Title: Kaltbluetig "In Cold Blood"
Summary: An ailing Mulder, must face a formidable foe 
from his past.

AUTHOR: Tamara (a.k.a. Jadeblueafterglow17)
EMAIL: troglewis@hotmail.com
ARCHIVE: MIJ, and any others please contact me and I 
will happily grant permission;
SPOILERS: The show is over my Goodness...how can you 
spoil it?
RATING: R, Language, V, ( No Slash)
Category: MT, SA, M/S UST (Atleast in this chapter), 
Extreme Violence against our hero 
KEYWORDS: WIP Chapter more will follow if anyone 
likes it...
Timeline: Takes place in Season 7 after the death of 
Mulder's mother, but will not lead up to the events 
of Requiem. It really does not follow the series 
timeline...I guess this would take place in an 
alternate universe on a day when the cameras aren't 
rolling.

DISCLAIMER: You know who they belong to, so don't sue 
me......I'm just borrowing them to have my own little 
fun! If they were mine ....especially that Fox Mulder 
...ohhh ho ho....the fun we would have. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first story, so be gentle. 
Feedback Greatly Appreciated.....and if any one wants 
to be a Beta Reader for me...please let me know. 
Send comments(No flames please)to 
troglewis@hotmail.com


There wasn't any way to get the office any warmer, 
even the portable heater under his desk seemed to be 
blowing cold air. Short of setting a fire in his 
filing cabinet, he was still shivering involuntarily. 
He hated being sick, he likened it to being forced to 
watch the Teletubbies with his partner nephew. Easily 
as painful, illness was something no grown adult 
should have to suffer through...ever.

Agent Fox Mulder's usually tame, regulation length, 
chestnut brown locks looked a little more askew than 
normal. 

An obliviously handsome man, with a boyish grin and 
soulful hazel eyes, he was reduced to a crumpled 
lanky frame of wrinkled designer suits, a red 
nose only Rudolph could envy, and bewildered 
appearance. 

Regardless of the temperature in the near artic 
eastern outdoors, perspiration slightly dotted his 
pensive forehead as he sat at his desk. He could hear 
footsteps approach his office, he counted them as the 
taps hit the linoleum floor. He didn't have to look 
through the glass door to know who was now headed in 
his direction. He had come to know what those heavy 
footfalls represented.
 
Assistant Director Walter Skinner walked down the 
hall to Mulder's office. He could distinctly hear 
Mulder's hacking cough as it echoed through the 
narrow corridor.

"Damn Mulder, are you frying bacon in here?"

"And a cheerful good morning to you too, sir." He 
tried mockingly to stand at attention, but wavering 
as he stood, he realized quickly his intentions and 
what had been communicated from his brain to his body 
did not create a synapse.

"What part of "take your ass home" did you not 
understand?" 

"I think specifically the part involving my ass sir. 
I'm quite partial to knowing its appropriate location 
at all times." 

Skinner's eyes narrowed as he gently shoved Mulder 
back down into his chair.

"Everyone in this building has taken a vote, and 
either you leave or they leave. They are wagering 
about how long it will take before someone finds you 
passed out on sidewalk since your partner is not here 
to make sure you do intelligent things, like stay 
home when you're sick. They don't want anything to do 
with you" 

Skinner nearly knocked Mulder out of his chair, his 
cool heavy hand making contact with Mulder's forehead 
with a slap. 

"Open your mouth!"

"Why?" 

"So I can take your temperature."

"Where in the hell did you find a thermometer in 
this building? Is that one of Scully's secret 
stashes?"

"Open."

"I don't have a fever. I took some medicine before I 
came in to work." he whined as Skinner grabbed him by 
the shoulder and shoved the digital thermometer in 
his mouth.

"Are you going to give me a sponge bath too, Skin-
Man?"

"Call me that again, and I'll shove this thermometer 
in a less user friendly place. Now close your mouth."
 
Mulder adjusted the thermometer and sat quietly for 
about 15 seconds before it started beeping, as 
Skinner took it out of his mouth. 

"102.3. You're burning up, Get your things and go 
home."

" I just got here, and I'm broke, calling a cab is 
not an option, this stuff my doctor gave me 
damn near put me in the poor house. It makes me see 
little naked women dance the cha-cha on my desk. And 
you know...that one over there is pretty hot, so, I 
think I'll just stay here, I'll just crash on my desk 
if I get too tired; You can't beat that kind of free 
entertainment value. " 

"I know you have money Mulder, you obviously don't 
spend it on dry cleaning, if you limit your porn 
dollars I'm sure you can muster up enough taxi fare 
to Alexandria." 

