From The Ghost Of A Memory

by Amanda Moon



**********************



*One*


"Dιjΰ-vu," Agent Scully muttered under her breath. She turned toward me and began her usual speech of non-confidence. "We must've investigated a hundred cases involving unsubstantiated claims of vampirism. Where have they led us? Nowhere. What have we concluded? Nothing. Who in their right mind can work up the nerve to even show us any respect anymore? Nobody. Mulder, we are joke. This is embarrassing. I don't want to spend taxpayers' money trudging out to yet another small town in a Midwestern state to stay in a cheap roadside motel and listen to the testimonies of people who are all too immersed in their own counter-cultural folklore!"

"Gee, you make it sound so romantic." I pouted. "And for your information, plenty of the claims have been very well substantiated."

"There's nothing supernatural about the exsanguination of livestock, Mulder. It's a little creepy, I'll admit, but not unexplainable. And as for the human victims," Scully motioned to the papers on my desk – case files of a couple of vacationers killed last week in Fort Dodge, Iowa, "well, that's what we have the Violent Crimes Unit for."

"There's something more to this, Scully, and I don't know how to convince you except to say – when's the last time I was wrong?" I looked into her eyes. This was more than vampirism – this was vampires. This was a town full of people who lived their daily lives with the knowledge that in the old dark mansion up on the hill, there existed, and had existed for as long as they could remember, a proverbial Batman and Robin of the macabre. "You don't see anything supernatural about a self-contained population which is of the mind that drinking blood is what those boys in the castle do when they run out of tea?"

Scully looked at me and I could tell she was starting to cave. These things were always more fun than they were trouble, and she knew that. Besides, it wasn't like she had a date this weekend or something.

Slowly she let out a sigh of defeat. "This is the last time, Mulder ... And promise me one thing? Don't drive a stake through anyone's heart unless you're sure he's a vampire."

I smiled.



*Two*


Bexley Residence
Fort Dodge, Iowa
5:23 p.m.

Scully knocked on the door with a kind of authority that sounded professionally bored. A middle-aged woman wearing one oven mitt answered the door.

"We're Agents Mulder and Scully of the FBI," I told her, displaying my badge. "Are you Mrs. Bexley?"

"Why, yes. Can I help you?"

"We're investigating a double murder in the area. May we come in?" Scully asked tiredly.

"Oh, sure." She let us in. "Would you two like some brownies? I've been baking all day," Mrs. Bexley offered with a smile as she shuffled back into the kitchen.

Scully's expression brightened a little, and then she looked at me sheepishly. "Actually, that would be really nice," she said.

"Mrs. Bexely? We'd like to ask you a few questions," I called to her. "Where were you last Tuesday around 9 p.m.?"

"Oh, please, call me Penny," she said, returning from the kitchen with a plate of brownies. "Now, last Tuesday? Well I was at my bridge club meeting, of course. Over at Holly Kesper's. Say, you're talking about those vacationers they found, aren't you?"

I pulled out a series of photographs and showed them to her. "The victims were Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Welling. They were reported missing by one of Mrs. Welling's co-workers after she failed to show up for work, and recently their bodies were discovered in a wooded area near here. We talked to their families and the co-worker, but no one can say if they came here for any particular reason. Do you know of anyone who had contact with them while they were in town?" I inquired.

"Holly said she'd seen ‘em in the diner, and they'd told her they were ‘going wherever the road may take them'. She took that to mean they were just passing through, but I guess they stayed here a little longer than they'd planned to ..." Mrs. Bexley stifled a giggle.

"Can you tell us where we might find Holly to ask her about this?" I asked, frowning.

"Oh, Holly won't tell you nothin' new. Everybody knows it was the Savages."

Scully, in mid-bite of her third brownie, shot me a patronising glance. I sent her back a you're-the-one-with-frosting-on-your-chin glance.

"Thavages?" Scully asked.

