Tightrope (1/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer: Any characters in this story that have been created by Chris Carter belong to him, and not me. I'm just borrowing them. All other characters (the ones you don't recognize) are the products of my own imagination. Classification: SA, mild Mulder/Scully UST but no overt romance; NoRomo and Shipper safe Rating: NC-17 for violence, language and mature content (see note below) Spoilers: None. Summary: A horrifying event threatens to divide Mulder and Scully in unimaginable ways. Warning: This story contains serious subject matter which will more than likely be upsetting for most readers. Please continue with caution. Chapters with disturbing content will be marked as such. Thank you to my editors supreme: Angie and Madeleine, who not only proofread but provided me with valuable feedback while this story was being written. ***** Darkness creates such interesting shadows. The street is dark, but then again, all streets are dark after two a.m. In quiet suburban neighborhoods, rows of houses are visible only in the moonlight. They all have the same white siding, the same cement driveways. The trees on each block sway gently with the breeze. With each breath of gentle night air, shadows dance on the sidewalks and perfectly manicured lawns. It's easy to hide in the shadows. It's easy to run from one to the next, making sure to catch up with the next one before the current one moves. But no one is watching. Not tonight. The doorknob turns easily. People in this neighborhood sometimes forget to lock their doors at night. It's foolish of them. Foolish and careless. The house is modern and, thankfully, carpeted. It's a basic split-level affair with a large living room and kitchen, and a separate dining room. Five steps down lead into what must be the family room. What a concept. Families in the 90s don't spend time together in one room. They simply spread out as far from one another as they possibly can; their goal is to be separate instead of together, to be individual instead of a unit. Five steps up lead to the bedrooms. An empty bedroom on the right -- a guest room, most likely. The room has an air of mustiness to it, a sense of unuse, and the bed is made to perfection, the pillows perfectly plumped and the blanket spread as smooth as a carpet. There is one more bedroom on the right. A couple is sleeping on the bed-- a man and a woman, both in their early thirties. The woman has kicked off the covers and is wearing a shirt and shorts; she has wrapped herself around the body next to her. The man is stretched out on his side, sheet and blanket casually up to his waist, one arm hanging limply over the side of the large bed. It's likely the man who is quietly snoring, but it's hard to be sure. Across the hall, there's a large bathroom that obviously serves all members of the family. The moonlight skips across the lightly colored shower curtain in strange patterns and shapes. The door next to the bathroom leads to the smallest and last bedroom. Even in the semi-darkness the cotton candy pink of the wall is the first noticeable visual stimulation. White carpeting. A canopy bed. Who still buys those things? The canopy, the sheets and the blanket are all pink and white, matching the walls of the room in a nauseatingly sick color scheme. The little girl is blond and her long hair is splayed out on the pillow with a few strands falling over her forehead. She is breathing evenly and deeply through her nose. She can't be more than eight years old. The muscles of her face are relaxed in sleep. Her thumb is jammed into her mouth but it hangs there loosely. A remnant of childhood. Even in the murkiness of the room, it is obvious that her skin is pale and translucent, smooth and delicate as only a child's skin can be. Hands finally reach for her. She hears something, senses something; and in that moment her thumb falls from her mouth and she opens her eyes groggily. She doesn't recognize the figure that she sees in front of her and her eyes snap open, wide and alert in fear. A strong hand is pressed over her mouth to prevent her from screaming and holds her down firmly. There is hardly a struggle. Things happen quickly. The girl is turned onto her side. There is a flash of black as an object is lifted above her head, then brought down. Upon impact, there is a crunching noise, similar to ice underfoot in winter. When the girl is turned onto her back, her eyes are still open. Her face is still contorted into a mask of terror. Fingers gently reach down and close her eyes. Arms lift the girl. She is held safe and sound. Rocked for long minutes. She is then carried out of her room, and down the stairs to the kitchen. There is a door there that leads out into the backyard. Through the kitchen window the swingset can be seen, white poles hammered into the grass last year. The little girl is carried out through the back door. The swings move back and forth slightly in the early morning breeze, the chains which hold them in place creaking slightly. Maybe she wants to play. END OF PART ONE Tightrope (2/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** Note: There is a small reference to a character from "Fight the Future" in this chapter. Nothing that gives any plot points away, though. ***** Just another fucking Sunday afternoon with nothing to do. Mulder rolled his neck until it cracked and stretched. Left leg, right leg, left arm, right arm. He was stiff -- more so than usual. Work had kept him and Scully out of the office almost all the time over the previous three weeks, and there was not much to write home about. They had finally come home from Kansas, of all places, on Thursday night, and had mutually decided to take Friday off so that they could have a long weekend to relax and recoup. Scully had mentioned something about a trip down to Baltimore to see an old friend and then something about her mother. Mulder hadn't paid much attention to it at the time, which was stupid. By Saturday morning he was bored out of his mind. After having left three messages for Scully by Saturday night, he remembered her plans and felt foolish for having called her at all. Sunday morning had rolled around and he had slept in, then watched the Cartoon Network for a few hours. He was generally in an unsatisfied mood -- nothing seemed to please him. There wasn't anything cold to drink in the house -- he hadn't been shopping in months, it seemed, and there wasn't anything in the house to eat except for leftover pizza from Friday night. He had decided to go for a run because he thought it would relax his body, but more importantly, because he hoped it would clear his mind. He did two miles around Alexandria and he still didn't feel any better -- only exhausted. When he was done stretching he pulled off his t-shirt and sweatpants and jumped in the shower, changing into clean clothes. Mulder sat down at his desk and flipped his computer on. He hadn't logged on through his home account in ages. As he waited for the computer to boot up and then log on to the server, he bounced a basketball against the wooden floor a few times. The high screeching sound from the modem told him that he was connected, so he tossed the basketball across the room onto the couch, turning his attention to the monitor. He entered his password, "pegleg". It was silly, really. He knew that if she needed to get into his computer it would take Scully all of about ten seconds to figure out what the password was. He didn't want to have to type Sam's name in every day; and he had to think of something that wasn't as obvious as his nickname or Scully's initials. He needed it to be something that only he and Scully knew about in case the Consortium came calling. He clicked "enter" and then clicked "get mail". Receiving message 1 of 29. The messages downloaded quickly and filed his inbox with a jumble of subject lines. Mulder quickly scanned through them. Most of the messages were from sex sites, giving out URLs for live chat with lesbian lovers or pictures of group sex acts or teen girls who were "barely legal" according to one email. Mulder shook his head. He occasionally visited porn sites on the web and, thanks to the cookies his computer accepted, his email address was now part of many different sex-related mailing lists. There were a few messages from the Gunmen; the majority of them typed and sent by Frohike, no doubt, based on the subject headers that contained Scully's name. There was a knock on the door. Mulder jumped. He was in the middle of reading the words, "I'm a bad little virgin -- fuck me with your big juicy cock" on one email that he was about to delete and was startled by the interruption. He minimized the screen and got up, pulling a t-shirt on as he headed for the door. He opened the door and was mildly suprised that it wasn't Scully. Instead, it was two uniformed officers and two detectives in suits and ties. "Fox Mulder?" one of the suits asked. Mulder nodded dumbly. What the hell were they doing here? "We have a search warrant for your apartment," the other suit said, his voice flat. They didn't look like they were having a good day. The two uniforms pushed past Mulder and headed into the living room. "Hold on a second. What's going on here?" Mulder asked, annoyed. "Mr. Mulder, we'll be with you in a moment," the first suit said. "Why don't you have a seat there on the couch." Mulder was now far past the point of annoyance. "Look, I'm a federal agent," Mulder stepped towards the desk to get his ID. One of the uniforms stopped him. "Take a seat, sir," the officer said with barely concealed venom. What the fuck was going on? Mulder sat down. "My ID is right over there on the desk. You can take a look. I'm an agent with the Bureau." One of the suits checked it out and showed it to the other one, who nodded. They continued searching the apartment in silence, one of the uniforms sitting down at Mulder's desk and opening drawers. "Hey. Does someone want to tell me what's going on here?" "Got something," the officer sitting at the desk said. The two detectives walked over to take a look. One of them turned to face Mulder. "You like looking at kiddie porn?" he asked, indicating the computer monitor. The officer at the desk had maximized the screen and a picture of a young girl with a lacivious expression on her face smiled at all of them. Mulder was far enough across the room to not be able to clearly see the email with the attached banner, but he knew exactly what it looked like. "I'm a bad little virgin -- fuck me with your big juicy cock." The girl was no older than sixteen. She was pushing her chest out and although she was wearing a bra it was clear that her breasts were about the size of walnuts. "What the hell is this all about?" Mulder asked, but his voice was not nearly as strong as it was when the police had first entered the room. "We have a problem, Mr. Mulder." One of the suits sat down on the couch next to him; the other stood on the opposite side of the coffee table. "This morning a little girl was reported missing from 1027 Oak Street. That's about two miles from here." The standing suit was talking. "What does that have to do with me?" Mulder asked, directing his question to the detective sitting next to him. "Before dawn someone reported seeing a man fitting your description putting something -- or someone -- in the back seat of a car. The plates on that car match yours." "Someone?" Mulder asked, feeling suddenly nauseous. "A small child," the detective who was standing up added. Mulder looked at the floor. This was how it started, right? He knew about this. He knew that this had happened to Kurtzweil. They had been trying to discredit him. Because he knew too much. Oh, no. "Look. I was asleep this morning. I didn't wake up until almost ten o'clock. I wasn't anywhere near Oak Street." Mulder spoke carefully, making sure that his words and his voice were calm. "Mr. Mulder, I'm afraid that based on the circumstances we're going to have to bring you in for questioning." That was the suit sitting on the couch again. Asshole, Mulder thought. You don't have any fucking evidence that I did anything wrong. Mulder nodded without looking up. "We would like to conduct a lineup to see if the person can identify the man they saw earlier this morning. And we also would like to have a closer look at your car." Mulder nodded again. "I'll go in with you. But I didn't do anything wrong. I'm