Deconstruction of falling stars

Title: Deconstruction of falling stars

Author : Valérie (as Poormulder)

Written for the March challenge contest for Mulder Refuge:
Psychological torture and dark and depressing

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, Fox and 1013.

Rating: PG13

Category : MT, angst

Spoiler: none, Pre X-Files

Thanks : to my wonderful beta reader Lisa.

Feedbacks ? Yes of course

Summary : "The lack of sleep, the permanent stress, the weariness of the life and the demons manifested by being too long buried in minds of killers and madness without a break. Something had to give. It systematically broke him into little pieces of who he used to be."


Deconstruction of falling stars

Bill Paterson knows that in going to hunt down his subordinate, he exceeds the usual capacity of his position. But while not seeing Agent Mulder arriving this morning, his anger is slowly growing and he left his office quickly to find Mulder’s home address at the personnel office.

Arriving in front of apartment 42, he hesitates a moment. The helpful personnel office clerk told him that Mulder phoned in this morning to inform them he was taking the day off sick. He was surprised firstly. It had been a year since Mulder had come to work under him, and he’d never taken a day off before. During that time, he’d worked come hell or high water; sick, exhausted, or working even despite a bad case of flu and bronchitis, but he’d always been there…. until today.

He knocks on the door, then louder. A long moment later, when he’s about to leave, Mulder opens his door. His face belays that he is “really” sick. His eyes are bright with fever; the features of his face are drawn and tired. His face is coated in by a sheen of sweat and his hair is disheveled as if he’d just got out of bed.

Mulder let him enter and at once collapsed onto his couch, his face in the hands. With a hostile tone in his voice, he asks him why he’s here. Paterson remains standing, looking down at his agent, consolidating his dominant position.

“I am disappointed by your attitude, agent. You know very well that the case you’re working on can’t wait. The killer’s escalating. There’s been another murder.”

Mulder slowly raises his face up to him and he reads in his eyes a gleam of deep-rooted guilt. He saw it as plain as day, feeling a slither of satisfaction at the younger man’s. distressed features. Mulder’s guilt always surfaces with a vengeance when he fails to solve the case quick enough and other murders occur.

“I’m really sick, Bill. I can’t even stay on me feet for long. Give this case to another agent, please.”

Paterson’s face gleams with anger at his words.

“I know and you know full well that you’re the only one able to solve this case, Mulder. You’re the best damn profiler in the office. You can’t just drop this right now, or so easily. You dress, I’ll drive you back to the office”.

Mulder can’t believe his ears. He fights down the nausea, which rolls over him painfully and attempts to convince his superior that he is too ill to continue. He feels dead on his feet and his vision is blurry.

“Please. I need to rest. I’ve not slept in days. I really am unable to work today.”

Paterson glares at him with a disgusted air and Mulder knows his pleas have fallen on deaf ears. He feels the guilt of a weak man, refusing to take his responsibilities. He gathers what little strength he can muster and tries to rise, but he falls down on the couch almost immediately, feeling the sting of angry tears in his eyes. He tries desperately to hide them while holding his hands to his stricken face.

Paterson prepares to deliver the final blow, carefully kept in reserve to whammy his agent. He pulls a file out from under his coat and drops the gory photos from the last crime scene calmly on the coffee table; the victim a bloody child. Mulder numbly looks at the documents through his tears. He knows that Patterson’s won. With slow careful movement, he gets to his feet and staggers towards his bedroom; shoulders slumped in sorrow and defeat. Patterson follows him with his eyes. He hardly recognizes the man who turns back to him, getting a look at his weary tear soaked face for the first time. With his worn jeans and his scruffy gray tee shirt, he seems too like a neglected teenager, battered down with fatigue and misery. Nothing remains of the arrogance he normally carries at the office

The younger man fascinates him. With his intelligence level near to being genius, his intuitive ways to solve the most complex case, his empathy with the victims and sometimes with the killers, he became in a few short months the most effective profiler that the VC dept. has ever known. But Patterson detected in him the emotional traits and vulnerability for certain cases, especially involving children; traits he exploits to the maximum when it suits him. Throwing down a gauntlet so Mulder just can’t say no. As a result, the cases keep piling high on his desk and he systematically solves them one after the other, week in week out, sometimes even on the phone. Sometimes he doesn’t stop to breath between cases.

