Inspiration comes in the strangest places. This one came at Mass.
The biblical story of Abraham and Issac just would not let me go.
This is where it took me.

Summary: Mulder's severe head injury shakes loose some
memories about his father and his part in the conspiracy.

Disclaimer: Get religion, Carter! Nah, just come back to the show
full time and get some decent writers. Let the end of the decade
take care of itself. We need you. And I promise not to infringe on
your copyright by making any money off this story.

S-Story, A-Angst, Conspiracy/mythology driven. No spoilers, no
romance. Rated PG for language. And all the medical stuff is my
own fault and experiences, so blame me if it's wrong. Remember,
never attempt brain surgery at home!

You wanna archive this, be my guest and releasing it to the
newsgroup is fine with me, too.

I love mail. I love to write back. Comment on my story and I'll
write you :) vmoseley@fgi.net

Abraham and Issac 1/4
By Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net

It was dark and his eyes were closed, but Fox Mulder felt the car
moving. He couldn't really tell over what. It felt rough. Like the
road to the summer place, full of pot holes and ridges. He could
smell his father's cigarette, smoldering in the ashtray in the front
seat. He knew he was in the back seat, even though it was cramped
and he was the only one there. Still it felt good to be able to stretch
out a little, not to worry about Samantha whining about how he
was on her side of the seat, taking up all the room. At eight years
of age, she was still a baby. He couldn't wait until she grew out of
this whiny stage she was in.

He tried to sit up, but he couldn't. He was so sleepy. It felt like he
hadn't slept in days, when he knew that wasn't true. As a matter of
fact, he remembered that he'd slept in that morning. It was summer
and he'd stayed up late to finish reading the hidden copy of the
_The Exorcist_ that was laying under his pajamas in the bottom
drawer of his dresser. His mother was always so worried that those
kinds of stories would keep him awake, but he'd never had any
problem with them. He'd finished the book, tucked it back in the
drawer and slept like a log until his mother had rousted him out of
bed to take out the garbage at 10 in the morning.

It had been at lunch, a rare lunch with his father in attendance on a
weekday, that he had been informed of the 'outing' as his mother
referred to it. It was Friday, and finally time for the Brownie 'sleep
over' that Sam had been giggling about all week. His mother and
Sam would be gone from five that afternoon until noon the next
day. As a result, his father had decided that the 'men' needed some
time alone, too.

Fox had been more than happy to hear of the opportunity to spend
time with his father. William Mulder had been particularly busy the
past few months and when he'd been home, which was seldom,
he'd been too tired or preoccupied to do more than tell his son
good night before shooing him off to bed. It had hurt--he'd always
been close to his father and now they weren't as close as they had
been. But now it looked like things were finally getting back to
normal. Fox couldn't wait to tell his father about the baseball team
he was on and the fact that he was now the clean-up man.

The outing started early, with a unprecedented dinner out without
the women of the house. The Mulder men had gone over to
Boston on the ferry and stopped at a McDonalds. His father had
promised that they would drive up the coast, and spend the night at
the summer place. Maybe they would even get up early and take
the boat out for a bit. It was turning out to be more than Fox could
ever have hoped for.

Even in his excitement, Fox couldn't help but notice that something
was bothering his father. William Mulder never indulged his
children with overt displays of affection, but tonight, his father
couldn't seem to stop touching him. Nothing bad, mostly just a
casual hand on his shoulder, or a quick ruffle of his hair. Much like
he'd been when Fox had gone off for a week to summer camp. It
felt odd to the boy, but he was so grateful for the attention that he
decided to ignore the curiosity that threatened to tighten his
stomach.

After the trip to Mac's, they got back in the car and started to
drive. They stopped a couple of times, even getting out of the car
to toss the baseball Fox had brought. It was while they were
playing catch at a road side overlook of the ocean that the boy had
started feeling light-headed. He tried to shake off the dizziness, but
it seemed to get worse. His father told him it was nothing that a
little sleep wouldn't cure, but Fox saw the concern deep in the
older man's eyes. Even so, his father told him to stretch out in the
back seat of the car, he promised to wake him when they reached
the summer house.

The rumble of the tires had lulled the boy to sleep. He was still in a
deep cottony fog when he felt the car stop and heard one of the
doors open. He thought they must be at the summer place, but his
father made no attempt to wake him and Fox couldn't shake off the
lethargy that still held him in it's grip. All he could do was lay there and hope his dad didn't leave him to sleep in the car all night.

The car dipped suddenly, as if someone else was sitting down. Fox
heard a match strike, smelled the smoke of another freshly lit
cigarette. He tried to open his eyes, but now they seemed too
heavy and glued shut. He gave up trying and just laid there,
listening to the voices filtering back to him from the front seat.

"Will he be all right?" That came from his father. It was full of
worry and seemed to contain a hint of anger.

"Of course," came the casual reply. "I would never hurt the boy,
Bill. You know me better than that." He recognized the other
voice, but couldn't place it. His mind was so groggy with sleep.

"Of course," his father's voice mocked his friend. "That's why
you've talked me into this unholy arrangement." The last was said
with a venom that Fox had seldom heard come from his father.

"William. You know why you have to do this. You've brought
this all on yourself." The other man's voice was pure silk as he
reasoned out loud. "If you had just stuck to the project, all this
would have been unnecessary. They never would have questioned
your loyalty. It would have been assumed that you could be trusted
implicitly. Now, you've backed them in a corner and no amount of
'I'm sorry' is going to convince them that you aren't a weak link."

"But he's my son, goddammit! And he's only a child! How can
they ask this of me," his father's voice demanded.