"Yeah. The vampires. In the mansion." Mrs. Bexley looked at us like we must be very naοve. "That's who you ought to be asking all these questions to. But they didn't do nothin' wrong. They're very nice boys. What d'you expect them to do? It wasn't anything personal. S'just how they live."

"Mrs. Bexley," Scully began, " – Penny. How exactly do they live?"

Mrs. Bexley popped a brownie in her mouth and shrugged. "Like vampires."



*Three*


Hayes/Jones Residence
Fort Dodge, Iowa
6:19 p.m.


We decided to forgo questioning Holly Kesper on Mrs. Bexley's advice that she wouldn't tell us "nothin' new," and headed up the hill toward the elegant Victorian house said to be inhabited by the Savages. The whole scene was right out of a horror film, with the refining addition of some Anne Rice overtones. The sky became overcast, and in a few minutes it was black as night and raining hard. In the flash of a lightning bolt, the mansion cast an ominous shadow onto its surrounding garden. I think I saw Scully shiver.

"Mulder, maybe we should just go back to the motel," suggested Scully. "You know how the eyes play tricks when you're chasing vampires on a dark and stormy night."

I smiled. "Don't be silly. I'm alarmed that someone with your scientific training could so easily be drawn into the lure of small-town literary stereotypes and pathetic fallacy."

"What would you like me to say? That the weather conditions may interfere with achieving an accurate bullet trajectory?"

"Not unless you brought your silver bullet clip, Scully." I parked the car at the end of the long driveway in front of the house. "You know," I said, my voice lowered, "a car is the safest place to be in a lightning storm." I don't know if I'd meant to say it so provocatively, but it kind of came out that way.

"Then why are we getting out of one?"


I banged on the elaborate wooden door with its wrought-iron knocker, and a moment later, the door creaked open to reveal a slight man, all in black, with disarming blue eyes. The first thought that sprang to mind was the time Scully had that stupid crush on the Texas sheriff who helped us investigate a previous case of vampirism. Great, watch her get all dreamy over this guy now.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, FBI," said Scully competently. "We're investigating a double murder in the area, and we'd like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?" The tone of ennui had drifted back into her voice. Maybe she needs more brownies, I thought idly. The man let us in without a word, and motioned for us to have a seat in the aesthetically decorated living room.

"Is there anyone else living here?" asked Scully methodically. Define ‘living', Scully, I thought.

"Yeah, my friend Daniel. I'm Darren." He reclined into a high-backed chair and looked at me strangely. I glanced at Scully to see if she'd caught a hint of his charm yet, but she seemed to be ignoring it. I was impressed. How very productive of you, Scully.

"And where is Daniel now?" she questioned.

"In bed." replied Darren demurely.

Scully continued. "Can you tell me where you were last Tuesday night around 9 p.m.?"

"I was here. At home. Probably watching telly." An accent had definitely surfaced in Darren's voice, which I soon placed as Australian. Come on, Scully, aren't you a sucker for accents?

"And Daniel?"

"Yeah. He was here too. I think we'd rented a video, actually."

"Did you have any contact with the two vacationers who were recently found dead near here?" She placed the photographs of the Welling couple on the glass coffee table in front of him. "Did you see them around town, talk to them at all?"

Darren eyed the pictures. "Can't say as I did. Sorry, I'm not much help, am I?" He flared a beguiling grin – not at Scully, though. At me. I hadn't even said anything. I smiled back uselessly.

"Have you got a last name, Darren?" Scully asked.

"Hayes. Daniel's is Jones. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"I don't think there's anything at this time. Will Mr. Jones be available to for us to speak with anytime soon?"

"Er ... he's really kind of ... indisposed for the time being," Darren paused and then mouthed the word ‘hangover,' "I'm sure he'll be alright tomorrow, though, if you'd like to come back and talk to him?"

Scully stood up to leave. "That sounds like a good idea. Mulder?"

I started out of Darren's gaze. "Hm? Right. Okay, thanks," I said to Darren.

