Subject: Profiles IV part 1 of 4
Date: Sun, 15 Nov 1998

Title: Profiles in Caring IV (1/4)
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R to NC-17 for violence and disturbing imagery
Category: SA - 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, because I am poor and have nothing material they can
profit from.

Summary: Mulder discovers Harold Roberson is not in the Federal
Institution for the Criminally Insane. In searching for Roberson,
he finds more than he bargained for.

Profiles in Caring IV 01/17

Scully was running, flying through the woods in bare feet,
wearing nothing but a sheer white shift, her hair loose and
swirling about her face. How had she gotten here? Where
was her clothing? Her gun? Her phone? Where was Mulder?

She was gasping for breath and still she ran on. The sharp
sticks and small stones abused her feet, slowing her as she
struggled to escape. Escape? From what? From who? Why?

She tripped suddenly, falling to her knees, the thin cotton
shift ripping as she went sprawling face down in the wet,
muddy leaves covering the ground. She could feel the panic
rising up again, threatening to overtake her, and she forcibly
shoved it back as she rose shakily to her feet. She looked
around the darkened wood. Where was she? Which way
to go? Was she lost? What was she running from? Who
was she running from? Where was Mulder?

There was a small clearing to her left and she walked there
gingerly on her damaged feet. Oddly enough, it seemed
safer to be in the open, where she could see if someone
approached. She shivered in the cool night air as she
sat on a fallen log. What the hell was going on? Why
was she in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the
night, with no clothes? As she sat, trying to calm her
still racing heart, attempting to puzzle out the rationale
for her being here, she heard footsteps, and she leapt to
her feet, lifting a solid branch, ready to defend herself.
She slid to the side, slipping back into the cover of the
trees as a large shape approached. She again felt the
panic rising, an overwhelming fear consuming her, and
a name rose unbidden in her mind - Roberson! She
raced from the trees, directly at the man, and swung
with all her might ...

********************************************

<Aw shit! Not again.> Mulder caught Scully's
flailing arm again and looked ruefully down at the
blood that was flowing from his nose onto the bedding.
<She isn't going to like this.> Whatever was happening
this time, she'd been battling it for over five minutes,
an inordinately long time for her nightmare to continue
once he started talking to her. It must have been really
bad. And waking to find blood in the bed wasn't going
to help get her to talk about it.

"Scully," he said again, more urgently than before.
"C'mon, Scully, wake up!" He gave her a little
shake and felt her arm try to draw back again, but he'd
learned the first time and he retained his grip. "Wake
up, Scully," he called loudly in a firm, even tone, and
was rewarded as her eyes flew open. Those same eyes
were unfocused, confused, dazed, and he struggled to make
her see him. She was rigid in his grip, his hands clutching
her arms as he knelt on the bed, supporting her in a semi-
sitting position. She continued to struggle a bit more, then
awareness slowly slid across her features, and she slumped
forward against him, into his embrace. He held her trembling
body and stroked her back as he made nonsense soothing
noises to her and she slowly relaxed.

At length she looked up, the smile on her face quickly
changing to a frown as she took in the blood on his
face, the sheets, and on herself. "Oh Mulder," she
whispered, as her hand gently traced the side of his
face, "I'm so sorry." She flushed and he could see her
shame as it passed over her.

"Shhh," he responded, "it's OK. I'm OK. No permanent
damage, I assure you." He smiled, and was rewarded
with a weak smile in return. "You better now?" He'd
learned not to ask what happened -- she wouldn't answer
and the question would hang heavy in the air between them
for days. She nodded and pulled away from him slightly.
He took his cue to release her and sat back, slowly. "I'm
just gonna clean up a bit, OK?"

She nodded and he knew this one had been bad. She'd struck
him before, even drawing blood once or twice, but never had
she let him leave the bed without her looking at his injury.
He frowned as he padded, naked, into the bathroom. He
washed quickly, expecting her to join him any moment, and
was further puzzled when she didn't. He wet a washrag to
take to her, so she could clean up as well, and was surprised
to find her still sitting, unmoving, on the bloody sheets.

He walked cautiously toward her, softly calling her name
before he got too close. It took several attempts to get her
attention, but at last she met his eyes. She looked at him without
recognition for a minute, then smiled slightly. He gestured
at himself, "All better now," and gave her a goofy grin, one
that usually managed to win a response. But this time, she
just nodded absently, her thoughts turning inward before his
eyes.

"Hey, Scully," he said softly as he sat beside her on the bed.
"How about I clean you up? The hemoglobin look isn't exactly
haute couture this season." She looked startled at his words,
then glanced down at her own nude body. Flecks of blood
streaked her breasts and abdomen, and clung to her legs and
shoulders. She looked up, eyes wide in astonishment, and
asked, "What happened to me, Mulder?"

This was not like Scully at all. What the hell was going on
here? "I had a nosebleed and managed to get you in the
process," he managed to say. "Sorry." He reached out
tentatively, and when she didn't recoil, he began to wash the
blood from her body. She submitted passively to his
ministrations, until at last he was satisfied she was clean.
He rose and went to the dresser, took out a pair of boxers
and pulled them on, then pulled out one of his own T-shirts
for her. <Why his? Why not her own nightgown? Because
I *like* to see her in my shirts.> He gently tugged it over her
head as he pulled her to her feet. She was still trembling so
he pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped her in it.

He led her to the small chair in the bedroom and seated her.
He knelt before her and whispered, "I'll be right back."
She gave a barely noticeable nod and he rose again and quickly
stripped the linens from the bed. He walked to the kitchen
and put on water for tea, then loaded the sheets in the washer
and turned it on. He went back to the linen closet in the hall,
pulled out clean sheets and returned to the bedroom. She was
unmoving in the chair. "Hey, you," he said, smiling, "I'm back."
No response.

He made the bed with the clean sheets, carefully placing a new
blanket beneath the comforter. He looked at Scully several
times as he worked, but she never lifted her head, never
acknowledged him. When he finished, he walked to the chair
and looked at her. Was she even really awake? He shook his head,
then peered more closely at her. She was still trembling, but
with cold or fear, he couldn't tell. What the hell had happened
in her dream to affect her like this? And why wouldn't she
talk about it with him? He felt the familiar coil of frustrated
anger rise up in him, and he forced himself to swallow it down
and tend to her needs now. But, he promised himself, this was
going to be dealt with -- and soon.

The kettle whistled from the stove and he moved to the kitchen.
He busied his hands with making the tea, hot and sugary, while
his mind swirled madly around the issue of what to do about the
nightmares. Finally he lifted the mugs, carried them into the living
room, and placed them on the table in front of the couch. He
returned to the bedroom, lifted Scully into his arms, and carried
her to the living room. He loved to carry her -- some sort of recessive
caveman thing he supposed -- and she usually at least playfully
resisted. But once again, she lay passive in his arms.

He sat her on the couch then sat beside her. He placed the mug
of sweet, warm tea in her hands, curling her fingers around the cup,
and was pleased to feel her actually grip it securely. He slowly
loosened his hold and was gratified to see her lift the mug to her
lips and take a deep swallow. "Mmmm," she sighed. "Good."
She looked at him, really seeing him this time, and said, "Thank you."

He breathed a sigh of relief and answered, "Any time." He reached
around her, pulling her into his side, and was again pleased as she
responded and snuggled closely against him. "Rough night, huh?"
he fished.

She took another swallow of the soothing tea, and murmured, "Mmmm."

He pushed no further, but renewed his vow to himself that the time to
deal with these nightmares was fast approaching, and like it or
not, Dana Scully was going to have to face them.

She finished her tea and handed him the cup, which he placed on
the table again. "Tired?" he asked.

"Yeah," was her sleepy response. "I'll do the sheets." She started
to rise, but he pulled her back, worrying. At least she remembered
his nosebleed, but why didn't she remember that he had already
changed the sheets? He was growing more anxious by the
minute.

He looked at her again, eyes narrowed in concern. "All done," he
answered. "Come on, you, off to bed." He pulled her to her feet and
was surprised when she lifted her arms up to his neck, as blatant a
plea to be carried as he'd ever seen from her. He lifted her up again,
and padded back to the bedroom, slipping her T-shirt clad body gently
between the sheets, then quickly sliding in himself. She lay facing
away from him, and he pulled her back, into himself, spooning
around her. He heard her mumbled "Mmmm, nice," as he felt her
breathing even out and she dropped back into a sound sleep.

He, however, remained awake the rest of the night.

*************************************************

"Scully, won't you come with me?" Mulder stood by the door,
his arms extended in entreaty. He looked across the room to
the petite, redheaded woman who was glaring at him. Her arms
were folded tightly across her chest.

"Absolutely not, Mulder! I *do not* understand what this fascination
is that you have with Roberson. It's all I've heard about all summer!"

"Sculleee!" Mulder whined, "I just feel a need to figure out what
went on. The man may have been an abductee!"

"The man *may* have been nuts, Mulder! What else does he have
to do to you to convince you of that?"

"Yeah, but Scully, it may have been something that happened to
him during one of his abduction experiences that drove him round
the bend. Who knows? He may have been a perfectly sane, normal
individual until he was taken, and then it all went to hell. A
phenomenon I am more than a little acquainted with, I might add."

He walked across the room, intending to take her in his arms
and was shocked when she reached up and slapped him. He stopped,
head pounding from the force of her blow, and stared at her in
astonishment.

"You can't make me go. You can't. I won't let you make me."

Mulder was appalled. Was that what she thought of him? That
he would force her into something she didn't want? "I would
never make you come, Scully," he said softly. "Please, tell me
you know that."