"It's a ruse," the other man soothed. "It's just a test. You pass
their test and all will be forgiven. Nothing will happen to the boy.
You know my feelings on this. I'll be there to assure that he's safe.
He won't remember a thing. The drug is strong enough, even if he
were to wake, he'll never really be able to recall what happened.
He'll think he got the flu while spending the night at the summer
house. He might feel a little ill for a day or two, just some after
effects. But believe me, an upset stomach and a mild headache are
nothing compared to what could . . ."

"I KNOW THAT!" His father's shout echoed off the roof and
windshield of the car, cutting off his friend's sensible voice. "I
know that," he said, more calmly. "I won't have them hurt. I
know the consequences for severe indiscretion. I won't bring that
down on my family. I love them too much."

"I know you do, Bill. I love them, too, in my own fashion. I've
often wished that my life had been different. That I could have a
woman who loved me and children running at my feet. I have to be
content with living vicariously through your eyes, Bill. I won't let
anything happen to young Fox. I would kill them before I let them
hurt him." Fox concentrated on the man's voice and couldn't help
but notice that it held just a hint of contempt along with the forced
compassion.

"What do I do now?" his father asked, and sounded totally spent
with the words.

"Take my car. Drive to the cabin. Go to sleep. I'll be there just
after dawn. It will all be over." Simple directions given with
complete lack of emotion.

"What if he wakes up before then?" his father asked, but even as he
said the words, Fox could hear the door opening and the car tilting
as his father got out.

"I have some more of the same drug here with me. He'll sleep a
little longer, you might have to postpone your return until lunch
time. He'll be all right, Bill. You have my word on that." Quiet
assurance in that voice. It was confident, strong, and allowed for
no argument.

"I'll see you in the morning," his father said softly and Fox felt the
car shift again, felt his father's hand on his forehead as it brushed
the hair off his face. Then the hand was gone and the car leveled
again. The door slammed and involuntarily, Fox jerked at the
sound.

"Playing 'possum now will only get you killed, my boy," the voice
of the man purred. Fox heard a sound like a case being opened and
then felt a hand on his shoulder. There was the sting of a needle in
his upper arm and he was dreaming again.

Mulder jerked awake and tried to focus but everything was a dark
cloud. For a second he thought he was still in the back of his
father's Buick. His eyes were open, but he couldn't see properly.
He was certain he was in the back seat of a car and someone was
holding him. He jerked his head frantically to see who it was. A
whiff of her perfume came to him and he found it was his partner,
Dana Scully, holding him in her lap.

"Shh, Mulder. Lie still. We're on the way to the hospital. Just lie
back, we're almost there." She held his head and it hurt where she
touched him.

". . . my dad," he moaned. He was still in the clutches of his dream
of his father. The dream had seemed so real--it was almost like a
memory of something long forgotten.

"No," Scully said with a sad laugh. "You aren't 'dead' Mulder."
The way he'd mumbled the word, she'd misunderstood what he
was saying. "You were hit on the head with something--hit hard.
Lie still, you're bleeding all over my suit jacket and the cleaner is
ready to stop taking my laundry as it is."

". . . dad . . ." he moaned and let the blackness cover him again.

This time he didn't have as much trouble opening his eyes. As a
matter of fact, someone was forcing them open.

He wasn't in the car anymore, it smelled like the Emergency Room
had when he'd sprained his finger at practice. He wanted to look
around the room but someone was shining a bright light in his eyes.

"How much did he give him?" The man holding his eye open and
shining a penlight into it was hard to see around the glaring halo of
light, but his accent was strong and sounded European.

"I only gave Bill two tablets and knowing him the way I do, I doubt
sincerely that he used both of them. Probably half a dose." It was
the man from the car, the one Fox could still not quite place. His
father's friend, or so he thought.

"And how much did you give him," the other man accused.

"5 milligrams. Not sufficient to cause any trouble." The reply was
a statement of fact, not a defense. It was apparent that the
European held no sway over this man. In fact, the opposite could
be true.

A sharp slap to the face brought Fox out of his stupor. "Ouch!" the
boy yelped.

"He's awake," the European said causally, and walked away.

"Good," replied the other man. "Let's begin."

Fox was staring at the man now. He remembered him. This man
was one of his father's associates, he'd met him once at the summer
house. His father had refered to him as Mr. Morley and Samantha
had whispered in Fox's ear that the man was named after the
cigarettes he smoked. Their mother had been somewhat standoffish
to Mr. Morley at first, but later, Fox had caught them talking and
laughing behind the boat house. He never walked back there again
unless he knew where his mother was.

"Well, young Fox, it's good to see you again. How have you been,
boy?" Morley asked and slowly lit another cigarette, blowing the
smoke in Fox's eyes.

"Where's my father?" Fox demanded, hating the tell-tale crack in
his voice that betrayed his own fear.

"Safe and sound. Just like you." Morley smiled, but it was without
any real feeling and left Fox with a cold terror in his stomach.

"I want to go home," Fox said evenly. It was everything he could
do not to let the hot tears on his lashes fall down his face. He
would not let this man make him cry.

"Don't worry. You'll be home in your bed in Chilmark before you
know it. We just need to do a few, ah, tests, Fox. You know
about test, don't you?" That silken voice was back and it infuriated
Fox.

"Yeah, I know about tests. But what kind of tests are you talking
about?" the eleven year old boy growled in return.

"Just tests," came the reply. "Some of them might hurt a little.
Some of them will be just like tests in school. We'll be done with
all of them by morning and then I'll take you back to your father. If
you cooperate, nothing bad will happen to you, I promise."

"And if I don't cooperate?" Fox asked, trying hard to sound braver
than he felt at that moment.

"Then the tests will hurt more than just a little," Morley said,
leaning in toward Fox and letting the boy smell his stale smoker's
breath. Fox bit his lip to keep from crying out as the other man
took that opportunity to jab a needle into his arm and take several
vials of blood.