His success rate created jealousy in his colleagues. He’s a recluse, a burned out man who’s not afraid to raise fireworks with the local authorities. Patterson sometimes sent him out in the field only to always receive complaints on his way to work. He knows he stays up for hours and nights in depressing motel rooms with all aspects of the files, and that he can conjure up a spot on profile which allows them to crack the case and quickly arrest the killers. When he returns to Washington, he has a face etched in distress for all to see. The cases take their toll on his health and sanity. But he goes back to work regardless, imperturbable to the next batch of horrific cases, horror after horror. The effect on him personally, never addressed. Not even cared about by his peers. His boss.

Paterson hears the noise of the shower go on. He smiles, delighted to have won this current battle.

Alone, Mulder tries to clear his cloudy spirits, steadying himself against the fever. The frozen shower he takes does not drive out his macabre thoughts. Shivering, he tries to find the strength to face Patterson. He knows that he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The fever, the vomiting, the muscular pains are only the physical manifestations of the nervous exhaustion from which he’s been suffering for months. Each case strips away a little more of his humanity. He’s terrified to realize that he finds it harder and more harder to emerge from the evil sick spirit of the killers he analyzes.

Several times he tried to speak to Patterson. But his superior was always content to consult the psyche office to set up counseling, which he always refused. He even demanded to transfer into another dept. Patterson just laughed in his face while angrily reiterating to him that never he would never, under any circumstance let him leave.

The nightmares were becoming increasingly frequent; more and more violent in intensity. His nights are a succession of reminiscence of the horrors he lives in the course of the day. When he even manages to sleep, he only wakes violently a few hours later, his body drenched in sweat, a scream tearing from his lips. His neighbors had already started to complain to his landlord. He is haunted by whispers of the victim’s ghosts.

He doesn’t find the respite while running for hours in the night anymore like he used to, physically unable to access endorphins which usually enabled him to find a few scant hours of rest.

He leaves the shower and stands there shivering in a large towel. He can’t face his own image in the mirror. He knows what his reflection would show him. He’s aware that he’s lost at least twenty pounds since he’s been working for Patterson, not that he had any spare to lose in the first place. His eyes, dark and hollow are the reflection of his tortured heart and mind. He leaves the bathroom and go back to his bedroom, feeling cold to the bone and still shivering, only he doesn’t think the chill he feels has anything to do with the heating in his place. Every now and then the bile in his gut threatens to an exodus from his stomach. He tamps it down. With difficulty, he throws on his clothing, shirt, costume and tie, like an armor; a smart fabric façade that hides the wrecked husk underneath. He combs abstractedly with his fingers through his damp hair, and regains some semblance of style in it.

Patterson looks at him triumphantly. He’s won again.


When Mulder returns to his place this evening, he doesn’t even bother to strip off. He lurches into the shower still fully clothed and lets the burning water pour over him, to wash himself of the horror of the day. He feels impregnated by stench of death, by the blood of the tiny innocent victims. He cries silently, sobbing into the stream of water pouring over his face. His frail body is shaken by tremors of fever and distress. When he closes his tired eyes, he re-examines every minute aspect of every crime scene as if he had even perpetrated them himself.

Exhausted, he ends up succumbing to sleep, on the wet floor of the bathroom, tepid water creating a puddle all around him as he lies there. But like each night, the nightmares re-appear full force and this time he sees the face of his missing sister in the place of the mutilated children. His cry of torment and sheer pain resounds in the dark apartment like a wounded animal.


Four months later.

