Title:  Only Skin Deep  1 of 2

Author:  mimic117

Email:  mimic117@yahoo.com

Rating:  NC-17 with some very disturbing content

Category:  S, A, M/S established relationship

Setting:  Season 7-ish.  That always seemed like the best time 
for them to get it on.  That's just mho, of course.

NOTE:  There's a vignette prequel to this story called "In 
Sight."  You don't have to read it in order to understand this 
story, but it does give some added insights into one character.

Summary:  "Squinting against the ache in his head, Mulder 
tried to focus.  Waist-length blonde hair framed a lovely, 
heart-shaped face.  Bright blue eyes were surrounded by thick, 
black lashes.  A button nose perched above a full, cupid's-bow 
mouth.  Her petite body was lushly curved and definitely not a 
child's, in spite of the piping voice which made her sound like 
one. Her voice was vaguely familiar although he was pretty 
sure he'd never seen her face before.  He did recognize the 
gun pointed at him, though.  It was his."

Archive: I'll send it to Gossamer and Ephemeral myself, but 
anyone else who wants it, knock yourself out.  Just let me 
know where so I can brag.

Disclaimer:  Any characters you recognize belong to 1013 
Productions, Chris Carter, and FOX.  No money is being made 
or anticipated from the posting of this story.  

Beta Thanks:  To Obfusc8er for the medical and 
MulderTorture advice, wickedly good suggestions and pointing 
out the funny bits which weren't supposed to be.  To my 
Twinsy, for beta which is second to none and more than I 
deserve.  To mr. mims for handy-man type comments and 
putting up with me all these years.  And apologies to all three 
for enduring endless whining befitting a toddler.

Special Thanks:  To my own personal stalker for numerous 
cups of restorative tea exactly when they were most required, 
and for Agent Hatter.  To Tali for fixing one of the details I 
kept getting stuck on.  And to Shelba, for the "beautiful" 
picture that started it all.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only Skin Deep
by mimic117

Location unknown
Sunday  
9:43 PM

The smell was getting really bad.

Julie wrinkled her nose as she walked past the hallway to the 
bedrooms.  She couldn't remember it ever being quite so 
strong before.  

She looked at the digital camera in her hands and smiled.  
Dealing with it could wait for later.  She had a more enjoyable 
task to think about.

When she reached her desk in one corner of the dining room, 
the computer monitor sprang to life with a touch on the mouse.  
She loved her new wallpaper.  He looked so beautiful in that 
picture, she was tempted to kiss it, but she didn't want to 
smear the screen.  Julie giggled at her own silliness and 
glanced at the camera again.  Besides, she had lots more 
pictures to download.

She pulled the memory card from the camera, sat down, then 
slotted it into the computer port.  She loved the anticipation of 
seeing what her lens had captured--zooming in, cropping, 
fixing any fuzzy spots, printing out the best ones and sorting 
the rest into the proper folders.  There were already hundreds 
of pictures stored on her hard drive, but that didn't stop her 
from taking more.  Opening a new thumbnail was every bit as 
exciting as Christmas.  Or a new beauty pageant.  

Julie frowned.  Those days were over.  Best not to think about 
that anymore.  

The computer dinged to let her know it was finished opening 
all the new files.  She reached eagerly for the mouse.  

The silence in the house was only broken by staccato clicks 
followed by the whir of the printer.  Page after page of shiny 
photographs spewed into the tray while she worked her way 
through the new trove.  It didn't seem like two hours had 
passed when she finally gathered up the stack of colorful 
prints along with a roll of Scotch tape.

Walking toward the bedrooms, she hummed happily--until the 
smell hit her again.  She clutched the pile of photos and glared 
at the duct tape surrounding the bedroom door on the right.  

Ron never should have called her crazy.  She'd really thought 
he'd understood.  She was wrong.  A truly beautiful man 
wouldn't have called her *that*.  

At least he'd finally stopped yelling.  She really hated 
listening to him every night.  

She opened the door across the hall and turned on the light 
inside.  Everything was ready, except for this finishing touch.  
She added the pictures in her hands to the enormous stack 
already resting on the chair near the door.  

This was the best part.

Plucking a glossy photo from the top of the pile, she studied it 
for a moment, then smiled and taped it to the wall.  Every 
subsequent picture was given the same treatment, obscuring 
the painted surface bit by bit as she slowly worked her way 
around the room.  Her hair swung into her face each time she 
bent over, but she didn't think about pulling it back.  Momma 
always insisted that her thick, silver-blonde hair should be left 
long and free, to dazzle the viewer.  

She finally ran out of photos and surveyed the frieze that 
circled the room.  This man was the right one.  Ron simply 
wasn't beautiful enough.  She could see now that she hadn't 
chosen very carefully.

Julie yawned and looked at her watch.  It was almost one in 
the morning.  She was going to be so tired at work, but it 
would be worth the loss of sleep.  

Tomorrow, or rather later today, she'd deliver the envelope of 
letters and pictures.  Then, after work, she'd bring him to his 
new home and they'd be together.  Forever.  

One more check to make sure the room was ready to receive 
its new occupant.  She stuck the empty tape roll in her pocket 
and picked up the chair.  After placing the chair against the 
hallway wall, she flicked off the light and pushed the door shut.  

There was that smell again.  She really needed to do 
something about Ron.  

Maybe if she duct-taped more plastic over the door...

She should have known not to buy the cheaper plastic.  Trying 
to cut corners to save money usually ended up costing more in 
the long run.  That's what her mother always said, and 
Momma was usually right.

The thought of such an easy solution made Julie happy.  And 
when she was happy, she liked to sing.

"You must have been a beautiful baby.  You must have been a 
beautiful child," she warbled as she walked back to the 
computer.  

A jiggle of the mouse shut off the screensaver, revealing her 
favorite picture of Fox Mulder.  Head thrown back, lips slightly 
parted, eyes closed, his face filled the screen.  She 
remembered taking that one while he was masturbating.  
Soon, they'd be together and she could watch that expression 
develop on his face up close instead of seeing it from across 
the street.  The view from the roof of the building opposite 
hadn't been the best.  Momma would say it was worth the 
extra money for a good digital camera and telephoto lens.  
Her close-up photos looked like she was really there with him.

A tingling started in her stomach that might have been 
butterflies, but was probably anticipation.  She could hardly 
wait until evening.  

She shut down the computer, watching the monitor go blank, 
but she could still see that picture in her mind.

"Oh you must have been a beautiful baby," she sang, 
"because, baby, look at you now."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday
7:36 PM

The plastic bags in Mulder's hands jostled each other as he 
pushed the door of the convenience store open with his hip.  
He'd either bought a lot more than he was planning to or the 
store got a kickback for every bag they sent home with a 
customer.  Was it really necessary to put each item in its own 
sack?  He paused to hold the door open for someone going in.  

That's when his phone rang.  It figured.  He'd been checking 
obsessively since four, waiting to hear from Scully, so of 
course it rang when there was no way at all for him to answer.  
He considered dropping the bags, but there were glass bottles in 
some and he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

One person entering became three people, then four. Nobody 
wanted to spend more time than necessary in the driving rain.  
They were literally sprinting out of their cars in order to make 
it into the store while the door was open.

By the time Mulder managed to move out under the overhang 
and put everything down, there was a message on his 
voicemail from Scully saying she was going to supper with the 
prosecutor and his wife, wouldn't be home until really late and 
she'd see him at work on Tuesday.  He was tempted to throw 
the stupid phone against the car.  

Damn it!  They hadn't talked since she called him Sunday 
night and he missed her.  He wanted to talk to her, not play 
phone tag.  Scully had been in Chicago all day.  He 
understood she needed to testify since she'd done the 
autopsy, yet he wasn't happy about her going.  They'd both 
been hoping she'd make it home by now.  It looked as though 
the fates were against them once again.  Mulder was willing to 
bet the defense attorney dragged out his cross examination 
until the end of the day.  Scully was probably in court the 
entire time, which was why all of his calls were going straight 
to voice mail.  He'd finally run out of witty things to say and 
started leaving messages that were just heavy breathing.

He picked up the bags again and trudged out into the rain.  
His suit was limp, his shirt clinging to his chest, once he 
finally got everything dumped onto the passenger seat and sat 
down in his own.  The drive home was a bit steamy, and not 
solely because of the moisture on his clothes.  

Mulder pulled into a space in front of his building, put the car 
in park and turned off the engine.  Rain drummed on the hood, 
each closely-packed droplet hopping into the air off the hazy 
metal.  He watched for a few minutes, not really in any hurry.  
Why rush?  It was a major frog-strangler out there.  He'd end 
up wetter than he already was, no matter what he did.  And 
there was no one waiting impatiently for him, at his apartment 
or elsewhere.  

He hated working without Scully.  He needed to hear her voice 
over something besides the phone.  Maybe if he called in the 
middle of the night, she'd talk to him the way she had Sunday.  

Mulder smiled.  He wondered if she knew what he was doing 
while they had talked.  Did she even realize how much she 
turned him on?  Years of conversing under every imaginable 
circumstance had made him especially vulnerable to her voice.  
Each little nuance was sorted, categorized and easily 
referenced.  

Except the variation she'd hit him with on Sunday.  Her husky, 
smoky "So what are you wearing, Mulder?" caught him right in 
the groin.  His dick was already stiffening before he came up 
with a reply.

"I'll tell you what I'm wearing if you tell me what you're 
wearing," he growled back.

"I asked first."

He whispered, "I'm not wearing *anything*."  Not true but he 
couldn't resist.

"Ooh," she cooed.  "My favorite outfit."

"Now I'm touching myself."  True.  His hand gravitated to his 
crotch with the first word out of her mouth.

She snorted a laugh into his ear.  "Wash your hands before 
you finish that report for Skinner.  He'll get suspicious if the 
pages stick together."

Mulder unzipped his jeans and reached into the opening, 
curling his fist around his hardening cock.  "You think Skinner 
would like what I'm wearing?"  He eased himself out of the too-
tight pants.  

"He'd probably take you right there on his desk."

Oh baby.  Sex on Skinner's desk.  But not with Skinner, that's 
for sure.  Mulder slowly stroked his length, stifling a groan.

"But seriously," Scully said.  The teasing tone was gone from 
her voice.  She was all business and listen-to-me.  "Don't 
forget to take the monthly report for the budget meeting out of 
the inbox on your desk.  I left it there when you were in the 
john so I didn't know if you'd seen it."  

"Yeah."  He tried to control his breathing so she wouldn't be 
able to tell what he was doing.  "I saw it.  But thanks for 
reminding me."

"Just one of the many fine services I offer, partner.  I'd better 
get my stuff packed for tomorrow."

It wasn't easy to bring his attention back to the conversation.  
The tension was already coiling in his belly, waiting for 
release.  "Okay.  Hope you have a good flight and the guy in 
the next seat doesn't belch garlic breath when he hits on you."  

"Great.  Now you've jinxed me."  Her tone became softer, 
wistful.  "I'll call as soon as I get a chance."

She hung up, so he did, too.  It hadn't taken more than a few 
more yanks on the crank before he was making a mess on his 
shirt.  Wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last, but it 
still felt pathetic.  Especially after several weeks of shared 
yanking. 

No point thinking about that tonight.  He'd be flying solo again 
if he let his memories have their way.

Mulder looked at his watch.  He had plenty of time to dump his 
groceries and change before heading out to the guys' place.  
Frohike said he had some prime satellite images to share and 
Langly wanted him to check out a bootlegged copy of Quake 
III Arena.  With Scully gone for the second night in a row, there 
wasn't anything to stop him.  Not exactly a front row seat at a 
Knicks game, but it sure beat another night alone with the 
Playboy Channel and a beer.  

A tap on the driver's-side window made him jump.  It was still 
raining and he could see someone standing under an 
umbrella.  He turned the ignition key one click so he could roll 
down his window.  "Can I help you?"

"I hope so.  My car won't start."  

The voice was extremely high, childlike--Dolly Parton but 
without the accent.  Twilight was already settling in because of 
the overcast, so he couldn't see her too well, but she was 
definitely an adult.  And wet.  

He looked at his watch again.  Sure.  Why not?  He wasn't in a 
hurry.  The guys weren't expecting him at any particular time.  
If it wasn't anything easy or obvious, he could call someone 
who actually knew how to fix cars and wait with her.  