telling you the truth." The detective across the room laughed, but it sounded angry. "We'll see about that." ***** "So I was thinking that I would go. For a week, anyhow. It would do me some good to get out of the city for a while. I haven't done anything interesting since your father died, Dana." "I know, Mom, but...whitewater rafting?" "It's a group of twelve people. None of them have ever done it before, and there's a group leader who's a professional. I think it's going to be a lot of fun." "When are you leaving?" My mother isn't able to answer. My cel phone rings first. "I'm sorry, Mom. Let me take this. It's probably Mulder." "Tell him I said hello," Mom says to me. "Scully." "Agent Scully?" an unfamiliar voice suprises me. "This is Detective Sutton with the Alexandria PD. We were wondering if you could come down to the station as soon as possible." "What's this about?" I ask, walking out of the kitchen where my mother is standing. I don't like to discuss work in her presence if I don't have to. "It's about your partner." I sigh. Good God, can't we get through one weekend without him going and -- "He's here for questioning." I take in a sharp breath. "For what?" "In regards to the kidnapping of a young girl." For one long moment I can't feel my feet or my hands, and my head feels as if it's floating, unattached from my body. "Agent Scully?" "Alexandria PD, right?" I ask. "Yes." "I'll be there shortly." I press the END button on my cel phone and hold it in my hand for a moment before putting it back in my pocket. This does not sound good. This does not sound good at all. END OF PART TWO Tightrope (3/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** Note: This chapter contains disturbing material. Please continue with caution. ***** I can see him before I even walk into the interrogation room. He's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and his hair is tousled like a little boy's. A little girl. Don't go there, Scully. God damn it. This has to be one of the hardest things I've ever had to face in my life. I open the door and step inside, an expression of calmness and serenity plastered on my face, an expression that I know is completely fake, an expression that I know Mulder will see through in about 30 seconds. He looks up when he hears the door open and his eyes look happy to see me, although the rest of him looks slumped and beaten in the chair he's sitting in. "Scully. You came." "I was in the middle of hearing about how my mother is going to go on a whitewater rafting trip, Mulder. This better be good." I'm supposed to be joking. Does he know it? "I don't know what the hell's going on, Scully. They say that someone saw me carrying what looked like a little girl," he looks away from me as he says these words. I know why. It's because they conjure up images of my daughter, and we both know it. "And supposedly I put her in my car." He looks at me again. "There's a little girl missing from her house. They found her blood in the backseat of my car." "That's what they told me, Mulder," I tell him steadily. "They said that my fingerprints are all over her house. On the doorway outside her bedroom. On the dresser in her room. On the doorknob leading out of the house." I breathe in deeply. "They told me that as well." Silence falls in the room as Mulder and I stare each other down. His eyes look tired, frantic, scared -- all at once. His body has already given up. I can see it in the exhaustion of his limbs. I can see what he's trying to say to me, and I read him loud and clear although he doesn't open his mouth and utter a word. Not yet. I take another deep breath and let it out. I'm waiting. "I didn't do it, Scully," he says softly, giving voice to the words he hasn't said. "I know you didn't," I say instantly. There is no hesitation in my mind. I know Mulder. I know that he could never kill a child. I know that he could never kill anyone who was small and defenseless. We have both killed people in the line of duty. We have both accepted that it is an occupational hazard. But I know that is as far as it goes with Mulder. He gets no thrill from causing anyone's death. We stare at each other for another long moment before the door opens, breaking the silence. I look down guiltily, as if I should not be looking at Mulder with such trust. "Agent Scully, I'm Detective Sutton. We spoke on the phone." He looks a lot like Detective Kresge from California, only Sutton has more blond hair. Another detective is on his heels. This one is about the same age, but looks more like what a television detective would look like -- slack face, nondescript clothes, dark hair, forgettable features. "This is my partner, Detective Towne." I shake hands again. "So what can you tell me about the case?" I ask. "First of all, I can tell you that your partner has been Mirandized and has waived his right for an attorney. He has also denied any involvement in any wrongdoing in this matter," Sutton tells me. I nod. I was expecting that. Towne starts talking. "Around 5am, a jogger saw a man matching Mr. Mulder's description carrying a young girl down the sidewalk and placing her into a gray Chrysler Sebring, into the backseat. The license plate on that car was a Virginia plate -- SY 7104. Those tags match up to a car belonging to Fox Mulder who resides at 2360 Hegal Place, Apt. 42, in Alexandria." "Around 6:30am," Sutton picks up the story, "Kathleen James woke up and went into her daughter's bedroom to find her missing. Chelsea James is seven and a half years old and has blond hair, blue eyes, and a chipped front tooth. Blood that was typed and matched to Chelsea was found in moderate quantity on her pillow. It appears that she was struck with a blunt object, in the head, we're assuming, while she was asleep, and then carried from the house. Drops of blood were found in the hallway in between Chelsea's room and the kitchen." Towne looks at Mulder, his eyes flashing with anger. "Fingerprints were all over the place. Bedroom. Hallway. On the kitchen door, which leads into the backyard. More blood drips in the kitchen. And then a small pool of blood in the grass in the backyard." "Just in the middle of the backyard?" I ask, perplexed. Someone must have put the child down in the grass. Why? Sutton explains. "About fifteen feet from the back door. About a foot from where we found the girl's underpants." "Jesus Christ," Mulder gasps softly. The sandwich I had for lunch an hour ago rolls in my stomach and bile comes up in the back of my throat. I swallow it, my face tightening as the bitterness goes back down. I close my eyes. Oh God, whoever it was who took her might have raped her right out there in the backyard while she was unconscious and bleeding. What kind of a monster does that to a child, for God's sakes? Not Mulder, I tell myself. Not Mulder. I open my eyes and look up at him. His head is bowed, but he must feel my stare because he looks up and right at me. He is white as a ghost. I didn't do it, Scully, he's telling me. I didn't do it. "We haven't found her yet," Towne continues, his voice tight and filled with barely controlled rage that is directed, quite obviously, at Mulder. He leans forward and Mulder looks over at him. "Tell us where you dumped her body." "I didn't dump her anywhere. I wasn't in that house." I have to give Mulder credit. His voice is verging on tears but he's somehow managing to stay in control. "Sure you were. Your fingerprints were all over the place. Her blood was in your car. Someone saw you carrying her out of the house." "I'm telling you. I didn't do it." His teeth are clenched now. "You're a sick bastard, you know that? You get off on fucking little girls who aren't even awake to fight back. Is that it? You like knowing that her blood was soaking into the ground while you fucked her?" Towne is furious now, a vein swelling on his forehead as his voice rises. "Tell me what you did with her body!" "I didn't do it!" Mulder explodes. "I didn't do a goddamn thing!" He jumps up from the table and lunges at Towne. Sutton leaps up and grabs Mulder by the shoulders. "Sit down!" Sutton barks. Mulder struggles and lunges in my direction. Not to hurt me. I know that's not why. It's just the rage. He doesn't know where to put it. Even though I know this I flinch anyway. I jump back, frightened, and Mulder sees it, and it will be the beginning of our undoing. "Scully!" he yells. "I didn't do it. You know me, Scully. You know me." My eyes fill up with tears that I will not allow to fall. I know he is right, and yet the evidence -- the evidence is so overwhelming. And I am a scientist -- driven always by evidence. Show me the proof, Mulder, I have always told him. Show me the proof and I will believe. Oh God. Mulder takes my silence as disbelief in his innocence. "Scully!" he shouts. "Damn it, you know I didn't do this!" Sutton gestures with his hands and the door opens and two uniformed officers are suddenly in the room with us, trying to hold Mulder back, trying to restrain him, to cuff him. "Scully! This is a setup! My prints were planted in that house. I didn't do it. Scully!" He's screaming for anyone who will listen, but the fact that he keeps interjecting my name makes it impossible for me to look away or walk out of the room or ignore him. The fact is that I know Mulder is not capable of this. But the evidence is saying that he did it. Regardless of what I think or know. The officers have cuffed him now, and with his hands secured behind his back, he uses his feet, kicking out as he struggles. "This is part of a conspiracy!" he yells. "There are people who think I know too much. That's why they're doing this!" Oh, no, Mulder, I think to myself, please, don't start with that. Please. He kicks, still struggling desperately. One of these violent kicks grazes me in the leg. I jump back again, this time truly frightened of him. He realizes what he has done, and a terrified look comes into his eyes as they begin to lead him away. "Scully," he moans. "Scully, God, I'm sorry, Scully, please, you've got to believe me. Scully!" He's gone, but I can still hear him yelling for me. Alone in the room, I realize that I'm shaking violently, and even though I don't want to cry, tears are already wet on my cheeks. END OF PART THREE Tightrope (4/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** It's time for the inevitable. The meeting with Skinner. I have been dreading this for what seems like forever. Mulder always moans and groans when we have to meet with Skinner, but the truth is, I think I hate these meetings more than he does. I hate them because I am the one who is always expected to keep Mulder in line. I am supposed to be logical and careful and thoughtful, to think before I speak, to be cautious before I act, and because of this Skinner does not think of me as the loose cannon. Skinner knows that I am the one who will watch Mulder's back. I have not been able to watch Mulder's back this time. I'm sure Skinner wants to know why I wasn't watching Mulder around the clock. I resent that he constantly assumes that I am supposed to be a babysitter. It makes me furious, and yet I have no outlet for that anger. "Agent Scully?" I look up at Skinner's secretary. "You can go in now." "Thank you." I stand up. I know that at this moment I am the image of control. Which is good. I'm going to need it. My hair is smooth. My clothes are ironed and everything is in place. I look like a Bureau agent who is ready and in charge. The facade slips a bit when I walk into Skinner's office and see him. His tie is loosened and his face is drawn. His eyes meet mine and I see an exhaustion there that I am not expecting. "Agent Scully," he says. "Please, sit down." I do, taking the chair I always take. I don't look to my right, where Mulder would normally be. "I take it you've spoken with Agent Mulder." "Yes, sir, I have. I was at the Alexandria Police Station and spoke to Mulder before he was placed under arrest." "The media is already very interested in this case. As I'm sure you can imagine." Meaning: when it looks bad, it looks bad for the Bureau. Skinner is masterful at using a minimum of words to get a point across. I nod my head. "Agent Scully, let me ask you something. Do you think Agent Mulder committed the crime in question?" I am thrown. I did not expect Skinner to ask me this. His tone is personal, careful, yet precise. He wants to know not what I think as an agent. He wants to know what I think