Project: Truthseekers
Chapter 3: Welcome to the Nightmare (Part 1)
by:  Wylfcynne
 

Prologue
 
Scully woke up abruptly, suddenly aware that
something was very wrong.  She reached for her
bedmate, but her hand encountered only cool percale. 
She sat up, her heart pounding.
 
"Mulder?!" she called, her voice trembling.
 
There was no answer.  Terrified, she got up, unaware
of the chill on her bare arms and feet, and dashed
next door to the baby's room.  The bassinet was empty,
too.
 
\\...omigodomigodomigodomigodomigod...\\
 
She choked back a shriek as she turned toward the front
of the apartment.  There was a dark head showing above the
back of her rocking chair, which was turned toward the
window.
 
Relief almost took her out at the knees.  Panic subsiding, her
intellect kicked in. \\It's been weeks since he had a
nightmare or a flashback, but why else would he be up
and out here...?\\
 
Mulder was only wearing cotton sleep pants.  The apartment
was very cool and he was shivering as he cradled their son
close.  The baby, she noted, was well wrapped up in the
blankets from the bassinet.  She moved a step to one side,
to try for a look at her lover's face.
 
He was crying, his mouth distorted though no sound emerged. 
His face was wet with tears.
 
Scully shuddered, then squared her shoulders and
moved into the room.  She deliberately did not attempt to
remain quiet.  A few steps to the right put her in his line
of sight.
 
He avoided eye contact with her and tried to dry his tears
on his shoulder when he realized she was watching him. 
He noted uneasily that she was the same height as... Ruthlessly,
he forced that thought away: Scully was nothing like his captors!
 
But he could feel himself sweating with fear.
 
He tightened his hold on his son, inarticulately aware of a
need to protect the child from any danger.  The bitterness of
failure overwhelmed him, then: he couldn't even handle a bad
dream anymore.  What could he do for his son?  Will needed a
father with courage, a father who could stand between him and
danger and keep him safe and free long enough to grow up, to
grow into his power...
 
"Mulder?"
 
Her voice was so close that he flinched; he had been inside
his head, and he had not noticed her approach.
 
"Shh...  Relax, Mulder.  It's all right," she said softly. 
"You're cold, love.  Let's go snuggle on the couch?"
 
He did not react; Scully had time to feel her fear rising
once again before he took a deep breath and carefully stood
up.  Wordlessly, with communication perfected over their
years together, they arranged themselves on the couch and
Scully pulled the blankets off the back of the couch and
wrapped them all up.
 
She snuggled close, until Mulder shifted to put one arm
around her shoulders while the other kept Will snug against
his chest.
 
Scully sighed and laid her head on his chest beside her son. 
Her hand lay lightly on Mulder's belly, and she felt his muscles
flinch from the contact.
 
"I'm sorry I woke you."  His voice sounded rusty.
 
"Your absence woke me," she said softly.  "That's my nightmare:
waking up alone."
 
He stiffened beneath her.  "Oh, my God!  I'm so sorry,
Scully--!"
 
She turned her head and kissed the nearest part of his bare
chest.  He froze at that first touch of her lips.
 
"Hush.  I know what's going on," she whispered, "and I
know you're trying to cope.  I just wish you'd come back
to bed after you get William."
 
"It's not safe to sleep with an infant," he said distantly. 
"Babies get crushed and smothered like that every day."
 
"I seriously doubt either of us would be sleeping," she
smiled sadly.  "I don't want you to feel that you have
to do this alone, Mulder.  I want to help."
 
Warmth and affection were working their magic: Mulder
was finally relaxing.  "You are helping," he admitted. 
"You're here.  You let me stay here..."
 
"This is your home, Mulder.  Your home and your family."
 
The words must have stabbed especially deeply; his
face started to crumple.  She nuzzled closer, trying
to divert his attention.
 
His hand came up to ever-so-lightly stroke her hair
once, twice.  "You're too good for me, Scully."
 
His voice was a ravaged thing, roughened by grief and
terror, weakened by deprivation.  She nestled closer,
rubbing her cheek against his body, nuzzling inside
the blanket to kiss father and son where they touched.
 
"You're all I want in this world and the next, Mulder."
 
His hand tightened in her hair.  She leaned into his
touch, and conversation lapsed for a while.  They were
so good at being quiet together, that it was a natural
thing, comforting to them both.
 
It was long minutes later, and she was drowsing, warm
and content, when she realized he was crying silently
again.  Rather than speak, she just slid her hand across his
body and hugged him.
 
"It's been months," he moaned as he fought to control
himself.  "Why is this happening to me?"
 
"I think you're finally really strong enough to handle
it," she said gently.  "I suspect that the physical damage
they inflicted on you was the least traumatic part.  What
do you think?"
 
He shuddered.  "I... I was dreaming of waking up in the
coffin," he whispered.  "I can hear you talking, and
Skinner, and Doggett...  Then dirt starts hitting the
coffin lid..."
 
She stared up at his face, horrified and not trying
to hide it.  "You were NOT conscious, Mulder!  There's
no way you were conscious then!  You were--" Her throat
seized up on the blunt monosyllable.
 
"Dead?"  He said it for her.  "I suppose so.  I don't know
if it's really a memory, Scully. I really don't.  It could be
something I extrapolated from your explanation of events that
I missed.  But that doesn't make it any less awful..."
 
"Do darkness and small spaces bother you now?" she asked hesitantly.
 
"Not really," he shook his head.  "But the sound of dirt
hitting the lid...?  That's bad. The smell of freshly-turned
but very cold dirt.  The smell of the snow...  But mostly
it's that sound.  It still echoes."
 
They lay together on the couch until Mulder fell asleep and
only then did Scully allow herself the same respite.  In
typically contrary fashion, no sooner had they both settled
in for some sleep than Will woke up, hungry and not the least
bit hesitant to demand what he wanted.
 
Mulder woke up with a start at his son's first querulous
and sleepy sound.  It took him a moment to be sure that
there was no external reason for Will's distress.  It was when
the infant turned pursed lips toward his father, plainly seeking
something upon which to suckle, that Mulder realized the issue.
 
"Scully...  Scully, wake up," he called softly, rubbing his
knuckles against her cheek.
 
"Hmm...?"
 
Mulder slid Will down into her arms.  Scully woke up to find
her son rooting inside her night shirt.  She helped him find a
nipple and then leaned back against Mulder to enjoy the
experience.
 
Mulder watched, fascinated.  Scully was not shy about
this, and he had watched her nurse Will many times.  His
trauma forgotten for the moment, he watched his son
suckle.  When a drop of milk formed on the other
nipple in sympathy, he bent his head and lapped it
up himself.
 
Scully chuckled, startled by the unexpected contact.  He
did not just lave her nipple clean; he latched on and sucked
hard, once.  Scully moaned, letting her head fall back
against his shoulder as the twin sensations rocketed
straight to her sex.
 
Mulder shuddered; that moan had been vividly explicit.  He
swallowed, then bent to kiss her mouth.
 
He tasted of milk and himself and stale coppery terror,
and Scully leaned into that kiss, giving it all she had,
determined to lick and suck all that fear away from him
and replace it with lust.
 
He pulled away, suddenly.
 
"Hey," she protested.
 
"I'm sorry, Scully," he murmured, turning his head away. 
"I'm sorry.  I shouldn't--"
 
"You shouldn't what?" she growled.
 
"I shouldn't start what you can't finish," he said
humbly, trying to get away from her without being obvious.
 
She tightened her hold on him.  "Have you lost your
mind?  Get back here!"
 
He resisted.  "Will needs you."
 
Deftly she switched their son to the other side.  "Will's
getting what he needs.  I want what I need."   With her
free hand she grabbed Mulder by the hair and pulled his
face back down.  She kissed him hard and he surrendered
to her, not participating at all but letting her do what
she would.
 
Scully only put up with that for a minute.  She broke the
kiss to study his face. "Mulder, I know you're feeling rather
fragile, but I still need you to be you," she said gently. 
"We aren't just assigned partners any more.  We're life mates.
 We're parents together.  And after everything we've endured
in order to be together and raise our child, I'm not letting
anything else stand between us.  We have to talk to each other
about what hurts and what isn't working as much as we do about
the good and functional parts of our lives.  What do you need
from me that I'm not giving you?"
 
He was shivering, now; they were both still wrapped up in the
blanket, and they were sharing enough skin to skin contact that
she knew it was not a physical chill.
 
"I...  I don't know if I can talk about this," he whispered.
 
He was not looking at her; his eyes were unfocused and blank. 
That frightened Scully more than she cared to admit.  He
had rarely, in their years together, been unable to face her.
 
"Mulder?  I love you, and I want you to get better.  But PTSD
is pernicious and you've been enduring its effects for years. 
We both have to work at this, but the burden is mostly yours."
 
"I know," he said very quietly.  "It's just that..." His voice
trailed away.
 
"That what?" she prompted gently.
 
"My perception of reality is... unconvincing," he admitted. 
"I sometimes wonder if this is living as a SuperSoldier --
I think I'm here with you and Will, but this is just a hallucination,
that there's an over-mind that controls my SuperSoldier body and I'm 
totally unaware of what I'm really doing or where I am..."
 