Mulder jerked his arm away from whomever was holding it and
trying to insert the thin IV needle. "Hold him!" came a shout and
more hands and arms were forcing him back against the stiff sheets
he was laying on.

"Please, let me talk to him." He could hear Scully, but she was at
some distance. It was obvious that she was upset and trying to
reason with whoever was torturing him. He still couldn't see
anything but dark fog and the tone of Scully's voice did nothing to
allay his fears. He continued to struggle.

"Agent Scully," a terse voice replied, "we're trying to help him.
Just get him to hold still so we can start this IV. He's lost a lot of
blood."

"I know that," Scully shot back. "Most of it is on *me*," she
growled, but apparently she won the fight because suddenly he
could feel her hand on his arm, he smelled her hair as she bent down
close to his face.

"Mulder, it's me. It's all right. We're at the hospital. They need to
start an IV, you need blood. Please, let them do their job. They're
trying to help you." She kept repeating the words, and he let them
flow over his body and his mind. He was distantly aware of the
needle sliding into the back of his hand, but he no longer fought
their efforts.

". . .scully?" he murmured. Where had the guy with the accent
gone? And now he could place the other man. Mr. Morley was a
much younger version of the Smoking Man who dogged their every
move. Mulder was getting so confused trying to separate the
images from his dreams with the realities of the moment. And a
fierce pain in his head made thinking even harder. Scully would
know what was going on. He just had to get her attention. He
tried again, hoping his voice was a little louder. "Scully," he
rasped.

She drew in a deep breath, and stroked his arm. She had hoped
that he'd fallen asleep again. It would make the X-rays and
examination so much easier than fighting with him when he was in
such pain and so disoriented.

"I'm right here, Mulder. I'm not leaving," she assured him.

". . . scully, I want to go home," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"I know, Mulder. But you're hurt and we have to help you get
better first. Trust me, I'll be right with you, all the way."

". . .why did the Cancer Man take my blood, Scully?" he asked, but
the words were slurred as the pain killers started taking affect.
Before she could ask him what he was talking about, he'd fallen
asleep.

*******

Abraham and Issac 2/4 PG S,A
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part one

Dana Scully pulled off the suit jacket and dropped it in the nearest
trash receptacle. It wasn't so much that she didn't think the blood
stain would come out of the fabric, she just didn't want to be
reminded of this particular moment everytime she wore the suit. It
wasn't the first article of apparel that had fallen victim to the simple
fact that she was her partner's next of kin. She didn't think it
would be the last, either.

Now without her jacket, Scully arched her back and stretched, then
searched the small lounge for a coffee machine. She found it
without much trouble and poured herself a cup, dumping several
packets of sugar into the mix and a good dollop of creamer. She
stirred the concoction and took a big drink before allowing herself
the luxury of sitting on one of the lounge chairs.

It was the doctor's lounge, she could tell by the furnishings. A
couple of comfortable chairs, an extra long sofa, a few end tables,
and in the far end, a set of bunk beds. A resident, from the looks of
his lab coat, was sound asleep on the top bunk, snoring. Scully
smiled briefly as she thought back to her own residency. It seemed
so long ago.

There was a soft knock at the door and a sandy haired man with
striking blue eyes who looked to be in his mid forties poked his
head into the room. "Agent Scully?"

"Agent Graves, come in. Did you find anything?" Scully asked and
found another cup for the New Orleans Agent In Charge.

"We hit paydirt. By the time I got back they had found Queen
Delia hiding in a dumpster in the alley. She's screaming 'habeus
corpus' and false arrest, but they're taking her down to county lock
up as we speak. And we think we found the assault weapon. A
three foot long piece of copper pipe with an elbow joint on the end.
There was blood and hair on it and it was in the alley directly
beneath a window in the loft where we found Mulder. How's he
doing?" The older agent couldn't hide the concern on his face.

Scully's eyes darkened for a moment. "Not that well. After we got
here his pressure dropped. There was intercranial bleeding, so they
took him to surgery. That was about an hour and a half ago."

Since arriving at the hospital, time had become a blur. After they
initiated the IV and started him on whole blood, a PET scan
revealed the bleeding. Whatever had been used to crack open the
gaping wound behind his ear had been sufficient to make an equally
gaping fracture in his skull and possibly, considerable damage.
While her partner had been rushed into surgery and she had been
ushered to the lounge to wait.

The older man nodded grimly, then gave her a brief smile. "I've
seen Spooky Mulder in action, Agent Scully. I don't think a piece
of copper pipe is gonna stop him for long. I don't think a brick
wall could hold him for more than a couple of seconds," he added
with a wry wink of the eye. "If it's all the same to you, I want to
get down to the lock up and question Her Highness. Maybe she'll
confess when we match prints and fiber. At the very least, she'll
probably give us the name of her accomplice."

Scully's mind really wasn't on the case, but she tried to look
attentive. "Go ahead, Agent Graves. I'll be fine here. And thank
you for getting us here so quickly--I don't think Mulder could have
waited for the ambulance to get through that crowd down there,"
she added, shaking the man's hand gratefully.

"Hey, in the Big Easy, the first thing you learn is how to drive
during Mardi Gras, cher," he shrugged with a modest blush. "I'll
call back up later to check on Mulder's progress. You don't worry.
He's a tough one, your partner." Scully bit her lip rather than
reply, praying the AIC was right.

Her cell phone startled her and she hurried to answer it before it
woke up the young resident. She had no reason to worry, he slept
peacefully through it all. She shook her head and spoke softly into
the phone.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Skinner. I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier to
accept your call. I understand Agent Mulder's been injured." Her
superior's voice was clipped but she could almost see the little
worry line that was undeniable on his face whenever she or her
partner's safety was in question.

