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