She stood ramrod straight, staring at him, and he felt she
didn't even see him there. Her eyes seemed slightly unfocused
and there was an aura of absence about her. "Scully?" He spoke
in a low voice, almost afraid he would startle her. "Hey, Scully?
You with me?"

Slowly, she shifted her gaze slightly and looked at him, her
eyes widening in astonishment at the red palm print visible
on his left cheek. She reached for him, then checked her
movement. "Mulder," she whispered, "I -- What did --?
She dropped her eyes and mumbled, "I'm so sorry."

"We need to talk about this, Scully." His voice was still
quiet, but his tone was firm.

She nodded. "I know. Not now. I can't do this now."

"When?" he persisted.

She sighed. "Soon. When you get back." Scully shook her
head, and slowly lowered her arms. "Mulder, I'm not going
with you. I don't understand this obsession you've developed
over Harold Roberson. I don't want to see the man. I don't want
to talk to the man. I don't want to hear about the man. I don't want
to know where the man is. I simply want to try to forget everything
that happened when we were with him. Why can't you just leave it
alone for once?"

"I can't leave it alone, Scully." Mulder frowned. "You should know
that." He seemed lost as he looked at her, suddenly adrift and alone.
As if he wondered what had happened to the Scully who understood
him so well.

Scully softened slightly as she gazed at him. She walked slowly
over to where he stood, and took his hand. She gently caressed the
still red mark on his cheek. "I know, Mulder," she said, "it's just
part of who you are. But you've got to understand. It's not who
I am." She sighed, then said, "Roberson -- just the thought of
Roberson -- he -- he frightens me, Mulder. And you know that's
hard for me to admit." She lowered her eyes and added, "I'm *not*
coming this time."

Mulder took a deep breath. Scully -- frightened. That was a big
admission. Maybe there was more to these nightmares than he
was aware. She had steadfastly refused to talk about them all
summer, and he had reluctantly honored her unspoken request.
This would bear discussion, when he returned. But for now,
he pulled her into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around her,
and resting his head on top of hers as she leaned against his chest.
"All right, Scully. You don't have to come, but I just couldn't go
knowing you were mad at me."

"I'm not mad, Mulder." Her voice was muffled against his shirt.
"I don't always understand, and I certainly don't always agree you
do things for the best of reasons, but this time, I'm not mad. We
need to talk about this, but not now. You go, do what you have
to do. We'll talk when you get back."

She lifted her face to him, and he looked down at her, seeing the
dark circles under her eyes from the nights of sleep interrupted by
nightmares. <Yes, we will talk. This avoidance has to stop.>
He leaned down, capturing her lips with his own. He kissed her
softly, hesitantly at first, and then with greater surety. At last he
pulled away and his hand crept up to stroke her hair. He cupped
her face in both his hands and said, "I'll be back as soon as I can."
She nodded, and he leaned down again and kissed her on the forehead.
He turned, opened the door, and was gone.

***************************************************

It was a hot, hazy, Indian summer day as Mulder set off for the
drive to the Federal Institution for the Criminally Insane. It
was hard to believe it had been almost a year since this whole
crazy chain of events had begun.

First Scully had been returned to him, her cancer in remission,
though be it from divine intervention, or a chip in her neck, he
neither knew nor cared. No one could agree on the cause, and for
him agreement was not necessary. All that mattered was that she
was alive, and well, and most importantly, still willing to be his
partner.

He shook his head as he thought back to how close he'd come to
losing her again in that whole debacle with Liam Emerson. The
injuries they'd suffered had been severe, and he had feared for
her life once more. They hadn't really recovered from that
experience when they'd been abducted by Harold Roberson, and
once again, it seemed as if they wouldn't live through the experience.

Looking back on it all now, he chuckled as he thought that the
real miracle was that they'd managed to get any work done at all
in the last year, as much time as they'd both spent on sick leave,
recovering from the various injuries they'd sustained. Being
transferred to Anti-Terrorism hadn't been that bad after all. It
gave them a chance to do something different, and they'd still been
partners after all.

But losing Scully in the summer, and the trip to Antarctica, had
sorely tested him. It had helped him through his own crisis of belief
and achieved the reopening of their department. It had also made
him realize, once again, how important Scully was to him, what a vital
part of his existence she was. It had also helped to nudge their
relationship along a bit, and they were both enjoying a new level of
intimacy.

It was still quite new and they were both nurturing it quite carefully.
Which was why Mulder had gone to such lengths to be sure Scully
at least recognized why he needed to go see Roberson, even if she
was unwilling to join him. It was also why he was determined that
Scully was going to face her nightmares, whatever they were, and
learn to sleep again. He had hoped that having him around would
make a difference in her sleep and at first it had. She seemed more
comfortable with him, slept more deeply and more soundly in his
arms than she did alone.

But then, after the trip to the Antarctic, Scully had begun having
nightmares again. He had hypothesized that the new nightmares
stemmed from her experience in the alien craft, but he was not so
sure anymore. Just before their big summer, he had come across
material that indicated Roberson might be involved tangentially to
the colonization conspiracy. What little solid evidence he had had
been destroyed in the fire, but the information was indelibly inked
in his eidetic memory. That Roberson might be connected had
intrigued him and he had begun making plans to go talk to the man.

He and Scully had spent the entire summer fighting over these two
issues. He wanted her to go talk to someone about her dreams.
She wanted him to forget Roberson existed, and to *not* go talk to
the man. He sighed, his thoughts caught in a seemingly unsolvable
maze. He needed to know about Roberson; it frightened Scully.
She ignored the nightmares; it frightened him. They'd been at
a stalemate all summer. Maybe his trip to see Roberson was
the first step in moving beyond the stalemate. He sincerely
hoped it wasn't the first step in something else.

He pushed those thoughts to the side to contemplate the change
in season. All around him, the fall colors blazed in all their autumnal
glory. A year had passed since the beginning of the shift in his
relationship with Scully -- a shift from partners and friends, to
something much more. Though spring was the traditional harbinger
of new beginnings, he felt it much more appropriate that they had
found their beginning in the vivid colors of fall. Strong, vibrant
colors, fighting for survival in the face of the coming winter. It was
an apt metaphor for him and Scully.

And now fall was upon them again and the year had turned. With the
progression in his relationship with Scully, he found himself happy
in his life for the first time in a very long time. If he could just
put this one thing with Roberson behind him, if just this once,
he could actually find a few answers, then maybe, just maybe,
he would be able to move along. And with that done, perhaps
Scully would be willing to face her own demons, and the two of
them could move forward together.

With the meeting in the diner, there had been some closure over
his sister. And with the information he'd learned from Agent
Dales, there had been some closure over his father's role in
things. And while there were still mysteries to solve, and
conspiracies to uncover, it all didn't seem as pressing as it had
before. Was this what being happy did? Made you want to
shun the dark and live in the light? But at what cost was
such illumination achieved?

His thoughts moved to Roberson once more -- the current
darkness threatening his light. Given what the man had done
to Scully, given the hints of connections to other, more sinister
things, this case had become very personal to him. Finding
out what had driven Roberson to choose him as his target seemed
a very important thing to know, something he needed to
understand. The connection to the events of summer was tenuous
at best, but hell, tenuous had panned out before.

Mulder had struggled with the whole Roberson issue, trying to
figure out why it felt so important. He'd finally come to the
conclusion that his mind wasn't ready to let the rest of him know
yet. His mind had always worked in a slightly -- different -- way
from everyone else's. He was able to see things in ways that other
people didn't, able to make connections that other people missed.

Nonlinear thinking, they called it. Sorta like they trained you in
cop school. In surveying a scene, most people only look around
them, left and right, before and behind. They forget to look up, or
down. So you have to learn to take in all aspects of a situation.
You can train yourself for certain situations. But there are other
times, other places, where you either think that way, or you don't.

He had always been able to think that way. It was both his
gift and his curse. It enabled him to see things that others
missed. It helped him to remain open to new and strange
possibilities. But it was also part of what made him so good
at profiling. And it was part of what made it so impossible
for him to ever completely let go of the past.

************************************************

He arrived at the Federal facility, following all the prescribed
safety procedures. He checked his gun at the door, and after
passing numerous security gates, a body search, and a computer
verification of his credentials, he was finally admitted into
the inner sanctum.

The corridor rang with the mixed sounds of tears and rage and
laughter, as he was escorted down the hall past metal doors
with small barred grills at eye level. Sanity was an odd
concept, he mused, walking briskly behind the guard, but
taking in the faces that peered through heavy bars. Curious
faces, angry faces, tormented faces, faces devoid of humanity.
The sheer volume of sound was overwhelming. He felt that
anyone incarcerated here, if they had any vestiges of sanity
upon entering, would certainly have it eradicated by the sheer
cacophony that seemed to echo nonstop.

His escort stopped outside a door, rapped once, then looked
inside. "Roberson," he called, "you've got a visitor."

Mulder peered through the grill in the door. There was a
shape laying on the small cot, covered in a dull gray wool
blanket. Faintly he could hear a muffled voice call, "Who?"

The guard banged on the door. "Roberson! Get up!"

Very slowly, the form on the cot rose to a sitting position.
In the dim light, it was hard for Mulder to make out
the man's face. He watched as the man rose and moved
to the small opening. As he entered the more lighted area
of the cell, Mulder took in the complete lack of recognition
on the man's face, and knew it was mirrored on his own.

Then, the man who wasn't Harold Roberson asked,
"Who the hell are you?"

End part 01/17

Profiles in Caring IV 02/17

"What do you mean, it's not him?" Skinner snarled. He paused,
reminding himself 'This is not just my subordinate, but my
friend I'm talking to,' and softened his voice. "Who else could
it be?" He listened for a minute then said, "I don't understand
it either, but if you're sure it's not Roberson, let me see what
I can find out down here."

