Title: Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery 
Category: SAR - character exploration 
Spoilers: none
Keywords: MSR; M/Sc/Sk friendship 
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please! 
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by 
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. 
They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, 
Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit 
from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor 
and have nothing material they can profit from. 
Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought 
to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire!
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/ 
Author's Notes: I would like to thank Kitty for the use of the title
of her poem "The Misuse of Red." While I have used the title for 
another purpose, it's an excellent poem and can be found on the
Poetry Archive at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dungeon/9727 
Summary: Mulder is called to testify when a serial killer he caught
and convicted in 1991 is extradited to another state to face charges.
As he and Scully are transporting the convict, a sudden storm causes
problems, the killer escapes, and begins tracking our injured duo 
through the mountain woods. 


Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 
October 14, 1998
5:10 p.m. 
"Explain to me again why I am 'lucky' to be with you on this 
assignment, Mulder?" 
Mulder sat slouched in his seat, eyes closed, his long legs 
splayed loosely against the floorboard in front of him. 
"C'mon Scully, a trip to the mountains at the height of the color 
season? Do you know how hard it is to get reservations at any 
hotel this time of year?" He grinned. "It'll be fun." 
One eye opened mischievously, as he darted a glance in her 
direction. Seeing the gathering storm surrounding them, he 
straightened in his seat, and turned toward her. "It's really 
getting bad out there. You want to stop for a while? Or want
me to take a turn driving?" 
"I'm fine, Mulder," she responded. "I'll drive." 
Lightning flashed against the darkened sky and the van pulled
to the left in the increasing wind. It began to rain, huge, 
heavy drops that splashed forcefully against the windshield,
and hammered on the roof, their pounding drowning out
the engine and making it necessary to speak up for simple
conversation. 
Mulder reached out and patted her shoulder. "All right.
Just don't be too stubborn to stop if it gets too bad, or ask 
for help." 
"You know me too well," she said, flashing a quick smile, 
but keeping her eyes focused on the highway ahead. The wind 
continued to batter the van as the road was brightly lit, then 
a heavy roll of thunder crashed around them. 
"Anything is better than having to keep checking on 'Nathan the 
Nibbler' back there." She gave a delicate little shudder. "He really
creeps me out." 
The smile on Mulder's face disappeared and worry lines immediately
creased his brow. He stiffened in his seat, then forced himself
to relax again. "I really thought I'd be OK with this when I 
asked you to come along. I thought, with all the time that has
passed, it would be easier." 
"Why don't you go over your testimony again, Mulder?" Scully
suggested as she tightened her grip on the wheel yet again. 
"I know my testimony, Scully," Mulder responded with a sulk.
"I hate talking about it." 
"I know you do, but you still get -- upset -- when you relate it, and
Legal wants you to go over it until you can get through the
whole thing calmly." 
"Nobody should ever be able to get through that calmly," Mulder
retorted. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and stared
unseeingly out the side window. 
"I know," she soothed, "but you have to be credible on the stand. 
You know that." 
"I know, I know." Mulder turned to look straight ahead, then 
lowered his gaze to his lap for a few seconds. His right hand rose
and scrubbed at his forehead. He placed his elbow on the door's
armrest, and leaned his head heavily into his palm. "I really 
hate this, Scully," he sighed. "They want me to relive one of 
the most horrendous experiences of my life, and explain how 
I knew what was happening." He sighed again. "All right, 
Scully, here goes." He took a deep breath and began. 
"In 1991, I was assigned to the Violent Crimes Section, working
serials. I was sent to assist the task force working on what was 
then called the 'Munchie Murders.' People were turning up dead,
having been bitten multiple times and left to bleed to death. The 
bites were human. At the time I was called in, there were eight 
deaths in Virginia, all in the Shenandoah Mountains. Though 
we weren't aware of it, there had been three deaths in the West 
Virginia mountains as well. It didn't attract attention at first, 
because the deaths were occurring in rather backward communities." 
"Mulder," Scully interjected, "you can't say that! You'll
piss off the local authorities even faster than you usually do.
Try saying 'rural communities without access to up-to-date
technology,' OK?" 
Mulder slowly turned and looked at her. "All right, Scully,
but don't interrupt again. Just make mental notes and tell me
later. This is too hard, and I can't keep stopping and starting." 
"Fair enough, I'm sorry." She reached out and squeezed his 
hand, then quickly gripped the wheel again as a gust of wind
caught the vehicle broadside, causing it to shudder and pull.
They were both silent as she brought the van back under control. 
When they were once again securely in the right lane, she 
gently encouraged him with, "Go on, Mulder." 
"Anyway, the deaths didn't attract attention at first, because they
were occurring in rural communities without access to up-to-date
technology," he paused giving her a 'happy now?' look, then went 
on. "Due to the state of decay the bodies were in, it took the local
law enforcement officials some time to determine that the bite
marks were human, and it took even longer to figure out that
the deaths were related. 
"At the time I was assigned to the task force, the Virginia deaths 
had been linked. The last body had been discovered just over the 
state line in West Virginia, opening up the possibility that more
related deaths had occurred in that state as well. A bulletin was
issued to all law enforcement offices in West Virginia seeking
matching deaths. While awaiting responses on that request,
I began to review the information that had been collected on
the deaths we knew of thus far." 
Mulder paused and gave a deep sigh. He rubbed his hand over his 
face again, beginning with his forehead, then covering his eyes,
and finally pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned slightly,
and gazed out the window into the storm. He leaned his head
against the glass of the window, and sat still, taking slow deep
breaths. 
"This is really difficult for you, isn't it?" Scully asked gently. 
He was silent, watching the lines on the road pass beneath
his window, counting the reflectors that flashed by, briefly
lit by the van's headlights. What was making this so 
difficult? It wasn't his first case. It wasn't even his
worst case, but this one had left deep scars, the sheer
brutality of the crimes so against society's norms, that
he still gagged when he thought of the bodies he had seen. 
And he'd been alone. All through the case he'd been alone.
Alone with the victims -- their trauma branded into his
mind. Alone with the perpetrator -- crawling into the 
darkest recesses of his mind to find what it was that
drove a man to murder by biting his victims to death.
Alone amongst his colleagues -- no one believing him,
no one listening to him, no one to trust his instincts.
Every step in solving that old case had been a battle. 
He sighed again, his breathing settling into a steady 'in,
out, in, out' rhythm that kept time with the tires on the road
and the rain on the windshield. It was deceptively
soothing to him, lulling him into a false sense of security.
Scully's hand had crept across the space between them
and she twined her fingers with his own. That
contact, that connection, helped push the nightmares
of Nathan the Nibbler back away from his conscious
mind. For this moment, this frozen slice of time, he
was safe and he was secure. He squeezed his partner's
hand and felt her answering pressure on his own 
fingers. For this moment, he was cared for. 
He allowed himself a few more moments of peace, 
then reluctantly pulled away. He freed himself from
the seat belt and pulled himself into a half-erect 
stance, moving to stand unsteadily between the seats.
He peered through the small window, and could just 
make out the form of the prisoner, shackled to one side 
of the van, and the guard seated across from Nathan. 
"I'm going to see if he wants anything," Mulder said,
waiting for Scully to nod. He rapped on the window
and the guard looked up. Scully pressed a button and
the door to the rear slid open. Mulder held up a thermos. 
"Coffee?" 
"Sounds good," the guard responded. 
Mulder moved into the back compartment, half
kneeling before the guard. He opened the
thermos, and began to pour the still steaming liquid
into the guard's cup. Across from them, their prisoner
stared unemotionally as the guard brought the cup
to his lips and said, "Good. Thanks." 
"No problem," Mulder answered. "You all right back
here?" He knew he was avoiding contact with the
prisoner, even his eyes skittering away when the man
rattled the manacles that held him locked to the wall. 
"Sure," the guard said. "How much longer do you 
think?" 
Mulder looked at his watch, then jumped slightly as 
the interior of the van was brightly lit by a sudden
burst of lightning. Following the lightning almost
immediately, was a deafening roar of thunder, and
the van shuddered as the wind suddenly gusted. 
Mulder clambered to his feet, one hand braced against
the side wall and moved shakily toward the front again.
Through the window he could see Scully outlined by
a second flash of lightning, her jaw tight and knuckles
clenched on the wheel as she struggled to hold the
vehicle on the road. This bolt of lightning was also
followed by thunder -- no need to count to see how
far away it was. It was here. It was now. There was
another sound, a loud crack as if a tree had been hit
and then the van pulled sharply to the left, causing
Mulder to stagger across to the other wall, his hand 
coming out to catch himself, bracing himself above
Nathan's head. The mere proximity to the man who
had visited his nightmares so often caused his stomach
to lurch, and he pulled back quickly. 
The van was still pulling to the left and Mulder
was fighting the combination of gravity and
centrifugal force as the van struck something 
hard, then skidded, still left, turning in increasingly
fast circles as it slid off the road and onto the shoulder.
Mulder staggered again, then lost his balance and
fell to the floor. The guard was also on the floor,
grappling for a handhold and trying to pull himself
back up to the narrow bench. Only the prisoner
remained in his seat, manacles around his ankles and
wrists holding him secure against the forces that
buffeted the van. 
There was another crack of lightning, and Mulder
pulled himself up, clutching the bar beneath the 
window. He gaped in horror as he realized that
Scully was unconscious. She lay draped across the
steering wheel, and before the light was swallowed
by the dark of rain and setting sun, he could just make
out a splash of crimson across her cheek. 
The van continued to spin out of control, sliding further
from the road until it reached a drop-off and began
to roll. As the vehicle rolled down the hill, Mulder and 
the guard tumbled madly about the rear compartment, 
crashing first into floor, then ceiling, limbs tangling
as they rolled together and then apart. 
The van finally shuddered to a stop, resting on its side and 
Mulder dropped, barely conscious from the wall to land against
the bench on the other wall. He lifted his head, straining to 
see, then pushed with spaghetti-like arms as he tried to 
raise himself. One thought consumed him as he forced 
reluctant muscles to work, stubborn limbs to move. 
'Must reach Scully.' It was his chant, his mantra, forcing 
him to action. 'Must reach Scully. Must reach Scully.' 
There was a sound and his head swiveled, his eyes meeting
the soulless grey orbs of the Nibbler. For a moment he
stared, feeling himself being drawn into the sewers
of the madman's mind. Nathan made another sound,
his mouth contorting, but Mulder couldn't make out
what the man was saying. 
He could, however, make out the boot heel that 
kicked out swiftly and connected with his temple.
As the darkness rushed in completely, he twitched
convulsively and his mantra changed. 
'I'm sorry, Scully,' he thought. 'I'm so sorry.' 
******************************************** 
October 14, 1998
7:20 p.m. 
There was a pounding in his head and it wouldn't stop.
It was a steady drumming sound, incessantly beating
at his consciousness, waves of pain crashing through
his skull with each percussive movement. It took time
to sort out the pounding in his head from the pounding
of the rain, and the heavier beat of the thunder as it
rolled through the heavens. The wind battered the
outside and he could feel the van shake with each
new gust. 
He remained perfectly still for a moment, trying to get 
oriented, trying to remember. There'd been a wreck. 
He opened his eyes and let them scan the interior of the 
van. Too dark. He thought back. There had been a 
guard -- and a prisoner! Mulder groaned, then forced 
his head up, trying in vain to see in the inky blackness 
of the truck. 
There was a sound, a tiny mewl of helplessness, from
the front of the vehicle, and Mulder froze. It was so
soft, so small, it was almost lost as lightning split the
sky, briefly illuminating his prison, and thunder roared
in its wake. Scully! Scully had been driving. Fuck! 
He was so damned foggy -- he just couldn't think straight. 
He pushed himself up, and inched toward the front. The
van was on its side now, and as he moved, he touched something.
Someone. Hands groped and he felt the guard's uniform,
and lots of blood. He felt for a pulse, found nothing,
then moved his hands to the man's waist, searching
for his weapon. Again, nothing. 
He paused a moment, felt for his own gun, and came
up empty. Patience, Mulder, he cautioned himself. It
doesn't mean anything. It could be anywhere; we
were tossed around like shells in the sea back here.
The guns are probably laying on the floor somewhere. 
Another little sound from the front refocused him,
and he used that as his excuse to avoid checking on
the prisoner. After all, the man was chained to the
wall and shackled to the floor. He certainly wasn't
going anywhere. Damn this ache in his head. He
just couldn't think straight. No thought lasted more
than a second, and he'd already forgotten Scully
twice. He moved forward determinedly, ignoring
the pain in his side and leg. The sliding door to 
the front compartment was open, wrenched out of
its frame in the force of the crash. 
He slipped through quickly, having to brace himself
between the panel and the dashboard, to keep from
falling onto Scully. The visibility was a little better 
here, but still not adequate. He could make out her
form, the seat belt holding her in place, her head lolled
back against the window, which was now the floor
considering their contorted position. He touched her
gently, and she moaned, so he spoke. "Scully? Hey,
Scully? Can you hear me?" 
She moved slightly, her neck twitching as if she
wanted to turn to him but could not. She made another
sound, "Mmmm?" and he was at a loss as to whether
is was a question or his name. 
"I'm here, Scully," he said, his hand slipping out to
brush the hair back from her face. The lightning flashed
again, and in its brief flare, before the thunder swallowed
it up, he could see a darkly-colored splotch covering one 
side of her face. Blood? Bruises? Both? He cursed the
shadowy grayness, shuddering as the darkness rumbled 
around him and the wind buffeted the van. 
"Light?" Scully whispered, and he was once more
aware of the cloud that hung over his thinking. The
throbbing in his temple was only growing worse,
a pressure behind his eyes that lunged and pushed
against his orbs and made it impossible to follow
a train of thought. 
What was it Scully had said? The sky brightened
again and he remembered 'light.' He rummaged 
briefly in the glove box, then emerged triumphant.
Exercising little used prayer muscles, he offered up
a petition, then slid the button back, giving thanks
when the light shone forth. He turned back to
Scully and stared. 
She half hung from the sideways seat, half-laying 
on the driver door. Her head rested between the seat 
back and the window and her face was streaked with
blood. One side was rapidly darkening as bruises
made their appearance known, and it seemed her
eye was swelling shut even as he watched. Her
hands were free and arms unbroken, but both were
covered in blood as well, and from where he sat he
couldn't be sure where the blood had come from.
Her legs looked OK, but one foot had become 
jammed under the brake pedal, twisted at an
unnatural angle, and he winced as he watched her
try to shift. 
"Mulder," she murmured, and he played the light
upward, illuminating her face, but not blinding her.
"You're bleeding." She reached up and touched
his face, feeling carefully for the wound. 
" 's OK, Scully," he mumbled. 
"No," she said sharply, expanding her search till 
she found the injury buried in his hair on the top of 
his head. She pressed gently, pulling back when
he winced beneath her fingers. "Does your head
hurt?" 
"Yeah, yeah, Scully," Mulder was anxious to shift
her focus off of himself. She was injured too, and 
didn't need to be worrying over him. "I've probably
got a slight concussion. I was rolled around a bit
back there." He smiled to make sure she didn't think
he was blaming her. "Nothing I haven't lived 
through before." 
She stared at him a moment longer, then nodded.
"The prisoner? Mulder, where is the prisoner?" 
"In the back, Scully. He was chained to the wall."
Mulder paused a moment, then added, "The guard 
is dead." 
Scully was stirring some now, moving on her own,
pulling her head upward and trying to straighten in 
the awkward confines of the seat. "Are you sure?
Mulder, I should go check." 
He gently pushed her down, holding her still as
he wiped her face with a jacket sleeve. "You need
to be still. You're hurt." 
"Hmmph," she snorted. "And you're not?" Rather than 
relaxing beneath his touch, if anything she grew more 
restless, renewing her efforts to release herself, and 
reaching out to touch his head again. Her fingers grazed
the wound and he moaned slightly. "Mulder," she 
ordered, "give me the light." 
"I'm OK, Scully," he murmured. "You can look at me
once we're out of here." 
"Mulder, this is serious. I need to look at you." She looked 
around the cramped interior of the driver's compartment. 
"We have to get out of here and get help." She looked up at 
him again, "Are the phones working?" 
Mulder shrugged. "I have no idea. I can't find mine. 
Do you have yours?" 
Scully felt in her pocket, then pulled out half a phone
and passed it to her partner. She reached in again,
removed several other pieces, and handed them over
as well. "I have most of mine," she said, smiling
humorlessly. 
Mulder snorted. "We have to get out of here." The
dark was briefly chased away again, and then the silence
was split as the light's echo rolled around them. Like
gravel avalanching down a mountain, the rain beat
the van, usurping the pounding in Mulder's head, and
conspiring with the pain to make clear thought
impossible. He stared at the passenger door -- above 
his head now, and their best way out. 
"You," Scully started, but was stopped as she began
to cough. When her airway cleared, she tried again.
"You have to go check on Nathan," she insisted.
"Take the light," she gestured at the torch he still
held loosely in his hand, "and go back there." 
"You sure you're OK?" Mulder pushed her hair back
again, tucking it carefully out of her face and behind 
her ear. 
"Go," she whispered. "The sooner you check, the
sooner we can decide how to get out of here. Try
and find the phone. You know what Skinner is going
to say if you lose another one." 
"Bossy, bossy," Mulder murmured, bending over to 
touch his lips to her uninjured cheek. "Wait for me. I'll 
be right back." 
She smiled up at him. "Not going anywhere, G-Man." 
Mulder slipped back through the panel, shining the light
first on the guard. The man was definitely dead. Even 
from this distance, Mulder could see that his head was 
at a distinctly *wrong* angle, and there was no sign
of breathing. He panned the light to the other side,
now the ceiling, fully expecting to see a man suspended
there, the waist chain and manacles at wrist and ankle
holding him in place against gravity's pull. 
But the seat was empty. The shackles had been unlocked,
the key still dangling from the left ankle, and the chain
swayed loosely before his astonished eyes. He panned
the light around again, as if he expected to find the man
somewhere in the van's interior. But, of course, it was
barren. The blood hammered in his skull, keeping time
with the tattoo of rain on the roof, and he lifted a weary
hand to wipe at tired eyes. 
The guard was dead, the prisoner loose. The van was
wrecked, he and Scully both injured. He used the
light and searched for the cell phone, coming up empty.
He rifled through the guard's clothing, looking for phone
or radio, but he, too, carried nothing. Mulder sat back on
his haunches, hands on his knees, thinking. His head
hurt. His side hurt. He hadn't even looked at that.
The leg hurt too, but not so badly. He could move. He 
could use it. He could walk. But Scully was hurt. He
couldn't even be sure how badly until he could get
her out. But that foot. It had to be broken to be cocked
at such an angle. That would make movement hard
or almost impossible for her. 
He was still in that position, reviewing options, when 
there was a roar, and Mulder was at first startled, thinking
it was thunder. But it had not been preceded by the
now familiar flash of light and the sound vanished way
too quickly. 