She was horrified.  "I suppose that me reassuring you
that you're real and I'm real wouldn't help?"
 
His chuckle was bitter and he was still shivering.  "Not
to cast aspersions on your honesty, but no.  My fantasy
Scully would do anything she could to help me figure
this out."
 
"So will the real one," she assured him.
 
"I trust you, Scully.  I don't trust myself.  Too much of
my memory of the past year is missing; I've never lost
more than hours before, and now I've lost months!  It
makes this all feel unreal."
 
"Even Will's birth doesn't help?"
 
"The fact that Billy Miles and the others took no
action except to witness the birth makes no sense,
so that seems to be real," he admitted.  "But if
I'm creating the hallucination, that's what I'd
expect, so I can't trust it!"
 
Scully reached for him with her free hand, stroked
his face gently.  He closed his eyes and leaned
into her caress, kissed her palm.
 
"Mulder...  Don't go borrowing trouble.  You're
worrying about a paranoid fantasy that you know
isn't true.  There's no reason for a SuperSoldier
to retain anything but the memories of the human
host.  There isn't any real sign of personality;
nothing that can't be explained by the retention
of memories that the SuperSoldier  consciousness
can tap.  If there was anything of Billy Miles left,
wouldn't he have done something to let us know?"
 
Mulder shuddered.  "Maybe he was trying to, Scully. 
Maybe he was supposed to do something awful, but
there was enough of Billy left to prevent that."
 
"Maybe.  But there's no reason to suppose that
you're not exactly what you seem to be: my Mulder."
 
He was startled to realize, as she kissed him again,
that he believed her.
 
 +++
 
Christmastime in Georgetown
 
J. D. Crawford parked his car, turned off the engine
and pocketed the keys.  He reached for the door handle. 
His hand sat there on the handle but he did not move.
 
\\I can't believe he's dead,\\ he sighed. \\I can't
imagine how difficult this had to have been for Dana. 
I know if they were married I'd have heard...  I got
an Email from Mulder just a few months ago.  He would
have told me.\\
 
He remembered the smug tone of his informant and remembered
how good it had felt when Colton's ASAC overheard him
sniggering at the murder of a fellow agent and casting
aspersions on the honor of another and of an FBI Assistant
Director.
 
\\Dana, pregnant, burying Mulder...\\  He shuddered. 
\\There's no way she could have been messing with AD
Skinner.  If she's pregnant, it's with Mulder's child.\\  
Colton's ASAC had given him a dressing-down in front of
the entire multi-agency task force.  It had been a sweet
twenty minutes... Colton had deserved worse, but it was
enough.
 
He felt cold to the bone, though the December weather was
unseasonably mild.  He had missed the funeral because he
had been deep in an undercover operation and unable to
travel.  He had sent flowers to the funeral and to Scully
at home, and he had called.  She had been clearly fighting
to maintain her composure, clearly grief-stricken and
distraught.  He had kept the call short.
 
Now, months later, he was in Georgetown at Christmas time,
hoping to be here for his friend's lover as they spent
their first holiday season without Fox Mulder.
 
It felt a little odd; he and Mulder had not been close
for a long time, but they had kept in touch, mostly by
email.  Now he felt terrible about neglecting the
friendship.  He had known that Mulder and Scully were
fond of one another far beyond their assigned
partnership, but to find Agent Scully had been
pregnant had been shocking.
 
\\He must not have known that she was pregnant.  He would
never have left her, never have put himself at such risk,
if he had known.  He'd have had to be surgically detached
from her side!\\
 
Crawford scrubbed at his face briefly.  Fox Mulder had been
kidnapped, held prisoner, tortured and murdered, probably
by members of the gigantic international crime consortium
that he and Scully had been investigating for years. 
Finally, he had apparently annoyed or frightened the bad
guys once too often, and they had taken steps.
 
\\Leaving Dana alone and pregnant...\\
 
He took a deep breath and got out of the car.  It had been
months since the funeral; she had surely had the baby by now.
 
\\If she managed not to lose it...\\
 
He had known several widows of agents who had been
murdered on duty who had miscarried due to the grief
and shock, and hoped desperately that Scully had avoided
that fate.  It would be so incredibly cruel for her
to be so doubly bereaved.
 
That was why he was empty-handed.  In his pocket he had
a small wrapped box; it contained a framed photograph of
himself and Fox Mulder, taken backstage at their Academy
graduation.  Mulder was posing goofily behind
a widely-grinning J. D. Crawford, and Mulder was waggling
two fingers behind his friend's head.  If an appropriate
moment presented itself, he would give this to Dana.
 
There was no gift for the baby; if Dana had miscarried,
he did not want to remind her. If there was a baby, he
could go out and buy a gift later, but he did
not want to arrive with a gift for a child who had not
survived.
 
He was not completely certain that Dana still lived here,
but he had no place else to look.  If she didn't live here
any longer, he'd have to go to the Hoover Building and talk
to Walt Skinner.
 
His musing had taken him all the way to Dana's apartment
door.  He took a deep breath and steeled himself, then
lifted his hand to the bell.
 
He heard it ring inside, but there was no other response. 
He knocked and waited. There was still no answer.
 
"Dana?" he called, wondering if she was in there hiding
from the world... or from the season.  "Dana, are you
in there?"
 
An elderly woman came around the corner just then, using a
two-wheeled walker with ease and dispatch.  She had clearly
heard him; she looked him up and down appraisingly without
speaking.  Crawford gritted his teeth and resolved to be polite.
 
"And what's your name, young man, and your business with
Miss Scully?"
 
Crawford sighed.  Every neighborhood had its self-appointed
caretaker and this woman plainly was the one.  "I'm J. D. Crawford,
ma'am," he answered.  "I found myself in town for the holidays
and I thought I'd stop by.  Do you know where she is?"
 
The old woman snorted.  "She moved upstairs to 264, in
the back, a few months ago. Believe you me, no one was
happier to see her move than I was!  No more strange
men coming and going at odd hours, no more shootings. 
It's been downright peaceful around here since she moved!"
 
Crawford wished he had a hat to tip.  "Thank you very
much, ma'am.  I'll head up that way, then?" he gestured
further down the hall.
 
The old woman nodded.  "Yes.  Go up one flight and
take the left corridor nearly to the end.  264 is
on the right.  She hung a wreath on the door yesterday."
 
"Thank you very much, ma'am."  He waited till she
nodded and continued her way toward the exit.  Then he
headed farther into the building.
 
It did not take him long to locate the correct apartment:
the building was laid out rather like a hotel, with
odd-numbered apartments on one side and even-numbered
on the other.  It was a matter of minutes before he stood
in front of the door that had to be 264, though its number
was hidden by a luxuriant wreath of fresh holly decorated
with fake berries, a big red bow and some sprayed-on snow. 
Once again he took a deep breath and rang the door bell.
 
He heard the chime inside, and heard a baby's querulous
squall.  He closed his eyes in a moment of utter relief:
even though bereaved of partner and lover, Dana was not
alone, and a part of Mulder lived on in his child.
 
\\This may be a little easier than I feared...\\
 
The door swung open, and Crawford had a moment's time
to react as he was faced with a grim-faced stranger:
\\Ooops.  Wrong apartment, after all!\\  "Hi, I was looking
for a lady named Dana Scully...?"
 
+++
 
It had been nice to relax, and lately this was the only
place any of them ever really relaxed.  John Doggett
jumped, startled, when the door bell sounded.  He
glanced around the room: Monica was beside him on
the couch; Frohike and Langley were in the kitchen
concocting a dessert, Byers and Skinner were in chairs
near the fireplace. Mulder and Scully were in the back
putting baby Will to bed.
 
Doggett traded frowns with Reyes.  Their little sixth
column was all right here; their one auxiliary, Maggie
Scully, had gone to San Diego to spend Christmas with
Bill and Tara and their children.  Who could be at the
door?
 
With a shrug --there was only one way to find out--
Doggett got to his feet.  A moment behind him, Reyes
was at his shoulder.  She took a guard's position,
her back to the front wall and her Glock held at
low ready, the barrel pointing at the floor between
her feet.
 
Moving silently, Skinner got up from his chair and
came over to back Reyes.  Byers, realizing at once
that this was outside his area of expertise, went
to the kitchen door to keep his partners out of
range.
 
Doggett did not draw his own weapon, trusting Reyes
and Skinner to handle any necessary lethal response. 
A brief peek through the security peephole hidden from
outside by a decorative wreath revealed a tall handsome
black man, somber of expression and of garb.  His black
trench coat hid most of a good but not designer-made
charcoal-colored wool suit with a forest green silk tie.
 
Still frowning, Doggett opened the door.
 
The man seemed startled.  "Uh, hi.  I was looking for
a lady named Dana Scully...?"
 
Doggett reacted instantly, of no mind to let this
man have any sort of advantage.  He grabbed the man
by the tie and the wrist, used his own foot hooked
behind the man's ankle and jerked it out from under
him as he jerked on the tie and pulled on the man's
wrist.
 
With a startled cry, the man started to fall.  Doggett
twisted the man's arm up between his shoulderblades
and shoved him face down onto the floor, then followed
him down, landing astride, then planting a knee in
the small of the man's back to hold him down.
 
"Hey!"  The man's voice was muffled because his face
was being mashed into the carpet.
 
