Title: Flesh & Blood Author: prufrock's love Rating: NC-17 for case file, not MSR Keywords: Case file, Heavy UST, Angst Spoilers: Season 1 Summary: An assignment to profile a killer targeting underage girls in the porn industry takes a dark turn and tests the trust between still-new partners. Angst-o-meter: 6 out of 10; grisly, grimy case. Jennifer check: Safe (everyone lives & ends up together). Skinner head check: Intact; slightly pink. Distribution: link to: www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/index.html Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue Flesh and Blood by prufrock's love ******** Dana Scully should never have to type a report with the phrase "expertise in fellatio" in it. That's the point of this impromptu little post meeting ad hominem meeting, although Skinner is pretending he doesn't know that. He's pretending I'm just throwing another temper tantrum about not getting my way. "I understand your irritation at being assigned to a case which is clearly not an X-file, Agent Mulder, but you were specifically requested on this one. And I'll remind you that the X-files are an indulgence; you may be the golden boy, but Violent Crimes still pays you. Fly out, enjoy the sun, write them a profile, and you can get back to the basement before I start to miss you." Aren't we feelin' froggy today, sir? Someone got laid recently. Not me, but someone. "So why does Scully have to go?" I try to say that so it doesn't sound whiney. "Because she's your partner. If you've got a point, Agent, you'd better get to it, because I'm not in the mood to listen to you piss and moan again." He leans back and crosses him arms, indicating that's all there is to this - a continuation of my rant about not needing a new nanny after Diana left. I can't believe I ever did that. Trust me, I like Scully being my partner. I wasn't wild about her at first – she's a little stiff, but she saves your life a few times and that stiffness grows on you. "There's got to be a forensic pathologist somewhere in the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area who can do a few autopsies. Why Scully?" "You mean, why a female agent? You aren't suggesting I should discriminate on the basis of sex, are you, Agent Mulder? If you have issues with that, you'd better handle them, because Hoover isn't the boss around here any longer." "If you're trying to prove a point, I'd rather you not use Scully to do it." There - I said it. Think whatever you want, Skinner. Think I'm sexist, think I'm old-school FBI, or think I've got the worst case of puppy love this side of the Atlantic, but let Scully stay here and play chess or whatever she does when she's not cutting up dead people and saving my sorry ass. Skinner sounds a little less like a Marine when he responds: "Look, Mulder - I read the file and I understand your concerns, but you're not her big brother. Acting like you are won't win you any brownie points with me -or- her because it's demeaning. She's a medical doctor, she's an excellent agent, and she and Ethan are both adults. I understand that you might be a little uncomfortable, but just work the case and try to keep your mouth shut." Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan? Skinner just realized he's said something that he shouldn't have; something he assumed I knew - I saw him blink. Under normal circumstances, Walter Skinner does not blink. "Agent Scully is a professional, Mulder. Just leave her alone and let her do her job." And keep my pants zipped. Yes, Dad. Look, I'm sorry about Diana, all right? I screwed up - literally, it was a year ago, and I learned my lesson. And Phoebe just rubbed my nose in some more of my stupid shenanigans. It's not like Scully even gives me a second glance - perhaps because of someone named 'Ethan.' 'Ethan'- what the hell kind of wussie name was 'Ethan?' Only slightly less wussie than 'Fox.' "Sir - are you familiar with the type of, um - films these girls were involved in? Do you know exactly what Apex Films makes?" Skinner looks wary. "I'm fairly sure I don't want to answer that, Agent Mulder." "Apex specializes in making the hardest of hard core porn. Heavy S&M, blood sports, simulated snuff - all with girls that are supposed to be eighteen and usually look like they're twelve." "Mulder, I don't know why we're even having this conversation. You're not going for a screening; you're going to profile a killer. And Scully sees that stuff every day and she never blinks. She can't afford to, and you and I both know why. Pedophiles, serial killers-" "I won't watch it, sir," I interrupt. "Not don't - won't." It's bad, sir, and you're sending us right into the lion's den. Really, really bad and I speak as an expert. I've come across a couple of Apex movies and they were poor, but nightmarish wastes of tape. First, the girls are probably underage, but there's more to it than that, maybe because I always imagine one of them could be a teenage Samantha. It's preying on the girls' soul as well as their bodies, because in theory at least, consenting females agree to get beaten senseless for money or drugs so someone else can watch and get off on it. I always have those first few seconds of fascination when I think 'what the hell are they doing,' before my stomach starts to churn and the tape goes in the trash. "That bad?" "That bad." Even Frohike can't find anything arousing in them, and he finds the Oscar-Meyer Weiner mobile going into a tunnel arousing. I see Skinner reconsidering. I know Scully can handle it - she can handle bodies that make me queasy, but this is about as bad as humanity gets to get off, and I'd rather her not see it if she doesn't have to. I signed up to live inside killers' heads and Scully didn't. Skinner's on his politically correct soapbox and doesn't get that. She just seems so delicate, especially after she just almost got sucked dry by a bunch of hungry bugs and served as human pate to a genetic mutant courtesy of me. Call me a romantic, a chauvinist, a hypocrite, whatever, but I'd rather not have to explain the finer points of sadism to a doe-eyed Scully. "She's an excellent partner, sir, but she's never worked this type of case and I have. They didn't request her; they requested me. It's a nightmare waiting to happen, so if you're sending her along just because you can, then please don't." He picks up the receiver and raises his other hand to dial. "I'll just call Agent Scully to come back up and you can explain that to her - why lacking a Y chromosome limits her to the pretty assignments. Then when she finishes kicking your ass, Mulder, she can suture you up and you can both get on the next flight to L.A." He makes it sound like I'm being a complete pig. Well, oink, oink, but don't send her. I make one last-ditch effort: "How am I supposed to censor what I say when I'm inside this killer's head? How can she do her job when I can't tell her what I'm thinking because I'm worried about being professional? I'm not-" "Don't even try it, Mulder. Check my forehead - do I have stupid written up there? We wouldn't be having this discussion if it was Diana Fowley or any of the other women you've been 'professional' with. On behalf of humanity, Agent Mulder - none of us really want to know what goes on inside your head, and we only want the results in typewritten form after your partner edits out the really weird shit. If Scully has put up with you for this long, she can handle this. Try not to be a complete pig, leave her alone, and let her do her job," he repeats, emphasizing the 'leave her alone' part. Yes, Dad. I guess I'm dismissed, Dad. Little protective, aren't we, Dad? I've got the next four hours on a plane to figure out a 'professional' way to explain to Scully what job skills a few dead fluff girls had. I should get hazard pay. ******** There must be some way to make this not seem pathetic. A man in his early thirties, well- educated, fairly good fashion sense, professional, smells okay, has been known to have sex once in a while - sometimes even with someone else - eavesdropping on his partner through a hotel wall. The FBI would call it surveillance. Gathering strategic information in order to better understand motivations and predict future behavior. Monitoring all outgoing communications to ensure an agent's safety. Nope - it's pathetic. I'll blame it on the architect. Shouldn't have put in such thin walls. And shouldn't have put the head of Scully's bed next to my wall. And shouldn't have given my television a mute function so I can eavesdrop and watch ESPN at the same time. And shouldn't have given me friends who have really cool spy gadgets. The conversation with her mother was sweet, but boring. The usual report on where she is and when she'll be home. Since her father died, Scully calls often, and I've heard this same exchange a hundred times. Never heard a word about an 'Ethan,' though. Not in all these months. I love a good mystery. Evidence. That's it - I'm gathering evidence. Pathetic. "I don't really know - maybe a week?" Scully says, then a long pause while she listens. He must have asked when she'll be home. Skinner made it sound as though they live together. I knew about Jack Willis, but I didn't expect the woman to be a thirty-year old virgin and Jack was a good guy. But the few times I've been in Scully's apartment, there hasn't been any trace of a man - no non-pink razors, no extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet - not that I would be checking. Pathetic, Mulder. She always answers her home phone when I call, so she usually spends the nights there - unless she has her calls forwarded and answers