Title: The River

Author: CeilidhO

Summary: What if Scully had accepted the transfer to Salt Lake City? Three years later, she and her new partner are assigned to a bizarre string of kidnappings, with terrifying and dangerous results. (Prequel to "Disciple")

Disclaimer: I own nothing, Chris Carter owns everything. We all know the drill. Please don't sue me.

IMPORTANT:  NEW MULDER POV CHAPTER!!      (A sample)

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Arlington, Virginia

July 2, 1998

5:14 am

Fox Mulder sat on his couch, a hand clasped around a warm bottle of vodka.  Orange juice was settling to the bottom of the glass container, and Mulder watched it dully, his senses nullified and time moving in agonising drips and crawls.  She was gone, and the pulsing remains of the furious anger that had filled him so completely the night before were a hangover, searing through him and creeping through his brain.

She was still so clear in his mind, every detail of her face, her motion, her voice, her smell.  He reached out a hand in front of him as if to touch her, as if he could still be warmed by her skin.

Her face, so close he can see every eyelash.  The faint perfume of her lips, as they brush his for the briefest of seconds. 

Then, suddenly, she's gone, a cold vacuum against his skin. 

He moaned under his breath as a wave of pain overtook him.  Should he have seen it coming?  Did she ever feel the same way?  He loves her; he's in love with her, in a fanatic ripping light and heat that frighten him beyond comprehension.  The cold of her absence froze him from the skin down, halting his motion and slowing his thoughts. 

He took a swig from the bottle, and grimaced at the stale liquid.  He couldn't remember when he mixed the drink, or how long he's been sitting here.  All he could taste is the sour aftertaste of fury and alcohol.

Her warmth is gone, a vacuum against his face. " Mulder, no.  I can't.  I have

 to-" she says weakly. 

Confusion floods him, and reasonable thought seems just out of reach.  "What's wrong, Scully?  Don't you want-"

She puts up her hands.  "No, I can't.  Not like this.  Not when all you want is to-"

"When all I want is to what?  Scully, I don't understand.  What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing," she responds, her voice and posture feeble.  "You didn't…  It's me… I have to go."

Frustration begins to gnaw at him, and he charges after her. 

Back in the present, in the cold painful reality of the morning, Mulder began to cry, slow heavy tears.  They inched down his face and seemed to move independently of time, alternately faster or slower than the world beyond his wounded body.  He squeezed his eyes shut to stop them, and a sob ripped out from his throat.

He can't shut out the memories, which came faster and hotter now, pushing their way out through his burning eyes, rising before his vision.

"Scully!  Wait!  What's going on?"

She turns to face him, her eyes burning now.  "Why can't you just back off?" she cries.  "Why can't you just allow me to make my own decisions?  I'm not a baby!  I'm not your sister!"

Rage begins to sneak red-hot through his veins.  "Is that what you think I feel?  That you're her?  Jesus, Scully, get over it!  Not everything in my life is about her.  Would I have kissed you if I thought that?  Would I lo-"

"No, Mulder!  Not like this, don't goddamned say it like this!"  Her eyes are streaming, but she doesn't seem to know.  "And you didn't kiss me."

"I would have!  You turned away, not me!  Don't you feel-"

"No, I don't!  Not like this.  And you didn't really want-"

With a supreme force of mind, he shuts out the flow of visions, closes his eyes and his ears and his heart to her.  He wrenched himself off of the couch, the leather creaking behind him, and crossed to the phone.  He knew that there was no way that he could survive like his, missing her so much that it made the bile rise in his throat, that made time inch and jerk along like a bad stop-motion cartoon. 

Wincing against the harsh buzz of the dial tone, Mulder phoned the airport.

"Dulles International, this is Alma speaking.  How may I help you today?"

"Hi," he managed, his voice sounding foreign to his ears.  "Do you have any flights leaving for Salt Lake City this morning?"

"Why, yes we do.  The earliest is at 5:30 this morning, sir."  Her words were clipped and antiseptic.  Mulder threw his gaze around until his eyes lit on the clock.  5:22 am.  There was still a chance.   "Oh, I'm sorry sir," the woman continued.  "That flight has literally just taken off.  However, I can get you a flight on the…"

Mulder let the phone fall away from his ear, the tinny voice fading into the background.  Rage and pain poured through his veins, returning from the night, scorching him, and he raised the phone with corded arm and whipped it against the wall as hard as he could.  The pieces shattered with an explosive crash, and rained softly down on the wooden floor.

Anger coursed through him, jammed a burning ramrod up his spine, fired his heart into ageless solidity.  Anger kept him from collapsing like wet paper, from melting away.  Anger braced the arm that found the bottle and tipped it down his throat, drowning him into stupor.

Anger burned away the pain.

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A/N:  So, this is a sample of the story with Mulder POV.  The case I have in mind for him, if you all want it, is a serial murder investigation in South Carolina. 

Very Important!  Do you want Mulder POV?  Please include that in your review!

Thanks sooo much,          ~ Ceilidh