From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 38/41 NC-17

Date: 27 Feb 1996 11:11:43 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 38/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



__________________



     Mack watched the figure sleep, huddled fetal under the covers.

He'd had to remove an antique quilt from this bed when he came. 

Had to put away all the things that Mulder might bump into or throw

or use as a weapon against himself or against someone else.  He was

exhausted now, but he knew that if he went into his own bedroom

again, he would lie staring at the ceiling, body angled so that his

legs were comfortable in the confines of the sleighbed in his room.

He would not sleep.



     Mack had credited Jack Averman's portrait of Mulder as far as

it went, but had believed it overdrawn.  Now, staring at the

sleeping figure, the clutched fists even in sleep, Mack knew

Averman had tried to tell the facts straight, without

embellishment.



     Ingrid came in.  "Are you still going to keep him off the

drugs?" she asked quietly.



     Mack moved his legs from the ottoman.  Ingrid sat down.  "I'm

still strong enough to control him, so we don't need the powerful

tranqs.  And the other things I could give him would. . .he won't

trust me until he knows that I won't drug him," Mack said quietly.



     Ingrid nodded.  Mack wondered again who this woman was.  

There had to be some story here. Something.  



     "Do you think he will get better?"  Ingrid's voice shook Mack

out of a haze of exhaustion.



     "I don't know," Mack answered honestly.  "At this point I

don't know.  I know he wants to."



     Ingrid sighed.  "He is trying very hard."



     Mack nodded silently.  "It's good of Senator Matheson to give

him this opportunity.  He'd be in seclusion at any hospital,

probably full of neuroleptics."



     "Rick takes care of his family." Ingrid replied quietly. "And

his friends and his people.  He will do whatever he must to help

Mulder."



     "What group are you in?" Mack asked softly.



     Ingrid had been staring at her hands.  Now she looked up,

startled. "I'm his friend," she replied gently.  "One of his

oldest friends."









     He woke and his mouth was too dry even to smack his lips. 

Mulder stared at the bureau on the opposite wall, too tired to move

his head or focus.  



     He lay a long time, just staring, until he could concentrate.

Then moved cautiously, sat up, rubbed the tear crumbs from his

eyes.  It was full day, middle of the day.  Mack was asleep in the

big comfortable chair with the ottoman.  Mulder swallowed, glanced

at the corner between the wall and wardrobe.  Slid his feet out of

the bed.  



     His feet were quiet on the carpeted floor.  Most of the rooms

had hardwood floors.  His had carpeting.  Mulder wondered if his

bedroom had been chosen for its connecting door and carpeting. 

Mulder filled a glass with water and drank noisily.  Filled a

second glass.  When he looked up, Mack was standing in the door

way.  "Hey."



     "Hey." Mulder took long gulps of the tepid fluid. 



     "How are you feeling?"



     "I'm okay."  He was tired and he ached and his head hurt and

his hands hurt and he was still sleepy.



     "Do you remember last night?"



     Mulder stared at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.



     "Averman said that sometimes you don't."



     Mulder considered the glass in his hands, the smooth

roundness.  Considered how it would feel dashed against the

bathroom counter.  How the slivers would feel as they were 

imbedded in his hands.  He closed his eyes.  "I remember that I was 

dreaming about Jon and then bad things started happening," Mulder 

replied.  "I remember being scared."



     Throw the glass and before Mack can get to you you can already

have felt the sharp slivers of glass and be part of the sharp

physical pain that will carry you past the aching, unendurable

misery that rises in your chest.



     He felt Mack's closeness.  Felt Mack's hands on his, gentle,

not forcing.  Not making.  Mulder let Mack have the glass.



     "Do you feel like going into the kitchen or would you rather

curl up in bed and eat?"  Mack's voice didn't change.  Mulder

opened his eyes.  Mack had the glass, but he hadn't changed stance

or mood. 



     "I. . .want to go outside."  Mulder surprised himself.  He

wanted to be out in the summer heat.



     Mack nodded.  "Can you take a bath by yourself, today?" 



     The today made it easier to swallow, to admit the truth. 

Mulder shook his head.  He was too tired.  He wanted to take a

long, hot shower.  He was scared of being alone.  



     "Do you want a bath or a shower?"



     Mulder considered this.  "I want a shower."



     "Okay.  I'll get the water right and you can take your

shower."



     He showered with Mack in and out of the bathroom, getting his

clothes laid out on the bed, doing this and that, laying out all

the medical supplies, talking to Ingrid.  Showered long and slow. 

There was shower soap on the neck of the showerhead, so he didn't

have to bend down, didn't have to worry about the slick smooth bar

falling out of his hands.  He washed his hair, feeling the soap

slide down over his achy body.  Feeling it seep into the scabs on

his head and his hands stung with biting pain.  .



     Mack had a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, underwear.  Mulder put

it on, put on his tennis shoes and socks, wandered into Mack's

room, hair still wet, slicked to his head. "Did you think it would

be like this?" he asked, sitting down on Mack's bed, letting his

hands and wrists be cared for.  No more bandages, just some salves.



     Mack went into the bathroom for some more water and the

electric razor that Mulder was simply too tired to use himself. 

When he came back he answered.  "No."



     Mulder nodded and took his pills.

     







     A soft boiled egg, soft, buttery toast with the crust cut

off.  Mulder ate on the wide, covered porch, staring past the

screening.  He was sleepy, but the heat was warm and palatable. He

stretched out on an iron swing, dandelion yellow paint flaking in

a worn patina. Bright canvas pillows made the sharp places soft and

cushioned his head as he sat watching the hot afternoon, as the

ceiling fan stirred the air.  Mack sat on the other end of the back

porch, absorbed in his book. 



     Mulder found himself thinking about Meyers.  It hurt to think

about it.  Meyers had gone down into the filthy warm water.  Meyers

had gone down and pulled Mulder free.  Meyers had been so young. 

Mulder remembered teasing Meyers, helping Meyers with his notes. 

Oh God.



     It wasn't the first time he'd gotten some one killed.  With

John Barnett.  His fault.  The little therapist they'd sent him to

until he played their word games good enough that everyone thought

he was all right.  And there was always Sam.  Always and forever. 

The memory of his father's belt made Mulder start from his warm

drowse in the swing.  



     "Anything wrong?"  Mack might be absorbed but he was keeping

an open ear.



     Mulder swallowed and shook his head.  Closed his eyes.  Frito

was somewhere in California in the same shape as Mulder. He pushed

his head against the brightly colored pillow again.



     It hurt so fucking bad.  It hurt and it hurt and it filled him

with pain.  Mulder didn't know if he could ever fill the hurt and

ache inside him.  He pressed his face against the warm metal back

of the swing and wished he were dead.  Just dead.  Dead and nothing

would ever, ever matter again.  Everything would be all right.  

     







     "Hey."  Mack's voice was soft.  Mulder looked around confused.

It was beginning to get dark now.  



     "Ingrid's pastor is here.  Visiting.  We're going to go in and

just say hello.  Then get you ready for bed.  Ingrid made you some

bread pudding."  Mack rubbed his shoulder gently, helped him up. 



     He felt as though the meeting were on a planet distant to him.

He was alone in his world, alone and the words from the world

Ingrid and Mack and Brother Rick Miles inhabited echoed through

ancient crystal radio kits before they were heard and interpreted. 

Brother Miles seemed quite in awe of the FBI agent, the hero who

had been kidnapped by the Baby Butcher.



     "Jon wasn't a butcher."  Mulder found his voice, as Mack laid

out his night clothes.



     "Hmm?"  Mack came back from his own room, had Mulder's drugs. 

There was glass of sweet tea on Mulder's bedside table.  



     "Jon wasn't a butcher.  He was trying to help those kids."



     Mack nodded, handed Mulder his pills.  Tylenol and

antibiotics.  Vitamins.  



     "That preacher thinks that people go to heaven when they die,"

Mulder said, swallowing the pills.  "Jon just believed it more than

most people.  He didn't want anyone to be hurt.  In heaven, no one

is hurt.  He. . .he just wanted me to go to heaven with him."



     "Can you change clothes on your own?" Mack's voice was soft.



     Mulder nodded.  



     "He wanted to see his brothers and sisters.  He said Sam was

in heaven.  He thought she had to be.  It was all my fault."



     "Being kidnapped?"  Mack didn't hide the disbelief in his

voice.



     "No. Sam."  Mulder yawned, finished pulling off his tennis

shoes.  "Samantha.  I let them kidnap her."



     "No, you didn't.  She was kidnapped and you were too small to

do anything."



     Mulder stared at Mack, tilted his head to one side.  "Mom and

Dad wouldn't have left me with her if I weren't big enough to take

care of Samantha.  I was big enough.  But I didn't protect her well

enough."  He pulled off his shirt and shorts. 



     Mack swallowed.  "I know you think that.  I know.  But,

Mulder, I don't think that.  And everyone else who knows about your

sister's disappearance doesn't think that way."



     "My Dad said it was my fault.  It was.  He wouldn't talk about

it.  But he hit me.  He hit me because I lost her."  Mulder put on

his ratty old FBI t-shirt and a pair of jersey shorts.  



     "Okay.  Why don't you go into my room.  There's a TV in there

and a VCR.  You can put in a tape or whatever. I'm going to get you

some supper," Mack offered.  "I don't know why your dad hit you. 

If he blamed you it was because he was hurt too.  Not because it

was your fault."



     Mulder bit his lip.  "I don't think this is going to work," he

muttered.  "I'm sorry."



     Mack stopped his movement, putting Mulder's clothes into a

hamper behind the door.  "What?" he asked.



     "I think I need to go to the hospital.  I think that would be

best.  They'll drug me.  Won't they?"  Mulder asked, staring hard

at Mack.



     Mack swallowed, nodded.



     "If they drug me, I won't have to think.  I won't have to

remember.  I just want to curl up somewhere and not have to think. 

I killed Meyers and I lost Sam.  I killed them.  And Sam is crazy

and Jon is dead.  I didn't want to die.  I spent so much energy

trying not to die.  Trying to be okay.  But I shouldn't have.  Jon

was right.  He didn't know it, and he didn't understand this, but

he was right. "



     Mack's voice was very soft and low now.  "What was Jon right

about, Fox?"



     Mulder closed his eyes, pulled his knees up onto the bed with

him.  Shook his head.  



     "Jon was trying to kill you."



     "I know.  He was right.  If I go to a hospital, it'll be

forever."



     He felt Mack's closeness, felt the other man displace the

surface of the bed.  "Jon wasn't right.  Jon was hurting."



     "I'm hurting."  The words burst out with a sob.  "I just want

to go away.  *I don't care* if there's a heaven or if we just die. 

I just want it to be over."  He trembled with the force of the pain

inside him.  "Meyers is dead and Sam is crazy.  And I just wish I

were dead too."   It was a child's statement, and Mulder knew he

shouldn't have made it.  Shouldn't have told Mack anything.  But it

was so hard not to.  So hard to be quiet.  So hard to think not to.



     Mack was suddenly there.  Rocking him, the way you do a little

kid.  "I know it hurts."  The voice was gentle.  "I know it does. 

I know.  But you're trying.  You're trying sooo hard.  That's what

you have to do.  You have to try."



     Mulder pushed away from the warmth and the comfort, but Mack

wouldn't let him go.  Mulder made a small scream, not wanting the

warmth, the gentleness.  