them at 'Ethan's.' Damn, that's sneaky. I had no idea she had this secret life. I'm opening a new X-file - the nightlife of Agent Dana Scully. "Ethan, I don't see the point in arguing about this again. I'm just returning your call - I don't want to fight anymore. The answer is still 'no'." So it is Ethan. And all is not perfect in Paradise. "How dare you say that! Why do you have such an issue with Mulder?" My ears were burning, Scully. Thought you might be talking about me. "Well, maybe it just made me decide some things I should have thought about a long time ago!" I've never heard Scully sound that pissed off, not even at me. Even without the mike, I could hear her through the wall just fine. That makes me feel a little better, a little less guilty. "No, just leave the key on the table." That sounds like a breakup. Boy did I pick the night to tune in to this soap opera. "Yeah, I'm sorry too." She sounds like she's about to cry. Don't cry, Scully. "Look, Ethan, I have to go now." She is crying. "Okay, bye." I hear her put the receiver back gently on the cradle and the rustling noise as she buries her face in the pillow so no one can hear her sobbing. I can't believe I was just cheering them on while they fought. I must be the biggest asshole around, and I'm in Hollywood, so that says a lot. Look around the room, Mulder - there must be some excuse you can find for going to see Scully. File? No, she already had the parts she needed and read the rest on the plane. Car keys? Have 'um. Dinner? Already ate. Drink? Never seen Scully drink, although tonight might be the night. Bad idea. Breakfast? Oh, hell! Just go knock. She's still crying. It takes a few seconds for her to answer with "Go away, Mulder." "I'm not going away. Open the door." I keep knocking, knowing I'll eventually annoy her enough to gain entrance. With any woman except Scully, I think of this as the 'erosion seduction technique.' If you can't charm them, wear them down. "What, Mulder?" Her eyes are red, but otherwise she looks normal. "You might as well let me in, Scully." I see her look me up and down while she sniffs. What? Shorts. I'm wearing my running shorts and nothing else. I was stretching to go run when she decided to start dialing. Nice of you to notice, Scully; glad I'm not totally invisible. "Stay," I command and hurry to find suitable covering. Looking defeated, Scully lets me into her room a second time and sits primly in the chair, waiting to see what I so desperately need. She's used to my regularly scheduled nightly crisis by now. "You okay, Scully? You look upset." Good start. Go for the obvious. "No, I'm fine, Mulder." Damn! One more try - "You sure?" "I'm fine, Mulder. What did you need?" Um. Uh. Well. I was having this fantasy about you acting like a normal woman and crying on my shoulder and telling me all your problems while I comforted you 'cause I'm a little intimidated and really insecure and I have no idea what to say because I think you're incredible and I'm scared to death that I'll screw it up if I tell you that 'cause I have with every other woman. "I just wanted to tell you goodnight." Surely she'll see through that lame excuse. And don't call me 'Shirley.' "Night, Mulder." I'm back out in the hallway before I can blink as the latch on her heavy door locks automatically behind me. Damn! ******** She looks like a sand rat. One of these days, I'm going to find some reason take Scully to Saks and put something on her that isn't beige or brown; something that actually shows off that figure instead of making her look like a teenager wearing her mom's suit. She may not be a porn queen, but she's got some curves hidden under there. Maybe something black - a dress like one of her slips like women wore in the old movies. Black silk dress, come-boink-me heels, and dinner for two someplace dim and discreet. No bra; the dress is too low cut. Messy hair. Please God, mess that hair up a little. Thigh-highs or stockings? Each had its own merits - "Mulder, are you ready?" No, but give me a few more minutes and I will be. I'm going with thigh-highs so you won't have lines underneath your dress, Scully. Garters tend to show and we'll have to walk out through the restaurant before we can go home and - Bad Mulder! I don't know how those thoughts get in there; I started with sand rat and somehow ended up with sex kitten. "Coroner's waiting for me. I want to get through the autopsy and look at the other Jane Does' reports before lunch. You're still going to see the studio owner?" It's probably not exactly a studio, partner. More like someone's garage and a mattress, but yes. "Come on, Mulder. Hurry up. Finish your coffee and let's go." Yes, partner. Must go talk to the man about the dirty movies, partner. You have the fashion sense of a sand rat, partner. I drop Scully off safely at the morgue and go to have even more coffee with a very dodgy 'Slick.' You just have to know any man named 'Slick' is up to no good, just like all 'Ethans' are losers. I go through the usual rigmarole with Slick and his greasy hair: yes, I am an FBI agent, no, I'm not wearing a wire, no I have no interest in his 'business' except to figure out who's killing the young women. Slick gnaws his toothpick to splinters and is mildly helpful. He does this thing with his right thumbnail that makes me cringe: he puts the tip of his nail against the edge of the counter and flicks it down hard. Real hard. God, that had to hurt and he kept doing it again and again while I questioned him. Each time, I'm expecting his nail to either bend backward or tear off completely, and it makes me rub my own thumbs for comfort. It also pretty much clears him as a suspect: he likes getting the pain, not giving it. Add that one to the Fox William Mulder book of profiling techniques - the thumbnail assessment. By one o'clock, I have soup and a sandwich for Scully, a few ideas of who else I want to question, and the beginnings of a background check on 'Ethan' courtesy of Frohike. Looks like Mr. Ethan makes his own films, although they aren't nearly as interesting as Mr. Slick's. Made a few training films for the FBI, so maybe that's where Skinner learned about his sex life. The idea of Dana Scully having a sex life is just too weird. This idea of Skinner knowing about it was even weirder. "You go first while I eat, Mulder," Scully says, pulling the cover off her take-out soup and examining it critically as we settle ourselves for a picnic on the steps outside the morgue. Homemade vegetable, partner. At least, as close as anything gets to homemade in L.A. I pay attention; I know what you like. Okay, so I missed you living with someone during our entire partnership, but I know you like to get your five servings of veggies in every day. I stretch my legs out in the warm sunshine and accidentally sweeten my already sweet tea. Crap - now I have to drink it like that. I hate Skinner, I hate this case, and I hate syrupy tea. "Nothing earth shattering. The three girls had been around various studios prior to their deaths, just kind of drifting, doing odd jobs. None had been in front of the cameras but they'd all had been at Apex at some point, though, so that's where the killer probably found them. It's not as shabby a set up as I thought - Apex has an actual studio and films almost continually, so the production crew is pretty large. The owner finally gave me a list of his employees, but there are lots of phony names and vague home addresses, so I don't think I'll be able to track down anyone who doesn't want to be found. He said there are also usually people that just hang around the set like the girls did - runaways, mostly, working for cash. There could be a lot more girls missing that no one will ever notice unless the police turn up a body." "So what are you thinking?" she asks, putting her soup aside to cool and automatically giving me half her sandwich. I don't even bother to buy my own lunches anymore; I just eat my half of hers. "I want to hear your autopsy findings and dig a little more before I announce this to the police detective, but, so far, I think someone may be making their own snuff films. Just from the victims we know of, he has a very slow cycle - maybe killing only once every few years, but the time between victims is decreasing and there's probably a bunch of bodies we haven't found. He's using the tapes to postpone killing for as long as possible, but he's been doing it for a while and he's getting better at it. Then there's the easy stuff: white male, thirty to forty, bright, personable. This is an organized killer; not impulsive. They were alive while they were tortured, right?" I pause to chew while she answers, stirring my tea so maybe the ice will melt a little and dilute it. "Yes - there were signs of struggling and defense wounds on all the bodies, including this last one. The perpetrator used a scalpel to make various incisions before he raped and then killed by strangulation. Strangulation could have occurred during the rape, by the way. It doesn't look like they'd been held very long, a day or less. No traces of sedatives, but all the victims showed signs of substance abuse within a few hours of death." We have this down to a routine; we even masticate in turns. "How long do the attacks last? From first cut to time of death." "Not long. An hour, at the most, before they bled out. Probably less than thirty minutes. The killer isn't a medical professional; he made some cuts on the earlier victims that were pretty serious and had to begin the sexual assault before they bled to death. On this last body, the cuts are all superficial - he's learning to prolong