ELS
Chapter 4
By Dawson E. Rambo

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other
tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain
his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013
productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No
infringement is intended.

Posting Date    : October 26, 1997
Archive Entry	: "ELS" Chapter 4/?
Classification  : SRA MSR
Chapter Rating	: R (Violence)
Story Rating    : NC-17 (Violence)
Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm
Summary         : In the aftermath of the Jacksonville case,
                  Scully and Mulder return to Washington and
                  take a new look at their relationship.
Spoilers        : Pilot, Red Museum, Paper Clip
Content Warnings: Violent content.

NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning
and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the
explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to
search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find
Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it.

Enjoy!
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Aboard Delta Airlines Flight 220

        Mulder was dreaming.
        In the dream, he was in the basement office of the X-Files,
working away at his desk. He would glance up from time to time at
Scully's desk, but it would be empty. More than that, it looked dusty,
as if she hadn't been there in a long time. In the dream, this fact
bothered him, bothered him deeply. Her chair was pushed completely
against the desk, her computer was off, even the phone looked lonely
and forlorn.
        Mulder thought about getting up to check the door to see if
she was standing in the hallway, but something kept him at his desk.
Every time the dream-Mulder thought about getting up, every time it
considered opening that door, a sense of dread filled his body, and he
remained seated, working away.
        But whenever he looked down at what he was working on, he
would see...nothing. It was an X-File; he could tell that from the
folder. But the pages inside were pure, blank white. No writing, no
printing, no forms, no pictures, no fingerprint cards, nothing. It was
an empty file, devoid of even the smallest nugget of information.
        Dream-Mulder continued to wonder where Scully was.
        Then a knock came at the door to the office. Mulder knew that
he didn't want to answer it, but he knew he had to. It might be
Scully, and she might need his help. In the dream, the distinct
possibility that Scully was on the other side of that door, and that
she needed his help grew as the dream-Mulder walked towards the door.
        He opened it, and found himself staring at...
        Himself. Another dream-Mulder stood in the hallway.
        He was dressed in a tuxedo, or what looked like the remnants
of one. The shoes, pants and shirt were there, as were the suspenders.
The tie, cumberbund and jacket were all missing.
        And the shirt was soaked with blood.
        Well, not really _soaked_, Mulder's unconcious mind noted, but
spattered. Yes, that was a better term, a term more in line with what
was expected of an FBI-certified National Criminal Profiler. The
splotches and dots of blood indicated that the second dream-Mulder was
not wounded or hurt; it was someone else's blood. That much was
obvious.
        "Can I help you?" the first dream-Mulder asked the second.
        The second didn't speak. He smiled, an odd smile that Mulder
had never imagined would ever be on his face. The second dream-Mulder,
who Mulder was beginning to think of as Mulder2, started moving his
hands like a magician. He showed both empty palms, and then backs of
both, as if trying to prove that he was holding nothing. He twisted,
turned, twisted again, and then was holding something in his right
hand, pointing to it with the flat edge of his left, as if to say,
"Ta-Da!"
        Mulder, in his dream, knew that he didn't want to look, but
that he had to, that Mulder2 was holding something he had to see, that
was _vital_ to be seen.
@       He glanced down and almost screamed. Mulder2 was holding a
severed head by the hair. The face was frozen in a mask of absolute
terror, pain and rage. Both eyes were screwed shut, the mouth was
open, a blue-black portion of tongue sticking out between the lips.
        With a shudder, Mulder realized that Mulder2 was holding the
head of Melissa Scully.
        With a flourish, Mulder2 spun the head. The face turned away,
and when it came back, Mulder gasped.
        Mulder2 was now holding the head of Deep Throat; his face wore
the same expression that Melissa's had. With another flourish, Mulder2
spun the head, and Mulder waited for it to come back around.
        The face of Dana Scully, eyes closed, mouth open, appeared
next.											#
        Mulder screamed.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

        Scully snapped her own eyes open and turned to face her
partner. He was gripping the armrests with shaking, white-knuckled
hands. He was whimpering, tears streaming from both tightly-shut eyes.
His mouth was a grimace of pain and...what? she thought.
        "Mulder," she said softly, reaching for his hand. The moment
she touched him, Mulder winced and moved sideways, away from her,
bringing both arms up, across his chest, his fists balled under his
chin. He began keening, rocking back and forth, looking like an
autistic child.
        "No," he whispered, again and again. "No. No. No no no no no."
        "Mulder," Scully said, a little louder this time, glancing
around to see what was going on. A flight attendant, a professionally
concerned expression on her face, was striding down the asile. She
knelt by their seats, her eyes finding Scully's.
        "Is there a problem?"
        "Bad dream," Scully said softly. "Would you get some water and
an aspirin, please?"
        The flight attendant nodded and moved off, grateful to have
something to do.
        "Mulder," Scully said for a third time. His eyes opened slowly
and he blinked, looking around. His eyes fell on her and he smiled
weakly.
        "Hey, Scully," he whispered. She had trouble hearing him over
the constant, subdued whine of the plane's three jet engines.
        "Mulder...are you all right?"
        He slowly stopped rocking. "Why do you ask?"
        "You screamed," she stated simply.
        He nodded, accepting this, the images of the dream still fresh
in his mind. He could still see her disembodied head in Mulder2's
hands, held by her hair, gently swaying. He let out a breath and
slumped back, trying to reconnect to reality.
        It had seemed so real, he thought.
        So vivid.
        "I'm fine, Scully," he said, taking perverse enjoyment from
the look of disbelief that crossed her face. "Really," he added, in
what sounded like a much more normal tone of voice.
        She bit her lip. "Does that happen often? After...cases like
that?"