Reyes moved up beside Doggett and deftly cuffed the
prisoner's hands behind his back.  Doggett frisked
him briskly, removing a small wrapped package from
a pocket in the overcoat, and a Glock model 22 from
a clip holster on the man's belt.  He handed the
weapon to Reyes, who tucked it into her own waistband
for safekeeping.
 
Leaning a little harder onto the man's back, Doggett
used one hand to probe roughly at the back of his neck. 
He pulled the man's shirt collar away from, looking
for signs of metal vertebrae, though he was reasonably
sure he would never have been able to take down a real
SuperSoldier so easily.
 
Satisfied that there were no metal vertebrae, Doggett
reached into his pocket for his folding knife.  He
flipped open the Gerber E-Z-Out one-handed and
deliberately flicked the razor-sharp edge against
the prisoner's earlobe.
 
The resulting blood was reassuringly red.  Doggett
felt himself relax a little.  Whoever this was, he
was human: neither a SuperSoldier, nor a Bounty
Hunter, nor a clone.  He put his knife away and
finished frisking the prisoner, pulling the man's
wallet out of his pants pocket.
 
"John?"
 
That was Scully's voice, her tone soft and puzzled. 
Doggett looked up and had to fight not to react to the
image of her studying him.  She was still the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen and he could not,
in conscience,  react to her the way his body wanted
him to react.
 
"Who is that?" she asked.
 
"He's a red-blooded human named..."  He flipped open
the man's wallet to view his driver's license.  "Jerome
D. Crawford of Los Angeles, California."
 
"Sky?!"  Scully tried to see the man's face, but it was
turned away and he was pinned too firmly to be able to
move.  "Sky, is that you?!"
 
"Yeah."  The voice was muffled by carpet fiber.
 
"John, let him go.  He's a friend of ours."
 
Doggett got off the prisoner and helped him sit up. 
He made no move to unlock the handcuffs.
 
Crawford looked up, drinking in the sight of her. 
"Hi, Dana."
 
She smiled.  "Hello, Sky.  Merry Christmas.  John,
let him go."
 
Doggett complied, handing the cuffs back to Reyes, who
put them back in place on her belt.
 
Scully approached, offered him her hands as if to lift
him to his feet.
 
Crawford saw the still-wary expression on the man and
woman who had taken him down so efficiently, and he stood
up without touching Scully.
 
"What is it about your friends and handcuffs?" he asked
her, remembering how they had met and rubbing his wrists.
 
Scully chuckled.  "It's just you, Sky.  You must present
as a really scary guy."
 
"Me?!"  He was about to say more, but a movement behind
her caught his eye.  A tall man with a familiar way of
moving was emerging from the shadows behind Scully.
There was the unmistakable form of an infant in his arms. 
Crawford's throat closed up as he contemplated what had to
be Scully's child and all it meant.
 
Then his attention focused on the man holding the baby.
 
It was, undeniably, Fox Mulder.
 
For a long moment, J. D. Crawford could not breathe.  Then
he straightened, drew in a long shaky breath.
 
"Snake Plissken?!" He managed a creditable grin.  "I thought
you... were..."  His voice failed him.
 
Mulder handed Will off to his mother and went over to hug his
friend.  "Hey, Sky.  Long time no see."
 
Crawford did not quite believe what he was seeing and hearing,
but the touch of his friend's arms was real enough.  He hugged
Mulder hard.  When they broke apart, after only a few moments,
neither was ashamed to be seen blinking back tears.
 
"You're just in time for dessert, Sky," Mulder said calmly. 
"C'mon in, take a load off. Give me your coat.  Find a
seat.  Frohike!" he called as he peeled the trench coat
off a stunned Crawford's shoulders.  "More eggnog!  With
extra whiskey!"
 
Frohike came out of the kitchen with a pitcher in one
hand, a new bottle of whiskey in the other, and a wicker
basket full of glasses dangling off his right thumb.  He
raked Crawford with an appraising glance up and down, and
nodded shortly.
 
"J. D. Crawford, DEA.  Currently on leave after ten months
in deep cover in the Golden Triangle and six weeks in a military
hospital in Germany recovering."
 
Crawford could only stare.  "Wha'...?  How do you know
that?!"
 
Frohike shrugged as he set the pitcher of eggnog down
on the coffee table.  "It's my job.  Mulder, you should
have told him when you resurrected; he was hurtin'."
 
Crawford was standing by the couch; he reached for the
arm and sat down, trying to look cool when he felt
anything but.
 
Scully took pity on him.  She sat down in her rocker
with the baby still in her arms. "Sky, relax.  I wasn't
lying to you when you called; I had just come from the
cemetery and I was truly in mourning.  But three months
later Skinner found some fascinatingly terrifying
information... and had Mulder exhumed.  We got him to
the hospital and we brought him back."
 
Her voice was shaking just a little; Mulder moved to
stand behind her, put his hands down on her shoulders and
began to massage them gently.  She looked up and smiled
at him; Crawford saw the love shining in that smile and
had to smile, himself.
 
"Oh, well, in that case..." he grinned.
 
Reyes laughed then and set about serving the eggnog. 
She served everyone a glassful of eggnog first, and
then started the whiskey bottle around on its own so
everyone could decide for themselves how much they wanted. 
Introductions followed; Crawford found himself a little
confused about why the three civilians were present, but
said nothing.  It was pretty clear that he had interrupted
a private Christmas party; Mulder had never had too many
friends.  But it was unusual to see his CO here; Mulder
had never been good at making nice with the brass.  It
was very puzzling.
 
While everyone else was settling back down, Mulder
moved around Scully's chair to sit at her feet.  He
leaned against Scully's knee a little, pillowing his
head on her thigh, looping his arm around her ankles
from behind.  Scully's hand came down to his head
and she slid her fingers through his hair in a
well-practiced caress.
 
Crawford swallowed the lump in his throat; it was such
a sweet and loving tableau, and Mulder had done it so
unselfconsciously that it was plain that this was not
the first time.
 
\\Last time I saw them, they had barely gotten as
far as exchanging meaningful glances and the occasional
fingertip to skin...  This is so wonderful...!\\
 
"So, how did you guys meet?"  Reyes was the one who
offered the neutral conversational option.  "If you're
DEA I'd suppose you didn't meet Mulder and Scully
through work."
 
Crawford flashed her a quick smile.  "You'd be wrong. 
You really want to hear how this happened?  It's a
long story..."
 
Skinner leaned back in the easy chair he had chosen. 
"Go for it, Agent Crawford.  It's a good story, and
we have no place we have to be but right here."
 
Crawford swung his attention back to Mulder and
Scully, who were both looking at him. "What do you
think?"
 
Mulder grinned suddenly.  "Sure.  Let's.  I'm in a mood
for nostalgia."  His gaze took in the other agents.  "Many
moons ago, when I was still an FBI agent and I'd only
come back from the dead a couple of times..."
 
"What?!"  Crawford interrupted him.  "You \quit\?!"
 
Anger flashed briefly in Mulder's eyes.  "No, I did
not quit.  I was fired."
 
"What idiot would fire you?!"
 
Everyone laughed at that.  Mulder answered.  "Deputy
Director Alvin Kersh."
 
"You were fired by a DD named after a chipmunk??"
 
More chuckles.
 
Mulder grinned and shook his head.  "I haven't decided,
really, if Kersh is just completely without any sense of
honor or humor, or if he's a puppet.  Either way, I'm
doing the Mister Mom thing; Scully's back at Quantico 
part-time, and John and Monica have the X Files.  It's 
not ideal... but at least I'm not completely cut off.  
The work is proceeding, if grindingly slow."
 
"And you have a child."  Crawford could not hide the
longing and the awe he felt; Mulder smiled gently.
 
"Yep.  William Fox Mulder.  Named after my dad,
Scully's, and the suspect in the first case Scully
and I worked together."
 
Crawford frowned.  "That's a weird thing to commemorate,
isn't it?  The criminal, I mean?"
 
Mulder shrugged.  "Billy Miles isn't exactly a criminal,
but he is the single most significant acquaintance we
have in common."
 
"That sounds like a story I want to hear."
 
Mulder grinned.  "Let's do the Beltway Butcher first. 
Then we'll talk about SuperSoldiers  and alien invasions."
 
"Okaaaayyy..."
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~
 
Washington DC
Two Years Earlier
 
She had been lying in bed for hours, staring through the
darkness at the featureless ceiling.  Her mind just would
not stop:  it was like a panicked, terrified gerbil, racing
along at top speed, desperate for refuge, refusing to see
that there was no escape, that she was running in a wheel.
 
She was alone.  Her partner was gone.  Her mental voice
screamed his name across the other planes, but her cries
were not answered.
 
He was still alive; she had no doubt of that.
 
She had long since given up trying his cell phone.  It had
been four days since he had left the Hoover Building alone
to pick her up.  She had finished the autopsy of the
sixteenth known victim of the Beltway Butcher, the target
of the task force to which she and Mulder had been assigned
two weeks before.
 