There’s a special celebration reception of achievement within the bureau for outstanding work. All the cream of the FBI and law enforcement is there at the gala dinner and ball each year, to reward the best agents. Fox William Mulder, twenty-five years old, is named best exemplary Special Agent of the year. The youngest agent ever awarded the accolade. His incredible solve rate of success gained all the votes, and his peers seem to forgive and overlook his odd and sometimes disrespectful behavior towards his superiors. Patterson sees this reward like his own personal success. Mulder is his foal. His Wunderkind Servant boy of the division, one that he couldn’t do without, even for a day. He felt an innate satisfaction and pride that he alone had detected Mulder’s astonishing aptitude, his amazing eidetic memory for facts and ability of getting into the heads of the evil monsters he sought, when he was a young brilliant recruit that all the services wanted and tried hard to woo over to their depts.

Reggie Purdue observes Mulder in his dark dress suit, the nervous glance, and the constant fidgeting in his seat. He knows that this young man whom became his friend a few months ago hates this kind of reception. He hates the honors, and hypocrisy, which oozes out from the smiles and the handshakes. The last case that he had to solve was the most alarming and disturbing yet, tested the resources and minds of the FBI like they’d never known in their history. And right at the investigation’s forefront, Mulder once again had worked wonders in solving it almost single handedly. But at what price? He is a mere shadow of himself now, thin, the face gaunt and haggard by many nights going without sleep, swallowing down gallons of black coffees, the almost black eyes at the bottom of their orbits, and displaying the warning signs and agitated behavior of man ready to collapse.

Reggie suggested to him about taking a rest and it was with relief his colleague agreed to a short leave of absence, the hunched shoulders, his whole being overcome by tiredness and stress as he resigned to his friend’s suggestion. The Monty Props case had taken up his every waking thought and breath and also his night for the last 3 months. Reggie alone realizes that Mulder must take a break if he doesn’t want to finish up in the psychiatric ward, his empty stare made cloudy by the antidepressants. He knows he needs to find the strength to face Patterson, to ask for a few days or a few weeks of vacation so he can recharge and ground himself.

Mulder is drawn from his daydream by a heavy hand poised on his shoulders. He lifts his head up to meet the glare of an older man, with gray blue eyes .

“I am happy to present you with this prize. You deserve it more than anyone else. You did a fabulous job. Just awesome.”

“Senator Matheson.”

The two men cordially shake hands.

“I’m astonished not to see your family here on this auspicious evening... Your father is delighted and proud without doubt, no?”

Mulder lowers his eyes and tries to drive out the lump, which tightens his throat.

“Yes. He had called a few hours ago to congratulate me.”

It is a lie. His father has no interest with him, or with his career. His father doesn’t love him.

“.... to be really proud you, like all of us. You are promised a great, glittering career within the FBI, Fox. But I knew that even as far back as the time when your father announced your decision, after your return from Oxford. He seemed so relieved that you had elected not to teach or go into your own practice.”

“However, I ask sometimes myself if I have make the right choice.”

“No doubt about that, Fox. I must leave you for the time being. I’ll see you later on the podium?.”

“Yes, Senator.”

Mulder looks at him as he walks away; an aristocratic silhouette among the badly cut suits of some of his colleagues. People circulate around him, some nod in agreement to words Mulder can’t hear or shoot him envious smiles. Some women flirt openly with him, but he’s not interested and his only desire is to run towards the exit, to forget the glances both obliging or hypocritical, to find the loneliness of his apartment, to retreat into himself on his sofa while waiting for desperate illusive sleep to make its appearance, hoping that the nightmares that plague his twilight hours and never leave him give him respite for once.

He doesn’t get far when he is intercepted.

Patterson, a small smile on his thin lips, moves towards him with yet another a file under the hand.

“So, this is your glory day?”

Mulder doesn’t answer. He must pluck up the courage to ask him about leaving the section. But Patterson doesn’t leave him a chance to open his mouth before he pushes the file at him, as if he senses he won’t like what his subordinate is about to say.

