"Death will be Our Darling", it's Afterward, and this
Introduction are Copyright, 1996, by Deborah Kay Goldstein

Comments, good and bad, welcomed. If you don't like something,
please tell me _why_. Flames ignored. Please send comments to
Debbie Goldstein at dkg@teleport.com

Rating: R for adult language and sketchy, but graphic,
descriptions of several serial killings. No sex.

Summary:  Mulder gets carjacked, and after recovering enough to
go back to temporary desk work doing profiles, finds out he's
better than ever--which has it's own problems--and that certain
people don't appreciate that. Future relationship in the making.
Lots of Mulderangst.

Spoilers:  One teeny-tiny "Talitha Cumi" and "Herrenvolk"
spoiler.

As for as The Gossamer Project classification scheme:  R-rated
Classification: T; A; R in the future. Key words: Mulderangst

Disclaimer:  The X-Files and Mulder, Scully, Margaret Scully,
Skinner, and the Lone Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen
Productions, Fox Broadcasting, and the actors themselves. No
copyright infringment intended. Georgetown University Medical
Center, the FBI, and the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia belong
to themselves, and any mistakes in procedures or architectural
layout are mine. Everything and everybody else belong to me.

Credits:  I'd like to thank my editor, Abbie, for all her hard
work, and especially for making me--and helping me where
necessary--fill in the missing scenes, and for making Margaret
Scully an integral part of this story.

Because of Abbie's wonderful habit of saving e-mail messages, I
can state that this story was started on May 15, 1996. When I
sent Abbie the first 23 pages to comment on, on May 18, I told
her it was "half-finished". Oh, well. The best I can say is that
the characters decided to do what _they_ wanted, not what I
wanted.

The title and quotes come from the folk song, The Bold Marauder,
that I originally heard performed live by Michael Longcor. It is
on his tape "Lovers, Heroes & Rogues", from Firebird Arts &
Music. You can reach them at Firebird Arts & Music, P.O. Box
30268, Portland, OR, USA, 97294-3268; PHONE: 1-800-752-0494 in
USA and possibly Canada, (503) 255-5751 elsewhere; FAX: (503)
255-5703; their URL is: http://www.usa.net/firebird and via E-
MAIL at: firebird@usa.net.

End of part 0 (Introduction); continued in part 01 (the
beginning)>>



Death Will be Our Darling
By Deborah Goldstein <dkg@teleport.com>



Georgetown University Medical Center
Critical Care Unit, bed 3
4:17 a.m., June 19

        It was the headache that finally woke him. He'd had
hangovers, fatigue and eyestrain headaches, the occasional sinus
headache, and way too many post-concussion headaches. Roll them
all together, add in that skull-splitter he'd had in Alaska after
almost dying from the blood-thickening alien virus, and you came
up with something that didn't hold a candle to this one. If he
could have figured out a way to cut off his head he'd do it--and
not care two hoots in a holler that he was committing suicide.
However, since the pain made it impossible to think of a method,
he did the only thing he could:  he groaned in agony.
        That was a mistake. The vibration of his own voice was
just that tiny bit too much. In mid-groan he fell back into
unconsciousness.


11:21 p.m., June 25

        Words that weren't in any language he understood provided
the rhythm to his life. There were male and female voices, but
they never seemed to hear him when he told them about the
headache. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer, and decided
that he'd scream loud enough to wake the dead, if that's what it
took to make them listen. ". . . hurts."

        <Dear God! I think he's actually making sense.> Margaret
Scully leaned forward and tenderly stroked the flaccid hand lying
on top of the bed covers. "Fox, it's Margaret Scully--Dana's
mother. You have to talk louder, dear; I can't quite understand
you." She held her breath for fear that she'd miss his next
attempt.
        ". . . hurts."
        He was talking. A real word, not gibberish. After three
days in a coma and another six days of agitated, incoherent
delirium, Fox was waking up, and Dana wasn't here. For just a
moment, Margaret berated herself for insisting that her daughter
go home and sleep in her own bed for one *entire* night. Then she
put that pang of guilt aside and said, "What hurts, Fox?"
        There was a long pause, long enough for her to press the
nurse's call button and then wonder if she hadn't imagined it
after all.
        ". . . head . . ."

        Mrs. Scully was a saint. She had to be--not only had she
stopped the pain, but she'd found a way to teach all those voices
to speak English. This one was saying something about "glad
you're back with us" and "get the doctor".
        When the voice had gone, he decided to simply enjoy the
emptiness left behind inside his head when the pain had stopped.
It was so quiet he could swear he could hear rosary beads
slipping between Mrs. Scully's fingers. They went beep . . . beep
. . . beep . . . beep . . . It was much too bright behind his
closed eyes, but that was still better than the excruciating
black he'd been not-seeing for however long it was.
        The entire right side of his head itched. He started to
reach up to scratch, and a flare of agony stopped him. That's
when he realized that his shoulder had moved, but not the elbow
or wrist. He had a broken arm, with a cast on it. Well, if the
right hand couldn't get there, maybe the left could. That hand
barely moved.
        Great.
        He hated it when they restrained him. That had happened a
couple of times before. Hospitals had such stupid rules about
removing restraints, too. Like you had to not scratch all the
itchy places where there were IVs, stitches, and tape, and not
move the oxygen tubing that was tickling your nose, and God
forbid if you even *touched* the Foley catheter tubing that
pulled unmercifully if you didn't turn over in slow motion to
make sure it wasn't hung up somewhere. _That_ was sure to get you
restrained for another twenty-four hours, as well as a lecture on
how much damage you could do to your bladder if you pulled the
catheter out.
        But if you asked, sometimes--
        He was asleep before he had the chance to try.


6:30 p.m., June 30

        "Yes, Mom . . . _Yes_, Mom . . . No, Mom . . . I love
you, too, Mom."
        Scully took the phone from his ear and hung it up. "What
did she say?"
        "Mostly unintelligible. I _think_ she understands." His
mother's recovery from her stroke last year had been remarkable,
but not nearly complete. He could remember all the trouble he'd
had trying to find a way for her to stay at home. It had taken a
dozen trips up there, each time to hire a new live-in companion,
before she agreed that she couldn't keep the house and needed to
move into an "assisted living" apartment. At least she had been
happy there the last time he went see her.
        Maybe he should write her a letter; she could understand
writing better than she understood speech. Maybe Scully or her
mom would do that for him. Maybe he'd actually remember something
about this conversation later. He realized he was beginning to
sound pretty bitter, even to himself, and told himself to cut it
out.
        At that point in his brooding Scully said, "I could write
her a letter if you want me to."
        He didn't reply because he was afraid he'd scream in
frustration instead. His right arm was in a cast and the brain
damage had almost completely paralyzed his left arm and leg--he
was nearly as helpless as a newborn baby. The only thing that
kept him from screaming was the fear that he'd trigger a headache
if he opened his mouth that wide and made that much noise.
        Scully must have learned how to read his mind because
this time she said, "Mulder, you know, if you weren't so weak
you'd be beseiged by every neurosurgeon, neurologist, memory
expert, and therapist on the East Coast."
        He blinked at her in surprise. "Huh?"
        She grinned at him. "Isabelle--that's Dr. Carrington,
your doctor, by the way--and your PT think your recovery is due
to your eidetic memory. Isabelle doesn't know how, of course, but
you're getting back the use of your left side at a rate that's
nearly unbelievable."
        He smiled at finally hearing some good news and turned
his attention to something equally important. "So what happened
to me, Scully? Nobody's told me anything." Moving very slowly to
minimize the headache and dizziness from the skull fractures,
Mulder shifted his head to center his uncovered left eye on her.
"If I haven't remembered it yet, can't we assume the retrograde
amnesia is permanent?"
        Scully shifted from standing with her weight on her right
foot to standing with her weight centered, and crossed her arms,
giving him one of her patented "Don't try my patience, Mulder"
looks. As much as he could see her in the dim light which was all
he could tolerate, she looked exhausted and out of sorts, but he
didn't care. Right now she was the most beautiful person he'd
ever seen. Not that Mrs. Scully wasn't good looking, but she
wasn't the right Scully.
        His Scully might have been at his bedside eighteen to
twenty hours a day for two full weeks, but he didn't remember
seeing her. He didn't remember seeing her mother either, except
for today before Scully came. Hell, he didn't remember much of
_anything_ from the last five days. As far as he could remember,
this was the first time he'd seen Scully since saying goodnight
on June 4th. At least that was better than it had been. When he
first woke up, according to the nurse, he couldn't remember
anything after Memorial Day. It was frustrating. It was more than
frustrating, it was driving him crazy.
        He knew the medical reason for the gaping hole in his
memory--retrograde and anterograde amnesia secondary to traumatic
brain injury. His chart would have TBI as his primary diagnosis,
and they would gauge his overall progress, to a certain extent,
on how quickly he regained his memories from before the accident,
and on how soon his memory since he woke up started being
continuous rather than spotty. But knowing the reason for the
amnesia didn't make it any easier to accept. And this was
*nothing* like the few hours he'd lost when he'd had his memory
tinkered with at Ellens Air Force Base. If he counted in the time
after whatever-it-was happened until his first clear memory, then
he was talking about more than *three*weeks* missing.
        How was he supposed to live with all that time missing?
How the hell was he supposed to live if his memory never got any
better than it was now? It wasn't like for other people. They
didn't have eidetic memories. They--
        Scully was answering him, and she'd be pissed if he
wasn't paying attention.
        "Mulder, I can't. You have to talk to the police first
and--" She stopped in mid-sentence with a look of horror on her
face.
        He pounced. "Too late, Scully. You can't take it back. If
I have to talk to the police, then get them in here *today*, and
then tell me what the hell happened to me! For that matter, why
the police? Why not you? Why not _Ski_--?"
        His entire head exploded into agony, so bad he could feel
himself teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. Scully must
have pushed the button on his IV pump that gave him an extra dose
of morphine, because after several minutes he could feel the pain
slowly back down toward its usual level. When he could open his
eye again and look at her, Scully was talking to a nurse he
hadn't heard come in. He caught the end of her explanation:  " .
. . tried to say too much at once. All that muscle movement--"
The nurse nodded and left.
        That was interesting. It made sense, too. They wouldn't
even let him try pureed foods instead of the Ensure he drank for
meals because that would be too much work. Chewing and talking
used a lot of the same facial muscles, so if simply mouthing
pureed "whatever" was working too hard, then saying more than a
couple of sentences at once was obviously working too long.
        Scully sighed and turned back to him. "Mulder, I'll talk
to Dr. Carrington, but don't be surprised if nothing happens. She
rarely lets the police talk to her patients until they're out of
the CCU."
        She shook her head then. "And no, I don't know when
you'll 'graduate'. I'm not a neurosurgeon, I don't specialize in
head injuries, and I will not risk losing my and my mother's
unlimited visiting privileges by pestering Dr. Carrington."
        He knew better than to try nodding. He started to point
to the IV pump, indicating he wanted more morphine, but he
couldn't lift his left arm or hand enough to point. Scully
interpreted his aborted movement correctly anyway. In another few
minutes the pain receded still more, enough to let him fall
asleep.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Step-down Unit, room 712
9:45 a.m., July 7

        Scully was sitting next to her mother. Assistant Director
Skinner was at the window, half-perched on the sill, because
there wasn't space for four chairs in this room. Mulder let Dr.
Carrington raise the head of the bed two-thirds of the way up--
the maximum he could tolerate. If he did it for himself, he got
dizzy at about half way up because he had to watch for the "stop
here" mark taped to the bed rail rather than stare straight
ahead. When the bed had stopped moving, he carefully turned his
head a bit to the left, so he was looking more-or-less at all
four of them, but _not_ at the window.
        He knew that with the window blinds drawn, the door
closed, and all the lights off, there was enough light for them,
but just that small amount from around the edges of the blinds
was more than he'd be able to tolerate, even with sunglasses on,
if this conference lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes. It
was a toss-up which was worse, the constant headache and double
vision, or the unbelievable sensitivity to light and glare. The
first could be handled with Demerol instead of morphine now, the
second by closing one eye, but the only thing he could do for the
last was keep his eyes closed _and_ covered, or have the door
shut, the lights out, and the window completely opaqued, with
only the "night light" illuminating his room. That, of course,
wasn't an option when the staff had to do something, so he spent
the greater portion of his waking hours with his eyes covered. At
least his left arm was back to normal. He'd know about the leg
when he tried walking.
        "Patient Care Conference". God, he hated that term. A
bunch of medical people got together and decided what they were
going to do to you. If you were conscious and awake when they
were done deciding, you got asked what you thought about the
plans, and if you had any objections. Then they went ahead with
their plans anyway. Maybe this time, however, with three
"civilians"--he decided to count Scully on his side--and just the
doctor, he'd actually have some say in what was decided.
        Skinner went first. He was finally going to hear what had
happened to him on June 16th.
        "You got carjacked, Agent Mulder. In Georgetown. In the
middle of a case. The best the police can determine from where
you were lying in the parking lot, the perpetrator surprised you
while you were unlocking the car. Given that it was night, and
with the power outage and how hard it was raining--and knowing
just how narrowly you focus during a case--that makes a certain
amount of sense. It does *not* excuse your carelessness, however.
You must have gotten your right arm part-way up, but he swung the
baseball bat hard enough to break your arm and fracture your
skull. Then he took another swing for good measure."
        Scully took over at that point. "You're lucky you didn't
die right then and there, Mulder. Be thankful the only major
problems remaining are a fractured radius and a good portion of
the right side of your skull fractured. You could have had--
should have had--severe permanent brain damage."
        Mulder tried to find some memory--any memory--that fit
with that explanation. It was useless. In the week since he'd
asked Scully what had happened, his memory had become continuous
and eidetic again, and he had also remembered everything from
June 4th through mid-morning of the 16th itself. The last thing
he remembered was the office phone ringing and himself reaching
out to pick it up. Then his memory simply stopped. He didn't even
know what case they'd been working on, and Scully had
consistently refused to tell him, saying it was solved, closed,
over--and had _not_ been an X-File.
        He wasn't satisfied with not knowing, so he said to his
boss, "Sir, will you tell me about the case? Scully says it
doesn't matter."
        The look Skinner shot Scully spoke volumes. His words
backed up that look. "I assume you're paraphrasing Agent Scully.
The case matters a great deal to the Bureau, but it's closed. It
was a raid gone bad, with four of our agents and six D.C. police
officers killed. Every available agent and police officer was
called in. You and Agent Scully were sent home because you
weren't needed any longer. Agent Scully's report says you
volunteered to get the car because of the rain. You know the
rest."
        Even that extra information didn't help him remember. He
mentally shrugged off the frustration he felt at *not* being able
to remember, and turned carefully to look at his doctor. "Now
what? When can I get out of here and go back to work?" The
question was only partly facetious.
        Isabelle Carrington shook her head, sending her bead-
tipped braids swinging gently. "Agent Mulder, this is only your
third day out of the CCU. Don't you *ever* relax?" She smiled and
glanced at Scully and her mother and Skinner, including them in
her explanation.
        "I won't discharge you till the pain can be managed by
oral painkillers. You're doing well, even after we switched you
to IV Demerol, but you're still on strict bed rest. For that
matter, you're not yet sitting straight up in bed. When you begin
standing, things will definitely get worse before they get
better, so don't get discouraged.
        "We'll also continue monitoring you very closely for
seizures. They're common after head injuries, so you won't be
allowed to get out of bed or walk unless someone is with you
every step of the way for at least the first couple of weeks. If
you were to fall, you could kill yourself by hitting your head
against something.
        "You can assume the skull fractures will be healed in
another three weeks. Your fractured radius might take a week or
two more--a total of seven or eight weeks. Light sensitivity as
extreme as yours after a head injury is almost unheard of, but it
*will* get better. The double vision--" She shrugged. "The
Optometrist with our Head Injury Program will come see you when
you're a bit stronger; he can tell you more. The headaches will
gradually diminish in intensity and frequency, and should be gone
in six months."
        "Six months! You're telling me I have to live with these
. . . these . . ." he couldn't find the words to convey the
intensity of pain, ". . . for up to another six_mo--" He had to
stop in mid-word, because if he didn't he was sure he'd pass out.
        Dr. Carrington was polite enough to wait till the extra
Demerol had taken effect and he could pay attention again. Her
list of cans and can'ts--and there were easily ten times as many
can'ts--went on for entirely too long. Her Jamaican accent was
very soothing and he found himself with his eyes closed,
listening to the sound of her words, not their content. Then the
simultaneous change in her voice and the sound of her shifting
position snapped his attention back to her.
        She had turned directly to his boss. "If you can
accommodate those restrictions, Assistant Director Skinner, Agent
Mulder can return to desk work any time he feels ready after his
first week out of the hospital. Just don't expect him to be able
to work anywhere near a full day for quite a while."
        Then she spoke to all of them again. "I'll leave you four
to discuss things. I know it sounds overwhelming, so I want you
to write down any questions or concerns you have, any at all.
I'll come back this afternoon--say, 4:30?--to answer those
questions. I'll put my answers in writing." She paused and pulled
several sheets of paper out of her jacket pocket. "These
reiterate what I told you, and further explain some of the
restrictions. Dr. Scully can probably answer most of your 'why'
questions." She put the papers on his over-bed table, nodded to
each of them, and left.
        She left behind stunned silence. Mrs. Scully and Skinner
were obviously trying to comprehend everything she'd said--and
he'd missed 95% of it. He reached out with his left hand for the
papers, intending to quickly read through them so the others
wouldn't know he had no idea what had been said.
        Scully got there ahead of him. "Mulder! Stop that! You
know you'll be seeing double if you try to read more than a line
or two. Let me go over this with Mom and Mr. Skinner, while you
rest. I'll come back in an hour--I *promise*--and then I'll
answer your questions." The look she gave him said she knew he'd
zoned out and she was sparing him the embarrassment of the others
finding out.
        She herded them out of the room, shutting the door
quietly but firmly. So he did the only reasonable thing:  he put
the bed back down and took a nap.


Dr. Isabelle Carrington's office
11:29 a.m.

        Scully couldn't believe she'd missed the implications of
the Dilantin until she'd read through those papers with her mom
and Mr. Skinner. Or was it that she wouldn't let herself see
them? She just hoped Mulder was still sleeping, and that he
wouldn't realize she hadn't come back in the promised hour. But
she couldn't tell him this, and what it meant. She had decided to
try to get Dr. Carrington to see her side--Mulder's side--of the
situation, which was why she was now sitting here in the doctor's
office.
        "Isabelle, you've got to understand. Mulder is not your
typical head injury patient--"
        "No, Dana, _you've_ got to understand. This isn't your
specialty; grant that I know my business. Seizures are
practically a given. He hasn't had any yet, that's true, but that
might very well be because he's already on the Dilantin. And
he'll stay on it, for the full three years that's recommended."
        Isabelle sat back, behind her desk, and looked at her as
if she was being childishly resistant to something she knew she
had to do. Scully shook off the feeling and replied, "I do
understand. I know the medical reasoning. But I also know Mulder.
I can tell you for a fact that he'll be dead inside a month if
you tell him he's on an anticonvulsant for three years. What you
have to understand is that Mulder is a Field Agent, and there's
no way the FBI will allow him in the field on an anticonvulsant.
You're sentencing him to three years of desk work with no
possibility of parole. Mulder won't want to live like that. He'll
give up without even trying."
        The neurosurgeon came around to the front of the desk,
taking the chair next to the one she was in. "How can you be so
sure? How do you know that he won't understand and accept it, as
he's accepted the other problems--the double vision, the dizzy
spells, the headaches, to name just three? They come with the
territory. If he can accept those, why can't he accept the need
to take precautions and try to prevent seizures? One seizure,
Dana, that's all it takes. Then he _will_ be on medicine for the
rest of his life."
        "One seizure *maybe* versus Dilantin for three years *for
sure*. The X-Files for an unknown length of time versus desk work
for three years. There's no comparison as far as Mulder's
concerned. He won't say a word to you, he'll take the medicine--
how can he not? He can't even open his eyes when the nurse hands
him the various liquids, so how could he know the Dilantin from
any of his other medicine except maybe by taste? And with the
headaches still so overwhelming, I doubt that he cares about any
medicine except the Demerol.
        "Isabelle, he'll stop fighting. His Demerol usage will
skyrocket, he'll quit working on sitting up straighter in bed,
he'll . . . I don't know what else, and I know he won't actively
try to kill himself, but he'll just quit. One night the nurse
will come in to check on him and he'll just be dying. And I
categorically refuse to give you permission to put him back on
life support. When he first came in, yes, obviously he needed it.
There was no way he could have survived if he hadn't been on life
support till his breathing stabilized. But if he decides he
doesn't want to live, I'm not going to force him."
        Isabelle looked at her with an expression she couldn't
decipher, and stood up to walk across her office. She paused in
front of a framed photograph of a ramshackle hut with a man, a
pregnant woman, three very young naked boys, a goat, and a half-
starved dog in front of it. She put up a hand and gently caressed
the faces. When she spoke, she was speaking to the picture. Her
voice was very gentle and very sad. "You shouldn't have said
that, Dana. You couldn't possibly know what memories you would
bring up."
        She took the picture down, brought it back and handed it
to her. "This was my family. It's the only picture that was ever
taken. I'm the not-yet-born one. This was in 1930, in Jamaica,
and my parents were very, very poor. They did what they had to,
to put food on the table for themselves and my brothers. They
even demanded payment for posing for that picture. Obviously they
had no money for school if they didn't even have money for
clothes for my brothers.
        "When I was twelve, an epidemic went through the region.
Probably dysentery or cholera, but we'll never know. My entire
family died, as well as most of the people in the village. I
didn't die because I was working for a rich man in a nearby town.
I wanted an education so badly, Dana, that I just about sold
myself into slavery to get the chance to work in a house that had
books, and where the owner wouldn't beat me if I asked to read
them. I lived in his house and ate the leftover food prepared for
him and drank the water that came from his faucets. Not like my
family, who drank untreated water from the village's community
well and barely warmed their food because they couldn't afford
enough fuel to cook with.
        "When I found out that the rest of my family was dead, I
wanted to die. In a week I was on my deathbed. Literally. Then
one day the man for whom I worked came to show me the books that
had arrived. He'd ordered them just for me, because I cared about
books as passionately as he did."
        She took the picture back and held it for a minute before
going to hang it up again. "So I know what you mean by willing
yourself to die. I thought I had nothing left to live for, yet I
willed myself to live because I was reminded that there was
something I cared for more than I cared whether I lived or died.
        "If Fox Mulder cares that much about the 'X-Files',
whatever they are, then I won't take them away from him."
        Back at her desk now, Isabelle was once again the
efficient neurosurgeon. "I can't just stop the anticonvulsant,
you know. It's part of the hospital's protocol for head injuries.
Mulder has to start paying attention to his meds, _all_ of them,
so he'll know which is the Dilantin and can refuse it. You're not
likely to be happy with what happens then, and I guarantee you he
won't like it. I'll have to switch him to an IV anticonvulsant
temporarily, whether he likes the idea or not. He's going to have
to sit through--" She suddenly cracked a smile. "Well, 'lie
through' is more accurate, in both senses of the word--lie
through mandatory patient education sessions about the
possibility of seizures and what damage they can do, and what the
drugs do, and prove that he understands all that, and then still
refuse. He'll also have to talk to a psychiatrist to prove he's
competent to make the decision to refuse to take an
anticonvulsant. Given how overwhelming the headaches are and how
often he simply drifts off--I _did_ notice that during the Care
Conference, Dana--that's not going to be easy. John Kennedy is
normally my first choice if I have to refer someone to a
psychiatrist, but Mulder wouldn't stand a chance of convincing
him."
        Dr. Carrington fell silent, forehead puckering as she
mentally scanned their options. "It'll have to be Lamont. Yes,
I'll make sure it's Lamont that Mulder talks to. He's
semi-retired, and with good reason:  he's a good man, but he's
more worried about his terminally ill wife than anything else
these days." She was quiet for a moment, then brightened,
apparently enjoying the conspiracy. "All right, then, I'll call
Lamont. 
        "Once Mulder gets through those hurdles, he'll have to
sign a release saying he knows what could happen to him, and he's
willing to take that responsibility AND that he gives up the
right to sue his doctors and the hospital and any of its
employees if he should have a seizure at any time. If he's not
able to do all that, or if you or he aren't willing to accept
that responsibility, Dana, then you're stuck. You've got his
Medical Power of Attorney, and because you're a physician, the
hospital won't let you stop the Dilantin now, when you didn't
object to it initially. So don't even discuss this with him, if
you think or know he can't handle it. Remember, we're going to
have to be on the side of reason on this. Mulder's going to have
be stubborn and stick to his position, no matter how outrageous
it seems."
        Dana cracked up; she couldn't help it, no matter how
serious the doctor was being. When her whoops of laughter had
calmed down to intermittent giggles, she was finally able to
explain. "Oh, God, Isabelle, you've just described the Mulder I
work with every day. He comes up with these totally unscientific,
absolutely *impossible* theories, and it's my job to refute them,
to prove there's a reasonable, logical, scientifically-based
solution to the problem. Usually we come to a compromise.
Sometimes--not often, but sometimes--he comes all the way around
to my way of seeing things. I guess this time he won't, will he?"
        Isabelle smiled at that, then turned serious yet again.
"Dana, even if Mulder remains totally seizure-free, it'll still
be at least six months before I'll give him a medical release for
full duty. It could be a lot longer:  I want to see three months
with _no_ residual physical problems."
        Scully nodded slowly, thinking that over. "What about
driving? Will that same three months apply? He's going to get
very . . ." she wasn't sure how to put it politely, "antsy . . .
if I have to drive him everywhere when nothing's wrong any
longer."
        This time Isabelle was the one to laugh. "Oh, so he's one
of *those* men, is he? Don't worry. As soon as he's able, I'll
schedule him for a driving evaluation. The DMV's 'six months
seizure-free' rule is only for someone who's had a seizure.
Mulder hasn't had any so that doesn't apply."
        So things weren't nearly as bad as she'd imagined they
would be before this talk. And she hadn't hurt the tentative
friendship she'd established with this woman who had overcome
more, and higher, obstacles in her lifetime than any Dana could
imagine would face her and Mulder.
        All she had to do now was try to explain to Mulder his
part in this "conspiracy."
        And survive the next six months.


Margaret Scully's house
10:07 p.m., July 27

        The full-throated scream, cut off before it really
started, brought Margaret Scully out of her chair and half way up
the stairs before she realized what she was doing. Then she moved
even faster, snapping on the hall light at the top of the stairs
and running the few feet to Fox's bedroom. She caught herself
before she turned on the overhead light--he still couldn't
tolerate glare, and wore sunglasses even indoors on these bright
sunny days--and waited the minute till her eyes had dark-adapted
a bit before stepping into the room to check on him.
        There was enough light coming in from the hall to see
him. His face was sweat-covered and probably pale, though it was
too dark to be sure about that, and from the way he was sprawled
in the bed, she thought he might have been sitting when this
happened. His breathing was irregular and shallow, the way it was
during his worst headaches.
        She put a hand on his left arm and shook it gently.
"Fox." No answer. She repeated it louder. "FOX." At that point,
she took his wrist and counted his pulse. 120. Much too fast;
time to call for help.

        The conversation with 911 had been enough to make her
want to scream. She hadn't been able to make the dispatcher
understand that she wasn't supposed to shake him vigorously to
try to wake him up; with his recent head injury, any unexpected
jostling could be dangerous. Still, the ambulance was on the way.
She hit the first speed-dial button, then waited for Dana to pick
up the phone.
        "Hello?" Dana sounded like she'd been asleep. Just like
Fox. She was still recovering from the exhaustion that had
prevented *her* from taking Fox home when he was discharged on
the 25th, and he simply didn't have any stamina at all. They both
took naps and still went to bed right after dinner.
        "Dana, honey--"
        "Mom! What's wrong? Is it Mulder? Is he--"
        Dana had interrupted her; now she interrupted her
daughter. "Yes, it's Fox. He screamed and passed out. I've called
the ambulance already. Can you meet us at the hospital?" She
could see Dana in her mind's eye:  she had the cordless phone and
she was already juggling it and pieces of clothing, trying to be
ready to go literally as soon as she hung up.
        "Of course, Mom. Don't let them take him to the nearest
hospital; make sure he goes back to GUMC. Be sure to tell the
EMT's to call in his doctor's name. Isabelle might just still be
there."
        "Dana, don't be silly. Look at the clock--it's 10:13 on a
*Sunday*. She'll have gone home hours ago, if she came in at all.
Now, you just get there safely, you understand? I don't want to
hear you've been in an accident trying to get there at the same
time we do. You know your place is farther away than we are."
Dana gave one of those "yes, mother" sighs that all children are
so good at, then said goodbye.

        She showed the EMTs up to Fox's bedroom, hoping, but not
expecting, that he'd be awake by now. It was barely five minutes
when the two EMTs, and the two firemen who'd also come, carefully
picked Fox up and moved him over to the gurney. These men, at
least, listened to her--they didn't put the rigid collar on like
they would do for someone with a suspected neck injury, but one
of them actually crawled onto the bed to be able to keep Fox's
head as still as possible while they moved him. They didn't strap
his head down either; they asked whether all the fractures were
healed, which they were--barely--so they borrowed two of her
feather pillows and taped those down to the gurney, gently
immobilizing his head between them.
        They were strapping his legs when she heard his first
querulous, "What?"
        The EMT at his head immediately stopped whatever it was
he'd been doing with the IV, turning to Fox and trying to shine
that bright light into his eyes. Fox screwed his eyes shut,
flinched and tried to turn his head aside, tried to get his left
hand up--he couldn't; his arms were already strapped down--and
said, "No! No lights. It hurts."
        "Mr. Mulder, please, I have to--" The EMT was trying to
be polite.
        Eyes still tightly shut against the glare of the room
lights, Fox started struggling against the straps, trying to free
his arms. "NO! There's nothing wrong. Just leave me alone. I
fainted; I'll be all right."
        She stepped forward, putting a hand on EMT's shoulder.
"Wait. Let me try." She then put her hand on Fox's shoulder.
"Fox. Calm down. Listen to me. You screamed. You didn't faint;
you passed out from the pain. You *have* to go to the hospital.
We have to know what happened."
        He wasn't listening; that was obvious. He was still
trying to get loose, and his breathing was rapidly turning into
those peculiar, high-pitched grunts he made when the headaches
were really bad. In between the grunts he was still trying to say
he was fine, he didn't need to go back to the hospital.
        Finally, she pulled rank. In her best "I'm your mother,
and what I say, goes" tone of voice, she said, "Fox! Stop that
immediately. The subject is closed. You're going."
        He stopped struggling; a faint smile touched his lips,
then he said, "Yes, Mom," and passed out again. The affection in
his voice was there for all of them to hear.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Emergency Room
10:30 p.m.

        She'd never entered an Emergency Room from the ambulance
entrance before. That didn't seem to make a difference; they
still wanted her to go to the registration desk. She refused
flatly, saying, "Fox Mulder. M-U-L-D-E-R. He was just discharged
on the 25th. Workers' Comp. is paying for this, and I'm staying
with him." One of those statements must have been the magic one;
she suspected that it was the "Workers' Comp." one.
        He was still unconscious when she made her way back to
his cubicle, with a doctor and two nurses practically swarming
over him as they hooked him up to what looked like half the
machinery he'd been attached to in the Critical Care Unit. They
ignored her polite attempts to interrupt their work, moving
around her as if she were an immovable piece of equipment.
        Finally, she couldn't take it any longer. They had no
idea what they were dealing with, and she did. "If you people
will just STOP for a minute, I can tell you how to wake him up."
        That did it. All six eyes turned to stare at her. "His
skull fractures are barely healed. He still gets the headaches,
although he hasn't passed out in nearly two weeks. They gave him
IV Demerol--I don't know the dose, but he was discharged on the
25th. He was in room 603, and I'm pretty sure one of the nurses
there will remember how much they were giving him."
        The doctor, who looked all of nineteen but had to be
older than that to have his M.D., nodded, and one of the nurses
left the cubicle to make the call.
        She sat, holding her feather pillows, waiting for the
Demerol to take effect and for Dana to arrive, remembering that
last time he had passed out from the pain.

        It had been a bad day. Heck, it had been a bad week. Dr.
Carrington had been completely accurate when she'd said things
would get worse before they got better when he started being up
on his feet and then walking. She stood at the nurses' station,
thinking that Fox looked like nothing more than a cranky six-
year-old who knew exactly what he had to do, and didn't want to
do it. He had bare feet because he swore that his balance, which
was nowhere near what anyone could consider good, was better that
way. He wore hospital pajama bottoms--too short, of course--and a
hospital gown, and he pushed an IV stand with his casted right
arm while pushing the special one-handed walker with the left.
The shaved swath on the right side of his head was still growing
in, giving him a very off-center reverse Mohawk hairdo. Add in
the beard, which he'd decided to keep even though he could
tolerate the pressure of a razor now, and the almost opaque wrap-
around sunglasses, and he looked like that cranky six-year-old
pretending he was a punk rocker. All he needed was the ear ring--
or the nose ring. There were two Physical Therapy Assistants with
him, one on each side, holding on with both hands to the handles
on the wide belt around his waist as he walked very slowly down
the hallway. He obviously didn't like having them there, and just
as obviously he knew that he needed their help.
        Two days prior, he'd taken his first steps with a
Physical Therapist and a PTA, and they all immediately realized
that normal walking was impossible. The PT had taught him to
slide his feet forward, barely lifting them from the floor, thus
minimizing the jarring of his head. But he had trouble with his
balance anyway, and the hallway was much brighter than his room,
which bothered his eyes a great deal even with the sunglasses,
and, all in all, that first trip had lasted barely ten feet
before he had to quit.
        This afternoon he was trying to stop at twenty feet, ten
feet less than he'd gone in the morning, and the PTAs were
encouraging him to keep walking. He was supposed to walk all the
way to her, where she had his wheelchair waiting for the trip
back to his room. She smiled at him, hoping to make him want to
go the full thirty feet.
        His head, which had been pointing straight ahead in order
to minimize his dizziness, suddenly jerked slightly to his right.
His whole body changed, lightened somehow, then he smiled one of
those wonderful smiles he so rarely used. Dana had just stepped
off the elevator; she knew it without even turning around. She
watched as he straightened and slid the walker ahead again. He
would certainly make these last ten feet, and more besides, if
the PTAs would let him. He would try to walk all the way to where
Dana was standing.
        Suddenly, she started forward, saying, "Fox--don't!"
        It was too late. She saw him start to concentrate, start
to clench his jaw in determination, but before she could finish
her warning, he gritted his teeth, went dead white, and without
even a whimper he was a limp body, held up only by the two
suddenly struggling PTAs. They obviously were not prepared for
him to faint, and they were awkward as they let him slide gently
down to the carpeted floor.
        Dana was at her side then, watching as the staff
converged to pick Fox up and get him back to bed. As the nurse
prepared the Demerol and slowly injected it into his IV line, she
heard Dana mutter, "Mulder, you fool. You consummate fool. You
know better. I would have come to you; you didn't need to try to
come to me."
        She didn't so much as blink. Dana would be mortally
embarrassed if she knew her mother had overheard her. But she
smiled to herself, hearing the affection and, yes, love, in
Dana's voice. Whether that love would ever come to fruition was
something she didn't worry about. It was enough to know that,
although Fox and Dana might seem more and more at odds as his
hospital stay lengthened, they still cared more for each other
than for themselves.

        "Mom? How is he?"
        Dana's voice from behind her brought her back to the
present. "Dana. You're asking *me*? Didn't you check with the
doctor?" She smiled to herself and patted the chair next to hers.
        "He's busy with another patient." Dana sat down, then in
an deliberate dropping of her usual public persona, toed off her
shoes and crossed her legs under her, wiggling slightly till
she'd found a comfortable position on the molded plastic chair.
        Margaret blinked in surprise. Dana had never put on her
public persona. Considering how messy her hair was, she must have
fallen asleep after dinner still dressed in cut-off jeans and a
faded t-shirt, and not even looked in the mirror before coming
here.
        Dana reached out and took her hand. "Are *you* all
right?"
        "Yes, I'm fine. They gave him the Demerol already. I
don't know how much. He should be waking up soon."
        "Is Isabelle coming?"
        She shook her head. "No, I was right. She hasn't been in
at all today. The doctor wants to admit Fox. He says fainting
once--maybe. Fainting twice in less than ten minutes--no way is
he going to let Fox walk out of here."
        "Mom! He didn't say that!" Dana was teasing her; they
both knew how much she loved to take formal pronouncements and
turn them into "real people" talk. Then she stiffened in shock.
"*Twice*? In ten minutes? Mom, what happened?"
        "Fox didn't want to come. He was mostly strapped into the
gurney when he started to wake up, and then he didn't want the
EMT to shine that bright light in his eyes, and he didn't want to
come. I think the only reason he woke up at all is that he felt
the straps being tightened. He wouldn't calm down, so I pulled my
'I'm your mother' act, telling him he had to come. He just . . .
let go then, let me take the responsibility.
        "I'm not worried about the second time, Dana. It's the
first one. I've been thinking, and his scream--it wasn't pain;
I'm sure of that. It was . . . terror, maybe?" She turned
sideways, so she could look directly at her daughter. "Does Fox
have nightmares?"
        Dana glanced at Fox, almost as if she were apologizing,
before she answered. "Yes. Horrible ones, from when his sister,
Samantha, was abducted. She was eight, he was twelve, and he
couldn't stop it. Sometimes he goes weeks without one, sometimes
he has them almost every night. I used to think they were stress
related, then I realized that there was no pattern that I would
ever be able to figure out. So now I just take them as they come.
He calls me, we talk a while, then he goes back to sleep."
        Margaret was silent for a minute, trying to decide
whether she'd actually heard what she thought she'd heard. "'He'
goes back to sleep? What about you?"
        Dana wouldn't meet her eyes. "Of course I do, Mom."
Silence. "Usually."

        Fox had explained to them what happened and was ready to
leave by the time the doctor came back. Dr. Epstein was insecure,
obviously feeling overwhelmed by the complexity of Fox's case. He
antagonized Fox immediately by his attitude, then made things
worse by saying, "You can always leave AMA, but if you do that,
your insurance won't pay. For the ambulance, the ER charges, and
any follow-up charges if things go wrong once you leave. Think
about *that* before you leave against medical advice." He then
turned around and walked out of the cubicle.
        Fox lay back down, defeated, but Dana was chuckling.
Chuckling!
        Then she said, "Don't worry, Mulder. I'll go soothe his
feathers. He's just a brand new Resident. The year starts in
July, you know. Besides, it's not true, what he said about the
insurance."
        When Dana came back, the doctor was following her. His
voice was stiff with suppressed anger, but he said the words they
all wanted to hear:  "Mr. Mulder, you're free to go. Dr. Scully
has explained what happened. You need to check with your regular
doctor tomorrow, to see what she has to say." He nodded once and
left again.
        Margaret drove them home in Dana's car. Then she put to
bed both her exhausted children--she certainly thought of Fox as
one of her brood--and went to bed herself.


Margaret Scully's house
2:30 p.m., August 1

        Walter Skinner parked the bureau car in front of the
house, not wanting to block the driveway where Mrs. Scully's car
was parked. Shamelessly he put the "FBI" placard in the
windshield. This was the wrong day of the week for parking on
this side of the street, but this was official business, after
all. He had to know when Mulder would be returning to work,
didn't he? That was why he had gone uncharacteristically out of
his way to make a 'house call' like this in the first place. He
wouldn't stand by to see Mulder written off like a bad debt.
        He took a moment to wonder what Mrs. Scully's neighbors
would say, then dismissed the thought. Surely by now they knew
that Mulder worked for the FBI and that he was here recuperating
from his most recent hospital stay. So there should be no reason
to be gossiping about the FBI coming to "question" her.
        He knocked on the door and Mulder opened it, using his
left hand to shield his eyes in addition to the sunglasses. "Sir-
- What are you . . . Come in." Mulder stepped back, then shut the
door as soon as he was inside. Mulder's sigh of relief was equal
to Skinner's own surprised intake of breath.
        All the lights were off, and all the blinds drawn,
leaving the house in what seemed to be twilight until his eyes
began to adapt from the bright sunlight outside. But Mulder
didn't take off his sunglasses. He had thought the light
sensitivity was getting better. Then Mulder came around him,
preceding him into the living room, and he could see that the
sunglasses were nowhere near as dark as the ones he had worn in
the hospital.
        "Have a seat, sir. Can I get you something to drink?"
        Mulder was being the gracious host. It was unnerving, but
then they weren't on adversarial terms today.
        "Thank you, no. I just stopped by to see how you're
doing. Have you any idea how much--" He caught sight of the
suitcase, and the phone book opened to taxicabs. He spun back
around. "Agent Mulder, you're not thinking of _going_home_, are
you?"
        Mulder's entire posture changed, becoming the familiar
mulish one he recognized from countless encounters in his office.
"Yes, sir. I *am* going home."
        "And you haven't told Mrs. Scully. Otherwise she'd be
driving you. Damn it, Mulder, you're not able to go home alone!
You've still got the cast on; how do you expect to take care of
yourself?"
        Mulder shook his head, then froze, an expression of pain
on his face. He groped blindly towards the chair on his left, and
Skinner sprang forward to guide him to that chair, and ease him
down into it. Mulder put his head against the high back of the
chair, panting in obvious pain. After several minutes during
which Skinner hovered, unsure what to do and unwilling to say or
do anything that might make things worse, Mulder's breathing
slowed down, and he said, "I'm OK." After another minute he
added, "It's going away. Whaddu know--the headaches actually are
getting better." The smile that crossed his face was not his
usual self-depreciating one. It was real pleasure.
        Finally Mulder straightened up and looked at him.
"Please, sir, you can sit down. Really. I'm OK now."
        He didn't, staying right where he was. "Where's Mrs.
Scully?"
        Mulder didn't pretend to misunderstand his intentions.
"In the back yard, working on her garden."
        He nodded, then looked for the way through the house.
        Mulder pointed with his casted right arm. "Through the
dining room, the kitchen, and into the breakfast room. There's a
couple of steps down, then the door is on the right."
        He nodded and turned away.

        Mrs. Scully was in the process of transplanting some kind
of bush and didn't look up at the sound of the door opening. She
said, "Fox, I'll be in in a few minutes. Or is it a phone call?"
She finished tamping the soil down with the trowel, then leaned
back onto her heels and wiped her forehead with the back of her
wrist.
        She reminded him so much of his own wife working in her
garden that he simply stood and watched her.
        The silence must have finally penetrated, because she was
suddenly in motion, dropping the trowel, starting to get to her
feet, looking his way, and calling anxiously, "Fox?!" Then she
relaxed and smiled a hello at him. "Mr. Skinner. It's good to see
you again.
        "Fox is all right, isn't he? He doesn't normally even
come into the kitchen; it's too bright, even with his darker
sunglasses. That's why I was worried when I didn't hear
anything."
        He held the door for her. "He had one of his headaches."
At the look of alarm that crossed her face, he quickly added,
"Not too bad apparently. He said it was gone by the time I came
for you."
        She nodded. "He probably shook his head or bent over too
quickly or something like that. Those headaches are getting much
better. But the big ones . . ." She shook her head and didn't say
anything more.
        Skinner nodded to himself. Mulder was being as stubborn
as usual. He had something he was planning to do, and no one was
going to stop him from doing it.
        There was a tiny half-bath next to the back door. Mrs.
Scully stopped in there to wash her hands. Over the water, she
asked, "Was there a particular reason you stopped by today?"
        "I came to see how Mulder was doing; to find out when he
thought he might come back to work." As she was drying her hands,
he added, "He's planning on going home today."
        The towel dropped unnoticed to the floor. She didn't
breathe for the longest time, then she closed her eyes as total
resignation swept over her. After another minute, she looked at
him. "I suppose I should have known. He's so stubborn. He must be
worried that I'm not getting enough sleep, taking care of him
after the nightmares."
        Now he was worried. "What nightmares? What are you
talking about?"
        She said, "I think that's Fox's choice to tell you," and
led the way back into the kitchen. She stopped to pour herself a
glass of iced tea. When she looked at him, he nodded. Then she
poured a third one, from a separate pitcher, which she also
handed to him, saying, "Fox's is decaffeinated." They went into
the dining room, where she carefully closed the kitchen door
behind her, blocking the bright sunlight from streaming in.
        Mulder looked their way, then came over to join them.
Skinner could hardly believe how steady he was on his feet. The
last time he'd gone to the hospital, Mulder was still walking
with a staff member holding onto the special belt around his
waist. He no longer had the IV or the walker, but it was still
obvious that neither he himself, nor the staff, trusted him to
walk independently. Yet now he looked as confident as he normally
did. If it weren't for the still-growing out hair, the fresh
scar, and his sunglasses--and how much weight he'd lost, having
been on a liquid diet for so long--you could think he was the
same Mulder as before the accident.

        Skinner leaned back in frustration. Mulder had been using
phrases and single words for the last ten minutes, but that
didn't seem to have slowed his arguments down. The man was too
stubborn for his own good. If Agent Scully were here she could
talk sense into him, but she had gone back to work on Tuesday,
after recovering from exhaustion. With her temporary assignment,
teaching and doing autopsies down at Quantico, she was too far
away to be called for this conference. So he tried again.
        "Agent Mulder, you can't cook, you can't do dishes or
laundry, and you've already admitted you need Mrs. Scully's help
to bathe. You can barely get dressed by yourself. You're still
taking naps at least twice a day. You _can't_ go home alone."
        Mulder shoved his chair back and stalked out of the room.
        He looked at Mrs. Scully. What had he said this time,
that both of them hadn't said already, several times? She smiled
and shook her head, but didn't say anything.
        They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, waiting for
Mulder to return. When he didn't, Skinner started to get up, to
go see if something was wrong.
        Mrs. Scully put a hand on his arm and shook her head.
"Don't. He doesn't like being hovered over."
        "But . . . the headaches--what if he . . .?"
        She smiled, a gentle, sad smile. "It doesn't matter. He
won't let me be that close. He won't hurt himself. As I said
earlier, the small headaches aren't really that bad now. If he
can't get somewhere to sit down, he rides them out where he is.
As for the big headaches--well, he just curls up where he's
standing, arms over his head, and sinks to the floor. I've found
him that way several times, grunting in agony. Even in the
bathroom he somehow protects his head when he goes down. Of
course he takes the codeine when I offer it, but apparently he
_can_ cope without it. I went shopping one day and got trapped
behind a major traffic accident on my way back. I was at least a
couple of hours late. When I walked in, Fox was asleep on the
living room floor. He said he felt fine. He got the headache
almost as soon as I left, but he didn't know how long it lasted
before he fell asleep."
        He shook his head in wonderment. How in hell had Fox
Mulder ever survived the attack in the first place? How in hell
did he survive these headaches? How in hell was he ever going to
make it back to his old life? Suddenly the much-too-expensive
special accommodations that Workers' Comp. had insisted on before
Mulder could return to work even part time seemed cheap at the
price.
        Then Mulder was back. He sat down and said, "Margaret, I
_can't_ stay here. I'm sorry. But the nightmares about Samantha's
abduction are just too bad for me to tolerate any longer. I don't
think they'll be as bad at home, and certainly not twice or three
times a night. I'll figure out something for food; after all,
it's still pretty much just mush." He looked at her and grinned,
then added, "Besides, the cast is supposed to come off next
week."
        Now she shook her head. "Have you ever had a broken arm,
Fox? I didn't think so. Dana broke her right arm when she was
ten, trying to keep up with her brothers. When the cast came off,
it actually hurt more for the first week or so, because all that
support was gone. She didn't stop complaining about not being
able to throw a softball or swing a bat for a month. So don't
expect things to be easier just because the cast is off."
        She was silent for several minutes before speaking again.
"Fox? Will you let me come to your apartment? Every day? I won't
presume to think you need me to sleep over, but I do think you
need someone around during the day to help you."
        Mulder looked like he was going to object, so Skinner put
a hand on his arm to forestall him. "Agent Mulder, accept her
offer. Or I'll call Dr. Carrington."
        Mulder glared at him, but subsided. After a minute, he
nodded and said, "All right. But you're *not* going to stay all
day. You can mother me just as well in only a few hours a day,
Margaret."
        Her delighted laughter was a welcome relief after the
tension of the past thirty-five minutes.
        Now that that was finally settled, Skinner turned to his
original purpose for visiting. "Agent Mulder, I've received
Workers' Comp.'s final decision. You can't come back to work at
Headquarters at this time. They feel it's too dangerous,
especially for you to be downstairs alone in your office.
However, they've agreed to let you work at Quantico, where
there's a fully-equipped Infirmary. SAC Michael Elliot, of the
Investigative Support Unit, says he can accommodate the working
conditions Dr. Carrington and Workers' Comp. insist on. He'd be
pleased to have you as a Profiler. If you're willing to do
profiles until those restrictions are lifted, then you can come
back to work. If you'd rather not--and I can understand that you
might not want to, given how stressful your last few months there
were--then you'll have to take indefinite disability leave. I
wish I could offer you something better, but I'm constrained by
Workers' Comp. as much as you are by your current physical
condition."
        This time when Mulder pushed back his chair and left the
room, it was obvious he needed privacy to think that over. While
they were waiting, Mrs. Scully and he talked, exchanging stories
about Mulder and Scully, from his point of view, and Fox and
Dana, from her point of view. They had drifted gradually to
stories about her life as a Navy wife and his time as a Marine
before Mulder came back.
        All he did was nod.


Investigative Support Unit
FBI Academy
Quantico, Virginia
11:00 a.m., August 29

        Mulder carefully sat up on the side of the bed in his
darkened office. He'd been an idiot yesterday:  because he felt
so good, he'd worked two three-hour stretches, with one long
break for lunch, his daily walk, and a nap. Today he was paying
the price--he'd been at work barely an hour when the headache
started leaping, not creeping, up the pain scale. Since the only
thing he'd found that was guaranteed to stop a headache was to
take some codeine and a nap before things got too bad, he'd quit,
and now, about two hours later, he finally felt well enough to
get up again. Which wasn't to say that the headache was _gone_,
just that it was down to "tolerable".
        As he put on his sunglasses and turned up the lights, he
wondered again just how much money the Bureau had paid for the
adaptations to this private office. First there was the simple
fact that he had a large private office--someone important had
been kicked out of here. The bed would have been free--just bring
one over from the Infirmary or the Marine Base. But the special
adjustable intensity glare- and flicker-free lighting, the 21"
computer monitor and state of the art software so that he could
enlarge everything without losing clarity, the scanner and
text-to-speech hardware and software normally used by the blind
for when he was seeing double, and lastly, the always-open
intercom so his co-workers could hear if he got in trouble and
the "panic button" to summon help from the Infirmary--those must
have set them back a pretty penny.
        On the other hand, he _was_ back at work, had been for
three weeks, and already he'd pulled his first "Spooky" Mulder
act, one which was sure to earn him a commendation, if the police
in half the country had any say in the matter.
        Michael Elliot, the Senior Agent in Charge here, had
obviously read his record from when he worked under Patterson
because he'd been given the really tough cases right from the
start. The ones with no apparent connecting features, the ones
with copy-cat killers muddling up the "territory", and the ones
where the existing profile still left too many suspects.
        Then there had been the thirty-seven killings in twelve
states over nine years that had the police tearing their
collective hair out. The killings were as similar as if a group
of men had planned them together, then dispersed and started
taking turns killing. But the four profiles for four separate
killers that the FBI had come up with over the years had led
nowhere. The earliest of those useless profiles was his.
        This time, *he* had written the advisory requesting
information on killings with any of three distinct features. That
had brought in sixteen more killings so far, for a total of
fifty-three dead men, women, and children in twenty-one states
and three Canadian provinces, including the three identical ones
from opposite ends of the country and all within twenty-four
hours:  men, about twenty-five years old, blond--and drunk.
        *He* had made the leap to someone with his own jet.
Someone who'd lost three people close to him, possibly a wife and
children or grandchildren, to a drunk driver. Then it had been a
matter of narrowing it down, and over the weekend the
computerized search of private jet flight plans had finally paid
off--a "filthy rich" forcibly-retired CEO, who'd been through a
messy divorce nine years ago, with on-going legal battles. A man
who had lost his second family when a drunk driver killed his new
wife and their twin sons--and himself--while she was driving them
to the doctor for their six-month check-ups.
        The killings were his "stress reliever". Whenever things
got really bad, he'd spin a compass to get his exact navigational
heading and throw dice to determine how long he'd fly in that
direction. Then he'd file a flight plan for the nearest airport,
land, kill someone, and return home. _That_ was the reason there
was no pattern to the where, when, why, or who, only to the how.
        His new colleagues had resurrected "Spooky", this time as
a term of respect, not derision, and for the first time since
he'd earned that nickname when he was a trainee at the Academy he
actually felt proud of it. Of course, it didn't hurt that SAC
Elliot had insisted on taking him out to dinner on Tuesday to
celebrate the arrest, and had _not_ told him that the rest of the
unit and Scully, Margaret, and Mr. Skinner would also be there.
He didn't even care--too much--that he put the kibosh on the
celebration by having a headache so bad he actually passed out at
the restaurant, and then had to spend Wednesday recovering at
Margaret's house.
        Then had come yesterday, when he'd felt so good he'd
messed things up for today.

        He'd been working for another forty-five minutes on his
newest case, getting more and more frustrated at the tantalizing
hints his subconscious was coming up with, when his boss came in.
        "Agent Mulder, are you getting anywhere on that new one?"
Mike Elliot paused at the doorway, not bothering to come in.
"I've got Detective Ivey on hold on my phone. I won't inflict him
on you. He's an obnoxious SOB who doesn't want our help. His boss
insisted he call us in on the case. If you can't come up with
anything, I'll drop the case--and him."
        Mulder leaned back, closed his eyes, and in a new habit,
gently rubbed the long scar on his right temple. There was a
constant background ache in the area where the fractures had
been, completely separate from the totally-incapacitating
headaches he still got three or four times a week. When he got
totally frustrated, like he was on this case, he could predict,
almost to the minute, when a headache would strike.
        Without opening his eyes, he said, "There's *something*
I'm not seeing, sir. It's here in the crime reports, but I can't
put it all together. However, if I don't quit for lunch now, the
codeine I took earlier won't be enough, and you'll have to call
Scully and tell her I'm back in the Infirmary again."
        "All right. Go on; I'll join you after I placate Ivey."


