TITLE: Sad Lovers and Giants 10/? - Criminally Sane
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: A blizzard. A power cut. Finding their way in darkness.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Nnnnnnnnnope.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20^th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king...

Author's notes: Sad Lovers and Giants, the two things hardest to conceal.

If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

Sad Lovers and Giants 10/? – Criminally Sane

by Mik

I've killed men before. For flag and country. To serve and protect. I never allowed myself to feel guilt. It was the right thing. My duty. They deserved to die. In fact, once I got over the initial realization that I was capable of taking the life of another human being, once I grasped what my commanders told me that it was right and just to kill the bad guy, I never let myself feel anything. It became impersonal to me, it wasn't me killing people, it was the uniform ... whatever uniform it was.

But I've never deliberately fired the weapon of words. In truth my words had never been so loaded. Yet I knew I scored a direct hit as I watched him recoil and tumble inwardly. He crumbled before my eyes. He remained standing, but one look at his eyes as I uttered those words was enough to see this emotional infrastructure was collapsing.

What was I supposed to do? Go on tormenting him? That Friday night in the motel room, I knew I had to let him go, even though I would have rather surrendered my own heart. In a way, I was. All weekend I mentally paced between two positions; to hurry back to him and hold him even if it might truly be against his will, or to get as far away from him as possible. His words haunted me, though and every time I felt myself weaken, I paused to replay my memory of a small, desperate voice promising me to be good.

Seeing him the following Monday only solidified my position. He looked drawn and tired and, if possible, thinner than when I last saw him. His eyes were dull and full of pain; he seemed distracted and restless. If I had any doubts about my decision, I was convicted when he stormed my office and then stood there, helpless and silent. I think part of him wanted to prove he was man enough to take it, to take us, but there was another part of him which couldn't even articulate his fears. It was that part of him I was compelled to protect, even if I was protecting that part of him from me.

I had to handle him carefully, though. I couldn't tell him what we both knew, not there in the office. He was too unstable at that moment. I had to give him time, I had to bring him to a place where he could hear what I said, and think, not merely react. I baited him and set my trap, knowing he would persist in confronting me 'til it was resolved. Mulder was nothing if not tenacious.

I led him to a public place, a place where his coworkers were known to frequent, a place where he might contain his reaction. And then, I watched him fall apart. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to catch him and hold him up; comfort us both. But I walked away, knowing as wrong as if felt, it was the right thing.

My house was as empty and unwelcoming that night as it had ever been. Mulder wasn't there with me. Not that he'd crossed my threshold more than once, but every night I'd entertained him in my thoughts and dreams. I'd often think of him sitting just so on the sofa, eyes fixed on television, or leaning against the terrace rail, hip cocked to one side. I could so easily envision him perusing my books or music, smiling and humming, I could see him at my table, in my shower, on my bed.

But not that night - his wraith, his companionable presence was gone, left in the wreckage of that parking lot. I fixed myself a drink I wanted to share with him, and sat down where I always seemed to imagine him being, and it was just an empty chair, a cold place in a cold house.

Impulsively I reached for my phone and entered nine of the ten numbers of his mobile. Sighing, I put it down, much as I had done for two weeks after we returned from Buffalo. Same battle, this night, need versus propriety, but on this occasion there had been casualties. What good would it do to call him? Even if I could somehow coax him to meet me, even if I could attempt to explain, he was too hurt and I didn't understand enough of his pain.

The one inevitable outcome of any attempt to reconcile or soothe would be that we would end up once again in bed. That wasn't a boast, it was merely recognizing just how strong our attraction had been. And it...that...whatever it was might happen again. No. I pushed my phone away so hard it skittered off the table and fell to the floor with a carpet-dulled thud. Better to leave it alone, better to let it bleed a while, and heal.

At one point in the course of that bitter night, I fancied I saw him outside the complex, looking up at my window. But it was a dark night, and snow was just starting to fall, and ... and I was looking with my heart, not my eyes.

