Title: Profiles in Caring III: The Roberson Case
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-Mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC - 17 for violence and disturbing imagery - no sex
Category: SA - character exploration
Spoilers: Part 1 set post Redux II
Part 2 and 3 set post Kill Switch
reference is made to many episodes, but no major
spoilers
Keywords: MSR - M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please! 
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are
wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if
they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. 
Comments: This is a series of hurt/comfort, angst, support,
care and concern, friendship/love vignettes, wrapped around a loose plot
I definitely have more fun making the characters interact with each other
than making them solve crimes. 
Part 1 Summary: After her release from the hospital, Scully
follows Mulder to where he is working on a case for VCS. 
Part 2 Summary: Mulder, Skinner, and Scully are called to
testify at the trial. Things quickly turn dangerous as Emerson escapes
and Scully goes missing. 
Part 3 Summary: Mulder, Skinner, and Scully are home and
recovering. When a self-purported alien abductee decides to take Mulder
for a show and tell ride, Scully is there too, and Skinner must find
them before it is too late. 
"Any society that needs disclaimers has too many lawyers."
Erik Pepke 
"Fan fiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage
done in a system where contemporary myths are owned
by corporations instead of owned by the folk."
Henry Jenkins, director of media studies at MIT
Author of "Textual Poachers: Media Fans and Participatory Culture" 
Part 3
Chapter 15 
"When a friend is in trouble, don't annoy him by asking
if there is anything you can do. Think up something
appropriate and do it."
Edgar Watson Howe 
Skinner walked slowly down the hall of the old apartment building.
Though he had been here before, this would be the first time he
had come in his new role as 'friend.' He shook his head - if
he could be a friend and if they would let him. 
Since the Emerson case began last fall, his relationship with his
two agents had changed greatly. No longer just a supervisor,
someone they reported to, he had become mentor, sometime
co-worker, and, as he could still hardly believe, friend. 
The AD paused outside the door, thinking of the two people he
knew were inside. Oh, yes, this was Dana Scully's apartment,
but Fox Mulder would be here. If Skinner was correct, Mulder's
guilt would have kept him here since they had returned a week
ago. 
He shook his head again as he thought of the fight that
Scully had waged to be released. Within 48 hours of regaining
consciousness, she was hammering the hospital staff to let
her go. Finally, on day 4, a threat to check herself out
AMA got one of the doctors to agree to send her home with
strict instructions that she stay on bed rest for another
week, at least. Mulder had fussed so over her on the
plane back, that he was lucky not to have made the last
half of the journey consigned to the baggage compartment. 
And now a week after their return, he stood in the hall
and wondered why he hadn't come to check on them sooner.
'This friend stuff really is new to me,' he thought. 
Though he had been injured in the Emerson situation as well,
his was the least serious of the three. His head had healed
completely, and the stitches in his leg had come out several
days ago. He had been checking in with his agents by phone
since they had returned to DC, but this was the first time
he had come to see them. He felt pangs of guilt that he
had, again, let duty and responsibility to his work keep him
from something he should have done sooner. 
It was a phone call he had received this morning, at the
office, though it was Saturday, that had motivated him to
come and see these two, rather than just check in by phone.
He hadn't even realized Mulder was staying here since he
had been using the cell to check in. But this morning,
Margaret Scully had called, from San Diego, to ask him to
get a message to her daughter since Dana was on a case. Her
brother Bill was recovering well from the fall he had taken
from the elevator to the flight deck of his ship. She would
be gone at least two more weeks, and would Dana please call
when she had a few minutes. 
At the realization that Mrs. Scully was not here, that Dana
was hiding her injuries from her, Skinner knew that Mulder
had to be staying with her. There was no way he would leave
her alone when she was still so weak from her injuries. He
gave himself a mental shake. 'Well, time to see if I measure
up as a friend,' he thought, as he knocked twice on the door. 
**************************************************************** 
"So, how is she doing?" Skinner seated himself on the couch,
taking the glass Mulder held out with his good arm. He began
with a question about Scully, knowing that would get Mulder
talking, but he was actually more concerned with the appearance
of the young man before him. His right arm was still bandaged,
and should have been taped down, but Mulder had obviously freed
himself from the restraint, and had most probably been using it
since it was his dominant arm and hand. His forehead still
sported a bandage over a deep gash and the back of his head
still had that shaven, fairly stubbled look, covering a matching
wound. His hands were scabbed and rough looking from his fight
with a concrete wall. 
Those were, however, injuries Skinner knew about, and actually,
they seemed to be healing as expected. But the deep circles under
his eyes, the sunken cheeks and the way his clothes hung from his
frame, these were all new, and not good signs. Skinner knew, from
working with him in the field while pursuing Emerson, that
these were symptoms that Mulder was severely stressed, and not
sleeping or eating. 
"She sleeps a lot, Sir." Mulder paused, frowning. He walked to
the window, looking out. "Well," he amended, "she tries to sleep
a lot. She's still in a good bit of pain, and taking a lot of meds
for it - maybe more than she should be. Or not enough. She won't
take them when she's up, then seems to use the pain meds to induce
sleep. But," he shrugged, a sort of 'who am I to question?' kind
of movement, "She's the doctor. And her night terrors are in full
swing." 
Mulder tensed visibly, his hands clutching into fists at his sides.
His brow furrowed as he thought back over the past week. Skinner
could see the carefully attempted concealment of his obvious
distress falling away. 
"She won't talk to me - keeps insisting that there's nothing to say.
That it wouldn't be 'helpful' for me to know what happened." He
choked back a sob. "I think her old nightmares are getting mixed
in with visions of Emerson, and it's tearing her up. And when
she wakes up now, I know she remembers at least some of what she
dreams." He shook his head in despair. "But she won't talk about
it - says she's afraid SHE'LL hurt ME." He gave a strangled little
laugh. 
"Afraid. That's a good word for the two of us. I'm afraid
to touch her. I don't know what he did to her and I couldn't bear
it if I touched her and . . " He trailed off, a strangled cry barely
escaping. "I'm afraid I'll hurt her even more than she's been hurt.
We walk around each other on egg shells, afraid to talk, afraid to
touch, afraid to sleep." He paused, gathering himself together,
then continued on, almost to himself. "It's like she's here, but
she's not. We're here, but we're not together. At least she hasn't
tried to make me go home yet." 
Skinner listened, nodding, taking it in, but still focusing on the
haggard young man standing by the window. Noting the determined
look on his face at the last comment, he knew Scully would have a
real fight on her hands when it was time for Mulder to go home.
'Then again, maybe not. He really looks awful,' he thought to
himself. 'Like he's going to collapse any minute.' 
Skinner watched as Mulder retreated into himself, sinking into
thought. He just barely made out words, whispered so softly
he would have missed them if he hadn't been totally focused
on Mulder anyway. "I miss her." 
Skinner gave Mulder a minute, then called softly, "Mulder." 
Mulder started and turned to face Skinner inquiringly. Skinner met
his eyes for a long moment, then stated, "You are staying here at
Scully's, right?" 
The young man flushed, then looked away briefly. He nodded, a quick,
jerky, up and down motion, then spoke, "Well, uh, yeah, I am, uh, on
the couch. She, uh, isn't, well, umm, she doesn't want, that is . . ." 
He trailed off as Skinner rose and crossed to him. He reached out
and gently turned the younger man to face him. He left his hand
on Mulder's arm as he spoke. "It's ok, Mulder. You're taking care
of her." 
Mulder flushed again, looked at Skinner's hand on his arm, and
ducked his head. "Yeah, well, I'm trying." 
Skinner squeezed Mulder's arm gently, until he lifted his head and
met his gaze. "And who is taking care of you?" 
Mulder blinked in surprise, his brow furrowing as if trying to make
sense of the question. "Me?" He looked around in confusion. "I'm
ok, Sir. Scully's the one that got hurt - hurt because of me." 
Skinner felt a flash of anger. When would this young man ever
learn that everything bad in the world was not his fault? With
the risks inherent in the job they all held, things were bound to
go sour occasionally and people would get hurt. And sometimes, it
would be Scully who was hurt. But that was a discussion for another
time. Skinner checked his anger and spoke softly. 
"No, Mulder, not because of you. Because a madman who was killing
women decided that Scully would be fun to play with. Not because of
you in any way." Skinner pulled gently on Mulder's arm, leading him
into the kitchen. He seated him at the small table there, then went
to the refrigerator, opening it. "Tea, soda, juice. Which do you
want?" 
Mulder just looked at him. "Sir?" 
"A drink, Mulder," Skinner explained patiently. "Which do you want?
You haven't been eating or sleeping from the looks of things - so, let
me fix you something to drink, we'll have lunch, and then you sleep
and I'll watch Scully for a while. How's that sound?" 
Mulder continued to look at him with confusion. Skinner pulled the
tea out and fixed a glass for him and then began to search for the
makings for sandwiches. He found the bread, then dug in the
refrigerator for mustard and mayo. He found a package of ham and
one of cheese. He found a beginning to wrinkle tomato, and a
slightly wilted head of lettuce. As he worked, he kept up a light
running patter of non-consequential things, the weather, the
Redskins, office gossip. He was searching his mind, trying to pull
up another topic to prattle on about, when Mulder suddenly spoke. 
"Did you know, if you don't experience REM sleep for 96 hours,
you'll have a psychotic episode?" 
Skinner paused, knife in hand, then turned slowly. "No, Mulder,
I didn't know that. Are you telling me you haven't slept in FOUR
days?" He shook his head ruefully. "How long have you been here?" 
Mulder scrubbed his face with his hands, then sighed heavily.
"Since we got back." He laid his head on the table for a minute,
then pulled himself back up. His whole body tensed as he asked,
"And why are you here, Sir?" 
Skinner froze. There were layers in that question, layers upon
layers; it wasn't what it seemed to be. Mulder doesn't trust
people, yet he has been letting me in, more and more. He turned
slowly and looked Mulder in the eye. Oh yeah, this question was
a test. 
"Well, Mulder, the superficial answer is that I got a call at
the office from Margaret Scully. Know anything about that?" 
Mulder flushed and dropped his gaze. "Scully's idea, not mine,"
he mumbled. "I wanted to tell her the truth." 
"Brother Bill is doing well and Margaret expects to be there a
couple more weeks. She wants Dana to call." 
Mulder nodded, then said, "And the non-superficial answer,
Sir?" 
"The non-superficial answer is - I was concerned about you two." 
"But not so concerned that you couldn't wait a week to come
by," Mulder said in a quiet voice. 
"Afraid, Mulder. It's a word that can fit more people than you
and Scully." He paused, turned back to the counter and fiddled with
the sandwich makings, then faced Mulder again. "I'm not good at
personal relationships." 
Mulder visibly relaxed. Both men expelled breaths they had been
holding and tension slipped out of the room. Mulder flashed a
quick grin. " 'S ok, Sir. We're all in a learning mode around
here." 
Skinner nodded again, then served the sandwiches. He had half
expected Mulder to pick at the food, and was pleased when he began
to wolf it down. When he finished, he looked around as if to ask,
'Is there more?' Skinner had eaten half of his own sandwich, so he
passed the other half to Mulder, who looked up in surprise. Skinner
nodded, "Go ahead, eat, I'm gonna make another." 
Mulder took the sandwich and began to eat, a bit more slowly this
time. "This is really good, Sir, thank you." He chuckled. "Maybe
I AM having a psychotic episode. Instead of pink penguins in tutus,
I'm seeing my boss in my partner's kitchen, fixing me lunch." 
Both men laughed at that, and Skinner quickly made another
sandwich, passing one half to Mulder and digging in to the other
half himself. "Well, Mulder, maybe you're seeing your friend, trying
to help out a bit." He smiled. "Ever think of that?" He turned
serious. "I'm truly sorry I didn't come by sooner. Why didn't you
tell me things weren't going well?" 
Mulder just shrugged in response to Skinner's question. The
two men finished the sandwiches, and quickly washed up the few
dishes. Mulder excused himself to walk down the hall and check
in on Scully. Still sleeping. When he returned to the living
room, Skinner had pulled out a pillow and blanket and made a bed
on the couch. "Time for you to sleep," he announced. "And I am
not listening to any excuses. You are dead on your feet, and if
this continues, you won't be any good to Scully or yourself. So,
down boy, sleep well." 
"You'll stay awhile, Sir, in case . . ." Mulder started. 
"I'll stay as long as I'm needed. Get some sleep, Mulder.
I'm here. You don't have to do this alone. We'll talk again when
you've rested some, ok?" 
Mulder sat on the couch and began to take off his shoes. "She's
going to wake up within the hour, Sir. She never sleeps more
than two or three hours at a time," he warned. "Promise you'll
wake me." 
Skinner looked at Mulder. "If she wakes up, I'll try to handle it.
And if I can't calm her down, I'll wake you. Otherwise, you sleep.
Deal?" 
Mulder skinned out of his jeans, nodding, then began fumbling
with the buttons on his shirt. The injured right arm and tender
healing patches on both hands made buttons a chore. 
Skinner stepped toward him, "Here, let me do that. At this rate,
you'll still be awake tomorrow." He quickly finished unbuttoning
the shirt and helped the younger man take it off, pulling gently
over the injured arm. Mulder lay down on the couch, pulling the
blanket up loosely to his waist. "Why are you wearing a dress
shirt anyway?" 
"Um, all my clothes are dirty," Mulder yawned, his eyes already
drifting shut. "I didn't want to leave her to go do laundry." 
Skinner nodded. 'Of course,' he thought. "All right, Mulder,
once you've rested, we'll figure out laundry and groceries and
all the other things that need to be done around here. But for
now," he paused, looking over at his agent and seeing that
sleep had already claimed him. He moved over and pulled the
blanket up a bit more, tucking it in around the younger man.
"But for now," he repeated in a whisper, "Sleep." 
************************************************************* 
Scully couldn't move. She tried to fight against whatever
was restraining her, but it hurt so badly, she had to stop.
She lay quietly for a moment, and then a voice told her, "You
can go." She tried to move, but she was still restrained.
There was a light, a bright light, shining over her, blinding
her as she tried to see what held her, why she couldn't free
herself and go as the voice ordered. The voice spoke again,
"YOU CAN GO." But she still couldn't move. She fought,
struggling against the bonds that held her, and she tried to
speak, to explain, that she wanted to go, she was trying to go,
but she couldn't. 
She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. From somewhere
far away, she heard a strangled moan, a sound of someone in pain.
Was it Mulder? Where was he? Why couldn't she move? And then,
someone, something began to hit her. She was struggling, trying
to get away, the light and the voice were getting confused,
telling her to go, making her stay. And the pain, God, the pain
was incredible! She struggled harder, fighting to get away, and
then . . . 
Strong arms reached for her, pulling her up and into the safety of
a warm embrace. She clung, burying her head in the safety of
a warm shoulder, feeling the wetness from her cheeks transfer to
the starched white cotton beneath her face. Wait a minute - starched
white cotton? Her mind groggily tried to piece things together. 
A deep voice was calling her name, strong arms held and rocked her
as gentle hands stroked her back. She stayed where she was for long
minutes, waiting for her breathing to even out, and the tears to
cease, and then pulled back and away. She tilted her head up, and
looked not into Mulder's face, as she had since they had returned,
but rather, into the surprisingly compassionate face of AD Skinner. 
She remained where she was a bit longer, meeting his gaze, but not
speaking. At last, Skinner broke the silence. "Well, Dana, are
you feeling a little better now?" 
Scully continued to stare into Skinner's eyes, and slowly nodded her
head. As her sleep fogged mind tried to reconcile the different
portions of her dream, and her waking mind tried to figure out
how she had come to awaken in her boss's arms, a third part of
her began to make assumptions. "Mulder," she gasped. "Is he . . ." 
"Shhh," Skinner said, "He's fine. Well, he's exhausted, but he's
ok." He pulled back from Scully releasing her to sit on her own.
"I came by to see how you two were getting along, and he was dead
on his feet, barely functional, and so," he shrugged, "I fixed
him a sandwich, made him eat, and then put him to bed. I was
supposed to wake him if you had a problem, but . . ." It was
Skinner's turn to trail off. 
"No, don't wake him," Scully immediately responded. "He's hardly
had any sleep since we got back." She straightened a bit. "I'm
ok now, Sir. Thank you." 
Skinner looked at her appraisingly. The massive swelling on her face
had receded and the bruising had faded to vague spots of yellow and
green. Her nose was covered with a small, but stiff bandage, giving
her a nasal sound when she spoke. Her left arm wore a cast from wrist
to elbow. He couldn't see it, but he had felt it beneath her shirt,
a heavy bandage still covered her left breast. 
However, as with Mulder, those injuries he expected and they were
healing. It was the pinched look about her face, the hollow, gaunt
look of her eyes, the dark circles surrounding them, the skeletal
thinness he had felt as he held her, that concerned him most. 
"Well, Scully - Dana - you look better than you did when we came
home, but you still don't seem 'ok' to me." Skinner paused, then
went on. "I don't think Mulder is the only one not eating or sleeping
here." 
Scully flushed and turned away slightly. "I've had some problems
with keeping things down," she admitted. "And I'm not sleeping
real well. I keep dreaming about Emerson." She lowered her head.
"It's not - pleasant," she finished. 
"Dana - look, this may be none of my business, but, I know you haven't
been sleeping well for sometime, now. I've been present twice when
you've woken screaming from some nightmare that you didn't even
remember later." 
Scully looked at him in astonishment. She shook her head in disbelief. 
Skinner paused, debating on whether or not this was the time to
get into all of this. It was bound to cause her further distress,
but, damn it, it needed to be dealt with. He looked at her,
assessing. Though she had just awoke, she seemed lucid enough.
Whatever meds she was on didn't seem to be making her too foggy.
'Fuck it,' he said to himself. 'Someone needs to make her see
what she's doing to herself, and to Mulder.' 
"It's true," he said. "When you came out to join Mulder last fall,
he went out running one morning, and as he was coming back in, he
and I were both shocked out of our shorts when you started screaming,
calling his name. We went in, and Mulder was able to calm you down
and you went back to sleep." 
She waited for him to continue. 
"When you woke up, you didn't even remember it had happened. Mulder
indicated that it wasn't the first time - it had been going on
since your abduction - and you rarely, if ever, remembered." 
Skinner stopped, looking at Scully, gauging her reaction so far. She
continued to shake her head slowly, not moving as she looked at him.
He didn't want to cause her additional stress, but this was hurting
her and Mulder both, and it had to come to a stop. 
"Then, when we flew out for the trial, it happened again on the plane.
Mulder had gone to the restroom, and you woke up screaming. He got
back just in time and again was able to settle you. And again,
you didn't remember what had happened." 
He paused again, waiting to see if she would speak. When she remained
silent, he plunged ahead. 
"Dana, you know you have to get to the bottom of this. Mulder told me
after the incident on the plane that it didn't affect your field work,
but it seems to have gotten worse, much worse. He says you don't sleep
more than two or three hours at a time, and you seem to be remembering
some of what the nightmares are about. You have to face this, deal
with it, and put it behind you." 
She gazed into his eyes, listening to his words, and taking in what
he was telling her. "How?" she asked fearfully, "how do I do that?" 
He reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Talk
to Mulder, he'll know what to do. After all, he ought to be able to
use that Oxford education every now and then." He smiled
encouragingly. "And he'll be there every step of the way for you."
He stopped a moment, then squeezed her hand again. "And so will I,
if you'd like me to be. I'll help you both in whatever way I can." 
He pulled his hand back, and rose from the bed. "For now, why don't
you get dressed and I'll fix you some lunch as well." He walked
to the door, then turned and asked, "Will you be all right?" He
paused, flushing slightly, then added, "Do you need any help?" 
She was sitting on the bed, looking at her lap. She shook her head,
whispering, "I'm fine." When he didn't move, she lifted her head and
offered a slight smile. "Really, I'll be fine. You've given me a lot
to think about. Let me get dressed and I'll be out in a few minutes." 
He nodded acquiescence and said "Call me if you need me. I'm going
to check on Mulder and then I'll be in the kitchen. " He turned
and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. 
****************************************************************** 
When Mulder woke, it was dark. He lay quietly for a few minutes,
luxuriating in the joy of feeling rested. He looked at his watch
and realized he had slept almost 8 hours - an incredible length
of time for him! 
He could hear voices from the kitchen, a soft, low alto <so Scully
is awake>, alternating with a deep bass <and Skinner is still here>.
He got to his feet and slipped his jeans back on. Deciding to forego
a shirt for the time being, <too many buttons> he padded barefoot
into the kitchen to join them. 
Skinner and Scully were seated at the small table, eating soup and
talking quietly. Skinner looked up as he entered the doorway. "Well,
look who's up. Thought you might sleep the night away as well as
the day." Skinner rose and pulled another bowl from the cabinets
and began to fix a portion for Mulder. "Have a seat, Mulder." 
"First sandwiches, now soup." Mulder moved toward the table. "I
didn't know you were so domestic, Sir." 
"Not all bachelors live on take out and videos, Mulder." 
They all laughed and Mulder went to Scully, leaning over to kiss the
top of her head quickly. "How are you?" he asked quietly. 
"Better, Mulder, really," she responded. "I've been talking with
the AD, and he's helped me to clarify some things." She smiled
up at him. "Why don't you get something to eat first? We can talk
about this later." 
At his pained look, she continued, "No, Mulder, this is not a stall
technique. There's a lot I need to talk about, and I want you to
be the one I talk to." 
"You look a lot more alert, Scully," he said, taking in her appearance.
"You look like you've slept some, too." 
She nodded, "And I cut back on the pain meds some, Mulder. I know
you tried to tell me I was taking too much, but . . ." She stopped
and shrugged helplessly. "I just couldn't face things. Skinner
helped me see I have to face them - and with your help - I think
I can now." 
"Scully, you know I'm here for you - to talk - to listen - whatever
you need." 
"I know, Mulder, I know." She reached up and pulled him down to her
level, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. As he leaned down
to meet her, she captured his lips with her own, and kissed him. 
He froze, unsure of what to do. Skinner was right here, in the room.
And Scully was hurt, injured, vulnerable. Since they had returned,
he had been very careful to keep from touching her in any way that
might make her feel threatened or unsure. And she had been beaten
badly, her face bruised and bloodied. He hadn't wanted to add to
her discomfort in anyway. 
But as all of these thoughts crossed his mind, his traitorous body
began to respond hungrily to the contact on his lips and he found
himself reaching out and pulling her tightly against him, kissing
her more deeply, his tongue invading her mouth gently. When he
could no longer breathe, he pulled back and laid his head on her
shoulder whispering, "God, Scully, I've missed you." 
She reached up and gently embraced him, pulling him down all the way
to her. He knelt, holding his injured arm against his side, and
wrapping the other one around her. "I know, Mulder, I'm sorry."
She kissed his hair, next to the shaved spot over the wound on
the back of his head. "We'll talk and it will be better." 
They stayed like that, time standing still, enjoying the touch and
scent of one another, until Skinner quietly cleared his throat.
Rather than pulling away guiltily as they would have done in the
past, they broke apart slowly, each one's touch lingering on the
other. 
Skinner stepped over and placed a steaming bowl of soup on the
table for Mulder, then leaned down and helped him rise to his
feet. "Come on, you, time to eat." He helped him to his seat,
then went and fixed a drink for him. "Crackers?" he asked. 
Mulder nodded and Skinner pulled the box out and placed it on
the table. The three of them ate, talking of unimportant things,
and then quickly cleared away the dinner dishes. As they finished,
Skinner went and got a pad from Scully's desk and reentered the
kitchen, ready to make a list. 
"I'm going to get your laundry done," he began, "and make a run
on the grocery store." He waved away the protests that were
rising from them both. "These things need to be done, and you
two need to spend some time talking." 
At that, Scully and Mulder exchanged a quick glance. They did need
to talk, and they needed privacy for that to happen. 
"So," Skinner continued, "Mulder, you get those dirty clothes
together, and Scully, help me with this list. You're in dire
need of fresh fruits and vegetables." 
Mulder went to gather the clothes as assigned and Skinner and
Scully composed a grocery list, working together. When the
preliminaries were done, Skinner folded the list and stuck it in
his pocket. 
He grabbed the basket of clothes and detergent, and headed for the
door. "Now," he said, turning to face them, "is there anything
else you need done while I'm out?" 
As they both shook their heads, Skinner said, "Ok, then, I'm outta
here." He reached for the door handle. "I'll be back in a few hours
and then it's bedtime for you both, got that?" he added with mock
sternness. 
Scully chuckled, and Mulder laughed outright, flippantly saying,
"Yes, Dad." 
Skinner joined their laughter, then went out the door. 
Chapter 16 
"Fear is a question: What are you afraid of, and why?
Just as the seed of health is in illness,
because illness contains information,
your fears are a treasure house of self-knowledge
if you explore them."
Marilyn Ferguson 
Harold Roberson looked around in disgust. 'So this is where the
big FBI agent lives,' he thought. 'Big whoop. He doesn't even
have a bedroom.' 
Harold had expected this moment to be much larger, much more
meaningful, something to stand out in his memory. Instead, he
found himself standing in a rather dark and dingy, extremely small
apartment, a layer of dust covering everything. A fish tank
burbled in the background, devoid of occupants. Papers, books,
printouts, photos, and magazines covered all available surfaces. 
But of the resident, the purpose for Harold's being there in the
first place, there was no sign. And more disturbingly, no sign
that he had been there in some time. 
Harold made one more sweep of the apartment, just to make sure his
quarry wasn't hiding in a closet or behind the shower curtain,
then he sat heavily on the couch to rethink his plans. 
Since he was just a boy, serving his country in Viet Nam, Harold
had been a multiple abductee. That was the term those UFO nuts
used, multiple abductee. He had tried to tell those folks his
stories, all the things he'd seen and heard. But for some strange
reason, they didn't seem to believe Harold. He'd finally given up
on trying to get others to help him, and he had devised a plan all
on his own. 
He thought back to all the times, over and over again, THEY had
come for him, taking him to their place, or ship, or whatever it
was, and doing terrible things to him. It had started when he'd
volunteered for that special detail in Nam, and then it had never
stopped. Harold wasn't sure how the Army was mixed up in all this,
but he was sure they were. And now it looked like the FBI was
involved as well. It was a damned conspiracy. Harold clenched his
fists in barely restrained rage. 
>From just plain beatings for not being obedient, to horrendous
pseudo medical tests, Harold had experienced it all. And THEY
thought their mind wipe worked - but Harold had them fooled. He
remembered it all - and he was going to tell the world what was
happening. 
As he thought of that moment, the moment when he, Harold Roberson,
saved the world by revealing the evil plot against humanity, he
grew excited. He would be a hero. Never again would he be locked
up, put on tranquilizers that quieted his mind and killed
his soul. He would be recognized, approved of, exalted even. The
world would owe its very existence to Harold Roberson. 
And the first step toward that goal was finding the resident of
this apartment. The last time he had been taken had been the
worst. THEY had beaten him, and done some kind of surgery, because
he could see the faint scars just under his hairline. He had
been awake and aware during the painful testing, and had overheard
a conversation by some of the so-called humans who were assisting
them. As he lay there on the table, long needles penetrating his
abdomen, he could vaguely make out an older man, smoking, and
talking with several others. 
"I've told you to keep a closer eye on his activities. He's
losing his belief system, which could work to our advantage.
But if they come now, as they are threatening to, the whole plan
could be ruined." 
"And how will keeping a closer eye on him help us?" the younger
man had asked. 
"This whole damn thing is his fault. Look around you,
why do you think we're still testing the vaccine? So far,
Mulder is the only success we've had. And it wasn't even our
success - it was Russia's. We can't afford to lose him." 
Harold had blissfully passed out from the pain at that point, but
the memories were still there when he had awakened, back in his
own bed in the hospital. It had taken him weeks to plan and execute
his escape. Once free, long months of painstaking research had
gone into finding the right Mulder. More time to track him down
and find where he lived. And now, he sat dejectedly in this empty
apartment, having to rethink his program, moving back the timetable
he had established for the salvation of the world. As he struggled
to think through a new plan, he vowed that it wouldn't be enough
to just take this monster out of the picture, he would have to be
punished as well. 
Harold had figured it out. The man with the cigarette had said
that the whole thing was Mulder's fault. That must mean that
the threat THEY posed was caused by something this Mulder had
seen or done. Maybe he had been the first one to contact THEM
and invite them on down. Harold chuckled wryly at that thought.
And if Mulder was responsible for that, then he was responsible
for all the horrible things that Harold had endured as well.
Whether those things were done by THEM, or by humans trying to
thwart THEM, it didn't matter to Harold. There was an evilness
at work, and he had suffered. By God, there would be atonement.
Mulder would pay! 
Harold thought of how he could find the FBI agent now. Perhaps
his partner would know where he could be found. Harold pulled
a dog-eared notepad from his pocket and opened it, checking to be
sure he had the partner's address as well. Hell, maybe this guy
was over at the partner's house, who knows? Harold let himself
get lost in his fantasy of saving the world one more time, before
refocusing on the task at hand. He stood for one last look around. 
"I found you once," Roberson said aloud to the empty room, "I can
find you again. And when I do, Fox Mulder, you will regret the
evil that you have worked in this world. You will atone for your
sins." 
******************************************************************** 
Scully and Mulder stood for a minute, just looking at the door that
Skinner had gone through. Then, she stepped forward to turn the
locks and engage the chain. Before she completed her movement,
Mulder reached out and gently pulled her to him. She resisted for
just a second, then came willingly to him. Ignoring the pain in his
own injured right arm, he pulled her close, tightly wrapping his arms
around her, holding her captive against him. 
"Mulder, your arm," she started, twisting back to look up at him. 
"Shhh . . ., it's ok," he responded as he pulled her head back to
nestle in the hollow of his shoulder. He began to stroke her back,
her hair, her arms, reveling in the feel of her, thrilled to be
touching her again after his own self-imposed exile. They stood
together for a long time, not talking, their bodies melded together,
enjoying the sensation of being close, of caring and being
cared for. 
At length, a muscle in Mulder's injured arm spasmed involuntarily,
and he winced. Scully pulled back, looking up at him, and saying,
"Come on, Mulder, come sit down." She took his left hand and
gently tugged him toward the couch. "It's time we had a little
talk." 
As they sat on the couch, he noted that Scully chose to sit at the
other end, as opposed to next to him. <She's establishing distance -
but from what? The topic of the day? Or me?> As Mulder sat
quietly, giving Scully time to gather her thoughts, he realized it
was cool in the room. Without her in his arms, he was actually cold.
He shivered, and she noticed immediately. 
"You're cold, Mulder," she stated. When he nodded, she added, "Why
didn't you put a shirt on?" 
"Too hard." 
She rose and pulled the blanket back out from the closet, wrapping
it around his shoulders gently. He pulled it together with his
left hand and settled in to wait for her to begin. As she sat
staring at her lap, obviously waging a battle with herself, he
realized it was going to be a long wait. He filled the time by
studying her. It was a source of continual amazement to him, that
even now, after working with her for almost 6 years, seeing her
day in and day out, he never tired of looking at her. 
And now, now that they were changing their relationship, moving
into more and more intimate areas, he never tired of touching her
either. Every look, every glance, every touch, every caress, was
a moment to be cherished forever, engraved in permanence in his
eidetic memory. He kept them safely in his heart, like rays of
sunshine to be pulled out and re-experienced to get him through
his darkest days. 
"Mulder." 
He jumped, lifting his eyes to meet her quizzical gaze. 
"Are you even listening to me?" 
"Uhmm, sorry Scully," he apologized, "I was distracted by thoughts of
this really gorgeous redhead." He cast puppy eyes and pouty lips
her way, and watched as she melted before him. "What were you saying?" 
"I said, I need to know what you know, or think you know, about
my sleep disorder - or at least the sleep disorder that Skinner
says that you say that I have - if that makes any sense." She
half smiled at her own longwindedness. 
"Scully, I know I've been after you to talk about this for a long
time," he smiled sheepishly, "but are you really up to this
right now?" 
"I'm not ready for long-term therapy, and you, brilliant
as you may be, would not be my first choice for therapist.
But I really feel I need to know what is happening in my own
mind and to my own body." 
Mulder nodded cautiously. "I don't think it started until after
your abduction," he began. Sometimes, when we were on a case,
I would hear you at night, in the next room." He flushed slightly.
"I didn't want to invade your privacy, but I just couldn't let you cry
like that and not come to you." He turned sad, thoughtful eyes on her.
"You never seemed to know where you were, but you always seemed to
know me." He paused, gazing steadily at her. "What do you want
to know?" 
She dropped her gaze, embarrassed, then said, "When . . . how
often . . ." She couldn't bring herself to go on. 
"The first time was out in Delta Glen, Wisconsin, the Church of
the Red Museum. I was watching TV when suddenly you were screaming
from next door. I grabbed my gun and ran into your room, sure you
were being killed, and found you crying on the bed. I talked to
you, rubbed your back, and you calmed down and went back to
sleep. The next day, you never mentioned it. I thought you just
didn't want to talk about it, but later I came to realize, you
didn't even remember." He shook his head. "That's some pretty
heavy denial you've got going, Scully." 
"Apparently," she said quietly. "When else?" 
"Pfaster, when you broke down and cried in my arms after we found
you, I thought that might be a turning point. But it wasn't. Oh,
you remembered everything about Pfaster, even crying, but that, you
didn't want to talk about, at least not to me." A tinge of
bitterness crept into his voice and he stopped, trying to regain
control of his own emotions. <This is Scully's time - not mine.
I will be strong for her - I will focus on her> 
"Then again, in North Carolina. Colonel Wharton and the voodoo
gang. There were enough bad dreams going around then to upset
anyone. And again in Arkansas - Chaco Chicken." 
"By then, I was beginning to see the pattern. Severe stress, whenever
you were in danger, sometimes when I was in danger and you were
worried about me, those were the triggers." 
He reached out and took her hand, pulling her a bit closer on the
couch. "I was lost; I just didn't seem to be able to do anything
to help you, to make it better. You would be in such pain, such
raw emotional pain, at night, and then you were 'fine' the next
day." 
He suddenly found a spot on the floor, under her coffee table,
extremely interesting. As he studied it, he continued. "I rarely
slept well, after, you know . . . after Samantha. But once this
started, I could hardly sleep at all except when we were on a
case and I was there with you. At home, I'd lay there all night
thinking, 'What if it's happening and I'm not there? What if she
needs me?'" He flashed a quick grin her way. "Why do you think
I keep calling you in the middle of the night?" He paused,
fighting once again to keep himself under control. "It was killing
me, but I couldn't talk to you about it. Every time I even tried,
you'd get all cold and shut me out completely." 
"When we were down in Aubrey, you could talk about BJ's dreams.
Even though it went against your rational nature, you accepted
that something might be going on with her. But when I tried to
bring up your dreams, you just stared at me, and walked away."
His eyes were sad, filled with remembered helplessness. 
"On the Ardent, you were willing to talk about feeling near death,
of some of your experiences in the coma. But, again, when I
tried to talk about living, what the dreams did to you, you
turned cold and silent. I was weak," he shrugged helplessly.
"I couldn't stand you shutting me out, so I stopped trying to talk
about it." 
"Oh, Mulder, I'm so sorry." Tears filled her eyes. 
"Should I keep going, Scully? Do you really need to hear this?" 
With a combination of fear and loathing, she said in a small voice,
"There's more, isn't there?" 
He nodded. "Incanto, Pusher, after Queequeg died - I'm still sorry
I was such an ass, Scully, - when you were affected by the TV
signals, then when Gerry Schnauz grabbed you. Roche, Leonard Betts -
I was off there. I thought that was because you were attacked
by him. It wasn't until you told me about the cancer that I
really understood what happened that time. When Penny Northern
died. After I faked my death, and you collapsed, and then your
remission." His voice broke and he stopped, shuddering. 
"Mulder, Mulder, oh God, I'm sorry." 
He shrugged again, then nodded, rubbing his face. "I thought the
remission might put an end to the nightmares, but it didn't.
The Emerson case - Skinner was there for that one. And then, in
Florida, the night before we were stuck in the woods. Linda Bowman.
Not only was it not stopping, it seemed to be increasing. That's
partly why I called you so much when you went to Maine." 
"Partly?" she asked. 
He ducked his head, talking to his lap. "I was worried you'd
have a nightmare and I wouldn't be there to help you back. And,"
he turned his head again, now looking away from her, staring at
the closed door, "I missed you." 
She looked at him, amazed and appalled. She reached out and
touched his arm gently, giving small tugs until he turned and
faced her. His eyes were filled with pain and tears threatened
to spill over onto his raspy cheeks. He was as distressed
now as she knew he had been each of the times he had mentioned.
"You remember every time," she whispered. 
He shuddered again. "Yeah, well," he tapped his head, then
quickly swiped at his eyes, "photographic memory, remember?" 
She moved closer to him, reaching out for comfort for herself, and
to reassure Mulder. "My God, Mulder, why didn't you tell me?"
She shook her head. "No, you did try to tell me. Why didn't I
listen? How could this be happening for so long, and I didn't
know?" 
She was shocked. Losing three months of her life was
hard enough. She'd tried very hard to put it behind her and
move on, and had thought she'd done quite well. But now, to
find that it wasn't behind her at all - it was shocking. There
was no other word. She felt that her own mind had betrayed her
in ways she couldn't even comprehend. 
"Mulder, what do I do?" she asked. The tears that had filled
her own eyes began to spill over as she looked pleadingly at him.
She began to cry - tears of grief for the lost months, tears
of mourning for loved ones lost in the search, tears of sadness
for lost opportunities - the times she held herself alone and
wouldn't let anyone close. "I can't - I won't - let this take
over my life, Mulder," she said through her tears. "How do I
ever put this behind me?" 
He took a deep breath, then gathered her all the way to himself,
pulling her over and into his lap. He held her tightly and rocked
her small body as she cried. He stroked her hair, murmuring soft
words of comfort and assurance. Scully didn't cry - not awake - he
amended to himself - so this was an enormous step forward in their
new relationship. He was overwhelmed that she trusted him enough
to let him see her like this, to let him hold her, to let him in. 