A shot! That had been a shot! Mulder grabbed for his gun, 
finding only an empty holster, then scrabbled at his ankle,
but that holster was bare as well. He looked back at the 
guard -- no weapon there either. With a roar of rage and
frustration, he jumped forward, slamming through the 
opening, and found Scully staring up at the passenger 
door, a look of horror on her face. It was cocked slightly 
open as a trickle of rainwater ran down the floor and over
the seats, pooling at her feet and in her lap. 
"He was here, Mulder," she hissed through clenched 
teeth. "Jesus Christ, he was here!" 
"What? What did he do? Did he hurt you?" 
Scully held out a scrap of paper in her left hand,
her right hand wrapped around the left wrist,
holding it steady. 
Mulder took the note, shining the light on it and
read: "I didn't have dinner, Agent Mulder. Did you?"
He looked up, features contorted with fear and
disgust, then slowly reached out and took Scully's
hand. With infinite care, he pried the fingers from
around her wrist, slowly revealing the deep and 
jagged human bite mark hidden there. 
End part 01/08 


Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 02/08 
October 14, 1998
7:50 p.m. 
"There," Mulder said triumphantly, easing Scully's foot gently
from under the pedal where it had been wedged. He touched it
carefully, watching her wince, but he was able to manipulate it.
"I don't think it's broken," he finally announced with a small
smile. "But I'd say it's one of the worst sprains I've ever seen." 
"Thank you, Doctor Mulder," Scully said, drawing the foot
up to look at it herself. "I think I can take it from here." She
twisted further in the seat, awkwardly pulling her knee to her chest,
and took hold of the injured foot. It *did* move, but it was
painful, and she swallowed a gasp as the tendons protested
her treatment of them. She moved the foot a bit more, then
looked over at Mulder. "I think you're right. Not broken, but
I don't think I can walk on it." She looked out into the
storm. "Maybe we should wait till morning, then we can try
to make the road and flag down some help." 
Mulder looked uneasy. "I don't like the idea of waiting here.
He's already come back once, and Scully, I can tell you, that
means he'll be back again. My guns are gone, both of them,
the guard's weapon is gone, and yours is missing as well. Those
are not the actions of a man who plans to head for the hills as 
fast as he can." He stared out the window, into the dark, and
the wind, and the rain. "He's playing a game. His game."
Scully touched him carefully, and he jumped, then turned and
looked at her. "It's what he does." He took a deep breath.
"I know." 
"Tell me," she said quietly. 
"Well, I wasn't met with open arms and welcoming cheers 
when I was assigned this case. As a matter of fact, some of 
the guys were downright hostile." He flashed a quick grin,
just visible in the streak of lightning that accompanied his
words. 
"No! Really? How could that be?" 
Mulder chuckled. "Perhaps my reputation preceded me,"
he said dryly. 
"You have a reputation?" 
"Don't get cocky," Mulder warned, as he leaned over to
lightly brush her lips with his own. "You do too now." 
Scully reached up and caught his head, holding him 
close for a moment as she kissed him, harder, longer,
this time. "So I do," she murmured. "Am I living up
to it?" She kissed him again. 
Mulder gave a strangled groan. "You have no idea. 
This is one of my all-time great fantasies. Making 
out in a car." He laughed ruefully. "Of course, in
the ideal version, the car isn't wrecked, you aren't
injured, and there isn't a serial killer loose in the 
vicinity." He shrugged. "But, hey, this is us. *Of
course* we do things differently." 
Scully laughed, then began to cough, a cough that
went on for a long time and wouldn't seem to end.
Mulder was growing concerned as she struggled to
breathe between spasms, and he tucked her upright, 
supporting her away from the seat, trying to ease
the discomfort. When she finally stopped, gasping
for air, he asked, "You OK?" 
She nodded once, then nodded again when he 
continued to look at her skeptically. 
"Finish," she whispered, "the story." 
"Not pretty," he warned. 
"Consider it my 'heads up' to what we're facing." 
He nodded, the lightness of the moment vanishing
in the face of his renewed recital. 
"So anyway, there I was, Wunderkind of the VCS,
and no one wanted me to be there, no one wanted
to listen to me. I was battling the Bureau, the victims,
and the perp." He sighed heavily. "It was such a mess.
I was convinced from the beginning, that he was 
preselecting his targets, that it wasn't random, but
no one wanted to believe me. Tenejkian was sure
it was random, and it was his case. I was just the
pet profiler called in to help out. No authority,
no control -- hell, they didn't even *have* to 
listen to me." 
"Vasken Tenejkian? The SAC out here? He was 
the Agent in Charge on the original murders?" 
"Yeah. And you know how thrilled he was when he
heard I was coming out to testify." 
Scully could hear the mounting frustration in Mulder's
voice, and she reached out and took his hand. "And
how did you handle this situation? With your usual
delicacy and subtle diplomacy?" She arched her eyebrow
as she spoke. 
Mulder laughed. "Yeah, you could say that. I sort of
went on a rampage at the command center and ripped
down the existing set-up, declared it to be totally wrong
and -- I believe the word I used was *asinine* -- and 
then tried to establish my own domain." Mulder lifted
a hand to his face. "God, even I can't believe what an
arrogant little shit I was back then. 
"My little stunt didn't go over well, and it didn't encourage
anyone to want to 'play nice' with me. All it did was
serve to alienate me even further. So I insisted on copies
of everything -- had to go to Patterson to ram it through -- and 
I set up my own war room, in the hotel." He paused again,
watching the rain beat down around them, counting the
pulses on both the van and in his head. "Not a good move
on my part. It meant that I didn't have anywhere I could go
that the case wasn't staring me in the face." He shuddered
slightly and Scully tightened her grip on him, her thumb
rubbing gently on the back of his hand. 
"I could see those people all the time. 'Before' pictures of
normal, everyday folks. People who had families, and jobs,
mortgages, and debts, and hopes, and dreams, and desires.
And then there were the 'after' pictures. When everything 
had been destroyed. The damage Nathan did was so
extensive, so invasive, they had to be identified by dental
records. Even the fingerprints were gone." Mulder
shuddered again. "I saw it first thing in the morning. I
stared at it all day and into the night. And on the rare
occasions when sleep caught me with my guard down,
I lived it in my dreams." 
He lifted his eyes and met hers. "I knew him so well. I was
learning the victims, too, working on a victim profile for
prevention, but it was the Nibbler I was living with. He
was in me -- trying to take over and make that kind of carnage
make sense. Trying to explain the unexplainable. Trying to
convince me that the unreasonable could be reasoned out."
He sighed. "God, Scully, I never talked about it. I never could.
I came so close to losing myself on that one. It was always there
with me. He wouldn't leave me alone." 
Scully pulled then, tugging Mulder over, forcing him to
bend and shift and come into her arms. She fought
straps, and steering wheel, seats, and gravity, but she
pulled him down and wrapped her arms around him.
No words were necessary. There were no more words. What
he needed now was the silence. The peace and tranquility
of a safe silence, and the physical reassurance that he
was not alone. She held him tight, and could feel him
relax into her touch, letting himself be held, and letting 
himself accept her comfort. 
Around them, the storm seemed to gentle, the wind shifting
from a battering force that rocked and shook the van, to
a softer movement of air that forced the clouds to continue
on. The rain no longer beat them, but it fell in friendly
patter, its softer touch a comforting reminder of its
cleansing power. And the lightning still flashed and
the thunder still followed, but it was a light in the distance
and an echo of its former violence. The storm was drawing
to a close. 
Within the circle of her arms, Scully could feel Mulder's
shakes, and then the increasing heaviness as he relaxed
until the shakes would overtake him again and he would
tense. She held him as he moved through his own revisit
to the horrors of those years ago, his shudders moving
farther and farther apart, the moments he lay heavy in
her arms increasing. She ran one hand up to tangle in
his hair and she stroked the dark locks there, rubbing
at his scalp and temple. He shook once more, then settled,
and gave a contented sigh. "Guess we will wait till
morning," he said, and she could tell that he was 
growing tired. She kissed his head, nodding into his
hair, and he snuggled in closer. 
"He's out there, Mulder," she said warningly. "We need
to stay awake." 
"I know. I am," he responded. "Just enjoying the moment." 
He paused, then added, "Isn't it odd that our *moments* are
so often like this? I wouldn't wish this for you for anything,
but here we are, over and over again." 
" 's OK," she murmured. "I'm where I want to be." 
"I know," he whispered, and Scully could hear the awe and
amazement in his voice, knew that he was still astonished that
she would choose to stay with him. And yet, she could not
imagine her life without him now. In the six years she'd 
known him, in the one year they'd been together, she was so
intricately mingled into his soul, and he in hers, that she
couldn't imagine life without him. 
She leaned over again, pressing a kiss into his hair, breathing
deeply. She stiffened, then pulled up from her embrace of
Mulder, pushing him away slightly, and breathed again.
"Mulder, do you smell that?" 
"Smell what?" he mumbled sleepily. 
"Mulder!" She shook him gently. "Stay awake! Do you smell
smoke?" 
He sat up, slightly more alert. "Smoke? It's raining, Scully. 
You can't smell smoke." 
She filled her lungs again. "I do," she said insistently. "I smell
smoke." She pushed him again. "I think you better check. Mulder,
the van may be on fire." 
He was shifting now, moving to access the passenger door, their
predetermined method of egress. "Gonna get wet again," he warned,
pushing the door open and pulling himself up. He was back in 
a minute. "Shit, Scully, you're right. There's a fucking trail of
fire heading straight for the van." He was unstrapping her, pulling 
her up. "Motherfuckingsonofabitch! He did this, I fucking know
it!" Scully was half through the door, and Mulder placed his
hands on her behind and shoved. She emerged, rolling onto the 
wet ground and then he was out next. 
"You OK?" he asked as he helped pull her to her feet. 
She nodded, accepted his hand, and then rose shakily to
stand balanced on one foot next to him. "We gotta get
out of here. Fast." 
"Let's head for the road," he said and he wrapped an arm
around her and began to move in that direction. The rain
still fell, but it was a steady pelting of fat, round drops,
enough to wet them quickly, but with no force or violence
behind them. It was warm rain, a counterpart to the chill
autumn wind that blew through the foothills. Scully 
shivered as a gust caught her, and Mulder wrapped
his arm more tightly about her. 
They made for the road, Scully doing an odd hop-jump
step, leaning heavily on Mulder for each forward movement.
He was supporting her steadily, making good forward
progress, and they were halfway up the incline in short
order. It was hard work, and Mulder was reminded of his
own injuries, the ones he had forestalled telling Scully 
about. His head still pounded unrelentingly, and something
was wrong with his leg. If he had to guess, he would go
with a gash or some sort of open wound, because he could
feel bleeding with each movement, and his pants chafed
the injury almost unbearably. His side still twinged every
now and then, but it seemed to be the least of his worries
at this point. 
Scully did her little hop, step, and lean, and Mulder stumbled
this time, the muddy incline refusing to give purchase to
shaky legs. He dropped to one knee, the injured leg giving
way, and Scully slipped down beside him. 
"What? What is it?" she demanded. 
"It's dark, Scully, and raining. I just slipped." 
"You did not slip," she said flatly. "You're hurt." 
Mulder looked around, avoiding her eyes, avoiding her
question. He was pulling himself to his feet when there
was the distinct sound of a shot, and then, the van exploded.
Mulder flattened himself on the ground again, pulling Scully
down beside him. "We've gotta move," he hissed. "He's 
here." 
He got to his feet again, then tugged Scully up. They had 
started up the incline when there was another shot. This one
hit a bush to their left, and Mulder could feel a spray of leaves
fly past his face. "Shit! He's shooting at us, now!" They
dropped and began to crawl up the embankment, but another
shot rang out and this time it was right in front of them. 
"Down! Down!" Mulder screamed, yanking Scully backward,
and scuttling down the hill they had been working their way up.
He moved quickly, half crawling, half sliding in the mud, and
kept a firm grip on Scully, afraid to become separated in the
dark and rainy night. 
"What does he want?" she asked as they rolled and slipped 
down the embankment. 
"He sure as hell doesn't want us up the hill." Mulder 
looked at the still burning van. "And he doesn't want us
in the van." They reached the bottom now, and Mulder
pulled her up and began a desperate hop-run-drag for 
the tree line and relative obscurity. They made the woods,
and Mulder continued on, doggedly pulling, dragging,
carrying Scully, her ankle protesting with every movement. 
Mulder's leg was bleeding again. He could feel the
sticky warmth beneath his pants, and the ache in his
side was persistent now. 
They ran on, not long enough by Mulder's count, and
hours too long by Scully's as she struggled to keep 
moving, ignoring the pain in her foot. Finally, she grabbed
her partner. "No more," she panted, "I need to rest." 
Mulder slowed, then stopped, helping her to a fallen tree,
sitting her on it. He was pacing, scanning the forest, looking 
through the rain and the dark as if he would be able to see 
Nathan if he approached. 
"Mulder," Scully called insistently. "I don't understand.
Most people in his position would be running as far and
as fast as they can." 
The rain still fell, but the clouds were drifting. Here and
there stars peeked through the gloom and the moon itself
was intermittently revealed as the storm continued on. 
Mulder nodded grimly, then walked over to stand by her.
"He's not most people." He reached out and laid a hand
on her shoulder. "He's never been like most people. He's
sick and he's twisted, and he likes to play games." 
"This is all a game to him? Blowing up the van? Chasing
us down the hill and into the woods with gunfire? Biting 
me?" A look of deep disgust crossed her features and she
trembled where she sat. 
Mulder took her hand and tenderly traced the outline of the
bite. "This is the biggest part of the game. He's marked
you now." Mulder looked up at the heavens, the rain and
clouds occluding the stars, and said in a childish, sing-song
voice, "Nathan has come out to play." 
*********************************************** 
October 14, 1998
11:15 p.m. 
"When was the last time they checked in?" Skinner asked
as he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. Normally
he wouldn't be in bed this early, but he'd been fighting a cold 
and had been hoping a good night's rest would forestall
it getting any worse. 
"And you haven't been able to raise either of my agents,
or the guard?" Fuck! Why did things like this always
seem to happen to Mulder? Skinner listened as the voice 
on the other end of the phone detailed the check-ins that
had occurred and then the one that hadn't. 
"A storm?" he interrupted. "How bad?" Double fuck!
Horrid thunderstorm, almost zero visibility, winds, rain.
No telling what had happened. A wreck in this weather
could be either the best case or worst case scenario -- depending
on how bad it was and if anyone was hurt. He wasn't
immediately concerned about a planned escape -- George
Nathan was not known for his friends. He'd be hard-pressed
to find someone to call acquaintance, let alone friend. 
Skinner smiled grimly. Eating one's acquaintances was
hard on developing friendships. 
"All right," he said in the phone. "Get the search going,
and I'll fly out as soon as I can. I'll be in touch when
I get there." He hung up the phone, then dialed again, and
made his flight reservations. Another call to notify his
assistant of where he'd be, then he rose and headed
for the shower. If this went the way things usually did,
who knew when he'd see a shower again. As he stood
under the spray, letting the heat erase his weariness, he
was making plans of his own. And the first one was to 
try and contact his agents! He smacked himself on
the forehead, then turned the water off and wrapped
a towel around his waist. 
Still dripping, he tracked back into the bedroom, and
grabbed his own cell phone, punching in the speed dial
number for Scully. Recording. He disconnected, then
hit the number for Mulder. It rang once, then twice,
then again, and he sighed when it was answered. A 
sigh that turned from relief to horror as an unfamiliar 
voice spoke. "Agent Mulder can't come to the phone.
He's playing a game right now." 
End part 02/08 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 03/08 
October 15, 1998
1:30 a.m. 
"Here," Mulder said, pulling Scully into a very small,
cavelike opening in the side of a small incline. Hardly
room enough for both of them, but it offered a bit of
shelter from the relentless rain, and an opportunity for
respite from their desperate flight from the madman. 
He helped her sit, then propped her injured foot in his 
lap, fearing it was too late for elevation to help the 
swelling. 
"I need to look at your head, and your leg, Mulder,"
she said, and Mulder could recognize the 'I'm not
taking no for an answer' tone of her voice. He handed 
the light over wordlessly, then winced when she shined 
it into his face. He suffered quietly through her exam,
opening his eyes on command, and allowing her to 
run her fingers over his head and around the edges
of the swollen lump that marred his skull. He obligingly
dropped his pants on request, too tired to offer the expected
witticism, and that alone scared Scully more than the
gash that had ripped his thigh muscle. 
The rain had cleansed both wounds as well as she 
would be able to in this environment, so she reluctantly
turned off the light and let Mulder dress again. She
was shivering now, her jacket being heavy cloth and 
therefore soaked, while Mulder's was nylon and 
water-resistant. Somewhat. Enough that his shirt and 
T-shirt were basically dry compared to Scully's shirt 
and bra which were also soaked. 
He pulled his pants up, then took the jacket off, 
unbuttoned and removed his shirt, and then the
T-shirt. Pulling his hands up over his head seemed
to pull his side, and he was reminded again that something
had happened there. Something he still hadn't looked
at or told Scully about. Probably just a bruise. The shirts
were off and his hands were down now, and the suddenly
sharp pain that accompanied the movement receded to the
slight ache that had plagued him all night. "Take your shirt
off, Scully," he said, this time offering the leer she had come 
to expect. 
"What?" she said, teeth chattering now. 
"Your shirt. Your coat, shirt, and bra. Get 'em off.
You have to get dry." He was fumbling with her
zipper and had the coat off before she could protest 
again. 
"You can't give me your clothes, Mulder. You'll
be too cold yourself." 
"Not giving you all of them, just a couple layers --
and I'm going to make you share." 
Her shirt was off now, and he exhibited his prowess by
deftly unhooking her bra and sliding it off. He pulled 
the dry T-shirt over her head, then handed her the jacket
as he put his long-sleeved shirt back on. He sat next
to her now, and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her
close. "C'mon, Scully, time to share some of that body
heat," he murmured into her hair. 
She came willingly into his embrace. He was leaning 
against the back wall of the hollow, and she turned on
her side to lay half over him, her head pillowed on his
chest. "What are we going to do?" she asked quietly. 
"Try and stay out of his way. Stay ahead of him. He's
marked you, Scully. That's his signature. Once he marks
someone, he always comes back for them." He sighed 
heavily, shifted to ease her body more comfortably against
his own, then let his head drop to rest against hers.
"That was what I knew that no one else would listen to.
On two of the victims, just two, the old bite marks were 
still visible. Tenejkian thought it didn't matter. Nathan
had escalated so much there at the end, that the time
between the time he marked them and when he took 
them wasn't enough to remark on. He was definitely in
that fugue state that serial killers slide into just before they
get caught. But in the beginning, especially now that he's 
been linked to these murders out here, he would mark them 
way in advance. Before he got impatient. Before he forgot 
how to wait." He closed his eyes and dropped his head, 
nuzzling her hair and neck, seeking comfort in her touch. 
"Before the thrill of the game consumed him. 