Her mind betrayed her, then, flashing her the image of the
last of the Butcher's known victims.  Elliott Hessenfeld had
been a financial analyst for a large brokerage firm.  He
had been wearing an Armani suit and a Rolex watch
when he disappeared.  His body, clothed only in the suit's
pants, had been found partially consumed by fire.  He had
been identified by the initials engraved on the watch and
his dental records.  He had been bound, flogged with a chain,
tortured further with knife cuts, including some that
had been deep enough to cause internal bleeding.  However,
the cause of death had been smoke inhalation.
 
\\Tortured, in agony, chained down to the wooden floor, left
to die in a tool shed set ablaze.\\
 
She shuddered, trying to dismiss the image.  But she did
not want to think about Mulder enduring what Hessenfeld
had, either.  She fought those imaginings back, though it
took all her strength.
 
\\Chained down, bloody, fire roaring before him, screaming,
crying my name...\\
 
The phone rang, and she froze.
 
It rang again, and the sound made her flinch.  Who could
be calling her?
 
Slowly she reached out one hand and picked up the handset.
 
"Hello?"  She heard a gasp, and recognized it at once. 
"Mulder?!  Is that you?!"
 
"Scully...?"
 
She stiffened at the whimper she heard in his
voice.  "Mulder?  Where are you?" she demanded.
 
He was panting, almost sobbing for breath.  "Umm... 
M Street.  M Street and... 64th. Come 'n' get me?"
 
She was reaching for her clothes, holding the phone
against her head with her shoulder.  "Where have you
been, Mulder?  What happened?"
 
His panicked breathing was not calming.  "I escaped..."
 
\\Oh, sweet Jesus...!\\  "Escaped?  Mulder, what
did he do to you?!"
 
He did not answer; instead, he made a sound she had
rarely heard from him: a moan of unbearable pain.
 
"Mulder?!"
 
He did not answer her this time, either.
 
"Mulder?!  What happened?  What did he do to you?!"
 
"He...  He..."  Her partner's teeth were chattering,
now; it made speech difficult, and made her believe he
was both inadequately clothed and going into shock.  The
image of Elliott Hessenfeld's body flashed through her
consciousness again:  Hessenfeld might still have been
able to walk and talk when he was chained down in the
tool shed...
 
"He what, Mulder?" she asked, terrified.
 
"...burned me..."  Mulder whispered, barely coherent.
 
That convinced Scully.  "Mulder, I'm sending you an
ambulance.  They can get to you faster than I can."
 
"No!  NO!"  He was instantly almost hysterical.  "I
won't!"  He was gasping for air, still protesting.
 
"Mulder, calm down!" she ordered firmly, confused at
his vehemence.  "It's all right. I'm still here.  Just
tell the ambulance crew to bring you to G-triple-you,
and I'll meet you in the ER."
 
"No!  No ambulance!  He's chasin' me; I have t' keep
movin'..."  Mulder was barely understandable.
 
"You'll be safe with the ambulance crew, Mulder..."
 
"NO!  He drives an ambulance."  Still panting, still
in obvious pain, Mulder was calming a little as they
spoke.  "I'll watch for you.  Hurry up.  I gotta go;
I'm too visible here."
 
Scully flinched when she heard the connection terminated.
 
"Damn him!  Damn him!!"  She cursed her partner and
the situation in general all the while she pulled on
her boots and put on her badge, her weapon and her coat. 
She continued to curse while she ran to her car.  After
that she was too busy planning the fastest route out there,
and calling the FBI's Officer of the Day on her cell phone.
 
"FBI DC, Special Agent Grodin.  How can I help you?"
 
"Chris, this is Dana Scully."
 
"Hi, Dana.  Any news?"  Every agent in the Capitol area
knew her partner was MIA.
 
"Yeah; Mulder just called me for a ride home.  I want you
to call DC PD and get them looking for him."
 
"Why do you need help for that?"  Grodin was puzzled. 
"Didn't he tell you where he was?"
 
"He's hurt, and he's running, Chris.  He says he escaped
from the Beltway Butcher, but the guy is chasing him. 
He's going to be hiding.  But he's hurt, Chris.  I could
tell by the way he was talking, and he admitted that the
Butcher burned him.  I tried to send him an ambulance, but
he says the Butcher drives an ambulance, and he won't
risk recapture."
 
"God, no!"  Grodin had seen the crime scene photos of the
first victim.  "But that's a huge break in the case, isn't it?"
 
"Yeah, it is," Scully admitted as she got on the Beltway and
accelerated.  "I want DC cops visible in the area of M Street
and 64th so Mulder can get help if he needs it. He's not
thinking very clearly; he's in a lot of pain.  But I think
he'll be willing to go to uniformed cops, especially if there
are more than one of them."
 
"And I can get them there if they think they might get a
chance to collar the Beltway Butcher," Chris agreed grimly. 
"I assume you're on the way?"
 
"Oh, yeah," she agreed grimly.  "You might warn 'em I'm
driving a silver Taurus, DC plates BTT, that's Baker
Tango Tango, 2398.  I'm doing about eighty headed for
lightspeed."
 
"I'm on it, Dana," Chris Grodin assured her, his tone
grim.  "Good luck.  I'll be eavesdropping on DC PD radio,
so I'll probably know what happens."
 
"If we resolve this without them, I'll call you when
the situation is stable," she promised.
 
"You want some back up of your own?"
 
"No, thanks, Chris.  Without uniforms, in the dark, he
probably won't see them as help. But it might be a good
idea if you called AD Skinner and brought him up-to-date."
 
"Will do."
 
"Thanks, Chris."
 
+++
 
Chris Grodin made good on his word.  In the last six
blocks before she reached M Street and 64th, Scully
saw no less than seven patrol units from DC PD, and
several unmarked cars, as well.
 
She slowed down as she crossed 62nd Street, and saw
one of those plain sedans moving  toward her.  As it
went by, the two DC detectives inside saluted and went
on. They had recognized her license plate.
 
As she came up on 64th Street, she searched the
pedestrians on the sidewalks on both sides of the
street.  As she approached the light, an oncoming 
car stopped alongside her.  Inside, she saw two
detectives she recognized; Caffrey and Kasimov
from DC's Homicide unit.  They were part of the
Beltway Butcher Task Force; she and Mulder had been
working with them for over two weeks.
 
"Agent Scully," Kasimov was driving, and stopped
beside her, driver's door to driver's door, so they
could talk.  "See any sign of the bastard?"  He
ignored traffic backing up behind them in both directions.
 
She shook her head.  "No.  Seen any sign of Mulder?"
 
Kasimov's expression was sad.  "No, ma'am.  But we've
got every available car looking."
 
"Thank you.  You have no idea how much I appreciate
this."
 
"Hey, Dana."  That was Caffrey, from the passenger side. 
"He's one of us; we want him back."
 
"He told me the Butcher drives an ambulance," she volunteered. 
"That's why I couldn't send him one and meet him at the hospital;
he's terrified of being recaptured."
 
Both Homicide officers shuddered.
 
"God, who wouldn't be?"  Kasimov made the rhetorical
statement.  "It's a damn miracle he got away.  Any clue
about how?"
 
She shook her head.  "No.  Just that he did, and that he's
hurt.  He's almost certainly in shock."  She glanced around
at the dark alleys between almost every pair of buildings. 
"If he's gone down in one of these alleys, we may not find
him till morning, and that will be too late.  It's too cold."
 
The two cops traded glances.  Scully did not notice: she was
still intent on checking every pedestrian on the street.
 
"Dana?"  Caffrey's voice pulled her attention back to him. 
"Do you have a police band radio?"
 
She shook her head.  "No."
 
"Cell phone?"
 
"Of course."
 
Kasimov reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out
one of his business cards. He handed it to her.  "Call
us; we'll leave the line open, and if you need backup,
or if we find him, we'll be able to reach each other."
 
"Good idea.  Thanks, guys."
 
"Any time, Dana."
 
The conversation completed, they separated to keep looking. 
After a few minutes of frustration because she could
not see down those alleys, she opened all the car's
windows.  She shivered as the cool autumn air rushed
in, and then leaned her head out the window.
 
"Mulder!   Mulllllderrrrrrrrrr!"
 
She paused to listen, shivering a little, still.  She
had only called his name like this once before with
such open desperation:  when she had stood above the
buried boxcar in the canyon in New Mexico, refusing to
believe that her partner was really dead.
 
It had been so close, that time...  \\God, Albert, what
am I going to do?  You're not here to pull him back from
the Other Side again!\\  But this time she had not heard
his voice in her dreams, at all.
 
"Mulllllderrrrrrrrrr!"
 
This time there was no answer.  She refused to consider
that they could come this close to rescuing him, to
getting him back safe and sound, and fail.  He was here,
and she was going to find him.
 
She was cruising at idle, her foot hovering over the
brake pedal, her four-way emergency flashers on, her
eyes flickering rapidly from the array of alleys and
sidewalk ahead of her and the rearview mirrors.
 
It was a movement in the rearview mirror that caught
her attention.  A man wearing nothing but dark-colored
pants stumbled across the sidewalk to lean heavily on a street
light. He lifted his face a little, and the light revealed him.
 
It was Mulder.
 
Scully slammed on her brakes and shoved the gear shift
into reverse.  With her other hand she grabbed the cell
phone.
 
"I found him.  N-for-Nancy and 65th.  Hurry."
 