the attack, but he's not torturing them for hours." "Yeah - he wants to cut too bad." Scully's not bad at basic profiling, but it's amazing how well she tunes into what I'm thinking. I also caught that she's saying 'victim,' 'body'- she's distancing herself. I can't blame her, but profilers can't afford that luxury. I'm not even deep inside this guy's head and it's getting to me. If this case is as cut and dry as it looks, I'm hoping to stay in the shallow end of the slasher mental wading pool this time. There are a few more things I want to know, but I'll wait and read Scully's autopsy report. All of them were pretty graphic and none were pressing enough for me to ask Scully directly. The LAPD was right; they didn't need a profiler. I could have told them who to look for over the phone and Scully and I could be in the basement looking at slides of dead cattle right now. I could also have told them that if this killer had the Senator's granddaughter, she was already dead. "I thought snuff films were just an urban legend, Mulder?" She's picking off pickles and tossing them back in the bag. I -told- them not to put pickles on there; neither one of us likes them. Yeah - like that was going to impress her; remembering that she doesn't like pickles. "They are - at least what the public thinks of as snuff is fake. Some nasty stuff comes out of Japan, but I've never heard of a real snuff film made for the public. What gets sold as snuff is either fake - sometimes a pretty good fake - or an accident when someone gets carried away, or actual videos of death that have nothing to do with sex." "So you think this studio is actually making and selling true snuff, Mulder?" "This is more like a serial killer that likes to video his attacks; that's not uncommon. Berkowitz did it, so did Charles Ng. I think he's making movies so he can relive the experience later, which means he understands that he can't kill anytime he wants. He has to control himself so he doesn't get caught - he's not psychotic. I'd bet he's been involved in making fake snuff for years, found it lacking, and has decided to create his own." "So you're pretty sure it's someone at Apex making films for himself, not for distribution? Because if we could find those films, we could find the killer. Case closed," she says, pushing aside the carrots in her soup for me and going after the prized green beans. I claim the segregated carrots with my reasonably clean fingertips as I answer her. "There isn't a big demand for snuff, period. Even the fake films Apex makes are nauseating - a pretty small market share compared to something like child pornography. I can't see it being profitable to create real snuff for the public; too many risks. Often one actress will die in several different films - that's about the only way for even an expert to tell the difference between the real and the fake films. So, yes, I think this is someone killing for personal pleasure as opposed to the entire studio making a movie." "Three girls so far, Mulder, and no one even bothered do more than a perfunctory investigation - just chalked it up to another runaway junkie getting cut up and stuck the file in a drawer with a hundred others. No one even reported them missing. At least three girls died like that and no one cared until a Senator's granddaughter disappeared." She's scraping her plastic spoon futilely against the bottom of her empty styrofoam bowl. It happens, Scully. Children just disappear off the planet and no one seems to care. Little girls vanish from their parents' living room in a town that has had no - repeat, zero reported crimes in the previous decade and people say 'oh well.' Chilmark doesn't even have a police officer, and no one questioned that Samantha hadn't runaway or been kidnaped. Reasonable Man doesn't like to think about the monsters, gray or flesh tone, because he can't sleep at night knowing they're in his world. So he attributes it to unlimited evil and goes on with his life and his Volvo and dog and family. Except for you and me - they leave us to clean up the blood and explain away the nightmares with clinical reports and fuzzy slides and crime scene photos. "We're going to catch this guy, Scully. This isn't a hard case, it's just that no one cared before. He's got to be right under our noses and he's been in the industry for a while." Then a blinding flash of Mulderbrilliance hits me. "I bet he's even using Apex's sets or their equipment. Their cameras, I mean. It's someone on the production crew that would have the access to the sets and be able to run the camera." "That should narrow it down. Are they using movie cameras or Camcorders? If it's the cameras like the big studios use, that's a pretty specialized skill - most studio cameramen even belong to guilds." "Can one man run them as well as be in front of them if it's a movie camera?" "Yes, but he couldn't move the camera remotely. Pretty much like everyone's uncle with the 35mm at family reunions - he sets up the shot, turns on the camera, and then runs to his place in the picture." "You seem to know an awful lot about film making, Scully. You have an inside source?" God, I am brilliant. Or not. There is a long silence as I see storm clouds gathering over her head. I try not to hunker down, but my mental voice yells 'incoming!' "You can read my personnel file and you can skim my senior thesis, Mulder, but don't pry into my private life. That's a little obnoxious, even for you." She angrily crumples and then throws the empty take-out bag at a trashcan and marches into the morgue without even looking at me. Shit. Mulderbrilliance is highly overrated when it comes to women. I should stick to bimbos built like brick shithouses and about as smart. I brought her a rapidly melting Hershey's kiss, though - maybe I can beg forgiveness. I grab the two cups of iced tea - mine and the one she left, combine them into one good one, and follow her like a very sorry puppy dog. "Hey, Scully? I'm sorry, Scully. I was just asking a question. I don't know what you're pissed off about. Hey, Scully-" I shove open the morgue door and am met by a small, unhappy looking redhead holding a scalpel. "I was seeing someone on and off and we finally broke up. When I'm ready to tell you more, I will, but don't snoop, Mulder. Not about this. You understand?" Trust me, I understand. Anytime a woman is holding a scalpel, I understand every word she says. I manage a nod. "Good. Now come look at these ropes on the last victim's wrists. I can't figure out why she was tied like this, Mulder, so I left them for you so see before I cut them off." Oh, thank God. I really thought she was going to extract a pound of flesh from me. Knots. I can look at knots. Have a liquefied chocolate kiss, Scully, while I look at knots. 'When I'm ready.' Not 'if I'm ready,' but 'when,' she'll tell me. Mulderbrilliance in action. ******** "Okay, talk fast. Scully's in the bathroom and I'm not supposed to be snooping." "One Ethan Fromme. Six figure salary last year, no dependents. No criminal background, not even a speeding ticket. Nominated for a bunch of film making awards; won a couple. Never married, but here's a tasty bit of info - applied for a marriage license with a Dana K. Scully in February of this year." Damn, that is tasty. "You got anything else yet, Frohike?" "That's it. This guy seems pretty normal. So is Agent Scully there with you now?" "She's still in the bathroom." "Can you hear her?" "Jesus Christ, Frohike. I like having you around - you always reassure me that I'm closer to normal than I think. Bye, man. I owe you one." ******** I knew she was going to say it. I knew it when Scully started asking her what she did for money. Scully's been getting good responses to her questions. Me, I just get offers of 'round the world' for twenty bucks from little kids with dead eyes, so Scully was doing most of the questioning while I tried not to notice how much one of the girls looked like Samantha. I thought Scully might be able to get more information than I could alone, and she was finished with the body, and I was tired of fourteen-year old girls coming on to me, and I was getting lonely in Tinsel Town. Mostly that last part, so here we are. We hit the mother lode this time - a flophouse with about five or six girls crashing on the living room floor. We bought a few pizzas and as long as the slices kept coming, the girls kept talking. Then one of them said it: "Mostly I just fluff for a few bucks when I get tired of turning tricks." Professional or not, doctor or not, there is no way I can explain what that means to Scully without a) staring at my shoes, b)sounding stupid, and c) needing a cold shower. Scully, to her credit, doesn't blink. She opens a second Pepsi for the scrawny, dirty girl and asks, "For anybody making films or just Apex?" Good bluff, Scully. A fluffer bluffer. "Mostly Apex. Slick pays cash and he don't ask questions." "Anyone need something rough or like to hurt you?" Wow - a snuffer fluffer bluffer. Sounds like she actually has some idea what she's talking about, though. Maybe they teach it in medical school. Now that would be a popular class - wonder if Scully got an 'A'? "It's Apex - everybody hurts everybody, lady." Good point. The Mulder family works the same way. We're out of pizza, which means we're probably also out of willing sources of information. Scully and I exchange 'the look' and walk out of the condemned house feeling very grungy, Scully again reminding me to be careful of the used needles all over the place. "Mulder, clarify something about your theory for me," Scully asks as we get in the rental car. Between