"Hang on.  Be right with you."  He rolled the window back up, 
then turned off the ignition.  He opened the door and reached 
behind the seat to grab his umbrella.  

Something stung his arm.  He yelped and clapped a hand over 
the spot.  The woman outside the car was holding a syringe.  
He made a grab for it but she threw it aside.  He would have 
gone after it if he hadn't suddenly felt so drowsy.  His muscles 
had become rubbery and uncooperative.  He tried to ask what 
she was doing but it came out as total nonsense.  

What the hell?  She'd drugged him! 

Mulder watched as she reached out toward him and pushed 
his shoulder.  He toppled into the other seat.  There was 
nothing he could do but lie there.  As hard as he tried, he 
couldn't move enough to help himself.  

The woman ran around to the other side of the car and 
opened the door.  He'd damned-well remember to lock them 
from now on, pouring rain or not.

She pulled on his arms, dragging him across the center 
console until he was all the way in the opposite seat.  The 
bags he'd placed there crinkled and crunched as they slid to 
the floor.  His knees banged painfully on the hard plastic 
dashboard.  She was stronger than she looked.  He never 
would have expected her to move someone his size so 
quickly, yet she had him situated on the other side of the car 
in a matter of moments.

Why didn't anyone help him?  Did no one see what was 
happening?  He was being kidnapped!  

The rain continued to beat on the roof of the car and the light 
was fading, making it unlikely that anyone would be hanging 
around outside or near a window where they might notice 
something amiss.  It looked like he was on his own, but without 
any real ability to help himself.  How the hell had he gotten 
into this situation?

As consciousness dwindled and his vision rapidly faded to 
black, Mulder regretted that he hadn't been in a hurry tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Tuesday
8:27 AM

Scully shut off the ignition and frowned.  

Mulder's car wasn't parked in his usual spot, but she was 
running late and the garage was almost full.  Maybe he'd 
parked somewhere else.

She gathered up her purse and briefcase, then exited the car.  
As she walked to the elevator, she scanned the surrounding 
vehicles.  Mulder's wasn't anywhere in sight.  He should be 
here by now.  

The office door was closed and locked.  It took her a minute to 
find the key because she rarely had occasion to use it.  She 
couldn't remember the last time she'd beaten Mulder to the 
office.

Scully hung up her coat, stowed her purse, dropped her 
briefcase on the desk.  Time to start a pot of coffee.  She 
smiled at the note Mulder had taped to the coffee maker.  

"Attending paranoiacs' convention tonight.  If not back by 
morning, was swept up in video game piracy raid.  Send cake 
with file inside." 

When the coffee was finished and her partner still hadn't 
appeared, she sat down at his desk, picked up the phone and 
called his apartment.  She'd been looking forward to seeing 
him.  Finding the office empty was a disappointment.  

So was getting his home answering machine.  She tried his cell 
phone.  Voicemail.  Scully considered for a moment, then made 
one more call.

Frohike answered.  "Lone Gunman, the one-stop-shop for all 
your conspiracy news."

"Turn off the tape, Frohike," she said.  

"Your wish is my command, Agent Scully."  

The phone clicked in her ear, which could be the tape shutting 
off, or it could be Frohike tapping the keyboard to pretend he'd 
shut it off.  Whatever.  "So was Mulder the only one caught by 
the vice squad or did the rest of you break out and leave him 
behind?"

"Langly will be highly offended to learn you've impugned our 
moral integrity in such a manner.  We never get caught."

Scully heard a faintly squawked "She WHAT?" in the 
background.  

"Yeah yeah," she said.  "Save it for the judge.  Could you put 
Mulder on?  I assume he crashed there after your late night of 
debauchery."

"I would if I could, pretty lady, but he's not here.  I'm sure 
he'll be free soon, though.  He always carries his lock pick 
when he visits, just in case."

He wasn't there?  "How late did he leave and what condition 
was he in?"  

Frohike sounded as puzzled as she felt.  "I don't know.  He 
never showed up last night."

"He didn't?"

"Nope.  Didn't call to cancel, either.  Do you think something's 
wrong?"

The line cut out and then back in.  There was another call 
coming through.  Maybe it was Mulder.

"I don't know.  That could be him on the other line.  I have to 
go.  Thanks, Frohike."

She switched to the new call.  It wasn't Mulder.  It was Skinner, 
asking where they were with the report on their last case.  
Scully flipped the page on Mulder's desk calendar.  The 
appointment was written across today's date.  He couldn't have 
forgotten.  Could he?

"I'm sorry, Sir.  I was a little late this morning and Mulder's 
not here.  I'll find the file and bring it up right away."  She 
acknowledged Skinner's grudging agreement and hung up.

Ten minutes of fruitless searching later, all trace of concern 
had been replaced by annoyance. 

"Mulder, if you don't get your ass here this minute, I will hunt 
you down like an escaped felon."  

She shut his desk drawer with more force than necessary.  The 
file wasn't in any of the obvious places.  She was rapidly 
running out of options and patience.      

"Where the hell did you put that file?  Skinner wants to see us 
and I can't find the stupid file."  

The pencil holder jumped when she shut another drawer rather 
aggressively.  

"You'd better have a damned good excuse for leaving me in the 
lurch.  I swear, if it's in your briefcase, I'll-- "

A large envelope in the bottom desk drawer with his UFO 
videos stopped Scully short.  For one thing, it was pink.  For 
another, it was addressed to "Beautiful Fox" in elaborate 
curlicue script.  Her conscience didn't suffer a single twinge as 
she pulled it out, opened the flap and dumped a stack of 
photographs onto the desk. 

Her first thought was "Nice pictures."  Her second thought was 
"Good photography."  Any remaining thoughts withered unborn 
as she turned over photo after enlarged candid photo of her 
partner.  In the checkout line at a grocery store.  Getting into 
his car outside his apartment.  Shooting hoops at a playground.  
Stretching in the park before a run.  Toweling himself off after 
a swim.  The last picture in the pile drew a gasp from her lips.

Mulder, naked in the shower.

With his back turned, head obscured by spray, Scully still knew 
that body.  She'd seen it often enough to have it memorized.  
The defined muscles across his shoulders from swimming.  
The dimples at the base of his spine.  The tapered slope of his 
lean legs.  Even the way his arms looked, raised to slick back 
wet hair.  She'd witnessed all of it, up close and sudsy in her 
own shower.  

Someone had taken this picture, all of these pictures, without 
his knowledge.  She was certain of that.  So why hadn't Mulder 
told her about them?  He obviously knew--the photos were in 
his desk.  

She stared at the last picture, her mind beginning to fit things 
together.  Phone tag yesterday culminating in no direct contact.  
A no-show at the guys' last night.  No call this morning, no 
Mulder at the office, extremely personal photos which he never 
told her about. 

Were all of those things linked or merely a coincidence?  Was 
the twisting in her gut justified, or jumping the gun?  Scully 
wiped suddenly-damp palms on her slacks.  She'd handled the 
pictures already.  There was no help for it now.  But just in 
case they *were* connected to Mulder's tardiness... 

She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her briefcase and 
shimmied her hands into them.  Picking up the envelope again, 
she peered inside.  There were several pieces of paper at the 
bottom, smaller than the photo enlargements.  She pulled them 
out, lips pursing in distaste at the same pink paper and 
flamboyant writing as the envelope.  This time her conscience 
did prick at her a bit, but something about those pictures, 
besides the invasion of privacy, didn't sit right.  Using the I-
need-to-find-out-more-before-I-ask-Mulder rationalization, she 
scanned them once.  Before she reached the last one, Scully 
grabbed the envelope and photos, shot out of the chair, and 
was racing for the elevator, Skinner's missing file forgotten.

The report could wait.  Mulder was in trouble, and she needed 
to find him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Location unknown


The spicy aroma of coffee tickled Mulder's nose awake.  It 
delighted him to think that Scully was finally bringing him 
breakfast in bed.  She always said he spilled too much to be 
trusted with food anywhere near her sheets.  Only something at 
the back of his mind was trying to get his attention--  

He sat up, gasping, the previous night's events lurching into his 
consciousness at high speed.  

"Good morning, Beautiful Fox."

Squinting against the ache in his head, Mulder tried to focus.  
Waist-length blonde hair framed a lovely, heart-shaped face.  
Bright blue eyes were surrounded by thick, black lashes.  A 
button nose perched above a full, cupid's-bow mouth.  Her 
petite body was lushly curved and definitely not a child's, in 
spite of the piping voice which made her sound like one. Her 
voice was vaguely familiar although he was pretty sure he'd 
never seen her face before.  He did recognize the gun pointed 
at him, though.  It was his.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Julie."

Straightforward, concise, no help at all.  Maybe a different 
question.  "Where am I?"  

"Where you belong--with me.  Come and eat your breakfast."

Mulder's stomach rebelled at the thought of food.  He was 
dizzy, a bit nauseous and his mouth felt like he'd been sucking 
cotton balls.  Besides, there was a more pressing problem that 
required attention first.  "I need to use the bathroom."

The woman beamed an indulgent smile, the gun's aim never 
wavering.  "It's right through that door in the corner."

Mulder looked down to gauge the distance to the floor and 
discovered that he was lying on a mattress.  No platform, no 
frame.  Just a mattress.  At least he didn't have to worry about 
falling out of bed in his current woozy state.  

Apparently he also wouldn't have to worry about trying to 
fumble his zipper open.  He wasn't wearing any pants, just his 
boxer briefs.  No shirt, shoes, socks--not even his watch.  

Shit!  Talk about getting caught with your pants down.

He rolled to one side and stood slowly, waiting for his head to 
stop spinning.  He took a step only to be brought up short by a 
group of photos on the wall in front of him.  A cautious 360-
degree turn revealed picture after picture after picture.  

There was a wide, chest-high photographic frieze around the 
entire room showing nothing but images of him.  At work, at 
play, at home, in public and private moments, dozens, perhaps 
hundreds, of his doppelgangers watched as he stared back in 
amazement.  What the hell *was* this place?  Where did all the 
pictures come from?  Did she take every one of them herself?  
When?  The huge number of photos implied a long-standing 
obsession rather than a sudden, overwhelming urge.  For how 
long?  More importantly, for what purpose?  Mulder tore his 
eyes away from the disturbing rogue's gallery and cast a 
speculative glance at his kidnapper, suddenly turned deranged 
stalker.

He was in serious trouble. 

An insistent twinge in his groin recalled his attention to the 
urgent business at hand.  It was a very short walk to reach the 
bathroom. Once there, he realized the room was missing a 
door.    

He looked at the woman in the bedroom again.  She didn't 
seem to particularly care whether her scrutiny made him 
uncomfortable or not.  She stood there with his weapon in her 
hand, smiling, not the least bit hesitant or awkward about 
holding a gun.  Nice steady arm, good aim, rock solid gaze in 
spite of the vapid grin.  If she showed the slightest sign of 
weakness or distraction, he wouldn't hesitate to take her down 
with his bare hands.  But he wasn't seeing any kind of opening 
and he really didn't like to think about the consequences of 
doing something impulsive with her focused on him so firmly.

Between his dopey brain and aching bladder, he wasn't 
thinking too clearly.

Mulder turned his back to his audience.  "Pardon me while I 
answer this call."  He pulled down the waistband on the shorts 
and gently eased his cock over the edge.  When he glanced 
down to aim, he blinked in surprise.

There was no toilet lid.  No seat.  Not even any hinges.  
Just holes where the hinges should be.  What the fuck?  

His bladder cramped in protest.  Right.  Pay attention and piss.  
As the pressure eased, Mulder bent his refocusing brain to 
observation of his surroundings.  

The bathroom proved to be miniscule and unremarkable.  A 
toilet, pedestal sink, and tub/shower combo, all crammed into a 
minimum amount of space.  No soap, shampoo, towels, or 
other amenities were visible beyond a roll of toilet tissue on the 
back of the commode and a pile of Kleenex without the box.  
No mirror or medicine cabinet.  No window, either.  He might be 
able to use the shower curtain against his kidnapper, but he'd 
need to check it out when he wasn't being ogled. 

It was time to get back to the bedroom and see if he could 
figure out what was going on.  He flushed the toilet, rinsed off 
his hands and splashed cold water on his face.  Icy droplets 
trickled down his chest, raising goosebumps as he returned to 
the other room.

"There aren't any towels."