"Yes, sir. We're at Queen of Angels Hospital right now, sir.
Apparently the Voodoo Queen we were investigating has some
rather hefty followers."

"How is Mulder?" the AD asked.

She closed her eyes for a second, wishing she had a more definite
answer to that question. But she knew the Assistant Director
wouldn't be kept waiting until that answer was forthcoming.

"He's in surgery right now. I'm not really sure what happened.
We were both following the suspect down an alley and she ducked
into an abandoned warehouse. Mulder followed her and I circled
around to the other entrance while calling our back up, then I
started in after Mulder. After five minutes we hadn't seen her come
out, nor had we heard from Mulder. We found him unconscious,
bleeding from a head wound, made by some blunt object."

"I just spoke with Agent Graves a few moments ago, Scully. I
understand this woman has been apprehended, but no one else was
found at the scene. Could this Queen, what's her name, Delila,
have hit Mulder?" Skinner asked.

"Pretty unlikely, sir. Delila is a small woman, barely over 100 lbs.
Whoever hit Mulder did so with considerable force. It fractured the
skull and resulted in significant loss of blood. That kind of blow,
from the position of the wound, would have to be done by someone
standing 'over' Agent Mulder, sir. Someone who probably
weighed over 200 lbs. minimum. Whoever they were, they packed
a whollop." Somehow, talking about the UNSUB and the attack
made it seem a little less personal. Almost like it wasn't her
partner's life that was at stake here.

"Well, I've told Graves to bring in all of her followers for
questioning. We can't fall down on this one, Scully." His voice
had taken on that 'commander in chief' tone, as Mulder called it.

"Yes sir," was the only suitable reply to that statement, so she
complied readily.

"Let me know when Mulder's out of surgery, Scully. And don't
worry about finding me, I'm here for the night."

She suspected that was the case on a good number of evenings.
"As soon as I know, you'll know, sir." They both disconnected
without bothering to say good bye.

The night continued to drag on. She took her watch off sometime
after 9 because looking at it was only making her more nervous.
She read the medical journals laying on the end tables, she read and
reread the bulletin board announcing various hospital policies and
she couldn't face another cup of coffee when the surgeon finally
came in.

He was a young man, early thirties, blond hair cut a little longer
than she would expect to see in a neurosurgeon. He smiled tiredly
as he reached to shake her hand.

"Dr. Steve Russell. You must be Agent Scully. I'm told you're a
doctor, too," he said as he motioned for her to take a seat while he
poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Yes, but I'm working for the . . ."

"FBI. Forensic pathologist," he finished her sentence, then noticed
her annoyed look. "Sorry, it was a long surgery and the nurses are
always the best source of information." He sat down on the sofa
and propped his feet on the low table in front of it. "Your partner
should be fine. It took us a while, but the bleeding is stopped.
There is considerable swelling, which is to be expected in an injury
of this nature. The good news is there's no brain damage that we
can determine. Of course, we'll run more tests over the course of
the time he's here, I want to see what might turn up on an EEG.
We've done one PET tonight, but with the swelling, we can't see
much right now."

Scully blew out a breath that she hadn't noticed she was holding.
"Where is he now? ICU?" she asked when she trusted her voice.

"Yep. I want him there for a while. I have him under sedation. I
expect he's going to have some vivid dreams, that happens
sometimes with this kind of injury. But generally speaking, he's
one lucky bastard. What hit him--a jackhammer?"

Scully smiled wanly. "We think it might have been a piece of
copper pipe." She almost laughed at the look of disbelief on the
surgeon's face. "In the hands of a body builder, it can be
considered a lethal weapon," she added.

"Got that straight," he agreed. "Well, I've arranged for you to have
full 'family' privileges. You can come and go in ICU, just let the
nurses know if you leave the building, since you are Next of Kin. I
imagine he'll sleep for the rest of the night, but I've had patients
fight off the drugs. He looks like a fighter," he said, giving her a
comforting smile.

"He is," she said firmly. "I'll stay with him tonight, if that's
allowed."

He shook his head and laughed. "It's expected. We used to turf
people out but it didn't do anyone any favors. The recliners are
pretty comfortable and the nurses know you're FBI. Don't be
surprised if one of them doesn't sneak you up a four course meal or
something." He got up to leave. "I'll make my rounds at 8 in the
morning, I always hit ICU first. If there's any change tonight, the
nurses know to page me immediately. Provided he's doing OK,
we'll talk about moving him to a regular room later in the day
tomorrow. I want him under close watch for 24 hours at least."

He turned and started for the door when Scully stopped him. "Dr.
Russell?" The young man looked at her over his shoulder. "I just
wanted to thank you. For taking care of Mulder. He's . . ." she
stopped, not trusting herself to continue.

He gave her a smile and left the room.

Fox blinked and found himself back in the other room. It was
white, with furniture that looked like what his father had in his
office at the State Department. Fox was sitting at a table and there
were papers in front of him.

"Look over this paper and then give it back to me. Write down
everything you can remember." The foreign man directed him. The
man's accent was beginning to bother Fox. It didn't sound
German, he'd seen enough episodes of 'Hogan's Heros' to know a
German accent when he heard one. And yet, the man didn't sound
like 'Pepe Le Pew' either. It was annoying, to sit there and listen to
the man and not know where he was from or whether he could be
trusted.

The man tapped the corner of the paper, bringing Fox's attention
back from his mental wanderings. Fox frowned, then read the
paper through quickly. It was algebraic equations. 78 of them in
three columns. After a few seconds, Fox handed the paper over to
the man and then picked up the pencil laying on the table and
started to write. In less than five minutes, he handed the paper over
to the man, and sat back with a self-satisfied smirk on his young
face.

