Chapter Two

I am ready to propose tracking down the Cigarette Smoking Man or uncovering a global conspiracy about colonization, anything to keep Mulder's interest away from Rambaldi. Vaughn might not look like a federal agent, (hell, he doesn't even look like a Boy Scout) but I could see the CIA training at work beneath the surface -- and, his apocalyptic warning convinced me. Despite my reservations about the authenticity of Rambaldi, I believe his concerns that Rambaldi is an obsession that leads men astray. I know I don't want to be the next great Rambaldi hunter: as far as I'm concerned, this case is closed.

But Mulder has that look in his eye.

It's going to be a long week.

Before I begin to protest the five thousands reasons we should drop this case, Mulder questions, "Who are the other names? Vaughn's name is one of three."

"Mulder, it sounds like he's talking about an urban legend..."

"How many urban legends have we proven true with less evidence? What about the Jersey Devil?"

"There's no proof to his story!"

"You want proof? What about his disappearance for three months, or his transfer to the FBI? His behavior suggests post-traumatic stress disorder. Did you see how he reacted to the cages, or his 'headaches'?"

"And if you flashed a bright light in his face he'd probably react to that too! That's not proof! He's seen too many…"

"Exactly, Scully. Michael Vaughn has seen things. And did you really listen to his denial? It sounded programmed."

I want to bang my head against a wall. "Are you suggesting that Michael Vaughn experienced a Rambaldi incident and the CIA conditioned him to forget?"

"Bingo. We know what they are capable of, what they have done to you, to me. I think Rambaldi is some government --"

"Then why is it an X-File? Why haven't men in sunglasses and black suits swarmed into our office, taken our files, and erased our memories too? Because there is no government conspiracy! You have to stop looking for things that aren't there! Not everyone was abducted! Michael Vaughn is just a washed out CIA agent, that's all. You said it yourself, the guy's a nut."

He doesn't listen to me (of course, when does he listen to me?). Yet, when he gets like this, no one can stop him. So, I better just, buckle up and go along for the ride.

"Where's that list?" I follow Mulder back into the office, where he sifts through the files until finding what he wants. He reads, 'Michael Vaughn, Irina Derevko, and Arvin Sloane.' What happened when you ran the other two names?"

"Nothing. Irina Derevko and Arvin Sloane have no FBI file, social security number, DMV record, yada, yada, yada." I pause, debating if I want to divulge the information. I figure I better: he's Mulder, he's find out anyway. "But I've heard Sloane's name in the papers recently. He's wealthy philanthropist starting a new world health organization in Zurich called Omnifarm."

"A world health organization?"

It's like he just got his first telescope for Christmas. "Mulder!"

"I'm going to Skinner. I think we have enough circumstantial evidence to pay Mr. Sloane a visit."

"In Zurich?" He's got to be kidding. We don't have evidence, nothing even circumstantial. All we have is an unstable ex-CIA agent, a world health organization, and Rambaldi. I couldn't even begin to formulate a case connecting them. "Yes." I stare at him, but he doesn't back down.

"What, never wanted to visit Switzerland? C'mon, Scully, it might be fun. I'll even buy you dinner." I don't drop my expression. He smirks, "And maybe a tee-shirt at a souvenir shop."

Mulder doesn't give me time to react. He picks up his phone, calls Agent Skinner, and the next thing I know it's two hours later and we have a plane leaving at 5:45pm for Zurich from Reagan International. Shit. I need to find my passport.

Mulder shows up at the terminal wearing his characteristically exuberant smile I want to smack off his face. I'm really not in the mood to fly eight and a half hours to discover we're on a wild goose chase. We do that enough by simply driving to Texas, I don't understand why we have to fly to Zurich.

"Did you find your passport?"

"Yeaaah, it was in my drawer."

"Good. I've been reading up on Zurich, and I didn't really find much expect there's a lot of banks and chocolate factories. Also, at any hotel you can arrange a babysitter…" His voice trails off, "But apparently we won't need one."

He points and I look. His leather jacket lays over his small carry on, and he appears to have actually ironed his black tee shirt and jeans. His feet rest on the bench across from him and he reads The Washington Post. As we near, I see it's the sports section.

"Agent Vaughn," Mulder takes off his leather jacket and looks down at our companion. "What do we owe this pleasure?"

He removes from his pocket a letter and hands it to Mulder, who reads it out load. "'302: Special Agent Vaughn, Assistant Director Skinner requests you accompany Special Agents Scully and Mulder on their investigation.' I thought you weren't cooperating."

