tiredly he rubbed the bridge of his 
nose, a futile attempt to erase the red 
indentations that marred his face. Their 
goal tonight had been to get information. 
They had achieved that goal. No loss of 
life and the only injury, Mulder. The 
mission could be considered a success. 
Unfortunately, Mulder's injury might be 
tracked back to the raid. With that type 
of damage, he would not be fit for duty 
for at least a week or so. Certainly 
Skinner could place him in a desk 
assignment for the next week, but in doing 
so, eyebrows would be raised. No, he 
needed to find a way to get Mulder out of 
work for a while without causing 
suspicion. It was imperative that CSM and 
his cohorts in no way link Mulder or, for 
that matter, himself, to the recent 
assault. 

Unable to sleep, he reached for his 
glasses on the nightstand and put them on. 
Flicking on the light, he pulled on his 
pants and padded down the stairs to check 
on his two agents. Scully had dimmed the 
lights before curling into a tight ball in 
an oversized chair. Asleep, she did not 
stir as Skinner stepped closer to the sofa 
and studied his young partner in crime. 
Hair unruly, lines of pain etched in his 
normally smooth face and curved onto his 
side, Skinner couldn't stop the wave of 
guilt that washed over him. He should have 
warned Mulder sooner, somehow avoided this 
situation. Mulder's head turned groggily. 
Foggy green eyes met Skinner's, "I fucked 
up, huh?" 

Skinner knelt beside the couch to avoid 
waking Scully and smiled, "you did good, 
Mulder. We got what we needed and didn't 
lose anyone." 

Mulder mumbled, "I'll be okay to work, 
sir. I just need to sleep." Eyelids heavy, 
he struggled to keep them open. 

Skinner patted his arm gently, "we'll 
figure everything out in the morning, 
Mulder. Get some sleep." 

Mulder nodded, his lower lip pushed into a 
pout. He grimaced as he attempted to get 
more comfortable, then slowly, his eyes 
closed and eventually his breathing became 
regular.

Skinner adjusted the blanket over him, 
turned and headed back up the stairs. 

Scully had watched their exchange quietly. 
As Skinner turned, she feigned sleep 
turning over in her head what she'd 
observed. When had Skinner and Mulder 
become such good friends? Suddenly she 
remembered Skinner's concern when Mulder 
had first disappeared. He had partnered 
with her to find and, eventually convince 
Mulder to come home. Their friendship had 
not just occurred. He'd been Mulder's and 
her friend all along. A few minutes later, 
she was once again asleep, a soft smile on 
her lips. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

MULDER'S APARTMENT
Sunday Morning - 8:27AM 

Scully groaned as the sunlight teased her 
face. She pulled the blanket over her head 
and stole a few extra minutes of sleep. 
Mulder had been restless, waking several 
times from a nightmare that obviously 
included the dreaded flames. She'd 
comforted him as best she could, but in 
the end, neither of them received a good 
night's sleep. With a loud sigh, she 
pushed the cover down and uncurled her 
legs. Her eyes automatically checked the 
couch, only slightly surprised to find 
Mulder gone. Somehow this seemed normal -- 
ditched again. From the bathroom, sounds 
of a shower. She wondered how he was 
managing. The scent of bacon wafted under 
her nose and she inhaled deeply. Head 
foggy and limbs uncomfortably stiff, she 
limped slowly into the kitchen. 

Her eyes widened at the scene before her. 
Skinner was cooking! He was in complete 
control. Towel tucked into his belt, he 
had two pans going. Omelets in one, crispy 
bacon in the other and in between he 
buttered toast and set the table. 
Throughout it all he hummed lightly under 
his breath. 

She could not resist, "you're going to 
make a wonderful wife someday, sir." 

He turned at her comment and glared his 
displeasure. Then, taking in the dark 
smudges under her eyes and her tangled 
hair, he smiled and greeted, "good morning 
to you too, Scully. How'd you sleep last night?" 

She shrugged, "okay. He was up a few 
times." Gesturing towards the bathroom 
door, she asked, "how is he this morning?" 

Skinner carefully moved the bacon to a 
plate and allowed the grease to drain. 
"He's uncomfortable, but able to function. 
Thanks to you." 

"He's not going to be able to do field 
work for at least a couple of days. His 
reflexes will be affected and it is his 
right shoulder." 

Skinner nodded, "I know, we need to work 
something out." 

"Work what out?" asked Mulder. He entered 
the room clad only in sweatpants and 
socks. Walking stiffly into the kitchen, 
he poured himself a cup of coffee. 

Scully stepped forward and grabbed the 
cup, "thanks, Mulder." She reached for a 
freshly poured glass of orange juice and 
handed it to him. He frowned as she 
sipped. "Let's hold off on the caffeine, 
Mulder." Eyeing his shoulder, she added, 
"I need to put some more Bentadine on that 
and rewrap it. Come sit in this chair," 
she ordered. 

He did so without complaint, then turned 
to her and asked, voice rough, "do you 
have any more of those pain pills?" 

Her brows rose, he must really be hurting 
to be asking for painkillers. She reached 
in her bag and pulled out her supply. 
Then, draping a towel under his shoulder, 
she squeezed the liquid onto his charred 
flesh. He flinched, but did not comment as 
the cool liquid washed over him. Frozen, 
he sat staring straight ahead. His only 
movements, his fingers tightening upon his 
glass. She worked as quickly as possible, 
then wrapped the wound loosely. He leaned 
back in the chair, breathing a bit heavier 
than usual, relieved she was finally done. 
The sounds of small pills falling gently 
from a prescription bottle into the palm 
of her hand grabbed his attention. God, he 
wanted those pills, the burning, combined 
with his irrational fear of fire, 
increased his anxiety. Scully placed the 
pills next to his plate, but stopped his 
hand when he reached for them, "eat a 
piece of toast before you take them, 
Mulder. The last thing you need is to be 
nauseous too." 

Skinner, seeing Mulder's discomfort, 
placed the food on the table. Within 
seconds Mulder devoured the toast, popped 
the pills into his mouth and drowned it 
all down with a glass of orange juice. He 
stood, wrapped his arms lightly around his 
chest, "let me get a shirt on." 

Returning a few minutes later, he sat down 
and filled his plate avoiding the crispy 
bacon. After a few bites, he asked, "work 
what out?" 

Skinner took a sip of his coffee and 
answered, "you'll have difficulty with 
field duty this week, Mulder. By rights, 
you shouldn't be allowed to work." 

Scully nodded her agreement. "You need to 
take it easy. It's a severe first degree 
burn and if you care for it correctly, 
you'll be fine. But you won't be able to 
pull your weapon with any real speed for 
a few days," she warned. 

Mulder picked lightly at the rest of the 
food on his plate. Silent messages passed 
between him and Skinner. He was no fool. 
He knew that he was constantly watched and 
any suspicious activity would be reported 
to CSM. Contrary to what he would like to 
believe, the smoking man was not a fool 
either. The possibility existed that CSM 
might actually connect Mulder to the 
attack on his facilities based on his 
injury. Yes, Skinner was right, he could 
not return to work. On the other hand, his 
absence would raise suspicions as well. 

Suddenly a picture of Jackson flashed into 
his head. Excitedly, he asked, "sir, did 
you get my request for a vacation day on 
Tuesday? I was planning on flying to 
Chicago on Tuesday morning then returning 
the next day." 

Skinner nodded, "yes, I granted it on 
Friday afternoon, why?" 

Mulder smiled wryly, "I could just take 
the week and leave on Monday. That way I 
get to spend a little extra time with 
Jackson, do the lecture and let my 
shoulder heal. By the time I return, 
I'll be good as new and no one will 
be the wiser." 

Skinner thought about it for a moment, 
then agreed, "that would work. The fact 
that the lecture was tentatively scheduled 
last week would allay any suspicions." 
Nodding, he added, "yes, it's a good plan." 

Mulder confirmed, "I'll schedule to leave 
in the morning." He grinned, the pills 
already making him a little light headed, 
"although I'm not completely comfortable 
with attempting another lecture after that 
last fiasco." 

Skinner laughed out loud, "Mulder, if you 
could have seen your face when you were 
calling out to the control booth." He 
gasped as the laughter threatened to 
overtake him again, "priceless, completely 
priceless! Admit it Mulder, you put the 
dye in his cigarettes," Skinner urged. 

Mulder shook his head, "no way. I knew it 
would be crossing the line. I just wanted 
to tweak him a little bit." 

Scully looked from one to the other, her 
displeasure obvious. Somewhere along the 
way, Skinner and Mulder had become best of 
friends, dare she say it -- partners. 
"Well, now that you mention it," she 
reached for her own coffee and took a long 
sip before admitting, "I did it." 

Skinner and Mulder stared at her. Neither 
sure they'd heard her correctly. 

Mulder's emotions raced from amusement to 
confusion, to anger. Eventually they 
settled on an uncomfortable combination of 
the latter two. Confusion as to why she 
would involve herself in his little game 
and anger at her interference. Okay, the 
thought of Dana Scully working for hours 
to inject green dye into the bastard's 
cigarettes, re-wrapping the pack and then 
finding a way to slip them into the old 
man's pocket was amusing. He really should 
have suspected her all along. The public 
nature of the prank and the selection of 
CSM's mouth as the focal point clearly 
indicated a woman perpetrator. 

Back in Minnesota, when he first began to 
play these pranks, it was strictly with 
the intent of annoying the old bastard. 
Later, it had become something more. It 
was the only way he could communicate with 
the man who claimed to be his father. He 
would never pursue a father-son 
relationship with this man. Still, he 
would be lying to say he wasn't curious 
about the old man and the circumstances of 
his own conception. Unknowingly, Scully 
had taken away the only way in which he 
could touch this man. He sat, slightly 
high on good drugs, unable to return to 
work for a week and unsure what type of 
damage control would await him upon his 
return to the office. Glaring at her, he 
demanded to know, "why, Scully, why would 
you interfere like that?" 

Skinner appeared startled by Mulder's 
anger. Yes, what Scully had done was 
wrong, dangerous even, but did it really 
warrant such a reaction? He stayed silent, 
watching the exchange carefully. 

Also confused by his anger, Scully 
stuttered, "Mulder, I didn't intend to 
interfere." She lowered her head, 
embarrassed, "I just wanted to be 
included. I wanted to prove to you I could 
play too." 

The room went silent again and Mulder, 
hearing the hurt in Scully's voice, pushed 
aside his irritation and considered how to 
respond. Looking towards Skinner, he found 
little help. His friend's eyes obviously 
saying, trust your instincts on this one, 
Fox. So trust them he did, even though he 
knew she wouldn't like his answer. "It's 
too dangerous, Scully. You have a family 
and," he hesitated, "you've even begun 
dating that guy from finance. You can't 
let yourself get involved in this." He did 
not need to explain 'this', they all knew. 

Her head snapped up, so he had noticed! 
She'd begun dating Bob Nelson almost a 
month ago. He was a fairly attractive man 
with a normal job and family values, a 
Republican. For her he was just a mild 
distraction. Something to cover the hurt 
as Mulder continued to distance himself 
from her. Lately, she found herself with 
more time in the evenings and, out of 
sheer boredom, had agreed to go out with 
Bob. He was a nice man, her mother was 
sure to like him. Not, she thought, that 
she would ever bring him home to meet her 
mother. 

"What gives either of you the right to 
make that call for me. This has been my 
fight for years, why would you exclude me 
now?" she demanded. 

Skinner tried, "Scully, these activities 
are not always," he paused, "legal. In the 
past you and Mulder have attempted to 
operate within the law. He looked at 
Mulder, then corrected, "well, Scully, you 
have attempted to stay within the 
boundaries of the law." 

Mulder stated flatly, unwilling to 
negotiate, "different game, different 
rules, Scully. I don't want you involved, 
I don't want you hurt." 

She stood and walked to her black bag. 
Pulling out additional medical supplies, 
she laid them neatly on the table. Then 
she grabbed her coat and headed for the 
elevator. As much as Mulder wanted to 
stop her, he would not. This was simply 
too dangerous. 

She turned just as the elevator doors 
opened, "call me when you're ready to 
treat me with the respect I deserve, 
gentlemen." The door closed, leaving a 
stunned Mulder and Skinner in its wake. 

After she was gone, Skinner turned to 
Mulder. "I understand your desire to keep 
her safe, Mulder, but why the anger? It 
was just a prank," he stressed. 

"She shouldn't have interfered," Mulder 
snapped. "What went on between CSM and 
myself was just that, between us." Eyes 
flashing, he continued, "if anyone was 
going to get a reaction out of that black-
lunged son of a bitch, it was going to be 
me!" Face red, eyes creased in pain, he 
walked towards the stairs. "I need to 
pack," he informed tightly, his tone 
ending further discussion on the subject. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 632 - DC to Chicago
Monday -10:30am 

"More coffee, sir," the flight attendant 
offered politely. 

He declined, instead handing her his cup 
for disposal. As she moved on, he flipped 
up the table and adjusted the seat wincing 
when he pushed his shoulder a little too 
firmly into the hard cushion. Scully's 
words replayed over and over again in his 
head, respect! Did she really think he 
didn't respect her? She was the strongest 
woman he knew. He had always respected her 
knowledge and commitment even when she did 
not offer him the same courtesy. And there 
were plenty of times she had not offered 
him that professional courtesy. Pushing 
down the surge of unexpected anger, he 
struggled to understand her hostility. If 
anyone had a right to be angry, it was 
him. Her prank had set him up to be 
humiliated in front of his peers. Add to 
that the fact that he needed to cover for 
her with CSM, unwilling as he was to let 
her bear the brunt of the old man's anger. 
If not for his injuries, he would go to 
him right now and try to smooth it over. 
Unfortunately, he could not risk being 
seen by him right now. CSM was too clever 
and it would be difficult to hide his 
discomfort. Once discovered, the man would 
stop at nothing to investigate how it 
happened, potentially leading back to his 
recent nocturnal activities. For now CSM 
believed him to be irritating, but 
harmless. Mulder preferred to keep it that 
way. Once CSM uncovered his true 
activities, he doubted he would survive 
long. At best he would have to go 
undercover, once again leave everything 
and everyone behind. 

He growled low under his breath, feeling 
helpless. He had to leave in order to 
protect Skinner and his team. That risk 
was far greater than CSM discovering 
Scully was the actual prankster and 
attempting some type of payback. He 
pressed his head back firmly in the seat, 
for God's sake, he was simply trying to 
protect her! Why couldn't she see that? He 
reached for his cell phone and almost 
punched in her number. The only thing 
stopping him was the fact that he had no 
idea what to say to her. Looking around at 
the full plane, he realized even if he did 
know, he could not tell her here. Slipping 
it back into his pocket, he laid his head 
back and closed his eyes. He needed to 
think, had to figure out a way to fix 
things with her and for her. 

>>> 

EVANSVILLE UNIVERSITY
Paranormal Crime Scenes of the 20th 
Century classroom 

Jackson slouched further into his seat. 
Man he hoped Mulder would be able to come 
through tomorrow. There was no way he was 
going to make it without him. The 
monotonous drone-like voice of Dr. Whyte 
went on and on and on. Jackson felt his 
eyes begin to float upwards, sleep so 
close he could taste it. A soft voice 
whispered sarcastically, "nice to see my 
cash being spent so wisely." 