"I don't think I could make it, and I keep telling 
Scully, I don't have a collection, I'm just holding 
it for safe keeping."

"Fine, get your crap together, I'll take you home."

"I've got things to do.  Remember, we still have 
plenty of mutant killers to hunt down. I promise to 
stay in my own little basement ice-box of an office 
and try not to infect the masses. Besides it's just a 
cold, not the black plague." 

"Mulder, you've been sick for days and you're just 
getting worse not better. You need to see a doctor or 
at the very least stay home until you feel better."

Skinner looked at him seriously for a moment, waiting 
for the argument he was sure was coming.  What he saw 
made his throat constrict a little tighter. As his 
superior, Skinner was not supposed to let human 
trivialities phase him, but somehow Mulder always 
seemed to get under his shell. He hated to see his 
best profiler out of his element, and as his friend 
he hated to see him in this kind of obvious distress. 

Mulder was staring right through him, his eyes like 
glass. His clothes hung on the frame that usually fit 
their athletic owner. He wasn't hearing anything 
Skinner said, he was lost in his own thoughts, just 
attending without comprehending. This man was very 
ill. He needed someone to take care of him, but 
everyone who could fill that need was gone. It would 
seem that even his partner, and confidant had 
abandoned him for the simpler pleasures he would not 
allow himself to enjoy. When there was no argument 
about going home he closed the files on Mulder's 
desk, and laid a hand on his shoulder snatching him 
from his feverish daze.

"I will not have you spreading your cooties to 
everyone in this building. So this is your reprieve, 
curb service to your apartment." 

Mulder picked up a slightly used tissue from his desk 
and blew his nose. Skinner's face contorted like a 
three year old girl who was just forced to lick a 
frog. 

He grabbed two prescription bottles from his desk, 
and shoved them in the pocket of his dark gray trench 
coat. 

"Are you going to carry me up to bed and tuck me in?" 
His voice rattled with a husky tone of congestion.

"Cut the crap Mulder. Let's go!" Skinner grabbed 
Mulder's leather case.

With a touch of a button, Mulder's turned his 
computer off, and slowly, and seemingly without 
purpose, he shuffled out of his office as it was 
pitched into darkness with the flick of a switch. 

Not quite cold enough for snow, tiny sleet pellets 
dashed through the air sliding like cold teardrops on 
the car windows. Clouds huddled together in the sky 
as if trying to keep warm in the near absence of 
afternoon sunlight. The ride to Hegal Place was near 
silent except for the intermittent crackle of an 
intruding voice from the car radio. 

The sleet had nearly ceased falling as Skinner 
crossed on-coming traffic and pulled into one of the 
rarely available parking spaces at the front of 
Mulder's apartment complex in a government issued, 
caramel colored four-door sedan.

Mulder had begun a light doze as his head lay against 
the frosty window. 

Skinner cleared his throat, shaking Mulder from his 
slumber. "I don't want to see you anywhere near the 
office until you've fully recovered. That means no 
fever, no cough, no sneezing, and no phone calls 
until you are your bubbly warm self again. And if I 
catch you at that office you'll be suspended without 
pay." 
 
Skinner's voice never wavered, his eyes focused, 
staring at the weakened man beside him. The threat 
was an empty promise. He needed Mulder in working 
condition, and if this was the only way to assure it, 
it would have to do. 

Mulder sneezed, quickly covering his mouth with his 
hand, and then extending that same hand to Skinner in 
a handshake. 

"Thanks for the ride."

"Get out of my car, Now!."

Mulder smiled with nearly all thirty-two teeth 
showing, his eyes dancing like a little boy 
who'd just received a secret decoder ring message, as 
he exited the vehicle, into the brisk 36° November 
air and climbed the steps to his apartment complex 
entrance. 

He fumbled with the keys as they jingled in his hand, 
the visible heat radiating from the top of his 
uncovered head like steam. 

Skinner watched him enter the door, and wave as he 
entered the building. 

He stared at the tall, too thin, too ill officer as 
he disappeared from sight. Skinner sat staring at the 
closing door for a few moments. He wondered if the 
man had more food in his apartment than the last time 
he'd checked up on him. Mulder, it seemed, had more 
money than time, or necessity to take care of 
himself. He remembered the bare cabinets that donned 
Mulder's apartment after the death of his mother 
eight months ago, and wondered if his cabinet 
contained those same cans and expired food. 