"The early ones, the first ones, some of them were marked 
months, even years in advance. A small wound, a nip,
just enough to leave a mark. Happening in the night,
the victim would wake up and not even realize what had
happened. Just an unexplained injury, a little blood in the
bed. It wasn't until later that he started taking deep bites."
He pulled her arm over to him, and brushed his fingers over
the jagged wound on her wrist. "We really need to clean
this, Scully. You know how dirty human bites can be." 
She shrugged. She did know, but they had nothing to
clean it with, so what was the point in belaboring it.
"Nothing to be done for it now, Mulder," she said. 
They sat together quietly, but Scully could feel the
tension in her partner's body. He stared out the small
opening, watching the rain fall steadily onto the carpet
of leaves that covered the forest floor. 
"Mulder, I don't understand why they wouldn't believe you,"
Scully said into his chest. "I know you pissed everyone off,
but once you had hard evidence, the old bite marks, why 
didn't they believe you then?" 
"Tenejkian hated me. And I didn't help things. I tended
to present new evidence in the worst possible light, making
him look foolish and incompetent. And my *evidence,* as you
call it, was questionable." He shrugged, frustration over that
long-ago case still evident. "There were only discernible marks
on two of the bodies, and their origin was really unknown. 
*I* was sure it was our killer, but I couldn't sell it to anyone 
else. And I still didn't have a clue as to *who* the killer was. 
"But all the victims were found in abandoned buildings. And
I got to where I couldn't stare at the walls in my room anymore.
So I started haunting empty buildings in the local towns. Little
towns that sort of ran together in what I had determined was
his *feeding* area. I was running blind, wandering through 
the night, not sure where I was going or what I was really
looking for. But doing something, even that, was better than
sitting in that room alone, staring at those faces." 
He shuddered and Scully tightened her arms around him,
planting a light kiss over his heart. 
"I could see their eyes. Everywhere I went, I could see their
eyes. They were watching me, following me, pleading with
me to catch him. But I still didn't know who *he* was. And
then one night, I got lucky." He gave a mirthless laugh. "If
you could call it that. 
"There was activity in one of the buildings I was cruising, and
I got out to take a look." 
"By yourself." 
"Yeah. I know. Not my brightest move, but I didn't have
anyone I felt I could call." He sighed. "So there I am, 
sneaking into the building when there's this god awful
shriek, and I start running for the sound, and then there's
a 'whoosh' and something flies by me, shoving me to the
side. I stumble, fall, then get back up, and turn to follow,
but there's crying from in front of me, a sort of whimpering
sound that's getting quieter as I stand there trying to decide
what to do. 
"I pull the damn cell phone -- those things were really clunky
back then and I almost hadn't brought it with me -- and call it
in, spending some more time trying to convince the locals that
I'm legit and they better respond. Seems Tenejkian had gotten
wind of my midnight meanderings and sorta warned them off
about me. I'm arguing with Dick Local on the phone, got my
gun in the other hand, and I'm moving into the building. It
was an old office building -- long hallway with doors on both
sides." 
Mulder took a deep breath, waiting as Scully's hands ran
comfortingly up and down his chest. He winced slightly 
when she brushed the sore spot on his side, but she didn't
seem to notice, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "I finally
had the locals on the way, and I crammed the phone back 
into the pocket of my trench coat. I was still half expecting 
whoever it was to come flying out of a door or up behind me,
so I was moving slow, careful, you know? But the sound
was still coming from in front of me. The shriek had 
faded to a memory and even the little whimpering I'd
been following was drifting. It had turned into a really
tiny little mewl, almost too quiet to hear, and I finally
reached the last door, swung around it, and looked in." 
He paused, and Scully pulled away from his chest, looking
up into his face. The night was still dark, but their eyes
had adjusted, and she could just make out his features.
Mouth held tight, a jagged wound in his anguished face.
His brow was furrowed, and his lids held tightly together,
giving him a pained expression. As she watched, he opened
his eyes and stared down at her. "It was a kid, Scully. 
I found out later she was eight." He swallowed hard.
"She was covered in bite marks, but what killed her was
the wound at her throat." Mulder paused again, a sudden
uncontrollable shaking overtaking him. "He'd ripped her
throat out with his teeth." 
*********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
6:22 a.m. 
Mulder stretched in his sleep. He was slightly cold.
It made him smile. Scully must have stolen all the blankets
again. And he was uncomfortably wet. His smile grew 
even broader. She must have made him sleep on the
wet spot. He wriggled in place, crampy muscles demanding
movement, hands searching blindly for his other half. He
came up with an armful of sleepy Scully, and he pulled
her closer, tucking her into his side. 
"Mulder, c'mon, wake up," Scully said softly as she gently
shook the man beneath her. "We need to get up." 
"Nnnnn," he mumbled groggily. " 's too early." He pulled
her tighter, then wondered what the hell they had been doing
last night that left him with such a pain in his side. It was
like a stitch you got from running, but this intensified with
movement, and showed no signs of receding. He smiled 
again. Scully must have really put him through his paces. 
"Mulder," she ordered, "get that ridiculous smirk off your
face and wake up." 
Yep. That was Scully. It must have been one hell of a night.
She was always a little uncomfortable the next day when she'd 
been the wild one. Seemed to feel it went against her self-image
of reserved and self-contained. He smiled again, this time in
self-satisfaction. He was the only one who could make her
let go like that. Make her drop the reserve, lose the inhibitions,
the only one she let see the total woman, the only one she shared
her innermost self with. Only he. 
"Mulder," she said again, the shaking growing more persistent,
and the concomitant ache in his side increasing accordingly. 
" 'Nuff, Scully," he finally muttered. Why couldn't she just be
still and let him bask in the afterglow for once. He'd always
thought women were the ones who did that, but not Scully.
She was just as likely to jump up and start in on a case file,
while he was generally useless for several hours after. Hell,
he was frequently *unconscious* for several hours after. Scully
was just plain *awesome* in bed. 
"I fell asleep." Her tone was both embarrassed and sheepish, 
and as Mulder opened his eyes he could see the flush of color 
in her cheeks. 
" 's OK, Scully," he whispered back. "We were both
pretty wiped out." 
Scully smiled at him quickly, leaned over and brushed
a kiss against the corner of his mouth, and said, "Mulder, 
I don't know where your dreams took you, but you need
to come back to reality. We've got a problem here." 
He opened his eyes and looked around. The dawn sun shone 
through the autumn leaves, and colors swirled in the air. The 
just-rinsed scent of clean earth that so often followed rain 
filled his nostrils with each breath he took. From where they 
huddled, muddy, wet, cold, he could look out into a forest 
wonderland. Golds, and reds, and oranges covered the trees 
and the ground and danced in the gentle wind that moved 
slowly past them. The sun was a mottled pink, moving 
steadily into shining yellow, and already he could feel the 
air begin to warm. 
"Oh shit! I fell asleep. That bastard's out there, and I fell
asleep." He looked at Scully, then reached out to touch
the cut on her head. A trickle of dried blood ran a quarter
inch down from it, and he wet his thumb and scrubbed at
it. "I was dreaming." 
"From the looks of it," she nodded at his waist, "they were
pretty good dreams." 
He nodded. "You figured heavily in them." He yawned, then
stared out into the woodland clearing and his eyes began the
back and forth pattern Scully had come to recognize as Mulder
on the hunt. He sighed in relief when his scan revealed no
sign of Nathan, then lifted his arm and checked the time. "Almost 
twelve hours since the last check-in." He nodded approvingly 
then stroked Scully's back. Disentangling himself from Scully's 
embrace, he crawled out of the hollow, rose, then pulled her out 
and up as well. 
"I need to visit the boy agent's tree." 
Scully giggled. "Well, I could stand to visit a tree as well." 
He looked at her. "How's the foot?" 
"Swollen. Sore. I still can't put any weight on it." 
He nodded and looped an arm around her waist, helping her
to a tree a few yards away. He watched as she reached out,
balancing herself against the rough bark of the old pine, but
made no move. 
"Uh, Mulder? A little privacy, please? I think I can manage 
this." 
His eyes swept the area carefully, then returned to her. "I
don't want to leave you." 
"I'll be fine," she promised, "but, really, I need you to give
me some space here." 
She could see the inner struggle in his face, watched as he
tried to decide if he could get away with insisting, then knew
he had given in when his shoulders slumped minutely. 
"Just don't forget me," she called as he turned to go. 
He kissed her again. "No way. I'll be right back."
He took a few steps away then turned to look back at
her. "Better be quick so you don't end up embarrassed.
They've probably found the van and have agents crawling 
the woods by now." 
*********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
7:10 a.m. 
"What do you mean you haven't found the van yet?"
Skinner thundered. "You haven't even started a 
search? Did you *not* understand me last night? Did
I *not* make myself clear? Who the hell gave you the
authority to disregard my orders?" He was livid,
beside himself, and if this man didn't start coming
up with some answers -- *immediately* -- there was
a very good possibility he was going to take a swing
at him. 
"Mr. Skinner, sir," the man stammered, "I was all
set to get the search in gear. It was *your* man who
called it off. I assumed on your orders." 
Skinner could feel the blood in his face, the pounding
in his temples. He idly wondered exactly how high his
pressure was at this moment and if he was in danger
of stroking out. "Who?" he demanded through
clenched teeth. 
"The other agent that's here to testify. Agent Tenejkian." 
Fuck! Mulder, you just can't make friends to save your 
life, and even the people you pissed off seven years ago
are still out to get you. Skinner looked at the local sheriff
standing before him. "What precisely did Agent Tenejkian
say when he instructed you not to start a search? In direct
countermand to my orders, I might remind you." 
The man swallowed hard, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"He had been here since about 5:00 yesterday afternoon.
Waiting for the prisoner, but I got the feeling he was really
waiting to see your other man. Said they went way back.
He'd gone for coffee when I called you, sir, and when he
came back and saw me starting to get things rolling, he
laughed and told me it was not necessary. Said Mulder did
stuff like this all the time. Probably pulled over at a small 
motel somewhere to ride out the storm." 
"And you didn't think it odd that he didn't call and check in,
inform you of his whereabouts and the change in plans?" 
"Your man Tenejkian said it was typical of Mulder. And he 
*is* the SAC in the Bureau office in the capital. Said Mulder
screwed up like this all the time. Said he wasn't too sharp;
kinda implied he'd been carried at the Bureau because he
had some powerful contacts. Said the guy was an arrogant
little prick, but not one you wanted to cross because of those
contacts. Tenejkian implied I'd be hurting myself and my
department if we started searching and found the guy,
especially in a motel with that female partner of his." 
"Jesus H. Christ!" Skinner blew up again. His pressure
must be through the roof by now. "Get that asshole
Tenejkian in here *now!* And get your god damned
people out there. Get *everybody* out there. Neighboring
jurisdictions. State. Fish and Wildlife. Shit! Get
the Boy Scouts if you think it will help. Just find my agents."
He glared at the man. "Do you understand?" 
"Yes, sir," the man said sharply as he turned and almost
ran from the room. 
Skinner leaned over, resting his hands on his knees and
took a deep breath. No help. He breathed again, willing
himself to calm. Nothing. If anything, he was getting
angrier. He had to get a hold of his temper or he was
going to *kill* that shit Tenejkian when he came in. 
He drew breath again, rage suffusing him, no attempt
to calm himself having any success. With a mighty roar
of anger and frustration, he pulled himself to his full 
height, turned and took two steps and put his fist through
the door. He stood there trembling for a moment, then
felt the fury begin to subside. Ah, that was much better.
Pain exploded in his hand as he pulled back, looking
ruefully out into the corridor at the deputies who had
begun to gather there. He cradled his hand in the other,
rubbing gently, and made a note to himself. Definitely
time to look into those damn stress management classes
Mulder had been advocating. 
***************************************** 
October 15, 1998
7:32 a.m. 
"Sit, Mulder," Scully said quietly. "You already look
done in." She cast an appraising eye over him. "Head
still hurting?" 
"Yeah, some," he mumbled as he lowered her then himself
to the ground. 
"Leg?" she went on, even as her hand reached up to
ruffle through his hair, searching out the source of his
headache. 
"I'm OK, Scully," he said, gently catching her hand
and pulling it down. "How about you?" 
"I'm passable." She quickly felt her face, then said,
"Not going to win any beauty contests this week, but
nothing major seems damaged." She paused a moment,
then added, "My head doesn't even hurt anymore." 
He reached out and touched her cheek, bruised and 
abraded, the eye still swollen almost shut. "I'm sorry,"
he whispered. "I should never have asked you to come." 
She looked up at him. God, the man was a funny mix.
He could be so endearing one moment, infuriating the
next, and totally dense at others. And sometimes, he
managed all three at once. "Mulder," she began, "we've
been over this. You know I don't do things I don't 
want to." She stroked his cheek, her hand lingering on
the morning stubble of his beard. "I'm where I want
to be." 
He was staring at her, gazing into her eyes, losing
himself in their fathomless depths. It was a source of
continual wonder to him, that out of all the world, she
chose him. And not just once. She chose him over
and over again. Every evening, she chose him when 
they went home together. Every morning she chose 
him, when she woke with him. Her choice. And a
hundred different times a day, times when she could
walk away, or move on, or take a different road, she
chose him. 
He was leaning over, moving toward her, wanting
to scoop her into his arms, and then crawl into her
soul. To be with her forever, to never be apart. 
He was bending, head lowering even as hers lifted to 
meet him, when a shot rang out, bullet flying over their
heads so close, Mulder could feel the wind it created,
hear the tiny 'zing' its passage sounded. He reached
for Scully as she reached for him, each yanking the other
lower, laying on the wet leaves of the forest floor. 
"Move!" she hissed, as they began to wriggle
through the brush, hardly daring to rise to hands and
knees and crawl. They slipped forward as fast as they 
could, rolling at times for speed. They were scrambling
madly, propelled by fear and anger and frustration that
this madman was calling the shots, forcing them to 
play his sick game. Mulder moved ahead, one
hand reaching back to grab Scully. He gave a mighty
surge, then cried out as his side burst into agony and 
he lost his grip on Scully. He was rolling down now,
slithering and sliding in a flurry of decomposing leaves,
landing in a broad ditch that scored the forest bed. 
Scully threw herself after him, tumbling uncontrollably
down, landing at his side, her arms and legs thrown out
in complete abandon. They lay there a moment, panting,
then jumped in shock when something heavy, something
metal, landed between them. Mulder's ankle gun. 
Both turned instinctively to see where it had come
from, looking up the slope of the ditch to see Nathan
standing at the top, looking down at them. "You only 
get one," he said in a flat monotone. "Use it wisely."
He held up a bullet, balanced between his thumb and
forefinger. He continued to stare down at them for a 
long moment, then tossed the projectile into the ditch. 
"There," he murmured softly, "isn't this fun?" 
End part 03/08 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 04/08 
October 15, 1998
8:15 a.m. 
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" 
Tenejkian stood in the hall, shifting nervously from foot to
foot as he alternately eyed the hole in the door and the big
man who was now seated behind the room's only desk. 
"Agent," Skinner said icily, indicating that the man should
enter the room. 
The SAC stepped into the room, still hovering hesitantly by
the entry. He was not a large man, but he wasn't small either. 
Average height, about 5' 9", average build, about 160, average
age, about 40. His dark hair was graying at the temple, and 
his dark coloring revealed his parents' births in their native
New Delhi. He watched the AD closely, seeing the rage
that simmered in the man's eyes, observing the tightly controlled
movements, and not for the first time he thought to himself,
'I am seriously fucked here.' 
"Am I to understand that you took it upon yourself to 
countermand my directives last night, Agent?" Skinner
demanded as he rose and came slowly around the desk. 
Tenejkian swallowed hard, following Skinner's every
move. It was all that shit Mulder's fault! The man had
some kind of lucky charm that seemed to make everything
he did, no matter how stupid, irresponsible, unreasonable, 
or unbelievable, work out in the end. And it was obvious
he had the AD in his corner on this. The smaller man's
eyes darted back and forth around the room, almost as if
he were sizing up options, or looking for alternate exits.
He stayed near the door, unconsciously taking a half step
back as Skinner continued to advance. 
"I didn't see the need for a full search last night, Sir,"
he equivocated. "I've worked with Agent Mulder before,
and I am well aware of his propensity for taking action
outside the accepted Bureau norm." He drew himself up
to his full height, but was only reminded that if it came
to a physical confrontation, he was woefully outmatched
by the muscular man that stood before him. 
"Agent Tenejkian," Skinner began, then paused, hands
clenched as a wave of fury crashed over him. He forced 
himself to step back, deliberately putting some distance
between the man who stood before him and his temper.
"Two of my agents, *your colleagues,* are missing, and
your actions have delayed the search for them by over twelve
hours." He drew a deep breath, struggling to remain calm.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" 
"I acted as I saw fit, Sir," the man responded. "I have 
experience with Agent Mulder's -- eccentricities -- and I
refuse to allow his unorthodox behavior to impede the 
ensuing trial." The man puffed himself up and went on
pompously, "May I remind you, I am the SAC here, and
it is my case, my investigation into these murders that
linked them to Nathan?" 
Skinner trembled with rage. The man was a complete
idiot. How the hell had he gotten promoted to SAC
to begin with? He made a mental note to himself to
find out who had been on his promotion board. He
was willing to bet at least one name would be Kersh.
This was just the kind of plodding, by-the-book, 
uninspired jerk that Kersh would love. "And may I
remind you, that Agents Mulder and Scully, the guard,
and the prisoner are all still unaccounted for? And
that we are just now beginning the process of putting
together a team to look for them? A team that could
have been assembled and functioning by now if you
had performed your duties as SAC appropriately?" 
"I took action as I saw fit," the man retorted. 
"*You* took action to fulfill some sick need for retribution
against Mulder. I saw the files. I read the case." Skinner
returned to the desk and picked up a folder, throwing
it across the room at Tenejkian. "I know that Mulder 
tracked this man Nathan down and was responsible for
putting him away. And I know that you created every 
obstacle you possibly could for him -- forcing him to 
work outside the system and totally on his own." 
Tenejkian was staring wordlessly at Skinner as the
AD continued to pace back and forth like a caged
tiger readying himself to pounce. He clutched the
folder to his chest, papers slipping from it slowly
to glide gracefully down to pool at his feet. Could
this man really know what had happened? He hadn't
put it in his report, and Mulder hadn't either. He eyed
the AD again, thinking furiously. Skinner was angry
enough to know the truth. It just didn't seem possible
that someone like Assistant Director Skinner, he of the
iron sense of duty and holder of a reputation of being
unbendable, unbreakable, would possibly actually be
*concerned* about a fuck-up like Mulder. 
"I know that Mulder almost died on this case, and that 
you -- you -- were there and could have helped him, but 
refused to take action at the critical moment." Skinner 
was pacing furiously now, his hands clenched so tightly,
he wondered if he was drawing blood. And still the SAC
stood silent, unmoving. The AD forced himself to stand
still, then glared at Tenejkian. Well, maybe it was best
that the man was silent. If he didn't say anything, he
wasn't going to piss him off anymore. He watched the
man more closely, could almost see the wheels turning
as he tried to figure out exactly how much trouble he 
was in. Skinner snorted, pleased when the other man
jumped at the sound, then picked up another piece of
paper from his commandeered desk. 