FBI Academy Cafeteria
12:11 p.m.

        "It's something to do with the location. Not the places
where he leaves the bones and entrails, but where he's doing the
killing. I kept getting these flashes of a big room, with lots of
metal tables, and lots of bodies, and blood, and . . ." Mulder
trailed off and stared blankly across the crowded cafeteria, his
decaffeinated iced tea forgotten in mid-air.
        "Agent Mulder, you know you're not supposed to talk about
work at lunch." Mike Elliot reached across the table and tried to
take the drink from him. It didn't work, and Mulder startled back
to awareness.
        "What did y--?"
        Mulder's hand clenched convulsively, crushing the paper
cup and causing tea and crushed ice to spew everywhere. His face
went ashen and he started to pant like he did when one of his bad
headaches struck. But this time, instead of him groaning in agony
and putting his head down on the nearest surface while someone
got his codeine pills, *this* time his eyes stayed open, and
then, bonelessly limp, he tumbled sideways out of his chair. The
"crack" as the left side of his head hit the floor was enough to
stop every conversation in the room, and bring people literally
running to help.
        Mike shoved his chair back and dropped to all fours next
to the crumpled figure, one hand scrabbling for the gray
sunglasses that had fallen off when Mulder fell over. But Mulder
didn't even seem to know they were gone. His panting had slowed a
bit, and his open eyes darted from side to side as if he was
looking at something. He didn't respond when Mike called his
name, so Mike did what everyone in the ISU had been instructed to
do if Mulder should pass out--keep noise to a minimum, try to
keep people away, and have someone call the infirmary, while
making sure nothing else happened to him.
        He reached out and snatched the pant leg of the trainee
who was going for help. "Wait! Tell them I think he had a seizure
this time. They need to call Agent Scully immediately, because
she has his doctor's phone numbers."


Georgetown University Medical Center
Room 622
4:59 a.m., September 1

        "Mulder, it's OK. They caught him. You can relax. It's
OK, Mulder, you told us. The police were waiting for him. They
caught him half an hour ago. The victim is safe."
        There was a pause, then Scully started again. Her voice
sounded hoarse, and worried. He needed to know why, so he started
to ask what she was talking about. That's when he realized it
hurt to talk--his throat felt like he'd been talking non-stop for
days.
        "Sc . . . Scully . . . what--"
        "Mulder! Thank God!" Her hands took his right one and
squeezed gently before releasing him. "I'm going to the nurses'
station for just a minute. Dr. Carrington wanted to be called as
soon as you were rational." Her footsteps receded.
        Rational? Rational!? What in heaven's name had *happened*
to him? He didn't have a headache, didn't really hurt anywhere
except his throat, just the stiffness that suggested he'd been in
this hospital bed a least a full day. He started to stretch, then
froze as he felt the soft wrist restraints and an NG tube in his
nose. Shit. Of all the various tubes hospitals used, he hated the
feeding tubes the most. Foley catheters might be embarrassing and
uncomfortable, but naso-gastric tubes, going down or coming out,
were guaranteed to make him vomit.
        He opened his eyes carefully in case the light was too
bright, took a look around the generic hospital room, and decided
to sit up. The bed controls, including the nurse's call button,
were placed where he couldn't reach them. Shit, shit, shit. Well,
Scully would be back in a couple of minutes, and she'd untie him.
        The clock said 5:00, and the amount of light coming into
the room meant it was early morning, not late afternoon. The
calendar on the bulletin board said the 1st, so he'd been here
nearly three days. The last thing he remembered was--

        Mulder was half-sitting up, vomiting convulsively over
himself and the bed, when Scully stepped back in the room. She
turned around, yelled, "Room 622, STAT!", and ran for the bed.
She yanked the quick-release knot on his left wrist restraint,
grabbed the wastebasket and shoved it in front of his face,
dashed to the other side of the bed to release his other wrist,
and then went to shut off the feeding pump that was still putting
Ensure into his stomach.
        One nurse was already doing that while another was at the
bed controls, bringing the head of the bed up to support him
while he finished vomiting. There was nothing else she could do,
so she stepped out of the way and let the hospital staff do their
jobs.

        He caught snatches of what the people around him were
doing, in between his vomiting and shivering and the God-awful
scenes of the murder and the headache that kept coming and going,
but never got bad enough to put him out of his misery. He knew he
was a fetal ball when they lifted him out of the filthy bed,
bathed him, and put him back in a clean bed. He couldn't help it;
all the strength he could muster was barely enough to keep him
from screaming himself into a bed on the psych ward.
        He thought it was now about half an hour later, but he
couldn't be sure, and he knew if he opened his eyes to check,
he'd start vomiting again. He ignored everything that the nurses
and doctor asked him because he couldn't spare the energy to
reply. Scully would understand; all he'd have to say is
'profile', and she would immediately realize that he must have
been remembering.
        But it was worse than that, much worse. No matter how
horrible things had gotten when he was trying to do a profile, he
had *always* known where "he" ended and "the killer" began. Even
if that line was so thin it would only take one tiny mis-step to
cross over, there had been that line. But this time-- _This_ time
he'd *been* the killer. He didn't know his name, or where he
lived, or anything like that, but he *knew* the slaughterhouse he
had worked in, *knew* at which table he'd worked, butchering the
steers, and he could remember the exact feel of the freshly
sharpened butcher knife cutting through the still living throat
of his third victim. He could see the way she was hog-tied and
how she swayed from side to side as her freshly slaughtered body
dangled from the hook and overhead conveyer belt that carried her
over to his table. He could feel--not imagine, _feel_ in the
muscles of his arms and back--exactly how little Mandy Frasier
weighed compared to the steers; it was so easy to flip her free
of the hook, and turn her this way and that on the table while
he--
        He started heaving again, but nothing came up, not even
bile, and it hurt. God, it hurt; his stomach hurt, his mouth and
throat burned from the previous vomiting, his muscles were
cramping from the overwork, and the headache would _not_ let up.
For once he prayed for a headache to actually worsen, to
overwhelm him, to let him collapse into unconsciousness.
        "What the *hell* do you people think you're doing, just
standing around?!"
        Scully was obviously furious. He could hear it in her
voice, could picture her standing there, hands on hips--
        All he had to do was turn his head, open his eyes, and
Scully would replace the abattoir he was seeing.
        He'd barely slitted his eyes open when fingers pried his
left eye further open, and a bright light stabbed straight
through his eye and into his brain. He welcomed the light and
pain and let them carry him away.


4:10 p.m., September 2

        He recognized the dry mouth and foot-sloggingly thick
"stuff" slowing his thoughts down:  Compazine for the vomiting.
The fact that the medicine was also a potent anti-psychotic,
capable of keeping the slaughterhouse far, far away, was a
blessing he was sure the doctor hadn't thought of when he or she
ordered it. The afternoon cartoons someone had put on the TV were
just about his speed right now, unless he wanted to make the
extra effort to concentrate.
        "I see you're finally awake, Mulder. Are you up to
answering questions?" The voice was Dr. Carrington's.
        He blinked and looked over at her and then blinked again
in surprise. He barely recognized her. She'd cut her hair since
his last check-up on August 15. It made her look closer to her
real age, especially with the grey hair now really showing at her
roots, but he missed the myriad of long black braids, each tipped
with a different-colored bead.
        "Yeah." It came out slurred; he cleared his throat, drank
most of the glass of water she helped him hold, and tried again,
taking care to enunciate clearly. "Thanks. For. The. Compazine.
It was just. What I needed. To stop. Remembering."
        A bemused smile crossed her face and then she shook her
head. "How did you--?"
        He smiled back. "I've taken it before. But it's been
years--when I was in college there was a pretty rough flu going
around."
        Dr. Carrington nodded. "That was quite a while ago,
wasn't it? But you still remember what it feels like. Obviously,
*your* eidetic memory is more than the usual visual or auditory
eidetic memory." She seemed to reach a decision, because she
pulled a chair over, sat down, swung his over-bed table in front
of her, and opened his chart so she could take notes. She was
installed for the duration, and he had a horrible suspicion he
knew what she was going to ask.
        "It's now around 4:15 on the 2nd. You've been vomiting
almost continuously since you 'woke up' yesterday morning. I
tried just about everything in the Pharmacopeia before ordering
the Compazine. I hadn't wanted to give you a neuroleptic because
you had no overt psychotic symptoms. Now you're telling me that's
exactly what you needed. So you tell me:  what happened?"
        Oh, God. He didn't want to answer that question. It would
be hard enough trying to explain to Scully, or Mike Elliot, or
any of the other agents who knew what profiling was like. And she
was absolutely certain he remembered, so he couldn't fudge--or
could he?
        He looked her directly in the eyes and said, "I can't
tell you, because it's confidential."
        She put down her pen. "Bullshit."
        He was so shocked he could feel his jaw drop. Doctors
didn't talk that way to their patients.
        "Dana warned me you wouldn't want to talk about it, so
here's your incentive:  you're looking at an immediate medical
retirement from Field Agent status because, unless you can
convince me otherwise, five days ago you had a seizure as a
direct result of your head injury, and you're going to be on
anti-seizure medication for the rest of your life. On top of
that, based on what you said about the Compazine, as soon as
we're done talking I'm ordering a stat psychiatric consult." She
sat back in the chair and crossed her arms, daring him to not
answer.
        This time he couldn't look at her. He scratched around
the IV in the back of his right hand, and the tiny scab from
where he must have had an IV in his left hand, and stared past
her out the window even though there was nothing but blue sky to
look at, and adjusted his covers, and used the bed controls so he
was sitting all the way up, and drank some more water, and
adjusted the covers again.
        She out-sat him.
        Eventually he ran out of excuses and started talking. "I
did _not_ have a seizure. I did not lose consciousness, not even
when I was falling out of the chair in the cafeteria. I remember
everything, except for when I was sedated for the trip here, when
I was out yesterday morning, and then things have been fuzzy
since the Compazine started working. I won't tell you what I . .
. experienced, but I will tell you it has to do with the way I do
profiles. It was just . . . a lot more intense than what usually
happens. I was frustrated, and the headache was building again,
and then I had this . . . this . . . insight that was literally
overwhelming."
        "That doesn't explain your behavior in the Infirmary at
Quantico or for three days and nights here in the hospital. You
were so focused on going to catch that killer *right*now* that
you had to be restrained. You couldn't answer questions, you
couldn't follow directions, you couldn't even sit still for more
than five minutes at a time. That is not the behavior of someone
who is in control of himself."
        He sighed. How could he explain? "How could I answer the
Agents' questions, when I didn't have the answers they wanted?
What I knew was hows and wheres, not names or places or upcoming
dates. I've never been to the city where the killings took place,
but if you took me there and drove me around, I would *know* the
out-of-business slaughterhouse he did his butchering at. I could
show you the exact table where he did his bloody work, and, if
you laid out his knives in front of me, I could pick them up, one
by one, and tell you which ones he had used on Amanda Jean
Frasier.
        "And the frustration of *not* being able to explain, of
being prevented from going, when I knew I could stop this killer-
-I had a headache just this side of passing out the entire time.
It was a Catch 22:  if I could have asked for Demerol for the
headache, I would have been able to relax enough to . . . to . .
. 'attend' to you people. But I couldn't relax enough to be able
to say I needed the Demerol. All I could do was try to get
someone to understand that I could stop the killer."
        There was a long silence, at least five minutes, while
Dr. Carrington thought about what he'd said. Finally she said,
"I'd still like you to talk to a psychiatrist. The vomiting was a
classic somatization of your feelings--you couldn't stomach the
memories, so you vomited in an attempt to get rid of them. But
with your eidetic memory, you *can't* forget, so . . ."
        She didn't bother finishing. If he didn't deal with it,
he would be caught in a truly vicious circle.
        He was finally able to smile at something. "You forget,
Doctor, I'm used to dealing with horrible memories. I did
profiles in the Investigative Support Unit for more than three
years, and my regular assignment has things just as horrible,
only in different ways. The problem this time was the intensity
of the insight and the headache that I couldn't get around. With
the help of the Compazine, I've already started to deal with it.
If necessary, you can order another dose, to sustain the
emotional distance I need while I finish--" He hadn't ever found
words to explain how he "forgot" things he didn't want to
remember, "--doing whatever I do so I'm not tripping over bad
memories every time I turn around."
        There was another long silence before she answered. "I'm
still calling in Dr. Kennedy for the psychiatric consult. You'll
have to convince him of the need for a second dose. But I won't
make it a stat order; he'll come sometime tomorrow."
        "Give me forty-ei--"
        "NO. I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, but Workers' Comp. won't let
me keep you that long, now that you're stable and we know what
happened to you. And once you're discharged, you're required to
see one of their physicians before you can see a psychiatrist. If
you should need more Compazine, that process will certainly take
too long."


Mulder's Apartment
1:  37 p.m., September 6

        He was so exhausted by the time he reached his apartment
door that his hands were trembling. Trembling, *not* tremor, he
told himself. He hadn't had anywhere near enough Compazine for
side effects, right? Right. He must just be getting old. He
couldn't blame the exhaustion on being out of shape in general,
because Dr. Carrington had given him the OK to resume gentle
exercise back in mid-August, and he'd worked his way up to
walking three miles before this recent . . ."unpleasantness". Six
days in the hospital couldn't possibly have erased all that. But
today he'd completely run out of steam after only one mile,
leaving him to somehow walk that same distance home because he'd
forgotten--forgotten!--to take money or a credit card. He was
fumbling, trying to get the key in the lock, when the door was
pulled open and he almost staggered right into Scully.
        "Where the hell have you been, Mulder? You didn't answer
your phone for so long I came over to see if you were all right.
Then I find you're not here! I was getting ready to put an APB
out on you."
        Scully in her "righteous indignation" mood was not
something he could deal with right now. He sidestepped her and
said, "Out walking, OK? So sue me. Neither Dr. Kennedy nor Dr.
Carrington said I couldn't. Right now I'm going to take a shower.
You can stick around and be helpful by making coffee for yourself
and iced tea for me for when I get out, or you can leave now. But
whichever it is, make up your mind quick, or you're going to get
an eyeful." With that, he stripped off the sweat-soaked tee-
shirt. Just before his head disappeared inside the shirt, he
caught a glimpse of Scully staring at him in slack-jawed shock.
        When he came out of the bathroom ten minutes later, he
went directly to the kitchen, put one of the codeine pills as far
back in his mouth as he could and washed it down with half of the
glass of tea that was waiting for him. It had only taken once in
the hospital to teach him that tossing his pills back was a
guaranteed way to immediately pass out in agony. Then it was time
to fumble in the refrigerator for something to keep his stomach
happy.
        Scully pulled the door out of his hand. "Go lie down,
Mulder. I'll put something together."
        He couldn't nod, so he just headed for the couch. With
his eyes closed behind his sunglasses, and him concentrating on
trying to relax so his blood pressure would stay down instead of
rising in response to his pain, it was a surprise when Scully put
a sandwich in his hand. The first bite told him it was turkey,
mustard, and lettuce on rye, with the tomato left off as a
potentially drippy disaster. All were foods she bought for him
while he was seeing Dr. Kennedy yesterday, talking about how he
was doing and getting his third dose of Compazine.
        Thank God that third dose seemed to be working. Kennedy
had warned him that if the third dose didn't work, he'd be out of
the FBI permanently, because they both knew that sooner or later
he'd try suicide rather than live through that memory yet again.
        Maybe that would be the deciding factor in allowing him
to "forget" most of that obscenity with Mark Huber's third
victim. If he had to retire, he would never again work alongside
Scully. He wouldn't be able to continue looking for Samantha; his
disability check would be nowhere near enough for that. What kind
of work could he do, anyway? He'd never practiced as a
psychologist; he'd been recruited by the FBI right after his
internship. Besides, who would hire someone who was 100%
guaranteed to attempt suicide at some unknown point in the
future?
        He shuddered. He'd never thought about suicide before,
and now it was staring him in the face.
        "Mulder, are you all right?"
        Scully's voice and Scully's hand on his arm and Scully's
perfume. He concentrated on those till he was sure his voice
would be steady. "Yeah." He sat up carefully and faced her. "The
codeine'll start working any time now. Thanks for the sandwich."
        "That's not what I was asking. Do you need me to call Dr.
Kennedy? Are you still having flashbacks?"
        "No, nothing like that. Just someone walking over my
grave."
        "That's not funny, Mulder."
        There was mutually-embarrassed silence long enough for
him to finish the sandwich and the rest of the tea, and for her
to take his dishes back into the kitchen. When she came out, he
could tell she was still upset, but the topic she chose surprised
him.
        "You're having resting tremors. Have you called Dr.
Kennedy?" She pointed to his right hand, shaking slightly on
armrest of the couch.
        He still couldn't chance shaking his head, so he had to
come right out and say it. "No. I'm not going to, either. I won't
need any more Compazine, and it isn't going to happen again
anyway, so what does it matter? They'll go away." <I hope.>
        "Mulder, you have to tell him. That's a very serious
side-effect for someone who's only had three doses, especially
when those doses were spaced over four days, and they were the
amount given for vomiting, not for psychotic behavior or
hallucinations." She went to the coffee table, sat on it, and
took his hands. "Mulder, you _have_ to tell him. If you don't,
I'll have to. Not because I don't believe they'll disappear, but
he has to put it in your medical record. God forbid you should
ever again need an anti-psychotic, but if you're so sensitive to
Compazine that you're already showing pseudo-Parkinsonism, then
you could head straight for the even more serious side-effects if
you should be given any of the drugs in the same class.
        "Mulder, you _know_ this. You must have studied the drugs
while you were at Oxford. Or you certainly would have chosen to
do the research on your own, as soon has you started your
internship. Your insatiable curiosity would demand it."
        He slid far enough forward so that he could--carefully--
tilt his head to rest it on the back of the couch and stare up at
the ceiling. "Scully, you have an absolute genius for throwing my
guilt right back at me, y'know? How do you _do_ that?"
        "Practice. Lots of practice. But you haven't answered
me." She moved to the couch; he felt it dip on his left side.
        "Yeah, we studied the various drugs a bit. I wasn't that
interested at Oxford because it was just an intellectual
exercise, but my supervisor for my clinical internship year
assigned me to follow a dozen new admits, documenting how
different people with the same diagnosis reacted to the same
drugs. I got really interested then and did a lot of research on
my own.
        "So I do know that I'm abnormally sensitive to Compazine,
and yes, I should have called Kennedy first thing this morning
when I noticed the tremor. I just didn't want to, Scully." He sat
up then and turned so he was facing her, mirroring her posture of
one leg up on the cushion. "I've been in the hospital three times
in the past--" he paused while he counted, "eighty-two days, for
a total of forty-five days and some odd hours. That's more time
in the hospital than out. Can you blame me for _not_ wanting to
mention it? I was afraid he'd call Dr. Carrington and they'd
decide to stick me right back in, to be sure it wasn't brain
damage that was just now showing up."
        Scully startled at that; she must not have thought of
that possibility. She said, very quietly, "Oh." After a pause she
added, "I'll respect your wishes if you promise to call him when
the tremors are gone."
        The headache was finally receding, so he could carefully
nod. "I'll be calling him Monday anyway, to tell him officially
that this third dose worked. I'll tell him about the tremors
then, because they'll either be the same, which would mean I
really would have to go back in, or they'll already be fading, in
which case I can tell him that." He reached out to wiggle her
sneakered right foot that was dangling off the edge of the seat.
"Will that satisfy you, _Dr._ Scully?"
        She didn't pull her foot away; instead she gently swatted
his hand away. "Completely, _Mr._ Mulder.
        "Now for the real reason I came over." She got up, pulled
a diskette out of her purse, went to turn on his computer, and
stopped. "Mulder, I don't even know--can you use your own
computer yet?"
        He didn't bother getting up. "No. I had Frohike install
the special software I use at work, but this monitor's too small.
When I've got everything large enough to see easily, then I get a
headache or double vision from the constant panning back and
forth to see the whole page. TV's not the same because I'm so
much farther back, and I don't have to pay that close attention.
So either leave the diskette for me to take to work Monday or
just tell me what's on it."
        She nodded and put the diskette on the desk. Then she
stayed there as if for some reason she needed distance from him.
"I did some research while you were in the hospital this last
time. I don't want to cause you any more pain, but if we're going
to talk about this then I'm going to have to make some pretty
specific references to things you said. Can you handle that?"
        His attention already piqued, he said, "We won't know
till we try it. What did I say that got you so intrigued that you
did research?"
        "It's more a matter of what you didn't say. You didn't
name the killer. You didn't name the specific victim you'd . . .
homed in on. You didn't name the out-of-business company that had
owned that slaughterhouse or give us the address. But you
described what Mark Huber did to Amanda Jean Frasier so
accurately that the police had no trouble identifying the correct
building. They identified which table Huber--"
        Mulder bolted for the toilet. Scully was there with a
glass of cold water and a wet washcloth when he was done. He used
them, still on the floor, and then held onto her to get up and
walk back to the living room.
        Once on the couch, with her hovering right over him, he
said, "I'll be all right. That wasn't a flashback. Just the
sudden recollection of everything I said to Agent Tompkins. So
you can skip all that and cut straight to what you wanted to tell
me." She still looked very worried, so he repeated himself.
"Scully. Go sit down. I'm OK. I'm not going to hare out on you.
The Compazine is working."
        Finally she nodded. This time, however, she pulled the
desk chair over to the couch. "Mulder, you couldn't know what you
knew. What you did wasn't profiling. It wasn't your 'spooky'
ability to get inside some killer's head. Even you aren't *that*
good.
        "The research I did suggests that certain types of brain
damage can cause--God, Mulder, I feel so weird. I'm supposed to
be the one who keeps you grounded."
        She looked so out of her depths that he smiled. "You do,
Scully, believe me. If you found something to shake your beliefs
without seeing it personally, then it's got to be pretty strong
evidence. What did you find?"
        She took a deep breath and said. "But I did see it
myself, so to speak; I heard your voice on the tape telling
Tompkins things that there's no possible way you could know.
That's what shook me so badly I had to do the research. Mulder, I
think you've developed ESP."
        After an second of stunned silence, he was howling with
laughter. It felt wonderful to have something to laugh about
after all the pain he'd been through these past three months. It
felt wonderful right up until the instant that a full-blown
headache struck. After that it was all he could do to stay
conscious. At some point the headache got lost in the familiar
narcotic haze, and he realized that Scully had come prepared--
this was Demerol, not more codeine.

        The smell of Margaret's home-made spaghetti sauce was a
delicious thing to wake up to. He decided she should bottle the
sauce; it would out-sell the stuff in the stores 10-1. He heard
the timer "ding" and then footsteps that had to be Scully's, not
Margaret's. "I didn't know you used your mother's recipe,
Scully."
        The footsteps turned around and came back toward him.
"You're awake. How do you feel?"
        He waggled a hand back and forth in her general direction
without bothering to open his eyes. "The usual. In about ten
minutes I'll be awake enough to feed myself without making a
mess. Did you time things that specifically, or was the timer for
something other than the spaghetti?"
        "It's for the last veggies to be added to the sauce. I
don't want them to turn into mush, and I wasn't sure I'd check my
watch. The book I'm reading is really interesting. If you're sure
you're awake, I'll go add them."
        He carefully pushed up to sitting, letting the blanket
she must have put over him fall aside by itself. "I'm awake. How
come you never fed me Margaret's recipe before? I've eaten
spaghetti at your place often enough."
        "I don't normally have the time. This takes at least four
hours. I usually just doctor the Prego Garden Variety, since it's
lowest in sodium." She turned back to the kitchen.
        He heard the defensiveness in her voice and immediately
moved to placate her. "Hey, I'm not complaining. I just eat it
the way it comes. It never occurred to me that you could make the
store-bought stuff taste so much like home-made. Will you give me
the recipe? For the Prego, not Margaret's. I'm not ready to start
investing four hours in spaghetti sauce, no matter how good it
is."
        A snort of amusement came from the kitchen, but no
confirmation. He got up to see what was so funny, waiting by the
couch till he was sure his blood pressure wasn't going to bottom
out. Ever since the hospital staff had realized that a ten-point
rise in his blood pressure might trigger a headache, and that a
twenty-point rise was sure to, he'd been on medication to keep
his blood pressure very low. He didn't object to the medicine
because the frequency of headaches had taken an immediate nose
dive. What he did object to was the postural hypotension that
caused him to grey-out if he sat up or stood up too quickly.
        Once in the kitchen, he asked, "You going to clue me in
to what's so funny?"
        Scully finished rinsing her hands off. "You, Mulder. As
if you'd even spend the _one_ hour it takes to fix the Prego. I
know your cooking habits, and they're as bad as your eating
habits."
        There wasn't anything to say to that, so he turned to the
cupboard and got out plates, glasses and silverware. "You want
wine? I've still got a little bit of what I bought to celebrate
the across the board raises we got in January." At her nod, he
put a wine glass at her plate and got the bottle out of the
cupboard over the refrigerator. "How much longer? Do I have time
to chill the wine?"
        "I just started the water for the spaghetti and we've
still got the salad to make." She crossed in front him to get to
the refrigerator, then handed him the entire vegetable bin in
exchange for the wine. "Here. You take care of rinsing everything
and tearing the lettuce. I'll cut things up."
        He smiled. "Yes, Mother. I am old enough to use a knife,
you know."
        "Not right after Demerol, Mulder, and you know it. And
certainly not Demerol on top of tremors." She took the tomato and
the green and yellow bell peppers he held out, pointing with the
knife into the bin. "Don't forget the celery. You may not like it
in salad, but I do. I'll cut some up and put it aside."
        After that, it was their typical eat-a-meal-while-
discussing-a-case, only this time Scully really seemed to believe
he was the case. It took him two hours, using examples going back
as far as the first profile he'd ever written, to get her to
concede that he could have visualized a generic slaughterhouse
well enough to make it seem like he'd described the real one. He
had no trouble convincing her that he could make the leap to a
slaughterhouse in the first place; in hindsight, the bones of all
five of Huber's victims bore the unmistakable marks of careful
butchering, the kind that's done by a professional not wanting to
waste any meat.
        But he knew that what he was actually doing was
convincing himself. Because if it really was ESP, then why was he
too afraid of the pain that accompanied it to try to find
Samantha? Had his search for her fallen victim to the same
carjacker who nearly killed him? Or was he afraid he'd hook into
someone in the act of murdering her? That was a possibility he
couldn't face.


FBI Academy Cafeteria
12:53 p.m., October 21

        "Scully, I need a favor." Mulder leaned forward, putting
on his best puppy-dog look, the one that made her shake her head
in exasperation--but always got results.
        She didn't look up; her knife and fork didn't even falter
in cutting the chicken strips in her salad into bite-size pieces.
"I'm _not_ driving you to look at another supposed UFO site on
our off-time."
        "No, this is work related, but you'll have to take the
whole afternoon off."
        Her fork paused in mid-air, then went back down to her
plate. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head.
"Isabelle--Dr. Carrington called you about your latest test
results."
        He grinned a huge grin back at her. Early on he'd asked
her to sit in during his check-ups because his improvements,
aside from the decreasing frequency and intensity of his
headaches, and his now-gone double vision, were generally subtle
things that Dr. Carrington saw, but that he wasn't even aware
were happening. Scully was his interpreter--she could ask doctor-
type questions and then turn around and explain things in ways
that made sense to him. So she ought to be able to figure this
one out very easily.
        "You can drive again!"
        He forestalled her impulsive hug. "No, it's not quite
that simple. I have to pass some kind of driving assessment
before Dr. Carrington will sign the release for me to take to the
DMV. My appointment is at the hospital next week Friday, at one
o'clock. She warned me that it'll last at least three hours.
Assuming I pass all the regular tests, they'll try to stress me
to the point of triggering a headache severe enough that I lose
my concentration."


Georgetown University Medical Center
12:45 p.m., October 31

        "Mulder, _please_ get out of the car. You're the one who
said we had to be here early, for out-patient registration."
Scully was getting increasingly worried. The Mulder sitting in
her car was disturbingly close to the Mulder she remembered from
the case last year that he'd filed under "Gargoyle". Tad, one of
the Profilers he worked with, had pulled her aside before they
left, warning her that Mulder was really upset about his newest
case, the one he'd gotten yesterday. He'd said Mulder was as
obsessed as he'd ever seen him from their days together in
Violent Crimes.
        She could believe it. Mulder had been late this morning,
so late that she finally went up to his apartment, finding him
pacing his living room with his coat on. When she'd gone to get
him for this appointment, she could see that he was wearing the
same clothes he'd had on yesterday. Had he ever bothered to take
his coat off? Had he ever lain down? She suspected not. He hadn't
shaved, Tad had said he'd skipped taking an early lunch, and she
herself knew he hadn't eaten breakfast. She wondered if he'd even
eaten dinner last night. She also wondered if he would be able to
handle this driving evaluation. He'd said that they would try to
stress him enough to trigger a headache. "Well," she muttered to
herself, as she took his arm and steered him through the parking
lot and in the door to the out-patient clinics, "if it's stress
they want, it's stress they'll get. He's already 90% stressed
out."
        He settled down during the registration process, filling
out the forms and handling the questions about the Workers' Comp.
coverage with no problems. Then, while they sat in the
Occupational Therapy Department waiting room, he seemed totally
fascinated by the glimpses they caught of the various patients
and their different treatments.
        By the time he was called, Mulder was, she judged, only
about 50% stressed. She just hoped he could focus enough for
whatever the tests were. He would *not* be happy if he failed
before they even started.
        They wouldn't let her watch. After he left, the
receptionist thought to give her a booklet explaining the various
parts of the driving assessment and their purposes. She read
through that in about ninety seconds--it was written in layman's
terms. With a sigh of exasperation, she pulled out the computer
and files she'd brought along to keep her busy. She hated working
with the computer in her lap, and especially hated trying to do
it in chairs that were just tall enough she had to be on toe-tip
if she didn't want her feet to dangle like a child's.

        The Code Blue phone call the receptionist made brought
her surging to her feet and over to the desk. "I'm a doctor; tell
me where to go."
        The flustered receptionist pointed to her left, saying,
"All the way to the end. The Driv--"
        She didn't wait, taking off at a run. The stress had been
too much; it *had* triggered one of his headaches, and the
therapist thought it was something worse. And Mulder hadn't
carried codeine pills for a month now. Damn!
        She skidded to a stop in front of the door and pushed it
open, listening for the distinctive grunts of agony he made;
while he had still been in the hospital she had learned to
distinguish between a codeine-pill headache and an IV-Demerol
headache. There was no grunting.
        Oh, God, he'd passed out. He hadn't had a headache _that_
bad since August. No wonder they'd called a Code Blue! They must
have thought he'd stroked or had a heart attack.
        Only Mulder wasn't unconscious on the floor. Two harried-
looking women were actually sitting on him, trying to keep him
lying down. He had an eye that was already swelling shut, and she
thought she saw a nasty-looking scrape on his right hand.
Whatever he was looking at wasn't in _this_ room, he wasn't
saying anything, and he wasn't exactly fighting the women, he was
just trying desperately to get up and go to that place only he
saw.
        Holy Mary, Mother of God--he'd done again whatever it was
that he'd done in August--made some sort of unconscious intuitive
leap, and figured out where a killer did his bloody work.
        She sagged against the wall, too stunned for the moment
to move forward to help.
        The slamming of the door against the wall as the Code
Blue team finally came charging in brought her back into focus.
She jumped forward, putting herself directly in front of them, so
they'd have to stop or run her down. "DON'T TOUCH HIM! We need
Dr. Isabelle Carrington, his neurosurgeon, and IV Demerol, stat!
He can't tell us right now, but I can guarantee he's got a
ferocious headache."
        She knew they didn't have to listen to her; they wouldn't
recognize her as a staff physician. All she could hope for was
that the authority in her voice and manner would slow them down
long enough for her to explain.
        It did--or the fact that Mulder obviously wasn't in need
of CPR stopped them. When team leader reminded her they didn't
carry Demerol, she felt her knees start to give. Mulder was in
agony and there was nothing she could do to help him until
Isabelle came. But she had to do _something_; she couldn't just
leave him there on the floor. Maybe she could get him to relax,
to realize that she was there and could help him.
        She turned to Mulder again, trying to find somewhere to
stand where he would be sure to see her. There wasn't anywhere.
She'd have to trade places with the person sitting on his chest.
She stopped the resuscitation team before they could leave.
"Please wait. I need you to hold him still while I trade places
with you," she tapped the young woman sitting on his chest on the
shoulder, "so he can see me when I try to calm him down. And
someone please call his office--that's 1-703-555-3481, extension
2204. Tell whomever answers it's an emergency. Dr. Scully needs
to know what case Mulder was working on that's got him so
stressed. They'll know what I mean. I need the names of all the
victims, and the cities. That's enough to start with."
        The head of the team, a hospital physician, hesitated and
looked down. Mulder was still making his determined but
ineffectual attempts to get up and it was obvious the two women
on him were tiring. He nodded, adding, "Jared, call the pharmacy.
I need a syringe of Demerol, STAT."
        The doctor glanced at her and she told him the dose,
seeing his eyes widen in surprise at the amount. She wanted to
yell at him, tell him to hurry, but she made herself say calmly,
"Yes, that much. I want him completely unconscious. It's the
fastest way to stop the headache. He'll wake up in about four
hours and be fine."
        The doctor nodded at Jared and the rest of the team,
releasing them to help her. One person followed Jared outside,
presumably to find another phone to page Isabelle and then call
Quantico, and the other two followed the doctor toward Mulder,
aligning themselves where they could hold him still.
        It was a total fiasco. Mulder panicked when he saw three
more people reaching toward him, and in one explosive move
shrugged the two OTs off and got to his feet. He started running
toward the open door immediately, and since she was the only
person still standing, the best way Scully could think of to stop
him was a flying tackle.
        They crashed to the floor, Scully hanging on to his legs
with all her strength, in case he tried to get up again. He
didn't, though. He "oofed" as the air was knocked out of him,
then curled up, grabbing his head and _finally_ making the short,
high-pitched grunts of agony that signaled his worst headaches.
        She felt hands pulling her away, and let go. The Code
Blue team grabbed Mulder, pulling his arms down so they could
start an IV. Almost as soon as they had it in place, Jared was
back with the Demerol. By the time Mulder was sliding into pain-
free unconsciousness, Dr. Carrington was coming through the
doorway, and Scully could let herself fall out of "Dana Scully,
M.D." mode and into terrified partner and friend.


Acute Psychiatric Ward, room 310
6:10 p.m.

        She stroked his hair, being careful to stay well away
from the massive bruise that covered most of the right side of
his forehead. He wouldn't be able to see out of that eye for
days. She'd read the Incident Report written by the Registered
Occupational Therapist who had been conducting his driving
assessment. It was terribly simple, and simply terrible.
        Mulder _had_ passed all the usual tests. He'd been in the
driving simulator for well over an hour while she gradually
increased the speed at which he was driving and the number of
cars on the road in the computer-generated video he watched. Then
she had the computer add a snow storm, which also made the "car"
Mulder was driving start slipping and sliding on the highway,
even though he had immediately dropped his virtual speed to under
thirty miles an hour. Between one breath and the next he'd
completely lost control of the car. He'd gone momentarily rigid,
frozen in fear--Scully knew that was wrong; Mulder might have
been frozen, but it had nothing to do with losing control of the
car, and everything to do with what he was seeing inside his
head--then apparently panicked and had fallen trying to scramble
out of the simulator, striking his head against the edge of the
control panel as he fell to the floor. The OTR didn't know how
he'd gotten the scratch on his hand. He'd been motionless on the
floor long enough for her to initiate the Code Blue, then had
tried to get up, which had eventually resulted in the two OT's
having to sit on him to keep him down.
        His skull X-rays showed no damage, and neither had an CAT
scan. But the EEG showed high levels of activity, more than
should have been possible while he was drugged with the Demerol.
Dr. Carrington asked a specialist to look at the EEG, not
trusting her initial impression that Mulder had not had a seizure
this time. The specialist agreed with her, however, and now they
simply waited till he could wake up and tell them what had
happened.
        Mulder's head twitched under her hand. She paused and
looked at him, but he was still sleeping. His eyes were moving
behind the closed eyelids, however, and, based on his description
of what had happened in August, she was pretty sure she knew what
he was experiencing.
        Mulder had been assigned a case involving the kidnaping,
rape, and death by torture of ten girls. Most of them had been
under ten years of age; all had been too young to show any signs
of sexual maturity. All had been non-White, had come from middle
class homes, and had been taken at night, leaving behind a
brutally murdered teenage babysitter. The killings had all the
earmarks of ritual slaughter to a twisted someone's personal
deity.
        He should have refused the case the minute he looked at
it. Hell, he _should_ have refused it the minute Senior Agent
Elliot had offered it to him. But she knew there would have been
no way, short of literally wiping his memory, that they could
have stopped him from trying to solve the case once he'd read the
crime reports. Except for the race, and the fact that he was
still alive and Samantha was still missing, every one of the
kidnapings was a repeat of his sister's abduction.
        She knew, without any trace of doubt, which kidnaping--
she prayed as she had never prayed before, that it was *only* the
kidnaping--he was living. Christina Hernandez was of mixed
parentage, Chicano and Black, had been eight years old with
shoulder-length black hair and brown eyes, and her babysitter had
been her fourteen-year-old brother Jesus. Jesus had tried to stop
the kidnapper; he had a bloody steak knife in his fist, and his
arm had been broken in two places when the kidnapper forced that
arm the wrong-way around, making him stab himself in the abdomen.
He had died still trying to save Christina, because he'd dragged
himself nearly ten feet away from in front of the TV where they
had been eating dinner.

        There was the sound of a key in the door, then Dr.
Carrington came in. "Still sleeping?"
        Scully shrugged and got up, walking toward the door,
making it clear she didn't want to talk where Mulder might be
able to hear them. When they had gone to the end of the corridor,
she turned around, leaning back against the safety rail in front
of the floor-to-ceiling unbreakable window. "I don't know whether
he's sleeping naturally at this point, or still sleeping the
sleep of drugs, or even that of total exhaustion from the pain. I
do know that he's not relaxed--he's still inside that killer's
mind.
        "Isabelle, this scares me. It scares me worse than any
case we've been on, worse than when he almost died from a mutated
retrovirus." That lie came out so easily these days. Even she
sometimes forgot that it wasn't "mutated", it was *alien*, _non_-
human. "We knew that when he finally recovered from that, it
would be for good. This . . . this whatever-it-is that he does
now--we thought, when nothing happened after the first time in
August, that it was a one-shot. Over, done with, never again.
Pick up and go on with your life, and in a few more months,
Mulder and I would be partners again, back to our regular
assignments. Now . . ."
        Abruptly she turned around, staring out the window,
fighting to not even blink. She would _not_ cry in front of his
doctor. She was a doctor herself, and doctors didn't cry when
discussing their patients. Only this wasn't a patient, this was
*Mulder*, and she wasn't his doctor, she was his partner, he was
her best friend--she clutched at the safety rail with all her
strength and the rail failed her.
        The sobs took her and shook her like she had shaken her
Raggedy Ann doll when she was three years old and the family dog
had died. She was too young to understand; all she had known was
that everyone else was unhappy and no one loved her any more, and
she had to take it out on *someone*. So she'd shaken Annie hard
enough to make her cloth arms and legs and head flop wildly back
and forth--and it had done her no good at all. Then her Daddy
"Ahab" had come, picked her up, and let her scream and pound
furiously on his chest, and tear at his uniform buttons until she
was too tired to try any more. He'd held her and rocked her until
she fell asleep in his arms. He was still holding her the next
morning when she woke up.
        When she finally stopped crying, she was huddled on the
floor in front of the safety rail. Dr. Carrington was next to
her, holding her, having let her ruin the doctor's silk blouse
with her tears, makeup, and runny nose. There was a half-empty
box of tissues and a mound of wadded-up tissues on the floor in
front of her. She pulled a couple more out, and blew her nose.
The familiar, but long-unfelt, harshness of the hospital brand of
tissues was just what she needed.
        "Better?" Dr. Carrington gave her a quick hug and let her
go. She stayed down on the floor, but moved far enough away to be
outside Scully's personal space.
        Scully nodded. "Ye . . . yeah." Her voice was shaky and
so were her hands. She knew her legs wouldn't hold her just yet,
so she shifted and sat cross-legged. She was short enough she was
able to scoot backwards under the safety rail until she could
rest her back and head against the cool glass. Suddenly she had a
vision of the housekeeper tomorrow morning, wondering just who
had messed up her squeaky-clean windows, since children under
sixteen weren't allowed on this unit.
        She started giggling, then laughing, then she was
laughing so hard she was crying again, but these were good tears,
washing away the pain of the others. When she stopped this time,
she knew the face that she turned to Dr. Carrington was calm and
back in control.
        "Now what, Isabelle? I'm very tempted to ask you to start
the Compazine now, before he's awake. But if we do that, will he
still be . . . I don't know what to call it . . . connected? . .
. strongly enough to tell us where or how to catch this killer?
I'm sure I know which victim he's zeroed in on, and I know for a
fact that he will _never_ forgive us, never trust *me* again, if
he is unable to stop this because of something we do."
        She started to gather the tissues, in preparation for
getting up. Dr. Carrington shook her head, saying, "Forget that.
Housekeeping will get them. Right now, I want to check on Mulder
again. I don't think he should be left to just the fifteen-minute
ward checks any longer than necessary. He could injure himself if
he's unaware of where he is and gets out of bed."
        She nodded, remembering that they had decided not to
restrain Mulder in a bed this time, but admit him to the psych
ward because here he could have a locking room with a private
toilet. He would be frantic if he'd made it as far as the door
and was unable to get out, and unable to free himself from his
inner world enough to communicate with the outer world.


7:05 p.m.

        He was still asleep, but it was obvious that he was
coming closer to waking up. His restless movements and the
occasional understandable word he muttered made it clear he was
already tying to tell her something. That, at least, was
significant progress from the first time, when other agents had
sat with him, hour after hour, trying to get anything relevant
when all he *wanted* to say was 'Let me go' or 'I have to stop
him' or 'knives'."
        With a violent gasp for air, Mulder sat straight up, left
eye wide open and frantically searching for something. Then he
bolted for the open door of the bathroom, and she could hear the
unmistakable sounds of unproductive retching. She stood up, but
gave him a few minutes of privacy, hoping that he wouldn't need
her help, or the Compazine immediately.
        The toilet flushed and the faucet turned on, so Scully
readied her tape recorder, in case he was coherent enough to talk
to her. In another couple of minutes he was leaning against the
door jamb, then he slid down it--a controlled slide--till he was
sitting on the floor. His face was ashen, the one pupil she could
see fully dilated, his breathing irregular, but he was looking up
at her, seeing _her_, and he was in control.
        "Demerol. Soon, Scully. The headache's bad and it's gonna
get worse."
        She'd forgotten about that. Why had she ever thought that
the initial Demerol would be enough? The first time his headache
had lasted until he understood that they'd caught the killer. Why
should this time be any different? She started to apologize and
was struck by the fact that he was humming a tune. "Mulder, why
are you humming?"
        He didn't answer, at least not directly. Instead he
started to sing:

        "And I will show you grotto and cave,
        And sacrificial altar.
        And I will show you blood on the stone
        And I will be your mentor.
        And Night will be our darling
        And Fear will be our name.

        And it's hi-ho-hey, I am the bold marauder.
        It's hi-ho-hey, I am the white destroyer."

        The words were awful, conjuring horrible images of what
the killer did to the little girls, but the tune was catchy
enough to make her want to join in. The very idea that Mulder
could know such a song turned her stomach.
        Then he grabbed his head, bent over, and simply grunted
in pain for a few minutes. When he straightened back up he said,
"He's a neighbor. Not a next-door neighbor, but somewhere in the
neighborhood. He had Christina so totally terrified she went with
him docilely, and they walked side by side away from her house.
He held her hand.
        "And now I want the Compazine. Put me down and keep me
down for at least a week, Scully. I think I'll try killing myself
if I don't forget this before I wake up. He's a monster. A cold-
blooded, sadistic monster who sacrifices to the gods of hate and
bigotry and--and enjoys every single thing he does to the girls,
their babysitters, and their families."
        He wrapped his arms around himself and drew up his knees,
hugging and rocking ever so slightly. He probably wasn't aware he
was doing it. His left eye had lost its focus, but she needed him
focused. She needed him in the here and now, because he hadn't
given her jack shit to catch the killer, and she was sure he
didn't realize that.
        He'd said Christina walked away from her house, not that
she'd walked all the way to where she'd been killed. The killer
was probably white--almost certainly white--if the song was
really pertinent. How could he get away with that unless the
neighbors were used to seeing Christina with other white men? Or
had she been one of the victims where no one noticed anything?
She couldn't remember; too many victims, too many locations, too
many houses. Too many suspects. With ten dead kidnap victims, and
the same number of dead babysitters, all in one major
metropolitan city over a two year period, there were nearly two
hundred names on the short list alone.
        So she steeled herself for the deliberate cruelty to
come. "No, Mulder, not yet."
        He flinched. After a second, his rocking became a little
faster, a little harder. She could see the fingertips of his
right hand, and they were bone white. He would have bruises on
his ribs from where he was holding himself. He was panting in his
pain and distress, unable to ask why she wouldn't give him the
peace he needed.
        She wouldn't tower over him. She sat down on the floor
next to him, blocking his access to the bathroom, but leaving him
the entire rest of the room if he couldn't face this now, if he
had to get away from her. He couldn't go far; the door was locked
and she had the panic button the charge nurse had insisted she
wear the entire time she was in here. He couldn't hurt himself
either; there was nothing in this room but the mattress on the
floor and one blanket.
        "Mulder, where did he take her? Tell me. Not Christina's
house. I know about that. Where did he take her? Was it his car?
What kind of car--stick shift or manual? Car or pickup truck?
Come *on*, Mulder, I need this. There are too many men on the
list; narrow it down for me."
        The rocking was becoming frantic. He was mouthing words--
More words to the same song? she wondered--although no sounds
came out.
        He stopped, so suddenly that she could see his hair take
a fraction of a second to settle around his forehead. He didn't
breathe for so long she became afraid he'd faint. His lips shaped
words, short phrases, but she had no idea what they were.
        "Mulder, you *have* to tell me. Out loud. Say it." She
held the tape recorder closer, to be sure she'd catch even a
whisper.
        And it was a whisper. A faint, totally despairing
whisper. A whisper that said he knew he had to go deeper into the
hell only he could see. "Pickup. White sheets. Hoods. Burning
crosses."
        His voice strengthened and he was singing again:

        "And we will go to ravage and kill,
        And we will go to plunder.
        And we will wave the widowing flag,
        And I will be your Mother.
        And Christ will be our darling
        And Fear will be our name.

        And it's hi-ho-hey, I am the bold marauder.
        It's hi-ho-hey, I am the white destroyer."

        Stunned, she sat back, instantly realizing she couldn't
search the list of suspects right now to find out who was in the
Ku Klux Klan--if that information was even available. It wasn't
the information she needed, and Mulder obviously knew that.
        She took a breath, held it a moment, then let it out
slowly. Repeated it. Then a third time, calming herself, getting
ready for the torture she was about to inflict. "Mulder,
_where_did_they_go_? The last place. The place he killed her.
Tell me. Describe it."
        The look he turned on her she would never forget. It was
hatred and love and forgiveness and that despair--and goodbye. He
didn't expect to come out of this sane. When he spoke, his voice
was the flat, emotionless monotone of someone talking under
drugs, and his words were interspersed with the grunts of agony
that she knew meant he was close to passing out.
        "A house. His house. Steps up the front. A covered porch.
Upstairs to the first bedroom. The ropes are ready, waiting. He
makes her take her clothes off herself. She's cold, he can see
the gooseflesh. He shows her a picture--Amy? Maribeth? It doesn't
matter. He makes her lie down on the altar--the bed--and he . . .
he . . . rapes her. Anally. Orally. Vaginally. In that order.
She's bleeding. She can't walk. He picks her up. *Drops* her in
the tub, and scours her clean. Have to be clean for the
sacrifice."
        What he sang this time was much shorter, and chilled her
more than the other two verses combined. She would remember those
two lines and the chorus for the rest of her life.

        "And Death will be our darling
        And Fear will be our name.

        And it's hi-ho-hey, I am the bold marauder.
        It's hi-ho-hey, I am the white destroyer."

        He returned to the monotone. "Goes downstairs and makes
himself dinner. Washes the dishes. The Polaroid is on the mantle
over the fireplace. She's still in the tub. Good. One picture
now. Save the rest of the roll. They'll get better later. Puts
the camera back. Goes to sleep alone in his bedroom."
        There was a pause, and without even realizing what she
was doing, she pushed the panic button. She screamed "STAFF!" and
grabbed Mulder's wrists.
        He tried to get first one, then the other, up to his
mouth. She held on, feeling his teeth on her hands, her fingers.
But he couldn't bite through to tear open his own wrists, and
then there were other hands helping. He was wild:  it took one
person on each arm to keep his wrists away from his mouth, and
another to hold his legs so he couldn't try to kick the people on
his arms.They flipped him face down on the floor, holding him
there while the nurse injected him with something right through
his pajama pants.
        Almost immediately he started to calm down. Within five
minutes he was asleep, and they put him to bed.


Emergency Room
7:30 p.m.

        It was cold; ERs were always too cold for the patients,
once they made you change into the hospital gown. Scully looked
at the plastic bag that held the remains of her blouse and jacket
and wondered why the nurse had absolutely refused to take them
off her the normal way. So it would get the wounds dirty. What
did that matter? Her sleeves were nowhere near as contaminated as
a human mouth--human bites were considered filthier than dog or
cat bites. So it would hurt. What was a little more pain, on top
of what she had already? She had refused to let them take her to
surgery because she needed to be able to talk to Dr. Kennedy when
he arrived. Now she waited for the local anesthetic to take
effect in both hands, so they could sew her up here.
        And she shivered, even under two blankets straight from
the warmer. From the cold, she told herself. It couldn't possibly
be shock from watching Mulder trying so desperately to kill
himself that he didn't care how badly he was hurting her.
        Scully remembered one patient from her Psychiatric
rotation, a woman she had to transfer to the state hospital on
what they called a "Level III Suicide Watch". That woman had
absolutely no privacy. A staff member was within arm's reach at
all times, she slept with her arms restrained because she
couldn't be trusted not do something to herself under the covers,
she was restrained and fed via NG tube at mealtimes because she
refused to eat, and she received all her medicines by injection
because she would deliberately vomit if they tried putting the
medicine in her tube feedings. Scully had never seen anyone in
such mental pain before. To this day she wondered if she had done
the right thing, because that patient, as soon she had been
deemed safe to come off constant visual supervision, hung herself
in the shower room on her ward.
        Mulder was going to be on that kind of suicide watch when
he woke up.

        Dr. Kennedy listened to her tape recording of those ten
minutes and they discussed what Mulder had done while she was
getting the stitches and dressings applied. They discussed what
medicine to use; neither of them wanted to use heavy enough doses
of Compazine to keep him "snowed" to the point that he didn't
know what was going on. That class of neuroleptics had major side
effects that became more severe with increased dosage, and
duration of dosing, and some of those side effects, in some
patients, were irreversible. Mulder had had one of those side
effects when he'd taken the Compazine in August. The newer drugs
had far fewer side effects, and in many patients were just as, if
not more, effective.
        They knew Mulder could make himself "forget" if they used
the Compazine. They knew the newer drugs were much safer. Dr.
Kennedy requested a consult from a psychiatrist who specialized
in drug therapy. His recommendation was to put Mulder on
Risperdal and a strong sedative to keep him "out", and
figuratively cross their fingers.


Psychiatric Ward
11:20 a.m., November 6

        Scully paused at the locked door to the Psychiatric Ward.
She hadn't bothered to visit this past week--what was the point
of sitting with Mulder when he was so heavily drugged he didn't
even turn over by himself? It wasn't like in June, when he might
wake up at any moment. This time he woke up because Dr. Kennedy
finally let him. Mom went to see him in the regular room he'd
been temporarily moved to. She went every day, stayed and talked
to him for at least a couple of hours.
        It was different for her. *She* hadn't listened to Mulder
describe what Warren Richardson had--her mind went off on a
tangent. Some part of her mind, the analytical part, had wondered
over and over again why Mulder had kept talking. The porch
probably would have been enough to identify the correct house.
Then "the first bedroom" almost certainly would have confirmed
it. But still he had continued, describing the initial rapes and
torture, and the Polaroid on the mantle. Suddenly she understood.
Because *that* was the detail that had told the police they had
the right house. Only Mulder hadn't "seen" it until "he" had gone
to get the camera.
        And to *not* be able to forget? She desperately wished
she had some of whatever Mulder had been drugged with at Ellens
Air Force Base. She'd give it to him this very minute, and not
care how much extra memory she erased, if only she could let him
forget that night.
        Then she shivered with fear--for Mulder. There was no way
in hell she would believe that he had done his usual "spooky"
thing this time. This time it really was ESP, no matter how well
Mulder argued against it. This time he couldn't argue it away.
The Polaroid camera being kept on the mantle, the white robe and
hood found in Richardson's pick-up truck, the fact that he
dropped Christina into the bathtub--Mulder could _not_ have
intuited those, no matter how spooky he was being.
        If the Risperdal worked, if Mulder got out of here with
his sanity intact, he would go right back to the ISU and
profiling until it happened again with another serial killer. And
then another and another-- She shuddered in horror this time. If
only she could make everything could go back the way it had been
before they had been called in to help on June 16th.
        "If wishes were horses . . ." She shook her head and made
herself concentrate on why she was here today. Dr. Kennedy had
stopped the sedative; the nurse had called her at her mother's
house where she was staying, saying it looked like he'd be waking
up mid-morning, and that he'd be back on the Psychiatric Ward by
then. So she'd called both Assistant Director Skinner and Senior
Agent Elliot, and taken a cab here because she couldn't drive
with all the stitches in her hands and her mother was out with
friends. Mulder's future in the FBI depended on what happened
today, and in the next month. Dr. Kennedy had insisted that he
stay here that long, no matter what he said or how he functioned
initially.
        She agreed wholeheartedly. Mulder was incredibly good at
hiding things that bothered him. She was going to deliver an
ultimatum, as soon as he was capable of understanding it:  he
either stayed voluntarily and worked with Dr. Kennedy, or, as his
next of kin, she'd go to court to get Guardianship papers, and
then have him committed.
        Taking a deep breath, she pushed the doorbell. When she
was let into the ward, she went to the nurses' station for an
update. Mulder had been awake since about 10:15. He knew that
he'd tried to commit suicide. He'd said it was obvious this was a
psych ward, but he wasn't sure whether he was still at GUMC. He'd
said he knew he would be on Class A suicide precautions for a
while, and he wouldn't give them any problems about that. Then
he'd surprised all of them by asking how soon he could talk to
Dr. Kennedy.
        The nurse handed her an envelope. It had her name on it,
in unfamiliar handwriting. She started reading the piece of paper
inside.

