From jhumby@ctv.es Mon Dec 02 04:50:41 1996
Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the XFiles
writers. I've borrowed them for fun not profit.
This story:
I'm happy for the story to be circulated uncommercially, intact
and with my name still attached.
Joann - jhumby@iee.org
==========
Title - A Loss of Control
Rating - NC17
Classification - S,R,A - Story, Romance, Angst (ah, promises, promises!)
By Joann Humby
Summary:
A funeral for a friend. A job offer. A seduction. Mulder / Scully
failed 'romance'.
After 'Ice in the Morning', a lot of people asked me for a
sequel. But I've not been in the mood for that. So having written
about a failed 'morning after' this is about a failed 'night
before'. It's my first attempt at NC17, albeit pretty mild, so please
try not to laugh.
This story was prompted by the ongoing debate on atx etc about FM
treating DS as a sidekick and asking when she was going to rebel.
I'll be back to doing straight X-File stories again soon, but first I
have to post this, else it'll haunt me.
Apologies in advance to 'shippers, non 'shippers, Scullyists and
people who want to know what's going on with Mulder during this one
(now that's a sequel I might write). Apologies also to people who run
management training courses who know you should never start a
presentation with an apology.
SPOILER ALERT:
This is very definitely set in the fourth season with allusions to
lots of episodes up to and including Tunguska. No real plot give
aways, but...
===============
A LOSS OF CONTROL
Part 1/1
THE CEMETERY
Scully tried not to stare too obviously as she approached him. He
kept his head bowed. She saw another Agent walk over to him, another
hand on his arm, another goodbye. He nodded back politely. He buried
his hands in his trenchcoat pockets again.
Dana Scully watched, waited and wondered why he was so reluctant to
move. It wasn't as if Jeanette Abrahams was the first colleague
they'd seen buried. She winced at the thought. When had she got quite
so blase about death?
Another man, this one accompanied by a swirl of picture book perfect
Agents, stopped to talk to Mulder. The posse of smart suited, career
minded Agents hung back, looking faintly uncomfortable, as if nervous
of the danger of contamination. The two men spoke for a couple of
minutes and then the stranger and his entourage moved on.
Dana Scully stepped forward and moved close to her partner's side.
"That was the Director wasn't it?"
A brief nod of the head in reply.
Blevins, Skinner, now the Director? What was going on? She'd watched
the flow of mourners, a surprising number of them had stopped to
talk to Mulder. She'd been shocked. She'd never seem him so popular.
But, she'd worked out what that meant. Presumably Mulder had been
more than just another of Jeanette Abrahams' colleagues. Presumably
the rest of the Bureau knew that.
So, why hadn't he said anything? And why all the attention from the
Bureau brass. Since when had Mulder known the Director so well that
he'd stop for a chat? She flinched again as she realised that she was
actually feeling resentful of the attention her partner was getting.
She'd planned to distinguish herself in the Bureau. Now, here she
stood as Mulder's invisible sidekick. For most of the day she'd even
been stood a few paces behind him, like the veiled wife of some
devotee of a fundamentalist religion.
She nudged him again. He nodded. Silent communication took over. She
led him away. His hands were still in his pockets. She wished she
could see his eyes but his dark sunglasses locked out any intrusions.
As they walked to the car, Scully plucked up the courage to speak.
"Tell me about her."
He swallowed. A long silence until finally he answered. "We kept one
another sane when I was in Behavioural." A sigh. "Well, I kept her
sane. She gave up on me when I got interested in the X-Files."
"You were friends?"
"Yeah, friends." A shy smile.
She wasn't sure how she plucked up the courage to ask the next
question. "Good friends?"
"Yeah, you could say that." He shrugged. "Well, sometimes. When both
of us were healthy enough."
"You never said."
He raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall you giving me a list of your
ex's Scully."
Scully nodded. Definitely an ex then. "Are you okay?"
"No." He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.
She was shocked. She hadn't expected him to say anything. Now that he
had, she struggled to think of an appropriate response. She decided
to drive him home, pick up some food. They could sit and eat
together. At least she could offer some company. She wondered how she
was going to stop him spotting the strange ripples of jealousy she
was feeling.
--------------
MULDER'S APARTMENT
He changed clothes as soon as he entered the apartment as if he
thought getting rid of the black suit marked some fresh start. It
didn't work. They sat quietly at opposite ends of the couch.
Mulder watched a spider make its way across the rug. When finally the
spider disappeared into a mass of wires behind the TV set Mulder just
stopped and stared at the blank screen.
Scully wondered why she was sitting here, doing this. Didn't she have
anything better to do?
Then, unprompted and unannounced, Mulder started talking. "We worked
together for two years. Except, of course, you don't really work with
anyone in Behavioral. We used to look after one another. When we
could. When one of us had enough left to help the other one. And if
we were both ok, then we used to." He paused, smiled slightly, an
obviously embarrassed smile. "We used to enjoy the novelty of the
situation. Surprising how much enjoyment you can fit into a few hours
between cases if you're committed to the idea."
He sighed. Dana regretted that she'd stayed. There were things they
didn't discuss. Didn't want to discuss. And yet, and yet she wanted
to know more. A kind of masochistic voyeurism. Like slowing down to
watch the aftermath of a road accident.
"She got out when I did. I moved in to the basement. She got a
management job in San Francisco. Came back when Patterson." He
paused, clearly fighting for the words. "She came back to run
Behavioral, a year ago. I had no idea she was in trouble. I guess
I've talked to her, for what, a couple of hours in the last year. I
had no idea." He stopped. Suicide or a mistake brought on by
tiredness. It didn't make a lot of difference now. She'd driven her
mechanically perfect car into a tree on a straight, dry, empty, well
lit road.
Dana Scully hoped that he wouldn't carry on talking. He was too raw.
Had been for weeks. His mother's illness, clones of Samantha, that
whole business of past lives and soulmates. Too many tears, too many
open wounds. And now this.
It wasn't that she minded him having these emotions. She didn't
believe in those rules that said men mustn't cry. She knew better
than that. And yet.
In a way she was impressed that he was so confident of her that he'd
let his defenses drop like that. But still.
If that was on the outside, in the open, it scared her to think what
might be on the inside. She didn't want the responsibility. She had
enough trouble with her own feelings, without his.
His voice was almost a whisper. "They want me to move to Behavioral."
Scully gasped. Now that, she hadn't expected.
He continued, as quiet as before. "That's what Blevins, Skinner, the
Director wanted to remind me about. Their 'offer'."
"You mean they want you to take it over?"
"Yeah, suppose so. Skinner says I could just do it short term, while
they reorganise or recruit or whatever." A snort of laughter. "A few
people think I owe them something for getting me out of my Russian
difficulties."
She sighed, she could see their point. Only Mulder could be punished
with a promotion. It was unlikely she'd be getting promoted,
punishment or not. She'd nailed her colours to the mast. And almost
everyone had seen it as confirmation that she was Little Miss Loyal,
Mrs Spooky. Not some sort of strange, distorted hero like Mulder. No,
he was so obviously a man with a mission and, of course, he was a
man. But she, she was just a devoted assistant. Watson to his Holmes.
She struggled to find the words and to keep the bitterness out of her
voice. "What are you going to do?"
"Don't know."
She wanted to leave. Leave now before her anger and frustration
betrayed her. She'd asked him to open up to her, he had. Even this
was her own fault. She was here, still playing the loyal nursemaid.
She didn't have to, he hadn't asked. She'd offered. But she hadn't
expected him to take her up on it.
She wanted to get out. Run. But her eyes kept getting drawn back to
him. Like slowing down to watch the ambulance load up with the
bodies. "Did you love Jeanette?" She paused. "Back then?"
"We were friends, colleagues, lovers, but we were never 'in love'."
She cringed, it was like playing a game of truth or dare, she
couldn't stop. "Didn't Patterson object?"
Mulder smiled, a real smile, not just a hiding something movement of
the muscles. "Object? He was delighted. Saved on visits to the
psychiatrists. And made it unlikely we'd meet people who might
interfere with our work." The smile vanished as quickly as it came.
"Even if he did object, he wouldn't have done anything. No point
pissing off your best two profilers."
"You didn't love her?"
"Like a friend. But not in love."
"You were lovers."
"A marriage of convenience. We looked after one another, whatever it
took."
She shivered. What was this, some sort of thinly veiled come on? The
arrogance of the man. The comparison was too strong. Friends,
colleagues, who looked after each other. And 'lovers' was just a word
that described two people who screwed, when they wanted to. She was
ashamed of her own voice as it responded. "And what would it take to
look after you now?"