"Still, maybe you guys should wait a little while till the rain lets up," Darren suggested. "You won't be able to see driving in that." He looked out the window.

I conferred with Scully in a brief exchange of looks, and we decided we might stay a few minutes.

"Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything?"

We shook our heads.

"Okay. I'll be right back." He disappeared down the hall.


After about half an hour, the storm still hadn't let up any, but Scully was growing impatient, and we'd seen no sign of Darren since he'd left the room.

"Mulder, I'm going to go look for him, to let him know we're leaving." she said. "You stay right here." She walked off in the direction in which Darren had gone.

I waited for a few minutes, memorising the figurines on the gold-trimmed mantel and noting how much coloured glass there was in the room. Decorative wine tumblers, crystal vases containing exotic flowers. There were red velvet drapes on the windows and prints of Renaissance-era paintings on the walls. Geez. These guys are awfully sophisticated for a couple of college-age kids.

Just then my Ridiculous slapped my Sublime right across its conceptual little face. I am, after all, 98 parts hopeless romantic to 2 parts strategic kill-joy – idealism has that kind of command over reason for me. Vampires, stupid! Ageless, immortal deities unchanged by time and its transgressions! If nothing else, god, Mulder, you could've at least noticed they don't have any mirrors ...

And where the hell is Scully? Stay right here my ass. "Scully!" I called into the dark corridor. No answer. Perfect. I walked down the long hall until I came to a staircase, much like the one leading up from the living room, except that this one led in the opposite direction. Drawing my gun, I chased a myriad of steps spiralling downward until I reached a dim parlour. Christ, I thought, if there's a coffin in here ... "Scully!" I called again, aimlessly.

Out of nowhere, Darren materialised before me.

"Where's Scully? What did you do with her?" I yelled.

Darren put a finger of silence to his lips and murmured, "She's fine."

"Well where is she? We'd like to leave now."

"She's fine," he repeated, in the same cool whisper as before. "You're a funny man, Agent Mulder. Really, you are."



*Four*


I had returned to the room in which I'd told Mulder to wait, only to find him gone. I yelled for him, but to no avail. After some time of searching around the house, I found myself in a library of sorts, confused as to where exactly I was and how, subsequently, I was to get out. I discovered a door from the library into a hallway, but it wasn't the hallway I'd come in from. At least it's a different room, I thought, recalling the Christmas Eve when Mulder and I had been trapped in a house a little too much like this one, with only the company of two psychoanalyst phantasms, stuck on a treadmill of treachery that only led us back to that same infernal room – no matter how many times we went out the door.

I pulled out my weapon and proceeded down the narrow corridor. I turned a sharp corner, aiming my gun into the adjacent room and bracing for shock. Nothing – or rather, no one. The room was painted a deep green and was lit by two old-fashioned oil lamps and a number of tall white candles in holders. As far as I could tell, it was a bedroom, but there was no bed. Oh well. Not the first bedless residence I've encountered.

I saw a shadow move in the corner, but by the time I pointed my gun, it had gone. It reappeared in the other corner, and I felt a pang of dread – not bats. Please not bats.

For a moment all the lights flickered out and I probably called something stupid like, "Who's there?" into the dark. Then the lights spontaneously re-lit, and a quiet, lanky figure stood before me.

"Put your hands in the air and tell me who you are!" I yelled, aiming my gun.

The silhouette lingered a second without moving, then raised his hands slowly and posed, statuesque and still silent. Another lamp by the wall lit of its own accord, illuminating the shy face of the figure. I wagered this was Daniel. "Are you Daniel? Would you like to tell me where Agent Mulder is?"

"He's fine," Daniel whispered, in such a way that I didn't feel even remotely assured.

"Where is he? You have a lot of explaining to do."

"He's fine. You know, you're a funny woman, Agent Scully." Daniel smiled. "Really, you are."



*Five*


He was going through my wallet.

"What kind of a name is Fox?"