        "Sometimes," he nodded. "But not normally like that. I haven't
screamed on a plane since..." He thought back. Before her time. The
Arrowhead case, he remembered. Thirteen women, all killed by an arrow
to the head. It had taken weeks to track that particular monster down.
        "What was the dream about?"
        Mulder shook his head. No way was he going to tell her that
he'd dreamt about her decapitated head.
        No fucking way, he amended.
        "Nothing. I really don't remember."
        Scully hesitated. "Mulder...look at me."
        He glanced down the asile. "Where's the flight attendant with
that water?" he asked.
        Interesting, Scully thought. He heard that, even though he was
still apparently asleep, still in the clutches of that dream.
        "Mulder, look at me."
        He turned his face to hers, his eyes looking anywhere but at
her.
        "Mulder, look _at_ me."
        Finally, his eyes found hers.
        "Mulder..." Softer this time, more understanding, more gentle.
"Tell me what the dream was about."
        He shook his head. "No, Scully. I can't."
        "Can't...or won't?"
        Mulder shrugged. "Either. Both."
        Scully studied his profile for a long moment. The decision
made, she announced, "Mulder, when we land, you're spending the night
with me."
        He smiled and sighed. "Scully, as flattered as I am-"
        "Shut up, Mulder. Just nod your head and say "Thank you." That
will be all that's required."
        "Thank you," Mulder said, and a moment later, he nodded.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
New York City

        Noon, and Grand Central Station was teeming with people.
Situated on 42nd Street in Manhattan, Grand Central was the terminus
of the Metro-North railroad line that served the suburbs north of the
city, as well as a major transfer station for the New York City Subway
system. A shuttle could be taken to the Port Authority Building,
connecting commuters with the NJ Transit train system for travel south
of the city. Amtrak made regular stops here, giving Grand Central
commuters access to the entire country. Literally millions of people
made their way through Grand Central every morning and evening rush
hour. For a people-watcher, Grand Central was like the Central Park
Zoo: Human animals of every possible shape, color and description
walked through Grand Central at all hours of the day and night.
        Mark Dupree sat at the bar on the upper level, peering out
over the huge main room. His eyes scanned the crowd, flitting from
face to face, never staying on one person for too long.
        Mark Dupree was scared. Very, very scared.
        Every single person he looked at held the mark of the Chosen.
        No, that was not correct, he thought. They all had words
etched into the skin of their foreheads, but none of them had the
magic word: CHOSEN.
        Take the waitress. The writing on her face was small, almost
undetectable, unless you knew where, and more importantly, how to
look. If he looked at them directly, straight in the eyes, the
writing vanished. But if he caught them out of the corner of his eye,
he could make out the words. And it was always just one word, although
a different word with each person.
        The waitress had "adultress" on her forehead. She was sleeping
around. Dupree knew it. He'd seen the wedding ring on her finger
<after> he'd seen the brand. So he knew he wasn't going crazy.
        He thought that he might already _be_ crazy.
        The waitress brought his drink (club soda) and left it on the
corner of his table, smiling in that cool, distant way service
professionals had. He was just a Customer to her, not a person. Dupree
didn't mind that, in fact, that was why he had chosen Grand Central
for this particular morning. He needed a place he could sit and think.
        The hunger was inside him again. It had taken a much shorter
time to return. Part of him knew the reason for this. He had not taken
the time to enjoy Leon King's murder. He had been cold, efficient,
shooting an entire magazine into the man's head and throat. He had not
taken the time to open him up, to peer inside at the grisly remains of
the body while it was still warm. He missed that. He needed that.
        But Dupree was afraid. Afraid that if he did it again during
this series of murders, that he would mark himself. He would leave a
signature.
        Mark Dupree knew a lot about signatures. Both the kind that
were made with pen in hand, and the kind that was made with a knife.
He knew that a competent enough police officer, someone who know how
to profile the psychology of the crminial mind, would be able to use a
signature against him. The clues he was leaving were one thing; they
were a challenge, a way to force the cops' hands. He needed that, too.
He needed to know that he was putting one over on whoever was
investigating these cases.
        He wondered if the USMS or the NYPD was going to catch these
cases. After all, the victims were all protected witnesses. But, would
the USMS want to announce that they were losing protectees? Would they
want the world to know that the vaunted WITSEC had been penetrated?
Probably not, which meant that the NYPD would catch the cases. And in
Mark Dupree's experience, the NYPD's ability to track a serial killer
was laughable at best, downright scary at worst.
        In his basement office, near the computers, were sixteen
four-drawer steel filing cabinets. They were jam-packed full of
clippings from the New York _Daily News_, the _Post_ and _Newsday._
All of them cross-referenced and categorized in a computer database of
Dupree's own design. He could locate dozens of articles on topics that
interested him. And one of those topics were the techniques and
methods used to identify, track, arrest and prosecute serial
criminals.
        So leaving a signature was something Mark Dupree very much
wanted to avoid. But the problem was that he knew, he knew in his
bones, that if he didn't start...opening them up, as he called it, he
would have to kill more and more of them, and more quickly, in order
to be satisfied.
        So the idea was to satisfy himself without leaving a
signature. And the best way to do that, he decided, was to figure out a
way to hide his real signature inside another one. If he could leave a
false trail, a way to throw the cops off, there was no telling how
long he could go on. Preferably, Dupree thought, he should come up
with several "other" signatures so that the cops would be completely
flummoxed. He should be able to figure a way to satisfy his needs, his
urges, and still confuse whomever was looking at these crimes, be it
USMS, NYPD, or God Forbid, the FBI.
        If the ISU got involved, all bets were off.
        Especially if one specific profiler was called in.
        Dupree cracked open his laptop and booted it, entering the
four passwords that were required to get past his own security system.