From a chair near the door, the woman picked up a towel and 
tossed it to him.  Mulder caught it, dried off, then threw it back 
when she gestured for it.  His nausea was fading and his head 
felt clearer.  He glanced around the room, taking in the lack of 
windows, decorations, lamps, furniture--anything that might 
have come in handy as a weapon or a tool.  The only light 
came from recessed fixtures in the middle of the ceiling.  He 
was either in an old house or one built during the '90's craze for 
really high ceilings.  He wouldn't be able to reach those 
fixtures, not even with his best b-ball jump shot.

The floor itself was solid sheet vinyl.  No carpeting.  The 
bathroom doorframe was bare of all molding and hardware; 
likewise the hole where the closet should have been.  There 
wasn't so much as a rod to hang clothing on--which wouldn't be 
a problem since he apparently didn't have anything but his 
underwear.  

Except for the mattress and the chair by the door, the room 
was totally empty.  A Styrofoam tray on the floor near the chair 
contained a foam cup and a pastry on a napkin.  Those 
wouldn't be any help.  He'd need something a bit more 
substantial if he wanted to spring himself--the door looked like 
reinforced steel.  There was no knob on the inside, no visible 
keyhole, and the door opened outward.  There weren't any 
hinges or locks to jimmy, provided he actually found a tool of 
some sort.  

A small circle of glass in one corner of the ceiling caught his 
attention.  It looked like there was a camera inside the wall.  
Great.  That meant she could be sure he wasn't near the door 
before she entered.  He wouldn't be able to get a jump on her.  
The possibility that this strange woman might be planning to 
spend every waking moment silently watching him made Mulder 
break out in a cold sweat.  

He took in the numerous images of himself that ringed the 
room.  "You're the one who sent me the pictures yesterday, 
aren't you?"

"And the letters.  Don't forget them."  She sounded like she 
expected praise for a job well done.

"What letters?" he asked.  "I don't remember anything except 
the pictures."

Her smile turned into a puzzled frown.  "I sent those letters 
because I thought you'd enjoy reading them."

"I guess I missed seeing them."  He shrugged.  "I got called to 
a meeting right after the envelope arrived, so I just glanced at 
the pictures and tossed them in a drawer."

His stomach rumbled loudly and her smiled returned.  She 
managed to pick the tray up with one hand and move it next to 
the mattress without ever letting go of his gun.  Then she 
retreated to the chair and sat down expectantly.  

Another hollow growl echoed in the room.

Okay, so he should eat.  It would give him something to do 
while he tried to figure out *what* he was going to do.  He sat 
on the bed and picked up the cup of coffee.  The smell of it 
went straight to his brain, clearing out more of the fuzziness.  
He took a sip and his eyebrows rose--it was prepared the way 
he always drank it.  

He glanced at the silent figure across from him, then looked at 
the food on his plate and almost laughed.  Even after all the 
shitty circumstances he'd found himself in over the years, 
eating at gunpoint was something he'd never experienced 
before.  

If anyone had bothered to ask, he definitely would have 
delayed the pleasure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

J. Edgar Hoover Building
A.D. Skinner's office
9:05 AM

"Slow down, Agent Scully.  I can't understand what you're 
saying."

Taking a deep, calming breath, Scully stopped pacing and 
waving the photographs under her boss's nose.  She sat with a 
thud in the chair across from his desk.  The pictures made a 
rustling sound in her latex-covered hands.  She wasn't 
surprised to see they were shaking.

"I'm sorry, Sir.  I'll try to explain more clearly."

"Thank you.  I'd appreciate that.  Does this have something to 
do with Mulder?"

"Yes, Sir."  Scully fanned out the photographs and placed them 
on his desk.  "After you called this morning, I went looking for 
the file you wanted and found these instead."

He looked at the pictures but didn't pick them up.  "Am I to 
understand that you believe these are related to the reason 
why he's not here?" 

"Yes, Sir."  She could feel the blood rush to her face.  "I didn't 
realize there was a problem at first and handled some of the 
photos.  I protected the rest as soon as I could."

Skinner reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a 
handkerchief.  "Then let's not disturb things any more than they 
already have been."

He covered his fingers with the handkerchief before picking 
up the glossy images one at a time.  He gave each a careful 
examination than laid it aside.  His eyes widened in 
surprise when he reached the one of Mulder in the shower.  He 
looked up to meet her gaze.

"You're sure it's Mulder in all of these photos?"

Scully kept her face bland although her heart was racing.  "Yes, 
Sir.  I'm sure."

"And he didn't know they were being taken?"

"I don't believe so.  At least, he never mentioned anything of 
the sort to me."

"But that's not what has you so concerned, is it?"

She sometimes wondered how he could read her as easily as 
Mulder did.

"No, Sir.  There were also these letters, wedged down in the 
bottom of the envelope."  She passed the pink sheets of paper 
to him.  Skinner's eyes grew wider.

She understood his reaction.  Those papers were obviously 
love letters.  Some simply had song lyrics written on them--You 
Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby, Beautiful Dreamer, 
Everything is Beautiful.  They all had the word "beautiful" in 
the title or body of the song.  The others were more like diary 
entries, but they all began "Dear Beautiful Fox."  Some extolled 
his physical attributes in a flowery, juvenile, romanticized 
manner.  The rest of the letters went into pornographic detail 
about the writer's sexual exploits with him, providing dates and 
places for their encounters, all of them fairly recent.  

The language used, the style of script, the garish color of the 
paper, all led Scully to feel that the writer was a woman.  
Possibly a very young one.  Someone more mature wouldn't 
write about Mulder's "enormous cock piercing the very heart of 
me."  Scully hadn't read much more than that, but it sounded 
like a cheesy bodice-ripper novel, something women were 
more prone to read than men. 

But Scully knew Mulder hadn't been with some strange woman 
on the dates in the letters because *she'd* been with him.  
They'd been together most nights for months, ever since they'd 
become lovers.  The last two nights were the only ones they'd 
spent apart in weeks.  She should have known something was 
wrong the minute she walked into an empty office.  She'd 
wasted precious minutes searching for a stupid file when in all 
likelihood he was already in danger.

Skinner cleared his throat.  "What do you suppose this means, 
Agent Scully?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out.  With your permission, 
I'd like to go to his apartment and see if I can discover 
anything."

"You do realize that it's not usually advisable for one partner 
to be involved in the investigation of--"  She opened her mouth 
to protest and he held up his hand to stop her.  "I know.  This 
isn't a usual situation.  I just want you to be clear about my 
position."  

Scully nodded and waited for him to continue.  

Skinner tapped his lips with one finger for a moment, then 
glared at her over the top of his glasses.  "I assume you've 
already tried calling him, or you wouldn't be so worried."

"His cell phone rings without being picked up.  The answering 
machine comes on at his apartment.  He was supposed be with 
some friends last night but he never showed."

"And you weren't expecting him to leave town for any reason?"

Scully's certainty wavered for an instant.  He'd ditched her in 
the past but they'd recently come to an understanding.  Neither 
of them would take off without checking in first.  It was a 
failsafe for exactly this type of situation where someone else 
was questioning their whereabouts.  It took only an instant for 
her mind to reject the idea that Mulder had gone off somewhere 
without telling her.  

"No, Sir," she stated firmly.  "If he's not here, it's because 
something happened to prevent him from being here."

Skinner used the handkerchief to gather up all the photos and 
letters into a neat pile and set them to one side on his desk.

"All right.  Go over to his place.  Call and let me know if you 
find anything.  For the time being, we'll treat this as 
confidential, just in case he comes waltzing in three hours down 
the road.  Let's not panic just yet."

Rising to her feet, Scully stripped off her gloves and stuffed 
them into a pocket.  Her hand was on the door knob when 
Skinner called her name.

"Keep me posted," he said.

She nodded again, blindly leaving his office.  As she got into 
the elevator, she was already running through all the avenues 
available to help her discover what had happened to her 
partner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Location unknown


Julie.  Her name was Julie.  No last name, just Julie.

Mulder had already learned that she would answer whatever 
questions he asked, but only in her own way and she wouldn't 
elaborate.  She'd give an answer, then fall silent and sit gazing 
at him with a vapid smile on her face.  The trick was in finding 
the right questions.  Asking who she was and where they were 
hadn't gotten him very far.  Maybe a new direction would help.

"So, Julie, how did you get me into the house?  I wasn't exactly 
in a position to co-operate."    

She giggled again, covering her mouth with her free hand.  The 
sweet, innocent gesture unnerved him.  

"I picked you up at your apartment and we drove here.  Don't 
you remember, silly Fox?"

That wasn't quite the way he recalled it.  "But how did you get 
me *into* the house?"  He checked what he could see of his 
arms and legs.  "I assume you shoved me out of the car but I 
don't see any bruises."

She stared at him with a look of horror.  "Why would I do that?  
You might get hurt if I pushed you out of the car.  We wouldn't 
want your beautiful skin to be damaged, would we?"

Terrific.  He didn't remember anything past the getting-
drugged-and-kidnapped part and apparently the only possible 
witness wasn't going to be any help.  Didn't anyone see him 
being manhandled into the house?  Was it still raining when 
they arrived?  Did the house have a garage?  How the hell DID 
she get him into this room?  He had to assume she'd dragged 
him but she seemed to have a different version of events in her 
own mind.

Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, he forced down the meal 
she'd brought.  The fact that she'd provided coffee and a 
Danish--something he often ate for breakfast--made it hard to 
swallow food that turned sand-dry in his mouth.  That made him 
think of a new question.  "How did you know what I like for 
breakfast?"

"I know everything about you."  

He suppressed a shiver.  "Did you take all these pictures 
yourself?"

She laughed, a liquid little-girl giggle.  "Some of the things I 
had to go through to get them!  But it was worth it.  Do you know 
which one is my favorite?"

Mulder shook his head without looking at the photos.  It gave 
him the creeps to see so many replicas of himself staring back, 
like a funhouse mirror gone mad.  Julie darted over to the wall 
opposite the end of the bed.  She stopped in front of a life-sized 
enlargement of his face, placed slightly lower than the others 
surrounding it.  In the picture, his eyes were closed, head tilted 
back just a bit.  He couldn't imagine what he might have been 
doing at the time.  

She stroked the image's cheek and Mulder flinched as if she'd 
actually touched him.

"They're all so beautiful, but I like this one best."  Leaning 
forward, she pressed her lips to the slightly parted ones in the 
photograph.  "Mmmm, you have the loveliest mouth.  I could 
kiss you all day and never get tired."  She continued rubbing 
her lips against the photo, moaning low in her throat, then 
sticking out her tongue to lick at the image's lips.

Hoping she was sufficiently distracted, Mulder quietly 
uncrossed his legs and repositioned himself into a crouch.  If 
he could catch her guard down for two seconds, he might be 
able to--

Her arm swung up, the gun's muzzle perfectly centered on his 
chest.  

Damn it!  In the middle of her perverse obsession with his 
photo, she retained an uncanny awareness of his movements.  
He would never be able to get the drop on her at this rate.

Mulder settled back onto the mattress and wondered if 
breakfast would stay where he'd put it with the way his stomach 
had started churning again.  While Julie continued to 
manhandle his picture, a sickening thought popped into his 
head.  

She might not be satisfied with a photo at some point in the 
near future.  

The churning turned into outright nausea.  Turning his head, 
Mulder pushed away his unfinished meal.  He really wasn't all 
that hungry anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hegal Place Apartments
10:10 AM

Scully held the evidence bag up to the light and studied the 
mostly-empty syringe inside.  She'd found it up against the curb 
out front.  It might not have anything to do with Mulder but it 
was definitely something you didn't see every day in his 
neighborhood.  If there were fingerprints, they could be 
matched to any found on the photos.  She might be reaching, 
but it would be better not to take chances and risk missing 
something important.

Sitting in Mulder's apartment, on his couch, brought back vivid 
memories that hadn't yet grown dim with time.  Just over a 
week ago, they'd shared an entire afternoon on this couch.  
They called it a "working" Saturday but it was really an excuse 
to cuddle and fool around and they both knew it.  Considering 
all the time they spent together during the work week, it 
surprised her how much she craved his company outside the 
office.  She'd always enjoyed his amazing mind, but now she 
could benefit from his equally amazing body, too.  That 
particular Saturday concluded with them twined together in his 
bed.  Mulder, drowsy and sloe-eyed, indulged in his own 
peculiar brand of pillow talk about an article he'd read on 
spontaneous combustion and that week's supermarket tabloid 
headlines.  He said it was his way of compensating for her 
dislike of pet names and endearments.  Not every woman's 
idea of romance, but Scully wouldn't change a thing.