that filthy house, the L.A. heat, and the subject matter, I feel double-grimy and the last thing I want is to 'clarify' something for her. I finally turn the air on 'frostbite' and work up to an "Okay..." without looking at her. "You think our killer is torturing and then killing girls like those and filming the attack and that he either works for or hangs around Apex studios, correct?" I nod slightly. "How certain are you that he's filming them?" Good question, partner. I'll try to keep my answer professional, Skinner. "The length of the attacks. Some serial killers will torture for days, weeks - as long as possible. This guy can't; he's working on a deadline." Think, Scully, think. Male sexuality 101. It was a prerequisite for that fluffer class. "But cameras can film for hours or he could splice the scenes together. Wouldn't he want to inflict as much pain for as long as possible?" Come on, Scully. You're making me squirm. "Would you please just answer me, Mulder! You look like a deer caught in the headlights every time anyone makes any reference to sex and it's annoying." I answer quickly before I can get even more embarrassed: "Cameras can run for hours; men can't. Cutting is amazingly arousing for him and he wants the whole scene in one take from beginning to end like a true snuff film. Once he starts, he's working against basic male biology. Also makes me think he might be a little older than a killer of this sort would generally be - maybe mid-thirties at the youngest, because he's got a least some control. He's not attacking them in a frenzy, but he can't wait hours, either. Raping them at the end is important to him, and he can't do that if he gets off while he's torturing them. That's probably happened before, just like he's accidentally cut too deep and had them bleed out too soon." Silence. Love that mid-thirties comment, Mulder. Your id peaking though? Check your zipper. "That makes sense. What do most snuff films look like? The ones that are supposed to be real?" You know, you should charge by the minute for this, Scully. "You mean the good fakes?" "Right. I'm wondering where he could be filming them." "I'm not a fan, Scully. I've read about a few, but I've never seen much of the actual movies. Snuff is about torture, so I doubt the set is important. What I've seen was just a woman tied to a chair. Probably anywhere." "But the studio cameras can't go anywhere and it takes those to duplicate a professional film. The big expensive ones can be moved across the floor, but they aren't like what the TV reporters use that you can take anywhere on your shoulder. If you're sure he's filming studio-quality stock, he's doing it at the studio. Those victims lost a lot of blood, Mulder - too much to clean up without someone noticing." Damn, she's bright. A little naive, but bright. This is the kind of love you clean up with a mop and bucket, Scully. "Apex makes exclusively hard core S&M and fake snuff. He could leave a gallon of blood in the middle of the set and housekeeping wouldn't blink, Scully. But you're right - he has access to the sets after hours to use the cameras, if that's what he's using." Scully nods. Case practically closed. Good. "I think we should talk to the cameramen; see who fits your profile." I stare at the miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the expressway like she'll forget about that idea if I just ignore her. "Mulder..." "Oh, come on, Scully-" "Just stop it, Mulder. You're really ticking me off. It's your job to be my partner, not my big brother." Trust me, I'm not interested in being your big brother, I think before I can stop myself. "Fuck!" I slam on the breaks under the guise of not rear- ending a Corvette. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Mulder! Where the hell did that thought come from? "I'm not trying to tick you off." "Then stop treating me like I'm a child. This isn't my idea of a fun evening either, but if it keeps any more girls from dying, then it's worth it. You're not going to offend me or embarrass me and I'm fairly certain you're a normal adult male just like I'm a normal adult female. I know how both of those models work and I'd rather not be anymore uncomfortable that I already am." "Okay. Sorry. It's just a little weird." "No shit, Mulder." "Did you just curse, Agent Scully?" "I'm going to a porn set. I'm trying to get into the spirit of things." I feel myself relaxing a little as Scully studies the map, telling me where to turn. I call Slick and tell him we'd like to see the studio - is this a good time? In other words, is there anyone making hot monkey leather love in the middle of the room? Scully's lost in her role as navigator, but she feels me looking at her and raises her eyebrows inquisitively. The classic 'what are you up to little boy' expression that usually means I'm not in big trouble just yet. "The coast is clear until they start filming tonight, but they want to deal. Slick will have the film crew come in early to talk to us if you'll check out something for one of his employees." One eyebrow goes higher, one drops back to normal. "Socially or professionally?" "They call him 'Kick Stand,' but it's easier than getting a warrant." If she's going to get pissed at me, that should do it. It's the truth, though, and Scully knows I wouldn't promise she'd do anything bizarre. That's exactly what Slick said - we could come check out the studio if Dana 'I'm a medical doctor' Scully would look at a mysterious mole on Kick Stand's back that looks bad on tape. Seemed like a good trade. There's a pause and I watch out of the corner of my eye to make sure she's not going for her gun. "Probably be more useful if they called him 'Tripod.' They could set the camera on his head to get a nice steady long shot. I'm not checking anything on him below the waist until I know where he's been, Mulder." Damn, Scully - that was actually funny. Give you pizza, beer, and balls and you'd make an okay homey. "You really know what a fluff girl is, Scully?" "Yup." She's trying to refold the giant map. "You going to tell me about Ethan?" What a winner, Mulder. "You going to tell me about Phoebe, and why there's a group of women known as the 'Spooky Toys' at the Bureau, and what happened to your last female partner?" "I'm working up to that, Scully." And it's the Spooky Fuck Toy Club. And membership isn't as exclusive as I'd like it to be. "So am I, Mulder." This is going better than I thought. This is what it's like to be a human being, Scully. "Hey, Scully?" She unbuckles her seatbelt, looking warily at the big cinder block building. "The Spooky Club has been closed since I stopped drinking. And that brunette in Accounting - that is totally untrue." "Good to know, Mulder." ******** I always thought Scully got the boring side of this partnership: one autopsy after another, lab work, mountains of forms to fill out. I get to 'investigate' - chase the monsters, dodge the bullets. Actually, putting it that way, it sounds like Scully's a lot brighter than I am. Anyway, now I'm stuck learning how to run a movie camera while Scully gets the full attention of a bunch of porn stars. The girls are eighteen at the most, and look like anorectic vampires with breast implants, but still... "First, take precautions to protect yourself - latex barriers are a necessity for everyone's safety, whether any fluids are present or not. Also remember to protect your eyes against any blood splatters. Disease can transmit through which fluids?" Scully pauses, holding her scalpel ready over Kick Stand's unfortunate mole as the girls answer: "Blood, come, spit..." Well, her impromptu, half-naked students have the basics. "Right. If it comes out of the body, it can carry a disease, either from you or to you, so be careful. Next, be clean. Wash your hands with soap, wash anything that you'll be touching..." Scully is bloomin' adorable. The next John Holmes that wants a mole removed, and Scully and I need a way to put some very skittish people at ease - voila. Once she started pulling stuff out of her doctor's bag, she had an eager audience and I was free to ask whatever I wanted. I smother a grin and continue my questioning, which is going nowhere. I don't think it's any of these cameramen. Either I'm way off or the killer has already moved on. Three minutes later, Kick Stand is holding a tiny circle of flesh in a vial and looking a little green, a natural blonde with black roots is claiming that was the coolest thing she's ever seen, and Slick wants Scully to do it again with the camera's rolling. And Scully and I are in everyone's good graces. "Your partner is something else, Agent Mulder," Slick tells me, having resigned himself that Scully preferred forensic medicine over a career in blood sports, tempting though it may be. "Smart – cute too. How is it you're not all over her like stink on a dog?" I ignore that and stand and stretch, hearing rumblies in my tummy. "This is everyone, Slick? Everyone who knew how to work a camera when the girls were here?" "This is it, Agent Mulder. We've been working together for a long time. Some of the older girls might even remember Blanca being here a few years ago. Sweet little thing - liked chocolate pop tarts and Pepsi for breakfast." He glances at the people milling around. "We need to get rolling - do you and your partner want to stay a while? You won't be in the way at all." Not on your life, Slick. "What time do you usually shut down for the night?" "Maybe around two or three. If we need to edit, sometimes we stay later, but usually we come in and do it the next afternoon." "So the schedule is pretty flexible? Who