He stood, phone still to his ear, and began pacing as he
listened to Mulder on the other end. "All right, all right,
Mulder, I'll come up there. Let me get things going down
here, see what we can find out on this end, then I'll get Scully
and we'll drive up. We'll join you." He paused again,
listening intently. "What do you mean, don't tell Scully?
What's going on Mulder?"

This was not good. Mulder *never* declined Scully's
assistance. He stopped pacing, listening with growing
concern as Mulder briefly related the argument he and
Scully had had over his trip to see Roberson. He ended
by saying Scully didn't want anything to do with Roberson
and he didn't want her forced into anything.

Skinner sighed. This was more serious than he had thought.
He stood silently, lost in thought until Mulder's repeated,
"Sir? Are you there, Sir?" registered, then he said, "All
right, Mulder, I won't bring Scully. But I may need to
talk to her." When Mulder began to protest again, Skinner
cut him off. "You know she'll be furious if you don't at
least keep her apprised of this situation. Keeping her informed
does not necessarily translate as involvement. Now, I'm going
to get things going here, then I'll be up as soon as I can."

Skinner hung up the phone and stood looking at it for a
minute, his mind racing through possibilities. First and
foremost was why did this sort of strange thing, prisoners
who weren't who they were supposed to be, always have
to happen to Mulder? And how the hell did someone get
out of a federal institution for the criminally insane? And
how did someone else get in? Skinner sighed, then slowly
picked up the phone and began to place calls.

"Kim," he began when his assistant answered, "I need
to know who's in town and unassigned. He could hear the
muted 'tap, tap, tap' of the keyboard as she retrieved the
requested information.

At length she spoke. "Jefferson and Callahan."

"All right," he responded, "have them come see me right
away."

He sat back down at his desk and halfheartedly began
to work through the unending stack of reports awaiting
his signature. After rereading the same paragraph for the
third time, he gave up in frustration. He rose and
walked to the window. He stood, lost in thought, staring
out over the busy DC streets.

This whole thing with Roberson was obviously a mistake.
In a way, it was fortunate that Mulder had decided to
make a visit to see him. Who knows how long it would
have taken for anyone to notice that the wrong prisoner
was in Roberson's cell? It would take a while, but they'd
track Roberson down, find out where he'd been sent, and
straighten this whole thing out.

He was more concerned with Mulder's obvious reluctance
to have him contact Scully. That was strange. Normally,
whenever anything was going on, the only person Mulder
wanted to be involved was Scully. But not this time.
First, she wasn't even with him, and second, when he ran
into a problem, Mulder had called him, instead of calling
Scully. Then when he had offered to call Scully and
bring her up with him, Mulder had told him quite emphatically
not to involve her. He'd even admitted the two had argued
over the situation.

He frowned. He didn't like this at all. If ever there were
two people who were made for each other, it was those
two. They needed each other. They depended on each
other. It was almost as if they completed each other. This
was definitely not good if they were arguing and Mulder
didn't want Scully involved. Skinner sighed. He would have
to think about this. Perhaps it was time for him to get involved.

He turned in response to a quiet knock at the door, and said,
"Enter."

Jefferson and Callahan came in. "You wanted to see us,
Sir?" Callahan said.

"Yeah." Skinner walked back to his desk and sat. He
motioned for the two agents to be seated in the chairs
before the desk. "Both of you were involved in the search
for Agents Mulder and Scully last winter?"

Two heads nodded.

"Well, it appears that Harold Roberson is not where he's
supposed to be. Agent Mulder went up to interview him,
and determined that the man the facility has recorded
as Harold Roberson, is, in fact, not Harold Roberson."

The two agents exchanged a glance, then Callahan spoke
again. "Who is it then?"

"And where's Harold Roberson?" Jefferson added.

"Both excellent questions," Skinner responded, "but
we have an answer for neither at this time. I'm driving
up to join Agent Mulder at the facility to see what we
can find on that end. I want you two responsible for
working down here. I want you to go back and
track the chain of custody on this man. Find out who
transferred him, who transported him, who signed
for him every step of the way. I want the names of
anyone else he was in transport with, and their final
destinations. Those would be the most obvious choice
for where the real Harold Roberson is. The upshot is -
I want to know where the man is, and I want to know
who's responsible for this mix-up."

The two agents rose. "Yes, Sir, we'll get right on it.
Do we report directly to you?"

Skinner nodded. "Do you have my cell number?"

Jefferson pulled a small pocket planner and scanned
it. "Yes, Sir."

"Then call me the minute you locate Roberson, or
if you get a lead on what happened."

Jefferson and Callahan excused themselves and left.

Skinner sat slumped behind his desk now that he
was alone again. With the investigation underway,
his thoughts turned to Mulder and Scully once more.
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his
nose. He didn't like this. He was getting ready to meddle,
something he'd sworn he'd never do. It wasn't part
of his nature to get involved in other people's affairs.
But these were his friends, and there was no way he
was going to let whatever was happening between
them go on without trying to help in some way.

And besides, he rationalized, Mulder was upset. He
could hear it in his voice. There'd been almost a
sense of -- fear -- when he'd talked to the man about
Roberson. And then there had been extreme sadness
when he'd offered to bring Scully and Mulder had
declined. Sadness that quickly turned to borderline
panic when he'd gently probed for reasons. Whatever
had happened between the two of them, it was obvious
that Mulder was feeling alone and vulnerable, and he
needed Scully. And it was just as obvious that she
didn't know that, or she would have been at his side,
regardless of her own concerns about Roberson.

Hmmm. Roberson. Well, he'd just have to bring
her up to date on the situation. And maybe, just
maybe, he could allay some of her fears over Roberson
at the same time.

Skinner picked up the phone again. "Kim, would you
ask Agent Scully to come up and see me?"

He was sitting at his desk, unmoving, head cradled in
his large hands, when the intercom buzzed. His glasses
still rested haphazardly on top of a pile of paperwork
awaiting signature.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Kim had said, "Agent Scully didn't answer.
I took the liberty of inquiring with Security and was informed
she left around 2:00 this afternoon."

"Oh. I see. Well, thank you, Kim. You might as well go
ahead and go on home as well. Have a good evening."

"Sir? Before I go, will you be in tomorrow?"

Kim was always so perceptive. "No. It looks like I'll
be driving up to the FICI to join Agent Mulder. Reschedule
me for the next few days, please. You can reach me on
the cell if I'm needed."

"All right, then. I'll be leaving now, Sir. Good night."

"Good night, Kim, and thanks."

Skinner replaced his glasses and slowly rose. So Scully had left
early, and done so without telling him. Not that she needed to
be accountable for her every movement, but she was normally
more protocol oriented than this, and her abrupt departure was
decidedly out of character.

'Well,' he thought, 'there's no help for it. I'm just going to
have to see her.'

**********************************************

Mulder lay on the bed, papers and notes scattered next to him
on top of the bedspread. The muted TV cast flickering shadows
on the bed, the walls, the ceiling. The small bedside lamp was
the only other illumination in the room. He had spent some
time trying to unravel the puzzle of where was Harold Roberson.
They had, of course, taken the fingerprints of the man occupying
Harold's cell -- a man who refused to talk at all now. The results
had not come back yet, but Mulder had little hope that there would
be a record of this man's existence. Unlike Skinner, who had
repeatedly indicated he felt it was just a typical governmental,
bureaucratic snafu, Mulder was more convinced something much
more -- sinister -- was going on.

Mulder knew that Skinner had started an investigation on his end,
tracing the chain of custody of the prisoner. While that was
occurring on the DC end, Mulder was trying to work backwards.
He'd gotten copies of the custodial documents that had accompanied
the prisoner upon his admittance into the facility. He had copies
of records relating to the man's incarceration, but had been unable
to secure the more important records of his mandatory psych
counseling sessions due to doctor-patient confidentiality. He had
even produced evidence of his own Psych doctorate, something
he rarely was willing to do since he had completed it post Oxford,
during his time with the VCS, and his dissertation was a walk
through madness and evil, but it hadn't been sufficient to secure
the information he wanted. He snorted. It was amazing that people
like Harold Roberson -- or whoever was masquerading as Harold
Roberson -- were given any privileges at all -- let alone privileges
of confidentiality.

And while he had devoted a good portion of his evening to
working on the Roberson mystery, there was a deeper mystery
that was bothering him: what was going on with Scully? Things
had been going so good with them. He thought back to the severe
injuries they had both received at the hands of Liam Emerson,
injuries that had threatened their lives. But they had survived and
come through the experiences together, strengthened in their
commitment to one another, and in a gradually deepening
personal relationship.

Mulder smiled as he thought back to their first hesitant
coupling, both of them still injured, both still in pain, and
both unwilling to wait any longer. It had almost been
a feat of engineering to even manage their joining, and
it was comical in retrospect. But they had succeeded and
things had only gotten better from that point.

For his part, Mulder knew that he had met the woman he
wanted to be with for the rest of his life. It was a sure,
clear feeling that resonated from the bottom of his soul.
His biggest fear was that Scully didn't feel the same way.
And the argument that they had had right before he left,
had chilled him to the bone. For almost six years now,
she had been a stable influence in his wildly unstable
existence. He counted his blessings every day, giving
thanks that she knew him, she understood his need for
answers.

Yes, it was obsessive at times. Yes, it bordered on the
fanatical. But Scully's ongoing tolerance and forbearance
had been the one thing he had come to rely on over the
past years. This last argument with her, an argument
that capped months of petty bickering over the same
topics, had frightened him. He was convinced she
was reconsidering the wisdom of a relationship with
him, and terrified of what he'd find when he got home.