"It says nothing about cooperating. I just have to baby-sit."

"We don't need a babysitter."

"Apparently Skinner thinks you do."

"Well, if we're really pressed we'll just call the concierge."

Vaughn responds by putting his paper away, and getting in the boarding line without another word. Mulder mutters a few choice words I didn't know he knew before following. I tell Mulder he has to sit next to him. He pouts and don't care (I don't want to middle seat to begin with). I just hope there's an in-flight movie. All day traveling with these two might drive me crazy. I don't know whom I would kill first. Probably Vaughn, because in the five years Mulder and I have worked together, I've grown kind of fond of him.

Kind of.

Fortunately, our seats are in the alcove by the emergency exit, giving us privacy and legroom. We take our seats, and Mulder doesn't make his first move until after take-off. "Did Skinner brief you on our case?"

"No."

"He just ordered you to tag along."

"Basically."

"Isn't the Boy Scouts' motto: be prepared?"

"Yup."

Mulder pauses, "You never were a boy scout, right?"

"I wasn't even a cub scout, Spooky."

"The case..." "Not here; never in public. We'll talk at the hotel... Roomy."

The rest of the flight is eight hours I will never get back (and I would really like them back). We take a taxi from the airport to the hotel, and that's when having Michael Vaughn "baby-sit" us actually turns into a God sent. He knows his way around the city and his fluent (well more fluent than ours) German allowed us to keep a low profile. Additionally, he has our rooms upgraded for no extra charge. I occupy Room 447 and Vaughn and Mulder occupy Room 448 across the hall. When the desk clerk assigned Room 447, Vaughn unsuccessfully tries to have it switched. In the elevator ride up, Mulder desires to inquire about Vaughn's suspicion with the room number. Something stops him.

As Vaughn unlocks the door, Mulder stands behind him and inquires about his dinner invitation. Hungry, I accept and tell him to give me a half an hour to shower, change, and unpack. I knock on their door about twenty-five minutes later; and Mulder answers, nicely dressed but not in a suit. "Scully… you look really…"

I raise my eyebrow… Yes?

"Pretty." Vaughn says.

He emerges from the bathroom, not wearing much of anything. Mulder glances back and Vaughn repeats. "The opportune word is 'pretty'." He goes about his business muttering to himself, "Or at least, that's what I think; God knows, what Spooky thinks."

"Thank you." I say and raise my eyebrow again at Mulder. "Ready?"

"Yup." He calls back to Vaughn, "Don't make me call the baby-sitter."

We had dinner in a restaurant Vaughn recommended. Despite my best efforts -- I really pulled out all the stops this time -- somehow our main topic of conversation throughout dinner was our little cowboy. Actually, we did get to other things, like her mother, my mother, aliens. The normal stuff. I even made her laugh a couple of times. It was nice. But, as usual, the farther astray I led Scully, the more she tried to reel me back in. That's when she brought up Vaughn. I badgered her throughout the main course and well into dessert, and by the time we were having our last round of drinks, she admitted it: she thinks Vaughn's hiding something, too.

But she could have possibly said that to get me to shut up already. You can never tell with that Scully; she's a wily one.

One more glass of wine and a half hour longer, I might have been heading into Scully's room rather than coming back here, to the room I share (much to my dismay and discomfort) with our boy who didn't forget to bring along all his emotional baggage. People think I have issues. Clearly, they haven't met Michael Vaughn.

I return to the room and search it. "Boy Scout?" I call out as I barge into the bathroom, praying for my sake I'm not invading a private moment. The kid is gone. Although, in his time here, he successfully conquered the mini-bar, leaving only the Coca-Cola standing. Ooh, ooh! And lookie what I've found. Files left out on the desk... and I was actually ready to admit he probably made an okay spy in his day. I get the cover half way up and I hear.

"Drop it and back away." Vaughn has his gun raised, and… oh sh-t… what's he doing with a silencer?

"Whoa there, tiger, put the gun down."

"Get away from the file."

"What's in the file?"

"Nothing that concerns you." Vaughn puts the gun away, and snatches the files then quickly stashes them in his briefcase. Suddenly, his mood changes in a very bipolar-esque fashion, and he says to me, "So, how was your date? No one nearly kill you or expose your secrets?"

"It wasn't a date." I defend. "And it was good."

"It wasn't that good, if you came home to me, Spooky."