For an instant, he felt as if he should get out and 
make sure Mulder made it to his apartment okay. . . 
but only for an instance. He put the sedan in "drive" 
and slowly pulled away from the curb against traffic 
as an oncoming black four-door SUV nearly hit him. He 
looked at the emotionless face of the driver.

"Asshole!" He mouthed soundlessly with the window 
rolled up. The car immediately took a turn into the 
alley between the two apartment complexes. 

Skinner eyed the car suspiciously, glancing at his 
watch. At that moment he realized the time, as his 
stomach reminded him he'd missed lunch. He turned up 
the voice on his radio and headed back to his office. 

Mulder walked into his apartment, reached into his 
pockets. He removed his office keys, wallet and badge 
dumping them in a basket on his coffee table. Next he 
took out his prescription bottles, and tissue before 
tossing his coat on the sofa.  

He instantly heard a thud as his cell phone fell out 
of the pocket and bounced under his coffee table. He 
slipped his shoes off beside his table and meandered 
into his bedroom shedding one article of clothing at 
a time as he leaned down to look at the temperature 
setting on his new thermal blanket. 

Thankfully he'd forgotten to turn it off, so he 
increased the setting to high.  

Mulder pilfered through his hamper for his 
comfortable plaid flannel pajama bottoms and gray T-
shirt. He sat down on his bed, his teeth beginning 
their own non-melodic rhythm, chattering when the 
cold clothing touched his body. 

He got up to look at his thermostat. It registered a 
balmy 77°. He felt his head with the back of his cold 
hands. 

"If I could ever get rid of this fever, . . ."
He went into his kitchen, retrieved two additional 
prescriptions from the pantry, filled a glass with 
water from his refrigerator door and strolled back to 
his bedroom with his four medication bottles. 

" Dr. J. Reither, take as directed every four to six 
hours for nausea. He looked at another bottle. 
"Take every four to six hours as needed for 
fever; take every twelve hours with food for pain; - 
well, might as well toss this one. - Take this 
medicine every four hours and complete prescription 
dosage in seventy-two hours."  

"Damn, crazy hippie doctor! When am I supposed to 
sleep, or eat taking all this crap." He swallowed 
each pill individually, took a swig of Tussin DM(r), 
and placed the bottles on his nightstand. 

". . . Like I could do either, anyway; The woman I 
love, who doesn't know I love her, leaves me here to 
suffer and die from a drug overdose, while she gets 
to play connect the freckles with her face on a 
tropical island." He continued to ramble on as he 
settled upon his bed.

"What are you gonna do on a beach besides order a 
few too many mimosas and hit on the 
cabana boy? You can't even get a tan. Who goes on a 
vacation with their mother anyway." 
He stared at the mirror on his solid oak dresser 
drawer. "Wouldn't you rather go with your handsome 
partner, with puffy inflamed eyes, skin the 
complexion of oatmeal, hair slimed with perspiration, 
a body coursing with a virus that might make me drop 
dead at any second, and enough mucus to fuel a mucus 
powered 87 Delorian for the next year? " he sighed 
heavily.

"No wonder they sent me home." 

Mulder looked at the clock on his nightstand. The 
green digital numbers, so bright he was sure the 
numbers 3:22 were permanently burned into his 
retinas. 

He immediately pulled his comforter over his head, 
coughing, wheezing and hacking until his body gave in 
to sheer exhaustion and allowed him to drift off to a 
dreamless sleep. 


4:47 p.m. EDT (Eastern Daylight Time)

The sudden silence in the room was threatening, 
overtaking the entire apartment. It was too quiet. 
Quiet like the absence of sound in the woods when a 
hunter lurks nearby; quiet like the outdoors during 
the approach of a rogue summer thunderstorm. There 
was no ticking watch, no cars on the street, no sound 
of the wind that carried the season's frozen chill 
with it, just unabashedly the most deafening quiet 
there ever could be in a suburban fourth floor 
apartment complex.

Mulder was abruptly awakened instantly fearing for 
his life as his t-shirt was now stuffed over his 
head, and his arms were forced beside him. Once 
subdued, his  shirt was ripped from his body like he 
was being attacked by an angry tiger and his mouth 
was suddenly covered with tape. His sight now blurred 
with sleep and a drug induced stupor, his visual 
images moved much faster than his brain could process 
the data, a kind of fast forward nightmare. 