        Scully,
                I know you

        She looked up, her eyes asking the question she couldn't
make herself say aloud.
        "He was in restraints, you know. So he asked me to write
it. He said he figured, with his luck, he'd be talking with the
doctor when you got here and he wanted you to have the apology
first thing." The nurse put a hand out, very gently touching one
of hers. "He knows what he did to you. He's very grateful you
stopped him. I've never seen anything like it. _No_one_ remembers
a suicide attempt that clearly--the very fact that they're
actively suicidal means they aren't thinking clearly."
        Scully smiled, tucked the paper in her pocket to read
later, and shook her head. "Mulder has an eidetic memory. The
only things that interfere with it are certain drugs, and he
wasn't drugged then. He could quote you word for word what each
of us said and describe exactly what each of us did--not that I'd
ask him to. I'd be worried if he *couldn't* remember.
        She looked at the nurse, became serious again. "That's
what you'll have to watch out for--him remembering. He made
himself get inside the head of a serial killer, to try to figure
out how to catch that man. It worked too well; he 'became' the
man for one of those horrible murders. He told me, right off,
that he'd try suicide if he had to remember past her kidnaping.
Then I had to make him live through the entire thing, to actually
tell me about it, in order to get the information that enabled
the local police to arrest the right man.
        "Mulder is one of the gentlest people I know. He would
_never_ do to anyone one one-hundredth of what that killer did to
those children. He just about told me he didn't expect to come
out of this sane. That he's well enough to act rationally *now*
is beyond anything I could expect."


3:30 p.m., November 9

        What a fool he'd been. What a blind, starry-eyed fool. So
he'd thought he could deal with it while he was snowed, had he?
Thursday morning had been the honeymoon, and _this_, this "just-
leave-me-alone-and-let-me-kill-myself" depression, was the
marriage. For better or for worse, till death do us part--and
they watched him _way_ too closely for any chance of that.
        Mulder ignored the psychiatric aides on either side of
him, looking passively out the floor-to-ceiling window at the end
of the corridor, his hands dangling loosely from the handcuffs
permanently attached to the sides of the chain around his waist,
his stocking feet in the ankle chains that prevented him from
walking normally, let alone running. He had "decompensated", as
they so politely put it. "Crashed" was a much better term. He
knew exactly what had happened, and knew there was nothing anyone
here could do to help him.
        He would go back to Quantico because he had a spectacular
solve rate, and he would do this again and again and again, and
eventually he would simply be this oracle they fed nightmares to
and in return he'd spit out solutions. He couldn't live like
that. He *wouldn't* live like that. He'd kill himself before he
let that happen.
        He'd made a running dive for this window late Thursday
afternoon, intending to have enough momentum to crash through. He
had been sudden enough, and he ran fast enough, that the aides
hadn't been able to stop him. He had learned his lesson the hard
way; that "glass" wasn't, of course, and he had the bruises to
prove it--and the sore muscles and bruises from where they'd
wrestled him immobile on the floor, two people on each arm and
each leg, holding him there till the nurse could stab him with
the needle full of Ativan to put him out.
        Now he let them do whatever they wanted. Ate the food and
took the medicines they put in his mouth because it was easier to
swallow than spit them out, sat where they put him, walked when
they made him exercise, lay quietly in bed while they exchanged
the chains for the leather wrist and ankle restraints he slept
in, and, in general, waited hopelessly for a non-existent chance
to get away from them long enough to smash his head against a
wall enough times to cause enough brain damage that he wouldn't
know *anything* any more.
        Dr. Kennedy told him the anti-depressant would kick in
any time now. He didn't believe it. It had been at least a couple
of months--hadn't it?--since he'd had the first dose. He didn't
care that the calendar said that was just three days ago; the
endless minutes of total despair told him it must be a lot longer
ago than that.
        Jodi took his left arm, made him turn around and head
back the other way. They made him walk the full length of the
ward at least fifty times a day. The psychologist said that
exercise stimulated the appetite, and he had none. He had no
desire for anything now, unless you counted the desire to be
dead. He couldn't even make himself care that Scully hadn't come
to visit him--not *once*--since he'd been here.
        He wanted to die. And they wouldn't let him.


District of Columbia Superior Court Building
9:14 a.m., November 10

        Scully was actually stumbling as she left the courtroom,
she was so intent on *not* falling apart. Once was enough. Even
though her mother would never say a word, she didn't want to make
a fool of herself in public. Mom helped her to the ladies' room,
stuffed a fresh bunch of tissues in her hand, then excused
herself to use the facilities. That "privacy", little though it
was, was just what she needed to pull herself back together,
rather than burst into tears.
        She took a glance in the mirror, not expecting to have to
do any damage control. What she saw shocked her. She was actually
ashen and she couldn't blame it on the fluorescent lights this
time. Her "waterproof" eye makeup had smeared; obviously the many
quick dabs she had made at her eyes in front of the judge had
been more than enough to ruin things. She made a quick decision.
After carefully pulling on a pair of surgical gloves to keep her
stitches dry, she ran water and scrubbed her face clean. The air
dryer, instead of paper towels, was a nuisance, but the tissues
Mom had given her let her blot off most of the water before she
stuck her face to the barely-warm air coming from the dryer. By
the time her mother was done washing her hands, she was ready to
go into public again.
        Mom didn't say anything till they were in the car. She
drove; Dana didn't even get a chance to get in the driver's seat.
"Dana, are you OK? Are you going to be able to handle me being
Fox's Guardian? Or do you want to ask for an impar--"
        "No! No. No impartial, court-appointed Guardian. He or
she wouldn't know Mulder, wouldn't have any idea of what he
needs, what is likely to make him worse." She was silent for a
moment, trying to marshal her arguments. Then she turned sideways
on the seat. She would be able to look at her mother, even if Mom
couldn't take her eyes off the road to look at her.
        "Mulder has been kidnaped, drugged, tortured, you name
it, someone has done it to him. He's handled all of that without
freaking out. Right now he's so depressed he's not aware that
they've got him in restraints twenty-four hours a day. When he
does realize, he's likely to flash back to one of those times.
And the *worst* times, Mom, were when government officials
ordered it. So the usual method in a psych facility, of
restraining someone physically and chemically till they can
control their behavior, may just backfire. He'll associate the
restraints and drugs with attempts to get him to talk or to give
up people or things *they* think he shouldn't have. You'll have
to--"
        She couldn't go any farther. Her hands clenched around
the shoulder belt as she hung on till she could get her emotions
back under control. Finally she was able to say, "I'm sorry. I--"
        "Dana, don't apologize. We both know that I was only
supposed to be there for emotional support. You were supposed to
become Fox's Guardian. How could we be expected to know that this
judge wouldn't allow it because you're Fox's next of kin and have
his Power of Attorney and Medical Power of Attorney?" Her right
hand patted Dana's left knee. "We're both lucky I was there and
that the judge was willing to accept me because I know Fox, yet
have no financial access. Things will work out fine. *Fox* will
be fine. He just needs some time."
        Scully nodded. She turned to face front, put her head
back and tried to let the drive soothe her. It didn't work. She
was too worried about Mulder, and Mom having to make the
decisions for his treatment--and what if Dr. Kennedy decided they
couldn't handle him there any more? Would he have to go to St.
Elizabeth's Hospital, with the long-term patients? That would
trigger all his _waking_ nightmares of government conspiracies.
She *had* to get through to him, to make him understand--
        But he didn't even know she existed now. He stared
through her as if she wasn't there, all four times she'd visited
him since she'd first gotten Kennedy's call at Quantico. The
second suicide attempt was bad enough; she had hardly slept after
getting that news, just going in to watch Mulder sleep the sleep
of Ativan. But then Kennedy called the next day with a new
"problem". And the Mulder who had *always* responded to her
voice, who throughout his long and hard recovery from his
accident had always looked to her for relief, had pushed himself
to get to her side--that Mulder was gone. She was so accustomed
to communicating with his eyes, a simple look conveying thoughts,
attitudes, decisions. Now his eyes just slid across her, or
worse, stayed fixed on the space she inhabited without a flicker
of acknowledgement. He responded to everyone else, aware of their
presences and activities even while remaining completely passive
and uncommunicative; but for her there was nothing.
        On the 6th, when he had awakened after that horrible
first attempt (she couldn't bear to think about her
responsibility for pushing him into that), he had seemed so calm,
so much himself. The change in him had come without any apparent
warning. With his note to her and his reassurances to the nurses,
she had actually hoped that he would be fine--that the Mulder she
knew would defeat even *this* nightmare. She had left the
hospital not fifteen minutes before his attempt to dive through
the window. If only she had realized what his silence had meant.
If only she had--she shook herself mentally. "If only"s were
useless. She hadn't noticed. The staff hadn't noticed. He had
been dozing much of the afternoon, still tired from the residue
of the sedative and from his two straight hours with Dr. Kennedy
before lunch. How was *anyone* to know when his quietness turned
into the decision to kill himself?
        He wasn't in restraints then; he had been so obviously
sane, aware and in control of himself, that he only had the two
aides who shadowed him. When he was awake he joked with them,
told them in advance *everything* he was going to do, but still
was completely respectful of their responsibility toward him. His
fitful conversation with her gradually ground to a halt, and when
he had nodded off for the third time in ten minutes, she decided
she should go and let him rest, profoundly relieved that he
seemed miraculously at peace after his ordeal.,
        Unfortunately, there had been no miracle. They told her
afterwards that it was as if he'd been shot from a cannon:  he
came out of his chair and took off at a dead run toward that damn
window. Tom and Phil said they never had a chance, that he dodged
three other patients and staff members before taking a flying
leap at the window, arms over his head to protect himself from
flying glass--<Why, in God's name, had he done *that*? He was
going to die when he hit the ground, so why protect his
head?>--and then had fallen to the ground, stunned from the
impact against the reinforced Plexiglas. According to the report
she'd read, he had been even wilder than when he'd tried to bite
his wrists out. He had been screaming this time, totally out of
control, and had injured three staff members before they'd been
able to subdue him and get the Ativan in him.
        And when he woke up--he didn't care. He didn't do
anything voluntarily, but neither did he refuse anything they
made him do. He was a living, breathing, totally dead human being
who didn't care about anything. He didn't see her, he didn't hear
her, he didn't even seem to feel her hand when she touched his.
He was a wax-work dummy of the Mulder she knew.


Margaret Scully's house
10:00 a.m.

        "Dana, you're crying."
        Her mother's voice startled her; she put her hands up to
her face, frantically wiping the tears away. "No, I'm not, Mom. I
just have something in my eyes from the heater vent."
        Mom was at her side of the car, opening the door. When
had they gotten to her mother's house? They were supposed to go
to her apartment. Then she was being held in her mother's arms,
with her hair being stroked, and Mom was saying, "There, there,
it's all right, Dana. You can cry; you need to cry. Let it out,
honey, I'm here."
        And she did. When her mother was ready to go to the
hospital, taking them the Guardianship papers, she couldn't even
face leaving the house. She was too overwhelmed with all the
possible futures she saw for herself and Mulder. When Mom
eventually came back, with "horror stories" about the number of
forms she'd had to fill out, and the number of times she'd had to
sign her name, she couldn't muster the interest to nod, let alone
smile with her. Dinner was no better. She was still battling the
impossible future that said Mulder might not come back. She
pushed her food around, not really eating anything, and tore her
bread into bits, and rolled those bits into pills, and she
_still_ couldn't see a way around that future. When Mom went to
bed she was still pacing, hugging one of the throw pillows from
the couch. It was well past her own bedtime before she could
finally admit that there probably was no other future--Mulder was
not likely to make it back. She would have to go on alone, make a
new career for herself in the Bureau.        
        She would visit him at St. Elizabeth's on weekends,
talking to him about things that had no meaning for him anymore
because his world would be bounded by locked doors to which he
had no keys and the medicines they gave him to keep the horrific
images away, or to keep him calm enough to be let out of the
seclusion/restraint room. If she were very lucky, he might
eventually be well enough to be allowed off the ward with a staff
member accompanying them while they took slow walks--to
accommodate his delayed reaction time caused by the medicines--
around the hospital grounds.
        It was nearly 4:00 a.m. by the time she was ready for
bed. Dr. Theodopolous, the Chief Pathologist at Quantico, was
hinting about *thinking* about retiring in the next few years.
She would talk to him, see if he had any suggestions. With a
clear head, and heart finally at peace, she went to upstairs to
her room.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Acute Psychiatric Ward
Counseling Room
1:10 p.m., December 10

        Dr. John Kennedy patiently watched the man off to his
left. Mulder had retreated to the window again, scuffing one foot
in a small circle on the floor, his hands hanging loosely at his
sides. He had not yet completely outgrown the kinesthetic habits
of the restraints he no longer needed. Nor had he outgrown the
awareness that he wasn't allowed to get more than arm's length
away from a staff member. There was a tension about him that
spoke of not enough time having passed to relax to his newest
level of freedom, where he could get all the way across the room
from the aide assigned to visually supervise him that shift.
        This room, used by all the psychiatrists with too few
psych admits to qualify for a private office, featured several
soft chairs, an old desk for the doctor, a locked cabinet of
supplies near the door, and in the corner by the window, a TV and
VCR on a cart. No extra tools or aids would be needed today: 
this was a talk session. Now that he was past the stage of
needing intensive medication and direct supervision, Mulder was
thinking too clearly to respond well to most exercises Kennedy
would normally use. In this case, Mulder's training as a
psychologist--not just his classroom knowledge, but his
internship and all the years of practical experience in the
F.B.I.--tended to complicate his psychiatric treatment.
        By now Kennedy knew better than to try to engage Mulder
before he was ready. He was perfectly content to sit this complex
FBI Agent out. Mulder _would_ talk to him before too many more
minutes had passed; he had already gone through the stage of
deliberately not saying anything important till it was too late
to pursue that topic.
        Today's waiting time allowed him to continue his own
internal debate regarding a subject he knew his patient would
have great difficulty approaching directly, even if he were
willing to do so. Still, it was just as obvious that this was a
subject neither Mulder nor Kennedy could afford to leave entirely
alone. It would have to be addressed at some point, preferably in
the relatively neutral and controlled context of a psychiatric
session--rather than letting the thing pop up on its own, with
unpredictable consequences. John had been briefly tempted to call
Margaret Scully for her opinion on the matter, but that would
have been both inappropriate and largely unnecessary;  it was
quite clear to anyone, even without professional training, how
Margaret felt about Fox and Dana.
        After a time Mulder turned around again, and resumed his
pacing. The pacing helped him to think, he said, and Kennedy knew
just how important it was to Mulder to be able to think. He was
no longer frantic, and Kennedy noted his progress with approval: 
he was learning how to control this, how to live with himself. He
still had occasional flashbacks to his original trauma, reliving
the torture and murder of that girl; but he had learned how to
survive those flashbacks, how not to become immersed in them. He
always remembered where he was, and knew how to get whatever help
he needed from the staff. More importantly, he showed an
increasing trust in his own resources. He had regained not only a
desire but a determination to live, and the potency of that
desire was probably the best, most promising gauge of his
recovery.
        "I still don't understand it," he said, stopping in his
tracks and absentmindedly taking a seat, his fingers playing over
the elbow rest. "How could I not know she was there? I know *now*
that she was with me almost as soon as you finished with me that
day; we were talking all afternoon in between me fading out. I
remember it, it's *there*; she told me about some car trouble her
brother Charles was having, we joked about him being so faithful
to his old Volkswagen. We didn't say much, we didn't talk about
what had happened. That was what my note was for--I'll have to
ask her what she thought of my prose style."
        "But that's not what's bothering you." Mulder was an
expert deflector--but with Kennedy he was up against the best
when it came to fielding fly balls.
        Mulder nodded, his face taking on the peculiar cast it
had when he was "replaying" a memory. "Then she left, and as far
as I was concerned she'd never been there. The memory, the
knowledge wasn't there any more. That was one of the things that
convinced me to jump:  I was in this . . . *thing* alone. Nobody
knew what I'd seen, and the one person who had seen me go through
it--who had sent me into it, for God's sake--didn't care enough
to see me again."
        Kennedy shook his head carefully. This line of thought
had consumed much of their time together in the past two weeks.
It had been a long time before Mulder had been ready for these
sessions, and he'd obviously had plenty of opportunity inside
that formidable mind of his to build up the kinds of arguments,
condemnations, and defenses that made Kennedy's best judgment so
vital now. "That's not the way it happened, Mulder. You know
better than to keep quoting that state of mind. Take away that
accusation, and what do you have?"
        "Maybe the trauma of what I did caught up with me, maybe
that pain distracted my mind and pushed out the more recent
memory. Maybe the dozing let that happen." Mulder shrugged, and
chewed on his lip.
        "That's plausible. But it doesn't explain it for you,
does it?"
        "No. I needed her there. I wanted her there. She'd been
with me through all of it, she never gave up on me, not before
the accident or for one minute after. She was probably the one
thing I would have *liked* to have seen. And somehow I stared
right through her."
        "Are you so sure you wanted to see her?"
        "What's that supposed to mean?"
        "You said a minute ago that she was the one who sent you
into the nightmare that made you try to kill yourself. It would
not be unreasonable to resent that just a little bit. If you
believe that's true, then it would make sense that part of you
would want to refuse her admittance at that point, would want to
nullify her hold on you. Knowing you, it's just as likely that
you 'faded out' expressly to get her to go away so you could make
the attempt, whether you were aware of your motivation or not."
        Mulder buried his head in his hands, fingers pushing at
his skull as if to penetrate the knots in his mind. "I can't
accept that."
        "Of course you can. She pushed you, and you fell--hard.
You wanted to die. And she made you go there. You said it
yourself. She refused you the peace you begged her for. She
didn't care, she was going to get what she was after and the hell
with what it did to you."
        "No! Not Dana!"
        "But that's what happened, isn't it? They got their
killer, and you got . . . the psych ward. Why is it so hard for
you to admit your anger about this?"
        "Because she doesn't deserve it. It's not fair to her.
She let me bite her hands to shreds trying to stop me from
hurting myself; that's not someone who doesn't care, is it?"
        "You tell me, Mulder. What do you think?"
        "Fuck you, Dr. Kennedy." The words were quiet, tired.
Mulder spoke at the floor, so softly Kennedy almost couldn't hear
him. "I think that Dana Scully is the best friend I ever had or
could hope to have. I don't deserve half the loyalty and support
she's given me. From the first day I met her she has taken me
seriously--not necessarily my theories, but she has always
listened to *me*. She has put herself, her career and her life,
on the line for me more times than I want to think about." Now he
looked up, eyes anguished, raising his voice a little in order to
be heard. "I've been nothing but trouble for her, and she has
never failed to back me up. She believed in me when I didn't, she
kept me going when I gave up hope. I can't believe I could want
to shut her out like that."
        "But you did. And if you had seen her face as she tried
to reach you afterwards, you would have had the satisfaction of
knowing she'd been suitably punished."
        Now Mulder's eyes burned at him. "My doctor isn't
supposed to *try* to make me feel guilty, is he?"
        "No one has to try with you, Mulder. Guilt appears to be
your personal specialty. You seem to prefer it to honest anger.
I'm just trying to help you express yourself more accurately."
        Mulder got up again and took a step toward the desk.
"Express myself about what, *Dok-tor* Kennedy?" Mulder the
psychologist never liked being pinned down, especially not by a
psychiatrist.
        Internally, Dr. Kennedy took a deep breath--keeping his
exterior in practiced, professional calm. "About how what your
partner made you do on one level was a betrayal. No matter what
else was at stake, the person you trusted most forced you to hurt
yourself. The one person who *knew* how much it would cost you
was the one who made you pay the price."
        "But--" Mulder started, but for once his defenses gave
way. He couldn't get out the next words, his face twitching and
almost contracting on itself in the effort he was making not to
feel this. Then the tears came, helpless sobs of a lost child,
and Mulder sank to the floor. Kennedy leaned forward, but saw
that Mulder showed no sign of wanting to hurt himself, so he
relaxed back into his chair.
        Good. Let it come. It was important to let Mulder do this
part by himself. Kennedy let him be, and fished inside his suit
coat for a particular notebook. Two days earlier he had met with
Agent Scully, and now, while Mulder was "busy", would be a good
time to review his notes on *her* version of that story. She,
too, clearly knew a thing or two about guilt, responsibility,
holding one's self accountable. She, too, clearly had little
ability or preparedness to confront precisely what her partner
meant to her. The idea of allegiance seemed to be a powerful one
for her. If Dr. Kennedy were to use one word to describe this
woman, it would be "honorable".
        The quiet, firmly self-contained and yet somehow
unfailingly feminine agent had described in vivid, painful detail
the look on Mulder's face as he gave in to the "vision" of this
killer, a look simultaneously condemning her for and releasing
her from what he was about to do. If that look had included
forgiveness, Dana Scully had not yet claimed it. She ran the
fingers of one hand over the still-fresh scars on the other, and
seemed unaware that she was tracing the wounds of two people with
her words when she said, "I wish I'd never heard him say those
things. I wish it hadn't been me. But it couldn't have been
anyone else. He wouldn't have told anyone else. He trusted me.
And he would never have forgiven either of us if we had let that
monster hurt another girl." With that she had looked away, and
then back at him, bravely wiping away unshed tears. John Kennedy
had been struck by the incongruous thought that Da Vinci would
have liked to have painted that face. "I knew it might be too
much," she had gone on. "I knew it might mean losing him. But I
had to do it. I had to be true to the man, the agent I knew. Fox
Mulder--" and her voice had broken; but with a control that
seemed instinctive, she regained herself. "Fox Mulder never stops
until he gets as close to the truth as the universe will let
him."
        Mulder's sobs gradually lessened and became the cleansing
tears of grief. Kennedy shut the notebook and put it in the desk
drawer temporarily. Mulder's cries slowly coalesced into words.
"How could she do that to me?" He pulled up the end of his shirt
to wipe at his face, ignoring the tissue box within reach on the
corner of the desk.
        "You know it wasn't easy for her. It wasn't a choice she
wanted to make."
        "No . . ." He snuffled, and drew himself up a bit on the
floor, not yet willing to stand. "I knew she didn't want to. She
was getting the job done, the same thing I would have done."
        "What would you have done, Mulder? If it had been Scully
and not you?"
        "I--I don't know." He gave a big sigh. Clearly, he had
thought about this. Though still wet with tears, his face was
wry. "I probably would have chickened out. I've observed before
this that Dana Scully is stronger than I am, and tougher than I
am." He snuffled again, wiped at his face again. "She packs a lot
into a little package. You might have noticed."
        "I never met her before your accident. A lot of things
have changed in both your lives since then."
        "What do you mean?"
        "For one, you don't work together any more. Her mother is
now your legal guardian. One could conceivably call you her
brother at this point, not her partner." Kennedy chose his words
carefully:  we won't call her your sister, will we?
        Mulder obviously didn't like the idea. Apparently *this*
thought hadn't occurred to him. He managed to get to his feet and
start to slowly pace again, shaking his head. "No. It's not like
that."
        "What is it like, then?"
        Mulder shot him a glance, the protective glance of a
child that doesn't want you to see his private treasure because
you'll probably just think it's a bunch of rocks. "I told you,
she's my friend." He sat wearily down again in the same chair he
had occupied earlier. After the briefest of pauses, he
deliberately clasped his hands together in his lap.
        "Tell me about Dana Scully, Mulder."
        "What?"
        "Describe her to me. Remember, I don't know her the way
you do. What is she like?"
        Kennedy knew full well that Mulder was highly unlikely to
respond candidly to the question. His relationship with Scully
was a private issue, a secret of sorts, connected with the
secrets and dangers surrounding their work together. Kennedy had
gotten a particularly impressive glimpse of that secret on the
day the Zoloft kicked in following Mulder's second suicide
attempt. Mulder emerged from his semi-catatonic withdrawal to
find himself in full five-point restraints--and went completely,
hysterically berserk. In utter, terrified incomprehension of what
had happened to him, what his mind had clung to was Dana Scully: 
his need for her safety, and his certainty of her ability to save
him. This woman was bedrock for this man. This, of course, was
why the anger had been so hard for him to bear. Mulder's
statement that he needed Scully there had been an honest one. But
Kennedy also knew that these feelings were not open for further
inspection.
        As expected, Mulder took the opportunity to gather his
sense of humor about him. It might mean the end of productivity
for today, but it was necessary that Mulder be able to walk out
of this room feeling like himself.
        "I don't know," he started, that wolfish grin of his
starting to make an appearance. "Short. Smart. Strong. Stubborn."
        Dr. Kennedy steepled his fingers together, and waited to
be sure Mulder had caught the gesture. This particular patient
placed great value on symbolic nuance, and Kennedy had noted even
at their first session, back in early September, that Mulder
spent a good deal of energy "casing" his doctor, watching for
patterns and clues in the psychiatrist's behavior that might show
him how to play the game. "Some people might also call her a
beautiful woman."
        "What's your point, Doc?" Aggression, but colored with
that sense of humor. Good.
        "I wondered if that had ever been a problem for you."
        "What do you mean?" This was one angle Mulder had no
intention of playing along with, obviously. Too bad, kid, you're
on the doctor's territory now.
        "The two of you have worked in close proximity under
intense pressure for a number of years. You have each described
the other as the one person you trust, trust absolutely. The
impartial observer might call that an intimate relationship. I
asked the question because I imagine that, given FBI protocols
governing your situation, you may have experienced some conflict
in the matter which would contribute to how you feel now." He
deliberately kept his terminology academic, giving Mulder
emotional cover.
        The cover wasn't enough. Mulder shook his head again, his
jaw tightening. The tinge of panic touching his eyes spoke
volumes. He didn't speak.
        "You objected when I described you as her brother. How
would you describe your relationship with Dana?"
        "Easy." He spat out the word. "She's my partner."
        "Not lately, she isn't. Unless you're talking about a
different sense of the word. For the last several months she's
been your chauffeur, your watchdog, your right hand, your
advocate, and now your guardian's daughter."
        Mulder rocked a little in the chair, his jaw pulsing now.
"I've told you twice, she's my friend. We work together."
        "At the risk of joining you in repetition, Mulder, you
don't work with Scully any more. You may not work with her again
for quite some time. You have to take that out of the picture."
He let the silence settle for a few moments. Mulder seemed
mesmerized by this suggestion, which surprised Kennedy; this
thing must be deeper than he had suspected, if Mulder couldn't
shrug it off with a series of jokes or a cocksure denial. Kennedy
lowered his voice, and repeated his question. "How would you
describe your relationship with Dana?"
        Mulder stared unseeing at the front of Kennedy's desk.
His voice came out as a whisper, as if unbidden. "Essential." He
started rocking again.
        Kennedy paused before speaking again. "Are you afraid
that essence has been hurt in some way?"
        Now Mulder looked up, his face ashen. The voice was very
small. "I don't know. I hope not. I don't know what I would do if
she . . ."
        Dr. Kennedy lowered his voice one more half-notch. "If
she what?"
        Mulder's face firmed, and his voice found itself again.
"If she didn't want to be with me." His gaze steadied, and his
eyes warmed again with the conviction of the words. The statement
seemed to resolve something for him. Dr. Kennedy waited for
Mulder to volunteer the next piece of the puzzle, wondering if
he'd seen it yet or would be willing to name it if he had. "Or if
I didn't want to be with her. I--I haven't had much to hold on
to. If this . . . thing--the accident, what I tried to do to
myself--meant losing that trust, for me or for her . . ."
        "Yes?"
        Mulder leaned back in his chair with a long sigh, running
his hand through his hair. "Before they assigned Scully to the X
Files, all I had was my work. We've talked about my parents, you
know how that was. There was no one I was truly close to. It was
something I avoided. I've understood that about myself for a long
time." He paused. "But she changed that. It probably would have
happened with anybody assigned to me who stuck around; you were
right about the intense pressure and the trust. What I wonder
about is whether anybody else would have stuck around. I've
certainly done more than enough to drive most people away, but I
just can't seem to get rid of her." He grimaced at that.
        "Do you think you've tried?"
        "What?"
        "Tried to get rid of her."
        "I don't know. Maybe. Probably, on some level, just to
see how much she would take. Yeah."
        "But it didn't work, did it?"
        Mulder grinned. "Nope. Must be my charm."
        "I don't think I'd go that far."
        Mulder laughed, then; a good sound. Mulder was a man who
appreciated people who could see through him, even if he didn't
always like it when they did. "Maybe I'm just lucky. Or maybe
she's not as sane and sensible as she looks. Don't ask me to
explain it."
        "Seriously, Mulder. Have you ever considered what Dana's
feelings are where you're concerned?"
        Again that furtive, you-can't-see-my-marbles look. "No. I
don't understand why she's still there, how can I know what she
feels?"
        "Humor me, Mulder. Take a stab at it."
        Mulder opened his mouth, and shut it again.
        "When was the last time you saw her?" Both men knew that
Kennedy didn't need to ask that question, but doing so was one
way to respect what shreds of privacy the patients still had
while living on this ward.
        "She took a really long lunch and came in today to eat
with me." He started to smile.
        "What's so funny about that?"
        "We joked about the food here. I told her she was lucky
she still had a choice, and she said she'd think of me over her
next cup of coffee. That woman can be cruel."
        "How did she seem? How are things going for her?"
        Mulder sobered. "She looked tired. She's been pulling
long hours at Quantico, and all the business with my little visit
here has taken a lot out of her, too. She tried to hide it, but I
had to say something. She had an answer ready, she must have
known it would make me feel guilty. She looked me right in the
eye and poked a fork in my direction and told me to forget it,
she wanted to see me and that was it. How *I* felt about it was
beside the point. She was just grateful you're letting me use
utensils now."
        "Well, you have earned a few privileges," Kennedy said
drily. "You're responsible enough with furniture and sharp edges
to be in this office unrestrained, aren't you? You've come a long
way, Mulder."
        "Not long enough. Any chance of me getting out of here
for Christmas? It's only two more weeks, I've been keeping
track."
        Kennedy smiled. Both men knew the importance of a
patient's ability to assess the passage of time. "You just keep
answering my questions and don't do anything to make me revoke
your privileges, and we'll see. I think you're aware of how well
you handle your flashbacks now." He paused, watching relief and
encouragement replace the brief twinge of pain that crossed
Mulder's face before he nodded in acknowledgement. "But yes, I
think we're on schedule for what we discussed with Margaret and
Assistant Director Skinner last week." If all went well, Mulder
would be released for the holidays to live with Margaret as a
trial; if that was satisfactory, he would be allowed to go to his
own apartment with a live-in aide. Any decisions about going back
to work would be made after home living was deemed a success. "So
I guess it sounds like you don't have to worry about Dana not
wanting to be with you, doesn't it, if she insists on it?"
        The mention of his partner made Mulder uneasy again. "I
guess so. I know she made *me* feel better." Now the furtive look
Mulder gave his doctor was inverted:  wanting to know what the
other guy's marbles were. "She--she came to see you."
        Kennedy nodded, and relaxed his posture, giving the
visual cue of openness to the question. "Yes. I think it was a
valuable session."
        "You--I know you can't disclose one 'patient's' session
to another. But . . . ?"
        "Are you wondering if my time with her is why I'm asking
you the questions about her that I am today?"
        Mulder nodded.
        "That's only reasonable. I can give you an answer that
won't compromise any confidences. That answer would be:  No, or
only in a small sense. Speaking with her confirmed a decision I'd
already made about wanting to discuss this aspect of your
relationship with you. Her perspective on your suicide attempts,
and on your partnership with her, was helpful." Mulder received
that with a silent nod, his face closed over the questions he
wanted to ask. "If it helps any, Mulder, I believe you can be
assured that Scully's desire to see you is neither faked nor
exaggerated in any way. If there's anyone who wants you out of
here, whole and well and by her side again, it's your friend Dana
Scully."
        Mulder nodded yet again, and smiled. "Thanks, doc. You're
a pal."
        "Just doing my job, Mulder. You keep up the good work,
and I'll keep giving you the good news." He paused a moment.
"Before we go, I'd like your impressions of the home health aide
candidates we've seen so far. Do you have a preference?"
        Mulder grinned. "I think I like that guy Mark . . .
Stromberg, that was the name. He has a sense of humor. He'll need
it, living with me."
        "Just remember that whoever we choose won't be your
adversary. You won't be doing yourself any favors if you think of
this as a contest between you and the people trying to help you.
From the medications to the diet to the check-ins, this is all
about getting you back your life, and all of it is necessary.
You're the only one who can make that happen."
        "Yes, sir, doctor, sir. Understood, sir. On the road to
recovery, slow and steady. One day at a time, God grant me the
serenity."
        Yes, Mulder was definitely feeling like himself now; that
grin had almost become a smirk. The doctor wouldn't have been
surprised to see a few canary feathers drift out of his mouth
with those words. Although Kennedy was confident now of Mulder's
determination and ability to succeed, he remained concerned that
the man's long habits of ignoring official standards--"trust no
one"--might result in some foolhardy decision to evade part or
all of the restrictions governing his recovery. Kennedy saw
through the window in the door that the aide had already arrived
for the scheduled end of Mulder's session. The doctor stood, and
Mulder followed suit, turning to go back out onto the ward.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Acute Psychiatric Ward
2:27 p.m., December 22

        Mulder stood looking out the floor-to-ceiling window, his
hands hanging loosely next to the pockets of his slacks. He'd
spent more hours than he cared to think about looking out this
window during the past forty-seven days. Initially, because he
would stand here until someone turned him around and made him
walk back. Then, because it let him isolate himself and avoid
confronting the reasons for his suicide attempts. Later, it had
been the place he came to, to confront and deal with those
reasons.
        Today, he was looking for Scully and her mother. He'd
said his goodbyes after lunch--"Don't take this wrong, but I hope
I never see you again."--and packed his suitcase. Dr. Kennedy and
his treatment team had agreed that if he made it through
Christmas at Margaret's house, he would stay there till New
Year's. If he made it through New Year's, he would go to his own
apartment with Mark Stromberg--the only one of the three
psychiatric home health aides he'd met who had seemed even
remotely likable--to supervise him full time. If he made it for
two weeks at home, then Dr. Kennedy would decide when he could go
back to work. There was _no_ discussion about when he could
petition the court to have Margaret's Guardianship removed.
        He _would_ make it. He was _not_ coming back here. Dr.
Kennedy had promised that because the two suicide attempts were
the direct result of his work, he would never have to do another
profile. He'd never have to look inside the twisted soul of
another serial killer, never have to understand that killer well
enough to be able to figure out his whats, wheres, whens, and
whys. He'd . . .
        He stopped himself. <Don't dwell on it. It's over. Never
again.> By summer he'd be back at the X-Files, and until then
he'd cope with whatever Skinner assigned him to do. He'd done
that for all the months when Scully was missing, hadn't he? He
could do it with one hand tied behind his back this time, because
she'd be at Quantico, a phone call away.
        Where *were* they? He glanced at his watch, suddenly
worried. Was he wrong? Was this all a fantasy he'd woven, and,
instead of getting a pass, with a full discharge very likely
within ten days, was he actually being transferred to St.
Elizabeth's, to spend the rest of his life under lock and key?
        "Fox?"
        Startled, he jumped and spun around. Margaret Scully was
dressed in a heavy coat still speckled with water droplets where
the snow flakes had melted. Her hair, too, had the water
droplets, creating the illusion of tiny gemstones half-hidden in
her gray-streaked black hair. "Where's Scully?" he said
anxiously. Scully would be here if he was leaving. Margaret would
come alone if she had something to tell him as his Guardian. He--
        Margaret placed a hand on his arm. "Fox, *relax*.
Everything's OK. Dana's at the financial office downstairs,
handling your paperwork. She'll meet us at the main entrance. Are
you ready to go?"
        He nodded, finally believing he was leaving. "My suitcase
is at the nurses' station. Did you bring my coat?"
        She, too, nodded, angling her head in that pointing
movement people used when their arms were full or their hands
were in their pockets. "I left it in the Day Room." As they
headed back that way, she asked, "Your medicines?"
        He picked his coat off a chair back. Before answering her
he knocked on the window at the nurses' station because no one
was visible. "I'll have a ten-day supply and prescriptions for
after that. They won't let me have them myself. You or Scully
have to keep them."
        The RN, Lucy, came hurrying from the back. "Mulder, Mrs.
Scully; I'm sorry, I was on the phone. You're ready to go then?"
She held the door to the nurses' station open with one foot as
she reached under the desk to pull out his suitcase. "Here you
go." She took a small paper bag off the desk and handed it to
Margaret. "Mrs. Scully, you need to count these and sign the
receipt. Mulder knows his medicines, but as we discussed--"
        Margaret nodded, interrupting her. "If he doesn't ask for
his medicines within one hour either side of their scheduled
times, we offer them and write it down. If he refuses any offered
dose, or misses asking for any three doses, then he has to come
back." She took the bag, tipping out the unit-dose cards, quickly
checked them against the list, and signed the receipt. As she
slid the cards back in, she said, "There won't be any problems.
Fox is _not_ going to forget." Her glance at him was not a
question or a command, but one of quiet confidence.
        He shrugged on his coat, wanting to be *out*of*here*. He
hadn't been anywhere since he'd woken up but this ward and, last
week with two aides accompanying him, to the various departments
for the tests Dr. Carrington had ordered for his six-month post-
injury check up. Suddenly he wanted very much to smell fresh air,
feel the sharp sting of snowflakes on his face, and shiver in the
cold air outside.
        Lucy walked them to the ward door, checked over her
shoulder that no patients were close by, then unlocked the door.
"Good luck, Mulder. As you said, I hope I never see you again--at
least on *this* side of this door."


Margaret Scully's house
6:00 a.m., December 23

        Scully lay on her childhood bed, trying to ignore the
urges of her body. After talking with Dr. Theodopolous on
November 12, she'd decided to change her exercise routine.
Regular work-outs were important for a decidedly petite Field
Agent who at any moment might have to deal with a recalcitrant
suspect--or a liver-eating mutant, she reminded herself--but she
wouldn't need that same level of fitness in the Pathology labs
and classrooms. On the other hand, standing and sitting all day
in those same laboratories and classrooms had wreaked havoc with
her cardiovascular capacity, and turned her legs into noodles.
She pooped out after running up two flights of stairs, for
heaven's sake!
        So she'd started running, not jogging. Then, on December
7, "a day that will live in infamy", she'd gotten her first
runner's high. She'd found that rush of endorphins exhilarating,
but nothing she couldn't live without. Now, after eleven straight
days of that same rush of endorphins, she admitted defeat. She
was addicted, as addicted to it as Mulder was. If she didn't get
up, NOW, and go running, she'd be snappy and irritable all day.
That was not something to inflict on Mulder on his first full day
out of the hospital.
        She shoved the covers back, made a quick trip to the
toilet, then dressed in layers for her run. The snow had quit
about the time they'd left the hospital yesterday. There should
be very little still left to interfere with her run. She grabbed
her regular running shoes and stuffed an extra pair of socks in
her pocket, just in case.
        She was quiet heading downstairs, not wanting to wake her
mom or Mulder. It was only 6:05, and they both deserved to sleep
in after the awkwardness of Mulder's "homecoming" and then their
mutual fears that he would have nightmares again because he was
back in Margaret's house. Apparently he hadn't, and Dana wouldn't
shower or eat till she returned, so a tip-toe down the stairs,
shoes in hand, was in order.
        Mulder was already up, dressed in sweats and running
shoes, his usual clothes from the hospital. He stood in the
darkened living room. From the slump of his shoulders as he stood
looking out the picture window at the street outside, she thought
he was remembering.
        She didn't want that, so she walked across the room
toward him, deliberately stepping on the one squeaky spot. Her
father and brothers, and even she and her mother, had spent
fruitless hours trying to tighten the loose flooring there.
Eventually they'd given up, deciding to call the occasional
visitor-induced screech "the Scully ghost".
        Mulder turned at the sound, smiling. "Trying to warn me,
Scully? It wasn't necessary." He pointed his chin at the
staircase, then a thumb over his shoulder. "The upstairs hall
light was enough to let me see your reflection in the window."
        He really looked at her then, and his expression turned
wistful. "Jogging? I wish . . ." He trailed off, then shook his
head and smiled again. "Be careful. It's probably icy in
patches."
        As she was tying her shoes, she said, "Why don't you
come? If we take a short circular route, we can run together till
you're tired, then I can finish my daily five miles." It never
occurred to her the impact her words would have.
        He stopped dead at the front door, one hand turning the
door knob, then put that hand down, turned back to her, and said,
with "I told you so" glee in his voice, "_Daily_? *This* from the
doctor who keeps telling me that doing the exact same exercises
every day is actually bad for you, because it never gives your
body time to completely recover? _Five_ miles? *This* from the
partner who says _no_one_ needs to run that far, because if you
can't catch the perp in less than a mile, you'll never catch him?
*This* from the doctor/partner who tells me, _every_ time I'm
laid up and can't run, to just 'relax'? That I can't *possibly*
feel that out-of-sorts just because I didn't get my daily
runner's high?"
        He was out the door and partway up the street before she
even cleared the front porch. But she had the last word, so to
speak. She caught him within a quarter mile, when he staggered to
an exhausted halt. They walked till he'd caught his breath, then
jogged the rest of a mile, ending up back at the house. Then she
took off again at full speed while he went up the driveway to
where her mother was waiting, smiling and holding the door open
for him.


9:50 p.m., December 24

        Scully watched from the bottom stair step. Mulder was
relaxed, obviously enjoying himself, and deeply engrossed in the
discussion he was having with her brothers and their wives. This
was a Mulder she had never seen before. It was like he was . . .
oh, she didn't know. Maybe on vacation? No, Mulder didn't *do*
vacations. He went UFO hunting, or searching for information
about his still-missing sister. Maybe a quiet evening with
friends? No, not that either; The Lone Gunmen would *never* talk
this openly about themselves, and she didn't know of any other
friends that were close enough for him to relax this much. Maybe
. . .
        Her hand went to her mouth to stifle the gasp of
recognition. Like he had come _home_ for the Christmas/New Year's
holiday, and was catching up on all the family gossip. Like he
was the brother whose job kept him away more than he wanted, or--
or like the brother-in-law who lived too far away for them to
visit regularly.
        She didn't have time to pursue that thought, because just
then Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a
dishtowel, and announced, "OK, everything's put away. It's K.P.
time. Who's up tonight?"
        It was hysterical; Mulder had *no* idea what that
announcement meant in this family. Her brothers were out of their
seats and "fighting" to get out the front door before Mulder
could even open his mouth to ask.
        She took pity on him; coming into the dining room, she
said, "C'mon, Mulder. We'll do the dishes tonight, then one of
_them_ can do them after Christmas dinner tomorrow."
        The noise at the door stopped abruptly. Her sisters-in-
law were laughing; Mary was laughing so hard she almost fell out
of her chair. Then Bill, Jr. said fervently, "Shi--. Uh, sorry,
Mom."
        Mulder looked at her in total confusion. Grabbing his
hand, she pulled him to his feet and headed into the kitchen,
explaining as she went. "Last one left at the table when Mom
announces it has to do the dishes. It used to be just us kids;
now the spouse helps. But I don't think it's fair to make you do
dishes for everyone, so I'll help. Besides, as I said, we do them
today, we don't have to do them tomorrow, and there will be a lot
more dishes then."
        He hand-washed her Grandmother's china and crystal while
she dried because it was easier than her telling him where
everything went. Coffee had been served after her nieces and
nephews were put to bed, so it was nearly eleven by the time they
finished. Mulder's hands were red and wrinkled, and his shirt
sleeves, even rolled up as they were, were soaked in spots. He'd
filled the dishpan with clean water several times, and there were
still quite a few suds left after his last load.
        She was on tip-toe, reaching up to put away the pie pans
she'd gotten out of the dishwasher, when she felt a sudden
wetness on her back. She turned to look at him, asking, "Wha--?"
        She got a handful of blown suds right between her
breasts. Then he scooped another handful and started blowing at
her face. Stepping smartly back, she snatched the dishtowel off
the counter and snapped it expertly at him, missing the hand in
front of his mouth by mere inches, causing him to quickly back
up. "Oh, no you don't, Mulder. Give it up now; I've had *years*
of experience. Besides . . ." She darted forward to the sink and
sploshed a handful of the dishpan water at him, "we both know how
much time you spend in the kitchen. You can't win, so don't even
try."
        He stood there, shirt-front completely soaked, water
dripping onto his pants, his shoes, and the kitchen floor, with a
completely dumbfounded expression on his face. Then he got a
strange look on his face and started stalking her, hands
outstretched and fingers wiggling. "I'm gonna get you for that,
Scully. You just wait! I bet I can find ALL your ticklish spots."
        She broke and ran, abruptly unable to play the game any
longer. There had been one time when her brothers had ganged up
on her, tickling until she was actually in tears. Ahab rescued
her, and the boys never tickled her again, but to this day she
couldn't stand even the thought of being tickled.
        She wasn't looking where she was going and came to a stop
by the simple expedient of running into Bill Jr.'s solid body
standing just outside the kitchen doorway. He put an arm around
her to keep her from falling and said, "I thought you two
*worked* together . . ."
        Scully stiffened in embarrassment and Bill gave her an
encouraging hug. She knew she was probably scarlet, and wondered
what color Mulder was--not that she'd dare turn around to look at
him. Then, to her undying relief, Bill continued as if nothing
had happened in here.
        "Tickling's 'verboten', Mulder; sorry. On the other hand,
pillow fights aren't--if you're willing to clean up the feathers
afterward and sew the pillow back together!" Then he gave her
shoulder another squeeze, let go of her, and changed the subject.
"We're going to Midnight Mass; it's traditional in the Scully
family. You're invited, of course, but you don't have to if you
feel uncomfortable about going to a Catholic church."
        Mulder immediately became serious. None of the family
knew that he'd been in the hospital again, let alone on the psych
ward--and for nearly two months. They simply thought her partner
had *finally* agreed to spend the holiday with them. She waited
to see how he would react, ready to step in and explain if
necessary. But Mulder, uncomfortable as he looked to her, handled
the question easily.
        "Thanks, Bill, but I can't. I just got out of the
hospital a couple of days ago, and I still have to take a
sleeping pill every night. I'm ready to take tonight's; by the
time you leave, I'll be asleep. But if you go to services
tomorrow, I'd like to join you."
        Bill nodded and looked down at her. "What about you,
shrimp?" Bill wasn't even six feet tall, yet he'd been calling
her "shrimp" since he was fifteen. There was no way she'd ever be
able to break him of the habit; she could only hope that Mulder
wouldn't decide to use the nickname also.
        She looked the question at Mulder. Mom wouldn't miss
Midnight Mass for any reason, so she'd been planning to stay home
even though Bill's oldest, Cathy, was supposed to babysit the
youngest kids. But if he really meant to take his pill now, he
would be asleep before they left, and she could go. If he didn't
mind.
        He nodded. "Sure, go ahead, Scully. You don't have to
stay. I won't even know you're gone."
        "Then I'll go change, Bill. *This*--" she held her wet
shirt-front out, "--is no longer proper attire for church."
        But she'd still check on Mulder before she left, to make
sure he had taken the pill. The medicine he took put him so
deeply asleep for the first three or four hours that he nearly
couldn't be awakened. After that, his sleep gradually lightened,
and he awoke naturally in the morning. She had only thought of
this as being dangerous, in case there was an emergency. Now she
realized that it gave her and Mom some freedom, some time when
they didn't _have_ to be aware of where Mulder was and what he
was doing.


7:00 p.m., December 25

        Mulder watched as the last Scullys left, Andrea shooing
the twins in front of her, Charles hanging back to give his
mother one final hug. It had been decidedly strange, being here
for Christmas. Christmas at Oxford had been very British, with
December 26, Boxing Day, just as important for most of his
friends, if only because that's when they opened their presents.
His own family hadn't been anywhere near this religious, his
mother being a High-Holy-Days-only Jew, and his father a mostly-
lapsed Episcopalian. He and Samantha had been brought up in the
Reformed Jewish tradition, but he had given up on God and
religion the night Samantha had been abducted. Yet he hadn't felt
like an outsider here; they had all accepted him unconditionally,
even the kids, letting him participate, or watch, or leave when
he felt uncomfortable.
        The mass today had reminded him of Rosh Hashanah
services. Not that they were anything alike, of course, but the
mood of the congregation was the same. The same reverence and
anticipation were there, the same feeling of a community coming
together to celebrate one of the most important holy days of the
year.
        And Father Pulaski had definitely reminded him of Rabbi
Isaacs. Short, slightly overweight, hair reduced to a white
fringe around the back of his head, thick dark eyebrows over
thick black-framed glasses, deep gravelly voice that still
carried an accent after however-many years living in America,
eyes that could see into your soul and know your pain and joy,
and a sermon that made you *know* that everything would be all
right if you simply turned yourself over to God and let Him take
care of you.
        Only he knew that wasn't true. It hadn't been true when
Samantha was abducted. It hadn't been true when Scully
disappeared and when her sister Melissa was killed. It hadn't
been true when his father was killed and when his mother had her
stroke. And it most decidedly had NOT been true when he had had
to get inside Warren Richardson's sewer of a mind and tell
Scully--

        "And it's hi-ho-hey, I am the bold marauder.
        It's hi-ho-hey, I am the white destroyer."

        The words came unbidden, threatening to destroy him as
they had already nearly done more than once. He slammed his fist
on the padded arm of the couch, trying to break the train of
thought. It didn't work. He would *not* sit here and remember any
of that terrible night. With a barely muffled curse he jumped up,
heading for the stairs and his room. He would change and go
running, leave all the horror behind him, and come back here
ready to face Scully and Margaret again.
        When he came down, Scully was there in front of him, not
letting him get to the front door. He spun away and headed for
the back door, and Margaret was _there_.
        "No, Fox. You can't out-run it. You'll never be able to
do that.
        "What did we talk about during your treatment team
meetings, Fox? If you don't face the horror, admit that it exists
and that *you* can understand the killer well enough to live his
crime in order to catch him, then you'll never be able put that
horror aside and go on with your life. Face it, accept it, or it
will haunt you for the rest of your life, coming out to ambush
you again and again like it did tonight."
        Her voice was so gentle and compassionate he didn't stand
a chance. With a desperate sob he flung himself into her arms and
let her hold him while he cried and railed at the injustice of a
God that would give him the power to stop the monsters, but would
not grant him the mercy to be able to forget what he had to go
through in order to stop them.
        And when she and Scully helped him upstairs to bed, he
asked Scully to give him the Ativan that made the world go away
so quickly he didn't even have time to worry that he might do
something he'd regret tomorrow.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Medical Annex
Dr. John Kennedy's office
4:45 p.m., December 26

        "Do you want to go back in the hospital, Mulder?" It was
the third time Dr. Kennedy had asked him that question since he'd
walked in fifteen minutes ago. This time he answered it.
        "Yes!" He reached the end of the room and started back
again. "No! Oh, I don't know any more!" He reached the other end
of the room, turned around, and put his back to the wall. He
stared at Dr. Kennedy for nearly a minute before he realized that
he'd ended up not directly across the room but in a corner, a
more defensible position, and that his fists were clenched
tightly enough at his sides to hurt. He made himself relax, then
said flatly, "The _only_ reason I took my medicines this morning
was that Margaret said you were able to fit me in this
afternoon."
        Dr. Kennedy nodded, but didn't directly acknowledge his
challenge. Instead he said, "Do you really need that externally
imposed control or do you want to go back just because it's
easier than staying in control yourself?" Then he leaned back in
his chair, watching him dispassionately, making no effort to help
him calm down. That attitude had infuriated him at times and had
been the only thing that let him keep his self-respect at other
times.
        This was one of the times it infuriated him. He flung
himself at the desk, leaning over it to glare at the doctor. "I
*am* in control, God damn it! I'm here talking to you, aren't I,
instead of having locked myself in the bathroom and slit my
throat. Is it too much to ask that you at least *try* to find
some way to take the crystal-clear edges off that memory? Why
won't you let me have the Compazine? It worked the first time;
let me take it again and get rid of this nightmare before I
really do go insane, because I can't stand remembering, and I
*don't* want to die, and THERE'S NO OTHER CHOICE!" He was
screaming and pounding on the desk at the end, but he didn't
care. He _had_ to make the doctor understand.
        Kennedy didn't answer. He waited silently until Mulder
made himself sit down and apologize for his behavior. Then he
said, "You know the reason. You tell me."
        Defeated, he slumped in the chair and muttered, "The
potential for irreversible side effects is too high. With just
the three low doses of Compazine I took the first time, I already
had pseudo-Parkinson tremor. If I take any of the anti-psychotics
with a high potential for extrapyramidal symptoms, I risk
permanent problems." He couldn't look up at the psychiatrist.
Instead he stared at the wrinkles in his right pant-leg,
smoothing them over and over with his fingers. Finally, more than
ten minutes later, still without looking up, he asked, "Can we
_please_ try something other than just leaving me on the
Risperdal?"
        Dr. Kennedy's voice was brisk this time, as if he was
already mentally three steps ahead and had to hurry to catch up.
"You'll need to go in the hospital--*not* the psych ward--for a
few days. Some people react very badly to Clozaril, even to the
extremely low starting dose. Also, there's mandatory weekly blood
work to make sure your white blood cells aren't being killed
off."
        Surprised at being told he didn't have to go back on the
psych ward, especially after his outburst, Mulder stared at his
doctor. Finally he was able to say, "Thank you. Like Margaret
said last night, if I don't accept the memories, I'll be living
in fear of being ambushed by them for the rest of my life. But
accepting the memories doesn't mean that I want them to be so
sharp, so perfect." At last he could let go of the fear that Dr.
Kennedy wouldn't help him and that he would have no choice but to
kill himself to gain the peace he so desperately needed.
        There was a comfortable silence for a moment before Dr.
Kennedy said, "I'll call the hospital and tell them you're coming
in now. Then as soon as I close up here I'll come over. They can
do the preliminary blood work tonight and you can have the first
dose tomorrow morning. If there are no problems, you'll be out by
Tuesday at the latest."