sets it?" Scully has appeared beside me, standing close enough to indicate she's ready to go because people are getting naked behind us. "Me, mostly." "How about having a key to the building?" Scully's getting antsy. I hear moaning. Slick takes the hint and walks us to the door. "Just me. Some of this stuff is expensive. That leather sling alone-" "We really appreciate you and your staff's cooperation, Slick. If you think of anything else, we'll be at the number I gave you this morning." I hold the door for Scully and notice he watches her hips sway as she walks to the car. "Together?" he asks. I give him a look I learned from my partner. "Ooh – the look of a man who got turned down. Well, I'm sure you're in good company – that's prime rib, there." He gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, although I wish he wouldn't touch me. "We want to use that wound as a cigar burn when we film tonight. How should we credit Agent Scully?" As much as I would love to see that, Skinner would bust something and then get to have Scully fix him up. "Anonymously. Goodnight." ******** Dinner is alfresco on a hill close to the hotel, since the spring night is beautiful and we could both use some fresh air after our journey to smutland. Scully is especially quiet, so I'm trying to figure out what I've done now. She's chasing her pasta around the container with her fork and trying to make it look like she's eating. She's waiting for me to ask her, so I pick up my cue. I'm getting better at this. "What's on your mind, Scully?" "Just thinking about those girls, Mulder. Every one of them is someone's daughter. Not just the victims; those girls in the studio too. Someone gave birth to all of them and then didn't care enough to make sure they were safe instead of trading themselves for cash and heroin." "Did one of them say something, Scully?" I'd seen several girls whispering to her and she's really upset, by Scully standards. "The one called Tiffany wanted to know if she could get pregnant from fellatio. She stays alive by selling sex and she doesn't even understand where babies come from." Yeah, it sucks, Scully, but I can't save the world. I can't find Samantha. I can't take every teenage runaway home for soup and a shower. I can't even come up with a profile that will catch this latest monster so -we- can go home. Since I don't know what to say to make it better, I wisely keep my mouth shut and let Scully rearrange her fettuccini. I do envision sucker-punching Skinner, though. "You said you thought the X-files would end soon. What then, Mulder? What will you do with the rest of your life?" This is the you-go-first secret-sharing technique. Usually, I go first and then Scully finds something else to do, but I still play. We put the 'fun' in dysfunctional. "I've thought about that." I toss my empty carton aside and lay back in the cool grass. "What I'll do when I find Samantha - one way or another. There's a part of me that thinks that will fix everything: me, my family, my life. I'm smart enough to know that it won't - at least, most of me is smart enough. As far as my father is concerned, I haven't done anything right in two decades, and finding Samantha won't change that. My mother will still float through life in her Valium haze and I'll still... well, I'll still be me. There's going to be a huge void in my life and space in my head when the search ends, and I don't know how to fill it. I feel like I've spent my life searching, so I never learned how to do anything else." I watch the clouds wrap themselves languidly around the moon for a few seconds. "You promise you won't laugh, Scully?" She shakes her head. "In fantasy land, I just want normal. Family, kids, dog on the sofa where he's not supposed to be, bicycles left in the driveway for me to yell about – something nice and normal after spending the day inside the minds of monsters. I want to go home at night and feel as clean and light as those clouds." This is why I don't try to sweet talk women. That sounded stupid as hell. 'As clean and light as those clouds.' Jesus Christ, Mulder. "Light would be nice, Mulder. Maybe that's why my feet hurt at the end of the day - because it's so heavy." See - that's eloquent. Even Scully can do eloquence and she's talking about sore, stinky feet. I must have still been in the fashion sense line when they were giving out prose and poetry skills. I'd love to pull Scully down and have her watch the stars with me, but that's probably also a bad plan. I'll lay here, keep my mouth shut, and watch her hair blowing a bit in the breeze - clean and light. "I was late. I thought I was pregnant and I was wrong." "Scully?" "When we went to Washington, to Olympia National Forest...I thought ... I was pregnant. But when I woke up in quarantine, I wasn't. I made a mistake." Shit! I couldn't be more surprised if she'd just laid a lip lock on me. Uh... Uh.. Uh... Shit! There are probably insects breeding in my open mouth by now. I close it with a 'plop' sound and blink a few times. "Just a second, Scully." I get up and search around in the trees for a few minutes, returning with a good-sized stick, which I hand to her. "A technique they developed for me at Oxford when they were trying to teach me how to do therapy so I could graduate. Whenever someone wants to talk to me, I'm supposed to shut my mouth and give them a big stick. If I do anything besides nod and say 'um-hum,' hit me with the stick." I'm not making this up, Scully. Why do you think I don't practice? I resume my position on the slope beside her, still organizing my thoughts. "That's it, Mulder." "That's why Ethan wanted to get married. You said 'yes,' but after Washington, you changed your mind since you weren't pregnant and that's why you're fighting." Scully raises the stick. "Um-hum." I nod enthusiastically. "We're not fighting. We're not even dating. It was an accident. We hadn't been together in months, and then..." I see her jaw clench. "Okay - I was just worried because you seemed so upset." That wasn't bad. Not eloquent, but not blatantly stupid. Maybe I should have her hold a stick whenever we talk. The conversation is over. Scully expects me to never mention it again. I could grab her and shake her sometimes - pigheaded woman! Cry for Pete's sake - I won't tell the rest of the FBI that you're actually a human being. She's going to suck it up in front of me and go on with her life, just like she always does. "Can I just ask one thing about Ethan?" "I still have the stick, Mulder." Crap. I'm dying to know how Skinner knew her ex's name and the details of their relationship when I didn't. Maybe Skinner moonlights in film - now that would be something to see. More likely, Skinner was called in to consult on an FBI training film and Ethan had a big mouth. I decide to go with laying silent and stargazing, my head pillowed in my hands while I slather on the self-hatred for snooping. If Scully wouldn't freak, I'd have her lay back and we'd find the constellations together and forget our sucky lives for a few minutes. Mulderbrilliance has struck again. "Lay down for a second, Scully. Turn sideways so you aren't on the slope and lay down with your hands above your head." "Foreplay, Mulder?" "Just humor me. You've got the stick." I twist so the top of my head is touching the top of hers, probably getting grass stains all over my slacks. "Now reach up and grab my hands so the insides of our wrists are touching." "Mulder, do I want to know what we're doing and why we're doing it in the grass beside the Ramada?" "Safe sex, Scully. Now, pretend you can't roll over. Could you get up?" She wiggles from side to side. I've got to admit, she's always game for my stupid ideas. "I don't think I can." She makes a few final efforts. "Please tell me there's a point to this and it's not just one of your fantasies, Mulder. And remember the stick." I bet she takes that stick back to D.C. with us. "I think this is how the last victim was tied - those odd knots on her wrists we looked at. Her hands were originally tied together and then she was tied to someone else during the attack." "So there were two victims instead of one?" "Let me think on it for a little bit. If there were, that changes a lot of things." "Agent Mulder? Agent Scully?" a man's voice says from above us. "A bad game of Twister?" I don't think there's any way I can get out of this and still retain my dignity. To her credit, Scully stands, brushes herself off, and gives the detective a 'and what are you doing out here?' look of disdain which she has perfected and patented during our partnership. "I think that's how the last victim was tied up, Detective Talbot. And that we may be looking at two victims instead of one per attack." "Well, Mulder, we're about to test your theory. We have one of the girls on tape." Scully stops picking up the scraps of our dinner. "We seized a bunch of kiddie porn a few days ago and this was in with the other videos. The freak we arrested, of course, claims to have no idea where it came from, but he had several other quasi-snuff movies with underage girls. We're checking the girls on the other tapes against reported runaways, but I knew who this one was. The guy's attorney has already blocked any more questioning, so you're not going to get a chance to ask him yourself." "Have you watched it?" Because I'll gladly take your word for it. Knowing it exists is one thing; watching it happen while we munch popcorn is another. "I figured you two earn the big bucks; you can watch it. The girl is a runaway and a known prostitute, but I only made it through the first few minutes. It's snuff, Agents, and it