"Special Agent Vasken Tenejkian, you are hereby demoted
from your position of Special Agent in Charge, and suspended
without pay, pending a hearing to review your actions of
the last twelve hours." 
Tenejkian's eyes grew wide, and his mouth opened but
no sound emerged. He stared dumbfounded for a long
moment, then said, "You can't demote me. I'm the SAC." 
"And I'm the Assistant Director. And I certainly can."
Skinner smiled, a smile that was totally without warmth.
"And I just did." He passed over a piece of paper, faxed 
in from DC with all the appropriate signatures in all the
appropriate boxes. "The original will be sent to you at
your address of record." 
Tenejkian stared wordlessly at the paper, disbelief
etched in his face. In less than twelve hours, he had
gone from a man on the rise, a man with a future,
to an unemployed middle-aged man, with little hope
of re-employment. He'd controlled himself as long
as he could. It was obvious that whatever Skinner's
reputation had been before, being around Mulder
had completely corrupted him. Where before he had
been nervous and concerned for himself, he now began
to burn with a righteous indignation at the shabby way
he was being treated. 
He hurled the half-empty folder back at Skinner. "You
don't know anything about what happened seven years
ago. You weren't there." He took two steps forward,
his voice rising as his temper increased. "You can't
know what happened. You didn't see how out of control
that prick Mulder was. Wouldn't consult with the team.
Wouldn't follow directions. Wouldn't even come to the
office. Worked out of his hotel. Wandered the streets
at night. A fucking ghoul, he was, searching out victims
with no contact with the rest of us. Spouting off bizarre
theories with no possible basis in fact." He paused,
ran his hand through his hair, then stepped forward once 
more. 
"And you don't *know* Mulder," he went on, his fury
propelling him to speak faster and faster until the words
were tumbling over one another from his lips. "This
little stunt of last night is *just* the sort of shit that
arrogant son of a bitch would pull. Always thinking
he was better than everyone else. Always thinking
rules didn't apply to him. Always looking for ways
to make himself look good at the expense of others." 
Skinner had stood through the man's diatribe, standing
motionless, arms folded over his chest, dark brown eyes
flashing as he listened to this self-centered asshole
attempt to explain away his own incompetence. First
the incompetence of seven years ago, and now his 
incompetence of last night. "I probably know Agent Mulder
better than anyone in the Bureau with the exception of his
partner. And while his methods may at times be
unorthodox, Agent Mulder gets results. And results
are what matters. If it wasn't for his habit of reviewing
closed cases, these early murders of Nathan's would 
never have been linked to the man. *Mulder* was
the one that made this case. You just got to claim 
the glory." 
"That's not true! I was investigating this case even
before Mulder decided to stick his head in where it
wasn't wanted." He moved forward again, the
fax crumpled in his hand, and shoved the paper
in Skinner's face. "You have no right to take this 
action against me!" Tenejkian was almost screaming
now, and Skinner watched in disgust as a dollop of spittle 
flew from the man's mouth. "You *can't* do this to me!" 
"We've been through this, Agent," Skinner said. It was
curious, but as Tenejkian lost his control, Skinner seemed to
be regaining his own. "You are ordered to leave the premises,
and not to involve yourself in this investigation unless
you are notified to do so." 
"This is all about Mulder, isn't it?" Tenejkian demanded
hoarsely. "How'd he get you in his pocket, Skinner?
What does he know about you? I heard you used to be
pretty good, but I can see there's no truth to that
rumor. Mulder's probably holed up somewhere,
humping that pretty little partner of his, and your
actions are nothing but tacit approval of his behavior." 
Skinner could feel his temper begin to rise again.
The man just didn't know when to stop. "That will
be enough, Agent," he said firmly. "Your actions
are not only an embarrassment to yourself, but to
the Bureau as well." He gestured at the closed
door, and the hole he had put there that allowed the
sheriff and his deputies to see and hear what occurred
in the tiny office. Seeing the hole reminded him of 
his own out of control behavior of earlier, and he 
felt a sudden sense of pity for the man standing 
before him. "Go home, Vasken," he said quietly,
"before you do something you'll really regret."
Or push me into doing something I'll regret, he added
silently. 
"Like this?" the man sneered, his fist coming up to 
make contact with Skinner's jaw. 
The AD rocked back on his heels, a curtain of
red falling over him. He lifted a hand to gently
rub his jaw, all the time chanting to himself.
'Control, Walter, control. Control, Walter,
control.' He stared at the men who were gathered
in the hall, crowding the hole in the door. What a
fucking show the FBI was putting on for the locals. 
He shifted his eyes back to Tenejkian. The man was
staring at him in horror, seemingly shocked at his
own behavior, and Skinner could almost smell the
fear that radiated from him. His pressure was rising
again, and he felt the same overwhelming rage
that had so overtaken him earlier begin to work its
insidious way over him. 
'Control, Walter, control.' 
He watched in bemusement as his own hand came up, 
doubled into a fist and lashed out at the man who stood 
before him. 
"Fuck control," he muttered as he watched the former
SAC crumple to the ground. 
He looked up and addressed the door. "Somebody get
this asshole out of here, and find the sheriff. I want
an update on the search for my agents." 
********************************** 
October 15, 1998
9:30 a.m. 
"How do you know he's not following us just out of
sight, Mulder?" Scully asked quietly. 
"It's not his style. Would take away from the game,"
her partner responded shortly. He was focused on 
keeping them upright, keeping them moving. The
pain in his head was better, but he seemed to have traded
it for a steady ache in his side, and this morning,
when he'd relieved himself, the stream of urine had 
been red. He snuck a glance at Scully, but she was
concentrating on her feet, trying not to be any more
of a burden to him than her injured foot made her.
He knew he should tell her, but she'd only want him
to rest, and resting was one thing they couldn't afford. 
He looked around, scanning for signs of Nathan
but there was nothing to indicate he was near. Or
that he wasn't for that matter. It just didn't *feel* 
like he was near. That was one of the things
he'd developed in his last encounters with "The
Nibbler," an uncanny ability to sense the evilness
that seemed to travel with the man. 
Mulder shuddered, then paused, and Scully looked
at him with concern. "You look pale, Mulder,"
she said, one hand coming up to touch his face.
"Are you sure you're OK?" 
"Head's better, Scully, honest." He glanced down 
at his leg. "And my leg's not bleeding either." He
sighed. "I'm just wishing the cavalry would come."
He smiled down at her and he could tell she was 
thinking of the tall, strong AD, the man they both
called friend now. 
"Think he's been notified?" Scully asked. 
"I'm sure of it. Like I said, he's probably got agents
crawling all over these woods by now. They'll find
Nathan before we will." He tried to inject some
force, some believability into his tone, but he could 
tell it didn't come off. 
"What happened with this guy, Mulder? What was 
it that made this so awful for you?" 
"It was a lot of little things. Just the crime itself was
enough to turn my stomach. People thought he was 
a cannibal, but he wasn't really. He just liked the
taste of blood, and he got off on watching people
bleed to death from his bite marks." He shuddered
again. "We found semen at several of the sites." 
"But you caught him, right? Weren't you the agent
who apprehended him?" 
"Not really, no. I was there, but Tenejkian was the 
one who actually put the cuffs on him and placed him
in custody." 
"But I thought you were injured in his capture?" 
"Well, I was. But I was already injured when the final
showdown arrived." 
They were still moving now, but slowly, and as Mulder's
thoughts turned inward, she took up the job of scanning
the trees for Nathan. She listened as Mulder spoke, but 
she kept her eyes on the woods that surrounded them. 
"I was the only one that believed he was marking them.
I started running a check on hospitals for anyone who
came in with a bite mark, explained or unexplained. I
didn't think anything would come of it, but I was desperate.
I didn't know what else to try." His hand came up and
he scrubbed at his face, new growth beard and dirt and
grime covering his cheeks. 
"I got a hit, though. One night, out of the blue. This
ER nurse calls and reports a woman was in earlier.
Said she got bit in some club she was in. Nothing major,
just enough to draw blood. They cleaned it and sent her
home." He sighed, and Scully tugged him to a log,
dropping gracelessly onto it, then pulling him down 
as well. He resisted at first then gave in and settled
down beside her. He held the gun, with its single
bullet in one hand, staring at it as if it were the one
who beckoned forth his memories. 
"It was an apartment, second floor, near the river. 
Beautiful view. I remember when I went in, the first
thing I saw was this floor to ceiling window, took up
one whole wall, looking out over the river. It was
breathtaking." He shook himself, gave her a small 
smile, and continued. 
"I had gotten the address and headed on over. I 
*did* try to get Tenejkian, anyone, to listen, to help
me, but no one was going to follow my lead, no
matter what I did. So I went alone." She had been
cradling his hand, but he sounded so alone, so
forlorn at this admission, that she shifted her
hand, and wrapped an arm around his waist. He
was taller, heavier, broader, than she, but he still
managed to fit against her side, seeming to snuggle
in as if he desperately needed the reassurance that
he was not alone here. She could feel his isolation,
his anger and fear, the overwhelming frustration.
It was all brand-new, fresh, just happening in Mulder's
memory. "Her name was Anna Torrence. Anna
Renee Torrence. I remembered thinking her initials
spelled ART. And her apartment was full of it. From
the view of the river -- that was a work of art in itself --
to paintings on the wall, to small sculpture and antiques, 
it was a beautifully eclectic mix of what was obviously
this woman's very good taste. 
"I started across the living room, gun in hand, my head
whipping around as I tried to figure out what it was that
seemed so familiar about this setting. I was almost to
the window wall, the private deck just outside through
an unpaned French door off to the side. I could see
terraces and decks off the other apartments, and the
river just flowed by, huge and slow-moving, ignorant of
humanity's evil. I was still looking around, trying 
to place the sense of knowing, of recognition that had 
overtaken me from the minute I first walked in, when it 
suddenly came to me. It was not something I saw that 
was familiar -- it was something I smelled." 
He paused a moment, nose wrinkling in distaste as his
mouth twisted in disgust. 
"Blood." 
A single word, spoken in a low monotone, but it 
spoke volumes beyond its abrupt syllable. Blood and
bone were the parts of their job he left to her when he
could. Seeing them, smelling them, or worse, touching
them imprinted memories too hard to erase for him. 
"Mulder," she whispered, stroking his arm once, then
reaching up to turn his head to look at her, and caressing
his face, "you don't have to finish." 
He shrugged, an almost helpless gesture, then went on
quietly. "I could feel my heart pick up, then slow again, as I
tried to dismiss it. Just a weird olfactory memory
from all the crime scenes I had visited, brought on by
the tension of the situation. But that was less likely
than the reality. I'd smelled blood before; I knew
what the odor was. 
"I moved toward the window -- it almost seemed to call
to me. From there I could see all of the living room, the
dining area, the doorway into the kitchen, and the hall
down to the bedrooms and bath. It was a great vantage
point to see everything, the center of the apartment. It
made sense that the view was the focal point around
which the rest of the apartment was built. 
"I stood for a minute, frozen, I guess. I should have 
been moving, going to help Anna Renee, but I was just
standing there, holding my gun, smelling the air like
some bloodhound on the scent. I just kept thinking
I should have someone there -- that I wasn't enough." 
His voice dropped, and Scully could hear the tell-tale
crack that only emerged when Mulder battled his
strongest emotions and darkest demons. She clutched
him harder, realizing anew how very real a thing memory
was for a man like Mulder. It wasn't just his almost
perfect memory, a mind that stored experiences as
clearly as if they had just happened. It was his empathy
as well, his emotional makeup that made him *feel* things
so keenly, that let him *know* things that others couldn't
know. It made a trip down memory lane like this one almost 
as bad as the experience itself had been. It certainly felt as
real to Mulder, and Scully felt helpless to comfort him.
Her touch and her presence were all she had to offer him. 
"I've never been enough ..." It was whispered to his
lap, almost too soft for Scully to hear, and a part of
her wanted to shake him and remind him how many 
times, again and again, he had been all that stood 
between her and death, and how she was still
here, still living and loving because he was enough,
he was more than enough, he was all she needed. The
other part of her wanted to wrap him up and hold him,
and protect him from all of this. To fix the world so he
would never have to hurt, or question, or doubt himself
again. 
He lifted haunted eyes to hers, and went on. "I stood 
there, staring, listening, breathing, and then footsteps
whispered on the carpet from the bedroom. A soft, 
almost soundless noise. I turned to look down
the hall and there was this muted *thump* from one
of the bedrooms. I moved toward the hallway, stopping
at the entrance from the living room. The odor was
stronger there, pungent and more persistent. The 
door at the end of the hall was open and I could
just make out movement on the bed." 
He flashed a wry smile at Scully. "My first thought
was that I'd interrupted Anna Renee with her boyfriend.
All I could think was what a jerk I was going to look
like when this got out. But my heart was still pounding,
and there was this scent, and something else, something
I couldn't place. The hall was dark, but there was light
from the living room, and from the windows, and it
made the walls seem to glow. I could hear my feet
on the carpet, that same whispery sound I'd heard
earlier. 
"I was moving down the hall, creeping really, and then
I was suddenly there. I pushed the door open a little 
more -- I don't know what the hell I was doing, procedure
was out the window at this point -- and I looked in. I could
see her on the bed. She looked like she was sleeping,
crumpled, on the bed, lying on her side, her arm flung over
her head." He paused a moment, clinging to her, and
she could feel hot tears against his cheeks. 
"The -- the bathroom light was on. It lit the bottom of
the bed, and cast enough of a glow to see the room. It
was done in white. A brass bed with white linens, white
dresser, a white floor length cloth draped over a bedside
table. White and gold. The brass bed. The hardware
on the dresser. And the picture over the bed. It was
one of those huge abstract things -- almost covered
the wall. It was in a gilt frame with a light of its own over
top, and a small brass plate beneath it. It was -- crimson
and scarlet and cherry and wine, vermillion and ruby and
fuschia and carmine. Big, bold strokes, the paint was 
slashed onto the canvas almost violently. All the reds
of the painting just seemed to merge onto the red of
the bed. The sheets and the pillows and the comforter
were all red. And Anna Renee -- she was red too. Blood
red. But all I could see was the little brass plate. The title 
of the painting." He lifted his eyes to meet hers for a 
moment, and a silence stretched between them, broken 
only by the hitch in his throat as he drew breath. "It 
was called 'The Misuse of Red.'" He stopped abruptly 
and shuddered, then pulled away from her and leaned to 
the left, one hand clutching his side, the other balancing 
himself on the log. He heaved viciously, unable to contain 
the sickness the memory brought back. He gagged several 
more times, gulping desperately for air between, and held 
his belly. 
Scully rubbed his back gently, then helped him sit
erect again when he was done. He was exhausted.
This race through the woods was wearing on them 
both, but Mulder seemed to be more worn than she
was, and her first inclination was to assume it was
because of the extra burden she represented with her
injured foot. But she looked more closely and saw
that there was a sheen of sweat covering his brow
and upper lip, and his face was stiff, as if he was
fighting to keep himself under control -- or to keep
the pain under control. She lifted her eyes, looking
around the surrounding woods, seeking any hint that
they were being followed or observed, but the trees
were still. 
She turned back to her partner. He was still staring
at his lap, face and neck tensed, body held stiffly and
he clutched his side with one hand. She narrowed her
eyes, staring at him. There was the head wound -- painful
but not life-threatening. There was the leg wound, but 
that wasn't even really impeding his mobility. And
still he was stiff, tight, holding himself, and struggling
to keep his face calm. She caught him wince, then bite 
his lip before he snuck a quick look in her direction.
She took a deep breath, then looked around again.
The hairs on the back of her neck had risen inexplicably. 
The forest was quiet, no sign of movement. She looked
at Mulder again. He was fading where he sat, head still
down, hand still holding his side. The stillness of the
woods seemed to amplify the harsh sounds of his breathing,
a ragged in and out that appeared to pain him. Her
hairs were still bristling, and she couldn't place the 
feeling of disquiet that had stolen over her. That Mulder
was more injured than he had admitted, she was sure. 
And while she understood his reticence to admit his
injury, it had to end here and now. He needed to tell
her what had happened, what was bothering him. Not
just the memories of what had happened seven years ago,
but the reality of what had happened fifteen hours 
ago. She opened her mouth to speak, to talk to Mulder,
to tell him it was OK, she wasn't mad, she understood.
To coax from him what happened and to pray it wasn't
life-threatening. She opened her mouth to break the silence,
to speak into the quiet of the autumn woods at mid-morning,
to tell this man beside her that they would get through this,
and it would be all right, and that she loved him. 
She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. 
"He's here, Scully. He's here." 

October 15, 1998 
9:45 a.m. 
Skinner walked quietly into the conference room, nodding 
approvingly. Sometimes it was quite useful to lose one's 
temper. It was amazing how quickly the task force had 
assembled once he decked his own agent. The men and 
women present seemed to be watching him with wary eyes, 
and as far as he was concerned, that was a good thing. Let 
them worry about the Assistant Director from DC, the big 
man who couldn't keep his cool. If they wondered about 
him, it would keep them on their toes, and hopefully, keep 
things moving. 
He reached the front of the room, hiding a 'we're going to 
kick butts now' smile, and turned to face his audience. He 
looked out at a sea of dark and light blue, forest green, and 
khaki -- representatives from the local and surrounding PDs, 
the County Sheriff department, State Police, Forestry Service, 
and Fish and Wildlife, as well as a couple of Corrections Officers
from the prison. Sitting attentively and respectfully off to the
side were several agents from the Bureau's local office, called
in to replace Tenejkian and assist Skinner as needed. 
He stared out at the assembled law enforcement officials, 
cleared his throat and began. He stifled another urge to grin,
though there was nothing humorous or happy in the almost
feral expression Skinner wore. It was more the baring of
teeth that a wild animal does as it prepares to attack, and
Skinner was feeling quite wild at this point, and ready to
attack anyone who made the mistake of standing between
him and the hunt for his agents -- and his friends. 
He introduced himself first, trying to maintain the civilities,
though by now surely everyone in this room had heard of the 
infamous Walter Skinner, he of fast retort and faster fist. 
An idle thought wandered through his mind as he wondered
if Tenejkian would be so stupid as to bring charges against
him, but he dismissed it as unimportant. He needed to 
stay focused on the search for Mulder and Scully. Introductions
completed, Skinner glanced at his watch, then addressed the
men and woman before him again. 
"It's 9:45, people. That means it's been almost sixteen hours 
since we've had contact with my agents and Officer Grasso. I 
want this group divided into teams and on the streets within the 
hour. I want mixed groups; combine with other agencies and
make sure we have a variety of experience on each team. If we
need additional resources, I want to know immediately." He looked
down at the papers he held clutched in his hand, a map and notes
relating to the Nibbler and his upcoming trial. "As you all know,
the prisoner is extremely dangerous, and there's a good possibility,
according to Agent Mulder's profile from seven years ago, that he
may already have targets in the area selected. We can't afford
any more lost time on this one." He paused again, letting the
silence punctuate his final words, "It's not just my agents whose
lives are at stake." 