     "Do you want to take something so it won't hurt so bad?"  Mack

not letting go, not forcing Mulder into the cocoon of safeness.



     "No," Mulder replied, and the No echoed into a soft howl.



     "I can give you something."



     "I doan' wan' it."



     "Okay," Mack agreed.  "Okay.  I'm just going to stay with

you.  Okay?"



     "I wanna' go to bed."



     Mack sighed.  "Okay.  Let's leave on the back lamp and I'll

sit and read."  It was not a question and Mulder sensed it was not

open to debate.  Mack pulled the covers down and Mulder scooted

back until he could push down against the smooth cotton, be tucked

in.  



     He lay there, staring at the wall, watching as Mack went in

and out and came in with some paper and a notebook and that damn

Stephen King novel.  



     Lay there in his misery, not thinking, not sure what he was

doing.  



     "If I ask you won't make me?" he asked.  Mack looked up,

startled.



     "If you ask what?"



     "If I want some Valium.  Not a lot.  You won't make me next

time?'



     "No.  I won't make you unless I can't control you.  If you're

going to hurt yourself and I can't stop you, then I have to.  Other

than that, no.  I won't ever make you take anything."



     That was fair.  Mulder nodded.  



     "Do you want some Valium?"



     Mulder considered saying no.  But he shook his head yes. 



     Mack helped him sit up to drink the water.  And the pill made

it easier, made everything hurt less.

     









     She was nice.  Soft spoken.  She was slow and careful and she

didn't tell Mulder anything.  They took blood and pee and then Dr.

Walters examined him, listened to his lungs and looked at his hands

and wanted to know about how he felt, what he was eating, she

looked down his throat and into his ears and eyes and told him to

get dressed while she talked to Mack outside.  



     "She said you need feeding," Mack said when Mulder emerged,

dressed.  They walked through the cheap paneled hallway of the

clinic, went by the desk.  The girl behind the counter wore skin

tight blue jeans and a brightly patterned shirt with mother of

pearl snap buttons.  "She wants to see Fox in a week."  The girl

addressed Mack.  "So next Monday?  At eleven again?"



     Mack nodded.  "Yeah."



     "Okay."  The girl wrote the appointment down on a card and

they left.  There was no bill.  Not given to them then anyway.  



     "That's it?" Mulder asked, getting into the Bronco.



     "Well, you're malnourished and anemic.  Your throat is raw,

and your hands are healing."



     "Why didn't she tell me?" Mulder persisted.



     "Because I told her that you might not be very aware.  You are

sometimes and you aren't sometimes."



     "I didn't wake you up last night."  Mulder said softly.



     Mack stopped at a red light, glanced over at Mulder curiously.

"Do you want to stop and buy anything?"



     "Like what?"



     "I don't know."  Mack shrugged.  "Did you have a bad dream

last night?"



     Mulder shrugged.  



     "I need to know when you have bad dreams."



     Mulder didn't reply.  He stared at the streets of the small

town, watched the people coming and going. 



     "Well, she wants us to keep track of everything you eat.  She

doesn't think you're getting enough calories."  Mack drove

carefully through the traffic.  "Ingrid's not going to be in when

we come home.  Why don't we stop at the DQ and grab some lunch?"



     Mulder shrugged.  "As long as you don't get steakfingers."  



     Mack recognized an internal joke.  "There's a MacDonald's here

too, but I'd rather take you to DQ, they make slushes."



     "No.  DQ's fine.  But Jon took me to a DQ. . .I told the cops

who I was and they thought I was a mental patient."  Mulder glanced

at Mack.  "I know I look like one."



     "You look like someone who's been sick a long time," Mack

responded automatically.  Although he knew that Mulder had it

pegged.  



     "At least I'm not wandering through a Thorazine haze," Mulder

said mirthlessly as they pulled into the parking lot. 



     The DQ was crowded.  Farmers and houseworkers and the dirt

poor hill people.  "How about a milkshake?" Mulder suggested.



     Mack shook his head.  



     "Cherry Limeaide then," Mulder said. "I'll go grab a booth."



     He took a seat against the window, watched a woman with her

kids in the booth across from him.  She stared resentfully at

Mulder in his ragged Nike running shoes and OP shorts and his Polo

shirt and his Seiko watch.  She and her kids were dressed in

thriftstore, Walmart seconds.  The oldest little girl seemed to be

drawing most of the young mother's ire.  In the flat, tones of the

hill country, she complained at the child's every move.  Mulder

watched, staring at the poor, uneducated woman, fascinated as

though she were a snake.



     Mack came back with a the drinks.



     "If I fight you and win can I have your burger?"  Mulder

asked.



     "Oh sure," Mack replied, grinning.  "Sure."



     The scents were strong and greasy and it smelled wonderful. 

Mulder sipped his slush and the mother's hand reached out and

slapped her little girl across the face.  Mack's hand was under the

table and firm and hard and holding his knee.  "Don't," he

cautioned.  Mulder stared hard at Mack.



     The little girl started to cry but held her sniffles hard. 

"Do you want some more of that?" the mother said loudly.  Other

people were watching now, too.



     The little girl muttered her dissent.  And the baby beside the

mother began wailing.  The mother ignored her child.  Mack's hand

was firm on Mulder's knee and he was watching Mulder closely.  "Do

we need to leave?" he asked in a whisper.



     Mulder said nothing.  



     Another slap and then the mother began fussing with the baby,

rough and uncaring and tired and the little girl sat beside her

younger siblings and tried not to cry.  



     "Come on," Mack said.



     They left the red plastic marker and Mulder left his cherry

limeaide and inside the Bronco Mulder huddled against the seat and

said nothing, would not speak.  



     Mack made it out of town before he realized what Mulder was

doing, what he was doing underneath the soundless tears.  He pulled

off onto a culvert that led into the forest, a log truck road long

deserted and pulled Mulder's hand away from his face, stared at the

blood that welled from the bite marks in an ovoid of pain.  Mulder

didn't say anything just tried to jerk away.  The tears became

sobs.  Mack undid Mulder's seat belt, reached behind the seat and

brought up a backpack.  "I know you're upset.  I know," Mack began

gently, softly.  Mulder reached at the door, couldn't pull it open.

"Mulder, calm down.  I'm just going to put some bandages and some

tape on the wound.  But you have to promise me you won't do

anything else."



     Mulder didn't speak, couldn't speak.  



     He heard sounds of paper ripping.  



     "You said you wouldn't drug me."  Mulder found the words, as

he began sobbing loudly.  



     "Then you have to talk to me.  I can't drive home with you

like this.  Mack finished pulling liquid into a needle.  "This is

just Valium, a heavier dosage of what you took last night."



     "I don't want it."  Mulder tried to scream through his panic

and his tears.  "Please.  Please don't make me."



     "I won't."  Mack sighed and put the syringe down on the dash. 

"You've got to help me out."



     "Why did she hit her?  Why do they hit?  I helped them kill

Jonathan.  What did he do that was so much more wrong than that

woman?  Jon loved those kids.  I helped them find him and he's dead

and the woman is still making babies and still hitting her kids and

it isn't fair. . ."



     "I know.  I know.  It isn't fair and it isn't right, but there

wasn't anything you could do."



     "He used to hit me and we'd go to the emergency room.  Momma

would take me and the nurses were always nice.  But nobody ever 

did anything.  I always went back home.  I don't understand.  I don't

understand.  After Sam he hit me because I lost her.  But I didn't

do *anything* then.  And he would just get mad at me. . ."  Mulder

sobbed and choked.  "It hurts so bad. . .I don't understand. . ." 



     "It hurts and when you hurt yourself you didn't feel it so

much did you?"



     "No," Mulder answered.  The biting had carried him past it,

as long as Mack had let him.



     Mack sighed.  "Okay.  Let me put something over your bite. 

We'll go home.  If you try to hurt yourself again, I have to give

you the Valium.  Not because I want to.  I don't.  I don't like

doing it.  But I can't let you hurt yourself."



     Mack's hand was firm and gentle and he pulled the soft cotton

of a handkerchief over Mulder's wound.  



     "I'm sorry."  Mulder sniffled as Mack reached over and slipped

the seatbelt back around him.



     "It's okay," Mack replied.  "I didn't like having to sit there

either.  When we get back in you'll have to drink a protein drink."



     Mulder made a face.  



     "The doctor. . .she wanted you in a hospital.  That's why she

wouldn't talk to you."  Mack sighed.  "You haven't gained any

weight since you came here.  You've got to gain some weight."



     Mulder took a deep breath.  "It's hard.  There are so many

things I've got to do.  I've got to get better.  I've got to gain

weight. . ."



     "You're not fighting it alone, at least.  You've got me.  And

Ingrid.  And Matheson.  We're all going to do everything we can to

help."

     

  





     He drank the protein drink, ate a small bowl of rice pudding. 

Went onto the porch and curled up in the swing.  It was hot.  Damn

hot.  But Mulder found he didn't care.  The warmth was like a

comforting blanket.  Mack was unobtrusively close, munching on a

chicken wing as he pulled out his novel.  



     "Is this what you do?"  Mulder asked, inspecting the bandage

of gauze and tape that Mack had laid over the wound on his arm.



     Mack did not answer immediately.  "Yes," he said finally.  



     Mulder sat a moment, staring at the smooth cleanliness of the

loose loomed cloth. Somewhere inside he was listening to a woman

slap her child.  "Why?"



     "Because it's good work.  Because I like helping people."



     Mulder mulled this answer for a while.  There were things he

could say, comments he could make, openings into his own life that

he could give Mack, but he was clearly conscious of the fact that

once he said them, once they were open and clear, he was stuck with

it, with Mack knowing and, ultimately, with the Senator knowing. 

He kept his mouth shut and pushed himself down the swing until a

good bit of his leg was over the wide, curving side of the iron

swing, and his head was against the hot canvas pillow.  



     





     The whimpers were soft and pathetic.  Mack watched Mulder's

pass through REM begin and swallowed, felt his stomach turn leaps. 

The whimpers and biting lips.  Mulder turned and twisted on the

swing, hands deforming themselves into tiny, hard little balls, his

nails digging and biting the smooth surface of palm.



     Mack was there, kneeling beside his charge, trying to convince

him to "wake up. Shh.  Man, come on.  Wake up.  Wake up.  It's

okay."



     Mulder inhaled a deep, ragged gasp of air and sat up, eyes

wide.  He exhaled and stared at something horrifying in his dreams.

The next draw of breath contained all the pain that had been

building inside him.  A jagged sob rose in his throat.  



     Mack slid himself onto the edge of the swing, grabbed Mulder's

shoulders.  Mulder twisted, pulled away, the sobs were louder and

grating.  His hazel eyes revealed nothing of awareness or of

sanity.  Mack swallowed.  Mulder pulled his knees to his chin,

wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, began rocking.  No

screams.



     Mulder fought Mack's hands for a while, fought without

cognition of what he was fighting.  Sobbing and twisting to get

away. Terrified of something that had chased him up from his 

dreams

to here in the bright sunlight where most nightmares must die. When

he finally stopped fighting, he knew where he was, knew what had

happened.  He tensed, feeling Mack's hands on his wrists, Mack's

concern.  "I'm okay," he whispered under the ragged, echoing sobs.



     "I know."  Mack's voice was gentle.  



     Mulder put his face down in the small valley between his

knees and his torso.  "I'm sorry.  I'm crazy, I think.  Aren't I?"



     "You're going through a rough time.  Mulder, this wouldn't be

any easier anywhere else."