You got one attempt at each of them. If you entered them wrong, the
system detonated. If you turned it off without entering the four
passwords, the system detonated. The next time the machine was turned
on, every single file would be deleted in a matter of seconds. There
was no one good enough, fast enough, to defeat this security. He had
thought of everything.
        He scanned his files quickly, using a search engine of his own
design. Anyone shoulder-surfing would have quickly turned away,
gagging. He was searching for the most violent, the most gruesome
signatures he could find, because only with those would he be
confident that his own would be hidden inside them.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Annapolis, Maryland

        Scully pulled her car into the slot provided by her building's
management and twisted the key to OFF. Mulder was in the seat beside
her, his eyes far away.
        "Penny for your thoughts," she offered softly.
        "Can't make change," he teased back.
        "C'mon, Mulder. Pizza, movies, wine, and/or beer await."
        "Iced tea?" he asked, a pout in his voice.
        "Sure, what the hell. I'll have the pizza guy bring a six-pack
of that new stuff."
        Mulder shot her a quizzical glance.
        "You know, the ones with those claymation cartoons?"
        Mulder shook his head. "I hear they're wonderful."
        "Ok."
        They got out of the car, retrieved their bags and made their
way up to Scully's apartment. She noticed the way he made himself at
home, and it warmed a part of her she often denied. It was nice to see
a man comfortable in her apartment. God knew there were few enough of
them lately. The bug man, she reminded herself.
        But he didn't count. For one, he was close to sixty.
        The last man she remembered having in her apartment besides
Mulder was Skinner.
        And he _really_ didn't count.
        "I'll buy," Mulder said.
        "Good," Scully agreed. "I don't have much cash."
        "Antonio's takes plastic," Mulder pointed out.
        "Mulder, I'm not going to pay nineteen percent on a pizza!"
        He shrugged. "Use Amex, then."
        "That's even worse!"
        "Whatever."
        She tossed the cordless phone into his lap. "You buy, you
choose. Anything but anchovies. I'm going to go change."
        Mulder stood. "Good idea," he said, moving towards her
bedroom. Scully stood there, hands on her hips, wondering exactly what
the hell Mulder was thinking.
        He moved to the chest of drawers that sat perpindicular to her
bed, opening the bottom one. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants and an
Oxford T-shirt he kept there. Without thinking, Mulder began stripping
out of his suit, the door to the hallway still open.
        Scully wanted to look away, she really did.
        The pants came down, revealing a pair of blue and white
boxers. The shirt was next. In socks and boxers, Mulder neatly folded
his suit, his face still a thousand miles away.
        Finished, he re-emerged into the hallway, carrying his suit.
        "Finished?" Scully asked.
        "Huh?"
        Shaking her head, Scully moved past Mulder in the hallway.
They both had to turn, backs flat against the wall, as they passed.
        He stood in the hallway, looking at her as she entered the
bedroom.
        She started to close the door.
        "You want to hear about my dream?" he asked suddenly.
        "Now?"
        "Huh?"
        "Mulder...unlike you, I have some sense of...privacy."
        "Oh..." He seemed to come awake then, realizing where he was.
"Sure, right. Sorry." He turned to go back to the living room. Once
there, he quickly placed his clothes in his overnight bag and returned
to the couch. Glancing over his shoulder, down the hall, he saw...
        Scully.
        She hadn't closed the door all the way. Just enough light was
visible for him to catch glimpses of her as she moved around. He saw
her shed the jacket from her business suit, and then cross out of
sight into the closet to hang it up. She was there for a minute, and
then she came back, minus the blouse as well. Mulder saw her in her
bra and skirt, reaching to her left ear to remove the earring.
        Mulder's mouth went dry.
        "Did you order yet?" she called.
        "No," he said softly, not wanting his loud voice to alert her
that she'd left the door open wider than she'd intended.
        "Good. Extra cheese and pepperoni," she requested.
        "Ok," he called back.
        Scully moved towards the closet again, her earrings left in a
jewlery box he'd spied once or twice before. Oh God, Mulder thought.
When she comes back across she's going to be-
        She was.
        Bra and panties, bare feet. She passed out of view for a
second, and then she was back in his line of sight, bent at the waist,
opening a drawer. He could see the gentle curve of her rump, and the
soft slope of her naked back.
        Mulder knew at that moment what a peeping tom saw, what one
felt, what one wanted to see. She didn't know he was watching, and her
naturalness made it that more exciting. If she had been doing it for
him, knowing he was watching, she would have put a wiggle in her hips,
or a sway in her walk. Something, something to let him know that she
knew he was watching and enjoying. Not only could he never see Dana
Scully doing something so...adolescent for a boyfriend or lover, but
if she found him looking, she'd kill him.
        He turned away.
        Just in time, too, because ten seconds later a barefoot Dana
Scully crossed her bedroom to the door and reached for the handle,
only to discover that she'd left it open much wider than she'd
thought.
        She stared at the door, her hand reaching for it. Her eyes
rose from the knob, through the crack, to the back of Mulder's head.
She felt her eyebrows draw together. She'd asked him if he'd ordered
yet. His answer had been soft, muffled, as if through a closed door.
He'd known, she realized, which meant that he'd probably...
        What?
        Peeked? The word seemed so innocent, so childish. As if Mulder
was a ten year-old boy still discovering his burgeoning sexuality,
that the only way the burning questions in his mind about female
bodies and their mysterious sexuality could be answered by sneaking
peeks.
        No, peeking wasn't the right word. But he had seen her. Scully
wasn't sure how she knew, but she was as positive of that as she was
of anything.
        All these thoughts crossed her mind in milliseconds. She
opened the door and walked down the hall, wondering what the big deal
was. Mulder had seen her in less. He'd seen her in bra and panties, on
their first case together, in Oregon. It wasn't anything new.