*************************************************** 
October 15, 1998
9:50 a.m. 
"He's here, Scully," Mulder repeated, head up now, suddenly alert. 
She watched him grimace as he pulled himself erect, head turning 
as he looked for physical evidence of the presence his senses told
him was real. She, too, scanned the area, but nothing seemed out
of place. There was still no sign of Nathan, not that he had been
there, or that he might be watching them. And yet, Mulder was
so sure, and she could still feel the pinpricks of disquiet at the base
of her neck. "I don't see anything, Mulder," she whispered, even
as she rose to stand, hobbled by her injured foot, beside him. 
"You wouldn't, not until it was too late." Mulder bit the 
words off, eyes growing wild as he searched for a place to
go, a path to take that might get them away from the menace
he was sensing. He turned suddenly, wrapping her in a 
fierce embrace and burying his head in her hair. "Scully,"
he murmured, "he'll give us this. He'll think it's decent to
let us have this last embrace before the hunt is on again." 
She stiffened in his arms at his words, then slowly relaxed into
his hold. "What do we do?" 
His head was still down, he was holding her tightly and nuzzling
her hair, her neck, her cheek. "We get ready to run." His lips
traced a delicate trail to hers, and he brushed her mouth with his
own, moving on toward her other ear. "In a minute, I'm going to
step back and head for that incline behind me. You're going to
have to move with me, and move quick, and when we reach the
hill, be ready to roll." His hands roved over her back and stroked
her sides even as he spoke, and between words, he peppered her
face and neck with tiny kisses. "If we're lucky, there'll be cover
at the bottom, and we can use it to get away. If we surprise him
sufficiently, he'll be impressed and he may not even follow,
preferring to start the game over again." 
Mulder's hands stilled their exploration of her back, and he 
tugged her closer to his body, enfolding her completely in the 
circle of his arms. "I'm sorry, Scully. Sorry for bringing you, 
sorry for involving you, sorry for putting you at risk again." 
He took a deep, shuddery breath, and she could feel his heart 
begin to race beneath her head where it was pillowed against 
his chest. "But I promise you one thing, I won't let you die
like Anna Renee." He prodded her with his hip, and she 
could feel the hard metal of the gun with its single bullet as
it pressed her tender flesh. "I won't let him do that to you." 
She lifted her head to him, eyes wild with confusion and fear,
not sure she followed him, and yet, somehow, afraid that she
did understand all too clearly. "Mulder," she whispered, reaching
up to draw his head down and kissing him this time, "*You* did
not put me anywhere I didn't want to be. I'm here because
this is my job, and you are my partner, and here is where I should
be." She stroked his cheek gently, letting her fingers graze the 
rough stubble there, then lifted on a single tiptoe and kissed
first one eyelid, then the other. Beneath her touch, she could
feel him sigh softly, and felt her hair lift slightly in the tiny
breeze his expulsion of air created. 
"I'm not sorry for this, Scully." He spoke directly to her, his
eyes meeting her own, drinking her in and drowning in her
presence. "I'll never be sorry for this." He leaned down and
captured her lips in a long, deep kiss, and for a moment it
was as if they were the only people in the world. Then the
moment ended and he whirled, his hand clinging tightly to
hers, pulling her roughly behind him, almost dragging her
the ten feet to the incline, and then they were there. He threw
her down before him, shoving her hard and she began to
roll, gaining momentum with each revolution until she
was tumbling wildly down a hill that was much steeper and
longer than it had appeared. She could feel rocks and branches,
and even stumps punishing her as she bounced out of control, 
moving steadily downward, turning faster and faster, heading
for a line of trees and scrub that waited at the bottom. 
She couldn't see, she couldn't hear. She could only hope that 
Mulder was behind her, moving down the hill at whatever cost
to temporary safety, and perhaps, eventual escape from this
hellish race through the forest that this brutal fall extracted.
She tucked her arms and legs in as much as she could, which 
both offered some protection from the earth's beating and 
served to accelerate her roll, and when she could breathe again, 
she was sprawled against a tree, dazedly staring up the hill as 
Mulder tumbled in her wake. 
She was panting hard, drawing desperately for air, when he
collided with a tree and stopped -- hard. She could see the 
pain lines etched in his face now, and he clutched at his side
in obvious distress. 
"Up, Scully," he called weakly. "Move into the trees, out
of sight." 
She was getting up all right, but not to move into the trees.
She stumbled determinedly toward him, a little half hop-step
that reawakened the ache in her head with each jarring movement. 
"No," he cried hoarsely, waving her away and gesturing
toward the trees. "Scully, go! Get out of here!" 
Ignoring his words, she reached his side, and bent to help
him up. She risked a peek up at the top of the hill, but there 
was no one there, and for some reason she felt they were
alone. Mulder's assessment that Nathan might hold back and
start the chase again seemed accurate. She was bent over,
using the tree that had stopped his forward movement for
support, and she shouldered herself under his arm, holding
him tightly and forcing him to rise or pull her down onto
him. He rose, but she could see from the way he bit his lip
and continued to hold his side, that he was in considerable pain. 
"C'mon, partner," she grunted, and she started her little hop-steps
toward the trees. "Let's get both of us out of sight, then you can
tell me what is really hurting you." 
************************************************* 
October 15, 1998
11:10 a.m. 
"There! Look!" Skinner called breathlessly. "Stop the car. I want 
to look at that slide." 
The car stopped obediently and the AD was out of it in an instant, 
even as the agent assigned to drive him was radioing the other cars 
to advise them of their location. 
There was a small cleared spot on the side of the road, and some 
broken and trampled-looking bramble bushes. Skinner walked
through gravel and mud, and stood staring down into what
appeared to be a newly formed ravine, probably created in the
storm from the previous night. The violent rains and winds had
erased any evidence from the road that a vehicle had been here,
but the bushes and the mudslide betrayed the possibility that
the ground's erosion had been aided by the weight of something
big. Like an armored van. Skinner lifted a pair of field glasses 
that hung around his neck and scanned the bottom of the incline.
Trees, as well as rocks and shrubs had washed down the hill as 
well, and there was a pile of debris at the bottom. A pile that 
seemed impenetrable. 
The AD sighed in frustration, almost ready to turn and move 
on when the sun peeked from behind a cloud and a glint of 
metal caught his eye. He raised the glasses to his eyes again, 
and searched once more, this time settling on the corner of the 
overturned van. "Got it!" he called to the agent behind him,
even as he began a rapid descent down the mud covered side
of the hill. "Get everyone over here! Now!" Skinner slipped,
sliding about ten feet with arms flailing madly as he fought 
for balance. He hit a dry patch and pulled himself up, turning
to look back up and make sure his instructions were being 
followed. Sure enough, another car had already arrived, and 
brown and blue and green shirts were pouring out to join him
in the climb down to the van. "Get me a radio," he hollered
back over his shoulder as he resumed his descent. "And have
everyone converge here." He finally reached the bottom, and 
stood a moment, catching his breath as he waited for the others
to reach him. One of the forest rangers had a hand-held radio
and he passed it to the AD wordlessly. Skinner pressed a button,
then spoke. 
"This has just become the new command center." 
*************************************************** 
October 15, 1999
11:35 a.m. 
"Enough." Scully dragged Mulder to a halt, wheezing as 
she fought to catch her breath. "Enough, Mulder." 
He stopped beside her for a moment, half-holding
her, half-holding himself as he stood bent over with an
arm wrapped tightly around his waist. The sun had
risen high in the sky and the woods were painted in
cheerful reds and greens and golds with autumn's touch.
Birds chirped and twittered in the trees above them,
and through the quiet you could hear the swoop of
their wings as they flew from tree to tree. Squirrels
rustled in the branches above, and the hushed sweep
of leaves drifting to the ground made the scene seem
peaceful, tranquil, calm. Very much at odds with their
mad dash in search of safety and their attempt to avoid
Nathan. "We have to keep moving, Scully," Mulder
panted. "He'll be following, and he's not injured." 
"You can't keep moving," Scully declared. "I'm not 
sure what happened to you, but I can tell you're injured.
And you're getting weaker." She reached up to touch 
his fevered brow, slick with sweat from exertion. "You
have to rest." She paused a moment, watching him waver
then decide she was right. "And you need to tell me
what happened." 
Mulder looked around. They had traveled further down 
the hill and were in a clearing at the edge of yet another
drop-off on the side of the mountain. He thought back
to last night's accident. They'd gone over the side of 
the mountain in the storm, and then seemed to travel 
on relatively flat land until Nathan caught them. Then 
it was over the side again, rolling downward, followed
by more lateral movement until now. Now they had
reached another incline, another downward slope. They
needed to be working their way up, back to the road, but
Nathan was chasing them further down and further away
from the road, the van, and their hopes of rescue. 
He turned to stare upward, trying to estimate how far
they needed to go to get back to the road. Squinting in
the sun, he studied the steep inclines, heavily forested
in places, sparsely in others. Rocks, from car-sized boulders
to gravel, peppered the hillside, and broken limbs and
ravaged bushes littered the ground. Too far for Scully
to go on her twisted ankle. And, he finally admitted to
himself, too far for him to go with this steady pain in
his abdomen. A pain that was growing stronger and more
intense with each passing moment. He looked around
once more, then nodded at his partner. "We're going 
to have to hide," he muttered, "and you're going to
have to look at me." He dropped his head, embarrassed
now that he had to admit his omission. "I think I hurt
my side in the wreck." 
Scully straightened at once, slipping on her medical
persona, and demanded, "Where? Let me see, Mulder." 
He shook his head. "In a minute." He traced the area
with his eyes again. They stood on a relatively flat ridge, 
extending sixty or seventy yards in front and behind them. 
It was probably another sixty or seventy yards wide, from 
the slope of the hill they had rolled down to the edge that
led to the next drop-off. It was as if the hillside was terraced,
with steep inclines broken by semi-plateaus. Mulder hobbled
over to that edge and peered down. This was it. One more 
long downward slide, however it would occur, and they 
would be in the valley. And this was not a slope that could 
be easily climbed or rolled down. 
Scully waited patiently while Mulder looked around once more,
then nodded at one of several clumps of bushes and vines. 
She hopped over to the thicket her partner had indicated, then
knelt and began to tunnel through to the interior of the shrubbery,
hoping that the branches would fade in the center and that
the vines would not have thorns. Behind her, she heard Mulder
take a quick intake of breath, then begin to crawl in behind her.
In short order, he was wriggling up beside her, carefully moving
branches and greenery to erase any sign of their passage into
the scrub. Once they were safely embosked in the foliage,
she again waited until he was settled, trying to ignore the panic 
that was welling up in her as she listened to his increasingly 
labored breathing, and watched him disregard the pain she 
knew he was feeling. Once his head was down, and he lay 
on his back, snuggled up beside her, she lifted her head from 
his shoulder and looked down into his face. "I want to 
examine you," she said. "Now." 
********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
12:15 p.m. 
It had taken almost an hour to pull all the teams to the site 
of the crash. With everyone finally assembled, Skinner was 
ready to send them out to search. There wasn't really any
easy way to do this, and the rain of the night before had
washed any tracks away, making dogs useless. Skinner was
watching as agents and officers, rangers and deputies milled
about, talking quietly with one another and making their
own assessments of the situation. There was a sense of
unease about the group and more than one face bore an
expression that seemed to say that person felt this whole
exercise was a waste of time. He walked through the
group, not really going anywhere, but trying to look as if
he was, and making note of the snatches of conversation
he caught as he passed. 
" ... impossible for them to have made it out uninjured ..." 
" ... kills by biting people, then letting them bleed ..." 
" ... not much hope ..." 
" ... partner worked with Mulder in VCS. He says the 
guy really is *spooky.*" 
" ... does the AD expect us to find them ..." 
Skinner stopped here, and turned to address the suddenly 
abashed deputy. "I expect you to find them the same way
you would find anyone missing out here -- by diligence and
perseverance." He raised his voice to speak to everyone.
"I expect everyone to conduct the most thorough search
you have ever conducted -- and the most cautious." He stared
at the group congregated loosely around the van, watching
with self-satisfied pleasure as shoulders straightened and
commitment was renewed. "My agents are out there -- your
colleagues. And they are probably injured, possibly being
held hostage by a killer." He waited, gauging reactions, and 
was pleased to see the seriousness of the situation reasserting 
itself through the group. "Many of you don't know Agent 
Mulder and Agent Scully. But they are two of the finest 
agents I have ever worked with. Two of the finest you will 
ever be privileged to have on your team." He stopped again, 
then surveyed the group, taking time to meet each person's
eyes as he finished, "I want them brought home -- alive. And
I know you can do it." 
End part 05/08 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 06/08 
October 15, 1998
12:15 p.m. 
Her limited examination had done little but cause Mulder
more pain as she poked and prodded his already tender abdomen.
She wasn't able to make a firm diagnosis, of course, but Mulder's
pain, labored breathing, and the blood in his urine certainly pointed
toward internal bleeding. He was tachycardic and exhibiting classic
symptoms of hypovolemia now -- weak, dizzy, his face pale, his skin
cool and clammy. And the pain seemed to be getting worse, despite 
his best efforts at denial. She lowered his shirt as gently as she
could, then allowed herself to rest carefully against him, her head
falling naturally into the hollow of his shoulder, his arm coming 
possessively, protectively around her. 
"So, how's it look?" he asked quietly. 
She paused a moment, trying to think of how to phrase her
concerns, and he spoke again. 
"That good, huh?" 
"You know I can't tell anything definite out here, Mulder,"
she gently admonished him. "But, yes, I am concerned. I
think we need to get out of here as quick as we can." 
"Good idea, Scully," Mulder said dryly. "Any suggestions
on how to accomplish that?" 
She was silent for a moment, stung by his words, and then 
his lips were against her ear, his breath hot against her
skin, and he was whispering, "God, Scully, I'm sorry. 
I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He nudged her
with his nose, tickling the underside of her jaw until she 
lifted her head to look at him. 
"I don't know what to do, Mulder, and I'm frustrated, too.
I imagine Skinner has the cavalry out in force by now, but
I'm not too keen on laying here and waiting for them." 
"I can keep going a bit longer, Scully, if you can." 
"I don't think so, Mulder. I'm more than concerned about
your injury -- I'm really worried, and that just makes it all
the more critical that we get out of here." She took a deep
breath, knowing what he was going to say, but needing to
make the effort anyway. "I think you should stay here and
I'll circle around and head back up to the road." 
"Absolutely not." 
Scully was surprised. She had expected his refusal, but
she had been anticipating more of a roaring response, not this
deadly quiet, monotone statement. She looked quizzically
at him, waiting for more. 
"You don't know what he does, Scully." Mulder shuddered
against her, then winced as the movement triggered a jolt
of pain through his belly. "You don't know what he would 
do to you." 
"What he did to Anna Renee Torrence?" 
Mulder nodded. "You really want to hear this?" 
"Do you really want to tell me?" 
Mulder was silent for a long moment. Did he want to tell her?
It wasn't something he'd ever told anyone about. It wasn't 
something he wanted to think about. It wasn't something he
ever wanted to remember, and certainly not something he
wanted to relive. But, his hand strayed to the gun with its
single bullet -- reminder that a killer stalked them. Reminder 
that it was a killer he knew, one he'd faced before, one he
was intimately familiar with. Reminder of Anna Renee and
his own failure. Maybe it was time for a new perspective
on that whole debacle. 
Scully must have sensed his decision, because she reached 
up and cupped his cheek, saying, "The Misuse of Red. You 
were talking about the painting." 
"It was more than the painting. It was the irony of the whole
thing -- the red and white color scheme, the beauty of the whole
apartment, the stark orderliness of the bedroom. And then, 
there was Anna Renee, or what was left of her, in a bloody
mess on her pristine bed, the red pouring from her in dozens
of places, pooling beneath her, flowing through the runnels
her struggles had made in the sheets. And over it all, proclaimed
in expensively engraved, carefully backlit brass, 'The Misuse
of Red.'" He gave a sardonic laugh. "How rich. 'The Misuse
of Red.' It was actually quite apropos." 
He was agitated, and Scully murmured wordlessly to him, 
stroking his arm where it encircled her. Silently, she willed
him to keep talking, to keep fighting the drag of pain that 
threatened to pull him under. 
"If it hadn't been for the blood, she could have been sleeping.
She was crumpled on the bed, laying on her side, her arm flung
over her head. The lights in the bathroom shone on the bed,
and then there was the obscenely titled painting, shining down
on her, shouting colors, shades of blood, red strokes on white
canvas, red splatters on white walls, rivers of red on a white
coverlet. 
"I was shocked, in shock, I guess, and I couldn't move for
a minute. I felt my knees buckle and I went down by the side
of the bed, burying my face in my hands. I wanted to go to
her, to talk to her and touch her, but I couldn't make myself
move. I chanced a look at the bed and I saw her chest 
move -- she wasn't dead yet -- but I could tell she was dying.
I'd seen dead people, Scully, lots of dead people, and she may
have been breathing, but she was dead. But then, her eyes
opened and she looked at me, and I could feel her calling 
me, begging me. 'Don't let me die alone. Don't make me
do this by myself.'" 
Beside her, she could feel him shrug, then pull away as the
movement sent ripples of pain through his belly. 
"So I went to her. I stayed with her, touching her, my emotions
pushing away the intellectual part of my brain that screamed
to stay away, this was a crime scene, there would be others
who would need to see this, needed to piece things together." 
He smiled wanly. "It was her luck and her curse that I found
her. Someone else would have run screaming from the room.
Or called for medics, at least tried to breathe life into this woman
beyond hope or repair. But I knew that there was no miracle
in store for Anna Renee, knew with a certainty that this was
her last day on earth. So I stayed there, stayed with her, talked
to her, cried for her, thinking all the time that I should have
been there sooner, I should have known, I shouldn't have let
this happen to her. I cried, I told her I was sorry, I begged her
to forgive me, and she just looked at me with enormous eyes,
too weak to speak or even move." 
Scully was silent, still, afraid to say or do anything. Mulder was
so lost in the story, so lost in his memory, that even as he spoke
tears rolled down his cheeks and his voice grew hoarse with
barely suppressed emotion. 
"I was kneeling there, covered in her blood -- it was sticky,
and had that peculiar metallic smell that fresh blood has -- when
there was a sound from the bathroom and I realized I'd made a 
rookie's mistake. I hadn't checked the house. I heard that
sound and realized we were not alone. I tried to move 
slowly, carefully, reaching for my gun, when I felt a shadow
rush me. My face was flushed from my mistake, I was so 
ashamed, and then he was on me. I lunged for the end of the 
bed, the motion bounced Anna Renee in an eerie parody of
living movement, and I could feel how worn down I was. The
endless days alone, the nights of hunting by myself, the isolation
and ridicule and exhaustion. It had all beaten me down, eroded
whatever I may have had to offer at one time. I knew I wasn't fast 
enough, wasn't quick enough, or clever enough, or strong enough
to get away. The shadow fell on me and it had substance and
mass and muscle and strength. My gun flew out of my
hand and skittered across the floor, stopping by the door
to the hallway. I remember protesting, screaming
'NOOOOooooo!' in a sort of long, drawn-out breath, and
then I was down and twisted on the floor and a knee slammed
into my back. 