The older man made his own skepticism obvious. He sat down and
compared the two pages, going from one column to the other with
painstaking deliberateness. When he was finished, he went back to
the top of the page and started again. After he had gone over the
paper four times, Fox started to laugh.

"What's the matter? Afraid you missed one?" the eleven year old
asked.

The older man did not look pleased. He put the papers in a folder
and chewed on his lip for a moment. "Do you remember everything
you see?"

Fox shrugged. This wasn't a test, it was more like a game. "Sure,
I guess. I mean, if I play cards, I can remember what's been played.
My mom taught me bridge, but none of her friends will let me play
with them. Guess they got tired of me winning all the time," he
added with an immodest shrug of his shoulder.

"What about what you hear?" the older man asked and walked over
to a tape recorder with headphones and brought them back to the
table.

Fox eyed him suspiciously. "Yeah, I can remember what I hear.
Most times," he said, hastily. It suddenly unnerved him the way the
older man was looking at him. He felt like the hamsters in the
discount store and he didn't like the feeling.

"Put on the headphones. We'll start with a period of 30 seconds
and build from there." The older man handed Fox the headphones
and sat back to record his findings.

Mulder's eyes were closed again, but he could hear fine. The
beeping noise was far too familiar and he knew he hated it but he
couldn't place where he'd heard it before. Right at that moment, it
was blaring into his ear. He supposed that in some cases it might
lull someone to sleep, but he had never been that lucky. He tried to
move his head to get away from the beeping, but he rolled onto the
thick dressing covering the left side of his head, even encompassing
his ear on that side. The pain that caused forced a groan from his
lips.

"Mulder? Mulder, I'm right here." He recognized that voice. He
knew he trusted that voice. It wasn't the European man who kept
making him read things and write them or hear them and write
them. No, this voice was warm and friendly and he associated all
kinds of good feelings with it. But he'd be damned if he could
place it. He opened his eyes to slits and was surprised that he could
make out some shapes and colors. With a little concentration that
left him with a headache, he could focus enough to see.

"Hey there," the woman who belonged to the voice said with a
smile that could launch a few hundred ships. Mulder tried to
respond, but found it too hard to make his mouth form words.

"It's OK. You're going to be fine. The doctor said you came
through the surgery with flying colors." That was reassuring. He
had no idea what she was talking about, but it sure as hell was nice
to know that he was doing so well.

"Do you want some ice chips?" she asked, reaching for a styrofoam
cup on the table next to his bed. His throat was dry as a desert,
even ice chips sounded good. He started to nod, but again, the pain
behind his ear stopped him.

"No nodding or shaking your head, Mulder. That will hurt," said
the person with hair so beautiful that he thought he'd died and gone
to heaven. She was gorgeous. Maybe not that bright, he'd figured
out about the pain right off the bat, but hey, she was great to look
at. Now, if he could just figure out who this Mulder person was.

He took the ice gratefully and let it melt on his tongue, slowly
bringing moisture to his barren mouth and throat. He closed his
eyes and sighed blissfully. The red haired guardian angel reached
over and brushed the hair off his forehead in an affectionate
gesture.

A flood of images flashed though his mind, most of them coming
from his dreams. A white room, algebra questions, needles, the
man with the smoker's breath--Cancer Man! All of the images
fighting for his attention. "Dad!" he called out and jerked upward,
causing pain to lance through his ear and head and stars to form
before his eyes. The gentle beeping sped up considerably and
footsteps hurried toward his bed.

"Mulder," Scully said, trying to sound calm. "Mulder, it's me. It's
Scully. You're safe. You're going to be fine." She kept repeating
the phrase, hoping that at some point, she might start believing it.
She could tell by looking at the horrified expression in his eyes that
it would take some convincing to get her partner calmed down.
"Mulder, stay with me here. You need to lie back. You're all
right. You're in the hospital. You're going to be fine." She was
running out of comforting phrases, so she just started repeating the
old ones.

"My dad. I want to see my dad," Mulder gasped out each word,
repeating the demand over and over again. He had clenched his
eyes shut against the pain, but when he open them and looked over,
it was like the pieces of a puzzle dropped into place. He
recognized his partner. The dream images and things he knew from
his adult life started getting mixed up in his mind. "Scully, where's
my dad?" he pleaded.

Dana Scully wanted more than anything to break down into tears.
This was what she had feared most--an indication of memory loss,
possibly permanent brain damage. For whatever reason, her partner
was requiring her to tell him what he should already know, that his
father dead, that he had been murdered over two years ago.

A nurse pushed past her before she could answer and emptied a
syringe into the IV line. "This is something to help you calm down,
Fox," the nurse said, ignoring the pained look on Scully's face as
she used the dreaded 'f' word. "You'll go back to sleep and we
can talk about all this when you wake up."

Scully clenched her teeth in exasperation. She wanted to know
how extensive his memory loss was and knocking him out was not
going to allow her that opportunity. Even so, it was a relief when
his heartbeat slowed down to the normal range and his eyelids
drooped close. She held his hand, rubbing it gently in her own until
she was certain that he was asleep.

Fox was back in the white room again and struggling to remember
what he'd just heard. Five minutes of conversation seemed to be
the limit. But they had passed that limit almost 30 minutes ago and
now he was getting so tired. He couldn't help it when his head
lulled down and his eyes started to close all on their own. The man
with the accent had smiled viciously as he stuck another needle in
the boy's arm and Fox felt a surge go through him. He could feel
his heart start beating faster and now his eyes wouldn't close for
more than a second. It frightened the boy, but after a little while he
realized that was the worst of the affects, and that otherwise he was
fine.

"What was that?" Fox asked when he'd caught his breath from the
terror that had gripped when the medicine started to take over.

"Nothing, boy. Just caffeine. You'll use it a lot as you grow
older," the older man smiled at him. "You see, we need to have
you awake for the next series of tests and you were getting sleepy."

