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 <so Scully
is awake>, alternating with a deep bass <and Skinner is still here>.
He got to his feet and slipped his jeans back on. Deciding to forego
a shirt for the time being, <too many buttons> he padded barefoot
into the kitchen to join them.

Skinner and Scully were seated at the small table, eating soup and
talking quietly. Skinner looked up as he entered the doorway. "Well,
look who's up. Thought you might sleep the night away as well as
the day." Skinner rose and pulled another bowl from the cabinets
and began to fix a portion for Mulder. "Have a seat, Mulder."

"First sandwiches, now soup." Mulder moved toward the table. "I
didn't know you were so domestic, Sir."

"Not all bachelors live on take out and videos, Mulder."

They all laughed and Mulder went to Scully, leaning over to kiss the
top of her head quickly. "How are you?" he asked quietly.

"Better, Mulder, really," she responded. "I've been talking with
the AD, and he's helped me to clarify some things." She smiled
up at him. "Why don't you get something to eat first? We can talk
about this later."

At his pained look, she continued, "No, Mulder, this is not a stall
technique. There's a lot I need to talk about, and I want you to
be the one I talk to."

"You look a lot more alert, Scully," he said, taking in her appearance.
"You look like you've slept some, too."

She nodded, "And I cut back on the pain meds some, Mulder. I know
you tried to tell me I was taking too much, but . . ." She stopped
and shrugged helplessly. "I just couldn't face things. Skinner
helped me see I have to face them - and with your help - I think
I can now."

"Scully, you know I'm here for you - to talk - to listen - whatever
you need."

"I know, Mulder, I know." She reached up and pulled him down to her
level, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. As he leaned down
to meet her, she captured his lips with her own, and kissed him.

He froze, unsure of what to do. Skinner was right here, in the room.
And Scully was hurt, injured, vulnerable. Since they had returned,
he had been very careful to keep from touching her in any way that
might make her feel threatened or unsure. And she had been beaten
badly, her face bruised and bloodied. He hadn't wanted to add to
her discomfort in anyway.

But as all of these thoughts crossed his mind, his traitorous body
began to respond hungrily to the contact on his lips and he found
himself reaching out and pulling her tightly against him, kissing
her more deeply, his tongue invading her mouth gently. When he
could no longer breathe, he pulled back and laid his head on her
shoulder whispering, "God, Scully, I've missed you."

She reached up and gently embraced him, pulling him down all the way
to her. He knelt, holding his injured arm against his side, and
wrapping the other one around her. "I know, Mulder, I'm sorry."
She kissed his hair, next to the shaved spot over the wound on
the back of his head. "We'll talk and it will be better."

They stayed like that, time standing still, enjoying the touch and
scent of one another, until Skinner quietly cleared his throat.
Rather than pulling away guiltily as they would have done in the
past, they broke apart slowly, each one's touch lingering on the
other.

Skinner stepped over and placed a steaming bowl of soup on the
table for Mulder, then leaned down and helped him rise to his
feet. "Come on, you, time to eat." He helped him to his seat,
then went and fixed a drink for him. "Crackers?" he asked.

Mulder nodded and Skinner pulled the box out and placed it on
the table. The three of them ate, talking of unimportant things,
and then quickly cleared away the dinner dishes. As they finished,
Skinner went and got a pad from Scully's desk and reentered the
kitchen, ready to make a list.

"I'm going to get your laundry done," he began, "and make a run
on the grocery store." He waved away the protests that were
rising from them both. "These things need to be done, and you
two need to spend some time talking."

At that, Scully and Mulder exchanged a quick glance. They did need
to talk, and they needed privacy for that to happen.

"So," Skinner continued, "Mulder, you get those dirty clothes
together, and Scully, help me with this list. You're in dire
need of fresh fruits and vegetables."

Mulder went to gather the clothes as assigned and Skinner and
Scully composed a grocery list, working together. When the
preliminaries were done, Skinner folded the list and stuck it in
his pocket.

He grabbed the basket of clothes and detergent, and headed for the
door. "Now," he said, turning to face them, "is there anything
else you need done while I'm out?"

As they both shook their heads, Skinner said, "Ok, then, I'm outta
here." He reached for the door handle. "I'll be back in a few hours
and then it's bedtime for you both, got that?" he added with mock
sternness.

Scully chuckled, and Mulder laughed outright, flippantly saying,
"Yes, Dad."

Skinner joined their laughter, then went out the door.

Chapter 16

"Fear is a question: What are you afraid of, and why?
Just as the seed of health is in illness,
because illness contains information,
your fears are a treasure house of self-knowledge
if you explore them."
Marilyn Ferguson

Harold Roberson looked around in disgust. 'So this is where the
big FBI agent lives,' he thought. 'Big whoop. He doesn't even
have a bedroom.'

Harold had expected this moment to be much larger, much more
meaningful, something to stand out in his memory. Instead, he
found himself standing in a rather dark and dingy, extremely small
apartment, a layer of dust covering everything. A fish tank
burbled in the background, devoid of occupants. Papers, books,
printouts, photos, and magazines covered all available surfaces.

But of the resident, the purpose for Harold's being there in the
first place, there was no sign. And more disturbingly, no sign
that he had been there in some time.

Harold made one more sweep of the apartment, just to make sure his
quarry wasn't hiding in a closet or behind the shower curtain,
then he sat heavily on the couch to rethink his plans.

Since he was just a boy, serving his country in Viet Nam, Harold
had been a multiple abductee. That was the term those UFO nuts
used, multiple abductee. He had tried to tell those folks his
stories, all the things he'd seen and heard. But for some strange
reason, they didn't seem to believe Harold. He'd finally given up
on trying to get others to help him, and he had devised a plan all
on his own.

He thought back to all the times, over and over again, THEY had
come for him, taking him to their place, or ship, or whatever it
was, and doing terrible things to him. It had started when he'd
volunteered for that special detail in Nam, and then it had never
stopped. Harold wasn't sure how the Army was mixed up in all this,
but he was sure they were. And now it looked like the FBI was
involved as well. It was a damned conspiracy. Harold clenched his
fists in barely restrained rage.

>From just plain beatings for not being obedient, to horrendous
pseudo medical tests, Harold had experienced it all. And THEY
thought their mind wipe worked - but Harold had them fooled. He
remembered it all - and he was going to tell the world what was
happening.

As he thought of that moment, the moment when he, Harold Roberson,
saved the world by revealing the evil plot against humanity, he
grew excited. He would be a hero. Never again would he be locked
up, put on tranquilizers that quieted his mind and killed
his soul. He would be recognized, approved of, exalted even. The
world would owe its very existence to Harold Roberson.

And the first step toward that goal was finding the resident of
this apartment. The last time he had been taken had been the
worst. THEY had beaten him, and done some kind of surgery, because
he could see the faint scars just under his hairline. He had
been awake and aware during the painful testing, and had overheard
a conversation by some of the so-called humans who were assisting
them. As he lay there on the table, long needles penetrating his
abdomen, he could vaguely make out an older man, smoking, and
talking with several others.

"I've told you to keep a closer eye on his activities. He's
losing his belief system, which could work to our advantage.
But if they come now, as they are threatening to, the whole plan
could be ruined."

"And how will keeping a closer eye on him help us?" the younger
man had asked.

"This whole damn thing is his fault. Look around you,
why do you think we're still testing the vaccine? So far,
Mulder is the only success we've had. And it wasn't even our
success - it was Russia's. We can't afford to lose him."

Harold had blissfully passed out from the pain at that point, but
the memories were still there when he had awakened, back in his
own bed in the hospital. It had taken him weeks to plan and execute
his escape. Once free, long months of painstaking research had
gone into finding the right Mulder. More time to track him down
and find where he lived. And now, he sat dejectedly in this empty
apartment, having to rethink his program, moving back the timetable
he had established for the salvation of the world. As he struggled
to think through a new plan, he vowed that it wouldn't be enough
to just take this monster out of the picture, he would have to be
punished as well.

