TITLE: Sad Lovers and Giants 11/? - The Things We Never Did

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 11/? - The Things We Never Did

by Mik

An American princess. Miss Carrie Dolan was nothing less. Her smiling face surrounded me, in dozens of pictures on the walls of the room where we were interviewing her parents. In a soccer uniform, holding a trophy. In ballerina garb. In riding gear. Standing beside her father at some formal function. Yet her privilege and varied wardrobe could not protect her from a harsh reality. Someone had her, somewhere, and was hurting her in ways from which she might never recover. So, despite the smiles in all those photographs, the bright green eyes all seemed to be imploring me to find her. I could almost hear her beg to be found.

It's always this way for me. Sometimes I want to cover my ears and run. But I stand there, trying to look confident and caring as the parents rage and threaten and beg and promise. I stop hearing them before long, and listen only to the child, calling for help.

Mrs. Dolan was perched on the edge of a chair. She looked as if there were problems in her life that predated their middle of the night tragedy. Yet her position was that of a woman all too aware of photo ops. Her posture was perfect, she was well groomed and made up, she held a lace handkerchief which she used to dab at her eyes periodically. I have no doubt her grief was real, but this woman had been trained so long to be in the public eye, she was incapable of breaking down and being anything less than perfect, even in her own home.

Senator Dolan was angry. And full of entitlement. How dare someone do this to him? Carrie, according to his soliloquy, was his greatest jewel, yet he couldn't remember the names of any of her friends, he didn't know what she wore to bed that night, he didn't know if she ever talked to anyone online, he even had to be prompted on the name of her cat. I found myself not only having trouble sympathizing, but actively disliking him. He was a man who used his family as props.

But it was Carrie I kept hearing, especially after we went upstairs. Her bedroom was typical preteen; a little messy, a little cluttered with trivia that would be meaningless to anyone else but represented treasure to her. Her mother wanted to come in with us, as we looked around, apologizing for the 'state of things'. Scully was able to ease her out very gently so that we could get to know Carrie ourselves.

She obviously loved the color blue. It was everywhere, despite the fact that someone had decorated her room in a mix of Cool Whip and Pepto-Bismol. She had several expensive looking dolls up on a shelf, which probably meant nothing to her and a massive box of Barbie paraphernalia barely crammed into a wardrobe that she probably cherished even as she was testing the waters of adulthood. She was experimenting with makeup, probably without her mother's knowledge or consent but still slept snuggled close enough to her teddy bear to leave smears of the illicit stuff on him. She kept an online diary, and a very short list of email friends, all of whom later were verified as schoolmates.

She wore uniforms to school, but there was evidence of striking for individuality; pin holes in shirt collars that suggested she was wearing buttons or pins with messages her parents would not approve of, wrinkling at the waistband of her skirts which suggested she rolled her skirts up to affect a more desired length. She had a bra shoved down into one of her riding boots. But the laces on her shoes were brightly colored and did not match. In short, she was still a little girl, but she was trying hard to grow up.

I looked around the room sadly. Even if we were lucky enough to find her in time, the Carrie Dolan we brought back to this room would never be a little girl again.

She hadn't been taken out of her bedroom window, I decided, after seeing the room. The opened window, the lost slipper, the partial footprint were all staged. There was no way a man of any size, carrying a struggling girl, could have managed to get out that window, and then there was the steep angle of the roof on that side of the house. He probably carried the girl downstairs and out the back door, where he could walk on a clean stone path, and leave no footprints. If he was lean enough to squeeze through the front gate, he could surely get Carrie Dolan through, as well. This man was a maddening mix of cunning, confidence and luck.

"He'd been in this house before, Scully," I announced, backing away from the window seat. "He's a housepainter, or a rentacop. I'd go with that, because if he'd been hired for an event, as extra security, he'd have been given access to where security cameras and alarm circuits are."

"Then why go to the time and trouble of making it look as if they went out a window?" Scully argued.