He lashed out in frustration, knocking the papers from the
bed. He rose to his feet and began a frenzied pacing
within the confines of the small room. The thought
of a life without Scully was more than he could handle.
Already he missed her steadying influence. He longed
to open the door to the connecting room and find her
there, as he had so often in the past. He closed his eyes,
and felt the hot prick of tears behind the lids. Not tears,
he would *NOT* cry. He shook his head angrily. No,
he wasn't going to do this.

Skinning out of his clothes, he pulled on a pair of running
shorts and a T-shirt. He dug out his battered shoes,
grabbed his wallet and room key, and headed out into
the night. With Scully's absence, running was the
only way he had to try to soothe his spirit.

The first mile flew by, then the second, and then
the third. As his feet pounded out a rhythm on the
pavement, his unforgiving mind tormented him
with visions of a life alone. His apartment, empty
of all the little things that had made their way there
over the last few months. Things that reminded him
by their presence that Scully was there. He pictured
her apartment, devoid of his personal items. No longer
a refuge, but a place he would be allowed to visit by
invitation only.

Even more frightening -- what if she requested transfer?
What if she no longer wanted to work with him? He had
told himself that if she ever reached the point where
she didn't want to continue a relationship with him,
a personal relationship, he would accept that, he would
let her go. As long as he could continue to see her. As long
as he could continue to work with her. She was as vital to
his existence now as the air he breathed. And if she
chose to go back to teaching at Quantico, or transfer
to another department, he didn't know how he would
survive.

As the fourth mile passed, a new thought reached out
and grabbed him, choking the air from his lungs. What
if she transferred out of DC completely? A field office
across the country. What if he never saw her again?
The tears that had been threatening all night suddenly
broke free and he pulled himself to a stop and stood,
chest heaving, hands on knees as he struggled to
breathe through the tears and fear and anger.

He allowed himself a few moments release, then
brushed the tears angrily away. He pulled himself
erect. His body was fatigued now, bordering on
exhaustion, and he would probably be able to sleep.
He looked around, trying to get his bearings. It was
the middle of the night, he was in a strange town,
and he hadn't been paying attention to where
he was running. He was lost. He looked for
a pay phone to call the hotel and get directions, but
of course, there was not one to be found.

Giving a tired sigh, he picked a direction and set off
at a slow jog, figuring that eventually he would
come to a phone. And sure enough, about half a mile
up the road, he came to a gas station -- and a phone.
Using his calling card, he called the hotel, explained
his predicament, and was given instructions to find
his way back.

After taking a long drink of cool water from the
outside spigot of the station, Mulder set off at a
steady trot back to the hotel. He was definitely
tired now. He'd run the first four or five miles a
much faster pace than he normally did, and he
could feel it. His trot slowed once more to a
jog, and he pushed his tired body forward toward
the hotel and the bed waiting for him there, and
the eventual sleep it would allow.

After ten more minutes, he paused again, looking
around to take his bearings and estimating he was
still about a mile and a half away. As he began
walking, exhaustion etched in his every move, a
long black sedan pulled up next to him, the first
car he'd seen all night.

He took several steps back as the car stopped, the
rear door opened and a man in a military uniform
emerged. "Mr. Mulder? Sir?"

"Yes?" he answered cautiously.

"I'm Lieutenant Paul Thornton. Your interest in
Harold Roberson has come to our attention. Would
you come with me, Sir?"

While Thornton had been talking, three other men
had emerged from the vehicle and Mulder found himself
surrounded. He instinctively reached for his gun, and
came up empty. He hadn't brought it on his run. He
mentally regrouped, then said, "Lieutenant? Lieutenant
in what? I'm afraid I don't recognize the uniform."

"That's not important, Sir. Please get in the car."

"I don't think so," Mulder said, eyeing the three men
warily.

Thornton sighed. "Mr. Mulder, I have orders to bring
you in. Please don't make this difficult. All of us,"
he gestured at the other men, "are combat trained
in hand to hand, we're in excellent shape, we're not
exhausted from a 6 mile run, and there *are* four of
us to your one."

"And me without my weapon," Mulder smirked as
he began angling for a clear space.

"Exactly. Now, you can get in the car yourself, or we
will assist you. But I assure you, you are going to get
in the car."

Mulder looked at the men around him once more,
snorted in disgust, and got in the car.

**************************************

Skinner had been surprised to find Scully was not
at her apartment. He hadn't called, so when she
didn't answer her door, he pulled his cell phone
and tried to reach her. She answered promptly,
a professional "Scully."

"Scully, this is Skinner. I tried to reach you at
work today, and Kim told me you'd left early."

"Oh, God, Mulder!" she gasped. "Is he ..."

"No, no, no," Skinner cut in. "He's fine as far
as I know. I talked to him this afternoon. That's
what I want to talk to you about."

He cut her off as she began to stammer an apology
for leaving early. "No, that's all right, too. I wasn't
looking for an explanation." He sighed softly. This
was hard. "Actually, I was a little concerned. And
I'm at your apartment now. Where are you?"
He paused, listening, then said, "I can meet you at
Mulder's then. Will you be there in half an hour?"
At her acknowledgment, he made his good-byes
and closed the phone.

The drive to Mulder's was not too long, and he
spent the time worrying about his friends. In
addition to the tension, the fear, the panic he'd
heard in Mulder's voice when he asked about
Scully, there'd been a borderline depression
creeping in.

And Scully. When he'd talked to her, he was willing
to bet she'd been crying.

The tap on Mulder's door was gentle, but the door
was opened almost instantly. Scully stood there
in a pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, Mulder's
Oxford sweatshirt Skinner noted, and her hair was
pulled up in a pony tail. She looked about 16. Her
eyes were red from crying. He'd been right about
that at least.

She opened the door, then indicated he should enter.
He stepped in, shut the door, then stood looking
around. To his right, on the floor, was a box containing
what were obviously Mulder's belongings. Clothes,
a razor and shave gel, a framed picture of him with
his sister, another of him and Scully.

By the sofa was another box. It contained Scully's
items, and he could see she had been going through the
apartment and packing them up. She watched his
silent inventory and knew he knew what was happening.

She stood there, head down, arms wrapped tightly
around herself. "I just don't think I can do it," she said
softly.

Skinner was shocked. This was worse than he had thought.
He looked at her, standing there so forlornly. Normally,
she was quite a commanding presence despite her diminutive
size. But now, she seemed tiny, fragile, and so alone.
Operating purely on instinct now, he took two large steps
forward and enfolded her in his arms. And was shocked
again. She not only let him, she collapsed against him
and began sobbing into his chest.

He held her as she cried for several long minutes, and then as
she began to pull herself together, he led her gently to the
battered old couch, and sat her down. Leaving her alone
for a few moments, he went to the bathroom and wet a
face-cloth. Handing it to her without a word, he then
went to the small kitchen and put water on for tea -- hoping
that Mulder actually *had* some tea in his apartment.

He busied himself hunting through the cabinets, finally
meeting success in a small box tucked in the deepest
corner of a drawer. He slowly made tea, allowing Scully
additional time to compose herself, then finally emerged
with two mugs. Walking across the small living room,
he handed her one, then sat next to her and said, "Dana,
tell me what's going on here."

"He made me tea," she said wistfully. "Can you imagine
Fox Mulder doing anything vaguely domestic? But he does,
for me."

Skinner was confused. "He made you tea," he prompted.

"I had a nightmare. I hit him and made his nose bleed.
He made me tea." Her voice was so sad.

"So what's going on now?"

She was quiet for a long time, and he began to think she
wasn't going to answer him. But at last she began, "Things
have been really good. Things have been so good, almost
too good. We haven't had any arguments at all. I mean, we
hardly disagree about anything at all. But, Mulder just can't
let anything go. I don't know why, but Roberson -- frightens --
me, and I don't want to have anything to do with him, or his
case. So, of course, that has to be Mulder's newest obsession.
I tried to explain to him that I just *can't* detach enough to
keep hearing about, knowing about, learning about Harold
Roberson. But Mulder just will not let it go.

"We had this big fight before he left to go up there. A huge
fight for us." Her voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper and
he had to strain to make out her words. "I -- I hit him." There
was a long pause then she went on. "And it was confusing. I
wasn't even sure we were talking about the same things the
whole time. He left, and we agreed to talk later, but I
don't know if I can. I don't know..." Her voice trailed off and
she looked up at Skinner. "Why is this so hard?"

"Scully -- Dana, this is not about Harold Roberson. Not really.
So you had a disagreement with Mulder. It happens all the
time. So you have different feelings about something. That
happens too. Just because you fall in love with someone, and
want to have a life with him, doesn't mean you give up being
who you are. And it doesn't mean he gives up being who he is
either. You work through it -- together. You reach a point
of compromise. You find a way to make it work. And you two
will be able to do that. It will take time, but this," he waved at
the boxes, "is not the answer."

"It's not that easy," she said.

"It's not that hard, either," he countered. "It's new to
you both -- there are bound to be some hitches."

"I suppose," she tentatively agreed.

"Dana, you know I'm right. Look, I'm hardly one
to give advice in these matters, but in this case, I know
one thing: you two belong together." He pointed at
the boxes again. "This is just wrong."

Scully was nodding and she seemed calmer now. "I guess I
knew that. I guess I just needed someone else to say it." She
lifted the tea and took a sip. "Thank you -- for tea and
sympathy, and a healthy dose of common sense." They sat
in companionable silence for a while until she said, "Now
what did you need to see me about?"