The next morning was not the first time I dreaded going into the Bureau. But this time the dread came from a personal place. I did not want to see Mulder. Not yet, not while our mutual wounds were still fresh. The chances were fairly good I wouldn't have to see him. We often went days without contact. But even a small chance of encountering him in a hallway or elevator was too great for me. I honestly didn't know what I would do and that was an unnatural and uncomfortable situation I hadn't been in for many years.

Hard to believe that just days ago I was so wildly in love with him that I braved a blizzard to get him sunflower seeds, nearly threatened a hotel kitchen employee at gunpoint to see that he would have coffee when he woke, that I actually knelt at the side of his bed, just to memorize his sleeping face. And now I feared that face. And missed it.

I went to work, as usual, of course, secretly hoping I would not encounter him and even more secretly hoping I would. I even wondered what feasible errand could take me to their basement office. But I could think of no reason solid enough that he wouldn't see through it. And he'd either use that to torture me with his righteous wrath, or let me torture him with my nearness. I kept to my office.

That plan worked very well for three and a half days. I say 'and a half' because around midnight that Thursday, I received a phone call. I was given a fact and a request. The request was difficult to accede to because it would require me to a) contact Mulder and b) assign him to a case that was going to be immeasurably painful for him.

Of course, neither of these factors held any merit with the person making the request. With no other recourse, I dialed his number, almost hoping that he wouldn't hear it ring, that it was turned off, out of batteries, lost, stolen, broken or buried. After four rings, I was ready to hang up and believe any of my notions were true, when I heard a raspy, muffled, "Yeah?"

"Agent Mulder," I began. "This is -" the line went dead.

I stared at my phone in disbelief. He'd hung up on me! Anger burning away dread, I jabbed numbers again and waited. "Mulder, don't hang up. This is work related. There's been a kidnapping. Senator Dolan's daughter. You're wanted. Tonight."

There was a silence. I couldn't even hear breathing. "Forty minutes." And he hung up a second time.

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And he was there, possibly early. I arrived at the Senator's Virginia residence within forty-five minutes of our phone call, and he was already there, walking the perimeter with two fairly chagrinned personal bodyguards. Crime Scene was already mounting halogen lights to comb for evidence around the doors and windows. He moved past me as I had to step over cables, getting out of my car, and gave me nothing more than a nod, still questioning the security team.

The local ASAC appeared less than pleased to see me. "There was no need for you to get out of bed, Skinner," he said, just a bit too jovially. "We country folk had things pretty well under control."

I wanted to ask him how he could have things under control if the girl hadn't been recovered, but I just pointed toward Mulder, in his jeans and FBI jacket. "One of my agents has been brought in."

The ASAC made a face. "Special Agent Mulder...yes, we've met."

I shook my head sympathetically. "The request came from over my head," I explained. "My Agent's got an amazing solve rate in kidnapping cases."

"I know. I inquired." He made another face. "He's not very...polite, is he?"

I chuckled. "Mulder? No, he's not at all politic. But he's the best there is, so," I patted his shoulder, "just try to put up with him and he'll be gone before you know it."

He drew a huffy sounding breath. "I am not in the habit of 'putting up with' field agents, Mr. Skinner."

"Really? That must be why I'm an Assistant Director, and you're an Assistant Special Agent."

I heard a snicker behind me and I jerked around, but Mulder was already walking away from me. So I eyeballed the ASAC again. "Trust me, pulling out the Rules and Regs on him will waste your time...and his. And," I looked up at the house, with every light ablaze, "time is something we cannot afford to waste." I turned on my heel and started after Mulder.

I hoped I might pull him off to one side, get a good look at him, make certain he was all right, but there were two other agents with him when I caught up, so I had to make do with shop talk. "Where's your partner?" I asked, falling in step with them.

"I let her sleep. She didn't need to drive down here from Annapolis for this." He looked back up at the house. "Second floor window," he mused. "How the hell did he do it?"

"You have an entry point?" I followed his stare.