“I know that this is not the best moment, but this has just been faxed to me. A team is already on the warpath at the crime scene in Boston. They have no leads. They await you, as soon as the ceremony is finished. I booked you out on the last flight from Dulles tonight. I hope that you have your travel bag in your car, like always?”

Mulder looks at him in an open mouthed stare, lost in desperation.

“ Bill... No... I can’t. I need to take some time out now. I can hardly stay upright I’m so damned exhausted. We finished the Monty Props case only two days ago... Please. Find someone else.”

Patterson shot him a look of pure lacid.

“You are the only one able to solve this business... You know it... It is what you are here this evening to celebrate; your ability to win through where everyone else fails...This is what it’s about. You are the best. Just take study the file and tell me what you see, what you feel. You’re the best hope to crack these terrible crimes as fast as possible. If I send someone else, we’ll lose valuable time. And other lives will be lost. How can you deny these people’s families a quick resolution and closure to their loved ones?”

Always the same arguments. Always this blackmail heaped onto his vulnerable inner conscience. He felt nauseated as he looked at Bill and then the file. Shaking, Mulder takes the file from Patterson’s hands and hastily leaves the reception room. Patterson’s steely eyes follow his protégée, a smile lingering on his lips. He knows that his brilliant young Agent isn’t capable of resisting this kind of blackmail. Yes, he can play him like a finely tuned harp. Mulder will make beautiful musical happen. His smile widens.

Mulder moves on autopilot towards the bathrooms and hopes for solitude. His feelings of nausea almost drop him to his knees but he manages to stagger into a stall. He locks the door behind him and drops his thin frame onto the toilet seat. With trembling hands, he opens the file that Patterson gave to him, his heart hammering in his chest.

An unconscious moan escapes his tight chest. Young girls. No! Young girls, sorrow, eight years old, covered with blood and mud. The Xerox sheets and gory photographs fall to the ground while Mulder twists and vomits in the toilets. He remains with his head down the bowl a long time thus, his heart in his throat, his lips trembling, his face covered with a gray sheen of sweat and throat raw from vomiting. Then he rises and staggers unevenly towards the washbasins. Tears of rage and fear blow up in his eyes when he looks in the mirror. He can’t …stop…rest…no.. Not yet, the children; think of the poor children. He can’t abandon those young girls... Samantha... He cannot...

He doesn’t notice the mirror exploding under the impact of his tight fists. He doesn’t see the streams of tepid blood which runs along his wrists as they slice open against glass shards. He doesn’t feel the cold tiling under him when his body slips to the ground, no more than he’s aware that’s he’s curled into a fetal position along the dirty wall of the men’s room, just two agonizing steps away from the presentation reception where everyone awaits Fox William Mulder, rising star of the FBI.


The deputy director Walter Skinner heads for the toilets. On opening the door, he discovers Mulder’s long tremor wracked body lying among the potentially lethal remains of the mirror. He goes to his side and gently touches him, his other hand feeling for a pulse.

“Mulder? “What happened? Are you sick? Were you hurt?”

The young man barely opens his eyes and looks at him through his dull half lidded expression, the eyes contracted by the obvious agony. Skinner places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“ Just lie very still, there’s glass everywhere and you are already bleeding. I’ll get some help. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve alerted the paramedics.”

“ No... No, please.”

“You’re wounded, Agent Mulder. You’ve lost a lot of blood”.

Mulder is lifted carefully by Skinner and propped against the wall while the older man looks for something to staunch the flow of blood. He looks horrified at his torn wrists, at the blood, which is pouring down his foreams as he lifts them to see. He doesn’t remember his desperate gesture, what happened to cause this.

“This is nothing...”

“It’s not nothing Mulder, keep still. I’ll be back ASAP. I’ll go find Patterson.”

“NO! Not Patterson... Please. Make Reggie come, please?”