     "I wouldn't know. I wouldn't be aware.  They'd drug me first

and then do ECT and I wouldn't know.  It would be all over.  I'm

tired. . ."  Mulder broke off into sobs.  "I'm so tired.  I'm sorry

Meyers died.  I wish it had been me.  I wish they hadn't found us

until it was all over.  Meyers shouldn't have died.  It was my

fault.  Oh God, I wish I could have gone to his funeral.  His

family must think I don't care."  Painful breaths and sobs that

were as loud as his voice could give.  



     Mack rubbed Mulder's shoulder comfortingly.  Oh shit.  Mack

knew where all this had been leading, knew and had hoped it would

turn away.  Yeah right.  



     "You're fighting.  That's all that counts right now.  You're

fighting.  Don't give up.  You can't give up," Mack said.  He'd

meant it as a placation, but as soon as he said it he knew it was

true.  "If you give up then Meyers doesn't count.  As long as you

don't give up, it counts."  It was a small pathetic thing to say. 

But it was all Mack could think of that was true.  He sighed and

rubbed Mulder's back in gentle circles, let Mulder cry.  



     There was more bread pudding for supper.  And another protein

drink.  "Why don't you just feed me sweetened condensed milk?"

Mulder asked sarcastically, sitting on Mack's bed, in front of the

TV.





     "You wouldn't keep it down," Mack replied without thinking.

"What's on tonight, anyway?"



     "Monday night. . .I dunno.  I don't watch much TV."  Mulder

sighed as Mack flipped through channels.  He looked through the

local paper for channels.  "You seen The Untouchables yet?"



     "Not yet."  Mack looked up from his place on the floor,

glanced over Mulder's shoulder at the advertisements for movies. 

Untouchables, Cinema 6.  "You think you're strong enough or well

enough to go to the theater?"



     "Not right now.  But I might in a few days."  Mulder slid him

the entertainment page.  "Kevin Costner as Eliot Ness. . .I dunno.

. .he looks like a Hoover man and all, but he's just so. . ."



     Mack snorted.  "I'm surprised they don't have you on

recruiting posters.  Probably scared they'll attract too many

fags."



     "Oh, like Hoover's lingerie collection wouldn't have that

effect," Mulder replied, picking up his bowl to eat.  Mack settled

the channel on ESPN.  They watched a forgettable baseball game,

absorbed in the timeless, forgiving patterns of play.



Continued in part 39..................





=====================================================================

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 39/41 NC-17

Date: 28 Feb 1996 06:21:20 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 39/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



_______________________



     "Hey man."  Averman's voice was steady, unwavering.  Mulder

smiled at Mack, adjusted his grip on the cordless.



     "Hey.  How are things on the task force?"



     "Just about to wrap up.  I did Meyers' funeral. His family. .

.they're proud of him."



     "Oh."  Mulder swallowed.  



     "I hear you're not having an easy time of things."



     "No.  Not really."  Mulder curled up in his chair in the den,

watched as Mack left the room.  "I'm so fucking hungry, Jack, if

you could smuggle me a pizza. . ."



     Averman's laugh was full.  "And get Senator Matheson mad at

*me*?  Haven't you learned that the first thing they teach you when

you get to be a supervisor is how to cover your own ass?"



     "How's Sam?"



     "I talked to Jenni yesterday.  She said being with his

family's helping Sam a lot."



     "That's good."



     "When I get out of this, I'm taking a vacation, I'll come see

you."



     "And bring a pizza."



     "You have entirely too much of a one track mind."



     "Yeah."  Mulder sat a moment.  "Did Matheson tell you what's

going on?"



     "Some.  He said Mack told him you're having nightmares, a lot

of them.  And some self-destructive behavior.  Mulder, they're not

going to lock you away."





     "Is this reassurance?" Mulder found himself asking, without

any humour in his voice.



     "I don't know.  What's been happening?"



     "Oh. . .just. . ."  Mulder put his head back against the

chair.  "I have bad dreams.  And sometimes it hurts.  It hurts so

bad I don't know what to do.  It hurts and if I hurt myself I don't

feel the emotional hurt so much."



     "I don't know what to tell you.  I know it hurts sometimes. Do

you think it'll get any better?"



     "I don't know.  I hope so.  I'm trying."  Mulder frowned. 

"What did you do when your wife died?"



     "I prayed sometimes and sometimes I yelled at God.  And I

cried. . .I had my kids and I had to act strong for them, but it

was hard sometimes.  But it gets better.  You. . .sometimes it

doesn't seem like it, but as long as you keep struggling, it gets

better.  You just keep getting up and putting on your clothes and

one day you realize you haven't felt like the world's already ended

for several days."



     Mulder sat, staring straight ahead.  "I see Jon in my dreams. 

Sometimes it scares me and sometimes I'm glad."



     







     The monitor Ingrid brought in was white with powder puff blue

edges.  Rounded, nothing sharp. The words printed on the front of

the transmitter base said "Fisher-Price."  Mack plugged the base in

by moving the bed and then sliding underneath on his stomach. 

Batteries for the receiver.  It was a baby monitor.  



     Mulder said nothing, just bit his lip, stared at Mack as he

tested the system out.  Sat on his bed with knees almost at his

face.



     "I'm sorry," he said, when Mack came in.  



     Mack sighed.  "It's just to help me.  It's not such a big

deal.  We'll get rid of it as soon as we can."



     Mulder closed his eyes.  "I'm trying so hard, but it's not

helping."



     "It'll get better," Mack replied as if by rote.



     "Is this all you do?"



     "What do you mean?"



     "I mean, all you do is take care of people who are losing it?"



     Mack gave a small frown.  "I guess you could say that."



     "Do some of them go into hospitals?"



     "Some of them.  Some of them are coming out of hospitals.  And

we avoid hospitals for some," Mack admitted.



     "Am I better or worse than most of them."



     "That's not a fair question."



     "Yes it is.  You don't want to tell me."



     "No.  It's not a fair question."



     "Okay.  Those that went into hospitals, that you couldn't

avoid hospitals.  Am I better than they were?"



     "Mulder, that's still not a fair question."



     "Clinically I'm suffering from Chronic PTSD, delayed onset

with the added diagnosis of major reactive depression.  My level of

functioning is very low.  I can't take care of myself adequately

and I have periods of destructive behavior.  I'm not. . .if I

killed someone the court would never get a conviction.  If you took

it before a judge you could get a long-term committal.  You've sent

people to hospitals who had higher levels of function than I do." 

It was not a question.



     "Mulder, yes, I have.  But they were people with diagnoses of

psychoses or who've suffered from long term clinical depression

for years.  You're not like that.  Okay, admittedly, you have a

very low level of functioning right now, but you're not psychotic. 

You've had to deal with some incredibly extreme stressors.  Yes,

you're having problems dealing with it.  But I know you've dealt

with the PTSD for a long time and the depression, is as you noted,

part of the grieving process.  If we wait this out and you keep

trying you'll get better."



     "So I've had PTSD for a long time.  So?  There are veterans in

the back corridors of VA wet-brain wards who managed their PTSD a

long time before it claimed them."



     Mack took a deep breath and released it.  "Yes.  I know that. 

Look, the possibility exists that you won't be able to function in

your old circumstances.  Yes, the possibility exists that you'll

need some sort of long term care.  But I don't think it's a large

possibility and neither does the Senator.  You don't have to be

well tomorrow.  You have a luxury that a lot of people who don't

make it don't have.  You have as much time as you need.  You have

people who are willing to do whatever it takes to get you better.

You are getting better.  It's going to be in small steps and it's

going to be frustrating as hell, but you will do it.  You've got

to."



     "Yeah, well, Matheson would probably have my butt if I didn't.

God only knows what kind of blackmail he had to use," Mulder

replied, trying to smile.



     Mack returned the smile.  "For what it's worth, I think you're

going to be okay.  I don't think you need to be given Thorazine or

ECT.  I think you just need some time to recover.  Just time and 

quiet.  You have a lot to overcome, but it's entirely

overcomeable."



     Mulder sighed.  



     "You won't know if you can make it until you've tried. There's

no way to know.  You may not make it, but at least you'll have gone

down fighting.  There's honor in that."



     Mulder chewed his lip a moment.  Looked at Mack.  "I'll try. 

But you know it's hard."



     "Yeah.  I know."  Mack smiled honestly.  "Come on.  You need

to get ready for bed."









     Mulder slipped into his chair at the kitchen table, staring

pointedly at Mack's coffee.  Mack put up his paper.  "Sorry," he

said, taking a sip.  "Not yet.  In a few more days maybe.  The

caffeine. . ."



     "The caffeine's why I want it," Mulder replied as Ingrid slid

a coddled egg and soft toast before him.  "I'm still sleepy."



     "Then go back to bed."



     "I'm hungry too."  Last night, he'd woken, in tears.  Mack had

been there with a glass of water and when Mulder asked, there'd

been a Valium that eased the ache and pain and the sure knowledge

that he had betrayed Jon and Meyers and Sam, let him go back to

sleep.



     "You have an appointment with Dr. Reid this afternoon," Mack

said casually, watching Mulder push egg onto the spear of his fork.



     Mulder held onto the fork, motionless, staring down at the

white surface of plate.  After a moment he spoke.  "No.  I'm not

going." 



     "Senator Matheson made the appointment.  There really isn't a

choice."



     "I said I'm not going."  Mulder looked at Mack.  "I don't want

to see anymore shrinks.  I'm tired.  I don't have the strength to

play their mind games."



     Mack put his coffee down and rubbed his chin.  "Look, Dr. Reid

knows about your case.  He's not going to be like Dr. Guiterriez

was.  He won't have you put into a hospital, no matter what you

tell him.  He won't do anything other than listen.  He's safe. 

He'll just help you."



     "No."  Mulder kept his voice firm.  "No."



     "Mulder, look, you need someone to talk to.  You need someone

desperately."



     "I'm not going."  The voice went up a notch.



     "Mulder, it really isn't a choice.  It's just something you

have to do."



     "I'm not going!"  There were tears behind the words now. 

Mulder clutched the fork like a weapon.   



     "Look, go this one time and then I'll call Matheson and you

can explain it to him.  Matheson's the one who gave out the orders.

I'm just a lackey this time."



     "What have you told him about me?"



     "Reid?  He just. . ."



     "The Senator?"  Mulder shut his eyes, not wanting to cry.



     "Just that you have bad nightmares and that you've had a

couple of destructive incidents."



     "I don't want to go!"  His voice rose.  Mulder stood. 



     Mack sighed.  "Mulder, don't get upset.  There's nothing to

get upset about.  No one's going to use anything you say to do

anything.  I promise.  It's going to be okay."



     "No."  Mulder dropped his fork and left the egg half-eaten,

went back to his room.



     







     It was quiet in his room.  Mulder was miserable, nose stuffed

up from crying.  Mack had let him be, mostly.  Sat in the

overstuffed easy chair, gave him a cool washcloth.  Mulder sucked

on one corner of the soft blue terry material.  He was trying, he

was trying so hard, and everyone kept tossing landmines in his way.



     Mack's shadow passed over him.  Water, with ice.  



     Mulder rolled to his back and sat up.  He wanted to refuse,

but he was so fucking thirsty.  His hands grasped the slimy

surface.  A plastic cup.  Mack had replaced the glasses in the

bathroom with plastic cups.  They looked almost like glass.  He

wasn't trusted with glass.  Mulder drank greedily.  