FBI Headquarters
Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office
8:15 a.m., January 19

        Skinner stood up, waving him to a seat. "It's good to
have you back, Agent Mulder. I understand you spent the holidays
with Agent Scully and her mother. Did you have a nice time?"
        Mulder knew that wasn't what Skinner really wanted to
know, so he answered the implied questions. "I'm doing fine, sir.
I've been out of the hospital a month now, my 'keeper' is
tolerable--he's a neatnik, my apartment is cleaner than it's ever
been,"--he grinned because it was so funny:  Mark had thrown up
his hands in mock despair, then "made" him clean the entire
place, using liberal applications of sarcasm and lots of his own
elbow grease--"and I really did enjoy staying with Margaret
again. I'm doing well, sir. I'm glad to be back at work."
        Skinner nodded, leaning back in his chair. Now that
they'd finished the mandatory small talk, he would get down to
business. "I've read your doctors' reports. Why don't you tell me
about them?"
        Mulder shrugged. It was no big deal. "Dr. Carrington
couldn't find anything to account for the two incidents, and all
my tests were normal at my six-month checkup in December. I'll
see her at the one-year anniversary, but other than that, I'm
discharged.
        "Dr. Kennedy thinks they were stress related. I'm
officially forbidden to ever do another profile. I don't object
to that in the least, sir. I never liked doing them, I'm just
incredibly good at them.
        "I can't have my gun back until I've been off all my
medicines and totally symptom-free for three months. I figure
that'll be in late June, at the rate Dr. Kennedy is willing to
taper me off the Zoloft--that's the anti-depressant." He didn't
bother mentioning the Clozaril, because he would be off it by the
end of this month. "He said if nothing happens, in a month or so
we can talk about my no longer needing to be supervised here and
at home, and getting my driver's license back. In any case, I'll
be seeing him for at least six months, maybe a year.
        "For now, I can work anywhere I'm assigned--except, I
suppose, the X-Files. I doubt you'll let me have those back until
I'm off all medical restrictions. You already know how closely I
need to be supervised and the legal implications of Margaret
Scully being my Guardian."
        Skinner was silent for several minutes before asking,
"What does Agent Scully think about this?"
        Startled, Mulder stared at his boss. "Scu . . . Scully,
sir? Why are you asking me?"
        "She's _your_ partner, Agent Mulder. What does she think
about going back to work with you? Does she think you'll be able
to handle the X-Files again?" Skinner was looking at him like a
student staring at a lab rat in a maze. Which way would he turn
at the intersection? Left and gain the reward? Or right and get
shocked by the electric grid under the cage?
        "I . . . we . . . haven't talked about it, sir. I'm
assuming we'll pretty much pick up where we left off."
        Skinner nodded, was quiet for a moment, then figuratively
threw a live grenade in his lap. "Agent Scully's work these past
seven months has been exemplary, especially considering the
stress she's been under, worrying about you and having to deal
with her own reactions to what's happened. She's been noticed,
and at the beginning of the year was offered a permanent position
at Quantico. That would take her out of the field, shift her back
into the teaching and research track. As you know, some agents
prefer this, others don't, and there is no stigma attached to
rejecting such a transfer. She has until January 31 to turn in
her decision. I expect you two to discuss this, Agent Mulder, and
I expect to have your plans for the future of the X-Files
Division by that same date.
        "As for your next assignment--you're assigned to the X-
Files, to close out the paperwork on all outstanding cases, make
recommendations on all cases that were referred since you were
injured, including possible agents to investigate those cases,
and, in general, get the division in shape to be either re-opened
eventually or closed down now, depending on what you and Agent
Scully decide. You may request Agent Scully's assistance to help
you close out the existing cases, but whether she will be able to
help you will depend on her current case load.
        "I don't think I need to remind you, Agent Mulder, that
you are restricted to this building--you may not go *anywhere*
else on any Bureau-related business without my express
permission. That restriction won't be lifted until you re-qualify
at the Academy, which you can't do until I have Dr. Kennedy's
medical release.
        "Dismissed."
        His dismissal was so abrupt he sat there for at least
fifteen seconds before he could mentally catch up. Then he stood
up and left Skinner's office, walking numbly into the main
hallways of the building.


F.B.I. Headquarters
Underground Parking Garage
4:55 p.m., January 20

        Mulder was dead tired, not really watching where he was
going. It was hard to believe that just doing paperwork could be
so tiring, but he hadn't thought about these X-Files in seven
months, and with his eidetic memory, remembering them became an
exercise in weeding out the important information from the
unbelievable number of ordinary little incidents that filled his
days. Add to that the fact that Dr. Kennedy had extended Dr.
Carrington's prohibition against caffeine and chocolate, and you
had one exhausted FBI Agent. So exhausted, in fact, that by
Monday afternoon when Scully had finally returned his call, he
had begged off on talking to her about re-opening the X-Files
till next Monday. He'd also, definitely not jokingly, asked if
she had the time to help him. But she was swamped, having been on
vacation since he got out of the hospital just before Christmas.
It was her first extended vacation in five years and he'd left
her alone once he moved home with Mark Stromberg. He'd be closing
out the ten open cases himself.
        He was sure Skinner had thought that closing out these
cases and handling the thirty-one referred ones would take him a
few days, maybe a week, tops. Long enough for him to stamp
"UNSOLVED" across every one of them, because he couldn't close
the old cases and wouldn't want to turn any of the new ones over
to other agents, and long enough for Skinner to find someone
who'd be willing to take him for the five months until he could
go back to the X-Files. But at the rate he was working he figured
Skinner would have at least a couple of months to find that
someone. He smiled cynically to himself. Enough time to prove
that he wasn't crazy and he wasn't suicidal and he wasn't going
to have another of those "episodes". Because if frustration was
the trigger, before the week was out he was likely to be at least
as frustrated as he had been those two times.
        If only real FBI work was as linear and straightforward
as TV shows made it out to be. One case at a time, solve it, take
a day or a week to do paperwork and catch up with the
bureaucratic nonsense that came across his and Scully's desks
while they were gone, then go on to the next case. Instead, there
was the reality of anywhere up to thirty cases going
simultaneously, most of them X-Files, some of them other agents'
cases where he or Scully or both of them had been asked to help.
Thank God he hadn't been scheduled to testify in court during the
last seven months. In any case, the six outside cases they'd been
helping out on in June had been taken care of by the assigned
agents, and Scully had, at some point while he was in the CCU,
finished her notes on their ten open X-Files. Once it became
apparent that he would recover, however, she hadn't been able to
close their cases, because they were officially his, as head of
the department.
        It would have been nice if he could have closed them in
August, when he first came back to work. But that had been out of
the question. He wasn't allowed to take the subway or the bus
then because of the danger of falling or bumping his head against
something--as well as his intolerance to glare at that time--and
the cost of a cab to and from Headquarters every day had been
vetoed by Workers' Comp. Initially they'd said he could car pool
to work with someone, forgetting the simple fact that he couldn't
work more than two or three hours in an eight-hour day. Then they
had just about freaked when they actually went to look at his
office. _Alone_? In the _ basement_? With all those sharp edges?!
What if he _fell_?! On top of that, the Academy had a fully-
equipped Infirmary, and Headquarters had nothing more than a few
strategically placed basic first-aid kits. So the cases had
simply waited, unsolved, unclosed, until now.
        He didn't hear or see the approach of the two men who
slammed him backwards against one of the pillars. He felt them
holding him against that cold concrete and for one terrifying
second he was back on the psychiatric ward, being restrained till
the nurse could come with the Ativan. Then he was even more
terrified, because he knew he was in no condition to fight anyone
off. A month out of the hospital could not possibly make up for
seven weeks on the psych ward, which came after almost five
months of hospitalization and desk work--and no "contact sports"
allowed.
        A forearm was pressed across his throat, not enough to
hurt or cut off his air, but a definite threat. A whispered voice
said, "We know, and you know, you're in no shape to resist us. We
can discuss this like gentlemen or we can go somewhere and we'll
beat the shit out of you till you _have_ to listen. Which will it
be?"
        He made himself relax in their grip, swallowed, and said,
"Talk. But it better be short. If I don't meet Mark exactly on
time, he has orders to--"
        "Yeah, we know about that, too. This'll be real short."
The two men shifted their holds, immobilizing him with a leg in
front of each of his shins to block him from kicking, their
bodies pressed against his, and their hands on his arms above and
below his elbows, keeping them flat against the pillar. They were
as competent at it as the people who worked at the hospital. He
wouldn't let himself think about the possibility that they were
two of those psychiatric aides.
        A third man, wearing a ski mask and goggles, came from
the left, holding an aluminum baseball bat which he repeatedly
slapped against one glove-covered palm. "Remember me, Mulder? Or
am I one of the things you lost in the retrograde amnesia? Well,
it doesn't matter. What does matter is this--" the man stepped
forward and, very carefully, laid the bat against the right side
of his head, "--you didn't *really* think that was a random
carjacking, did you? Some punk comes along, slams you upside the
head, does it *again*, and you _live_? Come off it, Mulder. It
takes an artist to do that kind of work. *I* do that kind of
work. And the police report was wrong; you _didn't_ get your arm
up in time to protect yourself. I did that little piece of
misdirection last."
        The bat tapped him lightly, much too lightly to actually
hurt, but he couldn't help himself. He flinched away, futilely
trying to get his arms up to protect his head. The hands holding
his arms tightened so quickly and so strongly he knew he'd have
twenty separate bruises from their fingers and thumbs. So he
stood still and closed his eyes in resignation. The man would do
whatever he wanted, and there was absolutely nothing he could do
about it.
        The bat hit his forehead hard enough to bounce his head
off the pillar and make him see the stars everyone talked about.
"_LOOK_at_me_ when I talk to you."
        His eyes flew open and he stared at the man. What
difference did it make? There was no way to identify him because
of the ski mask and goggles he wore. He couldn't even see any
skin to know his race. His height was about 5'6", his weight
"slender", but more accuracy than that was impossible because of
the bulky parka he wore. His voice was as generic as TV
announcers' used to be, back when the networks thought the
viewers wouldn't trust anyone with an identifiable accent. The
man was as close to a non-entity as he could be, given that he
was an artist with his chosen weapon.
        "The message is this:  Go back to doing profiles. _Stay_
there, no matter what your psychiatrist says. It's much healthier
for you than *anywhere* else in the Bureau, especially the X-
Files. What I did once, I can do again. Only I guarantee you
won't walk away undamaged this time. So think about it. And make
the right decision."
        The three men were gone before he could even try to think
of a reply, leaving behind the bat, and him to slide down the
pillar because his legs refused to hold him up any longer.
        He was still there, one leg under him and the other
splayed out in front, blood dripping onto the back of his coat
collar from the cut on his head, when one of the security teams
found him. They didn't touch him or talk to him--probably afraid
the psycho would go off like a rocket, he thought scornfully--
just called in the report and waited till Skinner and Mark
Stromberg came running over.
        Mark knelt down next to him. "Mulder! What's wrong? Did
you have another--?"
        He shook his head, very slightly, and groaned with the
instant headache that tiny movement brought. "N--" He cleared his
throat, tried again. "No." His voice was shaky, but he thought
they would be able to understand him. "Th--three men. One had
that . . . that . . ." it was almost too much for him to say, but
he forced the words out, "baseball bat. He said he . . . he would
do it again, if I didn't close down the X-Files." The last few
words came out in a rush, then he simply closed his eyes and let
the fear course through him, no longer making even a pretense of
trying to control his shaking.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Emergency Department
5:50 p.m.

        The curtain to his cubicle swished open. Mulder didn't
bother opening his eyes. He already knew what the doctor would
say. He was spending the night here. With a concussion and his
head injury still a lot less than a year old, he knew the doctor
wouldn't let him go home, even with Mark to check on him every
couple of hours.
        "We have to stop meeting like this, Agent Mulder. It's
bad for our reputations."
        Startled both by her chuckle and the fact that it was Dr.
Carrington, not the ER physician who'd examined him, he said,
"What?!" and tried to sit up. That was a mistake of epic
proportions because, on top of the headache, the room immediately
started spinning around him. Damn. A Major League concussion, not
a Minor League one, to stay with the baseball theme, from one
little--well, not so little--tap by a baseball bat.
        Dr. Carrington was right next to him when he opened his
eyes again. She definitely looked unhappy. "You're concussed. You
do know that, don't you? Or do I have to run more tests to
convince you?"
        "It's quite obvious to me, thank you very much. I'm
perfectly willing to spend the night right here on this ER bed.
But if you insist I take a regular bed, I'd appreciate it, a
_lot_, if you have something in your bag of tricks for the
vertigo. Otherwise, I'll probably vomit all over everything when
they start to move me from here into that bed."
        She shook her head. "Sorry, no can do. I don't want to
mask any further signs or symptoms, on the off-chance that this
actually is more than a concussion. I can offer a suggestion
you're not going to like, though."
        He looked at her suspiciously. "OK, I'll bite. What do
you suggest I do? Try to sit up so fast I pass out before I can
vomit?"
        She smiled but shook her head. "No, not hardly. I was
going to suggest that you grin and bear it."
        "What the--" He bit off the expletive, then said, "You're
right; I don't like it." When she didn't say anything he asked,
"So when should I do this song and dance?"
        That brought another smile to her face. "You can start
doing it now, if you want. The orderly is just outside, waiting
to take you upstairs."
        He resigned himself to the inevitable, then remembered
all the people who would be worrying about him. "What about Mark
and Assistant Director Skinner? Are they still here? And I
suppose Margaret and Scully are coming, too?"
        "Mr.--Stromberg, is it?--has gone home. Mr. Skinner and
Mrs. Scully will be up to see you as soon as you're settled, and
I'll talk to Dr. Scully as soon as she arrives from Quantico. In
the meantime, you just concentrate on not vomiting until you're
safely in bed for the night.
        "Oh, and by the way, Mulder, you'll keep the IV and be
NPO except for your current psych. medicines until tomorrow, just
in case something is wrong. No sleeping pill tonight, either. I
want you *awake* the entire night, not just being awakened every
two hours."
        It was too much. Here he'd been looking forward to
dinner, boring though the hospital food was, because he'd gotten
so caught up in his work that he'd forgotten to eat lunch. And
he'd been planning on going to sleep as soon as he finished
eating. He said, knowing she'd take the words the right way,
"You're a mean, nasty doctor. You starve me, and torture me by
making me stay awake when I'm exhausted. Next thing I know,
you'll be bleeding me, too."
        She leered an Evil Doctor Leer at him. "Don't get me
started, Mulder. Or I'll order the blood work now, even though
I'm not expecting you to need surgery. What is that? Three? four?
vials of blood?"
        He knew he paled at her words. That was a good start at
passing out, so he ignored her earlier reply to that idea and sat
up to finish the job.


FBI Headquarters
Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office
8:30 a.m., January 22

        Scully looked at Mulder as he came through the door and
took his seat while they waited for the Assistant Director to
show up. The bruise on his forehead had turned a spectacular
shade of iridescent purple, and the small bandage on the back of
his head stood out like a signal flag. She was pretty sure he'd
end up getting a very short haircut as soon as that bandage came
off. Or maybe not. Depending on how much hair they'd had to shave
before putting in the three stitches, he might just try to hide
the area. She smiled to herself. Only Mulder could be back at
work a mere two days and get himself another Workers' Comp.
injury serious enough to land him right back in the hospital for
"23 Hour Observation".
        "How are you feeling, Mulder?" If he tried to brush her
off-- But he didn't.
        "Better than Tuesday night. I've still got Excedrin
headache number forty-seven, but the only thing Dr. Carrington
will let me take is plain Tylenol. On the bright side, the
dizziness has been gone since mid-day yesterday. And obviously
she let me come back to work."
        He shifted in his chair, then settled back. "You read my
report?"
        She nodded but didn't say anything, not sure which way he
was headed, and unwilling to discuss things that they might have
to rehash as soon as Skinner came in.
        "Was that guy on the level, Scully? Is it really
believable that *he* gave me the skull fractures in June, or were
those MIBs just trying to jerk my chain?"
        Scully frowned. This was exactly what she was afraid he
was going to ask, and he wouldn't like her answers. *She* didn't
like her answers, and getting them had kept her at GUMC's Medical
Records department, and then her pathology lab with animal
corpses, crash-test dummies, volunteers wielding baseball bats,
and computer simulation programs, from Tuesday night straight
through until six this morning. As soon as this meeting was over,
she was heading home for at least ten uninterrupted hours of
sleep. "Let's wait till--"
        Skinner strode in. "Sorry I'm late, Agent Mulder, Agent
Scully. I just came from a meeting with the Director." He put the
folder he was carrying down on his desk and took his seat. "Agent
Scully, I understand you've been trying to determine whether
Agent Mulder's assailant was telling the truth. Have you reached
any conclusions?"
        "Yes, sir, I have. I'm very sorry to say this, but in my
expert opinion, he was telling the truth. There's no way that a
blow strong enough to break Agent Mulder's arm could have landed
with as much precision as any of the _three_ blows he received to
his skull."
        She glanced at her partner. He'd gone pasty white, and
she didn't blame him one bit. To know that the man who'd put him
in the hospital for five and a half weeks, with a head injury
that eventually became the direct cause of his two suicide
attempts--to know that he was still out there waiting for Mulder
was enough to make *her* want to turn tail and hide.
        Skinner pulled her attention back to the here-and-now.
"Do you want to clarify that, Agent Scully? I understood that
Agent Mulder had only been struck twice."
        She was back on familiar ground; this was no different
than testifying in court. "Yes, sir. That was what Dr.
Carrington's notes indicate. But, based on what Agent Mulder
reported the man said, I re-checked his X-Rays and CAT scan from
June, and did some tests of my own. It's not possible for anyone
to have struck so precisely unless Agent Mulder's head was
stabilized against something. Therefore, there must have been a
first blow, just strong enough to stun him, so that his
assailant, either by himself or with help, could place Agent
Mulder in the exact position he wanted, probably propped against
his car. I'm sure that if the car had not been stolen to make the
whole incident appear believable, there would have been blood and
hairs found to corroborate this.
        "I'm sorry, Mr. Skinner, but I have to accept that the
assailant was telling the truth, and that he could, if ordered
to, do the exact same thing again."
        Skinner nodded as if he'd already known what she was
going to say. After nearly a minute of silence, during which he
stared at his steepled fingers, Skinner said, "Agent Mulder, it
has been recommended that in your, and the Bureau's, best
interests, you take 100% disability retirement at this time." He
held up a hand, shutting off Mulder before he could say anything.
"That recommendation is *not* mine, nor is it the Director's.
Whatever you choose to do, we'll support you. If that means you
decide to return to doing profiles, then I and Senior Agent
Elliot will try to find a way to prevent a reoccurrence of those
two episodes. If you decide to re-open the X-Files, then you will
have the Bureau's full resources behind you."
        Skinner stood up, came around to the front of his desk,
and perched one hip on it. "Agent Mulder, I can understand how
terrifying it is to know that man is still out there. If you need
time off to think about this, take as much as you need--I'll see
that you don't lose time or pay. I'll also talk to Dr. Kennedy,
see if he'll lift the restriction against you having your gun
back. I refuse to allow one of my agents to be a target without
any means to defend himself, so if the doctor says no, I'll
assign agents as your bodyguard until--"
        Mulder shook his head, then winced and shut his eyes.
Scully could see him fight to control the pain he'd just caused
himself. After a minute or so, he said, "No, sir, no bodyguard. I
won't put another agent in the direct line of fire. I'll go back-
-"
        "Mulder, NO! You can't!" Scully reached out toward him.
She could hear the fear in her voice and didn't care that Mulder
and Skinner heard it too. Going back to doing profiles would kill
Mulder as surely as that man would if he returned to the X-Files.
        He put a hand on hers. "_Temporarily_, Scully.
Temporarily. Until I *can* have my gun back. I'll figure out a
way to handle it. I'm not willing to knuckle under to the Men in
Black, and I sure as hell am *not* going to commit suicide or go
insane just because that's what they want."
        He grinned then, and his face lit up with a laughing
defiance. "I also have no intention of being an easy target a
second time. Sir, since my every move at work has to have your
personal OK, I'd like your permission to begin regular workouts
for strength and 'self-defense' training." He looked up at the
Assistant Director. "I know I have to be supervised; I won't
object to whomever you assign. This could definitely be defined
as a job assignment considering the threats I've received and how
physically _un_fit I am now. I can't even run a half-mile without
collapsing. Nobody has to know about Baseball Bat Man, it's
enough that I need to be re-certified. You could authorize me for
daily workouts at Quantico, and SAC Elliott would work me around
that schedule."
        "I'll consider it, Agent Mulder."
        Skinner's nod and subsequent dismissal of both of them
were preoccupied because he was already dialing a phone number
that Scully recognized as Dr. Kennedy's. She had it memorized,
but was surprised that the Assistant Director did also. He had
obviously been keeping closer tabs on Mulder than she had
thought. She wondered if Mulder knew, but decided not to say
anything. Let sleeping dogs lie.
        Then, as they were leaving, she realized that she and
Mulder needed to talk *now*. She was going to have to postpone
catching up on her sleep.

        "Mulder--"
        "Not here, Scully. Wait till we get to the office."
Mulder knew she was upset. It was in the very way she walked, if
not in her tone of voice. Then again, they were in a well-
trafficked area of the building, and Scully wouldn't air their
dirty laundry in public.
        He headed for the elevator more slowly than he normally
would have, but he didn't normally come back to work this soon
after getting a major concussion. Field Agents weren't allowed
back this quickly, but he wasn't a Field Agent now, was he? And a
good thing, too. This headache was *not* something he'd want to
have while driving around or chasing someone. It took too much
concentration to think past the pounding, and it was another
ninety minutes before he could take any more Tylenol.
        As soon as the elevator doors closed, Scully rounded on
him. Her mouth opened, then shut, and she got her worried "Dr.
Scully, M.D." look. "Mulder? Just how bad is this headache?"
        He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting
for his stomach to catch up to the rest of the elevator before he
answered. Maybe he shouldn't have argued Dr. Carrington into
letting him come back this soon. "On a scale of zero to ten? Oh,
about a three. But that's only because I redefined my scale in
June. On the old scale, between seven and eight. It'll be better
when I take my next Tylenol." It wasn't worth adding that it
would be a lot better if he was allowed to take Ibuprofen, or
better still if he had been allowed to take even one of his left-
over codeine pills.
        The elevator stopped, and he thought for a second that
he'd lose his breakfast, then miraculously the nausea disappeared
and he felt, relatively speaking, fine. He held the door for
Scully, but she refused to step out. Instead she reached under
his arm and hit the "Hold" button.
        "Mulder, the light's better here. I want to take a look
at your eyes. You shouldn't still be--"
        "Scully, it stopped. At the same time the elevator
stopped, the nausea stopped. I'll just avoid elevators for the
next day or so." He pulled the "Hold" button out and stepped out
of the elevator. "Are you coming?"
        Her silence, all the way to the office and until he was
sitting, radiated fury. He couldn't deal with it, so he cut her
off before she could even start. "The subject is _closed_,
Scully. Dr. Kennedy won't let me have my gun back; I know that,
you know that, and Skinner knows that, no matter what he said. So
I'll go back to Quantico till June, then after I re-qualify we
can re-open the X-Files."
        She slammed her hands so hard onto his desk that files
actually jumped. And so did he.
        "*WE*? Who's this 'we', Mulder?! Did you bother to ask
_me_ how I felt about this? Did you ever stop to think I might
NOT want to re-open the X-Files? Did you ever--*once*--think
about the fact that I might NOT want to see you get killed, or,
worse, turned into a vegetable when that man comes after you
again? Did you ever stop to think that I, too, might end up
getting killed?
        "For God's sake, Mulder, you nearly *died* in June! You
have no _fucking_ idea how lucky you are, that you woke up
rational and got back full use of your left side so quickly. The
*best*, the absolute *best* that Dr. Carrington predicted
initially was that you *might* not be comatose for the rest of
your life. Then for those first few days after you woke up, when
nothing stuck in your memory and you could barely move your arm
and leg, she said you were likely to be that way permanently. She
said you'd be in a wheelchair, Mulder--you'd never get out of bed
on your own, let alone walk! You'd be lucky if you even knew who
_you_ were, let alone who I was!
        "So don't talk to me about going back to the X-Files like
it's no big deal. Because I won't stand for it!"
        She had been standing over him the entire time, trembling
in her anger, with her voice getting louder and louder, till she
was shouting at the end. Now she backed away, stopping only when
she backed into her desk.
        He couldn't answer. He couldn't even *think* of an
answer. No one had told him he'd come that close to . . . And
permanently paralyzed?! It wasn't possible. Dr. Carrington had
never lied to him; she'd laid it straight on the line-- But he'd
never asked, had he? And she wouldn't have volunteered that kind
of information. Scully would have asked. She would have known the
odds were against him recovering, and she would have demanded
answers.
        "Scully, I'm sorry. I didn't know. I--"
        She cut off his apology, still angry. "Sorry won't work
this time, Mulder. Don't even try it. I just spent the last
thirty-six hours figuring out exactly how that bastard did what
he said he did and I'll be damned if I'm going to do an autopsy
on you one day that shows he did it to you again.
        "And I won't stand for you going back to doing profiles.
I won't let you do that to me and my mother again. I will *not*
let you--" She stopped. Then she just turned and ran out of the
room.
        After twenty minutes he began to worry. He went looking
for her, but she wasn't in any of the usual places she went to
vent her frustrations at him or the world in general. So he
gathered his courage and without knocking walked into the
basement janitors' toilet they used because it was the closest
one, if definitely not the nicest and certainly lacking any kind
of lock.
        She was standing at the sink, leaning on it really, arms
braced on the sides of the sink, and her head hanging, with her
hair falling forward and hiding her face. Without moving, she
said in a monotone, "Get out."
        "Scully, I--"
        "Mulder, I said 'get out'. Can't you hear? Or are you so
self-centered and just plain bent on being obnoxious today that
you won't listen?" She straightened up finally and faced him,
using one hand to brush her hair out of her face. "I can't talk
about this now. I'm exhausted, Mulder. I've been awake since
Tuesday morning, and I need to go home and get some sleep. So
just drop it."
        Her face was a mess, with eye makeup running down her
cheeks and the puffy, bloodshot eyes and red nose that said she'd
been crying for a long time and hadn't yet gotten the strength to
wash up. He pulled out his clean handkerchief and held it out.
"Here. This is softer than the paper towels. I'll wait for you in
the office."
        It was barely five minutes later when she reappeared,
saying without looking at him, "I'll give you back the
handkerchief after I wash it. You'll never get the makeup out."
She turned to her desk, put on her coat and gloves, and got her
keys out of her purse.
        He went over to her and took the keys from her. "I'll
drive."
        She still didn't look up, just held out her hand. "You
can't, Mulder. You don't have a license. So just give them back.
I'll be fine."
        He couldn't take it any longer. "*Fuck* the license.
You're not safe to drive, Scully. I don't mean fatigue. I know
you could drive home if that was all it was. But you're too
wrought-up and you know it. So I'm driving, and then I'm going to
stay at your place till you're ready to talk. Because this *has*
to be discussed. Now, not tomorrow, not next week, not some
'later' that becomes 'never'."
        She finally looked at him. Something she saw there must
have convinced her she wouldn't win this confrontation, because
she smiled--lopsided, but still a smile. "So we'll take a cab. I
refuse to aid and abet you in the commission of a crime."


Dana Scully's apartment

        She got out of bed once, went to the toilet, got a glass
of juice, and went back to bed, apparently without even realizing
she was doing it. He caught himself staring at tantalizing
glimpses of thigh and lace-trimmed *black* panties as her
oversized t-shirt rode up when she reached up in the cupboard for
a glass. For possibly only the second or third time since he'd
come out of the coma in June, and certainly for the first time
since he'd become aware of things on the psych ward in November,
he found himself reacting to a woman. He savored the feelings,
both physical and emotional, before reminding himself he couldn't
lust that way after Scully. She was his partner after all, no
matter what Kennedy said about some "intimate relationship". He
forced himself to be a gentleman and look away.
        It was after midnight before she came into the living
room where he was sitting on the floor watching CNN and doing
diagramless crossword puzzles on her coffee table, and said,
"Have you eaten anything today?"
        He nodded. "I went for a walk and ate a late lunch when
Mark brought me my afternoon pills. I knew you'd be hungry when
you got up. Pizza?"
        She nodded.
        "I'll call. The usual?" It might have been more than
seven months since they'd eaten a midnight meal together, but the
pattern was there for them to pick up, and its very familiarity
helped them get past the awkwardness of this morning.

        She picked a stray piece of anchovy off her "Super
Veggie" slice and after careful consideration placed it on a
nakeder-than-the-rest spot on one of the "The Kitchen Sink"
slices on his half of the pizza. It was strange sitting here with
Mulder, eating pizza and him drinking one of her herb teas
instead of coffee or iced tea. She never would have believed that
he could survive without them, yet he'd decided to stop even
decaffeinated coffee and tea while he was on the psych ward.
Getting up to refill her coffee cup, she asked Mulder if he
wanted more tea, but he shook his head and said, "Ice water."
        That made her stop in her tracks and stare at him. He'd
turned into a chicken without its head. "_Ice_water_, Mulder?
Since when did you start drinking water?"
        He smiled at her. "Mark drinks it all the time, winter or
summer. Since we're sharing the cooking, I've gotten into the
habit of putting it out at every meal."
        Then, after they'd cleared the table and put away the
remains of the pizza, they sat down again at the table to talk.
After some very awkward "You first", "No, you first", "No,
really" exchanges, she went first.
        "When you were . . . when you didn't even seem to know I
existed because you were so depressed, I went to talk to Dr.
Theodopolous. He's head of the Pathology section at Quantico.
Back before I was assigned to work with you he was my boss, and I
trust him and respect him immensely. I told him pretty much
everything, Mulder. We talked about what I could do, if you
couldn't come back to work. He's going to retire. Not right away,
but within five years. He said if I stayed at Quantico, I had a
chance at his job. No guarantees, but a very good chance,
especially if they offered it internally first, rather than on
the Federal job lists.
        "Then, on December 29, John Pendergrast, his assistant,
surprised everyone by turning in his resignation, effective
immediately. He'd been offered a job he really wanted, but it was
only open if he could start on the 2nd. So Dr. Theo had a slot to
fill, and I was there, but not officially really, because it was
still temporary, depending on how well you did, and . . ."
        She looked at him squarely. "And I'm thinking seriously
of taking that job they offered me. It's not the assistant
position, because that went to someone else already, but I
definitely won't be bottom rung on the ladder." She put a hand on
his nearer one. "Mulder, I can't live from one minute to the next
not knowing if you're going to do that again. You never told me,
but I'm sure you would have been suicidal eventually the first
time, if the Compazine hadn't worked. And if you go back to doing
profiles, it _will_ happen again. How can you prevent it? You
don't know what causes it, do you? Oh, not the stress and
frustration. Those're obvious. But why those two cases? Why not
any of the other cases you worked on?
        "So if you insist on going back there, I'm going to tell
Mom that she has to step aside and let the court appoint someone
else to be your Guardian. I won't let you do that to her again
either."
        She couldn't have shocked him any more than if she'd
pulled out her gun and shot him at point blank range. She could
see the blood drain out of his face and he started to sway. She
dove around the side of the table, shoving it aside with a hip
thrust, but by that time he'd already steadied a bit and no
longer looked like he would faint. So she cleaned up the spilled
water and coffee, and the broken glass and mug. Only when
everything was taken care of did she let him talk. By that time,
his color and breathing were normal again.
        He held his new glass of water--no, cradled it--between
both hands, gently turning it back and forth, while he spoke. He
looked at it rather than at her. "I knew about your job offer.
Skinner told me on Monday when I came back to work; he said we
had to talk about it. You remember; that's why I called you. But
things were different on Monday than they are now.
        "While you were trying to figure out if Baseball Bat Man
could have done what he said he'd done, I went ahead on the
premise that he had. I had all of Tuesday night to think about it
because Dr. Carrington wanted me to stay awake the entire time. I
didn't tell you or Skinner, but I called Dr. Kennedy yesterday,
while I was still in the hospital. I didn't tell him anything
specific, just that I'd been threatened. That's how I know he
won't let me have my gun now. He said if things go perfectly he
might cut the three symptom-free months down to two, and I could
have my gun back in May, rather than the end of June.
        "So I'd pretty much decided that if Skinner was willing
to let me work, rather than insisting I take temporary disability
leave, I'd go back to Quantico. But I assumed I'd have Margaret .
. ." His voice trailed off for a minute. Then his hands stilled
and he looked at her. "Scully, she's the only reason I can even
think about continuing to work. I know if I have her to count on,
and you advising her, I can get through anything. And then you
just said-- Scully, don't do this to me. I _need_ her. I need
_you_. Even if you decide to take the job at Quantico, I can
survive. I could go back to the X-Files on my own when I can have
my gun back. But if you make her take her support away, I might
just as well slit my wrists now, rather than wait till that man
comes for me again. Because I know I can't go back to doing
profiles without _both_ of you supporting me, and that means I
have nowhere to go except back to the X-Files."
        This time she was stunned. The Mulder she knew would
never be this open and forthright. On the other hand, the Mulder
she knew was gone forever, partly because of the injuries he'd
suffered in June, but primarily because of the two suicide
attempts. He could not have gotten out of the hospital without
*finally* having dealt with some of his personal nightmares and
horrors.
        When she learned that Mulder had talked with a
psychiatrist in September, after the first incident, she made it
her business to find out about this "Dr. John F. Kennedy" that
Dr. Carrington had called in. She initially thought his name a
bad joke, then found out it was just a coincidence, since he'd
been born about twenty years before JFK became President. She
also found out that he was extremely well regarded by his
colleagues. For him to have been willing to discharge Mulder from
GUMC's psych ward, Mulder must have opened up to him, finally
learned how to talk about all the things that she'd seen him
shove behind his wall of sarcasm and professed indifference.
        Right after the incident on Christmas day, Mom had called
Dr. Kennedy and the three of them had discussed whether Mulder
might be able hold on until the doctor could see him on the 26th
at 4:30, or whether they should plan on him returning to the
hospital first thing in the morning. The consensus had been yes,
he probably could wait, but then he'd been so upset in the
morning, coming near to refusing his medicines, that she'd left
the breakfast room, going to fill a syringe with Ativan just in
case. When she came back, he was taking his pills, but then he'd
asked them how much longer before they could go at least a dozen
times between then and their finally leaving for his appointment.
She had literally never seen him that anxious, so near to falling
apart over something so trivial. Then he'd been so calm when he
walked out of Kennedy's office, telling them he was going back
into the hospital, a regular bed, for a few days while Dr.
Kennedy started him on Clozaril.
        Now Mulder was living with Mark, who was dealing with him
on Mulder's home territory, not the structured environment of the
hospital where he _had_ to cooperate. Mark, too, was someone who
would not let Mulder get away with hiding and denying his
feelings or problems. He wasn't a nurse, but a Certified Nurse's
Aide with seventeen years' experience working with psychiatric
patients. His last five years he had contracted with several
psychiatrists, Dr. Kennedy included, to provide in-home
supervision for their patients, either on a live-in basis when
necessary, or as a sort of "visiting nurse", seeing the patients
once or twice a day. If he couldn't handle Mulder, then no one
could, and Mulder needed to be back in the hospital.
        So, really, she was talking with a Mulder who was not the
Mulder she'd worked with for more than five years before he'd
been hospitalized last June. This was someone who probably
wouldn't just go off and do whatever he wanted without
consideration for her.
        Maybe she could modify her stance. Maybe he would listen
to her, would discuss this with her, and take her advice. She
could at least try.
        "Mulder, I don't want to do this to you. But Mom and I
can't live the rest of our lives on the emotional roller coaster
you've been subjecting us to. God alone knows how hard it is for
you to deal with. Just remember you're not the only one involved
here; you _have_ to take our feelings into consideration."
        He nodded. Then a smile quirked his lips. "You should
have heard Mark when I called him this morning, saying I was
staying here until we had a chance to talk this out. He hit the
ceiling, threatened to call Dr. Kennedy and Margaret--and then
said I had to call him every hour on the hour until you woke up.
He brought me my pills at 3:00 and 11:00, and he said if I'm not
home when he wakes up in the morning, he'd bring those pills,
too." He smiled again. "If you had a lock box that I couldn't get
into, Scully, he could leave a supply of my medicines here. You
wanna go for it?"
        Now she smiled. "_Mul_der. There isn't a lockbox this
side of the Lone Gunmen's offices that you couldn't get into, if
you wanted to badly enough. I'll pass on that one. Not that it
matters, considering what other potentially lethal things I've
got, like knives and forks and spoons." This time her smile was
even wider, and his matched hers.
        "But let's not get sidetracked. We're talking about what
you're going to do. What will you do if Dr. Kennedy won't let you
go back to the ISU? Have you considered that possibility?"
        "Yes, of course. I had to. In that case I have to take
disability leave. I don't want to because I'm not sure how that
will affect things in the long run. Part of my treatment plan
includes my working a regular schedule, with the normal stresses
I would deal with aside from being out in the field. If I can't
do that, I don't know if I'll ever be able to get my gun back, go
back to being a Field Agent."
        "Have you thought about a temporary transfer? Out of
town, I mean. If you're not here in D.C., with the access you
have here, do you think 'they' would leave you alone?"
        He sat back in his chair. His eyes became abstracted and
his face took on that blank look that meant he was remembering
something in complete detail. Then he shook his head. "Probably
not. The warning was explicit enough--'It's much healthier for
you than _anywhere_ else in the Bureau, especially the X-Files.'
They don't want me working anywhere but the ISU because that's so
stressful on its own that I don't have any emotional energy left
to even try to do anything else. Certainly I don't have the
energy to try and figure out who they are, and what it is that
they don't want me to continue investigating. From their point of
view, whether I crack up completely, make another unsuccessful
suicide attempt and get permanently committed, or successfully
suicide, it's all the same--I'm not going to be a problem to them
any longer. So it's profiles or nothing." He looked at her, and
that look told her he would let her make the final decision.
        "All right. I can see where you're coming from now. You
really have thought this through, and I agree with your
reasoning. But we're still left with two unknowns--will Dr.
Kennedy allow it, and will Mom allow it. Remember, whether or not
we're willing to deal with whatever happens, Mom is your
Guardian, and if she feels that you really aren't capable of
making a decision this serious, she can step in and over-rule
you. I don't think she will, if Dr. Kennedy agrees, but there's
always that possibility. So, who are you going to talk with
first, her or Dr. Kennedy?"
        He shot her a look of disbelief. "Me? I thought we'd talk
to them together."
        She shook her head. "Oh, no, Mulder. This is _your_
fight. You've convinced me, now you have to convince them. I'll
stay home from work if you want, so they can call me, but I won't
go with you. You-- Mulder, do you think you can actually get in
to see Dr. Kennedy today? Or will you have to wait till Monday? I
don't think he'll consider this an emergency."
        "I have no idea. I'll just have to call his answering
service, and then ask him when he calls me back. So I'll call
Margaret and, if she's willing, talk to her first." He stood up
and stretched his back and arms enough that she actually heard
the popping of his vertebrae. Then he turned the chair around and
sat down straddling it, resting his forearms on top of the chair
back and his chin on top of his forearms. "Scully, what _about_
the X-Files? Do you want to come back? Or will you take the job
at Quantico?"
        She shrugged. "I'm not sure anymore. It's suddenly a lot
more complicated than it was this morning. Then it was your bull-
headed idiocy versus my rational consideration of the situation.
Now it's as if we're still _in_ the X-Files. Someone out there,
probably the same people we've been fighting all along, thinks
you're on the edge of a discovery so important that he or they
can't afford to allow us to continue. So, can _I_ afford to let
them get away with that? Can I take the chance that whatever it
is they want hidden isn't just the thing we need to blow the
whole conspiracy open? And the answer to that is 'no'.
        "But I have to balance that against the certain knowledge
that if we continue to look for whatever it is, they *will* come
after you again. And you _won't_ survive another attack. There's
no way, even if he's not trying to kill you. Mulder, the human
brain can only absorb so much trauma before _something_ gives.
You were supposed to be permanently crippled, the victim of a
random carjacking. I was supposed to decide that the X-Files--our
search for that Truth--weren't as important to me alone as they
were to us together. I would have closed out the open cases
without really digging the way you would have, and then,
regretfully maybe, I would have gone on to something else and
they would have continued their agenda unhampered."
        Now she stood up and said, "I need to think about this;
can you entertain yourself for a while?" She went into the living
room, where she curled up on the couch hugging a pillow while she
thought about it. It might have been two minutes or it might have
been twenty before she put the pillow back and came back to the
table. Without sitting down she said, "Mulder, do you have *any*
control over this talent of yours? If you can use it to find
serial killers, can you deliberately invoke it to figure out what
we were so close to that they had to attack you?"
        He looked nearly as stunned as he had earlier. It was
nearly thirty seconds before he answered. "I have no idea. It
never occurred to me to try to figure out what might have been
the specific trigger. The frustration was so obvious an answer
that I just assumed that it was the only answer."
        He stood up, pacing the length of her apartment, and his
growing excitement was obvious from his increasing speed before
he finally came to a halt in front of her. "I can remember those
two days, Scully, right from the time I got to work, and if I
can't stop when the insights kick in, I'll still be OK. This
anti-psychotic I'm on now, Clozaril, is a like a miracle. I can't
believe the difference. With the Compazine, I could 'forget', but
it was something my subconscious did, because consciously I could
barely put two thoughts together. The Risperdal let me forget,
but only temporarily. When the memories came back, each time they
were as crystal-clear as the first time. That's why I fell apart
on the 25th at your mom's house and why I was so scared on the
26th--I knew if they came back again, while I was so upset
anyway, that I'd never be able to control myself, and *you*
certainly aren't big enough to take me down. But with the
Clozaril, I 'forgot' almost as soon as my dose reach 300mgs. a
day. Dr. Kennedy's got me almost completely tapered off it
already, but even so, when I try to remember that night--it's
there, but it's like what I assume memories are like for other
people. Nothing's really clear and I can remember parts of it,
but not the real horrors. I get to a certain point, and then I've
skipped over something I must not want to remember, and things
resume.
        "Scully, we've got to try! If I can learn to control
this, then I can figure out what they don't want me to know, and
I might even have enough information, without realizing it, to
figure out who Baseball Bat Man is. I'd love to get _him_ behind
bars."
        She put a hand on his arm. "Mulder, slow down! Don't get
ahead of yourself. You can't do this on your own. You _have_ to
talk to Dr. Kennedy before you try. You don't have any idea what
you're getting into. What if the process of trying to remember
traps you into actually having another of those incidents? Both
times you hurt yourself; you hit your head when you fell. Can you
imagine what Isabelle will say if you deliberately re-injure
yourself?"
        She didn't have a chance to elaborate on that because
Mulder started laughing so hard he had to sit down. When he could
catch his breath, he said, "Scully, I don't have to imagine it.
She skinned me alive Wednesday afternoon when she came to
discharge me from the hospital. I mean, up one side and down the
other! I thought she'd shocked me back in August, after the first
time, when she said 'bullshit'. That was *nothing* compared to
what she said this time, and without using a single dirty word.
You should have been there, Scully, it was incredible." He turned
sober then. "So, yeah, I'll talk it over with Dr. Kennedy. If he
absolutely insists I go back in the hospital to try remembering,
then I guess I'll have to."
        He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and ran a hand
through his hair. "God, I'm so sick of hospitals. I've been in
the hospital more times, and longer, during these past seven
months than probably any two years combined before that.
Sometimes I have the feeling that if I have to face one more
hospital meal, or one more IV, or one more lab tech coming to
draw blood, I'll just throw whatever it is and whoever brings it
out the nearest window." He shook his head ruefully. "Then where
would I be? Probably transferred to St. Elizabeth's, where it
would take me forever to earn off-ward privileges. And _that_
would drive me crazy, no matter that they thought I was crazy
already.
        "Anyway. So let's recap. At a reasonable hour this
morning, I'll call Margaret to tell her we talked about what
happened, and that we've agreed that I'll go back to the ISU
temporarily, if she and Dr. Kennedy agree. And I'll try to talk
to him about the same thing, and about trying to figure out
exactly how I do the insight thing-- Scully, y'know, we're going
to have to come up with a name for whatever I'm doing. Incident,
episode, insight thing; those are all pretty lame, don't you
think?"
        She grinned back at him before adding, "And I'm going to
decide one way or another about whether I come back to the X-
Files. But that's only if you make it back, Mulder. If you can't
come back, there's no way I'll do it on my own. Just so you know.
        "And last of all, are you going to go home now? It's
after three."
        "Scully! Are you *inviting* me to spend the night with
you? What will Mark say? What will _Margaret_ say?" He was
teasing her, the old familiar teasing, and it felt wonderful!
        "*If* I were to call them at this hour, Mark would
probably mumble something unintelligible, and fall back asleep.
Mom would congratulate us, suggest that my birthday next month
would be a wonderful date for the wedding, and ask if I've
decided who's going to give me away. So we're not going to tell
them. I'll just set my alarm for 7:30, and call Mark to let him
know I'll bring you home as soon as you're awake. If you take the
sleeping pill now--"
        He interrupted her. "I don't have a sleeping pill. Mark
wouldn't leave one, of course, and when I called to tell him
you'd finally woken up, he said to just skip it tonight. After
all, I did fine in the hospital on Tuesday night without it."
        "All right then. Let's just make up the couch for you,
and I'll see you in the morning."


Investigative Support Unit
FBI Academy
Quantico, Virginia
8:00 a.m., January 28

        "Agent Mulder. It's good to have you back." Senior Agent
Elliot closed his office door and headed back to his desk. "Are
there any special restrictions this time around?" He waved Mulder
to a seat, then took his own again.
        Mulder nodded. "I'm still under what Dr. Kennedy calls
'close supervision'. If my desk isn't in plain sight, then either
someone checks on where I am and what I'm doing every hour, or I
have to report in person to you. Other than that, we just wait
and see. Supposedly, the Clozaril will prevent a reoccurrence of
those two incidents, and Dr. Kennedy will reassess my status
monthly. I'm still a bit drowsy most of the time, but that should
clear up in a few more days, as my body gets accustomed to the
amount of Clozaril I'm on now."
        He grinned then. "If Dr. Kennedy were more cooperative, I
could drink regular coffee and stay awake that way. But he's as
strict about caffeine and chocolate as Dr. Carrington was, so I
guess you'll just have to assign someone to kick me if I doze
off."
        Elliot finished the notes he was making, then said, "I
spoke with Walt; he explained why you're here, when Dr. Kennedy
had said you could never do another profile. Is this a permanent
assignment, or are you only here until you can carry your gun
again?" He swivelled in his chair, reached for some papers, then
swivelled back and spread them out on his desk. He was talking as
did this, not giving Mulder a chance to reply yet. "We knew,
pretty early on, you wouldn't be coming back, so we went back to
the old assignments and furniture arrangement. If you're going to
be here permanently, I'll divide up the states like this, and
we'll give this furniture arrangement a try. If this is short
term, then I'd like to have you be a float, so to speak, and
we'll use this furniture arrangement. You'll cover vacations, and
when agents are traveling, and in general, help everyone, look
for connections that aren't readily evident, like that case where
you were able to determine that it was one killer flying all over
the country, rather than several killers with similar profiles."
        Mulder wasn't sure what to say. Elliot obviously knew
what had happened, and why he wasn't supposed to come back, and
why he _was_ here--and he still treated him and the restrictions
he was on like it was no big deal. Even Skinner wasn't this
casual! Could he possibly be such a good profiler that Elliot was
willing to overlook the problems that could come up? Or was he
under pressure from Skinner to "keep Mulder happy"? At this
point, he didn't really care. Anything was better than sitting
around his apartment waiting for that man to come back to
permanently cripple him. Finally he just said, "Temporary.
Between five and six months."
        "All right, then, let's go out and let the others know."
        And just that quickly he was back at work.


Apartment 42, Bathroom
6:00 a.m., March 1

        Mulder stared at the Clozaril pill in his hand, and knew
that what he was about to do was tantamount to suicide again. Oh,
not real suicide, as in trying to end his life, but virtual
suicide, because if Dr. Kennedy found out before he had at least
a month's experience with no anti-psychotic in his system, to
prove he could handle the work without problems, he'd be out of a
job at the very least, and back in the hospital at the worst.
        Back those many years ago during his internship year in
Manchester, England, he had never understood why his patients
went off their meds once they were on their own with no one
looking over their shoulder to make sure they took the prescribed
doses at the prescribed times. Oh, intellectually he understood: 
the medicine made them drowsy, or slowed their thinking down, or
took away their feeling of creativity, or any one of a dozen
other reasons. But he hadn't really believed any of those reasons
was good enough justification to go off the medicine, when they
*knew* they'd lose it sooner or later, and be right back in the
hospital.
        Now he understood, because he was going to do the exact
same thing they did for one of the exact same reasons. The
Clozaril had been able to take the edges off those horrid
memories about Christina Hernandez, and Dr. Kennedy had been
weaning him off it, because it could cause agranulocytosis, a
blood disorder which could be fatal. Then he was threatened and
Kennedy still would not let him have his gun back right away, so
he went back to doing profiles. But his psychiatrist insisted on
*upping* the Clozaril before he came back to work. "The idea,
Mulder, is to provide you with a shield, so to speak, so the
images don't get bad in the first place. As long as your weekly
blood work is OK, I want you on the highest dose you can
tolerate."
        He'd told Mike Elliot that he was still "a bit" drowsy
and that it would wear off in a few days. That had been the
understatement of the decade. He wasn't drowsy, he was nearly a
zombie. He tended to fall asleep almost as soon as he sat down,
unless he was actually talking to someone. Elliot had had to send
him to the infirmary before lunch that first day, because it was
obvious that he wasn't going to be able to do any useful work,
and, of course, he had to wait till Scully was ready to go home.
After the same thing happened on Thursday and Friday, Elliot had
called Dr. Kennedy, who dropped the Clozaril from 600mgs. a day
in divided doses, down to 450mgs. a day, and then a week later,
to 300mgs. a day, the same dose he'd been on originally.
        At that dose he wasn't sleepy and Dr. Kennedy had
grudgingly let him continue working, with dire warnings that
300mgs. was probably too low a dose to do him any good. If there
were no problems at work or at home, then he'd re-assess things
at the end of the month, and decide whether Mulder could return
to living completely independently.
        The problem was, from Mulder's point of view, that he
couldn't _think_. He hadn't noticed it when he was at home for
those two and a half weeks after New Year's, but now--he read the
crime reports, and the profiles the other agents gave him, and he
looked at the photographs, and all that information just sat in
his head. Oh, he made suggestions, and every once in a while
something was just what that profiler needed, but he wasn't
working at even one-tenth his usual capacity. And his solve rate
was too low for Elliot to be able to justify keeping him on, no
matter what Skinner and the Director wanted.
        So now he knew what his patients had felt like when
they'd decided to quit taking their medicines. Because Mark
Stromberg had moved out yesterday, and he was making that same
decision and he'd live with the consequences just as his patients
had done. He tossed that pill, and the entire rest of March's
supply, into the toilet and flushed them away.
        By then it was too late, because he'd just remembered the
warnings the nurses had drummed into his head when he went into
the hospital to be started on the Clozaril. Coming _off_ it
abruptly could cause severe extra-pyramidal side effects,
possibly permanently. And he was NEVER to miss a dose, because
the drops and rises in the blood level of the medicine might
start the agranulocytosis, where a constant blood level was
safer, relatively speaking.
        He leaned his head against the wall in despair. Oh, hell.
He'd burned his bridges worse than he'd expected, hadn't he? So
much for him believing he'd thought this through clearly and
logically. Well, he'd better call Kennedy right now, to admit his
stupidity-- No. Because if he stayed on the Clozaril, he'd be out
of a job. And if he was out of a job, then there was no reason
for the Clozaril. So he'd take his chances with permanent pseudo-
Parkinson's, and Tardive Dyskinesia, and whatever else could go
wrong with his body.


FBI Academy, Pathology Lab 3
5:00 p.m., March 16

        "Scully? Are you ready to go?" Mulder stuck his head in,
but didn't go any further in to the lab than that. Now that he
didn't have to smell dead bodies on a regular basis, be found
that his stomach could no longer tolerate the odors of decay and
putrefaction. So he met Scully here at the door, or, if he were
running late, she picked him up at the ISU office. But after his
next appointment with Dr. Kennedy he wouldn't need her to take
him to and from work, he told himself. Dr. Kennedy would let him
have his driver's license back, and he would . . . he would . . .
        He really didn't have any idea what he would do. He
hadn't driven in nine months, and he could no longer imagine what
it would be like to have that freedom.
        Scully appeared at the door, shrugging her coat into
place. "Sorry; I got a phone call just as I was getting ready to
leave." She locked the door, then turned right, not left toward
the exit. "We have to stop at the Infirmary first."
        "Are you OK, Scully? You're not sick, are you?" She
hadn't said what the phone call was, but she'd had her annual
physical last week, and it could be that one of the tests had
come back showing something wrong.
        "No, I'm fine, Mulder. We'll see what it is when we get
there. I'm not really sure myself."
        There was a nurse waiting when they got there, and before
either he or Scully could even ask why they'd had to come, she
was saying, "Agent Mulder, I need a blood sample. If you'll roll
up your sleeve, please, I can take it and you'll be on your way."
        Oh, shit! Kennedy wanted to make sure he was taking his
medicines now that he was on his own, and he hadn't been, and the
test would show that, and . . . Scully was looking at him
queerly, as if she couldn't understand why he was hesitating. So
he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve, saying,
"You know me and needles, Scully."