She cried until she could cry no more. Exhausted, she lay heavily
against his shoulder, the shudders from her exertion slowly
subsiding. He continued to hold her and felt, rather than saw, as
she began to drift off into sleep. He shook her gently, saying,
"Scully, hey Scully, come on - that's enough talking for now.
Let's get you into bed." 
She looked up at him sleepily, then nodded. They sat there a bit
longer, then she stretched, lifting her arms high over her head,
pushing her bottom down more deeply into his groin. He felt himself
leap to life. And so did she. She froze, then looked at him. Her
eyes darkened and took on a thoughtful look. She lowered her arms
around his neck and leaned into him even more. 
He was hard, and he felt himself grow even harder, impossibly
hard. She wriggled in his lap a bit, then touched her lips
to his. His mind played all the 'no' reasons - she's injured,
she's vulnerable, it's not the right time, I didn't want it
to be like this, I don't want her to regret this, I'm injured,
I can't do this right . . . 
But his body sped past his mind and he was kissing her intensely.
He wrapped his injured right arm around her, pulling her in to
him, oblivious to the pain this caused in the still healing
muscles of the arm. Most of his conscious thoughts were centered
in his lap, where her every movement heightened his arousal.
Idly, in a far corner of his mind he thought 'So this is what
it's like to think with your cock. God, don't let me ruin this.' 
With his left hand, he cupped her face in his hand, holding her
gently against him. His fingers brushed back her hair and then
traced a slow, lazy line down her cheek, her neck, and finally,
her breast. Her breathing quickened and she arched under his
touch. He stroked her breast, feeling her arousal feed his own. 
He kissed her again, then lowered his head to her neck and
began to kiss her throat, her neck, the hollow of her shoulder.
When he could get no further because of her shirt, he lifted
his head and said, "Buttons." 
She kissed him hungrily, then pulled back and began to undo
the buttons on her shirt. As she revealed herself to him,
the heavy bandage on her left breast stood out in stark
contrast to the creamy smoothness of her right. His eyes again
filled with tears as he thought of what she had been through.
He lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss - benediction -
over the bandage, his lips barely touching it. Then, he lifted
his head, kissed her again, and . . . 
The still unlocked door flew open and a stranger stood there, a
gun pointed at them both. 
Chapter 17 
"Nobody is more dangerous than he who imagines himself
pure in heart; for his purity, by definition, is unassailable."
James Baldwin 
Harold Roberson stood just inside the door, gun pointed at
the two people entwined on the couch. He kicked back with
his left foot, slamming the door behind him. "Well, well,
Agent Mulder, you seem to give new meaning to the term partner." 
Mulder came to his senses first, pulling Scully's blouse
together, then quickly shifting her off his lap and beside
him on the couch, his injured arm straining with the effort.
He pulled himself forward, half shielding her with his body. 
"Enough." Harold barked at them. "Both of you be still. And,
much as it pains me to be cliche, please keep your hands where
I can see them." 
Scully buttoned her blouse and placed her hands on her
legs. She had neither spoken nor taken her eyes off the
stranger in her living room. 
Mulder gave thanks that he had been able to move Scully behind
him before this maniac started giving his 'be still' orders. It
was no guarantee that she was safe, but it took her out of the
first line of fire, and also partly hid her from the man's view.
He hoped she'd be able to use that to their advantage. 
Scully spoke first. "Who are you? What do you want?" 
"Well, the first is simple enough. I am Harold Roberson."
Harold paused, as if waiting to be recognized. When Mulder
nodded slightly, he continued. "Ah, you've heard of me, Agent
Mulder." 
When Mulder nodded again, Scully looked at him quizzically.
"Harold here, is rather - well-known - in alien/UFO circles."
She cocked an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. "I still keep up." 
"Indeed. How fascinating." Harold said sarcastically. "Go
ahead, tell her who I am." Harold was almost preening as he
realized he had been recognized. 
"Harold is a self-purported multiple abductee. He claims to
have been taken numerous times over the past 30 years." 
Harold jumped forward, waving the gun at Mulder, and cutting
him off. "Not 'self-purported,' Agent Mulder. Don't you
dare trivialize what I've been through." 
Mulder twisted to face Harold, trying to keep Scully behind
him. "Ok, Harold, I'm sorry." He spoke soothingly, keeping
his voice even and his face neutral. 
"All right, then, just so we understand each other." Harold
calmed somewhat, and stepped back slightly. "Go on." 
Mulder paused, thinking how ironic Scully would find his next
statement. "However, his claims have been rejected by MUFON,
NICAP, and the other - reputable - organizations." Mulder
looked at Harold. "Harold has been institutionalized on
several occasions, most recently in '95 when he was found
guilty but insane in the murder of an Army Colonel and her
family." 
"She was a traitor, Agent Mulder. I should have been lauded
as the hero I am, not locked away in some hell hole,
tranquilized beyond the ability to see straight, left to rot
for all eternity." 
"And her husband? Was he a traitor, too? Or her 8 and 11 year
old children? What exactly did they do to deserve your wrath?" 
Harold lunged forward, swinging the gun and connecting sharply
with Mulder's temple. The bandage over his eye flew off, and
the still healing gash opened and began to bleed. Mulder's eyes
closed and he pulled back, slumping heavily into Scully. She
wrapped her arms around him, supporting him, as his head fell
backward onto her shoulder. She winced as his weight settled
against her injured breast. 
Harold stood several steps from the sofa, breathing heavily, the
gun trained on them while the fingers of his other hand clenched
and unclenched into a fist. "I warned you not to trivialize
my experiences, Agent Mulder. Need I say more?" 
Mulder opened his eyes briefly, then slowly shook his head. He
pulled himself up to a sitting position, pushing Scully back
when she tried to restrain him. "Don't Scully - I'm ok." 
Scully stood angrily, facing Harold. "What the hell do you want?" 
"Ah, yes, that was your original question, wasn't it? I must say,
Agent Scully, you certainly are living up to your reputation as a
'spitfire.' But for now," he waved the gun back toward the sofa,
"please be seated." When she didn't immediately comply, he said,
"I could always just shoot him instead of hitting him." 
Mulder reached out shakily, and pulled Scully back to the couch,
saying, "For God's sake, Scully, sit down. Please." He reached
up and gingerly touched his forehead, his hand coming away covered
with blood. 
Scully reluctantly sat, turning Mulder to face her. Using a
corner of the blanket he had been wrapped in, she gently wiped
the blood away. She folded a small section and held it to the
wound, stanching the blood flow. Mulder leaned into her touch,
gently resting his head against the palm of her hand. Her left
arm, still encased in a cast, moved out, and her finger softly
caressed his arm. 
Harold watched and waited in silence. When Scully pulled back,
Harold nodded and resumed. "As for what I want, my desires are
totally altruistic. I want to save the world from the evil that
is descending upon it." He paused, as if waiting to be commended
and seemed disappointed when Mulder and Scully just stared at him. 
"And how does that involve me, or my partner?" Mulder asked. 
"Oh, I think you know how it involves you, Agent Mulder." Harold
had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "THEY thought I wouldn't
remember, but I heard them talking, the last time I was taken."
He fixed Mulder with a steely, half-crazed stare. "I know that you
are responsible for all of it. And it's time for you to atone." 
Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. <Definitely nuts> "All
right, Harold," Mulder began. "if I'm responsible for all of it,
then you have no need of Agent Scully. She's not involved in
anything. Why don't you and I leave, and you can show me what
it is that I am supposed to be responsible for." 
"Mulder, no," Scully started, but Harold quickly interrupted. 
"That's correct, Agent Scully. 'Mulder, no,'" he mimicked. "I
think we'll all go together, Agent Mulder. It's a place I
believe you are familiar with, Dana. May I call you Dana?"
When Scully did not respond, he pointed at her with the gun,
and waved toward a chair across from the couch. "Move," he
directed, "or do you need an inducement as well?" 
As Mulder looked at the determination on Scully's face, he
spoke pleadingly. "Go, Scully, please." He lowered his voice
to a mere whisper. "Remember, pick your battles." 
She gazed at him for a long moment, then rose and walked to the
chair Harold had indicated. Keeping the gun raised, Harold
circled around to behind the chair. As she started to swivel
to face him, Harold muttered, "Uhn, uh, face your 'partner,'
please." 
As Scully sat stiffly facing forward in the chair, Harold stalked
slowly around to the rear, holding Mulder's gaze with his own.
Scully's eyes sought Mulder's desperately, but he kept his own
fixed on Harold. "It's ok, Scully, just be still for a minute,"
he said calmly. "We can work this out, can't we Harold?" 
"Of course we can Agent Mulder," Harold responded as he lifted
the gun, swung heavily downward and connected with the back of
Scully head. She fell forward onto the floor, unconscious. 
As Mulder leapt to his feet, Harold again waved the gun. "No,
Agent Mulder. Sit down. Now. Or I can finish the job." 
Mulder froze in mid-step, hands clutching at empty air by his
side. His face was a mask of rage, and his mouth worked, but
no sound emerged. Time stood still as Mulder stared first at
Harold, then in horror at Scully, watching as the floor beneath
her reddened with her blood. 
Harold again spoke, almost in an understanding tone. "Sit down,
Agent Mulder. You can go to her in just a minute." 
As Mulder sat, Harold came around the chair and quickly searched
Scully. He paused at the feel of the bandage over her injured
left breast. As he began to unbutton her blouse, Mulder again
came to his feet. Harold simply placed the gun to Scully's
head, never speaking, and Mulder reluctantly sat back down. 
"I am not a pervert, Agent Mulder. I merely need to know what
this conceals," he said as he continued unbuttoning the blouse. 
"It conceals a fairly massive wound, asshole," Mulder retorted
angrily. 
"Language, language," Harold admonished, as he pulled back the
bandage and then made a disgusted face. "Guess you're right.
Yuck. What did that?" 
"A nail," Mulder said shortly. 
Harold rose to his feet and backed away, returning to stand behind
the chair. "You can go to her now, Agent Mulder." 
Mulder rose and crossed the short distance quickly. He knelt by
Scully, carefully brushing back her hair to see the wound. An egg
sized knot had risen up around the small gash buried in her hair.
The blood was already clotting, matting her hair to her head. 
"I need to get her to a hospital." 
"Fraid not, Mulder. You'll have to do what clean up you want now,
and then we have to leave." As Mulder started to protest, Harold
simply shook his head. "This particular matter is not open for
discussion. If you wish to have the option to negotiate at some
point in the future, you should obey me now. Do I make myself
clear?" 
Mulder glared at Harold, then said, "I need water, a washcloth, and
bandages." 
"In there," Harold responded, pointing with the gun. Mulder
rose and walked quickly to the kitchen, Harold following closely.
Mulder opened a cabinet and pulled down a large mixing bowl,
filling it with warm water. As he started to open a drawer,
Harold stopped him. "No, use this." Harold tossed the dishtowel
at Mulder. 
"Bandages?" Mulder asked. 
"Make do," Harold answered. 
Mulder returned to the living room and gently began to clean the
wound on Scully's head. She moaned softly once, but didn't
return to consciousness. He finished the wound, then washed her
hair, almost bathing each strand separately. He talked
soothingly to her, a running stream of 'You'll be ok, Scully,'
'I'm so sorry,' and other comfort phrases. As he worked, he managed
to write in the blood under her head, a hurried message for Skinner.
When the wound was cleaned and the blood wiped away,
he carefully rebuttoned her blouse, then pulled Scully up into
his arms and dropped the bloody towel over the stain on the floor. 
He looked up at Harold. "Now what? She's still unconscious; she
can't travel. Leave her here." 
"No, Agent Mulder. She comes with us. Pick her up and let's go." 
"Look, Harold, she's injured. She'll slow you down. He paused,
pointing to his bandaged right arm. "I'm injured. I don't
think I can carry her." He touched his head. "And I think you
have re-concussed me. I'm nauseated and I'm dizzy." He paused
again, looking down at himself pointedly. "And in case you hadn't
noticed, I'm not exactly dressed for DC in February. No shirt,
no shoes." He looked up at Harold, his eyes glinting with
anger and determination. "No service." 
Harold made a tsking noise, then said, "Really, Agent Mulder,
this grows tiresome. Let me explain your options to you. You
can pick her up and carry her down to the car. Or you can come
with me to the car, where I will tie you up, knock you unconscious
and put you in the trunk. I will then come back up here and drag
Agent Scully down to the car, taking no care whatsoever as to her
existing injuries or the creation of new ones." 
"Or I can shoot you, then knock you unconscious, and drag you to
the car, then come back and drag her. The end result is that
all three of us will be in the car. He stopped and looked at
Mulder. "Make a decision, Mulder, I'm ready to leave." 
Mulder cast a glance filled with loathing at the madman, then
reached back and pulled the blanket to the floor. He maneuvered
Scully into it, then lifted her in his arms. He supported her
head and body with his left arm, holding her under her knees with
his injured right one. He rose unsteadily to his feet and swayed
a moment, then regained his balance. 
"Very good, Agent Mulder." Harold indicated the door. "Let's
go." 
************************************************************** 
Walter Skinner paused outside the door, balancing grocery
bag and laundry basket as he struggled to reach out and
knock on the closed door. When no one responded, he put
the bag down and knocked again. When there was still no
response, he reached out and slowly turned the knob, calling
softly, "Hello?" 
The apartment was dark and Skinner hoped that meant his
two rogue agents were sleeping, and to hell with who knew
about the sleeping arrangements. As he shut the door and
turned the locks, he frowned at the thought that they
had left the door unlocked, even if only for him. 
He groped for the light switch, made silent apology to
Mulder if he really was sleeping on the couch, and turned
on the lights. He turned back to the room, and froze. 
Mulder was not on the couch, but there were fresh bloodstains
everywhere. Skinner instinctively pulled his weapon, and cast
his eyes across the room. On the floor in front of a chair
was a bowl filled with bloody water, and a bloodstained
towel lay on top of an even bigger bloodstain on the floor.
The room had that coppery smell, peculiar to blood and violence. 
Without moving, Skinner pulled his cell phone and hit 911.
He reported what he knew, giving the location and his name
and badge ID. He reached behind himself and unlocked the
doors again. He then called the night operator at the Hoover
building and had a team sent to meet him. By the time he had
completed this, he could hear sirens wailing in the distance
as Annapolis PD responded to his emergency call. 
He moved cautiously through the apartment, checking all the
rooms. Mulder's shoes still lay under the bloodied couch, and
his coat hung in the closet. Skinner had all of his shirts.
What the hell was he wearing? The blanket Mulder had
used when sleeping earlier was missing from the closet though.
Missing also were Mulder and Scully. 
He was just coming back into the living room as the local
police burst through the door, guns pulled, yelling at him
to drop the weapon and get his hands up. He complied,
explaining that he had called the report in. He carefully
reached into his coat pocket and pulled his ID, relaxing
gratefully as the officers lowered their weapons. 
"Sorry, Sir," one mumbled. 
Skinner waved the apology off. "Two of my agents were here
when I left about 3 hours ago. They are not here now." He
gave a meaningful glance at the room. "I want to know where
they are." 
The officer that had apologized began to speak into her radio,
informing the dispatcher of the situation and requesting
detectives be sent to the scene. There was enough blood
to certainly warrant the suspicion of foul play. When she had
finished, Skinner told her that a team from the FBI was on
its way. For a moment he thought the woman was going to
argue jurisdiction with him, but she wisely held her tongue. 
As they waited for the local and FBI teams to arrive, Skinner
gave the officers the basic information on his agents. Names,
ages, descriptions, what he suspected they were wearing, and,
most importantly of all, that both were still recovering from
serious injury and not in their best form. 
When the officer asked "Known enemies?" Skinner just shrugged.
Where could he possibly begin on that one? 
"They're in law enforcement. Mulder worked as profiler for a
number of years, and still assists on request. Scully is a
forensic pathologist. She's testified at dozens of trials on
everything from murder and rape, to drugs and slavery. Take
your choice." 
"We'll need specifics, Sir," the officer persisted. 
Skinner nodded, "When my team gets here, I'll get somebody
on it." 
There was so much blood everywhere. On the couch,
pooled on the floor, splattered on the back of the chair,
and the towel looked as if it had been dipped in blood.
So much blood. Skinner closed his eyes, thinking of
other times he had seen this much blood. Times in
hot steamy jungle clearings, small villages, make-shift
garrisons. A faraway time in a faraway place. He opened
his eyes and looked again. So much blood. But whose? 
Skinner focused on the towel on the floor. For some reason,
his eye kept being drawn back to it. It seemed almost too
casually laid over the bloodstain, too centered to have been
accidental. He walked over to it, still studying it. He went
back to the officer by the door and asked, "Do you have gloves?" 
When she nodded and pulled one out of a pouch at her waist,
he thanked her and then tried to stuff his 'extra large' hand
into the 'small' glove. When that didn't work, he resorted
to holding it between thumb and fingers as he walked back
to the towel. 
The officer called out, "Better wait for forensics, Sir,"
but Skinner ignored her. He reached down and grasped the towel
with the latex glove, and lifted straight up. There, in the
blood beneath the towel, were the letters UFO-SL. 
Skinner smiled grimly. Leave it to one of them. Then he frowned
in consternation. 'You couldn't be a little clearer?' he thought.
'The first part I get, but SL?' Had to be Mulder. Only he would
leave riddles, assuming that others could follow the leaps of logic
he made. Did that mean it was Scully's blood? Damn it, there
were too many questions, and no answers. He shook his head,
then looked up, asking in frustration, "What the hell happened
here? And where the hell are they?" 
************************************************************** 
Mulder came to in the trunk of a car. Cold. All over cold.
Except along his side. Warm. Wonderful warmth. There
was a body in his arms. Scully. Breathing. Warm. Alive.
He gave a sigh of relief. The last thing he remembered was
gently placing Scully on the back seat and then, a burning
sensation in his ass. <Drugs. He shot me up with something>
He shrugged mentally. <Better that than another blow to the
head.> His head was bleeding again though, and each jolt
the car took, shot spears of agony through his cranium. 
He began to assess the situation. It was dark in the trunk.
It made it impossible to see what had been done. He pulled
with his legs slightly, and could tell Harold had tied their
feet together. The cold bite of steel around his wrists told
him his arms were handcuffed behind Scully, and a further
tug indicated he was then attached to the clasp of the trunk. 
He could feel Scully's arms wrapped tightly around him, and
the scratchy sensation against his bare back told him her
arms were tied as well. Another loop of rope stretched across
his chest, partially anchoring him in place. Scully seemed to
be less restrained than he. <Sexism may work in our favor
this time. He doesn't have a clue what she is capable of!>
The blanket was draped loosely over them both. 
Mulder shivered in the cold. His bare torso was covered in
goosebumps and he could feel that peculiar laxity that set
in when hypothermia threatened. He shifted slightly, pulling
Scully's head off the floor of trunk and onto his bare shoulder
as he maneuvered to lay somewhat on his back. Between the
chest restraint and his long legs, it was hard, but he finally
managed a bit more comfortable position. At least now Scully's
head wasn't bouncing unprotected against the bottom of the
trunk. Though his was. He winced as Harold hit a particularly
nasty hole in the road. 