Harold had figured it out. The man with the cigarette had said
that the whole thing was Mulder's fault. That must mean that
the threat THEY posed was caused by something this Mulder had
seen or done. Maybe he had been the first one to contact THEM
and invite them on down. Harold chuckled wryly at that thought.
And if Mulder was responsible for that, then he was responsible
for all the horrible things that Harold had endured as well.
Whether those things were done by THEM, or by humans trying to
thwart THEM, it didn't matter to Harold. There was an evilness
at work, and he had suffered. By God, there would be atonement.
Mulder would pay!

Harold thought of how he could find the FBI agent now. Perhaps
his partner would know where he could be found. Harold pulled
a dog-eared notepad from his pocket and opened it, checking to be
sure he had the partner's address as well. Hell, maybe this guy
was over at the partner's house, who knows? Harold let himself
get lost in his fantasy of saving the world one more time, before
refocusing on the task at hand. He stood for one last look around.

"I found you once," Roberson said aloud to the empty room, "I can
find you again. And when I do, Fox Mulder, you will regret the
evil that you have worked in this world. You will atone for your
sins."

********************************************************************

Scully and Mulder stood for a minute, just looking at the door that
Skinner had gone through. Then, she stepped forward to turn the
locks and engage the chain. Before she completed her movement,
Mulder reached out and gently pulled her to him. She resisted for
just a second, then came willingly to him. Ignoring the pain in his
own injured right arm, he pulled her close, tightly wrapping his arms
around her, holding her captive against him.

"Mulder, your arm," she started, twisting back to look up at him.

"Shhh . . ., it's ok," he responded as he pulled her head back to
nestle in the hollow of his shoulder. He began to stroke her back,
her hair, her arms, reveling in the feel of her, thrilled to be
touching her again after his own self-imposed exile. They stood
together for a long time, not talking, their bodies melded together,
enjoying the sensation of being close, of caring and being
cared for.

At length, a muscle in Mulder's injured arm spasmed involuntarily,
and he winced. Scully pulled back, looking up at him, and saying,
"Come on, Mulder, come sit down." She took his left hand and
gently tugged him toward the couch. "It's time we had a little
talk."

As they sat on the couch, he noted that Scully chose to sit at the
other end, as opposed to next to him. <She's establishing distance -
but from what? The topic of the day? Or me?> As Mulder sat
quietly, giving Scully time to gather her thoughts, he realized it
was cool in the room. Without her in his arms, he was actually cold.
He shivered, and she noticed immediately.

"You're cold, Mulder," she stated. When he nodded, she added, "Why
didn't you put a shirt on?"

"Too hard."

She rose and pulled the blanket back out from the closet, wrapping
it around his shoulders gently. He pulled it together with his
left hand and settled in to wait for her to begin. As she sat
staring at her lap, obviously waging a battle with herself, he
realized it was going to be a long wait. He filled the time by
studying her. It was a source of continual amazement to him, that
even now, after working with her for almost 6 years, seeing her
day in and day out, he never tired of looking at her.

And now, now that they were changing their relationship, moving
into more and more intimate areas, he never tired of touching her
either. Every look, every glance, every touch, every caress, was
a moment to be cherished forever, engraved in permanence in his
eidetic memory. He kept them safely in his heart, like rays of
sunshine to be pulled out and re-experienced to get him through
his darkest days.

"Mulder."

He jumped, lifting his eyes to meet her quizzical gaze.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Uhmm, sorry Scully," he apologized, "I was distracted by thoughts of
this really gorgeous redhead." He cast puppy eyes and pouty lips
her way, and watched as she melted before him. "What were you saying?"

"I said, I need to know what you know, or think you know, about
my sleep disorder - or at least the sleep disorder that Skinner
says that you say that I have - if that makes any sense." She
half smiled at her own longwindedness.

"Scully, I know I've been after you to talk about this for a long
time," he smiled sheepishly, "but are you really up to this
right now?"

"I'm not ready for long-term therapy, and you, brilliant
as you may be, would not be my first choice for therapist.
But I really feel I need to know what is happening in my own
mind and to my own body."

Mulder nodded cautiously. "I don't think it started until after
your abduction," he began. Sometimes, when we were on a case,
I would hear you at night, in the next room." He flushed slightly.
"I didn't want to invade your privacy, but I just couldn't let you cry
like that and not come to you." He turned sad, thoughtful eyes on her.
"You never seemed to know where you were, but you always seemed to
know me." He paused, gazing steadily at her. "What do you want
to know?"

She dropped her gaze, embarrassed, then said, "When . . . how
often . . ." She couldn't bring herself to go on.

"The first time was out in Delta Glen, Wisconsin, the Church of
the Red Museum. I was watching TV when suddenly you were screaming
from next door. I grabbed my gun and ran into your room, sure you
were being killed, and found you crying on the bed. I talked to
you, rubbed your back, and you calmed down and went back to
sleep. The next day, you never mentioned it. I thought you just
didn't want to talk about it, but later I came to realize, you
didn't even remember." He shook his head. "That's some pretty
heavy denial you've got going, Scully."

"Apparently," she said quietly. "When else?"

"Pfaster, when you broke down and cried in my arms after we found
you, I thought that might be a turning point. But it wasn't. Oh,
you remembered everything about Pfaster, even crying, but that, you
didn't want to talk about, at least not to me." A tinge of
bitterness crept into his voice and he stopped, trying to regain
control of his own emotions. <This is Scully's time - not mine.
I will be strong for her - I will focus on her>

"Then again, in North Carolina. Colonel Wharton and the voodoo
gang. There were enough bad dreams going around then to upset
anyone. And again in Arkansas - Chaco Chicken."

"By then, I was beginning to see the pattern. Severe stress, whenever
you were in danger, sometimes when I was in danger and you were
worried about me, those were the triggers."

He reached out and took her hand, pulling her a bit closer on the
couch. "I was lost; I just didn't seem to be able to do anything
to help you, to make it better. You would be in such pain, such
raw emotional pain, at night, and then you were 'fine' the next
day."

He suddenly found a spot on the floor, under her coffee table,
extremely interesting. As he studied it, he continued. "I rarely
slept well, after, you know . . . after Samantha. But once this
started, I could hardly sleep at all except when we were on a
case and I was there with you. At home, I'd lay there all night
thinking, 'What if it's happening and I'm not there? What if she
needs me?'" He flashed a quick grin her way. "Why do you think
I keep calling you in the middle of the night?" He paused,
fighting once again to keep himself under control. "It was killing
me, but I couldn't talk to you about it. Every time I even tried,
you'd get all cold and shut me out completely."

"When we were down in Aubrey, you could talk about BJ's dreams.
Even though it went against your rational nature, you accepted
that something might be going on with her. But when I tried to
bring up your dreams, you just stared at me, and walked away."
His eyes were sad, filled with remembered helplessness.

"On the Ardent, you were willing to talk about feeling near death,
of some of your experiences in the coma. But, again, when I
tried to talk about living, what the dreams did to you, you
turned cold and silent. I was weak," he shrugged helplessly.
"I couldn't stand you shutting me out, so I stopped trying to talk
about it."

"Oh, Mulder, I'm so sorry." Tears filled her eyes.

"Should I keep going, Scully? Do you really need to hear this?"

With a combination of fear and loathing, she said in a small voice,
"There's more, isn't there?"

He nodded. "Incanto, Pusher, after Queequeg died - I'm still sorry
I was such an ass, Scully, - when you were affected by the TV
signals, then when Gerry Schnauz grabbed you. Roche, Leonard Betts -
I was off there. I thought that was because you were attacked
by him. It wasn't until you told me about the cancer that I
really understood what happened that time. When Penny Northern
died. After I faked my death, and you collapsed, and then your
remission." His voice broke and he stopped, shuddering.