For the second time in under a week, 
Jackson's books went crashing to the 
floor. Ignoring them, he turned and 
grinned, "Mulder!" 

Mulder smiled his greeting and then nodded 
for him to pay attention. The younger man 
turned towards the front of the class only 
to find he now had the full attention of 
an obviously irritated Dr. Whyte. 

Whyte pursed his lips and asked, "do you 
have a question, Jackson?" 

"N-no," Jackson explained hastily, "I was 
just startled for a moment." 

Whyte noticed the shadowy figure behind 
Jackson, "sir, I'm sorry but this is a 
closed class. You'll have to leave." 

Mulder shifted his shoulder into a more 
comfortable position, "well, Dr. Whyte, I 
did have a statement to make before I go." 

Whyte nodded for him to continue. Jackson 
watched, fascinated. He listened carefully 
for the differences between the two men 
and was surprised to hear that Mulder's 
tone did indeed vary. 

Mulder informed respectfully, "in the case 
you are reviewing, the perp did not have 
the ability to read the minds of others. 
He simply had a talent for pushing his 
will upon them. In truth, he never knew 
what his victims were thinking. Guessed," 
he added wryly, "but never really knew." 

Several of the students perked up at the 
debate. One boy even going so far as to 
pull the small headphone from his ear. 

Whyte shook his head, his disagreement 
obvious. "The facts, as I interpret them, 
Mr.-uh, what is your name, sir?" 

"Mulder," he supplied dryly. 

Whyte continued, intent on making his 
point, "Mr. Mulder, if you had read the 
paper written by Agent Mul --," he stopped 
suddenly. Eyes narrowed, he took a few 
steps up the stairs for a better look. 

Mulder stood and moved down the stairs to 
meet him. Stiffly, he stretched out his 
hand, "nice to meet you, Dr. Whyte." 

Whyte, for his part, was stunned. Faced 
with the man whose work he so admired, he 
murmured, "you're early," and briskly 
shook his hand. 

Mulder winced, pulling his arm carefully 
away. "I thought I'd fly in and spend a 
little extra time with a friend." He 
tossed a look over his shoulder toward 
Jackson. "I hope you don't mind," he added 
politely. 

"No, no, of course not," the other man 
assured. 

"I know the class only has twenty minutes 
left, but if you like, I'd be happy to 
answer any questions you have on the case 
under discussion," Mulder offered 
politely. His hidden motive, of course, to 
ensure that the information was 
communicated correctly. He hated when his 
words were misinterpreted. 

A girl in the first row, waist length red 
curly hair and flashing green eyes asked, 
"so you're saying this man could make 
people do things. Except for a guy I once 
dated, that's impossible!" 

Mulder smiled, but still looked to Whyte 
for permission to move to the front of the 
class. Whyte nodded. Mulder stepped 
forward and leaned his right hip against a 
nearby table for support, his left hand 
automatically cradling his right elbow. He 
found his shoulder was not nearly as 
uncomfortable if he kept his arm steady. 
"Well, admittedly, it's unusual. But, not 
impossible. In fact, Ms. - " he waited for 
her to supply her name. 

She looked up in surprise, few instructors 
were interested unless there was a 
problem. "Uh, Kathy, my name is Kathy." 

He smiled, "well, Kathy, I have to say in 
my business, I've found very few things 
that are impossible." 

A boy behind Kathy straightened from his 
slouch and suggested, "is it possible the 
victims exaggerated this man's influence 
on them?" 

Mulder nodded his understanding of the 
question, "it's always possible that a 
witness might misstate the facts. The 
first time this killer struck, there was 
only one survivor." Mulder grimaced slightly 
at the memory, but refused to dwell upon it, 
"later, the perp escaped from prison, 
although no deaths were associated with 
that incident. At least," he corrected,
"not as a result of his actions." 

"So one survivor described the sensation 
and suddenly this guy can push his will on 
others," Max, a tall, acne-scarred boy in 
the fifth row stated doubtfully. 

Mulder scanned the class, a small smile on 
his face. He had forgotten how much he 
enjoyed this experience. His eyes found 
and held Jackson's who was already 
calculating this quarter's GPA. "Well, 
there was certainly other evidence, but, 
I'll have you know the survivor was a very 
reliable source," Mulder insisted mildly. 

"Yeah, right," snorted Kathy. 

Mulder pouted slightly, rubbing his arm 
gently, "well, I think I'm a good source.' 

Dr. Whyte's eyes widened in disbelief. He 
sputtered, "you, you were the one! How is 
that possible when you were the one to 
apprehend the subject after disabling 
him?" 

The bell rang indicating the class end. 
Mulder, still leaning heavily on the 
table, answered mysteriously, "saved by 
the bell." 

Whyte and the students were enthralled and 
it was obvious more questions would have 
followed. Reluctantly, the students rose 
and made their way out of the room. 
Jackson stayed seated, observing from 
afar. He watched as Mulder took the time 
to meet and talk to any student that 
stopped. His mentor was being amazingly 
patient with Dr. Whyte, the older man 
practically hanging on his every word. But 
the most interesting observation so far 
was in the way Mulder seemed to be holding 
himself. Protectively, as though favoring 
his right side. He'd seen similar behavior 
in friends back home. Gang members who'd 
been hurt and sought homemade first aid 
instead of a hospital emergency room. 
They'd pretend nothing happened and then 
spend the next week or so trying to hide 
all evidence of their discomfort. Noting 
Mulder's bag on the floor behind him, 
Jackson grabbed it and moved towards the 
front of the classroom. 

Mulder was just confirming arrangements 
for the lecture and, from the look in his 
eyes, he was not pleased. "Jackson," he 
chided, voice deceptively mild, "you told 
me Dr. Whyte was simply arranging a class 
lecture." 

Jackson shrugged, unrepentant. 

Dr. Whyte assured, "oh, Agent Mulder, just 
a few associates, no more than one hundred 
attendees. Your availability is so 
limited, I didn't think you'd mind a few 
guests in the audience." 

Mulder rubbed his arm absently, "I'm not 
really prepared for such a lecture, Dr. 
Whyte. I thought I was simply coming to 
talk to your class." He shuddered as he 
remembered his
last lecture. 

"Well actually, Agent Mulder, since we 
expected to only have two hours of your 
time, I thought the forum should be more 
open - - less formal." 

Mulder bit his lower lip, "which means I'm 
going to have every possible question 
thrown at me for two hours. Sure, fine, 
whatever," he snapped. "What time should I 
be here?" 

Dr. Whyte, unsure how to react to Mulder's 
flippant reply, answered carefully, "seven 
at Fowley Hall." 

"Fowley Hall!" Mulder repeated in 
disbelief. Damn, was the woman going to 
haunt his every turn! 

"It's a very nice lecture hall," Dr. Whyte 
assured anxiously. 

Mulder replied mysteriously, "I'm sure it 
has a beautiful exterior." 

"Oh, yes, quite," Dr. Whyte assured. 

Mulder, noting his bag on Jackson's arm, 
reached for it. 

Jackson waved him back, "no need, Mulder, 
I've got it." 

Mulder froze and met the young man's eyes. 
Jackson was a good kid, but not a let me 
carry your luggage good kid. Tired from 
his flight, he decided not to argue the 
point. Glancing at his watch, he confirmed 
it was almost time for another pill. 
Scully would be so proud of his 
promptness. Together they left the room. 

In the hallway, Mulder turned to Jackson 
and examined him carefully. He had added 
some much needed freshman pounds and his 
face did not display the open distrust it 
had back at Atkins. Clothes casual, but 
neat, he looked much older. Mulder put his 
hand on Jackson's shoulder and greeted 
sincerely, "good to see you, Jackson." 

Jackson smiled and answered, "you, too, 
Mulder. What did you do to your shoulder?" 

Mulder sighed and bit his lip, the kid was 
sometimes too observant. "Long story, 
let's talk about it later." 

Jackson recognized an evasive reply when 
he heard one. He let it drop. 

Mulder asked, "do you have any suggestions 
as to where I can stay?" 

Jackson grinned, "two choices. One, my 
roommate is out of town so you can take 
his bed. Or, if you like small, rundown 
motels, there's one a few miles up the 
road. Personally," Jackson added, "I'd 
choose my room because the motel is kind 
of like that one in Psycho." 

Mulder did not meet his eyes as he 
answered, "I appreciate the offer, 
Jackson, but I don't always sleep well." 

"Who sleeps?" Jackson answered flippantly. 

Mulder looked over Jackson's shoulder as 
he tried to explain, "I-I don't sleep, 
Jackson. Don't take this the wrong way, 
but I wouldn't want to keep you up all 
night." 

Jackson could see that Mulder was 
uncomfortable sharing this type of 
personal information. The man obviously 
slept some time, just not well. Jackson, 
having suffered a few nightmares of his 
own, let it drop with a joke. "Don't 
sleep, huh, does that make you like one of 
those vampires you investigate?" 

Mulder yawned widely, validating his 
earlier statement. "You know that cross 
thing doesn't work with breadsticks," 
Mulder informed dryly. "And speaking of 
breadsticks, are you free for lunch?" 

"Sorry, got class in ten minutes and the 
guy who pays for this would be pissed if I 
cut it." 

Mulder smirked, "I suspect you're right. 
Dinner?" he offered. 

The younger man agreed, "absolutely. I'll 
have a friend drop me at your motel at 
around five. Does that work for you?" 

Mulder reached for his bag and swung it 
over his left shoulder. "Later, Jackson," 
he grunted, weariness seeming to appear 
from nowhere in his voice. 

"Yeah, later, Mr. Henry," Jackson mumbled 
as he watched the man turn and walk slowly 
away. Within the last hour he had learned 
several new things about Mulder. It never 
occurred to him that Mulder's life was 
placed on the line every day. Yes, he was 
an FBI agent, but Jackson had always 
pictured him more as an executive type, a 
thinker. Still, in the classroom, less 
than twenty minutes ago, he spoke of his 
own brush with death as though it was 
nothing unusual. Jackson wanted to know 
more, wanted to understand the man who had 
saved him from a life of minimum wage 
jobs. Unfortunately that would have to 
wait until later. Glancing down at the 
time, he rushed towards his next class. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BATSON MOTEL
Cecil Rd. and Rt. 20 

The motel in Psycho had been quite a bit 
nicer than this one. Run down, walls thin, 
the only thing the small room had going 
for it was its overall cleanliness. That 
and the fact the shower was a heavy 
plastic sliding door stall making a 
reenactment of the famous shower scene 
highly unlikely. In fact, Mulder had seen 
much worse while on the road with Scully 
and, on a positive note, this one had 
cable. He lay down his bag and sat heavily 
on the bed. His shoulder was killing him. 
If not for the pills Scully left him, he 
doubted he would be able to stand. They 
seemed to take the edge off. Right now 
though, after an eventful weekend and an 
early morning flight, he was beat. A nap 
was definitely in order this afternoon, 
although the thought of taking a nap in 
broad daylight was extremely foreign. The 
closest he'd ever come to such a thing was 
when he'd work the 900 lines late into the 
night. Sleeping part of the day away was a 
given if you worked the night shift. His 
thoughts drifted unwillingly to Scully. 
Before he would allow himself to relax, he 
needed to talk to her, to clear the air. 
He dialed her cell phone number. After two 
rings, she answered, "Scully." 

"It's me," he said quietly. 

A distinct pause on the line indicated he 
was still in disfavor. "Are you okay?" she 
asked. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." 

"You're taking your pills and keeping the 
wound clean," she queried professionally. 

Frustrated, Mulder snapped, "damnit, 
Scully, I'm fine. That's not why I 
called." 

"Why did you call, Mulder? Have you 
changed your mind?" 

"No, but - " 

"Then we have nothing to discuss," she 
stated simply and hung up the phone. 

Mulder stared at the phone dumbfounded. 
She hung up on him! He'd been calling to 
apologize even though he had nothing to 
apologize for. Instead, she hung up on 
him. Throwing the phone angrily on the 
bed, he grabbed his bag and headed to the 
shower. "Two can play at this game, 
Scully," he mumbled angrily. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

Mulder was awakened by a loud knocking on 
the door. Forcing his eyes open, he was 
astounded to discover he had actually 
fallen asleep. The middle of the day and 
you're sleeping, Mulder, he scolded. 
"Minute," he croaked, "be there in a 
minute." Easing himself off the bed, he 
winced as he felt the skin under the 
bandages pull. Shuffling to the door, he 
pulled it open to find the smiling face of 
Jackson. The boy exuded youthful energy 
making Mulder feel twice as old. 

"Hey, Mulder," Jackson greeted cheerily, 
then quieted as he took in his friend's 
appearance. Sweatpants, a tee-shirt and 
socks his only clothes, Jackson could not 
miss the bandage that appeared to cover 
his right shoulder and a portion of his 
back. The man's hair was rumpled, having 
obviously fallen asleep with it wet and 
his eyes were still a bit unfocused as 
though on something quite pleasant. 

Jackson grinned, "man, whatever you're 
taking must be good stuff, huh?" 

Mulder squinted at the boy, annoyed. "What 
the hell would you know about good stuff, 
Jackson?" 

Jackson rolled his eyes, "lighten up, 
Mulder." Gesturing towards his shoulder, 
he asked, "don't tell me, let me guess." 
His eyes sparkled as his imagination took 
charge, "you were chasing a perp when he 
turned and shot at you. You dove to push 
an old lady with a baby out of the way 
and, in doing so, took a bullet. Am I 
close?" 

Mulder rolled his eyes, then nodded. 
"Yeah, sure, Jackson, that's what 
happened. Then the lady changed the kid's 
name to Fox." 

It was Jackson's turn to roll his eyes. 

Mulder grinned crookedly, "I'm hungry." He 
grabbed his jeans and a shirt from his 
open bag and went to change in the 
bathroom. Voice slightly muffled, he 
called out, "where are we going for 
dinner?" 

It was quickly becoming obvious, Mulder 
was not going to tell him what happened. 
Jackson respected the man's need for 
privacy even as it annoyed the hell out of 
him. If there was one thing he learned in 
Maywood, it was to mind your own business. 
Still, here at Evansville, he was learning 
to be a writer and writers were known for 
their observation skills and their intense 
curiosity. At least that's what he kept 
telling himself. In truth, his mother 
always told him he was just plain nosey. 
Oh well, nosey or observant, Jackson 
shrugged silently, what the heck was the 
difference anyway? He'd find out what 
happened before Mulder left, absolutely 
sure it would be a very exciting story. 
"When one of my friends heard we were 
having dinner, he recommended a place not 
too far from here," Jackson informed 
loudly. "Says you'll really like it." 

Mulder re-entered the room, fully dressed 
and hair under control. "Why did he think 
I'd like it?" he asked suspiciously. 

"They say it's haunted AND," he stressed, 
"it's only a half a mile from Bachelor's 
Grove!" 

The grin he received from Mulder made his 
efforts worthwhile. "You shouldn't have," 
Mulder answered, overcome with the boy's 
gesture. "But since you did, do you think 
we can make a little visit after dinner?" 

Jackson reached into his backpack, pulled 
out two objects and waved them teasingly 
in front of him, "I've got flashlights." 

At that moment anyone observing them would 
see not a responsible adult and a serious 
student. No, they would see two little 
boys planning a great adventure. Mulder's 
eyes sparkled at the thought of examining 
quite possibly the most infamous cemetery 
in the world. He'd planned a visit several 
times in the past, each attempt foiled by 
another case. He shrugged on his jacket 
and asked, his excitement obvious, "and 
the restaurant is haunted, too?" 