Scully stirred in his arms, and he immediately focused on her.
"Hey, Scully, come on. Can you wake up, please? You're
beginning to worry me, partner." He nuzzled the top of
her head with his nose. Straining hard, he was just able
to pull himself up enough to place a gentle kiss on her
forehead. "Scully, please . . ." he said softly. 
She moved again, and he could feel her begin to struggle.
All he could think of was how terrifying this was going
to be for her - abducted, injured, in a trunk. He offered
a silent prayer that his presence would be enough to
help her through. 
She jerked against him, pulling up and away. The rope
against his back bit deeply into the skin. Her struggles
intensified and she began to moan. He felt her knee come
up, and was very glad he had rolled onto his back. As
it was, his side felt the impact. Her whole body was
tensed against his. 
"Oomph! Geez, Scully, be still, will ya?" He forced
himself to speak more softly. "Shhh. It's me. Calm down."
He crooned words to settle her into her ear. 
"Mulder?" she questioned hoarsely. The tension flowed
out of her and she relaxed into him. 
"Yeah, Scully, it's me." He tightened his arms around her.
"You're hurt. Don't aggravate it. Just be still, please."
He chuckled softly. "And stop trying to disable me. I
don't think I can take another assault from you." He
placed another kiss on the top of her head. "Glad you're
back with me." 
"Dark. What . . . how?" she croaked. 
"Yeah, it's dark. What do you remember?" 
She coughed softly, clearing her throat. Her speech was slightly
slurred and she spoke as if it took a great effort. "Sitting in
the chair, looking at you. Then - nothing." 
He nuzzled her again, and stroked her back as far as he could.
"Shh, it's ok. Harold is taking us on a little trip. If
he's going where I think he is, then we've got a ways to go." 
"Trunk?" 
"Yeah, 'fraid so. You ok?" 
She shuddered and pulled herself closer to him. Her voice
was weak and she trembled in his arms. "I can move more
than you, can't I?" 
"Yep. Apparently Harold is a sexist and didn't view you
as much of a threat. Think you can surprise him?" He
grinned in the darkness. At least she was coherent enough to
have made a few assessments of their situation. "Can you
free your hands?" 
He felt the rope bite into his back again as she began
working her hands within it. It rubbed back and forth
against him and he felt the skin abrade and then break.
The cast on her wrist had made it difficult to tie the
cord tightly, and within minutes, she was free. 
She collapsed back onto his chest, her breathing ragged. 
"Head hurts - dizzy," she gasped. 
He rubbed her back in tiny little movements. "Ok, you
did real good, Scully. Just rest a bit." He could feel
her relaxing into him again. He stretched again, and
leaned down to kiss her gently once more. "We're gonna
be ok, Scully. Remember that. We're gonna be ok." 
After a short rest, she pulled herself onto his chest
and twisted downward, toward their feet. His were
secured to the bottom of the trunk as well, but she was
tied only to him. She freed her feet quickly, then
settled into place, lying half over his thighs and groin,
her face towards his feet. 
"Scully," he called, concern tingeing his voice when she
didn't move. "Hey, Scully, you ok down there?" 
A soft slow response. "Yeah." She began to scootch back
up his body, slowly righting herself and then snuggled
back into his arms, the air 'whooshing' from her as she
relaxed her body against his. 
"I'm out, Mulder. But I don't feel real good." She spoke
slowly and deliberately, her voice still slurred. 
He lay quietly as she placed her head on his shoulder
again. He shivered involuntarily and she said, "Mulder.
Freezing. No shirt?" There was just the slightest
inflection to her voice. With what seemed to be the
last of her strength, she pulled the blanket tightly
across him, tucking it into place behind him. 
"Shhh. 'S ok Scully." He paused, trying to organize his
thoughts. Despite their precarious predicament, he was all
too aware of her lithe body pressed tightly against his. The
softness of her breasts against his side. Her arm across his
bare abdomen, her fingers on his hip. The weight of her leg
as it lay over his thigh. Her soft hair spread across his
chest and wisps of it tickled his nose. He felt a stirring
in his loins, <Geez, Mulder, you ARE a pervert!> and forced
his mind in another direction. 
"When he opens the trunk, Scully, you're going to have to
take him out. It may be our only chance. Do you think
you can do it?" 
"I'm tired, Mulder, I'm dizzy, and my head hurts. I feel
like I want to be sick. I don't know how effective I
can be." 
"Shh. It's ok, Scully. If the moment presents itself, and
you're up to it, take it. For now, just lay still and try
to rest." He paused, then kissed her again. "I think we're
going to need all the rest we can get." 
Chapter 18 
"It is easier to exclude harmful passions than to rule them,
and to deny them admittance than to control them after
they have been admitted."
Seneca 
Skinner paced the length of the bullpen. Throughout the
room, agents made calls, and answered phones, sorted through
printouts, reviewed case files, and, in general, attempted
to figure out what had happened to Scully and Mulder.
Using his position as AD, he had pulled every available
agent onto this search, and had even wangled a few who
weren't exactly available, stealing from existing task
forces with no guilt, no remorse. 
He had people tracking all the criminals Mulder or Scully
were responsible for putting in jail. He had people
tracing the ones they had assisted in putting in jails.
Each case was being checked for recent release of the
convicted, and all relatives of the convicted were being
tracked as well. 
He had agents sitting on Mulder's apartment and on
Scully's, just on the off chance that they returned.
He had both their cell phones, and had arranged for
traces to be put on any call that came in, to their
home phones, the cells, their office, his office,
or his cell. 
He had a separate team combing the X-Files themselves.
While these cases rarely involved a criminal who could
be prosecuted, there were a few that fit that criteria.
There were also people who had been affected by the
resolution of an X-File, or even by the investigation
itself. 
He thought specifically of that nursing home case in
Massachusetts. From his review of the case file, the
nurse that had originally made the charge the caught
Mulder's attention, had then been very angry at the
way the investigation was carried out. 
Then there was that case with the zoo in Montana, was
it? Idaho? Somewhere out west. The director ended
up charged with murder or manslaughter or some such.
Better get someone on that as well. 
He paced, knowing that people were reading the files
he was trying to bring up from memory, but still
feeling a need to DO something. Until the forensics
came back on the blood, - so much blood, he thought
bleakly - and fingerprints were IDed, he was at a standstill. 
There was that kid in Oklahoma, the one with all
that weird lightning shit. 'Mulder can really pick'em,'
he thought. Wasn't the kid locked up somewhere?
And that Van Blundht guy. Though he hardly seemed
the type to take revenge, you could never tell.
Better get someone on those, too. 
That doctor in Providence - Goldberg, Goldstein?
Scully's testimony based on what he had done to Mulder
and others had caused him to lose his license.
Where was he now? 
Skinner stopped pacing and looked around the room.
Agents worked furiously, all seemingly focused on
the task at hand - to recover their own. But they
just weren't getting anywhere. 
Skinner let out a roar of outrage and turned, slamming
his fist through the drywall behind him. The room went
completely silent. He stood there, trembling with rage,
aware that every eye was on him, and that he had just
made a complete and utter ass of himself. 'Well, that
was a stunt worthy of Mulder. Fine example I set,' he
thought. 
He slowly pulled his hand out of the hole he had made.
He placed both hands against the wall and leaned
into it, breathing heavily as he fought for control.
This overwhelming rage, and the difficulty he had
in controlling it, was a large part of why he let no
one get too close to him. 
As he stood there, the room slowly resumed its
former feel of activity as the agents returned to
their assigned tasks. No one came near him.
No one spoke to him. Aside from the initial
shocked reaction of those in the room, no one even
acted as if anything out of the ordinary had occurred.
He stood alone, no one daring to come near him. 
Despite the circumstances, he found himself
selfishly thinking that Mulder and Scully would
never have let him reach this point. They looked
out for each other, and now he had been included in
that circle of caring. It was a new experience
for him and he already missed it. He knew, if
he had put his hand through a wall with either
of them present, they would never have left
him to deal with the frustration, the anger,
the rage, alone. 
As he stood leaning heavily against the wall, his
breathing began to slow and even out. He slowly
pulled himself erect, smoothing his shirt front
and unobtrusively checking his hand for damage.
His knuckles were raw and scraped, little dots
of blood scattered across them. He brought his
fist to his mouth, and shook his head ruefully. 
When he turned back to the room, he noticed a
young man, standing at a distance, but eyeing
him cautiously. "Can I help you?" he barked. 
The young man gulped nervously, then held out
a packet of papers. "Forensics, Sir. Blood
and fingerprints." He gulped again. 
Skinner stepped forward, and chuckled inwardly
when the young man stepped back. 'I'll
have a real reputation after this,' he thought.
"Be still. I'm not going to hit you." The young
man froze, arm extended, still gripping the
papers he carried. 
Skinner reached out and took the packet, turning to
the blood results first. Mulder's on the couch;
Scully's on the floor and chair. What the hell had
happened? He scanned and found nothing more of
interest. 
He turned to the fingerprints. His. Mulder's.
Scully's, of course. Unknown - probably her
mother's. The super's - he'd been in the military
and was on file. And a Harold Roberson. Now, who
the hell was Harold Roberson? 
Skinner looked up, relieved to have a firm lead
to focus on. He spoke to the young man still
standing before him. "Get me Larson and Bouvier.
We've got work to do." 
**************************************************** 
The car glided to a stop and the loss of motion
jarred Mulder awake. He mentally kicked himself.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He knew that
with recent head injuries, both and Scully
needed to stay awake. He shook her gently and
was relieved when she responded almost immediately. 
"I'm awake, I'm awake." Her head lifted slightly
from his shoulder and he felt her listening
intently. "He's stopped." 
"Yeah, we may not have much time." 
Mulder rolled back on his side and slid as far into
the trunk as he could, stretching his arms out
towards the lid catch. Scully slid down and
out from between his arms, and rolled onto her side
as well. She would have been spooning with him
except his arms, stretched out and anchored to the
hasp, prevented her from nestling tightly against
him. 
She was completely free now, and her small
body was tensed, and ready to move when the
lid opened. They lay quietly, waiting. They
didn't have long to wait, for as they listened,
Harold turned the car off and opened the door. 
They lay in the dark, cramped interior, waiting,
wondering, afraid to talk for fear of being
overheard. At length, there was a pounding
on the top of the trunk. 
"You two awake?" 
Mulder answered promptly, as they had agreed.
"Harold, let us out. My partner is still
unconscious. Please, she needs medical
attention." There was just the right note
of fear and concern in his voice, and he felt
Scully smiling in the dark. 
"You be still, now, Agent Mulder. Don't make
me do something you'll regret." 
"Just open the lid, Harold. I'm really worried
about her. Her head is bleeding again." 
The key entered the lock. There was a tiny, muted
'click' as it turned, and then . . . 
Scully was up and moving. She slammed open the
lid, quickly pulled herself into a crouch, and
launched herself at Roberson. He was knocked
backwards but didn't fall. She landed on the ground,
and immediately swept her legs out and pulled
Harold's out from under him. He fell heavily,
and she reached up and slammed him in the face
with her cast. His head shot back, impacting
with the ground and his nose began to bleed. 
Scully pulled herself up and reached out for
the gun. As her hand touched it, Roberson
pulled back, but she had his arm in her grip
and she grappled for the gun. Harold brought
his other hand up and over, and his fist
exploded into the side of Scully's face. She
let go and fell backwards into the dirt,
unmoving. 
Mulder lay in the trunk, unable to see, but
following the fight by sound and hoping it
was Scully who was winning. Roberson was a
big man, he outweighed Scully by at least
100 pounds, and was a good foot taller. He
prayed the element of surprise had been
enough. 
When it went silent, he called, "Scully.
Scully, are you all right?" He heard
labored breathing, but couldn't tell whose
it was. "Scully, damn it, answer me!" 
He struggled to get free, to rise up and see
what had happened. Why wasn't she answering?
But the ropes held him tightly in place, and
he couldn't get loose. 
Suddenly, the face of Harold Roberson loomed
above him. His nose bled, and one eye was
already swelling shut. "That was very stupid,
Agent Mulder. You shouldn't have let her do that." 
"Where is she, you bastard? What did you do to
her?" The anguish was clear in his voice and on
his face. 
"So far, I haven't done anything, except knock
her out again. Tsk, tsk, Agent Mulder, this can't
be very good for her, you know." 
Mulder's stomach tightened and he felt sick as
he thought of the things this man could do to
Scully. "Leave her alone. You don't want her.
You want me." He bargained frantically.
"Leave her here and I'll come with you - no
fuss, no problems, I promise. Just leave
her alone." 
Harold looked at Mulder, as if assessing the
truth of his words. Emotions flickered
across his face and he finally seemed to
accept what Mulder said. "All right, Agent
Mulder. Let's see if you mean what you say.
I'm going to let you out - you get out slowly
and don't give me any trouble." He dropped
the keys to the handcuffs into Mulder's hand. 
Mulder fumbled with the key, finally getting
it into the tiny lock and hearing the welcome
'snick' as it released. He struggled to untie
the chest restraint and then slowly sat up.
Harold had the gun pointed directly at him.
He looked over and could just make out Scully's
limp form in the hazy moonlight. 
He leaned down and untied his feet and then
stopped. "I'm loose. What do you want me
to do now?" 
"Very good, Agent Mulder. If you maintain
that cooperative attitude, we'll get along
just fine." Harold glanced at Scully, then
looked back at Mulder. The gun never wavered.
"I bet you'd like to put that blanket over her,
maybe get her off the cold ground? And you
could probably stand to get in out of the cold
as well, right?" 
Mulder nodded. Harold, waved the gun toward the
ground and Mulder slowly extricated himself from
the trunk. As he climbed to his feet, he forced
himself not to jump at Harold, and not to rush
to Scully. He stood, shivering, bare-chested and
in bare feet, on the cold ground. 
Harold moved toward Scully. He knelt next to her,
then looked up at Mulder. "Get the blanket." 
Mulder reached back in to the trunk and pulled
the bloody blanket out. He stood, awaiting his
next instruction. He looked at Scully, longing
to go to her, but afraid any action of his
would put her in even more danger. He lifted
his head slightly and caught Harold's eyes.
The two men stared at each other across 20 feet
of barren dirt. As Mulder watched, Harold
lowered the gun, placed it against Scully's
right calf, and pulled the trigger. 
Mulder jumped, an anguished "No," pulled from
his throat, and he started towards Scully. 
"Stop, Agent Mulder. The next one will not
be in her leg." 
Mulder froze, then fell to his knees, tears
streaming down his face. "Let her go, Harold,
let her go. No more, please, no more." 
"Agent Mulder, you are an evil man, and you
are here to atone for the evil you have done. I
suggest that you be extremely cooperative with
me from now on. Or she will be the one to pay
for your sins." Harold rose and stepped back
several feet. "You can wrap her in the blanket
and pick her up now. We're going that way." 
************************************************ 
Skinner was pacing again. He had a file on
Harold Roberson now, and there a firm direction
to pursue. This was much better than the total
feeling of frustration from before. At least,
now, he was doing something. 
He forced himself to stop for a moment,
trying to think of how they would find this
lunatic. He went to the table he had commandeered,
and sat down, pulling pen and paper before him. 
He began to write. 
Harold Carl Roberson - SWM - 48
parents deceased, no siblings 
Viet Nam - 1968-70; drafted
recruited for special project '69
code name: Invasion
(find out more about this - who?) 
Section 8 discharge 1970 - claimed to have
been abducted by aliens <Bet Mulder loved that> 
Reported multiple abductions thereafter
In and out of mental institutions
(Dates? Where?) 
No close friends, no steady employment
(Track jobs and dates) 
Involved in fringe religion groups -
those with ties to alien scenarios
(Who? Where? When?) 
Killed Army Colonel Marie Kinsley
and family - 1995
Note - No more invasions
(Was Col. Kinsley involved with
Viet Nam project? How?) 
Found guilty but insane -
sentenced to life in a secure
mental facility -
(How the hell did he get out???) 
Skinner stopped writing. He put the pen
down and took of his glasses. His right
had wore a rough bandage over the skinned
knuckles, a reminder to stay in control.
His brow furrowed as he thought back over
what he had read, and what he had written.
He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose,
then put his glasses back on. 
He tore the paper off the pad, and beckoned
to the same young intern who had originally
brought him the forensics reports on the blood
and fingerprints. The young man was making a
very good gopher. 
"Copies for everyone." Skinner opened his
cell phone and dialed. "Larson, this youngster,"
he looked at the young man quizzically. 
"Kincannon, Sir." 
Skinner nodded, and continued into the phone,
"Kincannon, he's bringing copies of my notes
to you. You assign specifics to the teams -
but I want every one of my questions and notes
addressed." Skinner closed the phone and
put it back on the table. 
He rose, pulling his jacket from the back
of the chair and putting it on. He picked the
phone up again, and slipped it into a pocket. 
"Excuse me, Sir?" the intern asked timidly.
"Where will you be?" 
"In the gym. Call me if something breaks.
And have someone fix that wall." 
The young man nodded and scurried off to
make his copies and carry Skinner's notes
to the task force members. 
Skinner walked quickly through the bullpen,
and strode down the corridor to the elevators.
Once inside, he pushed the button for his
floor, then sagged against the wall. His
feelings of anger, frustration, and helplessness
were becoming overwhelming, and he knew he
needed to get control over himself before
he made a serious mistake. 
The elevator beeped, announcing his floor,
and he stepped off. He glanced up and looked
out the window at the end of the hall. The
sky was bright with winter's morning sun.
He had been up for over twenty four hours
now and he was beginning to feel it. 
He walked to his office and quickly slipped
inside. Grabbing the gym bag and the clean
suit he kept in the closet, he stepped back out
and retraced his steps to the elevator, then rode
to the basement level, and exited into the gymnasium. 
At this hour, he was alone, and he was glad of it.
He changed quickly, putting on his gym shorts
and an old USMC t-shirt, faded and torn. He
pulled on battered Adidas, and did a couple of
deep knee bends. Ready at last, he took the phone
out of his coat pocket and took it with him to the
exercise room. 
Once there, he walked over to the bench press
and set the pin at 220. He sat, straddling the
bench, and then lay back. He placed the phone
under the bench, then, reached up and grabbed
the bars. He breathed in deeply, and pushed. 
As his arms worked steadily, lift and release,
the tension began to ease through his back and
shoulders. He felt the sweat as it trickled down
his face and chest. He did a quick 30 reps, then
stopped and swiped at his face with the hem of the
t-shirt. 
Working out always helped him to clear his mind,
allowing him to focus on things with a new clarity.
He traced back over what had happened. Harold
Roberson had been in Viet Nam, as he had. They
had both been very young, just turned 18 when they
were uprooted from family, home, and country. 