        But coupled with the fact that they'd kissed twice in the last
few days, it meant more than it would have a week ago. Deciding, for
the moment, to ignore it, Scully joined her partner on the couch just
as he was finishing his conversation with the pizza place.
        "That's right, you got it. See you soon." He hit the off
button on the cordless and gently placed it on the coffee table. He
was unable to meet her gaze, and any lingering suspicion Dana had
about his wandering eyes was confirmed.
        "Enjoy yourself?" she asked.
        His head snapped around. "What?"
        "You know exactly what I mean, Mulder. If you had really
wanted to get away with it, you should have turned away and answered
me in a normal tone of voice. Then I would have seen the door open and
closed it, and you would have gotten away clean."
        He shook his head. "I've been a really bad influence on you,
Scully. Years ago, you wouldn't have noticed something like that."
        "I had a good teacher," she announced.
        He smiled, accepting the compliment. "Don't wish yourself too
much like me, Scully. You wouldn't like what it did to your social
life."
        "What social life?" she asked.
        "Ok, point granted. Still...trust me. Not everything I can
teach you is goodness and light."
        And that was the crux of it, Scully felt. Mulder's desire not
to talk about the dream wasn't an attempt to hide something from her,
rather a reluctance to share that part of himself that made him such a
good profiler.
        "I know that, Mulder," she said softly. "And I don't want to
know all your secrets. Like what's in that drawer full of videos that
don't belong to you."
        He smiled, accepting her gentle rebuke. Didn't she realize
that she had the ability to replace whatever power those videos had
over him with a simple smile and a beckoning hand? Maybe she did, he
thought.
        "So..." she said. "Want to tell me about that dream now?"
        He shrugged. "Not really. I'll tell you the general outlines
of it, but not the specifics."
        She nodded, accepting his caveats.
        For now.
        "I was in the office. There was a sense of dread. You weren't
there. When a knock came at the door, I answered it to find myself
standing there, covered in blood. I was holding a head in my hand."
        "A head?"
        "Yes, a decapitated head."
        "Whose head?"
        He shook his head. "Sorry, Scully. That's the end of my
description of that dream."
        "So, Dr. Mulder, what do you think it means?"
        He looked at her askance, wondering if she really didn't know,
or was trying to get him to admit it.
        "Well, Dr. Scully, off the cuff I'd have to say that I'm
feeling guilty about all the pain and suffering that I've caused over
the years. But that's just a fifty-cent diagnosis. I'd have to charge
more for a...more thorough investigation into the entire affair."
        Scully nodded, silently agreeing with her partner. "Ok, that
makes sense. You do know it was just a dream, right?"
        "Yeah. Serious as a heart attack, but still a dream, right?"
        "Mulder, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You solved
three cases this week!"
        He shrugged. "Seattle and Chicago solved two of them-"
        "With your profiles as impetus!"
        "...and Jacksonville wasn't exactly a solve. More like a
capture under favorable circumstances."
        She nodded. "Ok. But still, you have nothing to feel guilty
about!"
        "Scully, none of the heads had anything to do with these three
cases." As soon as he spoke, he knew he'd made a mistake.
        "Heads?"
        Shit. She'd caught it.
        "Yes. Three of them. Subject closed. End of discussion."
        Scully reached across the couch for his hand, taking it
between both of hers. "Mulder, you peeked at me as I changed clothes.
I'm not upset. It's actually kind of flattering. That indicates a
rather...intimate relationship between us." She saw his eyes widening,
and felt his hand trying to pull from between hers as his mouth opened
to explain.
        "Not that kind of 'intimate,' Scully said, and thought: not
yet, anyway. "...but an intimate friendship. It doesn't bother me that
you saw me change. It's actually kind of nice to know that I can still
keep a man's attention."
        Mulder opened his mouth to avoid _that_ topic.
        "Shh...let me finish. What I mean to say is that...you owe me.
I gave you a nice little treat, and now I want payback. Tell me about
the heads, Mulder."
        Mulder's mouth fell open. "Scully...there is a huge difference
between...friendly intimacy, as you call it, and telling you about
three severed heads in one of my dreams. I really don't see how one-"
        "Tell you what," she said softly. "I'll let you watch-"
        "Ok, ok," Mulder said, pulling his hand away. "I give. And you
don't have to let me watch." I'm not sure I could handle whatever it
was she was about to let me 'watch,' Mulder thought. "The first head
was Melissa's, the second was Deep Throat's and the third
was...yours."
        Scully sat back, drawing her knees up to her chin, crossing
her arms across her legs. "Oh," she said.
        See, Scully? he thought. See why I didn't want to tell you?
        "What do you think that means?" she asked. "The...selection of
the...heads."
        "Obviously, three people I feel guilty about," Mulder said,
matter-of-factly.
        "But I'm not dead."
        "There's more than one way to kill someone, Scully."
        She looked at him, tilting her head in that way she had that
drove him up a wall. Did she know how the light hit her hair when she
did that? The way the shadow of her nose made her eyes look even
bigger, even bluer? Probably not, he decided. And that was what made
it all the more attractive.
        "I'm responsible for killing..." Mulder trailed off, counting
on his fingers. "...your career, your social life, any chance of a
normal existence, three months you can't account for..."
        "Mulder, stop," Scully said softly.
        "...not to mention the fact that your mother must hate me. I
mean-"
        "Mom doesn't hate you," Scully said sharply. God, if you only
knew how many times my mother has defended you! "Mulder, she invites
you over to every single family event, and more than a few private
ones."
        "She just wants to remind me that if anything happens to you,
it's my ass."
        Scully nodded. _That_ much was true.
        "Your brothers hate me," He pointed out.
        "My brothers don't even _know_ you," she retorted.