He was pulled from his bed. His torso hit the 
carpeted floor with a thud. When his eyes finally 
focused, he saw two men who could easily pass for 
professional wrestlers on steroids. 

They wore black leather gloves, but nothing else 
about their clothing was special. Mulder pondered 
that there was nothing to disguise the chiseled 
features of his attackers. It was obvious they didn't 
want to leave fingerprints. But, they might as well 
have been wearing masks. He looked into the cold, 
hate-filled eyes of his attackers wondering who they 
were, and who would be so bold as to strike in this 
manner, unless they planned to kill him. 

Mulder struggled against the pressing weight of his 
attacker. With every ounce of remaining strength he 
rocked his body and maneuvered his legs kicking the 
chest of the man above him. He was rewarded with a 
fist approaching his eyes at lighting speed. 

He felt the sickening crunch as his jaw suddenly no 
longer wanted to hold his lips together. 

One punch, then two punches, and then the trickle of 
blood from the corner of his eye. 

Mulder groggily tried to identify his attacker. 
The medicine he had taken was so potent his vision 
and coordination were being affected. He turned his 
head, slightly squinting through rapidly swelling 
lids at his clock; it was now 4:49p.m. He could see 
the numbers wavering in and out of his line of 
vision, as though he were just under the surface of 
water. 

Quickly he felt an overwhelming numbness overtake his 
face. Blessedly he was beginning to lose 
consciousness. His body was dragged across the floor 
and thrown into the frame of his door. 

He stumbled to his hands and knees, and held on to 
the plush carpet fibers. The taller man pulled him up 
to a semi erect position by his thick, brown hair. 
Mulder was amazed and terrified to see his oak 
dresser coming towards him repeatedly as his head 
made contact adding to his agony. 

He grasped his now bleeding face, and saw his rich 
red blood all over his hands. 

Mulder reached for the wall, he tried to find 
something tangible or anything to defend himself with 
. . . unsuccessfully, as his red handprint smeared 
down the wall. He didn't have the strength to 
retaliate, but by God he was going to leave as many 
clues as he could.

Mulder could hear the men talking. Straining as much 
as he could he unable to discern what they were 
saying, only a cacophony of ringing echoed through 
his skull. He lay there motionless, hoping they would 
take whatever they were looking for and leave 
him be. 

One of the men picked him up, believing him to be 
unconscious and dragged him down the hallway and 
walked away from him. Mulder slowly crawled, eyes 
swollen shut, heart pounding in his ears, calm in 
spite of sheer panic for his life into the den. 

He saw what looked like his cell phone on the floor; 
he reached for it, pressed and held the number one 
button on the phone as the phone began to dial. It 
went directly to the cellular voicemail of his 
partner Dana Scully. He tried to scream, but the tape 
over his mouth made him sound like nothing more than 
a muffled background noise.

He felt a kick in his back, as the phone was ripped 
from his clutches and flung across the room ending 
with a crash.
 
"I wish I could just kill you now." The attacker 
picked him up by the face crushing Mulder's jaw in a 
vice-like grip with his bare hand.  

He dragged him by his neck. 

Mulder heard the click of a switchblade being 
flicked, the sound suddenly sending him back to his 
childhood; another time when his mere survival was in 
jeopardy. The sudden burst of pain in the back of his 
thigh snatched him back to the present. A muffled 
yelp escaped his lips as he rolled back and forth on 
the wood floor writhing in pain. 

His attacker removed the knife slinging the blood 
throughout the room, and stepping on Mulder's leg to 
increase the blood flow. 

"What'd you do that for? Now he'll bleed to death 
before we get to have any fun!"

"Just pain...no real damage, something to get this 
fucker's attention."

Mulder's leg ached and throbbed, but he could feel 
the distinct sensation of something being tied on his 
thigh. 

Tears of pain welled up in his eyes. He was so 
exhausted and disoriented; he couldn't feel anything 
but the pain, the weakness and the warm sticky 
substance oozing from seemingly ever inch of his 
body. He closed his eyes desperately trying to 
surrender to the blackness that threatened to consume 
him.

Mulder felt large hands grip his throat, and winced 
slightly as he felt the warm leather of another set 
of hands hold his hand at the wrist and press it 
against his coffee table. 

He watched in horror as the larger man took a 
makeshift sledgehammer and slammed it into his hand.  
A scream he didn't know he was capable of making 
escaped his lips, and he wondered if his nosy 
neighbor from below would be pounding on the ceiling 
soon to complain about the noise. No such luck. 