It was in Viet Nam that Skinner had his first
experiences with uncontrollable rage. His father
hadn't held with boys being emotional. He had
never tolerated tears or 'mushiness' from his
sons. But anger was ok. Anger was a 'man's'
emotion. It had always been all right to be angry,
and so Skinner had learned to express all his
emotions through anger. If he was sad, he got
angry. If he was worried, he got angry. If
he was afraid, he got angry. 
In Viet Nam, he was often afraid. Therefore, he was
often angry. Very angry. Uncontrollably angry.
He eventually realized how destructive that one
emotion could be, but not before he had spent some
time in the brig for assaulting an officer who had
ordered a village torched, regardless of the civilian
lives that would have been lost. Skinner had been
cleared of the assault charges, and even been
promoted over the event, but it had taught him he
must learn control. 
So, what gave one man the strength to get through
war and emerge relatively intact, having learned from
the experience, while another was never the same? 
He shifted the pin to 200 and did 30 more reps.
Sweating profusely now, his muscles beginning to burn,
he again moved the pin, this time to 180, and began
the steady up and down press. After 15 reps, he
stopped, sagging in place and breathing heavily. 
After Viet Nam, he had come home, and while he
could control the rage better, he still needed an
outlet. So he had begun working out. He had always
been tall, but as he began to channel his anger
into weights, he filled out, his shoulders broadened,
and he put on weight. As he settled into life state-
side, some of the anger faded, but he continued to
deal with his emotions by working out. 
He rested briefly, then rose and moved to the
leg press. He set the weights at 300, then stepped
over the bench, fitting his feet in the rest, and
leaning back onto the angled bench, squatting.
With a deep breath, he rose fluidly, held it,
then went down again. He went through 30 reps,
stepped off, changed the weights to 280, and did
30 more. 
As the steady up and down motion soothed his
mind, he was able to think on his relationship
with his two renegade agents. 'Though, in
reality,' he mused, 'Mulder is the renegade,
Scully is usually trying to rein his ass in.'
He missed them both, and the new camaraderie that
had developed between the three of them. He had
to find them, and soon. 
His calves were just beginning to burn
and the sweat was rolling down his back and chest
as he reset the weights to 260, settled again,
and pushed out 30 more. Rising one last time,
he set the weights down another 20 pounds, and
forced out a last 15 before collapsing fully
against the bench. 
He lay there a moment, his body trembling, then
rose and walked shakily to the water fountain.
A few sips later, he crossed to the weight room
and began to a series of curls, using the dumbbells.
Starting with 100 pounds, he hammered out 20 reps,
switched to 80s and did another 20, then picked up
the 60s and did a final 20. His muscles on fire,
he put the dumbbells down and walked back into
the exercise room. 
Shedding his shirt, he climbed up on the tread mill
and set it for three 8 minute miles. Beginning at
a trot, the pace gradually picked up until he was
running at a good clip, having to work to keep up.
He took his glasses off briefly and wiped his face
with his already sweat soaked t-shirt. 
Replacing his glasses, his mind continued to worry
with the hows and whens of finding his two agents,
his two friends. He smiled unknowingly as he
thought of them as friends. He was an honest
man, a loyal man, and he demanded a lot of himself.
The drive that he meet his own standards had often
caused him to set high standards for others, and to
be unforgiving and non-understanding when they were
not achieved. It had been an ongoing difficulty
in his marriage and had caused him to avoid close
friendships for fear that he would set unrealistic
expectations. And, to be truthful, some of the
things he found himself required to do in fulfillment
of his duties were distasteful enough to himself;
he didn't want to risk involving friends or families
in those things. 
Mulder and Scully were both a lot like him; honest
and loyal, setting high standards for themselves
and those around them, intelligent, persistent,
diligent to a fault at times. Yet they had found
each other and each was tolerant of the other's
weaknesses, supportive and nurturing in time of need.
He had been included in that circle of care, and
briefly berated himself for not having been there
when Roberson appeared. Where had he taken them?
And why? 
Both had lost blood, Scully more than Mulder. And
she was already weak from the injuries she had
sustained at the hands of Liam Emerson. Mulder was
still feeling some pain in the healing muscles of his
right arm, and was not supposed to be using it. There
was no way to know what Roberson had done to either of
them, but from the amount of blood in the apartment,
it hadn't been pretty. Skinner grimaced; he knew
the depths of depravity that existed in man quite
well. 
The tread mill began to slow as the preset time ran
out. Skinner slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, and
finally a slow stroll as it wound down. With more
questions than he'd had when he came down, he hopped
off the machine and headed for the showers. Thinking
of Emerson and the injuries Mulder and Scully had
sustained, and then Roberson, abducting them for
who knows what reason, Skinner felt his frustration
begin to build, erasing all the good work his
strenuous workout had done. He stopped and stood
looking around. Over in the corner was what he
wanted, what he needed. 
Grabbing his t-shirt, and picking the cell phone up
from under the bench press, he made his way to the
heavy bag, hanging off by itself. Dropping shirt
and phone, he began to pound away. As he attacked
the bag, he attacked all the injustices that had
led to this point, beginning with whatever had
happened to Samantha Mulder. 
That one event had hurt Mulder so badly, there was
no hope that he would ever heal completely. It had
also inadvertently, created the situation that
existed now. Everything that had happened since
he had become AD and inherited Fox Mulder, golden
boy of VCS, had stemmed from that event. 
Mulder's obsessiveness that led to that unique
ability to empathize so deeply with a killer, he
could literally become the killer, and by so
doing, know what would happen. Mulder's
recognition that working in that field would
kill him. His fortuitous finding of the
X-Files and wangling his own division to
explore them. It was only his prodigious
solve rate that had kept him going for a while
there, and then, Scully being assigned to
work with him. Someone had made a big mistake
in reading her when they thought she would
have loyalties to something other than the
truth. 
The people who had died, Mulder's first
informant, then the so-called Mr. X.
Scully's sister, Mulder's father. Hell,
even Scully's father's and his own wife's
deaths were likely to have been part of this
whole sorry mess that went back to Samantha's
abduction. 
Skinner pounded relentlessly at the bag.
Each blow reverberating up his arms, through
his shoulders, down his chest and back.
He pounded for all the good people who had
died, for all the good causes that had been
defeated, for all the good ideas that had
been silenced. 
He slammed the bag harder and harder,
pushing back all the misdeeds, all the
injury, all the evil that had been done
to those he cared for. Yes, cared for.
As his mind shaped that thought, in
clear and pristine words - 'I care for
them' - his eyes filled with unaccustomed
tears, and his breath caught in his chest. 
'I care,' he thought, amazed that he could. 
'I care,' he thought, as the tears slid down
his cheeks. 
His arms burned and his hands were battered
and bloody. He slowed and caught the bag,
clutching it to his chest, lifting his head
to the ceiling. "I CARE!" he roared to
the empty gym. He lowered his head, burying
it against the bag. "I care," he whispered,
"I care. I will find you both, I will. I
will bring you home."
  

Chapter 19 
"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every
experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.
You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this
horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'
You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
Eleanor Roosevelt: 
Scully roused slowly. Her head was pounding, an unending
pain behind her eyes, in her temples, and by the point of
impact on the back of her skull. She opened her eyes slowly,
then winced. She was laying on a small bed in a darkened
room, boards nailed across the window. It was still dark
outside as well. 
Her shirt was open and she could feel the room's cool air
across her chest. A hand lay against her left breast, pressing
down against her wound. 
"Mulder." It came out as a raspy whisper. She swallowed
and tried again. "Mulder?" 
"Here Scully, shhh, I'm here." He was sitting on the only
other piece of furniture in the room, a battered wooden chair. 
"Didn't work, huh?" Her voice was still not working right.
"Sorry." 
"Shhh, 's ok. You almost had him." He moved and sat
next to her on the bed, then kissed her gently on the forehead.
"How you feeling?" He shifted his hand, and looked at
her breast, then replaced the makeshift bandage. 
"Mmmm, not too good, Mulder. Hurts." 
"Where, Scully? Where does it hurt?" 
"Head - really bad. Dizzy. Nauseated. Arm. Breast."
She paused and struggled to look down at herself.
"Bleeding again? Leg, Mulder?" Her eyes drifted shut. 
"Scully, listen to me." Mulder touched her gently on the
arm, and she struggled to lift her lids and look at him.
"I know you don't feel good, but I need your help here.
Can you help me for a minute, please?" 
"Mmmm, try," she slurred out. 
"He knocked you out again, Scully. You've been unconscious
for a long time. You need to stay awake. What else do I do?" 
"Just, umm, stay 'wake." 
"Ok, stay awake. Got it. And Scully, he shot you in the leg." 
Her eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up. He caught
her in his arms and forced her to lie back. The sudden
movement had increased her nausea, and she suddenly began
to heave. Mulder held her and helped her lean over the side of
the bed as she suffered through a number of dry heaves. As her
shuddering subsided, he gently laid her back in the bed. He
carefully wiped her mouth. She closed her eyes in pain, wincing. 
"Scully, shhh, no more. Don't do this to yourself. Be still.
It was a clean shot, through the calf. I wrapped it, the bleeding
has stopped. What else should I do?" 
"Water?" 
"No, none to drink, none to wash with." 
"Need to wash wound." 
"I cleaned it as best I could with the sheet, then bound it in
strips of the sheet." 
"Bullet?" 
"Went through. Entry and exit wound." 
"Mmmm. 'k." Scully's eyes were closed and she began
to drift off. 
"Scully, Scully," Mulder called, wanting to shake her but not
daring to. "Don't go to sleep, Scully, please." 
"Hmm, not," she replied drowsily. "Hurts." 
"I know, Scully, I'm so sorry. But, please, be strong.
Stay awake. Stay with me. Don't leave me alone." 
"Not. Going. Anywhere." She reached out blindly,
groping for his hand. Even in her pain dazed state, she
knew Mulder would need the contact. "What else?" 
"The nail wound, it's pulled open. It won't stop
bleeding." 
"Lot?" 
"More a steady trickle. I keep blotting it, waiting for
it to clot." 
"Bind it. Tight." 
"Scully, that'll hurt. I don't want to hurt you." 
She gritted her teeth as another wave of pain and nausea
assaulted her. "Mulder, do it." She paused, breathing
raggedly. He held her hand and she could feel the tears as
they fell from his eyes onto her skin. 
He kissed her hand, then quickly pulled her unbuttoned
shirt apart. Tearing more strips from the sheet, he pulled
up into a sitting position, her head leaning against his
shoulder. He placed a pad of the linens against her wound,
then struggled to wrap the sheet strips tightly over her
breast. He finished as quickly as he could, then laid
her back gently on the bed. 
She lay with eyes closed, a grimace on her face, for
several long minutes. Then she opened her eyes slightly,
and looked at Mulder. 
Even through the pain and the blurred vision, she could
see he did not look good. Still shirtless, he was cold and
dirty. The wound over his eyes had begun to seep at some
point and there were tracks of blood running down his
cheek, and in his hair. He had been crying, too; she could
see the clean streaks through the grime on his face. 
The bandage on his right arm had come completely off.
The wound itself was puckered, torn in several places,
and bled slightly. When he wasn't using the arm by
necessity, he cradled it carefully against his body. 
"Mulder," she said softly. "Come. Lay with me." 
"I can't, Scully, I'll hurt you." 
"Yes. Cold. Need to." 
He looked at her, but she had already closed her eyes
again, content that he would obey. He shifted her
over slightly, wincing himself as he saw her tense.
He crawled carefully onto the bed, next to her, but
not touching her. 
"Cold." She coughed weakly. "Get under." 
He slipped under the covers stiffly, his injured
right arm held tightly to his body. She forced
herself to roll toward him, trying desperately to
suppress the wave of pain and nausea that threatened
to overwhelm her. 
He gingerly took her in his arms, pillowing
her head against the hollow of his shoulder.
He pulled her tight against him, selfishly
absorbing the heat of her small body as
he struggled to warm himself for the first
time since this whole ordeal began. 
She shivered once, and he pulled away. 
"No. Mulder," she whispered. "You need. Warm.
Stay." She tried to snuggle closer to him, every
movement a symphony of pain. Her head felt as if
it were going to explode. Her breast throbbed under
the tight wrapping. Her leg sent shooting pains up
her thigh and into her abdomen. 
"Scully." 
She heard him, as if from a distance. 
"Scully, come on, you gotta stay awake for a while." 
He was crying again. Somewhere above the pain,
her mind wondered why she always seemed to make
him cry. 
"Tired." She moaned. "Hurts." 
"Scully, we're gonna get out of here." He tightened
his grasp on her, holding her against him, feeling
her with every fiber of his being, willing her to be
all right. "Scully, we're gonna be ok." 
He felt the panic rising in his chest. He could feel
her slipping away, and was powerless to stop
it. 
"Scully," he pleaded. "Don't leave me." 
He felt her tense in his arms, her whole body
going taut. She opened her eyes and looked into
his, her right hand coming up to slowly brush
against his cheek. She pursed her lips, and
he leaned into her and kissed her softly. She
tensed even more as another wave of pain
crashed across her body. 
"Mul. Der," She gasped. "Gonna. Pass. Out." 
And she did. 
*********************************************** 
Skinner showered quickly, the warm water relaxing him
as the sweat was washed away. He was tired, so tired, but
he knew there was no hope of sleep for him in the near
future. As he finished soaping himself, he stepped fully
under the flowing water, then turned the faucet to cold.
As the heat disappeared, he felt himself abruptly growing
more alert. He stood under the cold flow for long minutes,
forcing himself to accept the punishing temperature,
penance for his failure to find his friends yet. 
He finally turned the water off and stepped out, shivering.
He dried himself, then dressed in the clean clothes he had
brought from his office, skivvies first, then t-shirt, socks,
shirt, and trousers. He threaded his belt through the
loops on his pants, then tucked his shirt in, zipping,
buttoning, and finally, buckling. He slid his feet into
his shoes, then folded up the collar of his shirt, sliding
the tie around his neck. 
As he stood before the mirror, he had a sudden sense of
de ja vue; after Emerson had escaped, Mulder had gotten
his break as he stood before a bathroom mirror. Skinner
stared into the fogged glass, willing an explanation to
the cryptic letters - SL. When nothing new came to mind,
he sighed, then tied his tie, picked up his bag, and headed
back up the stairs. 
He stashed his gym bag back in his office, glancing at the
clock. 'Going on noon? How long was I down there?' he
wondered to himself. He walked to the elevator for the ride
back down to the command center. As he waited for the
elevator to arrive, he pulled his cell phone and made a call.
"Larson," he barked, "I'm on my way back. I'll be there
shortly. Get everyone together. I want an update." 
Within five minutes, the team had gathered and team
leaders began to report. Nothing new from the teams
investigating Roberson's family. A bit more comprehensive
list of employers, but nothing that stood out. An
interesting list of church and religious affiliations,
none mainstream, all with UFO/alien/outer space tenets of
one sort or another. As the reports continued, Skinner
sat quietly, listening, occasionally making notes. He
watched as Larson ran the briefing. 
She had taken her blazer off and was wearing a monogrammed
silk shirt. He found himself staring at her left breast.
His thoughts drifted to Scully. It was her left breast that
had been so cruelly pierced with a nail. His mind wondered
from the meeting as he allowed himself once more, to wonder
how his agents, his friends, were faring. 
As the next team began a report on property owned or
occupied by Roberson or his family, Skinner continued
to stare at Larson. She had noticed his intent gaze at
her chest, and had flushed slightly. She met his gaze,
glaring at him pointedly. He returned his gaze to her
breast. There was something there. 
As the real estate team leader began to recite his
list of properties, Skinner suddenly stood up. He
walked to the front of the room and reached out to
Larson. There were audible gasps from across the
room and she froze as his large hand traced the
monogram on her shirt. 
"What's your name, Larson?" 
She colored again, and looked at him. "Sara, Sir."
she replied tightly as she removed his hand from her
shirt. 
"SL," Skinner said. "Mulder left SL for me. Why?" 
Skinner felt himself drifting away from himself. He
seemed to step back and watch himself. Had he really
just fondled a female agent in front of dozens of
others? He shook his head. There was no time for that.
It was very close. He was very close to understanding
what Mulder had been trying to tell him. 
As he focused again on the shirt, he felt himself
growing cold. How does Mulder do this? How can he
stand this feeling of disconnectedness? Skinner
was tempted to shake himself, to drag himself back
to the present while he still could, but he knew that
Mulder and Scully were depending on him to figure this
out. SL - what did Mulder mean? 
He reached out for Larson again, his fingers brushing
the letters once more. She stood still under his
touch, seeming to know that something else, something
serious was happening. "SL," he said again. And then,
like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. UFOs, abductions,
Scully's abduction to be exact. "Skyland Mountain." he
said. "Check the property list for Skyland Mountain and
surrounding areas." 
The room was silent, everyone waiting as the team leader
scanned the list. "I have a cabin in Luray, Virginia." 
"That's it. Scramble, people, we're moving. Get everyone
going. Call Luray locals, whatever else is around there.
Get Virginia State Police, SBI, local Bureau, shit call
out the fucking National Guard. We are gonna make the
raid to end all raids. We are taking that fucker down."
Skinner stood as people raced to make their preparations
for the rescue. He walked carefully over to Larson. 
"Agent Larson - Sara - I apologize. My behavior was
inappropriate. You are within your rights to bring
me up on charges." 
Larson's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she said,
"No, Sir, I didn't understand at first. It was my initials.
You figured it out. None of us could. No apology is
necessary. Let's go get our people." 
Skinner held out his hand, and as Larson took it, said,
"Thank you, Agent Larson. And, yes, let's do go get
our people." 
************************************************************** 
Mulder woke, and the first thing he realized was that
he wasn't in the bed with Scully anymore. The next thing
was that he was tied again, this time to the floor. And
the next thing was that he wasn't in the bedroom anymore,
but rather, on the floor of the living room. 
Harold had driven large pegs into the floor of the cabin
and Mulder was tied spread-eagled to them. He turned his
head and looked to see if he could see Scully. No sign
of her. That could be good or bad. No sign of Harold
either. "Scully," he called quietly. No response. He
tried again. Still no response. Hopefully she was still
sleeping safely in the warm bed. He pulled against the
ropes restraining him. Nothing. He was tightly secured. 
Both arms were pulled tightly away from his body,
over-extending the muscles. It was painful, regardless,
but for his already injured arm, it was excruciating.
He had a very bad feeling about this. He looked around
for anything he could get to, anything he could use,
if he could just get free. Nothing. He closed his eyes
in pain and frustration. 
He opened his eyes when he felt a heavy boot prod him,
not too gently, in the side. Harold. He looked up but
didn't speak. 
Harold stood above him, a bag in his hand. His eyes
gleamed with a manic excitement. "Well, Agent Mulder,
at last you are going to begin to atone for what you
have done." 
"What exactly have I done, Harold?" Mulder tried to
keep his voice neutral, his face composed. 
Harold looked at him, almost surprised that he would
ask. His face turned quizzical as he tried to puzzle
out the meaning of Mulder's question. "I'm not sure,"
he said in a small voice. But then the anger seemed
to take over, and his voice grew stronger as he went on,
"You know what you've done. That man, the man at the
place, he said this was all because of you. You are
the only success that THEY have." 