He lets his eyes shut out the light that hurts them and listens to Skinner’s steps hurrying away. He rolls onto his side, not caring where he falls or the crunch of glass beneath him, pressing his arms tightly against his chest. He’s afraid to lose consciousness and find himself in the hospital. He hates hospitals. It becomes all too much as his heart pounds , his head swim and he slips slowly into blackness.


“Mulder? Mulder answer me?”

Reggie’s insistent voice rouses him out of his stupor. Mulder feels his bandaged wrists and grimaces in pain. Surrounding him, Patterson, Skinner and Matheson all stare down at him with concerned faces.

“Mulder, are you back with us? Did you do this accidentally or on purpose?”

Patterson’s accusing tone hurts him to the core and then he remembers the file and the photographs, which started this whole sorry episode off, this foolish gesture. Had he really hared out so badly? The thought terrified him.

“I can’t do it anymore... Leave me... please...” his voice sounding desperate even to his own ears.

Matheson kneels down close to him.

“Fox... We must prevent this from happening again. You need help. You must go to the hospital.”

“ No... My actions…. this will be regarded as a suicide attempt... Please... I only need rest. I’ll be okay if I get rest.”

“You need help, Fox.” Matheson reiterated. His arm gently squeezing Mulder’s shoulder then turns at glares at Patterson in annoyance. His tone is ice. “ What he needs especially is sometime away from you, Patterson, without you constantly on his back. You gave his him another damn case when you knew the state he was getting in? Are you nuts or what? Don’t you see he’s burned out? He can’t do this anymore! You never give him a moment’s respite, Patterson. This kid juggles with sometimes more than ten cases in progress. You badger him, you squeeze him dry like a lemon.”

Reggie also glares at Patterson in disgust, his face furious.

“He’s just a kid, hell … for god’s sakes man! He can’t cope all this constant violence and never get a rest from it!”

“Purdue, I advise you to moderate your tone! Don’t forget who you are addressing!”

Reggie collects up the fallen photos from the ground, anger radiating out of every movement.

“ How can you possibly believe he can stay sane with this continual bombardment of cases and no breaks…especially cases like these! “ He waved the files angrily in Patterson’s face. The man stepped back in alarm at his underling’s wrath. “ Can’t you see what these kind of cases are doing to him, what they signify to him? Good god you should be locked up! This kid has an IQ of over 200, he’s is a genius whore…at least that’s how you use him! You think that protects him from the madness he deals with day in, day out? Who watches out for him? Not you. All that you care about is that your cases get solved, in short order; one damn putrid case after another and you don’t give a flying fuck about the mental health of your agent’s while you take all the glory!”

Mulder’s desperate voice bleached through Reggie’s angry tirade

“Reggie... stop... please...”

Mulder sobs violently as he sticks his hands over both ears.

“ I... I don’t want... to end it like this... no hospital... I need... some time...?”

“I promise you truthfully, Fox. With all the power I can find to help you, I will not let anyone lock you up in a psychiatric hospital.”

Mulder is focused solely on the Senator’s anxious glance. He swipes at his tears with an awkward gesture as they run down his cheeks and tries to get control of his emotions. The pain, tiredness, the nervous tension has robbed him of any remaining strength he has and he hardly has the energy to keep his eyes open. He feels someone help him to his feet and sees that it’s Reggie and Skinner who are supporting him as he staggers up on his trembling legs.

“Fox, I know an institution where you will be able to take leave of absence for a while and completely rest. Nothing will be consigned to your personnel file. The doctor responsible for this place is a personal friend. He will be to take good care of you. And he will be discrete; I can assure you. Will you agree to follow me and let me take you there?”

Fox shakes his head slowly. He knows he doesn’t really have any other choice. The two older men drag him slowly down the deserted corridors and he’s helped into a luxurious limousine, between Reggie and Skinner, who help him settle on the back seat. His tears start again to flow again and he cries silently, conscious of his failure, his weakness and his impotence. His wrists are throbbing with pain; a cruel reminder of his breakdown and his head is empty and light like his soul has deserted him. The vehicle pulls away from the curb when Matheson signals the driver.