        "All the more reason, then." Mulder fell silent, searching for
words. "Scully," he finally said, "I know you don't feel that way, and
I'm pretty sure your mother doesn't. God knows why, but I actually
think she likes me. But, in order to do what I do, as well as I do it,
you have to develop a certain sense of...responsibility. The people
that started profiling, the legends of the fall, so to speak, used to
tell us that we had to remain professional, detached, isolated. That
we had to think about the killer as an UNSUB, and the victims as just
that: Victims, not people.
        "That was good, as far as it went. But just like the HIV virus
seems to find a new way to mutate every time the doctors figure out a
way to kill it, it seems like serial killers figure new ways to
confound profilers as our own skills and techniques develop. It's
almost like they're an extremely virulent disease, able to shift and
mutate to escape detection and cure.
        "And the only way that I've found to counter that over the
years is to get inside their heads. And to do that, I have to think
like them. And that is not a good feeling, Scully. It's like nothing
you'll ever know."
        "I'd like to know," Scully said stubbornly.
        "No," Mulder disagreed, shaking his head. "No, you wouldn't.
Remember that mine shaft we went down after I got back from New
Mexico?"
        "Files," Scully said, smiling. "Lots and lots of files."
        "Yeah, that place. Remember how dark it was, before we found
the emergency lighting?" Scully nodded. "The place inside of me that I
had to find in order to get inside Clay's head was darker than that
place. Darker than any place I've ever been to in reality. When I'm in
that place, I want to die," he said.
        Scully's head whirled around to find his again. "What?"
        "You heard me, die. I want to die. But, not to take my own
life. It's...complicated."
        "Try me," Scully said. "I really do want to understand."
        He moved, standing, walking to the window, splitting the
blinds with his fingers, peering out to the street. "Pizza's here," he
said distractedly.
        Scully got up, and then realized Mulder was paying. "Thanks
for telling me," she said, moving to stand behind him. On impulse, she
slid her arms around his waist from behind. "Where's your wallet?" she
asked softly.
        "In my bag," he said in a voice that told her he didn't really
want her to move to get it.
        Reluctantly, Scully moved away, found Mulder's bag and quickly
dug through it. She found his wallet and opened it, turning it sidways
to the money compartment. She found about two hundred bucks in cash,
all of it in twenties, and a dozen receipts.
        She took a twenty and was closing the wallet, intending to
return it to his bag, when something about the pictures caught her
eye. The first in the series was Samantha, of course. Glancing back up
at Mulder, she saw his attention was still focused on the window. His
pictures were kept in an accordian-style folding portfiolio. She let
the picture of Samantha fall foward, revealing two more pictures. The
first was predictable: His father, his mother, himself and Samantha, a
family portrait taken during happier times.
        The other picture was unexpected. Completely, utterly,
totally.
        It was her. Or, rather, it was them.
        She had no idea when it had been taken, or by who. They were
seated on a bench in a park, and after a moment, Scully realized it
was _their_ bench, down by the reflecting pool. She was looking at
Mulder with an expression that could only be read as a mixture of
disbelief and incrudelity. He was smiling back at her with his
trademark lopsided grin. There were deli bags on the bench next to
each of them, and she held a diet soda in one hand. Mulder held an
iced tea in his. Glancing back up at her partner, Scully quickly slid
the picture out of the envelope and turned it over.
        "A gift, Frohickie," was written across the back.
        She should have known. The little worm.
        Quickly re-arranging the wallet, Scully slid it back inside
Mulder's bag and stood, pocketing the twenty. She was halfway to where
he stood, ready to slide her arms around his waist again, when the
knock came at the door.
        Dammit, she thought.
        Turning back to the door, she opened it. The pizza guy stood
there, only this time it was a pizza gal.
        "Sixteen even," she said, holding out her hand.
        Scully handed the girl the bill and took the pizza in the same
motion. "Keep it," she said, closing the door on the woman's face.
        Mulder turned at the smell of the pizza. He moved to take the
box from her and she let him, her mind still on the wallet and the
pictures it contained. Is that how he sees me? she thought. How he
wants to remember me? Laughing at one of his theories?
        Or was it simpler than that, a picture of a simple moment
between two friends? Scully had noticed that there were no pictures of
girlfriends, ex-lovers...no Phoebe Green nude shots. Just Sam, his
family...and them.
        Again answering a sudden impluse, Scully walked quickly into
her bedroom and found her camera. It was what her brother referred to
as a "PhD" camera. Auto-focus, auto-zoom, auto-exposure. All you did
was push a single button: Push Here, Dummy.
        Returning to the kitchen, Scully turned the camera on and
waited for the little light to tell her that the flash was ready. When
it glowed a steady green, Scully lifted it to her face and pointed it
in Mulder's direction.
        He had the pizza box open on the counter beside the sink, and
was using two hands to lift a dripping, gooey slice of pizza to his
mouth, having to use his free hand to support the weight of the extra
toppings.
        "Mulder," she called.
        He turned to her and she pressed the button.
        The flash caught him by surprise. He blinked, almost dropping
the pizza. "Scully?" he asked around a mouthful of cheese and dough.
        "Nothing," she said. "Just one more, ok? Of us?"
        Mulder quirked an eyebrow. "Someone's been going through
someone else's wallet," he chided, wagging a finger in her direction.
        "Yeah, so? So what if I want a picture of us, too?"
        His smile was warm and genuine. "Here," he said, offering his
hand. She gave him the camera. He moved to the microwave, and studied
the camera for a second. He set it for self-portrait mode and set it
off, pointing it where Scully stood.
        He moved to her side, and was surprised to feel her arm slip
around his waist. He did the same to her. The camera's soft beeping
quickened, and then stopped. A moment later the flash went off,
blinding them both.
        They stood there for a long moment, neither one of them quite
ready to move yet. Finally, Scully pulled away, walking over to get a
piece of pizza for herself.
