THE ABDUCTEE - An X-Files Novel (1/21) By Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 SYNOPSIS: Mulder takes on a special assignment when a woman from one of his earliest cases reenters his life and Scully learns to follow her insticts. RATING: I'll rate this NC-13 for adult themes ('You did what!?!'), mild sex (I write suggestive sex. Believe me, compared to the stuff I've read on the net, this is MILD!), a few bad words (well, they were bad when I was a kid. "When was that?" "When dirt was new.") and violence (Kids don't try this with your friends.). (Chapter 7 pushes the limit of PG-13 but is an integral part of the story.) AUTHOR's NOTES: Here it is. Started this is February. Took a long time and probably should take a little longer, but editing, like testing computer software, will expand to fill the available time and then some.) Since Chapter 1 is fairly short, I've included at the end a little essay about the writing in general and about this series, REVELATIONS, of which THE ABDUCTEE is the fourth and by far the longest installment. ***BE reassured,**** THE ABDUCTEE can be read alone. So can THE BOX and MEMORIES. The sequal to THE ABDUCTEE, MILE HIGH, has been written and is ready to be posted. The first story in REVELATIONS (called REVELATIONS and which is still being written) takes place after the fifth episode of the program (The Jersey Devil) and the rest of the REVELATIONS series in the latter half of the first season, after FIRE and after TOOMS ('I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you, Mulder.') and before the ERLENMEYER FLASK. 1. REVELATIONS: In process as of 8/95. 2. THE BOX (On Ftp.cs.nmt.edu) 3. THE VACATION (This is just a working title so far. I only have a vague outline about this one.) 4. THE ABDUCTEE 5. MILE HIGH 6. MEMORIES (A revision will be posted after MILE HIGH. The original from March is on ftp.cs.nmt.edt parts 01, 02, 03 and will be replaced by the revision. Note: There is another story on this site with extension .TXT which is not mine. Sorry about the identical titles. I try to check these things out.) 7. JUST THE TWO OF US: Under construction as of 8/95 (It's a toss up whether this or REVELATIONS will be done first.) 8. SKUNKED AGAIN: probably. Great title, though. Not in this series: DO NOT GO GENTLE (on ftp.cs.nmt.edu) DELIVER US FROM EVIL (posted 4/17) WEDDING, version B (The Action-Adventure Version) in MacSpooky's GENERATIONS series and with her spirit and support. (posted early August 1995) WALKERS (working title: There's already a fan fiction called 'Walker'.) Coming late in the fall. Probably rivals THE ABDUCTEE in length. THANKS: Thanks to all the other creative writers, too numerous to mention, who, consciously and unconsciously, contributed to this work, but especially to IZZYCAT for her early comments and friendship, to YOUKNEEK for her excellent and painstaking editing, to LIVENGOO for her input and encouragement ("Come on, you can do better than that!"), and Tara for her medical input which sometimes I chose to ignore (Sorry, Tara). Now ... finally... (about time) on with THE ABDUCTEE... hope you like it. This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys (unisex personal pronoun intended), for creating this marvelous stuff. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty THE ABDUCTEE - Section I: The Witness and the Bodyguard Chapter 1 Washington DC "Evening, Mitch." The convenience store owner, Mitch Legget, looked around at the sound of the soft door chime and the casual youthful greeting. He groaned, stretching up from where he had been restocking the lower shelves. "Yo, Reti. How'd the English test go?" A teenager, obviously street wise and comfortable here, walked towards the center counter, his huge unlaced athletic shows making artful waffle smudges on the linoleum as he brought a good deal of wet in along with himself and his backpack. The boy took a stick of beef jerky from the cup by the cash register. "Yo, Mitch," he mimicked. "How come every night it's the same thing? How'd the math test go, Reti? How'd the history test go, Reti? There's more to life than takin' tests, Mitch." The boy's smile became more of a leer. "I'm not interested in your love affairs. It's a wonder that the girls are." The boy sat up on the counter, as quick and nimble as a cat. "Har, har, Mitch." "I'm interested in how well you're doing in school. With this job taking so much of your time I worry about your grades - and your attendance. Your parole board won't be happy if you don't stay in school." The boy opened the stick of beef jerky and began to eat. The older man stopped his work long enough to stab a finger towards the cash register. "Don't forget to pay for that." "Do I ever?" "Sometimes." The boy spun around on the counter and leaped off into the U- shaped space behind the cash register. Then he dug into his jeans and pulled out some coins which he dropped into the box. "There. I pay my way, Mitch." "Yeah, the Chain always do, but with whose money?" The boy closed the cash register and looked up with mock dismay. "Mitch, I'm insulted. I'm clean." "Maybe," the older man grunted. In fact, he knew the boy was. Reti had been trying hard. He just needed someone to get on his case every once in while. From outside, thunder rumbled and the sound of rain became suddenly louder. Since the store was located in the center of the city and most of their clientele were walk ins, it would be a light night. "You won't have much traffic tonight, Reti. Just try to stay awake, okay?" Still chewing, the boy headed for the back room. "Which is why I'm off to catch some winks. Wake me in three hours, Mitch." Mitch Legget looked up at the clock. When he had finished restocking, he had reorganized most of the displays on the west wall, but time still seemed to be creeping by. He was tired. An hour to go before the boy took over for the night shift and then his sixteen hour day would be over. He wanted his bed. It *had* been a slow night. The rain had continued to come down in sheets. He had had only three customers since the boy went down for his nap, and they had not been regular customers who liked to chat. Suddenly, the room filled with light as the store owner heard the muffled roar of a very powerful engine. Mitch shielded his eyes and strained to look through the store window. From the height of the light source, it was one of those jacked up pickups with floods and, although he heard the engine shut down, the brights and the floods continued to blaze. The occupied parking space was one of the four which had an unobstructed view inside the store and stark black shadows of displays and shelving and door and window frames were now thrown against the walls amidst the general wash of white. Mitch heard the car door open and close, but the lights still blazed. Mitch wondered why the driver didn't turn those damn things off. The storekeeper came around to the front of the counter as the front door opened, its bell chiming. He squinted for a moment, beginning to be a little concerned, and then relaxed and smiled. "Oh, it's you. You said you'd be back. I found a back copy of that magazine you wanted." Mitch had turned towards the counter when he suddenly jerked and cried out in astonishment and pain. He stared back at his assailant with wide-eyed confusion before slumping to the floor. Blood was spurting from a huge hole the knife had made in his stomach. The swipe to his neck was unnecessary but added a little more color to the scene. *** Sunday 10pm, two weeks later Washington, DC Dana Scully leaned against the door frame of her bathroom, arms crossed and smiling wickedly. "It is, Mulder." "It is not," Fox Mulder said seriously, as he leaned forward to stare at his reflection in the mirror. "Live with it, Mulder. It's a sunburn. It won't kill you." Carefully, he touched the skin of his nose. It was definitely pink. "It wasn't there when we left." "Sometimes these things take a little while to develop," Dana told him, leaning in to look at her own image next to Mulder's. She had to admit, even through she had used copious amounts of sun block, her fair skin had a much more distinctive glow than when they had left Washington three days before. With her complextion, she hoped when the 'glow' disappeared there would be some tan left. She took in the view of the two of them in the mirror, both scruffy from their last day on the boat and the long flight back that evening. Mulder was dressed in jeans and his new Key West sweatshirt. Dana wore Dockers and her favorite flannel pullover. She marveled, as she always did, at the differences in their heights. Funny, she never felt as short as she obviously looked. "You'll wear make up tomorrow, right?" he asked, looking at the auburn-haired woman in the mirror. "Mulder, I always do. What's gotten into you?" He looked down on her from his greater height, his expression a bit chagrined. "I just didn't want both of us to go into work with... you know." Dana's eyes widened. "Sunburns, Mulder? All this is because you don't want *both* of us showing up with sunburns?" She rolled her eyes, turned on her heel and marched into the living room, talking back to him over her shoulder. "Is that why you kept smearing that aluminum gunk on all weekend?" He slouched after her. "Some people might get the wrong impression," he said with perfect sincerity. Dana thought with amazement. "Mulder, we're together for weeks at a time. If we wanted to *do* something, we wouldn't have to fly all the way to Key West to do it. Besides, the little bit of pink you have will probably be gone by tomorrow." "Do you think so?" He put his forefinger on the end of his nose and tried to look at it cross-eyed. Playfully, Dana batted his hand away. "Didn't your mother ever tell you never to do that." He raised his shoulders, smiling with mock innocence. "She tried, but remember, I'm incorrigible." She opened the door and stood holding it for him. "Mulder, I think it's time for you to go home. It's been a long day and I need to sleep, even if you don't." Hands in pockets, he moved towards the door but stopped in the doorway as if unsure of what to do next. He was so close that Dana had to look up to see his face. He had the attitude of someone who had something to say, or was his lingering in her doorway just her imagination? Was he as loath to leave as she was to see him go? This was weird. They had not been out of each other's sight for almost six weeks. Logically, they both should be longing for a little privacy by now. "Mulder, it's time for you to go home," she repeated. When he didn't move, she took his arm and propelled him onto the flagstones on the front porch of her apartment house. "Home, Mulder. I'll see you at work tomorrow." He was still standing close, almost leaning towards her, but making no move to touch her. "Scully." "What, Mulder?" "Thanks for inviting me along." "Mulder, I thought you had invited me." "Did I?" Dana sighed in exasperation and gave him a gentle push down the steps. "Good *night*, Mulder," and then she lingered herself to watch him trot down to the street. For a lanky man he was incredibly graceful. She felt her eyes straying to the way he moved in his jeans, which reminded her of how he had looked in that little thing he called a bathing suit. She knew he wore it regularly at the pool when he did laps. Then why had he seemed bashful about wearing it in front of her? He had nothing of which to be ashamed. She pulled into her mind the vision of his exquisite body, pale and long, and as sleek and nimble as a seal, diving deeply in and among the coral and schools of bright, flashing fish. She wondered if the memory of her own physique had been enticing enough to be catalogued somewhere special in that unique brain of his. With a gentle smile on her face, Dana wandered languidly back into her apartment shutting the door behind her. As he slid into the front seat of his car, Fox watched Dana Scully disappear behind the closing door. He paused before turning on the ignition, for he wanted to catch a glimpse of her dim silhouette as she moved from room to room. Finally, he moved the car forward and drove around the block only to park once more on her street, facing her building, though from about half a block away. Now, no one could say he was sitting in front of her building, but he was close enough to see the lights from her apartment. Fox got out and sat on the hood. Wrapped in his long black coat, he leaned against the windshield, thinking and allowing himself to be held by the warm glow from those distant lights. Fox had always known Dana Scully was lovely. He had known that from the moment she first walked into his office, and he had sworn then that he would get back at whoever had assigned such a distracting woman to spy on him. In time, he saw past her stubborn insistance that everything must have a logical, scientific explanation. He respected the way she stood up to him and dared him to defend his theories - well, most of the time anyway. He had learned to enjoy her wit and her intelligence and to admire her courage and strength. He praised the day he had somehow earned her respect and her loyalty, but he had never allowed himself to think upon the femaleness, the animal core of her, that lay underneath the partner he had learned to trust with his very life. And now he could not stop thinking about it. Fox had always been attracted to dark, leggy women. Scully was neither dark, nor, in her petiteness, could she be considered leggy. For this reason, he had been afraid that, physically, he would find her less appealing, because she did not fit his dream girl image. Then, three days ago, he had watched her swimming. Free and smiling, like a wild thing, graceful and fearless, skimming above the crest of the coral reef like a mermaid surrounded by flights of glorious colored fish, which parted and dashed and sailed at her passage. What he had discovered was that, for once in his life, he was looking upon a woman as a sexual being and yet he did not see legs or breasts or even face, but only the total person, the loveliness of her soul, as one with the loveliness of her body. Abruptly, he drew his long coat closely around his lean legs as if he felt a chill. This line of thinking would not do either of them any good. He could not allow himself to get involved with Dana Scully. For one, there was the very big problem with Bureau restrictions concerning partners becoming romantically involved. And, anyway, what did he have to offer her? Physically he considered himself unexceptional except that he had been all arms and legs and feet for as long as he could remember. He had been uncoordinated as a kid, and even now, more often than not, he was the one who ended up in the emergency room after a case. He was not the most accurate shot with a weapon and far from the most skilled in unarmed combat. When he publicly expounded on his theories, he embarrassed Scully so often he wondered why she stayed with him. He was obsessive about his work, he knew that, and he doubted he would ever change. He was also moody and had a tricky temper that sometimes got away from him and lashed out indiscriminately at whoever happened to be handy. And the 'who', more often than not, turned out to be Scully. Add to that the despairing fact that he had never been successful with women and you had a pretty sorry candidate for hot catch of the month. What he had with Scully now was the best, the very best, most satisfying relationship he had ever had with anyone. He dared not risk that. Not for anything. Only when the lights went off in her apartment an hour later, did Fox unwind himself from the hood of his car. Slowly, he drove home to his empty apartment. End of Chapter 1 ------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------- ABOUT THIS SERIES AND HOW THESE THINGS CAME TO BE (for those who are interested. Not necessary to understand the story.): First off, I never intended to write a series. I wrote, THE BOX and, by the time I got to the end, it logically needed to have a sequel. The working title of that one is THE VACATION (not to be confused with the fantic VACATION). No, I haven't written it yet. I'm trying to hang an X-file type shell around sailing, snorkling and sun block and I haven't come up with one yet. I don't remember where the idea for THE ABDUCTEE came from, but I've been working on it since February. I decided early on that conflict would best be served if events in THE ABDUCTEE could temporarily sidetrack the logical progress of Mulder and Scully's relationship hinted at in THE BOX and continued in THE VACATION. (Yeah, I know, which I haven't written.) But never fear, the end of Chapter 1 and the beginning of Chapter 2 fill in the important stuff you need to know from the VACATION. (Dana and Fox were nice enough to let me in on what happened so this would all make more sense to the rest of us.) After 90% of THE ABDUCTEE was completed and while it was incubating (waiting for the numerous revisions and this one had *a lot* of them), I got the idea for MEMORIES and finished that one within two weeks. I want to thank everyone for their very, very kind words about that one. Like THE ABDUCTEE, MEMORIES was not necessarily begun as part of the series but since their relationship was set up so well for it, why not? That turned out to be a good decision because one of those nice people who commented on MEMORIES (I forget who but I want to thank you, thank you, thank you) wanted to know more about what happened before MEMORIES so one day on my way to taking my kids to a petting zoo I created the second half of MILE HIGH in my head. The title determined the shape of this one. The first half of MILE HIGH came in response to a question posed by one of THE ABDUCTEE's editors. MILE HIGH is really, therefore, two stories. It is about 40 pages and is complete and ready for posting as soon as THE ABDUCTEE has been posted. It is a bridge in time between THE ABDUCTEE and MEMORIES from Mulder's point of view. THE ABDUCTEE was also edited *again* after MILE HIGH was completed, so it fits in better now than it would have initially and MEMORIES revised after that. Now, the sequel to all of these (it *is* about time to get these two back together) is JUST THE TWO OF US, which is in a complete state of disorganization (a scene here, a scene there, lots of scribbled dialogue and notes in stenographer's notebooks, and more in my head and it's already about 100K, but at least I know where it is going). This will take some time but I will complete it before I get back to what I once thought was my long story, WALKERS, which I started in January before I ever logged onto the Internet or read my first X files fanfic. (WALKERS is NOT related to the REVELATIONS series.) *If* there is another one after JUST THE TWO OF US, it will be similar to THE BOX in that it will be light (bet you didn't think THE BOX was light), which will make a nice parallel structure for the series and will be titled 'SKUNKED AGAIN'. (That's an in-joke for those of you who have read THE BOX.) Yes, I know, it sounds like Jackie St. George, Dana and Fox sitting around playing poker. (X-file creative fiction in-joke! Credit to Sheryl Martin) *That* won't happen, but at this time I have no idea what will. Late addition: I've gotten inspired and I now have the cornerstone piece of this series in my mind and some in the computer. It's called REVELATIONS and it takes place after episode 5 of the program (Jersey Devil). The basic story behind REVELATIONS is mentioned in passing in the ABDUCTEE (don't ask ME where, I only wrote the thing.) Just send me your guesses about what you think it's about. (Hint, it does NOT concern Phoebe.) One more thing, any similarity in scene or dialogue or plot with other fantic is completely coincidental. I've read stories written last year which I am just getting around to reading which have similar scenes to those in THE ABDUCTEE and there are ones which have been posted while I've been final editing this monster which have similarities. (Sometimes I despair. It's so painful to see what I thought were my original ideas in other stories.) The writers all know we are working in a very small universe here and great minds will think alike. Readers, please be aware, writers are influenced by other writers and inspired by them, but none of use would directly copy from another without acknowledgement. We all want to be original. Please try to read each story as unique and don't sigh and think "Oh, THAT again. I just read that last week." For readers of MEMORIES: Please read the revision of MEMORIES which will be posted after MILE HIGH (get your hankies first) and replace any copies of the original you may have with the revision. I think it is better though not much which is significant has been changed except for the final sentance and punctuation. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 2/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 00:08:17 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (2/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 2 Blue Monday 7am Washington DC Dana Scully woke up the next morning and gloried in how wonderful it felt to stretch out in one's own bed. More than six weeks had passed since she had been able to do that, but, surprisingly, she was not in the mood to sleep in. She bounded out of bed, actually looking forward to going to work, though she admitted most of her eagerness stemmed from being able to be with Mulder again. First work, then maybe pizza, a movie, espresso - and afterwards? Better slow down, Dana, she told herself. He is already as nervous as a fox at a beagle rally. Besides, hadn't she been down this road before? Hadn't she already convinced herself of how impractical, not to mention unprofessional, it would be for them to have any kind of a relationship beyond what they had? Then why did she feel like she needed more convincing. Dana plunged under the shower, remembering diving off the boat into the cool water. Their enforced vacation had come to an end far too soon. Unfortunately, that fickle female, Fate, had obviously found the time to enjoy herself and work against them again. Even in Key West, with miles of ocean between them and the outside world, circumstances over which they had no control managed to get in the way of their exploring any of their deeper feelings. Figuratively at least, there never seemed to be time to stick their toes in the water and see if there were any sharks. True, once Mulder had been on the verge of saying something meaningful but then... Dana tossed her wet hair out of her eyes in frustration. That man was impossible! She had given him the right signals to show she was interested, but he had not responded. Not in any obvious way. Not until tonight and that had not been obvious either. There was something odd about tonight. Something odd about him. Maybe the trip had been too - artificial. Now that they were back, she might see the change she was looking for. As she dressed, Dana reviewed her impressions about Mulder from the night before and decided that, yes, a nice normal X-file would actually fit the bill rather well to settle him down and help him feel on safe ground again. She would like it, too. Perhaps it was time to go slow and let him catch up. Yes, just the two of them, out on the road. Just as long there was nothing too gross about the case or too violent or too dangerous. Nothing in the rain or in the snow and nothing - nothing - in the woods. Arriving at FBI Headquarters, Dana headed for her cubical on the third floor near the pathology lab to look over the considerable pile of mail that had collected since she had been gone. She also kept a desk in the X-Files office in the basement, but had asked the office staff to leave most of her mail here so that it would not get lost in Mulder's mess. Besides, they had been together almost constantly for more than a month. Dana wanted to give him a little space, a little time to miss her. When ten o'clock had come and gone with no word from Mulder, however, Dana found herself pacing the hallway outside the pathology lab. Dressed in the lightest colored suit she dare wear in November, the one that would set off her new 'glow' to its best advantage , she had accepted some nice compliments from both sexes, but still there was no sign of the man. Finally admitting that *she* missed him, Dana decided to take a little stroll down just to say 'hi'. There was no sign of Fox Mulder in the cluttered basement office. From the look of his 'In Box' and his 'Out Box', not the official ones but the piles that she knew he considered his in and out boxes, he had been 'in'. She called and looked around and, because the star field screen saver was displayed on his computer, expected to see him on his hands and knees excavating some unfiled toxicological report from one of the piles under the large work table where he kept such things. But no Mulder. Dana was definitely perplexed. Around the agency leaving your ID logged on was a definite 'no-no' and he could get in trouble if anyone other than she had caught the lapse. This was definitely unlike him. Shamelessly, Dana indulged in a little snooping in his e-mail. She did not consider this an invasion of his privacy, for they had no secrets from each other as far as work was concerned, and few others outside of that, with the obvious exception of how they truly felt about each other. They had even traded passwords, never knowing when access might be needed at a moment's notice. Clicking down she finally found it. He had been called down to Assistant Director Skinner's office for a nine o'clock meeting, and he was probably still there. What puzzled her was that she had not been included. Not that she was always called in when Mulder was, especially when Skinner was in the mood for reading the riot act, but, if they were being given a new assignment, she was always interested in being in on the very beginning. Dana found that a case started out more smoothly if she was around at the beginning to keep Mulder from making assumptions before she felt he had any solid evidence. Mulder, of course, always felt his theories were well-supported, even if his evidence was as insubstantial as that oddly colored patch of fog which was reported to have drifted across the face of the moon in 1952. Slowly, Dana took the stairs back up to her office. She actually did have a few cases to close out, for which her medical judgement was needed. She should attend to those before taking on anything new. Instinctively, she took the stairs because she knew Mulder always did, and she hoped to meet him on the way. He always complained about not getting enough exercise. Sure enough, hearing the sound of large male feet on the stairs, she looked up and saw him, though he did not see her. He was staring at the contents of a thick file he carried and being totally Mulder, that is, totally introspective. "Hey, Mulder," she said, smiling as he drew alongside. He would have seen her special slow and beautiful smile if he had bothered to look. He glanced up absently. "Hi, Scully. How's it going?" he muttered automatically and just kept moving, not waiting for an answer. Dana stared at his back until he had rounded the bend in the stairs, amazement on her pretty face. 'Hi, Scully. How's it going?' They had just spent the last month and a half together, scarcely a waking minute out of each other's sight, and he tosses her 'Hi, Scully. How's it going?' Sadly, Dana had to admit he had that look on his face that said he had a case, a serious one, something that disturbed him but did not yet excite him. But as disappointed as she was for herself, she was more disappointed for him. If only he had been given a couple of days, even one day, to bask in the simple contentment he also had seemed to find on their brief, but much needed get away. Wearily, Dana climbed the last flight of stairs to the third floor. He should be happy about one thing at least this morning, she thought. There was no hint of sunburn on his face. *** For Dana, the rest of the morning and most of her afternoon actually passed very quickly and was both productive and interesting. She participated in the peer reviews of cases presented by three rookie forensic specialists and was able to prove in all cases that there were significant items that the young go-getters had missed. She also felt that the reviews had been handled diplomatically so that none of the rookies had come away feeling that they were being put down for their deficiencies. Dana never knew when, needing a fresh eye, she would need to call upon one of them to play devil's advocate for her. By late afternoon she felt she had done a good day's work for her pay; however, she still was itchy about Mulder. A yellow sticky note never appeared pinned to her chair and there was no e-mail message from him. Nothing. Finally, unable to stand being ignored any longer, she headed back down to the basement. Dana found him slumped in his battered desk chair, his feet on his desk, looking as glum as when she had seen him on the stairs. He also seemed to be staring at the same thick file he had been reading that morning, only it was balanced, for the moment, on his knees. "Hey, Mulder," she said, repeating his earlier greeting down to the inflection. "How's it going?" He looked up from his reading and smiled a little, giving no indication that he had seen her that morning at all. Dana drew her own chair up close to his, a clear signal that she was not going anywhere until he talked. "I can see you have a new case. Anything I can do to help?" Without enthusiasm he picked up the thick file and passed it to her. "It's actually an old one, or a variation on an old one." He raised his eyes to her. Dana could sense this was going to be a long story, containing bits that could not be found in the official report. The file was put aside, time enough to examine it later. Dana listened carefully, needing to know why he looked so sad. "I was assigned to a case at the end of my first year out of the academy," he began. "I already had a reputation for unorthodox theories, but no long string of successes to balance them out. The successes I'd had were dismissed as aberrations, lucky guesses." Just remembering brought the frustration he had felt into his voice. "And I didn't have a regular partner because no one really felt comfortable working with me except when they had to." He gave her a small appreciative smile. She knew now that whatever was bothering him had nothing to do with her. He was just having a bad day. "Then came this case... Angela Larson." The inflection of his voice went up as he pronounced all the syllables of that name distinctly. "She had a *significant* history. Reports of being followed, being molested. Her parents even reported her missing on three occasions, but she always turned up with no memory of what had transpired. Even then I was eager to investigate cases with this sense of the abnormal. I asked for the assignment." "Was it an X-File?" Dana asked. His eyes rested significantly at the cabinet under discussion. "No. Actually, I didn't even know about the X-Files then, but the possibilities intrigued me. I spent two weeks trying to substantiate her story. That's a long time when the victim isn't even missing, but I found nothing. Finally, I ordered a new batch of psychological tests ... regression hypnosis, for example, to try to find out what happened during her blank periods." "And?" Dana asked. When he was silent for a long time, she continued, "I gather from your expression that the results were inconclusive." Fox did not answer immediately. He was examining the cracks in the ancient ceiling. The FBI headquarters looked pretty good from the outside but he knew a new face had simply been wrapped around a very old shell and the internal arrangement of rooms, especially in the basement, testified to its real age. Thinking back on a case eight years previous, as if it were yesterday, made the rapid passing of years disturbing. "Not just inconclusive, but negative. They found nothing. I finally had to come to the same conclusion as her parent's doctors; that much of what she reported was caused by a singular assortment of phobias. She was just afraid, totally afraid of everything." He took his feet down off the desk and stared at the floor. "Scully, I'm afraid that I was not very discrete." "You don't have to tell me this, Mulder, if you don't want to." He must have seen the slight frown appear on her lips. She was good at hiding what was on her mind, but not so good that he couldn't tell that she was reading more into his statement than he had intended. Oddly, not like her. "Oh, nothing like what you're thinking. We got close, but it was not - like that." He seemed on the verge of being insulted that she would think such a thing of him. "I'm afraid I frightened her as much as her fear of what was happening during the blank times." His eyes betrayed some inward directed anger. He brought his right fist down on his leg and did not look at Dana. "I was so eager! I wanted so much to report a case as being caused by unexplained phenomena that I - unintentionally - planted a suggestion in her mind that her problems might stem from her being the victim of an alien abduction. It all seemed to fit at the time." Dana nodded. It would to him. Now she saw, partially, why he was upset, but if that was all there was to this case, why should he be bothered to this extent? "I hate to tell you this, Mulder, but if that's the kind of indiscretion you claim to have committed, you're still doing it. Not on a regular basis," she added, seeing his wounded expression, "but often enough." "Very Funny, Scully. But, my abduction theory was only part of the problem. I thought because she was not underage and she was willing, that I could talk this out with her directly. Add to that, her parents didn't want anything to do with me, my investigation or my theories, and you have the makings of a disaster. I was stupid thinking that I wasn't ethically bound to include the family." He looked up and his eyes were sad. "Scully, she was unstable." Dana made an 'Oh' shape with her lips. Hesitantly, she concluded, trying not be sound judgmental, "So she went off the deep end." He was staring off into space again, remorse showing in every muscle of his slumped posture. "All the way to the bottom. Her parents committed her, for eight years to a psychiatric hospital called Longmead. And nothing in her records from that period supports the possibility of abduction. The clinical judgement was that her reported harassments were part of some teenage fantasy, not helped by *my* theories, by the way. Her blank times were attributed to schizophrenic episodes." Dana sat back in her chair. That would certainly explain his misery, his guilt. "You were young, inexperienced. You can't blame yourself." He jumped out of the chair, anger flaring. She was surprised he had actually stayed put so long. His finger stabbed the air. "Why can't I? I was a trained psychologist. I was supposed to be good. I thought I *was* good. Read too many of my own damned press releases." He kicked the trash can and sent it rolling, its contents scattering. "I should have known better!" Dana had had a few psychology courses herself and having to deal with Mulder, she wished she had had a few more. "We go through life doing the best we can. Often that's not good enough, but," she lifted her shoulders, "we try. That's all we can expect." "No, it's not," he growled. "What's the Hypocratic oath? 'Do no harm'? Yeah, well, I blew it." Enough of this, Dana thought with exasperation. She knew him well enough that, if he wanted to wallow in self pity, she could not stop him. Only work could do that. Back to the subject. "So what does this have to do with your current assignment? Is the case being reopened?" He seemed to have forgotten the case for a minute. Dana could see him physically shake himself to bring his mind back to the present. "No, this is something entirely different. Angela Larson was released three months ago. Four days ago she was the only witness to the murder of a convenience store owner, Mitch Legget, and the suspect she has identified is a member of the Chain." Dana's eyes grew wide. "This woman can't get a break, can she?" Dana was familiar with the Washington, D.C. gang that called itself 'the Chain'. This was no two-bit drug distribution ring. The FBI believed it was the keystone in a larger east coast consortium that dealt not only in heavy drugs, but prostitution, money laundering, extortion and a little murder for hire on the side. "Is she going to testify?" Most people wouldn't. Far too dangerous. Mulder leaned against the desk, his hands in his pockets. "That's the interesting part. She's willing, so the D.A. should be thrilled." "But he isn't," Dana noted. "Maybe he's thinking as a witness she might be less than persuasive?" "And he may be right. She's scared to death. She could easily fold on the stand. And the stress cannot be good for her mental health." "No other substantiating evidence? Security camera?" "The electronics lab thinks the owner let his maintenance contract expire. The tape is overexposed, washed out." Mulder stared at the opposite wall, but his eyes were unfocused. "So they need her and have offered to put her in the Witness Protection Program to keep her safe. The trouble is, she's about as afraid of the police as she is of the Chain. The D.A.'s office is bending over backwards to find someone she can trust to protect her and support her through this." Dana prided herself on putting two and two together and coming out with four. Mulder often came out with five, but then his mathematics, like his physics, often defied commonly accepted laws. Now her eyes showed a stormy ocean blue as the truth sunk in. "Oh, Mulder, no. She hasn't." For the first time, a ghost of his slightly crooked smile graced his lips. "I always said you were bright, Scully." "Then she has asked for you to function as her case officer? Her bodyguard?" "Ancient and stressful as our relationship was, she has." "I'm surprised she remembered your name." "She didn't. She 'described' me." There was that slight self- deprecating smile again which Dana hated. "There aren't too many agents in my age bracket who would hazard alien abduction as a possible explanation for erratic disappearances. It took about three seconds for the local FBI office to supply my name." Dana thought. "Mulder, your reputation precedes you." "Lucky me." Dana pondered. This was weird, human coincidence weird, but not an X-File. His guilt is talking. She knew Mulder could be overly sensitive sometimes. Dana stood up and walked over to stand in front of him, hands on hips. The movement was meant to signify, As if it were a given, she said, "Well, I take it you said, 'no'." His silence and his refusal to look in her direction answered that one plainly enough. "Mulder! Even if they disregard the X-Files, which they usually do, you're still the best analyst in violent crimes. You're unique, to say it simple and clear. I'm surprised that Skinner would allow it and I'm more surprised you would accept. Your talents would be wasted. Such baby sitting assignments are for - " she did not say it aloud, but Mulder knew that only the most junior, or the most talentless, officers were assigned to that sort of thankless, boring duty. Suddenly, a thought came to her that made the storm in her eyes clear a little. "I heard they are not mixing sexes on assignments like this so much any more. Female client; male officer. Too much of a chance for allegations of sexual impropriety." Maybe if she dropped a few hints to the right people... "Scully..." Mulder said, warningly, "are you trying to protect my reputation?" She smiled at him with faked innocence, but he shook his head. "Thanks to our excellent record and our outstanding performance on the DOD's 'stress test' last week, my reputation on that score is squeaky clean. The D.A. is satisfied. Besides, Angela won't accept anyone else." Dana sighed unhappily. It had been a good try. Not that it mattered, Mulder obviously wanted this. But while he sat in some safe house playing solitaire, what would she be doing and with whom? "Since this affects me, too, may I ask why?" The look he gave her showed he was well aware of what this meant to her. That helped... only a little... but it helped. "Scully," he said, in his most serious tone, looking straight into her eyes, "I need to do this. She says she won't have anyone else, and the D.A. is frantic for a conviction. If we can do this, we'll open a chink in the gang's armor. They've been looking for years for this kind of a break. What's unfortunate is that Angela has to be the key, and she feels that I'm the only one who can get her through this, the only one who can can understand her." Dana looked hurt, but concerned for him, too. "Have you thought about how this will look on your record?" Mulder's mouth twitched. He obviously had. "Skinner doesn't understand it either. He only agreed to ask me because he owed the D.A. a few dozen favors. He says he can put it down in my files as vacation, if I want." "Some vacation. How long are you expecting this little 'vacation' to last?" Mulder posture relaxed a little as if now that she had accepted it, though reluctantly, the tough part was over. "The grand jury meets next week. That's the hearing. If I can work with her and get her through that experience, then I hope to bow out." Dana looked dubious. "You *hope* to bow out?" "I'll take her around, let her meet some potential replacements, find her someone she would like. Maybe I won't be needed even that long." His face showed an optimism that Dana certainly did not share. Fox Mulder could be so gullible at times. end of Chapter 2 =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 3/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 00:08:47 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (3/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/96 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 3 Blue Monday 6 pm Northern Virginia Fox Mulder had another unpleasant surprise for Dana. His new assignment began immediately. He was scheduled to pick Angela Larson up at her office in an hour and a half. Not above grinding a little more guilt into the wound, Dana did not even try to hide her disappointment. She had hoped they would spend the evening together - to take the gloom out of the slump in his shoulders, to try to recapture a hint of the closeness they had found in Key West. For Fox, telling her had been hard. Unfortunately, the relief he felt, having gotten that task over with, was short lived. Now he had to follow through with the assignment, and the prospect did not please him any more than it pleased her. Odd as it felt, after all it was not her case, Dana accepted his offer to ride along on the initial pick up. Truth be told, she had a suspicious twitch in the back of her brain and wanted to see this Angela Larson. They stopped at Mulder's apartment first for him to pack a bag. Dana agreed to stop by a couple of times during the week to feed his fish, the few that were left that he had not already starved to death due to his erratic life style. Then they headed out route 66 and made for Tyson's Corner, a huge commercial development area in nearby Virginia. Angela Larson worked there as a checker for an office supply store. As they pulled up in the parking lot near the front door of the store, Dana studied Mulder's serious face. He was not looking forward to this meeting. "Just do me a favor this time, Mulder," she said, not unkindly. "Don't screw things up." She gave him an encouraging smile. His returning smile was much weaker, but he managed. "I know. By the book," he said wearily as he slid out from behind the wheel. Waiting in the car in order not to confuse the woman who expected only Mulder, Dana watched his long lean form striding towards the door. A figure moved in the shadows inside the lobby, and a woman came out just as he reached the sidewalk. She had obviously been watching and waiting, not wanting him to have to come in looking for her and risk having her co-workers see her leaving with a strange man. At the sight of her, Dana admitted to being both surprised and relieved. Angela Larson was a little thing, looking even smaller and more frail by the way she huddled into herself. She was young. If she had been twenty-one at the time of the first investigation, she must be twenty-nine now, though she seemed much younger. She was colorless, featureless and mousey. Timid as a mouse, too. Dana had half suspected a femme fatale, but could not have been more wrong. She hoped Mulder packed along a lot of reading material. It did not look like it was going to be a very stimulating week. As Mulder escorted her towards the car, Dana stepped out. "Angela Larson," he said, introducing her. "Special Agent Dana Scully." When the woman seemed to shrink away, he added, "Don't worry, she's okay. We work together." "Nice to meet you, Ms. Larson," Dana said, shaking the limp hand. "Angela," corrected a small voice. "They called me 'Larson' for eight years in the - hospital. I don't think I ever want to hear that name again." Dana smiled sympathetically. "Of course, I understand." Mulder was looking up and down the parking lot. If he had been a fox in the wild, his ears would have been twitching. "We shouldn't be standing out here. Why don't we go." Dana held the front door open for Angela. Mulder threw her a look. He obviously had wanted Dana to ride in front, but Dana was keenly aware that Angela was the client here and took priority, even if Mulder did not. Dana was, literally, just along for the ride. "I need to get my things," Angela said as they pulled onto the main street. "I know. They told me," Mulder said. "Falls Church, right?" She nodded. There was an uncomfortable silence. "Now can you tell me where we'll be staying?" the woman asked. Mulder glanced back at Dana, who had leaned forward to feel part of the conversation. "No, I'm sorry, not right now. As Agent Scully is aware, she isn't allowed to know the location of the safe house, because she doesn't work in that division." Dana agreed, then realized she was definitely out of place here. Maybe her coming along had not been such a good idea. She leaned back in the seat, physically removing herself. "Don't worry about me, *Agent* Mulder. You can let me out at the Falls Church Metro Station." Noting her sulk, Mulder glanced back. "If Angela doesn't mind your coming while she gets her things, I can drop you off at Bloomingdale's. Want to do a little shopping?" Dana huffed. Shopping was not her idea of a hot date but probably the best she would get on short notice. At least from there it was a relatively short cab ride back to her apartment and, enlightened male though he may be, Mulder still held the notion that shopping was some kind of female panacea for the blues. Angela had no problem with Dana coming along. "Fine," Dana replied shortly and spent the rest of the ride boring holes in the back of Fox Mulder's head with her eyes. No one spoke further until Angela began giving directions about two miles down the road. She directed them to a large, old house in a quiet neighborhood in the well established Northern Virginia community of Falls Church. Her room was on the top floor of a three story structure covered with pealing white paint. As they climbed the narrow stairs, Dana thought that it was fortunate for them that Angela's room had its own entrance. They were probably attracting enough attention as it was. Dana made a note to remember that she and Mulder were both too well dressed for this sort of undercover work. Downtown Washington was one thing. There stylish, conservative business costume was required, but it did not fit in so well in this working class neighborhood. *** Angela's room was sparsely and cheaply furnished. There seemed to be few personal items. Not unusual, Dana thought, for someone who had been in an institution for eight years and only recently reentered society. Dana hoped the woman had a social worker. But the place was neat and clean and, as Dana nosed about, she was pleased to see that there was even a little food in the refrigerator, and it was not even spoiled, which meant Angela already surpassed Mulder's accomplishments in the domestic arena. It also meant that their chances of not starving over the next week had significantly improved. If she could keep herself fed and herself and her place neat, Angela was obviously adjusting well to life on the 'outside'. Angela pulled a small suitcase from an almost empty hall closet, packed a few odds and ends, and then vanished behind a curtained area in the back of the room. Mulder dropped down on the couch and began flipping through a tattered copy of People magazine. Dana wandered and finally poked her head around the corner of the curtained area. It contained a bed, nightstand, dresser, and a small standing clothes closet. "Can I be of any help?" Dana asked pleasantly. The woman jumped at the sound of Dana's voice, then seeing who it was, went back to slowly folding a few faded articles of clothing. "No, thank you. I won't be long." Glancing casually about the room, Dana noticed the picture of a young man hanging in a picture frame from a nail on the wall beside the bed. "Brother?" she asked the woman. Embarrassed, Angela colored and gave a very little smile, the first emotion Dana had seen. "Boyfriend," the woman said almost proudly. Dana nodded impressed. The young man's picture was a little blurry, he had a bit of acne and probably was about 20 pounds overweight, but he had a pleasant smile. "They are going to keep paying my rent," Angela mentioned, not looking up from her packing. Her stringy limp hair fell forward over her face. "That's the least they can do," Dana said. "You know that you're taking a big risk, don't you? These men have explained that little detail, I hope." Still looking down, the woman nodded. "I want to help. It's also -" she hesitated "- something to do." Dana breathed in sharply. Could the woman be so lonely as all that? Dana reminded herself, then excused herself before she embarrassed the young woman any further. *** True to his word, Mulder let Dana off in front of Bloomingdale's. She came around to the driver's side when he rolled down his window. He rested his hand on the edge of the window opening. She casually placed hers so that their finger tips barely touched and was rewarded with a quick sidelong glance just for her. It was a gentle look, a little sad, full of meaning. He did not move his hand away as once he might have, but left their fingers touching. Dana leaned inside a little to address Angela. "It was nice meeting you. Good luck at the hearing." She turned to Mulder, a false smile on her face. "Watch your back," she told him, "and don't mislay your gun." "Watch out, yourself," he replied, putting the car in gear. "And don't let Skinner saddle you with any undesirables." "He keeps assigning me to work with you. I'd say he owes me one," Dana shouted as the engine roared. She stood on the sidewalk and watched Mulder's car pull out of the parking lot, heading south out of the city. Dana felt alone and, more than that, powerless. She did not know where he would be, did not have his phone number, and he was required to keep his outside calls to a minimum. She had not been this out of touch with him since the day they had become partners. She had become accustomed to taking care of him and knowing he was there to take of her, if she needed it. The feeling was disquieting. *** Tuesday 9 am FBI Headquarters The next morning Agent Scully's presence was requested in Assistant Director Skinner's office. she thought. She was, therefore, much taken aback to enter the office and be introduced to an absolute hunk of a man. Mulder was pretty in an intellectual sort of way, gentle-eyed, slim overall, though she had found early on that his clothes hid some finely muscled shoulders and a nice butt. But this guy was a Play Girl's fantasy. He had an inch or two over Mulder, who was himself tall. He had blond surfer's hair, an open, gorgeous face, a strong neck that said 'weight-lifter' in tall letters and shoulders that clothes could not hide. She found herself staring and tried to shock herself into attention by warning herself that the guy probably had the IQ of a donut. "Special Agent Dana Scully," Walter Skinner introduced, "this is Dr. Evan Byers." She took the large but surprisingly gentle hand which was offered and gave it a firm handshake. He had taken her measure, too, and seemed impressed, and not just by the handshake. "Special Investigator, Food and Drug Administration," he added. Now Dana was impressed. A doctor with the FDA. Maybe her luck was turning around. The evening before she had spent too much money, drunk too much wine all alone in her apartment and not slept well. Dana and Byers sat. Skinner came around to the front of his desk and leaned against it in his customary lecturing posture. "Dr. Byers is on loan to us. The FDA has uncovered a possible conspiracy, involving the manufacture of an illegal drug. Dr. Byers thinks there may even have been murder committed." Dana was fascinated. "Sounds like fun." Dr. Byers turned bright blue eyes on Dana. "Law enforcement at this level is really not in our mission statement," he said with a wink. Dana smiled. The guy had a sense of humor to go with brains. 'Mission Statement' was one of those new hot buzz words being used by government upper management. "Since you are 'unattached' at the moment," Skinner said pointedly to Dana with a frown, "I thought you would be the ideal agent to help Dr. Byers with his investigation." The frown, Dana realized, was for Mulder accepting the assignment with the WPP. The blond giant picked up his brief case and put it in his lap. "I have many of the technical specs here so you can see what we're dealing with, but we're going to need some bodies exhumed. I'm a researcher specializing in pharmacology, not a pathologist and certainly not a forensics expert. I'll need your help on this one." "No problem," she said, genuinely interested. "As Director Skinner said," she added, making it clear from the tone of her voice that she was not any more happy about Mulder's defection than he was, "I'm not busy at the moment, so let's get started." *** Wednesday 2pm WPP safe house, somewhere in southern Maryland Fox took a walk around the outside of the little brick house for about the twentieth time that day. He saw the same yellow house, about three hundred yards to his left, that he had seen the last nineteen times and the same brush choked dingle to his right. He could not keep doing this or he would wear a path in the late fall grass. Besides, it looked suspicious and he was supposed to be doing anything *but* looking suspicious. Unfortunately, he was restless. There was nothing to do. Two days and already he could feel the walls closing in. Angela read magazines, slept, and was almost completely silent. He tried to read but found he could not concentrate. What he wanted to do was go out and rent a computer. He should have borrowed Scully's. He knew he could fill a lot of hours learning to surf the Internet. Scully had told him that he should, and one of the reasons he had put it off was because she had warned him that the initial start up sessions would be time consuming. The problem remained that he could not convince Angela to go out. She was literally frightened of her own shadow. If he could not get her to go out, even to browse about in a computer store, he would never succeed in talking her into going into the city and being introduced to officers who might conceivably take over this wretched duty for him. It had taken him about twelve hours to realize he had made a mistake about accepting this assignment. If he had not had a guilty conscience to appease, it would have taken him about twelve minutes. He just did not have the temperament for this waiting around. The quiet was making him desperate and irritable. His stomach was irritable, too. Maybe he was getting an ulcer, but his stomach had been disturbingly upset that morning. He still felt sorry for Angela, partially responsible for the rough time she had had, but as long as she refused to open up to him, he felt his sacrifice was a empty gesture. Scully had warned him. Fox reentered the house with no spring in his step. Angela had isolated herself in her room again. He needed to break through that shield of hers sometime soon. They needed to prepare for the hearing on Monday if nothing else. He turned on the television but the house did not have a VCR or cable and the weekday afternoon fare was nauseating at best at least until the after school cartoons came on. Finally, he popped a rock and roll disk into his portable compact disk player, slipped on the ear phones, and started doing sit ups on the living room floor. He had been getting soft. If nothing else, he would return to his *real* job in better shape than he left it. *** Friday 6pm WPP safe house, somewhere in southern Maryland On Friday night Fox offered to cook. He felt some achievement in being able to boil water for the spaghetti and warm up the bottled sauce without burning anything. He did not feel pressured to try anything more elaborate because Angela's cooking was not any more inspired. At dinner time Angela sat at the table across from him, looking down at her plate. She had been silent since she sat down. He had tried to talk about the weather, the dismal record of the Red Skins football franchise and hinted at some items he had found in Scientific American, but she had not responded. "It's good," she whispered when they were almost finished. Actually, Fox had finished considerably earlier. Scully always complained that it was either feast or famine with him. Either he forgot to eat for days on end or he ate enough for a family of four in the time most people would take to eat a piece of toast. Tonight he had eaten quickly, but not too much. He had been sick the last two mornings. This evening he felt better, though his insides were a little tender. He hoped he could throw off this stomach flu soon. "It's good," she repeated in almost a normal speaking voice. "Oh, is there someone else here?" he asked, looking everywhere around the room but at her. "I thought I was talking to myself." The woman blushed and shrank closer to her plate. Her lank hair hung so over her face that he could not see her well. "I'm sorry. That was unkind. But -" he leaned over to her and whispered, "- it's been very quiet around here." "I did not want to disturb you," she muttered not looking up. "I'm such a bother already." Fox picked up his plate and took it to the sink. "Why don't you let me decide that. After all, you only asked. I accepted." "Why?" she asked suddenly. He looked up, his hands now full of greasy red sauce. He believed that was just about the only question she had ever asked him with the exception of 'Potatoes or rice?' "Why what?" "Why did you agree to stay with me. You didn't have to." He dried his wet hands off on the kitchen towel, not noticing that he left it covered with a lot of red splotches. He sat down next to her at the kitchen table. "I thought you had been having things pretty rough lately," he said in his gentlest manner, the one he reserved for children and old people. He had the ability to put people at ease when he chose. That was a knack he had in spades, Scully always told him, despite his lack of social graces in other areas. "The hearing will be tough. I thought we could work together to get you through it, but maybe I was wrong." "No," she said quickly. "It's good having you here, comforting not to be alone. I'm sorry I'm such a bore." "No, you're not. We just need to find something we have in common. Do you play chess? Do crossword puzzles?" "I'm pretty dull," she said, sliding the last of her spaghetti around on her plate. "Stop saying that. Cards?" "I learned to play gin rummy - at Longmead," she admitted hesitantly. "Okay," he said, smiling his winning smile, "let's clean up and we'll give it a try." Within fifteen minutes he got a smile out of her. Within thirty, a laugh. He found she actually was a very good player, much sharper than he had expected and he did not need to stretch much to let her win a couple of games. With his photographic memory no one ever liked playing cards with him much. Everyone except his sister, Samantha, who had always seemed to enjoy their games immensely. Probably because she usually won. Fox suspected that her memory had been better than his, only she had enjoyed hiding it. That and she had also been a pro at distracting him. "Ice cream?" Angela asked with a smile on her face after she had won a game by a narrow margin. He was staring at the cards, actually suspicious that she had cheated, but not knowing how she could have done it. "Sure. Neither of us can spoil that." She came back in a minute with two bowls. His was overflowing with chocolate sauce. "I guess neither of us is a very good cook," she apologized as the sauce dripped onto the card table. He started in, contented with how the evening was ending up, but the sauce had a funny taste. Maybe it was old. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, he was determined to eat it anyway. This felt as good a time as any to bring up the topic he had most wanted to discuss with her. "Angela," he began whirling his spoon around in the chocolate, "the main reason I agreed to take this assignment was so I could apologize." "For what?" she asked. "For messing up during the investigation eight years ago. You were vulnerable, confused, and I didn't help with all my stories about alien abductions. Your records say you got over all that." Angela was not smiling any more, and there was new color in her face. "Yes," she said quietly, "that's what the doctors say." She suddenly stood up. "I'm sorry, I need to go to bed. I'd like to talk to you about this, but I'm not ready yet. I need more time." She looked at him as if begging for another chance. Mulder was somewhat startled by the abrupt change in her. "As far as I know I'll be around. Any time you want to talk, I'm available." he grumbled to himself. *** That night Fox woke out of a sound sleep, again, with the very devil of an upset stomach. He barely made it to the bathroom. Ice cream and spaghetti was very apparent in the white porcelain bowl of the toilet. If he had not been nauseous already, the sight would have made him sick. As he sat on the cool bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel and waiting for the shakes to pass, he remembered too well that this was the third time he had lost a meal. The other two times had been first thing in the morning. - Damn flu.