"Shut up."

"I'm just making conversation."

"Could we have a conversation about what you've done with Scully?"

"I told you, she's fine. Now stop worrying."

"I'll stop worrying about Scully when I know she's safe."

"Fair enough. When will you stop worrying about everything else?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I've had hundreds of years to get inside people's heads. But it would only take me a minute to know you've got a lot to sort out with yourself."

Sigh. "It's been done, you know. The psychoanalyst bit? Surely you're aware that originality is the essence of most effective scare tactics."

Whatever you say.

"What the fuck was that?!"

Never let them get your handcuffs. No good will come of it. I was now sitting with my hands chained behind the back of my chair, with Darren standing ten feet in front of me, stationary and refusing to focus his gaze anywhere but on me. His words – Whatever you say – did not reach my ears in any form of recognisable sound. Instead it was an echo I felt, a tremor through my veins, like he was speaking from inside my body. I was paralysed.

How do you want to do this, Fox?

His thoughts. My thoughts. He's reading my mind. He's in my mind. In my fucking mind. And he thinks with an Australian accent. Jesus.

I could still see him, though, ten feet in front of me, now closer. Now approaching me like a hunter, or a zombie, and I wondered if I should avert my eyes. Now leaning over me, one hand on my chest. Softly – too softly – I managed to interject, "Is this where you bite my neck?"

If you like. He pressed his lips to my neck and slowly opened his mouth, just enough so that his teeth grazed my skin. I held my breath in mute panic. He stood up and began to pace deliberately.

"You make inferences about your partner to make up for the aspects she keeps from you. The gaps which, I'm sure, you'd rather were filled properly – with intimacy – but you dismiss that so as not to get your hopes up." He was talking again, out loud, with his voice. "I heard you earlier, wondering what Scully thought of me. Is that a projection of your unconscious desires in your psyche?" He leaned closer. "Or are you just happy to see me?"

It took me a minute to realise what he was saying. Even then, I protested. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Yes you do. Watch. He moved behind me and unlocked the handcuffs. I jumped out of the chair, convinced I was going to run away, but instead I found myself facing him again, unable to take another step. Unable, or unwilling. He smiled condescendingly, and closed in. His mouth was on mine, his hands clinging to my leather jacket, and the mute panic in my mind grew deafening. The more he pushed himself on me, the more I felt able to excuse what was happening as just another feature of some big ... hard ... unimaginable delusion.

I kissed him back until my mouth hurt.



*Six*


"So ... what's your first name?"

Pause. "Dana."

"That's beautiful."

Pause. "Thank you."

Awkward glance. "I'm sorry I had to cuff you."

"You didn't have to."

"Yeah, I did. You were going to run away."

"You could've let me go." I smiled half-heartedly. Maybe if I could get his pity ... "Hey, Daniel ... these cuffs are a little tight. Do you think you could just loosen them a bit?"

He shook his head. "Not yet." He looked over at a melting candle and studied it intently. "Did you and Agent Mulder want to talk to me earlier?"

"We wanted to ask you some questions about the couple who were killed near here last Tuesday."

Daniel nodded. "I heard about that."

"Did you ever see them or talk to them in town?"

"Nope."

I sighed. This was not making any sense. "Why are you keeping me here?"

"I'm creating a diversion," he explained quietly.

"What do you mean? Has Darren done something with Mulder?"

Daniel looked at his watch. "Probably not yet."

"Yet? What is he doing?!" Distress crept into my voice.

Daniel was silent.

"Daniel? Is he hurting him?"

He looked down. "No, no. He's not hurting him." His voice was low and ... forlorn? This was confusing. He was sinking into some kind of unpleasant realisation. And I noticed I couldn't help but be drawn in.

"Daniel, tell me what's going on."

He reached behind me and unlocked the handcuffs before tossing them onto the ground. "I can't do this anymore," he whispered, and sat down on the floor.