     When he was done, he let Mack have the glass back.



     "More?" the older man asked seriously.



     Mulder nodded.  



     Mack went to the restroom, filled the glass again, came back. 

Mulder drained this glass, was sated.



     "I can't change this," Mack informed Mulder sadly.  "If I

could, I would.  I tried.  Dr. Reid said he would come here, if

you're not feeling well enough to go there.

  

     "I'm scared."  Mulder's words were soft.  "I'm so scared.  You

don't know how scary this is."



     "Mulder, the man's just a psychologist. You've got a PhD from

fucking Oxford.  His is from Podunk U."



     "*He* can make phone calls.  *He* can recommend committal to

Matheson," Mulder replied.



     Mack paused.  Mulder  got the distinct impression he was

counting to ten.  "Mulder, look.  This is as close to a hospital as

you're going to get.  Everyone already knows you need to be

committed.  That's not even a question in *anyone's* mind, not even

yours.  Reid's been briefed on the situation. He already knows you

have. . .periods of being out of control.  He knows you have

screaming meamies of nightmares.  You could tell him all about the

fifty two different ways you have planned out to kill yourself and

this guy's not going to recommend committal."



     "I *know* I'm not being rational," Mulder spat out angrily. 

"I know.  But I'm scared."  He fell back against the pillows. 

Curled up on his side.



     "Are you going to keep fighting this?" Mack asked.  



     Mulder did not reply.  Just closed his eyes.  "You give me

this little illusion that I have some say.  You don't drug me

unless I'm hurting myself, you let me do what I want to during the

day so long as there are plenty of naps.  But the truth is that I

have to do what everyone says to do.  The truth is that I'm too

sick to make decisions for myself.  It may be the truth. . ." Mulder

paused, choking on the pattern of tears that coursed the redness of

his throat.  "But I don't have to like that truth."  The tears and

the sobs overwhelmed him again.



     Jonathan had said he kept finding people to hurt him.



     He felt Mack's hand gentle on his hair.  Mulder was torn

between wanting the comfort and being mad that he needed the

comfort.



     "I'll call and tell him to come down.  He'll be here around

6:30."  Mack's voice was soft and infinitely sad.  He took the

washcloth from where it lay on the bedspread, went and rewet it for

Mulder.  Handed it back to the agent.

     







     Ingrid brought him crackers and vegetable soup on a tray, set

it beside him.  "Come on," she ordered.



     "I don't want it."



     "I know.  You still have to eat it."



     Mulder swallowed.



     "Mulder.  Dr. Walters has given me a specific amount of

calories you've got to eat everyday."  Ingrid's voice was soft,

regretful.  "You haven't eaten that amount any day since she gave

it to me.  We've got to get some food down you, even if you *don't*

feel like it.  You've got to be getting hungry for some of the

things that are in this."



     Mulder stared at Ingrid.  "I'm tired of what I *have* to do." 



     Ingrid sighed. "You don't feel like you can breathe, do you?"



     He nodded.



     "I know.  It feels. . .you'd be happy to stop fighting

sometimes.  Just give in.  Then people wouldn't expect anything of

you. " Ingrid's hand was cool against his brow.  "I know.  There's

no magic words to ease that.  I know it's hard.  Come on, sit up."



     Mulder pushed himself into a sit.  The soup was rich and full

of old noodles and occasional bits of tomato.  The faint smell of

beef.  Potatoes and snap beans.  A couple of peas and pintos.  A

few pieces of corn.   Despite himself, Mulder felt his glands

water.  The smell of beef had been a trigger for his nausea for so

long.  The smell of cooked flesh.  He tried himself, tried his

body, waiting for the reaction.  Nothing.  It just smelled like

vegetable soup.  Just plain old, ordinary vegetable soup.  And

didn't smell half bad either.  There were saltines and a slice of

white bread on the side and a tall glass of iced tea, which was

very bad for him, but Ingrid kept letting him have it.



     It looked pretty damn good, in fact.  He stared at Ingrid.

Swallowed.  He didn't think he would cry over something like this. 

Didn't think that at all.  And yet, there he was, the tears were

trickling down his face.  He had to give in on this.  He had to. 

It didn't make it easy or all right.



     It didn't keep his stomach from churning with the force of his

tears.



     But he ate.  And it tasted wonderful.



     





     6:45.  Mulder stared at the overly tall man sitting across

from him.  He had a nice face, kind eyes.  Taller than Mulder, and

probably skinny for most of his life, although now he was widening

across the waist.  Thick blonde hair, tending now to grey, thatched

his almost angular scalp.



     He had a thick folder.  Psych reports from Guiterriez and

University Medical and FBI psych services.  He'd given it to

Mulder, let Mulder read it.  Watched as Mulder skimmed through it. 

Guiterriez had been quite willing to press for involuntary.  Had

been quite sure Mulder was going to self-destruct and take two or

three people with him when he went.  Quite sure that Mulder was

going to stop knowing the difference between reality and his

dreams.  Was going to wake up one morning thinking they were all

little green men.  



     University Medical recorded paranoia and "displaced anger and

fear responses."  He knew what FBI psych services thought about 

him and didn't even bother with that section before handing it back.



     It was an odd way to start a meeting.  Entirely too

straightforward.  



     "What do you think?" he asked, watching as Reid put the

folder back into his briefcase.



     Reid looked up, blinked.  "I don't know.  I don't know you."



     Mulder nodded.  



     "I'd like to get to know you."



     Entirely too direct.



     "I won't lie.  I was pissed that you wouldn't come to my

office, but I can understand why you wouldn't want to see another

shrink."



     Mulder stared at Reid blankly.  



     "We've pretty much fucked you over.  The therapist you've seen

in the Bureau was pretty well satisfied when you said you were

okay.  You just smiled at her and flirted and she gave you a clean

bill of mental health.  Guiterriez thought he knew what was going

on in your head even before he'd spoken with you.  Neither method

helped you very much."



     "On the whole I liked the first one better.  At least I knew

I could've fucked her if I wanted," Mulder replied.

  

     Reid smiled.  Politely.



     "I was told that you have nightmares and that sometimes you're

not in control of yourself."



     Mulder shrugged.  Closed his eyes.



     "Is it more or less terrifying knowing all the facts and

statistics?"  Reid's voice was not a therapist's voice.  It was a

fellow psychologist's voice.



     "More," Mulder admitted.  "More.  I can't pretend.  And I

know where I should be.  I know what they'd do to me."



     "In a hospital?"



     "Yes."  Mulder swallowed. Opened his eyes.  "What's your

degree in?"



     "Clinical."



     "What do you do?"



     "I have a practice.  I do some forensic.  I work in a couple

of hospitals.  Your PhD is Clinical too?"



     Mulder nodded tightly.



     "Where did you do your internship?"



     It was a strange question.  Mulder stared at Reid unblinking.



     "You've done some therapy?"



     "I did my internship at the Rodham institute.  It's a state

run institution.  Mostly for the criminally insane." 



     "Where did you work?"



     "On the lockdown ward.  It's not so much therapy with them as

it is game playing."



     "Was there anyone with your diagnosis?"



     Mulder shook his head.  "They put those people in other wards.

Shot them full of Thorazine and electricity.  Had them coloring

pictures and cutting out rainbows."



     Reid nodded as though he might have learned something from

this.  The move struck Mulder as somewhat arrogant, but he said

nothing about it.  "I did a umm. . .I did my dissertation on

Motivations in Satanic Slayings.  I didn't learn very much about

Satanists.  But I learned a lot about paranoid schizophrenics."



     Reid grinned at this one. "Did you ever think about

practicing?"



     "No.  I wanted to do Forensic work."  Mulder shook his head. 

He drew his knees up to his chest to give himself some protection. 



     "Is that how you started out?  You always wanted to do

Forensics?"



     Mulder swallowed.  Thought about his life, put his face

against his legs.  Said nothing.  It occurred to him that he could

have just acted as though nothing bothered him.  As though he were

fine.  He'd done that before.  But he wasn't fine.  And he'd

answered all the questions he wanted to about his career choices.



     There was silence a moment and a slight pen scratch.  No doubt

to remind Reid to come back to this one sometime.  "Do you want to

get something to drink?"  Reid's voice was soft.  Mulder looked up.

Surprised.  They'd only been in this room fifteen or twenty

minutes.  The shortest therapy sessions were usually thirty.

  

     Except with severely disturbed cases.  Then, because of

shortened attention spans and reality problems, you cut the

sessions to fifteen minute spans.  The best arrangements are

fifteen minute sessions spread out several times a day.  



     Mulder had curled up at the fifteen minute mark, not wanting

to talk anymore.  So Reid had made a decision.

  

     It was humiliating.  Mulder closed his eyes.  "I'm. . .I'm

not thirsty."



     "Well, I'm going to go find something to drink.  Why don't you

come with me?"



     Mulder shook his head, inside the protective barrier of knees

and legs.  Stayed where he was.











     He heard voices recede and then voices surged.  "Fox."  Mulder

looked up in surprise at Matheson.



     "Why don't you come get something to drink in the kitchen." 

Matheson suggested, holding out a hand.  



     Mulder swallowed, blinked a few times.  "I'm not thirsty."



     Matheson blinked a moment.  "Come on anyway."



     Mulder shook his head.  He wanted to stay here, in this chair,

where it was safe.  Where he didn't have to move, have to see

anyone.  The world was cold and sharp edged and right now he 

wanted no part of it.



     "What are you doing here?" Mulder asked, despite himself. 

Watched as Matheson lowered himself into Reid's chair.



     "I'm going to take care of you while Mack has his day off."



     "Oh."  Mulder swallowed.  "Mack told me."



     Matheson nodded.  "How have you been doing?"



     Mulder shrugged, put his knees down.  "I don't want to see

Reid."



     "Mack told me.  Reid's a very close, very old friend of mine. 

He's not going to threaten you."



     "I don't want to talk to anyone about. . ."  Mulder trailed. 

Sam'scrazyMeyersisdead. SamiscrazyMeyersisdead. 

SamiscrazyMeyersisdead.  "I just don't."



     "I know it hurts."  Matheson's voice was soft.



     "How's Sam?" Mulder asked abruptly.



     Matheson's face changed, such a slight filming of a change

that most people would have missed it.  Guarded now.  Eyes

flickering.  Remembering who caused his son-in-law's insanity. 

"Jenni says he's doing better."



     "Is he crazy like me?"



     "No."  A blunt, plain answer.  "Sam's just depressed."



     Mulder swallowed.  "Let me go to a hospital.  I won't have to

try."



     The film disappeared from Matheson's eyes.  "Fox, if I sent

you to a hospital it would destroy you."  He stared searchingly at

Mulder a moment, finally understanding that with some large part of

himself, Mulder wanted the destruction.

 

    Mack brought Mulder a glass of juice.  White grape or apple,

Mulder guessed, watching Matheson with veiled eyes.



     "Where are you going?" Mulder asked.



     Mack gave a small half-smile.  "I'm going to see some friends.

Stay at their place.



     "When are you leaving?"



     "Tonight."



     "And you'll be back?"



     "Friday Morning."



     That was two nights and a day.  Two nights without Mack.  He

stared at Mack, realizing that this was the arrangement Mack had

made especially.  To give him two nights without Mulder.  Two

nights of uninterrupted sleep.



     "I'm sorry," Mulder said, swallowing.  



     "For what?"