"Mr. Morley said I'd be done by morning. What time is it?" Fox
asked defiantly. He was in a white room, no windows, one door.
He had no idea what time it was, someone had taken his watch.

"Just after one. We have the whole night ahead of us yet, young
Mulder. You've proven to be a real find, but we have to test the
other senses."

"Other senses? You mean like touch?" Fox asked.

It was almost making sense now, they had tested his visual memory,
his auditory memory. He had always been fascinated by the fact
that he could remember so much better than other kids his age.
He'd even taken to studying the subject of memory. He had an
eidetic memory, he had learned the name early but seldom used the
word. Most people, including his teachers, had never heard of it.
But visual and auditory were only two of the senses. Touch, taste,
smell, those were the other three.

The older man smiled at him, but it didn't give Fox any comfort. It
was more like a predator, who finds a particular interesting prey.
The image of the hamsters in the glass tank came back to Fox and
he swallowed hard.

"Why, yes, Fox. We are testing your senses. Care to wager on
which of the remaining three we're most interested in evaluating?"
The words were more menacing than any Fox had heard that night.

**********

Abraham and Issac 3/4
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part one

"Don't touch me!"

Mulder's scream reverberated off the glass walls of his ICU cubicle.
He was struggling against the nurse and two orderlies when Scully
pushed past them and took hold of his arm.

"Mulder! Mulder. Listen to me. You have to lie still. They're just
going to put the leads on your head. It won't hurt. It's an EEG.
Remember, you told me you've had one before. After Samantha's
abduction. Remember?" Scully's heart was somewhere in the pit
of her stomach.

He'd slept comfortably for the rest of the night, almost five hours,
but had been restless for the last hour or so, never really waking up.
She knew how strange and vivid dreams could be when a head
injury was involved and knowing Mulder, his dreams would be off
the scale. But it seemed like every time he woke up, he was in
some other place and time. It was frightening her almost as much
as it seemed to frighten him.

"Don't let them hurt me, Scully," he sobbed when the others had
moved aside to let his partner closer. "Please, don't let them hurt
me." His words were slurred and she had a hard time getting all of
them, but the look in his eyes was sheer terror. There was no way
Scully could allow them to try the EEG until she had him out of the
grip of this nightmare.

"I won't let them hurt you, Mulder. I promise." She kept stroking
his arm, hoping the physical contact would be enough to lull him
back from the edge he'd placed himself on. She looked over at the
nurse and shook her head, the test would have to wait. The nurse
shrugged and motioned to the two orderlies to leave as she pushed
the cart with her supplies out of the small cubicle. The ICU quieted
down again.

When everyone had gone, Scully sat down on the edge of Mulder's
bed. "You're having nightmares, aren't you?" she asked him
gently. More than anything she wanted to convince him that his
dreams weren't real, that he was safe and she would make certain
that he remained that way.

His heart was racing from his earlier fear, but slowly he was getting
that under control. He looked up at his partner's face. "Not a
dream, Scully. A memory." The headache was so bad, but at least
now he could distinquish the visions during his sleep as actual
events and not just the wanderings of his bruised brain. He wanted
to tell her more, what he was remembering, but his mouth and
throat were so dry that his words were a cracked whisper.

"Memories of Samantha's abduction?" she asked sadly. It was his
strongest nightmare, the one that would send him straight up out of
sleep. She'd been there to watch the aftermath of that nightmare
more times than she cared to remember.

"No. Mine," he replied flatly and motioned for the cup of ice chips.
Scully gave him a confused look until he swallowed uncomfortably
and she shook herself and reached for the cup. She spooned some
chips in his mouth and waited for him to let them melt.

"_Your_ abduction? Mulder, you weren't abducted," she said
slowly, hoping that she wouldn't upset him too badly by trying to
separate the dream from reality.

He opened his mouth for more ice before speaking. Then, he
pinned her with his eyes. "You're right, I wasn't abducted." He
closed his eyes at the memory, so clear to him now. "I was handed
over."

"Mulder, what are you talking about?" she asked, and then realized
how foolish that was. The man had a severe head trauma. Just 14
hours before he'd been in surgery for it. His thought processes
were the equivalent of scrambled eggs at this point and here she
was, debating him. But he seemed clear enough on this.

"My dad handed me over to them, Scully. As a test of his loyalty.
But they only took me for a night. I think I must have been eleven,
that it happened the summer before they took Sam. The guy who
holds Skinner's choke chain--Cancer Man, he was there, Scully.
He knew my father. I think they were friends. I can't remember all
of it--I haven't gotten all the memories back yet." He closed his
eyes again, he was so tired. Just telling her this much had drained
him of any strength. He wanted more than anything to just go to
sleep and not dream/remember any more of that night. He knew in
his heart that the next memories would be anything but pleasant.
"Scully, can they give me something, anything, so I don't
remember? So I can blot it all out again." He gripped her hand for
a brief moment, he was begging her to help him.

She bit her lip and had to look away. How many nights recently
had she prayed the exact same prayer? That the visions she had of
the men leaning over her, hurting her, would vanish from her mind
and she could go back to the way things were--not knowing, not
believing such things could happen. Finally, she found the strength
to look at him again. "Mulder, I'm sorry. I can't. There isn't
anything like that. Maybe if you talk to me about it, maybe that will
help. Can you talk to me?" she asked, her voice betraying how
much his own pain was hurting her, too.

His head was pounding in rhythm to his heart and it was getting
more difficult to keep his eyes opened. He wanted to sleep, just
_sleep_. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to relive the fear and
the pain. Besides, there was really nothing she could do--they were
memories. His memories. He would have to deal with them in his
own way. "My head hurts, Scully. It hurts too much to talk," he
moaned.