        "So," she said through a mouthful, "tell me about dying again?
Wanting to kill yourself?"
        "It's not about killing myself," he said between bites. "It's
about wanting to be dead. Big difference."
        "You mean you want to enter that etheral state of nothingness
that we're told exists for those that have died?"
        He nodded, taking another bite. "Something like that," he
agreed. "It's just...it has to do with a personal belief of mine,
that's all. I believe that when people die, they attain Universal
Knowledge. They know every single lie ever told to them, they know
everything about anything they ever wondered about. The existence of
God, how magic tricks work-"
        "Who took your sister," Scully pointed out.
        He nodded grimly. "Yes, that's one of the biggies."
        "I would think so. But you don't actively wish for your own
death?"
        "Behavior to the contrary, no, I don't." For a lot of reasons
that have to do with a short, opinionated redhead, he silently added.
        "You mad at me for watching?" he suddenely asked.
        "What? No...you mad at me for going through your wallet?"
        "No. You mad at me for having a picture of us I didn't tell
you about?"
        She shook her head. "No, of course not. Like I said, it's kind
of flattering."
        "You said me watching was kind of flattering. And the picture
isn't of you, it's of us."
        She bit her lip, wondering if she'd assumed too much. "How
many pictures of us does Frohickie have, anyway?"
        Mulder looked away, trying to hide a smile. "Of us, or of
you?"
        "Both."
        "Of us...maybe ten. Of you? Are you familar with the phrase,
"Order of Magnitude," Scully?"
        "Yes I am. That many? How is that possible?"
        Mulder saw the line and took it. "I think it's remotely
possible that-"
        "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Scully said, waving him off. "I got it,
Mulder." She pointed a finger at him. "And it's more than remotely
possible."
        Oh yeah, he thought. It's a certainty.
        "So let me get this straight," Scully said, helping herself to
another piece. "You wish you were dead, so you could have that... what
did you call it? Universal knowledge. You want to be dead so that you
can know all that is unknowable, see all that is unseen, and all that
other jazz?"
        He nodded. "Sort of. It's also a wish to be in the place where
I can't feel anything anymore. When I'm inside Clay's head, for
example, I'm feeling every single thing that he's feeling. The rage,
the anger, the pathos, the passion, the urgent, hungry desire to kill
those young boys, to use pliers on their genitals, to shove that
cement plug up their rectums."
        The casual, almost offhanded way he related his feelings as he
nibbled on a piece of pizza was disconcerting to Scully to say the
least.
        "Mulder, how can you _talk_ like that?"
        He shrugged again. "It's part of who I am, Scully. It's part
of what makes me able to do that."
        "How do you cope?"
        Mulder reached over to the sink and yanked a paper towel off
of a roll mounted at Scully-level. Spreading it on the counter, he
dropped the slice of pizza he'd been eating neatly onto it and rubbed
the outline of his lips with a thumb and forefinger. "Usually, I have
a problem...coping. If I were a drinking man, like my father, I'm sure
that I'd have no problems coping."
        "You'd also need a liver transplant," Scully observed, and was
immediately ashamed. If Mulder took umbrage at her remark, he didn't
show it. And then Scully realised that he wouldn't, that she had
somehow earned the odd right to put his family down in front of him.
        "And," Mulder said, continuing, "since I don't do drugs, or
meditate, or anything else like that, I've had to develop my own
coping methods. Since I left ISU, I really haven't needed them, except
for the odd case here and there."
        "Such as?"
        "Well, there was a case just before you were-"
        "No, such as what methods?"
        "Oh. Well, I tend to run a lot after a case like this. I tend
to have nightmares for about a week or two. But, that's actually kind
of normal these days. I'll cry a lot, when I'm alone."
        Scully tried to hide a soft smile. Only Mulder. Any other
agent inside the super-macho FBI would never admit to anyone, let
alone his longtime female partner, that he cried about anything. For
Mulder, it was just another facet of his personality, like saying that
he wore size eleven and a half shoes.
        "Do you ever wish you had someone to turn to?" she asked.
        "Like a therapist?" he asked. "Who would believe some of the
things I'd be able to tell them?"
        "A therapist," she shrugged. "Or someone...else."
        "Like a girlfriend?"
        She nodded, her attention suddenely focused on his face.
        "Telling a woman about the things we see and do has a tendancy
to make them run screaming into the night, sure that they've shacked
up with a madman. No, girlfriends are out."
        "Generally as a concept, or just in turning to them for help
after a Jacksonville or a Chicago?"
        Mulder had the distinct feeling that the answer to this
question was extremely important.
        To the both of them.
        "Well," he said slowly, nodding as he spoke, trying out each
word in his mind before actually saying it, "...generally, no. The
idea is not distasteful, if that's what you are asking. It's just
that..." How to explain?
        Be careful, Mulder. You're in very dangerous territory here.
        "Any woman that I get involved with is going to have a lot to
put up with. First, my job schedule. We're out of town most of the
time, and we leave in less than a moment's notice. Second, I can't tell
her anything about my job, mostly because she wouldn't believe me, and
secondly, it might put her life in danger. I mean...some of these
people we deal with would jump at the chance to use someone close to
me as a lever."
        Scully nodded, accepting what he said at face value.
        "And, not to put too fine a point on it, but my best friend
and partner is the most important person in my life. And most women
wouldn't accept that when my best friend and partner turn out to be
a... woman."
        He'd almost said 'beautiful woman,' but had caught himself at
the last moment. Scully heard the pause, and the word that he'd almost
used.
        "You know, Mulder, that's almost the same exact reason I don't
have a ..."
        "Boyfriend?" Mulder said.
        She wrinkled her nose. "I hate that term. Sounds like he's
going to ask me to the prom."