He looked at her, at first he looked puzzled, baffled even, but then
utterly inscrutable. "You've looked after me for four years."
She glared, she'd given up everything for him. He'd nagged away at
her beliefs. She'd been put in danger from forces that she need never
have confronted. They'd killed her sister, they'd taken months of her
life, maybe destroyed her health, stolen her peace of mind. And
today, unequivocally, unquestionably she'd seen the other things.
There were no lovers in her life or even on the horizon, no prospect
of children who'd run to her when she came home, there were scarcely
even any friends. It had become almost impossible to keep contact
with people she knew. Her family searched her expression for some new
calamity as soon as they looked at her. Her career aspirations had
all but vanished. And today she had realised she had become truly
invisible or at least, transparent.
An appendage of Fox Mulder who 'looked after him'. And why? For what?
Because of her desire to learn and understand new things? Yes, he'd
used that. Because of her loyalty? Yes, her mother and father had
taught her well. Because she was some satellite bound by fate to
orbit around him in this life, like in all his previous ones. She
glowered at him. Enough. Jeanette had needed more than the word
'thank you' said every couple of years. So did she. He'd kept her
from any chance of a real relationship and offered her nothing. Not
even what he'd given Jeanette.
She made her voice impersonal, controlled, professional. "And if I
needed more?"
The expression on his face mutated from inscrutable to inquisitive.
He half smiled. "If it was something I could give, I would happily
give it."
She was annoyed, how dare he be so controlled. She reached an arm
out, let her fingertips drift slowly across his face. He moved his
head to increase the pressure of the contact, then turned suddenly,
catching her unawares, pulling the tip of one finger between his
lips.
She didn't pull away, couldn't remember how to. Instead she let her
finger stay in place.
He flicked his tongue over her fingertip, soft, warm, wet, sensual.
She leant towards him. Drew back the finger that he held in his
mouth, drew it back very slowly so that he would know to follow. She
guided him to her mouth. A brush of lips on lips. She felt him back
away fractionally and then felt him run his tongue cautiously over
her lips. She pushed forward, opening her lips to him, greedy for the
contact. He held back.
She heard his voice and more vaguely, as if through some sort of a
fog, she heard his words. "What do you want?"
She mimicked the words he'd used as they left the cemetery, "a few
hours enjoyment."
She saw him shiver. He cleared his throat before he replied. "You
know how to pick your moments." She looked at him, he looked scared.
She put her hands on the back of his head and drew him towards her.
He looked for an instant as if he was drowning, then recovered,
closing his eyes and kissing her. She combed her fingers through his
hair.
She recognised her role now, her part in this new play. Not an
associate or an assistant, she was controlling this. Setting the
pace, setting the limits. He would follow her lead.
She pushed him backwards, he obliged by letting himself fall into the
cushions at the end of the couch. He pulled her with him. He let his
tongue roll softly over her neck, outlining her collarbone with warm
kisses.
She pulled back. This was her show, it would be played at her pace.
She unbuttoned his shirt. He seemed to be struggling for air,
forgetting to breathe, then suddenly sucking in a huge gasp of air
and then silence again. He was familiar and strange. The man she knew
and the man she didn't.
She considered taking off some of her clothes, some element of
reciprocity. Then decided not to. Instead she focused again on him.
He looked scared, excited, confused, aroused and if she looked real
close, real careful, he still looked faintly amused. She sighed and
vowed to take that look of amusement from his eyes. This was not a
game. This was serious. She started to remove the rest of his
clothes. He recognised her intentions and the logistical difficulties
she would encounter and shook himself out of jeans, boxers and socks
in a single movement that started somewhere near the hips.
She studied him. Absolutely as expected, but then she'd seen him
before, but that, unquestionably, had not been in the same context.
The swimmer's shoulders, the slender taper of the legs, the muscular
lines that ran across chest and stomach and hips. He was built. No
doubt about it.
He watched her just as intently. Except he looked scared, scared and
amused.
She let her dressed body drift slowly down to rest lightly on his
naked form. Her decision, her timing. Time for him to do some work.
She slithered out of pantyhose and pants. Moved on her knees along
his body, letting him feel the smoothness of her thighs as she moved.
She reached his shoulders. She lifted her skirt and stretching her
knees wide she lowered herself to his face. Hot, wet breath and lips
and tongue working, precision timing. She gasped. She pulled the
skirt higher so she could look down and see him. He lifted his eyes
and studied her face but kept his mind on his duties. His hands found
their way to her hips. She felt his fingernails stroke over her
buttocks.
The tension built through her body. She looked down at him, saw the
soft encouragement in his face and then the faint shimmer of humor in
his eyes. No.
She lifted the soft wetness of her flesh from his mouth and moved
back along his form to kneel between his legs. Her hand moved slowly,
confidently, steadily to the hard pink flesh rising from his dark
soft curls. He flinched as she closed her hand around him. He sighed
and his hands flew back to grip the edge of the couch as she started
to move. He breathed, gasped for air at each stroke. Then his eyes
opened and she saw his hands drift towards her. His hands arrived,
one to stroke her arm that was so busy in its task. The other hand
moved to drift across her cheek, brushing back phantom strands of
hair. She studied him, saw the quiet attention, the gentle rapture in
his eyes and the soft smile. No.
In control even now. Even now as she set the pace, as she controlled
the agenda he was still in charge. He'd given nothing away. She
wanted to see him beg. She needed to see him give himself up, the way
she had to, day in, day out. She'd given herself to him. And she
still was giving. He took what was offered and gave away nothing.
Just like always.
Generous with his body, but she'd expected that. After all, she had
no doubt that he would willingly die for her. Respectful, polite
even. Taking only what was offered. But taking away her emotions and
dreams and giving her only raw sensation in return.
She made one last desperate attempt to get through to him. To wipe
that grin off his face. To make him lose himself because of her.
She pushed herself backwards, knees bent and pushed apart so that one
foot rested on the ground while the other pushed hard against the
back of the coach. A message. One he would ignore at his peril. But
he did ignore it. Or at least, chose to interpret it in his own way.
She felt his hair tickle the inside of her thighs. Felt his breath
provide a stream of super heat to her folds. Felt his fingers, gently
press and stroke into her body and from there find a direct pathway
to her brain. She felt the fire build. Felt herself, hot, tight, wet,
pulsing to the beat of a long forgotten rhythm.
Impossible to retreat. Impossible not to fly. Impossible not to let
him drive her to nothingness like this. She couldn't let him do this
to her. If she did then he would have it all, everything, leave
nothing that was hers and hers alone.
She pulled away, squirmed under his touch. He took the hint. All the
more annoying that he understood so quickly, how dare he know her so
well. She tugged his shoulders. He followed her pull and straightened
his body. He hovered above her, poised.
Then suddenly, with a barely audible sigh, he pushed himself away and
off the couch. He kneeled on the floor resting his arms against the
couch and stared at her. She turned to face him. He was there at her
side looking flushed, nervous, breathing heavily, but he said
nothing.
She felt the anger rise. She could find no words. She struggled for
breath and a word. And at last the word came. "Why?"
"You don't want me.
She made no reply.
He looked at her again, as if looking to see if she would deny it.
"You're holding back. I can't pretend you want me."
She wanted to kick and growl and argue, but she was short of words,
all she could say was, "but."
"If I'm wrong, just say it."
She glared. He was in control. He hadn't been out of control, not for
a second, not for an instant. Controlling her, even when she was in
the driving seat. Allowing her the appearance of control even as he
pulled her strings. Like a puppet. Well, enough.
She changed the subject. Incongruous. Him naked. Her half naked. She
pulled down her skirt to reclaim the advantage. She changed the
subject. "So are you considering taking them up on the offer of the
Behavioral job?"
A twitch. She smiled, good, at least he'd lost some of his composure.
A little of that iron control had buckled.
"I've just watched them bury a friend. I'm not up to considering
anything." His words were quiet.
She choked on her smile. What had she done?
END
(A Loss of Control - Joann - jhumby@iee.org)
From jhumby@ctv.es Tue Dec 03 10:56:45 1996
Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the XFiles
writers. I've borrowed them for fun not profit.
This story:
I'm happy for the story to be circulated uncommercially, intact
and with my name still attached.
Joann - jhumby@iee.org
---------------
Title - A Loss of Control - Mirror Image
Rating - NC17
Classification - S,R,A - Story, Romance, Angst (yeah, why not)
By Joann Humby
Summary
A funeral for a friend. A job offer. A seduction. Mulder / Scully
failed 'romance'. Mulder's perspective.