Even Mulder could hear the capitals as Harold said
THEY. "Who, Harold, whose success? And what is all
because of me?" 
Harold dropped the bag and put his hands over his
ears. "Stop it," he screamed, "just stop it! You
will not confuse me." He paused, gathering himself.
"I am going to show you what they did to me.
Harold pulled his shirt out of his pants and lifted
it, showing his abdomen to Mulder. 
"See this." He pointed to the pock like scars covering
his belly. "Every time, Agent Mulder, every time, THEY
put these needles in me. Over and over, hundreds of
needles. I would pass out from the pain." He bent and
retrieved the bag. "I am going to share that experience
with you." 
Mulder shuddered as he watched Harold pull the first needle
out of the bag. It was long, and thick, and shiny, and
all it needed was a syringe to complete one of his worst
nightmares. <Oh, shit! He must have robbed a fucking
horse doctor to get needles that big. I am seriously
fucked here.> "Harold, there's no need for this," he began.
He broke of in mid sentence as the first needle was plunged
into his bare abdomen. "Shit!" 
"Harold, please, stop, let's talk about this. Oh fuck!"
The second needle was rammed home. "Jesus, Harold,
stop this!" he cried as the third needle was plunged
mercilessly into his tender belly. Mulder continued to
plead, his breathing growing ragged and his words turning
to sobs as Harold relentlessly stabbed needle after needle
deeply into his smooth stomach. At last, Harold stopped
and rose. 
Mulder lay panting, sobbing, tied to the floor. Twenty
large needles rose unevenly from his belly. Harold
reached down and ran his hand over all the protruding
needles, pushing them further in and wiggling them about.
Mulder had clung to sanity, clung to consciousness during
the whole deal, but at this last action, he finally gave
up, screamed, and passed out. 
Harold stood looking at him. "This is what it's like,
you self-righteous prick," he snarled to the unconscious
man. He went to the kitchen and filled a bowl with water.
As he reentered the living room, he looked at the hall
to see Agent Scully clinging to the door frame. 
As he watched, she whispered, "Mulder, I'm here." and
collapsed, unconscious again, in a heap on the floor. 
Harold laughed. "Oh yeah, one tough cookie." 
He dumped the water on Mulder and laughed as he
sputtered back to awareness. Every breath, every
movement was torture. Harold knew how much the
needles hurt. He had been there himself, but now,
this was retribution. 
Mulder looked up, trying to attain a neutral
facade to speak to this madman. "Harold,"
he began, "please, I haven't done anything to you.
I investigate alien activity. I may be able to
help you figure out what was done to you." 
Harold just stared at him, unmoved by his little
speech. He lit a cigarette and put in on the edge
of a small table. As Mulder watched, Harold
unbuttoned his pants, and began to remove them. 
<Oh God, no, not that, no, not that, anything
but that> Mulder began a mantra in his mind as he
began struggling desperately against his bonds,
heedless of the pain this caused. 
Harold looked up, puzzled, as Mulder suddenly
began to thrash about. As he realized what Mulder
was thinking, he began to laugh. "Oh, no, Agent
Mulder, not that." He laughed harder. But before
we're done, you may be wishing that was all I had
done to you. You must atone for your transgressions." 
Mulder stilled and watched as Harold lowered his
pants to his knees and then turned, putting one
foot in front of the other, so that the tender
inside of his thigh was visible. Mulder winced
as he looked at the hundreds of tiny scars that
covered the sensitive flesh. Burn scars. 
"Harold, no, you don't have to do this." 
Harold pulled his pants back up and picked up
the burning cigarette. As he advanced, Mulder
began to moan. As the cigarette touched denim,
the moan turned into a scream. He screamed for a
long time, until his voice was hoarse, and he had no
energy left to scream. Then he cried. Then the cries
turned to whimpers, and finally, blessedly, the
whimpers turned to silence as he, once again, passed
gratefully into unconsciousness. 
Harold put the last cigarette out, just behind
Mulder's knee, and rose. "God, I'm hungry. Time
for breakfast," he announced to nobody in particular.
Checking Mulder's bonds one last time, he grabbed his
keys and walked out the door. 
************************************************** 
Mulder came to again as a soft hand stroked his
cheek. Scully was laying next to him again. "How
did you get here?" he asked dazedly. 
She had untied his left hand, and now lay against him,
fighting to stay conscious, but unable to move anymore.
Every last ounce of strength had been taken in crawling
from the doorway where she had collapsed over to where
Mulder lay. She had untied his hand, and tried to move
to his other side to untie his other hand, but her strength
had given out. 
"Mulder," she whispered, "couldn't help you." Her eyes
filled with tears as she thought of what he had endured,
his screams still echoing in her ears. She kissed his chest,
all she could reach without moving again. "Let you down.
Sorry. . ." her voice trailed off as he pulled his hand up
and stroked her hair. 
"Shhh, Scully, I'm amazed you were able to get here at all."
He paused, his own exhaustion making words difficult. "We
have to get out of here, Scully," he whispered urgently. 
"Can't make it Mulder." she panted. "You go. Get help." 
"I'm not leaving you, Scully." 
"Hurts, Mulder. Can't move anymore." 
"I'm not leaving you, Scully," Mulder said again, more
determined than before. "I'll carry you if I have to,
but we have to go." 
He started to reach over and untie his other hand, but
the movement reminded him that the needles were still in
his abdomen. <Oh fuck! This is gonna hurt!> He gritted
his teeth, and began pulling. 
When he had removed the last one, he lay back, panting,
his breath ragged, tears streaming down his cheeks.
After a moments rest, he sat up, his whole body tensing
in pain as his legs screamed, his belly screamed, his
head screamed. He ignored it as best he could, and untied
his feet. 
Free at last, he turned to look at Scully only to find she
was once more unconscious. He rose, struggling with every
movement, pain washing over his legs and belly, and lifted her
to the couch. Laying her gently down, he began to
look around. He knew they had to get out of there, before
Harold got back. Neither one of them was strong enough
for another round with Harold the Insane. 
He searched the small cabin. <No clothes, no shoes, oh shit.
Virginia mountains, bare foot and shirtless, injured and
in pain, in February. We have a winner!> On the table in
the small kitchen was a map of Shenandoah National Park.
There was a red marker line tracing its way from the main
roads onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and finally, through
back roads to what he assumed was the location of the cabin. 
Looking at the map, he saw a ranger station. By road it was
about 15 miles away. But if he could cut across country,
it was only about 3 miles. Mulder stopped, thinking.
Could he carry Scully three miles in his condition? Did
he really have a choice? Shaking his head in answer to
both questions, he took a large knife from the drawer, and
went to strip the bed linens. He took all the linens he could
find, fashioning a poncho type shirt for himself from the
bedspread, tying it around his waist with the rope he had
been tied to the floor with. 
Going into the second bedroom in search of more linens,
he was surprised to find a phone. It hadn't occurred to
him to even look for a phone. He lifted it, and was even
more surprised when there was a dial tone. He stood
staring stupidly at the phone for a minute, then swiftly
punched in a number he knew by heart. His heart was pounding
so hard, he could hardly hear over it, and he was feeling
light-headed from lack of oxygen. He forced himself to breathe,
waiting impatiently as the phone finally connected and he heard
the first ring. 
"Skinner." 
Mulder had never heard a more welcome sound. He cleared his
throat, and tried to speak. His voice was raspy, ruined from
the constant screaming, and he could barely raise it above a
whisper. "Sir," he began, but was interrupted when Skinner
cut in. 
"My God, Mulder, is that you?" 
Mulder could hear the combination of panic and relief in
the older man's voice. 
"Yes, Sir, I . . ." Once again, he was cut off. 
"I'm on my way, Mulder. You're at Roberson's cabin in
Luray, right? I've got every available officer converging
on the scene now. My official ETA is about two hours - but,
Mulder, I'll be there in an hour and a half. Are you
all right? Is Scully all right?" 
"Sir, we can't stay here. Scully's hurt bad. Get medical."
A sob broke from Mulder's throat. "I'm taking her to the ranger
station near Stanley. Meet me there." He paused, not sure
what else to say, but not ready to give up the connection
to the outside yet. It was amazing how quickly Roberson
had succeeded in psychologically isolating him. 
Skinner seemed to sense Mulder's hesitation, his aloneness.
He was sure that Scully wasn't the only one in need of medical
attention. 
"Mulder, I'm coming." He spoke with passion, channeling
his long controlled emotions into his voice. "Do you hear
me, Mulder? I'm coming to get you and Scully. It's
going to be all right. Mulder? Mulder?" 
Mulder swallowed hard. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. The
ranger station. I'll get her there as quick as I can, but
it's a long walk." 
"Mulder, wait, Mulder, you can't walk! Mulder? Damn it,
Mulder, don't you dare try to walk!" Skinner was yelling
into the phone, but it was too late. Mulder had hung up
and walked back to the living room to attend to his final
preparations. 
He tore the sheets into strips and wrapped his feet, working
quickly now as he grew increasingly concerned over how long
Harold had been gone. He bandaged his thighs with strips of
sheets as well, trying not to look at the raw, oozing mass of
burns, trying not to feel anything. 
He took the remaining blankets, and went to the couch.
Wrapping Scully as carefully as he could, he bent and
lifted her into a modified fireman's carry. Hefting her
across both shoulders, he tried to balance her weight
as evenly as he could. "Sorry, Scully," he whispered,
I know it's undignified, but we've got a long way to go
and I won't make it any other way." With the knife
tucked into the waist of his jeans, he crossed the room,
went out the door and set off toward the ranger station. 
******************************************************** 
Harold took his time in town. They were both out, the
women may never regain consciousness, and the man was
securely tied. Why rush? He had a nice breakfast, then
went to an early movie. 'One good thing about tourists,'
he thought, 'they make the stores and theaters keep reasonable
hours.' After the movie, he made a run on the grocery store.
No point in coming in to town every day, after all. 
He packed the groceries into the trunk of the car, the
handcuffs he'd used on Mulder glinting as the sun, shining
almost straight down, caught them. He scooped them up
carelessly, swinging them in his hand as he thought of other
things he had experienced; things that the FBI man would
have to share if he was ever to atone for his sins. 
Harold shook his head. Thinking of what had happened to
him, and what he was doing to Mulder confused him. He
knew that Mulder was responsible; someone had to be
responsible. Things didn't just happen. 
But exactly what Mulder was responsible for - that kept
shifting in his mind. Was it the aliens? Where there
really aliens? Or was it all part of the Invasion
project? It got mixed up in his head. Was it the
military? They could be in on it? Or was it the FBI?
This Mulder was an Agent for the FBI - maybe they were
responsible. Mulder had said he investigated things
like this. Could that be true? 
Harold shook his head again. This train of thought
was not productive. It confused him and made his head
hurt. It was like every time he tried to focus on what
had happened to him, a fog rolled in and a pain broke out.
It was easier not to think about it. The man had said
Mulder was responsible. That was all that mattered. 
He got in the car, ready to return to the cabin and
resume Mulder's atonement. There were so many things
that he could still do. He thought back to Colonel
Kinsley. She had tried to atone, but in the end, her
whole family had to pay. It had been such hard work
and his head had hurt for weeks after. But he had
done it. And he would take care of Mulder as well,
no matter what the cost to himself. 
He drove back to the cabin, ready to resume
the work that had to be done. When he pulled up
in the driveway, he was surprised to see the
front door open, flapping loosely in the wind. 
He jumped out of the car and raced into the
house. The pegs on the floor were empty, their
prisoner gone. He ran to the bedroom, empty, the
bed stripped. The other small bedroom was empty as
well, the linens also missing. Where the hell
did Mulder think he was going to go? Everything
was locked down for the winter. He was on
foot, carrying the woman. Where would he go? 
Harold went to the kitchen and pulled out the map.
He studied it for a bit, ruling out places one by
one, until he came to the ranger station near Stanley.
About 15 miles by road, but much closer across country.
Harold's eyes narrowed as he thought it through. He
might just try it. Mulder was strong, and he was
determined. He might be able to carry the woman
the three miles across country. 
Well, Mulder would be in for a surprise, if he got there! 
Chapter 20 
"Dwell not upon thy weariness, thy strength shall be
according to the measure of thy desire."
Arab Proverb 
Mulder paused for a moment, his heart racing, chest heaving, as he
tried to catch his breath. He lowered Scully to the ground, leaning
her against a fallen tree trunk. She had neither moved nor spoken
since they left the cabin and he was worried. It was cold, but
he was moving, generating heat. She was cold too, and not moving.
At least the sun was out, that had to help some. 
But she was so still, so quiet. He was worried about her head,
her chest, her wrist, her leg. He forced himself to his knees
beside her, struggling through the pain from the burns on his
thighs. "Scully, hey Scully," he called softly, as he stroked her
cheek. He brushed her hair back from her face, and leaned in,
kissing her gently. "Scully, please . . ." His voice drifted away
as he waited in vain for her to respond. 
He kissed her again, then checked her bandages, pulled the bed
linens and blankets that he had wrapped her in more securely
around her, and sat beside her on the log. 
He looked at the cloth he had wrapped around his feet. The bottoms
were dirty and <was that blood?> the cloth was beginning to tear
and fray. He tightened the bindings, knowing he needed to protect
his feet as best he could. He looked down at Scully again,
propped bonelessly against a rotted log. How had he managed
to get her into this? All he wanted to do was take care of
her, and look what happened. Tears formed in his eyes, and
he brushed them roughly away. <No time for self pity. Get
moving!> 
He clambered to his feet, then stood a moment, fighting dizziness.
He was tired, in pain, weak. His back and shoulders ached
from carrying Scully. His injured arm screamed with every
step he took. His feet felt every rock, every stick, every
root on the ground. He wanted nothing more than to curl up
and sleep everything away, but Scully was waiting. 
He shook his head to try to clear the fog, then leaned carefully
down to touch Scully again. His hand smoothed her hair, and
he softly called her name. "Scully, we need to move again.
Hey Scully, could you just let me know you're with me?"
His voice caught and he swallowed a sob. "Please?
Scully, you know what trouble I get into when you leave
me unattended." He gave a strangled laugh, and bent to
lift her. 
As his arms went around her, her eyes fluttered open.
He quickly dropped to his knees, heedless of the pain.
"Hey, Scully, you're with me!" His voice was pure
joy. 
"Mulder," she whispered, her eyes slipping shut again.
" 'S ok." 
He buried his head in her hair, holding her close, and
a few stray tears fell as he sobbed silently. "Scully,
it's gonna be all right. Skinner's coming. We'll
be all right." 
"Hmmm, 'k," she slurred. 
Mulder was suddenly energized. <She's still with me!>
"We gotta move, Scully" He rose shakily to his feet
again, then lifted her. "Up you go." He struggled
for a minute to get her settled across his shoulders
again, then took another minute to get her balanced. 
"Scully?" he called once he had her positioned. 
No response. 
"Scully?" He hoped for an answer, but she was unconscious
again. Realizing this, he set off once more, determined
to reach the ranger station, and Skinner. 
He padded along through the woods, relying on the
sun to keep his direction. It had climbed high in
the sky, and was almost directly overhead now. Mulder
figured he'd been walking about an hour, and still had
a mile or so to go. 
Scully was unmoving across his shoulders. He worried
that with no support, and the blood pooling in her
head, he was injuring her even further, but he couldn't
have left her behind! As he struggled to continue,
putting one tender foot in front of the other, trying
to ignore the many pains throughout his body, he tried
to think of what he would do when he reached the ranger
station. 
His mind was fogged, his thinking cloudy. He knew that
he was injured, probably in shock. The combination of
the wounds Harold had inflicted on him, the cold, and his
own already weakened condition, was making him very dazed
and confused. 'Skinner will be there,' he thought.
'He'll know what to do.' 
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Mulder was
startled at the ease with which it had come. When had
he begun to think of Skinner as someone he could turn
to? How long had it been since he had someone he
would trust, besides Scully? He shook his head.
He needed to be making a plan. But again, the
thought came unbidden, 'Skinner will take care of it.' 
He shrugged and focused on keeping his movement steady.
Scully was hurt badly as it was, he didn't want to
add to it if he could help it. He shrugged his shoulders,
reseating her across them, shifting under her weight
as he unconsciously tried to ease the burden. 
He looked up again, judging the time, trying to
figure out how much further he had to go. He was
exhausted. He had pushed on so far on almost pure
adrenaline and determination, but he was wearing
down and wearing out, fast. 
He closed his eyes, briefly, just to give himself
a short rest, taking a few more steps in his
self imposed blindness. As he opened his eyes
again, he realized that he was about to step
right into a muddy creek. 
He tried to halt his forward movement, but it was
too late, and he only succeeded in overbalancing
himself, coming down hard on his left ankle. Then
as the soft creek bank gave way, the ankle twisted
hard, and he slid heavily down the short bank into
the icy water. Landing heavily on his left knee,
he thrust his right hand out and caught himself
before he fell completely forward. 
So far he had managed to keep Scully from getting
wet, but with only one hand to hold her, he felt
her begin to slip. Pulling his right leg entirely
into the frigid water, he quickly sat back on his
heels, submerging himself to the waist. He
struggled to regain his balance, and to balance
Scully once more. 
When he finally had her secured, he was shivering,
his teeth chattering. The left ankle was definitely
sprained, possibly broken. He had to get out of the
water, but he couldn't put Scully down, and he
couldn't get up holding her. Walking on his
knees, he crossed the tiny creek, and then leaned
all the way down, almost laying on the bank.
He rolled Scully over his head and onto the bank. 
He paused, panting, then struggled to his feet,
bearing his weight on his good right foot. Once
upright, he gingerly placed the left foot down,
and tested it. <Oh, shit, that hurts!> Not
broken, it would bear weight, but it hurt like hell. 
His wet jeans clung to him, the burns on his legs
newly awakened and making their presence known quite
clearly as the cold, muddy water soaked into the
open wounds. He shivered uncontrollably, and felt
himself slipping into the early stages of hypothermia.
<Get moving. Keep moving.> 
He climbed out of the water, and went to Scully
on the bank. He stood staring down at her for
sometime, before his mind made the connection that
he had to pick her up again. He reached down and
hefted her, throwing her over one shoulder this time,
and began to move. <Keep moving - must keep moving> 
As he plodded steadily along, his shivering grew
worse and his teeth began to chatter. He tried
to focus on movement, keep going, almost there,
get Scully to safety. Every step was agony as
his weight came down on the injured ankle and the
wet burns chafed against each other. Desperate
for relief, his mind would drift away, then he
would suddenly start to awareness, not remembering
where he was or where he was going. 
He had to pause frequently, to shift Scully,
to rest his ankle, to catch his breath. He began
his own survival mantra "Get Scully to the ranger
station. Skinner will know what to do. Get Scully
to the ranger station. Skinner will know what to
do." He chanted it out loud, through chattering
teeth, using his own voice as a focal point to keep
himself from slipping away, to keep himself moving,
to keep himself from giving up. 
At last the woods began to clear, and in the distance,
Mulder could see the small, concrete block building
that was the ranger station. He crossed the last
few yards more quickly, and approached the building
eagerly. He looked around, hoping to see anyone
but Harold. There was a bench outside the building,
and he gently lay Scully there. 