Purdue and Skinner look at Paterson disdainfully as they return to the crowded reception, now oddly devoid of it’s guest of honor.


Two days later.

Mulder awakes with a start, disorientated and tries to remember the events that led him to this luxurious room. He remembers his arrival, of the panic that invaded him when he understood they wanted to lock in him here, despite the reinsurance of the Senator-his friend who tried to calm him. He remembers the arms firm, muscular arms that held him down and prevented his escape, as an injection of tranquilizer was administered, essential in his state. He remembers the apathy that followed, the removal of the glass fragments and the stitching of his tattered sore hands and wrists. His so heavy eyelids and the reassuring words of Doctor Jameson. Nobody will think badly of him…or this breakdown. He was a human who had simply taken too much for too long in too bigger does. . He simply needed to rest, then he could think again, breath again….rest.

He lays his head back on the pillows and observes the world around him. He feels like he’s floating. It’s all-surreal. Nothing to see but a traditional hospital room or a cell in a psychiatric hospital. The room is sparsely furnished with refinement or sharp objects, his mind supplied; just a room comprising a wood closet, sinks, a small office, a wooden chair and an armchair. From his bed, he can see the bathroom with a door that remains open. He smiles bitterly by discovering that nothing is left randomly, it’s all designed for safety. His and others. No curtains to hang himself with, no electric wires, even the mirror seems unbreakable. Naturally he’s been placed under observation and apparently Doctor Jameson fears a suicide attempt. That hits him in the gut like a ton of bricks.

He is not suicidal. Of that he is sure. His recent erratic behavior is a cry for help, a desperate cry he launched in hope that somehow he could stop the descent into Hell orchestrated by Patterson. The psychologist in him recognizes the symptoms of a nervous breakdown, which undermines him little by little. The lack of sleep, the permanent stress, the weariness of the life and the demons manifested by being too long buried in minds of killers and madness without a break. Something had to give. It systematically broke him into little pieces of who he used to be but an unsuspected force pushes him to fight now, to survive despite everything. The hope that he can find his sister is stronger than his distress.

He lifts his body off the bed while grimacing at his stiff joints; passes a hand through his unruly hair. It feels like his body weighs tons. He stretches a long moment, chokes back a yawn and moves slowly towards the bathroom. He stops briefly in front of the mirror, and comes face to face with his own terrible haggard reflection. He hardly recognizes the face that gapes back at him. He has black circles around sunken eyes, his jaw sticks out projecting so much lost weight and his hair hangs lifelessly down in front of his eyes. He is blanches away quickly, removes his pants and shirt and slips under the lukewarm shower, not caring about his bandaged wrists. There he remains for a long time under the tepid water, soaping his painful body, noting as works down his torso, his too prominent ribs, the thinness of his thighs, and sighs heavily. He hadn’t realized the decline and degradation of his own body before now, the mental and physical state he had been reduced to. Everything had taken its toll. Every case, every bloody child’s body. Tears start to run slowly on his cheeks, and deep wracking sobs shook him once again. He let himself slide down the cool tiles of the shows, bonelessly and uncaring, unable to support his own legs under the weight of despair he felt.


Doctor Jameson gently enters the room of his new patient. He finds him stretched out limply on the bed, his naked body simply covered with a wet bath towel; tear tracks like silver trails on his cheeks. He looks a picture of exhaustion. A human soul spent with no more to give. He places a tentative hand on his shoulder to wake him.


The young man opens his eyelids and blinks twice sleepily, and props himself up in the pillows when he sees the doctor close to him.

“I am Doctor Jameson. You remember your arrival here?”

“ Yes...?”

“Would you want to stay here and recover, Agent Mulder?”