"Misdirection. Give us a meaningless clue to pounce on that assures him a little bit more time to get away." I looked at the shoe print, still visible on the hardwood floor. "He probably wasn't even wearing this shoe. But he knew that law enforcement would automatically focus a lot of time trying to track this shoe down. If we knew he just walked out the door, we might have figured out who he was sooner." I rubbed my eyes. "And it worked. Come on, we need to find out if there was any additional security hired in the last few weeks."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Mulder, go home."

I jerked myself upright in my chair. "I can't." I dragged my fingers through my hair. "We have all the pieces here." I jabbed both hands toward the mound of paper and files before me. "I just need to make them fit."

"Mulder, you can't possibly make anything fit if you can't see it. And you can't possibly see out of those eyes." She dug into her bag and produced a compact. "Look for yourself."

She thrust an image in front of me; red, swollen eyes, haggard expression, sallow complexion. A very familiar face. I brushed her hand away. "Just a little while longer, Scully," I temporized. "It will come to me, I know it will." I reached for my coffee cup. It was empty. I started to push my chair back.

Her hand was there. "I'll go."

"Thanks." I surrendered the cup and reached for another file.

"I don't think you could stay upright that long," she muttered and left me.

I checked a few facts in the folder against the grid I was building. At that moment I didn't trust my memory. Facts kept wrestling with voices and images and ideas were melding and smearing around in my thought processes, so that, unless I could look at the information in black and white, I didn't believe it.

This was the part of this work I dread most ... that moment when all the actuarials of the case burst into flame, and the voice of the killer rises in my head, like a phoenix from the ashes of lives he's claimed. I wanted to find this guy before that happened.

I knew who he was. I knew his name. I knew his connection to the places where he went. I could even predict, with some certainty, that his next stop was going to be North Carolina. But I wanted to find him now, before he moved on, leaving another child dead, and another family shattered.

Scully set the coffee in front of me. "Need anything else?"

"No, Scully." I sat back, groaning louder than the springs of the chair. "Go on home. Get some sleep."

She didn't argue with me. She'd worked with me long enough to know that this part of the process was a one-man job. There was nothing she could offer me except a willingness to run for my coffee, which was a waste of her skills and energy. She pulled her coat down from the rack and tossed it over her arm. "Call me if anything changes?"

I nodded, and stared up at my pencil-pocked ceiling. "Drive safe. Sleep well."

"'night, Mulder."

All right, you son of a bitch ... where are you? You're not here, close by, but you haven't moved on to your next victim yet. Where do you go to do the things you want to do? It's got to be away from populations, or very well soundproofed, because you like the sounds of their pain. But it has to be close to a busy highway, so you can dump and go with relative anonymity. And it has to be something you can find easily, whichever state you're in.

Think, Mulder.

I couldn't think. Too much distraction. I wasn't hearing him. I wasn't hearing me. Damn it. I was hearing Skinner. The very last person I ever wanted to hear. And I could hear him saying all the things I never wanted to hear again; Mulder, it was a mistake. Mulder, it ends here. Mulder, maybe I should take you off this case.

I felt myself catapulted out of my chair in frustration. Tugging my tie loose and shoving my hands into my pockets I started to pace. But in a ten by twelve foot former storage closet, there isn't a lot of pacing space and I found myself staring at my chair.

I tried sitting at Scully's desk, just to see if the change of perspective would help. It did not.

I had to get out of my office. I was starting to suffocate. I couldn't let myself get lost in immaterial memories. I knew the skeletal remains of the Task Force had commandeered one of the Com Rooms to collate data and monitor faxes, emails and phone tips. But I didn't want to go up there. Up there my Bureau colleagues would expect me to help them fill time with idle chatter and speculation, and task members from other agencies would be waiting for the infamous 'Spooky' Mulder to pull a rabbit out of his hat. What they didn't know was that when I finally dug into my chapeau, I'd be pulling out a monster.

I went to the empty corridor outside my office. There was nothing between me and the freight elevator to inhibit pacing or thinking. It was a long, mind clearing pace from my door to the elevator and back. I don't know how many times I made the trip. All I know was that I knew there was a place out there where a madman was hurting a little girl. A little girl not unlike my own sister. A little girl who was depending on me to save her.