Jackson wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, 
"haunted by a prostitute and the original 
owner of the bar. Murder, suicide, I'm told." 

All shoulder pain forgotten, Mulder 
practically skipped out of the room behind 
his young student. He was on vacation, no 
Scully, no Skinner. On a quest to discover 
the truth of the small burial ground that 
boasted such things as a disappearing 
house and satanic rituals. As a bonus, 
they were going to eat in a haunted bar. 
Man, he could not remember having this 
much fun in a long time. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

YE OLDE GOAT BAR & GRILL 

They were both only slightly buzzed. 
Jackson, courtesy of a fake ID. Mulder, 
courtesy of Scully's pills and the 
intoxicating feeling that too much 
laughter provided. Jackson jumped, almost 
toppling his chair, sending Mulder into 
another bout of hysterics. Struggling to 
catch his breath, he gasped, "what's the 
matter, Jackson, did she cop a feel 
again?" 

"It's touching my ass!" the boy accused in 
a panic-tinged voice. "I'm telling you 
she's been touching my ass all night!' 

Mulder quickly stifled the giggle that 
threatened. Suddenly he too was being 
groped, the family jewels receiving quite 
a thorough examination. He sighed, 
slightly high, and allowed his head to 
fall back lazily. Eyes closed, he advised 
wisely, "see, Jackson, this is the 
difference between you and me. You fear 
such things. I," he moaned and wriggled in 
the chair, "embrace the experience." 

"Hate to bust your balls, boys, but it's 
not always Lucy groping the customers. The 
original owner of this place liked to play 
it both ways," the waitress informed 
nastily. 

Mulder stood quickly and glared at the 
woman, "check, please." 

She hid her grin, it never failed to work. 

Mulder checked his watch, almost 9:00pm. 
Glancing towards Jackson, he asked, "still 
want to go ghost bustin'?" 

Jackson nodded eagerly. 

Check paid, they rushed out to the parking 
lot and headed off for the infamous 
Bachelor's Grove. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BACHELOR'S GROVE CEMETERY 

They stumbled down the overgrown path, 
taking extra care not to alert any late 
night rangers of their visit. The cemetery 
would be sealed, that was common 
knowledge. Also common knowledge was the 
existence of a hole in the main gate that 
allowed entry to all who dared to bend 
over and move forward. 

Whispering to Jackson, Mulder felt 
compelled to educate, "you know why they 
call it Bachelor's Grove?" 

Jackson shook his head, in truth just a 
little freaked out to be creeping around 
in a known satanic monk hang-out. 

"In 1864 when it was established, these 
woods were named for the large number of 
unmarried men living in the area." He hid 
a grin as he considered Scully's reaction 
to this explanation. 

The fence directly in front of them, 
Mulder rushed forward and began to crawl 
through taking extra care with his injured 
shoulder. Once in, he turned, grinned and 
waved Jackson to follow. Clearly reluctant, 
Jackson did so. 

"See the pond, Jackson," Mulder pointed 
out, similar to a museum guide, "in the 
20's gangsters used to dump their victims 
in it." Silence met his words and Mulder 
turned to check on his young partner. 
Jackson was almost hugging Mulder's back 
and Mulder, startled by the boy's closeness, 
jumped. 

Jackson, in turn, frightened by Mulder's 
sudden movement, screamed and began 
running back towards the fence. Mulder was 
stunned, he'd never considered that the 
tough kid from the crime-ridden streets of 
Maywood would be afraid of ghosts. With 
everything he'd faced, it never entered 
his mind that Jackson might have normal 
fears about ghosts and other mystical 
things that go bump in the night. 
Unwilling to leave him alone, Mulder 
caught up to him as he was attempting to 
crawl his way out. The hood of his jacket 
was caught on the cyclone fence and he was 
frantically trying to free himself. 

Mulder unhooked it and pulled him back 
into the yard. "Jackson," he ordered, 
"calm down." 

Jackson's eyes flickered around the area, 
obviously frightened, "I don't like it 
here, Mr., uh, Mulder. It feels b-b-bad 
here." 

Mulder kept his arm securely around the 
trembling kid. Casting his eyes longingly 
around the area, he sighed heavily. This 
would have to wait for another day. He 
gently shoved Jackson through the fence 
and they started back to the car. Suddenly 
the surrounding trees were consumed by 
flickering blue lights dancing boldly 
with the night sky. Jackson reacted 
instinctively, "cops!" he whispered and 
took off running. Mulder hesitated, 
mesmerized by the light show. He had read 
of these encounters and stood in wonder, 
fully understanding the rarity of such an 
event. Turning back towards the gates, 
he saw her. A woman, a child, he couldn't 
be sure. Her arm waved to him, demanding 
his return. Unable to resist, he took 
several steps back towards the grove. 
Mesmerized, he was startled when a hand 
grabbed his arm and began pulling him 
away. 

Jackson yanked on Mulder's injured arm 
with little regard. He was scared. When 
the lights appeared, he took off, assuming 
Mulder would be close behind. Instead, it 
quickly became apparent, he was alone and 
there were no cops. Concerned for his 
friend's safety, he rushed back to find 
him. Mulder was walking slowly, as though 
asleep, towards the cemetery! Jackson 
pulled the dazed man back to the car and, 
getting no immediate reaction, began to 
pat down his pockets looking for the keys. 
Mulder, only now becoming aware of the 
pain, rubbed his arm. It ached mercilessly! 
Slowly he became aware of Jackson's actions 
and joked dryly, "my wallets in the back." 

"Mulder, where are your keys?" Jackson 
demanded. 

He reached in his pocket and pulled them 
out, dangling them just beyond Jackson's 
reach. "I can drive," he insisted. 

"Whatever, man, let's just get the hell 
out of here!" he jumped into the car and 
together they drove back towards school. 

Eyeing the passing traffic suspiciously, 
Mulder noted, "there sure are a lot of 
antique cars on the road." 

Jackson looked into the vehicle next to 
them. The car was from the thirties and in 
perfect condition. The people in the car 
looked just as odd as the vehicle they 
drove. Rolling down the window, Jackson 
attempted to get a closer look. The car 
suddenly disappeared right before his 
eyes. Shocked, he pointed at the empty 
lane and moved his mouth unable to speak. 

Mulder asked quietly, "did you see her?" 

Jackson shook his head, in complete 
denial, "I didn't see nothin' man. Just 
get me home." 

Mulder accelerated sensing the boy's fear 
would only be allayed by distance. "That 
was fun, Jackson. Thanks for suggesting 
this." 

Jackson stared at him, "are you fucking 
nuts, Mulder! That was not fun! Shit, I've 
never been so scared in all my life." 

"It's okay Jackson, you don't have to go 
next time," Mulder assured calmly. "This 
type of thing isn't for everybody." 

"This type of thing isn't for ANYBODY! 
Jesus, don't you ever get scared?" the 
frightened boy demanded. 

Mulder, eyes on the road, thought of all 
the things that truly frightened him. 
After a long pause, he admitted, "people 
scare me a hell of a lot more than ghosts, 
Jackson." 

The rest of the ride was completed in 
silence. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BATSON MOTEL 

Back in his room, Mulder tossed off his 
jacket and set up his laptop. Once 
connected he began to search for 
everything he could find on Bachelor's 
Grove Cemetery. This small grove was alive 
with unique sightings. Stories of a 
disappearing house were prevalent. Many 
observers reported seeing the house 
appear, yet when they attempted to 
approach, it disappeared. The Victorian 
farmhouse was surrounded by a local legend 
that claimed anyone who succeeded in 
entering the house would never return. 

But there were other stories as well, 
stories of a two-headed man and a 
recurring death scene of a farmer, drowned 
when his horse pulled him into the nearby 
pond. Faces in the mist, sounds of voices 
and then there was the legend of Mrs. 
Rogers or the White Lady. A woman who 
wandered among the graves looking for her 
baby. Ghost cars, blue and red streaks of 
lights, shaking trees, a veritable 
wonderland. Mulder felt as though he'd 
found his own private Disneyland. He could 
almost picture Skinner asking after their 
last mission, "so, Mulder, we broke in, 
got the information and, for the most 
part, evaded alien rebels. What are you 
going to do next?" 

Mulder stopped typing, stood and walked 
over to the mirror. Eyes blood shot, hair 
tangled by the wind and trees of the wood 
and a dried blood stain on his shoulder 
where he must have brushed against a tree, 
he grinned, "the hell with Disneyland, I'm 
going to Bachelor's Grove!" 

A crooked grin on his face, he moved back 
to the keyboard, only vaguely noting the 
time at 3:00am. He continued to read 
through the personal experiences of those 
brave enough to explore this interesting 
phenomena. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

He placed his foot cautiously on the first 
step, sure his touch would cause it to 
disappear. The wood beneath his foot 
remained solid and, unable to resist, 
Mulder made his way onto the porch. It was 
a sprawling area that invited anyone who 
passed to sit and rest. He felt as though 
he'd been searching forever and simply 
needed to sit quiet for a while. As if 
just returning home after a long day, he 
sat upon the white porch swing and allowed 
his body and mind to relax. 

A small hand on his own roused him from 
his daydream. Looking down, he was 
confronted with a young boy, no more than 
four. Large hazel eyes searched his own 
and he smiled softly in order to put the 
little one at ease. Mulder pulled him into 
his lap and cradled the child in his arms. 
Small hands played with his nose and they 
both giggled until exhausted. Together 
they began to doze. The sun danced across 
their faces and Mulder pulled the child 
closer, relishing his clean, baby scent. 
He was filled with such great love for 
this child he could not help but wonder if 
finally he found his place in the world. 
The boy suddenly shivered, the afternoon 
air slightly cool. Mulder stood and 
carried him to his bed. He pushed the 
screen door in with his hip, careful not 
to awaken his young charge and entered the 
house. Inside the smell of vanilla 
surrounded him. Sunlight flickered 
everywhere inviting anyone who entered 
home. He could hear a woman humming 
somewhere in the house and the sound 
filled him with such longing. A need to be 
wrapped up in her arms and held until 
everything that was broken was fixed. 

His natural curiosity was slowly being 
overwhelmed by a heaviness of limbs such 
as he had never experienced before. 
Instinctively he carried the child into 
the room at the top of the stairs and, 
once inside, bent to lay him on the large 
featherbed. The boy, sensing the 
separation, moaned and gripped his shirt 
tightly. Seeing no other option, Mulder 
crawled on to the bed with him and wrapped 
his arms protectively around the small 
body. They both drifted off to sleep. 

He was awakened by a child's cry and the 
feeling of something being torn from his 
arms. He rolled over and saw the boy 
huddled in the corner obviously terrified 
of the large man that stood above him. The 
man's back was to Mulder. Pushing himself 
off the bed, he rasped, "stop, don't hurt 
him!" He forced his too heavy legs to move 
forward. The boy was whimpering, every 
sound ripping at Mulder's heart. His eyes 
filled with tears, he would not allow this 
beast to hurt him again. Reaching forward, 
he gripped the man's raised arm and pulled 
him backwards. The man pulled his arm 
away, then raised it again his intent 
clear. Mulder stood frozen, confused at 
suddenly being confronted by his own 
father. Unwilling to protect himself, he 
waited, strangely calm, for the first blow 
to fall. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

MOTEL ROOM
7:03AM 

The ringing of the phone woke him. His 
head lay uncomfortably on the small table 
he had set the laptop on the night before. 
Somewhere in the middle of his on line 
exploring, he must have fallen asleep. 
Raising his head very slowly, he struggled 
to loosen the knot that settled at the 
base of his neck. The ringing refused to 
go away. Finally, he reached for it, 
pulled it to his ear and mumbled, "yeah." 

"Mulder," a hesitant voice asked. 

Mulder straightened very slowly, "yeah, 
it's me," he croaked. 

"What's wrong?" Skinner snapped. 

"Hold on a minute," Mulder snapped back, 
voice barely there. He put the phone down 
on the table. Taking a deep breath, he 
rolled his shoulders back, wincing as he 
felt the material stick to the damp bandages. 
On the table next to the bed stood a half 
filled can of Pepsi. He grabbed it, 
swallowed the flat, warm liquid in one 
gulp and returned to the phone. Clearing 
his throat loudly, he brought the receiver 
back to his ear, "sorry, my throat was a 
bit dry." 

Clearly unconvinced, Skinner asked, "how's 
your shoulder?" 

"Fine," Mulder answered a bit too quickly. 

"Uh huh, why do I have the feeling you're 
not being honest with me, Mulder?" 

"Really, sir, it's fine," Mulder argued. 

Skinner, sensing his sullen mood asked, 
"how'd you sleep last night?" 

Mulder remained silent. 

Skinner's voice gentled. He could tell he 
had woken Mulder with his call. He'd spent 
too much time with this man, especially 
over the last year. If they were going to 
work together and put their lives in each 
other's hands, it was imperative that they 
know each other well. He was getting 
pretty good at reading his friend's moods. 
"Tell me about it." 

Mulder sat down on the edge of the bed and 
lowered himself until he lay flat, eyes 
glued to the ceiling. He recognized the 
question as one from a friend, not his 
A.D. Voice soft and hesitant, he answered, 
"there was a child." 

"Samantha," Skinner queried. It was always 
Samantha. 

"N-no," Mulder denied, "it was a small b-
boy." 

Skinner did not like the stuttering that 
dotted Mulder's sentences. He seldom 
stuttered unless overtired or stressed. 
"Did you recognize the boy?" 

Mulder shook his head, forgetting Skinner 
could not see the movement. 

"Mulder, you still with me?" Skinner 
called gently. 

"We were in the house," Mulder continued, 
ignoring Skinner's question. 

"What house?" 

"The house at Bachelor's Grove. I didn't 
see the house last night though," Mulder 
pouted, disappointment evident in his 
voice. 

Skinner accessed his browser and did a 
quick on- line search on Bachelor's Grove. 
He hit on several sites immediately. 
Reading from the screen, he asked, 
"Mulder, is this the same Bachelor's Grove 
in Rubio Woods?" 

"Yes, sir, do you know it?" he asked, his 
excitement obvious. 

Skinner smiled, so little, it took so 
little. His eyes continued to scan the 
text. "Mulder," Skinner clipped angrily, 
"don't tell me you went to this place last 
night?" 

"Hey, it wasn't my idea," he denied. "It 
was Jackson's way of welcoming me to the 
neighborhood." 

"You're supposed to be taking it easy," 
Skinner lectured. 

Mulder bit his lip, no one ever understood 
that this was his way of taking it easy. 
"It was nothing, just a little late night 
visit to a haunted cemetery," Mulder 
assured. 

"Bachelor's Grove, it says here it has a 
history of satanic ceremonies," Skinner 
informed worriedly. 

Mulder corrected a bit too quickly, "no, 
sir, I've been reading all ni - - " he 
stopped himself. "I mean I've read quite a 
bit about the place and although there 
have been some stories of floating monks 
and several alleged murders, I could trace 
none back to an actual crime. Looks like 
all we have here are some very interesting 
ghosts," Mulder informed blandly. 

"Regardless, those types of places have a 
tendency to attract the wrong type of 
people. I assume with your little visit 
last night that you won't be returning. 
After all, you are there to recover, 
remember?" 