Skinner smiled. "Well, oddly enough, it's Mulder."

"He's all right?" Scully was immediately alarmed again. "You
did say he was all right."

"I think so," Skinner said. "I mean, he's not in any danger
as far as I know. But apparently Harold Roberson is missing."

Skinner quickly related the situation, telling Scully of
everything Mulder had been able to determine and bringing
her up to date on his own efforts and the tasks he had
assigned Jefferson and Callahan.

"And we still don't know who the man in Roberson's cell
is?" Scully asked when he was finished.

"Not yet. Mulder had him printed, but last I heard, the results
hadn't come back."

"Where is Mulder?"

"He's staying in a hotel about 30 miles away from the FICI.
It's the closest one to the facility." He shifted, slightly
uncomfortable, then said, "I actually came to talk, not
so much about the case, but about you and Mulder."

"About us? Why?"

Skinner flushed now, slightly embarrassed. "Well, I
was worried. Justifiably so, apparently," he said as he
waved at the two boxes. "Dana, I know you were upset,
but would you really have gone this far? What were you
thinking? Was this going to make things right?"

Now it was her turn to flush. "I was thinking maybe
Mulder and I both need some space."

"You know that would devastate him," Skinner commented.

"I hadn't thought it through. I don't want space. I
want Mulder." She smiled up at the older man. "Maybe
with a few less obsessions, but I still want Mulder."

Skinner smiled back. "You want him enough to ride
up to the facility with me tomorrow?"

Her smile blossomed into a full grin. "Absolutely!"

He rose. "Good. I'd like you there as well. I want this
man in Roberson's cell examined, and I want someone
I trust to do it."

She stood as well and reached out for Skinner's arm,
squeezing gently. "Thank you. For everything."

Skinner looked at her hand on his arm. "You are
most welcome." He walked to the door and she
followed. "Now, unpack that stuff and get some sleep.
I'll pick you up tomorrow at 8:00." He started to leave,
then turned back again, asking "Uh, Dana? Um, where
will you be?"

She laughed then, slightly amused at his efforts to
protect her privacy. "I have clothes here. I've got
an extra travel bag in the car. Do you mind another
trip out here in the morning? Or I could take the
Metro in and meet you at the Hoover."

"No, no, I don't mind. I'll pick you up here, then."

He stepped into the hall and she said, "I'll
be ready and waiting. Good night."

He nodded and walked away.

End part 02/17

Profiles in Caring IV 03/17

Mulder was glaring angrily at Lt. Thornton. He was tied to a chair,
wrists and ankles secured tightly. It had begun as a normal interrogation,
but when Thornton had decided he was being uncooperative, it
had quickly turned physical. And now two of the men who had
assisted in escorting Mulder to -- wherever the hell he was -- seemed
to be taking great enjoyment from using him as a punching bag.

His lip was split and his nose was bleeding, and one eye was
swollen almost shut. There were several small cuts on each cheek,
and he hated to think of the vivid purples, yellows, and greens he
would be sporting tomorrow. They had taken a few shots at his
chest and belly, but had focused most of their attention on his face.
He gingerly felt the inside of his mouth with his tongue, checking
to see that no teeth had been lost -- yet.

And he was here because of his own stupidity. Stupid to go running
in a strange city without his weapon. Stupid to have gotten in the
car without a fight. Stupid to have refused to answer the questions --
especially since he had no real answers anyway. Scully was not going
to be pleased with him. He gave a sigh, then redirected his glare
at Thornton.

"Agent Mulder, we know you have received information about
Harold Roberson. We need to know exactly what that information
contained."

Mulder coughed, and then spit. "And I need to know why it is
suddenly so important. Anything I received, I received over
six months ago. Why is it so critical now?"

Thornton shook his head slowly, then caught the eye of one
of the men next to Mulder. He nodded, and a fist lashed out
again, slamming into Mulder's jaw. The force of the blow rocked
his head back, and he impacted the wall behind the chair.
His head exploded, he grew dizzy, and his vision blurred.
He could feel a warm sticky mess oozing over his hair and he
knew they had broken the skin this time.

He moaned quietly, then sat silently, head on his chest. As he
gathered his strength and concentration, he slowly lifted his
head and caught Thornton's attention. "I still need to know
why this is so important."

Thornton grinned, then shook his head. "They told me
you were stubborn, and I didn't believe them." He gave
a wry little laugh, then said, "Agent Mulder, why do you
persist against the inevitable? You are overpowered and
outnumbered. Surely you can see that it is not reasonable
to continue to resist. This could get very unpleasant for
you."

Mulder smiled, an almost feral grin that gave credence to
his name, and snarled, "I have never been known for being
reasonable. But I have an incredible memory -- and I will
remember you."

Thornton shook his head sadly. As he nodded to the men
again, there was a knock on the door. He lifted his hand,
halting the next blow that would have come, and went to
the door. Opening it, he began to whisper to the man in the
hall. Mulder strained to overhear, but he could only catch
fragments.

"... disappeared."

"What? When?" That was Thornton.

"... looked everywhere." "...notified the ..." " ...no luck."

"He'll go underground." Thornton again.

"...Mulder." " ... find him..."

Mulder strained harder. How was he involved in this?

"...have to let him go."

Mulder heard that all right.

"...only one..." "... find him."

What the hell was going on? If these people thought he was
going to help them, they were sadly mistaken. Mulder was
pulled from his thoughts as Thornton spoke again.

"OK. We have to get him out of here. This matter will
have to wait till later. Finding Roberson..."

Thornton stepped fully into the hall, pulling the door
shut behind him, and Mulder could hear no more.
There was a long period when no one moved, no one
spoke, as they all waited for Thornton to return.
When he did, he called one of the men over and
spoke quietly to him, then turned and left the room
again.

Mulder was untied, given a cloth to wipe his face,
and then led to the car. He was driven back to the
hotel in total silence, and released in front of his
room, if released was the right word. He was basically
shoved out of the car onto the pavement by his own
car, his room key and wallet thrown out behind him.

Exhausted, he stumbled to his room, got the ice
bucket, and walked tiredly to the machine. He
filled the bucket, then returned and made a makeshift
ice pack with the liner for the bucket and a
washrag, and placed it gingerly over his eye.
Lying wearily back in the bed, he was asleep
within minutes.

***************************************

At 8:00 the next morning, Skinner stood outside
Mulder's apartment. He knocked twice and was
surprised when Scully didn't answer immediately.
He knocked again, then reached down and gripped
the knob. When the door swung open effortlessly,
he took a step back and pulled his weapon. He
stepped cautiously into the small entryway and looked
around.

The box of Mulder's things still sat on the floor
untouched. The partially packed box of Scully's
things from last night, however, was now devoid
of contents. Had he not been so worried over
Scully's non-response, he would have smiled at the
sight. But he was concerned, so he pushed aside
his pleasure and stepped forward carefully, gun
still drawn. He was already afraid of what he
would find, but he still had to go through the motions.

He moved silently through the apartment, checking
each room carefully, not surprised to find that
all were empty. Though there was no sign of a
struggle, Scully was not here. He pulled his cell
phone and tried to reach her, then frowned in
dismay when he heard ringing from the hall.
Walking quickly back, he closed his phone in
disgust as he saw her phone and weapon on the
small table.

A sense of sheer terror gripped his soul and he
had to shove down hard on a tendency to panic.
"Dear God, not again," he breathed. Why were
the people under his command always in such danger?

Opening the cell phone again, he began the all too
familiar process of getting a team together to sweep
the apartment, verify that Scully's apartment was
also empty, and start the search for his missing
agent. He already knew he wasn't going to stay for
the preliminaries this time. He would have to entrust
Callahan and Jefferson with thorough oversight, because
he intended to get in his car and head straight for Mulder.
There was no way he was going to let him hear about
this over the phone.

******************************************

Room 119. Here it was. Skinner pulled into an
open parking slot, exited the car, and walked to the
door. He knocked and was surprised when Mulder's
voice called, "Come in."

He opened the door, took one step into the room,
and froze when he realized Mulder was standing
directly in front of him, weapon aimed at his chest.
Skinner took a step back and raised his hands, as Mulder
slowly lowered the gun.

"Jesus Christ, Mulder, what the ..." Skinner stopped
as he took in his agent's battered appearance.

"Sorry, Sir," Mulder mumbled, thumbing the safety
on the gun, and placing it back on the bedside table.
He swayed as he moved and every movement was an
obvious effort.

"What the hell happened to you?" Skinner asked.

Mulder had collapsed on the bed, once more holding
an ice pack to the side of his face. "Oh -- I went for a
run last night, and had a little run-in with some folks
who want to remain anonymous."

"A little run-in? What the hell did they want? What
did they do to you? You look like shit."

"Well, thanks, Sir, that's just what I need to hear this
morning. Anyway, you should see the other guys. Not
a mark on them," he retorted sarcastically.

"Other guys?" Skinner said.

"It's a long story, Sir," Mulder replied wearily.

"Well, we have some time," Skinner responded. He
walked toward the bed. "Here, let me take a look at you."

Mulder smiled weakly. "You, Sir? When did you start
specializing in first aid?"

"When I inherited you and your department," Skinner
shot back. "And since Agent Scully isn't here to patch
you up, you better let me look."

"Yeah, Scully would be kinda useful about now," Mulder
commented wistfully.

Skinner made his decision then. Mulder would have to
know of Scully's disappearance, but not this minute. He
could get the man cleaned up, and hopefully in a stronger
frame of mind, and then he would tell him. He glanced
quickly at the bed and saw the bloodstains on the pillow
and sheets. "Sit up and let me look." Skinner reached
out gently and examined the man's face, then carefully
ran his fingers over his head, pulling back quickly when
he hit the hard, dried mess on the back of Mulder's skull.