She did not wait to hear their acknowledgment.  Traffic
was too heavy for her to back up, so she threw the car
into park, and got out, automatically grabbing keys
and cell phone, because all her attention was on her
partner, who was sliding down the pole to his knees.
 
"...Dana...?"  Even his voice was faint.
 
"Of course it's me."
 
He looked up, and his expression visibly lightened as he
saw her.  "Scully..."
 
"I'm here."  She crouched beside him, but was afraid
to touch him.  "C'mon.  Get in the car, Mulder.  I want
to take you to a hospital."
 
"No ambulance!" he flared.
 
"No ambulance," she agreed at once. "My car.  I
drive.  I stay with you every second."
 
He wilted with relief.  "I thought I heard your voice,"
he admitted.  "But I wasn't sure I wasn't hallucinating. 
He's out here searching for me, Scully.  He almost got
me back once before I called you, and once right afterwards. 
I hid just in time."
 
"I'm armed, and I've got backup," she assured him.  "DC
PD has every available car out here; didn't you see them?"
 
He nodded tiredly, and let her help him stand.  "Yeah. 
But the ones I saw were one-man cars.  If he can be
an ambulance driver, why can't he be a cop?  I couldn't
risk it."  His voice was shaking.
 
"Okay.  Pretty good logic for someone as toasted as you,"
she teased, though her heart ached as her experienced eyes
began to catalog the injuries visible on his blood-streaked
body.
 
He stumbled, and went to his knees again because she was
not strong enough to hold him up.  He stayed down, rocking
a little, his breath coming in desperate panting.
 
"Mulder?!"
 
He was fighting not to voice his pain, and did
not answer her.
 
Before she could quiz him any further, an ambulance pulled
up at the curb alongside them.  He did not notice at once;
his eyes were closed as he fought to breathe past the pain.
 
"Hey, lady," the ambulance driver called.  "Is that guy
hurt?  You need a ride to the ER?  I've got an EMT in
the back..."
 
Scully's first response was gratitude that medical
support was present.  But Mulder lunged to his feet
with a cry.
 
"No, you bastard!  Not again!"
 
Scully remembered, then, and went for her Glock.  "FBI! 
Stop right there!  You're under arrest!"
 
Before she could get all the words out or bring the
weapon to bear, the driver floored the gas pedal, and
the ambulance careened away at extremely unsafe speeds.
 
Scully grabbed the cell phone.  "Caffrey!  The Butcher
just tried to pick us up. Unmarked ambulance:  the right
colors but no words on it, racing north on 65th.  Driver
alone up front, though he stated he had an EMT in the back. 
White male, about six feet, heavyset Italian or Hispanic
body type and complexion.  No accent; pure American
words and tones.  Black hair cropped short, dark eyes. 
Wearing a white uniform that superficially resembles an
EMS employee, but I didn't see any of the badges that
they have on the shoulders."
 
The unmarked Homicide unit raced past her, the dashboard
light flashing, siren screaming.
 
"Thanks, Dana," came Caffrey's voice on the phone.  "Can
you get Mulder to the hospital on your own?"
 
"Yeah; he's mobile enough for that.  Sic 'em, Kevin."
 
"Will do, Dana."  The telephone connection was cut,
then, and she knew that Caffrey was on the radio, informing
every cop in the DC area what had just happened.
 
Mulder was standing, leaning against a mailbox, his face
buried in his arms.  He was under a light, and she could
see the vicious and bloody lash marks that covered his
back, and bleeding burns the size of her hands, blisters
torn open and the loose skin charred around the edges.
 
"Oh, my God...  Mulder?  My car's right here."
 
"Where...where is he?"
 
"Caffrey and Kasimov are in pursuit," she informed him
calmly.  "They'll run him right out of the neighborhood
even if they don't catch him.  C'mon, Mulder.  I want
to take care of you, and I can't do it out here on
the street."
 
He resisted for a moment, looking around restlessly. 
"He'll double back.  He's got a lair near here.  'S
where I escaped from."
 
"Won't he abandon that lair, since you know where it is?"
 
"He's got tools, supplies that would be hard to
replace.  We need to get there first. Forensics needs
to rake the place.  I don't know his name, or anything
useful."
 
"You know a ton of useful," she informed him.  "Get in
the car, and you can navigate us back there.  I'll
relay everything to Kevin Caffrey; he'll pass it on
to DC PD.  They can handle the scut work, and Caffrey
will make sure the FBI's Forensics unit gets called. 
You just sit down here."
 
She had been walking him to the car; she helped him
get inside, and watched as he fought not to lean back;
he did not want to scrape those open wounds on her
upholstery; the pain was too much to face.  She understood
that.
 
"Sit still.  My kit's in the trunk."
 
She was back in a moment, and she covered his entire
back with burn dressings, and then wrapped him in a
Mylar space blanket to try and help him keep warm.
 
"Lean back slowly, now."
 
He obeyed, and sighed with relief as he could finally
relax.  She helped him get his seat belt buckled, and
then tucked the blanket in around him.
 
"Okay?"
 
"Oh, yeah...  More than okay..." he whispered.  "I haven't
been warm enough since he grabbed me."
 
She watched him settle in, watched exhaustion take hold
of him, and then raced around the car to get in on the
driver's side, get the car started and shut the windows.
She turned the heater on full-blast, and he smiled, wiggling
his bare toes in the hot air flow.
 
"You know what I like..."
 
+++
 
They did not find the lair.  A few minutes later, when
Scully took advantage of a red light to turn her head
and look at her partner, she found him unconscious,
slumped against the seat belt.
 
"Mulder!"  There was no response.  "Dammit!"  She
slammed the car into park, and reached for his
throat, hunting for a pulse.  She found it, eventually,
but it did little to reassure her: he was definitely
in shock.  His heart was racing but his pulse was so
faint she could barely feel it.  His breathing was
fast and shallow.  She fumbled for the seat controls,
and laid him out as flat as she could.  Then she sat up,
gritted her teeth, and put the car into gear again, planning
her route to the nearest hospital.  The completion of
the hunt would have to wait.
 
+++
 
At eight the next morning, AD Skinner walked into
the large conference room that was serving as
headquarters for the Beltway Butcher Task Force.
 
"Can I have your attention, please?"
 
The place had been dark and subdued for four days,
each agent hag-ridden by unspoken dread.  A newspaper 
article had outed the task force and their primary
profiler; when Mulder had vanished, each of them had
instantly feared the worst possible outcome:  that he had
been taken by their quarry.  They had no data, yet, and the
not-knowing was telling on their nerves.
 
"We now have confirmation that Agent Mulder's disappearance
is case-related," he began.  "His car was recovered
last night in Baltimore, stripped and burned.  But there
was a bit of butcher's string on the rear view mirror."
 
There was a collective gasp of horror from the assembled
agents.  All the victims' cars had been found like that.
 
Skinner let them have their moment of horror.
 
"At approximately the same time I was talking to
Baltimore PD," he interrupted their thoughts before
anyone could react, "Agent Scully got a call from
Mulder.  He'd escaped and needed a ride."
 
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then
the room exploded into cheers, shouts, applause. 
Skinner even allowed himself a small, momentary
smile as they got all the emotion out of their
system.  Then he dropped the file down on the desk top.
 
That small sound was enough to start them getting
themselves back under control.  In a few moments
Skinner had quiet and he continued.
 
"Scully called in backup.  Some of you may have heard
of a wild chase through DC last night involving a private
ambulance?"  He saw a few nods.  "That was the Butcher.
While Scully was taking care of her partner, DC PD,
including Detectives Caffrey and Kasimov," everyone
looked around and realized that two of their members were
missing, "were saturating the area.  The Butcher chased
Mulder, and he had two near misses before Scully arrived. 
The Butcher tried one more time, and Scully tried to
arrest him.  He fled, and the chase was on.  Scully
couldn't pursue; she had to get Mulder to the hospital."
 
There was a moment of silence as the dread settled
down over them again.  They all knew that the Butcher
took between six and nine days to glut his need for
pain on a victim; then he would chain the man down
to a flammable surface and set the building on fire. 
Mulder had been missing for four days.  Every eye was
on Skinner, and they seemed to be holding their
collective breath.
 
"He was systematically tortured," Skinner said flatly,
"just as we've seen on the other victims.  He was
beaten with a rubber truncheon, causing extensive
bruising and some internal bleeding; his liver and
both kidneys were bruised.  Cuts down his sides and
along his arms and legs made with a surgical scalpel
required a hundred and eighty stitches to close.
 
"He was flogged, brutally, with a heavy length of
chain that had been heated red hot, resulting in five
broken ribs and more cuts and bruises, as well as
some smaller burns. He was branded five times
across his back with a metal spatula heated in a
charcoal fire.  Altogether, the doctor estimated
that the second and third degree burns cover
ten to fifteen percent of his body, mostly on
his back, but also on his wrists and ankles.
 
"He collapsed from hypovolemic shock and his heart
stopped just as he was being removed from Agent
Scully's car at the Emergency Room.  He's been admitted
for treatment."
 
"There's a shocker," someone covered his disturbed
thoughts with sarcasm.
 
"Damn..." someone else breathed the word reverently. 
"Hurt like that, and he still managed to escape?! 
Damn!"
 
The sheer admiration in that tone brought nods of
agreement from the other members of the force.
 
"Yeah:  damn!"
 