"Mulder, Mulder, oh God, I'm sorry."

He shrugged again, then nodded, rubbing his face. "I thought the
remission might put an end to the nightmares, but it didn't.
The Emerson case - Skinner was there for that one. And then, in
Florida, the night before we were stuck in the woods. Linda Bowman.
Not only was it not stopping, it seemed to be increasing. That's
partly why I called you so much when you went to Maine."

"Partly?" she asked.

He ducked his head, talking to his lap. "I was worried you'd
have a nightmare and I wouldn't be there to help you back. And,"
he turned his head again, now looking away from her, staring at
the closed door, "I missed you."

She looked at him, amazed and appalled. She reached out and
touched his arm gently, giving small tugs until he turned and
faced her. His eyes were filled with pain and tears threatened
to spill over onto his raspy cheeks. He was as distressed
now as she knew he had been each of the times he had mentioned.
"You remember every time," she whispered.

He shuddered again. "Yeah, well," he tapped his head, then
quickly swiped at his eyes, "photographic memory, remember?"

She moved closer to him, reaching out for comfort for herself, and
to reassure Mulder. "My God, Mulder, why didn't you tell me?"
She shook her head. "No, you did try to tell me. Why didn't I
listen? How could this be happening for so long, and I didn't
know?"

She was shocked. Losing three months of her life was
hard enough. She'd tried very hard to put it behind her and
move on, and had thought she'd done quite well. But now, to
find that it wasn't behind her at all - it was shocking. There
was no other word. She felt that her own mind had betrayed her
in ways she couldn't even comprehend.

"Mulder, what do I do?" she asked. The tears that had filled
her own eyes began to spill over as she looked pleadingly at him.
She began to cry - tears of grief for the lost months, tears
of mourning for loved ones lost in the search, tears of sadness
for lost opportunities - the times she held herself alone and
wouldn't let anyone close. "I can't - I won't - let this take
over my life, Mulder," she said through her tears. "How do I
ever put this behind me?"

He took a deep breath, then gathered her all the way to himself,
pulling her over and into his lap. He held her tightly and rocked
her small body as she cried. He stroked her hair, murmuring soft
words of comfort and assurance. Scully didn't cry - not awake - he
amended to himself - so this was an enormous step forward in their
new relationship. He was overwhelmed that she trusted him enough
to let him see her like this, to let him hold her, to let him in.

She cried until she could cry no more. Exhausted, she lay heavily
against his shoulder, the shudders from her exertion slowly
subsiding. He continued to hold her and felt, rather than saw, as
she began to drift off into sleep. He shook her gently, saying,
"Scully, hey Scully, come on - that's enough talking for now.
Let's get you into bed."

She looked up at him sleepily, then nodded. They sat there a bit
longer, then she stretched, lifting her arms high over her head,
pushing her bottom down more deeply into his groin. He felt himself
leap to life. And so did she. She froze, then looked at him. Her
eyes darkened and took on a thoughtful look. She lowered her arms
around his neck and leaned into him even more.

He was hard, and he felt himself grow even harder, impossibly
hard. She wriggled in his lap a bit, then touched her lips
to his. His mind played all the 'no' reasons - she's injured,
she's vulnerable, it's not the right time, I didn't want it
to be like this, I don't want her to regret this, I'm injured,
I can't do this right . . .

But his body sped past his mind and he was kissing her intensely.
He wrapped his injured right arm around her, pulling her in to
him, oblivious to the pain this caused in the still healing
muscles of the arm. Most of his conscious thoughts were centered
in his lap, where her every movement heightened his arousal.
Idly, in a far corner of his mind he thought 'So this is what
it's like to think with your cock. God, don't let me ruin this.'

With his left hand, he cupped her face in his hand, holding her
gently against him. His fingers brushed back her hair and then
traced a slow, lazy line down her cheek, her neck, and finally,
her breast. Her breathing quickened and she arched under his
touch. He stroked her breast, feeling her arousal feed his own.

He kissed her again, then lowered his head to her neck and
began to kiss her throat, her neck, the hollow of her shoulder.
When he could get no further because of her shirt, he lifted
his head and said, "Buttons."

She kissed him hungrily, then pulled back and began to undo
the buttons on her shirt. As she revealed herself to him,
the heavy bandage on her left breast stood out in stark
contrast to the creamy smoothness of her right. His eyes again
filled with tears as he thought of what she had been through.
He lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss - benediction -
over the bandage, his lips barely touching it. Then, he lifted
his head, kissed her again, and . . .

The still unlocked door flew open and a stranger stood there, a
gun pointed at them both.

Chapter 17

"Nobody is more dangerous than he who imagines himself
pure in heart; for his purity, by definition, is unassailable."
James Baldwin

Harold Roberson stood just inside the door, gun pointed at
the two people entwined on the couch. He kicked back with
his left foot, slamming the door behind him. "Well, well,
Agent Mulder, you seem to give new meaning to the term partner."

Mulder came to his senses first, pulling Scully's blouse
together, then quickly shifting her off his lap and beside
him on the couch, his injured arm straining with the effort.
He pulled himself forward, half shielding her with his body.

"Enough." Harold barked at them. "Both of you be still. And,
much as it pains me to be cliche, please keep your hands where
I can see them."

Scully buttoned her blouse and placed her hands on her
legs. She had neither spoken nor taken her eyes off the
stranger in her living room.

Mulder gave thanks that he had been able to move Scully behind
him before this maniac started giving his 'be still' orders. It
was no guarantee that she was safe, but it took her out of the
first line of fire, and also partly hid her from the man's view.
He hoped she'd be able to use that to their advantage.

Scully spoke first. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Well, the first is simple enough. I am Harold Roberson."
Harold paused, as if waiting to be recognized. When Mulder
nodded slightly, he continued. "Ah, you've heard of me, Agent
Mulder."

When Mulder nodded again, Scully looked at him quizzically.
"Harold here, is rather - well-known - in alien/UFO circles."
She cocked an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. "I still keep up."

"Indeed. How fascinating." Harold said sarcastically. "Go
ahead, tell her who I am." Harold was almost preening as he
realized he had been recognized.

"Harold is a self-purported multiple abductee. He claims to
have been taken numerous times over the past 30 years."

Harold jumped forward, waving the gun at Mulder, and cutting
him off. "Not 'self-purported,' Agent Mulder. Don't you
dare trivialize what I've been through."

Mulder twisted to face Harold, trying to keep Scully behind
him. "Ok, Harold, I'm sorry." He spoke soothingly, keeping
his voice even and his face neutral.

"All right, then, just so we understand each other." Harold
calmed somewhat, and stepped back slightly. "Go on."

Mulder paused, thinking how ironic Scully would find his next
statement. "However, his claims have been rejected by MUFON,
NICAP, and the other - reputable - organizations." Mulder
looked at Harold. "Harold has been institutionalized on
several occasions, most recently in '95 when he was found
guilty but insane in the murder of an Army Colonel and her
family."

"She was a traitor, Agent Mulder. I should have been lauded
as the hero I am, not locked away in some hell hole,
tranquilized beyond the ability to see straight, left to rot
for all eternity."

"And her husband? Was he a traitor, too? Or her 8 and 11 year
old children? What exactly did they do to deserve your wrath?"

Harold lunged forward, swinging the gun and connecting sharply
with Mulder's temple. The bandage over his eye flew off, and
the still healing gash opened and began to bleed. Mulder's eyes
closed and he pulled back, slumping heavily into Scully. She
wrapped her arms around him, supporting him, as his head fell
backward onto her shoulder. She winced as his weight settled
against her injured breast.

Harold stood several steps from the sofa, breathing heavily, the
gun trained on them while the fingers of his other hand clenched
and unclenched into a fist. "I warned you not to trivialize
my experiences, Agent Mulder. Need I say more?"