- Though, if he had been female, he would have suspected another kind of nasty surprise. Male or female, he was certain no progeny had have been initiated by any activity of his for at least five months. "Get a life, Mulder," Scully frequently told him. He hoped wryly that that was not what she had had in mind. end of Chapter 3 =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 4/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 00:09:06 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (4/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 No infrigement intended here. (Gotta save space; long scene) Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 4 Saturday 8 am WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox breathed, as he flipped back the covers. Even though he felt a little light and shaky, having lost his dinner during the night, he was not going to let that upset his plans. Saturday night was his night off, and he was going to get out of this house and see Scully if it killed him. As he came in for breakfast, he found Angela had laid out for him two pieces of toast topped with huge dollops of apple butter. Plain toast would have suited his stomach better. He chased the offering down with strong black coffee. At noon he was sick again. This time Angela heard him retching and came into the bathroom with a towel, wash cloth and sympathy. Then she sent him to bed. *** He slept until three-thirty. From four until six he either paced or stood at the living room window, looking out towards the drive, waiting for his temporary replacement. The man was late and Fox was perturbed and impatient. "Time for dinner," Angela called brightly from the kitchen. "Angela, I told you," Mulder began as he walked towards the kitchen, "I have to go out tonight. I'm just waiting for Agent Clark to arrive to stay with you." She turned a pan of meat loaf in her hand. With her apron and her hair pulled back she looked very domestic. "He won't be coming," she informed him. Fox cocked his head and stepped fully into the kitchen. "What do you mean he's not coming?" "He called this afternoon," the woman said matter-of-factly, "to confirm the time. I told him we wouldn't be needing him." He strode up to her, his anger flaring. "You what! Who gave you the right?" "I told him you were asleep," Angela said simply. "He found that highly amusing, until I told him you'd been sick." Fox just stared at her, a dozen colorful, purple phrases coming to mind which he was sorely tempted to use, but she was his client, and he forced himself to swallow every one. Instead, he swung away from her and descended upon the telephone. "Damn him, damn that bastard!" Fox fumed, his eyes narrowing as he whipped up the receiver. "He should have talked to me! I'll begin disciplinary actions on that lazy rookie for this!" He would call Clark at home. He would pull that pretty-faced son- of-a-bitch out of bed and make him come out here no matter which Director's daughter he was in bed with. Then suddenly, in rage- white frustration, he slammed down the phone without completing the call. He had promised Scully, promised he would play it by the book; no unauthorized outside contact, no personal phone calls, the required daily check-in's only, and on Fox's list of priorities those did not rate as calls at all. He had even missed a few. But Monday, Mulder seethed, on Monday he would storm into Skinner's office and that guy would not see the outside of a surveillance closet for a month! Fox knew what that was like; he had been there. He was suddenly aware that Angela was standing in front of him. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she was staring at him stonily. "I don't think I would have liked him much." "You didn't need to *like* him for one night!" He growled, breathing fast and hard, struggling to keep from saying any more. Damn, no matter how much she was messing up his life, she was the witness, and he the servant of the people, and he had no right to talk to her the way he was. Fox shook his head. he thought grimly. Angela threw the meat loaf pan on the table and sat down. She would eat if he would not. Fox paced the length of the kitchen and living room for the next three minutes, not much of a stretch for his long legs, fighting to bring his anger under control. He had a temper, he had had to deal with it all his life, ever since Samantha ... since Samantha had disappeared and the tauntings at school had gotten to be too much. He could do this. He had to. Finally, Mulder sat down across from her at the kitchen table, but he did not eat, did not feel like eating. From the look of it, neither did she. "Angela, I apologize." The admission was hard and he really hadn't sounded very apologetic. His voice was still shaking with frustration and bitter disappointment. "I overreacted, I'm sorry. But, Angela," he said fervently, trying to make her understand, "I have a life outside of your case. It's not much of a life, but it's mine. There are things I need to do, people I need to talk to." Angela put her fork down, the bite untasted. There were tears trickling silently down her cheeks. His anger had frightened her. "You know I only trust you." "It's my day off," he repeated. "I'm not a prisoner here." Angela threw down her napkin with more spirit than he had yet seen. "I'm sorry if you find this a prison! I've tried not to bother you. I've tried to keep out of your way. Give you space. Sure, pick up and go. It's only *my* life! Something which isn't important to anyone." She fled the table and went into her bedroom. Reluctantly, he followed and found her lying face down on her bed with her arms covering her head. Fox sighed. Where were all those psychology courses when he needed them. He had to try to be understanding. If he was ever to get off this assignment, he needed her cooperation. "Angela," he said more gently, "I haven't forgotten, but it's just that I don't think this is working. We've talked about that being a possibility. I'd like you to think about bringing in another man, or a woman, if you prefer, to stay with you." She was silent for a long moment, her face buried in the bedclothes. When she finally turned her face towards his, she would not meet his eyes. Hesitantly, she began, "Agent Mulder, I have something I need to tell you. I think it's important." She reached for the box of tissues and he handed it to her. "I've been trying to get up the nerve for days, but I just wasn't ready. I'm still not ready, but I promise, I'll tell you tomorrow. Afterwards, if you want to leave me, I won't stand in your way." Fox raised his eyes to the ceiling and ran his hand through his hair. Her deal did not sound very promising, but it was a start. At least she was accepting the possibility of his leaving. "Angela, it's not like I would be abandoning you. I'd still be available to talk with you sometimes. It's just that I don't need to be here day and night. I have other responsibilities." She rolled off the bed, blew her nose, and started removing her apron. She still did not look at him. "You've wanted me to meet some other people. We can do that tonight. As long as you'll hear me out tomorrow." Fox's entire body shook with exasperation. He had been trying to get her to do that all week. Why tonight of all nights? But it would mean that he could get into town and maybe see Scully. Even if he was only able to see her for a few minutes, the inconvenience of having Angela along would be worth it. "Alright," he agreed. "Get ready. I'll put away the food." *** Saturday 6 pm FBI Headquarters "That's a nice smile. Penny for your thoughts?" Dana Scully roused herself to find she had been staring blankly at the canteen's soda machine. Turning, she found herself looking directly into Evan Byers large, aqua-blue eyes. she thought, She smiled, almost blushing. "My thoughts? Just recalling a little meeting I had with Skinner today." "Ohhh, that must have been *some* meeting," the big, blond man said with exaggeration. She tossed her red-bronze hair. "You're as bad as Mulder. Do you men only have one thing on your mind?" "Yes... especially when you provide us with such good straight lines." Dana was sitting at a table in the far corner of the FBI's fourth floor lunchroom. She had been sitting there, holding her styrofoam cup of cold tea, for quite some time. In fact, she had just finished looking at her watch for the twentieth time when Evan appeared - Evan, who now had his hand on the back of the chair opposite her. "I was just finishing some reports and I thought I'd come down and see what they have in the machines that's worth eating. I saw you sitting alone. If you have a date, I'll just - " He indicated he would leave, if she wanted, but made it look like he would be grieved if she did. Dana laughed and gestured for him to sit down. "Waiting for someone, yes, but not a date." "I could ask who, or I could ask about your meeting with Skinner." Dana elected to take the safer course. "I think I'd rather tell you about Skinner," she told him. "He found me in the X-Files office today." She shot Evan a sidelong glance and saw that he was not surprised. He had noticed that she disappeared a couple of times a day and he suspected that the basement office was where she went. But he had never pried. Dana only knew that she missed Mulder terribly and that she had a deep, instinctive need to seek that place, just to feel a little closer to him. "What did he want?" Evan asked, pulling her out of her melancholy. Dana shook her head, incredulous. "He wanted to know if it would make me too uncomfortable if he asked my mother out on a date! Just for companionship, he says." "Skinner? Your mother?" Evan tried to look shocked. "Is that incestuous? He is your boss, after all." "I think there would be a problem only if they got married." Evan's eyes were wide. "Is that likely?" Dana fantacized absently, Dana shuddered. "She's only about five years older," she explained to Evan. "It's possible, but, I know my mother. You see, my father died only a few months ago." She looked suddenly wistful. Odd, how the worst of that pain had drifted away over time. "I told Skinner to go ahead and ask, but I doubt that it will ever be more than that... companionship." There had actually been more to their conversation than that. *** Skinner had paused, before leaving, probably because he noticed the forlorn expression on her face. "How are you doing, Agent Scully? Byers working out okay?" Dana nodded. "Evan's fine. He's fun. He's committed. He's intelligent." "He's not Agent Mulder." She did not meet his eyes. Skinner knew. "No, sir, but then no one is quite like Agent Mulder." "That," Skinner said with sincerity, "is true. A fact for which we in management can be grateful." She looked up and very seriously asked, "Sir, this - change in his duties - this won't hurt his career, will it?" Skinner crossed his arms. "I realize this is something he has to see through, one way or the other. No, I don't think it will have any lasting effect, so long as the situation resolves itself soon and provided he doesn't make a habit of this sort of thing. He is too valuable as an investigator." He rose and did intend to leave this time, but paused to put an fatherly hand on her arm. "You're valuable, too, Agent Scully. Don't let this get to you. Okay?" *** Back in the present, Evan was asking. "All right. So now can I ask who you are waiting for?" Scully looked towards the door. Still nothing. It was getting very late. "Agent Mulder," Evan said with certainty and not unkindly. He had never met the man, but knew he was a very important person in Dana Scully's life. "Is it that obvious?" she asked. "You work hard, very hard," Evan told her with obvious affection, "but sometimes you get this distracted look on your face, as if you expect the phone to ring or someone to come walking in the door. But he never calls and he doesn't come." Dana's eyes grew warm. "You're a poet, Evan." He laughed, throwing the compliment off casually as he unwrapped a sausage and biscuit sandwich he had bought from one of the vending machines before he had seen Dana Scully sitting like a vision in the corner of the dismal room. "I toyed with English Lit before I decided upon medicine. Most likely I read that somewhere. There's probably not an original thought in my head." She gently touched his hand and Evan thought he had died and gone to heaven. He had to admit it. He had a big crush on Dr. Scully. "Don't put yourself down," she told him sincerely. "It was a nice thing to say." "And true?" "Hmmm. You've been working here less than a week. Why would you think so?" He peered under the biscuit top and wrinkled his nose at what he saw before glancing back up at her. "Because until his current assignment, the two of you have been practically inseparable, or so I'm told." "My, you've gotten hooked into the rumor mill quickly," she said, curious and not unkindly. He shrugged. "I ask." When she looked surprised, he continued. "I grew up with four sisters. All older. Gossip was a way of life. I also work for the FDA, a big government bureaucracy. If you want to learn anything, you have to be plugged in." He hesitated. "Also, women tell me things." Dana gave him a knowing smile looking across the wide breadth of his shoulders. "I wouldn't be surprised." "It can be curse," he said waving the uneaten stale biscuit at her. "You should know. You must get the same attention from men." It was her turn to shrug. "Some. Now if I were six inches taller..." She laughed. She couldn't believe she was having this conversation with Evan. He was like one of her brothers already, probably came from growing up with all those sisters, but she was well aware his interests did not fall in the brotherly sphere. He had been asking her out with his eyes all week. He was just too perceptive to ask without at least a little encouragement, and, though, professionally, they got along perfectly, she had been careful not to send *those* kind of signals. "Anyway," she said returning to what she thought was a safer subject, "Who tells you things and what do they say?" When he did not look like he wanted to tell her, she added. "I really want to know. They won't talk to me because they have to face me every day and that would spoil their fun. I'd just like to know what I'm accused of." "Oh! You want the Harlequin Romance version!" Evan smiled evilly. "They say the two of you are having some wild time on all those road trips and the accounting people go over your field vouchers with a fine-toothed comb trying to find out how you actually manage to only pay for one room and have it look like two so that you can pocket the extra." She took a sip of her cold tea and made a face. "No worse than I expected." "Oh, there's more -" She looked suddenly sad and her lowered eyes glistened. "Please, that's enough." There was a part of her that wished at least some of the rumors were true. She felt Evan's large hand on hers. "Hey, I'm sorry. Just kidding. You are beautiful and I take it Mulder's eccentric. People will talk. They *want* to believe the wild stories, but they don't. Not down deep. I've talked to them." Dana gave him a weak smile. She would not tell him why she was so sad. "Are you going to eat that thing," she asked, indicating the almost freeze-dried sandwich. "You are supposed to microwave it, not eat it raw." He made a face. "I was going to eat it, now I'm not so sure." Evan looked around at the old peeling linoleum, the formica topped tables, the scuffed chairs and, on the walls, ancient, faded notices which were so many years out of date that even the tape had begun to yellow. "You know, Dana, this is not a very romantic spot for a rendezvous." Dana never noticed the decor when she was with Mulder. "Mulder and I can get into some gruesome conversations when we talk shop. We meet here so we don't freak out the public and spoil their dinner. Later, we go out and grab a pizza or Chinese." "That sounds wise," Evan nodded. Now it was his turn to look towards the door. "Look, Dana, I don't want to be in the way. When is he due?" "I told you, it's not a date, just his night off," she told him. "We don't have anything set up, because on this assignment he's required to keep communications with the outside at a minimum. It's just that in the past, when we've worked on separate cases, we would try to show up here on Saturday nights." Evan perused the bank of half empty vending machines. "Dana, I'm not trying to be pushy, but, if he doesn't show, maybe we could go look for something more edible than stale donuts and rubber sandwiches." She smiled. "Finding food better than this should not be difficult for a couple of over-educated investigators like us. Okay, if Mulder doesn't come." A tightness in Evan she had not noticed suddenly relaxed. "Hey, I'm thirsty. Want a soda? My treat" As he went for the drinks, Dana looked with concern at Evan's retreating back. As comfortable as she was with Evan, as handsome as he was, and as attracted as he was to her, she longed so for Mulder to come. His absence was like a physical pain. She conjured up an image of him and saw both the lovable boyish grin and his infinitely sad eyes. Where was he? Had she misread him these last few weeks. She thought nothing would have kept him away. Evan returned. "Coke without," he said, handing her the sugarless version, "and Coke with." He sat down and popped the top with a hiss of carbonation. "So, you were thinking about Skinner when I came in, but is the thought of your mother having a date so funny, or is her having a date with Skinner so funny? You looked like the Cheshire Cat." Dana colored, a little embarrassed because she realized she had only heard half the question, but she got the gist. "I don't know if I should tell you. You'll think I'm fishing." "Oh, you'll *have* to tell me now." That line was so good, she decided she would tell him. She liked Evan. She liked him a lot. If Mulder weren't there.... "I was thinking about how my mother has more dates than me. Pretty pathetic, yes?" Sitting in the FBI canteen on a Saturday night, waiting for Fox Mulder who may or may not come, *was* pathetic. Evan leaned back in his chair and held out his empty, thick- palmed hands. "Hey, do I look like I'm having a swinging time? Besides, you are waiting for someone and I have no one to wait for and no one waiting for me." The pain in his voice was a new pain, Dana could tell that instantly, and suddenly she felt out of her depth with this man. "Evan, I'm sorry -" He took a long drink of his soda. "My fault. I lost her. Too busy getting my degree to pay attention to her. But my best friend was there." He leaned towards her, his open, handsome face sincere. "Dana, I'll say this once. I'll never do to another man what was done to me, but I won't let a good thing get past me again either." Dana blinked. So there it was. If she wanted Mulder, Evan would not get in their way. On the other hand, he was there if she changed her mind. Dana felt a blush rising to her face. "Now, I wanted to ask you about this morning's autopsy," Evan began, changing the subject as abruptly as anyone could. "What was the significance of the cholinesterase results?" *** Twenty minutes later, Fox walked into the canteen with Angela plastered to his side. He was not in a good mood. They were late, very late. She had taken forever to get ready but the transformation had been surprising. She had not done much; showered, did something to her hair, wore a dress that fit her well and was even a little stylish and put on make up, but it was her demeanor when she stepped from the bedroom that gave him pause. She moved now as if she were on stage, in the spotlight, not at all like the timid mouse he had lived with all week. It was as if she had been deflated before and somehow, someone, had pumped her up. If she could do this at the trial, perhaps they had a chance of salvaging something from this ordeal. Still she had been silent. They had passed almost the entirety of the ninety minute drive without speaking a word and this sat fine with Mulder. But, once they had gotten out of the car at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, much of her new found poise vanished. She clung to his arm, as if each shadow hid an assassin. Fox knew he was not helping to calm her panic. He was looking forward to seeing Scully and, unconsciously, his heart and his pace had quickened as he neared the canteen, especially when he could make out the tones of her voice, even before he could distinguish the words. Inside the door of the canteen, however, he stopped. She was seated at 'their' table, as far from the cigarette machine as possible, and there was a man seated at the table with her. A big man, an incredibly handsome man, who made Fox feel like the gawky, fourteen-year-old nerd he once had been and felt too often he still was. And they were laughing together. Laughing and arguing at the same time. Fox heard terms being thrown out which he knew were medical, but he had only a vague idea of their meaning. It was clear that they were working on a case together. Their conversation was witty, energetic, intellectual and playful all at the same time. With an ache, he remembered that he and Scully once had discussions like these, but that was before he had made such a mess of things. Watching them hurt. He had not realized how much it would hurt, and the worst hurt of all was knowing that he had brought this all about. If he had not accepted this assignment, almost asked for this assignment from some misguided need for repentance, he would be seated with her now and not this handsome stranger. Fox halted in the doorway, trying to reel in his sparking irritation. He realized there was a real danger that the sharp point of his jealously might become directed at Scully, and that would be unfair. She had a right to go on with her life and Skinner obviously had done a good thing for her by linking her up with someone who was obviously her emotional and intellectual equal. At that moment, Dana looked up and saw him, saw the tall, dark form of him before his expression. A little guiltily, she realized she still wore a broad smile for Evan, and, flustered, she let that smile fade so that she could give Mulder a welcoming smile of his very own. But that smile lost much of its brilliance, as she noticed his frown. Wasn't he glad to see her? Then she saw the woman practically pasted onto his side and felt a pain stab deep into her stomach. Who was that, and why would he bring a date *here*? Was she so far from his thoughts that he had not even remembered she might be expecting him? He definitely did not look happy to see her. Only when they approached the table did Dana recognize the woman as Angela Larson. She had done something to herself, but her timid attitude had not changed. The recognition did not ease her feelings of betrayal. What was she doing here? This was supposed to be his night off. Luckily for the awkwardness of the situation, the table seated four, so no one had to leave. If Angela was there, Dana reasoned, there was no point in trying to get rid of Evan. Dana introduced Evan, and Mulder introduced Angela, but, Dana noticed, he discretely did not call Angela 'friend' or 'client' just 'Angela'. Mulder was scarcely paying attention, when Dana described the case she and Evan were working on. She had pointedly not referred to Evan at any time as her partner. Meanwhile, Mulder seemed restless. He kept fidgeting and looking around the room. Dana could not figure out why he was so distracted. Fox, however, had a perfectly good explanation for his distraction. He was hoping that a few of the hulking bodyguard types would be lingering about. Someone he could introduce Angela to and with whom she could feel safe. Someone besides Fox Mulder, but it was a slow night. For being supposedly a smart guy, he was continually amazed by his own stupidity. He had known the chances would be slim on a Saturday evening, but had allowed himself to hope. He had just been so desperate to get rid of her, and it had been his only chance to see Scully. But why was Scully looking at him in such an odd way. Angela hardly said ten words but luckily those ten words were said to Evan. It turned out they had both grown up in Philadelphia, so, they discussed that for about two minutes, during which time Dana was finally able to observe Mulder closely. She knew what he looked like when the nightmares were bad. This haggard bonelessness was not it. She knew what he looked like when the details of a case were whirling around in his brain, trying to fit into patterns and giving him no peace. His eyes were not lit up like that. In fact, his eyes looked dull, lifeless. "Mulder," she said with concern, "you don't look so good." "Hello, would have been nice," he replied, his voice lacking its usual light. He was drumming the fingers of his left hand on the formica. He did that with his right hand when he was anxious, but Angela was sitting too close to his right side for that. Dana wondered. Then she happened to notice his drumming hand. The skin near the tips of his fingers seemed discolored. "Mulder, is there something wrong?" she asked, leaning forward to have a closer look. Fox, not noticing her intention, restlessly shifted his position to look over at a laughing jostling group that had just entered the canteen, but, he saw with disappointment, these were technicians from the electronics lab. The change of position moved his hand out of her sight. "What was that, Scully?" he asked, turning back. "You don't seem yourself, Mulder," she answered in a low voice. "Is there anything wrong?" "I've had the flu, that's all," he admitted with some irritation. Dana thought that having the flu would certainly explain why he looked so poorly. "Funny time of year for the flu," she commented, "but I've noticed very busy people often get sick when they suddenly slow down. It's temporary. I dare say you'll live." She had an idea then, a way to help dissipate this unnatural situation. "If you want, I'd be willing to check you out." Mulder frowned, which was his initial reaction whenever Scully questioned him about his health. Normally, he hated examinations, even Scully's, but tonight this sounded like a good idea. The excuse would allow him to be alone with Scully, so he could tell her how much he missed his old life. He felt awkward talking in front of Angela and this over-age surfer. Maybe Evan, who looked like a good sport, could take Angela off his hands for a few minutes. There was not even time for him to react, however, to show Scully he appreciated her concern, before he saw Angela's eyes on them. He thought he saw a frown of displeasure cross her features and then recognized that it was instead a grimace of pain. "What's wrong?" he asked, leaning towards her. He admitted he did not have to lean very far. Such an intrusion upon his personal space made him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. I have a headache. I think it's a migraine coming on. I'm sorry, but, please, I need to leave." Mulder sighed, hung his head and stared at the floor. The trip had been doomed from the beginning; the late start, Angela tagging along, Evan with Scully, Scully obviously doing well and happily without him, and no likely agents or officers around for Angela to meet. He gave his farewells, his face a montage of conflicting emotions that Dana could not read. Dana watched them go, distressed. Fox did not see how unhappy Scully was. He saw only Evan's obvious pleasure at the unexpected departure of his rival. Dana did not see how miserable Mulder looked. She only saw Angela, who did not seem to be in pain any longer. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 5/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 20:57:39 -0400 Hi, Okay I lied. I began posting yesterday instead of today like I said. Yesterday I posted section I: The Witness and the Bodyguard (chap 1-4). Today it's Section 2: Suspicion and Seduction (chap 5-8). Tomorrow, Lightning and Enlightenment (chap 9-11), etc (Seeing a pattern here?) THE ABDUCTEE (5/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty THE ABDUCTEE - SUSPICION AND SEDUCTION Chapter 5 Sunday 10am WPP safe house, somewhere in Southern Maryland Fox Mulder woke to an odd sensation. He had slept. He stared at the clock and had to make note of the hour three times before he would believe it. Ten o'clock. He stared out the window. Yes, the sun was shining and the birds were not making such a terrible racket, so the day probably was as advanced as the clock said, but he never slept this late. In fact, Fox could not remember waking at all in the night or dreaming. That was unlike him because, usually, he slept so poorly. Maybe if he wanted to sleep better on a regular basis he should take up 'baby sitting' full time. On second thought, if boredom was necessary for a good night's sleep, perhaps he would accept the insomnia as payment for an interesting life. Realistically, he felt he should properly blame his extended nap on the remains of the damn flu. He flipped back the covers and, stepping barefoot on the cool floor, realized that he felt - good. Physically well, anyway. Mentally, however, he cringed thinking of the disastrous meeting in the canteen the night before. The hearing was tomorrow and he would be seeing Ian McDowell, Angela's WPP coordinator. As it looked like he was not going to get off this assignment anytime soon, he would ask for approval to make at least one personal phone call out a day so he could stay in contact with Scully. Even if the call had to be made from a pay phone thirty miles away, it would be worth it. At least he now had a plan and that eased his mind a little. For the moment, however, Fox was going to appreciate feeling well for a change. No nausea this morning. His head was clear of the cobwebs that had been clouding his thinking and causing the tension between his eyes. His body felt oddly light, but he took that as coming from not eating much over the past few days. Overall, he could not detect a trace of flu symptoms. Maybe with the long sleep he had finally shaken it. Fox took a long shower, not bothering to conserve the hot water since, by the lingering wetness in the tub and on the bath mat, it was obvious that Angela had already taken hers. Perhaps there were advantages to sleeping late. He wished he could do it a little more often. Emerging from the warm steam of the small bathroom wrapped in his terry cloth robe, Fox sniffed the comparatively cool air of the house. Bacon, honest to goodness, artery-clogging bacon. And coffee, perked, not instant. Amazed, he padded barefoot into the kitchen. Angela was moving the strips of pure, junk food gold around in the skillet. The popping sound was music to his ears. "Morning," she said shyly. She looked good. As she had the night before, Angela had taken a few extra minutes with her appearance. Her hair was clean and brushed and pulled back, but not too severely. Her dress fit and accentuated her thinness. "You slept a long time." Mulder peered over her shoulder trying to see if she was making enough of that luscious stuff for two. By the sound of the crackling, she was making enough for four. She was. "I hope some of that's for me." "All of it, if you want. I was thinking you might be hungry." "You must be psychic, I think I've finally shaken this 'bug' and I'm starved." She began laying the crisp strips out on a paper towel. "Good. Why don't you get dressed while I make some eggs. How do you like them?" Eggs, too? He had died and gone to heaven. Scully would have a fit. Normally he liked thinking about Scully, but not today. He wanted to feel good for a change and he could not think about Scully and not see her with that surfer boy. "Sunny side up and turned just at the end? If you can stand to look at runny yolks." She drained most of the grease and took two eggs from the carton. "Not a problem. That's how I made them for my father." "You don't have to do this," he said feeling odd to have her cooking him breakfast. They had been taking turns with their minimal dinners, but, otherwise, they usually just helped themselves. More often than not, though, Mulder realized, Angela had begun preparing enough of whatever she was having for two. This morning was different, though. What she was doing now required more than minimal preparation and was being done with him in mind. "I don't mind," she said, head bowed slightly, more like her old posture. "Anyway, it's sort of an apology." He had been partially out the door heading for his room, but hearing her words felt required to sit down at the kitchen table to listen to her. He wished, however, that he had gotten dressed before they started this. He did not feel prepared to receive confidences. With his bare feet and bare legs getting colder by the minute, he felt a little vulnerable. "I want to apologize for yesterday," she said, softly. "I messed up your day. I sent Agent Clark away, we fought, I dragged myself along on your night out and then I got that silly migraine so you had to take me home so early." All true, and he had been furious with her. "About Agent Clark - you did what you thought best," he said wording this carefully. He wanted to keep in her good graces, but resentment lingered and he did not want to let her off too easily. "I *was* out of it in the afternoon and you could not help the headache." "I'll try to make it up to you. You've been wanting to practice for the hearing and I've been putting you off. After breakfast?" She smiled at him again, and her smile was a little less shy. Fox stood up, seeing a quick way out of this discussion. He also felt a great sense of relief. The practise session was something that needed to be done and he had been wondering how he was going to talk her into it. Maybe the hell of yesterday would be worth the anguish, if she was finally going to be cooperative. "After breakfast is fine. Let me get dressed, so we can have it." "I'm glad you're not too angry," she said, watching his bare legs as he made his way back to his room. *** Sunday noon FBI Headquarters Dana looked over at Evan Byers across the top of their fourth victim. The big man had a slump to his shoulders and just when she was beginning to think he was inexhaustible. "Hey, Evan, you going sour on me?" she asked in answer to his glazed expression. That made his eyes brighten. "Whoops, sorry." He handed her the specimen bottle for which she had asked. "And you say you do this all the time? I'm glad I don't have *your* job." "I usually don't do four all at one time and on a Sunday," Dana Scully smiled at him not only with her mouth, which was behind the mask he could not see, but with her eyes which he could. She was so beautiful, Evan thought. During the long morning, as he watched her careful hands, so quick and confident, he had wondered at what other more intimate tasks they were as skillful. Evan had also been thinking a lot about Fox Mulder. He had to admit that after meeting the guy he was less than impressed. The man just had not seemed very interested in Dana. But then, from Dana's reaction, it was obvious that this meeting had been unusual. Evan had taken her out for Italian after Mulder and his companion's departure, but Dana had not been herself and it was early when she asked him to take her home. Dana was examining something with great curiousity. "Evan, have you ever seen this before?" She was studying the current victim's hand. Not the hands exactly, but the skin around the nails and the tips of the fingers. There was a dark greenish tinge. She tried to remember where she had seen something similar before. Evan glanced over her shoulder. "I haven't had a case like this in long time," Evan said, very interested in her finding. "This man's been poisoned and, by the looks of it, someone got hold of an old can of rat poison. That's a real cocktail of nasty stuff." "I haven't heard of anyone using that in years. Not since the 60's when it was a popular *modis operandi* for mystery writers." Scully pulled the arm of the light bar down to brighten her field. "Arsenic mostly, isn't it? And Warfarin, that old anticoagulant?" "Among other things. After it hit the papers that a few children had gotten into some and died, most people stopped keeping it around, just too dangerous. The few companies still manufacturing it began putting in an additive to leave this trace, just in case someone should decide to try to do away with their old maiden aunt. Done right, this stuff can can cause a particularly slow, debilitating death." Dana looked up from her examination. She was impressed by the depth of his knowledge. "You continue to surprise me." He shrugged looked at her over the white mask. "I did my dissertation on poisons. Fascinating stuff," he offered. "Looks like we finally got a break in this case." "Yes, but what do we put down as cause of death?" "We'll have to take some tissue and fluid samples and look more closely at the gross morphology. Probably the arsenic. Warfarin was a weak anticoagulant, even in its day. The current varient Coumadin is still used, though a man couldn't die from that unless he had a bleeding disorder beforehand. I've also seen records where death was due to complications from the other additives in the mix, most of which have no place in a human body." "We'll have to go back and check the other victims again," Dana sighed. She prepared to start the recorder. "Bets are," Evan added, "the coroner was a young guy. No one sees this stuff any more. Shall we finish up before or after lunch?" Dana considered. "Let's get it over with. Lunch is just going to have to wait. Not your fault, but I'd like to see a little of my weekend." "After this, want to take in a movie?" Evan asked carefully. "Maybe someone's showing the Return of the Body Snatchers." *** Sunday 1pm WPP safe house somewhere in Southern Maryland So far, Fox thought, as he dozed on the couch listening to the radio, the day was certainly an improvement over all of the others he had had that week. Breakfast had settled well into Fox's stomach. Being hungry helped and he had eaten his fair share, but not as much as he would have before the days of illness had shrunk his stomach. Still, the fat, protein and carbohydrate had put his blood sugar on a surprisingly level plateau and given him a warm glow. Angela had also made him more of the herb tea that she had fixed the night before as a peace offering when they returned from Washington. She said it was good for migraines and, by the time they had gotten home, he had felt one coming on. He wondered if the tea had helped him sleep. If so, he should ask her for the recipe. As promised, Angela worked with him for a long time on practicing for the hearing. They concentrated for three solid hours, much longer than he had thought she would last. He laid out the scene for her, explained the players; the prosecution and defense lawyers, the expert witness, the judge and court officials, and all of their motivations. Then they role-played. He took the roles, alternately, as both the prosecution and defense lawyers and they worked on her responses and prepared her for the difficult cross-examination. The questions he had had to ask about her past and current mental health were the most difficult and he found himself getting lost in his own need to know. "Ms. Larson," he had asked, striding before her as the defense lawyer, while she sat in a kitchen chair in the middle of the living room, "you have recently left Longmead Hospital after spending the last eight years there. What kind of facility is Longmead Hospital?" "A sanitorium specializing in psychiatric care," she said evenly. He had corrected her original reply which described it as a mental institution. "And why were you there?" Clear-eyed she stared at him, clearly answering to Fox Mulder and not to any lawyer. "When I was young I had fantasies. I know them for what they are now." He looked deeply into her eyes, his own guilt asking, "When you think about your time there, how do you feel?" "I try not to think about it, but I realize it was necessary," she replied, her answer as laden with meaning as his question had been. "I harbor no grudge against anyone for what happened to me. These things just - happen. It was no one's fault." Then she smiled, but just for him. "Besides, I'm better now." Later she had asked to let him pretend to be her and she had role-played as the prosecuting attorney. He had given ridiculous answers, but she had taken it all in stride. As with her card playing, he had found that she had a quick and lively mind. They both spent the better part of the last half hour, laughing. They had gotten silly and that had evaporated the last of the tension between them. Thinking about it as he lay on his back, his legs stretched out all the way to the end of the short couch and beyond, he found that the experience left a bittersweet taste in his mind. He had not allowed himself to act so childish in many years, except with Scully and then only rarely. That hurt a little, remembering her and Evan laughing. But he also remembered getting silly with Samantha those last years before her disappearance. It was unusual for him to remember the happy times as well as the pain over her loss. So Fox came away from that session, having to deal with some rare emotions, relief being the most prominent, and now he was indulging in a fantasy of his own. He was busily engaged in analyzing a match of skill, muscle and strategy between two similar forces as they vied for a small and useless target. In other words he was listening to a professional football game, and it was going to be a great game, too, the Red Skins versus the Cowboys, the big rivalry. Angela breezed into the room a half hour later after having started something for dinner. She had a pack of cards in her hand. She smiled at him but waited for a commercial to come on before speaking. "Gin rummy? You can leave the game on I don't mind. We'll play for who does the dishes." Fox smiled back wickedly. The afternoon was shaping out very pleasantly. The Red Skins were even ahead. "You're on. And you haven't got a prayer," he warned her, rolling off the couch and onto his feet. *** Sunday 2 pm FBI Headquarters Dana elected not to take Evan up on his offer of a movie. She left the pathology lab, feeling utterly drained. Four autopsies before lunch were definitely too much, even for her. At least they came away with the satisfaction that they were on to something. She wanted a shower, but had reports to write. She preferred to complete her paperwork immediately following such examinations. It was a discipline she had followed since her academy days, whenever possible; however, when she worked with Mulder, her findings were often reported after considerable delay. She stared at her desk for a moment. Its neatness depressed her. She turned on her heel and took the stairs down three flights to the basement. The X-Files office was dark. A pile of interoffice mail sat on Mulder's chair. At that moment Dana missed Mulder desperately. Why wasn't he here to take her away from all this .... normalcy? In short, life was dull without him. She felt guilty, too. Angela's presence at the canteen had thrown her off and she had not been thinking straight since. She moved the mail off Mulder's chair and switched on his computer. She wanted to feel close to him. The chair seat was definitely too far off the ground to be hers. When she put her fingers down to enter her user ID, even the keyboard felt dusty. She had not read her e-mail since Friday and decided to see if there was anything new. Procrastination was not usually one of Dana's failings, but it was today. She scanned a list of uninspiring office memo clutter and passed them by. Then she spotted an odd entry. The message had come off the Internet and the originating address included the name 'Greene' and the country designation of 'UK'. Phoebe Greene was one of Mulder's old flames from when he had gone to school at Oxford and the relationship had ended badly for Mulder. 'Flame' was a good term for Phoebe. Dana did not know the whole story, but having met the tall, stunning woman, she was pretty sure Phoebe had treated Mulder little better than the dust under her feet. Phoebe worked for Scotland Yard and had involved them in a case a few months before. Dana had to admit that, though she had not been working with Mulder long then, seeing Phoebe and Mulder together had brought out the green-eyed monster in her. The fact that Phoebe obviously wanted Mulder back in her bed, though just for the duration of her trip, had made Dana very angry. Mulder was a big boy in many ways, but it had been painful to watch him be so used. His was a passionate nature and Dana suspected he had his share of one night stands, but she firmly doubted there were many that lasted longer than that, perhaps in large part due to this disastrous early affair. She had to admit he certainly acted differently towards Phoebe than towards any other woman Dana had ever seen him with - acutely wary of her and completely unable to resist the attraction at the same time. She had probably been the geeky Oxford graduate's first real infatuation. Luckily, the events of the case itself prevented anything significant from happening, and Dana had been there to pick up the pieces. At the time, Phoebe had scarcely acknowledged Dana's presence at all, except as a potential rival for someone she obviously still considered her property, at least when *she* wanted *him*. Now what would Phoebe be writing to her about? Dana was surprised the woman even remembered her name. The fact that the mail was directed to her, and not a copy of something sent to Mulder, she found all the more intriguing. "Dear Dana," the message began. Dana thought. "I've done some checking around and found you're still working with Mulder. Can't say I'm surprised. I got an odd request a few weeks ago and it's been on my mind. I didn't want to go to Mulder about this, so I've decided to lay it at your door. I leave it up to you to decide what you want to do with it. "I received a phone call from a woman who said she found my name crossed out in Mulder's little black book. That should have made me suspicious because to my knowledge Fox's is red." "She said that she and our mutual friend had become close and she wanted to 'surprise' him with some little 'love' gestures by reminding him of some good old times. She asked about what lipstick I used when we 'dated', what perfume, music, where his own special little erogenous zones are ... I am sure you get the idea." "Normally, I would have brushed off such a sophomoric request, but she got me on a bad day. The man I'd been engaged to had just decided to take off with someone younger. Mulder was always so easy and so much fun to tease. I let him have it. I gave her an earful. I guess old habits are hard to break." Scully shifted uneasily in front of the screen. She wished she was not reading this. "In the last few days, I've started having second thoughts. This woman didn't sound like someone Fox would go for and any phone number of mine Mulder has would be decades old. She must have done some digging to find me. Not the actions of a woman with a whim to put a little extra spark in her romance. "When I checked out and found you and our friend were still together I knew something was up. My estimation of your feelings for Mulder even a few months ago were such that, if he had a hot number on the side, you'd have either committed murder or packed up and taken off, trench coat and all. Keep him safe, Dana. This feels like a bad one. But don't keep him safe for me, keep him safe for yourself. He needs someone like you, he doesn't, and never did, need someone like me. Phoebe. P.S. Oh, yes. She also asked me to tell her everything I knew about Samantha." *** Sunday 5 pm WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox wiped sweat from his forehead. She was winning again, had been winning slowly, but consistently, all afternoon. Just enough to keep ahead of him. It baffled him. She should not be, and the little smile that played around her lips and her eyes was daring him to find out why. In the background the Los Angeles Rams had just missed a field goal, only their first that year. The Red Skins had won their game earlier and he had turned on a west coast game. "They never should have let Jenkins go," she commented casually. Mulder's eyebrows climbed. She had been surprising him all afternoon by what she knew about football. Not a lot, but little things, like the fact that Los Angeles had traded away their back up place kicker, Brad Jenkins, for a future draft pick. And she had listened attentively as he explained points of the game with which she was not familiar. Not surprisingly, the hands they played while he was lecturing were the ones he lost. He sniffed the air appreciatively. Pot roast. The smell of moist red meat and onions and, unfortunately, the ever present carrots floated on the air. He had helped her peel potatoes earlier so they would have real mashed potatoes for supper. Not that reconstituted, freeze-dried stuff. He was feeling warm and domestic and normal. A Sunday like he had not had in a long time. Sigh. No beer, more's the pity, as he was not allowed alcohol on duty. Instead, he had filled up on popcorn and sunflower seeds, ignoring Scully's imagined whisper in his ear, Angela played a card and waited for him to respond. She was smiling secretively again, knowing that she would probably win this hand, of this, their last game, and he would have to do the dishes. And she had been spending bits and pieces of time in the kitchen all afternoon to make sure there would be a lot of them and he knew it. Fox accepted the challenge by doing some mathematics and spatial flip flops in his mind with the last few hands. What had just happened could not have happened. The card she had played, she could not have played. Fox loved puzzles and gleefully he found the answer to this one. "You *are* cheating!" he exclaimed, pouncing from his side of the table to hers with an unnatural quickness, this time managing not to injure himself, and deftly reaching for the hand she held under the table. Hastily, she put the hand behind her back, but not before he saw the cards she held. He made a grab from another direction and she shifted again, twisting out of his grasp, daring him with her eyes to take them from her. Laughing, because with his long arms he knew she did not have a prayer of escaping him, her being so small, he played cat and mouse with her a little while longer and then descended, coming up close to reach around to the back of her for the cards with both arms almost around her, almost touching. He never intended to touch her, but she moved in close. They touched. Her breast brushed across his chest. And a whiff of her cologne, something familiar, drifted into him making him catch his breath. He had the cards. He backed away a safe distance, his stomach fluttering, pretending that what had just happened had not happened. "You were cheating. All the time." He waggled a finger at her. "You're slick." "How else could I win. You have a unique advantage. I still win." "How? What makes you think that?" he asked in mock seriousness. "You cheated." "I changed the rules of the game and you never asked," she defended. "The point of the game was, you needed to figure out how I was doing it." Her hair was undone from their wrestling and her breath was coming a little quickly. "I still win." He looked at her, admitted to feeling a shiver of sexual heat where she had touched him, and not entirely accidentally, he knew. Too bad she was his client. Back when he was interested in casual affairs, before the last few months with Scully, she would have made a nice diversion and now that she was not afraid of him, maybe an interesting sexual partner. he warned himself, His body, however, was reminding him of exactly how long it had been. "Do I have time to take a shower before dinner?" he asked. Angela was in the kitchen when she heard the shower start. She began washing up some of the pans. She had plenty of hot water, which meant he was using cold. As she listened to the water in the pipes, a weary, sad expression came into her eyes, so different from the bright, playful woman she had pretended to be all afternoon. Wiping her wet hands on a towel, she took her purse from the counter and pulled out a vial. Frowning, she looked at it for a long moment, as if some decision had to be made that she did not look forward to making. Straightening her back, as if strengthening her resolve, she poured some of the contents into a plastic bag, took the rolling pin from the drawer and meticulously began to crush the tablets into a fine white powder. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 6/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 21:41:38 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (6/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 6 Sunday 6 pm West Tillsbury, Massachusetts Three hours after finding the e-mail message from Phoebe Greene, Dana found herself on a small commuter plane, preparing to land at the county airpark closest to West Tillsbury, Massachusetts, where Mulder's mother now lived. Maybe she could get Mulder to pick up part of the airfare. No discount today. Dana had carefully considered the warning in Phoebe's message. Phoebe, though a witch, was a brilliant investigator and she sensed something wrong here. If she thought this was 'a bad one', then some mysterious woman did not have Mulder's best interests at heart. Mulder was not seriously or even mildly involved with anyone, Dana was sure of that, though she knew he indulged occasionally, especially after drinking too heavily. They had just spent six, mostly horrific, weeks barely out of each other's sight and not a stray phone call or letter had she noted. She also had learned to read him with uncanny accuracy and when he 'got some' he carried a certain glow about him for days. There had been none of that. None for her either. So, which of the dozens of women, whose husbands or lovers Mulder had helped incarcerate over the last ten years, had decided to take revenge up for a hobby? Of course, there was also the possibility of the run of the mill, psychotic infatuation. Perhaps the most likely explanation, given the very strong sexual overtones implicit in Phoebe's message. Mulder turned his share of female heads, even though he would never admit it. It was even possible that he really was unaware of how attractive he was. Whichever the case, the inclusion of Samantha's name gave the whole affair a very dark side. There were only two kinds of people who knew about Samantha. The first were those close to Mulder, and these were very few. The second were those with access to FBI personnel files. Sex was a driving force in any healthy male, but Samantha was the focal point on which Mulder's world revolved. He had been manipulated before, and Dana knew it could happen again. He needed to be warned and soon. For this reason, Dana had taken a deep breath and called Skinner. She did not want to tell him about Phoebe's message. Not yet. That would bring up too many questions she was not prepared to answer. It might seem to some at the Bureau that she was merely being jealous and that would never go over well. Explaining their relationship to anyone, even Skinner, was difficult. Most of the time Dana had trouble explaining it to herself. If they were not 'involved', how could Dana be so sure Mulder was not having a little affair on the side? How could she get anyone to believe that she just 'knew'. "No, Agent Scully, I can't give you the phone number of the safe house where Mulder is, nor his location. That information is kept strictly confidential by the case worker at the WPP. Is there a problem?" By the tone of his voice, Dana knew Skinner was still angry at Mulder for accepting the assignment. Mulder was not playing team ball. He once did, when he worked full time for Violent Crimes, before he had found the X-Files. He had been driven, he had been brilliant, he had earned his nickname 'Spooky'. Those cases had also almost driven him insane. Dana was glad she had not known him then. What she did know was that he had been a team player, then he took on the X-Files to save his sanity, then he had been betrayed. Again and again. Skinner was right. Mulder was not a team player any more, unless it served his purposes. Skinner had asked if there was a problem. "There might be, sir," she hedged. "I was hoping Agent Mulder could help shed some - light on a developing case," she lied. "To tell you the truth," the tired, annoyed voice said, "I'd like to have the number myself. Mulder is not making, either himself or me, any friends at the D.A.'s office. He's neglected to check in three times already and the man's been on the assignment less than a week." "I saw him for a new minutes last night, sir, here at headquarters. It was his night off. He did mention he'd had the flu, which might explain his missing a few days." "If he's too incapacitated to make a phone call, then he's not up to doing his job, but I'll speak to Agent Mulder about that myself. Whatever your problem is, Agent Scully, you're on your own on this one." So was he, she thought biting her lip as she hung up the phone. She rubbed her weary eyes. How far had this gone? After additional soul searching, trying to determine if she was over- reacting, Dana went into Mulder's private account on his computer and found the phone numbers for his father and mother. They were different. Dana was not surprised. She knew they had been divorced for many years. Knowing Mulder protected his mother whenever he could from the pain of his sister's disappearance, Dana reluctantly tried contacting his father first. If Mulder felt protective towards his mother, his feelings for his father were radically different. What the relationship was between father and son, Dana did not know, but Mulder's emotions on the subject were deep and unsettling. The haunted pain of a tortured twelve-year-old always came into his eyes at any mention of his father. She was relieved, therefore, to receive no answer in response to her call. His mother she reached. After a brief introduction, Dana asked if she had been contacted in the last few weeks by anyone asking personal questions about her son. To Dana's dismay, the woman replied in a soft, hesitent voice that she had been interviewed by a young woman. "Is anything wrong?" Dana made an abrupt decision. She could not ask the kind of questions she needed to...not over the phone... not to Helen Mulder. The older woman might become concerned, might begin to worry. She was mildly concerned already. If this came to nothing, Mulder would not be pleased to find that his mother had been frightened unnecessarily. The woman had had enough grief in her life. Trying to sound casual, Dana mentioned that she was in the area and asked if she could drop in. Receiving a surprised, but polite, invitation Dana scrambled for a flight to Boston and had the Bureau travel agency arrange the commuter flight and the rental car at the other end. It was just after seven in the evening when Dana finally stood looking up at the house. It was neat and well cared for with late mums still showing color in the twilight. Dana took a deep breath, climbed the steps, slowly one at a time, and rang the bell. Dana had never met Helen Mulder before. The woman who answered her ring was stunning for her age. She had a beautiful face and eyes. Her hair was white, but her face was remarkably unlined. Dana immediately knew where Mulder got his looks. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully," Dana introduced herself, showing her credentials. "Please, not so formal." The woman smiled, but Dana could tell she was on her guard, probably suspecting bad news. "Come in. Fox has mentioned you." "Nothing good, I take it," Dana smiled. "Oh, I think he's very impressed with you," the woman said, leading the way, "or at least from what I can read between the lines. He doesn't talk much about his work. I think he is afraid he'll scare me." That he would indeed, Dana thought. His work would scare anyone's mother. The room they entered was perfect. Perfectly decorated, but not cold or impersonal. The accent pieces carefully selected, the colors intermingling for just the right effect. Nothing out of place, nothing dusty. The room of a person with nothing much to do. "Can I get you something?" the older woman asked, raising a bone china tea pot. "Ah, yes," Dana said, trying to sound casual, "tea would be fine." She took the fine china cup gingerly and wondered, with Mulder's frequent attacks of clumsiness, how his mother had managed to keep two pairs of cups and saucers intact during his childhood. "As I said on the phone, I was in the area. I'm afraid it's not all pleasure, however. I'm doing a few background checks." The older woman looked up, a darkness gathering around her. Yes, she was concerned. Very. Dana knew she had been right in coming herself. "No more background checks on Fox, I hope. There was a woman here just a few weeks ago doing that." Dana tried not to raise her eyes and so give away the lie. "Oh, no, I'm actually checking up on the woman who performed the background checks." Dana hesitated, realizing how lame that sounded, but Helen Mulder did not seem suspicious. "I don't think I'll ever get used to the work you people do; circles within circles. Agent Scully -" The woman seemed suddenly shy. "Should I call you 'Dana'?" Dana smiled, trying to put the older woman at her ease. "*He* calls me 'Scully'. You may call me 'Dana'." "Then Fox must like you," the older woman remarked with more life. From the way she said his name, sounding so unfamiliar to Dana, it was obvious Mulder was the light in this woman's life though why she allowed him into hers so seldom, Dana did not understand. "All the girls he was really interested in he always called by their last names and teased them shamefully. The ones that didn't matter he called by their first names." Dana smiled feeling a warm glow. Considering how he liked to tease her, he must be positively smitten. "I'll keep that in mind the next time his teasing gets too rough." She took a sip of the tea and found it tasted good after the long, tense day. Dana knew there were many topics she would like to cover with this woman. She suspected that in addition to Samantha's disappearance there had been other dark and troubling events in Mulder's early life which would help her understand him. But she did not know this woman well, and the present circumstances were grave enough. What confused her was how gentle and normal this woman appeared. She seemed genuinely proud of her son and concerned for him, and yet Dana was almost certain that she initiated contact with him very seldom. Never a phone call, never a visit, seldom a letter, and few visits home for Mulder either. By the hang-dog way he dragged himself around during the holidays, it was clear that being alone was not entirely his decision. "Mrs. Mulder, as I said, we're just verifying the accuracy of the reports created by some of the people who run background checks for us. Could you tell me everything you remember about the interview?" The handsome older woman's eyes got a far away look as she searched her memory. Dana remembered how Mulder's face took on that same expression when he was searching his eidetic memory for some obscure fact. She missed that look. "You have the CIA running background checks for you?" Helen Mulder asked suddenly. Dana's cup rattled in its saucer and she cleared her throat. "Not usually. So this woman introduced herself as being with the CIA?" "Yes. I told her I didn't understand why the FBI would be asking question about Fox after all this time. I was worried he might be in some sort of - trouble." The woman looked disturbed for a moment. "But then she explained that the CIA had some special assignments they were considering using Fox for and so they had to run their own investigation." A very smooth lie, Scully thought, if lie it was. "Can you remember any of her specific questions?" "Oh," Helen Mulder replied, "many of the same sort we answered years ago. I told her all that would be in his files at the Bureau, but then she began asking a lot of questions about Samantha." At this, the older woman's face clouded and she hesitated. Dana put down her cup and moved from her chair to sit beside her on the couch. "I'm sorry, you had to go through that," Dana assured her. "I'm even more sorry that I have to ask you again. Mulder - Fox - has told me what he remembers." The older woman took a deep breath. "Even Fox admits that his memories of *that* night are unclear. Even after his - therapy." Dana cocked her head, trying to interpret that last comment. Was this woman embarrassed that her son had sought professional help in learning to remember and cope with that terrible experience? True, members of her generation seldom appreciated the good that could come from psychiatry. What was surprising was that the young boy, whose sister had disappeared before his eyes while in his care and whose kidnapping he had been unable to prevent, had not suffered more permanent damage. As if his recurring nightmares and difficulties maintaining relationships were not damaging enough. "Specifically, what questions did she ask about Samantha?" Dana inquired. The woman seemed to come back to herself and looked intently at the pretty young woman next to her. Her son could do worse, she thought, wondering if this would be the one. The one to give him some stability, some peace. Heaven knew his parents never had. "That was what was odd, very intimate details, everyday things. What games they played, what books he liked to read to her, what pet names they had for each other. I told her these were strange questions, but she insisted that they were relevant. She said the CIA was most concerned about his mental state. That understanding his relationship with his sister before the -" she hesitated. Dana noticed her hand tightened on her china cup. "Before the - disappearance - was important for understanding the depth of its effect on him. I tried to be thorough, but I don't like to think about that time." Dana gave the woman a sympathetic smile. "Mrs. Mulder, I have to leave soon. I just have one more favor to ask." She opened her brief case and brought out a set of twenty photographs. These were a classic set used at the academy to help trainees learn to classify standard body types. They were also useful in working with witnesses to help develop composites. "Could you pick out the photograph that most resembles the woman who visited you?" Dana had seen the woman tense as she handed her the pictures. Despite Dana's assurances, Helen Mulder suspected. As she began sorting through the cards, her pale hands began to shake. Dana told herself to try to think of something calming and pleasant to say. "I think that Mulder - " she began, then started again. "I think that Fox... may get a little homesick sometimes. If you came for a visit, I think he would like that." Helen Mulder's clear blue eyes leaped to Dana's grey-blue ones. There was much unrest there. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed almost fearfully. Then she took a moment to compose herself. "No, you see, I don't travel." Dana had felt the blow from those emotions and sensed the woman physically leaning away form her. It was obvious what she meant. "I mean," the older woman began again, suddenly twisting her hands so that some of Dana's pictures slipped to the floor. "I mean, she might come back. Samantha, that is. After they helped him remember, that's one thing Fox said they told him. They said she would come back." Slowly, almost as if in a daze, she leaned down and retrieved the fallen photographs. "The doctors wouldn't let me stay in the house. But I'm not too far. If she comes, Bill will call me." Dana knew Bill was Mulder's father's name and that he lived not very far away, but not in the house from where Samantha had been taken. No one lived there any more. After the divorce, Helen Mulder and Fox had moved out, but they had not moved far and now Dana knew why. Because Helen Mulder was clinically, chronically depressed, probably had been since that night, and could not bear to be far away - just in case. Dana shivered thinking of Mulder growing up in this atmosphere. His father a cold, angry, and, Scully suspected, violent man and probably an alcoholic, as well. And his mother - like this. "I'm so very sorry," Dana told the woman, honestly. "I didn't mean to upset you." But Helen Mulder was somewhere else, not in this room, not in this time, and her voice went on without inflection. "Anyway, Fox, he's a grown man now. He doesn't need his mother. Never did." She seemed to shrug. "Not that I was much of a mother to him anyway." For what felt like two very long minutes, neither woman spoke. The older woman sifted through the pictures, very, very slowly. Went through them without order or pattern. Dana doubted she even saw them. Finally, she began to sort them and her posture recovered until she was more like the woman who had met Dana at the door and served tea. Finally, she picked two and handed them to Dana. "I am sorry. One of these. Neither is a very good match. To tell you the truth, the woman resembled you more than any of these." Dana took the pictures gingerly, as if afraid to break the mood, as if afraid that something she might do would bring back the woman who was so full of uncertainty. "Like me? Physically? In what way?" Helen Mulder consulted her memory file again. "For one, she was very small. Even smaller than you. Her hair was light, but more blond than red. And she was dressed very professionally, as you are. A very polite, but shy, young woman." *** Dana let the droning of the jet's engine lull her into dullness. She wished she was already back in Washington. She wanted to check her answering machine to see if Mulder had called, but she could not worry about that now. The visit to Helen Mulder bothered her on many levels and she was so tired... As she slept she had a dream. She was happy... smiling... laughing with a man. A man who made her smile. But the man was Evan... not Mulder, but still handsome... caring... loving her with his eyes, so fervently, she felt warm all over. He helped her into a surgical gown, gloves and mask and led her into the autopsy bay. Evan began to lift back the sheet on the next case. "Poor guy," Evan said, "he was poisoned and no one suspected." Dana stared at the corpse's long, slender hands, hands she knew so well. The cabin seat belt signal chimed. Dana woke with a start and a little cry, instantly aware that her seat partner, a woman of about her mother's age, was looking at her with concern. If she had been alone, she would have jumped up, would have cried out, just to relieve the tension. As it was, she had to sit silently and try not to allow the adrenaline shakes to become too noticeable. She realized, too late, that she had lost the thread of the dream in the waking and remembered only the lingering fear and nothing more. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 7/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 21:41:40 -0400 Oh, my, this is the good one.... (mature 13 year olds only) THE ABDUCTEE (7/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 HOT PG-13 WARNING on this chapter! This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 7 Sunday 8pm WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox leaned back in his chair, an unusual feeling of contentment warming him. Angela's dinner had not been fancy, but the pot roast, potatoes, and applesauce had gone down easily. His belly was pleasantly too full, even though he had really not eaten that much. The days of the flu had taken their toll and shrunk his stomach, but he had made a respectable showing and there would be leftovers for the next day. He reasoned that he had at least three pounds to replace after his days of fast. For the evening Angela had changed to a soft, blue wrap dress that hugged her small body. Her attire initially disturbed him, but, detecting no other obvious signs of flirtation, he relaxed. Either she had gotten the message or had never intended to send one to begin with. Considering how she had lived these last eight years, she was probably a little naive and he dismissed the entire incident from the afternoon. He told her stories of England and she had listened with rapt attention, laughing at all the right places. Coming to end of a story, the silence settled in, waiting for one or the other to pick up the thread. She moved first, rising and beckoning to him. "Leave the dishes," she said with a small smile. "I have something to tell you." He followed her to the living room, not completely surprised. She had said the night before that she had something which she wanted to talk to him about, but she had not been ready then. Now she sat on the couch, moving slightly with some excitement and he wondered at the change in her. After he had taken the chair beside her, she sat for a long moment not saying a word. "Well, I'm ready," he said with a slight smile in the way of encouragement. She was looking down at her hands, which were not clenched, but were trembling, yet she did not seem afraid. "Do you remember when we first met?" she asked tentatively. She smiled, shaking her head, "I was such a mess." He did. As impossible as it seemed, she had been even more withdrawn than she had been earlier in the week. And he remembered being so very young and very eager to solve her case. This was, however, a topic he had hoped to avoid. He thought that the sparring, during their mock courtroom desensitization session, had covered all that they needed to be said on the subject. She had not seemed overly distressed then about her years in treatment. He calmed, noting that she did not look distressed now either. Expectant, yes. "You felt you were losing time, whole days when you couldn't remember anything clearly. And you thought you were being watched, that you saw faces in the dark." She smiled a little, obviously pleased. "You do remember. We talked a lot back then. You told me about yourself. I told you what there was to tell about me. In the end you asked if I thought a person, or people, not quite ... human ... may have taken me ... to some other place." Mulder felt a stab of the old guilt. "That was a mistake," he apologized. "*I* made a mistake. I had no evidence to back up that sort of theory. The confusion I caused you was unnecessary -" "No!" she disagreed. "Over the years, I thought about what you said. It made sense when nothing else did. The people at the hospital didn't think so, though." Now she was upset, he could tell, but there was a strength there, as if she had a secret these others did not share. "They said it wasn't true. They tried to make me believe that I had just been out wandering someplace. Not thinking, just walking. And they said there were no figures in the shadows." Her eyes lit, as if the whole idea was humorous. "They tried to make me remember, but they tried to make me remember it *their* way. Not the way it really happened! But I fooled them." Fox looked a little confused. "Your records say that part of your treatment involved regression analysis," he explained. "Hypnosis. What you are describing does not agree with that." "Yes, I know you've read the doctor's reports from Longmead, but they don't tell the truth." She shook her head a little angry, though not at him. "Those men... they wouldn't listen! When I tried to tell them what I remembered, about the 'people', about the place, about the lights, they refused to believe me! They said it was only in my mind. They said that they would *help* me to remember it all correctly." She said the last part disdainfully. Mulder's eyes grew round. He had never thought. But therapists could do that. If they thought an explanation implausible, they might make assumptions about what was truth and what was not, what was real and what was symbolic. Angela looked up at him, intently scanning his face. "I wanted to talk with you because I felt you would understand. That in you, there was finally someone who would believe the truth." She stood up, as if now that she had come to this she was too anxious to sit still. "At Longmead I had to pretend all the time," she said in a small voice, almost as though she were planning some conspiracy; the two of them against the rest of the world. "The hypnosis sessions *did* help me to remember, bit by bit. It was very hard, but the worst part was that I had to pretend I *didn't* remember it the way it really happened. At the beginning, when I tried to tell them the truth, they wouldn't believe me, so I started telling them what they wanted to hear." Her face tightened. "It was either that or they just kept at me, they wouldn't let me alone." Fox flinched at the anger he felt in her. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But in the end, I kept hold of the truth. I didn't let them take that from me." "I was young then, Angela," he said, almost like a confession. "I've spent the years from then until now seeking the truth, and what I've found is that the truth is not always what it appears to be at first. What's your truth?" Angela sat down again on the couch, sat very still. "That I was abducted, just like you said. That it happened several times. I would go walking in the woods when I was really asleep, and grey people with huge eyes would come to me and take me to a place filled with light and greyness...and time there seemed to go on forever." There were no tears in the eyes she raised to his. Fox sat forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. She had just told him that she really had been abducted. Then he had been right all along. Yes, he knew that eight years of psychoanalysis disagreed. Nevertheless, he felt the old exhilaration start in the muscles of his shoulders. This was like wine to him. It made his blood hum like a fine, tight wire, attuned to those extreme possibilities. "You say time seemed to stand still?" he asked, standing up and beginning to pace. "Each time you were missing, you were gone just a few days. How long did it seem to you?" She swayed, remembering. "Months ... years. But no aging." Her brow furrowed. "The tests hurt, but most of the time we just existed." "We?" he asked suddenly, whirling to face her. "Then there were others? Other abductees?" He fought the urge to shout. His mind leaped in an impossible direction. He sat down quickly, next to her, searching her eyes for falsehood. As eager as he was, he had not lost all caution. He had been lied to before. She put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes directed outward towards him. "Yes! That's what I've wanted to tell you for years, what I've tried to get up the courage to tell you all week." She looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry but I was afraid of you. Afraid you would not believe me. Afraid you would be angry that I had not told you sooner." "I'm not angry, and I'm sorry if I frighten you." He suddenly was aware of her body close to him on the couch. She seemed warm; so did he. A stray throught flickered in this mind that maybe she was catching his flu and maybe he was not over it as completely as he thought. Maybe it was the thought that she remembered interacting with other abductees that was causing this fever of excitement in him. Of all the cases he had studied, only the very rare abductee described being held other than alone or with those of their own party. "What do you remember?" he asked, anxiously. She bit her lip and leaned close to him. "That we talked a lot. All of us in that place. There was nothing else to do. I got to know them all - the farmers and housewives, the pilots, the young lovers, the old couples, the children - but one little girl I remember better than the others. And, during all these years, I wasn't sure why she looked familiar. I guessed, but I didn't know for certain until I saw your face again." Fox felt all the blood squeeze out of his heart. He was so stunned that he did not even notice Angela taking his hand in hers. "Who?" he asked with dry lips, almost afraid to know. "A girl with your eyes, a young girl in her early teens who remembered an older brother, years and years before, who had loved her." His held breath came out is a gush. "No!" he protested, getting to his feet a little unsteadily. "The others called her Sam," the woman continued, speaking rapidly, her eyes large and round on him. "I remember that clearly, but the last name I didn't remember until they reminded me of your name. But that sounds right. Sam Mulder. Agent Mulder," she said clearly. "I *did* meet your sister." Mulder stood in the middle of the room and felt the walls far too confining. A warm slight body came and leaned against his chest, put her arms around his waist. He closed his eyes. *She* would do that now, if she were here. Sam... "Forgive me," he whispered and continued with some bitterness, "but I've been looking for so long and I've found only lies and deceit. It's hard for me to believe..." Why were their positions reversed? Her comforting him; he the doubter. "She loved Dr. Seuss," Angela told him. A smile came into her voice as she remembered. "She could recite *Fox in Socks* by heart..." Eyes closed, he gave a curt shake of his head, feeling like Scully, dismissing it. "That would not be too hard to guess." He started to pull away. She laughed brightly which startled him and kept him by her. She had not laughed at him, but found pleasure like a child to find her own thoughts mirrored in his. "I thought you would say that. Then I remembered a story she told of how she loved vanilla ice cream and you chocolate. How you always fought when your mother asked what kind she should bring home from the store. Finally, Sam bought you a can of Hershey's syrup with her own allowance, so you wouldn't have to fight anymore. And then there was the story about the night light. The little ones always asked her to tell that story. How she was never afraid of the dark, but her big brother was ..." He put a finger on her lips. "Stop." His breath was coming now only in short pants. He could feel Angela with her arms around him, like Sam would do, comforting him. Had he finally, after all these years, found some trace of her? He felt a sweetness in that, and, yes, loss, and it was as if, for a moment, he touched her. His voice shook when he spoke again. In the end there was only one thing he wanted to know. "Did she hurt? Was she ever - happy? Even a little?" He felt Angela's head on his chest again and her voice, full of sympathy, came from below his chin. "Everyone hurt a little. But she was 'special'. They treated her special. We didn't know why. Perhaps because she had been there so long. And I guess you could say she was happy. She knew how things worked there." Angela tilted back her head and looked into his open, gentle face, so beautiful, so wanting to believe. Beginning to glow now with a shining contentment. "She was kind. She helped all the new ones adjust. She comforted them when they hurt." Fox swallowed. He felt so warm, felt so much longing for her. From the tightness in his chest, he knew the tears wanted to come, not only tears of loss but tears of finding... but all of these he held back with a fierceness, all except for one. Angela had stepped away from him, feeling the awakening emotion in him and wanting to give him space. She came to stand below him and traced the track of the single tear with her little finger. But he did not flinch away, for this was what *she* had done for him so many time before, when they were young and living in that house, which was not always such a happy place for him. Suddenly, Angela put her hands on his shoulders, rapidly rubbing the muscles with surprisingly strong hands. "Hey," she said, continuing to massage his shoulders. "You're all tight. I'm sorry I upset you. But I thought you would want to know." He took a shuddering breath. She had broken the mood, as she intended. But that was good. It was time, for it had been growing very tense. He realized that for some minutes his mind had been wandering, as in a dream. "Here," she said, in a matter-of-fact, clinical voice. "Lay down on your stomach on the floor and I'll give you a real massage." Her voice was light, untroubled. He recognized the sound - she had unburdened herself and was on a natural high. He smiled. How like Sam she was. "I'll get my, lotion," she told him, trotting off into her bedroom, calling out as she went. "Don't worry, I won't walk on your back or anything. They trained me at Longmead. Occupational therapy. I might even get my license." As she tripped backed in, a bottle in her hand, he was still standing, unsure. "Hey, it's alright," she told him. "It's very therapeutic. Leave your t-shirt on, if you're so afraid of me, though I promise I won't bite. And afterwards, we'll have dessert and I'll let you cheat at cards this time." He found himself smiling, responding to her, feeling, yes, relaxed... companionable... even happy. In the afterglow of emotion following her news, he knew only that he did not want to be alone, that he wanted to be touched, even just for a back rub. To feel human and wanted. He found himself sitting down on the floor. He took off his shoes and pulled off the sweat shirt, leaving the white cotton t-shirt. As he lay, stomach down on the floor, he heard her turn on the portable cassette player she had brought, and a sweet, mad choral music came forth, which he found he knew very well but had not listened to for a very long time. He rose onto his elbows, but she came up behind him and playfully pushed him back down. The air rushed out of his stomach with a whoosh. "What...?" "'Carmina Burana'. Can you think of anything that sounds more like alien music." He chuckled. He really did not mind. In fact he liked it. It felt just right for tonight. He had listened to it a lot during college, almost incessantly. Angela had settled herself astride his legs. He heard her open the bottle of lotion and pour it into her hands. The scent flowed over him, causing his stomach to constrict pleasantly. It smelled so - *good* - so familiar. She put her hands under his shirt. Rubbed the oil over his skin, beginning down at his waist, gradually working the muscles in his mid back and then the muscles of his shoulders. As she leaned into the joints, probing deeply to ease the tension, he groaned at the sweet release of it. She had to stretch out along him, being almost too short to reach the high muscles. He could feel the heat of her body, touching all along the length of his back. "Why don't you use your first name?" she asked in a silky voice. "Huh?" he muttered dreamily. "Your first name. Why don't you use it?" "Would *you* like it?" he muttered mildly, in his automatic response to that incessant question. "I *love* it," she cooed. "It's so sexy." And then he groaned contentedly as she pressed into the joint under his right shoulder blade. As she worked, the heat of his skin and hers was enhancing the scent of the lotion, subtly changing it. He was trying to think where he had smelled its like before, but thinking seemed too much trouble. He just enjoyed the feel of this. With eager strong hands she had begun to work her way down around his ribs. Instinctively, he raised himself slightly on his elbows so she could get under him to work around the whole of his rib cage. His body was awash in the most perfect pleasure and then, as she lay along him, as her arms wrapped around him, her mouth closed in on the soft skin at the back of his neck just as her hands brushed his nipples. He gasped as a shudder of delight ran through him, the deep breath bringing the heightened scent deep into his lungs where the shivers ran like quicksilver into his head, a perfume that started a cascade of warmth and desire throughout his whole body. Where had that come from? Suddenly, he felt awash in a sea of sensation and could not think. Did not want to. The scent seemed to come from her clothes, her skin, her hair, his skin. She fastened herself along his back, embracing with legs and pelvis, arms and soft body, sighing so against his ear that the wave of arousal repeated itself, stronger, uncontrollably washing over him so suddenly, so ... perfect. His body surged, the blood pounded in his groin, in his head, his body remembering patterns in the scent and the feel of her that completely overwhelmed the one still small voice in his mind which protested weakly in the maelstrom . He suddenly rolled over and found that she had as quickly changed position, so that she was now sitting on his muscular stomach with her knees on either side of him. Her eyes were deep pools, welcoming, wanting. Her smile... he could lose himself in that smile. The little blue wrap dress she wore could be pulled off so easily. Just a tug on the tie at her waist. She followed his wide, dilated eyes and saw where he looked. She took his hand and guided it to the tie and helped him pull it. The dress fell away. The slip she wore was mostly lace on top, and very sheer. She did not wear a bra and he could see the red roses of her nipples, straining forward through the lace. He reached for her with eager arms, but, amazingly, she eluded him. She had scampered to her feet, playfully holding her dress in front of her. "What do you want, Fox?" she asked seductively, daring him with her eyes. Not remembering how he got to his feet, he followed her as swiftly as a hind follows a doe. As he reached her bedroom door, the most dramatic movement of the music began. The part he had heard so often. The part he had edited so that the tape played, over and over... lasting long... long enough for anything *that* one had wanted and she wanted much.... God, but his blood sang! He shivered gloriously all over as he looked at her, as she waited for him on the bed, her slip half- raised. Every muscle, every joint strained happily in the magnificence of being alive... He reached for her as she knelt before him on the bed. He took the slip and pulled it off with barely restrained excitement. She pulled the white t-shirt over his head, her lips ready to catch his as it fell away. Playfully, she reached around him and down under the waist of his sweats, and cupped the soft skin of his buttocks with both hands. He moaned as her chest moved seductively against the center of his desire, every touch like the sweetest flame, but, suggestively, not lingering there. Teasing. The bed, the room, the world revolved in the brightest colors. His body, so long denied, was now like an uncontrollable fire as he enjoyed her. Every touch from her echoed through him in a stunning chorus of sensation. Now she pulled down the sweats, cooing at the long curving muscles of his thighs. He fell onto the bed beside her, almost in a swoon of pleasure, and let her touch him as she would. The ocean of his blood sang in his ears. He closed his eyes and saw, felt, tasted another woman, dark haired and long legged, who played this music and smelled like this, touched his chest and nibbled his throat like this and made his blood hum like this. A mouth was on his, not tender but desirous, possessive, which tasted so sweet. "Having a pleasant dream," she breathed, as she nipped the soft skin of his throat. "Yes," he sighed, but not knowing, or caring, if he had actually formed the words, for he was touching the sky. Certainly he was high enough. There was no pain anywhere, no thoughts beyond now. Skin on skin was so blissful, they gloried in the texture and taste of each other for a minute, two, an hour, but finally he came to that point where he did not want to wait any longer, not today. She fought him a little, not wanting the foreplay to end, but he was insistent and she had no strength to resist him. Only then, with their bodies sweaty and demanding did a single sorrowful thought bid him hesitate. Watching a good friend die had bred it into his bones. Just that briefest of thoughts, however, that there might be need for caution, the need to pause, was agony. She felt his hesitation and without taking her mouth from his, her groin from his, she fumbled in the drawer of the night stand and thrust a small packet into his palm. *** Monday 1 am WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox woke in the dark with a half strangled cry to find himself sitting upright in a strange bed, clutching unfamiliar blankets and feeling the shudders flickering up and down his body. He could make his breath come only in sharp, infrequent gasps which were almost sobs. Oh, damn... Oh, God... Hell had to be better than that nightmare, only it was all jumbled now. A fever dream, but not of Samantha's abduction, not this time, but of Phoebe mostly. Phoebe lying with other men and his standing there watching with tears running down his face, unable to move. Phoebe with a knife, laughing, and ready to cut out his heart. Samantha crying all alone in an alien ship, surrounded by grey forms and frightened mothers and fathers and little children, as thin as skeletons. Angela with her hands on him where she should not be touching him. But most vividly he saw Scully ... Scully with her red hair whipping about her face, running - running away from him as he held out his arms for her. - Scully, please stop! I'm .... s-sorry! - But the sound of his voice was whipped away by the wind and still she ran, crying, as if he had broken her heart... Mulder huddled over his knees, praying for the memory to dim. In the blackness of that room at night, not thinking anyone was there to see, he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand like a child. That was when he felt a movement near him and a small, soft hand begin rubbing his back. It was so comforting. He leaned into it. She had heard him from her room and come to him. But, no. No... There was something very wrong. The hand was touching his naked back and he ever slept even half naked when he traveled, when Scully was in the next room, when one of them might need the other in the night. came the dark dawning. A furtive glance down at his side and he saw slim bare thighs and the dark recesses between, naked to the night and the cool air of the room. He sat for an eternity as still as a stone except that stones do not boil inside with fear and humiliation as he did. He dared not move and risk waking her further. Finally, sensing she had settled, he smoothly, but in haste as if her touch burned him, escaped from under that hand. He slipped so quickly from her bed that he caught his foot in the turn of the sheet and slid to the floor on one bare hip. Fearfully, he stole a wide-eyed look, not able to believe, but finding to his dismay that the woman laying in that bed, the woman with the mockingly peaceful smile on her lips and the dark shadows emphasizing the curves of her body, was Angela. Stumbling, he gathered his discarded clothes in his trembling arms and fled to his own room. As he shut the door, his aching chest let escape a single stiffled moan. *** Monday 1 am Washington DC Dana came awake with a start. She whipped off the sweaty sheets and blankets and sat up, instantly alert, and already shaking in the adrenaline rush. She could have sworn that someone had touched her. Odd, it was 1 am. Mulder's nightmare time. The time the nightmares came for him. But Dana had been asleep less than forty- five minutes, too early for her first REM cycle and, so, too early for nightmares. Exhausted, she had staggered in from the airport, crawled into bed and fallen asleep instantly. She reached for her gun on the nightstand and stalked the rooms of her apartment, flicking on the lights, but she found nothing suspicious and no evidence of forced entry. Sitting back on her bed, Dana replaced the gun and lay back to analyze again what she had felt. Her heart was still pounding. She could still not shake the feeling that she had been touched, seductively, longingly. But she had remembered pain, too, and a horrible loneliness. The memory was like the too infrequent times Mulder had touched her other than casually. Maybe she was overreacting, missing him. How many times had she awakened and within a minute, more often than not, the phone would ring. Mulder had had a nightmare and wanted to talk. Would she mind. Could it be that now? Dana lay awake for five minutes, ten, thirty, and the phone did not ring. She took a second pillow from her bed and curled around it protectively. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 8/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 21:41:41 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (8/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 8 Monday 1:15 am WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox let his head fall back against the door that was still shut between their two rooms... listening... listening to his shallow, fast breathing and beyond that for any sound from her. Nothing. The cold draft of the room played on the nightmare sweat on his skin. Unsteadily, he shook out his gathered clothes. He was shaking so badly it was hard to think. One step at a time. He needed to dress, but his trembling hands found some spots on his sweats, some which were stiff and dry, others which were still slightly damp which he hesitantly sniffed. They smelled of her, the musky scent of woman. Swearing a rude oath, he crumpled the pants into a ball and threw them into the darkest corner of the moonlit bedroom. The shirt soon followed, the shirt that reeked of the scented lotion she had used. His training tried to urge caution, that the clothes were evidence and could prove that she had not been unwilling. His dark, fogged mind chose not to listen. He threw open the drawer of the room's tiny bureau, finding little that was clean. Of course not, he had planned to go home in the morning, had looked forward to it. Thinking about what lay ahead now, telling Scully, Skinner, he almost lost control, almost succumbed to the panic that was stalking him, making his breath come too fast. Instead, he reached for the sweats he had worn running two days before. They smelled of sweat, but at least it was his own honest sweat. He wished he could run now, run until his muscles and his lungs screamed, until he could no longer remember. But he could not go, certainly could not abandon his post during the night. As his client, she still deserved his protection, as ironic as that sounded. He sat down on his bed, ran a hand over the cold sweat of his brow, recoiled as he smelled her and that scent again on his hands. His whole body smelled of her... which brought back the nightmare... which made the images start flashing in his mind... memories he had been striving not to acknowledge were true. he thought, grimly. They would replay endlessly in his mind, like the worst of those those horrible, inhuman scenes he had forced himself to study in analyze in meticulous detail when he worked for Violent Crimes... the ones that plagued him still in his dreams. They said he was blessed to have a mind like his. They were wrong... he was cursed. In the tiny bathroom off the kitchen, the one which was furthest from her room, he brushed his teeth so roughly that the gums bled. He scoured the skin of his back she had so skillfully anointed with a bottle brush from the kitchen. He scrubbed until the skin burned when he rubbed in more soap. He washed his hair with bar soap having nothing else. Too bad consciences could not be cleaned as easily. Finally, he tilted back his head and let the water of the shower fill and overflow his mouth, wondering darkly if one could drown themself that way. In time his chin dropped onto his chest. he moaned, softly, He thought he was too numb to cry, but the tears came and the freezing water washed them away. *** Monday 4 am Washington DC The phone was ringing. Unhurriedly, Dana Scully fumbled for it. Mulder would wait. He always did. He knew she was difficult to wake in the middle of the night, but, as soon as the thought materialized, she realized, that much as she might wish it, long for it, desire to hear even his insomniatic voice, it would not be him. He would not call, for she had made him promise. Anyone else who dared call her at this hour, then, better have a good reason. Finally bringing the receiver up to her ear, she heard a deep, slightly accented voice. "Agent Scully? This is Skinner. I'm sorry to wake you." Her eyes flicked open. She was not instantly awake, but definitely more so. "Sir, is there a problem?" "That's an understatement. Ian McDowell, Angela Larson's WPP coordinator, was found murdered about two hours ago in the woods behind his apartment house." Dana felt her head buzz and tried to make sense of the ramifications through the sleepy cotton in her brain. "Are you there?" the voice asked. "Yes, sir." Dana was searching for what was customary to say here. She had not known Ian McDowell. "Sir, I'm sorry. His family must be devastated." Pause. "Do they believe this is related to some case in the program?" This was the question she asked, but what Dana thought was "As yet there are no suspects. McDowell worked undercover on several other projects and may very well have enemies of whom we are totally unaware. There is also the possibility that this was simply an act of random violence, for if this wasn't a robbery, it was certainly set up to look like one." He sounds tired, Dana thought. His voice was less clipped and authoritarian than usual. "Sir, I appreciate your calling. Is there anything specific I can do? I would be willing to help in any capacity, you know that." "Not immediately, Agent Scully. I will be working with the District police on this. Why I called is that I need to know from you why you tried to contact Agent Mulder yesterday, and if this might have any bearing upon McDowell's death. What you told me was that you wanted to get Agent Mulder's opinion on a case." Dana's sleepy mind went a little blank. Was that what she had said? "Ah, sir, that was not it - precisely." What could she say? She still felt she did not have enough information. A woman of no known description had hunted down Phoebe to extract some very personal information about Mulder. Another woman, possibly the same one, had gone all the way to Massachusetts to ask certain questions. It was not impossible that the second woman did genuinely work for the CIA. But, murder? That was too far afield. "Sir, I would prefer to keep this information to myself for the moment. It's - personal. If I felt it was pertinent to your investigation, I would not hesitate to reveal it." "Agent Scully, under normal circumstances I would leave this up to your discretion, but the D.A. needs something to work with. Due to the nature of the WPP, McDowell was the only staff member who had direct knowledge of the whereabouts of the clients under his protection. A process has been initiated to open those closed records, but these are highly confidential. Very specific legal procedures must be followed." He sounded irritated. Obviously, the constraints of protocol had finally come home to some of the high and mighty. Considering how often she and Mulder had been chastised for ignoring procedure, Dana felt somehow vindicated. At the same time, she was alarmed. "Which means, at this moment, no one knows where any of the safe houses are? Which means that even if there was a need, they could not be contacted?" "Obviously, in a dire emergency, something could be done, but we have no reason to suspect that any of Detective McDowell's clients are in any immediate danger. The system was set up for a purpose. Risks would be greater if their whereabouts became common knowledge." His voice changed a little, beginning to sound more like the man who had come down to the basement office to ask to date her mother. "Agent Scully, I'm sorry about this, but I need to know what you know, no matter how insignificant." She pursed her lips. Sighed. "Sir, I received some information. A woman has been asking questions about Samantha, Mulder's sister. She also asked *other* questions... questions of a more personal nature." The pause at the end of the line was significant. "You think someone is trying to manipulate Agent Mulder?" "They've gotten to him before," Dana reminded him, knowing that Skinner would remember that he had been known to push a few of Mulder's buttons himself to get the unpredictable agent to move in a direction he would normally be unwilling to go. If he remembered, Skinner did not let his voice give him away. "We make enemies in this business, Agent Scully. That's a danger we all share." With this Dana felt she could breath again. At least he was not going to dismiss this altogether. "Do you have anything specific to go on?" he asked. Dana proceeded to tell him about the woman who had visited Helen Mulder. "I have placed a call to the CIA to find out if they sent anyone. Could be a coincidence." "But you don't think so." Her heart cried but she replied soberly, "I can't say, sir." No sound came from the receiver in her hand for a long moment. "Though suspicious, you realize this is not sufficient to warrant accelerating the opening of the WPP records." "I realize that," Dana told him in a voice gone suddenly soft. Skinner must have heard the change in her tone. "Agent Scully, there is something you *can* do for me. Attend Reti Frantilli's hearing at nine-thirty tomorrow at the District Courthouse. He's the young man Angela Larson has implicated in the murder of Mitch Legget. Ms. Larson and Agent Mulder should be there. If I were you, I'd deliver your warning." Dana could not contain her relief. She had planned to go anyway and had wondered how she was going to explain her absense from the Bureau if anyone asked. "I understood, sir. I'll be there." "And Agent Scully," Skinner added, "when you see Agent Mulder, please ask him to contact me. About those daily reports he's missed.... the WPP office is having a fit, and I've had to assure them that in the light of Agent Mulder's past - let us say - casual attitude towards procedure, that they shouldn't assume that a lack of a check in, necessarily, means there is trouble. I don't want to be proved wrong on this." "I'll see that he calls," Scully assured him. Putting down the receiver very slowly, she curled again among her blankets. She very much doubted that Skinner was only interested in giving Mulder a lecture on proper procedure for a few missed phone calls. He, at least, was concerned, but his hands were as tied as hers. *** Monday 7 am WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox did not know that he looked as badly as he felt until, staggering into the dining room seeking coffee, he saw Angela's startled expression from where she was sitting reading the newspaper. Sometime in the first grey light of early morning, he had fallen into exhausted sleep, only to be jarred painfully awake all too soon by the alarm to find that the nightmare of the evening and night before had been no dream. Feeling hung over, even though he was positive that he had had nothing to drink, he had dressed in suit pants and his last clean dress shirt. He had even shaved, though he wondered how he had managed to complete the job without cutting his throat. He had toyed grimly with the idea. Would save Skinner a lot of trouble. His blood-shot eyes, the lines in his forehead from what he recognized was a stress headache, and his haggard appearance had shocked Angela. "You don't look very well, Agent Mulder," she said sympathetically. Then her eyes began to shine as she reached for her purse. "I can give you something to help you feel better -" "I don't want to feel better..." he grumbled, wandering into the kitchen and pulling open the cupboards angrily as he hunted for a coffee cup. "I don't deserve to feel better and a couple of extra-strength Tylenol will not cure what I'm feeling right now." He stopped searching, unable to remember what he had been looking for anyway. "The hearing's today," he said curtly, returning to the dining room and forcing himself to look at her. " We have to leave no later than eight and you should know... I won't be coming back. McDowell will just have to find you someone else." His tone had not been kind. The message had not been sensitively delivered. Fox did not care. He stared out the window, but refused to focus on the bright Indian summer day. Having to work with Angela today was going to be impossible. If he could not bear to look at her, how could he sit in the car next to her for more than an hour, escort her through at least the first part of the day? A shadow passed over his eyes. The memories that had flashed in his mind the night before were back like a dark fog. His hands clutched into tight, balled fists. He felt the fury struggling within him. He wanted to lash out at her, "You've ruined my life! You've taken everything!" But he could not. Because if he angered her, she could cry rape and that would be worse... far, far worse, evidence or no. As if anyone would listen to *him*... "Fox - " she began tentatively, but the look of reproach he shot her was so livid that she knew better then to try that again. "This is not how it is suppose to happen," she said in a small voice, sounding genuinely confused, like a little child. "Don't you want to stay with me?" He looked at her, as if she truly were insane. "I can't stay with you - certainly not now. Don't you understand... I'm going to lose my job over this!" "Then we won't go back," she suggested with a little hope in her eyes. "Neither of us. We won't let them find us-" That stabbed too cruelly at his over wrought nerves. Some control snapped. Without any conscious thought, he sharply raised his arm and almost struck her. For a moment, what he wanted more in all the world was to hurt her. With a physical wrenching, that stopped the very breath in his lungs, he forced his furious anger to cool.. Wearily, he dropped into a chair at the table, the heels of his hands pressing against his temples, wishing the pressure in his head would cease. "Angela, I'm sorry. Forgive me," he whispered. "I'm not myself this morning." He tried but found it difficult to look her in the face. When he had stood over her, his anger flaring, she had leapt from her chair ready to escape. Now she was standing with her back against the wall, her skin the color of paste. "If you don't mind," he asked in an unsteady voice, "maybe I will take those Tylenol." She began to back towards the kitchen. "No, it was my fault," she whimpered. "I'm sorry for what I said. It was stupid. Stay, I'll get you some coffee." Then she vanished and he could hear her making loud noises in the kitchen. He heard a sniffle and something like a sob but mostly just the sound of dishes and the fan from the microwave. When she was gone too long for coffee, he thought he should go in, if only to get his own, but that would mean getting close to her again, and he dare not appear too sympathetic. He had said it, he was leaving, now he dare not give her hope that he could be persuaded to change his mind. And so he waited. She finally returned, her eyes red, and she brought him a full cup, black, and a bowl of oatmeal covered in what looked like maple syrup. "Please don't just drink coffee," she said softly. "Your blood sugar's probably down. Eat. Maybe you'll feel a little better." He stared at the offering. He doubted it. She twisted her skirt in her hands. "Agent Mulder, I promise, I won't get in your way any more. I'll do whatever you say." She looked down at the floor. "And I will be ready by eight." After this, she fled. He stared after her, recognizing that her old fear was back. Doubled. He shut his burning, tired eyes, praised the gods for small favors. For the moment at least she was going to cooperate, though he felt awful about frightening her. Scared himself, too, was still scaring himself. He drank some of the coffee, finding it was instant and too strong, and stared again at the oatmeal. It looked vile. He never cared for oatmeal even on good days. And this was not a good day, looking only slightly better than the night before which had been hell, sheer hell. He couldn't remember when he had felt so low. The blow up at Angela, however, had helped to dissipate some of the anger and frustration he had been feeling, but as a psychologist he knew only too well that the method had not been very constructive. He closed his eyes, for his stomach was definitely balking at the sight and smell of the cereal, but he did realize that he should try to eat something. Scully always complained he was grumpy when he didn't eat. He doubted, though, that even this disgusting stuff would cure his grumpiness today. Lacking the energy to fix anything else, he resigned himself to it. Besides, Angela had made it for him and after exploding and frightening her, he should make some attempt to appease her. It was a small enough concession. He took a bite. Then another. It was as bad as he remembered. He was very close to dumping it all when Angela wandered in on some errand. She saw him eating and smiled a little, though her shoulders still had that defeated, mousey slump, as if he really had hit her. Stealing himself, he managed to choke down half the bowl and then threw the rest in the trash when she wasn't looking. After breakfast, while Angela was working her way through dishes, Fox placed a call to Ian McDowell. He only reached the detective's answering machine, however, because it was so early. He left a message, urgently asking to meet with him after the hearing. This was not a discussion to which he was looking forward, but it would be mild in comparison to what he could expect from Skinner. And Scully.... Fox returned to his room to finish dressing and pack. Unenthusiastically, he fetched his good tie. For a long moment he studied it as it lay limp in his hand. Scully had picked it out for him to wear the days he went to court. As he remembered her teasing smile, her complaints about his usual taste in neckwear, he felt his chest grown tight and the burning begin again in his eyes. He fumbled with the tie, taking three tries even to knot it poorly. What was wrong? He was never like this. In the light of morning, even after coffee, his behavior was no more comprehensible than it had been the night before. And he could not pretend that what had happened had been all Angela's doing. He remembered wanting her and, damn him, he had enjoyed it. But he did not even find her attractive now. He had had nothing to gain from a few minutes of sexual satisfaction and everything to lose. The only good thing to came out of this was that he did not need to worry any longer about how he was going to get off this assignment. He would be booted out so fast he would be lucky if he was not dismissed from the Bureau altogether. He had been allowed to take this assignment because he was considered 'safe' with women. In their rutting hearts, no male wanted to be considered 'safe'. Now he did not have to worry about *that* stigma any longer. Fifteen minutes later, Mudler sat slouched on the couch, his feet on the coffee table, trying to read from a small, red-bound book he had brought with him. William Blake. "Everything possible to be believed is an image of the truth," was written in Scully's elegant hand on the inside cover. If that were true and if he believed hard enough, could he make it so that last night had never happened? he thought wearily. Finding he could not concentrate any longer, Fox set the book down and stared at his watch. It was nearly eight. Impatient, he sprang up to glare at Angela who was still sitting in the kitchen and talking on the phone to her WPP-approved analyst. He pointed to his watch with a frown, but she ignored him. At least she was dressed. He spun on his heel, moving away from the kitchen and her. For some reason he felt suddenly anxious and sweaty. He tore off his suit coat, threw it on the couch and loosened the tie it had taken him so long to knot. "Angela, let's go and get this over with." No answer. He began to pace, up and down the room, from the door of the kitchen to the bedroom. At one point he passed his hand over his forehead. It came away wet. He was at the door to Angela's bedroom, at the far end of his pacing pattern, when the room suddenly tilted at a dangerous angle. He swayed and reached for the door frame he thought was beside him but could not find it. The vertigo was so intense that the room went out of focus, became formless, unnatural, flooded with confused colors. Completely disoriented, he stumbled and fell. He staggered two steps before his knees found the edge of a bed. Fox crumpled down onto it just as the hated nausea began to surge again from his guts. Hands clutched at the blankets when the pain and the chills started. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen as if he could hold in the agony. His stomach felt as if it were in his throat, choking him. He could hardly breathe. The attacks had never hit him with such speed before or such violence. He clenched his teeth to keep from moaning. He had been so close... so close to getting out of here... to going home... Against the shaking chills, he rolled in a blanket, then two, shut his eyes so tightly against the spinning room that he squeezed out two tears of pain. And still the world would not stay still. He had tensed himself to wait out the attack, but unlike the other times, it only got worse as the eternal minutes passed. Now he was going to be sick, he was certain of it. But he only succeeded in falling onto the floor, barely felt the pain in his elbow as he fell. Shaking uncontrollably and too dizzy to move, he knew he would never make it to the bathroom. Blindly, he groped for what he could find. His hands closed upon the waste basket which sat beside the bed. He grasped it and barely got his head over it in time. The wretching lasted so long and was so hard that he felt by the end that his insides must be torn to shreds. Breathing in deep, shakey gulps of air, Fox hung his head over the disgusting mess, barely able to support his weight on his quivering arms. The drops of sweat rolling down his face, tasted of the vileness in his mouth. From somewhere, a spark crept into his brain. Convenient... for Angela? And awfully stupid of him not to have suspected before that this illness was no accident. Fueled both by anger and fear, Fox Mulder awkwardly thrust the basket aside and lurched to his feet, tried to reach for his gun. But before he could close his hand around it, the room reeled madly before shrinking rapidly into darkness. *** Monday 9 am Washington DC Dana was seated in the courtroom at nine, even though the hearing was not scheduled until nine-thirty. "Deliver your warning," Director Skinner had said, "And when you see Agent Mulder, tell him to contact me." Sure, as simple as that, Dana thought. She hoped so, but did not believe it. The wall clock seemed to creep forward more and more slowly. She had brought a file to review, but did not read it. Could not. She could only sit and wait. "Come on, Mulder," she prayed. She stared at her clenched fists. Bid them to unclench. Maybe, Dana thought drearily, she was simply overreacting. Maybe this *was* jealousy speaking. So some woman wanted to give Mulder a good time and had gone the extra mile to contact one of his old girl friends in an attempt to do so. Dana should be happy for the guy. It had been a long, long time since any man had gone that far out of his way to please her - with the exception of the times Mulder had put his own life on the line for her, but somehow she could not place that in the same category. And she had not heard from the CIA yet. The woman doing the background check in Massachusetts could turn out to be legitimate. Then why did she shiver when she thought about how Angela had looked and acted on Saturday night? How had she managed that very convenient headache? Why did the dream of being touched the night before, still haunt her? At nine-fifteen, unable to remain seated any longer, Dana headed for the lobby, found a quiet corner where she could still see anyone entering the courtroom, and using her cellular phone, called the number Skinner had given her at the D.A.'s office. Skinner did not answer, but a woman's voice did. Assistant Director Skinner had gone home to get some sleep, but he had left word Agent Dana Scully might be calling. "Have there been any new developments on opening up the records on the safe houses?" Dana asked, trying to sound casual. "Not, yet," was the response, "but we expect the court order to be issued soon. The phone company did finally release the password on Detective McDowell's voice mail, however, and we've been able to access those messages." Dana's interest perked. "Any messages to Detective McDowell from an Agent Mulder?" "Mulder?" the woman repeated. "Ahh, just a minute." Dana tapped her foot as the woman went off to check something. Obviously, Mulder's name was familiar. The inflected 'Ahh' annoyed Dana. Sometimes there were advantages to working with a guy who was so unique and 'eccentric' everyone in their business knew him by his reputation. Sometimes, like now, when the woman's voice had gone up as if he were some kind of an amusing anecdote, it was just damned irritating. The woman returned. "He left a message at seven-thirty this morning for Detective McDowell. Said he wanted to meet with him right after the hearing this morning." Dana felt a great weight shift somewhere in the center of her being. She let out a long sigh. "Was that all? How did he sound?" "I can play it for you if you want, though the quality won't be very good. I listened to it myself. Like a guy." The woman had sounded disappointed. "Nothing special." Dana swallowed. She could hear his voice? She would like that. "If you could I'd appreciate it. It's important." "As you wish. Hold on then, please." Dana waited, trying to not breath too quickly. After thirty seconds she heard a beep and then his voice, distorted, but unmistakably his. "Detective McDowell, this is Agent Mulder. Monday, seven-thirty A.M. I need to speak with you today after the hearing. I'll call from the courthouse for your schedule." Dana returned to her seat, nearly floating. So what if it was only a sterile, business-like message; it was still his voice and good to hear. He had sounded tired, though, very tired, but also firm. He had meant to convey in as few words as possible that the conference he was requesting was important. Obviously, the purpose was either too important or too sensitive to be discussed over the phone and, certainly, not to be relayed by voice mail. She looked at her watch. He had called at seven-thirty, only a little less than two hours before. And he had been fine. Just fine. But why, then, could she not believe? =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 9/21 by Windsinger Date: 28 Jul 1995 01:08:48 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (9/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty The Abductee: Lighting and Enlightenment (chaps 9-11) Chapter 9 Monday 10 am Washington DC Nine-thirty arrived and passed, passed by a significant margin, and neither Mulder nor Angela appeared. Dana sat stiffly on the bench in the courtroom, as if she were in church waiting for something to happen. She wished her instincts would be wrong this time, longed to see him come in looking serious and handsome in his grey suit and going-to-court tie she had made him purchase. She would not have minded even to see him with Angela in tow. "Agent Scully?" Dana jumped. The prosecutor, a tall, middle- aged woman was at her elbow. "I'm told you are acquainted with the officer assigned to Ms. Larson. I'm sure you are aware she is our prize witness in this case. In fact, she's also our only witness." The woman was piqued. "Do you know where they are? Are they simply delayed?" The female attorney looked at the wall clock and then at the defendant sitting smugly in the front row. For the first time Dana actually looked at the young man who, according to Angela, had committed murder. She had nearly forgotten the reason for which everyone but her was gathered here. She had thought very little about the case that had brought Angela back into Mulder's life. What did Reti Frantilli know? He seemed so unconcerned. Not cocky, but unconcerned, or was this mere posturing? "Agent Mulder called into the WPP office this morning and left a message. At that time there seemed to be no problems." Dana found herself adding. "However, there have been some irregularities. I think at this point you could say we're concerned." As the young lawyer stiffly returned to her place, not liking at all the answer she had gotten from her question, Dana stood up to take her leave. There was really no point in waiting any longer. 