"A Loss of Control", tells this story from DS's perspective. I'm not
sure, but you probably have to read that one first for this to make
sense. Hey, give me a break, I don't even know if this makes sense if
you do read that one first.
SPOILER ALERT:
This is very definitely set in the fourth season with allusions to
lots of episodes up to and including Tunguska/Terma. No plot give
aways, but...
===============
A LOSS OF CONTROL - MIRROR IMAGE
Part 1/1
THE CEMETERY
He was tired, tired and cold. He hadn't slept last night. He liked
the cold, it was numbing him, making him oblivious to the scene being
played out in front of him.
He was surprised how many people seemed to remember that they'd been
an item a few years ago. Ah, but of course, back then, they were both
rising stars and the Bureau gossips had been full of jokes about
Patterson having first claim on any offspring from their coupling. He
smiled bitterly at the memory.
He heard the approaching footsteps, the Bureau Director and his hired
help. Now, this was definitely not a social call.
"Agent Mulder. It's a sad day. She was a delightful woman, I believe
you knew her personally?"
Mulder nodded and tried not to resent the pretense of smalltalk.
The Director continued, his voice conspiratorially low and soothing.
"She was also an exceptional Agent. You know how anxious we are to
see a replacement of similar quality. You could be very influential.
I hope that you will think through all the implications of the
offer."
"Thank you. I will do, Sir."
The group left. Mulder tried to decide what to do next. He wondered
if Dana Scully was still somewhere around here. Then he heard her
arrival. A sigh of relief.
Dana spoke first. "That was the Director wasn't it?"
He just nodded, there wasn't much to say unless he said everything.
He hadn't even told her about Jeanette Abrahams being more than just
an old colleague. But, Scully was sharp, observant, she'd have
noticed the sympathetic touches that people had been offering, she'd
have guessed by now. He thought of a case in Aubrey and a Detective
called BJ, and how 'a woman just knows these things'.
He followed her to her car. Scully still had to do the talking for
both of them. He felt vaguely guilty about that, knowing it must be
as difficult for her to start the conversation as it was for him.
"Tell me about her." She said gently.
He wanted to tell her, it was important he tell her. She'd said she
wanted to understand better, why he did things. And the offer they
were making to him, would affect both of them.
He tried to answer the question she'd asked. "We kept one another
sane when I was in Behavioral." He paused as a little mocking voice
crept into his thoughts. "Well, I kept her sane. She gave up on me
when I got interested in the X-Files."
"You were friends?"
"Yeah, friends."
"Good friends?"
Hard to say that phrase without innuendo in the voice. She was right
of course, no point in lying about it. "Yeah, you could say that." He
thought about how it had really been. "Well, sometimes. When both of
us were healthy enough."
No wonder people remembered them together, they must have been a
pretty unforgettable combination. Even Scully, who knew it was his
job, who knew at an intellectual level that it was the thing that had
always made him good at his job. Even she hated it when he dived into
some killer's head. He tried to imagine how his relationship with
Jeanette must have looked to outsiders. A marriage made in heaven or,
more likely, forged in hell.
"Are you okay?"
< Sure, Scully, I'm fine. I'm alive aren't I. Another friend dead.
Another disaster survived. A minor difficulty over a reassignment at
the Bureau. Sure Scully, I'm fine. > He thought of the answer. "No."
Even as he said it, he regretted it. She'd feel obliged to try and
console him. He didn't want that. There were things to tell her.
Things he could only tell her if they were FBI Agents, professionals.
Things he could only tell her when he'd got his feelings under
control.
So he wouldn't tell her. He got rid of the suit as soon as he arrived
at his apartment. Shed the uniform of mourner, shed the role of FBI
Agent. It would remind him not to talk. Talk tomorrow when he could
put on the suit and not only dress up like a Fed, but act like one.
He wanted her to leave, the longer she stayed the harder it became to
stay silent. At last he came to a decision. Get the personal stuff
over with. Tell Scully about Jeanette. Save the job stuff until
tomorrow. Don't get them wrapped up together. One thing at a time.
That way he stood more chance of keeping the lid on his emotions.
Keep down the tears and the anger which had both flowed in such
abundance in the last few weeks.
He started talking, quiet, matter of fact. "We worked together for
two years. Except, of course, you don't really work with anyone in
Behavioral. We used to look after one another. When we could. When
one of us had enough left to help the other one. And if we were both
ok, then we used to." He suddenly realised how embarrassing this was,
but he'd already come too far. "We used to enjoy the novelty of the
situation." He heard the self mocking edge to his words. "Surprising
how much enjoyment you can fit into a few hours between cases if
you're committed to the idea."
He wished he could shut up. He wished he could send Dana Scully away.
But if she wouldn't go and she decided to force him to talk it would
be so much worse. No control left. There would be no way of stopping
another flood of tears. The mocking voce came back. Then, he'd have
to get her suit jacket cleaned, again.
"She got out when I did. I moved into the basement. She got a
management job in San Francisco. Came back when Patterson." < When
Patterson flipped. You remember, you thought I'd flipped as well. >
"She came back to run Behavioral, a year ago. I had no idea she was
in trouble. I guess I've talked to her, for what, a couple of hours
in the last year. I had no idea."
Could he have seen it coming, should he have? What else was he
ignoring? Who else was he betraying by not paying attention?
She didn't reply. Just sat and watched as if she knew he had more to
tell. He felt her stare burn into him. He couldn't stop himself from
talking but his voice dropped to a whisper. "They want me to move to
Behavioral." A pause. "That's what Blevins, Skinner, the Director
wanted to remind me about. Their 'offer'."
There was a long pause before she replied. "You mean they want you to
take it over?"
"Yeah, suppose so. Skinner says I could just do it short term, while
they reorganise or recruit or whatever." A snort of laughter. "A few
people think I owe them something for getting me out of my Russian
difficulties."
She nodded. "What are you going to do?"
"Don't know."
She looked like she wanted to leave, or talk, or stay. He couldn't
tell. Her voice was tense when she spoke. "Did you love Jeanette?
Back then?"
He was surprised by her question, he was even more surprised by the
cold clarity of his answer. "We were friends, colleagues, lovers, but
we were never 'in love'."
"Didn't Patterson object?"
"Object? He was delighted. Saved on visits to the psychiatrists. And
made it unlikely we'd meet people who might interfere with our work."
He felt his stomach roll at the memory. "Even if he did object, he
wouldn't have done anything. No point pissing off your best two
profilers."
No point upsetting Mulder, the superstar, who could see the things
the others missed, who could put two and two together and prove that
it made five. Or Jeanette, who knew all the statistics, all the
probabilities and who could wind doubtful police chiefs round her
little finger. Formidable individually, on those rare cases when
they'd actually worked together they were a phenomenon. Patterson had
never forgiven them for getting away.
Scully's voice was low and demanding. "You didn't love her?"
Again the precision of his answer shocked him. "Like a friend. But
not in love."
"You were lovers."
"A marriage of convenience. We looked after one another, whatever it
took." It was an accurate description. Cold, but accurate. < Just the
sort of thing you'd expect Behavioral's finest to come up with. >
Even Jeanette would have been impressed by its icy clarity. She'd
always teased him about lapsing into poetic imagery in his profiles.
"And what would it take to look after you now?"
What did she mean? What could she mean? "You've looked after me for
four years."
He saw the annoyance in her eyes. Then heard that oh so controlled
voice of hers. "And if I needed more?"
What did she mean? Was she joking? He tried to smile. "If it was
something I could give, I would happily give it."
He felt her fingertips drift slowly across his face and he followed
her touch. She couldn't mean? He pulled the tip of one finger between
his lips.
She didn't pull away, so he flicked his tongue over her fingertip and
watched her face.
She drew him into a soft delicate kiss. He felt his head go giddy and
tried to speak, to understand what was happening before he made some
stupid mistake. "What do you want?"
"A few hours enjoyment."
He shivered, terrified by her words. It wasn't that he didn't want
to, but this was so strange, so sudden. He heard the nervous laugh in
his voice as he replied. "You know how to pick your moments."
She touched his head and he leaned into her kiss.
She pushed him backwards, he let himself fall down to the cushions
and pulled her with him.
He felt her hands on his chest and the soft tug of cloth as she
unbuttoned his shirt. He wanted to ask her. What was happening? What
did it mean? Why now? But he'd lost the power of speech. So he lay
gasping for air.