Mulder opened his eyes briefly, then slowly shook his head. He
pulled himself up to a sitting position, pushing Scully back
when she tried to restrain him. "Don't Scully - I'm ok."

Scully stood angrily, facing Harold. "What the hell do you want?"

"Ah, yes, that was your original question, wasn't it? I must say,
Agent Scully, you certainly are living up to your reputation as a
'spitfire.' But for now," he waved the gun back toward the sofa,
"please be seated." When she didn't immediately comply, he said,
"I could always just shoot him instead of hitting him."

Mulder reached out shakily, and pulled Scully back to the couch,
saying, "For God's sake, Scully, sit down. Please." He reached
up and gingerly touched his forehead, his hand coming away covered
with blood.

Scully reluctantly sat, turning Mulder to face her. Using a
corner of the blanket he had been wrapped in, she gently wiped
the blood away. She folded a small section and held it to the
wound, stanching the blood flow. Mulder leaned into her touch,
gently resting his head against the palm of her hand. Her left
arm, still encased in a cast, moved out, and her finger softly
caressed his arm.

Harold watched and waited in silence. When Scully pulled back,
Harold nodded and resumed. "As for what I want, my desires are
totally altruistic. I want to save the world from the evil that
is descending upon it." He paused, as if waiting to be commended
and seemed disappointed when Mulder and Scully just stared at him.

"And how does that involve me, or my partner?" Mulder asked.

"Oh, I think you know how it involves you, Agent Mulder." Harold
had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "THEY thought I wouldn't
remember, but I heard them talking, the last time I was taken."
He fixed Mulder with a steely, half-crazed stare. "I know that you
are responsible for all of it. And it's time for you to atone."

Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. <Definitely nuts> "All
right, Harold," Mulder began. "if I'm responsible for all of it,
then you have no need of Agent Scully. She's not involved in
anything. Why don't you and I leave, and you can show me what
it is that I am supposed to be responsible for."

"Mulder, no," Scully started, but Harold quickly interrupted.

"That's correct, Agent Scully. 'Mulder, no,'" he mimicked. "I
think we'll all go together, Agent Mulder. It's a place I
believe you are familiar with, Dana. May I call you Dana?"
When Scully did not respond, he pointed at her with the gun,
and waved toward a chair across from the couch. "Move," he
directed, "or do you need an inducement as well?"

As Mulder looked at the determination on Scully's face, he
spoke pleadingly. "Go, Scully, please." He lowered his voice
to a mere whisper. "Remember, pick your battles."

She gazed at him for a long moment, then rose and walked to the
chair Harold had indicated. Keeping the gun raised, Harold
circled around to behind the chair. As she started to swivel
to face him, Harold muttered, "Uhn, uh, face your 'partner,'
please."

As Scully sat stiffly facing forward in the chair, Harold stalked
slowly around to the rear, holding Mulder's gaze with his own.
Scully's eyes sought Mulder's desperately, but he kept his own
fixed on Harold. "It's ok, Scully, just be still for a minute,"
he said calmly. "We can work this out, can't we Harold?"

"Of course we can Agent Mulder," Harold responded as he lifted
the gun, swung heavily downward and connected with the back of
Scully head. She fell forward onto the floor, unconscious.

As Mulder leapt to his feet, Harold again waved the gun. "No,
Agent Mulder. Sit down. Now. Or I can finish the job."

Mulder froze in mid-step, hands clutching at empty air by his
side. His face was a mask of rage, and his mouth worked, but
no sound emerged. Time stood still as Mulder stared first at
Harold, then in horror at Scully, watching as the floor beneath
her reddened with her blood.

Harold again spoke, almost in an understanding tone. "Sit down,
Agent Mulder. You can go to her in just a minute."

As Mulder sat, Harold came around the chair and quickly searched
Scully. He paused at the feel of the bandage over her injured
left breast. As he began to unbutton her blouse, Mulder again
came to his feet. Harold simply placed the gun to Scully's
head, never speaking, and Mulder reluctantly sat back down.

"I am not a pervert, Agent Mulder. I merely need to know what
this conceals," he said as he continued unbuttoning the blouse.

"It conceals a fairly massive wound, asshole," Mulder retorted
angrily.

"Language, language," Harold admonished, as he pulled back the
bandage and then made a disgusted face. "Guess you're right.
Yuck. What did that?"

"A nail," Mulder said shortly.

Harold rose to his feet and backed away, returning to stand behind
the chair. "You can go to her now, Agent Mulder."

Mulder rose and crossed the short distance quickly. He knelt by
Scully, carefully brushing back her hair to see the wound. An egg
sized knot had risen up around the small gash buried in her hair.
The blood was already clotting, matting her hair to her head.

"I need to get her to a hospital."

"Fraid not, Mulder. You'll have to do what clean up you want now,
and then we have to leave." As Mulder started to protest, Harold
simply shook his head. "This particular matter is not open for
discussion. If you wish to have the option to negotiate at some
point in the future, you should obey me now. Do I make myself
clear?"

Mulder glared at Harold, then said, "I need water, a washcloth, and
bandages."

"In there," Harold responded, pointing with the gun. Mulder
rose and walked quickly to the kitchen, Harold following closely.
Mulder opened a cabinet and pulled down a large mixing bowl,
filling it with warm water. As he started to open a drawer,
Harold stopped him. "No, use this." Harold tossed the dishtowel
at Mulder.

"Bandages?" Mulder asked.

"Make do," Harold answered.

Mulder returned to the living room and gently began to clean the
wound on Scully's head. She moaned softly once, but didn't
return to consciousness. He finished the wound, then washed her
hair, almost bathing each strand separately. He talked
soothingly to her, a running stream of 'You'll be ok, Scully,'
'I'm so sorry,' and other comfort phrases. As he worked, he managed
to write in the blood under her head, a hurried message for Skinner.
When the wound was cleaned and the blood wiped away,
he carefully rebuttoned her blouse, then pulled Scully up into
his arms and dropped the bloody towel over the stain on the floor.

He looked up at Harold. "Now what? She's still unconscious; she
can't travel. Leave her here."

"No, Agent Mulder. She comes with us. Pick her up and let's go."

"Look, Harold, she's injured. She'll slow you down. He paused,
pointing to his bandaged right arm. "I'm injured. I don't
think I can carry her." He touched his head. "And I think you
have re-concussed me. I'm nauseated and I'm dizzy." He paused
again, looking down at himself pointedly. "And in case you hadn't
noticed, I'm not exactly dressed for DC in February. No shirt,
no shoes." He looked up at Harold, his eyes glinting with
anger and determination. "No service."

Harold made a tsking noise, then said, "Really, Agent Mulder,
this grows tiresome. Let me explain your options to you. You
can pick her up and carry her down to the car. Or you can come
with me to the car, where I will tie you up, knock you unconscious
and put you in the trunk. I will then come back up here and drag
Agent Scully down to the car, taking no care whatsoever as to her
existing injuries or the creation of new ones."

"Or I can shoot you, then knock you unconscious, and drag you to
the car, then come back and drag her. The end result is that
all three of us will be in the car. He stopped and looked at
Mulder. "Make a decision, Mulder, I'm ready to leave."

Mulder cast a glance filled with loathing at the madman, then
reached back and pulled the blanket to the floor. He maneuvered
Scully into it, then lifted her in his arms. He supported her
head and body with his left arm, holding her under her knees with
his injured right one. He rose unsteadily to his feet and swayed
a moment, then regained his balance.

"Very good, Agent Mulder." Harold indicated the door. "Let's
go."

**************************************************************

Walter Skinner paused outside the door, balancing grocery
bag and laundry basket as he struggled to reach out and
knock on the closed door. When no one responded, he put
the bag down and knocked again. When there was still no
response, he reached out and slowly turned the knob, calling
softly, "Hello?"

The apartment was dark and Skinner hoped that meant his
two rogue agents were sleeping, and to hell with who knew
about the sleeping arrangements. As he shut the door and
turned the locks, he frowned at the thought that they
had left the door unlocked, even if only for him.