Georgetown University Medical Center
Medical Annex
Dr. John Kennedy's office
2:30 p.m., March 17

        Margaret Scully was already waiting in Dr. Kennedy's
office when he and Scully went in. Scully had acted like she
didn't know what was going on when she came to get him and told
him about this special session, and he was sure she was even more
surprised to see her mom here. So Margaret had decided not to
tell her daughter the bad news. He sighed and took the seat on
the wall end, letting Scully sit in the middle, next to her mom.
The fact that he was effectively hemmed in was not lost on him.
        Dr. Kennedy was brutally swift. "You know why Mrs. Scully
is here, Mulder. Do you have anything you want to say before she
and I recommit you to the hospital until I can find a group home
with an opening? You know you're going to be on injections for
all your meds, and you won't be going back to work any time in
the near future."
        Scully was looking at him like he was someone she'd never
met before, and Margaret--well, Margaret looked like someone
who'd gone through Hell and come out the other side. As if it
were somehow _her_ fault that he'd gone off the medicine.
        He started to shift in place, but all three of them
stiffened, so he subsided. With a half-smile, half-grimace, he
said, "I'm not going to do anything, you know. I just hoped it
would be the regular visit at the end of the month before you
found out. I guess I really *wasn't* thinking clearly when I
decided to stop taking the pills. I should have known you'd do
the blood test."
        "Why did you do it?" Kennedy leaned forward and actually
looked curious.
        "Oh, the usual reason:  I couldn't think. My work was
useless, even I could tell that, and it was obvious that Senior
Agent Elliot wouldn't be able to justify keeping me. I'd been
thinking about it, I suppose, and then--I flushed all the
Clozaril down the toilet the morning after Mark left." He
shrugged; whatever he said wouldn't make any difference in the
long run.
        Kennedy leaned back, far enough for his chair to creak,
and fiddled with his pen, the first time Mulder had ever seen him
do anything with his hands while he thought something through.
Finally he sat back up and placed the pen on his desk. "Senior
Agent Elliot called me yesterday to say that whatever change I'd
made in your medicine at the beginning of the month was working
beautifully, and that your work was nearly back to your best. I
thanked him for the report, and then called Mrs. Scully to ask
her to voluntarily recommit you if the test results showed you
had stopped taking your medicines. _She_ convinced me to let you
tell your side of the story." Kennedy looked at him, making it
obvious he wanted an answer.
        Embarrassed, Mulder looked at Margaret. "I'm sorry; it
never occurred to me that you'd get caught up in this. Again, I
can only say I suppose I wasn't thinking too clearly."
        She said, "You only stopped taking the Clozaril, Fox. Why
not your other medicines?"
        He nodded. "That was the only one that mattered. I know I
still need the rest of them. But the Clozaril made it impossible
for me to work--and I'd have been a sitting duck if they came
after me again. So I just stopped taking it." He sat straight up
and looked at the psychiatrist. "_Nothing's_ happened. Elliot's
been giving me more and more work as I've gotten better, and I've
had NO problems. No nightmares bad enough to wake me, no anxiety
attacks, no remembering Richardson or Huber, no *nothing*. And no
side-effects when I quit, either."
        Scully finally spoke up. "Dr. Kennedy, the thing that
seems to trigger one of those episodes is extreme frustration.
What Mulder does now is no different than what he did for all
those years the first time he was in the Investigative Support
Unit. Can't we just continue to watch, and try to avoid that
level of frustration? I hadn't thought about it, but he's right.
He *was* a sitting duck. His reaction time was noticeably slower,
and it was obvious how hard he had to work to think through even
relatively simple problems. Whatever good the Clozaril does seems
to be confined to helping him cope after the fact, not prevent an
incident."
        "You don't know that, Agent Scully. Just because Mulder
says there aren't any problems doesn't mean they aren't there."
He was silent for a long time, then finally said, "All right. You
can stay at home. And stay off the Clozaril. But I'm going to
have you start seeing a psychologist on a weekly basis. Believe
me, Mulder, that psychologist will be chosen with care, and I
will be in close consultation with him or her:  I can't stress to
you enough how critical your honesty with *all* of us will be
from here on out." He paused a moment while the words settled in
the room. "You can tell Senior Agent Elliot to expect random
visits by someone who'll want to observe you to see how you're
doing. I'll try to get Mark, but I don't know if he's available.
When I know who it is, I'll give Elliot a call.
        "As for you being allowed to drive, Mulder, the answer is
no. You show me two full months of no problems, under the same
stress levels you had in October, and I'll sign the DMV form." He
pushed back his chair and stood up. "Mrs. Scully, Agent Scully,
thank you for coming over today." The session was obviously at an
end.


Investigative Support Unit
FBI Academy
Quantico, Virginia
3:00 p.m., May 12

        Mike Elliot came out of his office and looked around the
"bullpen". It was quieter than he could have imagined, with all
of the desks empty. Two of his agents were traveling around the
country holding short seminars for local law enforcement people,
one was out with a broken leg incurred in last night's intramural
baseball game, and one--
        He sighed. Mulder was having problems. He'd been
disappearing almost daily the past two and a half weeks, often
for two to three hours at a time. He always came back, but today
Mark Stromberg "just happened" to drop in, and when he couldn't
find Mulder, and no one knew where he was, and it was going on
*four* hours that he'd been gone, the shit had hit the fan. Now
he had the unpleasant duty of telling Mulder he was taking time
off, whether he wanted it or not--if the rest of his agents and
every single person on campus who could be spared actually found
him and brought him back here, that is.
        And he _knew_ Mulder didn't want time off, not right now.
The first time Mulder disappeared, he was just getting ready to
start a search when he reminded himself that Mulder wasn't under
special supervision any more, hadn't been in more than a month;
he could come and go as he chose. The second and third times it
almost looked like Mulder would tell him what was going on, but
he didn't. He was deciding whether to force the issue when Tad
and Roger, who'd worked with Mulder in Violent Crimes,
individually approached him and told him Mulder would never
realize he was doing anything strange. He was on to something,
but it was going to be one of his "Spooky" profiles. If Mulder
were able to go to the crime scenes, they said, he would be
better off. He could put that uncanny instinct of his to work in
his old way and he probably would already have figured out
whatever it was that was bothering him. But he couldn't.
        Elliot had finally decided to follow up on that idea,
calling Walt Skinner yesterday, because he still had the final
say on whether Mulder could go anywhere off campus. But Walt
passed the buck on that one, saying Mike would have to talk to
Mulder's psychiatrist. The psychiatrist said an emphatic "no",
and then Stromberg showed up today and without even checking with
Dr. Kennedy, said that Mulder was to take two weeks' vacation,
and if he refused, then Elliot should probably plan on Mulder not
coming back at all.
        He tried to explain. He even called Tad and Roger in and
they tried to explain. But Stromberg was having none of it.
Finally, he tried what he hoped would be the clinching argument--
with Mulder's memory, it wouldn't matter whether he was here,
home, or deep-sea fishing. He'd still be worrying at whichever
case it was that was bothering him.
        And that had worked, but not in the way he'd wanted. If
he could unsay those words, he would gladly go to the church this
very minute and give this year's tithe, the one that he kept
"accidentally" forgetting because he just couldn't afford it, not
with the new car, and the roof that had had to be replaced, and
all four kids in college come fall. Because Stromberg got this
really strange look on his face, one that reminded him a hell of
a lot of terror, and he grabbed the phone and told Kennedy's
receptionist that it was an emergency and he had to talk to
Kennedy right now, this very minute, he didn't care _who_ the
doctor had in his office.
        And the side of that conversation that he, Tad, and Roger
were able to hear scared _them_. Mulder was going to do "it"
again. Stromberg didn't know how soon, but Mulder would probably
be off somewhere where no one knew where he was, and if he didn't
hurt himself or kill himself when he fell down, then he'd take
off for wherever the crime had happened, and they'd _never_ find
him, because no one here knew which case was bothering him, and
he had *fifteen* cases, covering damn near every state in the
Union. And then Mulder would probably end up dead, because he'd
steal a car and have an accident along the way, or get arrested
for Grand Theft/Auto and get locked up and . . . None of them
needed to hear the end of _that_ sentence.
        So then he really did have to institute a search. He
tried to beg off on that, saying Mulder always came back, but
Stromberg just held out the phone. Kennedy reminded him that he
had the responsibility of calling in the police if he knew one of
his patients was actively suicidal--he tried to argue on that
point, but Kennedy would have none of it--and did Elliot really
want him to call the head of the Academy to tell him he had a
suicidal agent "somewhere" on the grounds? So he agreed, and they
decided that he would tell the director nothing other than no one
knew where Mulder was, that he had an emergency phone call, and
was it possible to have the trainees do a real-life search?
        So now he waited. And worried. And wondered what the hell
he'd tell Agent Scully--who he'd very carefully ordered kept
_un_informed--if Mulder had already done "it" by the time they
found him. Because he couldn't imagine what he'd tell her if
Mulder had gotten as far as getting off-campus already.
        He was just turning back to his office, where Stromberg
was waiting, when he heard a noise out in the hallway. By the
time he turned that way again, Mulder was in front of him,
panting like he'd run from half-way across campus, asking what
the emergency was, was it his mother, had she had another stroke,
or was it Margaret Scully, or what. Then three other people came
into the office behind Mulder, trying to apologize and explain.
So he just roared "Quiet!", said "Thank You" to those people and
then shooed them out, asking them to pass the word to call off
the search.
        Then he turned back to Mulder again, in time to see him
staring at Stromberg, who'd chosen the God-awfullest time to come
to the door of his office to see what all the commotion was.
Because Mulder started backing away, and Stromberg stepped out of
the office, and then Mulder had his back against a wall with his
hands up defensively, saying, "Fuck you! Fuck off! I'm *not*
going to do it again. I'm *not*. It's not like that. I swear it's
not. I'm fine. I'm fine. Just leave me alone." And it didn't
matter what Mulder was going to do or not do, because at that
minute he looked like he was going to work himself into a nice
case of hysterics and land back on the psych ward whether or not
that's what Kennedy had in mind.
        He put a hand out to stop Stromberg, who was making
soothing noises that Mulder wasn't listening to. He pointed him
at the office, saying, "I'll handle this." Stromberg looked
inclined to argue, so he forcibly turned him around, saying,
"I'll handle Mulder. You just keep your mouth shut till I've
explained to him what's going on. You don't know this Mulder. I
don't really know this Mulder. This is "Spooky" Mulder from
eleven-twelve years ago, when he was the best damn Profiler that
the ISU had ever seen. If he says he's not going to do it, then I
believe him. So just leave us alone, OK?"
        Stromberg looked back over his shoulder at Mulder, who'd
calmed down a little now that he was being ignored, and nodded.
Then he said, "I'm calling Kennedy to arrange a bed anyway."
        He yanked Stromberg into his office, slammed the door
shut, and hissed, "You IDIOT! How could--"
        Stromberg cut him off with a chopping motion of one hand.
"Now you can go out there and tell Mulder you talked me out of
it. When you open the door, I'll yell something like 'You better
know what you're talking about,' and Mulder should calm down
enough for you to be able to talk to him."

        Which is exactly what had happened, thank God. Now he and
Mulder were sitting in an empty classroom half-way down the hall,
talking about the whole thing. Mulder was trying to explain--his
explanation didn't make much sense, but then Roger had said they
never made much sense till after the fact, when you could sit
down and backwards figure out his reasoning--what was going on
with the "Mississippi Strangler", as the papers up and down that
river had named the kook who not only strangled people, he
strangled large-breed dogs and goats and lambs and at least one
calf.
        It was also obvious that Mulder was nowhere near as
frustrated as he'd been either of the two times he'd done "it"--
damn, but he wished they had a better name than just "it", but
you lived with what you were given. Mulder really wasn't likely
to do "it", if he was any judge of the matter.
        "So I knew there was no way Dr. Kennedy would let me go
out in the field. It was a nice gesture, but I could have told
you before you even tried, because I already asked him, at my
last visit. This case has been bugging me for nearly a month now,
but I finally thought I had a handle on it today. When the three
trainees found me, I was so pissed at being interrupted I could
have spat nails, and then to find out it _wasn't_ an emergency--
I'm sorry. Really." Mulder drained the last of his water, said,
"'Scuse me," went off to refill his glass--
        And didn't come back. After five minutes, Elliot was not
only worried, he was beginning to panic. He hurried back to the
ISU offices, wondering how he was going to explain a second
disappearance to Stromberg, and froze dead in his tracks. Mulder
was at his desk filling in the computer form they wrote their
profiles on and he didn't even notice Stromberg staring over his
shoulder at the monitor.
        Then Stromberg turned that peculiar shade of green that
said he was likely to lose his lunch, backed away shaking his
head, and went back to Elliot's office. So he stepped over to
read what Mulder was writing, and shook _his_ head. "Weak
stomach," was all could think. Because there was nothing
unusually horrible or gory here. Just the story of another
unhappy, abused child who'd probably started by strangling
puppies and kittens at the time he hit puberty, and worked his
way up until he was strangling men who reminded him of his
father. The only unusual part of this entire profile was how
specific Mulder was about what kind of house the UNSUB--the
unknown subject, the killer--rented, in what kind of rural area--
he suggested northern, western Tennessee or western Kentucky and
ruled out Louisiana, Mississippi, and Illinois--where he worked
and what kind of vehicle he drove--Mulder had specified at least
one unmatched body panel taken off a junker elsewhere on the
property--and how he chose his victims. Mulder was now giving
probable reasons for several of the specific animals he'd
strangled.
        So, another crisis survived, and he sincerely hoped that
it was the last one before Mulder was able to re-qualify and go
back to his X-Files.
        He stopped dead mentally. Unless Mulder's psychiatrist
chose to consider this a disqualifying incident, and made him
stay here _another_ six months before he'd give him back his gun.
If that was the case, he would personally insist on a second
opinion, because this was just an example of "Spooky" Mulder at
his best, and no one was going to convince him otherwise. He
headed into his office to talk to Stromberg and Dr. Kennedy. If
he was good enough and talked fast enough, Mulder might not even
have to see Kennedy until his regular appointment at the end of
the month--but he doubted that.
        As soon as he had his office to himself again, he pulled
out a Request for Leave Time form, filled in Mulder's name, ID
number, his work area, today's date, checked off "Sick Time" for
the type of leave, wrote in "Dr.'s appt." for the reason,
tomorrow's date for the date(s) requested, "8 hours" for the
amount of time requested, adding "Approved:  No transportation"
and initialing that to explain why Mulder would need a whole day
for a doctor's appointment, and signed and dated the form. He was
ready to take Mulder's copy out to him when he remembered about
the time off that Stromberg had insisted on, so he checked his
calendar and added "Vacation", "5/14-5/22", "7 days (56 hours)",
and "Holiday", "Memorial Day", "5/25", "8 hours". Then he went
out to Mulder. "Here. The message is probably on your answering
machine already. Just make sure you give this back if you come in
tomorrow. Enjoy your time off."
        Mulder took the form, looked up at him, looked at the
form, then started laughing. After a minute he started laughing,
too. Dr. Kennedy could be sooo predictable sometimes, where
Mulder was concerned.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Medical Annex
Dr. John Kennedy's office
9:05 a.m., May 13

        ". . . So why didn't you just tell Elliot where you were
going, Mulder? Something simple like 'I'll be on the track', or--
"
        Mulder cut him off. "You still don't get it, do you? And
after all this time. No, I take that back; you never saw me
before any of this started. I can't say where I'm going to be,
because I _don't_know_. I just need to walk, and run, and sit,
and . . . when I have a car, I go driving. To the crime scene
usually if we're there, but not always. It's just what I do. Tad
and Roger understand and I think Elliot probably does, too. But
Mark freaked. All he could see was that I had been gone for
nearly four hours and nobody knew exactly where."
        He stood up and started to pace, not the frantic pacing
of some of his previous visits, but the absent-minded pacing of
someone thinking something through. Eventually he found himself
back where he'd started, and startled by that because he'd
assumed he would end up in the same corner he usually did, he
snorted a laugh and sat down. "It wasn't the same. I'm not sure
exactly what was different, because you've forbidden me to
remember those two days, but it wasn't the same. I don't know.
Maybe because I've had the case for over a month, and the guy was
still killing animals about four times as often as people. I
don't know. It wasn't so . . . pressured. That's the best I can
describe it. It felt like . . ." He trailed off, trying to find a
comparison that would make sense to the psychiatrist. When he
couldn't come up with one, he just shrugged.
        Dr. Kennedy was silent for a couple of minutes, then
asked, "Is it likely to happen again? And why didn't it happen
before the Halloween incident?"
        He nodded. "Yeah. Actually, I'm surprised it hasn't
already. I mean, it's been two months since the last of the
Clozaril wore off. I'd have thought-- No, it probably wasn't the
Clozaril. It was probably the Zoloft, because I've only been off
that since the middle of April, and this started about a week
later. So probably the anti-depressant suppressed this behavior.
        "As for why it didn't happen in October, I have no idea.
I'd been off the codeine for a month then; the headaches I had
only required Ibuprofen at their worst." He shrugged. "Maybe I
hadn't healed enough, maybe the headaches were disrupting my
concentration just enough. Whatever the reason was, it just
didn't happen."
        He stopped, struck by an unhappy thought. "Are you going
to withhold my driver's license again? Just because of this?"
        "I've been thinking about that. While you're on vacation-
-"
        "I always thought _I_ decided when to take vacation.
Never had one as a doctor's order before," Mulder interjected.
        "*As* I was saying, Mulder, while you're on vacation,
I'll talk with these two agents--" He paused, making it clear he
wanted full names.
        "Tad--well, actually, Thadeus, but don't call him that;
he probably hates it as much as I hate 'Fox'--Wintergreen, and
Roger Osborn."
        "All right. If Agents Wintergreen and Osborn agree that
this was typical of your behavior in Violent Crimes, and if
Senior Agent Elliot isn't disturbed by it, then, no, I won't
withhold your license. You bring me the form from the DMV when
you come for your regular visit at the end of the month, and I'll
probably sign it."
        "And my gun? Do I have to start all over again on the
three months for that?"
        "Not if I sign the form for the DMV. The same reasoning
applies. At this point in your life and career, I'm certainly not
going to be able to modify the way you approach your work without
months or even years of therapy. All we're trying to do is make
sure that you really can handle all the stresses you're exposed
to, short of actually being in the field, before I let you have
your gun back. So let's think positively, and assume you'll be
off all medical restrictions by the middle of July, three months
after you got off the anti-depressant. I'll even let you make an
appointment for the middle of the month, so you won't have to
wait till your regular appointment."
        Well, that would make it _thirteen_ months since the
accident by the time he was allowed to re-qualify for Field Agent
status. More than double the six months Dr. Carrington had said.
But that was only--he looked at a calendar mentally and counted
the weeks--nine weeks away. With vacation time now, that would be
seven and a half weeks. "A mere trifle," he quoted to himself.
        They'd said goodby and he was already at the door when
something else occurred to him. "Dr. Kennedy?"
        He looked up. "Yes?"
        "You remember when we talked in January, when I wanted to
go back to working at the ISU, and I asked about using my talent
to figure out who had ordered that man to attack me? You told me
if I deliberately tried to invoke it you'd get me recommitted so
fast my head would spin because that would be prima facie
evidence that I was suicidal."
        "So?"
        He went back to the chair he'd been sitting in. "Do you
still think that way? Because if I'm going to get my gun back,
then I'm going back to the X-Files, and I, or maybe both Scully
and I, will be targets again. Why not use my vacation time now,
to try to figure out what was going on and who was behind it?
It's not like anyone's going to suspect anything. After all, as
far as everyone else is concerned, I just blew whatever chance I
had for getting my driver's license and my gun. If you don't say
anything to anyone, and don't put anything in writing, can't I
just go 'on vacation', but do that instead? Try to figure out
exactly how I did what I did those two times, then use that on
the ten unsolved X-Files? Because I don't know which case it was
that started this whole thing."
        He'd obviously surprised Kennedy with that request. The
doctor's face went blank and Mulder could see by his eyes that he
was thinking furiously. After more than five minutes of silence,
he picked up his phone and dialed a number. Then he disconnected
before the call could be completed, and said, "Mulder, please
wait outside. I'd rather you not know who I'm going to be talking
to."
        That was a shock. He would have expected the psychiatrist
to be more concerned about what he was going to say, not to whom
he was going to say it.

        After five minutes he heard Kennedy over the intercom,
telling his receptionist to cancel his 10:30 appointment, which
meant that he'd already canceled his 8:30 *and* 9:30 appointments
to fit him in today. It was another forty-five minutes before the
doctor called him back in, indicating he take a seat by the
coffee table instead of the desk.
        "Please don't interrupt, Mulder. I want you to hear this
all before you start objecting. Because I think I've covered all
the bases, so you should have nothing to object to. All right?"
        He could only nod, wondering what the hell he'd gotten
himself into.
        "I've made arrangements for you at a private sanitarium
in Florida run by a close friend of mine, a psychiatrist named
Henry Converse. If you agree not to read your own record, I'll
let you carry a copy with you. Otherwise, I'll have a bonded
messenger take it down. Do you agree?"
        After an instant in which in wanted to violently shake
his head, screaming, "Not _another_ hospital stay," he nodded.
        Kennedy continued, "It's not what you're thinking,
Mulder. We're talking luxurious here. Don't be too surprised if
you run into faces you recognize from the movies, politics,
sports--you name it, if there's a bed available and they're truly
willing to work on their problems and they can afford it, they're
likely to go to 'Henry's Place.' You're getting one of those
beds--for free--because Henry and I grew up together and saved
each other's lives a couple of times when we were young and
stupid and ran in a gang.
        "Now, for details:  Henry's had occasion to . . . become
acquainted, shall we say? . . . with some of the people who
provide the false IDs for his patients who don't want anyone to
know they were there. He gave me one of those names, and I made
arrangements for you, so you should be safe down there. Someone
will meet you at the airport so you can get that new ID. I don't
know who, but he or she will be obvious, I was told.
        "In addition, because I know Mrs. Scully and Agent
Scully, and they'd tear up heaven and earth if you simply
disappeared, I've scheduled an appointment with both of them for
tomorrow, my last appointment. They're both a little worried
about you right now because of what I said when I called them,
but I told them to leave you alone, that it was better for you to
go on vacation without seeing or talking to them before you left.
I'll explain what's really going on tomorrow. I've already made
arrangements for Mrs. Scully to be able to see you if necessary.
She'll remain as your Guardian, even under your assumed name. If
it becomes important for Agent Scully to see you, then that can
be arranged also.
        "Henry knows a bit about what you want to do. I haven't
actually seen his sanitarium so I don't know what kind of room
you'll have. I do know that he's got everything there, the same
as the psychiatric wards here at GUMC, because he takes drug
addicts wanting to get clean as well as the 'usual' run of mental
problems. It'll be up to him to decide how much freedom you have.
I told him of the possibility that you might not be able to
control this, that you could find yourself right back inside one
or both of those two incidents."
        At this point, Mulder tried to interrupt, but Kennedy put
a hand on his, reminding him that he'd agreed not to. So he
subsided, but promised himself he'd contradict the doctor on
that, when he had his turn.
        "Mulder, just listen to me on this. I know you don't
think anything could happen. We both know the complete memories
aren't there for you consciously any more. But if worse should
come to worst, and you really can't make yourself stop
remembering before you go over the edge, so to speak, you *don't*
know if you'll end up reliving either of those two killings. So
Henry had to know, because he has to protect you both from
injuring yourself if you fall, and if you should become suicidal
again. If you really want to go through with this, and he insists
on four- or five-point restraints while you do it, then you'll
have to agree. Is that understood? Because if you won't, then
this is off, and you really are still suicidal."
        Mulder could _not_ stay there, pretending that this
didn't bother him. Because it scared him almost as much as when
Baseball Bat Man had told him he'd come after him again. He went
to "his" corner, but that wasn't nearly far enough away. Kennedy
let him leave the office, and he found himself in the men's
bathroom at the end of the hall. He had just enough presence of
mind left to not lock the door, to grab a paper towel, scribble
"Out of Order" on it, and stick that in the door jamb when he
closed the door. He knew Kennedy had followed him, and if he had
locked the door, then the police would be here within five
minutes and he'd be on his way across the street to GUMC in
another five minutes. In re--
        He couldn't face that thought. He could remember every
single minute of the times he'd been restrained, once the anti-
depressant had started working. He'd woken up in the early hours
of one morning, needing to piss so bad he was afraid he'd wet
himself before he could get to the toilet, and he couldn't move.
Not tangled-in-the-covers couldn't move, he _couldn't_move_. He
was lying on his back with his ankles in leather cuffs held down
to the bed, his wrists in leather cuffs held to a thick leather
belt around his waist, and that waist belt held down to the bed.
Standard five-point restraints for violent patients. He'd
panicked. Absolute, total, ape-shit panic, positive that the Men
In Black had gotten him again and were going to torture him for
Scully's whereabouts, or the MJ data tape, or-- It didn't matter.
        He remembered screaming for Scully to save him and
swearing that they'd never get him to tell where she was, never
mind that the two were mutually contradictory. He remembered
someone landing across his chest to hold *that* down because he
was banging his upper body and head against the mattress and
fighting the leather restraints so frantically that in less than
thirty seconds he'd already drawn blood, something that was
supposed to be impossible. He remembered trying to bite someone,
and lots and lots of hands holding him in addition to the
restraints, until suddenly he was just too tired to fight, and he
knew he'd never even felt the needle. As he fell asleep, he knew
that he'd failed, that he would end up telling them everything
they wanted to know, because no one could fight the drugs
forever.
        When he woke up again, hours later, Margaret Scully was
there, already talking to him about things that only the two of
them knew, from when he'd stayed at her house in July, so he knew
she was real. But he still fought the restraints before he was
really awake enough to understand what was going on. The nurse
was actually coming at him with the needle again before something
literally clicked into place, and he remembered where he was and
why. He relaxed so abruptly that two of the aides landed on the
floor on their rear ends because they weren't fast enough to stop
fighting his no-longer-straining arms.
        They kept him restrained until Dr. Kennedy could come
talk to him about what was going on. He was awake and aware on
that restraint bed for more than an hour before Kennedy came in
and said it was OK to take off the chest restraint they had added
while he was drugged. After fifteen more minutes of calm, they
undid one ankle. Fifteen more minutes and they undid the opposite
wrist. Then _another_ fifteen minutes later, nearly two hours
after he woke up, they let him get up.
        And for two solid weeks after that he had to let them
buckle him into those restraints at night. It was either that, or
sleep naked on a bare mattress with the lights on and one aide
sitting at either side of his bed in his locked room, so they
could make sure he wouldn't do anything to himself. It was too
cold to do that even if he was willing, which he wasn't because
the very first night one of the aides had turned out to be
female, and he was damned if he'd sleep naked with the lights on
with some strange woman looking at him all night long. They
didn't trust him with any less-intrusive form of supervision and
he didn't blame them. Not after two suicide attempts. Not after
the ways he attempted suicide those two times. And certainly not
after a second attempt which came when everyone thought that he
was OK, that not only wasn't he suicidal, but that he had already
dealt with the problem while he'd been sedated to near coma.

        When he surfaced from that memory, he was rocking
himself, huddled in the corner on the counter top. Dr. Kennedy
was watching him, cellular phone in hand, sitting on a chair
someone must have brought him. He looked at his watch, and it was
more than three hours later than he remembered. He had remembered
that in real time. That was enough to scare him, because if he
was so stressed by the mere thought of restraints that he
couldn't control those memories, then what chance did he have of
controlling the other memories, at least enough to stop before he
fell over the brink into madness again?
        He started to get down and Kennedy gave him a hand till
he trusted his legs. He washed his face clean of the fear-sweat
and wished he had a fresh shirt to put on. He couldn't look
directly at the doctor, but he could look at him in the mirror
when he said, "All right. Whatever Dr. Converse says. Just make
sure he knows what might happen."
        Kennedy nodded, Mulder picked up the chair for him, and
they headed back to his office as if nothing at all unusual had
happened. Once there, the doctor continued pretty much where he'd
left off, which meant that not only had he canceled his 10:30
appointment, he must have ended up clearing the entire rest of
the day, in case that was how long it was going to take. He tried
to thank Kennedy for that, but he waved it off, saying, "You need
me today, more than my other patients do."
        After another hour or so they got all the loose or
initially-forgotten ends taken care of, which included Kennedy
asking Skinner and Elliot to that appointment tomorrow, Mulder
making a mental note to be sure to tell the Lone Gunmen where he
was going and why, and last but not least, Kennedy calling
Workers' Comp. to let them know that he'd ordered Mulder to take
a vacation, and that if anything should happen to him while he
was in Florida, it should be considered part of his on-going
claim until proven otherwise. His Case Manager screamed bloody
murder about that, saying a vacation was a vacation and if
anything happened to him it couldn't possibly be related to a
work-related injury nearly a year ago. Kennedy simply reminded
him of the Administrative Law Judge's ruling regarding the attack
in January and he shut up.
        Then, when all that was taken care of, Kennedy smiled and
reminded him to take swimming trunks and sunscreen "because I
know Henry's Place has an outdoor swimming pool, and with all
those glamorous people there, there have to be at least a couple
of gorgeous women who will ooh and ah over your scars." So he
really hadn't been making it up when he said luxurious. He almost
asked whether he needed to take condoms or were they supplied,
but he thought better of it. Somehow, planning for sex--even if
it was allowed, which he doubted--would have been like cheating,
both because of the deadly serious reason he was going, and
because it wouldn't be Scully he was flirting with and possibly--
        He slammed the mental doors on *that* thought.


Henry's Place
Near Miami, Florida
Seclusion Room
9:20 a.m., May 18

        "Last chance to back out, 'Mr. Morton'. Are you sure you
want to go through with this?"
        Dr. Converse or his assistant had been offering him
opportunities to back out every time he'd had a session,
including the very first one Wednesday afternoon. That made
today's refusal to back out his seventh one in six days, and he
was glad he was able to stand here right next to the restraint
bed and say he'd go through with this. Because he'd been getting
more and more scared as the time grew closer to actually allowing
himself to be strapped to that bed.
        Henry, which is what he insisted on being called, hadn't
said anything specific on Wednesday, just informed him of the
rules and off-limits areas. Thursday's two sessions had focused
on why he was here and exactly what he wanted to accomplish. But
by Friday's session, Henry had laid out the plan. No ifs, ands,
or buts:  if Mulder wanted to try this, given his history and the
fact that he'd have to remember both days to know if any given
factor held true for both incidents, then it was five-point
restraints for the entire time, however many hours that took. And
if he, Mulder, chose not to, or was unable to, remember both days
in one session, then he'd be on a Level III Suicide Watch for the
entire time between sessions and when he was done, until Henry
decided he was not suicidal. He wouldn't be restrained, but there
would be _two_ staff members within arms' reach at all times
including toileting, bathing, and while he was sleeping, and
absolutely no access to anything that could be used to hurt
himself, which included no belt, no shoes, no watch, no reading
glasses, no toothbrush, no razor or shaver, and no silverware.
And considering just how Mulder had attempted suicide the second
time, Henry was sorry, but he'd be restricted to his room, and
the only room secure enough didn't come with a bathroom, because
it was a seclusion room. So it would be a bedside commode and
sponge baths. If he wanted to be shaved or have his teeth
brushed, the staff would do it whenever he requested, but his
hands would be restrained to his waist while they did it. He
could eat finger foods, or he could be restrained at meals and be
fed the regular food. And *no* drugs, not even caffeine.
        At least he'd been able to laugh at that, telling Henry
he hadn't had any since June, the time of the original
"accident". Then he tried to argue about the suicide precautions,
saying what if he _didn't_ go over the edge, _didn't_ get trapped
into reliving either killing . . .
        Henry simply said, "The door's over there, and you can
pick up your records before you leave. Tell John I said not to
send me any more patients who aren't ready to face their
problems."
        So he'd literally gritted his teeth together and said OK.
Then he had to ask for the sleeping pill Henry had ordered "just
in case" Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. Otherwise he
wouldn't have been able to sleep at all; he'd have lain awake or
paced the hospital grounds, worrying and fretting about what he'd
do once he was restrained, assuming he could even let himself be
restrained.
        And now the time was here. Henry was saying he could take
as much time as he needed, that no one would pressure him. He
wondered if he and the two nurses would really be that
understanding, because he could feel himself getting upset before
he even tried to get on the bed. He wasn't sure he could go
through with this. He--
        If he didn't go through with this, then Cancer Man, the
Men in Black, and the Baseball Bat Man had won, and he might just
as well quit the FBI now, because he'd never have the nerve to go
back to the X-Files.
        He took a deep breath, sat down on the bed, fastened the
leather cuffs about his ankles himself, even to slamming shut the
padlocks, then did the same for the waist belt. But he couldn't
make himself fasten either leather cuff around his own wrist. He
lay back on the cool clean sheet with no pillow under his head,
trying to control the shaking. It took three tries before he
could let them get close enough to even touch him. Then he had to
ask them to fasten the sides of the waist belt to the bed first
and then be sure to do both wrists at the exact same time, just
in case. Which was the opposite order than you were supposed to
restrain someone, the idea being to get the arms and legs first,
because the person could do the most damage with their feet and
fists. Then you did the waist, and then only if necessary did you
add a chest restraint. But he wasn't going to fight them, at
least not if he could help it. About the most he would do would
be to tell them to stop, back off, wait still longer.
        When it was all done, and he could move his rear end
maybe two inches to the left or right and he could turn his legs
inward and outward, but barely move his arms at all because the
angle at which the wrists cuffs attached to the waist belt was
all wrong for someone proportioned like he was, he came *this*
close to begging them to let him out, because he couldn't do it,
he'd lose control completely if he had to stay here.
        At which exact moment Henry said, "I'm very proud of you.
I really didn't expect you to be able to go through with this. I
wish I could offer you something to help you relax, but we both
know that any such drug is likely to interfere with your ability
to remember clearly. Just remember, any time that you can answer
questions that make it clear you really are here with us, not
trapped in the memory, you can ask to be released. But if you
can't answer those questions, then it will be up to us to decide
when it's safe to release you. Now, before I go, is there
anything you want?"
        He took an extremely shaky breath and said, "Yeah, the
urinal. I should have peed again before I came in here." He was
even able to join in the laughter.


Afternoon, May 21

        Mulder stood at the window in his room, looking out past
the wire-mesh reinforced glass in the small panes. This room,
with its multi-paned window, was nearly identical to the
restraint rooms in the Manchester hospital he'd interned at. He
could almost believe Henry had imported it directly from
Manchester. The major difference was the staff. At some time
while he was reliving that day in August, someone had remembered
they were dealing with a trained FBI Agent, because the nurses
now assigned to him all had hair too short to grab, wore sneakers
rather than the hard-soled shoes normally required, and had no
belts, no pinned-on name tags, no rings, ear rings, watches,
necklaces or eyeglasses, had nothing in their pockets, did not
wear the "panic button" considered mandatory when you were in a
locked room with a potentially dangerous patient, and certainly
did not have a key to the door. In other words, they had
absolutely nothing on them that he could take and turn against
himself or them. Now there was a third person who sat outside the
room watching everything that went on in here. That person had
the keys and the panic button. The padlock key, for the ten
identical padlocks used on the leather restraint system they used
here, was also kept by that outside person.
        He was so exhausted when he finished remembering the
morning of August 29 for the first time--he went back and forth
at least a dozen times, looking for when the whole thing had
started, and he couldn't *begin* to understand now how he'd not
only survived the excruciating headaches, but was actually able
to function between and around them--that he fell asleep still
restrained. When he woke up he knew it was night only because the
lights were on. He asked for water, the urinal again, and said he
was going to remember the 29th a second time, because he couldn't
really remember the hour just before the incident happened, nor
the incident itself. When he woke up the second time, sometime
yesterday morning, Henry was there with questions he didn't want
to answer and food he didn't want to eat because they were
distracting him from trying to remember that same hour and the
incident a _third_ time. Then Henry had threatened to drug him
and tube feed him if he didn't pay attention to the here and now.
        Now he was on his second Thursday in Florida, and Henry
was going to let him try to remember October 31 tomorrow. This
was the worst "vacation" he'd ever been on, what with him being
too anxious to enjoy anything the first weekend while Henry made
sure he had the necessary extra staff available for all three
shifts, and then being locked in this fifteen by eight foot room
since Monday morning, and with his hands restrained by his own
choice when he had his teeth brushed, his face shaved, and was
fed the gourmet cooking.
        So for all its touted luxury, Henry's Place was much
worse than GUMC had ever been. Sometimes it was just plain funny
how careful they were being. It was last night and he was taking
his just-before-bed piss, when he heard this horrified "Ohmygod!"
from Martin, who refused to say anything further. But then, once
he finished, the "potty chair" was removed, to be replaced by the
urinal he had used while he was restrained and a bedpan. When he
figured out that they had *just* realized that the commode could
be a weapon, he howled in laughter, so long and so hard that he
ended up in tears, too exhausted to do anything but pant and
occasionally giggle. None of the staff thought it was the least
bit funny when he reminded them that the tiny table and three
chairs could also be weapons. For his own self-respect he
refrained from mentioning that diapers would be a hell of a lot
safer than the urinal and bedpan if they were _that_ worried.


Margaret Scully's house
12:00 p.m., May 24

        Margaret carefully tested the coolness of the three cake
layers. She needed to get this cake put together and frosted;
there were two more to make. Sometimes she felt foolish, offering
to do the birthday cakes for all her grandchildren. But they all
loved her special recipe, and with three birthdays in late May,
the families always did a joint birthday party on Memorial Day.
        And this year Dana would be at the party. She used to
miss so many family gatherings, what with a case calling her and
Fox out of town, or being in quarantine--she could remember three
of those, and sometimes wondered if there were more that Dana had
carefully not mentioned. But this year Fox was in Florida, and
Dana, like all non-essential Federal employees, had the Memorial
Day holiday. And, she reminded herself, Dana had said she was not
on call if there was an emergency autopsy to be done.
        When the phone rang, she was tempted to let the answering
machine get it, because frosting looked streaky if you stopped
part way through and then came back to it. But then she thought,
No, better not. Something tells me this one is important.
        "Hello?"
        "Mrs. Scully? Margaret Scully?"
        The strange voice was friendly, firm, and quite deep. And
worried. <Oh, God. Something's happened to Fox. Again.> She put
down the frosting knife and moved to the table, gathering her
reading glasses and paper and pen as she went.
        "Yes, who is this?"
        "My name is Henry Converse. I'm--"
        "Yes, I remember. Dr. Kennedy mentioned you. What's wrong
with Fox?" She reminded herself to stay calm, because Dana would
want a word for word recitation if she could provide it.
        "He's had . . . a setback. He is *not* suicidal, but he's
not too aware of what's going on right now. I need you to come
down here as soon as possible."
        A fist in her mouth muffled her groan of anguish. She
knew the doctor couldn't say much over the phone, given the
reason Fox had gone there, but at the same time, it still felt
like someone had punched her in the gut. Then the old instinct of
pushing aside her worries and problems kicked in:  one of her
children needed her help.
        "All right. Do you want Dana to come too? She's his
partner--they work for the FBI."
        "Yes, I know. That would be a good idea, if she can come.
She should be able to tell me more about what happens when he's
using his eidetic memory to remember something that's . . . I
suppose the best term is 'elusive'."
        She nodded to herself. Yes, that would actually be
something Dana could help with. It would make her feel useful
this time, instead of part of the problem. Because that's exactly
what Dana had said in November, when Fox refused to acknowledge
her existence. It was _her_ fault that he was suicidal, _her_
fault he'd tried a second time, _her_ fault for forcing him to
remember the details of that case.
        "Dana can certainly help with that. I'm sure she's had
many occasions to see what happens to Fox when he's remembering
something that way. I'll call her and then I'll have to call the
airlines--"
        "I've taken care of that. I made reservations for both of
you on three different flights, because I didn't know how long it
would take you to get ready and get to the airport." He gave her
the information, then said, "Once you know which flight you'll be
on, call here and we'll send someone to the airport to pick you
up. One of the guest suites for out-of-town families is
available, so you won't need a hotel room."


Henry's Place
Visitor's Dining Room
7:15 p.m.

        Margaret looked at her daughter, who was concentrating
her entire attention on the excellent food they'd been served.
Dana really needed children to teach her to focus on the
important things and let the small problems take care of
themselves. But all she had was Fox, so she worried about
everything, including the problems that weren't hers.
        "Dana, he'll be fine. This Dr. Converse isn't worried at
all. You heard him; the only reason we had to come was the
formalities regarding the Guardianship, and the insurance
paperwork."
        "MOM! That's _not_ what he said. And Mulder is--he's--"
She shook her head, unable to finish the sentence.
        "Fox is doing exactly what he came here to do, and he's
doing it in the exact way you say he does things like this. He
obsesses. He goes over and over something till _you're_ ready to
scream. He--"
        "But he's *aware*, Mom. He listens to me, he takes care
of himself. He's not . . ."
        So *that* was what was bothering her. Fox had turned
inward so intensely that he only surfaced long enough to use the
toilet and be fed--and those only when _they_ placed him on the
commode or opened his mouth for the first mouthful. The entire
rest of the time he was either sleeping or remembering or . . .
        She was glad Dana had left Fox's room after about five
minutes the first time. She hadn't seen Fox, pacing back and
forth in his small room, suddenly grimace and put the inside of
his left wrist to his mouth, and then his right hand grab the
left and pull it away, apparently without knowing what he was
doing. She watched the two nurses take both his wrists, holding
them so he couldn't do that again, which also forced him to stop
pacing. Fox didn't even seem to notice them, just continued
trying to get his left arm up and his right hand toward his left.
When they let go about five minutes later, after he'd stopped
doing that, she looked at his wrists. There were bite marks only
on the left wrist, but they were tiny things, nothing like what
would have been there if he'd really tried to kill himself.
        When she asked Dr. Converse about it, he said he wasn't
worried because it was obvious Fox didn't want to kill himself.
No matter how bad the memories were, Fox still wanted to be
alive. He explained that one side of the brain controlled the
opposite side of the body. The fact that Fox only bit the left
wrist meant that the right side of his brain, the emotional side,
was having problems coping with the memories, but the left side
of his brain, the logical or reasoning side, did _not_ want to
die.
        Which led her around to--"Dana, why doesn't Dr. Converse
want to use any drugs to make Fox more aware?"
        Dana startled out of her self-recriminations and looked
at her. "Um, well, for one reason, if the drug kicks in at the
wrong moment, or it's the wrong drug, then whatever Mulder's
remembering could possibly become conscious memory again. Dr.
Converse says sometimes it's pretty obvious he's remembering
torturing Christina, even though he can't remember that
consciously any longer. I suppose he'll give Mulder several more
days, unless he tries to hurt himself. Then he would have to use
drugs or restraints--something to protect him from himself."
        She paused, then said, "Oh, Mom, this is what I was so
afraid of when he decided to go back to the ISU in January. I'm
going to lose him, Mom. This is one time too many, and this time
he did it to himself. It's *his* damn fault this time."
        She stood up and left the table so quickly Margaret
barely stopped her chair from falling over sideways.


Henry's Place
9:45 a.m., June 2

        "So what did you learn, Mulder?" Henry sat on the floor
in the middle of his room, obviously comfortable in full lotus
position, something that Mulder could no longer do, and Henry was
probably twenty years older than he was.
        Mulder himself sat cross-legged in a corner, hands in
plain sight, no longer even really aware of the two nurses
flanking him. Just as at GUMC, after a while they became part of
the background; since he wasn't suicidal, he didn't do anything
that would make them grab him. He leaned his head back and tried
to order his thoughts.
        He hadn't learned anything from August 29 because the
Compazine had pretty nearly obliterated those memories. As for
October 31--well, Kennedy had been absolutely correct when he'd
suggested that he might be able to remember unconsciously what he
couldn't remember consciously. Because the first time he'd
actually gone past the kidnaping, was leading Christina up to
"his" house, before he was able to haul himself out of that
abyss. He wouldn't let himself think about the second time. But
he had what he _thought_ might be the triggers. Now all he had to
do was convince Henry to let him try it again on another case
that was haunting him in the same way that series of killings had
haunted him.
        And he wanted *out* of here. He was going stir crazy. It
was now Tuesday the 26th, and he was supposed to be back at work
already. Instead he was still here in Florida, because Henry was
so damn slow and cautious that--
        "MULDER!"
        The voice was as sharp as a whipcrack, interrupting his
thoughts. He startled, and then he became aware of Morrie and
Consuela because they were now kneeling right next to him and
they each held one of his wrists gently but firmly in both of
their hands, in a grip that made it clear he wasn't going to be
able to move his hands off his thighs. He turned his head from
side to side against the walls, looking at them, then at Henry.
"What did I do?"
        "Nothing. Not yet. You weren't here, Mulder, you were off
somewhere else, and that's dangerous. Do you remember why? We
talked about this Sunday and yesterday."
        They had? He'd talked with Henry twice, probably four
times, or possibly six if you counted Saturday, and he didn't
remember it? And the nurses were holding him with enough
assurance that he had this horrible sneaking suspicion that it
was not the first time they'd done it. What had he missed? What
had he done that he couldn't even remember?!
        "MULDER!"
        He jumped this time, partly from being startled, but more
because he was suddenly scared to death he'd ruined everything,
that he was going to end up in St. Elizabeth's, that he'd never
get out, that Margaret and Scully would have to take care of him
for the rest of his life--
        The slap against the sole of his right foot was so
unexpected, so sharp, that he screamed and tried to go fetal. But
Morrie and Consuela wouldn't let him, and then Henry was holding
his head still, forcing him to look directly at the doctor.
        "Mulder, it's all right. Just listen. You are NOT
suicidal. You've just forgotten how to pay attention externally.
You've spent so much time in the past week looking inward,
remembering the same two days over and over again, that you're
having a hard time staying focused out here. And while you're
inwardly focused, we can tell when you're remembering Christina
Hernandez because you try to hurt yourself. One hand against the
other, because you can't stop the memory so you try to hurt
yourself, yet at the same time you _don't_ want to hurt yourself.
        "But when you're out here, the memory isn't bad. Remember
that, Mulder. We've talked about this, and you've assured me that
when you consciously try to remember, it's the same as it's been
since John put you on the Clozaril--blurry, with lots of gaps."
        Henry let go of his head, and he let himself go limp,
sagging back against the corner of the room in relief. When he
could think past the one thought--he *hadn't* tried to kill
himself again--he asked, "What's the date? Is it really May 26,
or did I lose a whole week? Or did I lose two weeks?"
        Henry sat back on his heels and nodded before replying.
"It's June 2; you lost a week. But this is the first time you've
been alert enough to recognize that possibility. Up until today,
no matter what I said, you thought it was Tuesday the 26th. Is
there something important about that date?"
        "I was supposed to go back to work on the 26th. My
vacation was only through Memorial Day." He stopped to take a
look around the room, and was shocked at the difference. There
wasn't a bed here any longer. There was nothing but thin
gymnasium mats covering the entire floor, and the same mats
somehow covering the walls to a height that he guessed was
probably about seven feet. He wasn't wearing his pajamas either;
he had on nothing but a hospital gown and by this time that had
ridden up and twisted till it didn't cover _anything_. He tried
to reach the gown, to pull it down, but it wasn't until he saw
Henry smile and nod that the two nurses let go of his wrists.
When he was decently covered again, he gestured at the walls.
"Hmm?"
        Consuela said, "We had to do something, Mulder. You might
not have been suicidal, but you sure as hell didn't think you
were in this one room. You kept walking smack dab into the walls
and you fell because of that several times; you bruised yourself
pretty badly before we realized what was going on and put those
mats up. D'you do that a lot? Walking, I mean, not walking into
walls."
        He ducked his head in embarrassment. Shit. He hoped
Scully or Margaret hadn't had to come down here and see him like-
-
        "Mulder!"
        "I'm here! I'm here. I was just--"
        "Mulder, you were _not_ here. I called your name three
times before you replied. What were you thinking about?"
        Now he was *really* embarrassed. "I was hoping Scully or
Margaret--that's Mrs. Scully, my Scully's Mom--hadn't had to come
down here. But I suppose that's a futile hope."
        Henry nodded. "We went with 'Plan B'--you took your
vacation in Miami specifically because John knew me, and I had
said that I could make space for you if something happened. By
Sunday the 24th, when it was apparent something was going on, you
were formally admitted, and Mrs. Scully and Agent Scully came
down to handle the paperwork. They couldn't stay long; they had
to be home by Monday, Memorial Day.
        "Do you remember what Consuela asked you?"
        That question made no sense, because Consuela hadn't said
anything recently--or not that he remembered. He decided to roll
back the conversational tape in his memory, but before he'd even
started there came another, "Mulder!" This time he was really
annoyed, because he *knew* he hadn't drifted off. He was up on
his feet and over to the other side of the room before any of the
three could react.
        "For Pete's sake! At least give me a chance to remember!
I have to find where that question was!"
        Henry stood, coming smoothly and gracefully up just using
the power in his leg muscles. He came across the room, stopping
about two feet away, balancing lightly on his bare feet the way
any martial artist would. "Consuela asked you if you walked a
lot. It was the last question asked before I asked you what you
were thinking about. You should not have had to stop to remember
it. It should have been right there in your short-term memory.
Mulder, do you understand at all what's happening to you?"
        He found himself remembering what he'd learned at Oxford
about memory and how memories were stored--at least for normal
people. So he could answer that question. "Sort of. I think
almost everything is skipping directly from immediate memory to
long term memory. If I'm not paying attention--_really_ paying
attention, concentrating really hard on what was just said--then
I just seem to drift off. But that's hard to do. It's tiring, and
when I get tired, then I can't concentrate any longer." He looked
at the psychiatrist. "I don't think I can sustain it much longer.
I . . ." Suddenly he was so tired he could feel himself shutting
down, unable to concentrate on anything except getting safely
down to the floor. He didn't even feel the hands that caught him
when he collapsed as suddenly as a puppet whose strings have been
cut.


        "Mulder, where are you?"
        That was the stupidest question he'd heard in a long
time. He was in his room at--this didn't look anything like the
room been in . . . yesterday? Or had he lost more time, and even
the memory of being transferred somewhere else? No, the room was
too opulent to be any place but Henry's Place. "I thought I was
in my room, but I don't recognize this as either of the two rooms
I've been in. So you moved me. When was that? I think it was
yesterday. It *feels* like we talked yesterday, but after
everything we talked about, I'm not sure I trust myself on that
score any longer."
        Henry smiled. "You're three doors down from where you
were. Someone else needs that seclusion room a lot more than you
do at this point. And yes, today is Wednesday. That's very good.
That makes two days in a row you're oriented to place and time.
Will you be able to carry on a conversation today?"
        Annoyed with yet another stupid question, he snapped,
"What the hell kind of question is that? Either I can or I can't.
It's not something you have any choice about!"
        This time Henry positively beamed. "And you recognized a
nonsensical question, and responded appropriately, if a little
harsher than is generally considered polite."
        He was momentarily stunned by the implications of Henry's
last two statements. "I was _that_ far gone?"
        "Mm-hmm. Just two days ago."
        "So what happened? What did you do, or give me, or what,
that I would recover this quickly?"
        The psychiatrist quirked a smile. "Something that no
decent psychiatrist should ever recommend. I wanted a cheap,
readily available stimulant, not too long-lasting, but something
that would hit you like a punch in the gut. Want to take a
guess?"
        He thought about that for a while, then exclaimed,
"Caffeine! Or, more likely, caffeine plus sugar. How much? How
often? How--"
        "Whoa, slow down. We offered you cola but you turned it
down flat. However, you were perfectly willing to drink sixteen
ounces of iced tea. So it didn't take as much caffeine as I
expected. On the other hand, it wore off a hell of a lot faster
than I had hoped. Today you've also had sixteen ounces. The thing
now is to find a way to keep you this alert, this externally
focused, without the tea. Because I really do disapprove of
caffeine on a regular basis. Certainly I disapprove of the amount
you'd need to drink to keep you alert all day."
        But Mulder was already past that, and had latched onto
the obvious solution, at least for him. "Running. I run every
day. At least five miles, even if I've already hit the high
before that. Let me go running around the grounds and I can
guarantee that I'll be alert. I'd have to be, given how you've
transformed flat-as-a-pancake Florida into miniature rolling
hills." He smiled at that and Henry grinned back at him.
        "I didn't do that, the original owner did. He was pining
for his native Appalachian hills. But those very hills are the
reason I can't let you go running. I certainly can't run that
far. I don't think there's anyone on staff who runs anywhere near
that much on a regular basis. I don't have enough staff, either,
to be able to station them at regular intervals around the
perimeter to watch you. So no running till it's obvious you're
already firmly anchored in 'today'. Try something else that
generates lots of adrenalin."
        He offered, "Swimming?" but wasn't at all surprised at
Henry's scornful, "Fat chance!"
        He was beginning to *really* like Henry. This doctor
could turn on and off his bedside manner as easily as he turned
on and off his FBI persona. But Henry had at least three ways of
dealing with his patients that he'd seen:  the professionally
distant Psychiatrist, the warm, cuddly person, and the in-your-
face street kid that Dr. Kennedy had mentioned.
        That gave him an idea. "You do some sort of martial art.
What about that? Are you good enough to talk and work out at the
same time?"
        This time Henry's reply wasn't scorn, it was pure
disgust. "Mulder, that has got to be the most immature suggestion
you've made in your entire adult life. What do you think this is,
some macho--I'm not even going to dignify that with a comparison.
You know I've got state-of-the-art workout machines here. Pick
one of those. Preferably one that's not too noisy, so we can talk
while you're keeping the adrenalin pumping."