Should he move to undress her? He wasn't sure. She seemed to be so
much in control. Before he could decide, he felt her hands tugging at
the waist band of his jeans and pushing back on denim and against the
top of his shorts. He was shocked, baffled, bewildered. But, she
seemed so determined, so he lifted his hips and pushed the clothing
away.
She looked at him so intently it scared him. He wished he had kept
his boxers on. At least until he understood her intentions. But it
had been easier to wriggle out of everything than to try and preserve
dignity. He looked up at her with a smile of longing and
embarrassment.
And then he knew that he was meant to be naked, that he just had to
be naked.
He felt the bare skin of her powerful slim legs as she moved slowly
up his body. She straddled his head.
Amazing, incredible, wonderful. Demure, beautiful Dana Scully. She
was willing to let him feel her like this. He wanted to shout and
squeal and scream and sing and laugh, but all those things involved
moving his lips from where they needed to be.
He felt her muscles tense and flutter above him and willed her to let
go, willed her to just be his. No, not his, at least not as a
possession. She was a goddess he wanted to worship.
< Please Dana, please let me worship you. >
Then she pulled away.
He wanted to cry out at the unfairness. But he felt her hand close
gently around his passion hardened flesh and knew that it would be
wrong to scream of unfairness. Not when her touch had magical powers
like that. He writhed for a few seconds, just enjoying her caress.
Then remembered that she was the goddess and good though it was to
have the undivided attention of a goddess it just didn't seem right.
So he started to stroke her arm and as she lowered her face, he
stroked her cheek. He wanted the rest of her. Could she sense that?
Did she know what his smile meant?
Yes. She repositioned herself. So pink and wet and inviting. He dived
into her invitation. Touching, stroking, investigating.
He felt the tension build in her muscles again, felt her writhing
under his touch. < Please Scully. Please let me. Let me make you
scream. Please. >
Then he felt her freeze. Saw a look of anger or anguish cloud her
eyes. And knew that he was failing her, knew this wasn't affecting
her the way it was affecting him. She'd offered him her body. Just as
she'd always offered him her time and her friendship and her words.
Because she was kind and generous and would give him things because
he needed them.
And she wouldn't let him give her anything. She would play out the
game with him. But, it was just an act of kindness, it was no more
than charity. She didn't want him.
He felt her hands tug at his shoulders. He followed the pull of her
fingers and straightened his body. He hovered above her, poised.
He almost succumbed. Accept the invitation. Enjoy it with gratitude.
Maybe even make her want him? But he already knew that he wouldn't be
able to do that. He knew that was more than he was capable of, more
than he could expect, more than he deserved.
And suddenly all the desire, the hopes, the dreams left him. They
floated away to join the rest of his discarded fantasies.
He lifted himself away from her, rolled off the couch and went to
kneel on the floor. He didn't have the words. How do you turn down
the most generous gift anyone has ever offered you? But he was going
to.
She looked angry. She said only one word. "Why?"
"You don't want me." When she made no move to reply, he felt solemn,
sentimental, apologetic words move to his lips. But still a naive and
foolish dream ran through his brain, he couldn't stop himself hoping.
So he tried to talk again. "You're holding back. I can't pretend you
want me."
She looked as if she would say something but all she said was, "but."
"If I'm wrong, just say it." < Please tell me it wasn't just pity. >
He watched as she straightened her skirt and turned back into Dr
Scully, FBI Agent. He felt his body shiver and tense as he heard her
oh so controlled voice. "So are you considering taking them up on the
offer of the Behavioral job?"
He felt sick. Last hope dashed. Such composure, such calm. All part
of the service. Sex as today's prescription. She didn't even sound
out of breath. Such a non event that she could happily sit on his
couch fully clothed while he sat naked on the floor. So unimportant
that she could ask him about that job as if it was the most natural
next subject.
He felt a taste of bile in his mouth. Acid thoughts in his head.
Bitter words moved to his lips. "I've just watched them bury a
friend. I'm not up to considering anything."
END
(of a nice bedtime story, oops, sorry - Joann - jhumby@iee.org)
From jhumby@ctv.es Sat Dec 07 16:16:07 1996
Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers. I've
borrowed them for fun not profit.
This story:I'm happy for the story to be circulated uncommercially,
intact and with my name still attached.
Joann - jhumby@iee.org
==========
Title - A Loss of Control - Reassignment
Rating - R (for language)
Classification - X,R,A - X-File(yep), Romance(memory of), Angst (some)
By Joann Humby
Summary:
Follows a story of failed MSR from "A Loss of Control". Picking up
the pieces with FM looking after Behavioral and DS with a serial
killer X-File to solve.
One thing leads to another. Having denied to everyone that I write
sequels, here's a sequel. But it's not really a MSR anymore. This is
an X-File with a background of a failed sexual adventure between our
heroes.
For it to work best you probably need to have read "A Loss of
Control" and maybe "A Loss of Control - Mirror Image" which are on
the gossamer archives. If you don't like MSR's (even disastrous ones)
or NC17 stuff or have read the stories but want a refresher, you need
to know that after those two:
FM ends up naked on the floor.
DS ends up, just about, fully clothed on the couch.
FM thinks DS was motivated by pity.
DS thinks FM's response to her was just another example of how he
manages to control and manipulate her even when she takes the lead.
FM has been given a temporary assignment to run the Behavioral unit
(the team that write profiles) - he's taken over from Jeanette
Abrahams (who's dead), who took over from Patterson.
Phew, what a long intro, sorry,
Joann
===============
A Loss of Control - Reassignment
Part 1/3
Fox Mulder sat quiet, leaning forward in his chair. Mark Richards was
still holding his hand, he'd been gripping it like that for the last
five minutes. The phone rang. Mulder gently pulled his hand away and
leaned over to pick up the phone.
He closed the call, saying he needed a couple more minutes.
He turned back to Richards who was now sitting drying his eyes,
wiping his nose. "Go home, Mark. Come back on Monday."
"I can't, I need to.."
Mulder stopped him sharply but spoke softly. "It's an order."
"I can cope."
"Well I can't, so go home."
Richards stood up and stared. Then he looked like he was going to
collapse again.
Mulder locked eyes with him. "Go. You need your strength, that means
you need to know when to stop."
Richards nodded and left.
Whose fucking stupid idea was this? He could see how having him take
over the Behavioral team sounded like a smart move to the Bureau
brass. Keep him out of trouble and get some useful work out of him.
Manage the place? He'd sooner have it shut down, have them all sent
on long vacations. Manage the people? That was a laugh, he was more
like the den mother than the team leader.
He closed his eyes and was strangely grateful that there were too
many cases active in the division and too many cases in the in tray
awaiting assignment. Any one of them was too hard, would demand too
much. But fifty of them, that was just such an unimaginable depth of
horror that it made it impossible for his brain to lock on any one of
them. So he tried to let them go and tried to concentrate on
protecting the Analysts.
Was this what it had been like for Patterson?
He couldn't help but smile at the idea. The thought of Patterson
sitting and holding his hand while he came down to earth. Yeah,
right. But then of course, Patterson did the job for years. He'd only
agreed to do the job for a few weeks.
And he'd hung on to the X-Files. Hung on being the operative words.
They'd tried to prise them away. But he wouldn't let them.
Dana Scully was outside the door waiting for him to call her in. It
was the first time they'd met in this office. It was almost the first
time they'd met since that night. He stopped the chain of thoughts
before he thought too much.
He hesitated. This still felt like Patterson's office. Jeanette had
rearranged the furniture so that when you sat behind the desk, your
visitors didn't have to stare into the glare from the windows. But
the chair behind the desk was still higher than the others in the
room. The room still had its little psychological tricks. Mulder
hadn't rearranged the furniture. That would be like admitting this
was a permanent thing. He just didn't sit behind the desk. Except for
now.
He needed the desk as a defence. The image of Dana Scully, in his
apartment, sitting calmly, fully clothed on his couch while he sat
naked and nervous on the floor suddenly hit him. He swallowed. He'd
cope.
He touched the button on his phone and asked the administrative
assistant to call Scully in. He put on his glasses and pulled open
the report. He almost laughed as he identified the meaning behind his
actions. Any other barriers he could put up?
"Good Morning, Agent Scully. It's good to see you back. I've read the
report."
Dana Scully almost cried. 'Agent Scully'. She wasn't sure what to
call him. He'd shown her by example that she couldn't call him
Mulder. "Thank you, Agent Mulder. It's good to be back. It took
longer than I'd anticipated."
Three weeks instead of one to be precise. A nice little case of
demonic possession in Wisconsin, or not. Whatever. She hadn't really
been in a rush to get back either. And her boss certainly wasn't
putting any pressure on. In fact he hadn't spoken to her since she
left DC.