"No, just an exit point." He gestured. "There is a partial footprint there, with mud and gravel." He looked down at the drive. "You'll note the drive's paved here...but there's a gravel horse path that crosses the drive outside the gate. Our perp walked over that, and it looks as if he wedged his way through the gate. There's a small mud puddle right there. No other puddles, and none of the mud or snow on the grounds appears to have been walked on."

He walked to the gate. "We can put him here," he pointed to the puddle, "and then he seems to have apperated to the second floor window. The window's opened outward, there's his footprint, one of her slippers and her handprint on the inside -"

"Wait a minute. Apperate?"

He made an impatient face. "Harry Potter. Never mind." His voice was as cold as the night. "And once they're through that window, there's no sign of them again."

"Well, maybe they just...flew?" I suggested dryly.

"Yeah, you suggest that to the Senator, will you?" he snapped and walked away.

Both agents looked at me, waiting for me to explode. I sighed, and marched off after him. "Agent Mulder, I cannot allow -"

He was still walking. "Just put up with me and I'll be gone in no time," he suggested between clenched teeth. He jerked his eyes to mine for a moment. "Go back to bed, Skinner ... Sir. I can handle this without you."

I put my hand on his arm and gripped, warning him not to try and shake me off. "Task Force meeting at seven o'clock. See that you and your partner are there." I pulled the reigns around and went back to my car.

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By seven o'clock that morning, it was already evident that this case was a bad assignment for Mulder. He appeared at the conference room door, wild eyed, hair disheveled, unshaved, and still in his now muddy jeans and FBI jacket. "Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me there have been six similar abductions in the last four months?" He slammed files on the table, making everyone around him flinch.

I looked up from notes I was making, startled by both his appearance and demeanor. "Agent Mulder, when I suggested that ASAC Harris 'put up with you' I was not talking about lapses in Bureau protocol, or common decency."

He ignored my censure and started tossing the files to various members of the staff present. "I want a conference call with California, Wisconsin, Iowa, Texas, Georgia and Pennsylvania," he demanded.

"Agent Mulder, can you -"

"Yes, I can," he cut me off. "Same m.o. in each one...high security residence, no sign of forced entry, no plausible way out of a second floor bedroom. No ransom notes. No contact with the family." He pointed to a couple of the files, now open in front of other agents. "In two cases, California and Iowa, the child turned up weeks later with a distant relative who couldn't account for how the child showed up with them. In Iowa, the boy had been sexually abused." He paused to swallow. "We found two more alive, dumped in rural areas, both with injuries too severe to allow them to identify their attacker. In one case, the child has since died of his injuries. I suspect there's one more out there that's in such bad condition that he or she hasn't been identified." He paced. "He's been keeping them less time as the thrill diminishes. He's been escalating the amount of abuse. We don't have much time to find this girl." He fixed his hot glare on me. "Conference call."

All eyes came to me. "Well, since it is only four am in California, perhaps you can afford the time to explain how these cases are related to our abduction?"

He glared at me. "If you would just -"

"Sit down, Agent," I said firmly, "and tell us about it."

He glared a minute longer, yanked out a chair and sat, eyes still on me. Then he looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each Task Force member. "This is a very preliminary report, based on what I pulled off the computers this morning. Another hit may pop up that undoes this, but for the present, this is how I see it." And he told us. It was a horrific theory of trial and error in sexual torture, of feeding a monstrous soul with an exponentially increasing appetite and a very bleak outlook for a Senator's daughter. His voice was trembling as he finished. "If I'm right and we have one killer, he's going to be moving to another victim within seventy-two hours and Carrie Dolan is going to have died an unspeakable death."

His words had a powerful impact on everyone, including myself. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Mulder was visibly struggling to compose himself. I looked at the clock over his head because I couldn't meet his eyes. "Well," I said, "let me get some calls made, get some people out of bed. Be available, ladies and gentlemen. We'll be on a conference call as soon as possible. That's it." I closed my portfolio with a snap and watched people gather things together numbly, and shuffle out. Mulder was the first one out the door, even as I wanted to call him back and tell him to take a nap.