"The blow drove the wind from my lungs, my face was 
mashed into the carpet, and I was paralyzed, trying to scream,
trying to move. I pushed my knees up, grunted with the 
effort, and then I was crawling toward the open doorway,
my only thought that I had to get out. I thought I was going
to make the hall, when a pair of powerful hands caught me.
I kicked, gasping for air, as he flipped me over and I came
face to face with the man I had been searching for. He was
just a face at first, looming over me, shadowed by the backlight 
from the bathroom. I slammed my arm straight up into the
face, the blow glancing off his cheekbone, his flesh feeling 
cold and wet. 
"He flinched, then his arm drew back, blocking the light,
raised to strike, and I could feel myself tense, waiting for
the blow. My head slammed back against the bed frame,
my vision dimmed and my eyes were watering, and then,
just as suddenly, the face was gone. It was as if he had 
reached the bottom of a cord and been yanked back
abruptly. I was trying to breathe, but it was ragged and
weak. I struggled to sit up against the bed, then pushed
myself across the carpet and away from the last place 
he'd been. I was thinking 'I gotta get my gun -- gotta
get my gun,' and 'I seriously need help here.' 
"I got to my feet, headed for the gun, and he tackled me.
We crashed into the dresser, fighting, struggling in 
some sort of silent, evil choreography. I'd swing at
him, then he'd swing at me. He caught me in the face
and I could feel blood instantly -- it knocked me back 
against the bed again. I lost all the ground I'd gained 
in trying to get to the gun. But then, Anna Renee made
a sound, it was too quiet for a moan, too soft for a groan,
but I could hear her, and I just got up and threw myself
at the man, knowing this man had done this unspeakably
vile thing, and he'd done it before, and he'd do it again
unless I stopped him. I was quick, but he was quicker,
and he hit me with his forearm, knocking me backwards
again. This time, I hit the dresser, crumpled on the
floor, and lights were exploding in my head. I rolled,
grabbed the gun, and came up firing. Four shots went
in the wall where his head had been, then one in a
picture of Anna Renee and two other young women that
hung near the door. Even as I was firing again, following
him -- God, he moved fast! -- I could see the glass fragments
raining down the wall, glittering in the light of the hall
and bath. 
"I fired again and again, and then there was only one
bullet left. One more shot. And I'd lost track of where
he went." Mulder paused now, and Scully wondered if
he was even aware of her presence as he mused out loud
to himself, "How the hell could I lose track of the man?
I still don't understand how I lost him in a confined space.
My vision was a little blurry, but I still shouldn't have lost 
him." 
He looked down at her then, and she knew he knew she
was there. She had been there the whole time. He knew
he was not alone anymore, not even as he relived the horrors
of a seven year old murder. "And then I did the unthinkable,
even worse than not checking the house. I saw him again and
pointed the gun at him, then I ordered him to freeze. He did,
and then she spoke. The thing on the bed, the thing that 
used to be a woman before he mutilated it beyond recognition,
the thing that was Anna Renee, she spoke to me. 'Use it 
on me,' she whispered, and I turned, just for a second to
look at her, and he was on me, the gun was ripped from
my hand and I felt it impact my temple. I could feel 
myself slipping away, but I heard him, 'Next time, you 
should save one for yourself.'" 
He lay quietly now, the energy and emotion he'd displayed 
as he'd told the tale dissipated quickly upon its completion.
The silence seemed too sudden, too abrupt, and then she
realized it wasn't the silence, it was the return to the woods,
to being huddled in a bush, instead of being in an expensively
decorated apartment, watching a woman die. 
"Mulder?" she queried quietly. 
"Mmmm?" 
He sounded exhausted, and she wondered if he'd used his
last reserves to tell her this story. To explain what drove
him when it came to Nathan the Nibbler. To help her 
understand the meaning of the single bullet. She wondered
if he would be conscious in another five minutes. 
"What happened, Mulder?" 
"I came to. She was dead. I called it in. Tenejkian blamed
the whole fiasco on me. He tried to have me removed from
active service." His voice dropped. "He was right, in a way.
I blew it. There were so many things I could have done
differently." He shrugged. "But I fought him, and I came 
out looking like a hero for finding the woman to begin with, 
for tracking Nathan down, and Tenejkian came out looking
like an obstructionist." Mulder's voice dropped, and the last
words were slurred as he spoke. "He never got over it." 
************************************************* 
October 15, 1998
2:40 p.m. 
Two and a half hours into the search and Skinner was feeling
the frustration mount. The sky had turned dark and overcast
again, the temperature dropping fast, and a fine mist hung
over the trees, rapidly turning into drizzle. He moved almost 
reluctantly through the dark and dripping forest, anxious to 
find his friends, but growing more concerned with the lessening 
visibility and the poor tracking conditions. He had one of those 
rubber poncho things, slick with moisture now, and was cold 
where the wind blew beneath it, but sweating under the hood, 
his glasses fogging repeatedly as he moved determinedly through 
the wooded hillside. The only sounds were the steady patter
of rain on the hood of the poncho, the rain dripping from the
limbs of trees and leaves of tangled vines, the trickling of water 
runoff down runnels at the edges of the overgrown path he 
followed, and the footsteps of the forest ranger who walked with
him. The scene was dispiritingly gloomy and forlorn and 
he found himself wishing he'd had the forethought to insist on 
thermoses of coffee for his team. 
The trail, if you could call it a trail, was harder to move 
through than he had originally anticipated. It was unmarked
and decaying, corroded and rutted by innumerable seasons of
rain and rockslides, obliterated in places by determinedly
hopeful intrusions of ferns, and vines, and half-stunted saplings. 
Still, it was passable, and with no firm direction, Skinner had 
decided he might as well follow this and see where it led. The 
towering pines and creeper-draped oaks and maples almost made 
the path visible, hemming it in even where it was overrun with 
smaller plants. 
He was walking steadily, determined to combat the feelings
of helplessness and uselessness that he'd been battling
all day. Obstructions, wild vegetation, and sinkholes
not withstanding, he was settled into an easy stride, making
headway, but to where? The walking warmed him, and
the rain sliding down his face was fresh and sweet-tasting
when it ran into his mouth. It was an odd dichotomy, cold
wind darting beneath the rubber poncho, wet hands and feet
that tingled from the chill, yet sweating in his rubber hood,
glasses fogging repeatedly as warm breath met cold air, and 
the cool rain washing his cheeks and quenching the tendrils
of thirst that lurked in the back of his throat. 
After another mile or so, Skinner checking in regularly with
the other team members, the trail came out on a ledge, a ridge
that circled the hillside, extending out around him. His eyes
on the uneven and suspect trail, he first noticed the air
had lost its greenish, underwater cast, and he looked up to see
the trees had thinned. He was on the flank of the mountain, 
with what would have been a clear view to his left if the
rain would lift again. He found a relatively dry spot 
under a rocky overhang, and sat down to look at the scene 
before him, the ranger staying with him but maintaining
a discreet distance. Below him lay an unnamed valley, an 
endless, wet, billowing blue-green carpet, humped and 
bulging in places, like a stupendous, lumpy mattress tossed 
carelessly down the side of the mountain. Here and there 
he could see an equally unnamed stream glinting dully through 
the mist-shrouded green. Off to the west, a body of water could
be seen, mirroring the sky but with hints of pink and gold
and slightly luminous, rather like the opalescence of an
abalone shell. He stared out over the terrain, trying desperately
for some sort of intuitive leap that would tell him where to
go, what to do, how to find Mulder and Scully. He grunted
softly in frustration, then pulled his radio again, and began 
to make the check-in calls. 
*********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
2:45 p.m. 
Mulder was unconscious now, his head pillowed in her lap.
He'd grown increasingly disoriented, the pain pushing him
toward delirium as his belly began to swell. He'd finally
faded out completely a little over thirty minutes ago, and 
she'd shifted within their makeshift hiding place to cradle
him in her lap. It was an awkward posture, made all the more
uncomfortable by the steady drizzling rain that had started 
up again, and the rapidly dropping temperature. She felt
his head, chilled brow and clammy cheeks, then traced her
hand down his soaked shirt sleeves to touch the cold, wet skin 
of his hands. She leaned precariously forward, probing his
belly again, and he didn't stir at her touch, his lack of movement
scaring her more than a cry of protest would have. Leaning
over oh so carefully, she gently brushed his lips with her
own, offering a kiss of apology, of sorrow, of regret. He was
not going to be happy when he found out what she was
going to do. She kissed him once more, this time on 
his rain-slicked hair, and smiled ruefully as she consoled
herself with the thought that by the time Mulder found
out, it would all be in the past. She took one more look
at him, pale and unmoving, and mentally added 'If he lives
to find out.' She recoiled physically from her own traitorous
thought, and spoke sharply to the man in her lap. 
"You better live, Mulder," she warned. "I swear I'll
come after you myself if you dare leave me here alone." 
She shifted him out of her lap, gently laying him on
the damp, leaf-covered ground, and pulled her own
jacket off, covering his torso for what warmth it would
offer his vital organs. Regardless of her injured foot,
she was going to have to go for help -- and she was going
to have to find it, and fast. Mulder couldn't wait much
longer. 
She backed out of their leafy bower, then climbed unsteadily
to her feet. The injured ankle would bear weight, but not
much, and not for long. She needed a staff. She began
hobbling east, intending to circle back behind where they had
last seen Nathan, then begin the long and arduous climb back
up to the road. She scanned the surrounding area as she moved
until she found a stick, the right size and thickness, a bit too 
tall for her height, but she could make it work. She picked
it up, oblivious to the slimy moss that coated the underside,
and immediately picked up her pace, moving more rapidly
through the thickening trees. With the valley below her as
a reference point, Scully set a steady pace, moving confidently
toward her intended path, and eventual safety. 
Thirty minutes later she was as lost as she had ever been in
her life. The trail she was -- following? forging? -- descended
slightly, then began to climb, dipping into heavily wooded
growth then through barren, rock strewn areas with scrub
brush the only green to be seen. She worried vaguely
about being so visible, should Nathan pick up her trail,
but Mulder was the bigger concern and she trudged on. 
She thought she lost the trail -- deer trail, maybe? -- but
then it picked up again, gently ascending, though overrun
with wild blackberry brambles, ferns, and fledgling trees.
It required more concentration than she was giving it, 
occupied as she was with managing her own pain, planning
Mulder's course of treatment, and wondering where in the
hell the AD was. How hard could it be to find them? They'd
gone practically straight down the mountain from the time
Nathan chased them away from the van and into the trees. 
She suddenly realized she was no longer on the trail, and
looked around to find the valley and her reference points.
But all she could see now were trees: rough-barked loblolly
pines, soaring pintail oak, the occasional massive trunk
of an overgrown spruce. She turned slowly in a complete 
circle, searching for anything that might restore her bearings
and get her back on the trail. There was nothing. Even
more unsettling, she wasn't exactly sure when she'd gotten
turned around; she was no longer sure which way she'd
been heading, and she didn't know which way she'd come. 
It shook her completely, and she felt a prickle of unease.
The rain was falling more heavily now, and shaggy gray
moss hung from water-heavy branches like thick, sodden
draperies, oozing and slimy. A gray-green, swampy mist,
thickening even as she watched swirled over the ground,
threatening to turn into full-fledged fog even as she
watched its sinister and theatrical wisps. It was ominous
and unreal, just like this whole damn situation. Stop,
she thought to herself, this is no frame of mind to get into.
Time for some positive thinking. The other part of her mind
was remembering why she hated to hear the words 'forest'
and 'Mulder' in the same breath. 
She drew a deep breath, sighed, then said out loud, "All 
right then. Positive thinking. How far astray could I have
gone?" She looked around and decided to try and find her
trail by working a wedge-shaped search pattern, traveling 
out from a central point until she crossed the path she had 
been following. She picked a tall pine, slightly deformed
by a broken branch and seemingly unique and identifiable
from its deformity. She set off, planning to walk to the limit
of her vision, about a hundred feet away. She walked halfway,
then turned to check her home tree, and was astonished to
find it was gone, vanished into obscurity amidst a hundred
others. 
The uneasy prickle was becoming a stabbing worry now. This
was not her forte, she was out of her element here, an unwelcome
intruder and the trees themselves seemed to be conspiring against
her. She wiped rain from her face, and shivered in the cold
mountain wind. The air seemed to be made of water now, hard
to see through, harder to breathe. It was confining, restricting, 
a weighty burden to add to the others she carried. She drew
another heavy, moisture filled breath, then picked another
landmark. Two trees this time. One behind and one before.
She would move more slowly toward the further one, checking
constantly on the one behind her, moving as straight as possible.
If she didn't find the trail, she would return, and repeat the 
process until she had managed to orient herself, and get 
back on the right track. If she worked methodically, she was
bound to cross the path if it was within her search radius. And
it would have to be, she couldn't let herself think about things
like trails that snaked and curved through trees and bushes.
If this pattern didn't work, she would just have to expand
the area, using new landmark trees as her focal points. 
She set out toward her first goal, checking back and forth
between the trees, pleased that her reasoning seemed to be
working. What she hadn't counted on though, was the sheer 
number of trails -- deer, and elk maybe? Were there elk out
here? Some sort of large animal anyway, bear perhaps. Some 
seemed natural, meandering channels through the undergrowth.
Others seemed almost man-made, straight and clear for yards
before petering out into impenetrable growths of mismatched
greenery. She followed several false leads, one of them for
almost half a mile, before she stumbled on the trail she felt
she had been following, only thirty feet from where she began.
It had taken her almost an hour. 
Much more observant now, humbled by Nature's cruel
reminder of her superiority, she began walking again,
carefully following the trail as it moved eastward and
gently ascended. She was beginning to regain some of
her confidence when she entered a clear area and stopped
short, awed by the opening up of a long view out over the
valley. The same view she had seen within the first ten minutes
of her travels. The exact same view. Exactly. She collapsed
onto a convenient fallen log, only puzzled at first, thinking
she must have been following a trail that looped, that had
led her in an unerring circle. 
But then the truth hit her, and tears began to battle the rain 
making its way down her face. Cold and tired, hungry and
in pain, desperately worried for the man she loved, and she
had retraced her steps *backward.* All the time she had
spent, the energy expended, had been for naught. She was 
within half a mile of where she had left Mulder. She had, 
quite simply, been walking in the wrong direction since she
rediscovered the trail. With no sun to use as a guide, east had
become west, and she was back where she started. She sat there 
awhile, slumped over, wet, and miserable. The wind had
picked up and she shivered in her sodden clothing, no protection
to be found from the chilly gusts. The temperature continued
to drop; her hands were red and raw, and from the feel of it,
so was her face. 
She would go and check on Mulder, then try again. She couldn't
give up. She levered herself to her feet, clinging to the staff
and clamping back the pain that washed up from her feet and down
from her head. She moved quickly toward their bush, ready to
crawl inside and seek a little warmth and comfort from her
unconscious partner, determined to get out and back up the hill
before it was too late for him. She had reached the ledge again,
the thicket where Mulder lay securely hidden away was in sight
now, when she felt it. The hairs on the back of her neck stood
up, and she could feel goosebumps lift on her chilled skin. He
was here, watching her. She turned casually away from the bush
that sheltered Mulder, eyes scanning furiously for sign of the 
watcher, but there was nothing. She stood silent and unmoving,
the rain sheeting off her, for a full ten minutes. She had just
about decided that it was all in her head, when a hand grabbed
her arm, and she squealed. He yanked her around roughly,
the staff falling uselessly at her feet. She opened her mouth
and screamed, one loud, lingering sound that echoed in the
clearing and rang from the mountains, then Nathan's hand 
came up, her head rocked back, and blackness swallowed
her whole. 
End part 06/08


Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 07/08 
October 15, 1998
5:00 p.m. 
Did this damn forest never end? Was there no bottom to this
godforsaken mountain? Did the sun ever shine in this sullenly
wet climate? He felt like he'd been out here for hours. Dispirited
and weary, he was almost ready to admit defeat for the day. The
sun had gone AWOL for most of the day, and the evening 
shadows were swallowing what little light was left. There was
no way he could hope to hunt for Mulder and Scully, or for 
the killer, in this ceaseless rain, in the dark of night. And he
couldn't expect his team to continue on much longer. A choppy,
erratic wind drove the rain needlelike into his face, stinging his 
cheeks and eyes, and sometimes even streaming upward into
his nostrils to make him cough and sputter. Which would,
of course, fog his glasses. Again. And he had no more dry 
clothing to wipe them on. His trousers, poorly protected by
the flapping poncho, were soaked, and any waterproof quality
his shoes may once have had was long gone. The rough
up-and-down trail had long ago slowed his stride to a foot-dragging,
mindless trudge. 
When he found himself under a little open sky, he stopped
and looked up at it gratefully. It was malevolent and an
eerie yellow-gray, but anything was better than that tossing,
dipping roof of solid green. Even the rain didn't seem so 
bad out here, falling more gently in soft, fat drops. He was 
on another ledge, another of the seemingly endless plateaus
that circled the mountain, cropping out from hilly inclines
covered with trees and rocks and the dross of rainy slides.
He found a flat, open space, still with a view of the drop
to the valley, but surrounded by thick brush and trees that
blocked the wind and offered a little protection, more
psychological than real, against the rain. 
For a few minutes he simply stood there with his eyes closed,
catching his breath, thoroughly sick of rain and mud and 
the inexplicable dangers that always seemed to find his two
prize agents. Though he had, as yet, to confirm that the
missing killer was still in the area, that his agents were still
in the area, that they were together, or apart, or injured
or whole. In fact, there was a whole shitload of items he
had yet to confirm. Only Mulder and Scully could have
compelled him, their office dwelling, button-down boss, to 
be here, standing in this gray-green mist, drenched and 
shivering, halfway down a muddy mountainside at 
on the verge of the evening dark. 
Swaying slightly, with rain pelting his eyelids and each
breath fogging his glasses anew, steady drops of water
thrumming on his poncho, Skinner waited for some sort
of answer or direction to appear in his mind. But he
waited in vain. When no clear decision on how to proceed
made itself known, he decided to continue on as he had
before. Not that he had a lot of choice; he *was* halfway 
down the mountain, Mulder and Scully *were* still missing,
and Nathan's whereabouts were *still* unknown. He sighted
a good-sized boulder a dozen yards away, and moved to its
lee. 