Not that they'd actually spoken before she left DC. After that
dreadful night at his apartment, she'd gone home and cried herself to
sleep. When she arrived at work the following day she found an email
telling her that he'd taken a couple of days vacation to think over
the job offer.
Next time she saw him he was packing up favorite things from the
basement office and announcing that he was taking over Behavioral for
a while, but that he was still responsible for the X-Files. And that
he'd understand if she preferred reassignment but that it would be
better if they preserved continuity by having her stay on them until
he returned.
She'd felt relieved and stunned at the same time. He'd spoken so
calmly, so professionally and so coldly. When she said she'd prefer
to stay, he handed her a case file and his notes and told her he was
sending an Agent to work with her on it.
Agent Lawrence Morgan was a highly satisfactory partner, there was no
spite in Mulder's choice. Morgan was good looking, polite, didn't
have problems about working with women and was, according to the
range records, handy with a gun. That he was dull, unimaginative and
had no instinct for the subtlety of X-Files was not Morgan's fault.
But it did make the work heavy going. And slow.
Mulder spoke carefully. "How did things go with Agent Morgan? Will he
be ok?"
"He's a good Agent. But, I think he'll find the X-Files a challenge."
Mulder smiled cagily. "You mean he's dumb? Sorry. He was the best I
could do in a hurry."
Scully smiled back. "No. I'm sure he's intelligent. Just a little
down to earth for the X-Files. I'm sure he'll improve."
Mulder saw her smile and tensed. Felt his mouth go dry. Had to keep
this at arm's length and had to keep her a lot further away than
arm's length. He sat up a little straighter and spoke coldly. "I've
reviewed the cases you've put forward for investigation. I've done an
outline profile on this and transferred it to VCS. This one," he
picked up another file, "I've asked the locals to follow up, they've
given up because it's difficult not because it's in any sense
inexplicable." This, he picked up the next file, "I suggest you file
under 'recycled paper waste', it's an urban myth that regenerates on
the internet or wherever every couple of years."
She stiffened. Sensing that he was probably right didn't help her
mood, in fact if anything it made it worse. Dismissing her work was
bad enough but that tone of voice he was using was just offensive.
Maybe she should ask for reassignment. Maybe, this was impossible.
They could have given her control of the X-Files. She could have
reported to AD Skinner. This situation was intolerable.
Mulder's tone warmed slightly as he picked up the other folders. "I
suspect these are worth investigating. I've put my comments on them,
I hope you don't find that intrusive. I'll leave it to you to
prioritise them and decide on the actions."
Scully looked back at him. Just when she was ready to throw it in his
face he'd turned it around. Just for an instant she wondered how
often she misjudged him.
"Thank you, Sir." Even as she said the word she jumped back alarmed
by it.
He looked like the startled rabbit caught looking into the oncoming
headlamps.
She got her balance back before he did. "Is that everything?"
He nodded but didn't trust himself to speak.
She left the room. He clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes tight
shut. What had they done? How had it come to this?
----------------------
Dana Scully headed back to the Basement with her case files. Agent
Lawrence Morgan was sitting in the office waiting for her. It had
been weird enough while they were in Wisconsin but seeing him here in
this office, in Mulder's chair. That was way past weird.
Morgan smiled, a friendly, open smile "So how'd the meeting go? We on
one of those jobs you talked about, or did he find something spooky
in the Enquirer he wants us to chase?"
Scully felt a brief flash of annoyance but answered matter of factly.
"No, he ditched some of them, but he'll back us on any of these. We
need to get updates on them and decide which to follow up on first."
As it happened, the case had chosen itself. Morgan handed her the fax
from the police in Portland, Oregon. There had been another death.
They'd need to leave straight away. This was definitely an autopsy
that Dana Scully wanted to perform for herself.
---------------------------
Mulder looked at the paper Jackie, his admin assistant had handed
him. Travel and general expense approval for a case in Portland. He
smiled when he saw it. Funny that. If he had been on the case no way
would they have time to fill in the approval form before they left.
Jackie coughed slightly.
Mulder looked up. "What is it?"
She smiled back apologetically. "I'm afraid Agent Scully has actually
already left. We should be able to catch her at the airport. She said
you'd understand her not wanting to wait."
Mulder signed the paper and handed it back. He smiled, he would have
been disappointed if his time with Scully had left no mark on her.
God knows, she'd left a few marks on him.
-----------------------------
Dana Scully wasn't sure whether she was looking forward to the case
or not. It was an X-File, it was entitled to be an X-File. The
previous deaths hadn't even been recorded as murder until someone
thought about the statistics of six people dying on their birthdays.
Six people, of previous good health. Six people who had died from
natural causes. Well as natural as having that volume of adrenaline
in the body could be. Six people who looked truly terrified. Scared
to death, had been the ME's verdict.
Scully felt obliged to frown a little at that. It was hardly the kind
of remark a pathologist should be making in their official report.
Not something you'd want the coroner to read out in front of the
deceased's loved ones. She changed into her green scrubs and prepared
to go to work.
Agent Morgan stood in the corner of the room. He'd asked her if
Mulder stayed for autopsies. She'd told him yes, except when he
needed to be elsewhere and then he'd make a point of showing up
before she finished. Morgan looked slightly green and Scully told him
that there was no need to stay. Scully couldn't resist the temptation
to smile slightly. Why Morgan thought he could replace Mulder she had
no idea. But it looked like he was going to try.
-------------------
SATURDAY
Weekends were the worst and the best. The worst because other people
didn't have an influence over his time or his actions. And that meant
at the weekend Mulder would have to decide for himself what he had to
do. The best, because at weekends he didn't even expect to see Dana
Scully. Not that he'd seen her at all for the last few weeks. Apart
from that two minute meeting in the office today. And that didn't
count because he hadn't actually looked at her.
He wondered how long it would be before he could look at her. A
month? A year? Ten years? Even with Phoebe, ten years had been
enough. And Scully was not Phoebe. Twenty years then?
He'd had a lot of time to think. He'd rerun that evening after
Jeanette's funeral a thousand times. It wasn't all that hard to
understand. He had been just trying to explain about Jeanette, about
how it had been back then, about how it was when he worked for
Behavioral. About how scared he was. And she thought...
Well, it didn't matter what Scully thought, what mattered was what
she felt and what she had felt was pity. A charity case. He'd had
worse offers but nothing quite so demeaning.
And every time he thought of her, the same image arrived in his head.
Her, fully clothed, casually discussing work while he shivered naked
at her feet. Appropriate somehow. The one good thing was that it had
killed off his fantasies about her. No point fantasizing that she
wanted him, that some day he'd sweep her off her feet. He knew where
he stood now. So now all he had to do was get rid of the dreams.
-----------------
Dana Scully remembered the way he felt. The hard body. The soft
mouth. The slender fingers. The smooth skin. The gentle rhythm.
Looking back, there was something kind of noble about the way he'd
behaved. The control, the way he'd pulled away when he'd realised
that he was acting on impulse and that she had not been entirely
straightforward about her own motives. She admired the control, she
wished she had that kind of control.
Mostly she did, but some time in the last few years she'd lost it. At
least where Fox Mulder was concerned. Not in control of herself. With
the embarrassingly, cold clarity of hindsight she now knew that on
that evening she'd even tried to use sex to control him. And it
hadn't worked either.
He set the pace, controlled the agenda, ran the show. She was the
loyal assistant. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. She quickly
dismissed that analogy. Dangerous in her present mood.
But sometimes, he looked so scared of her. And she didn't know how
that squared with the rest of it. She thought back to their meeting
on Friday. Uncomfortable. He'd looked so controlled and then he'd
looked so confused.
-------------------
Weekends were catch up time. Behavioral had his attention during the
week but so far he'd managed to stay out of it, keep aloof from the
actual cases. Each case needed too much single minded attention so he
just had to stay out, there were too many of them to allow that kind
of obsession with one. And so far he hadn't brought that work home at
weekends.
Weekends were for his agenda. Catching up on UFO sightings. Reading
supposedly leaked documents on conspiracy and experimentation.
Things. His things.
And trying not to dream about that disastrous evening with Dana
Scully.
------------------------
Dana Scully sat with Special Agent Lawrence Morgan trying to explain
the autopsy findings. She'd almost forgotten what this was like. It
was as if she'd gone back to being a lecturer at Quantico. Mulder
claimed no scientific or medical knowledge but that wasn't true. She
just gave him that last few percentage points, he didn't need
complicated explanation from her for the basic stuff.