Mulder sighed, tired of having to justify 
himself. Rather than lie, he answered, 
"well, I do have that lecture tonight." 

Skinner seemed to take the bait, "ah, the 
lecture. I bet Jackson is quite pleased to 
have arranged your appearance. This isn't 
something you do." 

Mulder agreed, "no, I don't like this type 
of thing." He fell silent already 
uncomfortable with the idea of justifying 
his work to anyone else. 

"Was Jackson happy to see you?" Skinner 
asked casually, hoping to pull him out of 
his mood. 

Mulder thought about Jackson. The Jackson 
he'd dropped off last night had been 
scared shitless. He definitely owed the 
kid one. "Well, he was," Mulder answered 
cryptically. "I'm supposed to meet him for 
lunch today, then, well then I guess I'll 
just hang out here for another day or 
two." 

"You're not going back there," Skinner 
asked, his tone a warning. 

Mulder's voice took on a dreamy tone, "I'd 
really like to see that house." 

"Mulder!" Skinner snapped. 

He really didn't want to hear it. "Uh, 
sir, I have to go." He pushed down the 
switchhook and disconnected the line. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

OFFICE OF WALTER SKINNER, A.D. 

Skinner sat staring on the handset in 
shock. Mulder hung up on him. The man he 
had just spoken to reminded him too much 
of the Mulder who had run, run away from 
them all. Was it possible he was again 
hearing the call of the road? Skinner 
considered this for only a moment and 
immediately squelched the thought. No, he 
thought, not this Mulder, not this man. 

The Mulder that had voluntarily returned 
was a man committed. Committed to a cause 
that he would not back away from. Still, 
there was something in his voice, something
that sounded - - wrong. Hitting his call 
button, he buzzed his secretary. "Kim, ask 
Agent Scully to get on my calendar today." 

"Yes, sir," she responded coolly. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

MAXIE'S DINER: 

"Sorry, Jackson, I sometimes forget that 
not everyone is comfortable running around 
in dark cemeteries with only a flashlight," 
Mulder apologized. 

Head down, Jackson admitted, "I'm sorry I 
freaked out, man. I've never been that 
scared!" 

Mulder nodded, "it's okay, I know how you 
feel." 

"Yeah, right," he scoffed. 

Mulder leaned forward and put his hand on 
Jackson's shoulder, demanding his attention. 
"I do know what it feels like to be scared, 
Jackson. It happens to me a lot." 

Jackson's eyes raised, surprised. Mulder 
could tell he now had the boy's attention. 

"I just try not to let it stop me from 
taking the next step. Kind of like you 
were afraid to come to school here, but 
you pushed past it and look how great 
you're doing," Mulder complimented. 

Jackson blushed, unused to praise, "I'm 
not doing that good, Mulder." 

"I talked to your counselor, Jackson. 
You're doing fine," Mulder countered. 

"You talked to my counselor?" the younger 
man asked, puzzled. No one ever talked to 
his teachers or counselors before. 

It was Mulder's turn to drop his eyes, 
worried that Jackson might feel he was 
intruding, "I just wanted to make sure you 
were okay. If it makes you uncomfortable, 
I won't do it again." 

Jackson looked over Mulder's shoulder, 
unsure what to say. He had never had 
anyone take an interest in him like this 
before. No one ever believed him capable 
of more than a job putting fries in a 
paper bag. He blinked rapidly, pushing 
back the tears that threatened. Sniffling, 
he ran the back of his hand across his 
nose. Finally he answered, "no, it's okay. 
I don't mind that you call." 

Mulder looked down at his watch, a weak 
attempt to give Jackson a moment to pull 
himself together, "hey, you better hurry, 
your class starts in 15 minutes." 

Jackson shoved the last two bites of 
burger into his mouth, grabbed a handful 
of fries and started for the door. 
Turning, he reminded, "don't forget, seven 
o' clock tonight. You'll be there, right?" 

"I'll be there, I'll be there," he laughed 
shooing the boy away. Jackson left the 
restaurant still shoving the last of his 
food in his mouth. 

"More coffee, honey," the waitress, a 
fifty-something woman, offered kindly. 

He moved his hand to cover the cup, "no 
more for me, thanks." He pondered the best 
way to spend his afternoon. Standing, he 
tossed the check money on the table and 
asked the waitress, "can you direct me to 
the campus library?" 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

OFFICE OF WALTER SKINNER, A.D. 

Scully sat silent in front of Skinner's 
desk, eyes flashing and lips clenched in 
an angry straight line. 

Skinner sighed, this was definitely not 
going to be easy. "Have you spoken to 
Mulder, Scully?" 

"Briefly," she replied flatly. 

"I spoke to him this morning," Skinner 
informed, hoping to pique her interest. 

She continued to study the wall behind 
him. 

"It seems his young friend took him took a 
local cemetery, Bachelor's Grove, for a 
bit of fun last night." 

Scully's mouth twitched and her eyes 
shifted to meet his. 

"I'd say, based on my conversation with 
him that he has become somewhat enamored 
with the place. Sounded like he was up all 
night reading about it." 

Scully translated Skinner's words in her 
own head. He's saying that Mulder is 
probably not taking care of his injury, 
not sleeping and no doubt has become 
fixated on something that, without backup, 
could get him in trouble. Aloud, she said, 
"sir, what would you like me to do? It's 
obvious from yours and Mulder's angry 
reaction to my," she paused, "interference, 
that I would just be in the way." 

"Scully," Skinner reasoned, "Mulder and I 
are always concerned for your safety, but 
I suspect that was not the main driver of 
his anger the other night." 

Brow furrowed, she nodded for him to 
continue. 

Skinner took a deep breath, "it's just a 
theory, but I believe that Mulder's pranks 
on CSM have been the only way he will 
allow himself to communicate with the man. 
Let's face it, if CSM is Mulder's father, 
it's not as though they can ever have a 
normal father-son relationship." 

Scully shook her head in denial, "are you 
saying that this is Mulder's way of 
talking to his father?" Before he could 
answer, she added, "I don't know, sir. 
Mulder would never accept that man as his 
father regardless of the DNA." 

His finger tapped lightly on the desk 
remembering Mulder's anger. "I agree, 
Scully, he would never accept the man. But 
Mulder being Mulder, he will be unable to 
walk away from the truth of his own 
conception. In a way, these pranks have 
allowed Mulder to maintain a link with the 
old man. Lord knows his mother won't 
reveal anything about his past. 

"His mother," she scoffed. She sat silent 
for a minute or two, mulling over this new 
evidence. Coldly, she asked again, "sir, 
what do you want me to do?" 

Skinner grunted his disgust, "Scully, I'm 
not asking you to do anything. I thought 
we were having a conversation about a 
mutual friend. A friend who, for reasons I 
don't understand, sounded very lost when I 
talked to him this morning!" 

She stood and began pacing his office, 
"I'm always expected to pick up the pieces 
- - do the clean up work." She walked 
towards the door, "I'm not his wife you 
know." She left slamming the door behind 
her. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

EVANSVILLE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 

The alarm on his watch chirped insistently 
noting the time as 6:30pm. He'd set it on 
purpose knowing how distracted he could 
become in his reading. Closing the book in 
front of him, he moved to stand, only to 
be felled by a sharp burning pain down his 
right shoulder. "Oh fuck," he cursed a bit 
too loudly. A woman in a nearby cubicle 
looked up annoyed. Straightening, he bit 
his lip and waited for the pain to 
subside. Christ, he thought, if this thing 
is infected, I am up shit creek! Glancing 
at his watch, he quickened his pace 
ignoring the headache that threatened. He 
would deal with feeling lousy after the 
lecture, not now. Jackson was counting on 
him. Breathing in the brisk evening air, 
he decided to walk to the lecture hall. 
The ten minutes outside would provide him 
with the energy he'd need to get through 
this thing. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

FOWLEY HALL
6:50PM 

Mulder entered the room through the back 
door as any student would. The size of the 
crowd stunned him, Jackson had assured him 
it was simply a class lecture. Garbed in 
jeans and a sweater, he was decidedly 
underdressed for the occasion. Knowing he 
could never make it back to the motel in 
time to change, he accepted the situation 
and began weaving his way towards the 
front of the room. Steps away from the 
front row, a student who, based upon his 
size, must play football, pushed past him. 
Mulder took the hit directly on his 
injured shoulder. Agonizing pain shot 
through him and, for a moment, he feared 
he was going to pass out. A wave of heat 
washed over him and he stumbled forward, 
hand in search of a handhold. 

Dr. Whyte, seeing his distress, reached 
out to steady his suddenly pale guest 
speaker. "Agent Mulder, are you all 
right?" his tone displaying sincere 
concern. Agent Mulder had suddenly turned 
white as a sheet, his teeth biting into 
his full lower lip. 

Mulder squeezed the man's arm hard for 
just a moment before taking a deep breath 
and letting it slowly out. Looking up he 
saw Jackson eyeing him with concern. 
Mulder pulled away from Whyte and mumbled, 
"yeah, just got the wind knocked out of 
me." 

Whyte asked anxiously, "are you okay to do 
this?" 

Mulder nodded and moved to take a seat in 
the front of the room. He acknowledged 
Jackson with a tight smile and began to 
mentally count the minutes. He could not 
wait to get out of here. 

...."without further ado, let me introduce 
to you all, Agent Fox Mulder of the 
Federal Bureau of Investigations.... 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

8:55PM 

Mulder pulled out his handkerchief and 
again wiped the perspiration from his 
neck. "Looks like we're down to the last 
five minutes, folks," Mulder announced, 
"any other
questions?" 

Several hands were raised and Mulder 
carefully noted each. He was not one to 
leave open questions, but tonight with his 
head pounding as it was, he would have to 
make an exception. He pointed to an older 
man in the back. "Have you ever had a 
personal experience with using a psychic 
to solve a crime?" 

A picture of Clyde Bruckman flashed though 
his head causing him to shiver slightly. 
Between the man's bedtime stories and his 
prediction of Mulder's own death, he'd 
been the real thing. Nodding, he answered, 
"yes, one man in particular had a talent 
for seeing how others would die." As an 
afterthought, he added, "he sold life 
insurance." 

Laughter filled the room and Mulder looked 
up puzzled, "no," he repeated, "I'm 
serious, he sold life insurance. He was 
very good." 

They laughed again and he shrugged, 
wincing as he did so. On top of everything 
else, he was feeling slightly feverish. He 
needed to lay down - - soon. 

The football player in the front row 
stated loudly, "surely you didn't believe 
this man. It's not possible to predict 
such things!" 

Mulder smiled, seeing his cue, "proving 
the impossible, possible is what I do - - 
who I am. I believe in finding the truth 
regardless of how unbelievable it can 
sometimes turn out to be. Ladies and 
gentlemen, thank you for your time and 
your very intelligent questions this 
evening. It has been my pleasure." With 
that he moved to leave the stage, startled 
by the spontaneous applause. Blushing and 
slightly disoriented, he searched for the 
nearest exit. Jackson rushed up beside 
him, carefully clasped his left arm and 
pulled him out the closest door. The 
younger man pushed him outside and stood 
patiently as Mulder stopped to catch his 
breath. The cool night air felt good on 
his overheated skin. 

"You were great, Mulder! You had them 
eating out of your hand," Jackson laughed 
clearly excited. 

Mulder rubbed the back of his hand over 
his throbbing forehead, if he didn't sit 
down soon, he was going to be sick. Still, 
he didn't want to ruin Jackson's evening, 
"guess you're going to ace that class 
after all, huh?" 

Jackson nodded, "yeah, thanks to you. 
Where'd you park your car anyway?" 

"Few blocks down," Mulder mumbled, "by the 
library." 

Jackson, aware that Mulder was no where 
near as excited as he was over his 
appearance, allowed his eyes to wander 
over the older man cataloging every 
infraction with the efficiency of a 
natural observer. Flushed skin and glazed 
eyes indicated fever. Slow pace, holding 
right arm stiffly, some type of shoulder 
injury, maybe gunshot, considering his 
profession. Dark shadows and stifled yawns 
throughout the evening indicated lack of 
sleep. Hand rubbing forehead - headache, 
and a whopper of one based on the way he 
held his head. "You're sick, Mulder," 
Jackson stated simply. 

Mulder grinned tiredly and nodded, "yeah, 
but nothing a good night's sleep won't 
take care of." He reached in his pockets 
for his keys, "you need a lift back?" 

Jackson shook his head, "no, I'm meeting a 
few friends at a nearby diner. Are you 
sure you're going to be all right?" 

"I'm sure." Mulder eased himself into the 
car, "I'll call you tomorrow," he promised 
before starting the car and heading back 
to the motel. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BATSON MOTEL
11:17PM 

He searched the seemingly endless hallways 
looking for signs of the small boy. His 
chest tightened and he was finding it hard 
to catch his breath, sure signs of a panic 
attack. Where was he? Was he playing a 
game? Was he hurt? Finding doors where 
before they had not existed, he began to 
open them one at a time. Inside the first 
was a gray-haired woman, her back to him. 
He stepped in and conducted a quick search 
of the room, including the dark closet. 
"Excuse me," he called out anxiously, 
"have you seen a child?" 

The woman did not acknowledge his words, 
did not seem to hear. He tried again, 
"please I need to find him, can you help 
me find him?" He could hear the panic in 
his own voice, but much as he tried, she 
would not turn. Frustrated, he left the 
room and moved to the next. 

A sense of calm engulfed him when he saw 
her. Long dark braids and laughing eyes, 
she smiled when he entered, "did you come 
to play, Fox?" 

"Samantha," he whispered, his tone 
reverent. 

"We used to have such fun, Fox. Do you 
remember how we used to play for hours?" 

He nodded, words too hard. 

She stepped forward and took his hand, 
"you're a man now, Fox." Then, releasing 
her hold on him, she ordered softly, "go 
now, he needs you more than I." She turned 
and disappeared into a light mist. 

Her words reminded him of the boy and as 
much as he would have liked to stay, he 
could not. Leaving the room, he tried the 
fourth and final door. The room appeared 
empty yet Mulder could hear the sound of 
small quick breaths. He bent by the side 
of the bed and peered under. Intense green 
eyes met his own. 

Suddenly Mulder felt himself being pulled 
to his feet by large strong hands from 
behind. "Where is he? Where is the boy?" 
his father sneered angrily. 

Mulder pulled away from his grip shielding 
the boy's hiding place with his own body. 
"He's just a child. What has he done to 
make you so angry?" Mulder demanded. 

Eyes narrowed, face flushed with rage, his 
father spit his reply, "what does it 
matter to you?" 

Mulder was confused, what did it matter to 
him? "He's just a baby," he explained. "I 
won't let you hurt him anymore." 

Uncontrollable fury rushed through him at 
the thought of this man hurting the child 
- - he attacked. They fell to the floor 
both intent on winning this battle. Early 
on Mulder felt himself tiring, his father 
so much stronger, blows never weakening. A 
fist connected with his jaw causing his 
head to snap back against the hard floor. 
His father, believing him unconscious, 
reached under the bed and pulled the child 
out. Mulder could hear the boy's cries as 
the sound of a strap fell over and over 
again, but he was helpless to stop it. 
Tears rolled down his face feeling every 
blow the boy suffered as though it were 
his own. Mumbling, he cried, "he's just a 
baby. He didn't do anything. D-don't hurt 
the b-baby..." 