Most of their evenings and weekends together ended that way, 
at one apartment or the other.  How many times had they been 
watched in this very room?  What about the bedroom?  Could 
Mulder's stalker see through those windows, too?  Was she still 
out there somewhere?

Scully got up and looked out the window.  There was a block of 
apartments across the street, about the same height as 
Mulder's building.  Was that where she'd been?  In one of the 
apartments?  On the roof?  How long had this mysterious 
interloper been observing Mulder?  Weeks?  Months?  Surely 
for some time, by the number and variety of photos in the 
envelope.  Had she followed him around or was she waiting 
somewhere across the street, lurking until there was something 
to record with her clandestine lens?  

Scully shivered, then closed the blinds before she sat back 
down.  Her reflection in the fish tank caught her eye.

She wasn't in any of the pictures, she realized.  Was she 
excised from the images so that only Mulder remained?  Or did 
she simply not exist as far as the stalker was concerned?  How 
could they have guarded against this intrusion?  

"What if's" twisted Scully's stomach into knots.  How could 
*she* have kept Mulder safe?  Why hadn't she ever noticed 
what was happening?  Each passing moment made her more 
certain that something was dreadfully wrong.

When the phone rang, she jumped.  She'd left a message with 
Skinner's assistant and had been waiting for him to call back.  
She picked up the receiver and his voice rumbled, "What do 
you have?" 

"I did a preliminary inspection of Mulder's apartment.  There's 
no indication he had plans to be anywhere other than work."

"Did you find more photos or letters?"

"I haven't searched his desk yet, but there was nothing in his 
mailbox.  His car isn't parked outside.  I was out of town 
yesterday so I don't know what he was wearing.  However, I 
was able to determine that his keys, wallet, and briefcase are 
missing.  He may not have made it home at all last night.  I'm 
planning to examine everything more thoroughly, but I wanted 
to give you my initial findings first."

"Very well, Agent.  Keep me apprised of anything else you 
discover.  I think we both realize the police won't consider a 
missing person's report at this stage, but we can start an in-
house investigation.  I'll send out a team to give you a hand 
collecting trace evidence, doing interviews and whatever else 
you want covered.  In the meantime, I'll get the photos and 
letters to the lab, see what they can come up with for us.  
Report back to me when you're through there and we'll decide 
what else needs to be done."

"Thank you, Sir.  I'll see you later."

She hung up the phone and looked around.  She couldn't just 
sit, doing nothing, until the other agents arrived.  Where should 
she check next?  Mulder's bedroom had only yielded a couple 
of paperbacks and a tube of Astroglide in the night stand.  The 
rest of the room was the way she remembered it.  

The computer caught her eye.  His email.  Only last week she'd 
teased him about hiding Internet porn, so he'd told her the 
password and let her check it.  He'd had surprisingly little mail.

While the computer booted up, she rifled the desk drawers.  
There was nothing she hadn't expected to find, although the 
contents were a bit bizarre by anyone else's standards.  
Yellowed tabloid newspapers, print-outs of Internet sites about 
monsters and glow-in-the-dark alien key chains were all typical 
Mulder detritus.  

His email didn't yield anything new or odd.  She'd have to 
check his office computer later.  It was beginning to look like 
this mystery woman preferred the personal approach.  

Scully fed the fish then checked the kitchen trash for possible 
evidence.  She looked in all the cupboards and peeked into the 
oven.  She could have left it until the other agents showed up, 
but it gave her something to do.  When she opened the 
refrigerator, it was time to admit that she was just being nosy. 
Mulder's apartment was a familiar link to him, possibly the last 
place he'd been before disappearing.  She hadn't found any 
evidence to indicate that he'd actually made it through the door, 
but he felt closer here.  It was irrational and she knew it.  

She squared her shoulders and forced herself to sit down.  The 
other agents Skinner was sending would be there soon and 
they could get the investigation under way.  She should be 
making note of the things they needed to do.

First thing, they would talk to every person in the 
building, especially anyone who might have a view of where 
she found the syringe.  Maybe somebody saw something last 
night.  And there was still the question of all those pictures, 
many of them taken of this very room.  That gave them just 
cause to question the residents of the apartment building 
across the street, search the roof for evidence.  She wasn't 
going to leave until they'd covered every possible angle, 
"official" investigation or not.

Maybe she was wrong, and Mulder *had* gone off on his own.  
If so, neither of them would hear the end of it from Skinner or 
the other agents, but future embarrassment wasn't enough to 
quell the alarm that gibbered at the back of her mind.  The urge 
to tear around, mindlessly searching for clues, was almost 
overwhelming.  Her years of training were the only things 
holding her back.  Skinner could be certain nothing was missed 
if she followed the prescribed steps for an investigation.  But 
that didn't mean she had to like the wait.

She would come back tonight, maybe sleep in Mulder's bed.  If 
he returned on his own, he'd be more likely to show up there.  
Scully felt in her heart that such an answer was too easy but 
she couldn't let go of that hope.

Hope was all she had at the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Location unknown


Hot water pounding on his head went a long way toward 
clearing Mulder's thought processes.  It was obvious that he 
was going to need all his wits to analyze his current situation 
and find a way out.  He'd probably been awake for only a 
couple of hours, and he didn't know much more than when he'd 
awakened.  Her name was Julie and he was "Where you 
belong--with me."  She wouldn't say how she brought him into 
the house, although he figured she probably dragged him 
somehow.  Either his car was still here or she'd gotten rid of it 
while he slept.  She wouldn't tell him anything more, no matter 
how many different ways he phrased the question.  If he asked 
what she wanted with him, her ever-present smile widened.  
For some reason, that frightened him more than staring down 
the barrel of his own gun.  He had a nasty suspicion that he 
already knew what she wanted.  The idea sent trickles of icy 
fear squirming down his spine, even as the steaming water 
cascaded over his back.

He glanced at the shower curtain for the umpteenth time.  It 
had finally fogged over, which made him feel a bit less 
vulnerable.  The fact that it was clear plastic hadn't registered 
until he'd asked if he could wash off.  That's when he realized 
he'd be showering naked in front of a total stranger.  After the 
lack of privacy afforded him while taking a leak, he didn't 
expect her to leave so he could wash, either.  

She hadn't.  Sometimes, he really hated being right.

Turning his back to the room gave him as much privacy as he 
was going to get.  Once he was inside the tub, Julie placed soap 
and shampoo on the edge of the sink where he could reach them.  
Clean shorts and a towel were left on the back of the toilet. 
Then she retreated to the chair again, gun still in hand, and 
sat down to watch.  Mulder ignored her as much as he could manage.

Drying off presented new challenges.  He couldn't very well 
climb out of the bathtub backwards.  He'd be forced to allow 
her a gander at the goods until he snagged the towel.  

He decided to play it cool and not let her rattle him.  The cooler 
he could be, the better. He would have to profile Julie in order 
to figure out a way around her and he couldn't do that if he was 
tense and nervous.  

Drying and dressing didn't take nearly long enough--it was hard 
to draw out putting on a pair of underwear.  He really didn't 
want to leave the bathroom, but he couldn't stay there 
indefinitely.  He played with the idea of using the soap or 
shampoo as a weapon until Julie indicated that he was to bring 
out everything she'd supplied and throw them on the bed.  
Mulder wondered what past experience had made her so 
cautious.  He was pretty sure he wasn't the first person she'd 
abducted.  She was far too assured and precisely organized to 
be a beginner.  He decided not to think about what might have 
happened to her other victims just yet.  That kind of speculation 
wouldn't promote calm, cool nerves.

Julie waved him off before she gathered up his towel, dirty 
shorts and soaps.  She placed them on the chair with his empty 
breakfast tray, then picked up the chair in one hand and walked 
backward to the door.  

Mulder was already beginning to despair of ever getting the 
drop on her.  She seemed to have thought of everything.

She pushed the door open with her hip and kept him covered 
while she backed across the threshold.  Once outside, she 
shoved the door closed again, keeping him in her sights until 
the last possible moment.  He heard at least two locks engage 
as he raced across the room.  He knew it was too late, but tried 
to pull it open anyway.

Locked.  He pounded the heel of his hand against the door in 
frustration and shouted a couple times without any real hope of 
being heeded.  He mentally kicked himself for not realizing that 
the door wasn't locked even while he acknowledged that he'd 
never have made a successful break for it.  Julie might sound 
like a child, but she was firmly in control of the situation and 
didn't seem to be the least bit hesitant about shooting him.  He 
wouldn't get very far wounded.  Or dead.  

He dug his fingers into the tiny gap around the door frame, 
looking for any kind of purchase to pry against.  All he got was 
bent fingernails and-- 

What was that smell?  He sniffed at the crack around the door 
and grimaced.  It smelled like something had died out there.  

The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end.  Jesus!  He 
needed to get out of here! 

The slap of Mulder's footfalls echoed the frantic pounding of his 
heart.  Up and down, back and forth, he paced the length and 
breadth of the room, searching for a way out, a weapon, 
ANYTHING.  What had he missed in his first cursory 
inspection?  There had to be something.  There just *had* to 
be!

The closet.  Maybe... It proved to be exactly what it originally 
appeared--a totally empty hole without so much as a bracket to 
support a clothing rod.  Okay, not the closet.  How about the 
bathroom?

It didn't take him long to realize the shower curtain was a bust.  
He'd been hoping for a nice solid rod to brain her with, but the 
curtain was on a track attached to the ceiling instead.  He 
couldn't even remove the rings--they were some weird kind of 
lumpy contraption that was solidly seated in the track.  

The shower head appeared to have potential until he tried to 
take it apart with his bare hands.  He stood in the tub, twisting 
it, turning it, yanking it back and forth, but to no avail.  The 
damned thing behaved like it was welded on.  Moisture slicked 
the smooth chrome, making it hard for him to obtain any 
purchase.  He tried rubbing the water from his hands onto his 
boxers but quickly ran out of dry spots to use.  

He was panting and sweaty when he finally admitted defeat.  
The only result of all his hard work was palms rubbed raw and 
sore muscles.  He sat on the side of the tub for a few minutes 
to catch his breath and check out the rest of the bathroom.

The sink was a small pedestal model, the main pipes covered with 
a sleeve of porcelain where they ran up the wall to the bottom of 
the bowl.  He'd try taking the faucets apart later.  With any luck, 
he'd get what he needed from the toilet tank first.  Maybe he 
could use a piece of the flushing mechanism as a shiv or a spike.  

No time like the present to try.  His social calendar wasn't 
exactly packed.

Mulder stood next to the toilet, got a firm grip on the tank lid 
and picked up.  The jolt when it didn't move rocked him on his 
heels.  He blinked, got a better grip and tried again.  Nothing.  
Tank lids weren't *that* heavy, were they?  

He yanked.  Nothing.  He pried.  Nothing.  He got his fingers 
under the edge and pulled and tugged and pushed and swore.  
The fucking lid was glued to the tank!  He couldn't open the 
damned thing no matter what he did!  How the hell did you 
cement a toilet tank together?  

Slamming his interlocked fists against the tank repeatedly, 
Mulder shouted and cursed, pure frustration raging out of 
control.  Again and again he pounded on the top, the sides, the 
front, anywhere he could reach.  Shock waves jarred his arms.  
His shoulders and back ached from the strain but he didn't 
stop.  Eventually, fatigue set in, his arms too leaden to lift 
anymore.
  
Undaunted, he kicked the toilet.  The bottom of his foot landed 
square on the flush handle.  Fiery pain dropped him to the floor.  

He lay there for a few minutes, breathing hard, muttering 
imprecations against the ancestry of toilet manufacturers 
everywhere.  His stomach let out a peevish grumble.  God 
knew what time it was, but it felt like he'd been hammering 
away at his prison for days.  Certainly it had been enough 
hours to require more nourishment.  So where was his jailer?  
Even a condemned man was afforded a last meal.

A glance at the door brought the video camera into his line of 
view.  Was she out there watching?  He hoped she was.  
Escape might not be easy, but he wouldn't stop trying.  No way 
in hell was he going to roll over and be her pet FBI agent.