Reluctantly I looked to Agent Scully. "Is he all right?"

She glanced toward the door and then gave me a wan smile. "That's just Mulder, Sir. He carries everything with him. Child abductions are just very big boulders in his wheelbarrow." She looked to the door again, and added sadly, "They make him a little wobbly."

"Should I take him off this case?" I wondered, not intentionally aloud.

She gave me a look that was part awe and part contempt. "I wouldn't want to be the one to try."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took ninety-three minutes, but we had managed to roust ASACs and agents all over the country and pull them together on an odd tri-armed object in the middle of our conference table, with both microphones and speakers for the entire room.

Mulder hadn't wasted the time freshening up. He was still disheveled and jean clad, passing out a synopsis and timeline of the crimes and a brief profile of our UNSUB, both of which he'd personally faxed to each Bureau Chief. What's more, he didn't let me waste time with formal introductions. He launched in, hitting the high points and inviting people to provide details that might disprove any part of the theory.

As usual, the California Bureau was unwilling to concede a connection between their case and the others, or share information with us. After all, their vic was home safe. Wisconsin and Texas, however, both started faxing notes to our conference room even before Mulder finished speaking. Iowa people weren't entirely convinced, although not as steadfast in their position as those in California. They just didn't understand the apparent randomness of his attacks. Why did the kidnapper go so far between his first victim and his next?

"It's fairly simple," Mulder said, making an effort not to snarl or sound smug. "He's going to areas which are familiar to him, maybe even where he has family or friends. My guess is his father was career military - Air Force, I think. Every abduction has been in the vicinity of an existing or recently closed AFB." He consulted his notes while there were murmurs of agreement from around the country. "California," he said abruptly, not even bothering to check for appropriate names or titles. "Did you follow up reports of other people going missing that night?"

There was a splutter of protest from the West Coast and then the cold voice of the Fresno ASAC. "These are highly trained and decorated agents. They know how to do their jobs."

Mulder wasn't at all chastened by the tone. "I'm sure they do," he said, with just a little irritation. "Which is why I am compelled to ask, since such highly trained and decorated agents would surely include that information in your case file and I don't find it here."

There were whispered conversations and rattled papers. Finally a new voice spoke up. "There were three others in Merced County that night and four in Fresno. I don't know about Sacramento, but I can find out. We'll fax the -"

Mulder ignored them and said to the general company, "We need background checks on all of them. We're looking for a man whose father - no, more likely his stepfather - was in the Air Force, or a private sector engineer attached to the Air Force." He paused. "Flight test engineer for Lockheed or Boeing. Something like that." He started scooping paperwork into his hands. "Excuse me. Thank you." He walked out, rolling his shoulders as if it hurt to hold his head upright.

Everyone looked to me. I'm sure I made appropriate sounds, thanking the right people, giving out assignments, dismissing them with the proviso of an update in four hours, but my mind was on its way down to the basement. I excused myself and, despite every reasonable suggestion I might have made, went for the elevator, and jabbed the button impatiently.

He was slumped in his chair, his head in his hands. He didn't even react to the door opening. "Mulder, maybe I should reassign -"

His head came up, his eyes were red rimmed and blazing. "Don't you even think about it. Don't you dare."

I risked getting within swinging distance. "For God's sake, Mulder, look at you. On the case eight hours and you're already a wreck."

He looked at me, and laughed; a raw, painful laugh. "It isn't always the case."

"Do you remember that case in Niagara Falls? I got the court order on the wife's financials the other day. You could -"

I knew it was a risk but I really didn't think he'd actually hit me. I was wrong. He came up, both fists flying and actually connected once before I got my arms around him, and muscled him back against a file cabinet.

He was shuddering and I eased my hold, but didn't release him. "Let me get you off -"

"Don't," he said quietly. "Don't do it." He sounded as if he was just that close to crying. "Don't. It's all I've got." Another shudder rippled through him. "All I have left."

End 10