His hands began to swell, but, it didn't matter he 
couldn't move it anyway.

Mulder almost relaxed as his arms were tied behind 
his back with duct tape. The taste of a foul smelling 
dry cloth reached his tongue as his mouth came  in 
contact with a gag, and then darkness ensued when a 
burlap cloth bag fell upon his naked shoulders. 

Only three seconds passed before an all too familiar 
pain exploded in the back of his head. White spots 
dotted his vision, followed by blackness, as dark as 
the night sky. He collapsed onto the hardwood floor. 
His last conscious thoughts were of the beautiful 
woman he believed he would not live to say goodbye 
to.

Cancun Mexico 
3:47p.m. (MST)Mexico Central Standard Time

Dana Scully lay in her jade blue bikini in a hotel 
provided lawn chair under a shady umbrella. Her 
slender shapely frame drew the attention of nearly 
every man at the bar. 

Her mother lay face down beside her in the sun. 
"Dana dear, did you want to try the snorkeling? Its' 
such a pretty day don't you think? Didn't the guy in 
the hotel say that the tour leaves at 1:15? I hear 
that the water off shore is still fairly warm and 
..."  

Scully stared at the serene blue water a few feet in 
front of her. She was consumed by her thoughts. The 
pit of her stomach, felt like, for a moment, that 
she'd been stabbed. An overwhelming sick feeling came 
over her.

"Dana?  Are you listening to me? Dana?" 

"What? Yeah mom, I'm sorry, I need to go make a phone 
call." She said as she donned her chiffon wrap skirt 
and headed towards the hotel lobby. The heels of her 
new sandal mules tapped furiously on the concrete 
surface. 

Her mother watched her disappear into the hotel 
doorway, instantly knowing what her 
daughter had on her mind.

"Fox Mulder you are one lucky man....." she sighed. 
She lay her head back down appreciating the warm sun 
on her legs.

Dana Scully pushed the button for the elevator, it 
immediately opened nearly stealing her breath when a 
man hastily exited the interior. She pushed for the 
fourth floor. 

When the doors opened, she strolled slowly, and then 
stopped mid way to her room. 

Dana what are you doing? You're on vacation, work can 
take care of itself. 

She turned back towards the elevator. Still, the sick 
feeling persisted. She sighed and headed into her 
room, engaging the door with her token keycard.
 
She picked up her cell phone, and pressed the number 
three button on her phone. She was greeted with an 
automated voice. 

"Hello, 'Fox Mulder'...is not available . . . " she 
hung up the phone and hit another button which dialed 
his cellular phone. She was immediately greeted with 
a fast busy signal. 

She hit the number four button and rang to Agent 
Mulder's home phone. 

"We're sorry, this number has been temporarily 
disconnected . . . please try your call again 
. . ." 

Agent Scully began to realize that her ill-gotten 
feelings were a pretty fair indication that 
something was not quite right. It seemed as if her 
partner had suddenly dropped off the face of the 
earth. He had somehow convinced the phone company to 
participate in one of his classic "Mulder Ditch" 
episodes. She dialed the office of their immediate 
supervisor.

"A. D. Skinner's office"

"Kim, This is Agent Scully, Is the assistant director 
in?"

"I thought you were on vacation."

"I am."

"He isn't here at the moment. He had to run an 
errand."

"I'll try him on his cell."

"Actually I don't believe he has that with him, it 
was rather spur of the moment; he was 
taking Agent Mulder home."

"Why is he taking him home?"

"Agent Mulder was very ill the last time I saw him. 
I'm sure you already knew that. 

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're his partner.... Aren't you?" " Shall I 
have him return your call?" 

"No, thank you." she said hanging up the phone. " 
Bitch." she bellowed donning her sunglasses and 
returning towards the elevator.


Location Unknown
Time Unknown

Pain, cold, nausea, that was all his world was 
consumed with. It was the shivering that brought him 
back. He was so cold. The first thing that hit Mulder 
as his mind began processing, was a wave of nausea 
that made him swallow hard to contain his stomach 
contents. 

He opened his eyes but could see nothing though he 
wasn't sure if it was his vision or just that he was 
in a dark place. His head pounded and ached. It made 
him dizzy. 

He tried to lift it, but a near fatal flash of white 
accompanied by piercing pain made him lower it again 
instantly. The left side of his face felt tight and 
itchy, and he realized a dried substance seemed to 
cover that side of his head.  He realized almost 
immediately it was blood, his blood, and he was now 
hanging suspended by his wrists.

End Chapter