He groped for the light switch, made silent apology to
Mulder if he really was sleeping on the couch, and turned
on the lights. He turned back to the room, and froze.

Mulder was not on the couch, but there were fresh bloodstains
everywhere. Skinner instinctively pulled his weapon, and cast
his eyes across the room. On the floor in front of a chair
was a bowl filled with bloody water, and a bloodstained
towel lay on top of an even bigger bloodstain on the floor.
The room had that coppery smell, peculiar to blood and violence.

Without moving, Skinner pulled his cell phone and hit 911.
He reported what he knew, giving the location and his name
and badge ID. He reached behind himself and unlocked the
doors again. He then called the night operator at the Hoover
building and had a team sent to meet him. By the time he had
completed this, he could hear sirens wailing in the distance
as Annapolis PD responded to his emergency call.

He moved cautiously through the apartment, checking all the
rooms. Mulder's shoes still lay under the bloodied couch, and
his coat hung in the closet. Skinner had all of his shirts.
What the hell was he wearing? The blanket Mulder had
used when sleeping earlier was missing from the closet though.
Missing also were Mulder and Scully.

He was just coming back into the living room as the local
police burst through the door, guns pulled, yelling at him
to drop the weapon and get his hands up. He complied,
explaining that he had called the report in. He carefully
reached into his coat pocket and pulled his ID, relaxing
gratefully as the officers lowered their weapons.

"Sorry, Sir," one mumbled.

Skinner waved the apology off. "Two of my agents were here
when I left about 3 hours ago. They are not here now." He
gave a meaningful glance at the room. "I want to know where
they are."

The officer that had apologized began to speak into her radio,
informing the dispatcher of the situation and requesting
detectives be sent to the scene. There was enough blood
to certainly warrant the suspicion of foul play. When she had
finished, Skinner told her that a team from the FBI was on
its way. For a moment he thought the woman was going to
argue jurisdiction with him, but she wisely held her tongue.

As they waited for the local and FBI teams to arrive, Skinner
gave the officers the basic information on his agents. Names,
ages, descriptions, what he suspected they were wearing, and,
most importantly of all, that both were still recovering from
serious injury and not in their best form.

When the officer asked "Known enemies?" Skinner just shrugged.
Where could he possibly begin on that one?

"They're in law enforcement. Mulder worked as profiler for a
number of years, and still assists on request. Scully is a
forensic pathologist. She's testified at dozens of trials on
everything from murder and rape, to drugs and slavery. Take
your choice."

"We'll need specifics, Sir," the officer persisted.

Skinner nodded, "When my team gets here, I'll get somebody
on it."

There was so much blood everywhere. On the couch,
pooled on the floor, splattered on the back of the chair,
and the towel looked as if it had been dipped in blood.
So much blood. Skinner closed his eyes, thinking of
other times he had seen this much blood. Times in
hot steamy jungle clearings, small villages, make-shift
garrisons. A faraway time in a faraway place. He opened
his eyes and looked again. So much blood. But whose?

Skinner focused on the towel on the floor. For some reason,
his eye kept being drawn back to it. It seemed almost too
casually laid over the bloodstain, too centered to have been
accidental. He walked over to it, still studying it. He went
back to the officer by the door and asked, "Do you have gloves?"

When she nodded and pulled one out of a pouch at her waist,
he thanked her and then tried to stuff his 'extra large' hand
into the 'small' glove. When that didn't work, he resorted
to holding it between thumb and fingers as he walked back
to the towel.

The officer called out, "Better wait for forensics, Sir,"
but Skinner ignored her. He reached down and grasped the towel
with the latex glove, and lifted straight up. There, in the
blood beneath the towel, were the letters UFO-SL.

Skinner smiled grimly. Leave it to one of them. Then he frowned
in consternation. 'You couldn't be a little clearer?' he thought.
'The first part I get, but SL?' Had to be Mulder. Only he would
leave riddles, assuming that others could follow the leaps of logic
he made. Did that mean it was Scully's blood? Damn it, there
were too many questions, and no answers. He shook his head,
then looked up, asking in frustration, "What the hell happened
here? And where the hell are they?"

**************************************************************

Mulder came to in the trunk of a car. Cold. All over cold.
Except along his side. Warm. Wonderful warmth. There
was a body in his arms. Scully. Breathing. Warm. Alive.
He gave a sigh of relief. The last thing he remembered was
gently placing Scully on the back seat and then, a burning
sensation in his ass. <Drugs. He shot me up with something>
He shrugged mentally. <Better that than another blow to the
head.> His head was bleeding again though, and each jolt
the car took, shot spears of agony through his cranium.

He began to assess the situation. It was dark in the trunk.
It made it impossible to see what had been done. He pulled
with his legs slightly, and could tell Harold had tied their
feet together. The cold bite of steel around his wrists told
him his arms were handcuffed behind Scully, and a further
tug indicated he was then attached to the clasp of the trunk.

He could feel Scully's arms wrapped tightly around him, and
the scratchy sensation against his bare back told him her
arms were tied as well. Another loop of rope stretched across
his chest, partially anchoring him in place. Scully seemed to
be less restrained than he. <Sexism may work in our favor
this time. He doesn't have a clue what she is capable of!>
The blanket was draped loosely over them both.

Mulder shivered in the cold. His bare torso was covered in
goosebumps and he could feel that peculiar laxity that set
in when hypothermia threatened. He shifted slightly, pulling
Scully's head off the floor of trunk and onto his bare shoulder
as he maneuvered to lay somewhat on his back. Between the
chest restraint and his long legs, it was hard, but he finally
managed a bit more comfortable position. At least now Scully's
head wasn't bouncing unprotected against the bottom of the
trunk. Though his was. He winced as Harold hit a particularly
nasty hole in the road.

Scully stirred in his arms, and he immediately focused on her.
"Hey, Scully, come on. Can you wake up, please? You're
beginning to worry me, partner." He nuzzled the top of
her head with his nose. Straining hard, he was just able
to pull himself up enough to place a gentle kiss on her
forehead. "Scully, please . . ." he said softly.

She moved again, and he could feel her begin to struggle.
All he could think of was how terrifying this was going
to be for her - abducted, injured, in a trunk. He offered
a silent prayer that his presence would be enough to
help her through.

She jerked against him, pulling up and away. The rope
against his back bit deeply into the skin. Her struggles
intensified and she began to moan. He felt her knee come
up, and was very glad he had rolled onto his back. As
it was, his side felt the impact. Her whole body was
tensed against his.

"Oomph! Geez, Scully, be still, will ya?" He forced
himself to speak more softly. "Shhh. It's me. Calm down."
He crooned words to settle her into her ear.

"Mulder?" she questioned hoarsely. The tension flowed
out of her and she relaxed into him.

"Yeah, Scully, it's me." He tightened his arms around her.
"You're hurt. Don't aggravate it. Just be still, please."
He chuckled softly. "And stop trying to disable me. I
don't think I can take another assault from you." He
placed another kiss on the top of her head. "Glad you're
back with me."

"Dark. What . . . how?" she croaked.

"Yeah, it's dark. What do you remember?"

She coughed softly, clearing her throat. Her speech was slightly
slurred and she spoke as if it took a great effort. "Sitting in
the chair, looking at you. Then - nothing."

He nuzzled her again, and stroked her back as far as he could.
"Shh, it's ok. Harold is taking us on a little trip. If
he's going where I think he is, then we've got a ways to go."

"Trunk?"

"Yeah, 'fraid so. You ok?"

She shuddered and pulled herself closer to him. Her voice
was weak and she trembled in his arms. "I can move more
than you, can't I?"

"Yep. Apparently Harold is a sexist and didn't view you
as much of a threat. Think you can surprise him?" He
grinned in the darkness. At least she was coherent enough to
have made a few assessments of their situation. "Can you
free your hands?"