Another growl from his stomach was the signal to get back to 
work.  Keeping busy would make it easier to ignore his hunger.  
And his sore hands.  Unfortunately, sitting up meant pushing 
against the floor with his hands, then grabbing the rim of the 
sink to pull himself upright.  He tried to brush aside the pain 
but the throbbing in his foot was a little harder to dismiss.  

Mulder limped back to the bedroom, mind already running over 
new options for escape.  It didn't take long to exhaust the list.  
He had no tools to force the door.  There weren't any windows 
to crawl through.  The light fixtures and heat registers were too 
high to provide raw materials for weapons, unless he could roll 
the mattress and use it to boost himself to the ceiling. 

That was a thought.  

He hobbled to the make-shift bed and nudged it with his toe.  It 
felt damned solid.  Picking it up by one end, he dragged it into 
the middle of the room, underneath the lights.  When he tried to 
fold it in half, the whole thing flipped straight up, the blanket 
sliding into a heap on the floor.  It was as rigid and unyielding 
as a plank. 

Maybe if he laid it on its side...

That seemed promising until he tried to climb on it.  Each time, 
the mattress would either slide out from under him or the edge 
would give way and dump him off.  It looked solid, but in reality, 
it wasn't strong enough to stay upright and bear his weight.  
That didn't stop him from climbing it over and over and over.  
Around the fifth or sixth try, he banged his head on the floor 
and saw stars.

Mulder got back up, then heaved the mattress against the wall in 
frustration.  It fell to the floor with a thump and he threw 
himself on top of it.  There were other possibilities to explore 
once his mind stopped screaming in panic, but at the moment, it 
looked like he wasn't going to leave unless Julie let him out.  
Barring any new discoveries, he'd have to find a different way. 
Talk her into letting him go.  Figure out why she wanted him in 
the first place.  What drove her to kidnap him?  What motivated 
her?  How could he make a connection, get her to listen to 
reason?  Why him?  That was the big question.  Why him and not 
someone else? 

He looked at the pictures circling the walls, photo after photo of 
him, taken by a total stranger.

Why?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Basement office
8:03 PM
  
Scully didn't know what else to do.  

There had to be *something*, but she couldn't think of anything.  
Staring at Mulder's bulletin board wasn't giving her any new 
ideas, although she could relate to his "I Want To Believe" 
poster more than usual.

The machinery was already in motion to investigate Mulder's 
disappearance.  Skinner had sent the envelope, photos and 
letters to the print lab.  From there, they would go for 
handwriting analysis, then to be studied for clues in the 
background.  Chances of finding anything weren't really good.  
Most of the pictures were close-ups and the far shots seemed 
to be of unremarkable surroundings.  

Scully took charge of the evidence team at Mulder's apartment.  
In spite of Skinner's reluctance to allow her into the 
investigation, there was no way in hell he could keep her out of 
it.  She would have gone behind his back if she'd had to.  She 
was sure Skinner knew this, which was why he didn't kick up 
more of a fuss.  

The interviews with Mulder's neighbors had turned out to be an 
exercise in futility--no one heard anything, no one saw 
anything, no one knew anything.  Apparently, people didn't 
bother to pay attention to what went on outside their own little 
sphere of comfort.

A couple of them were distressingly happy to hear that he was 
missing.  

The brain-storming session she'd just finished with the newly-
formed investigative team was also frustrating.  With almost no 
information available to them, there was very little brain-
storming to do.  The best idea had been to check for other 
crimes using the same MO.  Scully wasn't sure why she 
thought there might be others, but the kidnapping was carried 
out so neatly, it seemed like a logical assumption.  The perp 
couldn't be a beginner and leave so few clues behind.  The 
letters and photos were the only evidence they had so far.  If 
this woman had pulled off a similar crime in the past, it might be 
possible to find out her real name and location.  

Outside the office, the elevator dinged.  Scully straightened in 
excitement.  It only took her a few seconds to realize that the 
footsteps drawing closer weren't Mulder's.  She heard the steps 
halt outside the office door and Skinner peered in.

"I thought I'd find you here," he grumbled.  "Go home, Agent.  
You need rest."

"I can't."

"You can.  You're not going to be any help to this investigation 
if you're exhausted."

She opened her mouth to continue arguing, but there wasn't 
any point.  She knew he was right and she was too tired to 
argue.  She decided to give in easily, the way Skinner had 
about her involvement with the case.

"Yes, Sir."  Scully saw the look of surprise on his face as she 
stood, then picked up her briefcase.  "Thank you for allowing 
me to be on the task force," she added.

Skinner peered at her over his glasses.  "Did I have a choice?"

She couldn't suppress the slight quirk of her lips.  "Maybe not, 
but I appreciate it anyway."  

He cleared his throat and stared down at his feet.  "When was 
the last time you ate?"

The question caught her by surprise.  Not only would she never 
have expected her boss to ask such a thing, but she couldn't 
remember if she'd eaten at all during the day.  She knew she'd 
had supper the night before, but she couldn't be sure about any 
time since.

He nodded.  "That's what I thought.  Come on.  Let's find some 
food." 

That was even more unexpected than the question about her 
eating habits.  She raised an eyebrow and he held up a file 
folder.  

"We're going to pick over these copies of the photos and letters 
until we come up with something we can use.  Don't fool 
yourself into thinking this is a social meal.  We've got a lot of 
work to do."

She was touched.  In spite of his words, Scully knew Skinner 
was trying to take care of her.  He'd make her work her ass off 
during dinner, she had no doubt about that.  He'd pick her brain 
until there wasn't anything left to extract.  But he'd also make 
sure she ate and send her home to sleep instead of letting her 
sit all night in Mulder's office chair, quietly losing her mind.  

She let him maintain the illusion of hard-assed despot and 
waved a hand at the door.  "Bring it on, Sir.  After you."

He stepped out of the way so she could shut and lock the door, 
then followed her to the elevator.  Suddenly, Scully felt more 
hopeful.  The other agents on the investigation team would do 
their job, but none of them was enthusiastic about looking for 
the joke of the FBI.  She'd heard one of them whisper, "Better 
missing than dragging the Bureau through the mud."  

She'd tried not to take the other agent's words to heart, but they 
weighed on her.  If it was only her against everyone else in the 
hunt for Mulder, so be it.  She would fight tooth and nail to find 
him and bring him back.  She wouldn't let their piss-poor 
attitude deter her for a second.

But now she knew Skinner was willing to fight beside her.  
Maybe they actually had a chance of finding Mulder after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Location unknown


As Julie backed from the room with his empty supper tray, gun 
firmly trained on him, Mulder stretched out on the mattress and 
stared up at the ceiling.  He could think better if he didn't have 
to look at those damned pictures.  

It had been a long quiet stretch between breakfast and supper.  
Either she'd forgotten to feed him at noon or she'd gone to 
work.  There really wasn't any way for him to tell the time, other 
than by the growling of his stomach.  He'd actually been glad to 
see her when she brought his food, meager though it was.  A 
burger, fries and a soft drink.  She really had been watching 
him closely--it was loaded with all the things he normally liked.

Of course, what he'd *really* like was a non-painful way to bust 
himself out.  Mulder held up his hands and studied the red, 
swollen palms.  He'd try again tomorrow.  An unfamiliar 
protrusion on the side of his right hand caught his attention.  
He pushed on it with a finger and winced.  Must have damaged 
something, beating on the toilet tank lid.  Scully would have 
raised her eyebrow at him trying to break it with his bare fists, 
but he had to make the attempt.  Apparently it was beyond the 
realm of possibility, as the bump on his hand proved.  He pushed 
on it again, then decided not to do that anymore.  With his luck 
it was fractured.  

Which reminded him... Mulder pulled his foot up to check the 
instep.  Not so much as a bruise.  That was a relief.  
Considering he already knew the tank was sealed, kicking the 
toilet hadn't been the best decision of his life.  IF he'd managed 
to knock it apart, he still wouldn't have been able to open it.  

So far, there didn't appear to be anything he could MacGyver 
together as a tool or weapon to help himself.  He'd spent a 
good bit of time crawling around the perimeter of the room, 
trying to pry up the edges of the flooring with his nails.  He'd 
done it more to keep himself occupied.  Sheet vinyl wouldn't 
make much of a weapon even if he *could* manage to rip off a 
hunk.  His accommodations were every bit as stark and devoid 
of hope as he'd originally deduced.  That wouldn't stop him 
from doing his damnedest to escape, but things were definitely 
not looking good.

He yawned.  Oddly enough, he was tired.  He'd been relatively 
busy for someone who'd been kidnapped, but he didn't think 
he'd expended *that* much energy.  In any case, he'd 
physically done what he could for one day without leaving 
himself crippled.  Either he could spend the solitary hours until 
his next meal bemoaning his predicament, or he could keep 
busy.  Maybe it was time to see what mental exercise would 
accomplish.

Victim profile.  Offender profile.  Modus operandi.  Evidence.  

Mulder decided there wasn't much he could do with that last 
one. He was probably lying flat on his back, in the middle of 
most of the evidence.  He forced himself to look at the photos.  
There was plenty of information to be gained from their study 
if he could see beyond the personal invasion to locate the clues.  

The variety of activities she'd caught him in was staggering.  
And disturbing.  She'd obviously used a telephoto lens.  There 
were far too many pictures through the living room windows of 
his apartment.  The ones of him in the shower couldn't have 
been taken there, though--his bathroom didn't have a window.  
Also the shower walls weren't visible in the photo, so it was 
larger than his.  

That fact niggled at his brain, yet he couldn't pin down why.  It 
shouldn't be this hard to figure it out.  His vision went blurry
and he rubbed at his eyes.

She'd watched him play basketball.  A lot.  There were pictures 
of him running in sweats, walking in a suit, standing around in 
his trenchcoat, buying groceries and carrying take-out home.  
In some, it looked like he was talking to another person, but 
there wasn't anyone else in the photos.  

Mulder wondered how she could have taken so many pictures 
without him noticing her once.  The answer?  She knew what 
she was doing.

Considering the room set-up, the video equipment, the use of 
his own gun and the security precautions, Julie appeared savvy 
enough to avoid leaving clues behind.  He suspected that 
Scully wasn't going to have much to work with.  And he 
wouldn't bet on any prior arrests, other victims or not.  

He yawned again.  Might as well start with the victim profile.  
That should be easy enough.  

Did the victim engage in any activities which left him vulnerable 
to violence?  Um, duh.  He was an FBI agent, a synonym for 
"moving target."

Did the victim engage in any past activity with the perpetrator 
which might have led to the present circumstances?

NO!  Mulder pounded the mattress with his throbbing fists.  
That was the real pisser.  He was almost certain he'd never 
met Julie before last night.  He didn't always remember faces, 
but he certainly wouldn't forget that voice.  It was high-pitched 
and childish, sort of like the ballerina Munchkins in Wizard of 
Oz.  Her hair was extremely fair, but not enough to make it 
especially memorable.  The same with her face.  She was 
pretty, but in a Miss-America-common way.  Nothing terribly 
unusual about her at all, except her voice and the way her mind 
worked.  

She was definitely a couple psychoses short of a straight-
jacket.

That was a very psychologically professional observation, 
Agent Mulder.  Thank you for your expert opinion.

He yawned a third time.  Why the hell was he so tired?  He 
hadn't been doing anything physically exhausting, yet he 
couldn't seem to stop yawning.  Maybe it was the emotional 
shock.

So where was he?  Oh yeah.  His profile.  She wasn't anyone 
he remembered meeting on an old case or more recently.  
Which meant he probably didn't know her at all.  He might have 
met her casually at a party or standing in line at the store.  

Why did she target him?  What had he done to draw her 
attention that strongly?

His jaw actually cracked on the next yawn.  He could barely 
keep his eyes open.  Damn.  He needed to sleep.  He wasn't 
getting anywhere and his brain felt fuzzy.  Better leave it until 
tomorrow.  

Mulder couldn't remember the last time he'd been so tired.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

Location unknown
Thursday
6:05 AM


Julie rinsed the razor in the bowl of warm water one last time, 
then wiped the rest of the shaving cream off Mulder's face with 
a damp washcloth.  There.  All that ugly, scratchy stubble was 
gone.  Momma always said a man with a beard was trying to 
conceal something.  Fox had absolutely nothing he needed to 
hide.  Julie caressed his cheek but he didn't stir.  

