Title: Disciple
Author: CeilidhO
Summary: What if Scully had accepted the transfer to Salt Lake City? Five years later, a horrifying murder case reunites her with Mulder, even as it threatens to rip apart her life.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one here that were not on the show. The rest are mine. I make no money from this. The X-Files and its world belong to the Man, Chris Carter.
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The sleek black car turned off the I-15 at Geneva Road, leaving behind the suburban sprawl and moving into land that exposed the pale yellow soil. The driver, a local deputy, slid to a stop at the side of the road after less than two minutes away from the interstate, gliding onto the shoulder and stirring up the gravel. He turned around, and spoke for the first time.
"The crime scene's a short hike in from the road, due west. You'll be able to see the tape and the tent. Can't miss it. There's a small team mostly to keep the buzzards off, but they'll leave you alone once you get started. Call out to the station when you're ready to come back, and we'll send a car for you and the body. Good luck, agents. Catch this guy." His mouth was a grim line. Scully turned around as she was about to follow Morris out.
"You aren't coming?" she asked.
He grimaced, and then shook his head. "Once was more than enough for for me." The car pulled away, and Scully felt a small rock bounce off her thigh.
They were met with another silent deputy, who handed them surgical masks.
"For the smell," was all he would say. When Mulder parted the thick flaps of the tent door, the cool air rushed out at them. No one wore their mask.
The open canisters of liquid nitrogen had allowed the sheriff's department to keep the body cool enough to wait for the FBI. It was an unheard of opportunity for a profiler to get the body still in the original crime scene. Washington had ordered that the local authorities do their best to keep it well preserved and in the scene until 'representatives' arrived. The cold air crept along her skin.
And then Scully saw the boy.
He was propped up grotesquely, a medium sized rock under his chin to hold up his head, his arms flung wide, his legs parted slightly. He was completely naked. The most striking and disturbing feature, though, was his back.
On it were swirls and lines, curves and loops, and they all seemed to resolve themselves into an incredibly ornate set of wings, delicately carved into his back. Suddenly in struck Scully what she was actually looking at: a small boy, maybe nine years old, with wings carved, godamnit carved into his body. The word kept flying around her mind. Carved…
She felt the bile rise in her throat, choking her, stinging her, burning her throat and the back of her mouth. She breathed, slowly and carefully, in and out, knowing it would be easier if she didn't close her eyes, but desperately wanting to. She felt the impulse retreat slightly after a few moments, but it still lurked, low in her throat.
Alex Paring was making small sounds of distress, his eyes bulging, hands over his mouth. Dan was blinking rapidly, compulsively rubbing the lining of his coat. Mulder put his sunglasses in his pocket.
Scully let out a shuddering sigh, and pulled out her latex gloves, snapping them over her wrists, the soft powder settling familiarly around her fingers. She allowed her eyes a moment of respite, feeling them scream in pain against her eyelids the moment they were closed.
Mulder slipped a small tape recorder out of his pocket, and began to speak into it in a steady, professional voice, while he gestured to Paring to get out his camera.
"The body is arranged in what looks like flight, which is supported by the apparent pattern of the mutilation…"
Scully pulled out her own tape recorder, and spoke into it as best she could.
"The victim appears to be about nine or ten years old, blond hair, about four-foot-six. I believe his eyes to be blue, but it's difficult to tell with such extensive haemorrhaging. He weighs probably about 70-75 pounds. Underweight. Extreme starvation before death would then be apparent, as the skin is loose and the bone structure more pronounced then in the average boy his age…" The average boy. This child wasn't much younger than Tyler. In a flash of her mind, he was Tyler, eyes open and red, humiliatingly spread-eagled, mutilated, his inner flesh laid bare for the insects… She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Dan.
"He's not Tyler, Dana. Believe me, you have to believe me. He is not Tyler." She nodded, clearing her head with deep breaths, working hard not to think about the fact that this boy would never draw a breath again. Scully clicked the record button again.
"Several cuts are post-mortem, but some are obviously pre-mortem, as is evident from the extent of healing. Memo to run a chem test for histamine to determine which are which." Suddenly Mulder cut in.
"The body is spread in an approximation of flight, but what is he? A bird? A fairy?" His voice changed its tone. "When he was alive, he was round faced, blond haired, blue eyed, beautiful. He must have looked like an angel…" Scully whipped her head around towards him.
"An angel…" She whispered. Mulder nodded back, and for a moment nothing was wrong between them, nothing had ever changed. Abruptly, Mulder ducked his head, flicking his eyes away, and the moment was lost. She could almost feel the cold radiate off of him. He turned back to the body, whispering, almost to himself.
"The killer…He made himself an angel."
The ride back to Salt Lake City in the morgue hearse was quiet, but differently quiet then on the way down. Each person was wrapped up in their own head, thoughts, memories and theories chasing each other around their minds. Scully wished, for what seemed the millionth time, that she could see into Mulder's. Did this killer have a face for him yet? Was he right inside that killer right now, imagining everything he did, thought and felt? She knew that he could do it; she had seen what he was capable of, years ago on the Mostow-Patterson case. It frightened and astounded her.
As they filled out papers at the morgue, Scully felt the first wave of exhaustion sweep over her, almost drowning her in its sucking undertow. Suddenly the lights were too bright, the air was too dry, and her thoughts too dense and troubling. She managed to get through the paperwork, accept a ride home with Dan and his wife, and fall into bed.
It was afterwards that the nightmares came. They gripped her in fear, images of every small child she knew lying mutilated and naked in the desert, the arid winds parching their bodies, bleaching their bones, the sand scrubbing away their humanity. She couldn't stop it, and there were more and more children carved and bloody, melting away into the wind, soundless screams echoing for a help she could not give.
As Scully awoke in petrified horror, she could swear she felt herself collapse into sand, and dribble away into nothingness.
The boy was awake now, calling, screaming, writhing as best he could, reopening his fledgling wings, the first feathers newly inscribed in his flesh. He was afraid.
Good. The fear tingled the man's senses, opened his mind to fresh designs. The boy's voice reached down deep within him, calling forth his work.
He was ready to begin again.