He felt the rope bite into his back again as she began
working her hands within it. It rubbed back and forth
against him and he felt the skin abrade and then break.
The cast on her wrist had made it difficult to tie the
cord tightly, and within minutes, she was free.

She collapsed back onto his chest, her breathing ragged.

"Head hurts - dizzy," she gasped.

He rubbed her back in tiny little movements. "Ok, you
did real good, Scully. Just rest a bit." He could feel
her relaxing into him again. He stretched again, and
leaned down to kiss her gently once more. "We're gonna
be ok, Scully. Remember that. We're gonna be ok."

After a short rest, she pulled herself onto his chest
and twisted downward, toward their feet. His were
secured to the bottom of the trunk as well, but she was
tied only to him. She freed her feet quickly, then
settled into place, lying half over his thighs and groin,
her face towards his feet.

"Scully," he called, concern tingeing his voice when she
didn't move. "Hey, Scully, you ok down there?"

A soft slow response. "Yeah." She began to scootch back
up his body, slowly righting herself and then snuggled
back into his arms, the air 'whooshing' from her as she
relaxed her body against his.

"I'm out, Mulder. But I don't feel real good." She spoke
slowly and deliberately, her voice still slurred.

He lay quietly as she placed her head on his shoulder
again. He shivered involuntarily and she said, "Mulder.
Freezing. No shirt?" There was just the slightest
inflection to her voice. With what seemed to be the
last of her strength, she pulled the blanket tightly
across him, tucking it into place behind him.

"Shhh. 'S ok Scully." He paused, trying to organize his
thoughts. Despite their precarious predicament, he was all
too aware of her lithe body pressed tightly against his. The
softness of her breasts against his side. Her arm across his
bare abdomen, her fingers on his hip. The weight of her leg
as it lay over his thigh. Her soft hair spread across his
chest and wisps of it tickled his nose. He felt a stirring
in his loins, <Geez, Mulder, you ARE a pervert!> and forced
his mind in another direction.

"When he opens the trunk, Scully, you're going to have to
take him out. It may be our only chance. Do you think
you can do it?"

"I'm tired, Mulder, I'm dizzy, and my head hurts. I feel
like I want to be sick. I don't know how effective I
can be."

"Shh. It's ok, Scully. If the moment presents itself, and
you're up to it, take it. For now, just lay still and try
to rest." He paused, then kissed her again. "I think we're
going to need all the rest we can get."

Chapter 18

"It is easier to exclude harmful passions than to rule them,
and to deny them admittance than to control them after
they have been admitted."
Seneca

Skinner paced the length of the bullpen. Throughout the
room, agents made calls, and answered phones, sorted through
printouts, reviewed case files, and, in general, attempted
to figure out what had happened to Scully and Mulder.
Using his position as AD, he had pulled every available
agent onto this search, and had even wangled a few who
weren't exactly available, stealing from existing task
forces with no guilt, no remorse.

He had people tracking all the criminals Mulder or Scully
were responsible for putting in jail. He had people
tracing the ones they had assisted in putting in jails.
Each case was being checked for recent release of the
convicted, and all relatives of the convicted were being
tracked as well.

He had agents sitting on Mulder's apartment and on
Scully's, just on the off chance that they returned.
He had both their cell phones, and had arranged for
traces to be put on any call that came in, to their
home phones, the cells, their office, his office,
or his cell.

He had a separate team combing the X-Files themselves.
While these cases rarely involved a criminal who could
be prosecuted, there were a few that fit that criteria.
There were also people who had been affected by the
resolution of an X-File, or even by the investigation
itself.

He thought specifically of that nursing home case in
Massachusetts. From his review of the case file, the
nurse that had originally made the charge the caught
Mulder's attention, had then been very angry at the
way the investigation was carried out.

Then there was that case with the zoo in Montana, was
it? Idaho? Somewhere out west. The director ended
up charged with murder or manslaughter or some such.
Better get someone on that as well.

He paced, knowing that people were reading the files
he was trying to bring up from memory, but still
feeling a need to DO something. Until the forensics
came back on the blood, - so much blood, he thought
bleakly - and fingerprints were IDed, he was at a standstill.

There was that kid in Oklahoma, the one with all
that weird lightning shit. 'Mulder can really pick'em,'
he thought. Wasn't the kid locked up somewhere?
And that Van Blundht guy. Though he hardly seemed
the type to take revenge, you could never tell.
Better get someone on those, too.

That doctor in Providence - Goldberg, Goldstein?
Scully's testimony based on what he had done to Mulder
and others had caused him to lose his license.
Where was he now?

Skinner stopped pacing and looked around the room.
Agents worked furiously, all seemingly focused on
the task at hand - to recover their own. But they
just weren't getting anywhere.

Skinner let out a roar of outrage and turned, slamming
his fist through the drywall behind him. The room went
completely silent. He stood there, trembling with rage,
aware that every eye was on him, and that he had just
made a complete and utter ass of himself. 'Well, that
was a stunt worthy of Mulder. Fine example I set,' he
thought.

He slowly pulled his hand out of the hole he had made.
He placed both hands against the wall and leaned
into it, breathing heavily as he fought for control.
This overwhelming rage, and the difficulty he had
in controlling it, was a large part of why he let no
one get too close to him.

As he stood there, the room slowly resumed its
former feel of activity as the agents returned to
their assigned tasks. No one came near him.
No one spoke to him. Aside from the initial
shocked reaction of those in the room, no one even
acted as if anything out of the ordinary had occurred.
He stood alone, no one daring to come near him.

Despite the circumstances, he found himself
selfishly thinking that Mulder and Scully would
never have let him reach this point. They looked
out for each other, and now he had been included in
that circle of caring. It was a new experience
for him and he already missed it. He knew, if
he had put his hand through a wall with either
of them present, they would never have left
him to deal with the frustration, the anger,
the rage, alone.

As he stood leaning heavily against the wall, his
breathing began to slow and even out. He slowly
pulled himself erect, smoothing his shirt front
and unobtrusively checking his hand for damage.
His knuckles were raw and scraped, little dots
of blood scattered across them. He brought his
fist to his mouth, and shook his head ruefully.

When he turned back to the room, he noticed a
young man, standing at a distance, but eyeing
him cautiously. "Can I help you?" he barked.

The young man gulped nervously, then held out
a packet of papers. "Forensics, Sir. Blood
and fingerprints." He gulped again.

Skinner stepped forward, and chuckled inwardly
when the young man stepped back. 'I'll
have a real reputation after this,' he thought.
"Be still. I'm not going to hit you." The young
man froze, arm extended, still gripping the
papers he carried.

Skinner reached out and took the packet, turning to
the blood results first. Mulder's on the couch;
Scully's on the floor and chair. What the hell had
happened? He scanned and found nothing more of
interest.

He turned to the fingerprints. His. Mulder's.
Scully's, of course. Unknown - probably her
mother's. The super's - he'd been in the military
and was on file. And a Harold Roberson. Now, who
the hell was Harold Roberson?

Skinner looked up, relieved to have a firm lead
to focus on. He spoke to the young man still
standing before him. "Get me Larson and Bouvier.
We've got work to do."

****************************************************

The car glided to a stop and the loss of motion
jarred Mulder awake. He mentally kicked himself.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He knew that
with recent head injuries, both and Scully
needed to stay awake. He shook her gently and
was relieved when she responded almost immediately.

"I'm awake, I'm awake." Her head lifted slightly
from his shoulder and he felt her listening
intently. "He's stopped."

"Yeah, we may not have much time."

Mulder rolled back on his side and slid as far into
the trunk as he could, stretching his arms out
towards the lid catch. Scully slid down and
out from between his arms, and rolled onto her side
as well. She would have been spooning with him
except his arms, stretched out and anchored to the
hasp, prevented her from nestling tightly against
him.