The phone rattled noisily on the beside 
table. Its annoying blare pulling Mulder 
out of his dreams and into the cool 
darkness of his motel room. The dream 
still fresh, he reached to touch his face, 
not surprised to find tears. So vivid -- 
so real. He sighed heavily and rubbed his 
eyes. The phone continued to ring and when 
it became obvious the caller would not 
give up, he picked up the phone. 

Sniffling loudly, he answered, "Mulder." 

"Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry, did I wake you 
up?" a surprised voice asked. 

Disoriented, he mumbled, "what time is 
it?" 

"It's almost 11:30 in Evansville. You're 
usually not sleeping this early, how are 
you feeling?" 

His thoughts were still with the little 
boy. "Why was he hurting him?" Mulder 
whispered, confused. 

"Has someone been hurt?" Scully asked, 
equally confused. 

He felt his eyes grow heavy, strong arms 
pulling him back to the house, to the 
child. "Little boy - - I n-need to h-help 
him..." He drifted off into sleep. 

Scully's tone gentled, sensing he was not 
fully aware. "Mulder, come on, partner, 
wake up." 

He did not respond. 

She raised her voice, "Mulder, wake up, 
Mulder. I need to talk to you." 

No words, just the sound of a grown man 
whimpering in his sleep, "n-no, the strap, 
it h-hurts." Sobbing followed and she knew 
he was lost in a place she could not 
reach. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

SCULLY'S APARTMENT
12:45am 

Scully dialed Skinner's cell phone. After 
several rings, he answered, "Skinner." 

"Sorry to bother you so late, sir. I need 
Jackson's number, do you have it?" she 
asked, her tone slightly defensive. By 
rights she shouldn't have called Mulder, 
she promised herself she would not. Still, 
he had suffered a bad burn and Mulder 
being Mulder, she worried he might not be 
taking care of himself. After this last 
call, she was sure of it. 

"Is anything wrong, Scully?" Skinner 
asked, concerned. 

"I just called him," she admitted, "he 
doesn't sound well." 

"Was he kind of out of it? Talking about a 
house?" 

"No, sir, not a house. Something about a 
boy. A boy being beaten." She took a deep 
breath before continuing, gathering 
strength, "I don't like it, sir. I'm 
worried he might be having flashbacks." 

"Oh, God," responded Skinner, slightly 
stunned. He should not be shocked. When 
they had last gone to find Mulder, the 
younger agent had admitted to being abused 
as a child. Even though he admitted to 
being abused, he had not shared any real 
detail with Skinner. He was of course 
aware of Mulder's extensive medical 
history. Had even taken the time to sit 
down and read the file in great detail. 
The task was similar to his first reading 
of Moby Dick. The list of accidental 
childhood injuries seemingly endless. 

Scully would not allow herself the luxury 
of shock, she again asked, "Jackson's 
number, sir, do you have it?" 

Skinner pulled himself from this dark 
thoughts, "773-555-1212. He shares the 
phone with a roommate." Before she could 
hang up, he asked, "Scully, are you going 
to Evansville?" 

She hesitated, then answered, "if he needs 
me." 

"Scully, there's something you need to 
know. Jackson took him to some old 
cemetery, a place called Bachelor's Grove. 
He seemed quite taken with the place. I 
located some information on line and it 
looks like the place was tailor made for 
him," Skinner joked lamely. 

"I'm confused, sir. What does this place 
have to do with Mulder being, well," she 
paused, "out of it?" 

"I don't know, Scully. I just think it 
connects," Skinner insisted. 

Scully no longer knew what to believe, 
"I'll call you back when I know more, 
sir." That said, she hung up and dialed 
Jackson's room. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

SANDOVER DORMITORY
12:57am 

Jackson was just letting himself into his 
room when the phone rang. He rushed to 
answer it, "hello." 

A sharp-toned woman requested, "is this 
Jackson Vasquez?" 

He considered lying and just hanging up. 
The woman sounded like one of those long 
distance companies trying to get him to 
switch. Knowing they would just call 
again, he answered, "yes, ma'am." 

Her tone gentled, "Jackson, this is 
Special Agent Dana Scully, Mulder's 
partner. Have you seen him this evening?" 

Ah, now he remembered, the petite, red 
head who interrupted their class so long 
ago. Still, he knew Mulder trusted her. 
"Well, yes. He gave a lecture tonight at 
the school." 

"Was he okay?" she asked, obviously 
worried. 

"Well, now that you mention it, he looked 
a little sick. What happened to his 
shoulder anyway?" 

She countered, "what makes you think 
something is wrong with his shoulder?" 

"Oh, c'mon, he's been holding his arm 
against his chest since yesterday. When 
that guy bumped into him tonight, I 
thought he was going to pass out. Must 
have done something bad to it, huh?" 

"When did you last see him?" 

Jackson checked the time, "around 9:15. He 
was going to drive back to the motel and 
get some sleep. At least that's what he 
said." 

"Well, thanks, Jackson, you've been very 
helpful." 

Worried, he offered, "Agent Scully, if you 
want, I can get a ride over to the motel 
and check on him." 

Her heard her smile, "it's okay, Jackson. 
Hey," she asked wanting to put the boy at 
ease, "I heard you took Mulder 
ghostbusting." 

Jackson shivered, then answered weakly, 
"oh man, don't talk about that place. I 
totally freaked!" Laughing, he added, "not 
Mulder though, kept mumbling something 
about a woman." 

Her interest piqued, she repeated, "a 
woman?" 

"There was no woman," Jackson insisted, 
"just some crazy lights." He paused, 
breathing hard, "no way I'm going back 
there. Absolutely no way!" 

Worried now, she asked, "Jackson, do you 
think he'll try to go back there?" 

He considered it, "well," he stalled. 

"Jackson," her tone was all the warning he 
needed. 

"Well sure, I mean he really liked it 
there. He looked a little like a kid in 
one of those big toy stores, you know?" 

She could not help but smile at his 
description of Mulder in a haunted 
cemetery. Yes, that sounded like her 
partner. "Thanks for your help, Jackson." 

"You're coming out here, aren't you?" 

"Yes, I think I am." 

"Does he do this a lot?" 

"Yes, Jackson, he does this a lot." 

With that she disconnected the line. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BATSON MOTEL
1:07am 

He twisted and turned in the sheets, sweat 
rolling off him. Frantically, he called 
out into the night, lost in a place of 
endless hallways and confusing emotions. A 
loud pounding finally pulled him out of 
the dark maze of his subconscious. Through 
the wall he heard someone shout, "jeez, 
give it a rest, buddy. Some of us are 
trying to sleep!" Embarrassed, he sat up 
in bed, feeling every muscle pull as he 
did so. Rubbing the heels of his hands 
over his eyes, he tried to erase the 
horror of his dreams. He could not 
remember them being this bad. If he had 
been thinking logically, he might have 
tried to analyze them, but logic was the 
furthest thing from his mind at this 
moment. Standing, he stumbled to the 
window and opened it wide. He allowed 
himself to breath deeply of the cool night 
air. A vain attempt to chase away the 
horror of his nightmares. The motel room 
was like an oven and he began to feel 
claustrophobic. His eyes wandered 
searching the parking lot outside. Wide 
awake, he knew there would be no more 
sleep tonight. The night sky tempted him 
to come out and play and he was finding it 
difficult to resist. 

Suddenly, off to the left, he caught a 
glimpse of white. He moved immediately to 
the door and outside. The woman stood just 
beyond the parking lot and, without 
thought, he took several steps forward. 
She turned and waved to him just as she 
had done at the cemetery. Beckoning him to 
return before fading away into 
nothingness. His mind made up, he went 
back into the room and pulled together 
what he would need. Flashlight,
heavy sweater, jacket, car keys and gun. 
Within a few minutes, he was driving 
towards Bachelor's Grove, a feeling of 
great anticipation rushing over him. He 
ignored the stiffness of his arm and the 
excessive warmth that seemed to radiate 
from him as he excitedly reviewed all he 
had read. So many possibilities tonight 
and no one to hold him back from his 
explorations. No one but himself to say 
when. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BACHELOR'S GROVE CEMETERY 

Mulder climbed through the fence, easily 
bypassing the lock just as they had done 
the night before. He stood at the cemetery 
entrance and simply observed. Throughout 
the years this sacred area containing the 
bones of the dead had been desecrated. 
Garbage was everywhere, beer cans and 
snack bags the most prevalent. 

Tentatively, he stepped forward, careful 
of the grave sites. Somehow this place 
felt alive and, ridiculous as it seemed, 
he was strangely hesitant to wake anyone. 

For the next several hours, he quietly 
roamed the grounds, stopping with interest 
by each marker to read the dates and 
inscriptions. Many were worn smooth, the 
outdoor elements forever hiding the 
identity of the tenant below. Here and 
there, he bent to pick up the trash, 
piling it near the fence. It was odd, 
though he could clearly hear the traffic 
sounds from the nearby highway, he felt as 
though he were in another world - - a lost 
place of magic and wonder. 

The sound of a woman crying pulled him 
from his thoughts. Turning, he found her, 
several feet away, sitting atop a nearby 
rock. Her face in her hands, she was 
weeping. He stared at her for a moment, 
understanding immediately that she was not 
real, not alive. She was dressed all in 
white with hair that fell in soft waves 
over her shoulder and he found himself 
drawn to her side. The Lady in White? A 
ghost reputed to be forever searching for 
her infant child. Several feet away from 
her, he cleared his throat and politely 
offered his handkerchief. Sensing his 
presence, she looked up at her early 
morning visitor and could not help but 
smile sadly at his offer of cloth. She 
sniffled and refused with a shake of her 
head. 

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket 
and asked, "are you all right?" 

So calm, she thought, no visible trace of 
fear. At least not of her. Surrounding 
this woeful being was shadowy aura 
indicating great sorrow and stress. This 
man, this live man carried a great 
responsibility on his shoulders. She 
continued her examination, traveling the 
plains of his stubbled jaw line and too 
large nose. Individually, imperfect 
features, but combined with his lovely 
mouth, the overall impression was great 
beauty. She reached her hand towards him 
and brushed his cheek with her fingertips. 
"You are very much like my husband," she 
stated simply. 

Her touch was like a puff of air on his 
cheek. Sadly, he asked, "why aren't you 
with your husband? He must miss you." 

She cocked her head, puzzled by his 
statement. "I must find the baby before I 
can go to him." 

He nodded and wearily moved to sit beside 
her on the rock. She noticed the stiffness 
with which he held himself and his color 
was such that she had observed on more 
than one neighbor who went to an early 
grave. "Do you know where the child is?" 
he queried, his tone expressing a 
willingness to help. 

"No," she whispered, her eyes filling with 
tears, "I've been looking forever and I 
cannot find her." 

Struck by the similarity between himself 
and this woman, he felt a wave of sadness 
roll over him. Was he condemned to the 
same fate? "It's hard looking for so long 
and not finding what you seek," he 
pondered morosely. 

Her tone, angry, demanded, "what would you 
know of it, I've been searching for over 
150 years." 

He stared at her in horror and repeated, 
"150 years! I've tried to find my sister 
for what I thought was a very long time. 
Now," he paused, empathizing with her 
plight, "I realize my search was nothing 
compared to your own." He looked around 
the stones, "do you need to find out where 
she's buried? Maybe I can help you," he 
offered kindly. 

She smiled softly, quite taken with this 
gentle-faced stranger. None before had 
offered to help, instead they had entered 
this blessed ground and desecrated the 
gravesites. Some, surrounded by evil, 
came here to practice dark rituals. 
Often she would appear in the image of 
her great grandmother, a particularly 
frightening looking woman and scare them
away. This man beside her was different 
from the others. That was obvious by the 
pain in his eyes. He knew what it was like 
to lose someone. She shook her head, "my 
daughter was never buried, at least not 
alone. She died when I did." The 
transparent woman patted her stomach 
lightly, no more than five months 
pregnant. 

Mulder was confused, "if that's the case, 
you've already found her. She's been with 
you all the time." 

The woman became agitated, "no, that 
cannot be." 

Mulder stood and began to move away from 
the sad young woman. He turned and 
suggested, "find your husband - - rest." 

She stared after him for several minutes, 
again wondering at this odd creature who 
wandered into her domain. He reminded her 
of the wood nymphs who played and blended 
in with surrounding nature. This man moved 
among the graves as though born to them. 
Her hand rubbed her stomach gently and, 
for the first time in many years, she 
allowed herself to think of someone 
besides her child and herself. Her 
husband, a good man. She wondered if he 
still waited for them. 

He wandered towards the pond's edge 
wondering what the surface might reveal. 
The rumbling of hooves pulled him from his 
musings. Sounds of a horse, accompanied by 
the scraping of a heavy object on the 
ground and the snapping of a whip echoed 
from behind. Thrown back to Tunguska, he 
frantically searched the area. The image 
coming towards him was enough to turn his 
blood cold and he dove to avoid the 
collision. A horse, dragging a farmer and 
plow, raced towards him. It's not real, 
his rational mind argued. Still, the sound 
of it approaching and the dust left in its 
wake were too real to deny. The animal was 
rushing towards the water and the farmer 
was shouting ineffectively at it to cease 
and desist immediately. Mulder felt the 
brush of the plow as it rushed by him. He 
was thrown a good ten feet, landing 
heavily on the wet groundcover. 

The dawn light allowed him to see the 
outcome of the accident clearly. This was 
not real. He knew of this legend, knew he 
had just witnessed a ghostly scene. If it 
was not real, why then did his back ache 
from the fall? In the water, trapped 
beneath the heavy tool, the farmer lay 
dying. Only his hand and a small portion 
of his face were able to be seen above 
water. Mulder, unable to simply watch such 
an event, real or not, trudged into the 
chilled, stagnant water and to the man's 
side. He grabbed his hand with his own 
and, submerging himself to his shoulders, 
pushed his chest up against the man's back 
in an attempt to support his head above 
the water. 

"Hang on," Mulder soothed, "I'll get you 
out of here." 

Sad, puzzled eyes met his own. Quite 
obviously Mulder had interrupted a scene 
the farmer had lived thousands of times. 
The laborer was clearly confused by the 
green-eyed man's presence. Who was this 
stranger who insisted on changing history? 
Why did he not fear his ghostly form as 
the others before him? 

Mulder released the man's hand and 
attempted to dislodge the heavy farm 
equipment. The farmer struggled to breath 
as his head began to sink below the 
stained water. Seeing the man's efforts, 
Mulder ceased his attempts to free him and 
put all his labor into keeping the old 
man's face clear. The farmer spoke 
quietly, voice earnest, "why do you not 
let me go?" 

Shivering in the cold water, Mulder's eyes 
gestured for the man to look upwards, 
towards the glorious sunrise. "You can't 
give up, I'll find a way to free you," he 
promised. 

The farmer used the last of his strength 
to grip Mulder's hand tightly with his 
own. As his grasp tightened on the hand of 
Bachelor's Grove strange visitor, the 
farmer closed his eyes for the final time. 
Mulder, feeling the body against his own 
weaken, held him more tightly -- determined 
not to let go. 