It was Special Agent Callina Finch, SAC, who took a
deep breath and spoke up.  "Sir? How long will Mulder
be out?  We need him now, more than ever!"
 
Skinner spread his hands helplessly.  "The doctors
wouldn't commit themselves with an exact date.  It
depends on how he responds to treatment."  He took
a deep breath. "However, you have Mulder's preliminary
report in your folders."
 
Everyone scrambled to look, and most were shocked
to find nine pages, single spaced, full of new information.
 
"Mulder did this?"  Finch gasped.  "When, for God's
sake??"
 
"He dictated it to Scully while he was waiting to
go into surgery," Skinner explained. "She typed it
into her laptop while she was waiting for him, and
e-mailed it to me from the hospital.  That's all we
have right now.  He promised more, later; he was
getting a little foggy."
 
"A little foggy?"  Finch repeated, still skimming
the text.
 
"Yeah; you know those pre-op relaxation shots
they give you?"  Skinner did not smile. "He was
relaxed enough that he didn't notice the pain;
for a while he was totally okay. But then he
started to fall asleep.  You'll notice that it
does get a little disjointed toward the end."
 
"Doesn't matter," Finch looked up as she flipped
over the last page.  "We have NEVER had this much
information.  There's even a physical description
of the Butcher in here!"
 
+++
 
"Mulder, you can't!"
 
Moving with exquisite care, Mulder shrugged his shirt
on over his bandaged body. "Doctor Schaller agreed that
I can rest and drink lots of fluids at home as easily
as I can here."
 
"But you aren't going home, are you?" she asked.
 
"That is a rhetorical question, isn't it?"  He
buttoned the shirt slowly.  He was doing everything
slowly.  The trauma specialist had warned him that
everything was going to be difficult and painful
for a while.  His coordination was shot; that was
the legacy of the electric stun gun that the Butcher
had used on him, first to capture him, and, later,
as the first act of torture.
 
Electric shock was a familiar injury, though he tried
to avoid recalling the details of his capture by David and
Invisigoth's brainchild.
 
\\After all, I may very well be the only person on the
planet dumb enough to have gotten himself captured, held
hostage and tortured by a trailer trash computer!\\
 
But the tremors he was currently experiencing, and the
impaired coordination, were familiar to him because of
that past experience, and he knew they would fade with
time, because they had faded before.
 
His partner sighed.  "Yeah.  I know you, Mulder.  I
suppose you want me to drive you back to the Hoover."
 
"Well, I can't drive."  He held out one hand and let
her see the tremor.  "And I have no idea where my
car is.  Or my driver's license.  Or my wallet.  Or
my keys."
 
"Your car was found yesterday morning in Baltimore,
stripped and burned, with the significant bit of
string on the rear view mirror.  It's in Impound
there, awaiting Forensics, last I heard.  Your keys
were in it.  Your wallet and your weapon were not."
 
"He's got 'em."  That was a flat, emotionless statement.
 
"We figured," she nodded.  "Your weapon's been posted
on NCIC as stolen.  There's been surveillance on your
apartment, just in case he comes by looking for you."
 
He shuddered, and she flinched.
 
"I'm sorry."  She moved closer, put her fingertips
on the back of his hands.
 
He slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders.  "It
doesn't hurt that much."
 
"Liar." She looked up to meet his eyes, saw the stress
there.  "You need to rest; you're in no shape to be
reporting in!"
 
He shook his head.  "I'm all right.  Not a hundred
percent, but okay.  I can do this."
 
"You have to do this."  She understood but nothing
could make her approve.
 
"Yeah, I do." He straightened with visible effort. 
"I can't go home till we catch the bastard.  And he
won't want to go on till he finishes with me.  He's
never failed before; I don't think he's going to be
particularly forgiving."
 
"I want you to stay here in the hospital," she
protested quietly.  "You need to rest, you should
be under observation..."
 
He grinned at her.  "Like you're going to let me
out of your sight?  C'mon, be realistic here. 
There's no place safer, for both of us, than ISU's
sub-basement stronghold."
 
Scully sighed, knowing he had won.  "Skinner moved
the Task Force to the Hoover Building when you were
taken--he wanted everyone under guard.  But you're
right as far as that goes:  it's the place where
you're safest from him.  But who's going to
protect you from yourself?"
 
He threw her a small, almost shy smile.  "That's
your job, Scully.  Debunking, rescuing, arguing,
bandaging..."
 
She smiled back.  "Sounds like my job description's
been enhanced," she observed. "Do I get a raise to
cover all these extra responsibilities?"
 
His smile was replaced with an expression of
focused intensity.  "Scully, Bill Gates couldn't
afford to pay you what you're worth to me." 
His arms went around her in a gentle hug.
 
Scully let herself melt against him, rested her
cheek against his chest, relieved to hear his
heart's regular beat and his body's reassuring
warmth.  She was afraid to hug him back for
fear of hurting him, and the ever-analytical
part of her brain noticed the weakness in his
hands and arms, the slight sway of his body
as his balance wavered.
 
"Sit down."
 
"I'm all right," he resisted.
 
She stepped back far enough to glare up at him. 
"Mulder, thirty-six hours ago your heart stopped
in the ER!  You've been tortured for four days,
and you lost a third of your body's blood supply
due to internal and external bleeding!  You are
NOT all right!"
 
"Scully, stop it," he growled.  "I'm fine."
 
"You're NOT fine," she snapped.  "You're better;
you're not in the same time zone as 'fine!'  And
the only way I'm letting you out of here is in a
wheelchair, which we will take with us, and you
will use!!"
 
"I can walk!"
 
She took another step back and planted her fists
on her hips.  "Mulder!  You can feel how wobbly
you are.  Imagine how much those broken ribs
will hurt when you fall."
 
"I'll be careful."
 
"You know better than that.  You aren't walking
anywhere for the next few days if the chair can
get you there."
 
"Scully..."  He heard the whine in his voice,
and grimaced.  He hated it when she reduced their
relationship to this.  He knew she was right; he
just hated the idea.
 
"Mulder.  I'm not relenting on this.  If you want
to go to the Hoover, that's the price.  Or I withdraw
my endorsement, and you get re-admitted."
 
"I'll sign myself out," he riposted stubbornly.
 
"And walk to work?"  She refrained from smiling. 
"Besides, you can't get in without an escort; you
have no ID."
 
"Jaime would let me in."  He knew he was just being
stubborn, but he was not ready to surrender, yet.
 
"Jaime might," she agreed.  "But he would rat you
out to Skinner, and you'd end up back here under
guard, or in a safe house, incommunicado.  You
know Skinner; he'll do it."  She gentled her tone. 
"You want me to help you, Mulder?  Then LET me!"
 
There was a long stretched-out moment.  Then his
shoulders sagged.  "All right, all right.  God, you
can be SUCH a hardcase!"
 
"I learned it from you," she grinned.  She had tied
his sneakers for him, because he could not bend over
that far.  She offered him his leather jacket.  "Here. 
It's windy and cold, and you're depleted. You're going
to feel the cold, today."
 
She had to help him get the jacket on.  Then he reached
out for the door frame to steady himself.
 
"Weak?  Dizzy?"
 
"Yeah..." His eyes were closed.
 
"This is why most people stay in the hospital
when they're hurt!"
 
But the expression he turned on her was haunted. 
"Scully, I have to catch him.  I have to stop him.
He may come after me.  But he may not.  And, after
losing a kill, he's going to be really vicious to
the next victim.  I've got to stop him."
 
She could not argue with that.
 
+++
 
She commandeered a wheelchair from the hospital, put
it in the car, and they went to work.
 
She parked in a handicap space right by the elevator in
the parking garage, hanging a temporary permit from the
rear view mirror.  Mulder climbed out and walked slowly
toward the doors.
 
"Mulder."
 
He turned to see her unfolding the wheelchair that she
had taken out of the trunk.
 
"Jeez, Scully!  I can stand up in an elevator!"
 
She sighed as she pushed the wheelchair toward him. 
"Mulder, you have a finite amount of energy you can
divert from healing.  Do you plan to use it to walk
down hallways or find the Butcher?"
 
Expressed that way, he could no longer argue.  Carefully
he lowered himself into the chair, and eased himself back.
 
Scully adjusted the foot rests.  "Now, behave yourself,
or I'll tie your ankles down."
 
He flinched.
 
Scully realized with a pang of guilt what she had
said, conjured the image of her partner tied down
on a tabletop, struggling against the bonds as the
Butcher approached with a red-hot chain swinging
from his hand.  "Oh, my God...  I'm sorry!"
 
He shivered, pulled his jacket snug, and then let go
of it because the action hurt.  "'S okay."
 
"No, it's not.  I'm supposed to know better than that."
 
"Hey."  He reached for her hand, and she let him have
it.  "You couldn't've known those were his exact words..."
 
She was horrified.  "Oh, my God!  I'm so sorry!"
 
"Don't overreact, Scully."  He wanted to smile at her,
but she had moved up behind him, and he could not twist
around to see her.  "I'm not having flashbacks; at least,
not yet."  His eyes went vacant.  "If I do, maybe I'll get
better visuals of the lair.  There were a few times when
it hurt so much I just blanked.  It left a few holes in
my memory, and I hate when that happens.  I'm used to
unbroken skeins of events; when there're breaks it
upsets me."
 