She was completely free now, and her small
body was tensed, and ready to move when the
lid opened. They lay quietly, waiting. They
didn't have long to wait, for as they listened,
Harold turned the car off and opened the door.

They lay in the dark, cramped interior, waiting,
wondering, afraid to talk for fear of being
overheard. At length, there was a pounding
on the top of the trunk.

"You two awake?"

Mulder answered promptly, as they had agreed.
"Harold, let us out. My partner is still
unconscious. Please, she needs medical
attention." There was just the right note
of fear and concern in his voice, and he felt
Scully smiling in the dark.

"You be still, now, Agent Mulder. Don't make
me do something you'll regret."

"Just open the lid, Harold. I'm really worried
about her. Her head is bleeding again."

The key entered the lock. There was a tiny, muted
'click' as it turned, and then . . .

Scully was up and moving. She slammed open the
lid, quickly pulled herself into a crouch, and
launched herself at Roberson. He was knocked
backwards but didn't fall. She landed on the ground,
and immediately swept her legs out and pulled
Harold's out from under him. He fell heavily,
and she reached up and slammed him in the face
with her cast. His head shot back, impacting
with the ground and his nose began to bleed.

Scully pulled herself up and reached out for
the gun. As her hand touched it, Roberson
pulled back, but she had his arm in her grip
and she grappled for the gun. Harold brought
his other hand up and over, and his fist
exploded into the side of Scully's face. She
let go and fell backwards into the dirt,
unmoving.

Mulder lay in the trunk, unable to see, but
following the fight by sound and hoping it
was Scully who was winning. Roberson was a
big man, he outweighed Scully by at least
100 pounds, and was a good foot taller. He
prayed the element of surprise had been
enough.

When it went silent, he called, "Scully.
Scully, are you all right?" He heard
labored breathing, but couldn't tell whose
it was. "Scully, damn it, answer me!"

He struggled to get free, to rise up and see
what had happened. Why wasn't she answering?
But the ropes held him tightly in place, and
he couldn't get loose.

Suddenly, the face of Harold Roberson loomed
above him. His nose bled, and one eye was
already swelling shut. "That was very stupid,
Agent Mulder. You shouldn't have let her do that."

"Where is she, you bastard? What did you do to
her?" The anguish was clear in his voice and on
his face.

"So far, I haven't done anything, except knock
her out again. Tsk, tsk, Agent Mulder, this can't
be very good for her, you know."

Mulder's stomach tightened and he felt sick as
he thought of the things this man could do to
Scully. "Leave her alone. You don't want her.
You want me." He bargained frantically.
"Leave her here and I'll come with you - no
fuss, no problems, I promise. Just leave
her alone."

Harold looked at Mulder, as if assessing the
truth of his words. Emotions flickered
across his face and he finally seemed to
accept what Mulder said. "All right, Agent
Mulder. Let's see if you mean what you say.
I'm going to let you out - you get out slowly
and don't give me any trouble." He dropped
the keys to the handcuffs into Mulder's hand.

Mulder fumbled with the key, finally getting
it into the tiny lock and hearing the welcome
'snick' as it released. He struggled to untie
the chest restraint and then slowly sat up.
Harold had the gun pointed directly at him.
He looked over and could just make out Scully's
limp form in the hazy moonlight.

He leaned down and untied his feet and then
stopped. "I'm loose. What do you want me
to do now?"

"Very good, Agent Mulder. If you maintain
that cooperative attitude, we'll get along
just fine." Harold glanced at Scully, then
looked back at Mulder. The gun never wavered.
"I bet you'd like to put that blanket over her,
maybe get her off the cold ground? And you
could probably stand to get in out of the cold
as well, right?"

Mulder nodded. Harold, waved the gun toward the
ground and Mulder slowly extricated himself from
the trunk. As he climbed to his feet, he forced
himself not to jump at Harold, and not to rush
to Scully. He stood, shivering, bare-chested and
in bare feet, on the cold ground.

Harold moved toward Scully. He knelt next to her,
then looked up at Mulder. "Get the blanket."

Mulder reached back in to the trunk and pulled
the bloody blanket out. He stood, awaiting his
next instruction. He looked at Scully, longing
to go to her, but afraid any action of his
would put her in even more danger. He lifted
his head slightly and caught Harold's eyes.
The two men stared at each other across 20 feet
of barren dirt. As Mulder watched, Harold
lowered the gun, placed it against Scully's
right calf, and pulled the trigger.

Mulder jumped, an anguished "No," pulled from
his throat, and he started towards Scully.

"Stop, Agent Mulder. The next one will not
be in her leg."

Mulder froze, then fell to his knees, tears
streaming down his face. "Let her go, Harold,
let her go. No more, please, no more."

"Agent Mulder, you are an evil man, and you
are here to atone for the evil you have done. I
suggest that you be extremely cooperative with
me from now on. Or she will be the one to pay
for your sins." Harold rose and stepped back
several feet. "You can wrap her in the blanket
and pick her up now. We're going that way."

************************************************

Skinner was pacing again. He had a file on
Harold Roberson now, and there a firm direction
to pursue. This was much better than the total
feeling of frustration from before. At least,
now, he was doing something.

He forced himself to stop for a moment,
trying to think of how they would find this
lunatic. He went to the table he had commandeered,
and sat down, pulling pen and paper before him.

He began to write.

Harold Carl Roberson - SWM - 48
parents deceased, no siblings

Viet Nam - 1968-70; drafted
recruited for special project '69
code name: Invasion
(find out more about this - who?)

Section 8 discharge 1970 - claimed to have
been abducted by aliens <Bet Mulder loved that>

Reported multiple abductions thereafter
In and out of mental institutions
(Dates? Where?)

No close friends, no steady employment
(Track jobs and dates)

Involved in fringe religion groups -
those with ties to alien scenarios
(Who? Where? When?)

Killed Army Colonel Marie Kinsley
and family - 1995
Note - No more invasions
(Was Col. Kinsley involved with
Viet Nam project? How?)

Found guilty but insane -
sentenced to life in a secure
mental facility -
(How the hell did he get out???)

Skinner stopped writing. He put the pen
down and took of his glasses. His right
had wore a rough bandage over the skinned
knuckles, a reminder to stay in control.
His brow furrowed as he thought back over
what he had read, and what he had written.
He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose,
then put his glasses back on.

He tore the paper off the pad, and beckoned
to the same young intern who had originally
brought him the forensics reports on the blood
and fingerprints. The young man was making a
very good gopher.

"Copies for everyone." Skinner opened his
cell phone and dialed. "Larson, this youngster,"
he looked at the young man quizzically.

"Kincannon, Sir."

Skinner nodded, and continued into the phone,
"Kincannon, he's bringing copies of my notes
to you. You assign specifics to the teams -
but I want every one of my questions and notes
addressed." Skinner closed the phone and
put it back on the table.

He rose, pulling his jacket from the back
of the chair and putting it on. He picked the
phone up again, and slipped it into a pocket.

"Excuse me, Sir?" the intern asked timidly.
"Where will you be?"

"In the gym. Call me if something breaks.
And have someone fix that wall."

The young man nodded and scurried off to
make his copies and carry Skinner's notes
to the task force members.

Skinner walked quickly through the bullpen,
and strode down the corridor to the elevators.
Once inside, he pushed the button for his
floor, then sagged against the wall. His
feelings of anger, frustration, and helplessness
were becoming overwhelming, and he knew he
needed to get control over himself before
he made a serious mistake.

The elevator beeped, announcing his floor,
and he stepped off. He glanced up and looked
out the window at the end of the hall. The
sky was bright with winter's morning sun.
He had been up for over twenty four hours
now and he was beginning to feel it.

He walked to his office and quickly slipped
inside. Grabbing the gym bag and the clean
suit he kept in the closet, he stepped back out
and retraced his steps to the elevator, then rode
to the basement level, and exited into the gymnasium.