No one was around, the parking lot devoid of cars.
<That's odd. Where's the ranger?> Mulder limped
to the door and grabbed the knob. A turn and push.
Nothing. Mulder pounded on the door, calling hoarsely,
"Help! I've got injured. Help! Isn't anyone here?" 
But the building was empty, and locked. 
******************************************************** 
Skinner closed the phone, tempted to throw it through
the window, but managed to hold onto both it and his
temper. He did bring his hand up and slam it down on
the dash, his one concession to the growing rage that
was threatening to overwhelm him again. 
The driver, Bouvier, said, "It was Mulder? Where
are they? Are they all right?" 
"Scully's hurt, I think Mulder is too, but he didn't
say anything." Skinner paused, rethinking the short
conversation. "They were at the cabin in Luray. They're
on the move now. I'm not sure what happened or how
they got loose, but Mulder said it wasn't safe for them
to stay at the cabin and wait for us. He's carrying -
carrying - Scully to the ranger station at Stanley." 
"Shit, that's miles from Luray, isn't it?" Bouvier
asked. 
Skinner suddenly began to dig furiously through the
maps, searching for the detail map of Shenandoah
National Park. He studied it a minute, then looked
up. "It's 15 miles from the cabin," he said in
amazement. 
He lowered his head again, took another measurement
using his finger, then added, "Or three miles if
he goes cross country. Which I'm sure he will." 
He sat quietly a moment, then picked up the cell and
called the operator who was channeling communications
for the team. "I need to speak to the ranger at
Stanley station," he demanded. "And while you're
getting that call for me, get the medical coordinator
as well. We have at least one injured." 
He waited impatiently until, at last, a slow
southern drawl said, "Mr. Skinner, Sir? This is
Ranger Clyde Bohannon. Can I help you Sir?" 
"Are you at Stanley Station, Bohannon?" 
"Uh, no sir, I'm not. I'm at Massanutten." 
"Then why the hell are you on the phone?"
Skinner was frustrated and it was showing.
"I asked to be patched through to Stanley." 
"Uh, well, yes, Sir, I guess you did. But
there's no one at Stanley, Sir. It's closed
in the winter." 
Skinner was silent, his mind working furiously.
This meant the station wouldn't have transportation
out, and Mulder and Scully would still be vulnerable
should Roberson get to them before he did. Well,
he would just have to get there before Roberson. 
"I see. Well, thank you Mr. Bohannon." Skinner
disconnected. 
The phone chirped again and Skinner opened it.
"Mulder, is that you?" he asked hopefully. 
"Medical for you Sir," the operator said. 
"Patch them through." 
"Medical, Sir." 
"I've been in contact with Agent Mulder. He has
advised me that Agent Scully is injured and in need
of medical assistance. I want two units dispatched
to the ranger station at Stanley. They are to get
as close as they can, but not be observed. The
perp is still unaccounted for, and may be occupying
the station. Get your units into position and ready
to respond as soon as I give the all clear." 
"Yes, Sir. Two units, Sir?" 
"I suspect Agent Mulder is injured as well. Be sure
that copies of my agents medical data is made available
to the responding units. Make sure the correct blood
types are available. Do whatever it is that you do 
to assure - do you hear me? - assure that my agents
will not experience any delay in securing appropriate
treatment for their injuries." He paused, then added,
"Wait for my call." and hung up. 
He sat quietly, thinking, then opened the phone again.
"Get me Larson," he said without preamble. When she
answered, he said, "Who do we have within immediate
response to the ranger station at Stanley?" 
"Stanley, Sir? I thought they were in Luray?" 
"They're on the move, should be at Stanley soon.
Now who's already there? Anybody really competent
for this type of thing?" 
He heard her pause, knew she was weighing the pros
and cons of slamming her fellow law enforcement
officials to her boss. At length she said, "No,
sir, only locals are in position and ready to move." 
"Shit, that's what I was afraid of." Skinner
paused, furiously trying to work out a new plan.
"All right. Here's what you do. Send the locals
to the cabin. I suspect it will be deserted, but
we've got to cover it. My team will be at Stanley
in," he paused, looking at Bouvier. 
"Twenty to thirty minutes, Sir. These mountain
roads are a bitch." 
"Fifteen minutes, Larson. Any locals still at Stanley
are to wait for me. I don't want Sheriff Andy getting
killed by this lunatic. And I don't want Mulder or
Scully further injured through incompetence. You
make that clear, you hear?" 
"Yes, Sir. And Sir? Good luck." 
Skinner grunted and closed the phone. 
"Move Bouvier, fifteen minutes." He closed his
eyes and leaned back in the seat as he felt the
car accelerate. 'Hang on guys, I'm coming." 
*************************************************** 
Mulder sagged against the door. He had come so
far, and now, shelter, warmth, perhaps safety
was within reach, and he couldn't get to it. He
stepped back from the door, backing into the
parking area, and appraising the building. Windows. 
He looked down, his eyes scanning for ground for a
good size rock. He spotted one, hobbled over, then
bent and picked it up. Limping slowly back to the
building, he raised his arm and heaved. The glass
shattered with a satisfying crack. Using the rock,
he cleared the bottom ledge and crawled through. 
He came around to the door, opened it, and went
to Scully. Lifting her carefully in his arms,
he carried her in and kicked the door shut behind. 
The station was small. It was warmer than the
outside, but not by much, and that advantage
would dissipate quickly with the now 'open'
window. A tiny reception area was separated from
the ranger's work area by a chest high counter.
A bench was under the broken window, and a swinging
gate opened into the work area. 
He pushed through the gate, and walked over to
the desk. Using his left knee, he balanced
Scully with one hand, and swept the desk clear
with the other, then laid her down again. He
paused a moment to straighten her head, and
brush back her hair, cupping her face in his hands
and kissing her softly on her lips. "We're here,
Scully. We made it. Skinner will be here soon."
He kissed her again, then moved to see what else
was in the building. 
A short, narrow hall led to a back storage room,
a tiny bathroom. There was a small living/sleeping
area in the storage room, complete with cot. Mulder
thought of bringing Scully back to it, but was
worried that she would be vulnerable alone if Harold
got to them before Skinner. <Come on, Walter, we need
you now!> 
How could he keep Scully safe, away from Harold, yet
not outside. He was aware enough of his own depleted
reserves to know he could not hope to prevail if it
came down to a physical battle with Harold. <Where
are you, Walter?> He looked around, taking in the room,
the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The ceiling?
It was a drop ceiling, with tiles that could be pushed
up. He went into the bathroom. Standard home commode.
He could use it to climb up to the ceiling. 
He climbed up and pushed the tile aside, then hoisted
himself up. Thin metal rods held the tiles in place.
The tiles themselves were too flimsy to support even
Scully's weight, let alone his own. But someone had
laid a plywood crawlway, over the metal, leading to the
ventilation ductwork. He wasn't the first person to
access the 'attic' this way! 
He went back and picked Scully up and carried her to
the bathroom. "Sorry, Scully," he apologized, as he
pulled her over his shoulder for one more trip. Using
the wall for support, he managed to get up onto the
seat of the toilet, and then onto the tank. He stood
for a moment, gathering the last of his strength, then
lifted Scully up, feet first, through the hole in the
ceiling, almost dropping her onto the plywood. He held
her hand for a minute, kissing each tiny, cold finger. 
He climbed down and went out to the storage area, pulling
blankets and the small pillow off the cot, and then returned
to Scully. He covered her with what he had found, trying to
tuck her in securely, the slid the pillow under her head.
His lips traced her eyes, her nose, and finally her lips,
and he whispered, "Hang in there, Scully. Hang in there for
me, please." Then, reluctantly, he left her and slid the
tile back in place. 
He climbed down, and turned to go back out to the
front office, intending to call Skinner again.
He hobbled out to the office, lifted the phone
and dialed Skinner's cell. 
"Mulder?" Skinner answered. 
"Yes, Sir. We're here." Mulder was exhausted. He
could barely stand, and speaking was taking entirely
too much effort. "Where are you?" he heard himself
whine. 
Skinner's voice was soft, patient, understanding,
full of concern as he answered gently, "I'm coming,
Mulder. I'm coming. Just a few more minutes, ok?
Can you hold it together for a few more minutes?" 
Mulder nodded, then stared at the phone as he heard
Skinner ask, "Mulder? You still there?" 
He shook himself out of the daze he had fallen into
and murmured, "Yeah, few more minutes." He was
silent for a moment, then added, "I put Scully in
the ceiling, just in case." 
"In the ceiling? Mulder, what are you talking about?" 
Just then, a vicious pain exploded in Mulder's side,
he dropped the phone, and collapsed on the floor, screaming.
The phone lay unheeded next to his head, as he writhed
and sobbed on the floor. 
In the car, Skinner was screaming frantically into the
phone, "Mulder, Mulder, answer me! God damn it - what
the hell is going on there? Mulder, come on, Mulder!" 
As he lay there, gasping for breath, agony erupted all
up and down his left arm. He pulled it across his
body, clutching it in his right arm, and tried to
roll onto his stomach, but as he was completing the
move, something hit him in the small of his back, and
he screamed again. He curled into a fetal position, trying
to push away from the instrument of his torture. His mind
had lost all ability for coherent thought. 'Must get
away,' was all he could think. 
Skinner's heart stopped as he heard Harold faintly through
the phone, "Hello, Agent Mulder. "You've been very bad." 
**************************************************** 
Skinner was counting the minutes now. According to
the map, they should be at the station just - about -
now. He could see it in the distance, but there
was a vehicle, a lone vehicle in the parking area. 
He pulled the radio and yelled, "Abort. Abort.
Our perp is in the building. He has hostages.
Abort." Turning to Bouvier, he said, "Slow, and
drive by." 
As they rode past, Skinner could see the broken
window on the front of the building, but that was
all. When they were out of sight on the other
side, Bouvier stopped the car, and they got out. 
Skinner spoke into the radio. "Approach on
foot; use the surrounding woods for cover, and
remained concealed. Team 2, take south. Team
3, east. Team 4, north. When you're in position,
check in." 
He and Bouvier set out through the trees, angling
back to the small building. "We have west, Boo,
that puts us in the front, no cover." They got
to the fringe of the woods on the northwest corner
and stopped, waiting for the others to get into
position. 
As they waited, an ear shattering scream split the
air, and Skinner was on his feet and running. As
he ran, he yelled into the radio, and into the air,
"Move, move, move, all agents, this is a go! Move!" 
************************************************** 
Mulder came to, arms over his head, handcuffed
to the ceiling fan in the work area, his whole
body aflame. He moaned, and regretted it immediately
when he was greeted with another touch of the stun gun.
He writhed, unable to breath, wondering if his heart
had stopped. And if it hadn't, he kinda hoped it
would. 
Harold watched patiently, until Mulder was still
again. Then he asked, "Where is the Agent Scully?" 
Mulder shook his head. "I had to leave her." Tears
rolled down his face. "I couldn't carry her." 
"I don't think so, Agent Mulder," Harold said, and
leaned forward with the prod. 
Mulder jumped, pulling back as far as he could,
and a whimper of fear escaped his throat. "I
couldn't carry her, I couldn't," he babbled.
His mind was so pain fogged, he really wasn't sure
where Scully was. Did he really leave her in
the woods? 
"Not good enough Agent Mulder." Harold leaned in
again, laughing as Mulder twitched at the brief
contact. "It's not pleasant, is it? Do you
know how many times THEY did this to me? Do you
know what project Invasion is?" 
Mulder shook his head furiously, "No, no, I don't,
Harold, tell me. What is it?" 
Harold laughed again. "I'll trade you one answer
for one answer. I go first. Where is Agent Scully?" 
Mulder sagged. He was going to die. Skinner would
come, he would find Scully. She would be all right.
He had to believe that. But, if Harold touched him
with the electric prod again, he was going to die. 
Harold stepped forward, grinning as Mulder whimpered
and tried to pull away. He chuckled as Mulder feebly
kicked out at him with his injured left foot, almost
hanging himself as he lost his balance. As Mulder
struggled to get his feet back under him, and take
his weight off his arms and shoulders, Harold pounced. 
This was no brief wisp of a touch, but solid and
complete contact. Harold planted the electric prod firmly
against Mulder's belly, and didn't pull back. 
Mulder screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and then
he passed out. 
*************************************************** 
Skinner went through the broken window in one leap.
Weapon drawn, he landed in a crouch, and then rose,
gun pointing directly at Harold Roberson. 
"Drop it, Roberson," he ordered, "Now!" 
Harold released the stun gun and turned, arms already
rising. As he took in the sight around him, his
shoulders slumped and he seemed to shrink in on
himself. He looked at Skinner and the other agents
as they filled the small room. "I guess I have
to go back to the hospital now," he said in a small
voice. 
Agents had stepped forward and cuffed Harold and were
leading him from the room. Skinner pulled himself over
the counter and went quickly to where Mulder hung,
unconscious from the fan. "Support him, Boo," he
said, as he pulled the desk over and climbed up to
uncuff his injured friend. His keys fit the cuffs,
and Mulder slumped down into waiting arms. Skinner
hopped down and reached out for Mulder. 
"There's a cot back here," and agent called. 
"Bring it," Skinner ordered. 
As quickly as they set it up, Skinner laid Mulder
on it and called for water and a cloth. "And get
the paramedics rolling. Tell them the scene is
secure. And get that asshole out of my sight." 
Agents bustled Harold out the door, as Skinner
gently bathed Mulder's face. "Somebody find
a blanket. He's freezing. And help me get these
wet clothes off him." 
Willing hands came to gently help. The strips of
sheet were unwound from around Mulder's feet,
causing gasps when those gathered saw his bloody
soles and the severely swollen ankle. 'How the hell
was he able to walk?' Skinner wondered. As Skinner
began to unwrap the strips from Mulder's thighs,
the younger man stirred. 
"Sir," he croaked. "I knew you'd come." 
"Sorry I wasn't here sooner, Mulder." 
"Yeah, traffic's a bitch." He closed his eyes again. 
"Mulder, hey Mulder, don't go to sleep on me here."
Skinner was feeling panicky; this man was seriously
injured and he didn't think he had begun to catalog
the injuries. "Mulder, stay with me, please." 
"Scully," Mulder began, then stopped as he was overcome
by coughing. "Ahhh, hurts," he moaned. "Scully -
shot." 
Skinner made an upward gesture to the agents still in
the room, saying, "Check the overhead." They fanned
out, all eyes appraising the ceiling. "It's all right,
Mulder, we're getting her now." 
>From the back, an agent called, "Found her. She's
unconscious. I need some help here." 
Several others scurried to assist, and Mulder sighed.
"Been out - long time. Hurt bad." His eyes were
closed, but he was making an effort to stay awake,
be aware. "Bastard shot her - because of me." He
coughed again. 
"Shhh, Mulder," Skinner soothed, "don't try to talk.
Medics will be here any time now. Mulder, what happened
to your legs?" 
Mulder tried to look down at himself, but it was too
much effort. "Legs?" he asked foggily. "You mean
the burns?" 
"Burns? Jesus, Mulder, what did that bastard do to
you?" As Skinner spoke the sirens were heard and
within minutes Scully was being loaded onto a gurney
and heading out the door. 
Mulder began struggling to rise. "Scully," he cried. 
Skinner held him tightly. "Hush, Mulder, she's
going to the hospital, and so are you. Just hold on
a minute more. Your ride is coming." 
As the medics pulled the second gurney into the building,
Skinner rose, lifting Mulder in his arms, and placed him
gently onboard. Mulder moaned slightly, then settled. 
"It's ok, now Mulder." Skinner murmured. "Scully's ok,
and you're going to be ok too." He paused, and took the
younger man's hand, heedless of the agents that stared.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here before, but I'm here now, and
you can rest. It's ok to rest now." 
Mulder lifted his eyes briefly, meeting Skinner's own,
then closed them, whispering, "Get Scully to the ranger
station. Skinner will know what to do." As Skinner
watched, startled by his friend's statement, Mulder
drifted into unconsciousness. 
"Hey, Mulder," Skinner leaned over, whispering into his
ear. "You did it. You did real good, son. I'm proud
of you." 
Chapter 21 
"Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those
few be well tried before you give them your confidence.
True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must
undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity
before it is entitled to the appellation."
George Washington 
Skinner was dozing in the big chair that had been brought
into Scully's room for him. She stirred in her sleep, and
he was immediately awake, going to stand beside the bed.
When she didn't move again, he took her hand for a moment,
then went and reseated himself. 
>From his visit to his recovering agents, through their abduction,
torture, and rescue, until now, with them both safely ensconced
in the local hospital, the past 72 hours had been a blur
of activity. After his arrival at the ranger station, Skinner had
overseen Mulder and Scully's transport to the hospital, in
Harrisonburg. 
The catalog of injuries was incredible. Scully had a concussion,
and a gunshot wound to the leg. Her wrist had been damaged
again, and the doctor had had to reset it. Her breast was heavily
bandaged, the healing that had occurred since the initial injury
having been erased by the new trauma. But, in reality, she had
fared better than Mulder. She had apparently been unconscious
for much of the time they were under Harold's control, and he
had left her largely alone. 
Mulder, on the other hand, was a completely different issue.
But then, wasn't he always? He had a hairline fracture of the
skull, over his eye, and, of course, concussion. Then there were
the burns. From his groin to his knees, the inside of Mulder's
thighs were covered in tiny, but deep, cigarette burns. Skinner
shuddered, just thinking of it. 
Mulder's arm had separated again, the muscles that were torn
by Emerson's nail, pulled apart, and more surgery had been
required to repair the damage. And then there was the ankle
Mulder had turned, then walked on, eventually earning himself
a stress fracture there as well. And his feet. The soles were
little more than hamburger, raw and lacerated, tender beyond
belief. 
And more burns from contact with the electric stun gun. How in
hell had an escaped mental patient managed to get one of those?
Skinner shook his head ruefully. Nothing could ever be easy with
Mulder. Of course, the fall in the creek had exposed the open
wounds to all sorts of little microorganisms, happy to get in out
of the cold, and he was battling numerous infections. His feet,
his thighs, and his arm, all had angry red streaks radiating out
from the injury. 
And all those little pin pricks on his abdomen. Needle tracks?
Until Mulder was able to tell them exactly what had happened,
those were still a question mark. 
Skinner had ridden to the hospital in Harrisonburg with Mulder,
pleased that they had complete records on both his agent. Scully
was quickly taken to surgery, to repair her leg, and Mulder was
trundled off to the OR as well. While waiting for word on their
conditions, Skinner had arranged Roberson's transfer back to DC.
He had also used his position as Assistant Director of the FBI
to arrange medevac transport for both his agents, to Georgetown
Medical, as soon as they were stable. 
Scully had emerged first, her leg repaired, full recovery
expected. Skinner had insisted on being with her in the recovery
room, and was pleased when she woke naturally as the anesthesia
wore off. They had talked briefly, she asking about Mulder and
he giving her the edited version, then she drifted back to sleep.
Within the hour, she had been moved downstairs to her own room. 