He looked down in time to see Mulder suppress a groan,
and watched as he winced even as Skinner was pulling
his hands back. He shot a sympathetic look at his agent,
then said, "You're a mess, Mulder. How long ago did
all this happen?"

Mulder shook his head slowly. "Eight? Maybe ten hours
ago?"

"All right. Are you all right? Can you stand long enough
to take a shower and clean up? We've got to get rid of
the blood for me to see anything."

"I can stand," Mulder mumbled.

"Then shower -- quick. If you need stitches, it's not too late.
They'll stitch up to twelve hours after the trauma. I'll look
at it again when you get out."

Mulder nodded and rose. He headed for the bathroom, then
turned, "Sir? Did you see Scully?"

"Yes, I did. I talked to her last night."

"Is she ...?" Mulder's voice trailed off.

"She was fine last night. She's not upset with you anymore."

Mulder gave an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Skinner nodded, thinking 'Don't thank me yet.' "Now, go
take your shower."

Mulder disappeared into the bathroom and Skinner listened
as the water began to run.

'Oh God, this was gonna be hard,' Skinner thought. Mulder
was either gonna go completely off the deep end, or he was
going to bury himself in the search for Scully. There was no
telling how the man would react.

He busied himself with picking up the scattered papers
from the floor of the room, finding himself intrigued by
Mulder's notes and comments. He read the files Mulder
had assembled from the FICI, the reports he'd had faxed in
from other places, and the old file from their last encounter
with Roberson.

Just as he finished, Mulder emerged from the bathroom.
His face was still battered, but he looked better than he
had when he went into the shower. Skinner stood and said
gruffly, "Come over here and let me look at the back of
your head."

"It's all right, Sir."

Skinner gave an exasperated sigh. He should have expected
this. "Get over here and sit down, Mulder. Let's not make a
production out of this."

Grumbling, Mulder walked to the desk chair and sat.

Skinner carefully separated the dark hair, until he could see
the actual gash. It was long, but it didn't look too deep.
He probed gently at the bump surrounding it, muttering
"Sorry," when Mulder winced. The edges weren't too ragged
and it was clean now and not bleeding. "I think it'll be OK
without stitches." He withdrew his hands and asked, "What
caused this?"

"High velocity cranial impact with a nonporous stationary
object."

"Slammed your head into a wall?" Skinner chuckled.

"Yep. And *thank you* for your sympathy."

Skinner snorted, then said, "Get dressed and bring me
up to date."

As Mulder dressed, he told Skinner about the men who had
picked him up the previous night, citing Lt. Paul Thornton,
the only name he had learned. He related the events dispassionately,
telling of what information they were seeking and his own
refusal to assist them.

"And I think they had Roberson, Sir, or knew where he was."
Mulder was growing excited, his mind racing through possibilities.
"But he escaped and now they're more intent on finding him
than on finding out what I know."

"And what exactly do you know, Agent Mulder?" Skinner was
back in AD mode. This was serious and there was still the matter
of Scully's disappearance to be dealt with.

"I don't *know* anything, Sir, but I suspect that Roberson has
been the unwitting subject of some type of government project
code named 'Invasion,' and now the people in power are
running scared because he's gotten loose. I found him before,
or he found me, so I think they're going to be expecting me
to find him again."

Skinner was taking it all in. In a warped, Mulderesque kind of
way, it all made sense. And there was a possibility they would
be able to track down some information on 'Invasion' and
give credence to Mulder's theories. The biggest concern in
all of this was that if Roberson was missing, there was a good
chance *he* was the one who had Scully.

"It all goes back to Project Invasion," Mulder was saying. "I'm
sure of it. I don't have the proof, but I saw the threads. I made
the connections. It was destroyed in the fire. Roberson was
involved in the late 60's in Viet Nam. And I need more information
on it. That's got to be the connection. Paramilitary organizations
with the ability to get Roberson out of the FICI, and cover it up? This
is big. People in power are involved."

"Mulder," Skinner spoke to the man who was pacing frantically
as his thoughts poured out of him. He could take it no more.
"Mulder, stop." Skinner spoke forcefully. "Be still for a
minute."

Mulder froze. He turned slowly to look back at the AD, standing
by the small desk. "Sir?"

"Sit down. I need to tell you something."

"Yes?" Mulder sat on the bed.

"I went to see Agent Scully last night."

"Yeah, you told me."

"She wasn't at her apartment. She was at yours."

"She was at mine?"

"She was -- distressed -- over an argument you two had
yesterday."

Mulder nodded his head thoughtfully. "Yeah, it was a
pretty bad one. She OK now?"

Skinner cleared his throat and his eyes skittered away from
Mulder's. "She was OK when I left last night. I brought her
up to date on the situation with Roberson, and I asked her if
she would be willing to come up and help with the investigation."

Mulder frowned. "I told you she didn't want to be involved in
this."

"I know you did, but she really didn't seem to mind. She said
she'd be glad to come up. She wanted to see you."

Mulder smiled at that. "She wanted to see me, huh?"

Skinner laughed. "Yeah, well I can't imagine why. Don't
get a swelled head here." He cleared his throat again and
sobered.

Mulder looked at him at that point, as if something had just
clicked. "So, uh, where is she?"

Skinner looked at the younger man, pain etched into his
features, and said, "She's missing, Mulder. From what you've
told me, I suspect Roberson's got her."

Mulder sat in stunned silence then his breath began to quicken.
Before a minute had passed, he was hyperventilating. Skinner
was afraid he was going to pass out. "Slow down, Mulder,"
he said, "you're breathing too fast."

Skinner looked around for a paper bag. Finding a used take-
out bag, he handed it to the younger man and said, "Breathe
into this."

Mulder stuck the bag over his face and gulped greedily.
After half a dozen breaths, his breathing began to slow
and he lowered the bag. Skinner reached out to forcibly place
it back over his nose, but Mulder waved him off.

"No. I'm all right. I just. Can't. Believe this." He sighed.
"All right." He got up and began to dress. "We've got to
find her. And I've got a pretty good idea of where to look."

"How on earth can you know where to find her? We're not
even sure Roberson took her."

"I know for sure Roberson took her. And he doesn't want her,
he wants me. Remember, I told you when I was with my
*friends* last night?" Mulder was dressing as he spoke.
"I was sure they had Roberson, they were responsible for the
switch. And Roberson is loose now. He's out there as a wild
cannon, and obviously dangerous to them. When I was with
Roberson last time, I tried to convince him that I could help him.
That I had some personal experience with abduction. And I
had some experience with the military and their involvement in
the whole thing as well."

Mulder paused, strapping the shoulder holster on over his shirt.
"You said she was at my place, right?"

Skinner nodded.

"Well, Roberson went there looking for me. I wasn't there, so
he took whoever was. He's not too stable, our boy Roberson.
So when he couldn't get me, he took Scully."

"All right, Mulder." Skinner was at the door, watching as Mulder
finished securing the ankle holster and slipped the small gun
in place. "What do we do?"

The younger man rose smoothly to his feet. "You coming with me?"

Skinner nodded.

"Let's go then. I want to see the cabin. The one in Virginia."

Skinner nodded again, then said, "Maybe you better let me drive.
I'm the one that knows how to get there in an hour and a half."

The two men left the hotel and walked to the car. As they climbed
in, Mulder commented, "It sure would impress me if you could cut
that 90 minutes even more."

As they took off, Skinner pulled his phone and began to make
calls. "I'm calling this in. We don't need to go in unprepared.
And we don't need to be picked up for speeding on the way."

Mulder nodded.

They were about 45 minutes into the trip when Mulder's cell
phone chirped. He looked at Skinner, then opened the phone
and said, "Mulder."

*****************************************************

Scully awoke slowly. She was cold, she was wet, she was
cramped, and she was pissed. Being abducted in the middle
of the night and stuck in the trunk of a car was getting to be
just a little too routine, thank you. She stretched slightly,
trying to maneuver in the tiny, cramped space, and work some
of the kinks out of her neck and back. She had no recollection
whatsoever of a break in; she had no idea who had taken her,
or why. But, damn it, she knew where she was. The fucking
inside of a car trunk.

She'd been out for a while. Though dark in the trunk, she could
catch enough glimpses of the outside to see it was full daylight.
She looked down at herself and saw that she was still dressed in
her standard nighttime attire -- a pair of oversized silk pajamas.
And, of course, nothing on her feet. And more importantly, no
phone, and no gun.

She grunted in disgust. The last two times she'd found herself
in the trunk of a car, she'd been seriously injured. And the last
time, despite her injuries, she'd almost managed to take out
a man that outweighed her by 100 pounds and had a good foot's
height on her. But this time, she didn't care how big her abductor
was, his ass was going down.

She lay quietly, her anger building as the car continued its
journey. After a long period of time, she felt the shift in the
surface as they moved off paved roads and onto a dirt, or
gravel road. The car stopped and she immediately shifted
to get into a better position for attack. She heard muttering
and knew that her captor was a male. She lay perfectly
still, poised for action, waiting for the trunk to open.
She heard the car door open, and then close. Footsteps
crunching on the gravel. A big man, a heavy man, walked
slowly back to the rear of the vehicle.

There was a light knock on the lid of the trunk and a
voice called, "Agent Scully?"

This was strange. Whoever it was, his voice was
tentative, almost as if he were apologizing as he spoke.
Well, too fucking bad. I'm not accepting any apologies
at this point.

"Agent Scully?" the voice called again. "I don't mean you
any harm. I really just need to get in touch with Agent Mulder."