Pulling the radio from its semi-protected spot inside
his rain gear, he spoke, "I'm heading down another 
of these damn drop-offs. Jackson, run another check-in 
for me. Make sure everyone is accounted for at all
times. We'll continue the search for another hour, then
meet back at the van. If it gets too dark to see before
that, head back sooner." He released the button on the
radio and sighed. It was cold and getting colder and the
rain only added to the problems the encroaching night 
would bring. He was increasingly worried that the
search would have to be suspended until tomorrow,
losing valuable time, and allowing who knew what to 
happen to his friends. He stowed the walkie-talkie back
beneath the slick rubber of the poncho, then began the
slippery descent down to the next level of the mountain. 
He reached out to steady himself, hand grabbing a low,
stubby tree limb. It was strong and sturdy looking, but
when Skinner pulled on it, it squashed like papier-mache,
oozing water between his fingers and dropping pulpy 
fragments to the dark mountainside ground. This bothered
Skinner more than it should. It made the whole mountain 
seem suddenly more deceitful, more untrustworthy. He looked
around and realized that the whole hillside seemed filled
with nurse logs, felled trees on which seedlings had taken
purchase, gradually straddling them with roots that ran down
to the ground. Eventually, the original trunks rotted away,
leaving the roots straddling nothing but air. The effect was
eerie. Skinner felt as if he were surrounded by giants' hands,
their splayed, gnarled fingers grasping out of the ground,
reaching out, threatening ... 
When he glanced at the forest ranger, he found the man
waiting patiently, tired but ready to go on. Skinner shook 
off thoughts of giants, chiding himself for flights of
fancy in the middle of the search and made his way down
to the next level place, slipping and sliding, precariously
balanced on the slimy mud and rotting leaves. He had paused 
again, assessing, planning, looking around and taking stock,
when he heard it. A woman's scream split the air, echoing
against the rocks, the sudden sound so surprising coming after
the hours of woodsy silence broken only by the patter of rain
on his poncho's hood, that he recoiled for a moment. Then
he turned and began to run. 
He'd found Scully. 
********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
5:00 p.m. 
Mulder dragged himself awake. No, not awake. Back to
consciousness. He'd been unconscious often enough to know
the difference. He was muzzy, his head hurt, and thinking 
seemed to take great effort. Movement was hard too. There 
was a lancing pain that permeated his whole abdomen, even
breathing was painful, and he quickly found himself taking
shallow little breaths to reduce the torment moving his lungs
caused. 
He was trying to reconstruct things, to bring his memory
into focus, when he suddenly stiffened, alert, the back of his
neck tingling. There had been a sound, clearly audible over 
the unvarying beat of raindrop striking leaf and ground. A 
branch breaking under the weight of accumulated water? A
large bird startled into flight? But by what? 
It came again, a scuffling sound, and then again: someone
or something moving, brushing against the foliage just over
his head. He jumped, then hissed as agony exploded across his
belly and blackness threatened to pull him under again. He 
could hear his heart pounding crazily and was amazed that 
whoever or whatever was out there couldn't hear it as well. 
The sounds stopped abruptly, then continued more firmly,
someone circling his bush. His bush. That was the second 
time he'd thought that. He tried it again, 'My bush.' It
was right, but something was missing. Damn this confused
thinking! The sound came from just outside his bush. He
could hear the squelch of footsteps now. His breath came
hard and fast, shards of pain splintering below his ribs
with each breath he drew. 
There was another sound now, more steps coming from
farther away, heading toward him and his bush. His bush.
What the hell was missing from his bush? He lay still,
straining to hear over the steady beat of the rain, listening
as the first steps grew silent and the second set came closer.
Set one moved again, sliding around to the left of his bush.
Set two, lighter, slower, somehow *smaller* he thought, 
since the steps came more closely together, moved toward 
him from the right. Two people were converging on his bush. 
The second steps were closing in, the first were silent now,
and he found himself holding his breath, listening with every
fiber of his being. There was another rustle from his left,
and the smaller, lighter steps froze. He could almost feel
the tension in the woods outside his little coppice. There was
no sound now, and no movement anywhere. His heart was
pounding again, thudding like the hooves of a three year old
in the back stretch of Churchill Downs. He wanted to
move, to shift into a better position, to get ready to get 
*out* and get away, but the slightest motion would be 
heard in this preternatural stillness that surrounded them 
all -- Steps One, Steps Two, and himself. 
There was something he was missing, something *vital*
that still escaped him, and he worried the edges of it in
his mind. Something just wasn't *right* -- something more
than this pain in his belly and the fact that he was hiding,
embosked in a thicket of summer green, liberally laced
with autumn's reds and golds. The silence stretched on
and he fancied he could hear the others breathing: deep
and slow, nerve-steadying breaths from the one on his
left, faster, shallower, tense little puffs from the one on
his right. He took a deep breath of his own, let it out
almost immediately, and winced as pain reignited in 
his abdomen. He took several shallow drafts of air, then
hissed through clenched teeth, waiting, poised on the
edge of ... what? 
There was a movement now, to his left, stealthy and
noiseless, and Mulder could feel the pressure tighten,
stretching across the ledge, pulling tauter and tauter.
He got into position noiselessly, ignoring the pain as
he shifted, managing to crouch on fingertips and toes. 
His muscles were so tense they vibrated as he waited,
counting out the agonizingly slow seconds. His eyes 
were on the narrow opening, obscured now, that he had 
come in through. No, that wasn't right. He shook
his head. There was something there, just on the edges
of his pain-fogged consciousness, something that teased
his mind, tickled his senses, tested his memory. 
Not *something.* 
*Someone.* 
That was what was missing! Someone. His mind fogged
again, pain from his belly soaring up to cloud his brain, 
clog his synapses, eclipse the dawning light in his thoughts.
There'd been the accident. They'd been running. Scully
was hurt. And they'd come here to hide. He looked around,
stupidly, as if looking again would make her appear. But
she was still gone, and he was still alone. Alone with two
unknowns just outside his hiding place. 
His ears pricked again. He'd heard something; the squishy 
sound of a shoe sucked into mud and decaying leaves. Not coming
toward him anymore, but already past, around the bush. Steps
One advancing on Steps Two. Was one of them Scully? He 
could wait no more. The sudden mental vision of Scully,
held tight in Nathan's grip, his mouth descending toward her,
and he moved, scuttling out of the bushes, disregarding the 
noise he made or the pain he felt. He rose shakily to his feet,
blurry vision, rain and cold wind making it hard to focus.
He was looking around, scanning the area, when she screamed. 
He'd found Scully! 
****************************************************** 
October 15, 1998
5:20 p.m. 
"So good of you to join us," Nathan said amiably as Mulder 
tottered forward, "but I'd like you to stop right there please." 
He had Scully clutched up against his torso, one burly arm
encircling her chest, the other holding Mulder's gun tight against
her cheek. 
"No," Mulder mumbled. "Not her. You want me." 
"Indeed I do," Nathan responded. "But this," he shook
Scully slightly, the nose of his own gun biting deeply into 
her tender flesh, "is a fine appetizer." He dug the weapon
in deeper, the sight on the top of the barrel breaking the skin,
and then watched, mesmerized, as a drop of blood welled up
from the wound. He turned his eyes back to Mulder, staring
silently at him, then lifted his arm from around Scully's chest,
one finger coming up to delicately wipe the blood from her
cheek. Then, without another word, he popped the blood
covered digit into his mouth, and sucked, smiling evilly
around his finger. 
Mulder watched this little scene, trying to remember that
this man was deliberately trying to provoke him, that his
natural inclination to charge was *exactly* what the man
wanted. He schooled his face to neutrality, fought down
the waves of nausea and pain that threatened his facile
expression, then asked, "What do you want, Nathan?" 
Nathan took a step back, then looked behind him. "I want 
a little distance for the moment." He pulled Scully and 
the two of them half slid, half climbed about ten feet down
the incline to a narrow ledge that was all that stood between
Mulder's position and the valley floor, fifty or more feet further 
down. 
Mulder looked around, hoping to find anything he could
use as a weapon, then remembered the gun tucked in his
own belt. He pulled it, mentally berating his slow thinking,
and pointed it down at Nathan. "Let her go," he ordered
in a strong but hoarse voice. 
"I don't think so," Nathan responded. He studied Scully
for a moment, then looked back up at Mulder. "Does this
remind you of anything?" 
Mulder grunted. "The last time." 
"The situation is eerily similar, isn't it? Circumstances have
certainly conspired to make things interesting." He looked at
Scully again, then pressed the gun harder to her face when she
began to speak, effectively silencing her. "Though I do believe
this one is more attractive than the last one." 
"You didn't get away with it then, Nathan. You won't get away
with it now. She's a federal officer, for God's sake! You have 
to know there is no way you are going to walk away from this." 
"No way?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. "I would imagine that if
both of you were dead, it would be quite easy for me to walk away." 
"I -- will -- kill -- you," Mulder threatened, his voice low and menacing.
The gun in his hand wavered slightly as his vision blurred, and
he swayed where he stood, but he had no doubt as to his ability
to kill this man. If he could just get a clean shot. Because he'd
only get one shot. 
Nathan looked around the area behind Mulder. "It's a shame
your friend Tenejkian isn't here to *help* you again," he 
commented, and Mulder felt himself tense despite the preparation
he had been making for the comment, or one like it. 
"I did just fine on my own before. I can do it again." He
bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood, trying
to distract himself from the nearly crippling agony that
was consuming him from the inside out. 
"Ah, yes, but it was such fun to watch him ignore you. To watch
him let you suffer alone. To watch him as you lay bleeding and
know that he would never move against me. It was a very
strange thing to realize that he, an officer of the law, would
never move against me because of his hatred for you." Nathan
paused, as if the concept still baffled him, then smiled. "It was
as if I were given carte blanche to deal with the woman." But
then his eyes grew dark and his face grew hard. "Until you
surprised me." The gun moved from Scully's face, and
pressed tight against her chest, over her heart, eliciting a
cry of pain from her. 
Mulder stepped forward, then stopped when Nathan began to
put pressure on the gun. Time slowed and Mulder could actually
see the muscles under the skin of Nathan's fingers bunch as he
continued to pull back on the trigger. There was a sound behind
him, another voice ordering Nathan to stop, but it was too late. 
Scully made another sound, a strangled cross between a cry 
and a squeak, and then Mulder was screaming, "Noooooo..." 
He launched himself over the edge without thought. It was a 
long jump and he put everything he had into it: the cold, the 
pain, the fear, the blood in his mouth, the hammering in his
chest. And above all else, above everything, Scully. He plunged
from the rim like an avenging angel, arms outstretched, gun
forgotten as his fingers reached for contact. This was a one
shot, success or failure, make it or not chance. Mulder flew
through the air, stretching his long body, willing himself forward,
and landed -- two feet short of Nathan. 
************************************************* 
October 15, 1998
5:30 p.m. 
Skinner watched in horrified disbelief as Mulder leapt over the
side of the ledge and disappeared from his view. Since he
entered the clearing in time to see Mulder emerge from some
bushes, to see Nathan jab Scully mercilessly with what looked
like Mulder's gun, to see her try to speak and be cruelly
silenced, he had been a nearly silent observer. His own weapon
had been trained on Nathan, he'd ordered the killer to surrender,
but then the man had dragged Scully over the edge and disappeared
from sight. Mulder had immediately moved to the edge and Skinner
had been afraid to advance and upset the fragile balance that 
seemed to have been established between the two men. 
He'd listened in confusion as Nathan and Mulder had alluded
to their last encounter. He knew from reading the official reports
that Mulder had been injured -- badly -- and Tenejkian had been
present, but this cryptic conversation seemed to imply that
the older agent had been there, but had not assisted Mulder. 
Indeed, it seemed he may have aided the killer, though whether 
it had been active assistance or passive, Skinner was still not able
to determine. From the report, Nathan had shot Mulder, a 
belly wound that should have totally incapacitated him. 
Tenejkian claimed he'd been unable to approach, or get a shot
at the suspect without further endangering Mulder. Mulder 
had not commented, claiming he was unaware of the other
agent's location or situation, as his attention was focused
on the suspect, and the woman he held hostage. 
Nathan had been in the process of biting the woman, numerous
deep, blood-draining bites, when Mulder had surprised everyone
and launched himself at the killer. They'd tumbled away from
the victim and fallen over the lip of a shallow ravine. In the
ensuing fight, the suspect was apprehended. Tenejkian claimed
to have made the actual capture; Mulder had been unconscious.
But Skinner had noted something in the photos in the file that
he felt everyone else had overlooked. As Mulder was being loaded
into an ambulance in the background of one shot, Tenejkian had
stood, one hand on Nathan's arm, the killer's hands cuffed
behind him. And there, visible inside the agent's coat, were
his own pair of shiny handcuffs. Which raised the interesting
question of who had actually subdued the Nibbler, and what
had really happened in the field that day. 
And now Mulder had gone over an edge again with Nathan, in
an eerie recreation of events from seven years ago. But this time,
there was someone who wasn't going to watch passively. This time,
Mulder had an ally he could count on. 
**************************************************** 
Nathan had lost Scully. She had broken free, then tumbled over the
side of the narrow ledge. Mulder could see her fingers, clinging
determinedly to the rocky outcrop just behind Nathan. Nathan
had tried to bring the gun up and around to shoot Mulder, but he 
hadn't been fast enough. Mulder had then launched himself at 
Nathan. Nathan had been fighting with Scully, then let her 
go to try and aim at the howling thing that fell from the sky on 
him. But his timing was off, and the weapon, swinging wildly,
only smacked Mulder in the chest, a hard blow that fell below 
his left lung. Mulder's howl of rage mutated into a cry of agony,
but he clamped a hand around the weapon, then dropped his own 
single-bullet gun, and managed to get the other hand around it 
too, just up the barrel and over Nathan's hand. He shifted to get 
a better grip, then pulled. 
Nathan hung on, staggering momentarily before he set
himself. The two men stood, straining and glaring at each
other with their faces only inches apart, like fencers with
crossed rapiers. Nathan's face was scarlet from the strain,
his cheeks distended. Mulder was pale, dangerously so,
and even as he clung desperately to the gun, he could feel
his adrenaline-fueled strength begin to ebb. 
"You won't make it, Nathan," he said through clenched jaw.
"Don't make it worse for yourself." 
The killer moved then, kicking him in the hip with a size
twelve boot, and releasing the weapon. Mulder stumbled
over a rock and went down onto the seat of his pants, clinging
to the barrel of the gun even as he struggled furiously to
turn it and point it at the man before him. There was a
shot, and Mulder looked around, puzzled, but then Nathan
was coming at him. He kicked him again, catching him
under the arm this time, and tugging at the gun simultaneously
time. Flinching with pain and dragged over the stones by
the larger man, Mulder held on grimly, forcing the muzzle 
of the Sig to the side. Letting go would be the end of 
everything, for him and for Scully. He glanced over to see
her small fingers still tenaciously clinging to the rocks. 
The bullet was in the chamber, the gun was cocked, and 
Nathan's finger was on the trigger. A quick, simple squeeze
was all it would take for Mulder to die. Scully wouldn't be
long following. 
Somehow, he managed to scramble to his feet again, helped
inadvertently by Nathan hauling on the gun. But although
he got his other hand on the Sig again, his grip slipped and
the sight was digging agonizingly into his palm. He almost 
lost his hold altogether. He *was* losing his hold. He was
winded now, the last kick had taken his last reserves out
of him. Nathan was wrenching at the gun, and Mulder
could feel his arms begin to tremble. 
A sudden sense of despair overcame him. It was like the
last time -- all over again. He was wounded, Nathan had
the best of him, and he was all alone. Only this time it was
Scully who would pay for his ineptitude. He suddenly realized
that he was going to lose this one. Nathan was fresher. He
was heavier. He was stronger. This man was going to
kill him, and then he was going to torture Scully until she
died, the life blood stolen from her through obscene parodies
of a lover's kiss. 
Nathan was staring, watching as Mulder acknowledged that
the end was near. He saw the desperation creep into Mulder's
eyes, then the flare of anger and fight, then acceptance and
resignation. He smiled maliciously, then sneered, "God ...
damn ... you ... Let go!" 
And Mulder let go. 
Nathan rocketed backward like a man shot out of a canon. 
He fell heavily, but rebounded quickly, rising to take aim
at Mulder's head. 
But another shot rang out, and this time Nathan's arm
exploded in bright red. There was no cry or curse, no
futile scrambling for balance, no surprised expression of
horror. His eyes, fixed as they were on Mulder's, showed
only curious interest. His mouth opened, even as he was
stepping backward, momentum from the shot driving him
toward the edge. 
"Oh my," he said in a clear voice even as he reached the 
edge and began to plummet backward, "I guess you weren't
as alone as I thought." 
End part 07/08 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 08/08 
October 15, 1998
7:25 p.m. 
"Scully, you can't do anything for him now. Let them take a look
at you." His voice was hard, loud, echoing out brusquely over
the unceasing hospital sounds of gurneys rolling, metal instruments 
clanking, phones ringing, the low murmur of voices -- doctors,
patients, family and friends. Just behind them, in the OR waiting
room, a young man could be heard crying, his harsh sobs ringing
over all the other sounds combined. But from Scully, there was
no sound at all. Just the worn out stance, weight shifting from 
foot to foot, the uneven breaths that betrayed her inner emotions, 
and the rare sigh that slipped between her battered lips. 
She was standing -- leaning really -- by the wide double doors to 
the operating room, peering uselessly through the windows into 
the empty corridor on the other side. She'd refused all attempts 
at treatment, growing increasingly hostile, until finally the medical
people had left her alone. But now she looked exhausted, on the
verge of collapse, and her expression had changed from fiercely 
protective and borderline pugnacious to simply tired, worried, and
fretful. 
One side of her face was a purply-red, lividly bruised in stark 
contrast to her fair complexion. She was in obvious pain as she
listed awkwardly to one side, her body's subconscious reaction to
the injured foot that she insisted on using, insisted on standing
upon. A gash decorated the top of her brow and while it no
longer bled, and didn't look as if it had for some time, it bothered
Skinner to see it -- a palpable reminder that she had been hurt 
and was still untreated. 
"Scully," he said again, deliberately softening his tone and 
lowering his voice to a near whisper. 
"What?" she mumbled, beyond anger, beyond frustration, entering
a space where her body was threatening to shut down on her. She
didn't turn to look, never even really acknowledging him. 
He waited patiently, refusing to move, refusing to speak 
again, just staring at her steadily until she finally, slowly,
resentfully, turned her head and gazed up at him. The 
naked pain in her eyes, not physical pain -- that had been 
dismissed from her mind the moment Mulder had collapsed 
on the ledge -- but emotional pain, anguish, worry, even fear
for her partner's life -- that pain struck him like a blow,
and he actually took a half-step back before he caught and
collected himself. Her eyes were fastened on him now,
waiting for him to say his piece, and he wondered if it 
was out of respect for him as her supervisor, or a recognition
of him as her friend that she even gave him, albeit grudgingly,
this much attention. 
He met her eyes and held them, then took a deep breath and
gently reached out to pull free a strand of auburn hair that was
stuck to her cheek with old blood. He tucked the hair behind
her ear, then let his hand linger for a moment against her
bruised face. He was surprised to see tears spring to her eyes,
though none actually fell, and he had to remind himself that
this independent young woman was still unused to allowing
people to care for her -- even her friends. 