Morgan stared at her. "So you're saying that they really were scared
to death?"
Scully sighed, and tried not to laugh. Now that question did remind
her of Mulder. Right to the heart, no messing around. A sobering
thought.
Scully led Morgan through the data they were going to need to chase
on the victims. To find their killer they would need to analyse the
choice of victims. Apart from birthdays what else did they have in
common?
Now, she definitely felt like she was back at Quantico, carefully
prompting Morgan with questions so he understood the rules of the
chase. "What do people do on their birthdays. What kinds of places do
they go to.. Who would know it was their birthday.. What made them
different.. Who would they all know.."
She brooded over it. This stuff was so much second nature that she
didn't even notice doing this when Mulder was with her. But then he'd
have those links in his head by now. He'd probably be getting ready
to tell her what colour the killer's eyes were. This process, with
Morgan, was more like work.
-------------------
SUNDAY NIGHT
Scully was in Portland, Oregon. Mulder thought about the case, he
didn't want to. There was something about it that he didn't like.
Something to do with the choice of victims. Some piece of radar that
said it was a dangerous case. He'd read it, written some comments on
it. Suggestions of what to look for.
And then he realised what he'd done. He'd talked about what and how.
He'd written down the questions that he would have asked her. What he
hadn't done was talk about who. Shit. He was supposed to be in charge
of a Behavioral team and yet he'd forgotten to write the profile of
the perpetrator. Of course he'd forgotten to write it down. He still
thought of himself as being there with her, being on call to Scully,
when she needed him. Why would he need to write down the
psychological modelling information, when he could just say it to
her?
He grabbed the phone. It was one in the morning. She didn't sound
pleased to hear his voice. He ignored that. It was late. Of course
she wouldn't be pleased. But she needed to know. He reeled off a long
stream of information as if he was reciting it from a text. Except it
was in his head. He suddenly felt guilty. He should have written it
down and faxed it to her or something.
She mumbled goodnight.
He slumped unhappily back into the bed. At least she hadn't said
'goodnight, Sir'. Now that he wouldn't have been able to handle.
END OF PART 1/3
From jhumby@ctv.es Sat Dec 07 16:15:51 1996
Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the XFiles writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit.
A Loss of Control - Reassignment
Joann - jhumby@iee.org
Part 2/3
----------
MONDAY
Mulder looked at his appointments and tried to think why he had a
nine a.m. meeting with the senior therapist at the Employee
Assistance Program. < Not been madder than usual, have you Mulder? >
Then he remembered. Two of the Analysts were on mandatory counselling
at the moment and he wasn't sure how many others made regular visits
voluntarily. Two out of ten on mandatory, pretty good percentage. No
wonder EAP wanted to talk to their manager.
The therapist smiled and welcomed him in. Mulder tried to suppress
the desire to run away.
Dr Clarke looked at him. "I expect you'd like to know why I invited
you here?"
< So I can listen to that patronising tone of voice you've carefully
cultivated over the years? > Mulder decided the question was
rhetorical and said nothing.
"You know Mark Richards and Dale Andrews are on mandatory
counselling?"
Now that was a question Mulder would answer. "Yes."
"You know that they've told me that they've stopped taking the
medication that I suggested they ask their Doctors for? And they've
told me they would prefer not to attend future sessions."
"No, I didn't know."
"Do you know why?"
Mulder leant forward and smiled conspiratorially. "If I didn't know
about their actions, why would I know about their reasons?"
"It's because of you."
Mulder hesitated, surprised by the comment. "I haven't asked them to
stop coming here, nor would I."
"They say they get more out of talking to you that they do out of the
drugs and the visits here."
Mulder sat and watched. There wasn't a question in Clarke's words. So
he didn't bother to reply.
Clarke carried on. "And some of the others, used to come along here
to talk but now they don't."
"Are you suggesting I'm driving them so hard they can't get the time,
or that I've banned them?"
"I'm suggesting you've opted to take on the role of counsellor
instead of manager. And that in the end you, your people and the
Bureau will suffer because of it. They need this outlet, people
outside their own management structure."
Mulder nodded. "That's good advice, I'll remind them."
"Remind yourself."
"Are you telling me not to talk to them?"
"I'm telling you that we've a lot of experience in this area and that
we have been looking after Agents for a long time."
Mulder tried to suppress a smile. "And now they don't want you. How
does that make you feel?"
Clarke breathed in sharply. "This isn't a game."
Mulder let his voice rise. "No, it's not. And next time you tell one
of them to go to their Doctor, get sleeping pills to stop them having
nightmares and get valium to stop them getting jittery instead of
telling them to get me to reduce their workload I'll raise a
misconduct complaint."
"Those things work."
Mulder felt himself struggle to keep the irritation from his voice.
"Expedients, for a crisis, not for months. Not until they need more
drugs to deal with the side effects of the other ones."
"Agent Mulder, I know you think that because you've done that job you
know how to manage that section but you've only been there a few
weeks."
"And I'd love to ask my predecessors about it. Except one of them's
in a secure psychiatric unit and the other's dead."
Clarke swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. "You told those Agents,
that it's normal for them to feel nauseous during certain cases, have
panic attacks, suffer from eating disorders, nightmares. That it's
ok."
"I didn't tell them it was ok. I told them it meant they were still
sane. I told them they had to stop doing the job when it stopped
making them feel that way."
Clarke sighed, he needed to get his point across. "So you are
implying that it's normal?"
"Certainly not. There is nothing normal about the job we ask them to
do."
"Is that what Patterson used to tell you?"
"Patterson used to tell me not to be so melodramatic."
The meeting dragged on but resolved nothing.
-----------------
Mulder returned to his office. Jackie intercepted him. "We've had an
urgent call from the Portland office. Can you call them straight
away? Should I dial it for you?"
Mulder heard his heart beat quicken and tried to make sense of
Jackie's question. He nodded and walked into his office. The phone
rang as he sat down and the Portland office were on the line. "This
is Agent Mulder. Can I speak to Agent Scully?"
"She isn't here. She's at the hospital."
Mulder tensed. "Is she..."
"Yes, she's sitting with Agent Morgan, he's in a critical condition.
I can give you Agent Scully's cellular number if you need it."
Mulder let out the breath he'd been holding and tried to get some
sort of equilibrium back. "No. No, that's ok. I have it. Goodbye."
He quickly typed in the familiar numbers of Scully's phone. Familiar
even though he'd not dialled them in over a month.
She picked up on the second ring. "Scully."
"Scully. It's me. Are you ok?"
"Fine. But Morgan's bad. Massive coronary. I was able to resuscitate
him but it was only because I was on the spot and the fact he's very
fit and strong. He's not out of danger yet."
Mulder slumped into the chair. Massive relief. A little guilt about
not being able to worry about Morgan. And then concern. She was still
in danger. "It was him, wasn't it? This was the UNSUB we were talking
about, he did it?"
"I didn't see anyone. But I'll admit it's absolutely consistent with
your profile. I told Morgan about it over breakfast. We were just
leaving the hotel when it happened."
"Ok. I'm coming out."
"You can't. You can't just walk out on the office like that."
"Who's going to stop me, Agent Scully?"
She smiled slightly, it was still Agent Scully but that time there
had been more than a little sarcasm in the tone of voice.
"Not me, Sir."
She heard him breathe in. So she tried to make sure he'd understood
that she was only joking. "See you soon, Mulder."
"Yeah. Scully. Take care."
--------------
He was embarrassed, but embarrassed stood no chance against scared
and relieved. He had to go to her. No choice. She's saved him too
often. And if he'd given her the profile of the killer up front when
she needed it, she might never have been in danger. Or maybe she'd
have been in danger sooner. Ironic. He wasn't even sure about
something as simple as that.
Jackie looked shocked about his sudden change of plans, the
instruction to cancel all meetings today and tomorrow and the warning
that it might take longer. But he had no choice. She handed him a
second cellular phone, different network, just in case. He couldn't
help but smile and make a joke about spare guns.
------------------
Dana Scully was hard at work in the Portland office. She'd wanted to
go the airport but it didn't seem right. She was supposed to be
working, that would seem like playing hooky. He was her boss, not her
partner. So some new kid, on leg work duty had been sent to pick up
the DC legend. Even out here, the old timers had grinned when they
heard he was flying in. Spooky had finally joined management, not
before time according to some, a mark of how desperate the Bureau had
got according to others.
Scully heard his voice even amongst the other much louder ones. She
turned to face him.