        "Lover?"
        "Too 'Cosmo.'"
        Mulder grinned, "OK, what does _G-Woman Quarterly_ use as the
current term of endearment?"
        "GQ?" Scully asked, laughing.
        "Whatever."
        "Signifigant other sounds too 60's, and partner is a word that
we're already occupying quite nicely."
        "How about 'love toy'?" Mulder asked.
        "That has possibilities, Mulder."
        They ate in companionable silence.
        Scully finished her third slice. "Mulder, can I ask you a
question?"
        "Sure, Scully."
        "How come you never made a pass at me?"
        Mulder froze. Every single alarm bell and danger signal in his
head was ringing and flashing urgently. Minefield ahead, he thought.
        "Well...who says I haven't?"
        "I think I would have remembered a pass, Mulder."
        "Ok...remember when we were in Wisconsin? The Church of the
Red Museum?"
        Scully nodded, and then remembered. "The barbeque sauce on my
face, right?"
        "Right," he nodded.
        "That wasn't a pass, Mulder!"
        "Says who?"
        "Me!"
        "Well...maybe it was and maybe it wasn't."
        "Do you remember what I did?"
        Yes, Mulder thought. Oh, yes, I do. "You smiled at me in the
strangest way, if I remember correctly."
        "Hmph," Scully said. "You, of the photographic memory, using
that old dodge? Mulder, you remember exactly what I did."
        He nodded. "Yeah."
        "Ok, when else?"
        "On the bench, on the Peacock case. My comment about meeting
someone with a spotless genetic makeup."
        "...and start pumping out UberScullies. What a great term,
Mulder. So you admit you were talking about yourself."
        He shrugged. "Scully, it's not as easy as that. We both know
that the Bureau frowns on partners getting involved. Even when I say
it, it sounds like a cliche."
        "Yeah, but the Bureau frowns on most things we do. I think
that Skinner must own stock in Tums, for all the stomach acid we both
give him."
        "And the same goes for what I said about a girlfriend. If they
found out you and I are...I mean, were...involved, they'd use it
against us, one way or another."
        Scully nodded, chewing the inside of her lip. "Not to
mention," Mulder continued, "the fact that I'm not the easiest person
to get along with."
        "Mulder, we've been partners for five years!"
        "Ok, Scully...why haven't you made a pass at me?" Mulder
demanded.
        Because I thought you'd say no for the exact reasons you're
listing right now, Scully thought.
        "Listen," she said, "we've...grown closer in the last few
days. I've seen a side of you that I've only suspected. I'm not sure
that I want that to...go back to what it was."
        Mulder nodded, not saying anything.
        "...and you said in Chicago that we needed time. That says to
me that you've been thinking about it."
        "I have," he agreed.
        "We obviously find each other attractive," Scully pointed out.
        "I do," he admitted.
        "And that was one hell of a kiss in Chicago."
        "Not to mention the bus," Scully said.
        "I haven't forgotten," Mulder informed her.
        "...and you've agreed to stop ditching me."
        "I have."
        "So...?"
        "So what, Scully?"
        "So...why don't we?"
        "What? Start going out? Become lovers? Move in together, get
married, have babies, live happily ever after?"
        Scully nodded. "Well, the first one. Maybe the second."
        He laughed. "Ok...what about..." Mulder mentally flailed
about, looking for a reason, an excuse.
        "Mulder, are you trying to talk me out of this?"
        "No...I just...it's not that easy, Scully. We've been partners
and friends for so long. Don't you think it'd be just a little bit...
weird to be lovers? Don't you think it'd effect the way we work on
cases?"
        "Not if we don't let it."
        He nodded. "I know you could do it. I know you could go out of
town with me, in two seperate motel rooms and not think twice about
it. But I know myself. I'd want to knock on the connecting door and
only use one bed. I know that I'd get even more protective."
        "That's _hardly_ possible, Mulder," Scully laughed. "And who
says I wouldn't want you to knock on the door?"
        "Scul-eee," Mulder said, exesperated. "I know you'd want to
with one part of you, but the professional G-woman inside you wouldn't
let you do it. And knowing you were on the other side of that wall
would drive me slowly insane."
        "More insane," Scully said.
        "Whatever. What I mean to say is that, yeah, in a normal
world, I'd be dying to ... go out with you, date you, be your lover,
whatever the politically correct term is these days. But we don't live
in a normal world, Scully. We live in a world where monsters are real,
and there's a conspiracy under every bed."
        "So are we supposed to put our lives, our wants, our needs on
hold? I'm thirty-three years old, Mulder! I want a family, a husband,
children."
        "I know," Mulder said, moving to where she sat. He took a
chair from the table and lowered himself into it, moving close. "I
know you want all that stuff, Scully, and that's one of the ways I'm
killing you slowly. By working with me, being with me all these years,
you've closed yourself off from the rest of the world. I did it by
choice. You do it by necessity."
        "Do you want it?" she asked softly.
        "In a perfect-"
        "Yes or no, Mulder."
        "Yes. I would love to get married someday, to have a wife and
some kids and a nice house and a normal career."
        "Let me ask you another question. If you find Samantha, find
out what happened to her, and you expose this...consortium. If all
your dreams come true...would you be ready then?"
        He shrugged. "I don't know. I think so."
        "Would you want it with me?"
        Mulder let out his breath. "Is that what this is about?
Whether or not I want you?"
        Scully nodded, and then shook her head, and then shrugged.
"Yes. No. I don't know. I'm just...this thing, this thing that
happened in Jacksonville, and then on the plane. You screaming. It
scared me, Mulder. Scared me a lot. I know you're not the most perfect
person in the world, and probably not the most perfect man. But
whenever I look at you, and I get in these strange moods, I can't see
myself with anyone else. I don't think I'm in love with you, Mulder,
but...I'm not sure anymore. Before, it was so easy to keep the two
havles of my life seperate...my professional life, which was you, the
Bureau, the X-Files...and my personal life, as stagnant as it was. But
in the last few years, we've gotten so close. We've been through so
much. No one knows me like you do, and I'm sure the same is true of you.