He was such a deep sleeper, her Beautiful Fox.  He looked so 
peaceful, compared to the tension that always radiated off him 
at work.  Being an FBI agent was too stressful for a sensitive 
man like Fox.  Running around after criminals, waving his gun 
and shouting; that was no life for a beautiful person.  He was 
much happier since he'd quit all that and come to live with her.  
Leaving his partner was the best thing he could have done. 

Julie bent to pick up the shaving supplies, but stopped when 
she noticed a dot of red on Mulder's jaw.  She moved closer 
and gasped.

There was blood on his face!  The razor cut him!  Julie recoiled, 
looking around the room frantically for help.  How bad was it?  
What should she do?  Would he be scarred for life?  What a 
horrible thought!

She grabbed the wash cloth out of the bowl and slopped it along 
the trickle of blood.  Pink-tinged water drooled over the side of 
his face, down his neck onto the pillow.  She did it again.  And 
again.  The bleeding looked like it had slowed down.  She 
peered closer.  Yes!  It was stopping!  Thank heaven.  The nick 
was tiny, hardly noticeable at all.  Fox was fine.  It would be 
okay now.  He was still as beautiful as ever.

What a relief!

Julie shakily carried the bowl of soapy water to the bathroom 
and emptied it into the sink.  Then she took it back to the bed 
and piled the washcloth, razor and can of shaving cream into it.  
She peeked at his jaw.  It was blessedly free of blood.

Yes.  Everything was all right.  A mound of fabric at the foot of 
the bed caught her eye.  She needed to continue with her 
chores or she'd be late for work.   

She rolled Mulder back and forth while she removed the bottom 
sheet and replaced it with a clean one. She pulled the pillow out 
from under his head, yanked the old pillowcase off, then jiggled 
on a fresh one.  After she picked his head up to slip it back 
underneath, she stopped a moment to admire his relaxed 
features.  

He was always getting injured or beat up in the line of duty, and 
it was all his partner's fault.  Julie had seen the medical 
reports in his personnel file.  Agent Scully didn't try to keep 
him safe.  She was nothing but a scheming, conniving tramp.  She 
constantly showed up at Fox's apartment on some flimsy 
pretext, seducing him with her wicked lies until he couldn't keep 
himself from hugging and kissing her.  It was absolutely 
disgusting the way she used him for her own lustful pleasure.   

Julie flipped open a fresh top sheet and started to cover him but 
changed her mind, dropping it at the foot of the bed instead.  
She couldn't get enough of looking at him.  From his long, 
elegant feet to his commanding nose, Fox was the ideal of 
masculine beauty.  Thick, dark lashes, the plumpest, most 
kissable mouth in the world, a slightly dimpled chin, the small 
mole on his cheek--he was absolutely perfect in every way.

And he was all hers.  Julie watched the shallow rise and fall of 
his chest.  Her gaze followed the faint trail of hair from the 
patch on his chest, down his stomach to where it disappeared 
under the waistband of his boxers.  The clingy fabric highlighted 
the soft swell of his penis and testicles, the springy pubic 
curls beneath giving a pitted appearance to the cloth.  She 
tracked the length of his legs, the firm runner's muscles in the 
thighs and calves, all the way to the ends of his toes.  

One of his feet twitched.  Julie giggled.  Agent Scully didn't 
deserve such a beautiful partner.  She deserved the jealousy 
she was going to feel after tomorrow.  Let her regret treating 
him like any ordinary man.  Julie hoped Scully was eaten alive 
by envy when she saw the pictures of Beautiful Fox sleeping so 
peacefully in another woman's bed.  It served her right for not 
appreciating what she had before he got fed up and moved on.  

Julie lingered for one more look.  Then she picked up the dirty 
sheets and took them out into the hallway.  She returned for the 
bowl and the digital camera she'd used earlier, checking to 
make sure she wasn't leaving anything behind.  It wouldn't do to 
forget something.  Fox might hurt himself.  She was going to 
take very good care of him from now on.  He'd never have to 
worry about getting hurt again.  She'd see to that.

The sheets went into the laundry room.  She took the shaving 
supplies into the kitchen and left them on the counter.  She 
always saved the digital camera to deal with last.  It was the 
best part of her morning.  Time to see the beautiful pictures 
she'd taken.

Julie inserted the memory card into her computer and clicked 
on the icon.  She smiled as the new thumbnails opened.  These 
were even better than the previous night's.  Fox looked so 
contented and happy.  He was almost smiling in some of them.  
She'd be sure to include those in the envelope she was sending 
to Agent Scully.

She pointed her cursor at the fifth thumbnail and opened it.  
These next ones were her favorite kind.  She never tired of 
watching him orgasm.  Fox always said she knew exactly the 
right way to touch him.  It wasn't easy trying to take pictures 
and stroke him at the same time, but she did it because he asked 
her to.  Maybe she should invest in a tripod and cable release 
shutter.  Then she could take a more-closely spaced series of 
pictures and she wouldn't have to worry about spoiling them 
because she'd moved.

Of course, she wouldn't be sharing that set of pictures with 
anyone else.  Those were just for her and Fox.  They were his 
favorite kind, too.

Julie checked the time.  She needed to change and shower.  
She'd already been late to work once.  It wouldn't do for anyone 
to start asking questions.  She could sort all of the week's 
photos and print out what she wanted this evening.  Maybe 
she'd stop on the way home and pick up that cable shutter.

She wished she could take a picture of the look on Agent 
Scully's face when she opened the envelope of photos 
tomorrow.  Julie could show it to Fox and they'd have a good 
laugh together.  

It was so nice to find someone who shared her sense of humor.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Conference room 4B
Friday
8:40 AM

Four days.  Mulder had officially been missing four whole days 
and they still didn't have any solid leads.  The first 
forty-eight hours were the most important in any investigation 
and they'd already doubled that.  After two days, the trail 
started to grow cold, eye witnesses were less likely and any 
remaining evidence could be too compromised to use.  Scully tried 
not to let her worry take over, but every day that passed made 
Mulder's survival less of a certainty.

The fingerprints had been a bust.  The lab found plenty of prints 
on the photos and letters.  A partial lifted from the syringe 
matched.  They knew they were dealing with the same person 
but there was no record of a match in the database.  That could 
mean Mulder's kidnapping was the perp's first, although Scully 
doubted it.  More likely, the responding agencies to any past 
incidents hadn't sent the information to be entered in the 
database.  It happened all the time as police departments were 
downsized because of financial cuts.  Forwarding prints from 
every unsolved case wasn't a big priority for a lot of cash-
strapped police chiefs.  Or the prints could be sitting in a 
backlog somewhere, waiting to be added to the system.  There 
was no way to tell for sure.  They'd have to find another way to 
narrow the search.

At least they could be sure of one thing--Mulder *hadn't* 
disappeared on his own.  His DNA was found in the syringe's 
needle, pulled inside when it was removed from his body.  
Unfortunately, the contents of the syringe weren't going to be 
much help on their own.  Valium.  Seconal.  Chloral hydrate, of 
all things, and a couple drugs they hadn't identified yet.  It 
was a sedative cocktail, a classic Mickey Finn.  Any one of those 
drugs would have been enough to knock him out in the right 
dose.  Mixed together, who knew what kind of effect it would 
have?  Where the hell was the kidnapper getting them?  The 
damned Internet made things so easy to obtain these days.  
Locating her by tracing the drugs was worse than a long shot.  
If she knew the right place to buy, they'd find no trace of her.

Scully glanced around the room.  Agents Janis, Samuels and 
Hatter sat at computers in one corner, looking through online 
newspaper morgues for unsolved cases with a similar MO.  
Gardner, Pryzbyzki and Perkins each had a phone to their ear, 
tracking down photo paper manufacturers, printer ink dealers, 
outlets for pink stationary, police departments all over the 
country--anything they could think of which might provide a 
decent lead.  It was slow, mind-numbing work, but Scully had to 
give them credit for sticking with it.  Whether they liked Mulder 
or not, he was a missing colleague.  With the DNA from the 
syringe as proof, even the biggest skeptic among them was 
willing to admit that he hadn't traipsed off on one of his snipe 
hunts.  They were all putting out their best effort to find any 
tiny crumb of evidence that would help to bring him home.  

Scully had just finished talking with what seemed like the one-
millionth small town police department she'd contacted since 
Tuesday.  She tried not to think of it as busy work, but more 
along the lines of making herself useful while maintaining sanity.  
The bulletin they'd sent out should have already reached the 
major departments in the country.  Skinner also thought it would 
be a good idea to touch base with the little guys who might not 
have the manpower to check into old cases right away.  

Nevertheless, it was probably just busy work.

Her phone rang and she answered it wearily.  "Scully."

"Um, is this Special Agent Dana Scully?" a deep voice asked.

She sat up straighter.  "Yes, this is she.  May I help you?"

"Actually, I may be able to help you."  He chuckled.  "Sorry.  
Just not used to talking with the FBI.  I'm Captain Dan Kinsner, 
with the Paducah, Kentucky PD.  We got your bulletin and I think 
we might have something similar."

Scully's heart sped up.  "Thank you for calling, Captain.  What 
do you have?"

The sound of shuffling paper drifted into her ear.  "About ten 
months ago, we got a call from a landlord on the edge of town.  
Seems one of his tenants skipped out on her rent.  She was 
paying month by month and fell behind.  He went to the house to 
check, noticed a strange smell, didn't like the look of things, 
and called us.  Inside one of the bedrooms was the body of Dale 
Canner, age thirty-two, single, a short-order cook in a local 
diner."

"And he'd received photos and letters, like the ones described in 
the bulletin?"  Scully actually crossed her fingers.  Pictures 
would indicate a solid link.

"Yes ma'am.  When he was reported missing, we searched his 
apartment, found a big pink envelope stuffed with pictures and 
letters, some of them downright embarrassing.  Somebody had 
spent a *lot* of time watching and thinking about the man.  The 
crime scene had a huge mural of those photographs.  Well over 
a hundred, all printed out on a standard computer printer.  A lot 
of the letters were worse than the photos--sexually explicit but 
total fabrications from what his friends and coworkers said.  
There was no return address on the envelope.  We ran the 
prints locally but that was no help.  If the landlord hadn't gone 
over to get his missing rent, we might not have found that poor 
guy for a couple more months.  The house is in a newer 
development, not a lot of neighbors yet."

Scully grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, wrote 'Isolated house.  
Victim single.'  She thought for a moment, tapping the pen 
against her lips.  "Did you run the renter's name?"

"Sure did.  Carrie Collins.  It was just as big a lie as the 
letters.  Good enough for the kind of surface check a landlord 
might do but otherwise a total dead end, if you'll excuse the 
expression.  We also checked with the diner where the victim 
worked, but there wasn't any Carrie Collins employed there.  
We'd kinda hoped they knew each other.  Woulda made our job a 
lot easier."

Scully tried not to sigh in frustration.  "What did you find at 
the scene?"  She heard more paper rustling.  

"Small house, two bedrooms, each with an attached bath.  The 
second bedroom--without the body--contained a used bed and 
dresser, but otherwise was completely clean and normal.  Hair 
fibers were collected from the carpet, but that won't help unless 
the perp is found.  On the floor behind the toilet there was a 
vial that contained barbiturate traces, a mixture of Xanax, 
Seconal, and you're not going to believe this one, Chloral Hydrate.  
Lord knows where she picked it up.   No prescription label, 
unfortunately.  That would have been too much to hope for, I 
guess."

A tingle of excitement prickled across the back of Scully's neck.  
The Mickey Finn, including Seconal and Chloral Hydrate.  Two 
similarities.  A pretty strong sign that they were probably 
dealing with the same kidnapper.  Maybe they were finally going 
to get a break.

The sound of papers rustling again.  Kinsner continued,  "The 
rest of the house barely appeared to be lived in.  There was a 
second-hand desk and a dining table with one chair.  All the 
furniture was traced back to the Goodwill store that delivered 
it.  The delivery guys didn't remember this particular run until 
I read them the landlord's description of his renter."

Scully straighten in anticipation.  "What did she look like?"

Captain Kinsner snorted.  "I'd better give you the cleaned-up 
version.  Harold Greenlee was a bit vulgar in his upset state and 
he didn't exactly remember her face.  According to him, she 
was short, blonde and stacked, if you catch my meaning.  He 
wasn't much help with other details.  But he *did* remember her 
voice--said it was high and child-like.  Made him look twice to 
see if she really was an adult.  Don't know if that's much help, 
but it's definitely distinctive."