The adrenaline had worn off now. He wasn't worried about Scully any
more. She was probably in better shape than he was. He was now just
embarrassed by his over reaction in flying out here. No wonder Jackie
had looked baffled. No wonder Scully just felt sorry for him. What
did he plan to do? Well, basically he planned to repeat the profile
he'd already given her over the phone. And then? Then he'd listen
to the latest forensics and autopsies and he'd update the analysis.
In other words he could do nothing here that he couldn't do on the
phone. Except look at her. And he wouldn't do that.
His walk was stiff and self conscious. He was well aware that
everyone in the office was staring at him. Waiting to see his
reaction to his erstwhile partner, his new subordinate. Flying out
here, because she'd had a near miss. A bit obvious that. How would
Spooky greet his Mrs?
Mulder stopped a few yards away from Scully, "how is Agent Morgan?"
The sigh of disappointment from the other Agents in the room was
almost audible. They weren't going to see any fireworks, not yet
anyway.
Scully answered with the facts and they headed to an office to
discuss the case away from the general office hubbub.
Scully sat neatly in the chair. "How did you know the killer would
come after us instead of staying with this birthdays thing?"
He shrugged. "No reason. He's just been looking for someone to pay
attention, making it as obvious as possible. Now he's got attention
he can play the game he wanted to play. I just guessed that would
mean he'd go after the investigation team."
"Looking for attention, like Modell?"
He flinched at the all too appropriate comparison. "Has Morgan
recovered consciousness, has he been able to tell you anything?"
"No."
"Did you feel anything, see anything?"
"No."
She explained what they'd got so far.
---------------
Mulder lay on the motel bed pretending to watch the pictures on the
TV screen. He'd done ok so far. It had been almost normal, their
conversation in the office, the ideas. Just for a minute or two he
didn't feel quite so dead, quite so much as if when Scully had left
his apartment after Jeanette's funeral, he'd died. < Melodramatic,
Mulder. No wonder she pities you, when you're quite so full of self
pitying crap yourself. >
He knew he ought to get back to Washington. But he could hardly leave
her here alone when the perp was going after the investigating team.
There were options of course. He could make the local office provide
backup, surround her with decoys. But if he was right that wasn't
going to work. The perp would soon know who the brains of the outfit
was. He could pull rank, make her come back to DC, an order.
Completely legitimate if you knew an Agent had become a target, put
someone else on the case. She would never forgive him.
And if she got hurt. He'd never forgive himself. He resigned himself
to staying here, as long as it took. And that meant it had better not
take too long or else Skinner would have someone out here dragging
him back to DC and cuffing him to the desk.
An invisible killer, killing by terror, mechanism unknown.
He started to work.
----------------
Dana Scully didn't like the way her mind was working. Normally so
clear, now it was full of images and none of them had much to do with
the case or her unlucky new partner currently in the ICU of a
downtown hospital.
That night with Mulder, the way he'd touched her, the way he'd looked
at her. Had he really been that much in control? Had he wanted her?
Had she wanted him? There was no clue from the way he'd behaved since
then. He hadn't even looked at her. But maybe that was the clue,
before that night, he'd always looked at her.
And now, according to Mulder, there was a killer on her trail. A
killer she should have seen because Agent Morgan had already become
his victim. A killer who was killing without contact and without
mercy.
Mulder had made her stay at his motel. Dispatched some basic grade
Agent to act as messenger boy and bring her stuff over. Scully smiled
a little at that. Mulder was obviously quite comfortable taking
advantage of the extra authority. But it all made sense, it might slow
down the perp, make it a little harder for him to stalk them.
------------
MORNING
She saw him in the dining room. Shuffling breakfast ingredients.
Eating toast. Drinking coffee. Taut. Wound up like a tightly coiled
spring. He hadn't slept, that much she knew. Could tell from his
posture, from the slight twitch of his muscles. From the fact he
hadn't straightened his tie and the way he'd left his collar undone.
He always got hot if he was low on sleep. She knew that he'd like to
take his jacket off, but he wouldn't, because he was wearing his gun.
She pretended not to notice. He jumped with alarm as she sat down.
Then looked apologetically at her. "Sorry, you startled me."
"So I see. You, ok?"
His phone rang. He jumped again. He said only half a dozen words in
the five minute conversation that followed. He put the phone away
with excessive care.
Scully touched his arm. This time he yelped a little as well as
jumping back startled. "Sorry." she said. "Who was it?"
Mulder forced a smile. "Skinner. He's threatening to have me fitted
with one of those bracelets that make the alarms ring if you try to
leave your home."
"I'm sorry."
< Stop saying that Scully. I know what you think of me. Just stop
saying it. >
Scully carried on in as gentle a voice as she could find. "You
needn't have come out. I mean, it was good of you to come out, but
now I've got your ideas on the case, you should get back."
"You're not my mother and you're not my boss. Don't tell me what I
should do." < And stop pitying me. >
She hated his control but she hated that snide reply even more. She
put on her most professional guise. "Fine. So, Sir. Do you have some
orders for me?"
< Oh, fucking hell. You deserved that. You talk like a five year old,
then you get offended because she treats you like one. >
He frowned, cleared his throat and started to talk.
Another phone call. This time from the hospital. Morgan was
conscious.
-----------------
END OF PART 2/3
From jhumby@ctv.es Sat Dec 07 16:13:31 1996
Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the XFiles writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit.
A Loss of Control - Reassignment
Joann - jhumby@iee.org
Part 3/3
----------
Mulder sat at Morgan's bedside, he'd taken over from Scully when
she'd started to despair over getting any sense from Morgan's words.
Whatever had caused the coronary had left his brain fried. He was
conscious but blind terror raged in his eyes. The Doctors had sedated
him.
She looked at Mulder and found herself staring at his actions. The
body language, the posture. He'd arranged things so that he was at
eye level with Morgan. His voice was almost hypnotically soft. One
hand was resting on Morgan's tube free arm.
She was shocked by her response. A flutter of jealousy. Then a
strange nagging at her consciousness, was Mulder gay? Was that why he
was so controlled with her? She was horrified by the
inappropriateness of her reaction. Morgan was close to death. They
were in danger from a killer on the loose and here she was
contemplating Mulder's sexuality.
Morgan was still not making sense. Mulder was still saying nothing
words, soothing words. Morgan started to mumble something about rats.
In a cage with rats. Big rats. Lots of rats. Gnawing, scratching,
eating him alive. They weren't like his rats. These were worse.
Meaner, dirtier. They didn't care if you kicked them, trod on them.
They just wanted to gnaw and scratch and bite. He could scare his
rats away but not these. These just tore and scratched and bit.
Morgan was getting tired. He grew quieter. Mulder stroked his hand
over Morgan's forehead and Morgan fell into a troubled sleep.
Mulder walked away from the bed. Hands clenched, eyes downcast. He
moved past Scully as if she wasn't there. She followed him. He didn't
speak, just handed her a coffee from the vending machine in the
lounge area and waited for the machine to produce his.
Mulder stood and stared out of the waiting room window and drank his
coffee. Scully sat and watched in silence.
Mulder suddenly decided to talk. "God. I hate doing that."
"What?"
"Manipulating people. I know all the tricks. The buttons to press.
The strings to pull. When I'm doing it, it's like a game. But
afterwards. Don't know. I don't know if I've hurt him. He's so ill.
But I needed to get him to talk."
Dana Scully nodded her head. "Did you find out anything?"
"Maybe. I'm guessing. But if I tie it to the profile I wrote I may
have something. He talked about his rats and these other rats being
different. I think maybe he has nightmares about rats, his rats. And
the thing that triggered the collapse was a particularly vicious
version of his own nightmare."
"But he was awake. I was with him."
"Yeah."
--------------------------
They returned to the office to carry on the review of the original
victims. Why birthdays? And why these people?
Mulder looked at the records on the first victim and shivered. He
pointed at an entry in the file. The victim had worked as a
receptionist in a sleep disorder's clinic, left it a matter of weeks
before her death.
Scully breathed in deeply. "I guess we'd better go the clinic."
Mulder shook his head. "Not yet. We need to find out as much as we
can before we go. We might be walking right up to the killer if we
move now." He paused. "Did you have any nightmares last night?"
Scully hesitated, she had her fair share of nightmares. But last
night? "No. Least nothing I remember."
"And the night before?"
"No. Don't think so. Why, what are you thinking?"
"That maybe the reason he was able to get Morgan instead of you was
because Morgan's nightmares were easier to trigger."
"You think he puts nightmares into people's heads?"
"I think he may be replaying people a nightmare they had a few hours
before. And because they are awake, it's not just shocking, it's
terrifying."