Skinner had returned to the waiting room, anxious for word on
Mulder. His surgery had taken longer, but at last, he too, had
gone to recovery. Skinner had once again stood next to the
bed in recovery, waiting for his agent to awaken. It was no
surprise when Mulder pulled himself up to consciousness, looked
around, then croaked, "Scully?" 
He had reassured the younger man that she was ok, and that
he would be too. Mulder had gazed steadily into his eyes,
then raised his hand slightly. Skinner had taken Mulder's
hand into his own, and squeezed gently, as Mulder had said,
"I knew you'd come. Didn't even have a plan, just knew
you'd come." 
Skinner had soothed him, saying, "Shh, Mulder, it's over
now. You did good. But now, you need to rest." 
Mulder had nodded and his eyes slid shut obediently, but
his fingers had remained clutched around Skinner's hand.
It was a long time before he relaxed enough that Skinner
could pull away and sit back down. But he hadn't minded
it at all. 
Mulder had finally been moved downstairs to a private
room as well. Skinner had planted himself in the younger
man's room, concerned that he would awaken and become
distressed if he was alone. He had been very groggy from
the anesthesia, never seeming to come fully awake. And then
he had spiked a fever, despite the antibiotics they were pumping
into him through the IV. 
He had awakened at last, feverish, delirious, intent on getting
out of the bed. Skinner had physically restrained him, not
allowing the hospital to strap him down. Almost climbing
into the bed with Mulder, Skinner had held him, wrapped
in his arms, as Mulder had thrashed and fought with unseen
demons. Skinner had listened helplessly as his friend had
cried for Roberson to stop, had begged for Scully's freedom. 
At last, the doctor had elected to sedate him, hoping that he
would be calmer, the fever induced delirium under control,
when he woke again. So, secure in the knowledge that Mulder
would be out for a while, Skinner had moved into Scully's room.
He had an agent stationed in Mulder's room, with strict orders
to come for him if the man even turned over in his sleep. But
so far, all was quiet across the hall, and here as well. 
He'd managed to sleep some, though the chair wasn't the most
comfortable, and had gotten something to eat. He'd made
the necessary phone calls to process Roberson, delegated the
paperwork to Larson and Bouvier, had the evac copter on call
for transfer to DC as soon as his agents were ready, and now,
had put his official position aside, and was here as a friend,
watching over those he cared about. 
Scully coughed, and he jumped up, going to her quickly. Her
eyes opened and then widened when she saw him standing there. 
"Hey, Dana, I don't look that bad, now do I?" he joked, his hand
reaching out to touch her arm. 
She cleared her throat and tried to speak, but only the merest
whisper emerged. He offered her water, and she sipped, then
tried again. "Mulder? Where . . ." she stopped, a weak cough
cutting her off. 
"Shh, Dana, it's ok, he's all right." At Scully's raised eyebrow,
he amended, "Well, he'll survive." She nodded and he continued. 
"He was hurt pretty badly, but nothing that wasn't fixable. At
least nothing physical. Torture is always . . ." he stopped at
her gasp. 
"Torture? I remember hearing him scream, and I tried to get
to him, but I passed out in the hall." Her eyes took on a
faraway look as she struggled to recall the details of what
happened. "I came to, and he was tied down to the
floor. I crawled over, and untied his hand, then - well, that's
all I remember." She closed her eyes, then asked tightly,
"What did he do to Mulder?" 
"He burned him. First with cigarettes, then by shocking him
with a stun gun." 
Scully shuddered. "But he's gonna be all right?" 
"He should be. He's strong. He's got an infection in the
wounds, but he's on massive antibiotics, so it should be
under control soon." 
"Why are you here? Instead of with him?" 
Skinner chuckled. "You two are incredible. Two weeks
ago, Mulder wakes up and I'm by his bed, and he tells
me to go sit with you." He smiled, then added, "Is it
my personality or what? 
"Actually, he's been awake, and it wasn't pretty. He
was feverish . . ." 
Scully interrupted. "Mulder doesn't handle fever well." 
"No kidding. You need to get that in his records, Scully.
Anyway, he was thrashing about, trying to get out of the
bed, trying to fight Roberson, I think, and definitely trying
to find you, and the doctor decided to sedate him for a while. 
He paused, assessing her strength. "Dana, do you know
what triggered this? Why did Roberson focus on Mulder?" 
Skinner chuckled to himself as he watched her visibly pull
on her 'Special Agent' persona, preparing to respond
professionally to his inquiries. 
"No, Sir, it was not clear. The man was clearly delusional,
rambling, violent when challenged. Mulder asked him
why he was doing this, and the man hit him and nearly
knocked him out!" Scully was still outraged. 
"That would account for the skull fracture then,"
Skinner mused out loud. He looked at Scully. "We
weren't sure where he picked that up." 
"Skull fracture? Oh, God, what else can happen
to him?" Her eyes filled and she began to shudder,
trying to control herself. 
But Skinner was already moving. He lowered the
rail on her bed and sat next to her. He pulled her up
to his chest carefully, cradling her head with one
hand. His strong arms encircled her, and he rubbed
her back gently. "Ok, now, it's all right," he
crooned to her. "Go ahead, it's all right." 
Casting aside her barriers, she buried her head in
his broad shoulder, and cried. Too much had
happened in too short a time, and she just couldn't
carry it all alone. She needed this, she needed to
cry, she needed a friend to hold her, to help her
through this. To help her and Mulder through this. 
As her sobs quieted, she turned her head and
rested her cheek on his chest. She relaxed into his
arms, and let him hold her, enjoying the sense
of safety his strength and presence brought.
He held her quietly until, at length, she pulled
away. He helped her lie back down, fluffing
her pillows, and fussing with the covers. 
"I need to tell you something," she began. "I'm
not good with emotions, personal relationships,
that sort of thing. I - I don't like being
emotional. I've always liked science because it
was rational, and I try to be rational myself. And
I don't cry. Ever. And certainly never in front
of anyone." 
Skinner nodded as she paused, gathering her thoughts. 
"I always have to succeed. I never learned how to fail.
But the reason I never learned how to fail, wasn't
because I was so good, it was because I only did the
things I knew I could succeed at." She paused again,
taking a deep breath. 
"You're like that, too, aren't you? You keep your
distance so people won't know that you're afraid to
try." She looked up at him, as he nodded again.
"I've closed myself off to so many possibilities in
life, in relationships, in my career, just because
I was afraid I might fail." 
"But Mulder isn't afraid to fail. He tries,
over and over again, until he succeeds. Nothing
is impossible to him, because he is always
willing to make an attempt. He's teaching me
that it's ok to fail, as long as you keep trying." 
"And when you care about someone, you can never
fail if you just keep trying." 
She reached out and caught his hand, holding
his large one in her smaller one. He stopped and
looked at her. "Thank you, Walter," she said.
"Thank you for being here. Thank you for
everything." 
He nodded gravely, recognizing the gift that
her words expressed. He leaned over and kissed
her, a simple kiss on the forehead, but a symbol
of how much things had changed between them
all. 
He smiled as he straightened and said, "What are
friends for?" 
********************************************** 
Scully was sleeping again, peaceful slumber,
when there was a quiet knock. Skinner rose
and crossed the room, opening the door. 
"He's moving around some, Sir." the young
agent reported. 
"Ok, you stay here with Agent Scully for a
while. I'm gonna go sit with Mulder." 
The young man nodded and entered the room,
moving toward the chair by the bed. Skinner
looked back at Scully, checking to make sure
she was still sleeping soundly. This separate
rooms rule was bothersome, and the one thing
his rank as AD hadn't been able to get past.
In Virginia, males and females did not share
a hospital room, no matter what the situation. 
Skinner had managed to get them on the same
floor, the rooms across from each other. He
had spent a good bit of time crossing that
hallway as he went from one room to the other. 
He entered Mulder's room, and sure enough,
he was moving some under the covers. Skinner
expected Mulder to be groggy, possibly
becoming agitated again, when he woke enough
to realize he had been sedated. Mulder hated
to be knocked out. Skinner smiled. 'Can't
stand the thought that he might miss something.' 
He was thinking of Scully's words, how fear of
failure could limit your possibilities severely.
He was guilty of doing that; she had him pegged.
But here, in this friendship, with these two
people, he wasn't going to let fear of failure
govern him. He was going to be here for them,
to help them through their recoveries. And
then, as their supervisor, he was going to
try to be more active in the cases they took
on, or at least available for support. 
Mulder groaned, and Skinner walked to the
bed, speaking softly. "Mulder, you coming
back to us now?" 
Mulder groaned again, then opened his eyes
and looked at Skinner. "Didn't we just do
this, Sir?" 
Skinner laughed. "Yeah, we did. What, once
wasn't enough for you?" 
Mulder gave a weak smile, then asked, "Scully?" 
"She's ok, Mulder. She's across the hall,
sleeping. I have an agent in the room and I've
been bouncing back and forth from here to there
myself. She's all right, and she's safe." 
"When can I go see her?" 
"Mulder!" Skinner snorted in exasperation. "Do
you have any idea what condition you're in?" 
"Apparently not ambulatory, from your reaction.
I'll use a chair, please?" 
Skinner smiled again, fondly. "I'll check with
the docs in a bit. She's asleep now, anyway."
As Mulder pouted, Skinner laughed aloud, then
added, "I promise. We'll work something out." 
Mulder smiled then, joining in the laughter.
"Don't say it - I already know - I'm obsessive." 
As Skinner shook his head, Mulder turned
serious. "How's her leg? And her head?" 
"She has a concussion, but she's been awake
and aware on several occasions. I was just
talking to her a few minutes before you woke
up. They did surgery on her leg; she'll make
a full recovery." 
Skinner caught Mulder's eye, then said,
"As will you, IF you will follow doctor's
orders this time. You're a mess, Mulder,
and we need to know what he did to you." 
Mulder grimaced, then looked away. "I don't
want to talk about it." 
"Mulder, you have to talk about it. I have
to know how to charge this man. We need to
know what he did to you." 
Mulder shuddered, and closed his eyes. "He
hit Scully in the apartment. He knocked her
out. He made me carry her to the car. 
"She got loose in the trunk. She attacked
him when he opened the trunk, but he knocked
her out again. Then he shot her. He just shot
her, no warning, no hint, he just shot her.
She was fucking unconscious and he shot her!" 
Mulder's eyes filled with tears and began to
slide down his cheeks. "Whatever he did to me,
I deserved. I told her to sit down, and then
he hit her. I encouraged her to attack him, and
he knocked her out. And I just watched as he shot
her. I just stood there and watched." 
Mulder was crying now, huge gulping sobs torn
from his chest, shudders wracking his frame.
Skinner moved closer, and looked for a way through
the maze of monitors, wires, and tubing, to reach
the anguished man. He finally sat on the side of
the bed, and scooped him up, much as he had done
Scully, holding him as the tears fell, soothing
him with his presence. 
Mulder sobbed for long minutes, then began to
quiet. As his sobs lessened, he started to
stiffen in Skinner's embrace, embarrassed.
But Skinner just tightened his hold, murmuring
"It's ok, Mulder, you can let go now and then.
It's ok." 
Mulder relaxed again, leaning heavily against
Skinner. "You know, Sir, all the way through
the woods, I kept trying to think. But I was
so tired, and everything hurt so much, and
Scully was so heavy, and I just couldn't think.
I knew I needed a plan, but I just couldn't think." 
He sighed, remembering his fear, and exhaustion. 
"But then, I kept thinking, 'Skinner will be there.
He'll know what to do.' I just sorta abdicated
it all to you in absentia. I'm really glad you
showed up when you did." 
Skinner hugged Mulder, pulling him tightly to
his chest. "Mulder, I am so proud that you
felt you could count on me. I'm glad I was able
to get there. I just wish I'd been sooner." 
Mulder pulled back, looking at Skinner, and
then tried to lay down. Skinner helped him
lay back in the bed, then started to rise. 
"No, stay," Mulder said, catching Skinner's wrist
in his hand. "You were there when it was
important. I think he was going to kill me, and
you kept him from doing that. You made him stop
hurting me." His eyes turned introspective, and
his voice lowered, becoming soft and vulnerable.
"When someone was hurting me, there's never been
anyone who would make them stop before." 
Skinner swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
There was an incredible amount of information in
those few words, and he didn't want to say the
wrong thing. Instead, he took the younger man's
hand, and gently squeezed. He reached up and
brushed a wayward strand of hair from Mulder's
eyes, and said, "You're welcome, my friend." 
*************************************************** 
Skinner was back in Mulder's room. It was late.
He had been back and forth as both his agents
slept then woke, then slept again. He was about
to head back over to Scully's, and the comfortable
chair, when he realized Mulder was awake and
staring out the window. 
"Mulder?" 
Mulder's head never moved, his eyes never left the
window. "Did you know I am afraid of needles?
Have been ever since I was a kid. After Samantha,
I was - sick - for a while. Shit, I was catatonic.
Anyway, they were always sticking me with needles.
A shot for this, a sedative for that, a test here,
a test there. I felt like a fucking pin cushion." 
"And?" Skinner prompted. 
"Harold hit me. He almost knocked me out when he
hit me with the gun. It hurt. Still hurts." He
winced as his hand touched the bandage over his eye.
"He burned me, cigarettes, right through my jeans.
I could feel it get warm, then the cloth caught fire,
then the tip actually touched me, and he just pushed
and pushed, twisting it in. It hurt, too. 
"And then, when he hit me with the cattle prod,
or stun gun, or whatever the hell that was, I
thought for sure I was going to die. I couldn't
breathe, my heart seemed to stop beating, I could
feel this intense searing pain radiating out from
the point of contact." Mulder stopped, and shook
himself. His voice dropped and Skinner had to
strain to hear him. 
"He stuck needles in me. All in my belly. Over and
over again - twenty needles. I counted them. Long
needles. Deep in my belly. He tied me down and stuck
fucking needles in me!" Mulder shuddered and a sob
caught in his throat. 
Skinner tensed, unsure if he should go to him, or
wait for the rest. 
"I hate needles, and that bastard just shoved them in
me. And I think," he paused again, voice dropping
to the merest whisper, "I think, it has happened to
me before." 
"What?" Skinner's voice was loud in the silence.
"When?" 
"After Samantha." He paused. "You know about,"
he tapped his head gently. 
"Your memory, yes." 
"I don't remember a lot from around that time. Things
from right before, things from right after. And I
especially can't remember exactly what happened. Were
we in the loft? Or in the living room? Did I get
the gun? Or did I just wake up and she was gone? I
just can't remember. And now, I can't remember what
happened with the needles." 
"It's ok, Mulder," Skinner could see his friend growing
agitated. "You have to stay calm. You're sick, you're
tired, you're hurt. Let yourself heal. When you're
stronger, you can deal with all this." He reached out
and took Mulder's hand. "I'll help you if I can. And
if you'll let me." 
Mulder nodded, then changed the subject. "I want to
see Scully." 
"Mulder, the doctor says in a few days. Please be
patient." 
"Sir, after our little bonding events," Mulder smirked,
"I feel I should warn you, I am about to be a real pain
in the ass." He sat up. "I am going to see her, now.
And nothing short of tying me up and shooting me full
of drugs is going to stop me." 
Skinner's eyes locked with Mulder's and a long time
passed. Finally, Skinner sighed in defeat. "Let me
see if I can get a chair. Promise you won't get
up until I get back? Your feet and your ankle just
can't take it, Mulder." 
"I'll wait." 
Skinner slipped out into the hall and walked quickly
down to the equipment room. He grabbed the wheelchair
and pushed it back up the hall. He had already scoped
out where it was kept, because he knew it would come
down to this, Mulder's insistence on seeing Scully
the one constant in this world. He was actually
surprised Mulder hadn't pulled this sooner. 
He pushed the chair into the room, only to find
Mulder busily unhooking monitors and leads. 
"What are you doing?" he whispered fiercely. 
Mulder looked up, eyes wide with innocence. "What?" 
"Mulder, I should make you walk after all!" 
"And you were going to leave them on?" His hand
moved to the hated IV. 
Skinner just shook his head. "Leave the IV in
Mulder. No negotiation on that one. You pull
it and the Skinner express is history." 
Mulder looked up, gauging Skinner's seriousness,
then nodded in agreement. "Help me onboard?" 
"You are so lucky that I work out, Mulder,"
Skinner grunted as he lifted Mulder bodily and
positioned him in the chair. 
"Shit, Sir, I didn't mean you had to carry me,"
Mulder groused, embarrassed again. 
"No weight on the feet or the ankle, Mulder,
no weight. Got that? That means you stay in
the chair, understand?" 
"Geez, make him an AD and he thinks he runs
the world," Mulder muttered. 
Skinner snorted, then pushed Mulder out
the door, across the hall, and into Scully's
room. "You do realize, you've just made me
an accessory to escape, or transporting fugitives,
or, even worse, disobeying hospital directives." 
Skinner dismissed the agent sitting next
to Scully's bed. "Take a break, get a cup
of coffee. I'm gonna watch them both for a
while." 
Mulder chuckled, then grew quiet as Skinner
pushed him near Scully's bed. She was sleeping
and Mulder just sat, looking at her as if she
were the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.
Skinner positioned the Mulder up next to the
head of the bed, then stepped back, and retreated
to the door. 
As he watched, Scully's eyes fluttered open, and
then widened as she saw Mulder sitting next to
her bed. "Mulder! What are you doing here? How
did you get here?" 
"Shh, Scully, keep it down. Skinner is an expert
in covert operations." He waved his hand in the
direction of the door, and Scully smiled at Skinner. 
"Scully, you ok, really?" 
She pulled her attention back to Mulder. "Of course.
Just a few bumps and bruises. Hurts some, but not
too bad. Good meds." She indicated the IV in the hand
nearest to him. 
Mulder nodded, then tentatively reached for her hand.
As he gently cradled it in his own larger one, he asked,
"Is this ok? I don't want to hurt you." 
"Oh Mulder, you could never hurt me." She reached up
and pulled on him "Come here." 
He lowered the side rail, then leaned over and laid his
head on her shoulder. "But Scully, I did hurt you. I
let him hurt you. Oh Scully, I'm so sorry. . ." He
began to sob, and she soothed him quietly, rubbing his
back and stroking his hair. 
"It wasn't your fault, Mulder. Shit happens. You know
that. I know that. It just happens." 
Skinner listened, embarrassed to be eavesdropping, but
unwilling to leave them. He was fascinated at the
openness Mulder displayed with Scully. He was needy,
dependent, insecure, and willing to lay it all before
her, secure that she would make things right. And
she did. As he watched, Mulder calmed and lifted
his head. Skinner could see he was stronger, surer,
more in control. Scully was truly his touchstone. 
"Mulder, you saved me. You kept going when anyone
else would have given up. Skinner told me you carried
me 3 miles on a broken foot! It wasn't your fault,
Mulder." 
He looked deeply into her eyes, assessing the truth of
her words. Finally, he leaned in and brushed his lips
against hers, kissing her softly, tenderly. "I couldn't
leave you Scully. You are my life." 
He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her again.
His hand played with the hair around her face. "You
are my life, Scully," he said again. "I love you." 
End