I stood up, fully intending to leave, but stopped when I saw him bury his face in his hands. This better not be some sort of reverse-psychology method of holding a hostage. I knelt beside him and cautiously put my hand on his back. He let out a despairing sigh, and at the same time I felt something wash over me, a wave reverberating through my senses: I don't think he cares.

"You mean Darren?" I whispered. The wave returned, filled with a sorrowful sense of affirmation. I didn't completely understand what I'd asked, or what he'd answered, but the specific words were irrelevant. Go ahead, Mulder, tell me there's something in Somalian folklore about vampires enticing their victims by telepathically evoking their sympathy. God, there probably is something like that, you know ...

I put my arms around Daniel and held him in simple consolation. Gradually my apprehension faded, and I kissed his forehead softly. He met my eyes, set me in slow motion, as I touched my lips to his. I wasn't expecting to fall under a spell. I wasn't expecting to overlook the obvious need for a hundred different kinds of explanation. I denied my conscience its customary vote in my actions, figuring if I remembered – even for a moment – who I was, or why I was here, I wouldn't be able to place blame merely on the town Fort Dodge for flinging me out of character.

Of course I still had no idea what Darren would want with Mulder.



*Seven*


I awoke on the floor of the living room. Clambering to a sitting position, I noticed Scully lying unconscious to my left.

"Scully," I said, shaking her. "Scully wake up."

She opened her eyes with a start. "What ... what the hell happened?"

"I don't know, you were gone, and I went to look for y – uh." For an instant, a demented tableau of the evening's events flashed before my eyes. What few events I could recall, anyway.

"Mulder?"

"Let's get out of here," I said. Scully nodded.

We dashed out the door, got into the car and drove off. I checked the clock – 9:34 p.m. We said nothing for a long time, trying in our respective heads to piece together what had just occurred.

"What happened after you went looking for Darren?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"I couldn't find him, so I went back to the living room. But you weren't there."

"I went looking for you."

Scully paused. "I got lost."

"Yeah." I kept my eyes on the road. "So did I."

She shifted slightly. "I don't remember ... "

I shook my head. I didn't remember either. He was kissing me. And then ... nothing. Oh god. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. "Scully, check to see if you have any marks on your neck."

She laughed. "You can't be serious."

"Humour me."

She pulled a small mirror out of her pocket – don't most women have purses for that? – and examined her neck. "No bite marks, Mulder," she assured me.

Okay, then what did he do? Drug us? Scully would know if she'd been drugged. Scully would be listing the symptoms in her cerebral medical record, and would have concluded something by now.

"Do you feel dizzy at all or feel any signs of hallucination?" she asked.

"Nah, you?" I vaguely recalled my vision swimming earlier, in the shadows of the cellar. I felt fine now, though.

"Not anymore," she mumbled. We pulled into the motel lot and got out of the car. "Mulder, I know we should probably review the case file, but do you think it could wait until morning? I'd just as soon call it a night."

I nodded. "Sure."

"Let me know if the last couple of hours come back to you." She sounded far away.

"Yeah. You too."

And with that, we slipped into our separate rooms.



*Eight*


At some time during the night, an curiously familiar thing happened – I woke to find myself once again on the floor. With a groan, I crawled back into the bed and discovered that I had pushed over and shattered the lamp on the table. Brilliant. There came a knock at the door, followed by a muffled "Mulder!"

I stumbled toward the door and let a bathrobe-clad Scully into the room.

"Mulder, what happened? You broke the lamp."

"I know." I sat back down on the edge of the bed, and she sat beside me.

"Did you have a nightmare or something?"

I thought for a moment. "I don't know." It was too dark for her to see the glazed-doughnut look on my face (gee, a light would've been handy ... ). "I don't remember."

"Are you hurt?" she asked, resting her hand on my shoulder. I shook my head. "Do you remember any more about ...?" I shook my head again.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" I asked.

"I was. And then I wasn't. And then you ... did the lamp ... thing."