"Replaying them. But how?"
"Don't know. But if you remember them they have to be in your brain
somewhere. Maybe the recent ones that you remember are always stored
in the same way, or maybe the nightmares are. Maybe he knows how to
trigger them to play back."
"So you think we should be looking at Doctors at the clinic who
specialise in dreams and memory?"
He nodded.
She spoke carefully. "Did you have any nightmares last night?" She
remembered how washed out he'd looked this morning. She knew he was
running on empty now.
< Just the one where you start laughing and ask me why I ever thought
you might want me. > He shook his head. "Pretty weird dreams, but
nothing that kills." < Unless you can die of humiliation. But if that
was possible, I'd have been dead and buried a long time ago. >
------------------
They worked. They borrowed some rookie Agents to help with the
dogsbody side of the work. A perk of Mulder's new job. No need to
justify extra resources. The locals were happy to help. The rookies
were in awe of the notorious Agent who now headed up the most
glamorous division of Violent Crimes. They even sorted through their
stacks of microfiched documents with smiles on their faces, keen to
impress.
When they struck gold, it shined. Shined so beautifully that Mulder
almost thought it had been planted there to confuse them.
Doctor Allan Richards. Specialist in dreams. He specialised in
helping people to remember their dreams and nightmares. The principle
being that if they could really remember them then maybe they could
deal with them, get better help from a Psychiatrist or whatever.
What made him special was his claim that he could get the last dream
someone had in recallable memory to replay at will. He just had to
use the right sounds and the right frequency of strobing light.
Demonstrations of the phenomena had not gone too well. Richards had
claimed bad luck with the subjects. But his appeal for extra funds
for further trials had been laughed out of court.
Mulder almost laughed himself when he noted the date of presentation
to the review panel that had preceded the grant rejection letter.
Allen Richards' birthday.
Now all they had to do was work out a safe way to capture him. Easy.
Or at any rate easier than Mulder had feared. Richards needed some
sort of machine to do the damage, it wasn't some mind control thing.
So all they would need to do was keep Richards from the machine. And
they could probably kit themselves in some kind of protective gear to
block out extraneous sound and protect themselves from the strobing
lights.
They faxed through a request for ideas to Pendrell back in DC and
headed to the car to see what the local forensics lab could suggest.
-------------
Mulder turned the ignition key and began to feel sick. Dana Scully
started to talk to him.
He felt sicker. He concentrated for long enough to switch off the
ignition and felt his body start to shake. He was going to cry. No.
Not now. Not here. Not in the parking lot in front of a building full
of Agents. He tried to focus on what was happening.
It wasn't happening. He knew that. He was in his car. And this wasn't
happening.
Dana Scully wasn't laughing at him. This was the dream. And that man
could make him dream it. This wasn't real.
He felt the touch of her hand. He screamed as if it had burned him.
Not that. Not more pity. Can't face that. No pity. I don't want pity.
Scully looked at him in terror. She understood what was happening.
They were under attack. And the attacher had triggered that dream
that Mulder said couldn't kill him. Well it looked pretty damned bad
from where she was sitting. She couldn't hear any odd noise or see
any odd lights but then they didn't have to be in the normal audible
or visible frequency ranges.
She got out of the car and ran to Mulder's door. She flung it open
and tried to drag him out of the car. His seatbelt held him in place.
She leant across to unfasten it, but he was shaking so hard it
terrified her. He was shaking and his breath was coming in fast,
short pants and the contact made it worse, he squealed as her hand
touched his arm. She dragged him out of the car, hoping that the
device's energy was focussed in there.
She pushed him onto the ground, rolling him away from the car. She
put a hand on his arm. He screamed. "Not pity."
She tried to make sense out of it, but there was no sense to be made.
She grabbed him tighter. "Mulder, come back, it's ok. It's a
nightmare. It's not real."
"I don't want pity."
She held him. "No pity. A lot of respect. A lot of love. But no
pity." She repeated the words like some kind of mantra. Minutes
passed.
He came round slowly, opening his eyes. Trying desperately to get his
breath back. He tried to sit up and she helped him. He cleared his
throat and blew his nose.
Scully released her grip. "Are you ok?"
Mulder sighed. "I think I've just found out that you can't die of
embarrassment."
He looked around and spotted the dozens of Agents who'd come out of
the office to watch the incident in progress in their parking lot.
Mulder shrugged and shook his head. "But then again, maybe you can."
The device was found in their car and disarmed.
The capture, now they understood more clearly how to defend
themselves was uneventful. The trial would make for a few interesting
days in court but Mulder assured Scully that she'd love it.
--------------
Mulder sat quietly in the VCS management team meeting. Well aware
that he was today's star attraction. Well aware that he was next item
of business. Skinner turned to face him. Mulder sat up straight.
"There have been some suggestions that you can't combine managing the
Behavioral team, with directing the X-Files and working as a field
Agent."
Mulder feigned surprise. "Because Behavioral are performing below
par, Sir?"
"You know that's not the case."
Mulder pretended to be curious. "Because it was inappropriate to
investigate the Portland deaths?"
"Of course not."
"So what we are talking about is whether it was right for me to visit
Portland for 36 hours when one of my Agents was seriously injured and
another was a target for a serial killer?"
Skinner winced. Mulder knew as well as he did that this was a game
being played for the benefits of his silent colleagues at the
conference table, but Mulder didn't need to look quite so amused by
it.
Another voice from a familiar face in a bad suit. "Agent Mulder. Mark
Richards has asked for a transfer."
"And I signed the form."
"The Employee Assistance Program have suggested you interfered with
their efforts to help Agent Richards. Some people have suggested that
you won't be happy until they all leave."
Mulder's gaze hardened, no semblance of humor now. "I'd like them all
to be capable of leaving, if that's what they choose."
Silence.
Mulder decided to move the meeting along. "How is the permanent
recruitment for the role of manager of the Behavioral team coming
along?"
Skinner played with his glasses. "We'll increase the pressure."
Mulder smiled.
The bad suit talked again. "Agent Mulder. There are some strange
accounts of the incident at Portland. What went on between you and
Agent Scully?"
"She saved my life. She also saved the life of Agent Morgan the day
before when he was attacked. She's a remarkable Agent."
Mulder looked around the room, his expression was polite but
carefully dismissive. Water off a duck's back
They lost interest in the chase. Mulder slipped back into his
daydream.
---------
Scully got back from Portland a few days later. She came to go
through the report with Mulder and explain how the Court appearance
would be handled.
Mulder was relieved to find that he didn't need to sit behind the
desk this time. Scully kept trying to keep him talking. But he
wouldn't. In the end he just told her that he needed to make some
phone calls and moved back behind his desk. He wouldn't actually
order her out or tell her she was dismissed but she knew this was the
next best thing.
Dana Scully stood and chatted to Jackie outside the office.
A couple of minutes later, Mulder rushed passed her towards the
elevator.
Jackie smiled, "has he always been like that?"
Dana smiled in return, "yup."
She gave him a few minutes, then followed him outside , she could
sense where he was going.
She found him easily enough. She sat at the other end of the bench.
"Mulder we have to talk."
He shook his head.
She tried to make him look at her. "Mulder. Why won't you tell me
about your dream?"
"Can't." He said without looking up from the newspaper he'd been
hiding behind.
"Why?"
"Because I need some privacy."
She shrugged. He was entitled to privacy, but she had an idea and she
needed to know if she was right. So she couldn't let it drop. "The
dream. Was I in it?"
"I've already told you, I won't talk about it."
"Please, Mulder. I think we're about to make a dreadful mistake
He shifted uncomfortably. "I think we've already made the dreadful
mistake."
"Then it was about us?"
"Leave me alone."
She wanted to lash out at him in frustration. But knew that could
only make things worse. So she made a joke of it. "Is that an order,
Sir?"
He frowned, but couldn't quite get offended by the smile on her face
or the giggle in her voice. "Yes, it was about us. Now, leave me
alone."
"You don't think, in your apartment, after. You didn't think I
came on to you because I felt sorry for you?"
"Stop it, Scully. I have to work with you. But I don't have to be
interrogated by you."
"Why, what are you scared of? Losing control?"
He put the newspaper down. He turned to face her. Eyes dark and cold.
Expression distant and utterly controlled. "You want to play truth
games? Ok. If it wasn't pity, what was it?"
She froze, her turn to get caught in the headlamps. Her colour
drained. "I don't know."
He was surprised when he suddenly realised that he was now able to
look at her. He softened his gaze. "No. Me, neither."
END
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