Huddled in the middle of a pond of water 
that once housed the bodies of gangland 
slayings, he felt the body dissolve in his 
arms, leaving him cold, lost and alone 
watching the sunrise above the trees. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

O'HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
6:53AM 

Scully stepped into the terminal, located 
the Ground Transport signs and walked 
quickly in their direction. A small 
overnight bag over her shoulder, she had 
no need to wait for luggage. The rental 
car counter was her first destination to 
be followed by a drive to Mulder's motel. 
Her previous anger would be put on hold 
until she was sure he was all right. 
Pushing her way to the rental counter, 
eyes flashing, she demanded immediate 
service. The man behind the counter worked 
quickly to get this woman cared for and 
away from his desk. "Ms. Scully, exit the 
doors to your right and board the Avis 
bus. It will take you directly to your 
car," he informed, his tone professional. 

She nodded and headed out the door. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BATSON MOTEL 

Jackson jumped out of the borrowed car and 
raced to Mulder's motel room. Without 
thought, he raised his fist and began 
knocking loudly. He was shocked when the 
door opened under his abuse and allowed 
him access. Stepping in slowly, he called, 
"Mr. Wa-- , Mulder, are you here?" 

His eyes covered the room in one long 
sweep, searching for clues. The bed was a 
mess. Sheets twisted, blanket on the 
floor, nightmare, sex or involuntary 
abduction? His bag was half open, some 
items having been removed, but which, 
Jackson did not know. He moved to the 
bedside phone and dialed the back up 
number Mulder had provided long before his 
visit. Mulder told him to use this number 
if he needed anything and was unable to 
reach him. He could hear the phone begin 
to ring. 

"Skinner," a deep voice answered. 

"Uh, yeah, my name is Jackson and I need 
to talk to an Agent Scully," he requested 
haltingly. 

The man's tone lightened considerably, 
"Jackson the writer?" he asked. 

Jackson actually blushed, "well, not yet. 
Do you know how I can reach Agent Scully, 
sir? I know she was worried about him so I 
went to his motel room..." 

Skinner interrupted, "is he all right?" 

"He's not here." Jackson again scanned the 
room, then continued, "if he didn't look 
so beat when I left him last night I'd 
say, based on the state of his bed sheets, 
he got lucky." 

"Jackson, hold on, I'm going to get Scully 
on the line." 

It was only now that Jackson spotted the 
laptop sticking out of Mulder's overnight 
bag. Somewhat guiltily, he reached for it. 
As luck would have it, Mulder had never 
shut it down properly. One by one, Jackson 
began to open programs and look for any 
clue as to his whereabouts. His misdeed 
was interrupted a minute later by the 
sound of Skinner's voice, "Jackson, I've 
got Scully on the line. She's on her way 
to the motel right now." 

Jackson opened the word processing program 
and accessed the file last opened. "Agent 
Scully, he's not here although," his 
fingers moved him to the end of the 
document, "I think I know where he is." 

Scully and Skinner answered in unison, 
"Bachelor's Grove." 

Jackson chuckled, then confirmed, "I'm 
reading his last file and he was more than 
a little interested in this place. Jeez 
you guys, I never would have taken him 
there if I'd known he would get this 
involved." 

Scully could hear the guilt in the boy's 
voice, "Jackson, you would have never been 
able to keep him away. This is just 
Mulder." Then to Skinner, "sir, I think it 
would be best if I drove out to the 
cemetery and looked around, do you agree?" 

"Absolutely, Scully, but I don't like the 
idea of you out there alone, with no back 
up. How about if I contact local law 
enforcement and have them meet you there?" 

"Sir, it's broad daylight and these woods 
are right off the highway, accessible to 
all. I really don't think that's 
necessary." Thinking of Mulder, she added 
wryly, "I'm probably going to find him 
napping against a headstone." 

Nervously, Jackson offered, "I can show 
you where it is if you like." 

"That would be a big help, Jackson," 
Scully agreed completely missing the boy's 
discomfort. 

"Oh, okay then," Jackson said quietly, 
"I'll wait out in front of the motel for 
you to get here." 

With that Scully and Skinner hung up. No 
how's the weather, no good-byes. These FBI 
folks were a bit abrupt, thought Jackson. 
Taking a deep breath, he turned the laptop 
off and packed it neatly into Mulder's 
bag. Wandering outside, he waited for his 
ride. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BACHELOR'S GROVE CEMETERY 

He turned and examined the pond again, 
desperately looking for evidence of his 
experience. Shivering, he looked down at 
his wet clothes and realized they only 
proved he was foolish enough to go running 
into a foul-smelling pond in order to 
rescue a ghost who didn't understand the 
gesture. The cold wind cut through the 
trees and he began to tremble violently 
from the combination of wind and wet. He 
should head back to his car and go back to 
the motel. After all, it was morning, sunlight 
painting the place benign. Why then did he 
still feel such a pull as though there was 
something he had yet to finish? Sounds of 
traffic from the road above became more 
obvious. Their constant hum a perfect 
partner to the headache that had begun not 
long ago. His back ached from its quarrel 
with the plow and, from years of 
experience, he was quite sure he was 
running a low grade fever. The side of his 
mouth quirked upwards, Scully would have 
his head for spending the night in this 
place. Yes, he knew better, knew he was 
supposed to be resting. He was a man with 
responsibilities now, shouldn't be running 
off on these juvenile adventures. 

When he had first left the X-Files, it had 
felt like this. Cold and uncomfortable, 
yes, but so free. He had been able to 
wander here or there. If something caught 
his interest, he would stop and play for a 
while. He wondered what it would be like 
to have a normal life. A life where people 
did not hunt you down if you decided to 
leave. One where you were free to 
investigate and learn about anything that 
captured your interest. Where a person was 
free to carry a gun that they didn't drop. 
A life that allowed him to go home when he 
needed to be with friends. A life with no 
Alex Krycek kicking his ass one minute and 
kissing him on the cheek the next. One 
that allowed him to come and go without 
someone questioning his destination or 
sanity. Reconsidering his deep thoughts, 
he laughed aloud, "that, Mulder, is NOT a 
normal life to anyone but you!" 

Again he shivered and realized he had 
little choice but to go back to the motel 
and change. He could return again tonight. 
Decision made, he turned to leave. A 
glimpse of white caught the corner of his 
eye, demanding his attention. Turning back 
towards the pond, he was shocked and 
delighted to be allowed a view of the 
infamous Victorian farmhouse. Oddly enough 
the house was the exact duplicate of the 
one in his dream and he could not stop 
himself from taking a step towards it. 
"Take it slow, Mulder," he mumbled, "don't 
want it to disappear too soon on you." The 
house, whenever approached would always 
disappear per his Internet investigations. 
No one had ever been allowed close. A 
local legend warned that anyone who did 
manage to enter the home would never 
return. Such stories only made the place 
more fascinating to Mulder, who wondered 
what he would find inside. 

He took several more steps, weaving his 
way around the edge of the pond until he 
reached the other side. The wind picked up 
and the sound of whispering voices 
surrounded him gently. The voices were not 
malevolent. Instead, the non-words were 
somehow soothing, drawing him up the steps 
and onto the porch before he realized what 
had happened. It felt as though he were 
entering a home full of beloved relatives, 
who anxiously awaited his arrival. On one 
hand terrifying, on the other, so very 
comforting.

Suddenly very tired, Mulder moved stiffly 
to the white swing on the porch. Slowly, 
he eased his long frame down and then, 
once confirming it would not disappear 
beneath him, he moved to lay down. The 
swing rocked him gently and from his place 
on the porch, he had a complete view of 
the grove. The night had been a long one 
and he needed to rest. Ignoring the chill, 
he closed his eyes and drifted away. 

He awoke to a feeling of being watched and 
wondered if when he opened his eyes Aunt 
Bea and the Sheriff wouldn't be standing 
over him. Cautiously, he opened his eyes 
and found himself looking directly into 
the large hazel eyes of a small boy. The 
sweet, round-faced child studied him 
seriously, his thumb stuck firmly in his 
mouth. Mulder smiled gently, "hey, little 
one, did I steal your seat?" 

The child's eyes widened at the sound of 
his voice. The thumb popped out of his 
mouth and was offered to Mulder in a 
gesture of true friendship. Mulder bit 
back the grin that threatened, delighted 
with the child's innocence. Carefully 
taking the toddler's hand, he leaned 
forward and kissed the tip of his thumb. 
Then, he allowed himself a smile and 
graciously thanked him, "that was 
delicious, thank you for sharing." 

The boy looked at his own thumb 
suspiciously then back at Mulder. A moment 
later, decision made, the thumb popped 
back into his mouth. Mulder moved into a 
sitting position and patted the swing 
beside him. The child joined him without 
hesitation. Instead of sitting beside him, 
the boy continued his crawl until he was 
comfortably settled into his still damp 
lap. Mulder entire face softened, the last 
time he held a child was in Maywood. 
Little Michael had loved to bounce on his 
knee and it had always given Mulder 
special pleasure when the child trusted 
him enough to doze in his arms. His eyes 
filled with tears as he remembered the 
fate of Michael and his mother. Gently, 
understanding the precious gift he was 
being offered, he allowed the boy to 
burrow his soft cheek against his chest. 
Mulder's arms instinctively surrounded 
him, breathing deeply of the soft scent of 
baby soap. His feet rested lightly on the 
porch and he pushed with his heels, 
providing them both with the comforting 
squeak and motion of the aging swing. For 
a while he simply allowed himself to feel 
this way. So safe and secure and, oddly 
enough, so full of love for this small 
creature whom he'd only just met. There 
was something about the child's face he 
recognized. Something in those serious 
eyes that asked for protection, for love. 
He allowed his thumb to travel the smooth 
curves of the boy's cheeks. How could a 
person not love such a face? 

The child dozed and Mulder decided to move 
him inside. The morning sunshine was doing 
little to cut the cold and he was still 
all too aware of his own appearance. His 
clothes had begun to dry, but they now 
hung stiffly, the filth of the nearby pond 
solidifying and marking him with a rather 
unpleasant odor. Standing, he carefully 
repositioned the child in his arms, moved 
towards the door and entered. 

Inside the house he was struck with the 
immediate warmth of the home. He could 
just make out a large fire flickering in 
the room to his left. The voices were back 
-- soft, sweet sounds that brushed against 
his cheeks and ears surrounding him in 
warmth. Unable to resist, he moved towards 
the steps and began his climb. His feet, 
if not his brain, seemed to know where 
they needed to go. Deep inside his head, 
Mulder knew this was not right, knew that 
he had entered a house where none before 
had ever been allowed exit. Yet, he could 
not resist the journey. 

Still, Mulder was not so far gone that he 
did not remember this house from his 
dreams and the man who would hurt the 
child. He was extra cautious as he walked, 
prepared to protect this boy at all costs. 
Similar to his dream, the little one 
moaned and gripped him tightly, unwilling 
to release his defender. Mulder slipped 
off his jacket, sweater and shoes and 
placed them neatly on a nearby chair. The 
whole time he crooned nonsensical words to 
the restless boy. Within minutes, they 
were both floating on a cloud of feathers. 
The child crawled into his arms and firmly 
attached himself to Mulder's chest. Mulder 
wrapped his long arms around the boy and 
struggled to stay awake, unwilling to 
leave him unguarded. 

He was so tired. Mulder could not remember 
feeling so exhausted in a long time. The 
burning of his arm must have affected him 
more than he realized. In front of Scully 
and Skinner he pretended it was nothing, 
just another injury. In truth the fire 
dancing over his skin had been horrifying. 
His fear of fire was something he had 
tried unsuccessfully to overcome throughout 
his life. The inability of man to control 
this force of nature terrified him. Within 
seconds, it could disable then destroy 
everything you held dear. His mind wandered 
to his childhood remembering vividly the night 
his friend's home burned to the ground. 
Everyone said they were lucky to survive -
- and they were. 

After the fire came the realization that 
if it had wanted to, the fire could have 
taken their lives. Instead it chose to 
turn to ashes all the material things they 
held dear - - baby pictures, children's 
artwork, the diaries kept since childhood, 
a favorite sweater, the one you wore when 
you needed extra comfort. Yes, they had 
survived with their lives, but the fear 
and the sense of loss fire leaves behind 
is something one cannot always recover 
from. And perhaps that's why he feared it 
so much. Rather than survive such an 
event, perhaps it would have been better 
to simply breath the smoke fumes in deeply 
and close his eyes - - so God damned 
tempting. Mulder gripped the child in his 
arms more tightly ensuring he was still 
protected. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

Scully slid easily through the opening in 
the gate, Jackson several steps behind 
her. His nervousness could not be hidden 
and Scully turned and suggested, "Jackson, 
why don't you wait here. If I need help, 
you'll be closer to the car." 

It was a lame excuse, but Jackson grabbed 
for it anyway. Nodding his head while 
scanning the area, he agreed, "sure, 
whatever. That works for me." 

Scully smiled at the young man's relief 
and began her search of Bachelor's Grove. 
Her nose crinkled in disgust, stones 
overturned, garbage everywhere and signs 
of late night beer parties had completely 
devastated this place. What had Mulder 
seen here that so fascinated him? It was a 
dump! Daylight illuminated all the grove's 
flaws. Sighing, she straightened her 
shoulders and began to search the grounds 
inch by inch leaving no headstone 
unturned. 

An hour later, having found nothing, she 
continued her walk around the rancid pond. 
The water stank and only the thought that 
Mulder could possibly be deep within its 
depths kept her by its side. Was it 
possible he met with some trouble and had 
been hurt? If so, would they have disposed 
of his body in the water? Should she 
contact Skinner and arrange a sweep of the 
pond? Kicking the dirt in anger, she 
mumbled, "could you get anymore paranoid, 
Dana!" No, she refused to believe he was 
dead. If he was, she felt sure she'd know. 
Throughout their years working on the 
paranormal, she had scoffed at most of his 
theories. Still, she knew when the time 
came that the other would know. They were 
that connected and though she would never 
admit it to Mulder, she treasured their 
strong link above all else in her life. He 
always treated her as an equal, never 
expected less of her because she was a 
woman. That was why she'd been so angry 
with him. This was the first time he 
hadn't treated her as a full, capable team 
member and, add to that, his unusual 
anger. So she had played a little prank, 
what was the big deal? Searching the area 
one more time with her eyes, she reached 
for her phone and dialed Skinner's number. 

He answered on the first ring, "Skinner." 

"He's not here. The only sign of him is 
his car parked off the road," she informed 
tightly. 

"I think we need to call in some help, 
Scully. Maybe search the woods," his voice 
stayed steady, but she could hear his 
worry. 

She nodded, already feeling the tears 
building. Looking up, she was shocked to 
find herself just a few steps away from a 
house. A house that had not been there 
moments before. "What the -- ," her voice 
trailed off. 

"Scully, what is it?" Skinner demanded. 

She walked along the outskirts of the 
structure, "it's a house, sir." 

"A house, I don't remember seeing a house 
on any of the maps. Is anyone home, maybe 
they've seen him?" 

"Sir, I know this may sound odd, but this 
house was NOT here a minute ago. It, it 
just appeared!" She was stunned, never 
before having witnessed such an event. 

Skinner grabbed for the hard copies of his 
previous research on the cemetery. "Wait, 
Scully, I remember reading about a house." 
He shuffled through the papers until he 
found the reference. "It says here that a 
Victorian farmhouse has been known to 
appear just beyond the pond. If you 
approach it, it disappears." 