personally. Off the record, so to speak. So. Do I think he did it? No. I don't. I know that there is no way that Mulder is capable of hurting a human being. Especially not a child. An innocent. And yet I am faced with a mountain of evidence that says that he did. Evidence is exactly what I always search for to prove the truth. I know the police think he did it. They operate by a certain standard: if there's evidence, the accused is guilty. In a way, it's much like science. You have to have proof -- proof that you can hold in your hands -- in order to believe something. This afternoon I was handed a mountain of evidence that says that Mulder abducted Chelsea James, took her out into the backyard, did something sexual to her, and then likely killed her, leaving her body God knows where. I don't want to believe that. I lock my eyes onto Skinner's, picking each word carefully. "There is quite a bit of evidence that makes it look very bad for Agent Mulder." Skinner pins me with his gaze like a wrestler to a mat. "Do you think he did it, Agent Scully?" Skinner's voice is low. He wants an answer. "No," I respond, my voice just as low. My jaw twitches as I say it. Am I lying? I hope to God that I'm not. "The police tell me that Mulder was yelling about a cover up, insisting that he was framed," Skinner says. I try not to sigh aloud. Mulder is very good at yelling about a cover up. I nod. "I know. I was there at the time." "Agent Scully, I want you to find out what really happened to Chelsea James. Find her body. I'm assuming that she's not alive." I nod my head. I have to agree with him. From the amount of blood that was found at the house, it's unlikely that she lived for very long after the abduction. "I'll do the best I can, sir." "I'll need you to do the best you can as quickly as you can before the media turns this into a nightmare for the Bureau. I don't want you talking to anyone from the media. I'll handle that. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir, it is." Thank God. I hate dealing with the media anyway. "As far as Agent Mulder is concerned," Skinner starts, then shuffles through some papers on his desk. "I'm going to do what I can to have him released into the Bureau's custody." Uh-oh. I can almost see this one coming. "Into the Bureau's custody, sir?" "He'll be officially suspended until this matter is cleared up one way or the other." In other words: Mulder will be without a badge and a gun, and tagging along with me until I figure out if he really abducted, raped and murdered that little girl. There's one thing I know for certain. Mulder's not going to sit at his apartment all day waiting for me to get back with news while he watches TV and orders a pizza. He's going to follow me around, trying to figure this out all on his own, regardless of whether he has a badge. "Are we clear on everything, Agent Scully?" Oh, yes, sir, we're clear. Crystal clear. I nod. "Yes." "I should have Agent Mulder out by morning. I'll have the Alexandria PD call you when they're ready for you to come down there. They'll also give you the files they have on this case." "That would be very helpful. Thank you." "I'm sure with your cooperation we'll get this resolved quickly." I can't tell what he means by resolved. Does he think that I'm going to find evidence to clear Mulder, or does he think Mulder did it? "That will be all, then," he says dismissively. I realize that I didn't ask him if he thought Mulder was innocent. It's too late. He's already turned away. I get up and walk toward the door. Behind me, Skinner picks up the phone. I can hear him speaking but I miss the first few words. "I don't care what it takes. Just make it happen." END OF PART FOUR Tightrope (5/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** "I'm here for Agent Mulder." Detective Sutton looks at me, his face stony. "You know, it's a good thing Towne isn't here. He wouldn't be too happy knowing that Mulder's going home with you." He takes a deep breath and lets it out. "To be honest with you, Agent Scully, a lot of the guys here aren't too happy about all this. They think that someone's pulling strings to get this guy off the hook." "He's a Bureau agent, Detective Sutton," I say, keeping my voice steady, my tone professional. "In a case like this, the Bureau wants to handle the investigation. It's standard." "You mean they want to sweep it under the rug." I don't respond. I can't. Technically, he's right. The Bureau knows that this looks monumentally bad for them and they want it handled as soon as possible. The only two people who actually care what happens to Mulder are Skinner and myself, and we are not just looking to sweep this under the rug. But it doesn't look that way to the police officers in this department. To them, it looks like a man who has very possibly kidnapped, raped and murdered a little girl, is going to get a slap on the wrist. "Has all the paperwork been taken care of?" I ask, trying to change the subject. Sutton stares at me. "Yes. I just need your signature here on the transfer of custody form." He thrusts a piece of paper at me. I take the pen he offers and sign my name. Once I have handed him back the paper, Sutton turns and jerks his head in the direction of the uniformed officer who is standing nearby. "Gabriel. Go spring Mulder." The officer gives me a look that I can't quite pinpoint. The room has gone noticeably quiet. I stand awkwardly in front of Sutton's desk, waiting. Other detective and various officers speak in hushed tones throughout the room. I can't hear their voices but I'm assuming they're making nasty comments about Mulder and his child-killing habits. "Agent Scully." I turn halfway to see Detective Towne. "You're here to pick up Agent Mulder, I take it." His voice is much more restrained than it was the last time I saw him, when he was calling Mulder a pervert who liked to fuck young girls. I clear my throat. "Yes, I am. He's being transferred into the Bureau's custody." Footsteps and movement across the room cause me to lift my head. I see Mulder and his uniformed escort coming toward me. When he sees me, Mulder's eyes light up, and his blank facial expression relaxes into what I would almost describe as a half-smile. Mulder is handcuffed. The uniform makes no move to uncuff him. "Could you please unlock the handcuffs?" I ask, my words catching in my throat, making my voice more high-pitched, causing me to sound so much more nervous. Making me sound afraid. Afraid of Mulder. The officers in the room are trying to intimidate me. This angers me. All I want to do is get Mulder out of here. I want to take him to a place where he won't be handcuffed. I can barely stand to see him like this. Gabriel looks to Sutton for approval, who nods his head slightly. The cuffs are released and Mulder rubs his wrists. I can see from where I am standing that the skin is red and raw. I assume that he's likely been wearing the cuffs for a while. Damn cops. They've likely had him cuffed since the moment I left here. I want to reach for his wrists and look at them, to make sure that there are no tears in the skin, but I know this isn't the time for it. "Come on, Mulder, let's go," I say simply, deciding not to say anything more to the officers of the Alexandria PD. They don't know Mulder, they don't believe in his innocence, and I cannot say anything to persuade them to believe differently. We turn to go, and Mulder puts his hand on the small of my back, as he always does. I wouldn't have noticed it except for the fact that his hands are shaking and when he touches me, I have to force myself not to jump. "Agent Scully?" I stop and turn around. "Yes?" It's Agent Towne. "Watch your back, Agent Scully." I don't want to look at Mulder to see the look on his face. The statement has been made not just as advice, but as a warning. I don't reply, and this time when we leave, Mulder doesn't touch me at all. ***** I can't talk to him. Damn. I was hoping that it would go a little more smoothly than this. I can't get Detective Towne's words out of my head. "You get off on fucking little girls." I feel so tired. "If you're going to drop me off, you just missed the turn," Mulder says quietly. "I'm not taking you to your house, Mulder. You're coming with me back to my place. You're in Bureau custody. You have to be with an agent at all times." My voice is tight and formal. Mulder doesn't respond to this. I'm assuming that Skinner has already been down to the police station to explain to Mulder the conditions of his suspension. I'm assuming that Mulder has already had to surrender his badge, and I'm sure his weapon was taken away when his apartment was searched if they suspected that it was used in the commission of the crime. The crime. I remind myself to keep it simple and impersonal like that. I've been unable to be at ease with him since this whole thing happened. God knows it seems like it's been weeks when it's only been a matter of a few days. The rest of the drive is made in silence. Mulder stares out the passenger window and I hold onto the steering wheel tightly, too tightly. My eyes are glued to the road. I am unwilling to glance over at him. I don't want to see his body taut and his hands clenched. I know he's angry. I know it. I even know why. If he's innocent -- God, I can't believe I thought that. *If* he's innocent. As an innocent man, this has to be frustrating beyond belief. This has to be infuriating. Humiliating. It would explain his anger. His rage. I don't want to think about the other side of this. If he is guilty, why the hell is he so angry at me? That fact resonates in my head. If he's innocent, then his anger right now is justified and understandable. He wouldn't be angry if he were guilty. Unless he's guilty and he's angry that he's been caught. I don't want to think like this anymore. "Aren't we getting out of the car, Scully?" Mulder asks me. I look up. I've parked the car outside my building and have killed the engine but I've made no move to unbuckle my seatbelt. I don't want to think like this about Mulder. About my partner. No. I will not. I don't say anything to him until we're in the house. He sinks down on my couch wearily. I have no idea if he's slept or eaten. Those things, as far as I'm concerned, can wait. "Mulder," I say hesitantly. "It would be helpful if you could tell me what happened the night that Chelsea James disappeared." "I was at home," he answers quickly. "Asleep." I take a deep breath. "Maybe you could be a little more specific. What time did you go to sleep? What did you do before bed?" "Is this an interrogation, Scully?" His voice is sharp. "No, Mulder, it's not. I just want to get an idea of what happened that night." He sighs, looks at the floor. "I was home all weekend. Saturday I watched TV." "Do you remember what you watched?" "Some movie on the Sci-Fi channel. I don't remember what it was called. I watched the news. I called you a few times during the day." He looks up at me and I meet his eyes. I had gotten those messages -- but not until after I got back from the police station to see him. "I ordered sushi on Saturday night for dinner. I went and picked it up around 6:30. I came back and ate it. Watched a few more movies." "On TV?" "On video." He doesn't offer titles, and I don't ask. "When did you go to bed?" "Around midnight, I think." "And what time did you get up on Sunday?" "Around 10, I think." "And you didn't get up at all before then?" "Only once, Scully." My eyebrows lift. "When was that?" "When I got up and kidnapped that little girl from her bed," he snaps. I let out a breath and roll my eyes, not amused. He doesn't respond to my facial expression. "I got up around six in the morning to relieve myself," he finally says, still angry. "Mulder --" "Damn it, Scully, it's obvious that you don't believe me. It's obvious that you don't --" "Don't believe you?" My voice rises before I realize it. "What do you want me to do? I ask you about this and all you do is snap at me. You weren't very cooperative at the police station. There is a *mountain* of evidence that makes it look like --" "I know, Scully, it makes it look like I did it. But I *didn't*. I didn't fucking do it!" He gets up from the couch and begins pacing around the room. "You don't believe me -- you don't trust me. Right?" he asks, looking over at me. "Damn it, Mulder," I say sharply, "if I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be here alone with me. Do you think