     "Making things hard for you."  He stared at Matheson. 

Matheson would have no patience.  Matheson would hold him down. 

Matheson would be like Sam.



     "I'm not. . .Mulder, I don't hate this work.  I'm glad I'm

here.  You need me.  I just need a little time to myself.  Just a

little time.  I get sleepy."  Mack smiled.  "I'm not upset, and it

doesn't bug me that you need me at night.  It just takes a lot of

energy."



     Mulder swallowed.  Nodded.  "I'm sorry."



     Mack gave a sigh.  "It's not your fault.  Don't be sorry.  I

like helping you.  Okay?  But I need a little time for me. 

Besides."  Mack smiled.  "I got a couple of hot dates set up.  I

get any action you're the first person I tell."



     Mulder gave a half-smile.  "Oh gee.  I can't have any, but I'm

supposed to listen to you brag?"



     "Exactly.  Come on.  I know you're not thirsty.  But there's

always Dr. Walter's calorie chart."



     Mulder made a face.  



     Mack grinned.  "Women."





Continued in part 40.......................





=====================================================================

======

From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 40/41 NC-17

Date: 29 Feb 1996 01:56:18 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 40/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



Where, you've gotten this far.  Next to last.  That's right, the 

penultimate piece of the biggest bandwidth hog either of US ever put 

our hands to!  Hope you're enjoying it, and will be here to the end.  

Goo

_______________________



     Reid settled into his place.  



     "I went into Forensics because I couldn't hack working with

normal people."  Mulder's voice was dull.  "I could handle working

with the criminally insane.  I remember coming out of a cell one

time and the prisoner inside. . .he. . ."  Mulder swallowed.  "He

told me that he would make me walk in darkness.  As I walked down

the hallway, every light fixture exploded.  I walked down the hall

in darkness, the light one pace ahead.  There was glass everywhere

on the hall.  And some of the pieces hit me, like shrapnel.  It

hurt and it burned, but I kept walking like I had sense until I

made it to the end.  This orderly grabbed me like I was his kid and

he held me, expecting me to cry or something.  Then the ward nurse

wanted me to go down to a hospital.  I needed stitches in my

shoulder from a big piece of glass.  I needed to have the glass

pulled out of my skin.  I got a psychiatrist on another ward to do

it for me.  They drugged the hell out of the case and fixed the

light fixtures.  I hope I'd have more common sense now than to just

keep walking."  He grinned.  



    Reid absorbed this.  Evidence of delusional thinking, Mulder

realized.  He'd given evidence of delusional thinking. Oh fucking

shit.



     "Do you believe me?" Mulder asked suddenly, staring at Reid.



     Reid stared back.  "If I hadn't been on wards for the

violently and criminally insane, I wouldn't.  But I have."



     "Do you believe me?"



     Reid nodded.  In his own eyes there was something sharp and

shining, some memory that rivalled Mulder's.  Mulder swallowed

staring at Reid's memory.  He wanted to ask, wanted to ask so

badly. It was a terrifying question to ask.  It scared him so

badly.  



     "Do you believe that I heard Jonathan or did I hallucinate it

all?"  He asked it in a rush.  



     There was no answer.  Reid sat quietly.  Sat quietly, eyes

fixed on the carpet.  



     There was no "No, I don't, but I believe you feel it to be

real and that's what's important."  Reid was staring at the carpet.

Was he frightened to speak and destroy the fragile acquaintanceship

between them or was he frightened of answering what he thought?



     "It doesn't matter," Mulder excused.



     "It does matter.  I just. . .I don't know.  I don't know.  I

read your file last night and I just sat there in my bedroom,

staring at the television set, frightened."  Reid stared at Mulder.

"We're going to treat it as though it happened.  Not as though it

were a series of hallucinations and delusions."



     The answer was yes then.  Only Reid could not afford to say

so.  Mulder felt air rush out of his gut.  He had not known he was

holding his breath.  











     Matheson had Mack's bedroom.  And the blue monitor.  Mulder

went through his nightly ritual, showering, changing into his night

clothes, tucking himself into the bed.  He missed knowing Mack was

in the next bed, was there when the dreams came.  That he would be

held and held and he would hear Mack's soft voice, calming and

shushing.  









     The sobs were soft and barely noticeable even on the baby

monitor sitting beside Senator Richard Matheson's bed.  Matheson

rubbed his eyes, stared at the small alarm clock beside his bed. 

2:30.  He pulled himself from the bed and tugged on his robe. 

Trudged through the unlit bathroom.



     Mulder was curled up against the heavy headboard, eyes open

very wide, sobbing, curled up there, trying to be small. In the

sharp relief of shadows and dusty blue illumination, the figure,

dressed in jersey shorts and a sleeveless tee brought forth

memories, Ingrid's mother's stories of the camps, his grandmother's

stories passed down from her own grandmother about the starvation

and the crimes inflicted in the civil war.  Survivor.  What was

left of those who clung on and somehow survived.



     "Fox."  Matheson approached the figure carefully, trembling,

breath hot in his body.  Nervous, afraid that he would make the

wrong motion, say the wrong words.  What did he know of 

psychosis?



     At the calling of his name, Mulder responded by pressing his

body against the headboard, by holding his breath in a desperate

attempt to stop crying.



     "I'm sorry."  The first words out of his mouth.  "I'm sorry. 

I'm okay.  You can go to bed.  I'm sorry.  Please."



     "Fox.  You're not okay."  Matheson sat down on the bed, trying

to think of the words that would calm him.  He reached out to the

huddled, terrified figure of long bones like sticks.  



     Fox screamed involuntarily, flinched, drawing his head down. 

"Please.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I didn'tmeantowakeyouup.

Itwon'thappenagain.  Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."  His voice

was high and shrill and quite obviously terrified.



     Matheson let his hands drop, felt his gut twist up and his

hands grow cold. He remembered Averman's warnings.  Oh God.  Oh

God.  



     "Fox.  I'm not angry.  I'm not."



     Mulder did not hear, was trying desperately to stop crying,

to stop breathing, to press himself into the thick maple headboard.



     "Fox, it's all right.  It's okay.  I promise.  It's okay."



     "Please, Dad, I'm okay.  You can go back to bed."  A sob, long

and harsh, interrupted the terrified pleading.  "Please. I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to wake you.  I didn't mean. . ."



     "Fox."  Matheson felt his mouth turn to cotton.  "Fox, it's

okay. You aren't going to be beaten.  I promise I won't hit you. 

I promise."



     Mulder had heard this before.  "Dad, I'm okay.  Please Daddy. 

Go back to bed."



     Matheson swallowed, continued sitting where he was.  



     "Daddeeee. I'm sorrrry."  Mulder was panicking.  Screaming,

terrified.  



     A new figure in the bedroom.  Ingrid, her hair pulled back in

a loose braid.  



     "Please Daddy.  PLEASE!" His voice was rising into hysteria

now, into an unending terror filled place that no one could reach,

where there would be no choices except for the awful sting of a

needle.



     Without words Matheson got up, moved back, out of the bedroom.

Ingrid took his place, calming and gentling, and trying desperately

to get him calm.  Mulder accepted her hands and accepted her

ministrations, accepted her voice and her words and when Matheson

left the room, Mulder was slipping loose of his hold on the bed,

was letting himself be lured in close to her chest and to her

comforting hands.  He was sobbing and crying but Ingrid's hands

were gentle and smooth and soft and comforting.

     

     







     "How is he?"  Ingrid came into the kitchen as Matheson was

cooking breakfast.



     "Asleep.  Finally."  Ingrid poured herself a cup of coffee. 

"It's good that he sees you as a father," she said quietly, putting

equal in her coffee.  "He needs father figures."



     "But it makes it hell on you."



     Ingrid smiled.  "He's a sweet young man."



     Matheson smiled in return, wondering how many times in his

life Fox Mulder had been called a "sweet young man."  From Jenni's

description of Sam's friend, he suspected you could probably count

them all up on one hand and still be able to hold a cup of coffee.



     "You said he'd be here a couple of months.  It's going to be

at least three or four.  At the very least.  I suspect he'll have

to spend Christmas here."



     Matheson stared at Ingrid, remembering the way she looked

naked, the way her body moved.  "That's fine then.  He has that

right."

     Ingrid nodded.



     "Do you want some extra household help?"



     "No.  Mack and Mulder are both easy to care for.  There's no

problem there.  



     Matheson nodded.  "I told Reid that we'd come in this

afternoon.  Think Fox is going to be up for it?"



     Ingrid shrugged, sipping her coffee.   "I don't see why not."



     "Is this common?"  



     "All-nighters?"  Ingrid nodded.



     "Tell me again that I'm paying an exorbitant fee for Mack.  I

want to give him a pay raise."



     Ingrid smiled over her mug.  "What about me?"



     "You haven't seen what I'm getting you for Christmas,"

Matheson replied, grinning.  



     "Just as long as it isn't Glenlivet again."



     "Oh God."  Matheson closed his eyes.  "That was the best sex

I've had in years."



     "Stop dating twenty year olds.  All body, no brain. . ." 













     "The senator said you had bad dreams last night."  Reid's

voice was unconcerned as Mulder slipped into the wingchair beside

his desk.



     Mulder grimaced, sighed.  "I have bad dreams every night."



     "Do you want to tell me what you dreamed?"



     "Just. . .I was just. . .the Senator didn't know I need to

have the bathroom light on at night and when he went to bed he

turned it off.  I had a bad dream."



     Reid tried to remain relaxed.  "You haven't told Senator

Matheson that you need that light on, even now."



     Mulder shrugged.  "It's no big deal."



     "You were up all night, crying."  Reid frowned.  "It is,

obviously, a big deal.  Matheson said you confused him with your

father.  Guiterriez discusses a history of abuse that occurred at

your father's hands."  Reid paused, rubbed his nose.  



     "So it's obvious that I transfer my feelings for my father to

Matheson,"  Mulder finished for the therapist.



     Reid remained silent.  



     "It's not like that. . ."



     "There's also the issue of your belief that the abuse was

deserved. . ."  Reid asked.



     Mulder shrugged.  "No.  I don't think that."



     "That's not what I've been told."



     "I. . .I have a lot of guilt about my sister's disappearance,

but I know that it wasn't right, not what he did to me."



     "What did he do to you?"



     "Oh, you know."  Mulder sighed, slumped against the heavy

velvet material of the chair.  "He beat me.  He used his belt and

sometimes a broomstick.  Nothing very exotic.  Just the traditional

measures employed in savagely disciplining a wayward child.  The

same things that had been done to my own father by his father and

probably by his father's father and on and on."  He kept his body

slumped, his voice casual.  No indicators, no warning signs. 

Nothing that he did not want to say.  He watched Reid flip through

pages of handwritten notes.  Felt his blood pressure ease back into

the stratosphere.



     Reid was making hen's scratch notes, probably to explore this

more, in depth, to discuss it.  But not right now.  His instincts

were probably urging him to discuss this, to get it out of the way.

But he was following his training, not his instincts.  Come on.

Follow your training.  Don't listen to the feeling in the pit of

your stomach.   Mulder knew he could not stand that, not here, not

now.  



     "Your dad didn't believe in nightlights?"



     "Sam could. . .but I was a boy," Mulder responded.  "I got

over being scared of the dark at Oxford. . .I was. . .seventeen or

eighteen.  I had this roommate who helped me. . ."



     "When did you leave for school?"



     "I was fifteen, almost sixteen," Mulder replied, on easy

ground now.