Scully took a step forward and put her 
foot on the bottom step of the porch. 
"Sir, my foot is on the porch and it 
hasn't disappeared. Perhaps it's just a 
trick of the light that makes others think 
it disappears," she suggested logically. 

"Hmmm," Skinner muttered, "no, no it says 
here that there has never been a house 
built on the property. It also says that 
anyone who enters will not be allowed to 
leave," he warned. 

"Sir, this is ridiculous, I'm just going 
to knock on the door and see if anyone has 
seen him," she snapped, disgusted with the 
thought of ghosts and goblins. Then, 
remembering all those Halloween movies, 
she unclipped her holster to ensure she 
had free access to her weapon. "Sir, I'm 
going in now." 

Skinner ordered, "no, Scully, no - - " The 
line went dead. 

"Sir, it's fine. I'm on the porch and - - 
" she stopped when she realized she was 
speaking to a dead line. Unwilling to 
admit that the cause was anything more 
than a dead battery, she flipped it closed 
and shoved it in her coat pocket. As she 
raised her hand to knock, the door opened, 
"well, that was predictable," she murmured 
sarcastically. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

Mulder felt a strong grip on his shoulder, 
the hand attempting to pull him from the 
bed. Turning, he found his father standing 
over him, face flushed with anger. 
Glancing back at the trembling child 
buried beneath the down comforter, he 
placed his finger to his lips and 
whispered, "shhhh." With his eyes, he 
gestured for the boy to hide beneath the 
bed. Mulder turned back to his father and 
climbed out of the overstuffed feather 
bed. Standing in front of the man, he 
blocked his view as the child slipped off 
the bed and under it. Seeing the figure 
disappear, his shoulders sagged with 
relief as he turned to face this angry 
man. They stood face to face, the elder 
obviously enraged, the younger, calm and 
ready to do whatever was needed to stop 
him from getting to the child. 

His father sneered, "you can't hide him 
from me." 

Calmly, Mulder answered, "I won't let you 
hurt him anymore." 

Eyes narrowed, the older man stepped 
forward and gripped Mulder's injured 
shoulder. Mulder felt the strong fingers 
dig into his damaged flesh. Ignoring the 
pain, he grasped the offending hand and 
broke its hold. Stepping forward, he 
forced the older man to take a step back. 
With no explanation, his father turned to 
walk away. 

Mulder, believing the confrontation to be 
at an end, bent down on one knee to check 
on the child. The swishing sound of 
something heavy being swung through the 
air warned him, but not in time. As he 
glanced over his shoulder, the side of his 
head was caught by a glass object. Heavy, 
it shattered upon impact temporarily 
disabling him. Falling to the ground, he 
just barely managed to hang on to 
consciousness. Blood flowed freely from 
the impact and he wondered how it could be 
that these things could have such form. 
Ghosts were supposed to be transparent, 
this one seemed anything but. 

He struggled to his knees. Looking up at 
the man he had always believed to be his 
father, he again warned, "I won't let you 
hurt him anymore and," his eyes glowed 
with determination, "I won't let you hurt 
me anymore either." He stood then and 
again shoved the older man, forcing him 
through the door and out of the room. 

Samantha suddenly appeared next to Mulder. 
"Fox, what are you doing?" 

His father looked from daughter to son, 
"yes, Fox, what are you doing? Perhaps if 
you had been this forceful when they took 
her," his eyes settled on Samantha, "she 
would still be with us." 

Mulder's hand settled gently on the top of 
Samantha's head, caressing her soft braids 
between his fingers. "You caused her to be 
taken, not me." 

His father challenged, "but you were there 
and you did nothing!" 

"I was twelve!" Mulder declared 
passionately. "I was a child myself and 
you left me there knowing they would come. 
Knowing others were being taken that night 
you went off and played God damned cards!" 
Mulder stepped forward as though to 
attack. His father stepped further into 
the hallway. "You never played fucking 
cards, but that night you thought nothing 
of it knowing that if they came, you 
wouldn't have to accept the blame. Accept 
the responsibility that your work had 
caused the death of your daughter and left 
your only son with so much fucking guilt 
he could barely function!" He was breathing
hard now, this all suddenly too hard. He 
feared that his temper would force him to 
do something against this man that would 
make him no better than him. The elder 
Mulder stood silent for a moment before 
smiling smugly and stating, "you are not 
my son. You are the son of a monster. A 
monster who was responsible for every evil 
thing that entered your mother's and my 
lives. Evil such as you," he accused. 

Mulder felt himself falling. His knees 
gave way and he slid down the hallway 
wall. The words, they were so foul, so 
malicious. The pain began in his stomach, 
spreading quickly to his chest, up into 
his throat until, no longer able to 
suppress it, he gasped as the sob 
physically forced its way from his body. 
Evil, is that what his father had thought 
of him? He had been only very young when 
it began. A slap across his cheek, a 
spanking with a strap instead of a hand 
and words, words were so much more painful 
than physical blows. By the time he was 
six, he understood the meaning behind the 
words, he was, after all, a bright child. 
He spent many nights with a flashlight, 
looking up his father's words in the 
dictionary, trying to understand what he 
had done wrong. 

A small hand caught a tear trailing down 
his face. Mulder looked up into his own 
four-year old eyes and saw no evil. He 
looked towards the man he had called 
father and saw only malice. No, the blame 
was not with him. He had done nothing to 
deserve such a fate. He reached for the 
child and pulled him against his chest. 
Looked towards Samantha, he stretched out 
a hand to her. She came to him immediately 
and snuggled herself into the crook of his 
arm. Smiling, she asked, "you okay, Fox?" 

"I'm okay, Samantha," he assured. "Are you 
okay?" He studied her little girl face, 
memorizing every nuance, every expression. 

"I miss you sometimes, Fox," her lower lip 
quivered slightly, "but when I do, I just 
think of the fun we used to have playing 
on the beach." She smiled, "do you 
remember?" 

He nodded, "I remember." Squeezing her a 
little tighter, he whispered, "I'm sorry, 
Sam. I wanted to stop them." 

A shadow fell over her eyes, "I was 
scared, but later whenever they hurt me, I 
thought of you. Then, I wasn't scared 
anymore," she confessed. 

He planted a kiss on her forehead, "that's 
funny because whenever I'm hurt or scared, 
I think of you too." 

She laughed and moved onto both knees. 
Leaning over the now sleeping boy, she 
brushed an unruly lock of hair off his 
forehead. "You see, Fox, we were always 
together, weren't we?" she said simply, 
her eyes still on the baby. 

His breath hitched as he pushed back the 
threatening tears, "yeah, I g-guess w-we 
were." 

Samantha looked around the empty hallway. 
"Fox, you have to go now." 

He shook his head and pouted, "no, I want 
to stay with you." 

She smiled, "you were always such a baby, 
Fox. Now you're a man and you have to go," 
she insisted. 

He defended, "I was not a baby, Samantha." 
He hugged the boy tighter causing him to 
whimper quietly in his sleep. 

Samantha scolded, "you can't hold on too 
tight or you'll hurt him." 

Their eyes met, when had she become the 
adult and he the child? 

She stood and held out her arms, "if you 
leave him with me, I promise to take care 
of him." 

He smiled and teased, "you promise to make 
sure he gets enough sleep and eats what he 
should?" 

She nodded and although her expression was 
solemn, her eyes twinkled, "and we'll 
play, Fox. Oh yes, we'll have such fun, I 
promise." 

He stood stiffly and looked into the 
little one's face one more time. 
Surprisingly, the boy's eyes were wide 
open with thumb securely fastened between 
full lips. Mulder leaned forward and 
kissed his forehead taking great pleasure 
in the tentative smile he received as his 
reward. Very carefully, he placed him in 
Samantha's arms. "Lots of fun, you 
promised," he reminded, voice shaking. 

Samantha leaned into his hug, "I promise, 
Fox. Now go, your friends are waiting for 
you." 

He nodded and began limping towards the 
stairs, tears flowing freely now. At the 
top of the steps, he looked down and saw 
her enter the front door. She was calling 
out his name. He turned back towards 
Samantha and the boy and found himself 
torn between these two worlds. Overcome by 
the emotion of the moment, he leaned his 
hand against the wall to steady himself, 
his eyes never leaving hers. Almost 
choking, he stuttered, "I l-l-ove you, 
Sam." 

She smiled sadly, "love you, big brother." 
She turned and began to walk away. The 
little boy gurgled his delight as she 
jostled him gently over her shoulder. 
"C'mon, Fox," she crooned in a sing song 
voice. Before his eyes, he watched them 
both fade away, only the echoes of their 
giggles left behind. 

"Mulder," Scully's voice called softly 
from the bottom of the stairs. He nodded, 
but did not speak. Slowly, he began his 
descent. She sensed his need to do so on 
his own and so simply watched and waited. 
He limped slowly, his movements stiff. 
The side of head was marred by dried blood 
and the glassy eyes and reddened face warned 
her of great emotional as well as physical 
pain. As he completed the final step, she 
wrapped her arms around his waist and 
helped him out of the house. He said 
nothing, completely silent. She allowed 
his silence wanting to do nothing more 
than get him out of this place. Out the 
door now, then onto the porch, down the 
steps, each forward movement placing more 
weight on Scully's small frame. She 
struggled to keep him standing and almost 
fell when less than twenty feet from the 
front of the house, he stopped and turned. 
His eyes searched the windows frantically 
and he stepped back towards it in search 
of something neither could see. She 
grabbed his arm and held firm, "no, 
Mulder. Let it go." 

He stood, swaying in the bright sunlight 
as the wind buffeted him. Eyes fixed on 
the old white house, they watched together 
as it appeared to waver, them fade, until 
finally, it was no more. Scully watched in 
disbelief as it vanished into nothingness. 
After it disappeared, she could not resist 
a step forward, needing to touch the 
ground upon which the house had stood. 

For Mulder, the disappearance of the house 
was the catalyst that unleashed 
everything. He fell limply to his knees, 
wrapped his arms around his stomach and 
wept silent, body slamming sobs. Wept for 
the sister whose life ended much too soon, 
wept for the father who saw him as nothing 
but an inconvenience. But, most of all, 
wept for the boy. An innocent child 
somehow caught up in a web of deceit, his 
only crime, being born. A child who 
believed them when they said it was his 
fault. A boy who, instead of the 
unconditional love all children deserve, 
had received harsh beatings and cruel, 
unforgiving words. A man who spent 
everyday trying to atone for a crime never 
committed. 

Scully, all else forgotten, bent next to 
him and wrapped herself around him. No 
words were needed here, no logic could 
explain it. She would be there when he 
needed her, she always was. Problems were 
not always solvable, but good friends are 
always there when it all becomes too much. 

She rocked him as she would her own child, 
humming off key under her breath. Seeing 
Jackson approach, she waved him back, 
knowing Mulder would not appreciate the 
boy seeing him this way. After a while, 
the crying stopped and not long after 
that, his breathing began to steady. 
Sniffling loudly, he cleared his throat, 
then looked up into her face. She smiled 
her acceptance. He raised an arm and 
rubbed it across his face. The shirt 
sleeve, filthy from the water, left a 
streak of dirt across his damp cheek. 
Without thought, she dug into her coat 
pocket and pulled out a clean tissue. 
Spitting on it, she began carefully 
washing the grime from his face. Eyes full 
of mirth, he smiled, delighted with this 
disgusting exercise. "Am I sick if you 
giving me a spit bath turns me on, 
Scully?" 

She rolled her eyes, refusing to give in 
to the chuckle that threatened. "Hate to 
say it, Mulder, but I think an emergency 
room is in order here." 

He stood unsteadily and shook his head, 
"no, Scully, I'm okay." His eyes scanned 
the now vacant land. Off in the distance, 
he could swear he saw a farmer plowing a 
field and he waved in spite of himself. 
Scully followed his eyes, unsure what he 
saw. 

Jackson moved to join them now, placing 
Mulder's arm over his shoulder, he 
commented "hey, Mulder, you look like shit 
and," he wrinkled his nose in distaste, 
"you smell like it too." 

Mulder looked down his nose at Jackson and 
teased, "oh sure, insult me now that you 
don't need me anymore." 

Jackson had the good grace to blush. "Was 
this an X-File, Mulder?" he asked, 
genuinely curious. 

Mulder removed himself from their grasps 
and bent low as he crawled through the 
fence. He turned to study the cemetery one 
last time while Scully and Jackson 
followed through the opening. His 
experience at Bachelor's Grove had been 
much more than a simple X-File and he 
hesitated to label it as such. This 
experience had been too personal. Slowly, 
he walked the path that led to the cars, 
"no, Jackson," he mumbled, "this was not 
an X-File." 

Scully's eyebrow arched in silent debate. 

He ignored it, "for this to be an X-File, 
I'd have had to been working. No," he 
paused and flashed them both a ingenuous 
grin, "this is my idea of a vacation." 

Scully laughed, "only you, Mulder, only 
you." 

Jackson agreed, but again seeing 
opportunity where others often did not, he 
added, "you know, if you were to do a 
lecture on this for Dr. Whyte, I bet - - " 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

BATSON MOTEL 

Scully stood by the side of the bed, phone 
in hand. "Yes, Sir, he's here." 

"How is he, Scully?" Skinner asked 
worriedly. 

"Exhausted, beat up, mild infection and a 
blow to the head," she tallied. 

A slight hesitation before Skinner 
answered, his amusement obvious, "but he's 
all right?" 

She shrugged, "for Mulder." Glancing 
towards the bathroom door, she could still 
hear the shower running, "besides, you 
know how difficult it is to get the man to 
an emergency room. Unless I'm willing to 
knock him out, my chances are slim to 
none." 

Skinner knew a lot more than Scully on the 
subject. Mulder had been in and out of 
emergency rooms his whole childhood. Small 
things, broken fingers, a fall from his 
bike. Still, in Skinner's opinion, far too 
many visits for a boy, even an accident 
prone one. Mulder's avoidance of hospitals 
was probably quite normal considering. He 
offered, "do you need help getting him 
back here? Should I fly down?" 

The shower stopped, "no, Sir, that won't 
be necessary. I'll call when I have our 
flight scheduled and we can meet once we 
get home." 

Mulder stepped into the room, sweatpants 
resting precariously on his hipbones 
giving any who cared to look a lovely view 
of his long lean body. As if they had a 
mind of their own, her eyes traveled the 
path from his chest, down the baby fine 
trail of hair to - - She pulled her eyes 
away from him guiltily and concentrated on 
the call. "Sir, he just walked in and I'd 
like to check him out," her eyes strayed 
to his incredibly large feet, "for 
injuries," she added hastily. 

"May I speak to him, Scully?" Skinner 
asked politely, amused by her obvious 
slip. 

She handed the phone to Mulder. "Yes, 
Sir," Mulder greeted politely, his voice 
slightly raspy. 

"You okay, Mulder?" 

Mulder rolled his shoulders tiredly, 
"yeah." 

"You want to talk about what happened out 
there? How you managed to walk out of a 
house that has a reputation for not 
allowing anyone out once they enter?" 
Skinner queried, quite serious. 

"My, my," Mulder taunted lightly, "someone 
has been on the Internet?" 

"What happened, Mulder?" refusing to allow 
a change of subject. 

Mulder's eyes dropped to his own feet and 
he flashed on Samantha and the boy walking 
away from him, "she wouldn't let me stay," 
he admitted quietly. 