"Mulder's in good hands, Dana," he murmured, his hand 
dropping slowly from her cheek to shoulder, even as he
took a step closer to her. It was like approaching a wild
animal, injured and afraid. She was skittish, unsure of what
he wanted, unsure of what she herself wanted. He held
her shoulder carefully, still unaware of what injuries might
be hidden beneath her clothing, and spoke again, "They're 
taking care of him. They said it looked good, that we got him
to the hospital in time." 
He advanced again, another step closer, his hand sliding 
from her shoulder to her back. She trembled beneath his
touch and he wondered again at the strength her compact
body possessed. "It's your turn, Dana," he whispered as
he pulled her into his embrace. "It's time for them to 
look at you. Time for you to be treated." 
She was standing against him, body rigid and shaking,
her weight resting on the uninjured foot. Her hands hung
stiffly at her side and her chin was down, her eyes fastened
to the floor. Aside from her one word question, she hadn't
spoken. 
"You can let go now, Dana," he murmured. "It's OK to
let go. I've got you now." 
Inside the protective circle of his arms, he could feel her 
fight, body stiffening even more, then finally relaxing, and
the tears began to fall. 
"He almost died, Walter," she whispered, her face plastered
to his broad chest, a damp spot already beneath her face,
growing wetter by the minute. "He came so close, all because
of me." 
"Shhh," he soothed. "It's not because of you, you know that.
It's because Mulder is who he is. It's the way he's made. But
he's going to be OK. You understand? He's going to be OK."
Skinner had dropped his head until his face was buried in
Scully's hair and he was whispering his words of encouragement
into her ear. Wisps of silky fine hair tickled his nose and
chin, and he could smell the woods, and blood, and dirt in her
hair, and under it all a faint hint of shampoo. 
"I --" she stopped, a sob eclipsing her words, "I just can't stand
to see him hurt like this. Over and over again. It's going to
kill him. It *is* killing me. There's nothing I can do to protect
him, nowhere we can go, no place that would be safe. It seems
as if Mulder operates under a curse -- if something can go wrong,
it will." 
She sniffed again, then leaned heavily against him, letting
him hold her, taking what meager comfort he could offer.
He had no words for her now. What could he say? He'd 
often felt the same way. Mulder was unique -- nothing he did
was ever *usual.* But Scully loved him, and in his own
way, he did too. The man certainly needed people to love
him -- he'd known little enough of it in his life. 
But Mulder was being cared for. Well-trained people were
putting him back together one more time. Piecing him back
into shape so that, like the phoenix, he could rise from his own
ashes and live to fight another day. For now, it was Scully
who needed his care and concern, and -- he slowly admitted
to himself -- his love. It was still a surprise that these two 
had come into his heart and engendered in him emotions he
thought long dead. Learning to be a friend, learning to care,
learning to love. It was all a new and frightening feeling,
but Walter Skinner had never backed down from a challenge,
and he wasn't going to start now. 
He looked down at the woman in his arms. She was looking
up at him expectantly, waiting for whatever he would say that
would make it all right. As if he could wave a magic wand
and make the past two days disappear. But he had neither
magic wand or words, so he settled for a quick kiss on her
forehead, then he scooped her up, turned, and walked 
down the hall. 
"Mulder will be fine," he said again, silencing her protestations
with a look. "But I may not be so lucky if he comes to and 
finds I've let you go unattended." He smiled down at her,
snagged a passing physician, then added, "Be still," in a 
mock stern voice. 
When her eyes widened in surprise at his sudden gruffness,
he added, "Either you're not as small as you look, or I'm not 
as young as I pretend to be, but you need to be still or I just
may drop you." He smiled at her, then at the doctor who had
followed them into a room further down the hall. 
He put her gently on the bed, then whispered in her ear, "Do
you want me to stay, or shall I go stand watch for Mulder?" 
"Mulder, please," she murmured back, and when he started
to rise, she surprised him by catching him about the neck, 
and tugging him back down. She certainly was strong;
her arms were like a vise and while he could have pulled
away, he didn't want to. She held him tight, forcing him
to stay bent over, with his head hovering beside her own. 
She leaned over an inch or so, and planted a soft kiss
on his scratchy cheek, then hugged him close. "Thank
you, Walter," she said in a strong, even voice, the first
he'd heard from her all night. "For everything." 
******************************************* 
October 16, 1998
5:30 a.m. 
"I don't like this," Skinner muttered to himself, staring
at the pallid face of the man who lay in the bed. "I don't
like this at all." 
He glanced up as a white-coated woman entered the room,
then rose to meet her at the foot of Mulder's bed. "Why
isn't he waking up?" he demanded. 
"Mr. Skinner, sir," the woman soothed, "he's been through
a lot. I'm amazed the man was able to move at all yesterday,
let alone fight someone able-bodied." 
"But he should still be waking up," Skinner insisted. "You
don't know Mulder. *Nothing* keeps him down for long." 
"Well, this is going to," the woman responded. "The lacerations
to his kidney were deep and profuse. We took a piece of his
spleen out, repaired nicked blood vessels, and sewed up his 
kidneys and liver. He's got over a hundred stitches inside his 
belly, and, quite frankly, sleep is *just* what he needs." 
Skinner looked away, slightly abashed at the woman's intensity,
then returned his gaze to the man in the bed. "I'm telling you,"
he repeated, "Mulder *doesn't* stay down like this." He turned
to the woman, hating the note of desperate pleading that crept
into his voice, and asked, "Are you *sure* nothing else is wrong?" 
At Skinner's troubled concern, the doctor softened somewhat, 
and said, "We're keeping a very close watch on him, sir. He's
being monitored twenty-four hours a day. Medically, there is
nothing more we can do but give him time." She paused a 
moment, studying the older man, then tentatively reached out
and laid her hand on his arm. "Your friend will be all right,
Mr. Skinner. Give him time." 
Skinner looked at the capable hand that rested on his forearm,
then looked up to meet Dr. Esposito's eyes. "I -- He *is* my
friend, and I worry," he admitted softly. 
"I understand. But he's strong and healthy and he's going to
be just fine, given time. You just have to trust me on this." 
Skinner smiled gratefully, then walked back to his chair by
the bed, resuming his vigil. He heard the doctor leave, and
heard her words once more. 
'You just have to trust me on this.' 
It always surprised him how easily most people spoke of 
trust. And how hard it was for people like him. 
***************************************** 
October 16, 1998
7:00 a.m. 
Skinner started awake, a hand on his shoulder. He looked
around quickly, just barely restraining himself from flipping
the frightened-looking young man who had touched him
onto the floor. He released the aide's wrist, then mumbled
an apology. 
"That's all right, sir," the young man responded. "I didn't
mean to startle you. But the woman? Your other agent? She's
awake, and she's causing a fuss." 
'I just bet she is,' Skinner thought to himself as he sighed and
rose. Finally getting Scully to submit to treatment had been
amazing in and of itself, but actually getting her to sleep
had been nothing short of miraculous. Said treatment had 
revealed a hairline skull fracture, and a chipped bone in
the injured ankle. To say nothing of bruises, bumps, and
bang-ups. Scully had been treated and assigned a room for 
the night for observation, which she had promptly vacated 
to resume her watch outside the OR. Skinner had tired of 
arguing with her, and let her stay until Mulder was out of 
surgery and settled in his own room. But he had put his 
foot down at her intent to spend the night in a chair by
her lover's bed. Threats had not worked this time, and he 
had finally resorted to a tried and true method -- one he'd 
used before when she was being particularly intransigent. 
He'd picked her up, hauled her to her own room, placed 
her firmly in the bed, and posted an armed guard outside 
her door. It was beginning to be a habit. He was really 
going to have to work on his persuasive skills as he didn't
think he'd be as successful in manhandling Scully when
she wasn't injured and exhausted. 
He took a last look at Mulder, then ducked into the little
bathroom and washed his face and scrubbed at his teeth
with his finger. It was a poor substitute, but it would have
to do. He took a towel and dried his hands, then straightened,
and walked briskly out the door and over to Scully's room.
Different rooms, same floor. It was the best he could arrange.
And an agent on guard duty outside both doors. He'd left 
the clean-up in the woods to the others, accompanying his
friends to the hospital. And while Nathan should be securely
in custody at this point, he was taking no chances for the
time being. 
"I want to see him," she demanded as soon as his head 
cleared the doorway. 
"Good morning to you too, Agent Scully," he responded
in his best AD voice. 
She had the decency to look chagrined, but it only lasted
a moment as she said, "Good morning, Sir," and then
repeated, "I want to see him." 
Skinner had expected as much, and had already made sure
a wheelchair was available. With Scully fully awake and
aware, he didn't think much of his chances of carrying
her again. He sighed at her determination, then said,
"Give me a minute to get a chair, OK?" 
She nodded and he stepped out, returning quickly with
her conveyance. She was putting on a second hospital 
gown, this one going on back to front to serve as a robe,
and had already slipped one foot into a rubber-footed sock.
The other foot was bare, the ankle in a splint, and Skinner 
assumed it wouldn't be in a shoe or sock anytime in the near 
future. She was sliding off the bed now, balancing on the 
stocking-covered foot, and he hurried around to help her 
into the chair. Once she was settled and the footrests were 
down and the locks disengaged, he wheeled her back across
the hall and parked her by Mulder's side. 
"Has he been awake at all?" she asked, and Skinner shook
his head. "That's not like him," she murmured, more to 
herself than to the older man. Skinner nodded again, thinking
of the conversation he'd had with the doctor just a few
hours ago. 
"He lost part of his spleen and had severe lacerations on the
kidney and liver. Lots of surgery, lots of stitches. The 
doctor says sleep is the best thing for him right now." 
Scully looked unsure, but she nodded as well. "I suppose,"
she said, her voice trailing off. "I guess I should be glad
he's actually sleeping for a change." She reached out and
took Mulder's hand, cradling it carefully in her own, her
fingers rubbing the back and smoothing the skin around the
IV site. 
She leaned over, placing her lips against the dry skin. Her 
head was down, her shoulders bunched, and she leaned 
precariously forward in the chair. Skinner wanted to go 
to her again, to tell her it would be all right, but in some
strange way he knew he had been dismissed. And he didn't
mind. Scully needed this time with Mulder. He backed 
quietly away, then settled into a chair. He couldn't leave
completely -- he just didn't feel right leaving them 
unattended -- but he could be discreet, he could be quiet,
and he could give them as much distance as possible. 
************************************************** 
October 16, 1998
8:30 a.m. 
Scully looked at Mulder again. She reached out and brushed
a stray lock of hair from over his eyes -- again. She checked the
monitors, straightened his IV line, and rubbed his arm -- again.
She sighed, then leaned over and kissed his cheek -- *again.* She
looked at his face, noting that his eyes were still cl -- hey, wait
a minute! They were not still closed. They were open, a swirling
green/gray/gold of shocking intensity, and they were staring at
her. 
She drew a quick breath to compose herself, then smiled down
at her partner, her lover, her friend. "Hey, you," she whispered,
"it's about time you let us know you were still around." Her hand 
was still on his hand, and she moved it lazily upward, over the
sinewy muscles of his arm, until she cupped his cheek gently.
It was surprisingly quiet in the room, muffled noises from the 
hall could just be heard -- a woman's voice, a ringing phone,
a page over the intercom -- but in the room there was only the
sound of the IV drip, the monitor's beep, and the occasional
soft snore from the corner where Skinner nodded in his chair. 
She looked around, her eyes lingering on the rain still visible
through the narrow window, then she turned back to him and
said, "I'm sorry," as if it were her fault the rain still fell. 
He gave a rusty chuckle and she wet his lips with a rag,
wishing she could do more. This soon after surgery, he was
still restricted from eating or drinking, but she could at least 
moisten his chapped lips, and wipe his face. He smiled, then 
turned his head so she could swipe at his neck, washing away 
the bed sweat and left-over grime from the forest. It saddened 
her that it was a routine they knew all too well -- Mulder in a 
hospital bed, she in a chair beside it -- and her mouth dipped 
down in a frown. He nodded, acknowledging their routine, 
acknowledging her sorrow and she wondered at his ability
to tune into her so completely. How could this man know 
her so well? Understand her so intimately? 
He was staring at her now, waiting, and she put the rag on 
the table, then fussed with the basin, opened a box of tissues, 
and otherwise occupied herself with busywork until he reached
out and simply put his hand on her arm. He didn't grab
her, or close his fingers around her wrist; he didn't pull,
or tug, or even gently press. He just touched her, and 
a jolt of electricity shot through her, from the contact on
her hand, up her arm, across her shoulder, dropping 
down to tighten her chest and make her heart hurt and
breathing become hard, and upward to her face where 
her eyes began to drip and her nose began to run with 
the curse of all redheads who cried. 
"Hey," he said, so softly she had to lean over to hear him.
"Guess you're going to need those tissues after all." He
cast a crooked smile at her, the unspoken words so much
more important than the ones he gave voice to. His canted
head that said, "I'm sorry." The hand on her arm that
said, "I'm here." The deep breath that reminded, "I'm 
all right." And the eyes, those damnable, deep, dreamy
eyes that spoke volumes as they called, "I love you, Scully,"
over and over again. 
She threw herself down on his chest, forgetting his
wounds, forgetting his stitches, forgetting everything
in her intense need to connect with this man. If it had 
been possible, she would have made love to him right
then, right there, regardless of who or what saw them.
The need was upon her. Need to be with him, to
be part of him, to do something life-affirming, something
that would banish Death, chase him away, and make
him stay on his side of the Styx for a while, and leave
her Mulder alone. 
She sobbed raggedly again, and she could feel his hand 
stroke her back, hear the gentle rumble of his voice, sense
the soft vibrations of his chest. "I thought you were going
to die," she murmured against him. She sat up quickly,
and blew her nose, then wiped her eyes, and rose. She
was angry now, embarrassed, tired of it, a whirling,
swirling mass of churning emotions that made no sense
to her, or to anyone else she was sure. She moved to the 
window, hobbling quickly, and turned her back as the tears 
continued to fall. 
Behind her, she could hear him calling her, but she
couldn't turn, she couldn't go, she couldn't face him 
right now. But then she heard a sound. Skinner was
awake and she could hear a soft duet between his
deep voice and Mulder's hoarse and broken one. Skinner
wiped his brow, and then they talked some more, but 
she wasn't part of it, couldn't be there. She wanted to 
go to him, her mind ordered her to, her heart cried for 
her to, but her body was in rebellion. 
The sounds of the men's voices stopped and she
could hear Skinner's feet as he approached her. She
was almost surprised he'd let her stand here this 
long -- she wasn't supposed to be on her foot at all.
He reached out and took her arm, tugging slightly,
but she refused to turn. 
"He wants to talk to you, Scully," he said gently, then
went on when she shook her head. "He's tired. He's
going to drift off soon, and he wants to talk to you." 
She shook her head again, her mind filled with the thoughts
that drove her away, that frightened her and angered her
and confused her so. "He almost died," she murmured, her
voice so low even she couldn't hear it though she knew quite
well what she'd said. "He almost left me." 
"What's that?" Skinner asked. "What did you say?" 
"He almost left me," she repeated. "He almost left me." 
"But he didn't," Skinner said, "and he wants to talk to
you." He tightened his hold on her arm, pulling again,
and this time she turned. 
When she looked at Mulder, he was smiling, a gently
understanding smile that made her cry again. Skinner
didn't embarrass her by picking her up again, but she
was willing to bet the thought crossed his mind. However, 
he did support her the whole way back to the wheelchair,
then leaned down and whisper in her ear, "It's going to
be all right, Dana," before he returned to his own chair
in the corner. 
"I'm sorry," Mulder said when she focused on him. "I'm
sorry I scared you." 
"You almost died," she said, hating the accusation in her
voice, but unable to control the raging emotion. "You 
were dying and I would have been all alone." She sounded
like a spoiled child, petulant because she didn't get her way,
but she was so subsumed by the feelings inside, she couldn't
get control, couldn't stop the words that tumbled from her
lips, even as they were spoken and left her appalled at her
own self-centeredness. 
He chuckled again, then pulled her over. She leaned into
his arms, but he was still pulling, so she leaned across his
chest. He was still pulling her, tugging inexorably, and
she was beginning to slide out of the newly reclaimed chair.
She resisted slightly, but he would not be denied. He pulled
again and she rose, sneaking a quick peek at Skinner, but
his eyes were deliberately closed, so she slipped into the
bed with Mulder, settling carefully against his side. 
"I would never leave you, Scully," he whispered into her
hair when she was still. "Don't you understand?" 
She shuddered slightly, then shook her head. No, she didn't
understand. How could he promise to never leave? 
"You're my heart, Scully, my other half, what makes me whole.
You're my life." He sighed, then took a breath. "If I died 
without you, I'd go straight to hell." 
She looked up, shocked at the seriousness in his eyes. 
"Don't you know, Scully? You're my soul."


End 
If you hate cliff-hangers, STOP HERE! But ... 
For those brave souls who want a peek at what is 
to come, read on. 
********************************************** 
October 17, 1998
10:00 a.m. 
They were sitting together comfortably, Mulder propped in 
the bed, Scully ensconced in the recliner/bed thing that the
nurses had brought in for him to sleep on, and he was
settled into a wooden rocker, unearthed from the nursery or
peds ward no doubt. Mulder had slept well, which meant
Scully was happy. And if Scully was happy, after the
emotional ups and downs of the past few days, Mulder
was ecstatic. And he was content to see them that way
for a short while. 
"Sir?" Mulder was speaking, and Skinner looked up,
distracted from his ruminations. 
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "What did you say?" 
"I asked if Nathan's trial went on as scheduled. Am I
still going to have to testify?" 
Skinner shook his head. "I've been out of the loop.
Took myself off things once you two were settled here.
Someone called yesterday but I was talking to your
doctor and I hung up on them." He smiled sheepishly,
then straightened as he pulled his AD persona together.
"I can check if you'd like." 
Mulder nodded. "I'd like to know what I'm facing here.
Do we get to go home, or do I still have to see him again." 
Skinner had his phone out and was dialing. "This is
Assistant Director Skinner," he said when a woman 
answered. "I need to speak to Jacobson." There was
a pause while the line was transferred, then he went on,
"Mulder is awake, Jake. Oh, yes, he's doing much better,
thank you. Look, he wants to know if he still has to 
testify, and if so, when." 
Skinner was silent, and as Mulder and Scully watched,
the blood drained from his face. "Are you sure?" he
whispered hoarsely into the phone. "No, no, I'm sorry.
Of course you are." Skinner pulled himself together,
then spoke one last time. "Well, I'm sorry about that.
I won't hang up on you again. Keep me informed at
all times and I'll get in touch with DC and allocate
additional funding and manpower for you. Just keep 
looking." 
He closed the phone, his head dropping for a long
moment, then he lifted his eyes to meet his agents'. 
"When they got down the side to reclaim the body,
Nathan was gone."