He flinched a little when gentle fingers laced through
his hair.
 
"Just relax, and don't think about it," she advised,
pushing him forward when the elevator doors opened in
front of them.  "And keep your hands in-board.  You can't
push this thing; it'll stress your ribs.  Just sit there
and enjoy the ride."
 
"Yes, ma'am."
 
+++
 
It was just past eight-thirty on Sunday morning; there
was almost no one in the building.  The Butcher Task
Force met every morning, weekends included, at eight
sharp. They would just make it before the meeting
broke up.
 
Scully was a little surprised at how much work it
actually was to push her partner around like this.
 
\\On the other hand, he usually lets me push him
around any way I want.  I have to start being nicer
to him.  I'm the only one who ever is!\\
 
She pulled up and stopped outside the conference room. 
Mulder tipped his head back so he could smile at her,
albeit upside down.
 
"Thanks for the ride, honey.  What's the fare?"
 
"Promise me you'll listen to me when I tell you it's
time to take a break for food or rest," she said at
once, coming around so he could see her without
straining anything.
 
He considered.  "All right.  Promise me you'll leave
the chair in the hall."
 
She considered.  Then she smiled.  "You want to make an
entrance, don't you?"
 
He grinned sheepishly.  "Knowing Skinner, he'll have
'em all convinced I'm dying.  I think it's wishful thinking,
on his part, sometimes..."
 
She chuckled.  "He doesn't want you dead, Mulder."
 
"Only if he gets to do the deed himself."
 
"All right.  Hang on a minute while I lock the wheels..."
 
+++
 
"Any further questions?"  Skinner asked the group.
 
Agent Crowell, at the back of the room, lifted a hand. 
"What's the latest word on Agent Mulder?"
 
Skinner's eyes dropped to his shoes.  "Rounds are at eight;
when they're done, I'll get a call with an update.  Last
night he was listed in satisfactory condition, resting
comfortably."
 
"They lied."
 
Everyone stared at the figure in black leather and
denim who walked into the room, followed, as usual,
by a smaller, red-haired, shadow.
 
Skinner swallowed hard.  He had not seen Mulder since
he had gone to the hospital in response to Agent
Grodin's phone call.  He had had only a glimpse of
his agent, still unconscious in surgical recovery.
 
Mulder looked as if he had lost a fight with Mike Tyson
in a cement mixer.
 
\\Nice analogy, Walter!\\ he castigated himself. 
\\What really happened is worse!\\
 
Before he could actually open his mouth to say anything,
someone in the back of the room began to clap his hands. 
In a few moments the entire task force was standing
and applauding.  There were no cheers, and no whistles;
just quiet, dignified applause.
 
Mulder had no idea how to react.  He let this
oh-so-very-rare! sign of peer approval wash over
him, and hardly felt Skinner's hand supporting
him until he started to sway, and Skinner grabbed
him by the upper arm, inadvertently digging his
fingertips into the freshly-stitched cut that ran
from Mulder's armpit to his elbow.
 
Scully moved very quickly, shoving a chair behind his
knees and catching him, carefully, by the elbow on the
other side.  He fell into the chair, and had to close
his eyes while he caught up on his breathing.
 
The applause had stopped when Mulder went down; the
room was dead silent.
 
Skinner decided to fill in the silence and divert all
the eyes that were staring at the wounded agent.
 
"Agent Scully, it was my understanding that your partner
was going to be hospitalized for several days.  Tell me
he's not out AMA."
 
Scully was standing close beside him, her fingertips
brushing lightly across the upturned palm of his
hand.  "He was released conditionally, sir."
 
"What are the conditions?"
 
"That he minimize his physical activity, eat and
drink a lot, that he rest and let himself heal."
 
"Why is he here?"
 
Mulder opened his eyes and glared up at his boss. "Don't
talk over me like I'm not here," he growled, the aggression
he was trying to project a bit undermined when he had to
pause for breath in the middle of the sentence.
 
"And why are you here, Agent Mulder?"  Skinner fixed
him with an icy stare.
 
Mulder stared back defiantly.  "I work here."
 
"You're in no shape--"
 
"Sir.  Profiling is thinking.  I can do this.  I have
to do this."
 
Skinner heard the desperation in his agent's tone,
and let his own tone soften.  "And you couldn't do
it from the hospital?"
 
"Sir.  The Butcher is not a man who accepts defeat
graciously.  No one's ever gotten away from him
before.  He's either going to focus all his energy
on getting to me, or he's going to go out and find
someone to replace me.  Possibly several someones.  I
want him to focus on me; I don't want innocent
civilians suffering at this man's hands because
he can't get those hands on me, again.  But I
really don't want to get taken, again, either.  This
is the safest place for me to be, as well as the
best place from which to find him--all the resources
are here."
 
Skinner nodded slowly.  "For once, I totally agree
with you, Mulder.  But you will rest, and you will
eat.  Agent Scully--"
 
"Yes, sir."  She turned to her partner.  "See?  I've
got backup."
 
Mulder let his head fall back lightly to rest against
her belly.  "You don't need backup, Scully; you're the
toughest guy in the room."
 
A ripple of amusement reminded him that they had an
audience, and he straightened a little, refusing to
be embarrassed.
 
She grinned faintly at him.
 
"I guess we missed the morning briefing, sir," he
turned the conversation back to the matter at hand.
"Anything new?"
 
"New to us; not new to you," ASAC Finch grumbled
good-naturedly.  "Damn, Mulder--!"
 
He shrugged, and a flicker of pain went across his face. 
"That's not exactly how I'd express it," he replied,
"but it'll do."
 
"Mulder, did you have breakfast yet?"  Skinner asked.
 
Mulder sighed, knowing what was coming.  "No," he admitted.
 
Skinner scanned the room, picked out a junior agent that
he knew he could trust to babble the moment he was out
from under his supervisor's eyes.  But not to babble too
much... the kid had learned some discretion.  He had
a serious case of hero worship of Fox Mulder.  He would
talk down in the cafeteria, and the rest of the building
would hear what Mulder had done.  It annoyed Skinner no end
that there were so many people in the building, fellow agents
who should have known better, who had no respect for Agent
Mulder at all.  If ignorance of his accomplishments and work
ethic was the issue, this might go a way toward addressing
what Skinner saw as a serious issue.
 
"Agent Calvaneso."  His voice was crisp.
 
"Sir?"
 
"Go down to the cafeteria and bring up two bacon-and-egg
breakfasts and a dozen doughnuts.  Get a pitcher of orange
juice if they'll give it to you."
 
"Yes, sir!"
 
"Chocolate doughnuts," Mulder grinned.  "Glazed sour
cream chocolate doughnuts."
 
"Yes, sir!"
 
The moment the door closed, Skinner turned toward
Scully.  "Can he have coffee?"
 
She grimaced.  "It won't keep him from sleeping; he's
too wasted for that.  I suppose small amounts won't hurt." 
She turned to face her partner, anticipating his reaction. 
"You are not tanking up on caffeine, Mulder.  When
you're tired, you are going to go down to the lounge
and sleep.  And on Tuesday at three you have a check-up
back at the outpatient clinic."
 
Mulder sighed.  "Remind me."
 
"Don't worry.  I will."
 
He grinned at her. "I know."
 
Scully left Mulder alone long enough to retrieve the
wheelchair from the hallway.
 
"Mulder?  C'mon; this has got to be more comfortable,
and you can shove it around with your feet, rather
than getting up."
 
He did not respond.  She could see that his eyes were
not focused and frowned. "Mulder?"
 
He blinked, and he was back.  He made a face at her,
but moved, slowly, to stand up. "I hate it when you're
right, you know."
 
"I know."
 
He settled into the wheelchair carefully.  "I hate to
admit it, but it is more comfortable than those chairs,"
he smiled at her.  Then he turned the wheelchair, using
his feet as she had suggested, grateful that he did not
have to twist his body, looking for Skinner. "Sir?"
 
Skinner had been watching their by-play.  "Yes?"
 
"I need a press conference ASAP.  Can you set it up?"
 
+++
 
"They're ready any time you are, Mulder."
 
"Thanks, Mickey."
 
The other agent backed out and shut the door.  So,
the news cameras were ready.  Mulder was dressed in
Scully's favorite of his suits: a charcoal grey Armani. 
His shirt was absolutely white, and the tie was a soft
green watered silk that made his eyes look like emeralds. 
Scully swallowed hard.  She had argued that he could not
represent the FBI in his black denim and leather jacket,
although she rather liked him in his casual clothing. 
They had sent four agents to Mulder's apartment with a
list of items to bring back for him.
 
They had sent four so that the Butcher would not even
try to take one of them.
 
Agent Braun came into the lounge.  "Here's your stuff,
Mulder.  Anything else we can do for you?"  He laid a suit
bag across the desk top, and set Mulder's familiar toiletries
kit beside it.
 
He shook his head.  "No, thanks, Hank.  That's great. 
Thank you."
 
He let Scully push him in the wheelchair down to the gym,
but refused to let her into the shower room.  He desperately
wanted to shower, but he knew better than to risk it. Not
only did he have nearly two hundred stitches on his arms
and legs, he also had five large burns on his back.  The
very idea of standing under a shower made Mulder cringe. 
Much as he wanted to be clean, he was not yet ready to
risk that kind of pain.
 