looks real enough to me." Christ, as if this day could get any longer. ******** We've achieved a compromise - Scully will watch enough of the to tell me if it's real, and then she'll leave and let me watch the rest. The hotel found a VCR for us, so we're ready - me sprawled on the end of my bed and Scully in the chair; Scully does not sprawl - ever, maybe. "Push play, Mulder." "I went to Skinner and asked him not to send you on this case, Scully." "Figured you did. Start the tape." I'm scribbling away and trying not to flinch while Scully watches the screen intently; expressionless. I keep swallowing compulsively and finding something interesting on the ceiling to stare at every few seconds, but she never looks away. One victim; probably one of the first, so the theory about there being two girls is either wrong or the MO has changed. Scully's telling me the attacker has nicked the victim's carotid artery within the first minute of the tape; made a mistake if he wants to keep her alive. "That's real, Mulder. See the blood spurting in time with her pulse. It's slowing as her heart slows and she's getting pale. Shock is setting in; she'll be dead in a matter of minutes." Scully says that like we can save this kid if we hurry. She's been dead for years, Scully. She and a bunch of faceless kids and maybe a little girl with long brown braids; I can't save any of them tonight. The killer agrees with Scully; the girl is about to bleed to death and she has to be alive for the last part. He throws his scalpel into the corner of the room and pauses over the limp girl as he reaches for his fly. I hit the pause button quickly. "Okay, Scully - it's real. Go get some sleep." She's just staring at the fuzzy image, so I stop the tape and let her look at the blue screen until she blinks. "Does it get any worse than this, Mulder?" I'm not quite sure what she means. He's about to rape her while he chokes her to death, according to the MO. I'm not sure if that's worse than slowly slicing her to bits or not. Scully's shaking, shoving her hands underneath her thighs like they're cold. "Tell me this is the worst thing you've ever had to do and not that I'm just squeamish." God, poor woman. My voice is as soft and small as hers when I answer: "Hell yes, it's about the worst, Scully. When they had me analyze Ng's tapes, I had to keep stopping them while I cried and puked, so you're doing better at it than I did." I get her a plastic cup of water out of the bathroom sink, letting it run so it gets as cold as possible. "I've got some sleeping pills if you want them, but the nightmares still come - you're just too stoned to wake up." "I've got some Benadryl. I can wake up from that." She still isn't getting up. "Sometimes it helps just not to fall asleep alone. You want to stay here and I'll go sleep in your room later?" I never get a verbal response, but she rummages through her briefcase until she finds the package of Benadryl, then curls up, suit and all, in a little ball in the middle of the bedspread. I'd love to curl up behind her, to try and make those images go away for both of us, but she didn't invite and she's not going to be a number. I turn the cart around so she can't see the TV screen and pull up a chair, swallowing dryly. Like the Detective said, this is why they pay me the big bucks. And give me good mental health insurance coverage. "Mulder, do you want me to leave while you watch that?" Our newfound openness. If this wasn't so creepy, I'd laugh. "As long as it doesn't bother you to see a grown man cry, it should be fine." I get her a blanket for our mutual comfort and hover over her, knowing she's not asleep yet, but also not willing to talk - to me at least. "Scully - my partner before you – the woman - sometimes I just didn't want to fall asleep alone. She took that more personal than it was, but it was still my fault." A little hand snakes out from under the fleece blanket and searches for me, so that's how I watch the rest of the video: peeking through the fingers of my left hand and holding Scully's warm hand with my right while she sleeps. The TV screen is turned away from her so she can't see the girl dying. At the very end of the silent tape, the killer leans back on his knees, turning away from the camera in his ski mask as he gets in one final slap before Death takes the unconscious, battered victim. I see a now-missing mole on his shoulder. We have a killer. I call Detective Talbot to go pick him up; wondering how early I should book a flight home. I decide on late morning, in case Scully wakes up groggy. Mulderbrilliance may be set on low this week, but I have no intention of assigning a number to Dana Scully, although I lost count a long time ago. I let myself linger over her once more before I head down the hall to her room for the night, laying her stick on the night stand in case I sleepwalk. ******** I'm sprawled across the mattress in my boxers feeling spent while Scully's flipping on lights and tossing my clothing at me. I get it - this is a sex dream in rewind. Looks like I've already missed the good parts. Damn Ativan. I'll just wait. When I get to the end of the tape, it'll start over and I'll pay more attention this time, especially if Scully's naked at some point. Hell, I'll shell out late fees to see that. "Mulder!" Logically, would Scully be yelling at me at the beginning or the end of the sex dream? Hard to predict. "MULDER! GET UP." I'm up, I'm up. You're just used to those porn stars, Scully. This is impressive, by non-tripod standards. Didn't you go to medical school? That fluffer class? Remember? "Mulder, your Mr. Slick just called with a body." I hate to ask, but I think I'm gonna have to, partner. I'm familiar with a lot of sex games, but that's got me stumped. Come here, take off that suit, and you can teach me some new recreational skills. "Mulder, I'm leaving without you if you don't move!" I manage to lurch up to sitting. Whatever this game is, I wouldn't want her to starting without me again. Scully steers me to the bathroom, throws a pair of jeans in after me, and instructs me to scrub briefly, dry, and dress - in that order. I don't like this Mr. Slick sex game, Scully. ******** Scully got us drive-through coffee, but it's still not clearing my head. I doped for eight hours of hard sleep, and Scully and 'Mr. Slick' woke me after four. Miss I-can-wake-up-from-Benadryl is chattering away, offering all sorts of theories which I answer with grunts. "I called Detective Talbot and he said he'd already picked up Kick Stand, a.k.a, Ralph Myers at his home before midnight. When did you decide he was the killer?" Um - actually, I don't remember right now, Scully. "Tape – that was him on the tape." Who knew velour upholstery was so comfortable? I'm going to curl up and go nighty-night right here and you can tell me all about it in the morning, Scully. "There's no way, Mulder. I'm not questioning your profile, but that man is not a serial killer. He's almost childlike. He does what he's told and that's about it." "He's the guy on the tape, Scully." But she's right - I was too busy stalking her ex and being uncomfortable to think about it, but he's not acting alone. He's taking direction from someone. "I think he's got a partner - he has the access to the studio and his partner masterminds the act. That's who's running the cameras." "So who killed this girl, Mulder? Slick said he found her in the middle of the set less than an hour ago and Ralph Myers has been sitting in jail since midnight." I'm trying, Scully - I really am. My head is just too fuzzy. "Why would Slick call you?" Scully is a little too close a match to the killer's victims - small, slightly built, slim. Without her heels, suit, and makeup, she could pass for a teenager. "He called your room, Mulder - I was just there. I called Detective Talbot and then I went to wake you, which I still haven't done. Come on, the Detective's car is already here. Drink the rest of your coffee and let's go." Scully's already out of the car like the body's going to hop up and skip off while I rub sleep out of my eyes and the corners of my mouth. A giant burning swig of bad coffee removes a layer of skin from my mouth and turns my tongue to burnt sand, but I'm a little more awake. I sit staring at the crumbling building and the Detective's sedan for a few minutes as dawn creeps over the L.A. skyline, then finally order my feet into motion. Unfortunately, that message doesn't make it as far as my hands, and I slam the heavy door on my left thumb. "Fuck!" I announce to a few pigeons and three empty Fords. Shit, that hurt and Scully's already inside - she couldn't even hover over me and make sympathetic noises. Oh, Christ. Scully's already inside. Mulderbrilliance shines through the smog for one millisecond before a sweet, alcohol-smelling rag covers my mouth and nose and the world starts to sway. Slick didn't flick his thumbnail because he liked the pain. He did it because he liked me dreading the pain. ******** Skinner's back to pounding on my door again, like it's going to work any better than it did an hour ago. Huff and puff all you want, sir, I'm not opening the door until you promise me a new partner, new identity, and a transfer to Tijuana. "Agent Mulder, if I have to go get the key from the manager, I swear you're doing background checks on the Bureau janitors for the next decade! Now get up or sober up or cheer up or whatever the hell your problem is and open the damn door!" I finally reach up and pull down the latch to let him in, not even getting up from my seat on the floor against the bathroom door. "How is she?" "Scully's