"I'm sure it'll be a big help if we can find her."  Scully wrote, 
'Rental.  Used furniture left behind.  Distinctive voice.'  She 
asked, "Could you describe the crime scene?"

"Sure thing."  He paused as if gathering his thoughts, then 
continued, "The bedroom was about fifteen foot square, not 
including the bathroom and closet.  Both of those doors had 
been removed.  There was a hole in the wall near the ceiling 
and another one out in the hallway.  We never figured out what 
that was for, although it could have been for some kind of 
monitoring system.  Later, we discovered there were no 
windows because the frames had been ripped out and the 
opening covered over with drywall.  A very nice, professional 
job, too, probably done by somebody outside the area who 
didn't know the houses are rentals.  Harold sure was pissed 
about it."

"I'll bet," Scully said.  She tried to keep the impatience out of 
her voice but she couldn't avoid fidgeting.

"There wasn't any bed frame in the room--just a mattress on 
the floor, sheets, blankets and a pillow still in use.  The body 
was stretched out on the mattress, like he'd fallen asleep.  
Probably got weak from lack of food and eventually couldn't 
move.  Looked like he'd beat on the door some and tried to pry it 
away from the frame.  His fingertips were chewed up and there 
were bruises on his hands and arms.  He didn't go down 
without a fight, but he didn't stand much of a chance either.  
She'd replaced the regular bedroom door with a solid metal 
security door."

"Cause of death?"  Scully held her breath.

"Poor beggar starved.  Nearest we can figure, she'd rented the 
house three months before.  Paid the first and last month, plus 
a deposit.  With the attached bathroom, he had water but no 
food.  He'd been missing for over two months when he was 
found."

So she didn't kill them right away.  Thank God!  Not that starving 
to death was a pleasant way to go, but it meant there was a 
good chance of finding Mulder alive if they hurried.

Scully felt a rush of hope, the first in four days.  "Could you 
send me a copy of the file, along with the landlord's name and a 
number where I can contact him?"

"Can do, ma'am," the captain replied.  "I hope it helps you find 
your missing man."

You're not the only one, she thought.  "At least we can run the 
fingerprints and see if they match."

The man coughed.  "Yeah.  Sorry about that.  What with budget 
cuts and all..."

"I understand, Captain," she said.  "I greatly appreciate you 
taking the time to check the bulletin and contact me."

"No problem, Agent Scully.  I was the one who answered 
Harold's call for assistance.  Don't think I'll ever forget the 
inside of that room no matter how long I live."  

She jotted down his phone number on the pad of notes, thanked 
him again, and hung up.  This was the most promising 
information they'd obtained so far.  With the solid matches to 
Mulder's kidnapping, they had enough cause to enter the info 
into VICAP to check for any other unsolved cases.  They could 
ask the landlord to work with a sketch artist, give them 
something more to go on than the perp's bust measurements.  

A hand and arm came into her peripheral vision and set a stack 
of folders on the desk.  Scully sighed.  More police departments 
to call.  It could literally take months to work through all of 
the small-town departments in the country, but now they had a 
slightly narrowed focus to consider.  She'd share this new 
information with the other agents.  They could concentrate on 
Kentucky and work in a circle around the state.  It was better 
than what they had less than an hour ago.

Scully was vaguely aware that the clerk who'd delivered the files 
was humming as she continued to distribute material to the 
other agents in the room.  The song sounded familiar, but Scully 
couldn't quite remember the words.  She'd probably think of 
them later, when she was trying to sleep.  She hummed a small 
snatch of the song.

Catchy tune, though.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Location unknown 


Mulder rubbed his throbbing elbow.  Well, smashing through the 
wall was out.  His continued attempts to take the shower head 
apart were simply chewing the hell out of his palms so he'd 
moved to tapping on the walls, looking for a window.  It had to 
be there somewhere, covered over with drywall, maybe 
plywood.  He thought he'd found it.  If his hands weren't in such 
bad shape he might have succeeded, but it was his personal 
opinion that breaking through a wall using either fists, elbows or 
feet simply wasn't possible.  Definitely not using bare feet.  He 
was starting to suspect he'd broken a couple of toes.  Sound 
body parts were becoming a shrinking commodity.  

He'd been a prisoner for five days already.  Maybe.  He really 
couldn't tell what day it was without access to a clock or a 
window to look outside.  If he'd been kidnapped on Monday 
night, then the first day was Tuesday.  Since then, he'd only 
seen Julie sporadically.  Some days she brought him breakfast 
and supper.  Other days supper was his only meal.  There 
wasn't any way for him to keep track of time, so he had to 
guess.  Five suppers *should* equal five days, which would 
make it Saturday.  Theoretically.

He wandered back to the bed and lay down, shifting around, 
trying to get comfortable.  At first, he hadn't noticed how hard 
the bed was, but then he also hadn't spent much time on it 
unless he was sleeping.  He'd occupied himself by searching 
the room over and over, looking for a way out, a weapon, a clue, 
anything at all that would help him to escape.  

It was a wonder he was able to do as much as he had so far.  
His brain felt dopey all the time and his movements clumsy.  
Headaches were frequent and his dreams were more vivid than 
usual.  Some days it didn't seem worth getting out of bed.  He 
was nauseous a lot of the time and he'd thrown up after 
breakfast twice.  That was a waste of food he desperately 
needed.  He couldn't seem to get rid of the cottony feeling in his 
mouth, either.  

It had taken him at least three days to realize Julie was drugging 
his supper.  The fact that he was falling asleep without any 
problem should have been enough of a tip-off.  He'd just 
assumed he was sleeping well because of all the exercise he 
was getting.  

After the second full day alone, he knew he'd go crazy if he 
didn't find something to do.  It wasn't the same as running every 
day, but a couple hours or so of push-ups, crunches and 
jogging in place helped to burn off the energy he couldn't expend 
in other activities.  Headaches, dizziness and occasional 
blurred vision made exercising the last thing he wanted to do, 
but it was better than going out of his mind from boredom, even 
when his heart was pounding and he felt like he'd run ten miles 
on a blistering summer's day afterward.  On the third evening of 
his captivity, just before he'd passed out, he finally grasped the 
fact that he was as fuzzy-brained as when he woke up the first 
time.

Mulder hadn't felt so stupid since he'd called a new girlfriend by 
a previous girlfriend's name in the throes of sex, thereby ending 
the relationship a tad prematurely.  

It was so obvious now--she was still knocking him out.  He 
should have realized it the instant he noticed the clean sheets 
every day yet never saw her change the bed.  Or how about his 
freshly shaved face?  He certainly wasn't shaving himself but 
somehow he'd skipped right over that.  For whatever reason, 
Julie was entering the room at night and taking care of him.  
Maybe it was part of her fantasy, maybe she had other motives.  
Even if she'd talk to him about it, Mulder wasn't sure he wanted 
to know.  

Also, the lights were always on.  He passed out with them 
blazing away and they were still on when he awoke.  Plus, she'd 
had to wake him on the mornings she actually showed up with 
breakfast.  That simply wasn't normal for him.  
   
Big clues, stupidly missed.  He blamed the drugs.  If his brain 
was clear, he definitely would have caught on right away.  He 
was a trained investigator!  He was supposed to notice these 
things!

While he now knew that she was drugging his supper, refusing 
to eat it wasn't really an option.  Meals were irregular at best 
and starving himself wouldn't help him escape.  The first rule of 
survival dictated keeping up your strength for any eventuality.  
It wasn't easy to eat with his own gun pointed at his head, though.  
She didn't seem to be uncomfortable handling it and, so far, she 
hadn't gotten close enough to make jumping her a safe option.  
He didn't see any way of overpowering her as long as she had 
his weapon.  

So far, there didn't seem to *be* a way out.  Or if there was, he 
hadn't found it yet.  That could also be the result of the drug.  
His brain was rather sluggish for most of the day and only really 
started to clear about the time she brought supper and drugged 
him again.  

She rarely spoke, even if he tried to engage her in conversation.  
But Mulder wasn't going to make the mistake of thinking that 
she wasn't paying attention.  Not when she always kept his gun 
firmly trained on him.  

The best he could do was to keep physically and mentally 
active, so he spent several hours a day exercising and the rest 
of his time either pacing, assaulting the plumbing or stretched 
out on the mattress, thinking.  She never showed up with his 
supper until it felt very late in the day, then left as soon as he 
was done eating, usually without saying anything.  He always 
fell asleep within a short amount of time.  

Every day had been exactly the same--mind-numbingly lonely, 
hungry and hopeless.  After however many days it had been, he 
was still no closer to understanding or escaping his 
predicament than he was on the first.  

Well, that wasn't completely true.  With plenty of time to do 
nothing but think, Mulder was pretty sure he had a good grasp of 
Julie's psychological typology.  Considering he couldn't 
remember ever meeting her before, he'd put her down as a 
love-obsessive stalker.  Although they had nothing in common 
and no shared history, even her sparse answers to his 
questions made it obvious she believed herself to be in love with 
him, and he with her.  She was clearly delusional, living inside 
her head, playing out whatever fantasy she'd created for the two 
of them.  Some love-obsessive stalkers were content to remain 
in their own misguided reality while others escalated to 
deliberate violence.  Which meant he had a fifty-fifty chance of 
being in worse trouble than he already was.

Julie wasn't an amateur, either.  Mulder was absolutely certain 
she'd kidnapped other men.  He'd wondered when he first 
caught a whiff of something outside the door, but he was sure 
now.  The number of security measures she'd taken, the small 
touches of paranoia, all spoke to him of past experience.  She 
had the ability to adapt her plans in order to avoid the problems 
that cropped up with other victims.  Did someone try to attack 
her with the bathroom supplies?  Was that why she insisted on 
taking the soaps and towels out of the room?  Had a former 
captive used the closet's clothing rod against her?  Why were 
there no windows in the room?  Had she boarded them over 
because someone tried to break out?  Did she always carry 
some kind of weapon with her, or was that also the result of a 
previous abduction?  It was nice of him to provide one for her 
this time.  

What, specifically, made *him* a target?  That was the question 
Mulder really wanted to have answered.  He needed more 
information, though.  Personal information about Julie.  

He turned his head and reluctantly looked at the pictures of 
himself which circled his prison.  She seemed to know an awful 
lot about him.  It was time he asked some different questions, 
learned more about her, too.  She hadn't told him why she'd 
taken him, where they were or what she wanted with him.  None 
of that fit into her fantasy, but telling him about herself might.  
Badgering hadn't gotten him anywhere.  He should see if playing 
into her fantasy of them as a normal couple would.

Yeah.  Normal.  

Normal couples didn't eat their meals with one of them holding a 
gun on the other.  Normal couples didn't drug each others' food.  
Normal couples didn't keep each other locked up against their 
will.

He and Scully were a normal couple.  Sort of.  They really hadn't 
been together long enough to have worked out their 
"couplehood" yet.  But at least she'd never made him eat at 
gunpoint.  She'd threatened to a couple of times, when he was 
engrossed in a case, but he knew she'd never follow through.

He smiled.  Thoughts of Scully were just about the only thing 
keeping him sane.  He didn't have a lot to hold onto at the 
moment, but hopefully she would be enough.  He had to believe 
that she'd find him or he'd go out of his mind.  

Possessing a special pipeline into the minds of sickos wasn't 
necessarily a good thing.  He had a pretty clear idea about what 
had happened to his predecessors and the thought of being 
next in line didn't sit too well.

Mulder tensed as he heard the door unlock.  He'd stopped trying 
to rush her.  His gun was always the first thing through the 
opening and moving closer would simply give her a larger target 
to hit.  He suspected the video monitor was right outside 
because she never entered unless he was on the bed or in the 
bathroom.  If she was watching every time he took a dump, he 
didn't know and didn't care.  He *was* fairly certain she kept 
close track of him, though.  It might not be easy to get the jump 
on her, but that didn't mean he was going to be caught 
unprepared if an opportunity arose.

Whatever it took to survive.  He had to focus on that.

She set the chair down and pulled the door shut behind her 
before walking any closer.  Mulder rolled off the far side of the 
mattress and stood with his back against the wall--another 
regular part of their routine which put him at a frustrating 
distance.  She never advanced more than halfway into the room 
until he was on the other side of it.  More evidence of prior 
experience.