"For your information, Scully and I are friends -- just friends -- and have a serious and professional relationship based on mutual admiration and respect." Vaughn stares at me, bewildered. He knows every word that just came out of my mouth was complete bullshit. You know what that means... Shift attention back to him. "Now enough about me, I want to know what's in those files and who broke in here and cleared out the mini-bar. They clearly didn't know we're federal agents and they could get their ass kicked for such an offense."

"Right. There was nothing in the mini-bar to start with, so forget about it. And the files -- nothing. Now, what about this case you were so hot-to-trot for me to hear about on the plane?"

I glare at him suspiciously. I sense a migraine coming on. Those files will be dealt with, but later...When he's more willing to share, and I have more patience to coerce it out of him. I plop down on the bed and search for the remote -- then I notice he has it. "Ah yes, the case. The case, in fact. Emphasis on the 'the' because it's the reason why you," I point an accusing finger in his direction, "were called up to the big leagues, son."

"So that's what they're calling that corner of the basement you were stashed away in?"

"Okay, lets get this straight, I'm the quick witted sarcastic one, Scully's the serious, scientific one. That leaves you to be…"

I think about it and he cuts in, "The one that doesn't have time for this."

"No. The guy with a huge piece of coal up his ass and who is absolutely no fun whatsoever." He rolls his eyes and stares back at me coldly. You know, I intended for it to be a joke, but based on his reaction, I think there very well could be a piece of coal growing inside his ass.

"O-kay..." I say uncomfortably as he switches the channel to Sports Center. "Here's the dealio, Scout--"

"Could you lay off of the Boy Scout shit already?"

I raise my hands in faux surrender. "Okay, cowboy." Come on, he just begs for it.

He mumbles something under his breath, as I continue where I left off. "About three days ago, four people turned up dead in some alley in New York City. Now I know what you're thinking, how is that out of the ordinary? That's what I thought, too, until I saw the cause of death." I reach for my bag, pull it up onto my lap, and leaf through it for the file; then hand it over to him. "All four people -- three of which are presumed to be the perpetrators -- were completely burned. I'm not talking sissy little third degree burns; I'm talking charred. Like you left the pot roast in the oven all day, charred."

I look over to gauge his reaction. His eyes give away his calm demeanor. He flips through the pages, and suddenly loses his breath at the sight of the first picture. There's something in his eyes...It's like he's seen this before. Because he has, of course.

"That's...Horrible." He mumbles, clearly distracted by his own thoughts. "Yeah, it is." I say, still eyeing him suspiciously. "We thought it was HSC." His head jerks up from the files, and he shoots me a confused expression. "Human spontaneous combustion."

I clarify, with a hint of annoyance in my tone. His sullen face immediately perks up as laughter overtakes him. "You think these people spontaneously combusted?"

"Um, yeah."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"You got a better explanation, cowboy? Over the past three hundred years there have been two hundreds reported cases, many of them claiming to have eye witnesses."

"Most of the cases were in the 18th and 19th century, before they had the miracle of forensic evidence. There have been hundreds of reports of UFOs, but they don't exist either."

"Actually, they do, but that's another night. And I'll have you know that, there's been at least seven reported cases in the 20th century, the last in 1997: a seventy-six year old, John O'Connor of Co Kerry, Irish Republic."

"He probably just got drunk and let himself on fire."

"No, the room remained relatively unharmed."

"It's scientifically impossible! That's no way in hell a human's body could raise in temperature that fast to do that type of damage."

"That's what Scully said, 'Professor Mike Green of Southampton University disproved Spontaneous Human Combustion with his "Wick Effect" theory; which states the human body posses the ability to function like a candle wick. The extra fat burns up and poof there goes the body.

'It's a proven theory, some BBC TV unit had Dr John DeHaan of the California Criminalistics Institute demonstrated the idea for the television audience by burning the carcass a pig wrapped in a blanket, with a lot of petrol for an accelerant.'

"However, I told her, 'That doesn't explain the 300 cases, recalling the exact same occurrence, and the all the victims fitting a certain profile.'

"Of course, Scully did not fail to mention, 'most victims of SHC are female, overweight, and/or alcoholics with their torsos completely pulverized and some of their limbs still in tack.' Which doesn't fit the MO here."

"Spooky, get to the point, because you're having an argument with yourself... and you are losing."

"The point is we thought it was Spontaneous Human Combustion until Rambaldi's name came up. Now, we believe otherwise. So, cowboy, why don't you give me your expert opinion."