     "And your sister disappeared when you were twelve?"  Reid was

staring at him horrified.  



     Mulder nodded again, trying not to understand why Reid was so

upset.  Why the psychologist's face was filled with pity and anger.

If he understood he would have to remember those long nights.



     "He was gone on business trips a lot," Mulder excused.  "When

he wasn't home, my mom would let me sleep with the lights on.  And

after she left, I would stay with friends and we'd keep a light on

somewhere."



     He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around his chest.  



     "Do you want me to tell Matheson about the light?" Reid

asked.



     Mulder bit his lip.  "I should tell him."



     "But you won't."



     "What if he gets mad?"



     "He won't, and you know he won't."



     Mulder shivered.  "He'll ask me why I didn't tell him before. 

You know he will."  



     "Why don't I call him in and we can ask now?"



     Mulder opened his eyes.  Stared at Reid.  Swallowed.  Felt the

fear grow up into his chest and his mouth and it was tight and hard

and it hurt.



     "I'll tell him," Reid said finally.  "He's not like your

father.  In some ways he is, but he wants you to get better.  He's

willing to do whatever it takes."



     "My dad wanted me to be strong too," Mulder muttered, even

though he knew it was not fair and not logical and not true to say

those words.  They came out, bitter and angry.

     









     Matheson and Reid talked for about two minutes and then the

receptionist asked Mulder to go back to Reid's office.  Matheson

was staring, genuinely hurt.  



     Mulder felt a shiver travel up his spine, he tried to be who

he was now: a tall, twenty-five year old man who was considered a

hot shot in the Federal Bureau of Investigations.  But all he could

feel was the cold twisting of his viscera. 



     "Fox.  It's all right.  I didn't know that you needed the

light.  I'll turn it on.  If you need something, you can just ask. 

Whatever it is, it's okay."  Matheson glanced at Reid, who gave the

barest nod.  



     "It's okay.  I'm just. . ."  Mulder tried to get more words

out.  "I'm sorry, sir," he finally said, closing his eyes.  His

breath hurt his chest.  His hands were cold and shaking.  He

swallowed air, tried to control his breathing.  He sat a moment,

drawing composure into his body again.  "Did you mean that?  If I

need something?"



     "Of course I did, Fox."  So concerned and so gentle.



     "Well, I really would like a blonde: leggy, big hooters,

really dumb.  You know of any willing to comfort a sick G-man?" 

Mulder smiled, was rewarded with Matheson's broad easy smile and

Reid's genuine chuckle.  









     "My dad's the reason I got my PhD."  Mulder's voice was soft

as he slid down against the heavy plush velvet of the wingchair, as

he put his face against the crook of seat and edging.  Two hours

had elapsed since thier last words, and now the sunlight of late

summer afternoon slanted long and honey on them.



     Reid blinked at Mulder's obvious need to control this session

by coming in with his own agenda. "Oh?" he asked in a voice that

implied he did not believe Mulder's statement.



     They stared at each other.  He's my father; he loved me; he

only wanted what was best.  So much said without words.



     "How?"



     "I told you I did the Fordham institute for my Clinicals?"



     Reid nodded.



     "I didn't start out there.  I started out at a hospital in

downtown London.  They got the dregs of society, all the poor and

the immigrants and the homeless.  But it was supposed to be a

really good proving ground. If I'd made it I might be in a big

practice or teaching or something."



     "What happened?"  Reid was genuinely interested, not as a

therapist, but as a fellow psychologist.



     Mulder stared at his hands a moment.  "I would go and I would

just. . .I would lock myself into a toilet and I would just cry and

cry and cry.  It just. . .Finally there was this woman. . .her

eight year old daughter had been kidnapped and held, tortured,

raped and finally killed. . ."  His mouth was dry, remembering the

woman's nasal, lower class accent, the slow way she had moved,

wrapped in her aged raincoat.  Her heavy, doughy body slipping into

chairs.  "And one day I just walked out on her.  I just walked out

of the whole hospital.  I don't remember it.  I walked out and the

hospital administrator was pissed. . .eventually they got in touch

with some friends.  I was in the Tube, sitting in a car, just

sitting in a car staring at nothing, unresponsive to most stimuli.

. .the police found me and handed me over to my friends.  They took

me home."  His voice was numb.  "My advisor wanted me taken from

the program, failed, lose my doctoral candidacy status. I got

better and in a couple of days I went to see him.  He just started

screaming at me and I collapsed again.  He took me home and 

anyway, somehow or other he got in touch with my mom.  In a 

couple of days I was okay, yet again.  And he was. . .he told me he 

wouldn't accept me in the program I had been in, besides he didn't 

think the hospital would have me back.  We discussed career options.  

He said he thought I might do well as a forensic psychologist, most of 

my best papers had been about psychopaths and paraphilias and 

other deviants.  I'd had a couple of papers published already.  



     I went home with the list we drew up of things I could do and

I called my dad.  He told me that he'd call around.  The next day

he said that if I wanted to work in law enforcement, I could have

my pick.  FBI, CIA, Army, you name it.  He said it didn't even take

his name.  They'd heard that I was interested and wanted to know

how to recruit me. . .I decided on the FBI.  Not as many secrets. 

My Dad, he had a lot of secrets. . ."  Mulder trailed, sighed. 



     "The FBI wined and dined me. . .  I was on a Lear Jet, headed

to Quantico, two hours after I recieved my doctorate.  They wanted

me to skip out on my graduation, and get permission not to go

through the ceremony, but the College Master told them to go to

hell."  Mulder smiled.  "They threatened to make me wait until the

next session, but I didn't have to.  I missed the first three

hours, got there in time for the first lunch."  He sat a long time,

considered the room around him.  Let a companionable silence

envelope the lazy summer lit room.



     "Will it ever happen again?" he asked.



     Reid was startled.  "What?" he said.



     "Will it ever happen again?"  The words had not been so very

hard to say the first time, but they were hell to repeat.  Mulder

stared at Reid in anger.



     "Communing with a serial killer the way you did?" Reid asked,

as though his own mouth were dry, as though he could not speak.  "I

don't know.  Is that what you need to know?"



     Mulder thought about this question, this new conversation,

unbidden.  He thought, and then he nodded slowly.  "Is it me or was

it him?" he asked very softly.



     Reid caught it this time.  Did not need to hear it twice. 

"Can you find that out?" he asked, seriously.



     Mulder swallowed.  "If I can't, I want to be hospitalized.  I

don't care if they keep me so drugged up I have to wear diapers. I

don't ever want to go through that again.  I won't ever go through

that again. I have to know."  He stared at Reid.  "I have to know

who did it or it's always going to be there and I don't think I

want to get better if I can't know."

     











October 1988

Quantico, Virginia

Behavioral Science Unit

Office of John Thompson, Division Head



     Fox Mulder stared at the head of the Behavioral Science Unit,

trying to appear perfectly calm.  "May I ask why you disapproved 

my transfer request?" he asked.



     "You're the best profiler I've got.  I'm not about to lose

you."



     "You know. . ."  Mulder paused.  "You know what kind of

problems I've been having."  He stared at the older man.  "I can't

believe you'll keep me here.  It's killing me.  It killed Sam."



     Thompson sighed.  "We all regret Agent Rodreguiz' death,

Agent Mulder.  I'm aware that you and Rodreguiz were friends. . ."



     "I cannot keep on doing this.  You keep giving me these cases.

. .kids buried in basements after they've been eviscerated, serial

rapists who leave their victims lying in puke and waste. . .And if

it's just a case to send back to the locals you require it to be

done overnight. . .I can't keep up. . ."



     "I expect a great deal of you, that's true, Agent Mulder.  But

your record shows. . ."



     "My record shows that I'm keeping up.  But. . ."



     "If you're feeling job stress, perhaps you should see a

therapist."



     Mulder stared at the cool man, unbelievingly.  "If you'd

actually read the fucking request I sent, you'd have seen that I

*am* seeing a therapist."



     "Agent Mulder, the fact of the matter is that there are few

men who can do what you do, not as well as you.  There are a myriad

of facts that a good profiler must keep up with and be able to

correlate and synthesize.  Your intelligence combined with your

incredible memory provide all the necessary ingredients.  You

simply are one of the best analysts it's ever been my privilege to

watch."



     "And it's driving me crazy!"  Mulder closed his eyes.  "I want

out.  I have got to get out."



     "No. I'm sorry, Mulder."  Thompson's voice was kindly.  "I

wish I could give you a way out.  But there are twelve of you. 

Just twelve.  You catch the most depraved killers found in our

nation today.  Your work. . .this Monty Props thing you did over

the summer. . .it's brilliant.  They're going to be talking about

that monograph for the next thirty years."



     "I took showers in my suits, trying to get the bad smells and

bad tastes out of my system," Mulder muttered.  "When I went to

bed at night, I would see the graves he dug, negatives on my

eyelids to stare at as I fell asleep."



     "Fox."  Thompson's voice was now gentle.  "I'll approve a

couple or three weeks of paid leave.  You can go somewhere,

decompress.  Get rid of the stress.  In a few weeks, you'll feel so

much better you won't recognize yourself."



     "I don't want a vacation.  I want out."  



     "I'm sorry, Fox.  But I can't lose my most valuable resource."



     Mulder stared at Thompson, his eyes glazed like those of a

deer shot by a hunter.  "You're killing me.  Bit by bit.  You

have to know what's happening to me.  One day I'll take my gun and

I'll put it in my mouth.  And I won't blink when I pull the trigger."



     Thompson took a long, shuddering breath.



     "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder.  This conversation is over."



     "You MotherFucker,"  Mulder muttered.  "Do you know what it

was like for me after Oklahoma?  Do you?"



     "I said this conversation is over."



     "I had a fucking nursemaid for five months.  I woke up

screaming every fucking night.  Screaming and it took hours,

fucking hours to calm down!  I saw a therapist: he's not on my

fucking jacket.  I saw a therapist, and at first he wouldn't even

see me longer than fifteen minutes at a time!  I was that severely

impaired."  Mulder's eyes now smoldered with a deep, white-hot

fire.  "I kept a behavioral notebook.  Do you want to know what

kinds of things were in it?"



     "Agent Mulder, leave my office this instant!"



     "Things like `Ten things I can do for myself that I couldn't

do last week. . .things like: shave or be trusted not to smash a

glass and hurt myself with it!'"  Mulder closed his eyes.  "I

worked so hard, I worked too fucking hard for you to throw it all

away."  



     That said, he turned from the red faced, standing Thompson and

left the office.  Stood in the bullpen staring at everyone, the

techs and the secretaries.  Knew they had heard.  Wondered what

they were making of it.



     Knew he had to get out of this somehow.  Somehow he had to get

free.  Before the warm Gulf waters reached out and claimed him as

they had claimed Jon and Meyers and now Sam.  Before the dust

across the sere plains of Oklahoma came in the night and choked him

to death.



Continued in part 41............................





=====================================================================

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 41/41 NC-17

Date: 1 Mar 1996 03:35:49 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 41/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



That's it.  Thanks for coming along on the ride, everyone!

Goo

____________________



     Jack Averman didn't know what had snapped him awake.  The

second time the phone's jangling bell broke the stillness he shut

his eyes in relief, swallowed the lump in his throat and stretched

a sweat-slick hand to grab the receiver.  Control forced his

breathing to a natural rate, but his heartbeat would have to slow

on its own.