"Hello, Beautiful Fox.  How are you today?"  Her smile 
acknowledged his existence without admitting the bizarre nature 
of the situation.  That smile was grating on his nerves more and 
more as the days went by.  He wasn't sure how she expected 
him to answer her question, but he was pretty sure it was purely 
rhetorical anyway.  She'd said the same thing every time she 
brought his breakfast, and that was the only thing she said.  If 
he talked to her, she simply smiled wider without responding.  
But so far, he'd only asked questions.  It was time to see what 
fitting into her dream world did.

Mulder suppressed his rising irritation and smiled back.  
"Breakfast looks good, Julie.  Did you make it yourself?"

She should have appeared surprised by his response.  For one 
thing, he'd never replied in quite that way before.  For another, 
she'd brought him an egg-muffin sandwich and hash brown 
patty, still enclosed in the fast food wrappers.  Anyone else 
would have been offended by his question.  Instead, Julie took it 
in her stride, like they had a similar conversation every day of 
the week.  The way she was able to fit everything into her 
fantasy creeped him out.  Anything that contradicted it would be 
ignored or rationalized.  Which would she do this time?

Neither.  She set his tray down on the bed and backed away to 
sit on the chair.  The ever-present gun, firmly gripped in one 
hand, perched on her knee while she waited for him to eat.  

This wasn't working any better than asking her where he was.  
A different approach.  "Do you have any special plans for 
today?"  

No answer, but her smile got bigger.  Mulder hated when she 
did that.  Keep trying.  "Tell me about your week.  How was 
work?"

Still no answer.  What was going on inside her head?  Was she 
incorporating his words into whatever weird scene she had 
running?  Did they register in her conscious mind at all or was 
his voice like the buzzing of a mosquito in a quiet room?  

Well, this mosquito was tired of being locked up and ignored.  
Mulder sat on the bed and unwrapped his meager breakfast.  At 
least he didn't feel nauseous.  With any luck, his food would 
stay down.  He had plans for all that energy.  The minute the 
door closed behind Julie, he'd return to bashing on the walls.  

His left foot was still in pretty good shape.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

J. Edgar Hoover building
Conference room 4B
Monday
3:22 PM

Scully looked at the photos once more.  It wasn't like she hadn't 
seen them dozens of times in the last two days, but she felt 
closer to Mulder while looking at them.  

God.  Mulder.  Why can't I find you?

The pink envelope addressed to her had been hiding in the 
stack of folders delivered on Friday.  She hadn't noticed it right 
away.  When she did, the blood literally drained from her face.  
She'd always heard that phrase, but she'd never actually felt it 
happen before.  

Skinner was suddenly at her side, supporting her by the elbow.  
She didn't remember standing up.  

He barked out a command to one of the other agents--she knew 
that much, but the words didn't register.  Latex-gloved hands 
reached to take the envelope from her grasp.  She automatically 
held on tighter.

"Let him have it, Agent," she heard Skinner say.  "We need to 
see what's inside."

She didn't want to see.  Except she did.  But she didn't.  What 
if they were pictures of Mulder, dead?  What if he was bleeding?  
Or skeletal from starvation?  What if--

Stop it!  Knowing would be better than speculating.

She released her hold without warning, causing the other agent 
pulling on the packet to stagger.  

Scully realized she was in shock.  She had to get a grip or 
Skinner wouldn't let her continue on the investigation.  They 
needed to see what was in the envelope, and this time she 
wouldn't be contaminating the evidence first.

"Sorry, Sir."  She straightened her shoulders and looked him in 
the eye.  "I'm fine."

Skinner nodded.  They stood side by side and watched Agent 
Janis carefully slit the envelope on one end, then pulled out 
several large photos.  He passed them to Skinner one at a time.  
Scully wondered when he'd put on latex gloves.  Skinner held 
the pictures out for her to see.  

It was Mulder.  He looked like he was asleep.  Or dead.  But she 
wouldn't think like that yet.  One hand was palm down on his 
bare chest, the other lying straight at his side.  She couldn't 
see his legs in the first one.  Or the second.  The poses were 
varied because of distance and angle, but some were full-length 
shots, some were torso-and-head only and others were facial 
close-ups.  In the longer shots, his boxers were different colors.  
So the pictures covered several days.  She couldn't say exactly 
how many, but certainly more than two or three.  Possibly every 
night since he'd gone missing.

There were certainly enough of them.  

Skinner caught her eye when he reached the end of the pile.  
"We need to send these to the lab, asap.  Have you seen 
enough?"

Scully wanted to say "no."  In fact, she wanted to scream it, to 
hug the photos to her chest and never let go.  She also knew 
the faster they were run through the lab, the better their 
chances of finding new evidence to work with.  So she said 
"Yes" instead.

The pictures were back in her hands in less than twenty-four 
hours.  She'd barely set them down since.

The print lab came through in record time, finding and matching 
several impressions, not only with the original photos, but with 
the syringe and the photos Captain Kinsner had sent from 
Kentucky.  There was no doubt in Scully's mind that they were 
dealing with the same kidnapper.  

Inside the Kentucky file were pictures just like the ones she was 
holding.  They'd been sent to the victim's girlfriend.  There was 
the name in the file, too.  They should have been able to do 
something with that.  Scully had arrogantly assumed Captain 
Kinsner's department simply neglected to look hard enough.  
After all, people didn't vanish without a trace when they left 
behind a name.  

Well, they did if the name was totally bogus.  The most 
rudimentary background check would have revealed the fake.  
The Paducah PD couldn't find what wasn't there.

Everyone had lost a little hope at that point.  They were 
continuing with their busy work and waiting for the results of the 
landlord's computer composite but morale was ebbing.  

Scully tried not to let it faze her.  Before, all they had was one 
missing agent and a bunch of pictures.  Now, they had an 
identical file and twice the evidence to work with.  As morbid as 
it sounded, the more victims they found, the better their 
chances of turning up a decent lead.

Slowly, she turned over each photograph, drinking in the sight of 
Mulder's face--the relaxed jaw, the smooth forehead, the closed 
eyes.  In the weeks since their relationship had blossomed into 
something deeper, she'd spent many hours watching him 
sleep.  She loved to sift her fingers through his hair while he 
drowsily tried to swat her hand away.  Mulder wasn't exactly a 
nervous sleeper, but years of late-night alarms had made him 
subconsciously aware of his surroundings.  In the photos, he 
looked peaceful.  He looked content.

Scully stopped leafing through them and brought one closer to 
her face.  He looked drugged.

She grabbed the pile of photos and fanned them out on the 
table.  Why hadn't she realized it before?  The colors were so 
clear, the photographer must have used a flash.  He'd never 
sleep through that.  He might have woken up after it went off, 
but it was obvious that some were taken in quick succession 
and Mulder remained asleep in every one of them.

He would only do that if he were unconscious.  The kidnapper 
must still be drugging him, and on a daily basis if the photos 
were anything to go by.  What if she was using the same thing 
he'd been injected with when he was kidnapped?  Those side 
effects... 

They flashed through her brain, a horrible slide show of what 
Mulder might be going through at that very moment.  Dizziness, 
blurred vision, nausea, muscle spasms, irregular heartbeat.  He 
could be having an allergic reaction or something totally 
unrelated to normal usage of each individual drug.  How was 
she giving it to him?  Was he still being injected?  Scully 
couldn't imagine Mulder putting up with that.  He'd fight back if 
he had the chance.  So he must be getting the drug through a 
different means, probably orally.  If the kidnapper was using the 
sedative concoction they'd found in the syringe, he was 
ingesting chemicals that weren't supposed to be administered 
together.  Who knew what it might be doing to Mulder, physically 
and psychologically?

They needed to find him.  

Scully looked around for Skinner but didn't see him in the room.  
He should know about this right away.  She didn't see how the 
information would help them at the moment, but it was another 
clue and they were sadly short on them.  She picked up the 
envelope to put the pictures back and stopped short.  

There was no stamp on the outside.  That was odd.  She turned 
the envelope over and checked the back.  Nope, not there 
either.  What did it mean?

Well, you couldn't mail anything without a stamp, so it wasn't 
mailed.  But it was addressed to her, in care of the J. Edgar 
Hoover Building.  Her title and full name, full address with city 
and zip code.  So why write all of that out if you didn't intend 
to mail it?

To make sure it was delivered by hand to the right person.

Her chair fell over with a crash as Scully leapt to her feet.  
The envelope was hand delivered.  Was the first one that Mulder 
got mailed?  

Everyone in the room was staring at her so she took advantage 
of it.  "Who has the first envelope?" she shouted.  "The one that 
Mulder received."  

Five seats down, Agent Pryzbyzki waved a piece of pink paper 
in the air.  Scully would have climbed over the people sitting 
next to her if it hadn't been passed along immediately.  She 
studied all four corners, front and back.

It hadn't been mailed, either.  It was fully addressed, just like 
hers, but there was no stamp or postmark.  Just like hers.  

She looked up and saw Skinner walk through the doorway, 
headed for the coffee pot.  She intercepted him halfway there.

"These envelopes were hand delivered," she said.

Skinner blinked for a moment, then nodded.  "It was in the lab 
report on both envelopes.  They never went through the mail 
system."  

"So who brought them into the building?"  

"They were probably handed in at the front desk."  He made a 
move to walk around her.  

She put a hand on his chest.  "Did anyone ask?"  

He stopped so fast he rocked on the balls of his feet.  "I don't 
know.  Isn't it in the report from the initial meeting?"

Scully shook her head.  She'd read that report so many times, 
she could remember almost everything in it.  There was no 
mention of interrogating the front desk clerks.  

Skinner strode to the nearest phone and snatched it up.  He 
punched a couple of buttons.  "Give me security."

While he was trying to get some answers, Scully rooted around 
in the photos on the table.  There was something else.  
Something she should have realized sooner.

"The shower photo," she said to no one in particular.  "Where's 
the one of Mulder in the shower?"

At first, she'd been embarrassed to think that other people were 
seeing Mulder's naked body, even if it was only from the back.  
Now, she didn't care who looked provided she could get her 
hands on a copy.  

Agent Hatter pulled one out of a pile and held it up.  She 
snatched at it, then studied the background of the picture, 
looking at it with new comprehension.  There were billows of 
steam curling around the edges of the photo, not close to 
Mulder's body, the way there would be in a shower stall or tub 
and shower combo.  It was chopped off by the frame.  She 
could see an unusual-looking faucet head above him, but she 
also thought she could make out another one farther down in 
the mist.  

He was in a public shower room.  Maybe a locker room.  And 
the photographer was *above* him.

The angle should have been obvious.  Mulder was visible from 
the backs of his knees to the top of his head--the crown of his 
head, not just the back of it.  If the picture had been taken from 
behind him, she'd only be able to see the rear of his head.  But 
she could actually see the end of his nose and the tops of his 
ears as he tilted his head back to wipe the hair from his face.  

Dear God, the kidnapper had been *inside the ceiling* of the 
shower room!  She'd opened a vent or something, well back 
from Mulder's position, and taken his picture.  How the hell did 
she get up there?  If they could find the right one, maybe there 
would be useable evidence left behind.

Skinner slammed the phone down and wiped a hand across the 
top of his head.  In Scully's experience, that was never a good 
sign.  The expression in his eyes was apologetic.  "They can't 
be completely sure, but it looks like the envelopes weren't 
turned in at the front desk."  She opened her mouth to ask a 
question but he held up his hand.  "A couple of the guards are 
off duty, but they checked the log book for incoming packages.  
There was nothing.  I'm sorry, Agent Scully.  I hoped we might 
get a description, or a time-frame for the security videos."  

"I think we've got something anyway, Sir," she replied.  The 
pieces were starting to drop into place, faster and faster, the 
more she thought.  If she was right, this could be a biggie.

Scully handed him the shower photo.  "Do you use any of the 
locker rooms in the building?"  

The frustrated look in his eyes changed to interested.  "A 
couple.  Why?"

"Does that one look familiar?"  

Skinner studied her for a moment before turning his attention to 
the photo.  She tried not to rush him, but it wasn't easy.

"It's hard to tell with all the steam, but it could be the one by 
the pool.  Mulder uses the pool, doesn't he?"

"Yes."  Scully explained about the angle of the photograph.

Skinner looked impressed.  "That means she has access to the 
Bureau pool," he said.  

"It means more than that," she replied, holding out the 
envelopes.  "Hand delivered, but not turned in at the front desk."  

Skinner's gaze jerked to Scully's face and she nodded 
solemnly.  

"She works here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End part 1 of 2