        He was getting out-and-out pissed off with his body. He'd
been injured before, quarantined for a month or more several
times, and after every one of those he bounced back quickly. But
the head injury last June and then all the other short and long
hospitalizations since then seemed to have really done a number
on his body. He glanced at the clock and swore he'd get in
another fifteen minutes if it killed him.
        Henry said, "Mulder, I think it might be a good idea if
you stopped. You're obviously close to total collapse."
        He merely shook his head and concentrated on his
breathing.
        But Henry wasn't done. "Do you want me to order you to
stop? Are you still thinking this is a challenge?"
        It was, but not the kind Henry thought it was. He didn't
want the psychiatrist getting nasty ideas, so he slowed down on
the manual treadmill, gradually bringing it to a halt. When he
could step off he went it to the nearest horizontal surface and
braced himself on it while he waited for his heart and breathing
to slow down.
        Henry sat down at the weight machine nearby and said,
"Have you figured it out yet? Do you know what makes your talent
kick in?"
        He turned his head, looking sideways at the psychiatrist,
and answered in between gasps for air. "I had that figured out
yesterday. At least I think I have it figured out. But I can't
remember anything from August 29th, so I only have the Halloween
episode to base that conclusion on. I'll need to make it happen
again and--"
        "NO!" Henry had leaped the few feet separating them,
yanking him up and around so fast he almost lost his balance. "If
you even *think* about doing that without my permission, Mulder,
I'll have Mrs. Scully in a Judge's office in D.C. within ten
minutes, voluntarily committing you, and you'll be transferred to
Florida State Hospital within half an hour after that. Do you
understand me?"
        He shrugged, smiling ironically at the doctor. "You think
you can read my mind? I know a good psychiatrist, name of John
Kennedy. He practices in D.C." He was hoping Henry would let go
of his arms; his grip was bruisingly tight.
        "Mulder, you've been here long enough and slipped into
that reverie that you use when you're trying to remember enough
times for every single staff member who's worked with you to know
when you're doing it. So don't think you can outsmart us on
this."
        Shaken by that revelation, he nodded mutely. When Henry
let go of his arms, he reached up, massaging first one, then the
other. After a minute, during which Henry continued to stand in
the same place, obviously prepared to put him out if he went off
the deep end, he said, "I promise. But I want to get *out* of
here." He looked for a place to sit and settled for one of the
benches along the wall so he could lean back against something.
"I've already totally screwed up my chances of Kennedy giving me
back my driver's license, let alone me getting my gun any time in
the reasonable future. At this point I just want to go back to
D.C. and get permission to go back to work, because I have to put
in three months with no problems before he'll even think about
letting me have my gun back."
        "What makes you think you've screwed things up?"
        "Oh, come off it, Henry! What do you call what I've been
doing for the past two weeks?"
        "Exactly what you came here to do:  figure out what
causes your talent to kick in, then get it under control.
Granted, it took you an extra week to get part one even partly
taken care of. But no, you haven't screwed things up. I've stayed
in touch with John, and we both agree that this is more than
enough sustained stress to qualify you to have your gun back--
assuming nothing happens that requires me to use drugs to help
you control your behavior."
        He couldn't believe it. "What about all the times you
said I tried to hurt myself? Doesn't that count against me?"
        "No. Think about it. We anticipated that possibility. You
were on a Level III Suicide Watch and you never once tried to
kill yourself. Yes, you tried to injure yourself, but you also
tried to stop yourself from doing that. You also never really
fought the nurses who held your wrists. You were never in
restraints after I let you out on Saturday the 23rd. So you're
definitely *not* suicidal.
        "But if you try that again without the proper precautions
in place, you're not suicidal, you're just plain stupid, and you
need to be protected from your own stupidity."
        It began to make sense. At least he could sort-of see
where Dr. Kennedy and Henry were coming from. "So I have to wait
till you let me try again. And since I'm not sure that I know
exactly what kind of frustration, and exactly what degree of
internal anger and self-hatred for _not_ being able to solve the
case are necessary, we might have to go through all my open ISU
cases before we find one for which the talent will kick in,
because at this point I have no idea whether I can do this with
any other kind of case. And _that_ means I could be in restraints
every day for weeks. Right?"
        Henry didn't try to deny it.
        "Shit. Shit, shit, shit. SHIT!" He slammed a hand on the
wooden bench, ignoring the pain. Did it again, then strode
angrily through the room, kicking an errant workout ball out of
his way. When he reached the exterior glass doors he put his
forehead against the cool glass, then put up his hands and leaned
his whole weight onto them. It was nearly five minutes later
before he spoke to the door, unable to look at the psychiatrist.
"I don't know if I can make myself do that, Henry. Not day after
day after day. It was hard enough letting them strap me in every
night in the psych ward. And the two times here . . . The first
one was horrible. But the second time I nearly broke and ran. The
only reason I could do it the second time was that I knew the
_next_ time I did it would be to figure out who was behind the
two attacks and what it was they didn't want me figuring out. Now
that's put off indefinitely." He sighed and stayed there, too
tired to go anywhere, and afraid he'd accidentally break the
glass if he just let himself collapse to the floor.
        Henry came over, straightened him up, helped him walk
back to a massage table, and pushed him down flat. "You don't
have to decide anything right now, Mulder. Even if you were to
want to try to invoke your talent today I wouldn't let you.
You're talking about open cases. I have to make arrangements for
the proper authorities to be here, for whatever additional
insights you can provide. It will probably be at least a couple
of days before any of that can be in place. So relax. Take the
time to wander the grounds, say hello to some of the other
patients. As far as they're concerned, you're just someone else
who's rich enough to go to Henry's Place rather than another
hospital."
        He nodded and made himself answer that, so tired now that
the adrenalin had worn off that he could barely force the words
out. "Call Elliot. And Skinner. They'll know what to do." Then he
was asleep.


Henry's Place
Henry Converse's office
10:45 a.m., June 6

        "Good morning, Mr. Skinner, Mr. Elliot. Did you have a
good flight?" Mulder asked as they took seats.
        Skinner and Elliot glanced at each other before Elliot
answered the question. "Better not to know, Mulder. I understand
you get seasick. Other than that, there were just the usual
hassles about our weapons. You know."
        Mulder nodded again. At least half the time that he and
Scully flew out of an airport other than Dulles or Washington
National they had to fight with the airline or the pilot about
keeping their guns on their persons. But that was neither here
nor there for now. He said, "Sirs, this is what we're proposing .
. ."

        Four hours (including the time they took for lunch)
later, and three frayed tempers (none of which were Henry's)
later, one threatened resignation and two doubly threatened
suspensions or mandatory sick leaves (and the same number of
retractions) later, and one initially *extremely* pissed-off
Assistant Director of the Miami Regional Office Saul Cohen (who
had _not_ appreciated having his Sabbath interrupted for this
blatant insanity) later, they had the plan hammered out. There
were no changes in what Henry and Mulder had agreed to for their
end of things. As far as the FBI was concerned, Mulder would
remain on sick time until he'd finished learning how to use his
talent, or it became obvious he couldn't control it--or it became
obvious that he had lost control of it, at which point he would
start a new Workers' Comp. claim. Then, if he survived that, he
_would_ take 100% disability retirement.
        Elliot would provide AD Cohen with complete information
on all of Mulder's still-unsolved cases, and if none of those
were sufficiently . . . horrible enough . . . to invoke his
talent, then it was Mulder's choice whether he continued or quit.
Cohen would make sure the Miami FBI office supplied enough agents
to sit with Mulder twenty-four hours a day, on the assumption
that he would not be capable of waiting till someone could get
there when he finally came up with enough information to identify
the killer.
        If he did gain control over his talent, he would stay
here, supposedly recuperating, while he tried to use that talent
on the ten old X-Files, in hopes of solving that problem.
However, he would have no FBI assistance with that, especially
not Agent Scully's, because if word got out that he was doing
anything regarding the X-Files, then it was better that he and he
alone get killed or turned into a vegetable.
        There was some graveyard humor then, with Mulder
insisting on potato, Skinner opting for turnip, Cohen waffling
between radish and beet, and Elliot holding out for carrot. Then
Henry stepped in, saying _he_ was the psychiatrist, and _he_
would make the diagnosis. The four agents looked at each other,
then nodded in unison. "Not a root vegetable. A cabbage.
Definitely. All those layers upon layers upon layers." At which
point all five of them started laughing.


3:12 a.m., June 10

        While waiting for SAC Cohen to say his end of things was
ready, Henry thought long and hard about restraining Mulder on a
daily basis for the indefinite future. That was not safe
medically, if for no other reason than the good chance of him
developing pressure sores from lying in the same position all
day, every day. Finally he decided it wouldn't be necessary until
or unless Mulder became suicidal. But they would need to protect
him if he fell, so he decided to clear everything but the bed
from one of the rooms that did not have the exterior glass doors,
assign a nurse to just stay available in the room, and have
Mulder wear a safety helmet. The rock star in that room
threatened lawyers and bad publicity and other kinds of nonsense,
but was placated when he told her she wouldn't have to pay the
additional charges on a better room. Mulder loved the idea of
course, especially the part about only using the restraints if
necessary. That is, assuming the new memory was horrible enough
to need restraints and Clozapine. He found it hard to believe
that Mulder, with his eidetic memory, lived with these
obscenities on a daily basis without going crazy or using drugs
or alcohol.
        Cohen called him Monday afternoon and offered to provide
two agents at a time, instead of one, so none of his staff would
have to listen to any of the horrors Mulder might come up with.
He jumped at the offer, and to his profound relief, Mulder was
able to make his talent kick in on the first case and on the
first day. He also thanked God that Mulder had his breakthrough
while he, himself, was at home, so he didn't have to listen to
Mulder's grunts of agony from the headache until the Demerol took
effect, nor, when he woke up from that, listen to the litany of
torture and mayhem that went with the four killings in Columbus,
Ohio.
        He only had to deal with the aftermath.
        Henry crouched down next to the shivering, nearly-fetal
form. "Mulder, do you need the Clozapine--the Clozaril?" He added
the brand name, not sure if Mulder knew the pharmaceutical name
for the anti-psychotic he had taken. There was no answer, and he
took a minute to brief the two Special Agents on what to expect
if Mulder went off. Then he got down again, trying to guess
through the pajamas which muscle group might be least tense, so
the needle wouldn't hurt too much when he injected the Ativan.
        "Mulder, I'm going to give you some Ativan. Try not to
fight me, OK? Relax, just for this. You'll be asleep--"
        "Nooo! I'm not done!"
        Mulder pushed him away hard enough and suddenly enough
that he lost his balance and the syringe flew out of his hand. He
got up, recapped the now-contaminated syringe, and gave it to one
of the agents, asking her to give it to the nurse waiting outside
and get a new one. He wanted to be prepared, just in case.
        Mulder was sitting now, his arms wrapped around his
knees, head tucked down, and the shivering had been replaced with
rocking. He was saying something, but it was unintelligible,
muffled by all the surrounding flesh and the helmet. Damn! He'd
have to get Mulder to at least pick up his head, something he
suspected Mulder did not want to do.
        "Mulder, we can't understand you. You have to pick up
your head."
        Nothing. It was as if Mulder hadn't heard him. He
motioned the two agents closer, indicating where he wanted them,
then moved behind Mulder, got down on one knee and got ready to
take hold of the helmet.
        "MULDER!" Mulder stopped rocking and speaking, so he
continued, "If you don't pick up your head so we can understand
what you're saying, then we're going to have to do it for you.
There are three of us; we *can* do this. But you probably won't
like it."
        After a minute, he could see Mulder nod, so he went back
in front of him and waved the agents back. After another minute,
Mulder's head came up. His eyes were distant, not looking at
anything in this room. His voice was very shaky initially, but
was always loud enough that the tape recorder would get every
word.
        "You won't find anything. Not there. Nor at his
apartment, if you ever find it. He cleaned up. Really, really
cleaned up. He knows how to do that. Read the books, seen the
movies. He's gone. Moved. No forwarding address. You have to wait
till he does it again. Not now, not July. Probably August. But
not later than Labor Day. Maybe Lansing, Michigan, maybe
Indianapolis, Indiana. But another state capitol anyway, in the
Midwest. He'll do the killings in the exact same kind of
building, so once he's killed his first one so you know what
city, you can stake them out and just wait. He's escalating. He
won't wait five months again. Three at the most, possibly two. If
you miss him, the third one will be . . . Christmas Day. A
priest, not just a Catholic who looks like Christ. He might even
change his pattern and do it at the church right after Midnight
Mass, leave the body for them to find in the morning."
        Mulder paused, then his head and eyes moved together,
like a doll's, till he was looking directly at him. "I have a
really bad headache. I'm going to sleep now. I'll have
nightmares. Bad ones, but don't do anything. You've got to
promise me. Let me deal with them my way."
        Henry didn't like it, but Mulder seemed to know what he
was talking about, so he nodded.
        Mulder continued, "Don't touch me while I'm asleep.
That'll be enough to screw this up, and then I *will* need the
Ativan and the restraints and the Clozaril. So you've got to
promise me. However long it takes, however bad it looks." He
started to lie down right where he was on the carpet.
        Henry didn't like that; he wanted him in a bed, where it
would be easier to handle him if he couldn't control himself.
"No, not here on the floor. You have to get in bed first."
        Mulder, who had taken the helmet off while he was
thinking, grabbed it and swung it at him so suddenly he barely
missed having half his face caved in. Mulder screamed "*NO!* I
told you!", scrabbled backwards a few feet, then got to his feet,
swinging the helmet by the straps, and said, "Back off, all of
you. I'll kill you if you come near me. I swear. Just leave me
alone! I have to do this _my_ way!"
        Shaken to the core, because nothing in Mulder's record
had indicated that he would strike out unless already suicidal,
Henry said, "All right. Whatever you say. We won't touch you."
Mulder relaxed somewhat, letting the helmet hang at his side, so
he asked, "Pillow? Covers?"
        The tension jacked right back up and Mulder spun in a
complete circle, building momentum before he threw the helmet as
hard as he could, straight at the bare wall. Even over the sound
of wallboard shattering he could hear the barely in control plea,
"SHUT UP! GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!"
        They left.

        The nightmares must have been awful. The screams could be
heard halfway down the hall and two rooms away, since he'd never
thought he would need complete soundproofing. None of the
patients who had rooms nearby complained the least bit when he
suggested they might want to take hotel rooms--on his dollar--for
the rest of the night, and if Mulder was still having nightmares
the next night.
        Mulder came out for dinner, looking like hell partly
because he didn't have a change of pajamas or a razor, but mostly
because he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He went out to
the patio, away from the other patients, didn't say a word, ate
his food, drank glass after glass of ice water, then, in the
middle of dessert, shoved his chair back and barely made it to
the grass before he vomited everything up. He wouldn't let anyone
help him. He staggered back to his table, rinsed his mouth and
drank more water, finally said "Bring me _cheap_ vanilla ice
cream," and headed back to his room.
        He didn't come out on Thursday, and ate nothing they left
him except some of the ice cream, usually after it was already
completely melted.
        By 1:00 p.m. Friday, Henry was seriously considering
going in and giving Mulder the Ativan whether he wanted it or
not. There had not been a single four hour stretch in the entire
fifty-six hours since Mulder had thrown them out that wasn't
punctuated by at least one scream of terror. He was making the
arrangements, briefing the staff members who had volunteered to
help hold Mulder still if necessary, when Consuela came running
to the office.
        "He said he wanted to take a shower. He asked for his
clothes and his shaving kit and toothbrush. He said it was over
and he apologized for being such a nuisance. He also asked what
the patched place on the wall was from."
        Mulder still looked dreadful, and he must have dropped
nearly ten pounds. But he was calm and completely in control of
his emotions, if not of his body. He was so unsteady on his feet
and his hands shook so badly that he just nodded when Henry said,
"No shower or shave unless you let someone help you."
        When that was over, Mulder asked for something to eat.
The chef sent half a dozen different choices, all bland. Mulder
ate the pudding and the unbuttered white bread with no crusts,
drank more than a pitcher of water, then pushed the tray away,
saying, "In another couple of hours, maybe. We'll see."
        He started to push up from the table, but stopped halfway
and then slowly sank back down in his chair. Before they could
ask what was wrong, he'd put his head down on the table and was
asleep.
        He didn't even notice when they picked him up, carried
him to bed, stripped off his clothes and put on pajamas.


Henry's Place
Walking the grounds
3:40 p.m., June 13

        "Can you talk about it?"
        Mulder nodded, but didn't say anything till they were on
nearly level ground again. "The only really bad part was when I
realized that he'd already skipped and I had no idea what city he
went to. That's why the nightmares were so bad. If I had pressed
the issue earlier, forced Dr. Kennedy into letting me do this
even a month ago, then the Columbus police would already have him
in custody. Now there's nothing anyone can do till he kills
again." He paused, shuddered, then started walking again.
        At the crest of the next miniature hill he stopped. "I'm
never going to do that again with a serial killer. _Never_. I
won't do it. It's just too stressful."
        He didn't start walking, so Henry asked, "You have that
much control now? You can be sure it won't happen again?"
        The eyes Mulder turned on him were haunted. "That's the
problem. I *can't* control it with serial killers. All it takes
is the anger and self-hatred for _not_ being able to figure out
what's driving someone to kill. The frustration is secondary. And
if there are signs that I'm getting that upset, well, they aren't
apparent to me. So if I stay with the ISU, it's going to happen
again and again and again. The Zoloft won't touch this. Neither
will the Clozaril. In fact, the only reason it didn't happen when
I first got this case was that I was already so . . . intrigued
by the Mississippi Strangler that I barely skimmed the file. I
had to re-read it. That's why I picked it--I figured if anything
was going to happen it would be a case that I wasn't already
wrestling with. Then I was furious with myself for having put
this aside when this guy is obviously so much more dangerous than
the Mississippi Strangler ever could be." He turned away, digging
at the grass with the toe of one shoe.
        "So why didn't it happen still earlier? You must have had
cases that were this--"
        Mulder swung back around and said fiercely, "They
*weren't*. They weren't. Just take my word for it.
        "I can't go back there, Henry. I don't care if Baseball
Bat Man meets me at the airport. I *can't* do that again."
        He took off at a run, but it wasn't even a hundred yards
before he stumbled and fell. When he didn't get up immediately,
Henry ran over and dropped down beside him. "Mulder?!"
        He was holding his left ankle, hissing in pain with every
breath.
        "Let me see." He tried to move Mulder's hands away, and
after another couple of minutes, Mulder let him.
        "It's sprained. I'm pretty sure it's not broken. It
doesn't feel like either my broken arm or the skull fractures
did." He looked around, then laughed and said, "Only I would do
something this stupid at just about the farthest spot on your
property. I'll be OK. Really. You can even walk to get help. On
my revised pain scale this barely rates a two now. I'll just lie
here with my feet going uphill and wait till you get back."
        Mulder was babbling. That was clear. It was probably
sheer relief at having something so relatively trivial to deal
with. But he wasn't about to leave him alone either. He pulled
his cellular phone out of his pocket and just called for help
that way. Then he helped Mulder turn around so that he really was
lying with his feet higher than his heart.
        Mulder started to protest when he saw the ambulance
coming across the lawn.
        "Mulder, shut up. This is a psych hospital. I don't have
X-ray equipment, I don't have Ace bandages, I don't keep pain
killers other than NSAIDs, and you're really not recovered from
this past week. So just shut up and let Manuel go with you to the
hospital while you get this taken care of the right way."
        Mulder shut up.

        He came back with his ankle Ace-wrapped, limping heavily,
and shoved a bottle of Tylenol #3 tablets across the desk. "I
don't want these. Manuel insisted we get the prescription filled,
but I won't take them, so you can do whatever you want with
this." He started to turn away.
        "Mulder, we never did finish talking. I think it's
important we do that."
        His shoulders tightened, then he kept going, obviously
not caring whether Henry followed him or not. "They said to
'RICE' it, so that's what I'm going to do:  rest, ice,
compression, elevation. Manuel's getting the ice and I'm going to
bed."
        Damn. This looked like the Mulder he'd read about in
John's notes from the early days on the psych ward. He would open
up about one thing, then something would tick him off and he'd
shut down completely, refusing to talk about anything. He took
the Tylenol to the medicine room and gave it to the nurse, then
went to Mulder's room.
        He was in bed, his left foot propped up on two pillows,
the ice pack in place, his hands behind his head, and he was
staring at the ceiling with a single-minded concentration like
none that Henry had ever seen.
        "It won't do you any good, Mulder. You have to talk about
it. Are you going to try to use the talent to figure out who
ordered the attacks, what it was they didn't want you to learn?"
        For thirty seconds nothing happened, then Mulder turned
his head to look at him. "YES." The word was literally hissed.
"But not now. I have to go home to do that. I don't care what we
talked about with Skinner and Elliot. I won't do it here, because
that's likely to endanger you, your staff, and your patients."
        He propped himself up on his elbows. "I'll take
disability leave. I'll take 100% disability retirement if I have
to, so they won't think I'm going back to the X-Files. But I
*will* figure out what it was they don't want me to know. Then
I'll talk to Scully, and we'll talk to Skinner, and we'll nail
those bastards! And there's absolutely nothing they can do to me
then, because it'll be too late, I'll have the proof they've been
trying to hide all this time." He flopped back down on the
mattress and closed his eyes.
        Henry came over, sat down on the edge of the bed. "You
won't be able to do anything if you're trapped inside an insight,
or if what you figure out is so horrible you can't live with it.
What good will it do you if you're insane or dead?" He put a hand
on Mulder's. "Stay here. Scully can come if her presence is that
important to you. No one has to know why she's here. You asked
for her, and I thought it was important for your recovery. That's
all that anyone's going to know. What you two talk about, what
you do, is your own business. We'll just be here to make sure you
survive so you _can_ get those men."
        It was nearly five minutes later when Mulder finally
nodded and said, "OK." Then he rolled over onto his right side,
facing away. After a second he sat up, carefully replaced the ice
pack that had fallen off when he turned over, and said, "Go away;
I need to sleep some more."
        That was true--he probably needed at least another ten
hours to make up for the stress of the past few days--but the way
he said it made it obvious that it was also a way to avoid
dealing with his problems. Much as didn't like the idea of
leaving Mulder alone right now, he really couldn't force the
issue. But he left the door open, and Mulder didn't object to
that. Manuel was perfectly willing to sit in the hall where he
could watch Mulder and use the time to catch up on his charting.


Henry's Place
Mulder's room
11:45 a.m., June 15

        "Well?" Scully swept her hair out of her face for
probably the tenth time in ten minutes. Her elastic hairband had
popped, leaving her hair to fall forward every time she bent over
or looked down. With Mulder lying on his stomach on the floor so
he could keep his foot higher than his heart and still have room
for the case files that were spread out in a wide sloppy arc
around him, she was looking down a lot.
        He put his head down, chin resting on his stacked fists.
"Nothing. Nada. I haven't a clue." After a minute he rolled over
onto his back, looking at her upside down. "These are a year old,
after all. I didn't really expect anything to pop up out of my
subconscious just by re-reading them."
        "So? What are you going to do about it--try to remember
them all, like you were doing in D.C. when you got attacked the
second time?"
        He shrugged, something which looked so strange from her
angle that she smiled. Then she frowned. Something . . .
something about the first attack and the Jeffries' kidnaping. She
was trying to find that niggling memory when she felt a hand on
her knee. She looked down at Mulder.
        "What?" There was a questioning look on his face.
        Shaking her head, she said, "I'm not sure. Something
about the Jeffries' case. We didn't get a chance to follow up on
it. But I can't remember."
        "Didn't get to follow up on it in Lusk? I can chase that
memory if you want."
        "No, not in Wyoming; back in D.C. Give me a minute."
Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize their office. It had
definitely been there. It was--after dinner! They had stayed
late, gone to eat dinner, then they went back, still wrestling
with the contradictions of the police report of a father who'd
lost the custody fight during the divorce and had kidnaped his
son for a week's vacation, versus the boy's testimony about a
monster with green blood that took the place of his daddy, and
then "they" brought him home.
        And then there was the evidence:  the same strange
irritation to the eyes and mucous membranes of his mouth and nose
that Mulder had once had. But how could a four year old boy be
involved with aliens and government conspiracies? What could he
possibly have seen or heard that people wouldn't just dismiss it
as childish fantasy?
        Mulder had been angry. He finally snapped at her, more
than usual, and she took that as a sign to leave him alone for a
while. When she came back, he was on the phone talking to . . .
        "Mulder, I think you were talking to the Lone Gunmen. I
don't know which one, because you didn't say any names while I
was in the office."
        He sat up, scooting back to lean against the foot of the
bed. "When? What were we talking about? I'll chase _that_ memory
down. And why didn't we get to follow up?"
        She turned stricken eyes toward him. She'd gotten to the
end of the memory. "It was June 16, last year. Probably around
9:45 p.m. You'll never chase it down. It's gone forever because
three hours later you were in surgery with Isabelle Carrington
fighting to keep you alive."
        He looked a little sick when she mentioned the date, then
he literally shook that off and nodded. "Then I guess we have to
do it hard way:  call the Gunmen and see if they remember what I
was talking about or wanted to know." He held out his hand.
"Phone."
        She smiled and shook her head. "Nope. Lunch time. You're
still underweight. And *I* refuse to miss any of this gourmet
food." She came over to him and held out a hand, helping him
stand up, then got down on hands and knees to gather the files
and stick them in her briefcase, which would go with them.
        "C'mon, Mulder. Let's get spoiled some more."

        They didn't discuss anything work-related where anyone
could hear them. _Their_ work was not suitable for psychiatric
patients to hear about. That left them with relatively little;
after all, there were only so many times could you discuss the
weather, which was picture perfect, the food, which was
incredible, the clothes the other patients were wearing, which
were all very expensive, or just who those other patients were
and their possible, probable, or obvious reasons for being here.
And you couldn't do *that* where anyone could overhear, either.
        But this time she had something to discuss. "Mulder, Mom
called this morning. She picked up your and my mail, and I got a
bill from here. It's _big_. I mean, if you stay here through the
end of the month, it could take your entire salary for this year,
next year, and half the year after that. Gross salary, not net."
        He gulped, looking shell-shocked at just how expensive
Henry's Place actually was. After wiping his mouth, he put his
napkin aside and said, "Kennedy said Henry was doing this as a
favor. How can they be billing me?"
        "The bill was for May, starting on the 24th, the day Mom
and I came down to formally admit you. I have no idea how much
Workers' Comp. will pay on it, but obviously not everything. And
to make things worse, Skinner called me because I'm handling your
bills and reminded me that if we're working on this together you
can't still be on sick time. So you've been back to work as of
yesterday, and I had to tell Henry that.
        "Mulder, can you afford this? Or will we have to drop it
and go back to D.C. with nothing to show for all your time here?
Because I don't think GUMC's psych ward is safe. The people who
work there aren't screened the way Henry screens his employees.
We know none of the people here will talk, but in D.C.? There
will be at least half a dozen different groups snooping around,
offering big bucks, if you voluntarily walk back in there with no
meds, no overt symptoms, and no diagnosis that makes sense."
        "I can afford it for a while. Dad left me a lot more
money than I thought. All it's being used for right now is to pay
for Mom's assisted living apartment and her Speech Therapy. But
there's only so much I'm willing to spend on me. I won't short-
change her." He scooted his chair back. "I think I'd better go
find out just what's going on financially."
        She put a hand on his arm. "Mulder, not now. Wait till
lunch is over." She smiled a shark grin at him. "Because if you
don't eat everything you're served, I'll get you some more of
that "delicious" Ensure you _so_ loved when you couldn't even
handle a pureed diet." The sarcasm was as broad as she could make
it.
        Mulder shuddered and scooted right back up to the table.
"If I see another can of that stuff, I'll pull out my gun and
kill it. Whatever flavor it is. Even chocolate, if I were allowed
to have that. Five weeks of that was four weeks too many." Then
he chuckled. "Y'know, Scully, that would make the perfect torture
technique for people who aren't into simple brutality. Threaten
to force me to drink Ensure, and I'd talk. Whatever they wanted."
        She joined him in laughing.

        About 3:30 he came limping back to his room, looking a
little less worried. He flopped back onto the bed, and after a
minute swung his feet up. "Why do sprained ankles have to hurt so
much when you walk on them, Scully?" he asked rhetorically. "Why
can't they just scream bloody murder when you sprain them, then
be nice and cooperative and stop hurting? It's not fair.
        "I talked with the accountant and Henry. The accountant
said I can make payments, and he'll bill me only for whatever
Henry decides to charge me. Henry told me he hadn't expected me
to be here more than a couple of weeks. He could afford that; he
can't afford to keep me--and now you--here free for however much
longer this'll take. He said he'd accept whatever Workers' Comp.
eventually pays for May 24 through June 13. But as of yesterday
I've been paying out of pocket. It's pretty much just "room and
board" for the both of us right now, because the staff isn't
doing anything. When I try to set my talent loose on whatever
case it is--and you might be right that it's the Jeffries' case--
then it'll be the full costs, which, by the way, include one
extra person of the patient's choice. So we've got to set this up
so I can make it work the first time I try."
        He paused, then turned his head to her with a wicked
smile and gleam in his eyes. "If we're working, Scully, then we
need to turn in expense reports, because we're out of town,
right? Can you see Skinner trying to refuse paying on this?
Because Dr. Kennedy sent me here specifically for my safety. What
do you say--shall we try it?"
        She couldn't believe what she was hearing. And then she
couldn't believe the equally wicked smile that broke over her
face. "All he can do is cap our reimbursement, but still,
anything's better than nothing." Putting herself back into "work"
mode, she came over to sit on the side of his bed. "What does it
take to make your talent work, Mulder? Is it more than
frustration? You haven't told me what happened when you made it
work this last time."
        He was silent for several minutes. She could tell he was
still unhappy about not being able to prevent the next murder on
that case. Then he reached out for her hand, and held it while he
spoke.
        "It's not the frustration. That's only secondary. For
serial killers, I think it might only work when all the killings
are done in the same place. I say that because for those three
cases, what I experienced was an actual killing, in enough detail
to know the place. For the last one, which is the only one I can
completely remember now, I could walk you around that empty
furniture store--assuming the Columbus police have found it--and
tell you exactly what he did, where he did it, and what he used
to do it. I know I could have done that with the first two,
before I took the Compazine and the Clozaril.
        "As for what sets it off--it's self-hatred, Scully. For
the third case, I was furious at myself because I'd let it slide
because I was engrossed in the Mississippi Strangler case. For
the first two, it was self-hatred at being unable to get deep
enough inside the killer's mind to write the profile that would
enable the police to catch him. Those first two cases got to me
in ways that very few cases have ever done. Monty Propps was one.
I would have solved that one a whole lot sooner, if I had been
able to do this back then. Then the 'Gargoyle' case for sure.
There might be a dozen others out of all the serial killer cases
I ever worked on."
        "But I don't know how to translate that to work for this
case. Is it one person or many? Is *everything* going to tie to
one specific location? How do I fan the self-hatred when I don't
even know what I'm looking for?"
        He stopped abruptly and his hand squeezed hers painfully
tight. His eyes closed while a spasm of apparent pain crossed his
face, before he looked at her again. "Oh God, Scully. What if
there really *are* aliens involved? How can I get inside the head
of something that's not human and never was? And if I do somehow,
what's going to happen to _me_? I don't want to lose myself by
trying to twist my thoughts around concepts that human beings
can't possibly understand, because they're born of alien
physiology and psychology." He let go of her hand and rolled
convulsively toward her, ending up curled part-way around her
body with his head on her thigh. "Scully, I don't want to die,
and that's what it would be if I ended up thinking like some
alien thing."
        She found it fascinating that he seemed totally accepting
now of the idea that his talent was a form of ESP, when after the
first incident he'd been so sure he was being no spookier than
usual. It didn't take much to figure out that it had been the
second case to convince him, at least subconsciously. When it
turned out that Warren Richardson had really done his torturing
and killing to the sound of "The Bold Marauder", she'd eventually
gotten Dr. Kennedy's permission to ask Mulder where he knew the
song from. It turned out he had never heard the version
Richardson had on tape; he'd only heard part of the original,
sung by Farina himself. He sang her what he knew of it, not even
half of what he'd sung while reliving Christina's kidnapping and
torture, and the difference was so striking as to be chilling. It
was simply impossible that intuition could allow him to sing
words and a tune he didn't know. It had to be ESP, some strange
ability not only to "become" a killer, but to do so in the past,
not the present.
        Until this very minute, however, Mulder had never
acknowledged that he'd done anything remotely that strange. For a
man so obsessed with finding the "truth" and capable of believing
the most outlandish, bizarre theories in the cases they
investigated, it must be particularly unsettling to find himself
an X-File. If he coped by simply denying all of it, that was his
choice and she would honor it.
        Besides, what else could she do? Force him to confront
himself? What good would that do either of them? She found
herself wondering what it would be like working with a Mulder who
could go sit in a corner and solve X-Files without ever exposing
either of them to danger. <I'd hate it. I'd be bored out of my
skull. I'd . . . I'd be scared to death for him every minute of
every day, that one day he wouldn't be able to find the way back
to himself, just like he's afraid now.> In the back of her mind,
the voice of her conscience was saying, "You love him too much to
let him do that to himself."
        She realized with a start that she couldn't afford to
think about what she meant by 'love him'. Figuring that one out
would take more time than they had right now. First things first: 
survive this test, get a handle on this "talent". Mulder needed
her support, not her conflicting emotions. He needed his strong,
no-nonsense partner, not a woman who . . . needed him. She could
be that strong partner, she thought with inward relief:  at this
point, it would be easier to continue to be tough and undaunted
than it would to admit any softer feelings.
        Mulder hadn't moved while she was thinking. There were
long minutes of irregular breathing and off-and-on shivering
during which she rubbed his back and made "shhing" noises. He
didn't seem to be aware of what he was doing, and certainly he
was unaware that his head was in her lap. It was more like an
unconscious need to be comforted rather than needing her
specifically. She had a totally incongruous thought--if Mulder
were the type to suck his thumb, he would be doing it now.
        Finally he whispered, "What'm I gonna do, Scully?"
        "Do you want to talk to Henry about it? Or maybe Dr.
Kennedy? You know him a lot better."
        His head started to nod "yes", then stopped. "I can't."
        After several more minutes of silence, during which his
breathing returned to normal and he stopped shivering, she asked,
"Why not? Dr. Kennedy will listen to you; you know that."
        He sat up and looked at her, looking a lot more like
"Mulder" than she had any right to expect, given how upset he'd
been less than five minutes ago. "Scully, if you were a
psychiatrist and one of your patients who had been suicidal at
one time, and who worked writing profiles of serial killers, came
to you and started talking--for the very first time--about EBEs
and government conspiracies, and losing himself inside some
alien's mind when he did his spooky thing about understanding a
killer so well he was reliving a killing--what would _you_ think,
Dr. Scully?"
        She had to smile. There was no other possibility. "I'd
think my patient, who I'd finally thought was on an even keel,
had just gone off the deep end, and it was time to recommit him.
You're right. You can't talk to either of them."
        They were silent for several minutes, each trying to
figure out how to possibly protect him if or when he tried "his
spooky thing". Then Scully ventured, "What about the Lone Gunmen?
You have to call them anyway, to find out about the phone call on
the 16th. I know they would consider whatever you say might
happen as a reasonable possibility. Maybe they can think of
something to protect you without interfering with the process."
        He shook his head. "No, it's not safe for them. The fewer
people who know, the better. Besides, we've kind of put things on
hold. I mean, in June and July when I was in the hospital, and
then at the ISU when I could only work part time, I just couldn't
cope with any of that stuff. It was all I could do to get through
the day without drugging myself into insensibility because of the
headaches. Then, after the second suicide attempt, I think they
kind of got scared they might set me off somehow. We've talked
maybe two or three times since I got out of the hospital in
December. So I feel OK about asking them about the phone call in
June, but not about this."
        He got off the bed and started to pace while he thought,
but he only made one trip across the room before she saw him
wince and walk directly to the table to sit down. He pulled
another chair over and put his left foot up on that. After
another minute he put the other foot up and slid partway down,
till he was resting mostly on his tailbone.
        "At the very least, Skinner needs to know. If something
does happen to me, then he has to be sure that these people are
protected. Who knows what I might do? I could sound and act
totally normal, then go berserk and start killing them." He
straightened up in the chair. "I don't want you in the room when
I do it, because you're just too small if something goes wrong.
It would tear me to pieces if I did anything to hurt you, after
what I did when I tried to bite out my wrists in October."
        She moved over to join him at the table. "So you've
decided? You're going to do it?"
        He shrugged and turned a bitter smile on her. "What other
choice do I have? Either I do it, or we agree here and now that
the X-Files are permanently closed and I have to retire from the
FBI."
        "But . . . but . . . you could stay with the ISU,
couldn't you?"
        "*No*. I can't go back there, Scully. I can't control
that talent when it comes to serial killers, and I can *not* do
that again. If I get that deeply inside another serial killer,
then you can just plan on me being a permanent resident at St.
Elizabeth's, and I doubt even 600mgs. of Clozaril a day will be
enough to keep me from trying to kill myself, no matter *how*
snowed I am. So it's do this on the Jeffries' case, or retire."
        She nodded, glad for him and herself and her mother that
he'd finally agreed that he couldn't do any more profiles. "All
right." She went to get her cell phone out of her briefcase so
Mulder could call the Lone Gunmen. By the time she brought it
back, she had made her decision. He reached for the phone, but
she shook her head and held it out of reach. "Mulder, you may not
want me in the room when you do this, but I'm going to be there.
Or you're not going to do it, and we'll close down the X-Files."
        He shook his head, but she continued anyway. "Mulder, we
can't let the hospital staff be in there. Whether on not they
believe anything you might say, if the Men in Black even *think*
they've heard anything, they won't be safe when we start to go
after them. We already know you, Skinner, Elliot, and SAC Cohen
decided there would be no agents helping you with this. *I'm* not
supposed to be here, but I think Skinner decided to conveniently
forget that fact. So it's me because I know and accept what we're
up against, or it's no one, and you have to have someone in there
to guide you, question you--assuming you can actually get
anywhere. So it's me, or it's off." She folded her arms and
waited for his answer.
        He glared at her, trying to get her to back down. She was
having none of it. Eventually his glare dwindled to nothing, and
then it became one of his "You win. You're right and I'm talking
utter nonsense." smiles.
        "All right, Agent Scully. Whatever you say. I'll even let
you explain it to Henry. If you can convince him, then we'll do
it as soon as he'll let us. Agreed?"
        She returned his smile and held out the phone.

        She went to take a swim because Henry didn't have time to
see her till tomorrow and Mulder had been on her cellular phone
and her computer for twenty minutes and it looked like he would
be there at least another half-hour. When she came back, forty-
five minutes later, he was _still_ talking and working at the
computer. When he saw her, he waved her over, then turned back to
the computer and phone.
        "Uh-huh. I think I've got it all. I just finished
downloading the fifth file. Thanks, guys. After Scully and I look
at this, we'll get back in touch if there are any more
questions." He hit the "end" button on the phone, then carefully
saved the files the Lone Gunmen had sent, shut down the computer,
and turned to her. "We'll need to go into town and get a bunch of
diskettes. You don't have anywhere near enough with you. I want
to make at least half a dozen copies of this information and send
them out to people who will publicize it if something goes
wrong."
        She sat down across from him. "What did they have? Is it
enough that you don't have to do anything?"
        He shook his head. "Not hardly. But now I'm positive this
is the case that got me attacked. I called a Dr. Fredrika Tanner
at Morgantown Laboratories in Denver." He paused to look
questioningly at her.
        "No, that doesn't mean anything to me. You must have
called her while I was out of the office."
        "OK. Well, we can't ask her anything now, because she
died on the way to the hospital after a hit and run accident on
June 16th, at about the same time we got called in on that raid.
She--"
        "Mulder! How do you know that? You weren't allowed to
read that report." If he had gone against Dr. Carrington's
express orders, he was going to get *reamed*--and then she would
call Isabelle.
        He must have read her face, because he laughed and said,
"No, Scully, I haven't read your report. Byers put two and two
together when they heard I'd been carjacked, and came up with
sixteen. That sent the Gunmen digging a whole lot farther than
the stuff I originally asked them to check out.
        "Dr. Tanner had been working for the past five years on
various government contracts. The guys weren't able to determine
which contract might have been the one that got her killed; they
were all so intertwined and inter-related that it could have been
any or all of them. But she was almost certainly killed because I
called her and asked questions about Bobby Jeffries' symptoms in
relationship to an article she'd published about six months
earlier.
        "She refused to talk to me, so I called the Gunmen to ask
them to find out everything they could about her and Morgantown
Laboratories, and about that article. They did OK for a couple of
hours, but by midnight everything was blocked. Computers down,
firewalls behind firewalls when they tried to hack into some
systems, and for other systems, by the time they got through
everything they accessed was virus infected. They had to scramble
to keep their own computers clean.
        "By the time I was out of surgery and in the ICU,
Morgantown Labs had been destroyed when a delivery truck blew a
tire, swerved out of control into the side of the building, and
blew itself and most of the building sky high. Since there were
two reliable witnesses to the tire blow-out--the night guard at
the gate and one circulating security guard--and the truck was
carrying flammable chemicals _and_ Morgantown routinely kept
other flammable and explosive chemicals, it was written off as an
extremely tragic accident.
        "Dr. Tanner's assistant was found dead at his home on
July 8. He was a brittle diabetic, so no one questioned the
autopsy finding of an insulin reaction while he was asleep. That
was the day after my Care Conference and we knew I'd be making it
back to work eventually, at least in some capacity. That made the
assistant a liability even if he wasn't going to continue Dr.
Tanner's work when the lab was rebuilt.
        "All neat and tidy, eh, Scully? And you had no idea what
I was on to, because you were out of the room when I made those
two phone calls. Anyway, the Gunmen sent what they had, which
isn't much beyond what I told you. But just having it is enough
to get us killed if it gets into the wrong hands, without other
copies being out there." He stood up. "So let's go into town--"
        She shook her head. "Sorry, Mulder. *You* are staying
here. I don't have transportation because they met me at the
airport. That means if we don't want to involve the staff, I have
to get a ride to a car rental agency and then go for diskettes,
which I want to do in Miami because I need some personal stuff
anyway. You can't walk far enough for all of that." She checked
her watch. "I'll go right after dinner. No way am I going to pay
for a meal when the food here is included in our fees." She
changed subjects. "If we can get Henry's OK, when do you want to
do this?"
        He went to the glass doors, and she recognized his
posture from visits to GUMC's psych ward and since he'd been
discharged. She wondered if Skinner would let them move upstairs.
Mulder really needed a window to look out of nowadays when he was
thinking about something. He wasn't there even two minutes before
he shifted from a balanced stance to all his weight on his right
leg, and it was less than two more minutes before he limped back
to the bed to sit down and put his left leg up.
        "I'm *really* getting tired of this sprained ankle,
Scully.
        "I need time to remember the entire Jeffries' case. Thank
God it was our most recent one, and we'd only had it four days.
There's also a lot of travel time in there, from D.C. to
Cheyenne, Wyoming and then to Lusk, and then the return trip.
And, of course, my memory stops about 11 a.m. on the 16th. I'm
only going to go through the memories once--there's no reason for
me to try to look for anything specific, because whatever it was
that made me call Dr. Tanner is something I came up with after 11
a.m. So that's not even four full days to remember. Let's try for
Friday morning if Henry will allow that, and hope that between
what I can remember and what we got from the Lone Gunmen, there's
enough for me to figure this all out. Is that OK with you?"
        She nodded.


Henry Converse's Office
10:19 a.m., June 16

        Henry surged out of his chair in shock. "You want to
WHAT?!" He couldn't believe Dana Scully had actually said that.
She was a doctor! A pathologist, not a psychiatrist, but she knew
damn well what could happen to Mulder or her if she was the only
one in the room with him.
        "We want to--"
        "I _heard_ what you said, Dr. Scully." He chose that
title deliberately. "I cannot believe that in your professional
opinion it is safe for the two of you to be in there alone. Give
me facts. Reasons. Prove to me that *you* haven't gone off the
deep end, gotten too involved in what Mulder wants to do.
        "And give me just _one_ good reason why I shouldn't kick
you both out of here. You know The Rule--" he capitalized those
two words with his voice, "'You have to work on your problems to
stay at Henry's Place.' I don't see how this blatant disregard
for Mulder's and your safety is working on his problem." He sank
back down into his chair and waited for her to put her foot
deeper in her mouth.
        She seemed to actually grow taller, the more he
challenged her. Good. He already knew she was a strong woman, but
this proved it. Now if she only had some good reasons, he might--
MIGHT--consider what they wanted.
        "Dr. Converse, in my professional opinion
*as*an*FBI*Agent*, if any of your staff hear _any_ of what Agent
Mulder has to say, they will be targeted for death. If those
people who ordered the attacks on Agent Mulder even _think_ staff
members are involved, you will find yourself and your entire
staff facing death sentences. If they think patients may have
heard anything, or even if they think the patients may have
overheard staff discussing Agent Mulder's insight, then every
single patient who was here at the time will also be targeted. In
my 'professional' opinion, Dr. Converse, you cannot do anything
but allow us to do it our way."
        He heard the slight emphasis every time she said "Agent",
reminding him that Mulder had come down here on business;
business that just happened to require him being in a psychiatric
hospital. "Your argument is spurious. My staff do not talk.
Period. That is well known and has been proven time and again.
Why would anyone think that what a psychiatrist or a psychiatric
nurse hears during treatment will be of any danger to them?"
        She shook her head. "You don't understand. What we're
talking about is not some criminals bent on keeping their
operation safe--and I know that part of the reason you consider
yourself safe is that you treat underworld figures too--or even a
politician or three who think we've come too close to their
underhanded or illegal dealings. We are talking about a
conspiracy involving the highest levels of the US government and
military, with probable ties to several, if not most, Western
European governments, and leading back at least as far as World
War II. We have no idea what or who Mulder could identify, and
those men will stop at *nothing* to keep themselves and their
agenda secret."
        She was beginning to sound like--hell, she *did* sound
like--a full-blown paranoid schizophrenic. Only they didn't have
jobs as FBI Agents. Or at least they didn't after their illness
was diagnosed. "So why are you and Agent Mulder still alive?" If
her answer didn't make sense, he'd placate her and call Assistant
Director Skinner the minute she left his office.
        "Because . . ." She deflated physically as well as in the
conviction in her voice. "Because most of the time we're a thorn
in their side. We irritate them, show up their weak spots. Every
single time we've gotten hard evidence of the conspiracy, that
evidence has been taken from us or destroyed. The people involved
have been killed or walked away scot-free. Mulder's father was
killed. My sister was killed by mistake--that hit was supposed to
be on me. There was an attempt to discredit Assistant Director
Skinner, have him convicted of murder. I was abducted and held
for three months. I remember none of that. There have been
several near-successful attempts on Mulder's life." She looked at
him directly. "I'm not paranoid, Dr. Converse, not without good
reason. Neither is Mulder. Skinner has seen and held some of that
evidence. He believes us. If he didn't, we wouldn't still be
working on the X-Files and Mulder wouldn't be here with his
blessings.
        "But a phone call that Mulder made around 9:30 p.m. of
June 16 last year was so close to the heart of things that they
felt it necessary to set up that 'carjacking' that almost killed
him. That attack came before midnight. Have you any idea of what
must have been involved to determine that Mulder was finally too
dangerous to be running around, find that man who attacked him,
find _Mulder_--and do all that in less than three hours? And the
person and place that he wanted to investigate were also gotten
rid of on that same night."
        He was shaken by her matter-of-fact recitation. This was
the paranoia undercover cops and intelligence agents honed to a
fine edge in order to stay alive. Whether or not this multi-
national conspiracy she was talking about actually existed, there
were good reasons for her--and him--to fear for the safety of his
staff and his patients.
        "That explains the attack on Mulder. Why weren't you also
attacked?"
        "I have to assume that they knew I had no idea what
Mulder was onto. They also knew I wouldn't continue the X-Files
myself, if Mulder were dead or permanently crippled by that
'random' attack." She paused, sighed, and picked up her initial
argument. "So you see, Dr. Converse, either I go in there alone
with Mulder, or he quits the FBI, and those men are free to
pursue their hidden agenda. And from what we know about that
agenda, it makes totalitarianism and the Nazi 'final solution'
look like child's play."
        He glanced at her sharply, but she apparently didn't know
just how close to home that second comparison struck. If the
nightmares that still tormented one of his patients, fifty-three
years after World War II had ended, were anything to measure by,
then he would do everything in his power to help her and Mulder.
He pulled a scratch pad toward him, started to write--and then
tore off that single sheet and put the rest of the pad aside.
Better to start being paranoid himself, if he was going to help.
        "All right. No staff. They'll stay out of it unless
Mulder is actually suicidal or attacks you." What he wrote and
showed her was, "We'll talk later. Take an after dinner stroll
around the grounds."
        She started to nod, then glanced at him sharply. "What
about you? You're as much at risk as they are."
        "Agent Scully, you may be an M.D., and you certainly know
Mulder, but you are not a psychiatrist. Mulder is my patient. I
do not, under any circumstances, abandon my patients. We'll
figure something out."


Henry's Place
Seclusion Room
9:00 a.m., June 19

        "Mulder, you knew this would happen. We talked about it--
I'm not going to be able to give you the Demerol for the headache
because you won't be able to hold still for me to do it unless
you're restrained. So just let Irene put in the IV port and then
we can get started." Scully was getting very impatient; she
thought he wanted this over and done with!
        With Mulder in restraints an IV in the back of his hand
or wrist was out of the question. If he could hold his arm still
for the injection then the port could be anywhere on his forearm.
But extra hands might be needed anyway, so the safest place for
the needle to be was as close to his shoulder as they could put
it and it still be out of reach of his mouth. He jittered
nervously for a few more minutes, then lay down, hands gripping
the edges of the mattress till his knuckles were white and the
mattress curled up toward him.
        The nurse smiled at him. "Good. It's hard to get a
tourniquet on way up there. But you've got enough strain in your
arms for me to find a good vein." She ran her gloved fingers up
and down prominent veins on both arms, then stopped and said,
"Can you reach my fingertips? Really try, as hard as you can."
        Mulder gave her a "you asked for it" look, then made a
convulsive effort to get his teeth to where she was touching his
right arm. They had forgotten that he wasn't restrained, and his
arm automatically came up, shoving Irene's hand forward so that
it banged his nose.
        Scully giggled as Mulder sat half-way up, grabbed his
nose and said "Ow!", and Irene, totally flustered, stepped back
and started apologizing profusely.
        "Scully! It's not funny!" Mulder rubbed his nose and
glared at her.
        "Oh, but it _is_, Mulder. I can't remember which of the
Three Stooges was always getting his nose bashed or tweaked, but
this was classic. As good as anything they ever did.
        "Here, let's get you restrained and let Irene try again."
She turned to get the leather wrist cuffs, then paused as the
abrupt stillness and sky-high tension in the room penetrated.
When she looked up, Mulder was white as a sheet and frozen in
place and Irene also looked shaken. She looked back and forth
between the two of them, then asked, "What? What did I say?"
        Mulder sank back down flat on the bed, still white, and
didn't say a word. Finally Irene said, "It took us nearly two
hours to restrain him the second time. We must have tried at
least a dozen times before he let us get near him. Henry said to
put the IV port in first so we could give Mulder a very light
dose of Valium, just enough to let him let us fasten the
restraints, but not enough that he wouldn't know what was going
on." She paused, then added, "If he panics when the Valium wears
off, I'm supposed to hit him with a full dose and we'll get him
out of the restraints while he's out. And whatever it is that the
two of you want to do will be canceled. Permanently."
        Scully looked at Irene, then at Mulder, then back at
Irene. "Excuse us please; Mulder and I have something to
discuss." When the door was closed, she rounded on him. "What the
*hell* do you think you were doing, not telling me about this? I
wasn't supposed to know that you're as scared to death of being
restrained as you are of fire? What did you think would happen?
You'd lie there shivering and sweating, involuntarily pulling
against the restraints, too scared to try to do what you came in
here to do--and I wouldn't _notice_? Well, f--" She cut off the
epithet and spun on her heel, walking to the far end of the small
room to stare out the small window.
        She heard Mulder get up and come stand behind her. He was
close enough that she could smell the fear-sweat on him. He
didn't say anything for the longest time, and neither did she,
while she made herself calm down. Then she started to turn and
apologize. "Mul--"
        "Scu--"
        They both paused. She looked up at him. "I'm sorry,
Mulder. I shouldn't have yelled at you. But you must have some
explanation for why you didn't want me to know."
        He looked miserable, hair already mussed, the hospital
gown a terrible mismatch to his own pajama bottoms, shifting from
foot to foot as the cold of the tile floor really started to
penetrate his stocking feet, and without even pockets to stick
his hands in. Finally he just let them hang at his sides while he
spoke. "Scully, it's not that bad. Really. Once the restraints
are fastened I can calm down. They're not all that
uncomfortable." He quirked a smile. "Scully, I can relax enough
to sleep in them. Deliberately fall asleep. That's got to count
for something. It's just that letting them fasten the restraints
is too close to what I had to let them do while I was in GUMC."
He shrugged. "Bad memories. Nothing more."
        She looked at him closely, trying to judge how much he
was hiding, how much of what he said was the truth. Finally she
nodded. "What if Irene gives you some IM Valium, then we restrain
you? Will you be able to try to reach an IV site afterward, or
will deliberately fighting the restraints be enough to set you
off?"
        He shrugged. "I won't know till I try." He went back to
the bed and sat down on it cross-legged, massaging first one
foot, then the other. "You'd think the floor would be warmer.
It's got to be in the 90s outside."
        She smiled at him. "But Mulder, it's air-conditioned in
here." Then she became serious. "Mulder, intramuscular Valium
can't be titrated as closely as intravenous Valium. You might be
mostly out of it when we fasten the restraints and it will
certainly take a lot longer to wear off."
        He shrugged again. "I'll cope. I have to, or I have to
give up on ever trying to get the bastards who started all this
when they ordered the attack on me."
        She nodded and went to tell Irene of the change in plans.


6:00 p.m.

        Scully shook her head in resignation. Damn Mulder and his
stubbornness. He'd been so anxious that it took a second small
dose of Valium for him to even start relaxing. Then he went out
like a light, and now he was still asleep, more than eight hours
later. Manuel, when he had spelled her for a bathroom break,
mentioned that Mulder had refused the offered sleeping pill last
night. So he probably spent the night too anxious to sleep, and
then conked out as soon as the Valium hit. If he wasn't awake by
the time she finished dinner, she would ask Manuel to put the IV
port in anyway. They could pick Mulder's head up and try to get
it close to his arm, then Manuel could put the port in just past
that.
        Then they'd undo the restraints and let Mulder sleep till
he woke up. Then they would do this tomorrow. And if they had
picked the wrong spot for the port, well, then, he would just
have to get a second one, in the other arm.
        Damn Mulder. It was his money they'd wasted today. But it
was _her_ emotional energy.