He shifts uncomfortably at the sound of 'Rambaldi' and I simply glare at him. I've had enough of this shit. If the kid doesn't talk soon, I'll have to resort to drastic measures. He thumbs through the files again, and then tosses them aside in a spastic motion. "It could be Rambaldi, it couldn't be Rambaldi. You don't have any evidence leaning either way."

"I may not have any evidence now, but something tells me you do. I mean, what's your deal? You come to us with this huge chip your shoulder and try to play the brooding jerk who doesn't give a fuck about anyone or anything -- all I'm saying is that you're not fooling anyone." I shake my head and can sense him squirming. "What happened to you? What are you hiding?"

I watch him intently as a pained oh-shut-up expression overtakes him. I sigh and raise my arms in exasperation. "Enough with the PMSing already."

Clearly that was the wrong choice of words, because now he has stormed off into the bathroom, the door slamming after him. This is like: the blind date from Hell. I really, really, would much rather let the kid deal with his issues himself, but if I don't at least try to get chummy-chummy with him, there's no way he'll help us out. And I know for a fact whatever he's hiding will be the key. I force myself out of my very comfortable position in bed, and practically drag myself to the bathroom door. I am so pathetic. "Uhhh..." What the Hell am I supposed to say?! As I struggle for the words, the door swings open and he comes barging out, now in sweats.

"What are you doing?" He asks, confused but still angry.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, okay? I'm sorry for stepping on your toes, kid. I know I've been giving you a lot of trouble, but... it's just in my nature, I guess." I rub the back of my neck as I make my way back to my seat on the bed. "What I'm trying to say is: I'm sorry. Let's just put it all behind us and move on." I stare at him, waiting for him to take the bait.

"Who the fuck do you think I am?" He says finally, shaking his head disgustedly. "I know what you're trying to do, Spooky."

"Then cut the horseshit and answer my damn questions!"

"My personal life has nothing to do with this case, not everyone..." His words trail off.

"Not everyone what?" I retort. This kid thinks he's the shit, but he couldn't be more wrong. He brings his head up and stares me in the eye coldly.

"Not everyone has a personal connection to his work."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You know full well what that means, Mulder." I shoot him a glare, and he goes on. "Samantha, your sister, I know all about her."

"The fuck you do." The cocky bastard shakes his head, and a sad grin grows on his face. "You're right, I know more than I'm willing to share." With that, he sits down on his bed, checks the alarm clock before swinging his legs up onto the bed. Fucking asshole.

"I've had enough of this ominous, foreboding shit. To be completely honest, you're acting like a teenage kid who feels like nobody understands him. Just be a man, already. If you have something to say, come out and say it! You and I both know that this case will go nowhere if we don't have a certain degree of trust here. I may not like you and you may not like me, but there are four people dead in New York City, and I highly doubt that they give a fuck about our egos."

"Fine." Vaughn kind of huffs at me, "You want me to be touchy-feely? Fine. You want to know my personal connection to the job? And you might like this one. When I was eight, it was a Friday and my father was coming home from his business trip that day. He was going to be home at 12PM, and he was going to pick me up from school. And I waited for him, and I waited, and waited. He never showed. And Maman never came either. Finally, I walked the three miles home. And when I did, I found a black Caddy in the driveway, and a man in a black trench coat consoling my mother in our living room. My father never came home. Years later, I found out his business trips where CIA missions."

A pregnant silence fills the hotel room, and I feel really guilty for giving him such Hell. Hey, I may be a pain-in-the-ass, but even pain-in-the-asses have hearts. Plus, I can't help but relate to the kid.

"You were eight?" He nods. "Uhhh." The kid and I make eye contact, I suddenly feel the need to apologize. "Vaughn, I'm sorry, truly. I know what it was like, losing Samantha; and my father was killed three years ago. It was rough." Of course, it was rough for other reasons I will neglect to mention during our, dare I say it, bonding. He looks at me, like, uh-huh. I wanted to tell the prick to shove his Freudian disorders where the sun don't shine. But, I think of Samantha, and his dad, and those people in New York and decide to call it a night. "I'm truly sorry."

He pauses for a moment, seeming to accept my condolences. He quietly remarks, "And I'm truly sorry about, Samantha. Truly."

I pause, and ask him one last question, "What was your dad's name?"

"William. But most call him, Bill."

I smirk and turn out the light. Tomorrow should be fun. We might actually get some answers.