"Sorry," I said, my voice low.

"'S okay." Through the slits of the Venetian blinds, sapphire light was cast on her profile. My eyes had adjusted, and I perceived the dark as several shades of blue. I really couldn't remember exactly what I'd been dreaming about, but looking at her like that, I had a feeling that it involved her in some way. Which is not unusual – after working with someone for six years you kind of give her her own file in your unconscious, so she can go beyond merely symbolising a facet of yourself. I'll admit Scully is a central figure in my dreams. But that's all I'll admit.

Scully stretched her arms out in front of her, catlike, and said, "I better go back to bed."

But just as she was about to stand up, I touched her arm, and promptly forgot what I was going to say. "Wait." Pause. The light was azure in her eyes, azure being a drunken-sounding word, and her eyes being intoxicating. I slid my hand up her arm, traced a finger along her collarbone, and leaned in, kissing her neck quietly. She didn't move, didn't pull away and slap me or – worse – tell me why that was so wrong, such a stupid thing to do, Mulder you know better. I stopped and looked up at her.

"Goodnight Mulder," she said. Then she kissed my cheek and left.

I bent down to pick up the pieces of the lamp.



*Nine*


I slept fine after that. I wasn't going to kid myself. Mulder is a remarkably passionate – if slightly distorted – person, and sometimes, when I see him so consumed by his work, when I know that it's blazing through his mind night and day, that he burns for it ... I wonder what it would be like. To know the fire inside the man. Pitch everything out the window. Burst into flames. Heh heh heh.

I slept fine after that. I was warm.


The next morning I went to the lab to perform autopsies on the two dead bodies, and found trace amounts of a Rohypnol, the date-rape sedative. In a moment of clarity, I put two and twelve together and realised I really should run a tox scan on my own blood to see if that was why Mulder and I had such limited memory of the previous night. However, when I ran the test on my blood, I found nothing.

Mulder and I met with Fort Dodge Sheriff Byron Carrie to go over our evidence. All we had were the bodies, and six interviews with local residents who had all implied that they believed Darren Hayes and Daniel Jones were responsible for the deaths – but curiously, not one of the interviewees felt ‘the Savages' should be prosecuted. I told Mulder and Sheriff Carrie about my findings from the autopsies, but we still had no justifiable cause to take the Savages into custody – all we had was this feeling, this looming suspicion that was impossible to shake.

Mulder paced back and forth in Sheriff Carrie's office. "Sheriff," he began, "do you believe in vampires?"

The Sheriff stroked his beard and looked from Mulder to me, and then back to Mulder. He took a deep breath, and then sighed. "I've lived here all my life, Agent Mulder. I was raised in an environment that just accepted its circumstances."

"Is that a yes?"

Carrie sighed and sounded sort of dusty. "I think, Agents, if you're looking for an explanation, one will be provided. One always is."

"I don't just want an explanation, I want the truth!" Mulder exclaimed predictably.

Just then a man knocked on the office door and entered, holding a cup of coffee. He motioned for Carrie to join him in the hall. "Somebody's come forward regarding the murder of the vacationers."

Mulder and I followed Carrie into the interrogation room.



*Ten*


Derrick Geffen was thirty-eight years old, single, and had been a Fort Dodge resident since birth. He was currently employed at Dini's Diner on the corner of Fifth Street and Kyle, and had confessed to killing Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Welling by lacing some ice cubes with the drug Rohypnol and then putting them in the victims' drinks, in order to render the Wellings incapable of defending themselves. I couldn't believe it. Scully could – I mean, there was evidence. Precious, sacred evidence. I protested that the drug could have been injected after they died, possibly through the puncture wounds in their necks to conceal the needle mark, but Scully maintained that such meticulousness was highly unlikely for such an otherwise violent killing - besides, we had a confession fall right into our laps. Geffen described his method of draining them of blood, and placed the location of their bodies with perfect accuracy. Plus he did a pretty convincing impression of a psychopath. All of these things gave us cause to keep him in custody.