And you haven't heard of the phone? Her anger was rising.
Oh yeah, whoever he was, he would get in touch with Agent
Mulder all right. But first, he was going to get in touch
with Agent Scully. Intimately in touch. She braced herself.

"Please? I just want to let you out. And then we need to
call Agent Mulder and tell him where we are. I really need
to talk to him."

This was too weird.

"I'm gonna open the trunk now. Please, please just get out.
Please don't make me hurt you."

Right. Every muscle in Scully's body was coiled, ready to
explode. She was tense. She was keyed. The adrenaline
was pumping. She was ready.

The trunk opened and she sprang. The man had attempted to open
the trunk from the side, keeping himself out of her range, but she
took in his position instantly, adjusted her trajectory, and launched
herself straight at him, catching him square in the chest. He went
down and she landed on top of him and proceeded to beat the shit
out of him. She was like a wild animal, every trick she'd been taught
in self-defense and survival training coming to the forefront.

Lifting herself up as far as she could without losing her grip on
the man, she came down hard on his belly, knocking the wind from
his lungs. As he struggled to catch his breath, she pounded his face
and chest and soon he was a mass of blood and bruises. He lifted
his hands feebly, taking a defensive posture, then began to strike back
at her.

Leaping off of him, she stepped back, and before he could fully rise,
she launched herself again, full force, and caught him directly in
his groin. He dropped like a stone, clutching himself and moaning.

Her rage beginning to dissipate some, she looked at him and determined
he was not going anywhere for a few moments at least. She looked
around, finally spying a good sized brick. Walking back to the
defeated man, she took another good look at him. Roberson. Her
mind screamed the name, and a sudden surge of panic began to
overtake her. She stood staring at the man as he writhed on the
ground before her, then lifted her brick and knocked him unconscious.

Throwing the brick to the side, she stood bent over, shaking from exertion
and a slowly subsiding rage in the chill air. Panic, fear, and a weird
exhilaration warred for dominance within her. Finally she pulled herself
erect, and said, "I have really had enough of being stuffed into trunks.
Let's all remember that, shall we?"

Walking gingerly on her bare feet, she stepped over to the open trunk,
and peered inside. A small coil of line lay within the spare tire wheel
well and she used it to tie Roberson up. Once he was secured, she
gazed at him speculatively. He was too big to try to drag up to the
cabin, and she really wasn't all that concerned about his comfort at this
point. He could just lay on the gravel until reinforcements arrived.
She turned and made her way into the little cabin.

'Been here,' she thought. Roberson certainly isn't very creative.
Though she had been unconscious the majority of the time she
had been there before, she knew that Mulder had been able to
make a call from the cabin. Checking the house, she entered
the second bedroom and went to the phone, hoping it was still in
working order. Lifting the receiver, she dialed Mulder's cell.

"Mulder, it's me."

End part 03/17

Profiles in Caring IV 04/17

Roberson came to quickly. One of the benefits of his *special*
training. He had learned to go from asleep or unconscious to
fully awake in a lot less time than the normal person could.
He wriggled around on the gravel a bit, both testing his bonds
and looking for a more comfortable position. He quickly
concluded that comfort when lying on gravel was not to
be had.

And the female agent was good with her knots. He was
bound securely. He smiled grimly in the midday light. He
really hadn't been thinking clearly when he took her. He
should have remembered how much trouble she was. He
worked quickly, slipping off his shoe, and then contorting
his body to reach the small blade he kept secreted there.

A few more awkward gyrations and he was free. This had
not gone as planned at all. He gingerly felt his face and head
and acknowledged that not only was Agent Scully good with
her knots, she was good with her fists and -- he winced,
unconsciously holding himself -- her feet. He stood quietly
for a moment longer, debating on taking the car or not.
He looked at the dense tree line -- he knew these woods.
And if Agent Scully was half as efficient in her investigative
capacity as she was in self-defense, she'd track the car in
a heartbeat if he took it.

Shaking his head grimly, he headed off into the forest.
He needed to rethink things. When he'd escaped last
time, he'd eluded capture for much longer than he had
estimated would be possible. Tracking down Agent Mulder
had been difficult, and the actual confrontation with him
had been disappointing. The man had steadfastly
contended that he was *not* responsible.

Harold knew he hadn't been thinking straight then either.
He should have listened when this Mulder had offered to
help. He had seemed to know what he was talking about.
And if what he'd since found out, that the woman had
been abducted just like him, was true, then, he had been
wrong to do the things he had done.

His arrest had just given them a chance to get him
back in their custody. He'd known they would never let
him go this time and so, had begun looking for a way out
immediately. It had taken almost six months, but the
opportunity had finally presented itself, and he had run
as quick as he could and as far as possible. All he could
think of was tracking down Mulder again -- maybe he
would still be willing to help.

But now he'd screwed up again. Mulder was attached to
the woman, and he'd never help him now that he'd taken
the woman again. And, he smiled ruefully and gently
rubbed his jaw, that had certainly been his biggest mistake
so far this go round. Or had it? He stopped, turning to look
back in the direction of the cabin. Maybe he could still
turn this around. The woman would call Mulder. Mulder
would come. Maybe he could still talk to Mulder. Maybe
he could still get help.

***********************************************

"Scully, are you all right?" Mulder was almost screaming
into the phone. "Where are you? Did he hurt you?"

"I'm fine, Mulder. And I'm at the cabin. And, no, he
didn't hurt me."

"Where's Roberson?" Mulder demanded. "Are you safe?"

"Roberson is currently tied up and lying in the driveway
outside. And yes, I think I'm safe. Where are you? We
need to get him into custody."

"We're on our way."

"We?"

"Skinner is with me. Hold on a minute." Mulder looked
at Skinner who was obviously exerting great self-control
to refrain from ripping the phone out of Mulder's hand.

"It's Scully," he said for no apparent reason other than it
made him feel good to say it. "It's Scully."

Skinner nodded. "And?" he prompted.

"She's at the cabin all right. She took out Roberson."
Mulder was almost preening with delight. "Took that
fucker down!" He was grinning, an ear-splitting smile
that showed no signs of abating any time soon.

Skinner laughed. "That's our Agent Scully. She's
all right?"

"Yeah. She just took that SOB right out. Got him tied
up in the driveway, waiting for us." He was still grinning.
"What's our ETA?"

"Less than half an hour, I'd say."

Mulder nodded then spoke into the phone again. "Half an
hour, Scully," he said. "Want us to bring lunch?"

Scully laughed. "Nah -- I'll let you take me out -- after I
have a chance to change. I'm still in my jammies."

Mulder laughed, then said, "Anywhere you want, Agent
Scully. It'll be the AD's treat." He cast a sideways glance
at Skinner and saw the smile that stole across the older man's
often stern features at that. He grew serious once more as
he asked, "You sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine, Mulder, really. I won't say this is my favorite
way to pass the time, and I would appreciate a little backup,
if you two don't mind hurrying along, but I'm OK.
As long as Roberson stays where I left him, I'll be fine."

"Can he get loose?"

"I don't think so Mulder. I tied him up, and remember,
I'm a sailor's kid -- I know my knots. Besides, I was
pretty annoyed at the whole situation and I conked him
with a brick -- knocked him out."

"Look, Scully, check on him, OK? If he shows signs
of waking, knock him out again. I don't want you with him
alone. Please?"

She sighed. "I'll check him, Mulder, but I'm pretty sure he's
down for the count."

"All right. Look, fifteen more minutes -- we'll be there."

***************************************************

Scully hung up the phone, then sighed. The adrenaline high
had faded and she was feeling a bit wiped. Knowing Mulder
and Skinner were on their way helped, but she still had an
eerie feeling about being with Harold Roberson. She did not
want to walk out to look at him, but Mulder was right.
She did need to keep an eye on him, and keeping him
unconscious was probably for the best. She smiled grimly.
Not that she'd be that upset to have to belt the bastard again.

She walked back to the front door and opened it. Stepping
out onto the small porch, she froze. Her eyes were glued to
the large space in the gravel drive by the car. The space
that had been disturbed by the fight. The space where the
formerly even layer of rocks and stones was jumbled, with
large patches of dirt showing through. The space where
Harold Roberson *had* lain.

The realization that he was loose hit her like a physical
blow. This was the stuff of her worst nightmares. Alone
with Harold Roberson. She looked frantically around, seeking
where he could be, her eyes darting from place to place.
She raced to the car, hoping against hope that the keys would
be in place, but was not surprised that they were gone.

Her heart was racing and panic was rapidly overtaking her.
She had to get out of here. Hide. Mulder and Skinner would
be here soon. She had to stay away from Roberson. If she
could just stay away from him, she would be all right. She
had taken him down this time, but she'd had the advantage
of surprise. She held no illusions that she'd be successful
again.

She looked around once more, this time checking for potential
places of concealment. There was the trunk, but if Roberson
came back and drove off, she'd be trapped. That wouldn't do.
The woods? That was too close to her recurrent nightmares.
There had to be another option. She was scanning the tree line
now, her thoughts whirling, when she saw him. Roberson!

He was shuffling back toward the cabin and when he saw her
he began to run. Fast. At her. Dimly she heard the sound of
a car pulling up the drive, but the blind panic she had been
fighting overtook her, and she launched herself off the porch,
away from Harold Roberson, and into the woods on the far side
of the cabin.

And then, she was running, flying through the woods in bare
feet, and it was her nightmare come to life. Instead of a sheer
white shift, she wore her pajamas, but the other elements were
the same.