7:10 p.m., June 23

        "Mulder, give it up. Admit it. You can't make it happen
except with serial killers, OK?"
        Scully was pacing in her frustration, something that was
making Mulder even more frustrated than he already was. "No!" He
lifted his head to glare at her, then let it drop wearily to the
pillow. Five days--well, not counting the 19th because he'd slept
through that--so make it four days of lying here getting
absolutely nowhere. Again and again he'd tried to make his talent
figure out what-in-the-hell he'd stumbled into in Lusk, Wyoming
that was so important that "they" had decided to stop him. Why
not just kill him? Why send that guy with the baseball bat, to
cripple him instead? If only--
        "Mulder, it's after 7:00; I want to eat. Let's _go_ eat,
not have food delivered here. You tried. You really tried, but
it's just not going to work." She swept her hair back and dug the
padlock key out of her pants pocket.
        "NO! Goddamn it, Scully, I'm *not* going to admit that I
can't make it work! I've got everything I need. Somewhere in my
brain I've _got_ to be able to find a way to make it kick in."
        He yanked at the leather ankle and wrist restraints. He
was so _stiff_. At GUMC he'd only been restrained like this while
he slept. He was up and around during the day. Granted, his hands
had been restrained the first week, until he had proved he was no
longer suicidal while awake, but still, he could _move_. Here he
was restrained during the day and tried to sleep at night. Not
anywhere near an even exchange.
        "Mulder, stop that!" Scully was at his side. "Just
_hold_still_ and let me get you undone."
        She reached toward his right wrist and he suddenly was
too mentally exhausted to fight her any more. He sighed in
resignation and relaxed, waiting till she'd let him loose. Then
he wiggled his ankles and flexed his legs several times, knowing
from experience that if he tried to sit up without increasing his
circulation at least a little he'd gray out.
        Then he went back to his room to change into regular
clothes, because if he didn't, he would have to eat in the
patients' dining room. He much preferred the patio, where the
cool breezes, the sounds of the evening insects, and the gourmet
food served on china and crystal all fostered the romantic
illusion of dining in an elegant tropical resort with a beautiful
red-headed woman named Dana Scully. He had to admit now that
Kennedy was right--it was hard to think of her as his partner
these days. He hadn't worked alongside her in more than a year,
since the night of June 16 when he'd been attacked. Now she was
the co-worker who drove him to and from work, and sometimes to
his doctor's appointments, and visited him when he was in the
hospital. He would ask her out for a date, but it would be too
funny for words, asking her to drive them to . . .
        His glass clattered as he set it back down.
        "Mulder? Are you all right?" Scully was looking at him
with concern in her eyes.
        He covered his confusion at the direction his thoughts
had turned with a wry smile. "Still a little clumsy. Being tied
up all day does that to you, y'know."
        She nodded. "Tell me about it. I think I was dropping
things for three days after. . ." she trailed off, turning a bit
pale, then finished resolutely, "after the Pfaster case."
        He reached across the table to grip her hand
comfortingly. After another minute she smiled a genuine Scully
smile, turned her hand to squeeze his, then reached for her water
glass and took a swallow, and said, "So, is this a good time or a
bad time to talk about what you'll--we'll--do when we return to
D.C.?"
        He looked at her askance. "Return? Who said anything
about going back? We're not done here."
        This time _her_ glass clattered, as she set it down with
nearly enough force to break the stem. "Mulder. You agreed--"
        "I agreed to let you release me so we could eat dinner. I
didn't agree to quit. It's just taking longer than I expected."
He looked at her directly, refusing to give in to the impulse
that said to hide from her anger by staring at his food.
        "Damn it, Mulder," she said fiercely, "if you can't do it
in four days, you're not going to be able to do it. It _didn't_
happen in one place, it _wasn't_ one person, and you're not some
psychic who can read minds with a snap of his fingers! Even if
this were a serial killer, you might not be able to do it. You
told me yourself, you can't do it on every case, thank God,
because if you could, you'd be dead by now from the stress, if
not from a successful suicide attempt. So just admit it and let's
go home."
        He shook his head. "No. I'm going to be able to do it,
Scully. The rage and self-hatred are there. It's just that
there's something still missing. Something I'm not taking into
account. Like--" He froze, suddenly feeling the missing piece
drop into place like a long-sought jigsaw puzzle piece fitting
perfectly into its irregular hole.
        He put his napkin down and stood up. Coming around the
table, he held out a hand for her, then, as she too stood up,
pulled her after him to walk away from the buildings out into the
hospital grounds. He kept hold of her hand and didn't speak till
they were more than 200 yards away, past the first of the
miniature hills. Then he kept walking as he tried to explain. "It
all comes back to the original Purity Control, not the alien
clones we investigated later, the ones with green blood that's
fatal to humans."
        "What good does knowing that do us?"
        "Because, Scully, I'll bet you . . . dinner at any
restaurant in D.C. you want, that tomorrow when I go into those
restraints, I'll come up with the where. Because it _is_ Purity
Control, and the same person who was in charge of questioning me,
is--was--in charge during whatever happened to Bobby Jeffries."
        She stopped so abruptly she nearly jerked him off
balance. "How can you know that? There's absolutely nothing in
the Jeffries' case that has anything to do with D.C."
        He smiled and gently tugged on her hand, encouraging her
to keep walking. "It has to be. I can't explain how I know, I
just know. Remember that Bobby was gone for nearly a week, and
the only reason we got called in was that when he was returned
home, he told his mother about a monster with green blood that
replaced his daddy.
        "Scully, I talked with one of those green-blooded
'monsters'. He looked exactly like a normal human being. When
they killed him, the fumes from his blood were so strong that I
passed out. When I woke up, if my hands hadn't been bound behind
my back I'd probably have scratched my face bloody, I was itching
so much. You didn't see me till much later. They treated my eyes,
nose, and mouth with something and even made me take some kind of
breathing treatment before they gave me back to you. I think they
didn't want you to know anything about it, because until then,
they just let me suffer, as if it didn't matter because they were
going to kill me anyway, once they were done with me.
        "Now, as much as you and I know those men are monsters, I
don't think they would have let Bobby suffer like that if they
had kidnaped him so he could be with his father. I think there
was an accident, and Andrew Jeffries was injured in some way that
made him bleed. Bobby just happened to be nearby, and they had to
treat him and get him home to his mother ASAP, because he
wouldn't have anything to do with the 'monster' he thought had
replaced his father."
        Scully was quiet for several minutes as they continued to
walk up and down the hills. His legs were beginning to tire from
the unaccustomed exercise, so he had steered them to walking
around the hills before she finally spoke. "OK, I think that's
probably a reasonable analysis. But I still don't see how that's
enough information to lead you back to D.C., or for you to do
your 'thing'. Mulder, from what you told me back then, you were
pretty much out of it for a lot of the time they held you."
        He nodded. "But I still heard what they were talking
about. They didn't care whether I overheard them; to them I was
already a dead man. Or I was until suddenly they got a phone call
and they hustled me to a different lab elsewhere in the building
to treat me. So it's there in my memory. And it's there
accurately, Scully. I wasn't drugged--God, I wish they had
drugged me, because I wouldn't have hurt or itched while I was
doped up. Anyway, that means I can remember things, from when I
came to until they tossed me out of the truck on the bridge. Then
I'll have enough information to do a 'profile' and come up with
the location."
        He stopped, turning to face her. "So, what do you say?
Breakfast at 7:00, into the restraint room by 8:00, and done in
time for dinner?" He offered that as a joke, but she shook her
head, wearing her "Dr. Scully" face.
        "No way, Mulder. Not here. If you're going to remember
what that green blood did to you, you're going to do it in a real
hospital, where we have access to things to treat you. I--"
        He shook the hand he still held, to interrupt her and get
her attention. "Scully! It's not going to happen like that."
        "Oh? Then tell me how it *is* going to happen. Because
two of the last three times you used your memory that way you
couldn't stop yourself from reliving things. I'm not going to
take the chance that this won't happen in the same way." She
pulled her hand loose. "Don't fight me on this, Mulder. You'll be
in a hospital, and then we'll come back here to finish."
        He acquiesced with a shrug. "OK. But not here in Florida.
We'll go to GUMC, because that's where you took me the first
time, and you'll need those records--assuming they haven't been
destroyed. And I won't need to be restrained when I set my talent
loose; there's no chance I'll do anything to myself this time. So
we can just do that at my apartment." He looked around, trying to
figure out where they were on the grounds. He couldn't, so he
headed off to his left to retrace their steps. "C'mon, let's go
find out when the next flight home is; maybe we can catch it."
        He heard her "MULDER!" and paused to look at her. "What?"
        "It's that way." She was pointing about thirty degrees to
her right, what had been mostly behind his back.
        "Huh? How do you. . ."
        "Mulder, just shut up and listen."
        He did, nodded sheepishly, and headed back to join her so
they could take the direct route.

        They were about half-way back when Scully said, "It's not
going to happen right away, you know. We're going to have to find
a reason for you to go in the hospital. You also need to see Dr.
Kennedy because you said you're not going back to the ISU. If
you're not going to take disability retirement, then he's got to
concoct some explanation, based on your 'relapse', that'll let
you work, but will keep Baseball Bat Man away from you."
        "Won't work, Scully. I'm already back at work, have been
since the 14th, according to you." Mulder made one of those
noises people use to express disgust with themselves and the
world in general, then added, "Or maybe I can just have *another*
relapse, and Henry decided to ship me home for Kennedy to take
care of it. Sheesh! People are going to think I'm a basket case,
Scully. They won't be calling me Spooky, they'll be calling me
Psycho." After a couple of minutes of silence, he said, "Y'know,
that's not a bad idea. I'm too 'fragile' to work as a Special
Agent right now, but not too unstable to work. So we just need to
think of something where I won't go crazy from boredom if I have
to do it for a year or so. Some desk job somewhere that would
still let me have access to things."
        She nodded to herself. She'd gotten him distracted, not
thinking about letting his talent loose. Because there was no way
in *hell* she was going to let him do that in his apartment. What
did he think she was:  crazy, or just stupid? Even if he didn't
become suicidal, he'd probably kill himself when he fell down,
safety helmet or no. She found herself thinking approvingly of
his room back on GUMC's psych ward, completely devoid of anything
with sharp points or hard edges--and then his last sentence
penetrated.
        "Mulder, did you say what I thought you said? You'd
consider a desk job?"
        He shrugged. "Well, what else is there? I'm too young to
retire. Besides, I'd go broke trying to live on my disability
pension."
        She chuckled, then seriously considered possibilities.
"You could teach at the Academy. Considering the number of 'guest
lecturer' requests you used to turn down because we had no idea
what our schedule was going to be like, I'm sure they'd snap you
up in an instant."
        She looked toward the table they'd been at as they came
back to the patio. "Oh, look, our table is still set for dessert
and coffee. I refuse to skip that; it'll be our last time, since
we're heading home tonight or tomorrow morning."
        Mulder looked at her. "Sybarite," he said with a smile.
        "No, not at all," she replied with a smile of her own.
"Just practicing living in the style to which I want to become
accustomed."
        They divided up responsibilities while eating. He would
call the airlines, then, if they were leaving tonight, pack his
things and if she wasn't back, head over to her room to pack
hers. She would find Henry and talk to him about what he might
write in Mulder's "official" medical record, to cover their
change in plans.
        She would also, she told herself, call Skinner and try to
get a hold of Dr. Kennedy. She wanted things to go so smoothly
there would be no chance for Mulder to try to talk his way out of
_her_ arrangements for ending this case. They'd come up with some
reason to check him into GUMC, something like, say, a broken hip.
Yeah. That would keep him safely bed bound for a while, while she
and Skinner set up the raid to catch the "bad guys". It was a
pity that Mulder was the wrong sex, the wrong age, and definitely
the wrong body type to break his hip. Of course she wouldn't
really wish that on anyone; it was major surgery and several
months' recovery time.
        So it would have to be something else. But whatever it
was, he would not leave the hospital till after she'd gotten the
information about where things were happening. And if she and Dr.
Kennedy could come up with a way, he would still be there when
they came back from the raid.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Room 601
11:57 p.m., June 25

        Scully listened to Mulder's words slur into garbled
nonsense and then silence as he dropped off into exhausted sleep,
all the while silently cursing fate. There would be no need for
him to try to make his talent work. His eidetic memory had held
the answers they needed. But now all her carefully arranged plans
to keep Mulder here till things were completely over were shot to
hell and gone by one simple fact:  Mulder could tell her that
they were looking for a four-story building that was within five
minutes of the bridge where Deep Throat had exchanged him for the
alien fetus, but he couldn't describe the outside of that
building so she could find it without him. He'd never gotten a
look at any part of the exterior except the loading dock. And
loading docks were much too similar; someone--not "someone", she
reminded herself, _she_, and she thoroughly disliked driving in
D.C.--would have to drive Mulder around till he recognized the
correct building. She wondered if Dr. Kennedy would let him have
his Driver's License back now. It certainly would make life much
easier.
        She said quietly, "Screw hospital regulations", kicked
off her shoes, leaned back in her chair, and put her feet up on
the side of Mulder's bed. His exhaustion came from working out at
Henry's Place for two days, along with two nights' missed sleep,
to help set the stage for this hospital stay, then remembering
every single thing that happened once he'd been exposed to the
green blood, but staying far enough removed to be able to talk it
all into a tape recorder, as well as being aware enough of what
was going on to mumble nightmare nonsense whenever a nurse or his
doctor came in the room. Her exhaustion, on the other hand, came
from talking with Henry, Skinner, and Kennedy, and then helping
each of them concoct their part of the fabric of lies and half-
truths that would keep Mulder safe from the Consortium, yet not
have him forcibly retired.
        They'd rewritten his stay in Florida almost completely,
making it what it really was:  a deliberate undercover plan for
him to try to gain control of his talent. Everything happened as
it really did, except the reasons-- She was asleep before she
could finish that thought.


Scully's apartment
10:15 a.m., June 26

        Scully picked up her phone and dialed A.D. Skinner's
office. Then she tried his cell phone. When she dialed his home,
she finally got an answer.
        "Skinner." He sounded pissed off. There was an awful lot
of noise in the background; it was hard to hear him over it.
        "Sir, it's Dana Scully. Is this a bad time? You wanted to
know where we were at." She remembered the days before she'd
gotten a cordless phone:  back then she could twist and untwist
the cord while she was trying to stay calm. Skinner was going to
be upset at her news.
        "TURN THAT-- Excuse me a minute, Agent Scully. I have to
talk to the repairman."
        It was a lot more than a minute. How long could it
possibly take to tell someone to turn the radio down? She could
hear the same noise, punctuated by Skinner's voice, getting
louder and louder, angrier and angrier--then total silence,
followed by "And _leave_ it off while you're in my house."
        Now *what* could that have been all about? She knew she'd
never find out and resigned herself to spending the next several
days going batty trying to figure it out. Oh, well.
        "Sorry about that, Agent Scully. My computer's acting up,
and the regular repairman got mugged last night. The store sent
someone they swore was just as good, but he's a teenager and
thinks he can't work without his music. Now, what were you
saying?"
        She opened her mouth to explain, then stopped. Mugged?
_Last_night_? First Mulder, then Dr. Fredrika Tanner in Denver,
then her assistant, then Mulder again, now Skinner's computer
repairman. She remembered the saying "Once is happenstance, twice
is coincidence; the third time is enemy action" and decided not
to say anything over the phone. "Um . . . sir? Could you please
come to the hospital?"
        "Scully! What's wrong? I really can't leave while the
repairman is here. I thought Mulder would be home by now?" He
sounded entirely too anxious, but that would placate the
"repairman".
        "So did I. However, the doctor can't release him till
he's awake enough to at least make it out of his room." She put a
smile into her voice for that, then sobered. "Mulder's exhaustion
is worse than we thought." That was a good enough lie if the
repairman was listening in to her side of the conversation. "When
I called to find out what time to pick him up, they told me they
couldn't rouse him for breakfast, so the doctor won't let him out
till at least five today, or maybe not till tomorrow. I need you
to put the fear of God into him *before* he's released. He's not
likely to listen to me about needing to take things easy, because
he won't feel sick. I thought if you read him the riot act he
might behave."
        Skinner chuckled, then actually laughed. It was a nice
rich laugh, one she'd only heard a few times before. "Yes, of
course. I'd be pleased to do that. I should be able to meet you
there in about two hours. Will you have your cell phone with you?
I'd rather not call his room and chance waking him up if I'm
running late."
        She nodded, forgetting he couldn't see her. "Yes, sir.
Thank you, sir. Why don't you join us for lunch? Mulder doesn't
like the hospital food--"
        "Do you blame him?"
        "--so I thought I'd bring Chinese. I already cleared it
with his doctor."
        "Chinese is fine. What did you have in mind?"
        "Kung Pao Chicken." It suddenly occurred to her that she
had no idea how hot or mild he liked his food. "Or is that too
spicy for you?"
        "No, but I don't really like it. How about you also get
Mongolian Beef, if they have it, or Chicken with Broccoli. And
chopsticks, please, rather than one of those flimsy plastic
forks. Save your receipt, Agent Scully, and turn it in on your
expense report."
        "But, sir, it's not--"
        "Agent Scully, don't argue. Or do you prefer to pay for
working lunches out of pocket?"
        The reprimand was gentle but firm. If he was going to
have the FBI pay for their lunch, she certainly wasn't going to
object, so she said, "No, sir. Thank you, sir. We'll see you
around 12, 12:30."
        After she'd hung up, she washed her face clear of makeup,
then changed into a long full skirt she'd inherited when Missy
died, a tee-shirt with a Sidney Harris cartoon on it from her
undergraduate days, a pair of sandals, and pulled her hair into a
ponytail. Then she gathered what she needed and headed for the
Internet Cafe, where she could contact the Lone Gunmen using the
account she had there.
        Her preparations for going there made her smile. She'd
gotten the account nearly eighteen months ago, long before any of
this had happened. One day at work she opened an e-mail message
from "Red@internet_cafe.com", to find that it was an invitation
for lunch. She showed it to Mulder and he agreed to arrive ahead
of her, to try to figure out who was setting her up.
        To her surprise, Byers was there, talking with Mulder.
They went across the street to a much more "normal" restaurant.
Byers explained, over a lunch that _he_ paid for, that the Lone
Gunmen had set up an account for "Red" at The Internet Cafe and
one for "YouKnowWho" at Planet Internet--just so they'd have
secure access to the Internet.
        It was amazing what friends did for friends sometimes.


The Internet Cafe
Terminal 12
10:51 a.m.

        She had to wait more than fifteen minutes for a free
terminal, but that made this even safer. Even if someone had
followed her here, there was no way of knowing which terminal
she'd get. The other three people at the table she was escorted
to had all been here when she arrived, and by the looks of things
were likely to be here long after she finished. To make things
even nicer, her terminal just happened to let her sit with her
back to the wall, so no one could read over her shoulder. And if
anyone still in line simply turned around and left, an indication
that they now knew enough to "listen in", she would just cruise
the 'Net instead while here.
        She ordered a pot of 'Mystic Mint' tea, her Internet Cafe
'usual'; by the time it arrived she'd already composed and sent
her message.

To:  LoneGunMagazine.com
From:  Red@internet_cafe.com
Subject:  YouKnowWho

Guys, I need your help. YouKnowWho did it
again and is taking it easy at his favorite
home away from home. I was supposed to help
him find the set of books he misplaced a
while ago. If they're not back at the library
*today*, the library will permanently revoke
his card and throw the book at him. (Gah!
That's awful; I should have been able to do
better. Oh, well.)

I figure you'd probably be able to find out
where he left it; after all, it's your kind
of stuff and you know him so well.

Red
        She stayed on line--she wasn't likely to use up her ten
hours a month after all, considering how rarely she needed, or
chose, to play born-again hippie--and left the mail program on;
it would flash a message as soon as she got any mail. She had
finished two months of accumulated e-mail, most of it spam, and
was reading a fan-written story from the alt.tv.forever-knight
newsgroup, shaking her head and giggling over the hysterically
inaccurate autopsy Natalie was performing, and had almost
finished the pot of tea when the mail flag finally went up.

To:  Red@internet_cafe.com
From:  LoneGunMagazine.com
Subject:  Re:  YouKnowWho

Red--How nice to hear from you again. I
hadn't expected you to be home so soon. How
was your vacation? I understand the weather
was perfect the entire time. Did you work on
your tan, or do you put on SPF 30?

As for YouKnowWho, I hope it's nothing
serious this time. Maybe this time he'll pay
attention to the doctor and behave himself.
Whatever help you need, just ask. We're
always glad to help.

F.

        Even before she got to the "F." she knew it had to be
Frohike. Only he would be so personal--and do that before he got
down to business.

To:  LoneGunMagazine.com
From:  Red@Internet_cafe.com
Subject:  Re:  YouKnowWho

Thanks. I knew I could count on you. OK, it's
a four volume set and I've never even seen
it so I can't tell you what it looks like. I
don't even know the title or author and
YouKnowWho's no help--he's out of it for at
least the rest of the day. The last time he
remembered having them was shortly after I
met your charming self. And we both know how
long ago _that_ was. ;)

I'm going to kill him after this is settled. I
mean, really--highly technical biochemical
stuff about the Descent of Man, new variations
on the human race. C'mon! That can't be
real, guys.

If I can't find them by 5, I swear I'll drag
him down there, doctor's OK or not, and make
him find whatever building he left them in--
it's somewhere near the Jefferson St. bridge-
-and then he can just sneak in and look for
the books, so we can get them back to the
library before they close tonight. _He_ can
explain to building security if they catch
him sneaking around. Thank God they're from
the D.C. library and it's open late. If it
was the Alexandria library, I'd just forget
it, and let him take his lumps.

Red

        This time the answer came before she'd taken two more
swallows of tea.

To:  Red@internet_cafe.com
From:  LoneGunMagazine.com
Subject:  Re:  YouKnowWho

Red, he certainly made a mess of things,
didn't he? Not much to go on. But if he
thinks he left them in one of the buildings
around there, then it stands to reason
someone saw him and them. Of course, if that
was '94, there's almost no likelihood they'll
remember him, is there? It's not like you
with your gorgeous red hair. The books--now
that's another matter. If they're not already
back at the library, then someone probably
kept them. We'll do what we can.

You're not going to be there at the cafe all
day waiting for our answer, are you? Can we
call? Can _I_ call? Or, better still, can I
deliver them to you personally?

F.

        <Oh, Frohike, don't you _ever_ give up?> She shook her
head and sent her final message.

To:  LoneGunMagazine.com
From:  Red@internet_cafe.com
Subject:  Re:  YouKnowWho

I'll probably be with YouKnowWho off and on
during the day, giving him a piece of my mind
for doing this to himself. We already had
plans for a working lunch with the boss; now
he'll be coming to meet us, and you know how
tiny the rooms are there. So it's probably
not a good idea to come over between, say,
noon
and 1:30. Other than that, call or, if you
_have_ to, come over. We--the boss and I--can
go pick up the books ourselves. We'll have a
better chance of getting what we want than
YouKnowWho, anyway--they'd just laugh and
toss him out on his ass.

Red


Georgetown University Medical Center
Room 601
12:14 p.m.

        Mulder was on the sixth floor, on the same Neurological
unit where he'd been last year for the end of his first hospital
stay and for every stay since then except when he was on the
psych ward. Exhaustion wasn't a neurological problem, so Skinner
stopped at the nurses' station to say hello and find out what was
going on. The ward secretary waved off his questions with a quick
"His nurse is in his room; he'll answer all your questions." Then
she grinned. "Mulder's a whole lot nicer this time around, Mr.
Skinner. Hard to believe that he can be so easy to take care of.
'Course he's been asleep the entire time. Hard to be stubborn and
uncooperative when you're asleep."
        He returned her smile. "I'll be sure to tell him how glad
you are to see him again." They both laughed, and he headed down
the hall to the last room on the left.
        The door was open so he went in. Mulder looked as
exhausted as he was supposed to be. His face looked old, years
older than his chronological age. Skinner had thought that the
time away from the ISU and writing profiles would be good for
Mulder; instead, the nearly three weeks since he and Mike Elliot
had flown down to Florida seemed to have been more stressful than
the entire five months since he went back to work after being
threatened.
        Gary, one of the few nurses who had been able to get
Mulder to cooperate when he had been here the first time, was on
the far side of the bed, fastening the blood pressure cuff around
his right arm. He looked up, frowned for a second, then smiled.
"Mr. Skinner, right? You're Mulder's boss. I'll be with you in a
minute." He looked down while positioning the stethoscope on the
inside of Mulder's elbow, then looked at the mercury column on
the wall while pumping up the cuff.
        Both of them were startled when Mulder yelped, coming
awake and trying to simultaneously pull his arm loose, scoot away
across the bed, and look wildly around him. Gary's hands went to
Mulder's shoulders, trying to hold him still, while Skinner said,
"Mulder--"
        But Mulder had already stopped trying to get away. He let
out a "whoosh" of breath and started to run his left hand through
his hair, then stopped, presumably because he felt the IV and
tape catching. He looked at the nurse. "You're . . . Gary. Sorry
'bout that. Your timing was lousy. Don't ever inflate a BP cuff
on someone when they're dreaming about being tied up. You're
lucky I didn't take a swing at you." He added, "You might want to
come back in about fifteen minutes, when my heart rate and blood
pressure are back down to somewhere near normal."
        Gary unwrapped the cuff and put it away, saying, "It'll
have to wait till after lunch then. I'll probably come back
around 1:30. You'd better try to stay awake because if you don't
eat everything, doctor's orders are for us to get at least two
cans of Ensure down you before shift change. He didn't care
whether you drank them or we had to put an NG tube down, he just
won't let you miss five straight meals on top of all the meals
you said you missed in the last week." When Mulder scowled, Gary
put up his hands. "Don't blame _me_, Mulder. You're the one that
worked yourself into exhaustion. And if you'd eaten breakfast on
the airplane yesterday, like Agent Scully wanted, then we'd have
left you alone till after supper tonight. So it's up to you to
stay awake long enough to eat lunch."
        Skinner decided to deflect the outburst he could see that
Mulder was preparing to unleash. "Agent Mulder," Mulder's head
whipped around so fast it was obvious he had no idea Skinner was
in the room, "Agent Scully said something about Kung Pao Chicken,
and that she had things she wanted to discuss. We'll make sure
you eat."
        Mulder nodded once before turning back to the nurse. "Can
I get out of bed and walk around?"
        "Wait till at least a half hour after you finish eating.
The Dextrose in your IV isn't enough by itself. Your blood sugar
is probably low enough you'll faint if you try anything now."
Mulder scowled again but nodded, and Gary turned to gather his
equipment before leaving the room.
        "Agent Mul--"
        "Mulder, I'm here." Scully's cheerful voice at the door
broke the mood. Skinner could feel himself smiling and Mulder's
grin was entirely too happy for the serious business they had to
discuss. Gary, too, smiled, then greeted Scully and left.

        "What's going on here, Agent Scully?" Skinner looked at
her over the food they were carefully dishing out onto the plates
the ward secretary had given them. "What's he"--he pointed over
his shoulder with his chin at the once-again soundly sleeping
Mulder-- "doing on this ward? I thought it was simple exhaustion.
And I _thought_ you were faking that, or at least partially."
        Scully glanced back at the bed. Mulder had raised the
head of his bed to a sitting position, but by the time Skinner
had returned with dishes and silverware, he was dozing again.
While she and Skinner were here at the window sill, the only
space big enough to set up the lunch, Mulder had apparently
fallen completely asleep. He had slid sideways down the bed and
curled over to one side, so tired he didn't even realize his head
was resting directly on the unpadded safety rail.
        "He didn't actually get to sleep till midnight last
night. With the two nights of sleep he deliberately missed, and
all the work he did yesterday remembering what happened to him--
well, twelve hours' sleep is hardly enough, sir. As for why he's
on the Neuro Ward, for at least two years post-injury they
consider any loss of consciousness as potentially related to his
head injury. Since I had to say he passed out to get him
admitted, the ER doctor decided not to take any chances, even
though we both agreed it was exhaustion, given the 'medical
history' Mulder and Henry and I cobbled together."
        She finished spooning the sauce over her and Mulder's
plates, and dropped her voice even further, causing Skinner to
lean over toward her. "I talked to one of Mulder's sources after
I called you. He--they--will look for the building Mulder was
held in when he was kidnaped in connection with Purity Control in
May of '94. If we're lucky, they'll find it before Mulder gets
discharged, and we can proceed without him. If we're unlucky,
they won't find it, and I'll have to drive him around till he
recognizes the building. I don't know how we'll be able to
disguise _that_, though." She dug the chopsticks out of the
carry-out bag and proceeded to unwrap them.
        Skinner nodded, picked up Mulder's food, put it on his
over-bed table, and started to slide that into place. It wouldn't
go close enough to him with the bed rail up, so he shook the
sleeping agent's shoulder. "Agent Mulder, wake up." When Mulder
was upright again, he dropped the rail and moved the table closer
to him.
        Scully put her and Skinner's drinks at the end of the
over-bed table, along with chopsticks for both of them. Then she
reached over to Mulder's plate and swapped his chopsticks for a
fork. When he glared at her and tried to take the chopsticks
back, she shook her head. "First show me you can stay wide enough
awake to handle a fork neatly. Then I'll let you have your
chopsticks back."
        He tried to keep glaring at her, but gave it up in favor
of a resigned sigh and picked up the fork.

        They only had to wake him up three times, each time
because there had been a lull in the conversation long enough for
him to close his eyes. In between falling asleep, however, Mulder
ate his portion and even tasted Skinner's Mongolian Beef, stating
"Too much onion for me." Scully also tasted it and decided it was
even better than the Kung Pao Chicken, but would be saved for the
occasional times she was willing to eat beef.
        She didn't expect Frohike to call for several hours yet,
so she left with the Assistant Director, who paused at the
nurses' station to tell them Mulder had finished his entire meal.
Skinner then told her what Gary had said, and she told him what
Mulder had said at Henry's Place, about shooting the next can of
Ensure he saw. They were laughing as they got on the elevator.
        Frohike was among the people waiting to get on when they
arrived at the main lobby. He took one look at Skinner, flinched,
started to turn away, then stiffened resolutely and stepped aside
to wait for them.
        Scully wasn't sure what to do. The three Gunmen had
scrupulously avoided letting anyone else at the Bureau know who
they were. For Frohike to be willing to meet Skinner meant things
were too important to wait till he could talk with her alone. She
started to put her hand on Skinner's arm, to slow him down, but
Frohike shook his head minutely and turned to join them, walking
on Skinner's other side.
        "Assistant Director Skinner?"
        Skinner's stride faltered only slightly. He nodded but
didn't look at Frohike.
        "I'm a friend of Agent Mulder. Agent Scully asked me to
help her find something that Mulder had misplaced. She said she
needed it before five today. I got the impression that she'd want
to know ASAP and it's not the kind of information to . . . bandy
. . . about the airwaves. So I came over here on the off chance
she would be around."
        Skinner nodded again. "And have you found it?" He pushed
open the entrance door and held it for her and Frohike.
        Frohike pointed to the right, toward the parking
structure. "We think so. My friends are waiting. If you'd like to
see it, we can show you."
        Skinner looked down at her, his eyebrows raised in a
silent question. She nodded and started for the garage.

        As he stepped in the back of the beat-up van, Skinner
realized he was taking an awful lot on trust. He was crouched
almost double because even the ceiling had equipment attached to
it. The short, "scruffy-looking nerf herder" of a man, whose name
he still didn't know, pointed at a seat about half-way down the
length of the van. Scully followed; she barely had to stoop in
the tight quarters. She obviously was familiar with this van
because she stepped past him and pulled down a jumpseat fastened
to the side wall. The man pulled the rear door shut and took the
only remaining seat, across from him and in front of an extremely
impressive array of sophisticated surveillance equipment.
        The driver's and passenger's seats were occupied. In the
darkness of the parking garage, and with no interior lights on
inside the van, he couldn't see either of the people clearly. The
driver spoke without turning around. "You're sure about this?"
        Their "guide" swivelled to face the front of the van.
"Yeah. I figure with what we've got maybe the FBI could pull this
off before Mulder ever gets out." After turning still further, to
face Scully, he added, "I hacked into the hospital computer while
they were verifying things. There's a 'Neuro Consult' request
from around 6:30 a.m. today. It says 'History of TBI with
craniotomy. Diagnosis:  non-traumatic stupor; rule out post-TBI
sequelae'. Then there's a whole bunch of tests ordered by Dr.
Carrington at 8:15. That's why I came inside; I wanted to see
what was going on."
        Skinner looked over at Scully. She was as startled as he
was. Then she started a smile which quickly grew into full-
fledged laughter.
        "Don't worry; Mulder's fine. They think he slept all day
yesterday and last night and should have been awake this morning,
when he actually didn't get to sleep till midnight. So his doctor
was covering his ass, on the off-chance something else was going
on. Dr. Carrington probably decided that as long as he's in the
hospital, she should do his all his one-year-post tests also.
        The third person said, with a smile evident in his voice,
"Mulder's gonna be _pissed_ when he finds out. One of you can
tell him; I'm staying completely outta this one."
        Scully said, "Finds out which, guys? That he's in the
hospital till sometime the middle of next week, or that Assistant
Director Skinner and I have wrapped up the case without him?" She
looked over at him and added, "Since it's not an emergency, sir,
they probably won't run any of the tests, except maybe the lab
work, over the weekend. And given how thorough Isabelle is, she's
probably got three very full days of tests scheduled. Mulder will
be so busy he won't know whether he's coming or going."
        He too smiled. Maybe they could plan and execute the raid
without Mulder trying to go along. Assuming they could come up
with enough evidence to get a search warrant. Not even for
Mulder's future safety would he step *that* far outside the law.
He turned to the man who had met them in the hospital. "Tell me
what you've got."
        "We've narrowed it down to three buildings. According to
Agent Scully's information, it had to be four stories and have
facilities to deal with recombinant DNA and technology for
possibly cloning human beings. With that, and what we got from
Mulder's ER visit after he was returned on May 13, 1994, we were
able to rule out the other four-story buildings in the designated
area. The ones we ruled out either didn't show enough electric or
water usage, or were highly visible businesses that used all the
space for their stated purpose. Or the companies went out of
business or moved between '94 and June of last year. In these
three, we've got laboratories and some decidedly strange
deliveries--and the most alarming set of benefits you've ever
seen. Can you imagine a company offering two _months_ of sick
time per year for laboratory personnel? Or mandatory use of in-
house doctors for lab personnel? Or death benefits?"
        The driver took over. "That's not all. We traced
ownership, and for all three it fans out into deliberate tangles
of the same inter-related holding companies. If we had a lot of
time, we might be able to trace them further. But you don't
necessarily have that time."
        Scully said, "I'm *very* impressed. And you're right;
that is an unusual list of benefits. I'm curious how you got that
detailed information, but I won't ask. All that in less than four
hours. OK, what about location? Sorry I couldn't be more specific
in the e-mail, but you understand. Mulder said five minutes from
the bridge. Of course, that was in the dead of night."
        All three sighed in satisfaction. The first man said,
"Agent Scully, the file folder on the left at your station."
        She raised an eyebrow at that. "Just that easily? So what
was it?"
        The passenger chose to answer this time. "Construction.
You know:  there's always construction somewhere in D.C. The
other two buildings are close together and there was major road
work going on between them and the bridge at that time. Since
those were business areas, not residential, the city allowed the
construction company to simply close those streets completely at
night. The resulting detours and delays put them outside that
five minute window you just gave us."
        Skinner broke in. "Can we take this file? It would be
easier."


FBI Headquarters
Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office
4:12 p.m., June 26

        "It's not going to work, Agent Scully. We don't have
enough evidence for a warrant." Skinner was down to loosened tie,
loosened collar button, and rolled up sleeves, and still he was
sweating. Scully wore a tailored pants suit, still had on the
jacket, and appeared cool and comfortable. Either he was
imagining the heat in here, or she just didn't sweat. It was not
possible that the heat he felt was internally generated from the
frustration that had been growing over the past two hours.
        "Sir--"
        "I'm sorry. But you know as well as I that what we have
here was gathered illegally. No judge is going to give us a
search warrant based on illegal evidence." He pushed back from
his desk and went to look out the window, which just happened to
put him near the air conditioning vent. The cold air was
refreshing only until the sweat-dampened patches on his shirt
became cold.
        He turned back to watch Scully. She was sitting forward
in her chair, legs crossed at the knee, tapping a pencil on the
cover of the file folder they had been given by those friends of
Mulder. The tapping slowed, then came to a complete stop. She sat
up straight and swivelled her chair till she was facing him.
        "Mulder can identify the building. His eidetic memory has
been challenged in court many times, and the courts have always
ruled in his favor. In fact, the last three times, the defense
didn't even bother to challenge. If we get an affidavit that says
he remembers where he was taken, and what was done to him there,
would that be enough?"
        "Agent Scully, are you asking me to _lie_ to a judge in
order to get a warrant?" He didn't want to listen to this, not
from one of his most dedicated "dot-all-the-i's-and-cross-all-
the-t's" agents.
        She wouldn't look directly at him. "It's not a lie,
exactly. Mulder _can_ identify the building. It's just that he
can only identify the loading dock and the places he was inside
the building. We don't have to tell the judge that."
        He came back to his desk and stood there silently,
thinking about it. "It'll never stand up in court. If nothing
else works, the defense will haul out GUMC's Emergency Room
records, showing he had a concussion when you got him back, as
well as the after-effects of exposure to the blood. Then, after
all that, they'll drag in his head injury, and his two suicide
attempts, and whatever happened in Florida, to try to prove he's
not reliable any longer. I can't see a judge denying cross-
examination. Do you want him to have to go through that?"
        Scully stood up to face him, putting the folder down on
his desk as she did so. "If he's going to go back to field work,
sir, then he'll have to face it sooner or later." She looked down
at the desk littered with the folder and their preliminary plans
for a raid that would probably never be held, and then stared
back up at him. "Or are you going to force him to a desk job,
sir?"
        Outwardly he didn't indicate how much that hurt. Inwardly
he cringed. Workers' Comp had gotten the May bill from Henry's
Place and they were threatening to sue the Bureau and Dr. Kennedy
for allowing someone as unstable as Mulder to go back to work,
especially when Kennedy had said he couldn't do profiles. When
they found out that he hadn't even gotten home from the airport
yesterday before collapsing . . . He didn't want to be around
when _that_ shit hit the fan. If he remembered correctly, this
was Mulder's eighth trip to the hospital in just over thirteen
months. His various stays certainly must come close to totaling
five months. Then there were all the follow-up visits to Dr.
Carrington and Dr. Kennedy and that psychologist whose name he
could never remember, and Mark Stromberg's fees. The total bill
*had* to be more than a million dollars by now.
        He looked at Agent Scully, and knew there was pity in his
eyes. "He won't be allowed to go back to Field Agent Status,
Agent Scully. Whether or not he can re-qualify, we can't afford
to let him out in the field. I mean that literally:  the Bureau
cannot afford to keep him insured as an active duty Field Agent.
So it doesn't matter what Mulder wants, or what you and I would
like for him; he'll have to take a desk job, or at least one
where he only goes into the field a-t-f, to look at a crime scene
where there is absolutely no chance of encountering the
perpetrators. At least we can say that'll keep him safe from the
man with the baseball bat; Mulder won't be getting in their hair
any more."
        Scully had paled as he spoke, and her eyes were getting
suspiciously bright. He gave her some privacy by saying, "I need
to find out who's been told I was unavailable today. I'm going to
speak to Joyce outside; she shouldn't see any of this." He waved
a hand over the mess on his desk then went to speak to his
secretary, planning to stay out of his office for at least
fifteen minutes.

        Scully sank down in her chair. All their work, all the
pain and terror and frustration from four years of fighting, and
"they" had won. Melissa's death, Mulder's father's death, her
abduction, Mulder's "death" and return to life on the Navaho
reservation, Skinner's brushes with death and discreditation--
they had all been for nothing. They _would_be_ for nothing, if
Skinner refused to try for a warrant and raid "J. G. Williams and
Sons". She couldn't face having to tell Mulder that. She would go
there herself, sneak in somehow, and get the evidence _she_
needed to put those bastards away for good--
        With a gasp, she realized just how close to crossing the
line she had come. Taking justice in her own hands was not
something she would allow herself. If these men couldn't be
brought to justice legally, at least she would not stoop to their
level to stop their crimes.
        She dug a tissue out of her jacket pocket and wiped her
eyes dry and blew her nose. Then she crossed to the picture of
Janet Reno, which she knew had a mirror on it's back. A glance
told her that she was the calm, cool, collected Agent Scully that
Assistant Director Skinner expected. He would never know how
close to breaking down she had been. She flipped the picture back
into place, went back to the desk and her chair, and began to
think of how she could convince Skinner to ask for the warrant
anyway.


Georgetown University Medical Center
Room 601
6:30 p.m.

        Tami shook her head and pushed the bed control button
until the bed was level once more. The patient didn't waken at
all while that was happening, just rolled over onto his left side
and curled up under the covers once he was flat. His dinner tray
wouldn't make his nurse happy--he'd eaten maybe half his dessert
and it didn't look like he'd even touched the rest of the food.
She couldn't see that he'd drunk any of the milk on the tray,
either. Just to be sure, she checked his water pitcher. OK, he'd
had about 250cc's of water. Or maybe he hadn't, she thought,
noticing the soaked napkin and remembering that the front of his
hospital gown had also been wet. He'd probably spilled most of
that 250cc's.
        She wondered what he would be like when he finally woke
up. Jackie, Marie, and Cinda had all said that he was a "bitch on
wheels", constantly complaining about something, and about having
to be in the hospital in general. And when he wasn't complaining
he was sulking. She wondered how his co-workers could stand to
have him around, if he was like that all the time.
        But Dotty refused to participate in the gripe session.
She was adamant that he had every reason to be upset, given how
the staff treated him. She said she'd followed . . . Fox Mulder,
yeah, that was his name, from ward to ward from the day he had
been admitted to ICU a year ago. And, Dotty said, she let his
neurosurgeon know that she wanted to be one of his nurses
whenever he was admitted and whatever ward he was on. She also
complained bitterly about not being allowed on the Psych Ward,
even though she knew she wasn't qualified to work there.
        Tami decided it must be something else, like lust. After
all, even unshaven and with mussed hair, the guy was very good
looking. He was supposed to have the most gorgeous hazel eyes,
too, but with _her_ luck, he'd wake up in time to be discharged
before her next scheduled shift, on Sunday.
        Oops. She had other patients to check on; no more time
for daydreaming. She grabbed the Intake/Output clipboard off the
door and filled in the amounts, wincing in sympathy when she saw
that he'd only eaten one meal in two days, and drunk nothing but
the little bit of water at dinner and whatever he'd had with
lunch. Dr. Yamaguchi was notorious for insisting that his
patients eat. He ordered I-and-Os on everyone, and his standing
orders were for Ensure supplements if a patient didn't eat at
least two meals in every 48 hours.
        She was just picking up the tray when Dr. Carrington came
in. Geez, so _that's_ who this "Mulder" was. Dr. Carrington had
been trying to retire for good for more than six months, and
rumor had it that she had one "miraculous recovery" patient who
she wouldn't transfer to anyone else, and who kept needing her
services. She decided that the other patients could wait; she
would stick around unless the doctor threw her out.

        Isabelle barely noticed the Nurse's Aide. She did notice
the nearly untouched dinner tray and sighed. Mulder would be very
unhappy, but she wasn't about to cross Eugene Yamaguchi on
something as trivial as an uneaten meal. Then she remembered that
this was the _sixth_ untouched tray in two days, and began to
wonder if something wasn't seriously wrong with Mulder.
        She flipped open his chart to the Nursing section and
noticed that "Diana Sully" had been given permission to bring in
lunch, and that Mulder had eaten all of his take-away Chinese
food. Still, that was only one meal out of six . . . The rest of
the nurses' notes weren't very encouraging either. Mulder's
stupor had lightened, but he was still asleep all the time unless
repeatedly stimulated to stay awake. She sincerely hoped that
something wasn't going on neurologically, that he was just so
exhausted he needed--she checked her watch--more than thirty-one
hours of sleep, assuming one hour for lunch today. Well, he would
get a nice rest before his one year check-up started in earnest
on Monday.
        She gave his shoulder a gentle shake, remembering that
he'd always been faster to awaken to touch than to sound.
"Mulder, wake up."
        There was an inarticulate mumble, so she tried again, a
little stronger. This time Mulder shrugged her hand off, adding,
"G'way. 'M sl'p'n'". At least that's what she thought he said.
With an anticipatory wince, she pinched his earlobe with her
fingernails, not at all gently.
        That certainly worked. Mulder startled clear across the
bed, coming up hard against the raised safety rail and staring
accusingly at her. He already had a hand to his ear, covering it.
"What the hell was that for? Are you trying to make me believe
you really are an 'Evil Doctor', Dr. Carrington? For that matter,
what are _you_ doing here? Scully said someone named Yamaguchi
was my doctor."
        She smiled. He was just exhausted. He couldn't be this
articulate, or quite as nasty-sounding, if there were neuro
problems. "And hello to you, too, Mulder. Dr. Yamaguchi is your
primary physician this time. He called me in when they couldn't
arouse you at all when they took your vitals at 6:30 this
morning. I couldn't rouse you either, at 8 o'clock."
        Mulder took time to move back to the middle of the bed,
rearrange his catheter and IV tubing, straighten the covers, and
raise the head of the bed most of the way up. "Well, I'm
definitely awake now. That *hurt*." He rubbed his earlobe and
scowled at her, looking like a small boy whose mother had just
spanked him.
        There was a sound suspiciously like a smothered giggle
from behind her. She turned to see the Nurse's Aide still
standing by the door to the bathroom, one hand in front of her
mouth. "Don't you have other patients to check on?" The Aide
paled, nodded, grabbed the dinner tray, and was gone.
        She turned back to Mulder. "You'll be happy to hear that
I can report you really are only exhausted, that you don't have
any new neurological problems. But just to be on the safe side,
and because you missed your appointment last week--" Mulder's
gaze had turned fearful; what was he afraid of?-- "I'm going to
keep you while I run all your one-year-post tests."
        Mulder had started shaking his head when she said "keep
you"; now he said flatly, "No. Forget it. I'm not staying here
and I'm definitely not taking a bunch of tests I passed six
months ago."
        "Muld--"
        The sound of his door opening interrupted her and she
turned to see who was coming in. A temporary nurse--she
recognized the distinctive badge of the agency she worked for--
entered, carrying a clean glass and two cans of what was probably
Ensure. She decided to see what would happen, because on his
first stay Mulder had gotten so sick of the liquid nutrition that
more than once he had been caught dumping it instead of drinking
it. His response to this would be just as good as several of the
more formal tests for determining emotional stability and
reasoning ability.
        Mulder looked at the nurse, and she heard a sharp intake
of breath. Then he was shaking his head. "No. Take it away. I
won't drink it."
        The nurse said, "Mr. Mulder, you have to. Dr. Yamaguchi
ordered it." She put the cans of Ensure and the glass down on
Mulder's over-bed table and started to pull the tab on one of the
cans. "You've only eaten one meal in--"
        That was as far as she got, because Mulder reached out
with both hands and shoved the table away. The unopened can fell
off the table onto the bed, trapping his IV line and jerking it
hard enough to pull most of the tape holding the needle loose.
Isabelle could see an immediate line of blood start up the clear
fluid. She moved the can and took his hand because it looked like
he'd dislodged the needle.
        She didn't get a chance to check. Mulder pulled his hand
loose, and in a voice close to hysteria said, "NO! Don't touch
me! I'm sick of this. All of it."
        There was blood now on the back of his hand, and more in
the IV line. Isabelle ignored the nurse and Mulder, and pushed
the call button. When the secretary answered, she said, loud
enough to be heard over their combined voices, "Get the IV nurse,
stat! Mulder's dislodged his IV." Then she shut off the IV pump,
and tried again to take his hand, ignoring the fact that she
wasn't wearing gloves. "Mulder, give me your hand; you've--"
        The instant she touched him he started pounding his fists
on the bed, saying, "No, No, NO, *NO*! Go away! I don't want any
more needles, I don't want any more nurses, I just want to be
left alone."
        The nurse was beside her now, holding out a pair of
gloves. She took them and quickly pulled them on while the nurse
tried to trap Mulder's arm. Together the two of them were finally
able to capture it and hold it still. While she was pulling the
last of the tape off and carefully removing the needle, Mulder's
voice had risen to a howl of protest, and he was alternately
pushing and pulling at their hands with his free hand. When the
needle came out, releasing a fine spray of blood because of his
now sky-high blood pressure, he froze for an instant and then was
trying even harder to get free, using his right hand and both
feet to try to scoot across the bed, away from his own blood-
covered left hand.
        Then the IV nurse was there, along with two security
guards that the secretary must have called because of the noise.
The guards paused only long enough to get gloves out of the
dispenser boxes by the bathroom door and then, in a coordinated
effort, dropped the far bed rail, grabbed Mulder, and held him in
place and his right arm out where he couldn't harm anyone.
        Isabelle let go as the nurse took hold of his bloody left
hand with one hand, her other ready with a folded gauze to put
pressure on the site where the IV had been.
        She stepped back to find another nurse at her side
holding a filled syringe, saying "Valium." She nodded and took
it, and turned back to the drama still playing out on the bed.
Mulder must have caught sight of the syringe, because suddenly
his voice was high and terrified.
        "*NOOOOO*! No more Ativan! No more restraints! _Please_.
I'm not suicidal. I'm not going to hurt myself, I'm not! I'm not,
I'm not . . ."
        She went for the only place readily accessible, slowly
injecting the drug into the arm the security guards held.
Mulder's voice trailed off and she could see and feel him
relaxing as the Valium gradually took hold.
        Then she could leave the nurses to clean up Mulder and
the bed, while she tried to figure out just what the heck had
actually happened here so her Incident Report would make some
semblance of sense. She got Mulder's chart out from under the bed
where it had been kicked in all the commotion, and back at the
nurses' station wrote an order for a referral to John Kennedy.
Then she tried to call Dana Scully, to find out if _she_ had any
idea why Mulder would suddenly go ballistic at the sight of a can
of Ensure.
        When she couldn't get Dana, and couldn't get Assistant
Director Skinner, and the security officer at the FBI simply said
that both of them were unavailable, she really started to worry.
        She told the ward secretary to phone Dr. Kennedy and tell
him she wanted him to see Mulder tomorrow if at all possible,
even though it was Saturday, and that she hadn't been able to get
a hold of Dana Scully or Mr. Skinner. Then she added orders for
when the Valium wore off, which would probably be some time after
11 tonight. When the temporary nurse asked her what to do about
the Ensure, she said, "Put the NG tube in. We've got to get some
calories in him, especially after that outburst." Last, and only
grudgingly, and with deep concern for what it would do to Mulder
when he realized what had been done, she ordered the soft wrist
restraints that would prevent him from pulling out the NG tube or
injuring himself.
        Then, when everything was taken care of, she allowed
herself to wonder if, after all, Mulder might *not* have
permanent brain damage, so subtle and so minute that it was only
showing up now, and only when he was under stress. She shook her
head. Those were things to worry about when he calmed down and
could talk to her. But those thoughts were still enough to make
her open Mulder's chart again, ordering four of the tests she'd
requested this morning to be done "stat", not as soon as
convenient, and adding "IV sedation as necessary."
        As she was leaving, heading home for her husband and the
dinner he would have waiting because she'd called to say she was
on her way, she thought again about transferring her last patient
to Sharon Ferraro. From things the nurses had said last year in
June and July, Mulder obviously respected her. Would it really be
so terrible if she let Sharon take over, and then, when Mulder
was calmed down, let him know that she had retired? She sighed, a
long, drawn-out sigh, and shook her head. She knew she would
never do it.
        Mulder, by all rights, should be bedridden and helpless
in some nursing home, periodically wracked by grand mal seizures.
The fact that he not only was _not_ a vegetable, he was working
at his pre-injury profession, made him only her fourth "miracle"
in nearly thirty-five years as a Neurosurgeon. Given that the
other three miracles--people who were severely injured but
recovered enough to return to a "normal" life after months and
months of therapy--worked at reduced capacity due to residual
physical or mental limitations, and Mulder not only worked full
time at an extremely stressful job, solving crimes too horrible
for her to contemplate, but he had never needed comprehensive
rehabilitation, he truly was a miracle. How could she turn her
back on him when he needed her?