Somehow, Scully had figured out his problem and solved
it without saying a word. When they arrived at the men's
locker room Mickey Bender was already there, waiting
for them.  Mulder studied him speculatively.
 
Bender shrugged.  "You can't take a shower and I don't
suppose you can really move much," he explained.  "I can
give you a hand with the more painful stuff.  Then we'll
come back out here and Scully can check you over and
reapply all your bandaging. That okay with you?"
 
Mulder nodded.  "Sounds like a plan, Mickey.  Thanks."
 
Scully let herself relax slowly as the two men moved
off into the shower area.  She had put a sign on the
outer locker room door asking people to stay out.  Mulder
was as casual as any other guy about locker room
etiquette; he had told her some carefully expurgated
stories of his high school and college experiences. 
But he was still almost Victorian in the level of
formality he tried to maintain toward her.  She
understood why; they were trying to maintain a
professional relationship under the stress of a
long-term and very intense friendship, a great deal
of travel together and a tremendous amount of
shared pain, grief, and fear as well as an equal
amount of mutual dependency and trust.
 
She had asked Mickey Bender to meet them down here.  She
had been concerned that Mulder might have ignored the
warnings about getting his stitches wet: he was as
fastidious as a cat about his personal hygiene and
she knew he was miserable with the limitations imposed
upon him by his injuries.  She was even more concerned
that his burns, especially, not get infected.  She did not
like to cause him any more pain than absolutely unavoidable,
but her real worries were for his health, not his comfort.
 
She could not hear the men: the shower room was at the far
end of the locker room and she set her medical supplies
near the entrance.  She was a little uncomfortable about
being in the men's locker room at all, so she was glad not
to have to penetrate that inner bastion.
 
When Mulder came out he was laughing and joking with Bender,
but he was walking slowly and she could see lines in his face
that had been carved there by pain.  He was wearing boxers
and a light cotton robe that he had left hanging open.  She
knew that was because he did not want to put any pressure
on his back.  Mickey Bender was similarly dressed, but his
robe was snug and belted tightly.
 
"How are you doing, Mulder?" she asked softly.
 
He sighed as he sat down on the bench where she indicated
she wanted him.  "As well as can be expected.  It's great
to be even this clean, but you have no idea how badly I
want to take a shower."
 
She smiled.  "Oh, I think I can imagine that.  I remember
listening to you whining in Raleigh; you couldn't even
stand, yet, and you were demanding showers."
 
Bender looked puzzled.  "What happened in Raleigh?"
 
Mulder smiled ruefully and his hand moved over the old
bullet scar in his thigh.  "I got shot," he said carelessly. 
"They kept me in bed for more than two weeks, Mickey; I
was ready to go stark raving mad by the time the doctors
were convinced I'd done enough healing to sit up
without my femoral artery exploding."
 
Bender whistled soundlessly; it was pretty clear Mulder
had come within a breath of dying that time. Then he
chuckled reminiscently.  "Reggie Perdue told me once
that you started wearing designer suits after a case
where the SAC sent you to the dump with the local
uniforms because you were wearing a cheap suit and
wouldn't mind if it got ruined."
 
"That's a lie," Mulder growled, being careful not to
react to the butterfly-light touch of Scully's hands
on his back.  "It was a Brooks Brothers suit; he was
just jealous.  I went in the next day wearing Armani
and he stopped harassing me.  He was wearing a department
store suit; he'd sent me out there intentionally because
I was wearing an expensive suit.  The upgrade trumped
him and he had to shut up."
 
Scully, her hands and eyes focused on her work, was
listening.  She chuckled, then. "Who was it?"
 
"Joey Mattioli; Des Moines office.  Why?"
 
"I want to send him a thank you note from the female
population of the US," she teased.  "You always look
good, but in Armani...?  Hmmm...!"
 
She was behind him so she did not see how her comment,
especially the wordless part of it, affected him.  Bender
did, but, knowing the tightrope that they walked and
the rules they skirted cautiously, he refrained from
the first thing it occurred to him to say: 'bet you
like him better out of the suit, right, Scully?'
 
Mulder closed his eyes and forced himself to calm
down.  It only took a moment; he was too depleted to
follow through on that impulse, anyway...
 
Bender shook his head.  "Well, I'm going to get
dressed and get upstairs.  I want to be in the audience
when you get to the podium."
 
Mulder managed a grin.  "Okay; see you later."
 
Bender disappeared back into the locker room to get
dressed out of Scully's view, and then went out the
far doors.  The partners were alone.
 
Scully inspected all his wounds, and all the stitches,
and carefully and thoroughly dried them.  She reapplied
the antibiotic salve, and then the bandages.  It took her
quite a while, because she was taking extreme care not
to hurt him.
 
He finished getting dressed, grateful for her
business-like help with his pants and his shoes and
socks. Then she tied his tie for him.  She finished her
ministrations by combing and blow-drying his hair. They
went back upstairs in silence.  When they were outside
the conference room she fussed a little, straightening
his tie, smoothing his hair.  Finally she stepped back.
 
"There.  Knock 'em dead," she grinned.
 
"Oh, yeah."  He hated the necessity of this, but he would do
whatever it took to catch this suspect.  He stood up slowly,
and gestured toward the wheelchair that was waiting near
the door.  "Don't let that get too far away."
 
"Don't worry."  She watched him walk out into the hall, to
the conference room where the cameras were set up.  She tried
to keep herself from trembling, but it was very difficult.
 
+++
 
"...in conclusion, I want to warn everyone in the Capitol
area to be wary.  He chooses his victims by their cars,
by their suits, by the Rolex on a wrist.  He takes his
victims by ramming from behind with the ambulance he
drives, and hitting the driver with a stungun when he
walks up, and the driver rolls down the window to exchange
insurance information.
 
"He isn't very bright, but his technique has worked well
on seventeen uninformed victims, including myself.  The
easiest way for you to defend yourself against him is to
not drive alone.  You don't want to be his next substitute
for the daddy he has never managed to talk back to, much
less hit back."
 
When Mulder paused, the reporters called out questions. 
The loudest one was the one he answered.
 
"Agent Mulder, is that how he got you?"
 
Mulder smiled faintly.  "Yes.  We believe that he targeted
me after the news reports identified me because he was trying
to handicap the Task Force assigned to capture him; in fact,
he has made our job tremendously more simple.  I've seen his
face.  I could pick him out of a line-up.  As soon as I match
the face to a name, he's ours."
 
"Agent Mulder, we understand that the Butcher maltreated
you much as he did the other victims. How clear can your
memory be through that much pain and, inevitably, fear?"
 
Mulder grinned. That question was planted; he thought
he detected Scully's skilled touch.  "Doesn't matter
what I felt like," he shrugged casually.  "I have a
photographic memory.  Everything I've ever seen, in
my whole life, is still accessible.  I CAN'T forget
anything.  Believe me, I've tried."  He looked around.
"I guess that's all for now.  We'll have updates as
further information becomes available. Thank you."
 
He waved casually, and walked out with his own free-swinging
stride, the very image of the capable, professional Federal
agent.  That lasted until he was outside in the hall and
the door was closed.
 
He put his hands up against the wall, leaned his forearms
against it, rested his forehead against the cool plaster.
 
"Mulder?  Sit down."
 
As she spoke he felt the soft leather of the wheelchair's
seat nudge gently at the back of his legs.  He sank down
into the chair and let his head fall back against her body.
Her hands left the handles on the back of the chair and
moved up to cradle his face briefly.  His eyes stayed
closed but he luxuriated in the caress.
 
"You need to rest.  C'mon..."  She let go of him, and
began pushing the chair down the corridor.
 
He was too exhausted to even notice when she went
right by the conference center and headed for their
temporary office, down past the assistant directors'
offices.  She pushed the chair through their office
and through the connecting door to the lounge.
 
"Mulder?  Mulder...?"  He did not respond.  "Mulder?"
 
He blinked at her groggily.  "Hmm?  Scully?"
 
She frowned; his voice was faint, and his eyes were
glazed.
 
"C'mon, G-man.  You need to take these pills."
 
He blinked, and realized that she was holding out one hand
while her other hand held a glass.
 
He reached out to accept the medication, and watched, as if
from afar, as his hand trembled.  Scully helped him drink
from the glass to wash down the tablets.  The glass held
cold milk, and he drank it all.  He let her take his jacket
off him, unfasten his tie, and open his cuffs, setting his cufflinks
aside with the matching tie clip.  Then she
opened his belt and slid it out of the belt loops.  Clumsily,
for his fingers were a little numb, he unbuttoned the pants.
 
"Switch to the couch; lie down."
 
He simply obeyed.  It was easier to obey than think.  He
lay down, very cautiously, on his left side; the two broken
ribs on that side were not as painful as the three on the
right.
 
\\Hmm...warmer...\\  He realized as he felt her fingers
against his chin that she had thrown a blanket over him.
 
"You're safe, Mulder; you're fine.  You're just exhausted. 
You worked too hard today. Now you take a nap."
 
"Scully...?"
 
"I'll be here, Mulder.  I promise.  Go to sleep." 


To be continued in Chapter 3: Part 2