I'd want you here right now with me alone?" This quiets him, and a guilty looks flits across his face. "No," he finally says, his voice much more quiet, "you wouldn't." He sits back down on the couch, and I stay standing where I am, where I have been since we came in. I am tired of this, so tired. "I'm sorry, Scully," he says, and I nod. I rarely hear him apologize. I can tell from his contrite tone that this is sincere, but my mind is too exhausted to process it all at the moment. "It's OK," I murmur dismissively. I really need to sit down. "Do you mind if I take a shower?" Mulder's voice is now quiet, as if he is afraid of upsetting me by speaking too loudly or too forcefully. "It's been a long few days." "Sure, go ahead." I point in the direction of the bathroom. "You know where everything is, right?" He nods and gets up, heading in that direction. I stand where I am, waiting until I hear the shower turn on, and then I sit down on the couch, right next to where he was. I press my palm into the fabric of the couch where he was sitting just minutes ago. Again the image of Mulder as a tousled llittle boy comes into my mind, and I banish it quickly. The only tousled little child I can think about right now is Chelsea James. Who is, very likely, dead. Is is possible that she is dead at the hands of the man lathering his body with soap in my shower? I put my hands over my eyes. END OF CHAPTER FIVE Tightrope (6/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** I am still sitting on the couch when Mulder comes out of the bathroom. A cloud of steam follows him, and I am vaguely aware that he smells like me, like the perfumed soap I use. I try not to think about this. Mulder sits down on the couch next to me, wearing jeans and his undershirt, his feet bare, his hair wet. I know that he can sense my fatigue and wisely doesn't say anything for a few long minutes. Finally he clears his throat. "Scully, look, I know that I'm supposed to be suspended, but I want you to know something. I did not do anything to Chelsea James. I want to help you find the proof that says that I didn't. And I know we can find it together." "Mulder, we're not doing anything together. You're on suspension. I can't very well take you along each time I need to check something out. You need to be in the company of a Bureau agent at all times, and --" I stop. Wait a minute. Skinner released Mulder into *my* custody. He also told me that he wanted me to get to the bottom of this. He knows damn well that I can't babysit Mulder and work a case at the same time. Unless he wants me to drag Mulder along, without a badge, as I try to find out who really did abduct Chelsea James. Of course, it doesn't mean I'm going to actually take Mulder along. Skinner likely knows me well enough to know that I won't do this. He knows that I'm going to leave Mulder here alone while I follow up on leads. Which means, by default, that Skinner thinks that Mulder is innocent. There is actually a relief for me in realizing this, although I don't know why. I look at Mulder and see that he is watching me expectantly, waiting for some sort of revelation to tumble forth from my mouth. I shake my head. "Never mind," I tell him. "What are you going to do?" Mulder asks. This is such an odd conversation. Mulder asking me what I'm going to do, with the full realization that he can do nothing to help me. "I have to talk to the girl's parents." Images of a tearful father and a hysterical mother creep into my head. From the look on Mulder's face and from his sudden desire to stay quiet, I can assume that he is thinking the same thing. I cannot take him with me while I go talk to them. They surely know that the police have arrested a suspect, an FBI agent whose fingerprints were found all over their house, and the last thing they need is to have that man show up at their door. "I need you to promise me that you will stay here while I'm gone. Don't go anywhere." I look at him. Please, Mulder. Please do this for me. Don't make me worry. Don't make me frantic. "I want to help, Scully. I have to find something to prove that I didn't do this." "I know, Mulder, but I have to do this alone. I'm trying to find that proof, believe me." This is the setting of rules, and with our eyes, we make the promise. I will help him as long as he cooperates. Mulder nods his head very slightly and I nod back. "I'll be back in a while. Try to get some rest, OK?" I am trying so hard to sound casual. "Maybe I'll watch some TV," he says, reaching for the remote, and when he does I can see the marks on his wrists from where he was handcuffed. They still look raw. It is a sharp reminder that will not let us forget that things aren't normal; that Mulder is still the suspect in a criminal investigation. I don't want to ask him how he was treated in lockup. He sees me staring and moves his hands, trying to hide the marks. "I'll see you later, Scully." ***** 1027 Oak is where Chelsea James lived. It is a small house, set back a bit from the quiet, suburban street. There is an abundance of leafy trees, providing plenty of shade over the sidewalk. I note this almost clinically, reminding myself to ask the eyewitness who supposedly saw Mulder if he was able to see very well in what must have been the very dark shadows of early morning hours. I knock on the door and wait. It is opened by a man who appears to be in his early 30's, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He's average looking, and his eyes are red-rimmed. It doesn't look like he's had a lot of sleep. "Can I help you?" he asks, his voice slightly hopeful. "I'm Agent Dana Scully with the FBI." I show him my badge. "I'm here to ask you a few questions about your daughter's disappearance." "You don't have any news?" "No, I'm afraid not. The case has been transferred over from the police to the Bureau, and I was wondering if I could speak with you and your wife for a few moments." "Oh, I'm not her husband -- and I'm not Chelsea's dad. He was killed a few years back. Let me get Kathleen," he says to me. "Honey," he calls, and gestures for me to come in. I follow him and shut the door behind me. The living room is dark; the shades have been drawn so that very little light comes in. "What is it? Is there news?" Kathleen James comes into the room and at first glance, my heart sinks. She looks worse than I expected. Her voice is filled with tears, and her eyes are puffy from crying. Her blond hair is pulled back into a hasty ponytail, and strands of it are hanging loose. She is wearing sweats and a t-shirt, both of which are wrinkled. "No, hon, this is Agent Scully with the FBI. They transferred the case to the FBI so that they can find out what happened to Chelsea." He turns to me. "I'm Cal Osburn." "I just wanted to ask a few questions about Chelsea's disappearance." "Is it true that the man they arrested is an FBI agent?" she asks me suddenly, and I am frozen. An answer is caught in my throat. "They told me that a man's fingerprints were found in our house and that he was an FBI agent. They said they arrested him." I swallow hard. "Yes, that's true. We're still investigating to make sure that we have the right suspect. We want to make sure that we can find out where your daughter is so that we can get her home to you as soon as possible." Lies. All lies. Chelsea James is dead somewhere. Her body just hasn't turned up yet. "Have you asked him where she is? Have you talked to the man?" Kathleen James is getting more and more upset. Tears have welled up in her eyes and are beginning to spill over onto her cheeks. "Have *you* talked to him? Asked him what he did to her?" It is hard for me. So hard. I want to hold her hand. Tell her that I have talked to the man whose fingerprints were all over her house. I want to say to her that I have seen him, that he is guilty, that he will be punished to the full extent of the law, and that there is nothing I would love to see more than for him to suffer for whatever it is that he has done to her daughter. I cannot. I cannot tell her that the man she is asking me about is lying on the couch in my apartment right now watching television. "We're doing everything we can," I finally say, knowing in my heart that it will soothe her temporarily to hear this from a law enforcement officer who looks like she knows what she's talking about. "I lost my husband -- Chelsea's father -- two years ago," Kathleen tells me, sniffling. "He was killed in a drive-by, only it wasn't supposed to be him. They were shooting at someone else who had the same kind of car that Eric did." Cal puts his arm around her. "It's OK," he murmurs. "I can't lose my daughter," she cries softly. "I can't." "Mrs. James, did you hear anything at all the night that Chelsea disappeared?" I ask. I have to ask her something useful and then I have to leave. I already know that the police have questioned her until they were blue, and that she provided them with nothing. She shakes her head, still crying. "Please find her," she pleads with me, her voice strangled. "Please." Oh God. This isn't giving me anything new, and it's just torture. For her and for me. I have to get out of here. "Thank you for your time," I tell them. Cal is supporting her physically, his arms around her. "Let me walk you out," Cal offers, and kisses Kathleen on the forehead. "I'll be back in a sec, hon." He is a big man, a burly construction worker type. He walks me to the front door and steps outside with me for a moment. "You know," he says, "Chelsea's a great kid. I've only known her and her mom about a year, but I love her so much. Kathleen and I were thinking of getting married, and I wanted to adopt Chelsea as my daughter." He pauses, rubbing his eyes. "But I'm not stupid. I know that when you find Chelsea, you're going to find her body." He looks to me for verification. Even though he's right, I can't agree with him. "You don't have to say anything," he tells me. "I already know that it's true. You guys are just looking for her body now. Kathleen doesn't realize it yet, and I guess it's better that way. I'm just trying to help her get through this any way she can." He's crying openly now. "I just want you to take that motherfucker and put him away forever. If I could get my hands on him I'll kill him myself. No one should do something like this to a little girl, you know?" Tears are clouding my own vision at this point. "Yes, I know," I whisper, nodding. I can barely do anything more. "Thanks for coming by," he says, straightening his shoulders and trying to wipe the tears from his cheeks before he goes back into the house. "Let us know when you, you know, hear anything." "I will," I promise him. He shuts the door and I stand on the step for a few moments. The front windows are shaded from the inside. Why see the light of day when your whole world is black? I can understand Kathleen James' motivation in wanting to keep her house dark. I don't blame her at all. And it's her pain that is making me cry, even though I don't want to. But it's more than being witness to her pain. It's knowing my connection to Mulder and knowing that they are unaware of it. They would never have let me in the front door if they knew that I was working to try to prove Mulder's innocence. They would have very likely called me every name in the book and then physically removed me from their home. As it is, I already feel guilty, as if my presence has tainted their house in some way. I step off the front stoop and walk to my car. END OF CHAPTER SIX Tightrope (7/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** "Mark Weiss?" "That's me." Mark Weiss is tall and thin but well built -- a runner. He was the man who was out running in Chelsea James' neighborhood and supposedly saw Mulder putting the little girl's body in the back of his car early Sunday morning. "I'm Agent Dana Scully with the FBI. