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It was over.The little girl, Maddie, was safe and warm in a hospital bed just down the hall. She was surrounded by loved ones and determined doctors. She would be okay. The man who took her, tortured her, defiled her, was cold, and stiff, zipped up tight in a black bag in the back of a coroner's van. Nailed to the gurney with two bullets to the chest. Raymond Smith had been wiped from the world.But not from poor little Maddie’s mind.Not from Fox Mulder’s, either.Not after all the atrocities he had seen that man commit. Photographs full of unbelievable gore. Statements from the victims’ families and witnesses that would haunt him for the rest of his life. An entire life dedicated to torturing and slaughtering children. Mulder saw it all. The images still cycled through his mind as his hands pressed together in a false prayer and covered his mouth, fingers framing the bridge of his nose and chin resting on his thumbs. Glassy, hazel eyes stared at the white tiled floor with a hollow gaze. Profiling was important. A necessity. Fox was grateful that he had something productive and helpful to offer society, but each time he used his gift he tracked in mud that left unbleachable stains on his psyche. He was growing tired of the evils of the world. Tired of the exposure. Tired of seeing sweet young faces on butchered bodies. He feared that his immunity to their poison wouldn't hold up much longer.“Mulder? Can you hear me?”A large hand, strong and firm but so, so gentle, took hold of his arm. Mulder had grown accustomed to feeling cold, existing as nothing more than a walking corpse, that he had forgotten about the heat bodies naturally radiated. Although, Assistant Director Walter Skinner felt more like being touched by a burning star than a human. The contact forced a spark of life into his body. Mulder pulled in a short, smothered breath. He managed to blink. His eyes burned, dry from exposure. The sterile white of the hospital that engulfed Mulder was invaded by Skinner’s dark figure. A tiny grunt left Skinner’s lips as he crouched in front of his agent. The hand on his shoulder branded a path down his bicep to take hold of his elbow and squeezed. Mulder’s heart ached when he noticed the man’s coat dragging across the floor. The dark blue fabric gathered dirt, dust, and debris with every movement the owner made—and it was because of him.Mulder’s name was called again.Mulder still didn’t reply.“Agent, respond, now,” Skinner growled.He couldn’t. Mulder took another stifled breath. His long lashes clustered together as they dampened. Skinner’s coat was trailing through blood. He couldn’t see it. It didn’t really exist. But Mulder saw it. The little handprints and streaks that lead all the way to Maddie’s room. Bloody trails that would start at the victim and take him all the way to Raymond. If only he had seen it sooner. If only the case had crossed his path years earlier. If only he had just…known. Maddie would have never been taken. Maybe none of those girls would have been hurt. Maybe they would all be alive.A hand, big and coated with thick muscle and callused skin, cupped his face. Mulder jolted at the contact and their eyes locked. The heat of Skinner’s palm alarmed him. His face was unreadable, still and guarded as always, except for a faint, concerned furrow of his brow.“Agent Mulder, are you hurt?”Skinner was using his A.D. voice, forcing the deep baritone to boom, loud and stern, without yelling. There was, however, a small hint of something else. A dash of desperation. Something familiar, inappropriate, and irresponsible for Walter to show in public where anyone could see them. The voice of a lover, not a superior.“Mulder?” Skinner asked. He braced his position by grabbing the arm of the cheap, poorly cushioned chair Mulder had slumped into the moment he heard Maddie would be okay. Fingers brushed his thigh, comforting him quietly. A thumb brushed across the swollen bruise on his cheek. Skinner was a risk taker today.When Mulder didn’t respond again a frustrated huff burst from Skinner’s teeth. He stood with another grunt and peeled Mulder’s hands from his face. Carefully, he led the brunette to his feet. He waited, watching to see if Mulder could manage to move with minimal direction, then grabbed the agent by the shoulders and pushed, steering the disassociated man into a less crowded hallway in hopes of privacy.“Fox, please,” Skinner murmured behind him, his heated breath attempting to warm the cold flesh of his neck. A thumb rubbed loving circles on his shoulder as he was guided to a window at the end of a deadend hall. “You’re scaring me.”Risky, saying his first name like that. It could raise questions: Why does A.D. Skinner pay so much attention to Special Agent Mulder? Why are those two men standing so close? Why do they call each other by their first names in hushed tones? Why is Walter Skinner holding Fox Mulder’s chin and pleading for him to look him in the eyes?Sunlight poured over their bodies. It did little to warm the ice in his veins. His fingertips were numb. He couldn’t reach out and hold Walter the same way he held him. And he was so close. Hands gently held Fox’s swollen face as soft lips kissed the stitches on his temple. The bruise on his cheek. The gash on his lips, still trickling blood. Minor injuries that couldn’t even begin to compare to what those girls had sustained. As much as he detested hospitals, he was lucky to be in one. Those children didn’t make it this far.Warm brown eyes looked at him in earnest. “It’s over, Fox. You got him. It’s all over.”Fox swallowed. His throat expanded gradually as emotioned welled within his soul. It festered like slimy worms in his gut. They threatened to find their own way out. To wriggle up his esophagus and crawl along his tongue. Remind him of the rotting corpses of all the victims he hadn’t been able to save. Their small bodies a feast for decomposers and serial killers alike. Oh, God. Weight pushed his head off balance and he began to sway. The various white hues of the hospital swirled as a haze overtook his mind with a foggy shroud. The smells of chemicals, of open wounds and exposed organs and death, flooded his senses until he could taste them all on his tongue. Iron. Flesh. Grit. Burn.He was going to be sick.He was sick.Fox caught the killer because he got inside the bastard’s demented head. Now he was stuck there. Trapped within a world of wicked thoughts uninhibited by morals and restraint. The kind of world where the primary desire was to kill and dissect children for entertainment—and not necessarily in that order.His knees gave out.“Fox!” Walter’s strong arms wrapped around him, embraced him, and warmed Fox’s body by one more degree. “Easy, easy. Come on, sit down. Breathe. That’s it.”The corners of Fox’s lips curled into a smile as he was placed on a tiled floor. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of swooning into his lover’s arms like some damn damsel in distress. As if knowing his thoughts, Walter withdrew his arms but his grip on Fox’s shoulder strengthened and braced his agent against the wall. He kneeled and held up a hand.“How many fingers am I holding up?” Walter asked.Fox grinned. “You’re a good man, you know that? Better than I could ever be.”“I said, how many fingers am I holding up?” Walter repeated, his voice gruff and tense with fear.Fox didn’t respond. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He couldn’t tell him even if he wanted to. The world was spinning and all Fox could see were the corpses of children.