“Don’t know... I need this retreat I guess, to give a progress report on my life, my work…sanity?”

“How long have you been part of the FBI, Fox?”

“Mulder, please. For two loooong years.”

“And how long have you been a profiler?”

“ About a year.” The doctor nodded sagely.

“ Did you select this specialty?”

“It’s rather a case of the specialty selecting me. It seems that I have a kind of gift for plunging into the minds of evil criminals.”

“ You are conscious that this job has had a profoundly harmful effect on your health?”

Mulder grimaces and unconsciously rubs at the scars on his wrists, ironic laughter catching in his throat.

“Yes. I am perfectly conscious of that.”

“You ever thought of changing jobs, finding something les stressful?”

“Yes. But my esteemed superior constantly refuses to accept my change to another section.”

“I was under the impression that you had contacts within Congress. That Senator Matheson could do something to support your request. I think that you should strongly consider that.”

“I will think about it.”


Matheson enters the bedroom slowly where Mulder is sitting staring out of the window. The weather is gray and gloomy, a bit like the young man in front of him. He’s spoken to him several times on the phone since his admission, happy to note that the stay has been beneficial for his delicate young friend. He looks at him a few moments before getting closer to his side, noting with satisfaction that the young agent seems to have gained weight, that his face less dark and pinched looking.


He raises his head to meet the Senator’s and shakes the older man’s hand, a small smile at last tugging at his lips.

They are both face to face when Matheson presents his with a letter, the real reason for his visit today. Mulder takes a few moments to peruse the document and lifts the eyes towards him, astonished.

“Patterson is furious, you must suspect it. You’ve made an enemy within the FBI, I’m afraid, but he doesn’t have any say in the matter anymore. You’ve been transferred. Fox. Effective immediatly. But if you need some time...”

“No…no. I am fine with this…. I don’t know how to thank you, senator. I’ll never forget what you did for me. Thanks so much, sir…I think you just saved my life. literally.”

“Stay in touch, Fox. Grasp this new venture. You have big things to achieve within the FBI. Take a new departure.”

Mulder looks at him, his eyes brilliant with unshed tears. He has been given his life back another chance and he won’t waste it.

“You will be placed under the direct supervision of AD. Walter Skinner. He’s a good man, an ex marine with integrity and then some. I think that your collaboration will be very effective within this brand new section.”

“What can I say to you? … Thank you.”

They both rise and shake hands again, Mulder pouring all his gratitude into the firm clasp of his benefactor’s hand. The senator smiles delighted at this favorable outcome. He has high hopes for the young agent. Mulder is ready to leave when the senator retains him with a hand on his shoulder.

“There are some secret files buried down in the basement office at the Hoover building. I’d like you to cast an eye over them for me.. I think they will be of great interest to you.”

“Secret files. What are they?”

“Classified files... cases like that of your sister’s.”

Mulder looks at him with astonishment and attention. Excited suddenly. His heart begins to pound. Is Matheson about to hand him the key to the Holy Grail?

“ I promise you that I will take your advice, senator. I’d be very interested to look at them and report back.”


Two years later.

Mulder is engrossed in the study of his photographic slides and documentations when he hears a knock on the door.

"No one down here but the FBI's most unwanted.”

The door open and a young attractive woman enters. The walls of the basement are covered with photographs, of various articles and a poster showing a flying saucer with the logo: I WANT TO BELIEVE. He turns to her, peering through his metal-rimmed glasses, a mocking smile resting at the edge of his lips. He won’t tell her yet that she is pleasing to the eye. He tamps down the urge that something meteoric has just happened in his universe. After all, he wanted or needs a partner. He takes her in, all redheaded 5 ft 2 of her. He tilts his head at the interloper, possibly Blevins’s spy as she extends her hand to take his in greeting.

“Agent Mulder? I’m Dana Scully. I’ve assigned to work with you.”

Not bad as spies go…Hold on Scully…This might be quite a ride.

“I was under the impression……….”


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