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions." He looks perplexed. "I thought I already answered all the questions I needed to with the police." "Yes, I know you did, but the case has been transfered to the FBI and I need to confirm a few things, if you don't mind." I'm all business with him. He has no emotional connection to this case. And yet he may have seen Mulder carrying the unconscious body of a little girl from her home. He already identified Mulder in a police lineup as the person he saw that morning. There's no way it could have been Mulder that he saw. I am here to prove that. I am here to find a hole in his story. "Sure," he says. "Go ahead." "I was just wondering... it was still dark when you were out for your run?" He nods. "I always go running when it's still dark. I'm in bed early and up at 3:30, usually." "Mr. Weiss, if it was dark, and the street was tree-lined, are you sure you correctly identified the suspect's car and license plate number?" He chuckles. "I know it seems odd that I would have such a perfect memory about these events. And that I would have been able to identify the man I saw. But I have an eidetic memory. I'm able to --" "Retain just about everything you see," I finish. Mulder has an eidetic memory. My head is beginning to ache. He nods. "That's right. I was just so shocked by what I saw that I got closer -- I was about fifteen feet away, behind a tree. I saw the man carrying the girl in his arms. She seemed to be asleep. When he opened the door of his car, the light went on, and I could see that she wasn't just sleeping. The angle of her body seemed more unnatural. I noted the license plate of the car and as soon as it pulled away, I jogged home and called the police. I wanted to be sure that nothing was wrong. If I made a mistake, I would know later that some guy was carrying his sleeping kid home. But if not, then I would feel that at least I did the right thing." I want to grab this man by the collar and shake him. I want to scream at him. Did you see my partner? Are you absolutely sure that the man you saw was my partner? But the answer is already becoming painfully clear that it was Mulder that he saw. Who else would it have been at this point? Who else drives Mulder's car, has Mulder's fingerprints, and looks just like Mulder? I know that in the past I have been fooled by a clone who can morph into Mulder, but we have never determined if that clone is able to have Mulder's fingerprints. So right now I can't even suspect the clone. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Weiss." ***** I unlock the door to my apartment, praying that Mulder will leave me alone long enough for me to take four Tylenol. I push the door open, expecting to hear the TV. The apartment is silent. "Mulder?" I step into the living room. It's empty. Oh no. Oh God, no. I quickly check the rest of the apartment, but it is silent and still. He's gone. He's gone and he's off doing God knows what. Christ, I do *not* want to believe that. I don't. I just want to lie down, I want to not worry about this, I want -- "Scully?" I whirl around. Mulder is standing in the open doorway, sweat creating a triangle of dark dampness on the front of his gray t-shirt. His forehead is beaded with moisture. "What's wrong?" "God *damn* it, Mulder!" I explode. His eyes widen. "Where the fuck were you?" I can't help it. I know I don't swear that often but I am so furious right now I can barely stand it. My palms are clammy and my pulse is thundering in my head. "I went for a run," he stammers. "I went over to my place to pick up some clean clothes," he indicates a backpack on the floor, "and then I went for a run. What's wrong?" "What's wrong? I told you to not go *anywhere*, for God's sakes. Couldn't you just do that one thing? Couldn't you just stay here?" I am practically yelling, and it isn't in the least bit satisfying. "I thought it would be OK if I just ran out for a few minutes. Jesus, Scully, I wasn't gone long." "That's not the point, Mulder," I sputter. "What's the point?" he asks, his hands on his hips. The point, I think to myself dazedly, is that I'm not sure if I trust you anymore, Mulder. Oh God. I don't want this to be happening. I don't want to not trust Mulder. More than anything, I want to trust him. I want that more than anything in the world. I can't answer him. His face is angry now as well. I know why. He thinks I don't believe him. He thinks that I believe that he killed Chelsea and raped her and dumped her body somewhere. I don't know what to believe at this point. It's all I can do to not burst into hysterical tears at this point. I can't look at him anymore. I can't. I look around the room, at the floor, out the window, into the fireplace, anywhere, just as long as I don't have to look at his face. "You have to look at me eventually, Scully," he says, as if reading my mind. No, I don't, I think stubbornly. I don't have to do anything I don't want to. I can call Skinner, I can call him and tell him that I don't want you in my custody. That I want some other agent to come over here and deal with all of this. God, I am way too close to this situation to be any good at all. The problem is, and of course I realize it, is that someone who is this close to the situation and therefore this close to Mulder is going to be the one who puts every last bit of energy into making sure that Mulder is cleared. If, of course, he's innocent. I want so badly for him to be innocent. I *know* this man. I know him so well. I know each part of him. I know the scent of him when he's scared, tired, confident; even when he's aroused. With a blindfold over my eyes I could find Mulder in a crowded room by touch and by smell alone. And right now, with my eyes closed, and him fifteen feet away from me, I can smell fear on him. Fear because he thinks that I don't trust him anymore, and that I'm going to leave him. Alone. The phone rings. It startles us both. I open my eyes and automatically walk toward it, not looking at Mulder, although I can feel his eyes on my back as I cross the room in front of him. "Hello," I answer, and my voice is shaky. "Agent Scully. I'm glad I could reach you. Is Agent Mulder still with you?" Skinner. "Yes, sir, he is. He's right here." Sir, please, can you come over here and get him out of my apartment? Please? "Agent Scully, we've found Chelsea James." My heart knocks around in my chest. "Is she --" I shouldn't ask. I already know. "She's dead," Skinner says flatly. I clutch the phone tightly. So tightly that my fingertips are numb. "Are you there, Agent Scully?" I can't speak. I can't. Not yet. Still clutching the phone, I finally turn and face Mulder. His face is curious, his eyes questioning. He wants to know what is going on. I cannot tell him. I cannot say a word. With Skinner asking me if I am still there, I continue to hold the phone as if it is my only lifeline, staring at Mulder, my face blank, my eyes as dead as Chelsea James. END OF CHAPTER SEVEN Tightrope (8/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** Note: This chapter contains disturbing material and is rated NC-17. This chapter also contains tiny tiny tiny bits of information that were in the movie. It shoudn't be anything that anyone doesn't know by now. ***** I usually do autopsies alone. In hospitals, it's standard for the pathologist to have an assistant, and with two people working, an autopsy only takes about two hours. I prefer to work alone. The extra time it takes doesn't bother me -- it just gives me the knowledge that everything has been done to my satisfaction. Solitude is important for me when I open up another human being and look inside. Chelsea James is no different. I walk into the autopsy bay to find that her little body has been removed from the drawer and placed on the table. Walking over to the sheet-covered body, I rest my hand on what I know is her shoulder. It is cold. Someone has put her here in the last few minutes, anticipating my arrival, no doubt. It's also standard that most autopsies can be pretty messy affairs. Pathologists vary in their levels of neatness. I fall on the compulsive end of the scale. As much as I can help it, large quantities of blood do not end up on the floor or on the chalkboard on the wall where I record the weights of various organs. I've seen bays that look like a murderer with a large set of knives has been through them -- blood drips from the chalkboard and has splashed up over the table's rounded edges and onto the floor. To me, this is a disgrace to the person who has died. Of course, their soul has already gone. However, for some reason, it has always been important to me to make sure that their body is treated with as much respect as possible. I take one deep breath before uncovering Chelsea James. I have to stay together. I have to keep my mind on the task at hand. I have already spoken to Skinner about notifying the girl's mother. I cannot bear to bring her the news of her daughter's death. I feel as if this makes me a coward. But I cannot set foot in that house again, feeling like a traitor, feeling as if I am letting them down by trying to find a killer other than the one who seems to be right in front of me. Skinner has already spoken to them, to Kathleen James and Cal Osburn. They have already been to the morgue to identify the body, together. Skinner informed me that Kathleen almost collapsed in grief when she saw her daughter's body on the table. Kathleen's sobs echo in my mind even though I was not there. I can almost hear Cal's restrained crying, trying to help the woman he loves as she faces yet another terrible loss that was not meant to happen. I pull the sheet back. Chelsea was an adorable little girl. She has dark blond hair that comes down far past her shoulders and looks like it curled naturally at the bottom. I will have to cut this beautiful hair somewhat to open up her skull. I open her mouth gingerly with my gloved hands. Sure enough, there is the chipped front tooth that the detectives in Alexandria told me about. I know that I don't have to be gentle with her. She's dead. She can feel no pain. And yet I somehow cannot allow myself to manipulate her body haphazardly. I must use care. I must use gentle hands. A mother's hands. I click on the tape recorder, ignoring the fresh tears in my eyes. Will I ever stop crying? "The victim is Chelsea James. Seven year old white female." ***** The autopsy is finished. As I expected, there are no abnormalities in any of her body systems. She was just a little girl. She was in second grade. I wasn't expecting to find heart disease or liver damage. She was a perfectly healthy little girl who, if she had lived, would have likely needed braces at some point because she sucked her thumb and her front teeth would have needed to have been straightened. I have already dictated the autopsy, but I am now writing certain things down for myself, my own notes. As if I would forget. I don't think I will ever forget what I've seen here today. Chelsea James was struck with a blunt object in her right temple, likely while she was still in bed, asleep. There is a shattering of the skull on the right side that looks as if someone stepped on an eggshell. Fragments of bone were lodged into her small brain. Her throat was slashed as well. This was likely a postmortem injury, as there was very little blood loss along the gash that went under the chin, from one ear all the way to the other. How she died is horrific. But there's more. She was also sexually assaulted, as the police had suspected. There was no trace of semen found anywhere on her body or in any orifice, but there were signs of massive vaginal tearing. The assault likely happened after the blow to the head, which means that she was not conscious. Thank God. There were trace amounts of GSR -- gunshot residue -- found along her vaginal walls. This indicates to me that she was penetrated not necessarily by a penis, but in my opinion, by the barrel of a gun that had been recently fired. Mulder and I were on a case in Kansas a few days ago, and Mulder used his weapon to fire at the suspect. A fingerprint was found. It was found not on Chelsea's mangled body but on the face of the Barbie watch that was strapped to her left wrist. According to Kathleen, Chelsea was not wearing the watch when she went to bed, which meant either Chelsea got up and put it on, then went back to bed, or that the killer put it on her before carrying her from the house. The fingerprint was entered into the Bureau's database. It matched the right index oblique of Fox William Mulder. I am sitting here, in the autopsy bay, staring across the room at the sheet-covered body of a little girl who has been killed in the most horrible of ways. I have sewed her up as neatly as possible, each stitch small and precise, trying to make her body somewhat presentable for the family. They will view the body again after the funeral home has taken it to prepare it for the services. My cel phone rings. It startles me, and my heart begins to pound. I have a feeling