8:53 a.m., June 27

        Mulder woke up just enough to realize his mouth tasted
awful, his left hand hurt, and he was on his back. He'd spent
more than enough time being on his back at Henry's Place, so he
rolled over. Or rather, he started to roll over and was stopped
when his arms wouldn't move. When a strong tug confirmed that
yes, he really was restrained, it was more than he could bear.
The tears started and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
He couldn't do anything about the tears pooling on his face or
the stuffy, runny nose either, and that made him cry even harder.
        Between gasps for breath he heard footsteps in the hall
that got louder and louder, so it was no surprise when they came
into his room. He was trying unsuccessfully to choke back the
sobs when he felt tissues being stuffed in his right hand and the
jerk that said his wrist restraint had been untied. He rolled
away from that person, curling up over his still-restrained left
arm and just continued to cry. The tissues were ignored in favor
of burying his head in the pillow.
        When his sobs had reduced themselves to occasional, his
eyes were sore from being scrubbed against the pillowcase, and
his nose was running like he had the world's worst cold, he
became aware that both his arms were free and that the back of
his left hand was really sore from being squashed between the bed
and the pillow he was clutching so tightly.
        More tissues were pressed into his hand and he finally
took them, using them to blow his nose. That hurt--he hadn't been
aware of the NG tube--and being forcibly reminded of it was
enough to set him crying again.
        The sudden shock of his hands being enveloped in someone
else's hands, and the sound of Dr. Kennedy's "Mulder, let go or
I'll have to restrain you again," brought him to the realization
that he'd clawed loose the tape holding the NG tube to his face
and was trying to pull the tube itself out.
        "Out. Now." He couldn't say more than those two gasped
words, but the psychiatrist seemed to understand anyway.
        "If you stop pulling on the tube I'll see what I can do.
No promises, Mulder; I'm not your primary physician this time."
        Kennedy's hands released his when he nodded, and he was
slowly able to unclench his fists. He was on his back, sniffling
and staring blearily at the ceiling, when Kennedy spoke again.
        "Mulder, why do you want the NG tube out so badly? It's
there because you were too exhausted to eat."
        The rational explanation wasn't what he wanted to hear.
Before he could stop himself he'd grabbed at the bed rails to
haul himself into a sitting position. His hands would neither
open far enough nor grip tightly enough for that, and suddenly
that little personal failure was the last straw. He heard himself
scream, "I DON'T WANT IT!! I don't want _any_ of this any more!"
His voice dropped back to normal. "I just want my life back. Is
that too much to ask for? I want to be in my own apartment, and I
want to eat what _I_ want when _I_ want it. I want to sleep in
_my_ bed. I want _my_ TV, and I want to watch what _I_ like. I
want real iced tea and real coffee! I want to be able to go where
I want, when I want. I want my driver's license back! I want . .
. I don't know what I want, but it's not this, and I just can't
take it anymore." He could feel tears again and he didn't care.
"I want to go back to work, MY work, with nobody threatening me,
telling me I can't do this and I can't do that! I WANT MY LIFE
BACK!!!"
        He curled up into a tight ball, hugging himself and
crying for all the things that he hadn't cried for every day
since that man had attacked him. He cried for having to stay in
the hospital so long, so many different times. He cried for the
headaches and for needing the morphine and Demerol that robbed
him of the ability to think clearly while stopping the agony.
        He cried for his lost dignity when he'd had to let the
nurses take care of him.
        He cried for the pain he'd caused Margaret Scully when
he'd had the horrible nightmares, and when he'd told her he was
moving back to his own apartment, and while she was his Guardian.
        He cried for himself, for agreeing to go back to the
Investigative Support Unit after finally having gotten out of
there so many years ago.
        He cried for being so weak he'd tried to kill himself.
        He cried for all the things he had had planned that he
hadn't been able to do.
        He cried for Scully, and what he'd put her through this
past year, and because he'd never told her how much he
appreciated her.
        He cried because he was crying, and he couldn't stop.
        He cried when someone took his right hand and took out
the IV needle and put on a bandaid. He cried when they took out
the NG tube and later when they took out the catheter. He cried
when they changed the tear-soaked bed linens and swapped his
hospital gown for pajamas. He cried because he didn't even have
the energy to say "Thank you" to any of them.
        But most of all, he cried because nothing was the same,
and it would never BE the same, and he knew it. He knew he
couldn't have the X-Files back, and he knew he'd never find
Samantha, because he just didn't have the strength to look for
her any more.

        When he was all cried out, it was dusk and he'd lost the
whole day. He rolled onto his back, trying to decide whether he
had enough strength to get to the toilet by himself, or whether
he'd have to ask for help.
        "Fox? Are you all right?"
        He would have startled if he'd had the energy. As it was,
he slowly turned his head in Margaret Scully's direction. She was
reading a paperback that she'd nearly finished and there was a
second one on the night stand. It took a while for that to make
sense. She must have been here nearly all day, and expected to be
here for hours longer. That meant--
        "Where's Scully?" Scully never missed calling or visiting
him, unless she couldn't, or wasn't allowed by the hospital. If
Margaret was here in her stead, then something was wrong.
        Margaret slid her bookmark into place and shut the book.
Then she put the book in her lap and looked down at it, hidden
beneath her hands. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath
and looked directly at him. "I was hoping you could tell me, Fox.
Dr. Kennedy said no one's been able to reach her or Mr. Skinner
since yesterday afternoon. Is there something I need to know?"
        He was reaching for the phone at the same time he was
raising the head of the bed. When he couldn't reach Scully at
home or the office or on her cell phone, it could only mean that
somehow she'd been able to figure out which four-story building
he had been talking about, and that she and Skinner had gone
ahead and planned the raid without him. Everyone involved would
be incommunicado till the raid was over, in order to cut down on
the chance of a leak.
        Damn! She'd promised; she'd said-- She hadn't said
anything, one way or the other. Thinking back, he realized how
very carefully she had skirted the issue of him going along every
time he brought it up. He really must have been close to
exhaustion, not to have caught that.
        Margaret interrupted his thoughts. "Fox? What's going on?
I want to know."
        He told her the censored version because it was easier
and shorter. "Scully and I were on our way back. I passed out
somewhere between the airport and my apartment, and Scully
brought me here. It was exhaustion."
        She was shaking her head; she didn't buy it. "I know
that. Dana told me all about that yesterday morning. What I want
to know is why no one at the Bureau is willing to talk to me,
explain to me why my daughter and an Assistant Director are both
'unavailable'. I want to know what could possibly be more
important to her than being here when you so desperately need
her.
        "How could she leave you, Fox, knowing you were so close
to the edge emotionally?"
        He couldn't face the accusation in her face. Instead he
inspected his left hand. Whatever bandage he might have had was
gone now. The hand was swollen, a bruise covering the entire
back, partway down his fingers, and at least an inch up his arm.
He'd done a damn good job of pulling the IV needle out of
position.
        He let the hand drop and said, "She didn't. I mean . . .
She didn't know, because I didn't know myself. It just happened.
I'm sorry." He sighed. "It's nothing you can help, Margaret. Why
don't you go home? You've obviously been here for hours. I'm OK
now. Nothing else is going to happen."
        "I don't believe that, because _you_ don't believe that.
You've been bottling all this up inside you for over a year. You
could have talked to me. Or to Dr. Carrington or Dr. Kennedy;
they would understand. And if you didn't want to talk to any of
us, surely you could talk to Dana, couldn't you?"
        "NO!" He was crying again, loud, throat-tearing sobs, and
this time he didn't know why.
        The next thing he knew, Margaret was sitting on the side
of the bed, holding him in her arms, rocking him and murmuring,
"Fox, it's all right. Dana will still love you. She loves _you_,
not some never-gets-upset-and-cries perfect Agent Mulder, and
certainly not because of what you can or can't do at work."
        He cried even harder when she said that, but this time he
could feel some of the pain washing out in his tears.
        When he stopped, it was solely because he _had_ to go to
the toilet. He pulled himself out of Margaret's arms, hand-wiped
the tears off his face, and blew his nose on the tissues she gave
him. He started to reach for the glass of water, but she beat him
to it, holding it for him when his own hands were so shaky he
would have spilled it. After a few sips, he tried out his voice.
        "I . . . need . . ." It wasn't worth trying, he was so
hoarse right now. He pointed behind her, and she turned to look.
        "You need to use the toilet?"
        When he nodded, she asked, "Can you do it by yourself"--
he shook his head--"or should I call for help?" At his nod, she
did just that.

        He pushed himself up to standing, then dropped right back
down on the edge of the bed when his legs refused to hold him up
and he came close to passing out. When the dizziness had passed,
he let the aide help him the five feet to the bathroom. Mulder
waved him off when he offered to stay with him.
        He didn't need help getting back. There was a sandwich
and glass of milk on his over-bed table. He got back into bed,
lifted one edge of the bread, said "Yuck!" but picked up the
peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich anyway. Didn't they
know that the only decent combination was peanut butter and
_grape_ jelly? The whole milk was a surprise, because GUMC
normally served 2%, but he supposed he rated the "real thing"
because he needed the calories.
        Margaret left him alone while he slowly ate. It was hard
work; he had never realized that crying could be so physically
exhausting. When he pushed the table away and slid down in bed
rather than reach across himself and lift his hand to the bed
controls on the safety rail, she finally spoke.
        "'Yuck'?"
        With an embarrassed twitch of his lips, he said,
"Strawberry jelly. It's supposed to be--"
        With a big smile she finished his sentence. "--grape."
        After a minute of shared silence, she turned serious
again. "_Do_ you know what's going on?"
        He decided not to say anything. Anyone could have come in
here and bugged the room while he was asleep, yesterday or today.
So he shook his head. "It must have been something that came up
after the two of them left here after lunch yesterday."
        Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Mr. Skinner was here
for lunch?"
        "Yeah; Scully invited him for carry-out Chinese. He
doesn't like Kung Pau Chicken and I don't like Mongolian Beef. I
think Scully likes it a lot. She had that look on her face that
says it tastes really good, but she knows it's bad for you. I'll
bet she orders it on the sly at least once a month, and wild
horses couldn't tear that admission out of her."
        That made Margaret chuckle, and finally relieved the
tension between them.
        "Do you want me to stay the night, Fox? It's no problem,
and that way I'll be here if you need me."
        Since he had been planning to leave as soon as she was
likely to be gone from the parking garage, he couldn't let her do
that. "No, Margaret, you go home. I'm tired; I'll probably fall
asleep right away. Unless Dr. Carrington's got tests scheduled
that didn't get done because I was crying too hard." He gave her
a self-depreciating smile, and she nodded.
        "All right. If you're sure."
        "I'm sure."
        She said, "Sleep tight, then," gave him a quick kiss on
the forehead, causing him to blush, gathered her things, and was
gone.

        Just to be on the safe side, he waited half an hour. He
called the nurse's station to ask them to do whatever they had to
now, because he was going to sleep and didn't want to be
disturbed. An unfamiliar nurse came in, took his vitals, and then
said nothing else would be happening till Dr. Carrington saw him
sometime tomorrow. As soon as she left, he got dressed and peeked
out his door. No one was in view, so he stepped calmly across the
hall, pushed open the fire exit door, and went down the stairs
all the way to the main floor. There he went out the front
entrance and was lucky enough to catch a cab that was just
dropping someone off.
        They stopped at his apartment only long enough for him to
get his car keys and to remember that he didn't have his personal
gun any more. Mark had found it the very first day he was home in
January, and had driven the two of them to Dr. Kennedy's office,
to turn it over to him.
        He gave the cabby the address of the garage where Scully
had stored his car. He couldn't believe it--the battery wasn't
dead, the tires weren't flat, the oil had been changed (that was
one of the things he'd never gotten to do), the gas tank was
full, and she'd even taken it for this year's emission test in
May. She must have assumed Dr. Kennedy was going to sign the DMV
form when he got back from Henry's Place.
        He headed to her apartment. When she didn't answer, he
let himself in with his key and went straight to her top dresser
drawer, where she kept her personal weapon. It wasn't there, and
neither were the spare bullets. Fuck. He didn't have time to
search the whole apartment either.
        The Lone Gunmen. They'd give him a--no, they wouldn't.
They'd probably even call Kennedy and tell him he'd been by
looking to borrow a gun.
        He dragged both hands through his hair, totally messing
it up, and tried to think where Scully would hide a gun if she
didn't want him to find it. There wasn't any such place. She knew
him well enough to know that he could search her apartment as
thoroughly and dispassionately as any suspect's or victim's if he
really wanted to find something.
        On his way out, just for the heck of it, he looked in her
desk, in the lockbox that held her spare ID, her prescription
pads, and the extra wallet-sized copies of her medical license.
She was the only doctor he'd ever heard of who routinely ordered
extra copies each year, sending in copies of the previous year's
"Reimbursement for Lost, Stolen, or Destroyed Personal Property"
forms to prove she needed them. There was, of course, no gun.
There was, however, a note that said "No, Mulder--not till Dr.
Kennedy says it's OK" in Scully's distinctive handwriting.
        In the car he pulled out his D.C. map, mentally drew a
five-minute half-circle on the D.C. side of the bridge and tried
to figure out a logical but inconspicuous route for searching the
area. There wasn't one, not if he had to go through alleys
looking for a particular loading dock. He'd just have to start on
one side of the half-circle and work his way to the other side.
Sooner or later he'd recognize the correct building.


One block from J. G. Williams and Sons
11:03 p.m.

        Scully tried to keep herself focused on the raid that
should be starting any-minute-now. Instead, her thoughts insisted
on jumping on her horse and galloping madly off in all directions
at once, a description she'd once read that was completely
accurate. Where was Mulder when she needed him? She desperately
swallowed a giggle which would have ruined her calm, cool,
collected facade. Mulder was exactly where she wanted him--safely
in the hospital. But she _needed_ his inane asides and skewering
comments on the stupidity of the bigwigs in charge of planning a
raid, any raid. She needed to be able to tell him to shut up, or
just give him one of her often-used "Scully looks".
        She hadn't had any reason to use them on him lately. She
hadn't had any reason to use them on him at all, for a whole year
now. Was it really a year--no, more than a year, if only by about
ten days--since they had worked together on a case? It didn't
seem possible.
        What she wouldn't give for just *one* nice, juicy,
totally unbelievable X-File right now. Anything. Really. Even
Eugene Tooms, she admitted to herself, would look good to her if
he meant that she and Mulder could work together again. She
missed that, in ways she wouldn't have believed possible when he
was in the coma and then when any little thing would set him
groaning in agony and, more often than not, right back into
unconsciousness again.
        Sunflower seed shells scattered everywhere. Being handed
a cup of coffee when she walked into the office on time and he'd
been there for hours because of something that just couldn't
wait. Calls at 2 a.m. to discuss the case or because he'd had a
nightmare. "If he has nightmares these days, why doesn't he call
me?" screamed her mind. Filthy clothes, ruined beyond even what
the dry cleaner could handle. Even, God help her, having to drag
him to the nearest hospital, and then sit on him to make him stay
put. Rental cars and cheap motels and cheaper diners. She missed
all of that, and she wasn't ever going to get it back, at least
not with Mulder.
        She felt another totally inappropriate giggle trying to
surface and firmly quashed it. She reminded herself of a widow
remembering her hus-- Total panic for just a fraction of a
second, before she dragged herself back in line. She and Mulder
were NOT husband and wife. What they were was partners, a
relationship totally different, and much closer in many ways. She
was allowed to love Mulder as her _partner_.
        With that finally settled to her satisfaction, she was
able to turn her scattered thoughts--more or less--to the matter
at hand. She tried to ease the chest protector into a more
comfortable position. It wasn't possible. Not only was the size
"small" too large for her, but her period was due in another two
days and her breasts were swollen and tender. Fastening the too-
big Kevlar vest tightly enough so that it would do it's job put
too much pressure on her chest. It was going to be a _long_
night.
        She looked at the three people she would be going in with
and wondered if she had ever been that young and gung-ho. Jeremy
Silver was practically dancing in his eagerness--no, wait a
minute. There was a much more likely explanation. Stepping over
to him, she tugged on his sleeve till he bent down to her. She
whispered, "Better take care of that now, before the action
starts. You won't want to be distracted. I'll cover for you; just
make sure you walk _away_ from our target, not toward it."
        If it had been daylight, Jeremy's blush would have
matched his hair. As it was, she heard a very audible gulp, and
then, "Ah . . . thank you. I'll be as fast as I can."
        She smiled at his back, as he practically dashed for a
darkened doorway. If he only knew how much she envied his . . .
freedom. On the other hand, there were definite advantages to
being a woman. You could fantasize to your heart's content in
public, and if you were wearing a sweater or a jacket so your
nipples didn't show, no one would have any idea. Certainly not
Mu--
        *She* blushed scarlet. What corner of her mind had _that_
come out of? And why now? She'd just convinced herself--hadn't
she?--that she cared about Mulder as her partner, not as . . .
the man she loved body and soul. With that sudden realization,
she felt all her mixed-up emotions slip quietly and neatly into
place, leaving her truly at peace for the first time since--since
that gut-wrenching Halloween when she'd had to send him over the
edge. She had no idea what Mulder's feelings for her might be, or
if he'd say anything even if he felt the same way, but at least
she knew her own heart now and could tell the truth about it.
Bemused at how simple everything was once she stopped fighting
herself, she knew she was ready to face whatever might be inside
that warehouse. This raid was likely to be the last thing she
ever did in connection with the X Files, since Mulder wouldn't be
allowed to return to Field Agent status. It wasn't important any
longer--she knew this wouldn't be the end of the story for her,
for Mulder, or for the Truth.
        No more distractions, she told herself; she had a team to
lead, and they needed her sharp and focussed. With that thought,
energized by her new-found clarity, she turned her mind back to
the business at hand.
        They nearly didn't get the search warrant. Skinner had to
ask her to bring the tapes she had made in Mulder's hospital
room. He said the judge was being properly cautious. She called
it deliberately pig-headed and obstructionist.
        Judge Garret had heard Mulder testify in court several
times over the years. He also knew Mulder had almost died from a
head injury, and wouldn't believe he could still remember that
perfectly. Garret wanted to hear the tapes for himself. Then he
wanted her side of the story because Mulder's voice on the last
tape had been drifting in and out toward the end, the most
important part as far as getting the warrant was concerned. It
was only her repeated questions that had kept Mulder awake long
enough to finish telling her what had happened to him.
        *Eighteen* hours she spent with the damn judge. He'd
listened to every single minute of every tape, and parts of them
more than once. And questioned her over and over again, both as
Mulder's partner and as a physician, about Mulder's reliability
since the "accident". Finally, close to lunch time today, he
signed the search warrant. He also said he wouldn't guarantee
that it would survive the challenges in court. Several of his
colleagues were likely to uphold the defense's request to dismiss
unless the prosecution presented the tapes and Mulder was willing
to demonstrate that he could still remember everything he'd said,
word for word, all twelve hours' worth.
        She hadn't been able to call Mulder, who certainly should
have been awake by dinner time; she hadn't even been able to call
her mom to tell her to go check on him. Skinner had imposed an
absolute communications blackout from the time they decided to
try for the warrant. That was more than twenty-four hours ago.
Mulder would be going crazy.
        She hoped that his craziness didn't extend to "escaping"
from the hospital. It had been a bad decision to have his car
tuned up for when he got back from Henry's Place and Dr. Kennedy
signed the form for the DMV. Now he had wheels, whereas if his
car didn't run, his driver's license would flag at any car rental
agency as invalid. He certainly wouldn't bring an innocent taxi
cab driver down here while he looked for the building, so she
knew he'd be safe. This way, all she could do was pray.

        Skinner heard the confirmation that all agents were in
place and said, "On my mark . . . _Now_," the signal to his team
leaders they were going ahead in exactly fifteen seconds. Half
the agents would go through the front door, and half go through
the loading dock at the back. Agent Scully was leading the small
team that would enter last, following Mulder's directions to try
to find the laboratory where he had been treated before being
released. The other people on her team were from the
laboratories; it had been a toss-up between experienced Field
Agents or laboratory personnel who had the background to
understand what had been done to Mulder. He'd left the choice to
her, and she opted for knowledge over experience. He hoped she
chose correctly.
        He saw black-clad shapes moving quickly toward the
loading dock, and after a glance around confirmed that no one was
left behind except Scully's team, he slowly moved toward it also.
Being in overall charge meant watching and listening from behind,
staying out of the thick of things and hoping that none of his
people got hurt because he'd underestimated the opposition. It
was a role he'd never gotten used to as he'd moved up the ladder
in the Bureau. It was one of the reasons he had welcomed the
promotion to Assistant Director, because now he was usually far
enough removed from situations like this that his incipient ulcer
had calmed down.
        "At the front door. Entering--NOW!" The voice came
through clearly on his headset.
        That was Jack Kiley, in charge of the alpha team, the
ones who had the actual search warrant and would try to
immobilize the security station before the guards there could
sound the alarm.
        "At the loading dock. Entering--NOW!"
        And that was Elvina Towell in charge of the beta team,
finally getting the chance to prove that she was as good as "the
guys". He doubted that anyone but he himself had noticed how
surprised and pleased she was to finally get chosen as Third in
Command. She'd do fine. She would also prove what he'd been
saying for years now--the women could match the men any day if
you gave them the training and the opportunity, and size wasn't
the issue, merely brains. Given the least encouragement from the
"old boys' network" at the senior levels, Agent Towell would one
day be in charge of all the Bureau SWAT teams. He hoped tonight
gave her her first step on that journey.

        Mulder was having trouble keeping his attention focused.
Every time he turned a corner, or just turned his head too fast,
he'd get this light-headed feeling. He knew what it was, it was a
combination of stress, exhaustion, and lack of food. The sandwich
and milk would have been enough if he were still in the hospital.
The sleep he'd gotten prior to today would have been enough if he
hadn't spent all day crying. The . . . peace . . . he felt from
having finally grieved for his lost life would have been enough
if Margaret hadn't told him about Scully and Skinner being out of
reach. But taken all together and added to the anxiety and fear
for Scully he felt right now, it wasn't nearly enough.
        He had just decided that this wasn't going to work, that
he'd have to take a break and get something to eat, when
something caught his eye. He turned down that street, trying to
figure out what exactly it was, then realized there were too many
cars and vans and they were too similar. You just did not seen
three identical Ford Tauruses in one block, not in this
neighborhood. Nor did you see four vans painted matte black, with
not a single gleam of metal where paint had been scratched off.
        He'd found the raid. He turned the next corner, trying to
figure out which way the SWAT teams had gone. The vehicles would
be parked at least two-three blocks away, to avoid alarming
anyone. When he caught up with Scully and Skinner, if it was
before they'd gone in, or when the whole thing was over, he'd rip
into them. This was *his*. They had no right to keep him away.
They--
        His conscience caught up with him as he saw the one
building with all its lights on, incongruous among the others
with only an occasional light. He floored the accelerator at the
same time he was telling himself that he was out of condition, he
didn't have a gun, he'd just come as close as makes no difference
to a "nervous breakdown". He _knew_ he was in no shape to
participate in a raid, but it made no difference.
        Scully was in there.
        He turned the corner into the alley and stopped so
abruptly, because the loading dock was at this end, that his car
fishtailed before coming to a total stop. He was out of the car
and running for the stairs before he thought about the fact that
he could be running directly into gunfire. He had nothing to
identify him as one of the good guys. He'd be a target for both
sides.
        He flattened himself to the wall next to the open door
and glanced inside. Empty. Not a box or piece of furniture in
sight.
        This was bad.
        He dashed across the opening to the other side, flattened
against the wall, and looked inside from this angle. A sprawled
body, blood pooled around three separate bullet wounds, two of
them in the chest, the third in the head. A shudder went through
him at the implication:  the guards shot first, without waiting
to see what was going on. No way was that man alive. And no way
was his gun still around, this close to the entrance; one of the
FBI Agents would have picked it up. This raid was going to be a
terrible, bloody mess, with lots of dead bodies on both sides--
and he was walking into it unarmed and unprotected. This was
close to being the stupidest decision of his career.
        When he actually stepped through the door, it wasn't
quite as bad as he thought. There was furniture, mostly tables,
chairs, and an occasional desk, some already padded for the
moving vans, most just pushed up against the far right-hand wall
where they had been out of his line of sight. There were also
boxes, lots of them, stacked against the alley wall, and there
was a half-loaded forklift. He went over to check.
        God DAMN! The boxes he could get to held ordinary
supplies, the things you needed to keep a large building like
this running. Toilet paper. Soap. Still-wrapped reams of copier
paper. Fluorescent light bulbs and regular ones. Half empty boxes
of sweetener packets, creamer, stirrers, and those cone-shaped
paper "glasses" that some offices had at the water coolers.
        It was then that it occurred to him to wonder why they
were only half-finished with moving. In '94 they must have
thought he was too out of it from the fumes to remember anything.
Last year they would have thought that with Dr. Tanner and
Morgantown Laboratories destroyed and the head injury permanently
destroying his memory of most of that day, he couldn't make the
connection. So why had they suddenly started moving? And why were
there armed guards, willing to shoot first?
        They must have known the raid was coming, and the guards
hadn't left the building yet. Or-- The guards were a clean-up
crew. The movers would be killed, and the guards--or only a few
of them, the rest having been killed by their fellow guards--
would drive the last vans away. No one who knew anything specific
about this place would remain alive. He had a strong suspicion
that the guards who drove away would be met somewhere and killed,
while others who knew only the final destination would take over.
        That still left the "how":  how had they known a raid was
coming? Had someone talked? Or was it as simple as his hospital
room having been bugged between when Scully left on Thursday
night and when she and Skinner came for lunch on Friday? With him
dead to the world, anyone could have walked in and easily planted
a dozen bugs.
        He took out his frustration in a vicious kick at the
nearest closed box. That earned him the sound of something
exploding, although nothing came out of the box. Intrigued past
caution and his anger for a moment, he carefully looked inside.
He'd killed a very large computer monitor. It was apparently
brand new too, the manual and drivers diskette still in their
plastic bag, taped to the top and dangling in front of the gaping
hole where the screen had imploded when he'd kicked it. He
smiled, glad to have cost them that small amount of money, before
turning toward the back of this large room, trying to remember
exactly which way they'd taken him, when nothing looked quite the
way he remembered it.
        There were three doors, one at each end of the building
and one in the center, and a service elevator. The elevator was
out of the question even though they had carried him up that way
in '94. If the circuit breakers had been found, all the elevators
were now non-operational; if not, they were all guarded. He
closed his eyes for a minute, and ran backwards through the
memories.
        He had walked blindfolded--stumbled, actually--through a
door and had been shoved to his right, ending up at the exit.
He'd walked . . . He returned to the door where he'd come in,
stood with his back to the room, closed his eyes again, and
*felt* the angle at which he'd walked across the room. Then he
turned around till he'd reversed that angle. He was facing the
middle door. <All right. Let's go for it.>
        As soon as he carefully opened the door into the main
part of the building, he could hear gunfire, oddly muffled. It
certainly wasn't the sound of silenced weapons, but more like
what you'd hear standing outside a sound-proofed room. He must be
hearing echoes in the stairwells. The sounds were too distorted
to catch directions and much too distorted to gauge which floor
they were coming from.
        This was going to be a hellish trip, but if there was any
chance of finding anyone or anything left behind, he was going to
take it.
        In the third empty office he found his first dead FBI
Agent, killed by the type of wound that had almost killed him in
Raleigh, North Carolina, during the case where Luther Lee Boggs
pulled his phoney psychic act on death row. The agent had bled
out from a bullet hole to one thigh, probably when his femoral
artery was torn. He spared a second to wonder why he hadn't seen
or heard ambulances on his way over here, and then decided it
didn't matter. Someone had called it, deciding not to have them
standing by in advance, and had called it dead wrong. He
swallowed and forced himself to pull the chest protector off the
man before continuing his search. The chest protector fit, thank
God, and he headed again for the stairwell in the middle of the
hallway.
        He made it all the way up without encountering any living
person or seeing anything but scraps of paper and marks on stairs
and walls where things had scraped while being taken downstairs.
By the time he reached the top floor, he could no longer hear
gunshots, nor voices to give him a direction in which to search,
so he turned to the left, the way he remembered coming from. As
he headed toward the back hall, he passed several more dead
bodies, none of them FBI. When he made that turn he saw a dead
body half-way down the hall and a redheaded agent with a bandage
around his left thigh, barely sitting up, propped against the
wall.
        The gun was raised and pointing at him before he could
even open his mouth.
        "Freeze. Drop your weapon." The voice was young and
scared.
        Mulder, who had his hands in plain sight, smiled and
waggled his empty fingers. "No weapon. Besides, I'm one of you."
He shrugged his shoulders to emphasize the chest protector.
        "You can't be. You're not dressed like us." He was
digging in his pocket while he spoke. "Put your hands on your
head, turn around, and back up here so I can cuff you."
        Mulder did *not* want to get handcuffed, but from the
look in the young man's eyes, this was the first time he'd shot
at anyone or been shot at in return, and he could pull the
trigger at any wrong move. So Mulder put his hands on his head,
interlaced his fingers, and slowly backed up. He glanced over his
shoulder, saw that he was close enough, and said, "I'm putting my
hands down now."
        He heard the clink of the handcuffs but nothing touched
him. Then:  "Kneel; I can't reach that high."
        He had started to protest when the gun slammed across the
backs of both legs, knocking him off balance. He landed on hands
and knees and stayed there, waiting for the OK to move.
        What he heard was a whimper.
        A look over his shoulder showed the agent curled up on
his side, clutching his wounded leg. His face was white and
sweaty; he was obviously hanging onto consciousness by the skin
of his teeth. An incongruous thought distracted Mulder
momentarily--I didn't even think "by sheer force of will"--before
he was turning around to help, still on his hands and knees.
        The gun came up again, wavering in circles and
simultaneously drooping further and further.
        He wasn't expecting what happened just as he got his hand
on the gun. The bullet, hitting him at such close range, knocked
his right arm completely out from under him and he crashed chest-
first onto the man's legs. They both screamed at the impact, but
Mulder stayed conscious while the other man went limp.
        When he could drag himself off, he was surprised to find
that after all that he only had the proverbial flesh wound. It
was strictly because his center of gravity had been so far
forward that he'd fallen; if he had not been reaching forward
with his weight on his right arm, he would have been able to keep
his balance. He was tearing that shirt sleeve off to use as a
bandage when he realized that his knees were soaking wet.
        A glance down showed a spreading puddle of blood, and his
wound was forgotten in the necessity of trying to keep the other
man alive. The wound was far enough down his leg that a
tourniquet would work--if there was anything to use to twist the
bandage tight enough. This was a hallway; there was nothing here
but Mulder, the unconscious agent, and the gun.
        It wasn't even debatable; he stuck the gun under the
bandage and began twisting. When the flow of blood had slowed to
a trickle, the next problem to solve was how to keep the
tourniquet tight while he continued looking for Scully. He held
the gun in place with one hand while the other fumbled the
handcuffs onto the unconscious man's wrists. Then he hooked the
handcuff chain around the gun. When Mulder slowly let go, the
weight of man's arms was enough to stop the gun moving, and the
handcuffs stopped his arms from slipping to the floor.
        He could leave.

        Skinner was not happy. The clean up crew--what was left
of it--had holed up in a three room laboratory here on the fourth
floor with no easy or safe way in. Jack Kiley wasn't up here, nor
were most of his men. One of those few men was talking about a
bloodbath on the third floor. Elvina Towell's team was mostly
intact, and Elvina was as steady as any combat veteran, for all
that her experience was confined to situations that had been
resolved before shots were fired.
        Scully was somewhere with her three-man team, but no one
knew exactly where because they had strict orders to stay back
until things were quiet and then find their way to that
laboratory Mulder had been in. With the shielding in this
building, his calls to them went unanswered. He didn't even know
where the EMTs and ambulances were, because the agent he'd sent
outside to direct them was not here, and that meant she was dead
or lying wounded somewhere. He decided to look for Scully himself
because he knew where she was supposed to be. It wasn't worth it
to brief a two-man unit and send them looking, with no further
action expected anywhere but here. With a quiet, "You're in
charge, Agent Towell," he took off.
        A gun shot somewhere up ahead had him running forward. He
paused at the end of each hallway and looked around the corner.
Finally he saw a man kneeling over a downed man. The carrot-red
hair on the floor, brighter even than Scully's, marked him as one
of her unarmed specialists. So it was not at all difficult to
think--just for an instant--of putting a bullet in that man's
back. Then his common sense took over and he yelled, "FREEZE.
Federal Agent. You're under arrest."

        Mulder couldn't believe it. Skinner? Yelling at him?
Couldn't the man recognize one of his own agents?! Especially one
wearing a Kevlar vest with fluorescent white letters that
screamed FBI? Then the reality of the situation hit and he
realized that from anywhere but right here, the lettering wasn't
visible, the man under him looked dead, and he was the killer. He
raised his hands and asked, "Can I get up, sir?"
        Later he would swear he could hear the sound of Assistant
Director Skinner's jaw dropping. What he actually heard was
nothing--silence for at least ten seconds--until Skinner said,
"Agent Mulder, what the hell are you doing out of the hospital?"
        He finished getting up and said, "Joining the raid,
*sir*. This is _mine_. I nearly died for this. It's my right to
be here."
        Skinner changed the subject, coming forward and gesturing
at the unconscious man. "What about Jeremy Silver?"
        "Alive. I just finished making a tourniquet for his leg.
Several guards obviously had a preference for leg shots. He's the
fourth person I've seen with one, and he's the only one still
alive."
        Skinner was close enough now to see for himself. "Hmft! A
very non-standard way to use a gun, Agent Mulder. I don't want to
hear of that happening again. The blood will damage the finish.
        "And I'd advise staying out of Silver's sight, if he
should happen to wake up before the EMTs get to him. He'll be
mortally embarrassed to find himself wearing handcuffs, even if
they are what's keeping him alive."
        The humor was totally inappropriate and helped Mulder
take his mind off the fact that he'd come so close to death not
five minutes ago that he still had the shakes. He was wiping his
bloody hands on his even-bloodier pants when Skinner reached out
for his right arm.
        "You're wounded. How did that happen?"
        He looked at his boss. "Uh . . . Silver did it. I was
trying to help him, but he misunderstood."
        Skinner shook his head. "That's not good enough; there
are powder burns all over your shirt. At the inquiry you can try
to explain how you two could get close enough for him to do that,
without you having identified yourself to his satisfaction."
        He sighed. Nothing was going right for him today.
"Where's Scully?"
        "Unknown. I was looking for her myself." Skinner glanced
back the way he'd come. "Which direction did you come from?"
        He nodded in the same direction his boss had come from.
"That way. I haven't seen anything but empty rooms and dead
bodies."
        Skinner looked at him sharply. "You should have. That's
where we have the last of them cornered. How could you miss it?"
        Mulder thought about that. "I came up the emergency
stairs in the center hallway. When I got up here I couldn't hear
any gunfire or voices to tell me what was going on. I turned left
because that's the direction we came from in '94. I assume you
came from beyond me."
        Skinner nodded. "All right then, we'll keep looking." He
started forward.
        Mulder hung back for an instant, thinking longingly of
Silver's gun. "Ah . . . sir? You wouldn't have an extra gun,
would you?"
        Skinner turned around and stalked back up to him,
restrained fury on his face. "I did *not* hear that, Agent
Mulder. You are not supposed to be here. I'm allowing you to stay
simply because I do not have an agent to spare to baby-sit you,
which leaves me to do the job. You do _not_ have your
psychiatrist's permission to have your gun back, you have _not_
re-qualified, and you certainly do _not_ have the Bureau's OK to
be in the field. So I don't want to hear another word about this.
        "You will _not_ get in front of me, you will _not_ enter
a room until I've searched it first, you will not do a single
thing for the entire rest of the time we're here except follow me
around. Is that understood?"
        Mulder opened his mouth to object, but Skinner beat him
to it.
        "Say yes, Agent Mulder, or I will handcuff you and stuff
you in the nearest lockable room and I will write on the door,
using your own blood, 'Do not open until situation resolved.
Signed A. D. Skinner'. Is that what you want, Agent Mulder?"
        He was up to his ass in trouble. There was no denying it.
So he nodded and said, "No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I'll do
absolutely nothing but follow you around."
        With a look that would have flayed a Marine recruit,
Skinner turned back around and resumed searching.

        Scully paused in yet another empty office to give her two
remaining people a minute's rest before heading for the
laboratory. "Oscar, Kathy--you OK?"
        Oscar, white-faced and shaking, nodded but didn't try to
say anything.
        Kathy, equally as pale, husked out, "Yeah." After a
pause, she added, "It's one thing to see people who are already
shot or dead, but Jeremy . . . We've been dating since we met
senior year in high school. He talked me into going with him to
see the Bureau recruiter at college last year. We're--we're
engaged and I had to leave him there and he might die and Dana
what'll I _do_?" The last words came out in a rush and then Kathy
buried her face in one hand, the other hanging at her side, gun
drooping from loose fingers, but with all that still not dropped.
        Scully stepped across to her. "Kathy. *Kathy*, look at
me." When the younger woman looked up, tears running down her
face, Dana continued, "Kathy, he'll be _fine_. The wound looks
bad, and it certainly hurts him a lot, but he's _not_ going to
die. Yes, he'll be in the hospital for a while, and yes, he'll be
on crutches for a while after that, but he'll be fine.
        "You did what you had to. You _did_ have to leave him. He
has a gun, he can defend himself if he has to. But he won't need
that gun, Kathy:  the fighting has all been done ahead of us. To
this point that one man who shot him is the only person we've
seen who could hurt us. And he'd already met the beta team, and
was so badly wounded that he died right after he shot Jeremy.
Your fiance is probably safer now than we are, if that's any
consolation. You can do this, Kathy. Now let's get going:  we
have work to do."
        After another minute, Kathy wiped her face with her free
hand, wiped her nose on her sleeve, nodded, and said, "OK." Her
voice was tremulous and she looked as if she'd burst back into
tears any second, but she was trying.
        "All right, then. According to the information Mulder
gave me, the lab he was in should be one of the next two or three
doors on the right. If there's anything left in that lab, which I
strongly doubt, your primary objective now is the refrigerators
on the far side of the center island. What you're primarily
looking for will be any green fluids and/or any reddish-yellow
fluids, but get samples of everything." Her mind spun back to
that other laboratory and her voice saying, "If this is monkey
pee, Mulder, you're on your own." She blinked, steadied herself
mentally, and went on. "Remember, don't attempt to open any test
tubes or flasks; the fumes could be dangerous. If there's a
spill, take a sample. Pack whatever you can fit into your
backpacks and grab whatever documentation you find. I'll be
checking the computer or file cabinets, if there are any. After
you finish the frig, go for the file cabinets if I'm on the
computer, otherwise all the drawers and cupboards. Yank the
drawers right out; we don't care about damage at this point,
we're looking for anything that might have been forgotten. You
two go clockwise from the door, I'll go counterclockwise. Oscar--
cupboards above; Kathy, drawers below. Oscar, you'll finish
first, even doing all the cupboards, so go back and help Kathy."
She smiled at them. "That's what you get for being tall, Oscar.
You get to jump up and down checking the top shelves while we two
short people get to break our backs bending down to the floors."
        She got two nods and led the way back down the hall. It
worried her that only Kathy had a gun; she'd only confiscated two
along the way and one she had left with Jeremy. It would have
been better to give the second gun to Oscar, not because she
automatically thought the men should have the weapons, but
because he was tall, taller even than Mulder, and could see
things she and Kathy might miss. But he didn't have the slightest
idea how to handle a gun, and Kathy and Jeremy were "Reenacters",
spending weekends with the local group that reenacted Civil War
battles. Kathy went so far as to pretend she was one of the few
women who had donned men's clothing and joined the army--
whichever side they believed in--to be with boyfriends or
husbands. She and Jeremy might not know modern firearms, but they
knew how to handle a gun safely and were used to the recoil.
        She shook her head; this raid, what she had seen of it at
least, had gone bad from the minute Elvina's beta team had
stormed the loading dock door. The FBI agents were returning
gunfire before they even had a chance to identify themselves,
killing one guard and wounding two others who had been loading
boxes on a forklift. As per Skinner's orders, Scully held back
till the sounds of trouble receded; when she and her experts got
to the fourth floor, one of the two assigned to the beta team,
they found offices already stripped of everything that could be
helpful in their mission--and messy evidence of the kind of
opposition Elvina and her agents met when they arrived. Judging
from the bodies left behind, there had only been a handful of
people left in the building, packing the last few left-overs. But
those people appeared to have fought ferociously, preferring to
die rather than be taken alive.
        That reminded her and she tried her head-set again, but
got the same dead air that meant the entire inside of this
building was shielded to prevent interference to the computers
and other delicate medical equipment. With the sound-proofing
also, communication was down to line of sight or hand-carried
messages. If she could have spared Kathy or Oscar, he or she
could have gone back downstairs to lead the EMTs to Jeremy. But
she couldn't, and all Kathy's tears wouldn't change anything.
        She was at the third doorway now. The other two flattened
against the wall as they'd already learned to do, waiting while
she checked the room. Her eyes widened at the high-tech lab
facility she was looking at. So much equipment! And most of it
still in place because it was built-in. Either this hadn't been
here when Mulder was here, or his eyes had been too inflamed for
him to see anything clearly. She saw two men on the other side of
the island dismantling something she didn't recognize. She
quickly pulled her head back and waved a hand backwards, letting
Oscar and Kathy know to back up.
        At the next room back she whispered, "We hit the jackpot.
Most of that lab is intact because the equipment is built in.
However, there are two men dismantling something. I'm going to
try to get them alive. Kathy, you're my backup. I don't want you
to come in until you hear my all clear. If you don't hear it
within five minutes, the two of you head back to Jeremy. Is that
clear?"
        When she got two nods, she checked her gun once again and
stepped into the hall. At the entrance to the lab she took a
breath to steady herself, took one step inside with the gun in
position, and said, "FBI. FREEZE."
        The two men froze.
        She took another step inside and said, "Put down those
tools--_slowly_. Then hands clasped behind your necks and come
over here." The tools went down to the counter and the hands went
in place. Then the two turned to walk toward her, and in her
surprise at seeing the gas masks, her gun lowered just slightly.
        A third man, previously hidden from view behind the
island, chose that exact instant to rise up just far enough to
throw something at her. She reacted instinctively, ducking
sideways and shooting at--and missing--the screwdriver heading
her way.
        But her second shot didn't miss the man, who disappeared
with a chopped-off grunt and a resounding clatter. When she heard
nothing further from his direction, and the other two were still
standing with their hands behind their necks, she felt it safe
enough to call for her people.
        They came in and she directed the two men to come closer
and stand back to back. Then she had Kathy and Oscar handcuff
them together, looping one pair of handcuffs through the other so
the two men wouldn't be able to get their hands in front of
themselves, and wouldn't be able to go anywhere in a hurry
because of the other person who would be walking backwards.
        Only then did she feel it safe to check on the third man.
She walked carefully, gun in position, up to the island.
        Suddenly she was dizzy, her eyes were burning and
itching, there was an unpleasant smell in the air, and she knew
she wouldn't be able to get any closer. She had to put one hand
out to steady herself, and in that moment the entire situation
went from bad to terrible.
        "You should have taken the advice I gave Agent Mulder.
_You're_ better off anywhere else than the X-Files."
        He stood up, and through eyes suddenly tearing beyond
belief, and a nose and throat that hurt like she'd inhaled tear
gas, she saw "Baseball Bat Man". He held an aluminum bat in his
left hand while his right arm hung limp, green blood--
"*GREEN*BLOOD*," her mind shrieked--flowing from the bullet wound
she had inflicted. He stepped toward her while she tried and
tried to raise the gun to shoot him again, but another whiff of
the fumes bubbling off the wound and she was too weak to do
anything. As her knees buckled, she heard both Oscar and Kathy
collapsing also, and she damned herself for a fool, trusting that
she wouldn't need another Agent with weapons training. Kathy had
not been able to pull the trigger.

        It was the sickening crunch of the baseball bat
shattering a skull and Kathy's scream of horror and the
unmistakable stench of bowels and bladder letting loose in death
that woke her. Then Kathy's scream of horror was cut off by
another crunch. She was waiting for that same crunch to kill her
when she felt hands searching her and then pulling out her
handcuff key. She caught another whiff of the blood and spun out
again into the black nothingness surrounding her.

        This time she woke up to the sensation of being dragged
to her feet, held upright by the hands hooked under her armpits.
Another pair of hands, she realized dimly, was unfastening her
chest protector. The first pair of hands carefully rearranged
themselves, steadying her while she got control of her legs and
feet enough to stand and while the second pair lifted the Kevlar
vest over her head. When they were done, Baseball Bat Man spoke
again. "You know who I am, Agent Scully?"
        The voice came from somewhere in front of her, a
somewhere she couldn't see because her eyes were now swollen
completely shut. She understood exactly what Mulder had meant
about the itching. If she could have gotten a hand loose to
scratch, she'd be bloody in seconds. She tried to answer but all
that came out was a strangled croak.
        "Don't bother trying. Your voice will be useless for a
while yet. Nod, shake your head, whatever. Since you know who I
am, you can probably guess why I'm here. We expected both you and
Agent Mulder, based on what we heard in his hospital room--so
Agent Mulder doesn't like Mongolian Beef, does he?--but since
you're here alone, I have to modify my plans. I can't fracture
your skull like I did his because you have to be able to carry a
message to him."
        There was a pause and then out of nowhere she felt the
bat slam her forehead, snapping her head back and then forward so
fast she knew immediately she had whiplash, even before she felt
the pain in her neck or forehead.
        "You _answer_ when I talk to you."
        The voice was deadly, and she suddenly remembered
Mulder's report on what happened to him in January in the
Headquarters' parking garage. She nodded and that small movement
of her neck was enough to cause a moan to escape.
        "All right. Now that we both know how this is going to
go, do you want to choose which limb gets it? First, I should
add; all four are going to be useless when I'm done."
        Scully cringed, and for the first time in her career she
knew without a shred of doubt that she was going to pray for
death to release her from pain. The only thing she could hope for
was that Skinner would wonder where she was and send someone
after her. With that hope held firmly in place, she shifted her
weight enough to lift her left leg, because she couldn't tell him
to destroy it first. The sudden explosion of pain in her right
shoulder was so monumental that she didn't feel the scream
tearing from her throat, or even hear the scream itself.

        Mulder and Skinner had come to the end of the back hall
and were ready to turn down the side hall when they heard a
scream of agony that was unmistakably Scully's. They took off
together and though Mulder had the longer legs and was quite a
few years younger, he found himself quickly left behind because
of how out of condition he was.
        He hadn't quite reached the doorway when Skinner--he
assumed it was Skinner--fired once, then twice more. There was a
clatter of something hitting the floor, and then a body dropped.
He didn't care that there might be others in the room; he ran
straight in, and when he could see nothing on this side of the
central island but Skinner just inside the door, holding a gun on
two unarmed men wearing gas masks on the far side of the island,
he dashed around it.
        It was a slaughterhouse, and the only person who could
possibly be alive was Scully. Her two specialists had had their
skulls smashed in by the aluminum bat lying on the floor next to
the man with two bullet holes over his heart and one in his head
and one in his arm, and there was green and red blood everywhere.
Mulder smelled the fumes and almost, but not quite, started to
turn around to run out of the room. When nothing happened to him
he took a breath to be sure. A tickle in the back of his throat,
a mild tearing of his eyes, a sudden desire to sneeze, but
nothing else. Even the smell wasn't so unpleasant this time.
<Good God, is it possible to become immune to that stuff?> Right
on the heels of that came:  <Or did their treatment in '94 do
something to me?! Is _this_ why I didn't die in Alaska when I was
infected with the retrovirus?> Then he had no time for anything
but Scully. She was moaning, and from the misshapen look of her
right shoulder, it was obvious that she had screamed when
Baseball Bat Man smashed it. Then he saw the rash on her face and
her left hand coming up to scratch.
        He dropped down next to her and captured that hand.
"Don't scratch, Scully. You'll only make it worse. Trust me. I
know."
        She wasn't aware he was there, not really aware of
anything but her pain and the itching, and every time she jerked
against his hands, trying to reach her face, she gave a little
yelp as she jarred her other shoulder.
        He couldn't let her suffer like that. It could be
fifteen-twenty minutes till the EMTs reached her. With a groan of
anguish, he said, "I'm sorry, Scully," and released her hand so
he could press on both carotid arteries, cutting off the blood to
her brain until she fainted. He could only hope that the pain
would keep her unconscious.

        Mulder was still sitting beside her, stroking her hair
and talking to her, when the EMTs came, making noises on the
other side of the room. Skinner, a distant part of his mind said.
He was overcome too.
        One of them came closer, took one look at Scully's face,
now nearly covered with the rash from the fumes, listened to the
harsh rasp of her breathing, and said, "Joe, this one. Stat! The
same kind of chemical burn, only much worse. It's in her lungs,
too."
        He roused enough to say, "You've got to take her to GUMC.
Tell them to pull the ER record for Fox Mulder, M-U-L-D-E-R, for
May, 1994. It's not strictly chemical. My record will give them
enough information so they'll be prepared to treat her by the
time you get there. Don't let her scratch, if she should wake up.
        "And watch out for her right shoulder. He smashed it."
        He watched them load her carefully onto a gurney, oxygen
mask in place, IV running into her left hand, and knew that her
world was destroyed too. It didn't take an expert to know that
shoulder would never heal normally. She, too, would never again
be a Field Agent.
        He didn't know how much later it was when someone pulled
him to his feet and led him out of the building. He was put in a
vehicle and the vehicle started moving.
        After a while, he became aware of the fact that he was in
a bed, and there was sunlight in the room. It was daytime. He
made himself look around, and it was the hospital room he'd been
in . . . he supposed that was yesterday.
        His right arm was bandaged and his right hip felt like
someone had used it for a pincushion. They would have given him a
painkiller and an antibiotic and, God help him, probably
_another_ tetanus booster. From the listless way he felt and what
time of day it must be according to the sun, he'd also had at
least one dose of Valium. They must have talked to Kennedy and
were worried he would go berserk when it all sank in.
        They didn't need to worry. There was nothing to go
berserk for. After all, when your whole world is destroyed and
you've already committed yourself to staying alive, what is there
left to do but pick up the pieces and make a new life?


Room 812
3:31 p.m., July 1

        "Scully? You accepting visitors?"
        The voice was Mulder's. She turned off the radio and
tried one-handedly to neaten the covers around her. She wished
she could wear her own pajamas instead of the shapeless hospital
gowns, but there was no way with an IV in one hand and the
various pieces of external hardware holding her other shoulder in
place. "Yes, Mulder, come on in."
        He looked good; definitely better than the last time
she'd seen him. There was probably some significance to the fact
that he hadn't brought her anything, but it wasn't worth spending
the energy on.
        He sat down, then got up and pulled the chair around till
he was at the exact angle that made it easiest to look at him
while she was mostly lying down. She smiled. "Lots of experience
on the other side, right?"
        A broad grin passed quickly over his face. "Yeah. You get
sick of asking people to move after a while; you just take it for
granted you're either going to have a sore neck or you're going
to only see them out of the corner of one eye." He shifted
uncomfortably before speaking again. "Margaret told me what your
doctor said about how long it would take. I'm sorry, Scully."
        She started to shake her head, then gasped as that
movement was enough to jar her shoulder. It was a while before
she could relax, even after the extra Demerol had taken effect.
If this was even half of what Mulder had gone through last year,
she counted it a major miracle that he hadn't turned out a
narcotic addict.
        He was holding her hand, and she doubted she'd ever seen
him looking quite that scared. She gave his hand a reassuring
squeeze and said, "I'm OK. It just takes me a bit to recover. I
don't have anywhere near your practice, y'know?" When he tried to
smile in return, she continued, "When did you get discharged? I
haven't been paying too much attention to things until today."
        "I know; I stopped in yesterday between tests. Dr.
Carrington sprung me just now." He shrugged, looking embarrassed.
"I didn't want to bring you something tacky from the hospital
gift shop." Then he looked much happier. "Frohike's going to come
get me and take me over to the DMV so I can get my driver's
license again."
        She gave him her best smile. "That's wonderful. So what
did Isabelle say about your one-year check up?"
        He shrugged. "Everything's normal. But we knew that back
in December. Kennedy's got me scheduled twice a week for the next
month, to make sure I'm coping all right with everything."
        She wasn't sure she was hearing him correctly. "Dr.
Kennedy? How did he get involved? What's to cope with?"
        His thumb, which had been making gentle circles on the
back of her hand, stopped. His face went blank for an instant
before he shook his head like he was clearing out the cobwebs.
"Right. You don't know. Friday, after the dinner that wasn't
worth eating because it was so tasteless, Dr. Carrington came to
see me. She told me she was keeping me to do all the tests. Then,
right on the heels of that statement, came a nurse with a couple
of cans of Ensure. I kind of lost it. Things went downhill from
there and they had to sedate me. When I woke up the next morning,
I was restrained and they'd put an NG tube down, and Kennedy was
there. I just fell apart, Scully. Everything kind of hit all at
once. Everything I'd gone through, the things I'd put you and
your mom through, the things I hadn't been able to do, and the
fact that I was never going to have my old life back again. I
cried all day.
        "Margaret was there when I finally stopped crying. She
was there because they couldn't get a hold of you or Skinner.
After I convinced her I was OK and she left, I took off looking
for the building because I knew that the raid had to be in
progress.
        "I was there when Skinner killed Baseball Bat Man,
Scully. I saw your shoulder. I knew immediately that it was bad.
I must have gone into shock, because I don't remember who brought
me outside, or even coming back here. The next thing I remember,
it was daylight and I was obviously tranquilized. Kennedy told me
Dr. Yamaguchi hadn't wanted me back; he wanted me on the psych
ward, for when I realized what had happened to you. But Margaret
refused, and Kennedy and Dr. Carrington backed her up. They all
knew that my crisis had already passed. And they were right."
        He shrugged. "Yamaguchi apparently dropped out after
that; he turned me over to Dr. Carrington. I haven't had any
medicine of any kind since Saturday, and I'm doing OK. That's why
Kennedy let me have my license now.
        "I know I'm never going to be a Field Agent again,
Scully. I talked with Skinner on Monday, and he's going to see
whether the Bureau will keep me as a full-time instructor. If
not, I'll take disability retirement, find something else to do,
and be a guest lecturer."
        It was almost too much to handle at once. Here she'd
thought Mulder would crash when Skinner told him he couldn't be a
Field Agent ever again, and he'd already figured that out and
adjusted to it, apparently in *one* day. With nothing more than
tears. Sure, there might be minor crises later on, when he ran
into things that reminded him of "the old days", but all in all,
he was coping much better than she would have believed possible.
        She reached up to touch her shoulder. "Dr. Hagopian says
that eventually I should regain about 70% mobility. Most of
what'll be missing will be the overhead ranges. I should also
have near-normal strength in the ranges I do get back. There's no
apparent nerve damage either, so I'll be able to continue as a
Pathologist.
        "Dr. Theo came by this morning with get well cards. I
can't believe it--he offered me the job as his Assistant. Renata
wants to go back to her old position. After all her years of
waiting to get the Assistant Chief Pathologist position, she's
decided that the hassles and the hours are more than she wants to
cope with, with three teenagers.
        She looked at him with tears in her eyes. "Mulder, it's
as if God had it all arranged for us. Take something away, but
give us something else that in the long run will last longer and
let us be around to enjoy it."
        Mulder said, "I hope _we_ can enjoy it for a long time,
Scully. I'm ready to go on living, no matter who arranged it. So
long as you're there, too." Then he took the hand he was holding
and brought it to his lips for a kiss. After she got past the
shock of that gesture, and the unmistakable warmth in his eyes,
she was thrilled.
        Scully gave him the biggest smile she could manage. With
all the nightmares over, things were definitely looking up.