I should've believed it. I should've dropped it at that point, and gone home. This is just a town full of superstitious, gullible bumpkins. Leave them alone.

But no. There was something in the water – so to speak – and it wouldn't let me quit.


That evening Scully and I returned to our respective motel rooms and went to our respective beds. I fell into a fitful sleep, and awoke a couple of hours later in the blue. I felt a presence in the room. Then suddenly I was frozen, and the sheets were torn off the bed. It was like one of those dreams where your voice crawls up into your ears and you can't make it come out your mouth. I couldn't yell. I just lay there. And the presence floated over me before materialising at my side. It was a man all in black, with light coloured hair and a pitiful look on his face. This must be the other one – Daniel.

"That's right. And you're Mulder," he said quietly. My voice still eluded me but I was able to nod a little.

"I'm not going to hurt you, in case you're worried. I really just wanted to meet you."

"What?" There we go. "You – and this is how you – ?" I stammered.

"Sorry. Feeling vulnerable?" Out of nowhere, a large iron shield appeared over me, and I found the strength to sit up and push it off of my arm. Daniel laughed deliriously. The shield disappeared. "You'd think after all these years, stupid gags like that would get old ... but they just don't."

"This is unbelievable." I blinked. "Why did you want to meet me?"

"I wanted to know what you looked like." Daniel moved a little closer and touched my face with his finger, the way a child touches a bubble. "What a big nose you have."

"All the better to smell you with."

He looked solemn for a moment, then broke into a smile. "That's cute," he said.

"I got a million of 'em." I tried to read intention in his eyes, but it was dark, and his eyes were empty. What does he want? Does he know about Geffen's confession? Is he going to tell me what happened that night at the mansion? Is he going to tell me he killed the Wellings? ... Is he going to seduce me? I tasted all different flavours of anticipation, from dread to hope, in no particular order.

A shyness crept into his grin, and then he looked away. "It's people like you who make me wish I was a poet."

"Excuse me?"

"It's rude of you to invade people's privacy like that."

"Pfft. This, coming from an FBI agent."

My eyebrows raised slightly. "Touchι."

Daniel looked satisfied, tilting his head back idly. "Fox ..." he sighed – kind of purred, actually, but it was embarrassing to think my name could be purred. Why is he saying my first name? Why is he saying it like that? "Oh relax, Mulder, I'm just trying it out. It's a hell of a name, you know."

"Yeah. But the kids at school have stopped making fun of me now that I carry a gun."

Fox ...

Oh, shit. He can do it too. That echo thing, where his thoughts resonate in my bones. And what's resonating now ...?

I was immersed in lust and wonder, which he was associating with my name, and then I found it laced with pangs of sadness, an envy that wouldn't fully declare itself, which were directed at me. I didn't comprehend it, but commiserated, because I felt it. I thought it unnecessary, but couldn't explain that to him. If any rational part of me was functioning, it was flattered. And sorry.

"Is that what Darren called you? Fox?" He was standing opposite me, yet breathing down my neck at the same time.

"I don't remember ... yes. Yeah."

"What did it mean to you?"

"I don't understand."

"What were you thinking? About Darren?"

"I ... I wasn't thinking."

Suddenly Daniel sparked up, as he shoved a hand to my chest and dropped his head down in exertion. I had the sensation that he was searching my mind, infiltrating and extracting, but looking for a specific memory which I knew was not there. He drew back his hand and looked at me, his eyes glowing schizophrenic. Slowly, he said, "You are only a mortal." As if to reassure himself. Pause. Then, abruptly, the monster dropped from his face. Again, but as if only now realising it, he said, "You are only a mortal." His ironic human smile returned, and he began to ... laugh? Yes, albeit maniacal, it was laughter nonetheless.

Nervous relief washed over me. I exhaled, and was about to crack one of my inane jokes, when I realised, bewilderedly, that I was alone in the room.



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