that I know who will be on the other end of the phone, and I'm not so sure I am ready to hear his voice. "Scully?" He says my name before I have a chance to say anything. "Scully, are you there?" "Yes, I'm here, Mulder." "Are you still doing the autopsy?" Please, God. Please make this go away. Please make this stop. "No, I'm finished. I was just making some notes." How can I forget the time that he spat that at me across the phone line, thinking that I was working against him? This time, I may very well be working against him. I cannot honestly say that I think he is innocent anymore. I can't. "How did she die, Scully?" He sounds curious. He sounds worried. He sounds...taunting. Like he already knows. Jesus. Stop it. Stop thinking that. This is your partner, for God's sakes. You *know* this man. You know him. I open my mouth. Words do not come out. "Scully?" Why don't you tell me how she died, Mulder, I almost say, and then close my mouth, biting down on my lip until I taste blood. "I'd rather not talk about it on the phone," I tell him carefully. "Mulder, there's more evidence that implicates you in this crime." "Scully, I swear to you, I did not do this. I didn't. Someone is trying to set me up. You've got to help me find out who it is." For a minute, I almost laugh. It sounds so outrageous. Why on earth would someone go to such lengths to do this? How would someone have the access to do something this horrible and then so carefully and precisely make it appear as if Mulder did it? Then I get control of my thoughts. Soberly, I realize that there are people out there who have access to do this. Mulder and I have seen these kind of people before. Mulder and I know that people are willing to commit these kinds of atrocities. But why this? These people have one objective in mind -- to stop Mulder's search for the truth. And they know that there is only one thing that can dissuade him. Mulder and I have discussed this already. It was the reasoning behind what happened to me in Antarctica. They know that to get to Mulder, they have to take me away from him. This would be the perfect way to do just that. To turn me against him would be just as good as having me killed. "Scully?" "Mulder, I want to believe you," I whisper into the phone, almost inaudibly. "I do." "Then just say that you do," he pleads. "Say that you know I'm not capable of this. Say it. Please." There is a long silence. The eyewitness who saw Mulder and identified both him and his car. The blood in the backseat. The fingerprints all over the house. The fingerprint on the face of the watch. "Please, Scully. You know me. You *know* me. You know I could never do this." Sudden tears fill my eyes as I recall when Mulder almost kissed me in his hallway. His lips brushed mine before the bee stung me and I fell into a coma induced by the virus that was introduced into my system. Is the man who bared his soul to me in that hallway a killer? Or is he simply the same Mulder that I've known for five years -- the same man who I know could not do something like this? "Scully." Mulder's voice is low. There is something about his voice that I cannot identify that twists my heart. I know him. No matter what the evidence says, I know that he could not have done this. There has to be another explanation. "We have to find the proof, Mulder. Proof that it wasn't you," I murmur into the phone. It's the only way I can tell him that I believe in him. He doesn't respond right away. I can hear muffled noises. I think he's crying. Oh, Mulder. I ache for this man. This man, who I know is innocent. Who I know could not be responsible for what has been done to this child. "Thank you, Scully," he manages to get out. "I'll talk to you soon," I promise, and hang up. Jesus Christ. Please let me be right. END OF CHAPTER EIGHT Tightrope (9/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** Agent Dana Scully is a beautiful woman. Her beauty is overwhelming because it is not just skin deep. She has a wonderful inner soul that reflects and refracts light into various colors and patterns, depending on her mood. These last few days have been hard on her. She has struggled so much emotionally. It is evident on her face. Struggle. Suffer. Ache. Grieve. These are the things that have powered her life over the last few years. She has been through so much, and yet she has come through all of it with a stronger armor, a stronger shield and better defenses. But she is not stronger. Not emotionally, anyhow. She can't be. She has been hurt too much. Her pain cuts far too deep. Emotionally she has managed. She has somehow gotten by. Underneath her strong facade she is fragile and easily breakable. She has the power to deal with a lot -- but not this. Not the events of the last few days. This is something that even the strongest person shouldn't be expected to handle without completely falling apart. On the outside, her face is a mask of calm determination. Underneath lies doubt, fear, anger, and most likely, at this point, terror. She cannot last long like this. Her resolve will waver. Her facade will crumble. It's not going to be a pretty sight. So far, watching the show has been most enjoyable. END OF CHAPTER NINE Tightrope (10/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** I have become a madwoman. For the last three hours, I have been stalking around the labs of the Bureau, waiting and watching as various techs run tests on evidence that is directly related to this case. I have been like a protective and encouraging mother as I discreetly look over people's shoulders while they work. I have discouraged people from bothering the techs that are working so hard to get the answers I so desperately need. I am waiting, waiting, and yet I feel like the end that is in sight is not the end that I want to see. I want to believe Mulder. If there is just one small piece of evidence that says that he is innocent, then I can know with certainty that the rest was planted or somehow a huge glaring mistake. So far the little piece of hope that I have been looking for has not shown itself to me. "Agent Scully?" "Yes?" "They're looking for you in the fingerprint lab." They've recently moved the fingerprint lab from Bureau headquarters to a lab in West Virginia, about an hour and a half away by car. Some of the fingerprint techs are still working here, though, because the changeover isn't complete. Thank God. I don't think I would have been in the mood to drive that far today. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. Although it's late in the day, I don't want to be seen by other agents if I can help it, and some Bureau agents, healthy as most of them are, also happen to be lazy. I don't want to get stuck in a swarm of other agents waiting for an elevator on their way home for the day. I don't want people looking at me. Asking me questions. People don't believe Mulder about his little green men, so the chances of them believing in his innocence right now are kind of slim. Being his partner -- at least being his partner before he was suspended -- doesn't make it very easy for me. For the last few days everyone around this building has been looking at me as if I'm completely out of my mind. More so than usual. Which is interesting, because there have been moments when it has certainly felt as if I was losing my mind. The stairwell is cool and brightly lit. I am the only one who has opted to use the stairs. I can tell only because there are no other sounds, no other footsteps banging on the metallic steps. I make it to the fingerprint lab in record time. The tech is young and eager. He reminds me of Pendrell. I smile wistfully. "Agent Scully. I wanted to show this to you." I look down at the display on the table in front of me. A small strap of leather. "What's this?" The lab tech holds it up with tweezers carefully for me to see. "It's the band from Chelsea James' watch. I didn't think there would be any more prints on it, other than the one we found on the face, but then I found a partial on the inside of the band." My throat goes dry. "Did you find a match?" "I haven't run it through the database yet. I wanted to talk to you first." Oh God. He's going to tell me that it's another one of Mulder's. Why torture me like this? "Agent Scully, I did run the print against Agent Mulder's. It doesn't match." "W-What?" I stutter. The tech nods eagerly, obviously elated by this news. "It's not Mulder's print. And it doesn't match any of the prints that were established to be known by the victim." "It's not the mother's? Or maybe Chelsea's?" "No. It's definitely a different print." Oh my God. Oh God. It's someone else. Someone else. I quickly tell myself to slow down. It might be someone else's print, but it might not mean anything, either. "How quickly do you think you can get a match?" I fix my eyes on the tech, imploring silently. Quickly. Now. "I'm going to run what I've got through the database. Shouldn't take too long. Do you want to wait?" You bet your ass I want to wait. While I'm waiting I have to keep busy or I'm going to explode. I call Skinner and he answers tersely. "Sir, I just wanted to tell you that I'm down in the fingerprint lab. They pulled a print from the girl's watch that doesn't belong to Mulder." "You're kidding." Skinner sounds shocked, and somewhat pleased. "Whose print is it?" "I'm waiting to find that out right now." "Damn it, Scully, you have to get moving on whoever it is. They've set an arraignment for Mulder for the day after tomorrow. I tried to postpone it, but it was the best I could do." "Sir, hopefully, he won't need to be arraigned. I'm hoping that with this new evidence, the charges will be dropped." I sound more hopeful than I feel, but I have to make sure that this sounds positive. I have to get Skinner sounding positive. "Do you truly believe that, Agent Scully?" There is a long pause. "Yes, sir," I finally answer. "Keep me informed, Agent Scully." Skinner hangs up, and I hesitate before calling Mulder. If the print turns out to be a dead lead, then there's no point in telling him about it. It will only mean that I have to face the ugly fact that no matter what I want to believe, there is no proof that Mulder is innocent. I'm not a fool. This is a last hope. If the print is a lead that I can follow, Mulder's going to want to come with me, which technically he shouldn't be doing if he's suspended and in Bureau custody. I hesitate for another moment, then make my decision. Screw it. Mulder answers my phone sounding more depressed than ever. "Hello." "Mulder, it's me." "Where are you, Scully?" I almost cringe at the normalcy of our conversation. "I'm down at the fingerprint lab. There's a bit of good news, although I don't know if we should get excited yet." I wait for him to say something but he remains silent. "They pulled someone else's print off Chelsea's watchband. They're running it through the computer now to see if it's a lead." Still no response. "Mulder?" "Yeah, Scully." "It could be very good news." I can almost see Mulder nod his head. "Mm-hm." I sigh heavily. "What's going on, Mulder?" "Other than the obvious? Other than the fact that you obviously don't believe me?" "Mulder--" I protest. He cuts me off. "I thought when you called from the autopsy that you believed me. Now I see that's not the case. You're just waiting to see what the print is. If it's someone else's, then maybe I'm innocent after all. But if not, then I'm guilty, right, Scully?" His voice is sharp and bitter and his words cut me only because I realize that they are true. "Mulder, you don't understand." "No, Scully, I don't think *you* understand. It's one thing to be ridiculed by everyone all the time because of my work. It's daunting, but I've dealt with it. This -- this is an entirely different matter. This goes beyond all that. To have you not believe in me when you've supported me all this time..." He doesn't finish. His voice oozes with hurt and pain, and I don't know what to say. "Please, Mulder," I say in low tones, turning my back on the techs who are working nearby. I don't want them to overhear my side of the conversation. "Please, try to understand how this is for me." "Try to understand how it is for *me*, Scully." "I am trying, Mulder." "No. No, you're not. You're assuming I'm a sick, fucked-up murderer." My eyes are stinging. "Please," I whisper into the phone. "This is terrible, Mulder. This whole thing is terrible. I know that. But it's terrible