     "Hello?"  Something in his voice brought a chuckle from his

caller.



     "I wake you up?  Getting old, Averman, if you let her put you

to sleep already."



     "Mulder?"  He dug his feet into the sheets and shoved,

scooting his ass up until his back rested against the headboard. 

When he flicked on the bedside lamp his eyes hurt for a moment. 



     "You're lucky.  I already wore out all the decent ones in the

region.  You got me between rounds one and two."



     The dry laugh echoed through the phone again.  "Think you can

put off terrorizing the locals for a day or two?"



     The air suddenly felt close and hot, and the ex-marine drew

hard to get a breath.  His shiver had nothing to do with cold as

Mulder's voice combed fingers through his guts.  He had to work to

keep his tone light.  "Sure.  When are you coming?"



     "I've got a flight booked for Oklahoma City  in two days.  I

need to talk with you."



     Averman grabbed an old envelope off the nightstand and clicked

the point out on a pen.  "Go ahead.  Which flight?"









     Oklahoma City International Airport was bustling in spite of

the oil bust, and Averman had to crane to see through the crowds.

He almost didn't see him at first.



     The man who walked up to him was wary, and met his "Hey

there," with a self-deprecating, sardonic grin.  The arrogant,

hostile bastard of almost two years before wasn't even a flicker in

the back of this man's eyes.



     "Mulder.  You look good."  The hand he shook was dry, with a

firm grip.  He wouldn't let Averman take his suitcase.



     "Considering how I looked the last time you saw me, I could be

dying of cancer and I'd look good."  At least the grin was

familiar.  The younger man's eyes scanned the crowded concourse

automatically, distractedly, as they wove through the business fare

travelers and a few mothers with shrieking children.  He could see

the nervous way Mulder's jaw clenched every so often, and waited

until they could feel the sometimes-draft of hot, April air that

rolled through the electric doors before he asked.



     "What's this about?"  Grinned.  "You need a job, or

something?"



     Mulder's snort was audible in spite of the noise echoing under

the vaulted ceiling.  "Or something.  Let's get to some place that

has beer.  And serves something more than peanuts to eat."



     "Sure.  What are you in the mood for?"  Remembering salads,

rice.  Gatorade.



     Mulder had pulled up to a sudden stop and was staring out at

the sunlight, hot and brilliant, on a state he probably didn't even

like to think about.  Loosened a necktie graced by winged, pink

pigs.  "I never did get a chance to really enjoy those famous ribs.

Let's live dangerously."



     "Knowing you, that should be easy."





     





     Mulder licked barbecue sauce from a fingertip with the

concentrated deliberation of a scholar considering Paradise Lost.

And grinned at paradise regained. The heaped platter in front of

him steamed gently as he reached over to lift a frosted mug of

beer.  Hefted it to Averman, eyebrow raised in ironic salute.



     "To old times. . . "



     "May they never come again."  The older man completed the

toast with fervor and the *chink* of glass on glass.  Mulder

grinned and tore a rib off the rack, stripping it with the

enthusiasm of all yankees who finally got to eat real food. 

Averman waited, let the analyst work his way to the topic in his

own good time.



     Mulder had a stack of naked bones on the empty plate before he

slowed and looked up.  Jack solemnly leaned forward, poured the

last of the pitcher for them both, topping their mugs with amber

and froth.  Beads of water dripped to the table when he lifted the

mug again.



     "To old friends and old lovers. . . "



     Mulder stared at his glass then.  It was a long moment before

he finally reached over, lifted his glass back.  "I wish some were

here and I'm glad some aren't."  Hazel eyes stared back, almost

challenging.



     "I heard about Rodriguez.  How's Jenni taking it?"  Averman

looked in his beer, not wanting to see the look on Mulder's face.



     "As well as you could expect.  Not very.  The Senator finally

got them to bury him in Arlington.  His family's Catholic, and a

suicide. . ."



     "Jesus.  The poor girl.  Poor both of them.  Didn't anyone see

it coming?"  Cold twist of guts.  The past doesn't really let go,

you just hide it under stuff.  Averman pictured the woman he'd met,

pretty and blonde, with laugh lines that pain had etched too deep.



     "He ate his gun, Averman.  As far as I'm concerned, the

bastards who put him back on duty like that pulled the trigger." 

Jack startled, looked at cold, bitter eyes across from him.  "They

sent him out on a kidnap/homicide, Jack.  A child pornography ring

case.  Any idiot could see what that would do to him.  This wasn't

really suicide.  It was murder."



     "I. . . "  There weren't words to hold and say the things

behind his teeth.  He swallowed, and Mulder nodded.



     "Yeah.  I know.  I won't let them do it to me."



     "The bastards've got you back on the same-old-same-old?"  Felt

queasy and took a long draw on his beer, so his gut might have a

reason to feel cold.



     The grin that answered him was spooky.  Wide and feral and

humorless.  "They're trying.  And that's what I need your help on

. . ."



     Jack could feel his puzzlement register, saw the amused

answering look.



     "I want you to back me up.  I'm going to go see Guiterriez. I

want him to sign the papers."



     Averman's elbow settled in a pool of beer.  He didn't care,

the cold wet didn't matter.  He was staring into Fox Mulder's hazel

eyes, trying to decide if he was crazy or if Mulder had finally

dropped his last marble.



     "And you want me to. . . ?"



     "Back me up in there.  Stand behind me, get jittery and

nervous and make sure no one slaps a nice, white coat on me. 

Averman, they put Frito right around the bend and they'll do it to

me if they get a chance.  They won't let me transfer, I've tried.

The only hope I've got to stay sane is to prove I'm crazy."











     The waiting room wasn't full, but it felt crowded.  People,

nervous and jittery or withdrawn, sat in soothingly overstuffed

chairs, staring through Impressionist prints and walls in neutral

shades.  Mulder didn't recall noticing the prints before.  He sat

on the edge of a chair that tried to lure him deeper and rolled his

palms back and forth over each other, studying the men and women

around him.



     The receptionist had stared at him for a long time when he and

Averman had walked in.  Taken his name and scurried away into a

warren of hallways that Mulder could not remember.  He felt the

currents change in the room and looked up from his hands, pressed

tight together, to see Guiterriez watching him.  The stocky man

scanned the room, whispered a few words to his receptionist and

nodded, then retreated again.



     Two whispered conferences.  Mulder sat back, watched a

slender, careworn woman slouch past him.  Then forty-five minutes

of quiet and nerves, feeling Averman page through endless 

magazines on modern maturity and fishing, none of which Mulder 

believed he was reading.  The phone rang in a hushed, electronic 

buzz every few minutes, startling the four people left waiting.  Their 

nerves jangled with a ferocity of emotion that overwhelmed the soft,

plush chairs and soothing colors and music.  When Averman tossed a

glossy magazine onto a table the slick paper hissed in the quiet.

Mulder watched him stride over to a rack on the wall, missing the

footsteps that were swallowed whole by dense carpet.  The senior

agent's boots left deep, dark crescents marring the rug.



     A click and a soft swish of wood on carpet snapped all the

eyes in the room to it, tension crackling static in the dry air. 

A woman, dressed well but not richly, scanned them, then fixed her

eyes on Mulder, beckoned him.  He felt Averman at his back, a

pattern in the static of the room.  All sound was drunk by soft

pile and wallpaper.  "Doctor will see you now. . . "  Mulder smiled

at the rote formula, wondered if Guiterriez had ever tried to get

her to change it.  She walked brusquely, shoulders barely moving,

leading down a hall and through a dark, lambent rosewood door.  The

brushed steel of the handle sparked with electricity, then felt

smooth and cool under Mulder's fingers.  He left the door for

Averman to close.



     The analyst couldn't see Guiterriez' face.  The man's mass was

dark against the brilliance of blue sky, and the fresh green that

was Oklahoma's own in the spring, before summer's brutal heat 

drove the sap into hiding and seared the land with its kiss.  A shiver

ran up and down Mulder's spine, air conditioning raising goose

flesh, and memory raising ghosts.  The maroon and dove gray

furniture was the same, and the heavy, rosewood tables and desk. 

Mulder let his hand drift across the back of the plush chair,

watching the physician step away from his window.  Light showed

placid features and alert, wary eyes.  The agent didn't wait

for the offer, but settled back into the cool, velvet plush,

letting his arm rest across the back, letting his service weapon

gleam malevolent black among all the muted and subtle shades of

this place.  Guiterriez' eyes flickered to it.  Averman stepped up

close behind the chair, and Mulder smiled at the electric charge

that filled the air now, even though all the static was gone.



     "Agent Mulder.  I must confess, I am surprised to see you

again."



     Mulder felt the Spanish cadences, weighted, drumming from the

walls.  He'd heard that voice in nightmares for close to two years.

It sent cold ripples over his skin as he watched Guiterriez

watching him.   The silence stretched, long and dissonant after the

last syllable had been smothered by the false comfort of the place.



     Fabric rustled behind him as Averman shifted.  Guiterriez'

eyes flicked up at the sound, then back.  Mulder let his eyes close

a little, tilted his head, just a bit.   And smiled.  The

psychiatrist's face was still shadowed, but the window's light

picked out the flex of muscle in cheek and neck as his jaw clenched

and released.  The agent sighted and leaned forward, letting his

elbows rest on his knees with too little weight to be relaxed. 

Guiterriez' teeth shone in a grim smile as he settled on the small

couch facing Mulder.  The younger man felt his pupils dilate and

contract almost painfully as the doctor's shadow played past him.



     "Did you visit simply to play games of psychology with me,

Agent Mulder?  I have never doubted your skill with those."



     The profiler snorted, let his smile grow.  Leaned back and

casually hooked the heavy automatic from the holster at his waist.

Averman stepped so close he could hear the brush of clothing

against the couch.  The physician across from him was very, very

still as Mulder dropped the ugly weapon onto the table between

them, enjoying the clatter it made.  Guiterriez' eyes stayed locked

on his face.



     "I think you and I will both be more comfortable if I'm not

wearing that."  The doctor began to relax, and Mulder leaned

forward, elbows on knees again, enjoying the sudden stillness that

returned to the other man's stance.  Lips pulled tight above a

well-trimmed beard, and the dark eyes snapped.



     "I think I would be more comfortable if you left.  I think,

Agent Mulder, that there is nothing I can do for you."



     "I'm sure you'd be more comfortable if I left, but I'm equally

sure that there is something you can do for me."  Knit his fingers

together and hooked his thumbs under his chin, trying to ignore how

cold the tips of his fingers felt, and the oily sweat that made

them slippery.  Guiterriez leaned forward, and the sunlight was

blocked by a cloud.  Mulder studied the flush on dark skin and

forced his own breathing to stay slow and regular.



     "I tried to help you before, Agent Mulder.  There are many

psychiatrists in Washington.  Please say what you want to say and

leave, before I am forced to call my assistant to. . . "



     "It won't take long.  I want you to do what you should have

done in the first place."



     A puzzled look and half open mouth met his gallows grin. 

Mulder felt the bones under his skin, could almost smell his own

terror.



     "All I want from you, Dr. Guiterriez, is signed papers

attesting that, in your opinion, as of the date you first saw me,

that you would attest that involuntary hospitalization was

required."  His mouth was dry, and he had to fight to get the words

clear of his tongue.  Guiterriez swarthy features pulled in

confusion, then consternation, giving way to anger.