The fear was surrounding her, an almost palpable presence
that slowed her steps and stole her breath. Gasping for air,
she ran on. Her tender feet, already abused from the gravel of
the drive, were further tortured as she raced unheedingly over
sharp sticks and small stones, and the unsure footing slowed
her more.

She tripped suddenly, her ankle twisting brutally beneath her
and she fell to her knees. She went sprawling face down in
the wet, muddy leaves covering the ground. The panic was
rising up again, threatening to overtake her, as she struggled
to sort this reality from the dream landscape she had visited
so many times before. She lay still for a moment, breathing
harshly through her mouth, then rose shakily to her feet.

She looked around, instinctively knowing that there would
be a small clearing to her left and she hobbled there gingerly
on her damaged feet. Her twisted ankle would barely hold
her weight and she struggled to remain upright. Here, in
reality, there was no illusion of safety in the open area. She
shivered as she slowly made her way to a fallen log and sat.
What the hell was going on?

This was her nightmare come to life. Her brain refused to
work and she felt almost drugged. As she sat, trying to calm
her still racing heart, attempting to puzzle out how this could
be happening, she heard the footsteps she had known would come.
She leapt to her feet, her ankle almost giving out beneath
her, already swollen and painful. She lifted a branch, ready to
defend herself. Some small part of her rational mind cried that
this was wrong, she was about to make a mistake, and the fear
swelled even higher.

She slid awkwardly to the side, slipping back into the cover
of the trees as a large shape approached. She again felt the
panic rising, an overwhelming fear consuming her, and a name
rose once more in her mind - Roberson! Her vision was blurred,
tears and anger and confusion clouding her sight and her judgment.
She was watching the man moving toward her, stepping
cautiously along the edge of the clearing. So focused on his
approach was she, that she never heard the other man come
up behind her. Strong hands reached out and grabbed her
shoulders and a voice hissed in her ear, "Scully!"

She whirled smoothly, the twisted ankle forgotten, the branch
she held rising of its own accord, and she connected solidly
with the man behind her -- Mulder.

She watched in shocked horror as he went to his knees,
moaning, and then fell face forward to the ground.
Her thoughts suddenly seemed to clear, and realizing the
other man was upon her, she fell onto Mulder's still form,
searching frantically for his weapon, finally unholstering
it and rolling onto her back to point it up -- at Skinner.

Skinner and Scully stared at one another, then she dropped
the gun, and rolled back over onto her knees to look at
Mulder. He was beginning to move now, but there was
a nasty gash above his right ear and blood flowed down
his neck and onto his coat and shirt. He looked up and
smiled weakly, and said, "Hey, Scully. We came to rescue
you," then closed his eyes and passed out.

As Scully examined Mulder, and Skinner scanned the
woods, both could hear a car starting up, then pulling
away. Roberson was gone.

************************************************

"Mulder, be still," Scully commanded. Skinner watched in
amused affection as the younger man struggled to sit up,
only to be held in place by his partner's strong hands.

"C'mon Scully, let me up," he whined. "The ground's
wet."

"How do you feel? And don't you dare lie to me," Scully
warned.

Mulder closed his mouth in mid word, thought for a
moment, then said, "My head hurts. I feel a little nauseated.
I'm not dizzy anymore. Can I sit up now?"

Scully nodded from her perch on a rock near him, and
released him from her grip. She watched carefully as he
slowly sat up, finally leaning back somewhat when he
seemed stable.

"I'm all right, Scully," he said.

"Oh yeah," she snorted bitterly, her hand reaching out to
gently graze the bloody streaks on his ear and neck. Her
fingers traveled to gently trace his swollen eye and the
split lip. "I did my share of this damage, but I'm not
responsible for it all." Her hand gently ran through his
hair, stopping at the gash on the back of his skull.
"Mulder, what happened?"

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "Don't worry
about it now. I'm OK, Scully," he repeated as he kissed
her fingers.

She shook her head in dismay at his stubbornness, then
whispered, "I'm sorry, Mulder," her eyes filling with
tears. "It was my nightmare all over again -- I just couldn't
think."

He was nodding carefully now, still holding her hand. "I
know, it's OK."

Skinner cleared his throat and Mulder dropped Scully's hand
as she flushed slightly. "I hate to break this up," the older
man said, "but we need to get back to the cabin. I can't get a
signal on the cell phone and we need to get a search started
for Roberson."

Both agents nodded. Skinner looked at Mulder, then asked
Scully, "How bad is he?"

"Concussion, I'm sure. He needs to go to the ER. Did you see
the gash on his head this morning?"

"Well, yes, but I didn't think it needed stitches."

"It's not stitches I'm worried about. It's what's going on
inside."

"Can he walk back to the cabin, or should I leave you two here
and send paramedics back?"

"No!" Mulder said sharply. "I don't think we should split
up. There's no guarantee Roberson is really gone."

"I think he'll be all right to get back to the cabin," Scully
said. "I don't like the idea of splitting up either. And,
knowing Mulder, I'm sure he'll be fine despite my best
attempts to put him out."

Mulder reached up and gingerly touched the wound over
his ear. "Don't be knocking your best attempt, Scully. I'd
say it was pretty damn good."

"Well, I'd say you have a pretty damn good story to tell
on the rest it, as well." She fixed him with a serious look.
"A story I want to hear when we get out of here."

"Let's get moving then." Skinner reached down and pulled
Mulder and Scully to their feet. Both men turned to stare
as Scully gasped and collapsed again, her injured ankle
refusing to bear her weight.

Mulder looked down, then dropped to his knees and said,
"Scully, you're barefoot." He lifted her uninjured ankle,
then winced at the raw and bloody mess that was the bottom
of her foot. He lowered that foot and went to lift the other,
noticing the bruised and swollen ankle for the first time.
"Oh, Scully," he whispered. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Scully raised both eyebrows at him, and pursed her lips as
she asked, "And what good would that have done? We
all still need to get back to the cabin."

"I'll carry you," Mulder declared as he stood. He swayed
slightly and Skinner reached out a hand to steady him.

"I don't think so. You can barely carry yourself." Skinner
held Mulder in place a moment longer, allowing the younger
man to get his balance, then he bent and lifted Scully in his
arms and said, "Keep your eyes open, Mulder. As you pointed
out, we can't be sure Roberson is gone."

Scully had opened her mouth to protest against Skinner
carrying her, when he looked down and said, "And you,
save it. This is the most practical and most efficient way
to get us all back to the cabin. You can file a formal
complaint later." He laughed softly as Scully snapped her
mouth shut and frowned.

When they reached the cabin, all three agents looked in
disgust at the four flat tires on Skinner's car. Roberson
had been thorough. With no transportation and the cell
phones out, they could only hope Roberson hadn't disabled
the land line as well.

Setting Scully gently on the porch steps, Skinner pushed
Mulder down beside her then darted into the cabin in
search of the phone. He returned shortly and said,
"Roberson was too careful. The phone's been ripped
out of the wall."

"Try the cell again, Sir," Scully suggested. "Maybe it
will function here in the clearing."

Skinner nodded and obediently flipped open the phone.
His faith was rewarded with a fuzzy, but audible signal.
Dialing quickly, he contacted the local police and rescue
units and arranged to have them come to the cabin
immediately. He then called the Bureau garage, to make
arrangements for them to pick up the car. As he was
discussing the condition of the vehicle, Mulder spoke up.

"Can you have them get my car from the motel too, Sir?
I don't relish another drive up there just for that."

Skinner nodded and relayed the information to the dispatcher,
then closed the phone, grumbling. "Man thinks he can
give *me* the third degree over the car's condition."

Mulder looked up with a grin and said, "Maybe you'll
be a little more understanding about my expense reports
when I have car trouble now."

Skinner snorted and said, "Ha! I have flat tires, Mulder.
I haven't wrecked the car, or blown up the car, or had
the car spontaneously combust into flames, or, God forbid,
*lost* the car the way you have."

Scully burst into laughter as Mulder's face fell and he realized
he would not be able to needle his boss on this after all. But
then his demeanor changed and the serious FBI agent was back.
He looked up and said, "Sir, I can't impress upon you how
important it is that we find Harold Roberson. I strongly
suspect that his taking Scully was little more than an attempt to
reach me."

Scully nodded, saying, "Yes, he did say he wanted to get in
touch with you. I remember thinking he could have saved
us all some trouble if he'd just used the damn phone."

Mulder smiled, then went on. "I suspect he was trying to get
my help. And not being able to secure that, as well as having
this little impromptu kidnapping go sour on him, may have
been enough to send him round the bend. He may no longer be
interested in getting help. He may be ready to embark on
some personal crusade to right whatever wrongs he feels have
occurred.

"All right, Mulder," Skinner asked, "what do you suggest?"

Mulder paused thoughtfully, then said, "I think our first step
is to find out everything we can about this project Invasion.
Track down all records, but I think especially, we need to know
who was involved. This is personal to Roberson. He's going
to go after people, not information. As you recall, he's
already killed one person, Colonel Kingsley, and I think if
we look into her background far enough, we're gonna find
that she was involved in the project. And I think it was for
her involvement that she died."

"But Mulder," Scully interjected, "he killed her whole family
as well. The husband and both children too."

"Yeah. He's not just out to take care of the people that hurt
him. He's bent on retribution." Skinner and Scully watched
in concern as Mulder visibly slipped away, his profiling skills
coming to the forefront. He rose to his feet and began to pace.
"Anybody we can find who was involved with the project needs
to be warned. We may need to establish some surveillance
on some of them. Especially once we narrow down who is the
most involved, who the leadership is." Mulder stopped
suddenly, then reached out to lean on the porch rail for
support. "I have a feeling that's who Roberson is going
to go after next."

End of part 04/17