She nodded. He couldn't deal with the dreams right now. "You
don't dream as much on Demerol," she said, more to herself than to
him. "I'll see if we can't get you on a Demerol drip. Maybe that
will help. Just hang in there for a few minutes and we'll get you
fixed up." She reached over and squeezed his arm before heading
for the nurses station.

When he had finally drifted off to sleep, she sat there for a long
while, watching him. The pain lines were faint now, the Demerol
erasing them from view. She mentally crossed her fingers that he
wouldn't wake up frightened again. He had enough to deal with,
just living through the pain of his injury and the last few years,
without dredging up more unknown horrors from his childhood.
And now he thought his dreams were really events of his life, that
he had been traded as a bargaining chip. Given what she knew of
his family, it was hard not to see that as a possiblity. Or it could
just be the workings of a damaged mind. There was a soft knock
on the glass window of the cubicle and she looked up to see Steve
Russell standing there, a concerned look on his face.

"I was tied up surgery earlier or I would have been right down.
How's he doing now?" he asked, walking over and taking in the
various monitors. He picked up the chart at the end of the bed as
he got closer, reading it for a minute before doing a cursory exam
of his own.

"He's fine as long as he's deep asleep. The minute he hits REM, all
hell breaks loose. He's restless and then when he wakes up, bamm,
he's terrified," she told the doctor, never taking her eyes off her
partner.

"Vivid dreams. Usually they're just colorful. I've had patients tell
me they had the best dreams when they've been banged on the
head," he said, shrugging. "But they can easily be among the most
frightening, too. Guess Fox just isn't one of the lucky ones."

"He says they aren't dreams. He says they're memories," she
countered.

"Dr. Scully," Russell said trying hard not to sound condescending.
"I don't know how much experience you've had with this sort of
thing, but head trauma can produce some pretty realistic dreams. If
your partner has any deep seated fears in an area, he's likely to
focus on that in these dreams. That's gonna be scaring the
daylights out of him. I think you were right to recommend the
Demerol, if you know he dreams less while under it. But it's going
to take some time, maybe weeks, before this clears up. As you are
well aware, we still don't know a whole lot about how the brain
and dreams function."

"But what if a memory was hidden, lost. . .repressed," she
countered, a tiny voice inside her was screaming at her betrayal of
science. "What if something happened to him as a child, and he had
forgotten it? Could that be surfacing now?"

Russell shrugged again. "Hey, I just fix heads. I don't analyze
them. I guess it's possible. But I don't see where it has a lot to do
with this. We need to keep him calm. I want to do the EEG today,
so that if there are any problems, we can deal with them. Partial
complex seizures can result in the same fear and disorientation that
you've described. If that's the case, anti-seizure medication can
lessen the symptoms and he can get the rest he needs to get better."

"Partial complex," she whispered. "You think he might be epileptic
because of the injury?" She hadn't allowed herself to think in those
terms. That would mean immediate disqualification from Field
Agent status. Possibly permanent disability. The kiss of death to
his investigations. And, in many ways to her own.

"Right now, I'm just throwing out possibilities. I don't _know_
anything. I want to find out. But you know as well as I do that we
can't have him on the Demerol while we're doing the test. It will
skew the results."

She nodded sadly. She certainly didn't want any false results,
positive or negative.

"Let's give him the afternoon to rest. I can reschedule the test for
tonight, when his normal cicadic rhythms might kick in and give us
a hand," Russell offered. "He's not going anywhere for the
moment."

He put the chart back and left the room. Scully was still deep in
thought. Giving her partner one quick look, she quietly left the
room and looked for a pay phone.

All the while the phone was ringing, she dreaded having it picked
up on the other end. It was a betrayal of his trust in her, she knew
that. But if there was any way she could help him deal with the fear
he was experiencing, she wanted to take the chance that he'd be
angry at her for her actions.

"Hello?" a woman voice came over the line. Scully was amazed at
the speed of Mrs. Mulder's recovery from the stroke. She sounded
perfectly fine on the phone and Scully had seen for herself that
physically she showed no sign of her illness.

"Hello, Mrs. Mulder. This is Dana Scully, your son's partner."

"He's been hurt." The statement was breathless, like all she needed
was confirmation, she already suspected the worst.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to worry you, but he's been injured. A
blow to the head. We're in New Orleans --"

"I'll catch the first flight out."

"--Mrs. Mulder, wait. I don't know that it's such a good idea for
you to be flying across the country right now. And to tell the truth,
I think it might upset him more if you did. You know how he
worries about you," Dana added pointedly, hoping that would
persuade the woman against any such course of action.

"He always has been a little worry-wort," the older woman sighed.
"How is he? Is he conscious?"

"They have him in Intensive Care for the time being. But it's just a
precaution," Scully hastened to add. "There was some bleeding,
but they got him into surgery the minute we got here and that's all
under control. He's in and out of consciousness. Actually,
physically, he's doing all right. It's his mental state that I'm more
concerned about." Dana took a deep breath before she continued.
"He's having some vivid dreams. That's natural with an injury of
this nature, but he claims they aren't dreams, that they're memories.
Mrs. Mulder, was there ever a time in the summer before Samantha
disappeared that you didn't know where Fox was? Maybe an
overnight with his father?"

Scully heard the quick intake of breath and kicked herself mentally
for putting this woman through another horror. "What are you
talking about, Dana?" Mrs. Mulder demanded.

"He says that when he was eleven--that his father took him . . ."
She stopped. How could she be doing this? It was as bad as the
time her brothers had given the cat Tabasco sauce to see it's
reaction. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mulder. It's nothing. I'm sorry, please
forget I mentioned anything," Scully hastened to cover her mistake.