for both of us." Mulder laughs bitterly. "Especially in my case, though, since I didn't do anything. And it's going to get worse the day after tomorrow. Skinner called about the arraignment." Oh, shit. I wanted that news to come from me. "Look, Scully, I'll still be here when you get back. So if you feel safe enough to come home alone, you can let me know about the print." "For Christ's sake," I practically moan into the phone. "You're not being fair, Mulder." "I'm sorry, Scully," he says, suddenly, and he sounds like he means it. "It's just so awful walking around knowing that everyone thinks you did something that you know you did *not* do." He sounds like he's trying to hold tears back. A hand taps me on the shoulder. "Mulder, I have to go. I'll call you back." I hang up the phone and turn around. It's the tech. "Well, it's really odd. What I found, that is." "What is it?" "Well, I ran the print through the National Crime Database and there wasn't a match." Fuck. I wonder if I can handle this anymore. The print is Mulder's. I have to accept this. The tech sees the look on my face and shakes his head. "I thought it was an odd thing to do, but for the hell of it I ran the print through the federal database, you know, just to cover all the bases, or in case I had looked at it wrong or something, you know?" I nod mechanically. My head feels like it's going to snap and roll right off my neck. "And did it match any of Mulder's prints that are on file?" "That's the funny thing. It didn't. But it matched another federal employee." The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise. "Did you get a name?" The tech hands me the printout, complete with background information and picture. I look at it for only a second. My knees almost give out from under me and I reach out for the edge of the nearest desk to make sure I don't collapse. "Yep, I did. He's an agent with the Bureau, too. Maybe you know him? Agent Jeffrey Spender?" END OF CHAPTER TEN Tightrope (11/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** Ring. Ring. Pick up the phone, Mulder. Pick it up. "God damn it, Mulder," I curse aloud. "Pick up the fucking phone." One of my hands is gripping the steering wheel and the other is trying to balance the cel phone so that it rests on my shoulder. I know I'm going to need both hands to drive at some point. I've been pushing the accelerator faster and faster since I left the Bureau building. The security guard must think I'm insane -- he's never seen me go more than five mph out of the underground lot until today when my wheels screeched on the pavement in my hurry to get out of there. I almost hit some tourists on E Street who were lining up for the FBI Tour in my rush. I slow down only as I realize I'm doing 50 mph on M Street on my way into Georgetown. This is the fourth time I have tried to call Mulder. The first three times I called I was still at the Bureau, and each time I hung up on my own answering machine when it picked up instead of Mulder. This time I will not hang up. "Hi, you've reached Dana Scully. Please leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." My voice seems foreign to my ears. The tone sounds and I start talking. "Mulder, pick up the phone. You'd damn well better be there. I need to talk to you." My voice gets harder, more determined. "Pick up the *phone*, Mulder, come on." "Scully?" He sounds out of breath. "I was in the shower --" I barely hear his words. Just hearing his voice makes me want to close my eyes for a moment and let out a huge sigh of relief. "Mulder, you *are* being set up. There's proof." "What?" He sounds dazed. "Scully, what --" "Listen to me, Mulder. The other fingerprint that was found on the watch -- it's not yours. It's Spender's." "What? Spender? For God's sake, are you saying that he did this? That he killed Chelsea?" "He raped her too, Mulder. He's sick. He's fucked up. And for some reason he's trying to pin this on you." "I've known that he's pissed at me. Because of his mother. And possibly other reasons. But I never thought he would do this. I assumed that it was something, someone higher up who was doing this." I'm careening down the streets of Georgetown now. Almost home, almost to Mulder. It hits me all at once. He's really innocent. I can't help it. A small sob escapes my lips and I blink tears back. "Scully?" "I'm fine, Mulder, I'm fine," I assure him. "Where are you?" "I'm almost there." As soon as I'm in the parking space I throw the car into park and shut it off. I bolt from the car, still holding the cel phone to my ear. I'm still listening to Mulder's breathing, knowing that he can hear me as my shoes clatter on the pavement and as my breath echoes into the phone on his end. I'm almost there. I'm practically jogging down the hall and I hear the door being unlocked. Mulder opens it just as I get there. I'm holding my cel phone and he's holding my cordless and we stare at each other, our eyes locked on each other. My breath is coming in short little gasps. It's almost like the climax of an action movie -- except we don't kiss. Instead, Mulder hangs up the phone in his hand, and then I do the same with my cel phone, slipping it into my pocket as I come inside. Mulder is right there in front of me, waiting for me. Waiting. "I told you I didn't do it," he murmurs, and I nod my head, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you more," I answer in reply, but he shakes his head slightly. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have blamed you, Scully. The evidence -- it was just too much. There was so much evidence." He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them to look at me. "Scully." A million unspoken words float in the depths of his eyes. Lucky for me I know how to translate his language. He reaches for me and pulls me close, my face pressed into his chest. My arms go around him immediately and I hear his heart thumping. Or is it mine? I'm not sure. I don't think it matters. "Scully." He says my name again, as if it is coming from the water-parched lips of a man who has just walked a hundred miles in the desert. I pull back and look up at his face, which is streaked with tears. "Oh, Mulder," I whisper, touching the droplets with my fingertips. His face softens as I touch him. "How touching." An unwelcome voice startles us both and we move away from each other swiftly. I see Mulder's hand hurriedly swipe at his face to brush the tears away. I cringe inwardly at the sound of a match being lit. "You're not welcome here," I tell the older man who is standing in the doorway of my apartment. Damn it. I forgot to close the door. He laughs; an empty, hollow sound. I can feel Mulder's tension from where he stands, a few feet from me. He is coiled. Ready to strike. "Yes, Agent Scully, I know that. Agent Mulder is not exactly fond of me, but I'm sure *you* already know that." The smell of cigarette smoke rises and settles in the air where Mulder and I are standing. "But I have a message for you. I've come here to tell you that it's not over yet." "What are you talking about?" Mulder asks angrily. I watch as he draws in a deep drag from his cigarette. "Agent Spender," he says simply. "You knew about this all along?" Mulder asks, then shakes his head. "It shouldn't surprise me. It shouldn't surprise me at all. You sick bastard." His voice is filled with venom, and he makes a move toward the older man. I lay my hand on Mulder's forearm and he stops. He seems unfazed by Mulder's anger. "Let me tell you a story." "Why the hell should we listen to you?" Mulder snaps. "Because I think that you would be interested in what I have to say." He glances at me. "Agent Spender has become somewhat out of control." "You could say that," I mutter under my breath. "He's stepped over the line. And he must be stopped. I want to help you stop him." "Help us?" Mulder asks. "You've got to be kidding." A hint of a smile crosses the older man's face. "No, actually I'm quite serious. I have a vested interest in what happens to Agent Spender." He takes a puff on his cigarette and then blows the smoke out. "I want to help you. He is my son," he repeats. His son? Oh, God. "We don't need your help," Mulder spits back, acid dripping from each word. "You've threatened my life -- Scully's life, for God's sake," he says, without even blinking. "How the hell do we know that you aren't involved in this as well?" If he heard that, he's choosing to ignore it. "There's something you don't know about Agent Spender. You and he share a common thread." He pauses for effect. "You are brothers." "Oh God," I whisper. Mulder doesn't answer for a moment. "That's not true," he finally says, his voice breaking. "Oh, but it is." The older man's voice is smooth as honey, sickeningly sweet. "He's your half-brother." "My father --" "Your father was a good man. But your mother betrayed him." It takes a moment for this to sink in for both of us. As it does, I feel a pain lance through my chest. I can only imagine that Mulder feels something similar, if not worse. Jesus. This is what it all comes back to. Betrayal. "That's a lie." Mulder's voice is small now, small and frightened. "No, I'm afraid it's true. And I know how to help you find him." I slip my fingers around Mulder's wrist, then wrap my fingers around his hand, lacing my fingers through his own nerveless ones. "Get out of here. We don't need your help. We don't want it." Mulder is silent. I don't look, but I know that his mind is overflowing with horror and shock right now and that it shows on his face. I know that there's no way he could be hiding it. "If you don't allow me to help you, you will be walking into something far more dangerous than either of you could possibly imagine." "Get out," I repeat, my voice solid and strong. "Get the fuck out of here." "You're making a mistake. I can help you. I know how to get to him. I know --" "I don't think you heard me," I say, taking a step towards him, my voice a notch louder and now menacing. "Get out of my apartment. Now." He takes one final drag on his cigarette and smiles at Mulder. "As you wish, Agent Scully. But don't say I didn't warn you." And then he turns and is gone. I feel Mulder's fingers tighten around mine. "Scully." His voice is hoarse. "Not now, Mulder. Don't think about it now. Don't." I reach for him this time and pull him close to me, whispering to him, trying to soothe him as he cries. He knows, as I do, that although we have never been able to trust this man before, that this time he was telling the truth. And that is one of the most horrible things that Mulder will ever have to face. I have to calm Mulder down. We have to find Spender. My mind races as I try to figure out how to get to him. No. I have to focus on Mulder. He needs me. The smell of cigarette smoke still hovers around us. END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN Tightrope (12/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** My mind can't stop moving. Mulder and I haven't said a word to each other since that smoking bastard left my apartment. I don't think Mulder can bear to speak. Which is understandable. It's a bit difficult when you just found out that you have a brother. That your brother killed and raped a little girl and then set you up for it. And that the man who fathered you both just so happens to be the man who has been trying on and off to kill you for the past few years and has tried to destroy everything you've worked for. I don't think I want to know what's going on in Mulder's head right now. My head is a mass of images -- of Spender, mostly, but a few of Chelsea James. I can't stop thinking about the fact I've spent time around Spender -- not a lot, but enough. And I can't stop imagining him inside that little girl's bedroom, striking her in the head and carrying her out of the house, planting Mulder's fingerprints silently along the way. I can't stop thinking about what he did to her sexually. God. I don't want to think about that. There are a few holes in all of this. For example, how Mulder was "seen" near the crime scene. How did Spender plant Chelsea's blood? One thing needs no answer: I already have a pretty good idea of who helped Spender come up with this idea in the first place. I don't want to believe that the man who smokes all those cigarettes would be vicious enough to have planned Chelsea James' fate. I want to believe that it was Spender who simply snapped. Maybe he found out that he was Mulder's