Scully, half listening, now gave him her 
full attention. Mulder, feeling his energy 
wane, sat down on the edge of the bed 
Scully had so graciously prepared. 

Skinner's voice quieted, "who is she, 
Mulder?" 

Silence 

"Mulder," Skinner's voice whispered. 

After a full minute, Mulder murmured, 
"Sam." 

Skinner maintained his own silence for a 
moment before asking, "if you could have, 
would you have stayed?" 

Mulder stared at the phone as though 
Skinner had just spoken Russian. Would he 
have stayed with Sam? Would he have chosen 
a world of child's play over his current 
path? He reached over for a pillow and 
pulled it against his bare stomach, 
gripping it tightly. If choosing such a 
path would have saved Samantha, yes, he 
definitely would have stayed. Could he 
forever stay with her, lost in a place of 
giggles and hugs? A part of him 
immediately agreed. Yes, if she had let 
him, he would never have left. But in 
reality, it was his choice, not hers, to 
leave. Difficult as it was, he had walked 
away. Returned to his life here and the 
people who had become so very important to 
him. No, he would not choose to return to 
the past. Finally, he croaked his answer, 
"no." Closing his eyes, he blinked back 
the wetness. No more tears, he demanded 
silently. 

Skinner sighed his relief. 

Scully watched Mulder carefully throughout 
the conversation. Although she could not 
hear Skinner's words, she knew Mulder had 
just reached a decision. What type of 
decision she did not know. She only knew, 
as she watched the emotions play across 
his expressive face, that she would 
support him whether he let her be a part 
of his plans or not. Over the last few 
days, she'd considered walking away from 
this man, Skinner as well. Faced with that 
decision she realized she never could. He 
had helped her find her place in this 
world, her direction and for that she 
would always be grateful. Without him, she 
might have found a life that offered her 
contentment, but never one that allowed 
her and her abilities to be constantly 
challenged. Her friendship with Mulder 
forced her to reevaluate time and again 
her thoughts, her beliefs. He compelled 
her to be so much more than she would have 
ever been on her own. Too often people 
don't recognize those special individuals 
that push you beyond your comfort zone, 
that drive you to be so much more than you 
ever thought possible. She was not one of 
those people. She recognized his 
uniqueness and owed him more than he would 
ever allow her to give. 

Stepping to the side of the bed, she took 
the phone from his limp hand. He was 
staring off into space, lost again in a 
place only he was allowed to see. "Sir, he 
needs to sleep." 

Skinner cleared his throat, disturbed by 
Mulder's hesitation, "okay, Scully, but I 
want to know when you get back into town. 
I want to talk to him about this." 

"Yes, Sir, but now he needs to rest." She 
hung up the line, unwilling to discuss it 
further. 

Mulder rolled over on to his side. She 
reached for the tube of ointment and 
gently massaged it into his burnt flesh. 
Surprisingly, it was healing fairly well. 
There were places where he'd damaged the 
skin further, but nothing that wouldn't 
care for itself with time and proper care. 
He moaned his thanks and mumbled, "Scully, 
I'm sorry I was so angry." 

Her hand continued to caress his bare 
skin. Gulping down the lump in her throat, 
she responded, "I'm sorry I interfered. I 
didn't realize it was more than just a 
game between you two." 

Back still to her, he admitted, "he's my 
father, Scully." 

She did not argue the point, if Mulder 
said the man was his father than he must 
be. "You are not your father, Mulder," she 
reminded gently. 

He turned towards her, eyes full of pain. 
"I know that, Scully. I just don't 
understand how I could have two men, both 
so evil, claiming to be my father." 

She stayed silent, no words seemed 
appropriate. 

He continued, "when I was little I used to 
pretend he wasn't my father. Instead I 
pictured my father as strong and honest. 
Someone who would protect me. Strange as 
it may seem, CSM has done for me what I 
always wished for in a father." Shrugging, 
he added, "I know he represents everything 
I hate, but - - " 

She brushed his forehead gently, "anybody 
ever tell you that you think too much, 
Mulder? Go to sleep," she urged. 

He shook his head stubbornly, "I want to 
go home." 

She closed up the tube and wiped her hands 
on a tissue. "Soon, Mulder. First, you 
need to get some rest." 

His voice stronger, he repeated, "really, 
Scully, I want to go home." 

She could see the determination in every 
tired line of his face. It was time to 
negotiate. Brushing her hand gently 
through his hair, she promised, "while you 
sleep, I'll call the airport. I'll try to 
get us out later tonight, how does that 
sound?" 

His eyelids fluttered, heavy with the need 
to rest. "Wake me when it's time to go, 
okay?" he asked, his voice trusting. 

She nodded, "shhhh, I'll take care of it, 
Mulder. Close your eyes." And he did, 
hugging a pillow tightly to his chest as 
though cradling a small child. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

MULDER'S APARTMENT
Friday Evening 

"I guess as much as I thought I was over 
it and had accepted my past, I was wrong," 
Mulder explained badly. 

Skinner raised the beer to his lips and 
took a long sip. He and Mulder had been 
talking for several hours. Since his 
return from Bachelor's Grove, he was more 
open to discussing his past and the burden 
he carried as a result of it. It was not 
difficult to picture Mulder as a 
frightened child. There were times, 
especially in the beginning, when he would 
sit in front of Skinner's desk, his body 
language defensive, his expression 
slightly fearful. Tonight Mulder had 
revealed more detail of his childhood and 
Skinner's admiration for the man before 
him increased. To have survived such 
horror and still manage to function seemed 
too much to ask of any man. Yet Mulder had 
done just that, survived and thrived. 
Skinner pulled himself back to the 
conversation at hand, "so you think the 
experience in the house never happened, 
that it was all in your head?" 

Mulder shook his head, confused, "no, I 
didn't say that." He stood and walked to 
stand in front of the piano. Nervously, 
his fingers plucked a simple, poignant 
tune. 

Skinner waited, hoping for more insight. 

Mulder did not disappoint. "I think my 
presence in Bachelor's Grove shook things 
up. When I was there, I sensed so much 
life around me and I think they, in turn, 
sensed my emotions. More so than I would 
have ever imagined," Mulder admitted 
reluctantly. 

"Caught you by surprise, did it?" Skinner 
queried. 

Mulder turned and took a seat across from 
Skinner. Eyes open and honest, he 
revealed, "I couldn't accept it. In a way 
I excused everyone else's bad behavior and 
worse, took the blame for it." Eyes 
dropped to the floor, "I didn't deserve 
any of it. No kid ever does." 

Skinner's smile was one of relief. Mulder 
had finally accepted some truths denied 
for too many years. Leaning forward, he 
squeezed Mulder's good shoulder, "you 
deserved a whole lot more than you got, 
Mulder. Even so," he counseled, 
"regardless of all that crap, you still 
turned into an amazing man. A man who I am 
proud to call my friend." 

Mulder's hand raised to rest upon 
Skinner's. The human contact was 
appreciated, he had blocked himself off 
for so long. Feeling a bit choked up, he 
mumbled, "thank you, Walt, that means a 
lot to me." 

They stared at each other for a long 
moment until, both realizing it was just a 
little too close to a Hallmark moment, 
they broke the contact. Skinner stood, 
suddenly uncomfortable, "it's getting 
late, I should go." 

Mulder nodded his agreement, "yeah, it is 
late. I'll see you on Monday." 

The Assistant Director grabbed his jacket 
and left hastily. 

Ten minutes later, a loud tapping on his 
balcony window demanded Mulder's 
attention. He turned and was startled to 
see Alex Krycek knocking upon the glass as 
though there was nothing at all unusual 
about his presence. Mulder studied him, 
not really surprised at the man's ability 
to locate him. If anyone was going to 
track him down, it would have to be Alex. 
Sighing heavily, he considered his 
options. First, the window was bullet 
proof and sound proof. Mulder could see 
out, but Krycek could not see in. He could 
just stay here on the couch and watch the 
bastard dance around in the cold and, in 
fact, that is exactly what he did for 
approximately five more minutes. 

Finally, he heard Krycek shout, "c'mon, 
Mulder, I know you're in there. It's 
fucking cold out here!" 

Unsure where his sense of hospitality came 
from, Mulder rose slowly and moved to the 
door. Cautiously, he slid it open and now 
found himself face to face with a 
trembling Alex Krycek. Alex smiled, held 
out a brown paper bag and greeted, "Happy 
Housewarming, Mulder." 

Shoving the package into Mulder's waiting 
hands, he stepped inside and slid the door 
shut behind him. Stomping his feet, he 
rubbed his one hand over his shoulder and 
chest in an effort to get warm. "Christ, 
Mulder, Skinner left twenty minutes ago. 
How long were you going to leave me 
standing out there?" 

Mulder, slightly bemused by his late night 
company, reached into the bag and pulled 
out an ice cold bottle of Vodka. Walking 
to the bar, he reached for two glasses, 
opened the bottle and poured. Alex, upon 
hearing the clink of ice, moved to join 
him. 

"How did you find me?" Mulder asked. 

Krycek shrugged, "tricks of the trade, 
Mulder." 

Mulder nodded, "how soon before he knows?" 

There was no confusion between them as to 
who he was. Krycek allowed his eyes to 
roam the apartment thoroughly, paying 
particular attention to the winding 
staircase up to the loft area. "I won't 
tell if you won't," teased Alex. 

Mulder snorted his disbelief, "yeah right. 
CSM calls you tomorrow and tells you to 
find my apartment and you say no." 

Krycek shook his head, his disappointment 
in Mulder obvious, "you know I would never 
just say no. I would spend several days 
following you and finally reporting, to my 
great regret, that you are far too smart 
for me." Alex was grinning now, "he, 
realizing I have just complimented his 
precious son, can't get too pissed and 
waves me off. On one hand he's pissed he 
can't find you, on the other, he's a proud 
papa, cuz you're so smart." 

Mulder grimaced, "you have it all figured 
out, Alex. How long have you known he was 
my father?" 

Green eyes met green, Alex replied, "I 
suspected for a long time, but it wasn't 
until I saw how he treated you when you 
were ill that I knew." 

"What," Mulder scoffed, "holding me down 
and letting them shove a huge needle in my 
neck." 

It was Alex's turn to be confused, "you 
don't remember?" 

Mulder refused to meet Alex's stare. "I 
remember him admitting he was responsible 
for Samantha's death." 

Krycek finished his vodka and reached to 
pour another. "Mulder, he never left your 
side. He held your hand when you cried 
out, fuck, he even carried you back into 
your room. That bastard doesn't care about 
anything or anyone except you." 

Mulder shook his head, unwilling to listen 
further. "What are you doing here, Alex?" 

"What," Alex retorted innocently, "can't a 
guy visit his ex-partner? I bet," he pouted
sensuously, "you don't ask Skinner what 
he's doing here when he comes a' 
knocking." 

Mulder reddened slightly, uncomfortable 
with the direction of this conversation. 
"What does Skinner have to do with this?" 

Alex allowed his eyes to roam Mulder's 
body freely. "You tell me, Fox. When we 
were partners, you never gave off any clues 
that you were interested in," he paused, 
"uh, alternatives." Alex's eyes were glued to 
Mulder's watching his reaction closely. 

Mulder stepped back, definitely 
uncomfortable with this dialog and Alex's 
casual use of his name, "Skinner and I are 
not sleeping together," he denied. 

Alex smiled and cocked his head, "well 
actually, the rumor I heard didn't say 
anything about sleeping." 

"Get out, Alex," growled Mulder. 

Alex stepped closer, placed his face 
inches from Mulder's and inhaled. Like a 
wild animal ready to pounce, he sniffed, 
breathing deeply of Mulder's scent. 
Mulder, feeling his back hit the wall, 
decided it was time to take back the 
control he had so easily lost. 

Stepping forward, he brushed his cheek 
against Alex's, then, avoiding further 
touch moved towards the bar. Alex followed 
closely, enjoying the game. Mulder turned, 
careful to keep the counter safely between 
them. "Alex," he rasped, "regardless of 
your obvious," his eyes ravished the 
green-eyed gypsy who stood before him, 
"attributes, if I were to take this 
alternative route - - doing so with you 
would be impossible." 

Alex challenged smugly, "you are a man who 
proves the impossible is possible almost 
every day, Fox." 

Mulder nodded wisely, accepting the 
compliment for what it was, "perhaps I 
need to speak more plainly, Alex," he 
taunted. 

"Perhaps," snapped Alex, offended by the 
implied insult. 

Mulder grinned, no longer able to contain 
his amusement at his own wit, "it's quite 
simple, Alex," another slight pause while 
his ex-partner waited impatiently, hanging 
on every word. Mulder finished with a 
flourish, "how could I ever trust you long 
enough to turn my back on you?" 

They stood frozen for several moments. 
Mulder with a wide, arrogant grin. Krycek, 
mouth wide open, dumbfounded at Mulder's 
inane excuse. Finally, Alex's face began 
to share in the joke and he grinned 
causing Mulder's smile to falter. "Fox," 
he whispered, leaning in to capture the 
older man's eyes with his own, "when I 
take you, I would definitely want to look 
you in the eye." 

Mulder paled, rapidly replaying their 
conversation in his head in an attempt to 
figure out where he had gone wrong. 
Walking quickly towards the balcony doors, 
he pulled it open and announced tight 
lipped, "I think you'd better go." 

Alex moved towards the door, a large grin 
on his face. He stopped just short of 
stepping outside. Turning to Mulder, he 
teased, "your words say no, but your eyes 
- - " 

"Say FUCK YOU," snapped Mulder. He shoved 
the younger man out the door and slammed 
it behind him. 

Alex, finding himself locked outside, 
alone, mumbled, "well, all you had to do 
was ask." Pulling his leather jacket 
tighter around his shoulders, he headed 
back into the night. 

>>>>>>>>>>>> 

SEVERAL DAYS LATER
CSM's RESIDENCE 

CSM fingered the burnt leather jacket with 
a mixture of anger and pride. The jacket, 
found at the scene of a recent attack was 
similar to one Mulder wore during off 
hours. In fact, CSM was positive it was 
his son's. Only the lack of any 
identification within the jacket made it 
possible to protect the boy from his own 
stupidity. 

Fingering the burnt sleeve area, he 
wondered how he was. His mother had shared 
with him many years ago Mulder's fear of 
fire. Another one of Bill's lessons for 
the boy gone wrong. What kind of father 
leaves a child to stand guard over such 
devastation? And what kind of father was 
he to deliver his son into the hands of 
Bill Mulder? CSM picked up the phone and 
dialed Mulder's cell phone number. 

After several rings, the boy's voice 
answered, "Mulder." 

"How's your shoulder, son?" 

Silence met his inquiry. 

CSM smiled crookedly taking some pleasure 
from Mulder's discomfort. After a full 
minute, he suggested, "I believe we need 
to meet." 

Mulder's voice responded quietly, "yes." 

"10pm tonight. I'll be waiting in room 236 
at the Hampton Court Motel," CSM informed 
efficiently. 

A short pause met his orders. Finally, 
Mulder agreed, "I'll be there." The line 
went dead. 

CSM reached for the mangled jacket and 
tossed it carelessly into the blazing 
fire. The jacket, the only evidence of 
Mulder's involvement, slowly melted. CSM 
sighed deeply wondering again what it 
would be like to have a son such as this 
by his side. "Damn you, boy," he cursed, 
"why do you have to be so stubborn?"