At this hour, he was alone, and he was glad of it.
He changed quickly, putting on his gym shorts
and an old USMC t-shirt, faded and torn. He
pulled on battered Adidas, and did a couple of
deep knee bends. Ready at last, he took the phone
out of his coat pocket and took it with him to the
exercise room.

Once there, he walked over to the bench press
and set the pin at 220. He sat, straddling the
bench, and then lay back. He placed the phone
under the bench, then, reached up and grabbed
the bars. He breathed in deeply, and pushed.

As his arms worked steadily, lift and release,
the tension began to ease through his back and
shoulders. He felt the sweat as it trickled down
his face and chest. He did a quick 30 reps, then
stopped and swiped at his face with the hem of the
t-shirt.

Working out always helped him to clear his mind,
allowing him to focus on things with a new clarity.
He traced back over what had happened. Harold
Roberson had been in Viet Nam, as he had. They
had both been very young, just turned 18 when they
were uprooted from family, home, and country.

It was in Viet Nam that Skinner had his first
experiences with uncontrollable rage. His father
hadn't held with boys being emotional. He had
never tolerated tears or 'mushiness' from his
sons. But anger was ok. Anger was a 'man's'
emotion. It had always been all right to be angry,
and so Skinner had learned to express all his
emotions through anger. If he was sad, he got
angry. If he was worried, he got angry. If
he was afraid, he got angry.

In Viet Nam, he was often afraid. Therefore, he was
often angry. Very angry. Uncontrollably angry.
He eventually realized how destructive that one
emotion could be, but not before he had spent some
time in the brig for assaulting an officer who had
ordered a village torched, regardless of the civilian
lives that would have been lost. Skinner had been
cleared of the assault charges, and even been
promoted over the event, but it had taught him he
must learn control.

So, what gave one man the strength to get through
war and emerge relatively intact, having learned from
the experience, while another was never the same?

He shifted the pin to 200 and did 30 more reps.
Sweating profusely now, his muscles beginning to burn,
he again moved the pin, this time to 180, and began
the steady up and down press. After 15 reps, he
stopped, sagging in place and breathing heavily.

After Viet Nam, he had come home, and while he
could control the rage better, he still needed an
outlet. So he had begun working out. He had always
been tall, but as he began to channel his anger
into weights, he filled out, his shoulders broadened,
and he put on weight. As he settled into life state-
side, some of the anger faded, but he continued to
deal with his emotions by working out.

He rested briefly, then rose and moved to the
leg press. He set the weights at 300, then stepped
over the bench, fitting his feet in the rest, and
leaning back onto the angled bench, squatting.
With a deep breath, he rose fluidly, held it,
then went down again. He went through 30 reps,
stepped off, changed the weights to 280, and did
30 more.

As the steady up and down motion soothed his
mind, he was able to think on his relationship
with his two renegade agents. 'Though, in
reality,' he mused, 'Mulder is the renegade,
Scully is usually trying to rein his ass in.'
He missed them both, and the new camaraderie that
had developed between the three of them. He had
to find them, and soon.

His calves were just beginning to burn
and the sweat was rolling down his back and chest
as he reset the weights to 260, settled again,
and pushed out 30 more. Rising one last time,
he set the weights down another 20 pounds, and
forced out a last 15 before collapsing fully
against the bench.

He lay there a moment, his body trembling, then
rose and walked shakily to the water fountain.
A few sips later, he crossed to the weight room
and began to a series of curls, using the dumbbells.
Starting with 100 pounds, he hammered out 20 reps,
switched to 80s and did another 20, then picked up
the 60s and did a final 20. His muscles on fire,
he put the dumbbells down and walked back into
the exercise room.

Shedding his shirt, he climbed up on the tread mill
and set it for three 8 minute miles. Beginning at
a trot, the pace gradually picked up until he was
running at a good clip, having to work to keep up.
He took his glasses off briefly and wiped his face
with his already sweat soaked t-shirt.

Replacing his glasses, his mind continued to worry
with the hows and whens of finding his two agents,
his two friends. He smiled unknowingly as he
thought of them as friends. He was an honest
man, a loyal man, and he demanded a lot of himself.
The drive that he meet his own standards had often
caused him to set high standards for others, and to
be unforgiving and non-understanding when they were
not achieved. It had been an ongoing difficulty
in his marriage and had caused him to avoid close
friendships for fear that he would set unrealistic
expectations. And, to be truthful, some of the
things he found himself required to do in fulfillment
of his duties were distasteful enough to himself;
he didn't want to risk involving friends or families
in those things.

Mulder and Scully were both a lot like him; honest
and loyal, setting high standards for themselves
and those around them, intelligent, persistent,
diligent to a fault at times. Yet they had found
each other and each was tolerant of the other's
weaknesses, supportive and nurturing in time of need.
He had been included in that circle of care, and
briefly berated himself for not having been there
when Roberson appeared. Where had he taken them?
And why?

Both had lost blood, Scully more than Mulder. And
she was already weak from the injuries she had
sustained at the hands of Liam Emerson. Mulder was
still feeling some pain in the healing muscles of his
right arm, and was not supposed to be using it. There
was no way to know what Roberson had done to either of
them, but from the amount of blood in the apartment,
it hadn't been pretty. Skinner grimaced; he knew
the depths of depravity that existed in man quite
well.

The tread mill began to slow as the preset time ran
out. Skinner slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, and
finally a slow stroll as it wound down. With more
questions than he'd had when he came down, he hopped
off the machine and headed for the showers. Thinking
of Emerson and the injuries Mulder and Scully had
sustained, and then Roberson, abducting them for
who knows what reason, Skinner felt his frustration
begin to build, erasing all the good work his
strenuous workout had done. He stopped and stood
looking around. Over in the corner was what he
wanted, what he needed.

Grabbing his t-shirt, and picking the cell phone up
from under the bench press, he made his way to the
heavy bag, hanging off by itself. Dropping shirt
and phone, he began to pound away. As he attacked
the bag, he attacked all the injustices that had
led to this point, beginning with whatever had
happened to Samantha Mulder.

That one event had hurt Mulder so badly, there was
no hope that he would ever heal completely. It had
also inadvertently, created the situation that
existed now. Everything that had happened since
he had become AD and inherited Fox Mulder, golden
boy of VCS, had stemmed from that event.

Mulder's obsessiveness that led to that unique
ability to empathize so deeply with a killer, he
could literally become the killer, and by so
doing, know what would happen. Mulder's
recognition that working in that field would
kill him. His fortuitous finding of the
X-Files and wangling his own division to
explore them. It was only his prodigious
solve rate that had kept him going for a while
there, and then, Scully being assigned to
work with him. Someone had made a big mistake
in reading her when they thought she would
have loyalties to something other than the
truth.

The people who had died, Mulder's first
informant, then the so-called Mr. X.
Scully's sister, Mulder's father. Hell,
even Scully's father's and his own wife's
deaths were likely to have been part of this
whole sorry mess that went back to Samantha's
abduction.

Skinner pounded relentlessly at the bag.
Each blow reverberating up his arms, through
his shoulders, down his chest and back.
He pounded for all the good people who had
died, for all the good causes that had been
defeated, for all the good ideas that had
been silenced.

He slammed the bag harder and harder,
pushing back all the misdeeds, all the
injury, all the evil that had been done
to those he cared for. Yes, cared for.
As his mind shaped that thought, in
clear and pristine words - 'I care for
them' - his eyes filled with unaccustomed
tears, and his breath caught in his chest.

'I care,' he thought, amazed that he could.

'I care,' he thought, as the tears slid down
his cheeks.

His arms burned and his hands were battered
and bloody. He slowed and caught the bag,
clutching it to his chest, lifting his head
to the ceiling. "I CARE!" he roared to
the empty gym. He lowered his head, burying
it against the bag. "I care," he whispered,
"I care. I will find you both, I will. I
will bring you home."