fine, Mulder. Is that what you're so upset about? The doctors at the ER put a few stitches in the cut on her shoulder so the scar won't be noticeable, but she's fine. She was a little beat up, so she caught a flight to DC early this morning once I told her I was flying out." I knew that. Scully called me from the ER and said she was leaving. I managed to say all the correct things on the phone, I just didn't manage to open my door again once I got back from the crime scene. Skinner waits for me to say something enlightening. Good luck. "You better have a damn good excuse, Agent. It's good PR for me to do the little our- profiler-caught-a-serial-killer routine for the cameras, but it looks really bad when my star profiler doesn't SHOW UP for the briefing! According to Scully, you're not bleeding from anywhere, so there better be something else very wrong that I don't know yet." That was probably supposed to make my knees quiver. I pick lint off the maroon carpet and don't even look up. "Move, Mulder, or I will move you. We've got a flight home in two hours." A big part of me wants to flop flat on the floor and dare him to try and make me get up, but that would probably end badly. I pick up my duffle and suit bags and follow him through the Ramada, getting into the waiting cab. We're settled in business class - I like flying with Skinner - before either of us speaks again: "All right, Mulder. I know it was bad, but Scully seems fine. The cameras weren't rolling, so I'm taking Scully at her word; if she's leaving a few details out, that's her prerogative. According to her report, the perpetrator drugged you both and was in the process of tying her up when you woke up and talked him out of it. She says you distracted him enough for her to get in a good elbow jab, then the two of you disarmed and apprehended him. The LAPD Detective was drugged and tied up in a corner, the Senator's missing granddaughter wandered back home on her own, and Richard Johnson, a.k.a., 'Slick' has confessed to at least a dozen murders, ten with his accomplice. According to that story, this looks like a good outcome to me. What isn't she telling me?" "Slick Dick Johnson?" I ask. Skinner nods, grimacing. "He should get the chair just for that name." I watch the ground sink away as the plane leaves the runway, feeling my stomach pitch more than usual. "Scully didn't say anything else?" "No. Something you'd like to share? You can tell me, or you can tell the Bureau shrink, because you're suspended until you do." He's pissed; if he were a cartoon character, there would be smoke rolling out of his ears. As it is, he's that particular shade of red only I seem to cause and there's a familiar vein in his temple threatening an aneurysm. I address the engine on the right wing of the plane: "Slick is the actual 'serial killer', but he liked to force - no, to pressure others to do the actual torturing. He had his dim star do it a few times until Tripod, or whatever his name is, stopped acting shocked. Slick's next step was to add an audience to Tripod's assault - to keep that source of horror. That was the mysterious other person tied to the last victim. He not only liked to watch the girl being tortured to death, he liked to listen to her friend scream in terror. Melee in stereo. Anyway, that was the plan for Scully - to have me watch him cut her up and rape her. That's not his favorite, though. He'd rather someone else commit the assault so he can watch, so he can film, but his preferred sadist was already in jail. When I woke up too soon, I screwed up the plan; he didn't have me tied up yet and the camera wasn't on. He was holding a knife to her throat, Skinner - he was going to kill her just so he could see my face if he didn't get another option. I convinced him it would be better to let me have her while he watched." "I'm betting what you said to him wasn't very pretty." I nod 'yes'. "I wasn't even thinking about that. All I was doing was trying to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear, and I did." The flight attendant passes, and Skinner leans out to request something. She reappears smiling a Crest smile with two glasses of ice and miniature bottles of Scotch. Pouring mine, he comments, "Okay - we can't drink on FBI time, so that means we're not on FBI time. Tell me what happened." "Just what I told you." "Off Hoover's clock, Mulder - she's a lovely woman. And she's an adult and you helped save her life; tell me you're not that neurotic." I take a tentative sip, feeling the smoky liquid expand and warm all the way down to my empty stomach. "He's a sadist and a voyeur and a killer; he's not interested in any garter belt, Penthouse fantasies. He wanted to hear that I wanted to hurt her, to humiliate her, so that's what I told him. I guess I was convincing, because he started to give Scully to me - that's when she elbowed him." "How bad, Mulder?" "I impressed a man who makes hard core porn for a living." "You would." When the flight attendant passes again, Skinner gets two more tiny bottles to keep on reserve. They don't stay on reserve very long. I'm somewhere over the Midwest and down to sucking ice, enjoying the slippery coolness inside my mouth, before Skinner speaks again: "You are one self- centered SOB, Mulder." I spit my ice back in the little plastic cup and look up at him questioningly. Not that this is news to me, but people don't generally announce it out of the blue. I wait for a follow-up comment, but it's several minutes in coming. "I guess you can afford to be - you can do what the rest of us can't. You can take a crime scene photo and walk into the mind of the killer. Lots of rookie agents think they can do that, but not like you and Frank Black and Jack. Other people make it personal; they insert their own aversions and perversions into the killer's head and they end up off base. You don't. I know Jack Douglas pretty well, and I've seen him crawl into the brains of men he can't share anything with except claiming to be human. Jack looked around awhile, found what he needed, settled right in to the mind of a killer, and spit out the profiles. Then he crawled out and went home to his wife and kids. Jack's not a madman; he just played one at the FBI. You're not a sadist or a rapist, you're just a brilliant profiler, and Scully understands that." "So you're telling me to get over it?" "I understand why you're uncomfortable-" "You keep saying you 'understand'; when was the last time you stood in front of a woman like that and said you want her to gag while she blows you?" God, I really did not mean to say that. Scully can fit her carry-on bag under the seat; I wonder if six feet of me can squeeze under the next row? Or finish the flight on the damn wing if I could get this window open. Skinner takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Mulder - you just shot my 'Effective Empathic Leadership' technique out of the water. You didn't really say that, did you?" "I started with that. It was the first thing that occurred to me." He looks at me and I shrug. "I was standing, she was kneeling - Slick had a handful of her hair and a knife to her throat..." He puts his glasses back on and shifts uncomfortably in the leather seat, clearing his throat. "You think we have time for another drink before we land?" We wisely take a cab from the airport, parting ways at the Hoover building when we're sober enough to drive. I hesitate - do I walk into the office Thursday morning and face my partner or not? "Since my GI Bill business administration courses don't seem to be getting it this evening, Mulder, I'm resorting to another management strategy." "Does this one have a catchy name?" "The Sergei Technique. You and Scully are partners - you're stuck with each other. Don't underestimate her. Take Thursday and Friday off and settle it; if you need blood or bail money, call me. Otherwise, work it out." "You paid money to learn that? That sounds like something my father would say." Skinner starts his car and shifts into reverse. "I'm the oldest of five brothers. Sergei Skinner was my father. See you Monday, Mulder." **** 'Work it out.' Asshole. Option number one: travel backward in time and erase this case from Scully's memory. Benefits of this option: most attractive; drawbacks: violates those laws of physics Scully's always harping on. Option number two: continue laying on my couch for the rest of my life, except that I move me and said couch to Tijuana and never have to face Scully again. Benefits: Many, including cheap tequila, bikinis, good sun, and the never-having-to-face-Scully element. Drawbacks of the Tijuana option: Drawbacks of the Tijuana option: Um. Drawbacks of the Tijuana option: I'd have to find homes for all my fish? Drawbacks of the Tijuana option: the never-having-to- face-Scully element. Option number three: stop staring at the damn phone and call her and ask how the cut on her shoulder is healing. Benefits: avoid the issue, which is a definite plus. It also shows thoughtfulness and concern for my partner. And talking to Scully always makes me feel better. Drawbacks of the 'call her' plan: Screw it; I hit speed dial. "Hey, it's me, Scully. I'm home. How's your war wound?" "Okay. The doctor was just worried about a scar; it's not deep." "So are you going to demand hazard pay?" I ask. "At this stage of the game, Mulder? No, unless I can collect back pay with interest." I smile, relaxing a little. "Do you have big plans for the weekend? Skinner gave us a few days off." "I'm staying home and healing up for whatever you have planned for Monday. What are you doing?" "I'm bonding with my fish. See you Monday?" Please