Depending on me. Oh, God.

We're depending on you, Fox.

"No, not now."

Help me, Fox.

My hands were going clammy and starting to shake. No, these were the wrong voices. Take them back. Give me the monster if I have to hear anyone at all. Please.

Help me.

"Stop it! I tried. Damn it," I banged a fist against the wall, "I tried."

Help.

I twisted around and backed up against the wall, shaking. "Where are you, you bastard?"

Fox.

"Not this time. Please." Hang on Mulder. Don't let it break you. You can ride this out.

Help.

I let my head fall back hard against the wall. "Where are you?"

It was coming back, my waking nightmare. Doors flying open.

"Stop it."

Lights flashing.

I banged my head back against the wall harder. "Not now."

Adrenaline starting to pump.

"Please...no."

Rushing for the box on the mantle. Too slow. Too clumsy.

I slid down the wall, eyes shut tight. Seeing everything again.

Feeling the gun in my hands.

Hearing everything again.

Samantha screaming.

If I could have been faster. If I wasn't so inept.

Fox, help me.

"I tried."

If only I could see where he is.

Help me.

I wasn't fast enough. Wasn't smart enough. I couldn't -

Fox!

I couldn't save her.

"Mulder?"

Helpless sobs coming up from my gut and my memories and my fears. "I can't save her."

"Mulder."

Huge, powerful hands were shaking me. It was him. I let him down. I always let him down.

"Easy, Mulder. Easy."

It was his hands on me, trying to pull me up, trying to take control. I couldn't give up control. Not yet.

I struggled away from him, getting up, putting several steps between us. He was frowning at me. He was always frowning at me.

"Mulder, are you all right?"

"I ..." I swallowed and rubbed at my eyes. I was surprised to find them wet. "We have to find her. He's going to move soon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning."

He took steps toward me. "Mulder, you don't look good. Why don't you go -"

I flinched. "He's hurting her. We have to stop him." I could hear her. Screaming. "We have to stop him, now!"

He held my shoulders. "Yes, Mulder, we will. We will find him. But you're going to -"

His hands hurt. They hurt me. They were hurting her. "No. He's ... don't you understand? He's hurting her. He's going to kill her." I fought to get out of his hold. "We have to stop him."

He moved closer. I backed up. His nearness was unbearable. "We have to," I repeated. Why wasn't he listening? Why couldn't he understand? "I couldn't save her. I've got to -"

"Couldn't save whom, Mulder?"

"I couldn't..." I stopped. "Damn it, don't you understand what he's doing to her?"

"Yes, I do understand." He reached out again.

His touch on my shoulders made me want to rage at him, claw at him. I backed up until the elevator doors stopped me. "Don't." I was shaking. I could hear my voice quavering. I could feel screams inside me. Screams that weren't mine. "I can't...it hurts...he's hurting...Oh, God, he's hurting her."

"Mulder." He wrapped his arms around me tight. "Mulder, get control of yourself. Don't make me call for medical."

I felt tied down. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. Underground. Underground? Where? "Where are you, you motherfucker?"

Skinner backed off me. "Mulder?"

I looked at him. He was sweating. I wasn't used to seeing him sweat. I was sweating. It was burning my eyes. I was so close. I could smell that fucker now. Hear his raspy breath. Feel his -

I shook it off and focused on Skinner. "What kind of facility can he always count on finding, on or near an Air Force Base? Someplace underground, maybe."

He dropped to his haunches, and mopped his face. "Missile silos, bunkers, air raid stations -"

"That's it." I sat up straight. "Air raid shelters. Even the ones in public buildings are no longer used. Soundproof, plenty of crude but useable supplies. And unlikely anyone would disturb him 'til it was time to move on." I reached out and used his arms to pull myself up. "We have to find every existing air raid shelter for a five mile radius around the Air Force Base." I dragged my fingers through my hair and turned around. He was just staring at me. I pushed him toward the elevator. "Let's go. Let's go find her."

End 11