'Concerned' did not begin to describe how she felt. There was a dead spot in the very center of her that was growing, that was trying to paralyze her. She must not let it do that, no matter how much it hurt. She knew, she *knew*, that he needed her to convince the others, to convince maybe even herself, that there was trouble, that he needed help, that this was not just her jealousy making her paranoid. At least she had this: by failing to attend the hearing, both Angela and Mulder were now officially missing. In hesitating, Dana was still present when a female officer abruptly entered the court room and smartly approached the bench where the judge had been idly attending to paperwork while he waited. Dana saw them speaking together and then the judge shrugged and picked up his gavel. "My apologies," the judge announced to all assembled in a bored tone, "but the prosecution's chief witness cannot attend due to illness. This hearing is therefore postponed until a week from Friday." He brought down the gavel with a solid thud that reverberated in the hollow places of Dana's heart. Dana gripped the back of the bench in front of her. she wanted to scream. A *missing* grand jury witness would get the D.A.'s attention, Skinner's attention. Someone would start asking serious questions. A sick one, like the postponement of the hearing, would mean only more delay. For the moment, nothing would be done. The officials would wait a reasonable length of time for Mulder to call in, a call which Dana was certain would never come. Only after that would the official machinery grind into action. But all this would take time, and time, Dana knew in her heart, was her enemy. Aware all too well that she had gone pale, Dana sat down again, knew she had to force herself to think clearly, to analyze the problem as she had been taught. Damn, but it was hard, though. Unconsciously, her eyes strayed to the cluster of people sitting behind the defendant. They had been quiet, respectful, just middle class people, but, since the judge's announcement, they had begun to whisper. Still they did not seem upset, surprised, concerned or even relieved, just thoughtful. Dana's eyes met those of the patriarch of the little group - a tall, mature, strongly built, black man with piercing, dark, confident eyes which at the moment were looking a her. He had the eyes of a great, wise animal. Turning away from the unwavering gaze, Dana shrugged off the feeling, almost the invasion, of his eyes on her and forced herself back into thinking about her own problems which were oppressive enough. She sought out the court officer, presented her credentials and asked to see the person who had received the call reporting that Angela Larson was ill. "They transferred the call here," the dark-skinned woman said, "and because court was technically in session, I took the call myself." "And who called?" Dana asked intently. "A man or a woman?" "Oh, a woman, definitely." Dana's neck prickled. "Can you remember *exactly* what she said?" The court officer critically examined the tired-looking young woman with the FBI credentials, staring at her with almost feverish intensity, and realized this was no frivolous request. "The voice over the phone said, 'I need to leave a message. Angela Larson is scheduled to appear as a witness at the Frantilli hearing. I'm calling to report that she's ill and won't be able to attend.'" Dana waited for more. When none was forthcoming she asked, "That's all?" "Yes, I believe so, though I did tell her to have Ms. Larson stay in touch with the D.A.'s office for the new court date." "And you are certain she used the third person. *She* would not be able to appear. Not *I* will not be able to appear." "Yes, I'm Positive." Dana thanked the woman and turned away, anxious now as well as suspicious. As the attending officer, Mulder should have called, but he had not. And who was the woman, if not Angela? Angela could not very well have called in sick for herself. That would have seemed very odd. If she was well enough to call, she should be well enough to attend. Dana was suddenly aware of an intense gaze upon her again, the hunter's eyes, and knew if she looked in the direction from which she felt the gaze she would find the elder black man scrutinizing her again. Needing to get out from under from those probing eyes, Dana turned and sought out the frustrated, young prosecutor. "Who are those people?" Unobtrusively, the woman led Dana further from the crowd surrounding the young defendant. "Don't tell me you don't recognize him? That's Hector Prince." "No." Dana exclaimed in a surprised whisper. "Here?" She shot a look back at the equivalent of the 'godfather' of the Chain. "Isn't he afraid he'll be arrested?" The young woman huffed. "Him? He's like teflon. Nothing sticks. That's why we had hoped with this case..." Dana read dejection, frustration, in the young lawyer. She touched the woman's arm sympathetically, then handed the lawyer her card. "If you hear anything more from your witness, anything at all, you call me. This is important." The woman took the card solemnly. "There's something wrong, isn't there?" Dana tried to look noncommittal but the woman was a trial lawyer and had seen enough we-know-nothing stares to recognize one. "I thought it was too good to be true," she grumbled with resignation as she swung her heavy briefcase from the table. Dana blinked, hearing the woman's words again. 'Too good to be true.' This case! Not just Mulder's problems, but the whole case was wrong! Too many coincidences. It had certainly been happy coincidence for Angela that a high profile murder would so conveniently occur in the way it did to bring Fox Mulder back into her life. "Agent Scully? Are you all right?" Dana woke up from her thoughts to see the young lawyer looking at her intently. "Frantilli's parole officer," Dana asked, suddenly, "Is he here?" The young woman nodded towards an overweight Hispanic man talking with a court officer. "That's him. James Alfonso." When Dana introduced herself, the man removed himself from the officer. The big man looked tired. Too many cases. Dana was reminded, that as tired as she and Mulder often were, there were many others working under similar burdens of stress. "I have to admit," Dana said to the tired man, remembering back a week when she had flipped casually through the case file, "that this case has me confused. There is nothing in Frantilli's history to lead one to believe he would do a thing like this." The parole officer seemed to appreciate her comment. "I agree. He was doing so well. I felt Reti had a real rapport with his employer. I would not have thought Reti capable of this. But we have the woman's statement, and what reason would she have to lie?" For Dana the lightning trail that had begun snaking its way though the jungle of case details suddenly found itself a path. Not a straight one, but a path. What she was thinking was too horrible to contemplate, but was it still possible? "Mr. Alfonso, do you remember if anyone came to your office asking questions about Reti? Hmm, maybe three weeks ago." The big man looked pensive. "Not that I recall, but I'm out so much. I'll have to ask my staff assistant." Dana pressed her card into the man's hand. "Please," she said, "this is very important. Find out. Call me on my cellular or at home but reach me somehow." He looked at her closely. "You think there's something funny going on?" Dana straightened and caught the eye of the untroubled black man again, just as he and his entourage were leaving. "There's nothing funny about it." *** Monday 3pm WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland A voice in his ear. An insistent, irritating tug on his arm, trying to get him to rise, to get off the floor. But Fox Mulder did not want to wake up, much less move. He could seldom remember being so physically ill in his life. Injured, yes, but not ill. His insides might as well be raw meat for all that they felt like they belonged to him. He had no strength. The vertigo was so bad he still felt the room weaving frantically even when lying down, even with his eyes closed. He did not want to think about what it would feel like if he tried to stand up. "Agent Mulder!" A woman's voice fearful, frantic, was shouting in his ear making him wince. Recognizing the voice made his stomach cringe. "We have to leave here. They are coming. Now!" She grunted and groaned as she pushed him into a sitting position. As the room spun, he became aware that he was still on the floor where he had fainted, only at some time she must have covered him with a blanket. Now she had him on his feet and was draping his arm across her shoulder, half carrying, half guiding him out of the bedroom. "S-so...sick," he whispered hoarsely, She paused to adjust her grip around his shrinking waist. He was slipping. "I know," she said more kindly. "...H-help..." he started, but his mouth was too dry and foul. His thoughts weaved like the images in the room. "I'll help," she said. He made a groan of protest and tried to pull away from her. "No!" she barked sharply. "Now, I called your supervisor. He says for you to stay with me, to protect me, but we have to go to a new place." Her voice had an urgency, and was overly loud and crisply enunciated, as if she were talking to a none too bright child. "This place is not safe anymore. He said you can recuperate just as well right with me." She maneuvered him carefully out of the front door. He could never remember how he managed the stairs, even with her help. She leaned him over the trunk of his car as she opened the door and, once she had the door opened, pushed him into the back, where he lay as best as he could across the short seat, completely unable in his dizziness to sit up. She must have already packed the car for, after draping his coat over him, she swung into the driver's seat and pulled away with a screech of tires. Battling with his wavering strength and the sudden nausea he felt from the movement of the car, Fox could not digest the last words she had spoken. If he had, he would have known that she had not talked to Skinner, who never would have left him on any assignment in his condition. *** Monday 4pm FBI Headquarters Dana Scully sat with her elbows on Mulder's desk, her pounding head in her hands, her eyes tightly shut. From the courthouse she had placed a frantic call to Skinner, attempting not to sound frantic. Though obviously tired, Skinner had taken the news of Angela's illness with apprehension, especially when he heard that the person who had called in the report of Angela Larson's illness had not been Agent Mulder, but a woman who had not identified herself. At Agent Scully's alarm, Skinner reminded her that there was still no proof of any aggressive act having been committed against either Mulder or Angela. The most probable explanation for their temporary disappearance, he thought, was that Angela Larson really was ill. Agent Scully herself had reported that Mulder had had the flu. Maybe Angela Larson caught it from him. Everything had sounded under control just a few hours before when Mulder had left the voice mail for McDowell and in a few hours the court would release the information on the safe houses and the house could be checked out. Another explanation could be that Mulder had found a reason to become cautious and taken Angela somewhere to protect her. That was, after all, his assignment. The story of Angela's illness could prove to be just that, a story to explain their absence if Mulder thought the danger too great to risk the trip. Furious, Dana had had to fight to keep the exasperation and fury out of her voice. Men! They were so assured in their size and their strength that it prevented them from seeing who needed protection now. They would wait. No reason to panic yet, Skinner told her just before he hung up. But Dana knew there was reason to panic, knew it in the depths of her. Phoebe had known it, too. The evidence was simply not sufficient to convince Skinner to act other than by the book. All this had happened hours before, now it was late afternoon, and only now did Dana have the information she needed to force them to act. Her hand could still feel the imprint of the receiver as she had clutched it, trying to steady her voice. She had focused her anger and frustration towards the instrument that had brought her, if not the final piece to the puzzle, at least enough of it so she thought she now knew how large the puzzle truly was. Her CIA contact had just responded to her inquiry. No, no one was doing background checks on FBI Agent Fox Mulder, not for a CIA clearance. The way the man had responded had brought a flash of anger to Dana's eyes, as if her very question had been absurd, as if the last thing the CIA would want was 'Spooky' Mulder involved in any investigation of *theirs*. she sighed, for more reasons than one and sent him her prayers wherever he was. If what she now suspected was true, he would need them. Dana looked at the phone, knew she must call Skinner now but needing first to calm her anxiety and her anger. For she would need all of her professionalism to convince him that the danger was real, that the danger was now, that waiting to act would be disastrous. Before she could move, she faintly heard the office door open. She wiped at her eyes, fought for a semblance of calm and turned. Evan Byers stood in the doorway, his open face serious, caring. His hand remained on the door knob as if unsure of whether to come in. There was something in his face. She rose slowly. "What is it?" she asked expectantly. As if he felt that he would not be welcome there, Evan had never come down to the basement office before. This was the Fox's den. "Dana, Skinner just called," Evan told her quietly. "The courts finally released the location and phone number of Angela Larson's safe house." Dana's hand gripped the back of her chair but she said nothing. "The WPP office tried to make contact. There was no answer." He could see her tense. His face showed that he did not want to tell her the rest. "They sent the highway patrol on ahead. They were told only to render assistance, if needed, but otherwise just to secure the scene." Dana's eyes bored into his, feeling her insides twist. "Evan, that's pretty standard when the FBI might be coming in." She bit her lip, the slowness of his report irritating her. She remembered, however, that all this was new to him. "What did they find? Did they need to render 'assistance'." "No," Evan replied and then realizing how that information could be interpreted, he added quickly, "There was no need. No one was home. Not only not home, but the house has been abandoned. They're gone, Dana, and it does not look like they intended to come back." Evan held up a piece of paper. "Skinner gave me directions. He's on his way. He says I can drive you, if you want to come." Dana was almost out the door before he had finished asking. *** Monday 6pm Somewhere in Virginia The car took another sinking turn to the right and immediately rose and turned left. Fox Mulder let his head lull against the bumping, swaying seat, trying to decide if he wanted to stay conscious or not. Three times already on this trip, his agonized insides had tried to eject the contents of his stomach, but he had been empty already for hours and the heaves brought up only a little green bile which left a burning bitterness in his dry mouth and sent his stomach muscles into convulsions. A distant part of him, the well trained investigator, knew he should keep track of turnings and hills, the flicker of objects he could see flash by in the windows above his head, but the images were a blur, and he knew he was fading in and out. For what could have been as little as a half hour, or as long as two, the car kept to winding, hilly, stomach churning back roads. With a lurch that brought him out of his daze, he felt the car slow and heard the sound of the car tires leave pavement for gravel. The car stopped, but Fox felt as if his body, and certainly his head, had not. Angela got out and a few seconds later he heard the sound of quick feet on wooden steps, a key in a lock, a door opening. Within moments she returned and none too gently rolled him out of the back seat. But rising to an upright position only brought back the vertigo and, even with her help, his legs would not support him. Nauseous and mentally confused, he lay face down on the wooden steps that led up to a covered porch, gratefully clinging to the roughly solid and unmoving boards. After making a second, half-hearted effort to get him to his feet, which he patently resisted, she let him lay as she brought the luggage and groceries into the house. The house threw a great black shadow across the porch, the car. The cool fall breeze felt good brushing against his sweat- soaked clothes. Hazel eyes swept up unsteadily to the small frame house, strayed across the flat empty landscape. He saw no other houses. By night he was sure he would have seen no other lights. It was isolated. But then, he knew it would be. He rested his cheek against the peeling paint and prayed for the world to stop spinning around him. What he needed was to run. What he needed was to fight. What he did not need was to be so sick he could barely move. As he lay totally disoriented, Angela had finished unpacking. She sat down next to him on the steps and with her hand, pushed the damp hair from his forehead. Through slitted eyes, he could see she was tired, with a wild, nervous exhaustion. She had driven fast, without stopping. Her eyes now were bright with triumph and not, he thought, quite sane. "Now, we'll be safe," she whispered so that no one but the two of them could hear, as if there were any others about. "No one knows where we are. If they don't know, they can't tell. *They* will never find us." He tried to raise his head, amazed that he could. The cold air had helped revive him a little. "Angela," he said, trying to hide his weakness, trying to hide the fear he felt about being alone with her. "Angela, can't you see... I need a doctor." She shook her head curtly. "No! We have to stay here. It's just the flu," she crooned, obviously mimicking what he had told Scully. "Don't worry, Agent Mulder. I'll take care of you. First let's get you out of this cold air... before you catch your death." She pulled on his arm trying to induce him to get to his feet. he wondered wanly, still refusing to budge and wishing his brain was working better. He just wanted to sleep, to leave this wretched illness behind. As she continued to prod him, he rolled over and tried to sit up, finding he could, but only by leaning weakly over his knees. He had to tell her, but not accuse her, not make her angry. "Angela, I know you mean well, but what you've been giving me -" the words were hard to get out, hard to get out clearly and not sound panicked or blurred "- is *not* up to FDA standards." She leaned down so that she could look into his face. "Agent Mulder, I don't understand what you're talking about." Her voice was a parody of innocence. Fox raised his head, just an inch or two, to give her a side long glance from under his tousled, sweat-streaked hair. The movement triggered a wave of nausea and he had to bite out the last through clenched teeth. "Something in the f-food... making me sick." "Oh, that," she said softly. "I used only a little at first, just as an experiment." She rubbed his back through his sweaty shirt. "I'm sorry I had to use so much this morning, but you forced me. You were talking about going away." She raised her eyes to the sky and the playfulness was gone and replaced with real fear. "And then I would be alone when they came for me." Mulder had followed the expression in her eyes. He tried to summon enough strength to sound sincere. "Angela, I would never leave you alone." She hissed sarcastically. "*Please*, don't lie to me, not like the others. They always lied and talked about me behind my back, laughed at me, even the other patients. If you can't love me, at least, I thought you believed me." She stood up abruptly and nudged him none too gently with her foot, but he made to attempt to follow her instructions. Her voice turned cold. "It doesn't matter. *This* I'm serious about. Into the house. Now!" Somehow, his eyes were able to fix on her hand, which was resting on a bulge at her waist. Only then did he realize she was wearing his gun. With resignation, he allowed her to push him to his unsteady feet and guide him, half crawling, up the last steps. He pulled himself upright in the doorway and, gripping the frame for support, looked back over his shoulder at a twisting, spinning vision of the shadow-crossed, barren fields. She put a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him moving into the cool, musty darkness. He needed only six steps for his body to remind him that standing upright was not a good idea. He barely made it to the small bathroom, where he hung over the commode and felt the nausea overwhelm him again and again. This time, however, he stared in horror. The little bile that he brought up was tinged pink and there were flecks of bright red blood. He sank down onto the bathroom floor, gagging on the spasms in his own throat. He lay his face against the cold tile and prayed to all the gods he had ever tried to believe in for the trembling to stop and for his stomach to twist itself right side out again. She came to him in a few minutes, wet a wash cloth and bathed his face. When he could crawl she got him into the adjoining bedroom where she stripped off his wet clothes, all but his t- shirt and pale blue boxers. While he was being sick, she had put sheets on the bed. Now she pushed him in and piled over his trembling body blankets which smelled like the house, old and unused, but they were warm and after a few minutes the shivering stopped. The warmth was addictive. What he wanted more than anything at that moment was to sleep, he was that exhausted, even though he recognized the real danger of allowing that. He needed to think, move, for only his mind had a chance of convincing his body to function. His body was certainly not going to do it on its own. He had to find some means of getting away from her. He doubted that a time would come when he would be stronger or she less wary. Despite his best intentions, however, the warmth of the bed and his reluctance to move were stronger and he felt himself being dragged downwards into sleep. His mind was still making a brave attempt to overcome the lassitude in his limbs when Angela returned and sat by the bedside. She had a cup of water and four red and white pills in one hand and his gun in the other. Suddenly, Fox did not feel so tired any longer but he did realize how thirsty he was. "Swallow these," she ordered and, when he did not make a move to take them, she tried to force the first pill between his dry lips. When he resisted, she brought the gun out. "I won't kill you, but you would not enjoy a bullet in the arm or leg, not at this range. Take them. They're just sleeping pills. Not enough to harm you. I just need to know you'll stay put for a while." Hooded, sunken eyes focused momentarily. He was as concerned about what four sleeping pills would do to his tortured, empty stomach and his compromised metabolism as he was about the gun. He was fairly sure that she had no intention of shooting him, but, if he startled her, she very well might use it in her panic. She also kept it too far from him for him in his present condition to have any chance of taking it from her. Therefore, he made a show of reluctantly taking the pills, being grateful, mostly, for the water and for a brief obsession he had had with magic when he was twelve. He was not very good at slight of hand, but she was not very sane and had not noticed that he palmed the pills and never actually swallowed them. Angela Larson then sat in the chair by the bed side, the gun in her lap, and waited. Pills or no, he was too sick and exhausted to stay awake. he thought, congratulating himself, and, after a few moments, slept. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 10/21 by Windsinger Date: 28 Jul 1995 01:09:31 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (10/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 10 Monday 6pm WPP safe house somewhere in southeast Maryland Once past the district borders, Evan picked up a police escort and he took advantage of the opportunity to floor the accelerator on his little Datson. This was not business as usual at the FDA, that was for sure. After the first heady minutes of exhilaration had passed, he looked over, guiltily, at the tense woman at his side, sensing her apprehension. Working for the FDA, however, was never this hazardous. Dana sat huddled in the corner of the passenger seat, saying nothing, but thinking furiously. Maybe it was time to tell Skinner, even the private matters which Mulder would not want discussed. She just needed to decide how to phrase it. She stared out the window unseeing. The highway patrol officers had reported that whoever had once lived at the house had packed up and gone. Dana honestly did not know if this news was good or bad. She blinked into the dying sun, not knowing that Mulder was looking at the shadows from that same sunset ninety miles to the west and seriously fearing he would never see her again. "Do you want to talk about it?" Evan asked quietly. Dana huddled down lower. "Later, if you don't mind," she told him. "I need to get all the pieces together first." Evan stole a look at her. Dana Scully's eyes were sunken and sad. She was obviously exhausted, so unlike the woman he had know only a few days before, except for her determination. If anything, that one trait had grown stronger, so much stronger that it threatened to overpower every other emotion. He felt so helpless. He had known her only a little time and had come to care so much. But Fox Mulder had always been on her mind, even at the beginning when there was no hint of these troubles, and he had had to fight for her attention then. Now she was impossible to reach. Unhappily, he had accepted his place. For the time being, he would have to be content just to be near in case she needed him. Evan Byers pursed his lips and kept his peace. Traveling at close to eighty-five miles an hour, they arrived at the address Skinner had given him in less than seventy minutes. The small brick house was already marked in yellow caution tape, which surprised Dana, because to her knowledge no crime had been committed there. Her stomach sank and then steadied. Skinner would not have lied to her. If they had found anything - any bodies that is - he would have told her. If Skinner was just being thorough, then she thanked him for that. Just as at the beginning of any case, Dana took time to take in the surroundings, absorb the details. Mulder had taught her that. Automatically, she observed the dust on the ground near the front door. She saw it was scuffed and a car's tires had matted the grass very close to the walk. Someone had driven up on the lawn and parked very close to the front door. That was suspicious. An FBI agent, whom she faintly recognized, was taking a plaster cast of the tread, but she already suspected that the car would be Mulder's. They had not taken Angela's. Dana did not even know if Angela owned one. What Dana did know for certain was that Mulder had not been driving when the car was parked here. He liked grass and green spaces. He would never have driven up a lawn like this. Looking up, Dana saw Walter Skinner waiting for her by the front door, looking as if he had just arrived. He was not a fussy man. He was a quiet, still man, and the stillness was there today as he waited. Slowly, she climbed the steps to meet him, aware of Evan walking, protectively, just behind her and to the right. As she joined Skinner, however, the big blond man paused and made the decision to wait outside. As they entered the house's small living room, Dana was immediately assaulted by a strong, sour smell. Memories of hours analyzing gastric specimens from autopsies came back to her, but her own stomach never tightened as sickeningly as it did now. Another puzzle piece fell into place, a big one, and she gritted her teeth, amazed at how badly she had slipped. For the dream had suddenly come back to her, the dream she had had on the plane. Dana realized that she had let herself become distracted, dwelling upon Angela's plotting and planning. She remembered how Mulder had said he had been sick, but she had let herself forget how he had looked, drawn, worse than simple flu would cause, and the dark shadows at the end of his fingers. Angela had stocked her arsenal more than adequately. As she took in the room, Dana was surprised by how very ordinary it all was - couch, lamp, TV - any person's house, looking as if nothing abnormal could ever happen here. It was hard to believe that anyone who had lived here, even for a little while, could weave such an complicated web. Agent Brooks, a former police woman Dana had worked with before, walked up to brief Skinner. She nodded to Dana, obviously knowing the special significance of this investigation to her and, therefore, not knowing who to address first. Dana turned her attention to the bric-a-bract on the fireplace mantle, thus making it simpler for Brooks to know to report her team's findings to Skinner and not to her. Skinner spoke first. "Is that smell what I think it is?" he asked The young woman looked down at her notes, still very uncomfortable in Dana's presence. "Ah, yes, sir. Regurgitated gastric material. Emesis, sir. A few hours old. In a waste basket in the bedroom." Dana thought dully, with a wrench in her own gut. "No clothes, personal items or food of any significance left at the house. Everything points to it being abandoned only about two or three hours ago." Dana bit her lip. The small china dog and miniature oriental vase, at which she was staring, fused into a blur. "The emesis, sir, has a lot of particles in it. Undigested food. Primarily oatmeal. We also found cold cooked oatmeal in the trash can in the kitchen." Dana turned at that. "Have you taken samples for analysis?" she asked intently. Skinner gave her that penetrating glance he did so well. "Do you expect to find something, Agent Scully? I thought we were working under the assumption that Agent Mulder, and possibly Angela Larson, had the flu." "Just do it," she said firmly. "I want a tox report on everything edible you find in this house." Brooks saw the flint in her eyes and, hearing no protest from Skinner, gave the order. The evidence gathering team moved to comply. "Did you find anything which might indicate where they have gone, Agent Brooks?" Skinner asked. "Nothing so far. We're doing a thorough search now..." Dana did not hear any more. She did not want to. She wandered further into the room looking at items on the tables. Her eye caught sight of something familiar. She picked up the slim leather- bound book from the coffee table and looked at the title, although by then she already knew what it was. Skinner came up and looked over her shoulder. "Something?" "A book of Blake's poems," she said sadly and then, with a catch in her voice, "I gave it to Mulder when he was put on electronic surveillance for so long after his infiltration of the military's quarantine operation in Kansas." She wanted so much to remind Skinner about how much Mulder had hated that time. She opened the front piece and there in her writing it said "To Mulder: the only guy I know who can be cheered up by Blake's poetry. - Scully." She had also written a quote about what you believe in being an image of the truth. If that were only true. For a moment she felt his presence, like the touch of his fingertips on hers, just knowing that he had cared enough to have packed it. That warmth was quickly eclipsed, however, by the cold fact that it had been left behind. She looked up into Skinner's face and raised the book. "He would not have left this willingly," she told him with certainty. A young agent Scully did not know appeared at the door of what was probably a downstairs bedroom. He was looking meaningfully at Skinner and trying, just as hard, not to catch Dana's eye. Skinner excused himself; Dana followed slowly, knowing she was probably not wanted but needing to know. The bedroom was not a complete shambles, but it was disorganized. The bed clothes hung haphazardly off the bed. Two of the blankets were on the floor. Dana could see a bathroom off to the side. With his back mostly to her, Skinner was looking at something with the young agent over the bathroom sink. Dana floated over like a ghost. "How many did you find?" Skinner was asking. His voice was tight, unnatural. The skin on the back of Dana's neck pricked. "Just one, sir. Obviously there before someone used the waste basket for... regurgitation." Dana tried to slide in to see. Skinner moved to block her view, but he was not quick enough. She caught a glimpse of the slip of semi transparent plastic, now encased in an evidence bag, resting in the agent's hand. Before her eyes could go round with shock, before she could even go pale, Skinner had taken her by the arm and guided her away from the bathroom. He steered her through the bedroom and into small room which might have been an office, containing a table, an ancient couch and one desk chair. After shutting the door, he stood awkwardly for a moment, as if he was considering giving her his arm or even his shoulder to cry one. He did not, however, but waited in stillness with his back against the door. Dana felt her chin drop, her jaw tighten, her mind deny the implications of that little bit of plastic. She closed her eyes and took in long, ragged, tearless breaths for many long moments. The hurt tore, left a raw wound. she hissed in her mind. Dana found herself clinging to that certainty. She must have faith in Mulder, for if she did not, certainly no one else would. When she raised her eyes, she gave Walter Skinner the sense of someone who had found an eye of calm within a storm. "It's all right," she murmured. "No," Skinner said firmly, "it is not all right!" There was a touch of anger in his voice, but not for her. "Did Agent Mulder make a habit of this sort of thing?" She looked at Skinner, insulted for Mulder's sake. "Sir, what sort of 'thing' are your referring to?" "You know what I'm talking about. I think from the evidence it's pretty clear what went on here." Dana raised her chin, felt the shock, the betrayal, replaced by her own kind of anger. "Regardless of what a lot of bureaucrats, gossips and busybodies might think, Agent Mulder is a dedicated professional. But he is also a man, not a saint... just a man with demons, which none of these people who snicker behind his back could ever begin to comprehend." "Do *you* have an explanation for this, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked sternly, "because if you do I'd like to hear it." His voice dropped to a softer pitch. "I think it's time for your 'personal' information to become public. At least to me." Dana sat down on the couch. Frowning, Skinner straddled the room's one chair in front of her and waited. After a moment, she asked, "Is this off the record, sir?" "Absolutely not," he said abruptly, and then read the set of her jaw. "I'll consider it." Her eyes were fierce as she stared at him. Astounded at her own defense of what - she could not deny it - of what Mulder had obviously done, Dana shut her eyes for a long moment. So Angela had succeeded in her plans, and Dana had not been in time. So why did it still hurt. "You were trying to contact Agent Mulder yesterday to give him a warning," Skinner started. "To give him a warning, yes," Dana began, "but it's too late for that now, isn't it?" Her eyes were accusing. "Agent Scully, ignoring this new 'matter', need I remind you that we still don't know for certain what happened here," Skinner said. "If Ms. Larson is ill, and someone obviously was, then maybe Agent Mulder took her to a hospital." "And packed all their belongings beforehand? And who was the woman who called the courthouse?" Dana asked. "Someone from a hospital would have identified themselves. If that was Angela, she wanted people to believe she was not Angela." "Then Agent Mulder must have moved them. Something must have happened to make him concerned for her safety. He may have felt 'other' parties were getting too close. He did try to contact McDowell." Skinner gave her his intense look again. "I can see from your expression that you don't think much of this. You seem to know a lot about what this is not. Tell me what you think this *is*?" Dana took a deep breath and decided to think like Mulder for once and make the leap of logic, follow that lightening path that had revealed itself in the courtroom. The fact that she did not have nearly enough evidence did not matter to her now. She had gone by the book and it had not gotten her anywhere. "I believe that Angela Larson wanted Reti Frantilli framed for murder. I believe she orchestrated the murder of Mitch Legget and then brought herself forward as a witness for that purpose." Skinner tensed, straightened. His eyes narrowed as the scope of his current problem enlarged exponentially. Even coming from Agent Scully, this was almost as unbelievable as some of Mulder's theories. "That's pretty extreme, Agent Scully. Do you have any facts to back your claim?" After almost a year working with Mulder, Dana could say, with confidence and without hesitation, "Not entirely, but I believe I can find sufficient evidence, maybe not enough to convict her, but enough to let an innocent young man go free." But would she be in time to stop another crime, maybe another murder? Skinner was staring at her. "Considering Reti Frantilli's association with the Chain, that would be a particularly stupid thing for her to do. It's a good way to get herself killed." "Unless," Dana offered, "her motive for choosing a high profile gang member was to insure that she would be asked to participate in the Witness Protection Program. And by appearing particularly 'unstable' she would be offered her choice of a protecting officer." Skinner shook his head unbelieving. "Mulder? You think she would do all that to get to Mulder?" "She was recently released from an mental hospital where she had been under treatment for eight years. He is one of the few people she seems to remember from that time." "I've become accustomed to Mulder's off the cuff theories, but this is like the plot of a bad movie." Skinner did not seem the least convinced. "But I have a feeling this is related to the 'personal' questions you report that someone has been asking. I've heard women think Mulder's a 'fox', excuse the expression, but he's not that cute. Besides, if she just *wanted* him, she could have hired two thugs to kidnap him, less chance that anything would go wrong, safer for her, cheaper than a hired gun." Dana stood up and started pacing. Her eyes were cold in their anger. "But that would have tipped him off. She didn't just want his body, Director Skinner. I don't even think this is about sex, though it figures in. This is about power and maybe revenge. She wanted power over him. Little did she know, she already had a significant edge, for Agent Mulder already felt a special responsibility for her commitment. I think she quickly found that out and I'm certain she used it against him." Scully thought, closing her eyes, and realized that Angela had managed, somehow, to do just that. "From what you are saying, I assume you've heard from the CIA." From Skinner's eyes Dana could see he was ready to believe her. "They never sent out an investigator, did they?" She nodded. "That is correct, sir. I received confirmation of that just before I left D.C. If Angela wanted to get into Agent Mulder's mind, if she, for instance, wanted to convince him that he had been right all along and she really had been abducted, then what better way to hook him than to come to him loaded with details only another abductee might know, especially one who had been held with Samantha." Skinner had nodded through much of what she had said. "You've not disclosed your sources. Assuming Angela Larson was the woman in Massachusetts and the woman who called asking 'personal' questions, I would be interested in knowing how you came by this information to begin with." They had reached the subject area which Dana had hoped to avoid. There were just some topics, like tribal taboos, which were still not discussed openly between members of the opposite sex, unless they were very close. Dana definitely did not feel that close to Walter Skinner, and doubted Mulder would want her discussing such private matters with him, but she felt in this instance, she did not have a choice. If it helped Skinner accept the danger that Dana felt in her heart of hearts Mulder was in, then she would risk his disapproval. Just as long as Mulder came home safely. "I received an email from an old 'friend' of Agent Mulder's yesterday. A few weeks ago she received a mysterious phone call, supposedly from a current girl friend of his, asking questions of a 'personal' nature... a very personal nature." That put it into context for Skinner who got a funny look in his eye. "Phoebe Greene," he began slowly. Dana's head came up. "I... met her when I went to London two months ago for a conference." Even his steady, normally controlled voice sounded embarrassed. "'Met'." Dana repeated meaningfully. "And did Agent Mulder's name come up in any of your *conversations*?" She was about to fume but then remembered. She was trying to defend what looked like Mulder's little indiscretion, so she'd best not throw rocks at Skinner's. Besides, once she thought about it, Skinner and Phoebe together was not such an outlandish notion. Skinner was a handsome man, well placed, and he would be especially attractive to someone like Phoebe who cultivated mature men with power. Dana suspected that Phoebe had kept the younger Mulder dangling so long only because she had enjoyed watching his squirm. But long term? The young Oxford graduate had been much too small a fish to be taken seriously; The current Mulder, too unconventional to be likely to rise high, not that Phoebe was the kind who would be willing to wait. Assistant Director Skinner stretched his neck and loosened his tie a little. "When she found out where I worked, Agent Mulder's name did come up. Yours, too." "Uh huh," Dana coaxed patiently. "Go on." Skinner was looking at a spot on the wall unrelated to Dana's position. "Phoebe's an amazing woman, and a handful to be sure. I gather years ago Agent Mulder had quite an affection for her." "Which," Dana snapped, "she threw back in his face, after she was finished playing with his head." Skinner waded into the uneasy silence. "Agent Scully, it is obvious you think Angela Larson manipulated Agent Mulder. You think she seduced him, too, don't you." Dana sat down in front her superior and looked at him with hard eyes. "Sir, I hope you are not one of those macho men who think males can only be the seducers and never the seduced." Skinner looked back at her without hesitation. "Oh, I believe it is possible. Remember," he confessed with much hesitation, "I've met Phoebe." Dana looked into Skinner's eyes and had to admit she believed him. "Sir, I *know* Agent Mulder. He would never have planned to become involved in this way with a case. I am certain he would not have even packed the 'evidence' which your team found. I'm certain that was hers. Sir, you know Agent Mulder, too. You know he has his weaknesses, especially about being too ready to believe, too receptive. His willingness to look at all possibilities, no matter how extreme, is what makes him exceptional at what he does. But as far as women goes, he can be more than a little naive. Yes, I believe it." A great sadness settled over Dana. As for Dana's more personal sorrow, her disappointment, she would not even put that into words, not even in her own thoughts. At that moment Dana suddenly recalled the look on his face as he had entered the canteen on Saturday. He had not been unhappy to see her, just unhappy to see her smiling and laughing with Evan Byers. She realized how it must have looked to him. So he had been wounded, once again, by a woman he cared for. Ironically, the woman was she. So he had had present disappointments to haunt him, too. Dana slumped. "Sir, I am as certain as breath that Agent Mulder regretted what happened, probably as soon as it was over. You've already said he left a message requesting a meeting with McDowell. Knowing Agent Mulder, he probably wanted to make arrangements to discontinue his involvement. I think Angela became frightened and did whatever she thought was necessary to prevent that." Skinner could put two and two together, too. "You asked for samples to be taken of the stomach contents and the oatmeal from the kitchen trash. You don't think Angela Larson has the flu, do you? Or that Agent Mulder had it either. You think she was poisoning him." "I know she was, and probably gave him a big dose this morning. Something strong enough to incapacitate him, so she could move him out of this house." Someone knocked gently, hesitantly, on the door. Agent Brooks came in holding something the size of a soup can in her gloved hand. "Sorry, sir, but we found this and thought Agent Scully would want to see it, considering her request. This is how we found it under the sink." It was an ancient can with a picture of a rodent on it, a rat on its back waving it's dead feet limply in the air. A measuring spoon sat on the lid. Dana closed her eyes against the sight and continued as if she had never been interrupted. "I believe she took Agent Mulder's car and took him - somewhere. Somewhere, she hopes, we will not be able to find." "That," Skinner began and then paused realizing what he was going to say. "That's a kind of abduction, too." Dana found she was still clutching the book. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 11a/21 by Windsinger Date: 28 Jul 1995 01:23:30 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (11/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 11 Monday 11:15pm Somewhere Fox Mulder woke slowly and he was so comfortable that he thought dreamily about how easy it would be to just slide back into sleep. His ever faithful sixth sense, however, nudged his brain and then he remembered. Somewhere in the quiet dark house he could hear an old wind up clock. Other than that mechanical sound, unnaturally and relentlessly regular, the silence was complete. There were not even any noises coming from outside the house. It was too late in the year for crickets and the house was far from any regularly traveled roads. Following the loud ticking, he found the clock's luminous dial shining dimly on the dresser. By squinting, he guessed it was about 11:15. Almost the witching hour, he thought dryly. Then he realized there was another sound... the regular light sighing of a woman as she slept nearby. He turned his head ever so quietly. He had slept warmly under sheet, blanket and quilt. Angela lay on her side beside him, on top of that same quilt but fully dressed, as if she had meant to lay down only for a moment. Fox took a long breath, concentrating, taking stock of how he was doing physically. The natural, undrugged sleep had done him good. His head was relatively clear, though he was still light-headed from having been ill, and the room did not move around him, irritating defying the laws of gravity, as it had done. Best, he was no longer nauseous, though his stomach muscles still quivered, as if deeply bruised. But he was thirsty, that more then anything. With infinite care, taking minutes, he extracted himself from under the covers to crouch on fingers and toes on the floor beside the bed. He hunched there for a long time, silent and listening and waiting for the slight dizziness to leave him. Her breathing did not alter. He had seen before that she was tired. If she felt safe here, she should sleep soundly. For a few minutes he tried to find his gun on her side of the bed, but, finally, he abandoned the search as being too perilous. She could still have it in her hand, the hand that lay covered by the skirt of her dress. Still feeling too unsteady to stand, Fox kept low, half crawling toward the faint grey rectangle which had to be the door to the hallway. The small house could have only a few rooms, a living room, kitchen and maybe two bedrooms. He thought about closing the bedroom door, but feared a groaning hinge would wake *her*. He considered his options as he crept through the still house, trying to be silent, testing each board before putting his weight down on a hand or knee or bare foot. If he found the car keys, could he drive? Maybe, for a little way. Far enough. If not that, escaping on foot was better than staying here, but the night was cold and he was nearly naked, wearing only his shorts and a t-shirt, and he had no idea how far this house was from its nearest neighbor. A phone call to Scully, though, was his first thought. She was ever his lifeline. He could not even count the number of times that she had been there to see him safely home. Fox knew he should have called her the day before, regardless of what had happened and damn the WPP, but the world had looked so bleak then. Now it was just dangerous. Dangerous he was used to. In the shadowy living room he found an old rotary dial phone. He hissed between his teeth. Even if the phone worked, dialing would be slow and would make a harsh noise in the stillness. Then he remembered he had not the slightest idea where he was. The Bureau hot line or 911 could trace the call. From her apartment Scully could not, but he had gone his life without thinking always very logically and he would not start now. Scully's voice was what he wanted to hear. Only hers. As he lifted up the phone to bring it back behind the arm of the couch, he saw that a small book lay under it. In the dim, blue moonlight which streamed in from the window he read 'Spencerville and Rappahannock County' on the cover. It was a local phone book, not much of an address, but something. He knew only that Rappahannock was a small rural county in the Appalachian foothills of Virginia. He crouched down with the phone, keeping the arm of the couch between himself and the door to the bedrooms. Dialing was slow, as he had to ease the dial of the phone back after entering each number. The clicks from the dial, as the rotors moved forward and back, sounded loud to his wary ears. His fingers shook for he had gone days now, with the exception of Sunday, without being able to keep much food down. From the parched, vile feel of his mouth, he guessed he was also badly dehydrated. Only when he had dialed the last digit, and brought the receiver up to his ear, did Fox wonder if she would be there. She could be at Evan's. He shut his eyes against that thought and concentrated on the fact that at least he would get her answering machine. After three rings, with disappointment so physical his throat constricted with the pain, he heard the machine click and then the beginning syllables of the recorded message he could repeat by heart. Then she was a Evan's, he thought, and his stomach made a queasy turn which was due to more than his recent illness. *** Dana Scully walked wearily towards the door of her apartment. She had not wanted Evan to come up, so had asked him to leave her at the building's security door. She had talked to him very little on the way home from the abandoned safe house. Skinner knew and that was enough. Sleepily, she fumbled in her purse for her keys. She still had not found them when she heard the phone begin to ring. *** Mulder waited impatiently for the message to complete. With only a few words of the message to go he heard the recording stop, the line crackle and a voice, her living voice, anxious and slightly out of breath, came to him. "Hello?" His insides quivered. He hesitated, trying to calm his voice, his mouth suddenly too dry. The house was so silent and dark around him, so full of shadows, he felt inexplicably like a little boy doing something he was not supposed to do after his parents had gone to bed, knowing he would be punished if they found out. "Hello? Is anyone there?" she asked again with more worry than irritation in that voice he knew so well. "S-Scully," he was finally able to croak. There was hesitation on the line then, "Mulder!" The greeting leaped at him, the emotions that he hear in that voice made him shiver again with a pleasure he had not realized he had missed. He heard relief and concern, fear and happiness. For a moment, he could not swallow, and emotion made his chest so tight, that he was unable to speak. "Mulder, where are you?" "Scul-" Fox began, but at that moment a dark shape rose up, like a thunder cloud from the shadows beyond the end of the couch, the figure releasing a shriek of rage. Angela's kick caught him solidly under the chin, throwing him backwards, knocking over the lamp which went crashing. Mulder cried out in surprise and pain as he lost his hold on the phone which Angela, sweeping down, snatched up at the same time she savagely jerked the cord out of the wall. "How dare you!" She shrieked in panic mixed with fury, almost in tears. "Now they know where we are!" As he struggled to untangle his long limbs, she swung the phone with both hands and it impacted with the side of this skull. He felt a sickening blast of pain and blackness closed in. *** Dana stood in her dark empty apartment, panting from the adrenalin that had flooded her system as she had struggled with the unwilling key, the door, raced for the phone - and heard his voice. The receiver now lay silent in her hand. She stood with her eyes tightly closed, wanting to scream out her despair and anger, as she had heard the woman on the phone scream... for she had heard her name breathed in a hoarse whisper from his lips. Mulder was alive. He had reached out to her, touched her fleetingly, like fingertips brushing as they passed in the dark, and then he had been ripped from her. Alone, Dana sank down on the floor, clutching the dead phone. He needed her and she did not know where to find him. *** Tuesday 7am FBI Headquarters The twenty desks in the FBI's communications center were all manned. The place was euphemistically called the Bullpen, but in these early morning hours it hummed rather than bellowed. Phones rang, agents bustled, but voices were uncharacteristically low. So low... as if everyone spoke in whispers, walked on tip toe. It was an odd sound, unlike the excitement of a typical investigation on overdrive. For this was not a typical investigation. No faceless stranger was being searched for here, no violent, soulless criminal, who for society's sake should never have been born. No black humor here. They were searching for one of their own, and Dana Scully sat in the center of it, eyes dark and chill as ice. They had called her the Snow Queen at the academy - cold, emotionless - totally focused upon her career. That was before she had been teamed up with Fox Mulder, that was before she had discovered her soul. Now she pulled the old coldness back around her again, shut out the tears and anger and despair, found a center of dead calm from which she could still function. Fox Mulder's cry in the night finally got the matter the attention Scully, in her heart, had believed from the beginning that it deserved. She only prayed they would not be too late. Hours earlier, having cast aside the useless phone, Dana had knelt on the floor of her apartment and finally allowed the wrenching sobs she had held all week to take her and cleanse her for what she knew would be the long job ahead. Only when her tears were exhausted, when all that was left of her was her cold determination and a colder heart, did Dana retrieve the damning, silent receiver, call Skinner and arrange to meet him at the Bureau. In the early hours of the morning, they sat together in Skinner's office and made plans. The team Agent Scully assembled that night learned quite a lot which was new about Angela Larson, but made no progress in finding Mulder. Dana's lightning revelation in the courtroom turned out to be correct. About six weeks previously, records showed an Angela Larson had reported to the District police that she had been mugged. When the officers asked her to look at mug shots, she told them that the mugger had been laughing with his friends about being a member of a gang but she could not remember which one. The officer had suggested several, among them the 'Chain'. Yes, Angela had told the officer, that was the one. Dana's eyes flashed as she made her report to Skinner. "Angela was left *alone* for more than two hours with the mug book containing the pictures of this gang. Ironically, just three weeks later she reports she has witnessed a murder performed by a member of that same gang." Skinner put a hand over his face and silently groaned. "I also have a report from Reti's parole officer," Scully continued bitingly, "stating that two weeks before the murder a woman, who said she was with the FBI, came to his office and asked pointed questions about several members of the Chain. Where they lived, where they worked. Reti's name was among them." Dana threw up her hands. "The moronic secretary did not even ask to see this supposed agent's identification!" Skinner stared fixedly at his desk. His five o'clock shadow had gone way past where Scully had ever seen it. His jaw was tight as he grumbled with bitterness, "Since when did this system get so screwed up that one twenty-nine year-old, ninety-five pound psycho can be allowed to do what this woman has done?" When she passed his office from time to time during the next hour, Dana could hear him clearly, chewing out one representative or other of every branch of law enforcement in the city, and in a city like Washington there were quite a few. Scully allowed herself a grim gallows smile. As she and Mulder were well aware, laying down the law was something Walter Skinner was very, very good at. The working hypothesis in the Bullpen was that once she possessed a list of possible gang members, Angela had systematically determined which one would be the easiest to frame. Whether she performed the act herself or not was unknown. Reti's habit of sleeping in the back room of the store before his shift meant that he would have no alibi. Perfect. A team was still working on McDowell's death, but it seemed plausible that Angela had contracted for his murder. The senselessness of it was appalling, even to these hardened professionals. McDowell had probably been killed only to delay locating Angela's safe house. In the final analysis, all agreed that Angela had been smart, unexpectedly so. Except when reporting her mugging early on, she had never used her own name. A person with that much foresight would have prepared her own safe house in advance and had it ready and waiting. Records showed her parents had died while she was still being treated at Longmead and that she had inherited their good-sized nest egg - enough to contract for a murder or two, enough to buy a house. Dana had set twenty agents on phones, checking realty agencies, looking at all area house sales and rentals for which contracts had been written within the last six weeks. And, if they found nothing within a three state area, they would expand the search. Even with computerized databases this would take time, especially since she would not have used her own name, but everyone was optimistic that the plan would be successful. Eventually. Eventually, however, was not good enough for Dana. Not for the first time and not for the last, she moaned silently, "There's not enough time for this!" In turns they drifted by her desk, all the agents on the team. They spoke quietly, giving her assurances that her partner would be found, commending her on her work. For everyone recognized that Agent Scully's instincts had been right on this and instincts were something the best agents bet their lives on. Even Skinner had praised her, but she had taken no pleasure in his commendation. Being right at this point put them no closer to finding Mulder or to knowing what Angela's plans were. Having been up most of the two nights before, Skinner slept a few hours on the couch in his office sometime before daybreak. Dana slept only when her head become too heavy for her to hold and because the office staff began slipping her decaffeinated coffee. She was too tired and too obsessed to even notice the difference. At seven-thirty Skinner limped into the communications center, rubbing the too little sleep from his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled and he had abandoned his tie hours before. He came up to Dana who was drawing up assignments for three recruits who would be relieving agents who had been up all night. "Go to sleep, Agent Scully," he ordered and, when she opened her mouth to protest, added, "You can use the couch in my office. We'll call you if we find anything." Silently, she nodded and pushed herself to her feet, but she did not go to Skinner's office. She signaled to Evan, who was checking airlines to see if an Angela Larson had had round trip tickets between Washington and Boston mailed to her home. If the 'home' was not her apartment in Falls Church, they might have something, but this was a very long shot. "Evan, I need a favor," Dana said in a low voice once they were alone in the silent corridor. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 11b/21 by Windsinger Date: 28 Jul 1995 01:23:47 -0400 The Abductee, chap 11 continued. *** Tuesday 8am Rappahannock County, Virginia Mulder thought, because, if it was not a dream, it meant he had been beaten up yet again. His head hurt with a hurt that obliterated thought. There was a throbbing agony, that centered on the left side, which radiated waves of shimmering pain down to his toes. His jaw ached, too, not enough to be broken, but he would not be eating steak for a while. And there was something wrong with his right arm, he realized dimly. Maybe he could just go back to sleep and leave the pain behind, but then he realized he was so foggy that he did not remember what had happened or where he was. What case had he been on? Something about Scully. An icy coldness touched his face, making him gasp and jerk away with a groan, as the air he had held in his lungs to brace against the pain, escaped in a rush. The cold retreated, returned. The shock was not nearly so sudden this time, at least it was a different sensation from the throb in his head and a welcome distraction. Without opening his eyes, he recognized that the cold came from a wash cloth, a fairly wet one. He could feel trickles of water running over his chin and down his neck. The thought of water reminded him of how parched his mouth and throat felt. He was so thirsty! Timing the methodical movements of the cloth, he caught it between his teeth as it passed over his dry lips and tried to suck a little of the moisture from it. Anything to relieve this craving that, now that he thought about it, threatened to overwhelm even his mammoth headache. But his action resulted in the cloth being wrenched forcefully out of his mouth, setting off an explosion of pain through his jaw and head. When he had first realized that his face was being washed, the thought had crept into his brain that he would only need to open his eyes to see Scully looking down on him, yet again, with ill-masked concern. But she would not have treated him so roughly. Not Scully. Not even on a bad day. He cracked opened his dry eyes and found himself staring at a daylit white ceiling. Someone then moved into his field of vision. Angela. He shut his eyes again. The memories flooded into him as if he had been doused again with cold water. Despair rose up so in him that he was afraid he would choke. He had been trying to call Scully. He had barely heard her anxious voice speak his name when Angela had kicked him hard and battered the side of his head with the phone in her rage. She had shown more strength than he had given her credit for. That was why his head hurt and his jaw. But he did not mind the pain so much now. He would risk it again to hear that voice, to know with certainty, just from those few words, that she had known that there was something wrong, that he needed rescuing again. Angela had gone for the moment. He slowly raised his left hand and felt gingerly at the center of the agony which was his head. He found a cut at the hair line above his left temple, but not too bad. It was the blood from this she had been cleaning up. The area the size of his palm was fire when he probed it. All in all, he knew he had been lucky. She must have caught him with the flat underside of the phone. She had been so angry that if she had hit him square on with an edge, she might have killed him. Concentrate, Mulder told himself. If he kept his head still, he was relatively coherent, despite having a brain that had been through what his had. How was he otherwise? Because of the head injury, he could not expect to move quickly in any coordinated way. His right arm ached and his hand was numb. Raised above his head, it felt like it had been in that position for some time, and he found he could not bring it down. He sighed audibly, feeling the thin cool pressure of the encircling metal on his wrist and hearing the metal on metal rasp of the opposite handcuff on the frame of the iron bed where he lay. He heard the rustling of movement near him and risked opening his eyes against the light. Angela stood over him, her face unreadable, neither angry nor mothering, but cold, emotionless. She held a paper cup in her hand, which reminded him again of how thirsty he was. She put an arm under his shoulders and helped him lift his head and then put the cup to his lips. He drank at it thirstily, heedless of the faint bitter taste of old pipes and sulphur, regretting the little stream that, in his haste, spilled out onto the 'V' of bare chest which the t-shirt did not cover. She took the cup away and moved from him quickly, as if he were somehow dangerous. "More," he rasped, asking almost plaintively and wishing immediately that he could have removed that pleading tone from his voice. He could still feel the track that small amount of coolness had traveled from lips and tongue, across the back of his throat, down his esophagus to lay like a cool pool in his empty stomach. "That's enough for now," she said curtly. "It's too risky to allow you to go to the bathroom and I don't want to have to clean up after you." She put the empty cup down beside the bed. Fox followed her with his eyes and had to turn his head to see her sit in a chair near a window, far enough away that, shackled as he was, he could not reach her. It was full day, but early morning by the angle of the sun. As she looked out the window, he noted she held his gun in her lap. He jerked the chain again if only to promote a little circulation in his arm. "Angela," he said hoarsely, experimenting with his voice. It grew stronger as he spoke. "Talk to me... Why are you doing this?" Slowly, she turned dead eyes to him. "You called them," she said accusingly, looking as if she were going to cry. "You were going to leave me...leave me all alone to face them." He tried to look her in the eye, which was hard, since she was slightly above his head and his eyes were not focusing dependably. "What happened ... the other night ... you must know that's not allowed. I have to remove myself from this assignment." That argument, he knew, sounded pretty ludicrous even to him. "We can still talk sometimes about what you are afraid of. I'll arrange it. And I won't let you be alone." "Not the same," she grumbled. "You would not be here when *they* come for me. You would not be there to protect me." Mulder realized he wasn't understanding something, a theme she kept referring to. Maybe it was because his head ached so. It was hard to concentrate and find the words, but words were all he had now. Tensing himself against the pain in his head, Fox forced himself to sit up with his back against the ironwork headboard. At least now he could see her face and he felt less vulnerable, though it made his head feel like his brain was way too big for his skull. He roughly jerked the handcuff, felt his head give off a small explosion and felt a quiver in the chain which should not have been there. He glanced down quickly, hoping Angela did not see where he was looking. The thin post of metal on the iron bed's headboard, to which the other end of the cuff was attached, was not too thick and had bent a little. A few good jerks, a little leverage, and maybe he could get out of this mess yet, if talking to her did not work. "Angela, who are you afraid of?" he asked. "Reti Frantilli's friends? Because by leaving the safe house and coming here," he looked around at the walls and ceiling of the room, "the police and my friends can't find us. And they would have helped me to protect you." She looked at him as if he were being particularly dense. "Not *them*. The ones who are coming to take me back. Back to that place. I won't go. Not ever." "I won't let them take you," he lied sincerely, not sure to which place she was referring. To Longmead, he assumed. "You already called them twice," she spat. "You called *him*, that McDowell, and you called *her*. And now they know where we are." Her eyes filled with tears. "And now they are coming for me tonight, and I am so tired of running." Maybe it was his bruised brain, but Fox still could not make sense of what she was talking about. He rattled the handcuff again, more strongly than he would have needed to just a make a point. "Well, I can't protect you very effectively this way. Why don't you let me go and give me my gun?" She looked at him oddly and made no move to comply with his request. "There is more than one kind of protection, Agent Mulder. We must follow the plan. The planning took years and years and it only needs tonight to be fulfilled." Plan? Fox remembered his convenient illness all too well. Poisoned. How much more was part of the plan? His being here at all was obviously part of this plan. Suddenly he swallowed hard, though there was little moisture to swallow, and found himself staring at her in utter stupification, able to comprehend for the first time all that she must have done to make certain that he was here now. Rapidly, he looked away so that she would not suspect that he knew. He needed her on his side, as much as that was possible. He did not need her to know that he suspected her of murder. He should keep silent he knew, or speak very guardedly, but on one point, at least, he could not keep silent. If she got angry so be it, but he had to know. He looked back to where she sat staring blankly out the window. "Angela, what you said about my sister, that wasn't true was it?" She tilted her head as if listening, but did not turn towards him. "Probably not, I don't remember very well." It was an odd answer, but he took that as a 'no', and felt a surprisingly deep disappointment in that knowledge. "Why the lie?" he asked gently. "So you would stay with me. All of this was so you would stay with me. I never thought you would want to leave. After -" She looked shyly at him then, though how she could after what they had done... "I know," he said, closing his eyes as if closing his mind to that particular memory. "How did you ever find out about Sam? I never told you." "You did. Years ago, during the investigation, when you were trying to explain to me about abductions. You thought I wasn't listening, but I was." She finally turned to face him and her eyes were large and dark and knowing. "About the ice cream and the night light, I never would have told you that." "No, that your mother did." At that his head came up, his mind leaping backwards and forwards in time, seeing the woman his mother had been and what she had become, the sorrow and helplessness he felt about her. "My mother!" His flaring, trigger temper sent a shocking pain through his head. He jerked the handcuff savagely, this time with all his anger. Squinting through the suddenly blinding headache he growled at her. "If you hurt her -" Angela gaze was focused. She was calm. "I did not harm a hair on her beautiful head. She was a very cordial hostess." "I don't see why she would tell you anything." Angela smiled knowingly. "'Oh, Mrs. Mulder,'" Angela said coyly, in a soft, southern accent. And, as she spoke, her shoulders lost their slump, her dowdy clothes straightened, her lined face smoothed and she reminded Mulder again of the woman who had prepared herself to go into Washington that fateful Saturday night when he had last seen Scully. "'The CIA is considering your son for a special assignment, a matter of national security. But with a job of this importance, we must be certain, you know, that there are no any lasting effects from any - childhood traumas." Fox had stared at her performance in astonishment. Now he watched the aura slip away as suddenly as it had appeared, and she was again the straggly- haired, world-weary, paranoid Angela that he knew... and had come to fear. "Now," Angela said in quite a different voice, a cold, scary voice, and raising the gun she held in her lap. "I don't feel like talking any more. Why don't you just go to sleep and let me alone?" As angry as he was, he wanted to respond to that, wanted to say he had spent far too much time unconscious lately and did not want to sleep now. But his mouth would not frame the words. He could feel his limbs going weak. His head... his head began to nod and, try as he might, his eyes closed. He forced them open, struggled to stay sitting by grasping the ornamental twists and turns of the head board, but his hands would not grip. "There, see?" Angela cooed. "You are getting too excited. I know what they gave me in the hospital when I got that way." Fear gripped him, even as he felt himself sliding down, bonelessly, awkwardly, onto the bed again. As if he were underwater, he heard her saying. "You'd be surprised to know how easy it is to buy that stuff on the street." He struggled, but felt himself being dragged down. He was unconscious before he could even finish his thought. Angela rose almost gracefully from the chair, and straightened his limbs, for he had passed out in a crumpled tangle. Then she sat on the side of the bed and smoothed his brow as she looked into his face with infinite sadness. "We'll talk again, Agent Mulder, before all this is through." =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 12/21 Date: 28 Jul 1995 21:10:34 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (12/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty The Abductee: The Tiger and the Lamb (Chaps 12-15) Chapter 12 Tuesday 8am Falls Church, Virginia Dana Scully knocked hesitantly on the front door of the house where Angela had taken them to collect her things just a week before. The owner of the building, a stout woman in a frayed robe and old slippers was not pleased to be wakened by this very proper young professional woman this early in the morning. "You want to see what? Angela Larson's apartment? You're from where?" The FBI identification with its large letters, easily readable from a distance in dim light or by sleepy landladies at eight in the morning, admitted Dana into Angela's room without any problem. Dana was relieved when the owner made a hasty retreat. She wanted solitude. She had even asked Evan to wait in the car. Having been surrounded by a crowd all night, she just wanted to be alone, but it had been considerate of him to drive her. Dana knew her limits and her attention had definitely begun to waver. Dana had not expected to gain much information from the bare little room and she found what she expected. To her tired eyes the room looked untouched. There were a few items on the dresser which Dana would have packed but Angela had not; a brush, a sweater, a lipstick. Nothing significant, though. Nothing like a check book, address book, maps or clipped out newspaper ads. Nothing to point to a house she might have bought, even to an area of the country she liked. Then Dana spotted the framed picture hanging from its hook on the wall. Odd for a portrait like that to be hanging from a string on a wall when it was the right type of frame to sit on the night stand beside the bed. She had thought that peculiar the first time she had been there. Stranger still that Angela had not taken the picture of the boyfriend she had seemed so happy with. Carefully, Scully touched the frame and turned it on its string. A different boy's picture was taped to the back of the frame, a younger boy. Large red spots of what looked like lipstick, or perhaps blood, framed the young man's head almost like a halo. The picture of the boy, no more than sixteen, had been enlarged from a much smaller one and thus was grainy and indistinct. Dana easily recognized the face, however, the strong jaw, the high intelligent forehead, and the sad eyes, even though it had probably been photocopied from a high school yearbook two decades old. Dana sat down slowly on the edge of the sagging mattress and held the picture in her hands, gently touching the face in the picture. The lab would be able identify the dark stains, but did it matter? Dana had come to suspect that for Angela, love and hate were proving to be one and the same. Dana let her head hang loosely on her shoulders. She had worked like someone possessed all night, so had many others, and now she was too exhausted to think of anything else to do. Where else could she look where others were not already looking. Four months before in a forest far north of the city, a serial killer they had been stalking had set her up and she had been shot. For two days Mulder had had to deal with the madman, play his games. He had put himself in the most dangerous position, all to find her. How had he borne the not knowing, she wondered? How had he borne the thought that she might die? That she might already be dead? She only remembered the look in his eyes as he had carried her miles through the rain to bring her to safety. Then there was the different look that had come into his eyes in the hospital as, being told the danger was past, he had sought her face. Dana thought, Taking the picture with her, she left the apartment. Past time to get back to work. Wearily, she climbed into the car where Evan waited patiently for her to tell him where he should drive her next. Seeing her dead eyes, he said, "You should go home, Dana." But before she could reply, her cellular signaled, startling both of them. She snatched it from her pocket and hear Skinner's voice and by his tone she knew there had been no big breakthrough, but there was news. "You didn't go home, Agent Scully," the deep voice said. There was no apology in hers when she answered. "No, sir." He did not comment. He neither approved nor disapproved, he was that tired himself. "I thought you would want to know. The toxicological report just came in from the evidence found at the safe house." Dana tensed, then looked meaningfully over at Evan. Evan could take a hint. "I think, I'll stretch my legs," he told her, got out of the car and began walking slowly down the street. Dana looked after her new friend, reminding herself to thank him some day, then returned to the phone, closing her eyes. "Sir, I'm listening." "As you predicted, Agent Scully, they found that rat poison both in the oatmeal from the trash and in the emesis taken from the waste basket." Dana's eyes shut tighter. Skinner's voice had risen slightly at the end. There was more. "They found some tea leaves laced with a *Cannabis* derivative, one prescribed for selected patients on chemotherapy, not enough to be dangerous, but enough, I am told, to give a person a good night's sleep and a general feeling a well-being." That pause again. "Agent Scully?" Skinner's voice asked. "Sir, I'm still here." Her voice was very quiet. She knew there was more. "What else did they find?" He did not begin immediately, sensing she knew something of what was coming. "Also from the trash, although the sample was small, they found some remnants of applesauce, heavily flavored with cinnamon. The sample contains a drug called 'MDA', in considerable concentration." He heard her intake of breath. "I see you are familiar with it and its properties. The lab had to update me. None was detected in the emesis, but from its location in the trash the lab suggests it was probably presented at an earlier meal. Most likely Sunday evening. They think there might be something else in that sample as well. They are still working on it." Hearing no word from her, he went on uneasily. "I hate to say I am relieved, but for the sake of Agent Mulder's future at this institution, I admit I am. It still remains to be proven that Agent Mulder actually consumed the drug or, if consumed, he did not consume it consensually, but the case against him now seems less daunting." "He would not -" Scully defended. "He would never -". Skinner's voice was even, non-threatening. "From what I know of Agent Mulder's character, I agree with you, but there are others who would try to make a case of this... others, who from petty envy or a bias against those who are different, who don't play by the rules, would like to bring him down." His voice had gradually sharpened to reveal an anger he would not have let show if he were not so tired. "But we will deal with that in its own time, won't we, Agent Scully?" "We will, sir," she said, her voice steadier. His words even at this distance gave her some comfort. "I'm coming back now." Evan Byers walked the block six times. When he began to get the hairy eyeball from an old woman at the end of the street, he decided six was enough. He came up to her window, and, just as the last five times he had been by, noted she was not on the phone. This time she made a motion for him to get in. From the brief glance he got of her face as he came around to the driver's side, he could see the tracks of tears, but her face was still and hard when he settled behind the steering wheel. "Dana," he asked carefully, starting the engine, "did they find arsenic, like we discussed?" Her reply was terse. "Yes." Evan passed his hand over his face. "I'm really sorry, Dana." He turned down the street, heading back towards the main road. She let the silence continue. He could tell there was something still in the air. "Anything else?" There was a pause, as if she had to fight to get the words out clearly. "I don't want to talk about it. Just take me get back to the office." *** Dana tried to work, only to come up against more dead ends, more frustrations, more red tape and bureaucracy. At one point she had found herself screaming, literally screaming, at Agent Clark. The rookie had had the nerve to come up to her and report, oh, so apologetically, that he was the one who should have relieved Agent Mulder Saturday for his night off. Angela Larson, however, had answered the phone when he called to confirm the arrangement and asked him not to come. She had told him that Agent Mulder was not feeling well, and he had taken her word for it. So now he was treated to a few well selected words from Special Agent Dana Scully. Words, most of the agents in the bullpen at the time, did not realize she knew. Skinner had rescued the kid, but everyone knew his rescue would be temporary, as Skinner marched the slinking youngster into his office and soundly slammed the door. Hours later in the mid afternoon, one of the secretaries reported quietly to Assistant Director Skinner that something was wrong with Agent Scully. This led to Skinner invading the woman's restroom to find an exhausted Dana huddled in the corner of one of the stalls crying softly. He bundled her up in her coat and sent her home in a cab to get some sleep. *** Tuesday 5pm Washington, D.C. Dana threw her coat and her gun on a chair, thought about taking a shower, but stretched out on the bed instead. Wearily, she stretched out her arm to gently touch the figure of a tiger sitting on the nightstand. Then she let her head fall back upon the pillow. *** Tuesday 8pm Somewhere in Rappahannock County, Virginia Angela set out the articles on the small table which she knew she would need later; the razor, the bowl. The man still lay in a drugged sleep. She did not want to look at him. Now that she had come this far she was afraid if she looked at him, if she allowed herself to remember being touched by him, that she would not have the resolve to see the plan through. She took the coil of rope in her hands, but decided instead to have a cup of tea, perhaps two, before beginning the final phase. *** Tuesday 10pm Washington DC Dana woke to a dark apartment. Her eyes strayed to the clock first. She felt almost guilty to find she had slept for five hours. Immediately, she called the office, but there were no new developments. No need to come in, they said. Go back to sleep. As she drug herself out of bed, Dana found the tiger tangled in the quilt she had pulled over herself. The figure was six inches long and covered in a soft material that resembled fur, but its expression was not soft. Its mouth was open wide, displaying its sharp teeth, and its eyes were wild. She slowly smoothed the fur down. This had been Mulder's very first gift to her. She remembered why. He had given it to her a few days after Eugene Tooms had attacked her. They had not been working together very long. Too clearly, Dana remembered fighting for her life on the cold floor of her bathroom with Tooms holding her down. A few seconds longer and he would have had her ripped open, only Mulder had burst through the front door. When Tooms leaped up to escape, Dana found, to her surprise, a reserve of courage someplace deep inside herself which she had not known was there. Turning and fighting with the fleeing man, actually allowing his disgustingly slimy hands to touch her again, she had prevented his escape until Mulder could reach them. Together, they had subdued Tooms, working perfectly as a team. Mulder had not said anything at the time, but she had seen him looking at her with new eyes. He presented her with the tiger a week later without a word of explanation but had let her see for the first time one of his rare good smiles, the kind that now made her knees weak. "I picked this up for you." She had looked at the offering, uncomprehending. "What is this for?" "You did good, sweetheart." His imitation of Humphrey Bogart was terrible. "Better than you expected, or better than you hoped?" she responded and received in reply another of those smiles. He remembered when she had first said those words to him. Now she sat on her bed and stroked the beast. That had been a kind of turning point for them. She was no longer considered just some baggage assigned to question his theories, reluctantly follow his leads, report to her superiors on his activities, pull his ass out of jail and patch him up. She had become a professional in his eyes, someone who could be depended upon when things got tough. Real partner material; someone he could trust. And he was out there now, had risked Angela's anger and suffered for it, if the cry of pain she had heard just before the phone was disconnected was any indication. He had put his trust in her to find him, to do anything it would take. Dana started the shower, needing it to either revive her or relax her. Either would be preferable to how she currently felt. Roughly, she stripped off the suit she had worn now for too many days. As the hot water coursed down her skin, Dana felt her mind release just as her muscles relaxed. Something about the blast of warm water always was able to free her mind from its same old circles, opening it to new lines of thought, different possibilities. After a few minutes, she smiled. She allowed herself to remember Mulder bending down and whispering to her just before she walked into Skinner's office for her very first solo dressing down. "Go get'em, Tiger." "I'm trying, Mulder," she murmured into the water. The tiger. The intense, wild glare of the animal, was there in her mind, but shifted. She no longer thought of Mulder's glib encouragement. She had seen that wild, untamed look somewhere else recently. Dana stopped working the lather in her hands and clutched at the soap, feeling it slip and fall unheeded to the floor of the tub. She rested her head against the tile and let the white noise of the hissing water obscure every other distraction, as its soothing heat eased her tension. Think. There may yet be a way to Mulder. The longer she thought on it, the more she was certain that the information did exist, only no one had thought to ask the right people. By closing her eyes Dana saw a path in a dark place with only a candle to light the way, a candle which the slightest breeze would extinguish. Call Skinner? Going by the book would be like summoning the storm. The flame would not last a moment and the path would be obscure again. Go alone? Even asking the question could put her in as much danger as Mulder. To go alone was hard, but sometimes it was the only way. Mulder had taught her that. Rapidly she rinsed off the clinging soap and, wrapped in a towel, she stood dripping as she made one phone call, giving the woman who answered precise and urgent instructions. Then Dana dried her hair in quick, efficient movements. She had learned such skills working with Mulder, who, when he got the whiff of the trail, would not be delayed for such minor matters as dressing properly. Ticking off the implications of what she must do in her mind, she dressed quickly but carefully; not too severe, not too feminine. She packed her weapon, a powerful flash light, and her medical kit, almost praying she would have an opportunity to use it. Poised to flee her apartment, Dana reluctantly admitted she had one more task to perform; she must let at least one person know where she was going. For if she did not make it back, she did not want her mother or her sister, even Skinner, to go through what she was going through... not knowing... possibly never knowing. She had no choice if she was going to find Mulder, because not finding him was no choice at all. Evan Byers fumbled with the receiver as he struggled to answer his phone. It was eleven o'clock and he had been asleep only four hours after having been up for thirty. "Dana!" he said, his sleepy voice indicating both how surprised and pleased he was that she had called. "Evan, I need your help," Dana announced abruptly before he had a chance to say anything more. Her seriousness took all the pleasure from his voice. "Dana, you know you have only to ask. What can I do?" He hesitated and the next came out warily. "This is about Mulder, isn't it?" He felt his temper rising. "Dana, I heard something around the office today, that he and his client -" Dana would not let him go further. She did not need to hear it. "It's all over the Bureau already, is it?" Evan tried to give her some sympathy, but for Mulder, it was obvious, he had none. What had the man been thinking? There were some things which Evan could not forgive. "Has it gotten around? What did you expect? He's known to be a weird bird and people will talk. The question is, do *you* need to talk?" No... he didn't know why he even bothered to ask. From her tone of voice he could tell she did not; not that kind of talking. "Don't, Evan," she warned him, her voice almost dangerous. "Don't talk about him like that, not to me. You don't understand..." "Don't ask me to be understanding! He's hurt you. I can tell. How can you defend him -" "Evan, stop!" Her sharp command surprised him. He waited and after a moment she began in a different tone of voice. "Evan what do you know about MDA?" Evan changed the receiver to his other hand, not comprehending the sudden shift in topics. "I've read some articles. It's a very rare variation of amphetamine and hard to synthesize. Good thing, too. A few so-called psychologists - A.K.A. 'sex therapists' - have had their licenses revoked. It's the closest thing to an aphrodisiac man has developed so far. The up side is sweeter than heaven, they say. You'd have sex with your own mother. But the down side is sheer hell. They've even had two suicides associated -" Evan stopped. The other end of the phone was dismally silent. "Dana? Speak to me. The toxicological analysis did find something else, didn't they?" Her voice when she spoke again was strained. "A marijuana derivative - and MDA, lots of it." Evan swallowed. "Dana, what can I say -" "Evan, just don't say anything, except to tell your gossipy friends that they don't know what they are talking about." Her voice was still unnaturally tight. "And nothing goes further than here, do I make myself clear?" "Crystal clear, Dana." he thought. "Somehow I don't think you called about this, did you?" He heard her breathing, could also almost see her steady herself, control her anger, her unhappiness. Dana felt so alone, so tired. She needed *him*; not Evan, not Skinner or that whole crowd in the Bullpen. Only Mulder. The time for talking was past. "No, Evan. I called because I have a hunch and I need to follow it through but it could be... dangerous. I know Skinner would never allow it." Why could she not keep her voice from shaking? "I just wanted someone to know." The voice on the end of the line was as serious as hers now. "Dana," Evan said warningly, "what are you going to do?" "Visit Hector Prince." "No!" The voice lashed out, startled, angry, concerned. She could see Evan in her mind, standing over the phone, his wide shoulders shaking with alarm, needing to shelter her. Dana thought. Mulder did this, too, but less often since she had drummed it into him that sometimes she did not need or want him to protect her. He was learning. He had learned to respect how strong she could be. "Evan, I have to do this. I found out today that Angela probably killed Mitch Legget or had him killed. Obviously, Hector Prince knew Reti didn't do it and from the way his supporters were acting in the courtroom I'm sure they know more than they're saying. I have to ask." "Dana, those people are slime, criminals, murderers. Are you saying you are planning to go alone to question these people?" Scully was shocked by the intensity of his outburst. "Evan - it's... Mulder. I thought you understood." Evan's voice still expressed his outrage. "I guess I'm old fashioned. I guess I don't. If he loved you, Mulder wouldn't want you to put yourself in danger like this. You could be killed." "We all take our chances in this business." "But why do you have to go? Someone else could go." "He's my *partner*, Evan." "At the very least, let me go with you." Dana looked towards the door, at her things packed and ready. "Not an option, Evan. A woman alone might be able to get in there. If I brought a man, especially a man your size, I wouldn't stand a chance. They would never talk, and this may be our only chance." He was not convinced. "Okay, maybe they don't kill you, but is this worth setting yourself up to be raped?" At that moment Dana was furious with Evan, but then she remembered... Evan was not FBI... not even law enforcement. He was the product of the culture that thought that a woman who allowed herself to be alone in a dangerous place was asking for trouble. "I'm not going in as a victim, Evan, or as a sacrifice. I am a law enforcement officer, a professional and this is a negotiation." "A pretty unconventional one or you would have told Skinner," he added from the other end of the line. "That is why Skinner would not allow it. Skinner has to go by the book and he would be required to bring in too many people. It would be worse than if you came with me. Yes, there is risk but I accept that. It's part of my job... but I will do what I have to do, even if it means bargaining with the devil. " Dana knew she had been hard on him and actually did understand Evan's anger; Evan cared. She just didn't have time for that right now. Evan also did not understand about Mulder; about what they had. "There isn't any use talking any more, Evan. Just do this for me. As a friend?" "I can see I can't change your mind. At least, promise you'll call me as soon as you're safe." "I promise, if you agree not to tell Skinner until morning." "Dana..." "Promise," she ordered. In the end he promised. Within thirty seconds Dana had fled her apartment, just in case Evan decided to turn on her and call either the police or Skinner to stop her. As she was driving away from her apartment building, Dana neither saw nor heard any signs of pursuit. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 13/21 Date: 28 Jul 1995 21:10:36 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (13/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Credit to Kipler's story "Night" (one of my favorites) and all of Amperage's work, but especially, "The Woods" for inspiration for Mulder's dark and private place. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 13 Wednesday 12:30 am Rappahannock County, Virginia Mulder was beginning to hate waking up. Whatever she had sedated him with this time, at least the lingering grogginess was more in his body than his mind. Waiting for the tingling numbness to go away, he wearily considered getting into some other line of work. He had been shot, drugged, and beaten more times than he could count. When would his body just say 'Enough already'. Add to that the hideous sights he had seen, and no wonder he had nightmares. As the numbness passed, he took stock and realized that his right arm was still shackled, but a cold shiver ran up his spine when he realized his legs were tied down, too, his ankles somehow attached to the bed frame. His left arm was immobilized, not above his head, but out to his side, so that his forearm hung over the edge of the mattress. His jaw hurt somewhat less, but his head still throbbed. By raising his head slightly and looking up and to his left, he could see the window where Angela had sat... how many hours or days before? Now it was completely dark. When he was last conscious, it had been early morning. Whatever she had given him had been strong. He heard a movement and saw the slight form of Angela move into his view. He saw all of her down to mid thigh. She was wearing only a bra and panties and a old ragged robe that hung open and loosely on her shoulders. He felt very, very uncomfortable in her presence. She noticed his eyes. "Awake?" she asked. "Good. I did not wish to go through this alone." She moved restlessly and her eyes were uneasy. He struggled against the bindings. His right arm and legs he could move some, but only enough for circulation, his left arm not at all. "Angela, if you expect me to perform, you're going to be sadly disappointed. I have a headache." Her head came up and she almost smiled. "You *are* amusing, Agent Mulder. I hadn't thought of that. I suppose this is considered by some to be a very seductive position. Do you think so?" The way she said that sent another unpleasant shiver through his body. As she passed out of his view for a moment, he reminded himself to be more careful in the future about giving her any more ideas. When she returned she put a knee on the bed and leaned towards him. She had a bottle in her hand that he thought looked familiar. She slowly raised his shirt and he felt the coolness as she poured some of the liquid onto his skin and began to smooth it with the tips of her fingers. He flinched away from her, as well as he could, as if she were poison itself and then the scent from the bottle reached him. *This* he finally remembered, and not only from that careless, mad night with Angela, but from years and years before. It had been *her* scent. Although apprehensive, afraid of the answer, he still asked, "How did you come to find out about that?" She continued to smooth on the oil. "The same way I knew where to find your mother." She reached into the pocket of her robe and drew out two envelopes, dirty and creased from age and wear. She held them so that he would see. His hazel eyes grew wide, so that all the green showed, and then closed painfully until only the brown did. He could recognize his own handwriting, even though it was eight years old. "How?" he asked, his voice breaking. "You don't remember? A rainy Sunday, during that first investigation. You wrote letters and in the morning, when we went to town, I offered to post them for you." She sat on the bed and stared down at them with a sigh. "I guess I had a crush on you. I wanted just to have something... to remember you by." She put them aside on the nightstand beside the bed. "I had to hide them in my parent's house, otherwise the hospital would have taken them away from me. I didn't see them for eight years." He knew he could not keep the furrow out of his brow. He knew she would see it. She did. She moved her hands enticingly across his chest and smiled. "Phoebe Greene was *very* cooperative," she told him. At her words his breath caught in his lungs and would not move. He closed his eyes as something broke deep within him which he thought could not be broken anymore, something hurt where he thought there was nothing left which could be hurt. To tell... a stranger what they had shared? He had never thought that she would do this to him. Even Phoebe. Phoebe, with the long limbs and the dark hair and her cold, selfish heart. All through those long, lonely years at Oxford, how he had loved her and how she had enjoyed ignoring him, humiliating him, being pleasured by him. A cool, erotic tremor traveled through him as soft lips licked the skin of one nipple while gentle fingers caressed the other. He wanted to run... knew he could not run. Not that way... but the other... his dark place was still waiting for him as it had been whenever life had been too hard to bear... Fox retreated into his mind where it did not matter that someone's hands still touched him, that someone's lips still kissed him, even Phoebe could not follow him into this... his own very private, very lonely place, a place he knew very well indeed. His consciousness barely felt the soft hands on him now, barely felt her massaging his skin, cutting away the shirt and shorts, the cold touch of the knife against his skin, the gentle kisses on his scars, so many of them, across his chest. When she kissed the scar high on his thigh he felt distantly, as though it was happening to another, the warm stirrings of arousal. But from his dark place that reality made no connection with his. Almost with relief he felt a woman's soft hand raise his head and put a cup to his lips and he did not resist. He was so thirsty, and if she put him to sleep as before, he did not care... At least he did not have to think for a time... but the liquid in his mouth *burned*! He leapt up, or tried to. He strained against his bonds, sputtering and choking. Through the tears that squeezed out of his eyes, he saw Angela above him and vengefully spat the burning liquor into her face. "No!" he shouted at her, his expression bitter and hateful. "Not again!" She sat beside him on the bed wiping her face. She was not angry. She looked sad. The remembered perfume, which had so effectively triggered those memories in his body the other night, was soft about them both. But there was nothing passionate in her. "It won't work this time, Angela," he said in a voice intended to be stern, but he was not as sure as he wished he could be. "Do you think you were drunk before?" she asked, incredulously. "I was 'entertained' by some of the staff at the hospital when they were drunk." Her gaze was intent. "You were *nothing* like them." She softly touched the moist, smooth skin of his chest, moving her hand in languid circles. "I just thought that alcohol would work faster. I only wanted to ease the... pain, but... if you prefer, I can use the other." As her finger touched him *there*, he flicked her hand away with a convulsive shudder of his hips, though at the touch a heady warmth flowed from his center. "We have to hurry, but I could give you that much time. I could play again for you the music which you seem to like so much. I could touch you like she touched you. I could give you such a pleasant dream and then you would not feel the pain." His eyes opened wide. So this was the answer to his behavior that night... 'the other'... some drug, and he felt panic closing down upon him like a black curtain when he remembered how it had made him feel, how it had made him act so entirely unlike himself. For with it he knew she could control him again, have him again, and he would not be able to stop her or himself. She could force it on him if she choose, and he could still feel the tracks of fire from her hands on his body. Wished to God he could not. "Please," he found himself whispering, pleading in a voice he could not even recognize as his. "Please, don't." She seemed to consider, then, sighing resignedly, flipped a sheet across his nakedness. He gasped silently, dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. "You're a good lay, Agent Mulder," she said wistfully, "but not so good that I would take you unwilling. Not now." There was only sadness now. "I only wanted you to love me and stay with me." Without opening his eyes, Fox told her softly, "Sex isn't love, Angela." He, more than anyone, should know that. She looked at him with mournful, dark eyes from beneath the strands of her dark blond hair. "I never had a chance to find that out." He thought about her life and said nothing, but listening to the whisper of charity he still felt towards her, he found he had to agree. No, she never had. Angela rose then from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting and looked down solemnly on a small table sitting beside the bed that he had not noticed before. "But a pleasant interlude would have delayed this," she said. "I'm sorry you won't allow me, at least, to get you drunk. You may long for it. I did not want you to suffer." Fear sat up in him. That sounded ominous, like something done to an animal, and here he thought he had passed the test, he thought he had won. What had passed had been just a diversion for what was to come. *This* was why she had brought him here. "Angela, what *is* happening tonight?" He did not try to hide the anxiety creeping into his voice. Whatever it was, he did not want to know. But she was clearly reluctant, so, maybe if she was forced to put her intentions into words, she would lose heart. "How many times do I have to tell you?" She turned off the ceiling lights, and all but one bright lamp on the dresser. The new warm light, however, was not comforting. "They are coming to take me, but you are to be my protection against them." Yes, Mulder had heard - too many times - but still he did not understand. He had taken it as part of her ramblings, not as something real. "If you had wanted protection," he quipped lamely, "I would have bought you a German Shepherd." Companionably, she patted his left forearm and sat down slowly on a chair that she he had earlier moved beside the bed. She pulled to her the small table on which were several items, but he could not tell what they were from his angle. "I told you before there is more than one kind of protection," Angela said with solemnity. She took a large stainless steel bowl and placed it on the table under his left hand. "Throughout history," she told him, as though reciting something rehearsed, "there have been many objects of power." She picked a long barber's razor up from the table and held it to the light. Mulder felt her grab his wrist tightly and try as he might he could not pull it away. He could feel the horror rising in him with comprehension. "Angela, please, don't do this...," he found himself saying in the voice he had used before, but there was no dissuading her this time. She did not even seem to have heard him. She bent over his hand and with the razor nicked his wrist. It was a small cut, which he barely felt, but the implications were much more overwhelming. A fine red spray spurted over the front of her ragged robe, her bra, the skin of her chest. A few drops were on her face. Mulder bit his lip. If he still had anything in his stomach, he would have been sick. "Woman were thought to be very powerful during their moontime." She droned on, as she worked, in almost a chant. "Strong warriors feared them. Sacrifice, blood on the altar, are common themes from the Greeks to the Aztecs." She turned his wrist down so that the spray directed itself into the shining silver bowl. "Even the Hebrews protected their loved ones from the wrath of God by painting the blood of a goat upon the lintels of their doorways. Christ shed his blood for us, to protect us from death." She continued to hold the back of his wrist over the bowl with her left hand while soaking a cotton ball with a liquid from a bottle on the table. "Streptokinase," she explained clinically, unemotionally, while looking into his pale face, his frightened eyes. She swabbed the cut wrist. "It will keep the wound from clotting for a time. I need so much, but, then, you've been getting a little anticoagulant with your food for days now. You should bleed well." She massaged the muscles of his forearm thinking to encourage the blood flow down and out. "Did you know their blood can kill us?" she asked. He quickly looked away from staring at his left arm to gaze into her face. "You did?" she exclaimed. "This is like that. On the ship, they hated our blood, were appalled by it, but still fascinated. The color, the texture, but they stood in awe from a distance. So I thought, where do the old legends come from? *They* have been here as long as time. The legends will protect me. Will protect us." "Angela," he pleaded. "Stop." She looked into his face with insane eyes. "Oh, no, Agent Mulder. We have a long way to go and much to do tonight." *** Tuesday 11:55 PM Near Mount Vernon, Virginia. The address of the principle residence of Hector Prince, patriarch of the Chain and all of its criminal offshoots, was unexpectedly easy to acquire. An acquaintance of Dana's, whom she managed to reach on her cellular phone, gave her directions: five miles south of Mount Vernon, overlooking the Potomac on the Maryland side of the river. First, Dana Scully drove by slowly. The high stone walls and massive iron gates, flanked by what looked like watch towers, made the mansion look more like one of Washington's fortified embassies than the headquarters of a well diversified crime syndicate. Back lit by floods from the house, the bars of the gates cast long shadows on the driveway. While driving, Dana had made a hard decision. She parked along the side of the road and stowed her gun in the trunk. For this interview she had reluctantly decided that showing that sort of strength would gain her nothing. As she retraced her path back to the house and drove up to the gates, she was aware of how very vulnerable she was without her weapon. Seeing the body guard advancing towards her car with a semi-automatic under his arm, however, convinced her that she had made a wise decision. She would have been embarrassingly outgunned. "Heck of a time of night to be lost, lady," the guard said almost politely. He was large man and he carried his weapon with casual ease. Dana thought they must not get very many drop in visitors. "I'm not lost. I need to talk to Hector Prince. I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI." Carefully, she showed her ID, making no sudden move. "There are critical developments concerning Reti Frantilli that he should know." At this the man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He had thought this pretty woman simply lost, but maybe she had lost her mind, instead. "Mr. Prince, he don't see people without an appointment, *especially* your kind, and not at this time of night." Dana had rolled down the window. Now she opened the door, hands out and visible at all times. The man's gun stayed confidently lowered. He was cool. She looked small and defenseless. That had been her intention. Yet, her eyes were hard with determination, and, as Mulder had learned, an innate stubbornness. "I must meet with him now. Tell him I saw him in the courtroom yesterday. Tell him I know Reti Frantilli is innocent." This seemed to impress the guard, but before leaving her he flipped out a metal detection wand he carried fastened on his belt and used it to frisk her for weapons. All the latest technology, Dana thought, and here she had been prepared, at the very least, to be pawed while they did a strip search. The guard made a call from the guard house and before very many minutes she saw a small gate in the fence unlock electronically and swing open silently. "Leave your car and walk up," the guard said. "And no baggage of any kind," he added, taking her briefcase and purse. After checking her again he let her through the small gate. "And don't dawdle," he advised with a sly smile, "because they expect you at the house in two minutes. Otherwise, someone might become suspicious." Dana straightened her back, stepped through the gate, and walked up the curving path heading into the flood lit area in front of the house. She felt eyes on her from countless windows facing her from the old mansion. As she walked up the stone steps, the front door opened and a black man, as large as the guard at the gate, opened the door. This one wore a suit, but did not seem to be very comfortable in it. Silently he led her into what looked like a music room off the huge foyer. She heard the sliding of a bolt after he shut the door behind her. This room and, from what little she had seen, the whole house was decorated in a simple elegance. The music room was equipped with a grand piano in shiny black lacquer. In the corner was a concert harp. There were three straight chairs and an expensive brocaded couch but only three long slit-like windows. A very pretty prison. Sighing, Dana sat down to wait. *** Wednesday 3am Rappahannock County, Virginia How could eye lids be so heavy, Fox Mulder thought, as he fought to stay awake. He had driven thousands of miles fighting sleep; sat in parked cars during dozens of stake outs trying to stay awake because he knew it was critical to catch the slightest movement; sat through hundreds of hours of droning surveillance tapes, trying not to sleep from the shear boredom of it; but nothing, nothing compared to the urge he felt now to just give up and close his weary eyes. Nothing kept him from it now, but the overwhelming fear that, if he let himself sleep, he would never wake again. No, there something besides the fear. There was the waking dream, probably an hallucination, which for all its frightening aspects, was also comforting because Scully was there. He could hear her speaking urgently close by. "Don't go to sleep on me, Mulder. Stay with me, Mulder." She was practically sitting on his leg, trying to stop the blood spurting from the gunshot wound to his thigh. He was laying on a dock. He could hear the lap of the water against the pilings, the concerned voices of the other agents, the whimpering of the kidnapped girl they had just rescued, the sirens in the background coming for him. His leg hurt, yes, but his chest hurt worse, like an elephant was sitting on it. "We're talking acute traumatic hemorrhage here, Mulder. You have to stay awake until we can get you to the hospital." Her voice was not steady. She was afraid.. afraid for him... afraid for herself.. saying anything she could think of to help him stay awake. "Damn it, Mulder. I just lost my father. I refuse to lose you, too." He remembered how he began to shiver. He was so cold. Like now. No matter how many of the black jackets they laid over him, he continued to shiver. Those were the ridiculous jackets which they were forced to wear, the ones with the huge 'FBI' stenciled on them. Thank God, he was a special agent and did not have to wear them all the time. Might as well wear a bull's eye on your back. "You're going into shock, Mulder," came her sweet voice from far, far away. "I know you're cold. Your circulatory system is shutting down the blood to your extremities. Saving the good stuff for your brain and heart. That's why you're so cold." That was Scully again. No one else would talk about your circulatory system while you were bleeding to death. Better send a little more to my heart, he had thought, trying to breathe, and then he had blacked out, only to be jarred awake when they heaved his body roughly up onto the table in the emergency room. He was gasping by that time, even on oxygen. It had been close. Cardiopulmonary shutdown. Six units by the time they finished. Type-specific or O negative, whatever you have as long as it's quick, the doctors had ordered. STAT. No crossmatch. Then they had put him out. Now, here he was again. So cold. He shivered like on the dock, but help was nowhere to be found. Shivering, Scully had told him that other time, was the body's way of keeping you warm. He knew it was also an activity that had a high caloric requirement, a fuel Mulder had been singularly short of lately. When his blood sugar dipped too low, when the fuel was spent, the shivering would cease. At least the blood letting had been slow... maybe that would help his body adjust. Still, his chest hurt and he could hear his own panting breath sounding odd in his ears. For what must have been an hour Angela had worked his arm, and later his legs, coaxing the waning circulation to give up another trickle of his life's blood. And as the minutes passed he felt himself growing steadily weaker. His heart began to beat fast and light, like the injured bird's he had held in his hands as a child, making him feel light-headed. He had cuts in a dozen places now. She cut a vein and worked at it, massaging the muscles. Used more of the solution from the bottle to break up the clot when the wound tried to close. That worked for a little while. When a cut ceased to bleed, she moved on to another spot. When she realized he was too weak to resist her, she unlocked the handcuff and used his right arm, but by that time he did not bleed much, for he was so cold and his blood pressure was so low. His blood had retreated from his limbs, pooling in his brain and heart. That would keep him alive for a little while. At first he had tried talking to her, reasoning with her, pleading with her, lying to her. She had not heard him, or he did not think she had, until she yelled at him to shut up. She was irritated and becoming more frantic. The process was obviously taking longer than she had planned. She kept looking anxiously at the clock. Though his mouth was so dry he could scarcely whisper any more, he kept trying. Finally, she had exploded and in a fit of temper threatened to hold a pillow over his face and stop him permanently, if he did not leave her alone. She had even pulled the pillow roughly out from under his head at one point, bringing back the pain he had nearly forgotten. Then she had held the white death in her hands, stood with it poised over his face. He knew that she would have done it. He sighed, closed his eyes then with resignation and lapsed into silence. He did not have the strength to talk any more, anyway. It was life he clung to. Where there was life there was always - Scully, his hope. The only one he had. Maybe something about that look of defeat touched her or maybe she had become frightened, sensing how weak he had become, but she offered him something to drink. Though the agony of his thirst tormented him, he refused to drink. He would take nothing from her hand. So, she proceeded to do what she had threatened. She forced fluids into him and she knew how to do it, as she said, pouring a little into his mouth and then massaging his throat until the swallowing reflex caught. She forced on him a cool, weak tea, which he suspected was drugged with something, for he felt oddly light and pain-free afterwards. At first it made him sick to his stomach, but with time the discomfort disappeared. Some time later, Fox had no notion of time anymore, Angela finally stopped trying to coax the blood from him, certainly not from lack of trying. Thank God, she had never thought to cut deeper into the arteries. Maybe she really did not want to kill him. Now she took a brush and began her grisly work. It was odd for him to lay powerlessly and stare up through dilated, half opened eyes to see wide splashes of red now drying to brown around every door and window. She had made a ring around the perimeter of the room, too. His blood. Hell, but he could think of better uses for it. When she painted her body, he had to look away... Fox twitched. He had faded out. Something had touched his naked chest. Angela was crouched over him the red dripping brush in her hand. She was brushing the sticky stuff onto his skin, but not sloppily, not idly. There was a pattern to her work that he could see by looking at her own bizarre appearance. She was painting symbols; crosses of all types - Gothic, Russian Orthodox, traditional; the Star of David and words in Hebrew; the Christian fish; Nordic runes and Chinese characters; hieroglyphs from the Egyptians and the Aztecs; sacred designs from a dozen Native American tribes. She moved on from his chest to his arms, his legs. "Some for my little sacrificial lamb," she whispered. And then she cried. She became increasingly depressed as she worked. She should have felt better, but it was as if the horror of what she was doing had finally, in some way, worked itself into her confused mind. It was as if she finally realized the futility of it all, but could not be moved from the script she had written over so many years. If someone was coming for her, and Fox had given up trying to determine if she was sane or crazy on that point, he thought she had finally realized how little protection her circles of blood would give her. Fox was in a stupor now, only conscious when some noise or movement from her roused him. He dreamed of Max Fennig... saw again the gentle childlike soul of the UFO fanatic... remembered how terrified the man had been at the thought of being taken again. And, indeed, something not human had taken him in a wash of blue light while Mulder had stood in that warehouse, looking up, powerless to aid him... like now... like with Angela. If they really were coming, Fox knew he could do nothing to prevent it. As helpless now as he had been as a child when they had taken Samantha... Enough. He was so tired. He closed his eyes. No more about Angela and whether the men coming to get her would be wearing white coats - or whether they would be wearing no coats at all, just their thin, grey skins. Let his last thoughts be of Scully. He knew she was out there looking for him. He had seen her work too many times not to be able to see her in his mind... moving in her assured efficient manner, which would be tense and tightly controlled now that she knew he was in trouble. He could see her quick mind working, analyzing, feeling her way through the tangled webs to the problem's heart, a different path then his leaps of logic, but between them they had usually found the truth. It took time to arouse her to action, but once her temper and emotions were mobilized, she was as tenacious on a case as a terrier... his little tiger... as obsessed as she always accused him of being. He took comfort knowing she would not stop until she found him. If he had tears to shed, however, he would have cried thinking about her and how she would take it when she found she had arrived too late. God, he was going to die today. His last thought was that he was going to die and he had never kissed Dana Scully the way he had always wanted to kiss her - long and hard and passionately. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 14/21 Date: 28 Jul 1995 21:10:42 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (14/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/4//95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 14 Tuesday 1am Near Mount Vernon, Virginia Dana Scully heard the bolt slide back and a middle aged woman entered whom Dana instantly recognized from the courtroom. She was an West Indian woman with smooth coffee skin and dark on dark freckles across her cheek bones and nose. Her long dinner gown and string of natural pearls were elegant and expensive. Dana was relieved that at least her own suit was not too badly wrinkled. "I'm Pearl Graham, a friend of Mr. Prince's," the woman said in her lilting island accent, studying the younger woman as if she were some rare specimen. "I remember you. The prosecuting attorney spoke to you, as did Reti's parole officer, so you must be somebody." Dana made a gesture indicating that she wished to reach into the pocket of her suit for her ID. "I'm with the FBI," Dana said, noting that Pearl did not even flinch at the 'FBI' part. "Special Agent Dana Scully. My visit here tonight, however, is unofficial." The woman's eyes widened. "And you came unarmed. You are either brave or foolish, Ms. FBI. Why did you come?" "There is new information," Dana told her. "The FBI knows, as does the D.A.'s office by now, that Reti Frantilli did not murder his employer." "Reti has known that for a long time," the woman said, unimpressed. "Yes, I suppose he has," Dana agreed slowly. She had not expected gratitude, but she needed something with which to barter. "The new evidence came to light only this afternoon. I came to tell Mr. Prince that within the last two hours I made arrangements for the charges to be dropped and Reti to be released." The woman's chin came up. It was a firm chin, Dana thought, a formidable woman very much at home in the kingdom Hector Prince had created. "Hector, I think should hear this." She went to an intercom box on the wall, but paused and turned back to Dana before speaking. "Your statements can be easily verified. If what you say is true, and you would be a fool to say so if it were not, why is the FBI acting as a messenger boy, or girl in your case, for the D.A.'s office?" Dana looked unflinchingly into the woman's eyes and took a firmer grip around her impatience. As much as she wanted to hurry this, these people had every reason to be cautious. She must be logical, calm, and firm. At least for now, she would not beg, though she was prepared should that become necessary. "I think Mr. Prince may have information pertaining to the whereabouts of the real murderer. I *need* that information." Her emphasis on the word 'need' was not lost on the older woman. There were coals banked here, a fire barely controlled. Pearl turned to the intercom, putting her back to Dana to speak privately. After a few words, Pearl turned again to Dana. "Come with me," she said. The sections of the house Dana now passed were as beautifully decorated as she had expected from the foyer and the music room. The formal living room was decorated in blacks, whites and shades of grey with splashes of accent. A huge white marble mantle shot through with black veins gleamed as did the floors and all the wood. The woman's long dress swished in the stately silence. At the end of a long hall lined with excellent Afro-American art, Pearl opened two double doors to reveal an impressive dining room. The lights from two crystal chandeliers and many candles shone off the dining table's long expanse of dark mahogany. Sitting at the far end was a black man in tux and white tie, whom Dana recognized as Hector Prince. Although it was long past midnight, the table was set for two and dinner had been served. Now a maid was setting a third place. Pearl introduced Dana to the watchful man. "I hope you haven't eaten, Ms. FBI," Pearl Graham said, indicating the chair across from hers. Dana moved on startled feet and sat down gingerly like a child invited to sit at the head table at a wedding reception. "I'm really not hungry, Ms. Graham," she murmured. Pearl sat in her own chair and reached for her discarded napkin. "Call me Pearl, and eat or not as you wish, but talk is needed and we wish to go on with our dinner." The woman almost smiled then under her dark freckles. "You are lucky we keep a late house here." Unobtrusively, the maid set a bowl of soup in front of Dana and poured a sparkling red liquid into her wine glass. Hector leaned back in his chair and observed her eying her glass. "Cranberry juice and tonic, girl," he said in a deep, even voice. "I know the FBI does not like their agents to drink on duty, even if they are acting - in an unofficial capacity." Under his eyes, Dana lifted the expensive crystal goblet and tasted, finding it was as he said. His face took on an expression of coy satisfaction. "Now," the older man began, his grey eyebrows moving on his dark skin in the light of the candles and crystal, "Pearl says the charges on Reti have been dropped. You did this?" Dana set down her silver soup spoon. The soup she had tasted to be polite was delicious, but her stomach was not interested. "Evidence has come to light which shows that the murder was most likely committed by another. Releasing Reti under those circumstances is only appropriate." "And what about the eye witness?" the syndicate leader asked slyly. He never moved his unwavering predator eyes from her face. Dana's hesitation brought a thin smile to the man's face." Ah, that one," he commented. "Considering her past history, she would have been less than persuasive on the stand in any case." Dana was not surprised that Hector or his lawyer had probed into Angela's medical records. "I don't know why the D.A.'s office put such store by her." He cut his fish, put it in his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring, but the tension in his body had not relaxed. "And what was this evidence, if I may ask?" Dana straightened her posture imperceivably. "The evidence strongly suggests that Angela Larson either murdered Mitch Legget herself or arranged for it." The man stopped chewing, genuinely surprised. Dana's heart sped on a little faster. Maybe she had something to bargain with after all. "Amazing," he replied. "And," Dana continued, looking at him fearlessly, "I think you may have information which will help us find her." His surprise was even more pronounced this time. Recovering quickly, Prince smiled and made a soundless chuckle before going back to his dinner. "The woman is in the Witness Protection Program and you ask *me* where she is? Ask the D.A." Dana took a deep breath. "Her contact with the WPP has been murdered. We believe she arranged this also. By the time we were able to get the court order to release the location of the safe house, she had disappeared." "Together with her young, male body guard," Pearl added knowingly from across the table. Her eyes searched for Dana's reaction. Dana felt a warmth rising to her face and looked down at her plate. "I think," the older woman announced, "that we have just gotten to the 'unofficial' part of this very 'official' conversation. Ms. FBI, I saw you in the courtroom, as well as you saw us. I said to myself, that young woman is hurting, but I didn't know more. I saw your face when the judge announced that Angela Larson had phoned in ill. Your expression was not one concerned about some woman's welfare. There's a man involved for sure, I thought, and this one is worried." Dana moved uneasily in her chair. She had hoped to go through this without mentioning Mulder at all, but to concentrate on the need to find Angela. He was her weakness and she had not wanted to reveal any weakness to these people. "I've told you, we think she orchestrated two murders -" "- and you don't want to find out too late that she's added a third," continued the woman in her soft accent, her face beautiful and solemn in the light. A face, Dana noted, not altogether unsympathetic. During this exchange, Prince had finished his wine and signaled the maid to refill it. "Pearl, has always been perceptive," he said with, Dana thought, a gruff fondness and an appreciative glance in the elegent woman's direction. He turned back to Scully. "And what makes you think I know where she is? Keeping her location secret from us was rather the point, or so I thought." Dana took a deep breathe as imperceptibly as possible. This was the hard part. "Mr. Prince, you have a reputation as a man who does not let circumstances control him or his. Instead, you take the initiative to *control* circumstances. You also have infinite resources. I believe you made yourself ready to protect that boy from Angela's testimony. I also believe you are smart enough to know it is better not to act unless absolutely necessary. You would keep an eye on her. That is why I think you know where she went after she left the safe house." The man looked at Dana with respect. It took courage to say such things to his face and in his own house. "And if, as you say, I would 'control circumstances' what is to prevent me from exacting my own vengence on this woman?" "Because I would know and I have been a guest in your house." He let a ghost of a smile cross his lips. "So this is the information you want?" He was quiet and put down his napkin. "This is a capitalist country, girl. What do you have to trade?" Dana focused on him with cold eyes. "I have already delivered." "So you say, though I must have corroboration. Is Reti free in name only or in the flesh?" Dana's facade began to crumble just a little. Her heart was pounding. They *did* know. "The actual release may take time. Bureaucracies move slowly," she protested. The man raised his hand. "I have accepted the amount of payment, but I do not act until payment is delivered. No I.O.U.s." He stood and looked at Pearl. "Take this very tenacious person to a safe place of *our* own. I have calls to make." He turned to Dana. "When I hear from my lawyer that Reti is indeed free, we will talk again." *** Wednesday 4am Somewhere in Rappahannock County, Virginia Fox Mulder thought he was no longer capable of feeling, no longer capable even of consciousness. He had floated for hours on half formed dreams, half remembered images, sinking slowly, softly toward death. During the last hours, during his few moments of consciousness, he was always aware of the persistant fluttering of his heart. There had been little sensation other than that. But then feeling returned, not with a jolt, but insidiously, working in among his dreams, making them unpleasant. The forest, the God-awful forest... feeling the mites swarming all over his arms, his face, getting into his nose, down into his clothes. He had fought them, beat them back with his hands, fought to keep them out of his eyes - and hers. Now he felt them begin to crawl all over his body again, but he could not lift a hand this time to fight them. Someone, he forgot who, had loosened his bonds so he was free to move, but it did not matter for he no longer had the strength to try. He shivered. He had not shivered for a long time. The dream moved on, becoming consciousness. Sound returned, a low, low background hum that he felt more than heard. The subsonic vibrations were crawling over his skin, moving swiftly from irritation to pain. If he had been capable of caring he would have cried out for it to stop, but he no longer cared. What was a little more pain? At least he knew he was alive. Besides, there was screaming enough. Screaming over and over. Screaming his name. A bright light sprang up all around him, as bright with his eyes shut as open, as the dread subsonic hum etched itself into his bones. But the voice was not Samantha's voice this time, not like the voice in his nightmares. It was a woman's voice, not a child's, and she did not cry for 'Fox'. And this time there was wind, such a wind, which had begun small some time before, but had built steadily until now it seemed almost of hurricane strength. It pulled at him, sucked at him. If he had been standing, he would have been drawn to it, drawn into the maul of the maelstrom, but, as he lay on his back, its grasping tendrils could not get a hold. And there was a smell, a smell like hell. Sulfur so thick he could taste the foulness. It sickened him. His senses were overwhelmed by the light, the roar of the wind and the shrieks of the screaming, the taste and smell of death, the feel of the ants and the wind on his bare skin... he faded back into sweet blackness... ...till a woman's scream, inches from his ear, jolted him into painful consciousness. Angela had leaped onto the bed and began pulling cruelly at his nerveless body. "..der! Save me! Don't let them take me! I won't go back there!" She screamed, she cried, she clawed at him, completely hysterical. She hugged him to her, screaming for him to help her, to rescue her. Couldn't she understand, he could not help? He could barely breathe, could not move. Wearily, he opened two pale eyes and looked into her insane, horrified, terrified ones. Even though she was inches from his face, he could barely make her out in the blinding light. She was naked but not white. No, her skin was covered with dark splotches like his own. Protection... "From whom? From what?" he had asked. Now he knew. From whatever *this* was. This stinking storm. So she had told lies - about seeing a man killed, about being with Samantha. She had committed murder. She had deceived him in the most cruel and intimate way that one person can deceive another... and it was all to bring him to this place. She had told lies, because she felt he would not believe her, if she told the truth. But then, feeling the awesome strength of the storm, Mulder reconsidered. No, against this his gun would not have been any use at all. Then, if it were possible, the wind increased. Objects in the room, in the house, began to move, to fly, to be flung against wall and ceiling or dashed to the floor. The sound of the breaking and the crashing was deafening. Just as suddenly, he gasped, but there was no air. He felt as if a huge weight had settled on his chest. At the same moment, Angela also gagged, clutched at her chest, crumpled onto the bed beside him, borne down by a crushing weight. Their eyes were on fire. Blood poured from her nose; he had too little blood left to bleed. And at the point where they felt they could take no more, when the tension had become unbearable, the house exploded. Every window shattered. Deadly shards were flung outward in every direction into the night. With the explosion, the weight lifted. They both gulped for air, she with a mighty gasp like a swimmer who has stayed down too long and who has just broken free of the watery death, he with a whimper, feeling the blackness so very close again, sitting on his shoulder. Still the horrible vibration filled their bodies, the house, the very air. Able to move again she crept to him, whimpering, and lay on his chest, clinging and sobbing... terrified. Fox knew he should be frightened, too, but fear took too much energy and he had none to spare. It was as if he viewed all this from somewhere outside of himself, for all he could feel was a numbing paralysis. That was when the front door of the house burst open, slamming itself against the opposite wall. The woman started and then cowered as still as death, as if they would not be able to find her if she did not move. Over the sound of the wind beat the throb of a new vibration. They both heard... the sounds of movement. Heavy and light, fast and slow. The irregular, unmechanical sounds of many beings moving. Angela leaped from the bed like a great startled bird and slammed the door to the bedroom. Mulder could hear her screaming at the closed door from where she stood in the middle of the room, "GO AWAY! I WON'T GO! I'LL DIE FIRST!" The roaring of the wind and the crashing was muffled only a little by the closed door. She clawed her way back to the bed and grasped his limp hand. "I've failed," she moaned. "Didn't work... none of this worked... they've come for me, but ... I won't go... I'll never go with them." She looked at that moment upon his pale, bloody body, felt the coldness of his hand and realized, perhaps for the first time, even through her terror, the horrible act she had committed. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around him, and bent down and kissed him for the briefest moment on his cold lips. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. For a second time a door burst open, but this time it was the door to the bedroom she had just closed... and the storm descended directly upon them... and *they* were there around them, moving shadows against the brilliant light. Mulder tried to focus, but he was barely conscious. He saw only her, with her arms raised, and then with her hand against her throat. He reached out a hand stop her, or he meant to try, but he was too late. A warm spray fell against his cold skin, and the light, birdlike weight of her body dropped down upon him. Mulder sank into a great void where there was no more light or wind or thin, grey bodies moving around him like ghosts. *** Wednesday 4 am Near Mount Vernon, Virginia Dana heard a soft island accent waking her. She instantly remembered that she was curled up on the couch in the music room in Hector Prince's house, with a pillow and two blankets which a maid had delivered. Pearl had urged her to try to get some rest, reading in Dana's face how much stress the young woman had been under over the last week. Dana was surprised that she could sleep, but then she had done everything she could do. The rest was up to others. She only prayed that the D.A.'s office did their part and did not hold up Reti's release on some technicality. *** "Does this man you care about have a name?" Pearl had asked as she sat on the edge of the couch hours earlier, soothing Dana mother-fashion into sleep. Dana felt amazingly relaxed, still gripped in a wash of relief that Angela would be found and soon, while the uncertainty of what they would find had not yet asserted itself. "Mulder,"she replied. "Special Agent Fox Mulder." The woman nodded. "Lover?" Dana felt a pain in the pit of her stomach. How do you say not lover but more than lover, more than friend. "He's my partner, my best friend." She held a lip between her teeth. "We have been through 'hell' together." Pearl raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. "You know, Ms. FBI, Hector and I have known each other for years and years. We are closer than siblings, closer than most lovers we know, but we have separate bedrooms. Always have. He has his women and I have - visitors. Most people think that odd. " "I understand," Dana told her. The woman patted her shoulder and rose to leave. "I think you do." She smiled. "Now get some rest. It is going to be a long night." Dana looked up at her, feeling somehow that, at least in this, she could trust this woman. "How long will it take until we can go?" "As long as it takes," the woman winked, "but I'll do what I can to move events along. Rest while you can." Now Pearl was stirring Dana to wakefulness, some urgency in her voice. She had changed from her evening gown to a tunic and leggings in the colors of the African savannah. "Ms. FBI, the car is out front. Now is the time." Dana was instantly on her feet, searching for her shoes, but Pearl already held them. "How long will it take to get there?" Dana asked, her heart in her stomach, the adrenalin rush beginning to make her tremble. The woman cocked her head, thinking. "Dicken can drive like the wind when he needs to. Two hours under most circumstances, but we'll make it in an hour and a half." "We'll?" Dana asked, startled, slipping into her coat. "I'm coming, my dear, and so is Hector. You may need some, what you call 'back up', and Hector doesn't want any more people knowing that he's dealing with the FBI than necessary." Pearl held the door open. "Just one more thing; Hector makes the rules here. The FBI means nothing. You're just a woman looking for her man. You understand? You're just along for the ride." Numbly, Dana nodded. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 15/21 Date: 28 Jul 1995 21:10:44 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (15/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 15 Wednesday 6am Rappahannock County, Virginia The car was a limo. A long, white stretch limo that gleamed like a ghost in the night and flew like a ghost, too, across a landscape rising gradually from gentle dips towards the ancient mountains. In the pre-dawn blackness, they flew on deserted roads, past harvested, autumn fields and small towns. Dana sat on the pull down seat by one of the long back doors and stared out the window. She was trying not to think about what they would find. She had questioned Pearl and Hector for information about what they knew, but the woman would not speak. "Later," Pearl had said softly, and then she and Hector had curled up on the two long leather bench seats and fallen asleep. After they had been on the road about an hour, the grey of dawn began to make itself known in the sky. Dana marveled, as always, at the return of light. This morning, especially, she accepted that she would need the peace she always derived from watching nature unfold this way. First, you could see only a hint that the objects before the sky sat in silhouette just a bit more clearly then before. Then they became more and more defined, but, so gradually that, if you blinked, the landscape seemed to jump into relief unnoticed. Only, when the grey of the sky changed to palest blue, could she begin to distinguish color. This was also when she could see that her hands were clutched bone white in her lap. Now in true dawn, with all objects clearly visible, the November-barren trees bent and swayed in a stiff wind. It would be one of those days when the sky is brilliant blue, but the wind blows steadily in advance of an approaching front. Even now Dana could see a bank of clouds, far to the west, where the mountains rose. Pearl and Hector stirred. Pearl pulled out a thermos of coffee and handed a cup to Hector, then one to the driver, Dicken, and finally one to Dana. Dana wrapped her hands around it, intent on steadying her hands, and her eyes must have been asking questions again, for Hector finally began to speak. "I don't have a lot to tell, girl." The white in his grizzled, grey beard seemed to glow like silver in the shadowed car. "Yes, we knew where the safe house was, but you will understand if I don't explain our methods. All was quiet until Monday afternoon, then the woman moved the car onto the lawn by the front door and began packing. It was obvious she did not plan to return." Pearl put her hand over Dana's. "Our *observer* reported that the officer assigned to her left with her but, the man was not well." Pearl looked down into Dana's eyes. "She had to help him to the car, laid him down in the back. Had to help him out again when they got to their destination." Dana felt her chest tightening. She remembered the discoloration on the fingers during the autopsy, the beginnings of similar color on Mulder's. She had proposed the theory, and they had found the poison at the house, but a theory was one thing, to have it substantiated was quite another. "That's all we knew until a few hours ago," Pearl reported. "Hector tried to call our observer, to double check that they hadn't moved again, but the man admitted he had left his post. Weird things were happening around the house, he said. Too much for him.... lights, sounds, wind." Pearl shrugged. "Good help is hard to find." Just then, as the first red-orange edge of sun peaked over the horizon, the car slowed and turned onto a gravel road. Speaking for the very first time from the front seat, the driver, Dicken, announced, "Mr. Prince, we're here, and you have to see this." Stomach churning, Dana peered out of the heavily tinted window. At the end of the long driveway sat a small isolated house, painted an undistinguished, faded green. Something odd about the look of the house though, even from this distance; the porch seemed to be tilted at an odd angle. As they negotiated a curve in the drive, Dana caught a glimpse of a single dark car parked in the rear that did look like Mulder's. She saw no other. Dana's fingers twitched. Her hands felt empty. She wanted her gun or her medical bag, but Hector had not allowed either. but she longed for the protective feel of the cool iron in her hand anyway. Then she heard the familiar sound of ammunition clips being inserted and turned to see Hector and Pearl checking out large and effective weapons. Dana swallowed and turned back towards the window. Maybe she did not need her gun after all. Probably, under the circumstances, she would be safer without it. She was suddenly acutely aware that she had deviated so far from standard FBI operational procedures that it was not funny. Skinner would certainly find nothing humorous about her going to Mulder's rescue with a crime syndicate boss, his body guard and his 'significant other'. She swallowed, steadying her breathing. No, the situation was not funny at all and her emotions were fluctuating faster than she feared she could deal with them. As they neared the house, Dicken slowed the limo cautiously and what Dana saw made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She was out the door before the car had even stopped moving. Having traveled west, the wind was stronger here and pulled at her clothes, whipped her hair into her eyes. Angrily, she pushed back the irritating strands. She did not need or want this distraction. She found herself standing and staring at the scene. And listening... Now was the time for caution, for the wariness that Mulder had taught her, for what she saw made no sense. The house *was* wrong, even more so close up than from the car. Not only was the porch askew, but the structure had the appearance of having been dropped from a height of about ten feet. Not a wall was at right angles to any other or to the ground or horizon or sky. And every window was broken. Not just broken, but shattered, and the shards had been flung out with a great force into the yard. Some lay glittering at her feet. Dana crept closer, squinting, as the wind tried to blow dust into her eyes and she listened, but the only sounds she heard were the ones the wind played. Leaves rustled in fits and starts like frightened animals. The shutters, hanging loosely, banged and creaked. The front door, perilously hanging on its hinges, creaked. There were no human sounds. Hector, Pearl and Dicken, were silent as they waited near the car for her to make the first move. Dana appreciated their restraint and respect for her training. Even while her heart urged her to rush in, to see, to know - the wrongness here held her back. Observe, Mulder always said. Observe what? That the house did not look habitable, but not at all old. Paint had peeled, but the wood underneath seemed fresh stripped. The splintered boards revealed exposed depths which were perfectly clean, without a trace of dirt or weathering. The shafts of nails that had worked themselves out of the wood were bright as new. Dana jerked her head around when the wind suddenly began singing, like some dying thing, as it sailed through the twisted gutters and down spouts. In the bends and creases, she saw only bare metal, no rust. For people who had seen their own share of riot and destruction, even the three standing by the car were subdued, almost shaken. Stepping softly, Pearl came up to her followed by the others. "This place looks as if it's been through a war." she whispered harshly. "Our 'source' would have reported this," Hector commented, frowning, his gun hand resting against his shoulder. "I've seen destruction like this after a 'demonstration' between, maybe, two dozen assault rifles, but nothing like that has happened here." At that moment, a gust of wind, stronger than the others, roared up. It pulled at Dana, even forcing her back a step. A cyclone of leaves lifted up higher than Dicken's head and the house groaned ominously, louder than before. They all saw the porch roof sway. "It's going to go," Pearl said warningly. "No!" Dana surged forward, all caution gone. Dicken and Hector, though, reached the steps before her, the older, bearded man catching her at the foot of the porch and throwing her into Pearl's arms. Dana struggled wildly as she watched the two men mount the steps. "Let them go!" Pearl commanded sharply, holding her with surprising ease. "That's men's work! Certainly that's what we pay Dicken for." "Mulder!" Dana cried, the cry ending with almost a snarl of frustration as the wind blew another blast against them and played more of its dangerous music on the house. Only the fear that there may still be someone there, someone with a gun, someone who could be frightened to panic, forced her to keep the sound of her call from reaching the house. With the wariness of a trained professional, his gun at the ready point, Dicken cautiously pushed the remnants of the front door open with his foot while Hector pressed against the porch wall beside him. After a moment, the body guard peered inside, then turned and motioned quickly for his employer. Dana tried again to break free, but Pearl's ring-studded fingers were like a vice on her arm. "Calm yourself. Won't do no good, Ms. FBI." They were gone too long in Dana's estimation. The house was so small. Were Mulder and Angela there or not? Would she have to begin the search all over again? Worse, was he...? She heard the wind coming this time, a gust driving down from a depression between the hills behind the house. When it finally drove against the walls, the screech of metal and moaning of the wood was terrible. As if propelled, Hector suddenly appeared at the front door, moving quickly. Placing his gun back into its holster, he called to her. "Come now!" he commanded. Dana tore from Pearl's grasp, forced herself to tred softly on the rickety steps. The house seemed so unstable she was a afraid any unnecessary movement would bring it down. Hector waited for her, touching her arm before she could pass over the sagging threshold. "I know you have courage," he told her in a tight voice. "Remember that." Shrugging off his hand, Dana moved into the front room. As she did, the new rising sun, still low on the horizon, sent slants of gold through the open door, illuminating large, dark splotches that covered the walls, ceiling and floor until they glowed like glowing red jewels. Amidst the surreal splendor, the contents of the room lay battered and broken. Every stick of furniture was so much trash, splintered and twisted almost beyond recognition. That was once a table, that a chair. On the floor by a ruined couch, the remains of an old rotary dial phone lay on its side, the cord pulled from the wall. Dana let it lay. She did not need to pick it up to see that on its edge was a spot of dried blood and a few short, dark hairs. On the floor by the wall nearby there were more spots of the same dark fluid, also dry now. From a doorway at the far end of the room, Hector held out his hand. Dana went to him, moving softly as if afraid to wake... whatever unnatural thing was there. She stood paralyzed. The bed was all she saw and that was enough... a double bed with a woman's bloody, naked body sprawled on it... and blood. Blood everywhere. Dark stains radiated from this central horror, far beyond the confines of the bed. Rivulets, dried now, had once dripped down every wall, around every door and window. The ceiling was splattered with it and the floor showed the bloody tracks of seemingly countless feet. And Angela, or what remained of Angela, lay in a pool of crimson in the center of the sagging mattress. Her dead eyes were open and staring; there was blood on her face and her thin ragged hair fanned about her head. Her naked body was covered with the smeared remnants of bloody tracks and whirls. Deep cuts were on her wrists and across her throat was a ragged gash. Hector and Dicken were preparing to lift the body. Hector had the thin shoulders, Dicken the small, slender feet. They began to move it to a fairly clean sheet one of them had laid out on the floor. Dana started to raise her hand, to protest, but, as they took the small woman's body away, Dana could finally see what lay beneath, what lay tangled among the sheets and blood and a single thin blanket. A man lay in the same pool of blood from which Angela's body had been removed. The deadly, grey pallor of his skin was almost indistinguishable from the deep shadows under the sheets. His face was turned away from her, but Dana recognized the long leanness of him. Some pale skin lay exposed to the house's chill air. Fine muscles defined one bare shoulder and the length of one long leg. And there was the too familiar way his hair stood up when he slept. Once the paralysis broke, Dana moved, but she never remembered afterward how she made it to the side of the bed towards which his face was turned. Heedless of the blood that covered the floor, she knelt down. Mulder's skin was chalky grey and too ghastly to be peaceful, as he usually appeared to her as he slept. His lips had a frightening bluish tint. She laid a hand gently on his chest. He breathed... very shallow and quick, unnatural, but he breathed. The left side of his face, the side turned up towards her, was bruised a dark and sinister color and swollen. His eyes were sunk deep and shadowed in his face. Dana reached for his wrist to take a pulse but found herself shocked into stillness, fighting down panic. His poor wrists were cruelly cut, and so extensively that she could find no place to hold him. Refusing to think about what had happened, much less why, she flipped back the sheet and blanket. She was prepared to see him naked as Angela had been, but not to see the numberous unbound cuts on his legs that oozed a pale, yellowish-pink fluid. Pulling down professional calm to block her despair, she groped for the femoral artery on his good leg, the one that had not been shot that horrible day on the docks. She felt a faint pulse, too faint. Hastily, she sought the carotid under his jaw, touching gently the swollen flesh. The pulse should be strongest here, but it was too fast and very weak. "H-Hector?" She knew she must sound like a person asleep; it was so hard to get any words out. "Please, call an ambulance." "Already done, Agent Scully," replied the deep voice. So, he remembered her name after all. Dana needed no time at all to deduce that he was not only in shock but also seriously dehydrated. His skin was dry and slack on his muscles. From the evidence of the house, he had also lost a lot of blood. His body was covered with smeared designs in, what she could only guess, was his own dried blood. She refused to think about how much of what covered the walls, ceiling and floor was also his. She put two pillows under his knees and found a slightly cleaner blanket to cover him. She touched the hair on his head, moving the lock that always hung down across his forehead. When he did not respond to her touch, her eyes began to burn with tears she had no time to shed. While her hand lay on his cheek, a new blast of wind struck the house, and it was as if every board screamed to break free of every other. Dana sprang to cover the injured man with her own body as plaster dust rained down from the ceiling. The house sang in a mad chorus of noises, none of them comforting. At that moment, Dana woke from one terrible dream and entered another. She had found him, now she realized it would be no simple matter to keep him. Hector was suddenly at her elbow. He took her wrists in his strong hands and lifted her to her feet. "No!" Uncomprehending, she fought him as he forced her the few steps towards the bathroom and thrust her hands and arms under the running water in the sink. "No! Hector... damn you, let me go!" Pearl was there, too, and roughly lathering Dana's arms with the soap. Dana twisted, tried to get away from them and back to Mulder. She could hear Dicken tearing a sheet into strips for bandages. She prayed it was a clean one. Odd, she had never asked anyone to do that. Even so, she fought because she should be there. "Do you want to get it, too?" Pearl asked her, tensely. "It's not pretty... do you want to get it?" That was when Dana noticed her own arms were covered in blood and realized they had been talking about AIDS. "Mulder doesn't have it - " she tried to explain. "You would know, I imagine," Pearl told her curtly, scrubbing quickly while Hector continued to hold her, "but *she* has been in an institution. A young woman like that? *She* probably did!" At that Dana's eyes went wide, dismayed. Angela had bled to death on that bed; her blood was everywhere mixed with his. And Mulder had so many open wounds... She flung herself back against Hector, raising her dripping fists in the air. Pearl held her with strong arms. "You hold on... We'll do for him..." Dana's eyes leaped towards the bedroom. Dicken had removed the blanket and loosened Mulder's long limbs from the last of the winding sheets. Now he and Hector were wrapping the torn strips of sheeting around the cuts on the injured man's arms and legs. "What do I care...." Dana shrank away, trying to slip from the woman's arms. "He needs me." Pearl held her tighter, with fury and determination. "You *care*," she ordered. "There is glass everywhere here. Dangerous for you and he'll need you healthy, do you hear?" Dana beckoned to the men. "But they..." Pearl shook her head. "Won't harm us, Ms. FBI." Only then did Dana understand. She looked from Pearl to Dicken to Hector and back and she knew. "All three of you?" Pearl nodded briskly. "Can't be helped now. We do well enough for the moment and we can't be more of a threat to him than he's been exposed to already." She thrust some car keys into Dana's hand. "You... you go out to the car. In the trunk you'll find some blankets, they'll be clean and warm. Get them and lay them on the porch. We'll bring him out to you." Dana looked back as Pearl shoved her towards the entrance. "He's in shock... he shouldn't be moved..." Hector glared at her. "Do you want him to stay here? This place could come down at any time! It will when the storm comes." Over the whistling of the wind, Dana heard, far off, a distant rumble of thunder. "Support his head and keep it low," she ordered and with one final backwards glance dashed outside to the car. The wind caught her as she crossed the yard. Dana raised her eyes and the black ridge of the approaching storm front reared above not so distant hills now. She fumbled with the large ring of keys Pearl had given her, finally finding the ones for the limo. She averted her eyes from seeing anything in the trunk but the blankets, and, if the truth be known, she never did remember what else was there. What Hector and his people transported as part of their normal 'business' dealings was no concern of hers, not today. She found three blankets and laid two on a spot on the porch which Dicken had swept free from the glass and where they had not tracked the blood. Then she ran inside with the third to find Pearl with a cloth and a basin of water. Hector and Dicken had moved Mulder to the edge of the mattress where it was cleaner and Pearl was just finishing washing the worst of the blood from Mulder's pale skin. "What are you doing?" Dana cried, grabbing a towel and trying to dry the thin arms and legs. He was already so cold, too cold. "That won't help." "With our people it does," Pearl answered, her hands moving quickly in a kind of desperation. "He'll get better care if he's clean." "No medical professional would deny treatment -" Dana began to protest, but then she saw Pearl's closed, hard face. Dana thought, And from the sorrow Dana saw on that face she knew Pearl had had someone close go into some inner city hospital... someone who did not come out. Maybe more than one... maybe many. Hector came and put his hand firmly on the older woman's arm. "That's enough, Pearl. There's no more time." He alone was able to capture his companion's attention. They gazed into each other's eyes with unfathomable understanding. Dana took the cloth and basin from her. "Thank you," she said and she meant that. "But it will be all right... " Dicken took the blanket Dana had brought in and, carefully, he and Hector made something of a litter. Dana supported Mulder's head as they lifted. For a few seconds she felt the strong muscles in his neck, the once soft hair, now dry and mattered with what she did not want to think about. At that moment, without warning this time, another wave of wind crashed like breakers on a beach against the house. Involuntarily, all huddled. The house stood, but when the worst had passed, they moved quickly. They carried the limp form out onto the porch and on the cleared area cocooned him in the thick grey blankets. Hector and Dicken bore him then into the lee of a potting shed, on the opposite side of the yard from where Angela's body lay on the dry grass shrouded in its stained, white sheet. Dana sat on the ground by the shed and found its walls blocked most of the wind. She could even feel a little warmth as the early morning sun reflected off the shed's peeling, white paint. It would be as warm here as anywhere. The house had been as cold as hell, anyway. It was ironic that the sun still shone at all with the black, piling clouds so near. Dicken ran once more into the house and brought out pillows to raise Mulder's legs. His head they laid in her lap. A further blast of wind suddenly made the house tremble. One of the porch supports began to fall. The porch roof twisted and crashed, sending up a cloud of rising dust. Hector and Dicken looked at the house for a moment. Hector shook his head, then he stood back and gave her a somber nod. That was when Dana knew they were leaving. Pearl crouched down beside her and put something into her hand. "I found these in the bedroom," she said, handing Dana two soiled envelopes. Dana paid little attention, noting merely that the top envelope was addressed in Mulder's scrawled script, before she slipped them into her pocket. Instead, she was looked up into Pearl's incredibly dark eyes. "Thank you," she said, sincerely. "Without you and Hector...." Pearl raised her hands. "I've had a man like him... and a son. I've felt like you do... and like you will. It's life." And waving slowly, she heading towards the car. Dana heard the sound of car doors opening and closing and the engine of the limo start up. She was not surprised that Hector and Pearl would want to be gone before the ambulance and, probably, the police came. She did not feel abandoned, however. She had what she wanted. Besides, she knew that they would wait somewhere, quietly, out of sight, and not leave the area until they knew she was being taken care of. They were good at watching. Finally, alone with him and having nothing further she could really do, Dana smoothed his brow and talked to him... about what, she did not remember. Just talked and held her grief as she held him close. She had been gazing up at the storm, a little apprehensive and wondering why the ambulance was taking so long, when she heard a sigh, a hoarse whisper, that might have been "Hey" spoken no louder than a breath. At first she thought that the barely audible sound was only an eddy in the wind. Dana looked down... and caught a glimmer under the eyelids, just a little, but enough to make her own words catch in her throat. "I'm here, Mulder." A dry voice spoke, a voice more like leaves rustling, than his own. "Scully..." He tried to smile then, but failed. "Sorry... picking up... pieces again." He struggled, took an exhausted, rattling breath. "You deserve ...better." "I don't want better," she told him, "just you." But she was afraid he had not heard. He seemed to have lost consciousness again. A moment later, she caught the flutter again. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, but even open they would not stay focused on her. "Save your strength," she soothed. "I won't leave you." His head moved imperceptibly. "Dana... kiss me ... good night." His soft words took her so by surprise that for a moment she thought she had not heard correctly. She did not understand. In some delirium, did he mistake her for his mother? Was that why he had asked her to kiss him good night? No, he had called her - 'Dana'. A wave of warmth ran through her and she bent down to do as he had bade her, but as her lips touched his, she found them cold and they did not respond to hers. Suddenly anxious, she swiftly sought for the pulse again. When she found it, throbbing like the heart of a bird, under her fingers, her relief was so great that the tears she had struggled so long to repress would no longer be held. She bowed her head and kissed him again on his cool lips, though she knew he was no longer conscious and, when she straightened again, two of her tears glistened on his cheek like pale stars. Five minutes after the last dust from the limo had settled, Dana saw the approach of lights, the red and white of the rescue squad and blue and red of the county police. End of Chapter 15: So ends Book I of The Abductee. The plot weaving, puzzle-solving, rescue part is done. From the post on EMXC, it's been suggested that I warn the action adventure crowd that Book II of the Abductee (Hope and Healing, chapters 16-21) is very different. It's partly a medical drama for you ER fans and there are many loose ends to tie up and emotional issues to deal with. Mostly it's about relationship destruction and rebuilding. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Abductee 16/21 Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:49:59 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (16/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/29/95 ATTENTION: So begins Book II: Hell and Healing, chapters 16-21. "She had found him, now she realized it would be no simple matter to keep him." - Dana Scully, chapter 15. "Not all the effects of trauma are physical, as I'm sure you know." - Dr. Barbara Adams, chapter 17. This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 16 Wednesday, 6:30am Rappahannock County, Virginia Weeks and Months later when Dana Scully remembered this time, she thought, ironically, about how completely life, as protrayed in novels and the movies, failed to mimic real life. Mulder did not get a transfusion and wake up an hour later and smile at her. They did not go back to work three days later as if nothing had happened... Dana was furious and frightened. The ambulance arrived with only a single, relatively inexperienced paramedic and a fireman with first aid training who functioned as driver and attendant. Why would anyone send so little help for a case which was so critical? Hector or Dicken surely reported the seriousness of the situation, but then Dana remembered that this was the rural South. Unkindly, she wondered if the 911 operator had placed the caller's speech pattern and sent just these two, who were so clearly out of their depth. Pearl's frantic need to clean away the blood began to make more sense. Dana swore. If only she had placed the call. If the dispatcher had been told that the victim was an FBI agent, the entire fire department probably would be here now, plus the emergency care supervisor and the county police would have sent more than a single patrolman. The young paramedic had been momentarily stunned. The patient's degree of blood loss and shock was clearly outside his experience, but he took hold of himself and tried to look optimistic. Obviously, the rescue squad did not carry blood, which in addition to colloids was what the patient needed, but they did carry a good substitute, a fluorocarbon-hemoglobin solution developed for emergency use by the military. Dana was acquainted with it and felt a modicum of reassurance. The young man informed her with crisp efficiency that they would start the IV first and then transport. There was nothing Dana wanted more than to stay with Mulder as the paramedic and his assistant completed their evaluation, but she knew she had another obligation, in its way as pressing as the first. Angela was dead and she did not want Mulder to be implicated in any way in her death. Though the very thought of leaving Mulder in the hands of these two was torture, she needed a witness to what Angela had done and how she had died. Flashing her ID, she demanded that the young patrolman accompany her to gather evidence. Looking at the obviously disintegrating house, the strapping, six foot four trooper thought her insane, but, as Fox Mulder had learned, it would take a better man than he to refuse Special Agent Scully. After insisting on a guarantee from the rescue squad crew that they would not budge an inch without her, Dana led the officer around the fallen porch roof and into the house. She was all too aware of the danger to which she and the officer were exposing themselves. There were long cracks in the ceiling and on the walls which had not been there even a few minutes before and multiple places where plaster had fallen. The house would not stand much longer. All the more reason this had to be done now. Once inside, the wide-eyed officer collected the razor and bowl which Dana had made certain that no one had touched. These would have Angela's fingerprints. As the officer rapidly photographed the scene, she searched the rooms. Behind the bed Dana found Mulder's blood-stained gun which she let the trooper take as evidence and under some broken furniture, Mulder's clothes. They smelled depressingly of sweat and vomit as she slowly folded them. Reluctantly, she handed them to the officer to bag and mark. Dana carefully pocketed Mulder's ID and wallet and his court-day tie. There was no time to look for more. The officer was nervously shifting from one foot to the other, eager to leave. Dana herself was torn between the desire to find Angela's purse or suitcase, either of which might supply valuable evidence, and anxiety over why the rescue squad staff had not announced that they were ready to leave. Concern for Mulder, her own safety and that of the patrolman won out. They fled the house as it groaned in protest under the assault from a fresh blast of wind. The accompanying clap of thunder indicated the storm had come much closer. The first huge drops of rain were falling as Dana raced across the open space to the waiting ambulance. As she wrenched open the door, the paramedic and attendant were shaking their heads, grave expressions on their faces. "What's the problem?" she asked, glaring from one to the other. The paramedic's brow glistened with the sweat of effort. "We haven't been successful getting a line in," he told her, with evident frustration. "Can't find a decent vein." "Oh course, you can't," she snapped. "He's badly dehydrated, hypovolemic and in shock. You'll probably have to do a cut down." The young man looked at his companion. "That's what we figured. 'Fraid, though, that's not something we have much call for. We've got the kit and I've got this," he said hefting an official-looking procedure binder. "I'm just waiting for someone to come on the horn to talk me through it. It'll be all right." But Dana did not like the look in the young man's eyes at all. He was scared. The attendant was estimating femoral pulse and blood pressure. Even with a blood pressure cuff he had not had any better luck than Dana in finding a pulse the traditional route. There was sweat on his brow as well. "I estimate 65 over 40," he reported gloomily. Seriously alarmed, but more furious still with their lack of experience, Dana pulled out the copy of her medical license which she kept behind her ID and thrust it into the paramedic's face. As he was warily examining the document, she pushed her way in beside the gurney and snatched the pair of clean latex gloves from his hands. Pulling back the blankets, she exposed the bone white thigh. "Get me the kit," she ordered. "I'll do it myself." "Lady, our liability doesn't allow - " the paramedic began. "I'll tell you what you can go with your liability. I have not gone through hell these last three days to let this man die either for your incompetence or for your liability. Now get me the damn kit!" Quailing before her credentials and the stormy fire in her eyes, and realistically recognizing his own limitations, the paramedic surrendered and handed her the items from the kit as she requested them. Mind and body anchored firmly in the professional detachment she had had to master over the years just to do her job, Dana made a firm deep cut with the scalpel above the femoral artery, fighting back tears only when she saw how little blood welled up. Grasping more tightly to a calm she barely felt, she smoothly inserted the large bore catheter and the blood substitute and volume expanders finally began flowing. She let out the breath which she had, unknowingly, been holding. "Let's get the hell out of here." As the ambulance flew threw what was now a full thunderstorm, Dana sat at Mulder's side and would not budge. Unfortunately, there was not much she could do; maintain the airway, keep an eye on the IV line to make sure it was running freely, track the vitals the paramedic collected. Within a few minutes, Mulder's blood pressure came up a little, but his heart rate continued to be too fast and too weak. His breath sounds were weak but clear which was the best anyone could expect. His color had improved a little because the paramedic had inserted an airway while Dana was in the house and put him on full oxygen. Dana sat as still as a stone, her hand on his, afraid that even her breathing would disrupt the delicate balance he was walking. She had no doubt it was that serious. At every pitch and roll of the cab over the ill-kept country roads, her heart caught in her throat as a flicker of discomfort passed like a shadow over Mulder's face. When they were still ten minutes from the local hospital, or so they told her when she inquired for the twentieth time, Mulder's breathing became more irregular and the paramedic reported that his blood pressure had dropped a little. Dana tore the stethoscope from the neck of the attendant and listened to Mulder's chest, swore that there must be a trick to learning to use these things in a moving vehicle. His breath sounds were no longer clear. They had gambled and lost, he had fluid in his lungs. Dan knew from the beginning that was a possible complication of low blood pressure and the suddenly increased intravascular volume, but they had had no choice but to treat the shock. He coughed weakly and Dana found a fine red spray dribbling from the corner of his mouth. She fought back her tears, as she cleaned the spot with a scrap of gauze. Her mind began spinning. If there was one complication, there could be others. Frantically, she pulled back the blankets he was wrapped in and found that the inner lining of sheets the ambulance crew had added was now stained in places with a mixture of tissue fluid and blood from his leaking wounds. Stomach constricting, Dana reported to the paramedic, "He's bleeding." There was no need to say more. The young man crawled over and spoke hastily through the cab window to the driver. A moment later Scully felt the ambulance leap forward, to tear over the pock- marked, narrow roads even more recklessly than before, the wailing of the siren harmonizing eerily with the constant rumbling thunder and the white-noise hiss of the tires on the wet road. With an efficiency of motion, the young paramedic rummaged in his drug box and pulled out a vial of epinephrine which he began drawing up into a syringe. Dana frantically shook her head. The vasodilator was contraindicated in problems such as Mulder's. Except to increase the percentage of oxygen he was receiving, there was really not much they could do or should do until they got to a better facility. And what they had done may not enough, Dana feared, not nearly enough. For they had started the IV and poured in fluid and dextran and electrolytes and the oxygen-carrying fluorocarbon molecules to correct the shock and hypotension and to deliver oxygen, but in the process they had diluted out his platelets and coagulation factors. So he bled and, with a pain deep and tearing, Dana knew that he was bleeding internally, just as surely as the soaked-through, jury-rigged bandages Hector and Dicken had put on over the cuts, showed that he was bleeding externally. Scully reached into her pocket and, pulling out Mulder's wallet, she flipped it open in front of the young paramedic's eyes. "Agent Mulder's blood type is AB," she shouted to him, raising her voice over the sound of the siren and the thunder and the pouring rain. "You have to inform the hospital. He's going to need platelets and fresh frozen plasma as soon as we get there." For these she knew they would need his type. For red cells he could use anything, but for plasma factors only his own type would do or risk a delayed transfusion reaction later with all of its liver complications. This added stress Mulder did not need in his current condition. The paramedic's expression was glum as he passed the word on to his companion who took the message. Distantly, she heard the driver speaking to someone over the radio as she looked down at the ID, at the picture of the serious young man on the official portrait, and then back at Mulder's face. She touched his hair, stiffened with sweat and blood. "Live, Mulder" she whispered. "Don't leave me." Dana calculated later that half of the staff of the small county hospital must have been waiting when the ambulance arrived. They were quick and efficient as they pulled the gurney into the single bay emergency room and began taking blood gases and setting up an additional IV, but Dana was appalled by the size of the place. She had been in clinics that were larger and better equipped. She positioned herself at his left side, held his hand, and obstinately refused to leave when they insisted. "I'm a doctor. I'll gown if you want, but I'm not leaving." They did not make her leave. A trim, grey-haired woman dressed in green scrubs appeared and hovered at her elbow. Both kept as still as possible in order to stay out of the way of the frantically working doctors and nurses. "I'm Anna Hastings, charge nurse here," the woman said, close to Dana's ear, though she still had to raise her voice to carry over the rapid issue of orders flying around them. "I need information. Are you family?" Dana shook her head. No matter how ill he was, *they* would never come. He might as well not have a family, the little they cared. She showed his ID and hers, wearily expecting this universal procedure. "We're FBI. I'm his partner. I can tell you everything you need to know." Wide-eyed, Nurse Hastings nodded. The patient's impossible injuries and the condition in which he had arrived beginning to make at least some sense. What could one expect from Feds and Washington-based ones at that? With practiced calm, she inquired about the patient's name and address, his insurance, existing medical conditions and drug allergies. Dana answered in a distracted monotone having answered the same questions too many times before. As the woman was writing an orderly came and said something to her which was too soft for Dana to hear. The older woman lightly touched Dana's arm to get her attention. "I've just been told they're requested a medivac. We'll stabilize him the best we can, but you can see the size of this place. We're not prepared to deal with conditions like his." Dana had known this, had wondered with a fear in the pit of her belly how this place would ever get him through. Best of intentions would not be enough. Give the staff credit, from the start they must have suspected this would be necessary, which was why they had never taken him off the gurney. Watching the dozens of packages being torn open, the bags and bottles, vials and ampules being opened and injected in muscle and heart, vein and IV line, she had no doubt Mulder was using up a six month supply of the clinic's hemostatic factors just on these initial stop-gap measures. About the transport, part of Dana was relieved that he would be going to a facility far better equipped to deal with his needs, part was terrified that his condition might become worse on route when he was far from help. "Where are you sending him?" "Washington Hospital Center. As you probably know, they have the best trauma center in the area." The woman shook her head. "We just don't have enough of the products he needs or may need. We could send for some, but in the same time frame he could be taken to a facility where they have more experience." At that moment someone activated the automatic doors and Dana could hear floating in the sound of approaching 'chopper' blades. A moment later a voice over an intercom announced the impending arrival. At least the storm front had passed so the medivac team had been able to come quickly. Dana looked into Mulder's face and held tightly to his limp hand. Skin was cold and clammy in shock, that was how the books described it. Cold and clammy was how his hand felt. She did not want to see him go, but knew he must. He had not regained consciousness, but at least he now had two IV's going and a drug store of chemicals in his system. She reached out and placed her other hand on his cool cheek. Even while she stood there, she felt a decided drop in the tempo of activity in the room. "That's all we can do now," the young doctor told his team. "Let's ship him." At that most of the doctors, nurses, and technicians stepped away, stripping off gowns and gloves, pulling monitors and other equipment away from the bed. Housekeeping staff moved around them, collecting discarded packaging which impeded traffic. Two nurses stayed, hurriedly completing preparations for his journey. They unplugged cardiac leads and temperature and respiration sensors. Those would be attached to identical equipment once he was situated in the medical helicopter. They began to wrap him again in blankets. "Wait." Dana's hand was in his. "He's so cold." Having handed his care over to others, she now felt numb, and damned her exhausted voice for its pleading tone. She saw the expression on the young doctor's face change from the dissociated professional he had to be, to the caring person he was. He smiled understandingly. "Doris," he called clearly to someone in the room, "get some of those heat packs we save for hypothermia cases." A woman in a blue smock hurried away. "I overheard you say he's FBI and you're his partner. I've informed the WHC staff about what we found here and what we've done. They'll be as ready as they can be, but I hope you know this is going to be tricky. Are you all right?" Dana realized, wearily, At that moment the orderly returned with the box of heat packs and Dana helped six other pairs of willing hands to break the seals. Massaging the packs mixed the chemicals which combined to release the welcome warmth. As they frantically worked, the attendants from the medivac entered the treatment area and talked in low tones to the doctor. Dana shut her eyes and willed her hands to work faster, refusing to hear the doctor inform these attendants about the possibility of their patient 'going sour' along the way. In the scant minutes they had before the medivac staff took the gurney in their hands and began pushing it towards the waiting copter, as many of the heat packs as could be prepared had been packed around his body between the sheets and the blankets. Less than two minutes later, when they had taken him from her so quickly that she had not even had a moment to say good bye, Dana found herself on the ground, feeling the wind furiously whipping her clothes and her hair. Powerlessly, she watched as the copter lifted into the sky without her. There was no room for passengers. They would not let her go. *** The ambulance driver dropped Dana off in front of, what he told her was, the only rental car agency in Spencerville. Dana ran up the steps to the door and when it would not open, helplessly pounded on the glass. As she leaned exasperated against the door, panting, she stared at her watch and was astounded that it was still so early. Tears of frustration threatened to overwhelm her enforced calm. She needed a car, needed one now. In her purse she had keys to Mulder's which was still parked behind the house where she had found him, but that was evidence and she had no way to get there anyway. The steering wheel would be covered with Angela's fingerprints and Dana needed those to help trace Angela's actions in this case. If she had been in D.C., Dana would have used her position and commandeered an official car. She could care less that this was not strictly a business emergency, but she knew this jurisdiction did not have any vehicles to spare. Despair made her begin to wonder if she remembered the procedure required to hot-wire a car. Mulder was not mechanically inclined, but he was still better at that sort of thing then she. The sound of screeching tires a block away caught her attention. A small, blue American-made car careened around a corner and flew up to an empty parking space in front of the rental office. A young woman jumped out, dressed in sweat pants and a huge tee shirt, her hair still wet from the shower. She fumbled with keys and opened the door of the building while Dana stood by open-mouthed. "I'm Nina Henderson. Anna, the charge nurse from the hospital, called and said you needed a car real fast. Hope I didn't keep you waiting." Dana felt the first tear of the morning trickle down her cheek. "No, not at all," she said, smiling at the woman, and thanked the God above for small towns. *** Wednesday 8am Route 66, Virginia How could she have forgotten about Washington rush hour traffic. Dana grumbled and fumed and swore with every word she had ever learned from her career-Naval father, but it did no good. The traffic crawled. At least she had her cellular phone though it took ages for the information desk at Washington Hospital Center to acknowledge that FBI Agent Fox Mulder had arrived and had been taken to the trauma center. No, they had no word on his condition. It was only then, when she was desperate to find some release for her blind frustration, that Dana remembered that she had not called Skinner. There would be a lot of people still looking for Mulder. Once she got him on the line, however, it was clear that Assistant Director Skinner was not very surprised to hear that his wayward agent had been found. "The D.A.'s office called me. Early this morning - *very* early this morning - Reti Frantilli's lawyer was at the jail demanding the boy's release. The officers had the verbal go ahead, but they didn't understand why everyone had to be pulled out of bed in the middle of the night to process the paperwork. The man seemed to think it was pretty important, though." Dana felt the familiar burning in her eyes. "Agent Scully, I gather you had something to do with this?" "It's a long story, sir." "I hope you'll tell it to me sometime." "Someday, sir, I promise," she said carefully. Then she added with some hesitation, "Sir, I'm sorry to inform you, but Angela Larson is dead. The Virginia State Police will be contacting you and the D.A.'s office." What a vastly inadequate message after what Dana had seen. "She committed suicide." She heard a sharp intake of breath from Skinner and then a pause. "Agent Mulder?" Dana steadied her breathing and her one-handed grip on the steering wheel, relieved for the moment that the traffic was still moving at only three miles an hour. She fought to keep her voice level. "Not good, sir. He's been airlifted to Washington Hospital Center. I estimate he's lost at least 30% of his blood volume. He's dehydrated and in severe shock. And following initial treatment, there were bleeding complications." Skinner's voice which came to her was more breath than words, rough and alarmed. "Dear God..." Was he remembering his part in the decisions which were made which led up to this tragedy? "Please keep me informed, Agent Scully." "You know I will, sir," she said, hoping her gratitude for his concern echoed in her voice. "I don't have a recent update, but I'm on my way there now." "Is there anything I can do?" What Dana needed even Skinner could not provide. She saw no pause in the solid line of cars in the lane ahead of her and on both sides. "Please, extend my thanks to everyone on the team for their hard work." "I'll do that." Then she remembered another obligation. Evan. "Sir... did Evan Byers call you this morning?" "No, Agent Scully," Skinner responded, surprised at the question. "Should he have?" So Evan had kept his promise, and waited till morning and, in fact, had given her more time then they had agreed on. "No, sir. No, I'll take care of it." *** Wednesday 8:45am Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C. Even Byers ran into the emergency room of the Hospital Center. The trip from his apartment in Bethesda had taken longer than expected. There was rush hour inside the city, too, but he estimated that he was still arriving at least forty-five minutes ahead of Dana. There were staff everywhere, but they all seemed to be in a hurry to be somewhere else. Evan was anxious, not for his own sake, but because of the mission Dana had sent him on and she was waiting for him to call her back. He was momentarily distracted by a body, abandoned and ignored, covered completely by a white sheet and lying on a gurney which was parked against the wall. These people and their crazy job. If he found out Mulder was dead, how could he possibly tell her. Out of frustration, he finally touched the sleeve of a young woman in green scrubs who was passing close by him with her head buried in a chart. "Excuse me..." His voice sounded as lost and uncertain as he felt. "Yes?" the young woman asked, abstractly. But then she really saw him and he, her. Evan looked down onto olive skin and the darkest brown eyes he had ever seen. Evan thought reading her ID, He certainly knew that a resident's life was hectic enough without having to help out frustrated wished-they-were-boyfriends of obsessed, female FBI agents who just happened to think they made fantastic big brothers. By the dark, limp curls that had escaped from her French braid and fallen across her forehead and the moisture on her brow and upper lip, this woman was not only busy, but exhausted. Her neutral stare shifted to one of interest as she took in the well-formed male body, blond hair and blue eyes of the man standing before her in the lab coat. Evan pressed on, having gotten her attention. He was used to exactly how well he had gotten her attention. "I'm Dr. Byers -" Her posture changed subtly. She was thinking, trying to place him. She reached out her hand. "Barbara Adams. I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name. Are you new on staff?" "Ah, no, I'm with the FDA - " Evan started to explain but took the proffered hand anyway. "Oh..." Her expression turned anxious, her handshake cool. "Not another inspection." "No, no, not at all. I'm actually here because a - friend - of mine was brought in here." Evan guessed he could consider Mulder a friend. At least a friend of a friend, which was close enough. She fixed her gaze disapprovingly on his lab coat. "Camouflage," he confessed. "Uh, huh." Her stare was withering. "Look, I'm in a hurry. Cut me some slack?" he begged. "I'm looking for Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. He was airlifted here less than an hour ago. It's important." Her eyes lit. Patients were something she could understand. "Mulder? I'm sorry I don't always get their names if they come in unconscious and it's been a busy morning; there was a bad accident west of the city. By medivac, you say? The bleeding disorder?" Evan shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't the faintest idea what he came in with." And he didn't, for he had rushed off too quickly after Dana's call to ask. "Agent Scully didn't tell me. I came on her behalf. I told you... he's FBI. She's his partner and she's going crazy with worry." "If he's law enforcement then he got the red carpet treatment." The woman started moving, sliding through the throngs of people with ease while Evan followed as best he could, barely able to keep her in sight even with his height. By the time they reached the end of the corridor, he had caught up. "If it's who I think it is," Adams was saying, "then we've done all we can here." Evan did not like the sound of that. " They are getting a bed ready for him in ICU." As Dr. Adams swung open the door to the ER bay, Evan Byers had an acute reminder of why he had gone into research. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 17a/21 Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:50:19 -0400 The ABDUCTEE (17/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/29/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 17 Wednesday 9am Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C. "Is this your friend?" Dr. Adams asked. Evan stared at the patient on the table in the ER bay and did not have the slightest idea. After all, he had only seen Fox Mulder once and briefly at that and this long, pale body hooked up to every piece of equipment Evan could imagine, did not resemble anyone Evan had ever seen, with the exception of badly injured patients he had attended during his medical school hospital rotations. There were tubes everywhere. As they entered, a nurse had just finished hanging a fresh bag of blood and it dripped huge scarlet globules into one IV line. Two other IVs delivered fluids of various sorts. A tube drained fluid from his abdomen. A nasogastric tube was protruding from one nostril and an endotracheal tube leaned from the corner of his mouth. In the background Evan could hear the gentle hiss of a ventilator and the too-quick beep of monitor registering tachycardia. As the figure was largely unclothed, Evan could clearly see the catheter they had snaked down into his bladder. Evan cringed. Why had he gone into research? Because he never wanted to do things to a human body like this. The room looked like a disaster had come and stayed. There was blood everywhere... Blood on the patient, especially his arms and legs, at least the areas not covered by bandages, and blood on his face. The sheets he lay on were badly stained and the floor was criss-crossed with bloody foot prints. Empty blood and plasma bags were piled haphazardly on a stainless steel tray by the bedside, where they had obviously been flung as soon as they were drained. There were two huge yellow trash cans over-flowing with boxes of many shapes and sizes, disposable gowns and towels, rubber gloves, blood stained gauze squares - many of those - and empty IV fluid bags. The single nurse moved quietly in the room, trying to document, after the fact, what had been done in haste. Barbara Adams checked the name on the wrist band. "Mulder, Fox," she read. "This must be the one. I was coming to see him anyway. Dr. Seagram, the trauma specialist, just assigned me to coordinate his treatment." Evan felt uncomfortable looking at Fox Mulder like this. All the time that he was trying to make it with Dana Scully, even hinting to her that her partner was not worth her concern, Fox Mulder had been going through whatever hell had led to this. Dana must think he was the worst slime in the universe. This man was Dana Scully's life. Evan recognized that well enough now. At least there was something he could do. The poor guy was draped so he was only minimally decent and lying under heat lamps in the middle of a busy ER where anyone could see him. Though maintenance of body temperature was probably not an issue, it just did not seem humane to treat a person this way, even if they were unconscious. "Can't you cover him?" he asked. "She would want someone to." The resident looked hard at Evan, as if surprised by her own insensitivity. "You know, why we do this, don't you?" she asked him. "So we can tell immediately if they start bleeding somewhere. We don't intend to be disrespectful. The heat lamps will keep him warm." "Yeah," Evan muttered, "but I don't know if they are doing such a good job." Then more loudly, "He looks so cold...." And he did. Evan could see the gooseflesh on Mulder's arms and chest. Dr. Adams nodded as she continued to consult her chart. "He's fine. What would help us is if you could provide some additional information on how he got this way. We received only a basic medical history, and a description of the treatment he received before and during transport." Evan shook his head. "I'm sorry I can't help you. I wasn't there." There was one thing he did know, though. One point he took very personally. "Have you ordered a toxicological screen?" he asked. At the woman's questioning glance, he continued, "Because we're almost certain he was being poisoned... Arsenic, probably, and related substances found in the old arsenic-warfarin blends. The FBI has the suspected material." And then he remembered another point which he knew was close to Dana's heart. "Also check for street drugs. I think he may have been slipped something." At least for Dana's peace of mind, Evan hoped so. As she wrote, Barbara Adams shook her head sadly, as if to say, "We hadn't ordered one yet. We were a little busy, but I will now. I think they sent a blood sample from before he got most of this stuff dumped into his system." She smiled up at him briefly. "Thanks for telling me." Evan looked down at Mulder again and, as he watched, the pale body began to shiver. "Dr. Adams..." Evan's voice rose sharply with concern, "this can't be right..." The tone of his voice caught the woman's full attention. By the time she reached the patient's side the shivering was so bad he seemed almost to be convulsing and four separate monitor alarms were screaming. The doctor's eyes and hands traveled rapidly over the monitors, absorbing their findings and silencing them. She touched Mulder's bare, quivering shoulder and then felt the IV lines. "Shit!" she swore violently as she rapidly turned down the flow on the IVs. "Alice, bring the warm blanket that we keep plugged in behind the charge desk and bring it now! And have someone get a new blood warmer in here STAT! The coil on this one has gone bad. Damn, this unit was going in just as it came out of refrigerator." The nurse returned almost immediately with a folded blue blanket. Adams took it from her. "And get a new bag of whatever IV solution he's getting, but pop it in the microwave first." As the nurse hurried off Adams shook her head. "I've told them..." She looked up at Evan. "My apologies. They store the IV solutions on a cart by the back door where the smokers go to take their breaks and they leave the door wide open. I told them not to do that in the winter. Here, help me with this." She handed Evan one end of the blanket. "We'll have you feeling better in a minute, Agent Mulder. There's nothing better short of your favorite squeeze." Evan looked down again at that pale face and was startled to see a gleam, a flicker from under nearly closed eyes. "Could he be conscious?" Evan asked. Barbara Adams looked up sharply from where she had been trying to untangle tubing and lines and went to the head of the bed. She lifted up first one eyelid, then the other. "Amazing... looks like it... semi-conscious, anyway, though I don't see how and in his condition he shouldn't be. He must have a very high pain tolerance. I have to check with Dr. Seagram. I'll send a nurse in to be with you. For the moment," she ordered, "stay with him," and pushed the blanket into Evan's arms before rushing out of the room. *** Fox Mulder floated upon an ocean of fire. He felt nothing of his body but pain... pain and cold... sharp, aching pain in his arms and legs, numbing pain in his feet and hands, and a cold that invaded deep into every bone, muscle and joint. His heart did not ache so badly as... When? No use trying to remember. He could not concentrate. The pain kept muddying his thoughts and the cold was distracting. His chest hurt. Why was breathing so difficult? So tired... When he breathed his lungs labored, faltered, felt as if he were under water. Something odd about each breath, too, something unnatural, a sensation which frightened him. His gut felt ready to explode from a source of pressure he did not understand. And where his kidneys should be were two burning suns. Kidney pain he knew - he had been kicked there often enough - but this was worse, far worse. If the suns were going to hurt so, threatening to burn through the skin of his back, why couldn't they at least kept him warm. To leave this all behind, he thought wearily, to sink into black, sweet, painless oblivion... But a desperate desire to *know* took priority over every other longing. Had he really seen Scully or had that been a dream? If he could just reach the top of the cold ocean of pain and open his eyes, would she be waiting for him? Or only Angela with her sad smile and the sharp blade. *** After Adams' hurried exit, Evan stood for a startled moment all alone with Mulder and clutching the blanket. What an incredibly warm and comforting sensation; like holding a load of clothes fresh from a hot dryer. But he wasn't the one who needed comforting. Hastily, Evan spread the blanket over Mulder, who was not only trembling but beginning to move in little jerks and starts, though his efforts were weak and uncoordinated. His pale lips opened and closed around the ET tube as if he would talk if he could. Mostly, it was his eyes which moved. They repeatedly closed, only to flicker open. Frightened, pain-filled hazel eyes darted around the room, searching. Looking for her, Evan realized. "I'm Evan Byers," he told the man on the table, in a clear, louder than normal voice, as he tucked the warm blanket as closely as he could around the agent's body, "Dana's friend. You're in the hospital. You're badly injured and you must be quiet." He remembered then what Mulder called her. "Scully's on her way. Don't worry." Only the last seemed to have any effect. The roving eyes focused, warmed for the briefest moment on Evan's face, reflecting a weary gratitude, then slowly lowered. As the blessed heat began to settle in, the shivering and aimless movements ceased, the limbs relaxed and a long shuddering sigh flowed out of the pale body. *** Time to sleep and leave the world behind. *She* would be with him soon enough. *** Wednesday 10:30am Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C. When Dana finally arrived at the medical center, she found that Agent Fox Mulder was no longer in the ER but had been taken to the ICU, as Evan had told her by phone. She was furious, however, to find out that, not being family, they would not let her up to see him. At the charge desk Dana showed her ID. It had its uses. "I want to see the doctor who is attending Agent Mulder, -" What was the name Evan had mentioned? "- a Dr. Adams, and I want to see him now!" Within five minutes, which were a long five minutes for Dana, who fumed and stalked about the waiting room, a young woman of about Dana's age approached, dressed in stained scrubs. "I'm Dr. Adams," she said, shaking the hand of the startled agent. Then, without an audible sigh, but clearly with a physical one, Adams sat down as if her body had forgotten how to bend that way. "I take it you're Dr. Scully, Agent Mulder's partner? Dr. Byers told me you'd be coming." Somewhat abashed, Dana sat down. "Evan filled me in on his current status. Thank you for all you did." She had not expected a woman. Stereotypes die hard and they certainly were making doctors younger and younger these days. "I hope you didn't mind my sending Evan... I needed to know." The hour between her initial call to Evan and his update from the hospital had been one of the longest of her entire life. She looked around. "I really put him in a spot. I need to thank him. Do you know where he went?" "Taking care of the paperwork," the young woman told her. "We finally located Agent Mulder's ID which you sent along and found that he keeps his medical card in there, too. Handy," the woman said with a knowing expression. "Yes," Dana admitted. "Well, he goes into the hospital a lot." She looked at the resident and felt a great sympathy suddenly for this woman. She looked so tired. Dana wondered how long the young woman had been on call and how much of the energy she had obviously expended had gone into helping Mulder. "Evan says Agent Mulder is stable for the moment." Dana inquired, guardedly, "What's his prognosis?" The woman looked at Dana with sympathy. "As you might expect with hypovolemia to this extent. There's the hemostatic balance we need to reestablish. We'll be replacing his blood volume more gradually now, so we won't put a strain on his heart. His system's had a terrible shock. A disadvantage of the blood substitute they used - which saved his life, by the way - is that the fluorocarbon molecules are toxic. Normally they are passed by the kidneys within twenty-four hours. Unfortunately, in Agent Mulder's case, his kidneys have virtually shut down due to the shock and dehydration." "So you're going to put him on dialysis?" "Yes, to take the stress off his kidneys and give them time to recover. Dr. Seagram has ordered sessions twice a day for the next three days... longer if needed. The dialysis will also extract the fluorocarbons and the normal metabolic waste products that built up during - what looks from his blood work like - several days of dehydration. But dialysis really can screw up the clotting mechanism and his is already pretty compromised. We'll have to be careful, but it's necessary. In fact, in the emergency room they began peritoneal lavage. It's an older dialysis method, but we felt we needed to get a jump on this, and we did not feel his hemostatis was stable enough at the time for the conventional treatment. Prognosis? If he were older, or in poor health, he would never have made it here. Let's be thankful for small favors for awhile." The resident looked down at her chart, perhaps to hide from the misery in Dana's eyes. "Dr. Byers suggested that we order a toxicological screen. We've put a STAT on that. If it is arsenic poisoning or something similar, simple dialysis won't take care of the whole problem. We'll have to use dimercaprol, which acts like a chelating agent to remove the heavy metals from his tissues. That will complicate his recovery. His bleeding complications were not due entirely to the hemodilution of his initial treatment, by the way. His clotting time, his PT/PTT, is longer than I would have expected. We're testing for coumadin which would have been in the rat poison. He must not have gotten too much, or he'd be dead by now, but the bruising is pretty severe and the internal bleeding scared us quite a bit. To be on the safe side he's already begun receiving vitamin K injections as a counter measure and, of course, there's the component therapy until his body can begin generating the missing coagulation factors on its own." Dr. Adams had stopped reading, took a deep breath, and looked up at Dana. "We're having his records sent over from GW. I hear they are... extensive. From the number of old scars I saw, I won't be surprised." She sounded curious. "I assume this all has something to do with the line of work you are in?" "Partly," Scully sighed. "Partly, because Trouble just seems to have decided to take up residence on Mulder's doorstep." Considering this, Adams asked, "What kind of a patient can we expect him to be?" Dana knew what she meant. Would he do as he was told? "He's terrible." "That's too bad. He's going to need rest and lots of it. Also, right now he's in a lot of pain, I mean a lot, and he's not going to like the ET tube, but I think we're going to need it for a while." The young doctor shook her head, making dark ringlets dance. "What I'm saying is, I would recommend that he stay sedated for a few days, especially if he is, as you say, a difficult patient. But we can't do that unless he agrees, or, if he isn't competent, unless his family agrees. What do you think he'd want?" Dana shivered. "Mulder hates drugs, just hates them, but I know the alternative is pain killers and restraints. That's not much of a choice." Dana stared glumly at the floor. Adams let the silence grow, then said gently, "I know you'd like to talk to him - " Dana wondered. " - but the level of pain killers we're talking about would probably make him pretty incoherent in any case. Plus, he's totally exhausted. Having to deal with any significant pain will just make it harder for him to get his strength back. Dr. Scully, we're talking one sick puppy here." "What kind of time are we talking about?" "I think he'll feel much better once the dialysis has a chance to clean out his system. About three days." Dana briefly closed her eyes. Thinking of Mulder in that level of pain made her own insides shudder. "About that level of medication... you'll need to ask him about that. I can't take that kind of decision away from him." The young doctor nodded slowly. "All right that's what we'll do. I'll write orders that say he can have some, if and when he agrees." Just looking at the woman's haunted and swollen eyes, Adams could tell that Agents Scully and Mulder were *very* close. She could also see that the woman did not want her friend to be in pain. Maybe she could convince him. Adams watched the trim, but currently bedraggled woman from over the top of her clip board as she made notes. Dana Scully did not look the image of an FBI agent at the moment. Evan Byers had asked that she not be told about the incident in the ER because she would be upset to find out that she had not been there for her friend when he woke looking for her. Yes, this poor woman seemed to be under enough stress already. "Look, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder is young and strong." Adams held the clip board to her chest and tried to look encouraging. In fact, she was encouraged, just by the strength she had seen. If he had this woman to live for as well, it would significantly improve his chances. "Personally, if he's made it this far, I think his chances are good. So let's talk about the post critical period. He's going to continue to need a lot of rest. Does Agent Mulder sleep well?" Dana thought drearily, though it was a relief to think about the future. "No," she admitted. "He has a sleep disorder. It's all documented in his records." Adams pursed her lips, thoughtfully. She had guessed correctly. She had a restless patient and this was Washington. She had had patients with stressful occupations before which would not let them relax. "Is it bad?" A month didn't pass that he did not call her at night in an attempt to chase away a particularly bad nightmare. More often, he just called to talk, but how many of those times started out with nightmares he never told her about? When they traveled she heard him nightly in the next room, moving around at all hours. "Pretty bad." "Then I'd also recommend he stay on medication for several weeks, not just to help him sleep at night, but to make him sleep. You can come back too soon after these things. I can't emphasize how critical this is. A broken bone will keep you down. With this? If he's not careful, he'll overdo when he starts to feel better. Sleep has amazing healing properties and he's going to need a lot of healing. Again, that will have to be voluntary, but if you have any pull..." Dana nodded. "I agree with you, but I don't know what he'll say. We'll just have to see." "That's all I can ask." The young resident looked at Dana carefully. "You know, no one's told me what happened to this poor man." "We don't know ourselves," Dana admitted. "The only other witness is dead." "Well, he didn't do this to himself. He may be male, but he's still a victim of violence. Not all the effects of trauma are physical, as I'm sure you know. I'm certain the FBI is accustomed to this sort of thing, but I'm suggesting he get some psychological counseling." Barbara Adams stood. Dana's expression answered her unasked question loud enough. "Just think about what I said. Now, let me order the sedative so he can have it when he needs it. I'll be right back." Dana wrapped her arms across her stomach. Getting Mulder to behave - *that* was going to be tough. She felt tired already, but at least there were long term plans being made and that was good to hear. In the frantic rush just to save his life, however, she had not considered the long term psychological effects. He had been manipulated, sexually assaulted, tortured, and nearly killed. Given Mulder's propensity for laying guilt on his own head for everything, Dana's head began aching alarmingly. She anticipated a long recovery from this, in more ways than one. Suddenly, she spied Evan Byer's tall, blond form striding towards her from the bank of elevators. She found herself running the few steps to him and burying her head in his wide, firm chest. He seemed surprised to find her there. "Evan, thank you again. When I didn't know what was going on... Anyway, thanks for coming and being with him." "No problem," he said, gently unfolding her, with a certain reluctance, and leading her to a chair. He fumbled in his lab coat pocket, pulled out Mulder's ID, and handed it to her. "He's all checked in." She opened it, looked at his picture and closed her eyes. "They won't let me up to see him." She sounded so lost, so tired, like she was going to cry. "These things can be worked around," he told her, placing a hand on her shoulder, then thought for a moment before he began to speak. "Dana? Maybe this isn't the time, but there's something I really want to say." She placed Mulder's ID carefully in the inner pocket of her suit, next to her own, before turning to him. "What is it, Evan?" "I feel - I don't know - responsible." "For what?" "That Saturday night. I should have known something was wrong." "So should I," she said sadly. "But I was the expert on poisons. I should have seen the signs." He looked towards the ER bay where he had seen the results of those last few days. "All of this could have been avoided, if I had only noticed." Dana gazed at him wide-eyed. "If anyone's to blame, it's me. I saw and didn't make the connection. You had never met him." "But I was too busy looking -" he gazed shyly into her face, "-I was too busy looking at you and wishing he wasn't there." Dana bit her lip and patted him on the hand. "I know." And she did, too, he could see that, but she had been brave and hadn't run away. Most of the women he had known ran when they realized they could not return his affection. Dana, however, had been strong and offered her friendship and left it up to him whether he could accept it. "You're a good person, Dana Scully," he told her sincerely. The sound of Dr. Adams' voice, sounding more lively than she looked, caused them both to look up. "There, that's taken care of. I called upstairs and they've got him about settled in. They've just finished cleaning him up and plan to start dialysis within the hour." She smiled at Dana. "So, if you want to go up, you'd best go now." Dana started in her chair, both anxious and hopeful. Barbara Adams put her hand on Dana's arm. "I noticed the FBI has you listed as the person to contact in case of emergency. No family?" Dana looked up, surprised. She did not know he had done that. He never told her. Her heart warmed at the thought, but it made her sad, too. No family? "None to speak of." Barbara Adams had seem many such cases. The Washington area drew the landless, those without emotional ties, those who had burned their bridges or had them burned for them. "Thought so. I've put you down as family on the chart," she told Dana with understanding. "That way you can get in to see him anytime during visiting hours. If you're quiet and he stays quiet, more often. If at all possible, I'd also like you to talk to him about allowing the sedatives we discussed. I still think total sedation for a while would be best under the circumstances, but you're a doctor. Advise him as you think best." Dana took a card from her wallet which contained her office, home and cellular phone numbers. As she pressed it into Dr. Adams' palm she hoped the woman could see the gratitude in her eyes. As the dark-haired woman turned to leave, Dana remembered something else which she had been meaning to ask about. "Please, one more thing. I sent a sample of blood along with Agent Mulder for an HIV screen. Have the results come back, yet?" Arching an eyebrow, the resident checked the chart she held. This case was getting curiouser and curiouser. "We do those first thing. We screened both a sample from Agent Mulder and the sample which was sent with him, from an - Angela Larson." She smiled at Dana reassuringly. "Both negative." =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 17b/21 Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:50:51 -0400 The Abductee (17b/21), Chap 17 continued *** Evan walked her up to the Intensive Care Unit. He offered to come in with her, but Dana could see his reluctance. "I'll be fine. They won't let me stay long." The long room was very quiet except for the many-layered beeps from the monitors and the mechanically regular, bellows-like gasps of the ventilators. The light was dim, with a greenish cast from the instrument readouts. What always struck Dana as odd was the lack of any normal sound, no radio, no television, no voices. She was led about half way down the aisle of twenty or more beds. It was a large trauma center and what struck her at first was how much he looked at first like all the others moored in this unnatural harbor. But then she looked deeper and felt her legs begin to fail her. Accustomed to this, one of the staff slid a chair under her, but she barely noticed the gesture. As Evan had described, there were tubes. Dana was used to hospitals, but not like this, even with him. The fluid in the abdominal drainage tube was red. She knew most of the fluid was from the peritoneal lavage, but the color was due to the hemoglobin solution and the results of the internal bleeding, which, she was told, had been stopped. Knowing, however, did not calm the panicky fluttering of her heart. The tiny trickle of urine draining from his catheter was red as well. But, for all that, Mulder did look a little better. He had been washed, in fact his hair was still damp. Someone had shaved him so the endotracheal tube could be taped down securely. As for the ventilator, Dana hated those but knew that for Mulder, as exhausted as he was, they had no choice. At least he was not on total support. She could see from the setting that he was on eighty per cent oxygen and the ventilator was set to give each natural breath he took only a little extra push if it was too shallow. But he looked so vulnerable. The sight of him, lying unnaturally silent, with so many bandages on his arms, depressed her. Gently, she took one of his long hands in hers, being careful of the IV, and began to smooth the loose skin. She closed her eyes at the sight of the deep grey at the tips of his fingers. Dana had sat for only a few moments when she was surprised to feel a tiny movement in the hand she held. Then he began moving more generally, though the sunken, shadowed eyes stayed closed. In fact, they closed tighter, for he began to fight the ET tube in his throat. Even in his sleep, his face twisted in pain. "Mulder?" Dana asked anxiously. "Can you hear me, Mulder? It's Scully." A nurse heard her speaking and came quickly. Even though he was obviously very weak, she began tying the restraints they had already placed on his wrists to the bed rails to prevent him from pulling out the tubes and IVs. At the thought of Mulder being tied down, helpless, Dana's chest grew so tight she felt as if she could not draw a breath. She placed her hand on his brow, pleased to feel how soft his hair was again. "Mulder, if you can hear me, open your eyes? But don't try to talk, you won't be able to. They've got you on a ventilator." She felt the hand in hers tighten a little, and, gradually, he opened his eyes. At first just a crack and not for long. He blinked. His unfocused, glazed eyes traveled past her, searching quickly back and forth. His hand trembled in hers. "Shhh," she said soothingly. "Don't worry... try not to fight it. I'm here." The sound of her voice seemed to steady him. He focused on her for a moment, but his gaze slid away. He was beginning to shake. The nurse was obviously becoming concerned. So was Dana. She could see the panic in his eyes and the suffering. "Mulder, I know you're in a lot of pain. They can give you something. They can put you to sleep for a few days. You can get some rest, and then when you wake up the tubes will be gone and you'll feel much better. If that's what you want them to do, blink twice for me." His eyes focused, narrowed. He blinked once, only once. Dana sighed and closed her eyes. If that was what he wanted, so be it, but it would be hard on him and hard seeing him like this. Pain killers would help some, but he could spend a lot of time in pain and not be coherent enough to be able to tell anyone. He tried moving his head towards her, tried raising his hand, which she no longer held, to reach for hers. Suddenly, he grimaced, tensed as a spasm rippled through his body. His eyes clamped down tightly. Dana swiftly moved to put an arm around his shoulders, to stroke his hair. A tear was forced out from under his tightly closed lids. "It's okay, it's okay...." She held him in her arms, as best as she could with all the tubes and wires until the shudders passed. She could feel him quivering. With his face close to hers, he raised his eyes. Agony and apology were mirrored in their depths as their eyes met. Slowly, he blinked. Twice. At a slow, sad nod from Dana, the yellow-gowned nurse disappeared, then reappeared in a few moments and injected something into his IV line. In a matter of seconds, the lines of pain in his body and on his face smoothed. He stopped struggling. His eyes, which had never left her face, slowly closed. He relaxed into her arms and faded away into a deep and dreamless sleep. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 18/21 Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:51:04 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (18/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/29/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 18 Sunday 9am Washington Hospital Center Dana set her laptop up on the table beside Mulder's bed and tried to work on an update to Angela's case file. She had thought that with his condition upgraded from critical to guarded, she would be able to concentrate, but after an hour she had typed only two pages. Knowing what happened in that house with Angela would have helped, but Mulder had still not been able to tell her. Dana absently pushed back the wave of auburn hair that fell across her eyes and looked over at the bed, content just to look at him. She had been doing that regularly since they had moved him into his semi-private room. From the time of Dana's first visit to the ICU, he had been sedated regularly every eight hours. But the night before the doctors had decided to drop the medication regime down to nights only and let him wake up now that his blood work looked good and all other indicators were improving. The ventilator had been removed after two days, and at least for the morning, Dana had persuaded them to take out the nasogastric tube. The nursing staff always told family members that patients were not bothered by it, but having had one once, Data knew that was a lie. Besides, she had promised him he would wake up without the tubes. When writer's block had taken over for the sixth time, Dana pulled off her glasses to rub her eyes. Too little sleep for too long. When she glanced over at the bed she was greeted by two sleepy, hazel eyes which were calmly watching her. The sight of those eyes, so dark in the pale face lying against the white pillow, squeezed at her heart, reminding her of how close she had come to never seeing them again. "Nice to see you." She moved her chair closer to the bed. "How long have you been awake?" she asked, softly. He licked dry lips and made a noise in his throat, a look of discomfort passing over his face. She brought a cup of water and a straw down close. Awkwardly, he dropped his head to get his cracked lips around the straw, but paused without drinking any. Instead, he hesitated and lifted his eyes to her face. Dana did not understand. He must be thirsty. "What's wrong, Mulder? It's only water." That seemed to settle some question in his mind. After a few moments, she pulled the cup away, "Hey, that's enough." Mulder dropped his head back against the pillow and rolled his eyes. "Heard ... *that* before," he whispered in a raspy voice. "Excuse me?" Dana asked, baffled. She wondered if he was delirious or still too groggy to make sense. "Not...important," he dismissed lightly. Somehow, he managed a weak smile. "Watched... the sun on your hair." She looked over her shoulder and saw that, from where he lay, she would have been silhouetted against the bright morning light as she worked. Mulder did not say that he had awakened to the sight of her hair glowing about her head like a cloud, reminding him of the hair of the enticing mermaid he had shyly watched swimming above the coral reef. In the moment before he had become fully conscious, a thought had passed through him, body and soul both, that he had died and received his fondest wish. Dana was smiling. His words had warmed her. "How are you feeling?" He tried to raise his arms. Even the one not connected to the IV did not rise very far off the bed. He let them fall back wearily. "Won't be chasing... little grey men today," he breathed. His voice was clearer now but still very weak. He looked up over his right shoulder and focused on the blood slowly dripping into his IV line from yet another transfusion. "How low?" he asked glumly. Mulder hated needles. Dana was surprised that he remembered that much of what had happened to him and was sorry that he did. "Almost two quarts and your radiator was bone dry," she told him. "Mulder, you were running on fumes." She tucked the thin hospital blanket closer around his shoulders, if for no other reason than it gave her an excuse to touch him. As his circulation had improved, he had finally begun to feel warm again. "I've asked them to top you off. You take such rotten care of yourself, I suspect you're probably anemic most of the time. Having the proper number of red cells in your veins for once should be a unique experience." "And ruin my... graveyard complexion?" he asked in that weak and raspy voice. "True. I've had corpses that looked better than you." As pale and thin and bruised as his face had been when she found him, Dana had to admit, she had. "By the way, when did you eat last? Your blood sugar was non-existent." He focused inward and, though foggy on details, the memories of those last meals and their aftermath were all too painful. "What day?" he asked, slowly. "Today? Hm, Sunday, I think." In this place Dana had lost track of time, too. He frowned. That long? "Last Sunday... but didn't... stick around..." He pushed away the unpleasant memories, closed his eyes and looked as if he was going to fade out again. "Scully...?" he asked without opening his eyes. "Yeah, Mulder?" she answered, leaning close. "Thanks." "No problem, Mulder," she whispered, but he was already asleep. *** Monday 5pm Washington Hospital Center The next afternoon, Agent Scully had to make a court appearance that had been scheduled months before. When she returned she found him lying back against the raised head of his bed, eyes closed. Someone had brought in a supper tray and left it on his bed side table where he could reach it, but it had not been touched. "Hey, you awake?" she whispered in greeting. He opened his eyes to show that, at most, he had just been dozing. "I missed you," he told her, without raising his head. What he wanted to say was that something had tightened in the pit of his stomach when he woke after lunch and found that she was not there as she had always been before. But then he had found her note. It was under his pillow still. The moment of panic he experienced brought home how very much he did not want to be alone. Even now, he followed her with his eyes as she came to the side of his bed. "One of the members of this partnership has got to work." She lifted the lid on his supper plate. "Hmmm, yummm! The traditional liquid diet: tea, gelatin, apple juice, broth, and, yes, the ever popular, Cream of Wheat." "I don't think I can stomach Cream of Wheat today," he groaned. "Maybe not for the rest of my life." She looked over at him and was glad to see that he was definitely more awake and his movements did not seem so weak, but he still had a long way to go. "You should eat. Let me rephrase that. It is imperative that you eat. And drink. They won't let you out of here until everything works." Automatically, he looked down towards his groin. Dana expected him to say "Everything?" and slyly ask for her help checking out that certain bodily functions did, indeed, work. Instead a shadow flickered across his face and he let the opportunity pass, which raised a red flag in Dana's mind. He turned his attention back to the tray, stating simply, "I don't think my stomach's up to this." "Would you rather they use the tube?" He touched a sore spot by his right nostril and his throat did feel like someone had gotten to it with Number Three grade sandpaper. "Love your bedside manner, Scully. Very well, hand me the tea." "I warn you, it's cold." "That's all right. So is most of the coffee I drink. I'm going to try to pretend it's coffee." His hands wrapped carefully around the cup, shaking only slightly. "I hope you have a good imagination." Dana thought. She had given him the perfect straight line. Mentally, she stood back, watching to see if he would take advantage of it. He took a sip and grimaced. "Arg, even my imagination is not that good." Still, he continued to drink the tea, wincing a little as it went down. Dana worried, but warned herself not to make more out of it than she should. The silence stretched between them. They had not talked yet about what had happened. Because of some of the pain killers he was taking, he had not been completely coherent before. "Scully," he asked now, hesitantly, "how's Angela?" Dana searched his face, trying to determine what Angela had meant to him. "Angela's dead," she told him simply. He did not seem surprised. "She tried slitting her wrists, but didn't do a very good job. In the end, she cut her throat. That's hard to do. She must have been insane." "Or desperate," he commented, sadly. Dana gave him a look of concern and continued. "The case has been classified as a suicide and an *attempted* homicide." "No," he protested. With a groan he tried sitting up more on his own. "It wasn't like that. Not the way you think." Dana pushed him down firmly. This was why she had agreed to their keeping him sedated so long. "Mulder, behave and be still or they'll make me leave." Only while her hand remained against his chest would he lay back against the bed. His eyes had that gleam in them. "Scully, Angela ever intended to kill me, or to harm herself either. She was terrified, terrified of the 'others'." The way he said 'others' spoke volumes to Dana and frightened her. 'Others' in this usage obviously did not refer to gang members or secret government agency goons. His eyes took on a distant, stricken, out of focus look. "Scully, she screamed for me to help her and I ... couldn't. I couldn't... move." Dana shut her eyes. She toook his jaw in her hand and turned his face and his attention to her. "Hey, no guilt trips this time, Mulder. She nearly killed you, and they found the razor near her right hand. It had her finger prints on it. Only hers." "They came for her, Scully," he told her intently, confident she would know what he meant. "'They', Mulder?" she asked in her normal, suspicious tone. "You know who I mean. And I saw them, at the end, at least I think I did, but they must have been the evil twins of those who took Max Fennig... and Sam." Fox rubbed his arms distractedly, awkwardly because of the IV in his left hand, remembering the cold and the creeping, insidious torture of the vibrations. "This was different...awful." His breath was coming in short pants. His expression turned inward as he tried to remember, but then realized that he did not want to remember. His face suddenly lost its brightness. "She tried to tell me," he said unhappily, "and I wouldn't believe her. She was so afraid. She thought her blood ritual would protect her. She was just trying to escape..." He laid his head back against the pillows. "And I guess she did... the only way left to her." He was quiet for a long moment and then the old light rekindled a little behind his eyes. "Scully, the house... You found me there... you must have seen it - " "Mulder..." "- we'll need to get a team out there -" "Mulder..." Dana put a hand on each of his shoulders and forced him to look into her eyes. He was getting too agitated. He did not have the strength for this. "What, Scully?" he asked absently, his mind racing elsewhere. "Mulder, the house is gone." That got his attention and he looked at that moment like a little boy who has been told that his dog has died, not knowing immediately what that meant, but knowing it was something he was not going to like. "Gone?" he asked, in a rough, plaintive tone. "Scully, why didn't you stop them. The harmonic residue, the electromagnetic aberrations, we would have found -" "Why didn't I what?" she asked incredulously. "Because you fool, I was here!" His lower lip came out in a sort of guilty pout at that. "Anyway, the house was barely standing when I arrived. I'm told it came down during the thunderstorm, within minutes after we left. In addition to the items and pictures the patrolman took while I was there, Skinner sent in an evidence retrieval team, but they don't look for the sort of traces we would look for. Before anyone could object, the county housing inspectors had the site condemned and leveled. I didn't even know they'd been contacted. The District certainly wouldn't have been able to complete an evaluation and make arrangements so quickly, but I guess things happen more quickly in a small county like that. I'm sorry, Mulder, but it's gone." His shoulders slumped mirroring his disappointment, but then he looked up hopefully into her eyes. "But you saw -" Dana shut her eyes. She had prepared for this, but that did not mean she had to like it. "I saw an old house, Mulder. In terrible condition. It must have been damaged in a storm, a tornado for all I know." Mulder gave a painful, harsh laugh almost like a bark. "Yeah, a tornado." She looked at him quizzically, and found he had closed her out. He sat with arms tightly crossed across his chest, the left hand, the one with the IV, carefully supported. She let him sulk for a minute and then gently pushed the bedside table with its ignored dinner tray towards him. She lifted up a spoonful of jello. "Mulder... you have to eat." His hand flew out, violently batting the spoon so that it and green gel went flying. Both heard the utensil clattering against the opposite wall a second later. Dana was shocked. He glared at her and there was a lot of hurt in his eyes. "I get so tired, sometimes... of your doubts." He might have gone further, but dared not risk it. Maybe he felt the tears too close. Except during his worst nightmares, Mulder seldom cried, at least, not in front of her. On the bad cases he used humor, bad humor, pretty sad, sick jokes, but humor. On the god-awfullest cases that got too close, he would be as cold as stone, badly covering his feelings, when he needed to, with arrogance and anger. Like now. Scully blamed his loss of control on what he had been through. His emotions were too much on the surface, but the feelings themselves, she knew, were true and not new. It must hurt him to be doubted constantly, especially by her. Dana lapsed into a silence of her own. She knew the initial condition of the house had not been caused by any typical storm. The damage had been too recent and she had checked with the weather bureau; no storms severe enough to cause such damage had been reported in that area for the previous week. The storm front that had come through on Wednesday morning only completed the job, like knocking down a house of cards. She ought to tell him so. She ought to try and not be so much the Doubting Thomas. Sometimes, she admitted that she had to stretch. At those times her explanation *against* some suggestively paranormal incident could be as wild and implausible as Mulder's argument *for* it. But to agree with him now would only bring back the pain of his being paralyzed in the face of *them* again, of his being unable to help. Time to change the subject, Dana decided. She went to her brief case and returned to the chair beside the bed, trying to meet his eyes. "Mulder, these were found in the house." She extended her hand towards him. "I guess you dropped them. I thought you'd want them back." She held out two letters, their surfaces even more bedraggled and soiled than when Angela had first shown them to him. Mulder's reaction was the exact opposite of what Dana had expected. His body and expression went still, tense, except for a very few wrinkles of distaste that deepened the worry lines in his face. A storm was raging somewhere deep inside that rigid posture, but he made no attempt to take the letters from her. "Mulder, there's something wrong," Dana said watching him. "No sexy, sick jokes. A tantrum? And what are the significance of these?" she asked, holding up the envelopes. Dana had not seen Mulder carry anything that looked like a memento before, except for Samantha's picture. "Mulder, what's wrong. What happened with Angela?" He shifted uncomfortably in the bed. "You don't want to know." From experience with Mulder, Dana knew they should discuss this, but she also knew that she could not make him talk. The envelopes were still in her hand. "Until you're ready to talk about it, I'll keep them for you." She looked at them casually, trying to draw him out and diffuse their effect on him. "One's addressed to your mother and the other -" the address side of the second had become stuck to the back of the first, probably with a spot of dried blood. Now, without thinking, she pulled and both heard a distinct 'snap' as they came apart. "No!" he cried, and his hand leapt out to snatch them out of her hand. He swore in pain then for, as he reached, he cruelly pulled the IV line. And he still had not been quick enough to prevent her from seeing the second address. Dana's stomach dropped as a wave of jealousy struck her so unexpectedly that she thought she was going to be sick. Phoebe Greene... Dana saw again the tall, dark, sexy woman... laughing so haughtily behind her back... kissing Mulder... him kissing her... their dancing. But Dana also looked again at the letters now crumpled in his hand. They were obviously years old. She tried, but she could not hide her bewilderment and hurt from his watchful eyes. Angrily, he tore the letters in two. He would have given his soul for Dana not to have seen that one from Phoebe, not to see that expression of desolation on her face. At least it was obvious that she had not read it, but then Mulder never seriously thought she would. "Angela had these since the original investigation." The outrage he felt was clear enough from his strained voice and the way he held the envelopes up for her to see. With a curt movement, he slid the pieces under his tray. "I thought she had mailed them for me, but she never did." The eyes he raised to hers reflected no light and he breathed too deeply and too quickly, as if starving for air. "Scully, you have no idea what she did." "Phoebe?" That was who Dana assumed he meant. Her name was suddenly hard to pronounce. "Mulder, I know," Dana said, with as much sympathy as she could. Dark fire raged behind his eyes. "How?" But, before she could answer, continued, "She had no right!" Scully could feel her own soul quaking. If *she* felt invaded just looking at him, if her private world felt sullied, how must he feel? "I don't know the details, but I agree, Mulder, she had no right. It was a confidence which she shouldn't have shared." He had closed himself off from her, hurt showing in every line of his huddled body. "Would it help if I got rid of them for you?" she asked gently. Do you want me to burn them? I will if you want." When he made no response she took that as a 'yes' and moved to reach for the pieces, but he threw her a venomous glance. "All right." She backed away, at a loss to know where to go from here. "Mulder, I'm trying to help you. If I can't help you, who can?" Still the stony silence. "You were poisoned and kidnapped. You nearly died from what Angela did. You need to talk." Still silence and a huddled figure with his good arm tightly hugging his chest. The one with the IV lay more stiffly in his lap, as if it hurt him. There was a spot of blood on the tape that held the needle in place. "Don't give me the silent treatment. I won't let you bury yourself. Mulder, I'm not other women. I'm Scully, who would never, ever hurt you. Don't you trust me even enough to let me burn a letter for you?" Phoebe had told, Phoebe had betrayed him, and what she had revealed, Angela had used against him. Dana had no doubt of that now. That was what was eating at him, not the letter, but what it represented. He had turned on his side. Now he faced into his pillow, his face awash in bitterness. "Please, leave me alone. Just go. Maybe have dinner with that beach boy." Dana's eyes blazed, only a part of her mind took the time to wonder "That's unfair, Mulder and when you have a chance to think about it, I hope you'll agree with me, because I expect an apology." She stomped over to his bedside, grabbed his protesting left hand and began ripping off the tape that held down the IV. He groaned and she realized in her own anger she was being more rough than she had intended. She needed to see what damage he had done to himself when he had pulled the IV line. He hissed and flinched as she touched the angry red spot. "Now you've gone and done it. We'll have to start another." She turned off the IV and he gasped as she pulled the needle out. One look at it and he turned more pale yet. She started a new one in the vein above his left wrist. Dana was surprised Angela had left that patch of skin intact. The day before, Dr. Scully had presented her credentials and had had a talk with the senior ward nurse. The hospital agreed to supply Mulder's room with enough of the essentials so that Dana could see to these little chores herself. During the last thirty-six hours, even half out of his head on pain killers, Agent Mulder had not endeared himself to the nursing staff. As she taped down the new IV, Dana said in a low, warning voice. "Mulder we need to talk. I'll wait, but please, don't pull the silent treatment on me. Don't try to distract me again. Remember, I've seen all your tricks." Damn him. He was as dear to her as any person living and he was closing in, pushing her away. Frustrated, Dana hurled the tape and scissors into the supply box. Then she threw her purse strap over her shoulder, her coat over her arm and picked up her brief case. At the doorway to his room, Dana turned back. Seeing the hunched, despairing figure was like ice water on her anger. Her heart started beating again. She wanted so much to reach out to him, to take him in her arms, but she could also see that at the moment, he did not want to be touched. But who else did he have but her? Carefully, she pulled a slim, red book from her brief case and laid it beside his tray. "Here's something else you forgot," she said quietly, adding in her old, softly chiding voice, "and remember, try to eat." She left the room without looking back again. Mulder lay with his eyes shut and would not watch Scully leave. a part of him screamed. But he knew her too well, as she knew him. She would not let him be and he needed for her to let it go, to let him go, at least for now. He pressed his good hand against his pounding head. She knew him well, but not everything. It would scare her if she knew the pictures in this head were back. Oh, she knew about his marvelous memory, his marvelous curse. He hoped she had forgotten that there were times he could not stop the pictures. Those damn letters.... Phoebe. Now she was back in his head again. Why did she keep coming back to ruin his life? Why couldn't she just stay away? He had almost rid himself of her, buried her so deeply he thought she could no longer taunt him again with promises of happiness which were always withheld. But then she came back in the flesh.... When was that? Just a few months ago, slick and playful, toying and coy and beguiling, just as she knew he was never able to resist her. And then under Angela's spell she had come to him again as the perfect, erotically exciting creature he had always dreamed she would be if she had ever really loved him. So now she was not just in his head but in his body, too. And it was agonizing, because it was all a lie. He closed his eyes and saw her face within inches of his own as they danced just before he kissed her, long and romantically, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind who saw them, where that kiss was leading. He shuddered, cringing at the vision he could not dispel, the memory of the warmth in his groin he had begun to feel. And all the while, he had known Scully was coming and he had kissed Phoebe, who had the morals of an alley cat, in front of Scully, who was loyal, whose smile sent a warm shiver down his back. He had let himself be tortured by the thought he might lose Phoebe, and all the while he hardly noticed that Scully was even in the room. Scully, who was always there for him, concerned, professional, always accepting. And when he had caught Phoebe wrapped in an embrace with the husband of the family she was honor bound to protect, how his world had come crashing down. All in a moment he had realized that he was, again, just a diversion for her pleasure, a challenge for her driving intellect, a tasty dessert, a toy to toss aside, broken and bleeding, when she was tired of it. He turned over onto his back in the bed and pressed the fingers of his right hand against his aching eyeballs. Ironic, that after what he had done with Angela, a client he too was sworn to protect, that he should throw stones at Phoebe. Phoebe had somewhere learned deceit and she had hunted him fully aware of what she was doing. He had gone to Angela, completely unknowing, completely innocent, drugged to the gills. he admitted, grieving, not entirely innocent. He had thought he had lost Scully to Evan and in his loneliness he had responded to Angela's flirting. He had wanted someone, anyone, if only to remove for a little while the loneliness. And all the while Dana had probably been walking through hell to get him back and, for that, he could not forgive himself. At least Dana did not know what he had done with Angela. He couldn't bear it if she knew. He opened his eyes. He should eat. Dana wanted him to. He did little enough for her. Then he saw the red book she had placed next to his tray. *** When Dana returned an hour later, it was to find him asleep. She smiled gently, seeing that he had eaten all of his supper but the hated Cream of Wheat. He had managed with just his fork, and then had fallen asleep, with the copy of Blake's poetry open on his chest. He had hurt her, but she had not gone far and not for long, for she knew his hurt ran deeper than hers. He was confused. From his childhood he had a long history of abuse. Dana had figured that out in the first four months of their working together. And like so many of its victims, he probably thought that somehow he deserved to be hurt. He had the classic symptoms, but that did not make it easier to see him suffer, trapped within its web of circular logic and lonely dead ends. She brushed her fingers across his forehead. He did not even stir. Only then did she notice the tracks of dried tears which, being unable to get out of bed unaided, he had not been able to wash off. She sighed and resigned herself to learning to deal with his temper and his moods, because she intended to live with them for a long time. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 19/21 Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:51:18 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (19/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/29/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 19 Tuesday 7am Washington DC Scully was awakened at seven in the morning by the ringing of her phone. Blearily, she made a grab for it, missed and tried again. Mulder's voice reached out to her, but it was not his normal, wise-cracking voice; not the sleepy, half-drugged voice she had heard the last few days, either. This voice was soft, penitent, apologetic. "Scully?" "Anything wrong, Mulder? It's not even seven o'clock." "They start pretty early here, Scully." "I don't." His breathing was more labored than she had heard it for days and she began to feel a little concerned. He had not called the night before either. He had taken to calling just before the strong sedative they gave him each night totally kicked in. She knew why he did it. Though he understood they were for his own good and had agreed to take them, he hated the drugs and the fear of losing control. But he had not called and she had felt so lonely, lying in bed, waiting for him. "Mulder, there must be a problem." "Scully... I need a favor." She could hear a long, slow intake of breath from his side. It must be some favor. "Someone stole my clothes." "Say again, Mulder? I don't think I heard that." That sigh. She could see him fidgeting on the phone, moving it from ear to ear. "The warden and her deputy decided I needed to get up and start walking today, but the clothes you brought in have disappeared." "Had to settle for the hospital gown, eh, Mulder?" Mulder hated those. They were always too short, and he hated the air conditioning. Personally, Scully enjoyed the view. "Gown *and* a sheet," he corrected with exaggerated dignity. Dana had to pinch herself to keep from giggling. The image of Mulder, walking unsteadily down the hall, dressed in a hospital- supplied toga was something Dana wished she had seen. "Did the Julius Caesar thing, eh?" "It was either that or moon the nurses." "They wouldn't have minded, you know." "Scully...." Dana could almost see him blush. She had never been able to get it through that thick head of his, that he was actually attractive. "All right, what's the favor, as if I didn't know?" "Would you mind stopping by my place and bringing me another set before you go to work?" "Sure, Mulder. Anything else?" "Maybe you'd better bring two sets." "Okay, Mulder." "And some coffee from the Tenth Street Deli..." "Only if it's decaf. Dr. Adams says no caffeine for at least another week." "All right," he sighed. "Scully," he added softly, just before he hung up, "I'm sorry about yesterday." She heard him take a deep breath for courage. This must be hard for him. "Scully, I was out of bounds. I should be grateful. I *am* grateful, more than you'll ever know. I could have died and the afterlife is not a place I look forward to visiting." His sudden apology struck an responsive chord in Dana. She had not expected to hear such words from him, not ever, certainly not at seven o'clock in the morning. He must have had some night of soul searching. "You *were* a beast, Mulder," she agreed, "but no one would put up with you just for the thanks." Dana allowed herself to lean back in bed and smile. She wondered how long it would take him to puzzle out the meaning behind her last comment. That man would drive her mad yet. He was either absolutely infuriating, or absolutely endearing. Using that continuum, she had a feeling that today was going to be a good day. *** Tuesday 9am Washington Hospital Center Dr. Barbara Adams was in Mulder's hospital room when Dana walked in carrying his Washington Bullets gym bag. The patient was sitting on the edge of his bed, in a typical hospital gown, with the top sheet from his bed pulled over his shoulder and draped to provide additional coverage from the waist down. He gave Dana an awkward smile as she walked in and Adams nodded in greeting. "To summarize for you both... I've scheduled another set of kidney function tests for later today... And don't give me that look, Agent Mulder. If the results fall in the normal range this time, we'll talk to your HMO about when we can let you out." Adams laid on him her sternest expression. "The staff will *not* be disappointed to see you go. You seem to enjoy making their lives difficult. They are only trying to do their job. I don't see why the staff at GW keeps putting up with you." On his face was an expression of injured innocence. "We've become accustomed to one other." "Hmmm." She closed the chart. "I heard you had a good first 'run' in the hall this morning, though your attire was unusual. We were willing to lend you some scrubs, which you would have known if you had bothered to listen to the physical therapist when she visited you yesterday. Do what you can today, but I don't want to hear that you're tiring yourself out. The staff will have my butt if you faint and injure something and they have to endure the pleasure of your company any longer than necessary. Do I make myself clear?" He nodded, numbly, thoroughly chastised. "Good. I'll see you later today, after the tests results come in." Turning to go, Adams stepped towards Dana, who was pulling grey sweat pants and a burgundy Ohio State sweat shirt out of the gym bag. The physician's reproving expression vanished. She said to Dana with a wink, in a voice too low for Mulder to hear. "Though he still has to get his strength back and put on some weight, Agent Mulder is looking very good." Dana thought with a returning smile. When the dark-haired woman was gone, Mulder asked suspiciously, "What was that all about?" though when women put their heads together like that he knew they were always talking about men. Ignoring the question, Dana tossed the bundle to Mulder, who hugged them to his chest. "Old ones show up yet?" "Not yet." Dana put the spare pair in the small clothes closet as Mulder flipped back the sheet and began unrolling the pants. "Whoever invented hospital gowns certainly went out of their way to make a garment capable of humiliating a man within an inch of his life." "They weren't designed with the patient's convenience in mind, Mulder, but for the doctor's." And this was one doctor, Dana thought, who was going to take advantage of the opportunity as she overtly appraised the curve of one long thigh and one firm buttock as he slid out of the bed. As though he was noticing her for the first time, Mulder cocked his head in her direction. "Scully, would you mind?" He had his pants in his hands and obviously wanted to dress. Dana turned around reluctantly. "I've seen you in far less, Mulder." "Not today," she heard him say. "I wouldn't want to spoil your breakfast." When sufficient time had passed, even for Mulder, unsteady as he was, to get his pants pulled up, Dana turned around but her smile was gone. She was accustomed to his little jokes, but this last one was pointedly more self-deprecating than usual. Seeing him stripped to the waist and standing for the first time since Key West, watching him stretch and enjoy the glorious freedom of finally being released from the restricting IV, Dana was appalled by the number of ribs she could count and how low the pants rode on his prominent hip bones. Mulder did not seem to notice her concern, however, as he pulled the sweat shirt carefully down over his head, and crawled back into bed. He still performed every action slowly, with concentrated deliberation, but his flexibility and strength were improving. Dana thought, "What's wrong with your neck," she asked, noticing a dark mark under his jaw. Mulder's hand went up to touch the spot. He shrugged. "Tried to shave myself. Guess my hands were a little shaky." Dana came over and, taking his chin in her hand, tilted back his head to see the cut. Touching him, and being able to observe the long slim neck so close, made her stomach flutter. "Here, I'll get it." She wet some tissues from his water bottle and started dabbing at the dried spot. "Better shut your eyes," she said. "You know you get queazy at the sight of your own blood." Stoically, he submitted to her ministrations. "I think Angela cured me of that. Besides, from what you tell me, there's not much of mine there anyway." Dana smiled and looked at the blood stained tissues critically. "Hmm, think you're right, Mulder. I see Rockville housewife, Beltway bandit, accountant - " Mulder groaned. "- high school wrestler - " "Always wanted to be one of those." "- Woops, and CIA. Feeling spookier than usual?" "Not as spooky as yesterday, I hope," and tone of his voice communicated his apology again. Dana patted him on the shoulder companionably. "Me, too. But this doesn't mean I've forgotten about our little talk. When you're ready, I'm here." Slowly, he nodded. He was wary. Yes, Dana could see it was all still there, like a wild current under still waters. She picked up her lap top. "Ok, if I hang around here today?" she asked. His eyes brightened. "That's fine. I'd appreciate the company and I could use someone to help run interference with the Warden. She keeps bugging me to measure my intake and my - ah - output." Dana could not believe he was still giving the poor woman grief." I talked to you about this yesterday and Adams just did as well. It's necessary to determine how well your plumbing is functioning. You want to get out of here, don't you, Mulder?" Mulder turned to look at her lovely face, lined with too much weariness. Her concern for him was like a cool breeze on a hot and muggy summer day and for some unexplainable reason made him short of breath. "As soon as I can." "Then behave. And my staying is not just to keep you company. You're a big boy and the HMO is shelling out lots for these doctors and nurses to keep you company, at least the kind of company you need. I'm staying because, if you remember, the D.A.'s office is coming down this afternoon for your debriefing." She cocked a knowing eyebrow in his direction and there was a sympathetic smile on her lips. He must be feeling that an awful lot of people were ganging up on him. "I thought I'd stick around. Watch your back. Those guys can play rough and you did lose their witness for them." Mulder sighed and settled back on the bed, suddenly tired. This was a meeting he was not looking forward to. Before starting work, Dana wandered to look at the notes on the flowers by the window. Mulder opened a get well card. He must have been in the process of doing that when Dr. Adams made her rounds. Dana was glad to see he had a small, but respectable, pile. She knew he had not felt up to the task before. The office support staff, nearly all women, who never gave up hoping for a little more attention from this, for Washington, rare, unattached, heterosexual male, had sent him a spray of red roses. A strikingly ugly pot of fake black-eyed-susan's reportedly came from the Lone Gunman. Examining the latter closely, Dana noticed the pot did not have a florist's tag. "Frohike came by?" she asked. She did not even need to inquire about the other two Lone Gunmen. She had never seen them above ground. "Ah, yes -" Mulder said absently making a show of scrutinizing a seemingly ordinary card, far beyond its obvious importance. Pointedly, she remarked, "I'm surprised he didn't check to see if I was here first." Frohike took positive delight in leering at her. Mulder did not reply, and Dana found his silence telling. she concluded, and filed that fact away for future reference. Turning from Frohike's gift, Dana noticed that one card had been propped up all alone on the window sill where he could see it. The card was simple, very generic. "Hope you get well soon," it said. No note. But it was the signature that squeezed Dana's heart, made her want to scream. Mom. No note, no mention of old Pop. Pretty sorry excuse for a family. Neither his mother nor his father ever, ever sent him a letter, except on a horrific occasion like this, or gave him a call or asked him home for the holidays. Though his mother had seemed nice enough when Dana visited her in Massachusetts, had even seemed proud of her son, she still treated him like a stranger, observing his accomplishments from afar. Why she did this still made no sense to Dana, but she did know it hurt him terribly. "Scully, look!" She turned to see his excited, smiling face. He held out a box to her which he had just unwrapped. She looked and saw the box contained a large quantity of small, oval, chocolate-covered *things* about the size of those gourmet jelly beans. She had thought at first they were chocolate covered raisins, but they were too flat and regular in shape. She took one gingerly, noticing he was happily swishing one around in his mouth. "Ugh, what are they?" "Chocolate covered sunflower seeds. From your Mom. I guess she figured I needed the calories." Dana thought. Her mother did have a friend who was a confectioner. "But how do you eat them?" "Put them in your mouth, suck off all the chocolate, split the seed, and then spit out the shell." He demonstrated. Dana gave him a withering look if only for effect. "Ohh, gross, Mulder." He was delighted. He was reaching for another when she gave him her best the-doctor-is-not-pleased look. "I'd go easy on those for a while unless you want a tummy ache on top of all your other troubles." "Scully...." Mulder whined. "Later." Dana took the box and put it on the furthest corner of the window sill. "Your siblings ever tell you, you were a kill-joy?" he asked with mock irritation. "All the time," Dana answered, with a smile. Someone knocked on the room's open door. "Hey, can anyone join this party?" Dana and Mulder looked up simultaneously to see Evan Byers, a bouquet of mixed flowers in his hand. He smiled at Dana and then gave the patient a careful, clinical appraisal. Mulder's contented smile dimmed. Dana felt the chill in the room and looked uncomfortably from Evan, tall, solidly built and blond, standing in the doorway, to her dark and decidedly more than lean partner, sitting upright and wary in the white bed. Mulder's coldness now, combined with his bitterly sarcastic comment about Evan and she the day before, suddenly began to make sense and Dana had a sudden realization. Mulder was jealous of Evan! Incredible. This certainly was a start. Of course, his irritation could spring from a source which was purely professional. He might just be afraid that Evan was going to try to wisk his partner away to the FDA. "I won't stay," Evan said hastily. "I was just in the building and I wanted to see how you were doing. You look a lot better than you did the last time I saw you." "Last time?" Mulder asked, suspiciously. Bad enough for the doctors and nurses to see. Bad enough for Scully. But Evan? Then Mulder blinked. Something familiar about the expression on Evan's face... A memory began to form, a memory of being cold and in terrible pain and he had been trying to find her... and there was this face looking down at him, concerned and a little embarrassed. "Wait... You were in the emergency room..." Accusingly, Dana shot Evan a perturbed glance. "I thought you said he didn't regain consciousness?" It was Evan's turn to look uneasy. "Sorry, Dana. He didn't... well, not really." Mulder was not any happier about seeing Scully so distressed and could not believe he was going to back up Evan on this. "Evan's right. It was only for a second. I remember wanting to find you." In Evan's direction he added, "He told me you were coming. At the time that was something I needed to hear." Dana continued to glare. She found it annoying when men did not tell her things, but inwardly she had to smile, for at least these two had finally found themselves on the same side. Figuring this was as good as things were going to get, Evan sided back towards the door. "Well, just stopped in. Dana, by the way, my supervisors loved the case report. We think we're going to be able to close a lot of these illegal manufacturing operations." "Glad to hear it," Dana told him and though she knew Mulder would be annoyed, she gave Evan a big hug before he could get away. Her arms were only able to wrap part way around the big man's broad chest. She could feel a Mulder stare, boring into her back. Well, Mulder was going to have to accept that he was not her only friend and some of her *other* friends might just happen to be male. "Thanks for everything," she said to Evan. "Thanks for holding my hand." "No problem." Feeling left out and more than a little jealous, Mulder raised an eyebrow as Evan turned to leave. "Hey, aren't those flowers for me?" Evan looked back at the two of them a little haughtily. "Not on your life - excuse the expression. I have a date." Dana spun and gave her new friend a wondering look. "Dr. Barbara Adams," he whispered confidentially. "Oh, by the way, she gave me this for you." He reached into his pocket and handed Dana a slip of paper. As she scanned it, he added, "It was just handed to her and she knew you'd want to know. Wish they had just given it to me to start with. I would have delivered it sooner." Dana's demeanor changed. Mulder knew her very well and knew she had just gotten some news. Good or bad he wasn't sure, but she seemed relieved to receive it. He watched intently as she folded the paper, put it in her pocket and went up on tip toe to give Evan a quick peck on the cheek. Mulder was curious about the note and green about the kiss, but decided to trust her to tell him when she was ready. "Thanks, this means a lot to me," Scully told the big man. "Thought it would, " he replied. "Well, I want to wish you two the best of luck." "Evan," Dana protested, and hoped she wasn't blushing. "Mulder and I are just partners." Evan looked over at Mulder and saw a rather blank expression in the hazel eyes. "Yeah, and digital watches were a pretty good idea." When he was gone, Mulder gave Scully a quizzical look trying to understand what the last bit was all about. Dana could see Mulder was rapidly trying to revise his opinion about Evan and probably failing miserably. One thing for certain though, his conscience was stinging as he remembered his biting comment concerning Evan and her the day before. "Gee, Scully," he said conversationally, as he turned back to his mail, "Evan seems like a pretty nice guy. You two have a good time while I was gone?" Scully threw a paper cup at him. If she read that foxy smile on Mulder's face correctly, he had just delivered the apology she had demanded. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 20/21 Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:51:19 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (20/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/29/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 20 Tuesday 10:30am Washington Hospital Center With visitors all gone and lab tests a least an hour down the road, Mulder opened another card while Scully started work. "Whoops, almost forgot," he said absently and used the remote to flick on the TV. Dana found herself being distracted by the show. "Cartoons, Mulder?" "Shhh... Not just cartoons, Spielberg cartoons." Fox was concentrating with bright, wide eyes. Dana focused on the tallest of the three main characters, whose manic, irreverent attitude and smart mouth seemed vaguely familiar. "The writing's clever," she noted when the cartoon was over and he had switched the TV off. "Where do you think I get my material?" he asked with a grin, turning back to his mail. "Maybe their writers bug your office." At that he laughed, a sweet sound Dana realized she had not heard for a long time. They worked quietly for some minutes. Dana heard Mulder chuckle. He held up a card, a homemade one this time. "Listen to this," he announced. "'Roses are red, violets are blue, get back on the streets, you old gum-shoe you.'" Dana groaned, even while she finished typing the sentence she had started. "Not very imaginative." "It's from the gang in Benefits. They *aren't* very imaginative. They want me out of here and not spending the health plan's money." He held up another envelope, which was a little thicker than the others. It crackled. "From the guys in Violent Crimes." His good mood faded a little. A shadow passed over his face. Dana's expression showed a sudden, deep suspicion of this particular package, and she moved to get within reach of the envelope. When she was, she whipped it out of his hand. In addition to the card, she could feel a flat object inside which she instinctively identified. Suddenly, Mulder plucked the envelope out of her hands, a crafty grin on his face. "Hey, my card." He leaned back in the bed, grinning. "Moved faster than you thought I could, eh?" Dana took a deep breath. She was feeling very, very apprehensive about this. "Mulder, I don't think you should open that." "Why," he asked. He had read her expression and knew the guys in Violent Crimes too well. He expected something bad, something in bad taste, but not as bad as what he got. The card was crude as expected, but it was the handwritten message that made him frown. "Just a little something for you to take along the next time you have to 'protect' someone." Slowly turning over the envelope, a small packet fell out. He picked it up, stunned, and held it up for Dana to see. "And what the hell is this supposed to mean?" Dana shifted her weight uneasily. "Probably, nothing... You know that crowd. They like to bug you." But she knew differently. She could feel the storm clouds gathering. This was going to be the big one. "Scully..." he began and now he was frowning. "What do *you* know?" She swallowed. "Probably everything." His eyes narrowed. She continued. "I know Angela visited your mom and asked about Samantha, that Angela talked to Phoebe." He held up his new 'gift' and there was a deep wound there. "Someone knows more." It was probably Dana's expression that gave her away, the aura of pain and sadness she had carried for so many days. This was his nightmare come home. All of the color drained from his face. "You've known all along? Yesterday, you let me think -" His eyes were dark under glowering brows. Swinging his legs awkwardly over the side of the bed, he hurled the small plastic packet as hard as he could against the opposite wall of the room, but it made a very unsatisfactory sound compared to the spoon the day before. The voice in his head was one he heard only in his nightmares of the times after Samantha, when he and his father were alone in the house. "The VC crowd-" His face showed a cold, sarcastic anger which Dana had seen him use before on those he truly despised, but never had he turned it on her before. "-are they guessing or do they know, too?" He could not have hurt her more if he had slapped her. "What are you accusing me of, Mulder? Do you think I would have told them before talking with you first. Damn you! I don't make a habit of snooping around in trash cans under your vomit, Mulder. The evidence retrieval guys found it." He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. "God, the whole Bureau knows!" "Does it matter?" she asked with sarcasm cruel enough to match his. "Just another chapter to add to your colorful reputation, Mulder." Dana regretted the words as soon as they were out. She found she did not want to look at the stricken face suddenly turned towards her. "Damnit, Mulder, you make me so angry. I don't deserve to be treated this way. Oh, hell..." His expression was like stone, his lips a thin, hard line. "Yeah, I'm a joke." He lurched suddenly to unsteady feet and grabbing the walker which was standing beside the bed, headed out of the room more quickly than she thought he was capable. But he leaned heavily on the support and his balance was poor at best. Dana could only stand in shocked immobility, feeling his trust in her, her whole world, crumbling around her, her hopes and dreams a million miles away. She forced herself to move, to look beyond the dark, bleak wall which had sprung up around her, to walk to the doorway and look down that hall. Painfully, she watched a very thin, very lonely, very devastated man moving with heart-wrenching, unsure steps away from her, high thick walls gradually forming around him as well. She found her voice, though it was much strained. "Mulder, where do you think you're going?" She followed him. Two rooms down was a waiting area which led out onto a small balcony. He headed directly for that, thrusting the walker away when it refused to fit through the door quickly. Bursting through the door, onto the porch, he staggered three steps unaided to stand gasping and white knuckled at the railing. Dana crept up to him, her anger dissipating as she looked at his grieving face, staring hopelessly into the grey November sky. There was a lot more going on here than feelings over a mere sexual act, she could see that. Too much had suddenly come crashing home. She stood next to him, doubting that whatever she said would get through, but hoping her closeness and the tone of her voice would comfort him. "Mulder, you can't stay here. You're barefoot. You'll catch your death." He stared, squinting towards the grey horizon. "Couldn't breathe. I just needed to get some air," but his tone was weighted down with bitterness. "Mulder," she said, wondering if she could ever repair the damage she had done. "God, Mulder, you hurt me so much. How could you even think that I would betray you? I'm not Angela, not Phoebe. Damn my temper, but don't damn me. I over-reacted. I didn't mean to say what I did..." Lowering his head, he looked down at her, allowing himself to see the misery in her eyes. Hell, he had hurt her and she him. He hadn't meant to insinuate... why had he taken this out on her? She had not meant her words either. And now she was looking up at him with such a lost expression. He sighed. There was still so much pain, but, out here, it was a little better. Just the two of them and a cold, grey day. There was even mist in the air. An X-Files day. "Scully, I didn't really believe you would. You are the only one I know I can truly say that of. It just came out." "Think next time, Mulder," she said softly. "You're not alone in the world any more. I'm here. The whole population of Washington, D.C., is not out there waiting to screw you, excuse the expression. You can hurt others, too." She brought her fist lightly to his jaw. "So watch your mouth." "Ouch. You're right, I deserved that." And he almost smiled, but it was a thin, dark humor. He stared back at the city. Dana could feel him quivering beside her. After a long pause, "Does Skinner know?" "Yes. He was there." Dana remembered his expression, his disappointment, all too well. Mulder closed his eyes. "Angela was my client, my responsibility. Is he going to throw me back onto electronic surveillance? I certainly deserve it." And the prospect clearly terrified him. "I think you'd be surprised at Skinner's reaction to this, but you're wrong, Mulder. If you were responsible, you'd be out on your ass." This brought unexpected emotion back into his eyes. "What do you mean? Of course, I was responsible." "Mulder, didn't you know?" she asked. Her tone was soft and sympathetic, for she had finally identified that what he was feeling was mostly remorse and embarrassment. "She drugged you... with methylenedioxyamphetamine, MDA, and not just any street version, but a potent variant laced with a psychedelic they are still trying to identify." He let out a long breath that was almost a groan. "I did suspect something," he said weakly, as the remembered images licked at the edge of his mind. He began to quake down in the deepest part of him. He had verification now of what had been done to him but the humiliation was still there, and just as raw as before. At first the chill air had brought some color back to his face, but that seemed to have fled again and Dana did not like what she was seeing. "MDA was identified in applesauce taken from the trash. Did you eat any?" He shuddered. Oh, did he! Angela had scooped a big pile on his plate while she was coyly laughing at one of his stories. There had been no medicine taste, but then it had been treated heavily with cinnamon. He had eaten eagerly and had seconds. She had told him things, things about Samantha he wanted to hear. The room had gotten too warm. He staggered under a sudden blinding headache and cramps in his stomach, intense enough to make him gasp. The pictures... They were back. Visions from through some other man's eyes. Not his. Angela, naked, sweating, groaning in his arms, melding into Phoebe, kissing his mouth as though she would suck the breath from his body. "Mulder..." Scully's alarmed voice intruded, reached him from someplace very far away and the touch of her hand on his arm brought him back. He found himself leaning over the rail of the balcony, staring at the hard, unyielding surface of a parking lot, six floors below. Shaking, he pushed himself upright. Fox thought. He hated to think what he looked like. Though he was shaking, too, he tried to reassure her. "Don't worry." As he struggled to catch his breath, the cold sweat dripped down his forehead and his smile was weak and unsure. "I'm not going to do anything stupid. I might have though, the night and morning after... if there had been an easy way..." His eyes were definitely out of focus. "There's an old ballad that goes 'And I wish I were as deep in hell.' It felt like that." "That's the drug, Mulder," Dana said, very much concerned and trying to comfort him. What just happened had looked suspiciously like a flashback and terrified her. "It's got as bad a 'down' side as its got an 'up' side." "Then I was in hell, indeed." He leaned against the banister, so his hands were free to rub his temples. "I knew my actions didn't make sense, even for me, but I wasn't thinking very clearly. I kept imagining how I was going to tell Skinner that I fucked my client..." In a softer voice, "and telling you... telling you how you were going to have to carry on with the X-Files without me...." He gazed out over the park lands towards the city. "Now *that's* hell the hard way." "I've never known you to take the easy way, Mulder," she stated. "But you did figure it out, eventually, didn't you? That you were drugged?" "Mostly." "So *not* knowing you were drugged you would have bared your soul and told all, and *knowing* you had been you held back? Holding back is not like you, Mulder. We've always been honest in our reports - " He shot her a slightly amused glance. " All right, mostly honest." If they wanted the chance for a shred of credibility there was a limit to what upper management would accept, even from an X-file. "But never for personal gain, Mulder, certainly not financial, and not to appease anyone or gain anyone's approval, no matter how much we messed up. So why now? What's different?" "Does it matter? Denial?" He was looking out over the park land towards the city again and he had wrapped himself in that coat of fatalism she knew too well. "Maybe it's easier for us males to admit to being horny bastards than to concede to being tricked, deceived, held helpless by the 'weaker' sex - present company excepted." One thing Mulder had learned. Dana Scully was anything but weak. "There's a lot you don't know yet about Angela, Mulder. She was not what she appeared to be. " "Maybe. Maybe it's also because I can't prove I was drugged and who would take 'Spooky's' word. If I tried for that kind of defense it would look like I'm trying to make excuses. You say there was MDA in the food? I saw my chart. My tox scan only shows marijuana. That doesn't look good, either, and I don't even remember having any." The marijuana was problem, Dana admitted. "Did she give you any tea?" she asked. He thought back and responded slowly. "Yes, some herb tea on Saturday night and Sunday, and she forced something down me at the very end. But I don't remember that very well. I was pretty well gone." "We found some *tea* leaves in the waste basket at the first house. That's where the marijuana was." "But still no MDA in the tox scan." Dana took the paper which Evan had given her from her pocket. "Initially, no, we didn't. It would have been more surprising if we had because everyone admits the lag time had to have been at least two to three days. Your blood sample was also pretty useless because it had been diluted by your early transfusions." Responding to his confusion, she continued. "It was Evan. He took a sample to the FDA for a more sensitive test. They found picograms of MDA still in your blood stream. Without this I don't know what Skinner would have done, but Evan may have just saved your career. Because of the time lag, no one could have officially questioned your innocence, but there always would have been doubt." Mulder's eyes were emotionless. Somehow Dana was not surprised that he did not seem relived. What anyone at the Bureau thought had never been his overriding concern, so long as he did not lose the job which he loved. "Will you thank Evan for me?" he asked. She knew how hard that was for him to say. She had seen the two of them together, felt the atmosphere. "Sure." A cold breeze suddenly touched them and Dana shivered, but she refused to move until he did. Mulder only fidgeted unhappily. "Why didn't you tell me before ... that you knew?" he asked. She looked into his face, so achingly beautiful, now so lonely. "I was waiting for you. When did you think you were going to get around to telling *me*? Your appointment with the D.A.'s people is this afternoon and they *will* ask." Dana could almost feel the waves of misery emanating from him. A breeze lifted the hair from his downcast eyes. "I should have been able to hold out. I should have been able to resist it." She raised her eyebrows. "Did you hear what I said? You were drugged! And by some pretty strong stuff! Is this self-abasement because this involved sex, Mulder? If someone drugged or hypnotized you and you committed a crime, like theft, you wouldn't go on like this. But with sex -" "It *is* different!" he insisted. "How?" she demanded. How could he say it? Dana let the silence lengthen until it became unbearable. He looked so sad and lost. "I won't take it, Mulder," she said with tears in her voice, yes and fire, too. "Don't pull this guilt down around your head with all the rest. You must accept it. It happened. Accept it or go into therapy to accept it, but I am getting very tired of dealing with your guilt. You have to move on, Mulder. *We* have to move on." He raised eyes to hers that were open and wondering. Her use of the plural pronoun had not escaped him. "Come on," she said unexpectedly, afraid she had said too much. Despite the disparity in their heights, she managed to put an arm around his waist. "You're shivering. So am I. Your feet must be freezing." Slowly, he nodded. He was suddenly unbelievably tired and his feet were numb even though the balcony was carpeted with that green, fake grass. If he had been standing on concrete, he doubted he would be able to move at all now. She propped the door open and helped him retrieve his walker. He moved very, very slowly, like an old, old man with bowed, hunched shoulders as he shuffled back to his room. She let him go unaided, but walked protectively beside him, signaling silently to the orderly, who would have helped, to stay clear. Mulder had to do this on his own. Much as she wanted to help, there was a lot he had to do on his own. She got him into bed, which was difficult, as he seemed to have no strength left, and pulled the covers over him. Retrieving another blanket from the closet, she sat done on the end of his bed and extracted one foot and began to rub it carefully between her hands. The skin was like ice. How she wanted to hold him, but this was as close as she felt she dared go. She began very softly. "Mulder, you were raped or so close to rape it doesn't matter. That's assault." His head was back against the pillow, his eyes closed. The tension was still there. Nothing was resolved. "No. Rape is a violent attack. It hurts. I don't remember everything, but I remember that I enjoyed it." God, but he wished, he did not remember. She put down one foot and took the other in her hands. "You hurt *now*, don't you? You were drugged, Mulder. It wasn't you." He looked down the length of his body toward her. He was so unhappy. His voice was barely audible. "You've been discrete. You haven't asked what it was like? With her..." "It's not my place," she said, hiding her face from him by bending over the long, slim foot. "I dreamed about... Phoebe," he whispered. "It was as if it were Phoebe, not Angela. Why her? Why not...?" He shrugged. Dana felt her heart skip a beat and she swallowed. Phoebe again. And his admission came so unexpectedly she was not prepared and had not been able to hide her distress from him, not this time, for his eyes were searching her face even as he spoke. And in response to her pain, she thought she saw in his anguished, beautiful eyes an unspoken regret. In his drugged euphoria, who would he rather have dreamed about? All Dana knew was that her heart quickened under the intensity of those eyes. That he was reaching out to her, sent a thrill up her spine. But realizing that Phoebe was still so much a part of his life, hurt more than she would ever tell him. Maybe he had been right, after all. This involved sex. There was a difference. This was an emotional issue, not a logical one. Logic played no part here. So if what had happened bothered her, she had to deal with it, too. But there was something they had both forgotten. "Mulder, you say you fantasized about Phoebe, but she was all around you, wasn't she?" He turned his face to the wall effectively blocking her out. "Angela used what Phoebe told her, as well as the drugs. She intended for you to remember what once made you happy, to distract you. Phoebe just made it easy for her. "Mulder, if it helps, I forgive you, since you seem to want my forgiveness. But you have to forgive yourself, too. You have to forgive yourself for being no more than human." But he had not been listening to her, as if to accept her rationalization was to take that easy way out. Dana looked upon her friend as he lay with his eyes so tightly closed, too tightly closed to be sleeping. His face was really drawn. When he had been like this for a long time, Dana carefully covered both his feet and went to stand by the head of the bed. "I should go," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're tired." He reached up and placed his hand over hers as it rested on his shoulder. "When I was in that house," he began, "lying on that bed, I knew I was dying. I certainly had long enough to think about it. Odd, but my whole life did not pass before my eyes. For one, with my memory, that would take a long time." On his lips was a little half smile but the humor did not reach his eyes. "I only thought about two things...." His gaze went distant, remembering. "Which were?" she asked. "For one, staying alive, just breathing, just willing my heart to keep beating. And I thought about you. I had not the slightest doubt that you were looking for me. I could see you, hear you getting on Skinner's nerves. I knew that you would find me, too. I just thought you would be too late. Someday you need to tell me how you did that." "Mulder, you trusted me to find you, then why doubt me now? It's like you are afraid I'm going to turn on you at any moment." He looked at her with a steady, somber gaze. "Since Samantha was taken, there's never been anyone I could trust like that. It's hard." This Dana felt was probably the truest sentiment he had ever expressed to her, but it did not make it any easier to hear. For suddenly Dana realized he was not talking about trust in the professional sense. There was no doubt that he trusted her to stand behind him with a loaded gun and watch his back. This discussion was about trusting her with something else, something perhaps more precious to him than his life. His face was so mobile, Dana could almost see him thinking. She had learned to read him and knew there was more on his mind. She waited patiently, giving him time, her heart pounding. Maybe this time Mulder would be able to say what she could see sometimes in his eyes when he looked at her. At that moment her cellular signaled which made both of them jump. She fumbled, cursing silently at the intrusion, but took the call. She swore as she put it back into the pocket of her suit. His eyes were on her, questioning. "They're charging a man tonight, one of my cases, and his lawyer is making a fight of it. They need me downtown now." A wave of disappointment flowed over his face, his entire body, that was almost physically painful, but he was determined to hide it from her. He knew the job. "Go ahead," he said, evenly. "See you later." She hesitated. In addition to their aborted conversation, she would be leaving before the delegation from the D.A.'s office arrived to take Mulder's deposition. There would be reporters, too. They could not be kept away forever. She was torn. Part of her wanted to stay to keep them from getting too rough, to make sure no hot shot was out to make a name for himself by sticking an FBI agent with a rape charge or even homicide. Damage would be done even if the allegations were totally unfounded and showed up only in the Washington Post. But part of her did not want to be a witness to his humiliation. Scully swooped down and put a hand on his cheek. The timing could not have been any worse for either of them. "I'll get someone to come down to be with you for the meeting this afternoon. Please, don't go macho on me. Take the line that you were not responsible because of the drugs. I'll be back. We're not finished," she said seriously and fled the room. =========================================================================== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 21/21 Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:51:22 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (21/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 6/25/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 21 Tuesday 12:05am FBI Headquarters Anderson's lawyer was a high-priced pain-in-the-ass Dana decided by the time she was able to escape from the District Courthouse hours later. The deposition had been delayed twice. The lawyer was trying to keep his man out of jail by haggling for hours over tiny bits of protocol and the price of bail. It was very late, nearly ten, when she returned to headquarters to put her notes together because they were going to have to rehash the whole thing again in the morning. There had been no point in returning to the hospital before going in to work. Official visiting hours were long over. There had not even been time to call to say, "Good night, see you in the morning," because Mulder got the dreaded medication at eight and would be deep in his enforced sleep by nine. Dana felt an dull ache in her chest. She had no doubt that he had watched the door waiting for her to return and listened for the phone for her to call. she wondered. And she had not been able to do either because she was baby sitting some rich guy's ivy league lawyer who thought he was the reincarnation of Perry Mason. There were times, Dana thought, when her job really stunk and she wasn't referring to the autopsies. Dana worked at her third floor desk because she needed the Pathology references from the lab. The Bureau never closed but at night the halls were mostly quiet and the lights were turned down. She had to admit, the place gave her the creeps at night in a way that Mulder's cluttered basement office never did. Maybe that was because if she was working that late Mulder was always there with her. Often they worked for hours in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. She was just packing up her briefcase when she heard the door at the far end of the hall open and muffled footsteps on the carpet. It was Skinner, of all people, his tie only a millimeter askew, even at the end of what must have been a seventeen hour day. What was he doing here at midnight? Didn't the man ever go home? Skinner pulled a chair from a coworkers desk and sat down beside her. "Here you are. I was told you left the courthouse, but I didn't expect to find you here." "Anderson's lawyer is being a - is being difficult," Dana told him. She wanted to say 'pig' and indicated the significant thickness of the stacked files. "I'm sorry that had to come up now, Agent Scully. The Bureau appreciates your dedication." Dana had built up a substantial wall of resentment over the last four hours. Her 'dedication' had not allowed her to be where she had wanted to be. But Skinner's words made a crack in that wall. He was better than most supervisors, but praise, even from him, was not that easy to come by. Still, it did not relieve the misery she felt about having had to leave Mulder when he was so down, when he might have been on the verge of finally saying something important. "How did the meeting with the D.A. go?" she asked. Dana had been surprised and pleased that Skinner, the A.D. himself, had found the time to be with Mulder during his 'interrogation' by the District Attorney's people that afternoon. Skinner gave his imitation of a hard-assed bureaucratic. "I sat on them." "There won't be any problems." But there was something else, Dana could tell. Skinner looked from one side to the other, uncomfortable about meeting her eyes. "Agent Scully, the hospital tried to reach you this evening. When they couldn't contact you, they called me." Dana started, her stomach dropping like a bomb. Was something wrong with Mulder? Anything was possible considering what he had been through. All that time standing barefoot in the cold... Even though she had not spoken, the alarm had been clear on her face. Skinner reassured her hastily, "No, nothing like that. It's just that, since his tests came out in the normal range today, the HMO wants him released first thing tomorrow morning." Dana's eyes widened remembering the weak, unsteady man she had helped into bed only a few hours before. "Sir, it's too soon. He can't possibly take care of himself." "It's the new managed care way, Agent Scully, and I recognize Agent Mulder's limitations. Since none of his family has appeared to take care of him, the benefits office has given me two choices; a living assistance aide, who would come to his apartment a few times a day or off to a nursing home for a week." Dana shook her head definitively. Mulder in a nursing home? Never. Mulder sitting in his dingy little apartment all alone except when some HMO bureaucrat deemed it the appropriate time to send in an aide to bring him dinner or to help him take a shower? This Scully could not bear. "He wouldn't find either of those acceptable. And neither do I." Her eyes were like flint. "Neither do I," Skinner agreed, just as definitively, and gave her a significant look. "So I'm giving you a few days off, Agent Scully. Take him home with you." Dana knew from seeing Skinner's amused reaction that her face registered every bit of the surprise she felt. When Mulder had been injured before she had often dropped by his place after work to help out, but the HMO's were getting more militant and he had never been released so weak before. This was the logical solution, but what she had trouble believing was Skinner's offer. By giving her time off he was, in effect, officially authorizing their living together. A touchy subject where partners were involved. "You mean that, sir?" She indicated the case on her desk. "The Anderson case -" "I see you've got your notes together. I'll get someone to step in for you." He picked up the files, then hesitated. "Agent Mulder and I had a talk this afternoon." He passed a hand across the back on his neck, relieving some tension. "Agent Scully, I don't know how any of us in this business stay sane, the things we see. But Mulder? I know veterans in the field who don't see in ten years what Mulder did in six months when he was with Violent Crimes." Skinner looked at the floor, shaking his read. "He got the worst." Dana wanted to say, "He doesn't have the temperament for that," but kept her peace. Skinner continued, aware she was withholding her own opinion. "But he was so perceptive, so intuitive. It *was* spooky what he could do. But he took it inside, still does. I know the horror doesn't roll off him like it does with the other VC guys. And he's burying this episode, just like all the others. Someday..." He shrugged. "For now, I have no doubt he'll function, but there is something about this case and it's more than just his being the victim. I think you know what we are talking about, Agent Scully." Skinner examined her carefully in his penetrating gaze. "I think he talked to me as much as he did today because... Is there any strain between you two over this?" Dana felt weak under the scrutiny of those eyes. "In his mind, yes." She added, hurriedly, "But I think we were working it out, only I was called away to the courthouse." She nodded towards the files. "He needs a friend, Agent Scully." The steadiness of the gaze she sent back to Skinner would have saved a drowning man is a storm-tossed sea. "He has a friend." "He has more than one. Some just can't get as close as others." He stood up. "Now get out of here. Go back to the hospital." "Sir, it's after visiting hours." *Way* past visiting hours. "So?" he asked, as if what he was suggesting was the most natural thing in the world. "Have you ever let that stop you before?" At that he turned and walked back down the hall, the stack of files under his arm. For a full minute Dana Scully sat staring after him. Before leaving, Dana raced down to the X-Files office to get some journals she had been meaning to read and some books Mulder mentioned he never had time to get to. A glance at her desk calendar reminded Dana that she had an early breakfast date with her mother in Baltimore. She would have to cancel to be available to check Mulder out of the hospital. She looked at her watch. Not twelve-thirty yet so she actually could still call. She knew Maggie Scully worshiped the ground Letterman walked on and would still be up. Even if by some fluke Maggie had gone to bed early, Dana knew her to be one of those people who woke easily and could just as easily fall back to sleep again, content knowing what her children were up to. Their conversation this night was an odd one. Margaret Scully had met Mulder several times and liked him. What Dana expected was that her mother would want to drop everything to come down and help in the nursing. That was just the kind of person Maggie was, the friend of every stray cat and dog and lonely child in the neighborhood. Maybe that was why she liked Fox Mulder so much. But to Dana's surprise, Maggie did not offer this time. Oh, she might be available later, in a week or so, she said casually, if she was needed when Dana had to go back to work. Dana got the distinct impression that her mother wanted Mulder and her to have some time alone together. Would wonders never cease. *** Tuesday 1am Washington Hospital Center The hospital was like the Bureau had been. The lighting was subdued, the few nurses and orderlies who were moving around, walked as if on tip toe. On Mulder's floor there were few emergencies at that time of night. Dana expected to be stopped, but she just put her chin in the air and walked past the nurse's station as if she had business and no one stopped her. Mulder was asleep when Scully quietly opened the door to his room. The second bed in the room was still empty and neatly made up. Still no roommate. That was good. Only the night light was on above the sink, but there was enough light to see by. Mulder was curled on his side. She admitted he was looking better every time she saw him. The hollows in his cheeks had filled out a little, the bruises were not as noticeable, and his eyes were less sunken. His skin also fit over his muscles better than it had, and his breathing sounded nearly normal now. She moved the room's one chair near the head of his bed. She did not expect him to wake up, nor did she intend to wake him. She just wanted to sit by his side for a few minutes and watch. Then she would go home. On the bedside table she noticed a new plant, a Venus Fly Trap, of all things. The idea was so appropriate, and yet so bizarre, Dana could not help but chuckle. As she turned back to the bed, she was surprised to see his eyes open a little. "You came back," he said, his voice slurred. "Hey, you're supposed to be asleep," she said softly. He responded softly, too. "*You're* not suppose to be here." "Sorry I woke you." She indicated the plant. "Somebody has your sense of humor." Mulder's face lighted. "Skinner." Dana had to stare at Mulder's wry smile for a full five seconds before she believed him. Then they both laughed, stifling much in order not to give themselves away to the hospital staff. "Who would imagine," she gently touched the business end of the plant, "Skinner with a sense of humor." Mulder rolled onto his back and awkwardly tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. "Hope I can remember that... next time we mess up." "Hope *he* does," Dana quipped and was pleased to see him smile a little at that. Mulder stretched, trying to wake up. Instead he yawned. "Hmmm, I think he was trying to tell me something." Dana crossed her arms and nodded at the plant, approvingly. "If so, I hope you were listening." She intentionally caught Mulder's eye. Yes, he had heard her. The door to his room opened and an elderly nurse peered in who was not surprised to see Dana standing in the shadows. In fact, the woman was smiling in a knowing way. "She's here now, Agent Mulder. Remember your promise." He struggled to sit up and automatically Dana helped him by raising the head of his bed. Reaching for the tiny paper medicine cup, which had been sitting on the bed side table, he raised it to the nurse as if it were some kind of a toast before drinking down the contents. Due to the continuing rawness in his throat, they issued him the liquid variety of his medication. He turned the cup upside down to show that he had complied. The woman smiled and slipped away, letting the door close behind her. "How did you know I was coming?" Dana asked. "I didn't. I just refused to take my medicine until you did." Even without medication he looked pretty sleepy. This was late for him these days. "Trying to make nice with the nurses, too, I see." "'He can be taught...' Mulder remarked, trying unsuccessfully to mimic Robin Williams, but Dana caught the sentiment. "I know I haven't been the easiest person to live with." "I've noticed," Dana dead-panned. In the spell of quiet that followed, his shoulders slumped. He had drawn up his knees and wrapped his arms wrapped around them when he said, "Did you hear they're throwing me out tomorrow?" He was staring at the empty, shadowed, sterile walls of his hospital room and looking miserable. "They want to send me to a nursing home, Scully. God knows where. What the FBI can afford, I suppose. Maybe in Pittsburgh." She pushed back the hair that had fallen over his eyes. She could not help herself when it did that. "No, they won't. Over my dead body they won't." His sullen eyes opened wide, questioning. "Skinner gave me some days off so you're staying with me. If he hadn't have offered, I would have taken them anyway." He swallowed. The arrangements were all he would have wished, but he never could have asked. "I promise, I'll try not to snore." His hazel eyes met her grey-blue ones. He hoped there was enough light for her to see the sincerity in his. "Thank you." That look warmed her all the way to her soul. She knew how much this meant to him not to be farmed out to strangers. "Hey, what are partners for? We have to look out for each other." It was more than that and they both knew it. Unfortunately, her kindness only strengthened something which she could see still troubled him. "Scully... I never finished...." "Shhh... You don't need to tell me, right now." She pushed him down in the bed. "You should sleep." He *was* tired for the day had been both physically and emotionally stressful. As she lowered the head of his bed, his body sank gratefully into the mattress, but his mind still burned with the need to talk to her. "What Angela did," he raised his arms, now mostly free of bandages but speckled with the dark threads of too many stitches, "I can deal with that. Being physically hurt, I know." A pause. "Feeling helpless, being unable to prevent her from doing what she wanted, being unable to protect her or myself - I'm working on those..." His hands twisted around the blanket and he looked uncomfortably towards the ceiling three times, his breath coming in little gasps. "Life's cruel, Scully." His jaw was clenched. "Why should I dream of Phoebe? Why? Even with all the atmospheric incentives, that's pretty pitiful. She never made me happy. I only hoped she would. There is only one person who ever made me happy." Dana knew who that one person was. Samantha. "Mulder," Dana sat down on the chair next to him in order to be close. "I haven't told you. In the e-mail Phoebe sent, she regretted what she had done." He did not respond to that. "If she hadn't written, Mulder, I would not have become suspicious. I would not have suspected there was any trouble and we never would have found you in time." Her voice became deep with emotion, "I would not have liked that very much. I owe her a lot for that." His face still looked like stone in the deep shadows. "She still told, Scully. Intimate details... Does she hate me as much as that? Doesn't she remember anything good from when ..." His voice trailed off. "I meant nothing to Angela, either." His voice was becoming indistinct. "I was only a body to them, Scully," he said with great bitterness. "Any man would have served them as well. They just didn't want to be alone. And I was just as bad when I saw you and Evan, I didn't want to be alone either. For a moment, I remember just wanting someone." "We all want someone, Mulder." The movement of his hands had become more languid in a way that told Dana that the numbing drug was creeping over his limbs. He had also turned away his eyes, the emotion in them, on the face Dana had come to love as familiar as her own, made her want to cry. He was really depressed. He just wanted to be loved, as they all did, but he felt incapable, unworthy of being loved. And why should she be surprised considering that his own parents, the two people in the world who should have loved him unconditionally, had treated him, and continued to treat him, as cruelly as any parents could. And she and Evan hadn't helped, even if the slight had been unintentional. That he should take such a little thing so much to heart concerned her deeply. Did he not know how much she cared? At that moment Dana felt that, despite her earlier vow, she would kill Phoebe the next time she saw her and all the others who had cut at his gentle heart and left him so vulnerable. And with Phoebe there was something. In the end she had given him up. Given him to Dana. To get his attention, she touched again the lock of soft hair that fell over his forehead. "You're not *just* a body, you know. You're a very special 'body'. And your body's fine by me, Mulder." He was suddenly alert. He had clearly heard that. "Hey, and your mind's not so bad either," she added, hastily, "a little unusual, but I like unusual." The light was dim, so she could not see the faint flush of color come creeping into his cheeks. But his eyes sought hers and the body she approved of slowly relaxed, as if finally some tension had been released. "I said only one person had ever made me happy," he whispered, his voice growing faint. "I was wrong. There is another." Her lips parted questioningly and the answer she received from his eyes made her smile. "Would you burn the letters for me?" he asked, softly. "You know I will," she replied in a voice similar to his, full of unspoken meaning. His eyes had begun to droop. Only through the force of his will had he been able to keep them open this long. He was shifting aimlessly in the bed trying to stay awake. "Medicine's got you, has it?" she asked, sympathetically. He shook his head, trying to keep the cotton from settling. "I hate this." "I know you do." He let his head lull against the pillow. "I never had a chance to tell you..." His voice came low and slow as if his mind was not working very quickly or he was having trouble making his mouth form the words. "When I was alone in the house with Angela, even before I got sick, I knew I had made a mistake taking that assignment. Do you know what I wanted more than anything else? To be out on the road with you." Dana smiled, remembering having very much the same thought. "Gee, Mulder, that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Why didn't you call and tell me?" He yawned. "You made me promise to go by the book." "And you *had* to choose this time, of all times, to follow the book, didn't you?" He gave her the best smile he could under the circumstances then shook his head, still unwilling to surrender. Trying to distract him from creeping cobwebs, Dana crouched down conspiratorially, close to his ear. "You know this incident might just *improve* your reputation." He had been almost asleep. One eye opened slowly, recognizing the shift in her tone. "How so?" he asked warily. "It's pretty common knowledge we don't -" teasing, she turned the lock of his hair around on her finger the way she had done once before when they were alone in a dark place. Two hazel eyes were open now, though it was a struggle. The sedative was pushing hard at the edges of his brain. His voice was husky. "How do *they* know what we do or do not do?" "Body language, Mulder. I think *they* thought there was something wrong with you. Now -" she shrugged. He rolled his eyes, not difficult to do, since his control was very tenuous at the moment. "So now they think there's something wrong with you?" He sighed sleepily and his eyes drooped closed. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Dana found herself warmly surprised by his defense of her reputation. He did not want her labeled a cold fish. Interestingly, he probably would have acted the same way if the rumor began going around that she was easy. It was certainly a delicate line they were walking. She smiled and smoothed his hair. "Just go to sleep, Mulder. I won't go anywhere tonight." Feeling secure in her presence, Mulder gently released the fierce grip with which he had clung to consciousness. He felt the drug settle over his mind and pull closed his eyes. But before he let it take him completely, he reached and found her hand in the dark. As his fingers tightened ever so briefly, like a brush over her palm, Dana felt a surge of sweet, breath-taking electricity move through her. Without withdrawing her hand from his she moved her chair a little closer to the bed. She thought he had fallen asleep and was considering withdrawing her hand, when she heard him begin to mutter, but his voice was so low it was almost inaudible. "Can't remember... Ever get my good night kiss? Hell of a thing for a guy to forget..." Dana smiled and wondered if this incorrigible man was talking in his sleep or setting her up. She decided to take the chance. Leaning over, she put her fingers under the point of his chin and looked down upon his beautiful face, where the lashes lay thick and long against his cheeks. She kissed his partially opened lips, liking the taste of him even through the hospital, medicine smell, but he did not respond. He was finally and completely asleep and never knew it. She stoked his hair and smiled. "This is the second time I've kissed you, Mulder and you've missed it both times. But third time's the charm, they say." As the quiet noises of the hospital floated around them, she rested her elbows on his bed and kept watch as he slept. The End (The sequel to THE ABDUCTEE is MILE HIGH.) -------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------- About the series: REVELATIONS The first story of 'REVELATIONS' takes place after episode 5 of the program (the Jersey Devil) and the other parts in the latter half of the first season, after FIRE and after TOOMS ('I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you, Mulder.') but before the ERLENMEYER FLASK. 1. REVELATIONS (in the works as if 8/95) 2. THE BOX (On Ftp.cs.nmt.edu) 3. THE VACATION (This is just a working title so far. I only have a vague outline about this one.) 4. THE ABDUCTEE 5. MILE HIGH 6. MEMORIES (A revision will be posted after MILE HIGH. The original from 3/95 is on ftp.cs.nmt.edt parts 01, 02, 03 and will be replaced with the revision. Note: There is another story on this site with extension .TXT which is not mine. Sorry about the identical titles. I try to check these things out.) 7. JUST THE TWO OF US: Under construction as of 7/95 (Wonder if this or Revelations will be finished first? I certainly don't know.) 8. SKUNKED AGAIN: probably. Great title, though. Not in REVELATIONS: DO NOT GO GENTLE (on ftp.cs.nmt.edu) DELIVER US FROM EVIL (posted 4/17) WEDDING, version B (The Action-Adventure Version) in MacSpooky's GENERATIONS series and with her spirit and support. (posted July 1995) WALKERS (working title: There's already a fan fiction called 'Walker'.) Coming late in the fall. -------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------- "Goodbye," said the fox, "And now here is my secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; What is essential is invisible to the eye." A. de Saint-Exupery