brother and in addition to all the rage he already felt, it just got out of control. It still doesn't explain to me why he would sexually assault a little girl, penetrate her with what I can only imagine was his gun, and murder her so viciously. Could he hate Mulder that much? Could his madness be that powerful? We haven't gone running after Spender right away. Mulder needed to be held, and I was the one who needed to do it. Sitting on the couch, it took him almost two hours to pick his head up and look at me after that bastard left. By then my shoulder and my arms were asleep, completely numb, and I had to wait almost a half-hour before I could feel them again. I am driving, and Mulder is sitting next to me. His silence makes me think that he is pondering what he has just heard. I don't want him to think. I want him to get his head together before we get to Spender. Spender isn't at home. We've already been there with no luck. We're on our way back to the Bureau, which is most likely almost deserted because of the late hour. Since Mulder's father -- God, I can hardly think of him that way -- left my apartment, hardly any words have passed between us. I show my badge and pull into the underground lot, parking my car and turning off the engine. Mulder doesn't move. "Mulder, it's going to be all right." My words are hollow and useless, and I know it. I shouldn't have said anything. Mulder looks at me from the passenger seat with a blank expression. He looks as if he is suffering from profound shock. I remind myself that he is. I touch his hand and he nods, more to himself than to me, I think, and we get out of the car and go into the building. I have no idea what we're going to find. I have no idea what Mulder is thinking. I have no idea what he can possibly say to Spender at this point. Personally, I know what I would like to say to him. I know what I would like to do to him. Stop thinking like that, I think. Stop it. While I was here, performing the autopsy, waiting for the fingerprints, Spender was likely here in the building somewhere. The very thought sends a shiver down my spine. I realize that he might have been watching me all along. I never would have noticed it. I have been too engrossed over the last few days to notice much of anything. We make our way up to the VCS division. The lights are off, but I see a glow coming from the back of the room in the far right corner. The VCS room is a large open section. A few offices line the walls, but most agents have desks which are arranged in the middle of the room. They get cubicles if they're lucky. The light is coming from one of those cubicles in the back. Mulder and I make our way silently in that direction. I realize that my hand has already snaked around to the small of my back to check my gun at least twice since we got off the elevator. We pause outside of the entryway to the cube and then on a silent signal we both round the corner. "Spender." Mulder says the word. The younger agent looks up from his desk. "Agent Mulder. Agent Scully. What can I do for you?" he asks, no trace of pleasantness in his voice. He stands up and steps outside the cubicle, walking over to a table by the wall. Both Mulder and I follow him. "I think you know," Mulder says. His fury is controlled. For now. It seems foolish to mince words. "We know everything," I tell him. He cocks his head innocently. "What are you talking about?" he asks. "Chelsea James," Mulder says, also choosing to keep his sentences short. "So did our father tell you to rape her, or did you decide to do that on your own?" Spender's mouth twists into a snarl and he pulls his gun very suddenly, his arm up and out before I can move. His arm comes up and he hits Mulder in the face, knocking him to the ground. He's taken a pretty hard blow and isn't able to draw his own gun. My weapon is out and in my hands. I don't even remember pulling it out of the holster. "Don't move!" I scream at Spender, who is poised for flight, but then pauses, standing about six feet from me, his gun pointed right at me. "Drop it," I tell him. "Put it down." "Are you crazy?" he asks, then laughs, a sick sound that I don't ever want to hear again. "This fucking *bastard* -- " he indicates Mulder, who is lying dazed on the floor, "makes me sick. He's done nothing but fuck with my life. And then to find out that he's related to me." Spit is dripping over Spender's chin as the angry words tumble from his mouth. "Stupid fucking bastard." Spender pauses, then kicks Mulder in the legs, hard. "You're sick," I tell him, my gun steady. "You need help. You killed that little girl. You raped her." Spender nods but he doesn't respond. "So why shouldn't my *brother* pay for it? After all, he's the one who destroyed my fucking life. Maybe it's time I destroyed his." Spender turns his gun on Mulder so quickly that I barely have time to react. Mulder tries to roll away but doesn't succeed. He cries out as Spender pulls the trigger and the bullet hits him. I fire just a moment later. Spender's body jerks backwards and he crumples to the ground without uttering a noise. Blood and brains splatter on the wall behind where he was standing. I've just shot him in the head. I know that I should have aimed lower, that what I did was against protocol, but I push those thoughts from my head and drop to my knees next to Mulder. It's all happened so quickly that my head is pounding. It's all over and done with. So fast. Mulder is curled into a fetal position and writhing in pain. I turn him onto his back and see that the bullet has hit him in the shoulder. Blood is all over his shirt and is already beginning to stain the carpet. "Hang on, Mulder," I murmur. I lift his uninjured hand to the wound and press it down. "Hold your hand like this. Press down. Hard." I get to my feet and grab the first phone in sight, dialing the emergency number and telling the operator my location and that I need an ambulance. I hang up the phone and hurry back to Mulder, whose eyes are closed. His body is shaking. "Mulder. Mulder, hang on. It's just going to be a few minutes. Hang on." My trembling hands smooth over his body, his face, his hair. Hang on, Mulder. Just hang on. I take his hand away from the wound and replace it with my own. I can feel his warm blood on my skin, linking us, closer than we have ever been. Leaning down I kiss him on the forehead, once, twice. He opens his eyes. "Over?" he asks with some difficulty. "Yes, Mulder," I answer. "It's all over." His eyes drift closed again. His uninjured hand is covered with blood from holding the wound, and with that hand he seeks mine, squeezing it tightly when he finds it. I don't even feel the blood. I squeeze back. It's over. Really and truly over. END OF CHAPTER TWELVE Tightrope (13/13) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer and summary in part one. ***** They always say that things end where they begin. In this case, it's true. Mulder's arrest finally hit the papers right at the time when the new evidence implicating Spender turned up. My mother read about it and wisely did not jump to conclusions; instead, she called me a few days later and asked me to come for lunch so that we could "talk". So this afternoon I explained very carefully what had happened, omitting the details about Mulder's relation to Spender and everything about the Cigarette Smoking Man. There are certain things that only Mulder and I need to know about. Mulder has spent the afternoon in his apartment, alone, catching up on his email and watching TV. Nothing exciting, as far as I know. It's just what we were both doing when this all started. I'm almost back from Baltimore when my cel phone begins to chirp. Luckily it happens at a red light. I still haven't figured out how to answer or dial those things while driving without swerving off the road. I fish the phone out of my pocket and press the right button before the light changes. "Scully." "Hey." Mulder's voice sounds subdued. "What's going on, Mulder?" He sighs heavily, dramatically, in my ear. "Nothing. What are you doing?" "I'm on my way back to Georgetown." "Do you want to get a bite to eat?" "Don't you have a basketball to bounce around or something?" I tease him lightly. "It's a beautiful day." He sounds hurt, but I know it's an act. "I still can't do anything because of my shoulder, Scully. Another three to four weeks." "You can't do *anything*?" I ask. "What did you have in mind?" Thanks to my teasing, his voice has now changed from depressed to suggestive. "I'm sure I could make some kind of adjustment, Scully." The joking feels good. The last few weeks have been anything but pleasant, and both Mulder and I need the humor. We need to laugh. We need to lighten up. It took a team of four to clean up the mess that was made when I blew off the top of Spender's head, and the VCS had to get new carpeting and a fresh paint job in that section of the room. After that, I had to face an internal Bureau committee explaining my actions. Mulder's been gently prodding me to try to find out how it went, but I don't particularly want to share it with him. The good news is that I still have a job and haven't been suspended. That's all he needs to know. The charges were dropped against Mulder, thanks in part to the discovery of Spender's fingerprint on the watch. The lab tech who initally found the first print belonging to Spender also identified a second print on the inside of Mulder's car. His name, I later checked and found out, was Brian Mann. I sent him flowers and a thank you card once the whole thing was over. The eyewitness who'd been so sure he saw Mulder that night recanted and said that he wasn't so sure that it was Mulder he saw. He also swears that no one put him up to making his claim, which both Mulder and I have a hard time believing, all things considered, but we haven't investigated it any further. Let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying goes. So we're both off the hook. For the most part. Mulder still has to deal with what he has learned about his family. To the best of my knowledge, he has not contacted his mother and asked her about her affair with the Cigarette Smoking Man. There are no real repercussions, so to speak, but the knowledge of who his father is, and what that man has done will now rest on Mulder's shoulders for the rest of his life. There's nothing left to do. Nothing to do except to get back to work. And to recover. Both Mulder and I have to recover. His physical wound is healing well, and his emotional ones will likely heal with time. Mine are simply emotional, but I don't know if the scars will ever fade. My heart and spirit were battered by this. I came so close to letting go, to leaving him in the dust. Taking my trust from him would have been the worst possible thing I could have done. For both of us. Mulder's voice jolts me back to driving. "Scully? You OK?" "I'm fine, Mulder." "Scully, listen, I just wanted to thank you. For believing in me." "Mulder --" It's not true, I think. I didn't always believe you. "No, Scully, listen to me. I know that you had a hard time knowing what to believe. I know you doubted me. But in the end -- in the end, Scully, you did what was in your heart. You trusted me. And I know how hard that was for you. I know." God, Mulder, you have no idea how hard it was. No idea at all. "That's what I'm thanking you for, Scully. For going through all of it. And for not leaving me." "I'm not leaving you, Mulder," I tell him. "I won't." My words hang heavily across the wire, a promise, an oath. A companionable silence falls between us as I turn the corner and pull into the parking lot at my building. Finally, I speak. "Mulder, I have to go. I'm home." "OK," he says, quietly, almost wistful. I disconnect and pull into my parking space. I turn off the car and sit for a moment. Finally I lift my head, turn and look at the car parked next to mine. Mulder is in the driver's seat, watching me, and he smiles hopefully, waving his now-disconnected cel phone casually. His smile is that of a broken man, and yet he looks so much like a child. He needs the embrace of someone who trusts him. Of someone who believes in him. We get out of our cars. I smile. And walk towards him. END .:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:. http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/1377 "I had you big time." -- Dana Scully, The X-Files .:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:.