Sometimes I think that if we didn't have this constant pressure of the
X-Files, of finding the truth about Samantha and your father that we
could just...be. Be there for each other, for ourselves, for...us."
        Mulder cracked a grin. "What would we do, Scully? With no
monsters to chase, no mysteries to expose...what would we do with
ourselves?"
        Scully grabbed his hands, rubbing them with her own. "I could
become a coroner or a medical examiner somewhere. You could teach, or
go into private practice. We..." She trailed off. "No matter what
happens to our lives. Mulder, I know now that we're always going to
be a huge part of each other's existence. There's just no way to
turn...this..." Scully waved a hand between them. "...off. I've given
too much of myself to you, and you to me, to ever have enough left
over for anyone else.
        "I'm not asking you to make a committment to me, Mulder. Or to
make any sort of promise, or to give up your search. That's not what
this is about."
        "What is this about?"
        "Admitting it," she said slowly, softly. "Admitting that there
is something between us, something that goes beyond partnership and
friendship, into more personal, intimate areas. Admitting that it if
weren't for these cases, for the choices we've both made in our
careers-"
        "Scully, you were assigned," he gently reminded her.
        Anger flashed across her face. "No, Mulder. Up until I was
taken, I was 'assigned,' as you put it. When they closed us down, I
was reassigned to Quantico, and even then, I was still working your
cases with you. After we re-opened the division, I _chose_ to come
back. I made a _choice_, Mulder, a choice to be with you."
        "Scully, are you aware of what you're getting yourself in for?
You know me! You know how I am. Are you ready to be in a comitted,
romantic relationship with me? You know how I get."
        "I have some idea, yes," Scully said, smiling softly.
        "And you still want to?"
        "I don't know, Mulder. What I want to do is at least admit
that there is something there, something worth exploring."
        "But what if it doesn't work out? Are you willing to risk our
partnership, our friendship? Do you think we could still work together
if...whatever this is...ends?"
        Scully dropped his hands and sat back. "Condeming us to
failure before we even start, Mulder?"
        "No, no, no," he said quickly, reaching for her hands again.
"Not at all. What I'm saying is...look, we're both adults. We're
talking about this _like_ two adults. And, being adults, we have to
admit that not every single relationship turns out the way we would
like them to. And I would hate to lose your friendship, or ruin this
partnership, because we had a romantic falling out. You're too
important. To me, to our work."
        She was glad that he'd called it 'our' work.
        "Mulder...you're making this way too complicated. Simple
questions, simple answers. Do you find me attractive in a
girlfriend-lover sort of way?"
        "Yes," he answered. "I meant it when I said it wasn't _just_ a
kiss, Scully."
        She smiled. "I'm glad. Now, second question. Do you trust me?
Trust us?"
        "I don't trust anyone but you, Scully."
        "Ok...then trust me. Trust me to know when to take this to the
next step, _if_ we take this to the next step. I'm not promising you
anything either, Mulder. But sitting in that room in Jaccksonville,
holding your hand as you went down that deep, dark well after Clay, I
knew, Mulder...I knew...that there was no other place in the world
that I wanted to be. That there was no other man that I wanted to be
with. It's not sane, it's not logical. It's not me, Mulder. You know
how practical and logical I always am, and this is anything _but_
practical and logical. And as I said, I'm not sure I'm even _in_ love
with you. But I do know you're the single most important person in my
life, and I'm at a point where that has to _mean_ something!"
        Mulder nodded. Everything Scully said was true.
        "So...what now?"
        She smiled softly. "Nothing special, Mulder. We go watch some
TV, maybe cuddle a little. Nothing spectacular. Neither of us is
really ready for anything...heavy."
       Neither one of them moved. They sat there, holding hands,
looking at each other with embarassed expressions.
        "I feel different," Mulder said.
        "Me, too," Scully replied.
        "Different...but good, different."
        "Me, too."
        "So...uh, I repeat. What now?"
        "Let's clean this mess up, Mulder. That's a good start."
        Laughing, they broke apart, moving together to wrap the
remaining pizza in aluminium foil. Mulder folded up the box into small
squares and put it in the recycling pile.
        Scully was putting the glasses on the drying rack when she
felt Mulder's arms sliding around her waist.
        "I suppose that this is ok now," he said in her ear.
        "Not only ok, but encouraged," Scully said, reaching a hand up
to stroke his face.
        "You don't know how long I've wanted this to be ok," he
admitted.
        "It was always ok, Mulder."
        "Yeah, but now it's really ok." 

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
New York City

        Dupree was back in his basement office. He was going over the
files again, reading with half his concentration, the other half
dedicated to the signature problem. He needed another target to
appease his hunger. He knew that if he identified a Chosen he would be
able to continue his other work.
        One name jumped out at him.
        Dupree studied the man's pedigree, glancing over the details
quickly, memorzing them.
        Moving to the Sparc, Dupree entered the search parameters. He
was so excited, he had to backup and re-enter them twice before he got
it right. After hitting ENTER, he had only to wait seven seconds.
        5410:401 appeared on the screen.
        Dupree nodded and looked at the display, tracing the patterns
with his finger. His translation abilities were getting better. He
didn't need the dictionary as much now.
        It was there. It was valid.
        It was written.
        Jack Nelson was Chosen.
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
END CHAPTER 4

NOTE: I spell Frohicke "Frohickie" because that's the way Mulder
pronounces it. I've gotten dozens of emails about it, and I'm not
going to change.