     "What are you asking me?  Why?  You are no fool.  Do not

mistake me for one."  The Spanish accent was thicker.  "What do you

intend to prove with this little exercise?"  He was on his feet,

pacing back to the window, back where Mulder could not read his

face anymore, but he didn't have to now.  The doctor's voice held

all the anger and confusion his features would have shown.



     "You don't need to worry, Dr. Guiterriez."  Mulder let his own

voice drop into the soothing tones taught for clinical practice. 

Saw the psychiatrist stiffen with recognition.  "I have no

intention of bringing any sort of malpractice claim against you."



     "Your grounds. . . "



     "I said I didn't intend to bring a claim.  However, I was a

patient of yours, and I have witnesses that you stated that I was

at risk, and in need of involuntary hospitalization.  In point of

fact, I required hospitalization for emergency treatment shortly

thereafter.  Agent Averman can support that."  Saw Guiterriez' eyes

bounce, and could infer Averman's nod of support.  "You were aware

that I was at risk, and I was your patient.  You had a duty of care

and would be held to the standards of your specialty.  In any court

of law that would be grounds for malpractice, Doctor."  Mulder

leaned in, shifted balance and was suddenly standing.  "I want

those papers, Dr. Guiterriez."



     The voice was somewhere between a hiss and a whisper.  "Why?

What would you do with them?  I do not mistake that you would 

seek what I would recommend for you. . . "



     Mulder chuckled.  "Have you been in touch with the FBI since

you saw me?  I'm certain you must have been contacted.  I know you

told Dr. Rodriguez and Agent Averman."



     "Your service weapon had to be removed on my authority.  I

prescribed medication for you.  Of course I was in contact. . . "

Blustering now.  Defensive and aggressive.  Mulder fought back the

smile.



     "Then I'll want copies of all those records.  And the

statement as well."



     "Not until I know why.  This is intimidation, illegal. . ."



     Mulder sighed.  He felt like far more than two years had

passed.  Oklahoma's sunshine made him want his sunglasses, even in

this protected place.  "Doctor, this may be hard to understand, but

I need that statement. I have witnesses.  If I do not leave here

today with that statement, I can assure you that I will bring a

malpractice suit against you.  I suspect you are quite aware of

what happened to me while I was technically under your care, and I

doubt you would want to go to court against the man who helped 

stop the Baby Butcher."  A low sound, barely audible, made him look 

at Guiterriez.  He had to force himself not to look away.  "You know

and I know how it will look when I get up there and tell them about

the pain and suffering of the mental instability you failed to

treat, and detail the hallucinations of the killer's dreams."  God,

his hands were shaking.  He kept them close to his sides and fought

not to ball them into fists.  It was a relief that Guiterriez had

moved across the room, otherwise Mulder was sure the doctor would

have smelled sour fear sweat.



     Averman cleared his throat, and the sound made both men jump.

"Dr. Guiterriez, I really regret that this is proving so stressful

for you both.  But Agent Mulder's right.  You told me and Rodriguez

and Mulder, here, that you thought he should be in a secure

environment and were about willing to sign papers to arrange for

it.  And you never carried through.  I'm sure you saw the news. ."



     Guiterriez stared at the two of them, hands flat on his desk.

His jaw worked and Mulder almost imagined he could hear the teeth

grind.  His stomach was balled tight and he could feel shooting

pain in his own shoulders from the knots of his muscles, and wanted

more than anything right then to turn tail and run.  Never have to

hear Guiterriez' damned Spanish accent and arrogant tones again.



     But he didn't have that choice, and he stood and stared, hard

and cold, at the psychiatrist.  And felt no triumph when the man

deflated.  Felt only a tired, lost dread when he sagged into a

chair and pulled forms from his desk, and letterhead, and began to

write.



     It took a frighteningly short amount of time to complete his

work.  Dr. Miguel Guiterriez finished the words that could have

locked Mulder away and it had taken him less than twenty minutes.

The paper shook in his hands when he held it out to Mulder.  His

face was pale under the tan, and the tired bags were dark under his

eyes.



     "Will you tell me at least why you want this so badly, Agent

Mulder?  You have what you want. . . "



     Mulder stared at him.  Felt his shirt cling to his skin under

his jacket.  Turned and walked back across that thick, pile carpet

to pick up his weapon.  The automatic was cold, and the skin of his

fingers felt sensitive and sore when they brushed the metal,

brushed fabric.  And ran through all the possibilities and threats,

finding so few. . . The one hold Guiterriez had over him was in his

hands, poison that, used carefully, would save him.



     "I want it because without this, I will be in Behavorial

Sciences until I actually do need to be hospitalized."  He

hesitated, weighing his words.  "I know what you think, but you're

wrong.  I do know what's real. I knew when I saw you what was 

real. And I know that if I stay in the BSU I will go mad.  They won't 

let me leave.  I've tried.  All I want is to find the truth, but the

FBI, or whoever the hell decides what happens to me, doesn't care. 

I tried to transfer." He smiled at Guiterriez.  A warm, genuine

smile for once.  He had wanted so much to talk then, still wanted

to.  And about this he would.



     "They want to keep me locked up in VICAP until I'm screaming

the nightmares of serial killers asleep and awake and until I don't

know where I end and they begin anymore.  But they made a 

mistake.  They let you talk with me.  They let someone make this 

decision."  He shook the papers in his hand.  Guiterriez was watching 

him fascinated and horrified.  "I can only use this once, but I only

need it once.  This is my key out of hell."  He turned and smiled,

a false, bright, cordial smile.  "Thank you, Dr. Guiterriez. 

You've helped me more than you'll ever know."



     Mulder's pulse was hammering so hard he was sure the other two

in the room could see it, hell, hear it.  He took the half step

back, feeling the papers crinkle in his hand, and his legs locked.

Knees still and teeth clenched, he forced himself to turn his back

on Guiterriez.  His ears ached, listening for the click of a call

button, the step of an attendant in the hall.  Averman was holding

the door open and nodded reassuringly to him.



     "Agent Mulder. . . "  The voice stopped him cold.  Sent a

tremor through his legs, and he felt his heart stop for a moment. 

Dry mouthed, he turned back to stare at Guiterriez' expressionless,

dark eyes.  "I. . . You say I helped you.  That thought frightens

me.  I hope. . . I hope one day someone gives you the help you

think you don't need.  Until then, be careful."



     Fox Mulder stared back at the physician. Swallowed hard

against the painful lump in his throat.   "Thank you, Doctor.  I'll

keep that in mind."  Spun and this time didn't stop for anything. 

He didn't remember leaving, didn't recall cool halls or pastels and

paintings, but suddenly hard light was striking his face, forcing

his eyes shut, and he stopped, blinded, as Averman caught up with

him.



     Dark, dark glass and metal cool against his face, earpieces

snug over his ears, and he could finally take off his jacket here,

where everyone's shirt was stained dark with sweat and no one 

would know.  No one would question.  When he could open his eyes 

again, he found the grizzled man next to him watching him.  His eyes 

were wonderful, clear and blue and concerned, but never wavering, 

not looking for tiny hints and clues and betrayals.  Mulder wiped his

nose, feeling a prickle behind his eyes, feeling the heat of the

sun on his back.



     "Was it worth it, son?"



     The laugh was short, and it caught in his throat.  "I hate it

when you call me son.  Hell, I hate being called that, period."



     The answering snort was loud, too normal to exist there, then.

"C'mon.  You look like you could really use a beer now.  Or scotch.

I know I could, after waiting for that shrink to call the troops

and march you out of there.  But you didn't answer my question."



     "Worth it?"  The asphalt of the parking lot was soft under

their feet, and it was hard to see their car for the spears of

light from chrome.  Mulder felt his mind wandering to the coast, to

the Potomac where the cherry blossoms painted the tidal pool in

sweet, foreign shades and the Vineyard, where spring winds and

storms whipped the graceful sea oats and whelks and conchs washed

up on pebbly beaches.  "Yes, Averman.  It was worth it.  This," he

shook the sheaf of paper in his hand,  "this says that I needed

help and the FBI colluded in seeing that I didn't get it. Colluded

in keeping me from medical assistance in a psychiatric emergency.

With this. . . with this I have them over a barrel."



     "What do you expect to get?"



     He laughed, short and relieved, a real laugh nonetheless.

"It'll get me out of Behavioral.  There are these cases I've

wanted to work on, stuff everyone else has abandoned."



     "Those X-Files you had with you?"



     "Hunh.  Yeah.  Those.  I looked through them and. . . they're

pretty strange.  Lots of campfire stories and crap, but some of it.

. ."  He bit his lip.



     "I've seen a few of them.  The ones you had before.  You

were gonna say that some of it's like what happened to your sister,

weren't you?  What happened to. . . Sam."



     Mulder nodded, a sharp little motion.  "Yes.  And I think

there are questions there to be answered.  That somebody needs to

answer."



     "And that's what you're going to do?"



     "Yeah.  That's what these let me do."  He grinned widely,

threw his head back and laughed a long, long time.  "These will get

me out of hell, Averman.  But first, I need to get the hell out of

Oklahoma."







 



May 12, 1989

Hoover Building

Washington, D.C.



     He knew all the nooks and crannies of Violent Crime.  His

first posting, of course.  Reggie Pardue was still here. A SAC now,

not an ASAC.  How many newbies at G-10 status, get ushered

around by an ASAC?  At one time, Mulder had smiled to think of it.

Now it caused a thin line to crease across his forehead.  He headed

straight for the Assistant Director's office  He knew that all the

supervisors of various sections of Violent Crimes would be there,

to welcome a sheep back into the fold.



     He was right.  There was Reggie in a corner, and Martin beside

him.  Others, like a pantheon of greek gods, waiting to usher a

fledgling into Mount Olympus.  He didn't know Oliver, the Director,

very well, but well enough.



     "Agent Mulder.  Have a seat."  Of course, the hot spot.  A

chair right in front of Oliver's desk.



     "Agent Thompson wouldn't say anything about your sudden

departure from his section, especially after your work on the Monty

Props case."  Oliver was staring at him.  



     Mulder smiled.  "He didn't want to let me out."



     "That's why I was wondering."



     Thompson hadn't told anyone about the committal papers from

Guitteriez, then.  Mulder would have to send him a bundt cake at

Christmas.



     Mulder shrugged and remained silent.



     "Well, regardless, I'm glad to have you back.  You'd

progressed as far up the ladder as you could in Behavioral, you

knew that.  There are some extremely good opportunities for

advancement in VCS."



     Mulder could feel Reggie's grin.  Blue Flamer.  I could cook

a rack of baby back ribs on the blue flames shooting out of your

ass, you son of a bitch.   Mulder almost grinned.  It would feel

great to be back where he could kick Reggie's ass in softball on a

more regular basis.



     "Yes sir."



     "I decided not to assign you until we'd spoken.  Is there a

particular area you're interested in working in?"

 

    "Actually, I'm really interested in just kind of skimming the

unsolvable cases.  Let me look through them, see what everyone else

has done and see if I can get anywhere with them."



     Oliver's eyes were delighted with this.  The Spooky probably

could solve some of them and Oliver's ratings would go through the

roof.



     "That's an unusual request, but I'd be thrilled to let you

have it."



     And Fox Mulder would look like a miracle worker.  He would

rise, rise, rise up the ladder. 



     "We'll get someone to find you a partner, someone to take

under your wing."  Oliver smiled. Mulder smiled.  Oh yes, this

could be a beautiful relationship all around.

     



The End/The Beginning