say yes, please say yes. "See you Monday. Night." "Night." **** "What, Mulder?" "What if it wasn't me?" I ask. "It's always you. And you just called fifteen seconds ago. What?" "I just wanted to ask, um, how's everything else?" "What everything else?" I hear glass containers jingling against each other as she opens the refrigerator door, looking for someone to hand her dinner. "Hey, Scully? Don't cook. I bet you're supposed to take it easy on that arm. Let me take you to dinner." "Mulder, I'm really not up to it. Maybe I'll just order in." "No - put something on and walk down to that restaurant on the corner. You won't even have to drive. I'll meet you there in an hour." "You're going to keep calling me every fifteen seconds until I say 'yes,' aren't you?" Hadn't planned on it, but it's a good idea. "Uh-huh. Joey's. Eight o'clock. I'll be the great-looking G- man." "I'll be the short chick with the wounded wing," she replied. "Chick?" "Bird metaphor." "Oh." **** One of my favorite things to do is just watch. Just watch all the subtle cues people give and receive and how the slightest nuance can convey so much. I watch and analyze - that's who I am and what I do. I'm the awkward, lanky guy on the edge of the party that watches, thinking of all the great things to say and never saying them. Dana Scully, for instance, has no idea long it takes to look at her. Most people, you can look at quickly and see all there is, but not her. Scully needs looked-at deeply. Even with a few minutes to survey, I'm sure I still don't see everything. I'd like to crawl into her mind and see her the way she sees herself, but that would take photos, police reports. I'm a forensic profiler - if there's not a crime, I'm as oblivious as the next guy. Maybe more so. "Come here often?" I ask her, sliding into the recently vacated chair and pissing off a whole line of admirers at the bar. Official FBI business, boys. "It's a good place. Some anonymous guy just bought me a water. Ice and all." "With a twist of lime, Scully. I specifically asked for lime. Vitamin C - rickets and all." "Right, rickets. Let's get a table." "Do you want any of your drinks?" I ask, gesturing to the row that has been bought for her. "I can't – pain pills." I leave it at that, guiding her through the restaurant and pulling out her chair. Slick jerked her around pretty bad, trying to get a reaction out of me, and I bet she's sore. I pick up a menu and hide behind it while I ask how she's doing, scanning like I'm not going to order the same thing I always do. "You keep asking that, Mulder. I'm fine. The cut is barely a scratch; if it were anywhere else, I wouldn't even have bothered to have stitches put in, but I like sleeveless shirts in the summer." I appraise the salad options intently. "Stop beating yourself up. You were half asleep. I should have waited for you or called for backup. I was naive and I walked us into a trap. If you hadn't been there, I'd be another one of the women on those tapes, so I think five stitches and a sore neck is getting off easy." The waiter comes to take our order and I forget what I told him as soon as his back's turned. I guess I'll find out when he brings the food. As long as it's not a rare steak, I don't care. "About that, Scully..." I trail off, looking at a couple that is waiting to be seated. The woman is tall and slim with thick, dark hair and dark eyes, but it's not Samantha. I watch her until her husband gives me 'the look,' just to make sure. "I have a confession, Mulder." My fox ears perk up. A secret? From Dana K. Scully? I should go outside and check for flying pigs. "When I was assigned to the X-files, I read your profiles. Not just the one that caught Monty Props, but all that I could find. I noticed something - your original notes were written in the first person: 'I want,' 'I feel.' You switch to 'he' in the final draft, but you think inside the killer's head. That's what makes you different." "I'm flattered," I say, sounding like a smart ass but actually telling the truth. "I knew you could do it because I'd seen the results and your accuracy rate, but watching you almost read Slick's thoughts without getting time to think about it, without a rough draft... You earn that nickname, Mulder." "Scully, I just open my head and let him pour in. As soon as it's over, I try to pour as much of him back out as possible. It was easier this time because I had a good background on Slick's MO, and I, to a degree, know you and what would upset you. I put those two things together in the back of my brain and started raving, but all I was thinking about was getting that knife away from your throat." Good, Mulder. Eloquent. Honest, for once. "How many profiles have you done?" "In three years? Hundreds, at least. Probably more than a thousand." I wait, blaming the flip flops in my gut on three glasses of Scotch and missing lunch. The waiter brings our dinners and I discover we both ordered the catch of the day: salmon steaks. Again, I couldn't care if it were mud pie, it's a distraction. "Oh, damn it! I meant to get something I could eat with one hand." "Give it here," I tell her, sliding her plate across the table and dissecting the pink salmon from the bones so she can pick it up with her fork. "Scully, when you do an autopsy, you do the same thing - to a degree. You imagine who the person was and what they were doing relevant to the evidence at hand." "But I get to think about it, to weigh the evidence. It just throws me that you could do it so quickly, allow yourself to become a completely different person in a matter of seconds." I stop de-boning, sliding a hand across the table without thinking. She takes it. "Did I convince you?" "You were convincing. Did I think you were really going to hurt me? No. Not for a minute. It was still amazing to watch, though." She gives my hand a slight squeeze, then pulls her plate back and turns her eyes and attention to her fish. "We make a good team, Scully. Good partners, good friends. I just don't want to screw that up." She pauses, fork in mid air. "Eat your salmon, Scully. Brain food and all that." "Is that the secret? Omega three fatty acids?" "No, the secret is the sunflower seeds." I savor a bite of the blackened salmon, my belly relaxing as I chew. "About Ethan-" "Don't push your luck, partner." I bet she did bring that stick back to D.C. with her. I'm back to watching her as she tries to eat with her left hand, losing quite a bit of fish into the napkin on her lap. I'd offer to feed her, but I know she won't let me. That would involve a different kind of trust. I settle for saying I don't want my potato and trading it for the remainder of her massacred salmon. Baked potato stays on a fork a little easier. She's lying, of course. She was convinced. She was terrified that she'd misjudged me and those were really her partner's darkest fantasies. I remember her face as I spat out things I'd prefer not to even admit to thinking, not to even be able to dream up, and I attached her name and her soft form to them. Even once she elbowed him and got away, my body reacted automatically as I disarmed and handcuffed him. It wasn't until she reached out to me for help her that I'd come back into my body. Realizing that he'd cut her jerked me back to reality, the last of a serial killer's thoughts swirling out of my brain like dirty water out of a bathtub. Adrenaline pumping, I'd ignored every first aid class the FBI had made me sit through and pressed my bare palm hard against her upper arm, trying to get the cut to stop bleeding. "Get your shirt," she'd instructed, gesturing to the white dress shirt Slick had taken off me while I was unconscious. I followed her directions for bandaging and applying pressure until the blood had stopped and I could hear the sirens in the distance. Realizing she was wearing nothing but her bra and slip and we were about to have a studio full of male police officers and paramedics, I pulled off my t-shirt and helped her put it on, getting bloody hand prints all over it and her in the process. I started to leave her, to put some distance between us, but she reached her hand up to me, wanting me to stay, to keep her safe until help could come. That was how the police had found us – sitting side by side against the rough wall, me naked from the waist up and Scully in her white slip and my bloody t-shirt. Holding hands with her head on my shoulder while I shook. I didn't let go as the medics checked her and the police detective, or as they loaded Slick into the patrol car, or as I walked Scully to the ambulance. As long as I held her hand, I was clean. As we leave the restaurant, I keep Scully close to me, shielding her so her sore shoulder doesn't get bumped. Outside in the cool air, a small hand slips into mine again, although she says nothing. I walk her down the block, enjoying the innocent warmth of her palm against mine in the winter sun. "I'll watch until you get inside," I tell her, missing her skin as she slips away to cross the street. She doesn't want company; I know that. She wants to lick her wounds in private and it's time I realized the difference between what I want and what others need. Scully pauses at the front door, and I raise my hand, waving goodbye. When the lights come on in her apartment, I relax, glancing down at my cold right hand. It's empty without Scully, but there's no blood on it. As I start the car, she comes to the window, making sure I'm okay. "Monday," she mouths, lifting her palm and smiling, then letting the curtain fall back, shielding her from the world for a few days. "Monday," I mouth back. **** End: Flesh & Blood