"The night Bill took him to the summer place." It was a statement,
not a question. "They went without us, Sam and I had a camping
trip. Just the 'men', Bill kept telling me. I knew he was nervous
about it. He didn't want to go. But he kept telling me that he
needed time with Fox, that the boy was getting older and he needed
time with his father. And Bill had been gone so much. They were
so happy when the started off. But they came home late, it was
almost suppertime the next day. And Fox was sick, he'd been
throwing up all morning and afternoon. He slept for two days
afterward. Bill said he just wore him out, that the boy had the flu,
but Fox couldn't seem to remember doing much other than sleeping
and being sick. He didn't even remember being at the summer
house. That wasn't like Fox--he remembers every little detail. I
worried about it. I wanted to ask, but Dana, I didn't ask questions
back then. I was too afraid of the answers." There was silence on
the line, then a whispered "I still am."

"Mrs. Mulder," Scully said, almost in tears. "He's going to be fine.
I'll be here with him. Try not to worry. I'll call you later and you
can speak with him yourself."

"Thank you, dear. Please, call me soon."

Scully hung up the phone and let the jumbled thoughts settle a bit in
her brain. His mother just confirmed it. It wasn't just a dream.
Something had happened to him. He was remembering. More than
that, he was reliving whatever took place. She closed her eyes and
the file folder they found in the mountain--the one with his name
hidden under a label for Samantha--popped into her head. She
hoped she could help him deal with the memories.

******

Abraham and Issac 4/4
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimer in part one

Mulder woke up slowly this time. It was so nice, his head didn't
really hurt that bad and the worst he could complain about was an
incredibly dry mouth. He blinked his eyes and saw her. Scully was
already reaching for the ice chips.

"When can I have water?" he croaked, after the first spoonful had
dampened his tongue enough to allow him to speak.

"Later this evening. You know the post-op drill by now, Mulder.
Ice chips for the first 24, then fluids, soft diet and finally, sunflower seeds." She smiled at him. At least he hadn't come around
screaming at her this time.

"Don't remind me. I'm still days away from 'real food' by that
count." He sighed and closed his eyes. Slowly, he opened them
again and looked at her. "No dreams this time," he assured her.

"Good. And you look like you got some rest." She stood up and
got his chart, flipping through it to keep from looking at him. She
tried to look casual, but she was chewing on her lip. He could tell
there was something she didn't want to tell him.

"Spill it, Scully. You're a lousy poker face," he teased.

"Dr. Russell wants to do the EEG tonight" she said, closing the
chart and putting it back at the foot of his bed. She walked around
the bed and sat down next to him in the chair. "We've lowered the
Demerol. The headache will be back and you won't have anything
for it. And when you do sleep, chances are, you'll dream. In fact,
that's what we're hoping for." She winced when she used the word
'we'. It wasn't really her idea.

He took the news stoically. "It's just as well," he sighed. "I don't
like the idea of being on a Demerol drip for the rest of my life.
Maybe, if I can get all the way through that night, it won't keep
haunting me."

She reached over and gave his hand a squeeze.

Later, Scully was trying hard not to laugh. Seeing him wince in
discomfort was making that a bit easier. Still, her partner was
quickly looking like the Bride of Frankenstein, with electrical leads
carefully glued all over his skull. "You're just like the Conundrum,
Mulder--all those little blue tattoo marks all over your head," she
teased.

"Thanks, Scully. Now go eat a bug," he returned. The leads didn't
hurt, but having to turn his head did. Now that the Demerol had
worn off, he was feeling cranky and a little sick to his stomach.
"How long is this gonna take?" he asked the nurse.

She smiled indulgently. "Just a couple more. Then we'll turn off as
many of the lights as we can and you can get some sleep."

". . .yeah, right," he growled low. He had been awake for a couple
of hours, slowly wading his way back through the drug induced
comfort and into the pain of his head injury. He really just wanted
the drugs back, but knew that wasn't an option. "What are we
looking for?" he asked, the question directed at his partner.

"Any sign of seizure activity," Scully said. She saw the frightened
look that flashed in his eyes and moved closer to reassure him.
"You haven't had any noticeable seizure activity, Mulder. But Dr.
Russell is concerned that the fear and disorientation you've
displayed when you wake up could indicate partial complex
seizures of the brain."

"Deep brain seizures," Mulder muttered to himself. "Aren't those
hard to find?"

Sometimes she forgot that psychologists knew a thing or two about
the brain. "Yes, usually. But with the new EEG's, it's gotten a
little easier. You'll be video-taped while you're sleeping. If you
have any disturbances in your sleep, we'll note that on the chart.
When we're done, Dr. Russell should have a fairly good idea if PCS
is a problem."

"And he can notify the Bureau," Mulder said flatly. He knew what
it meant as well as she did--he'd be out of a job.

"Let's not buy trouble," she counciled and gently patted his arm.
The nurse finished up and picked up her supplies. Scully pulled up
the side rail that had been lowered to allow the nurse to work.
"How are you doing? Are you comfortable? Warm enough?"

"My head hurts. And my partner is starting to fuss over me," he
said with a small grin, followed by a wince. "Turn off the light so I
can go to sleep, OK? The sooner this is over, the sooner they can
help me get rid of this headache."

This time when Fox opened his eyes, he was walking. He didn't
fight them as they led him down the hall, but if he'd known what
was going to happen, he would have. The man with the accent
handed him a hospital gown and pointed to a curtained area for him
to change. He did so grudgingly. The man then directed him to lie
on a medical examination table. It was after he did so that they
strapped him down. For the next hour and a half, his screams
echoed off the walls of the white lab room.

Tears were drying on his cheeks and his throat was so raw he could
barely whisper. He'd closed his eyes hours ago, or so it seemed to
him. He couldn't watch what they were doing to him. He didn't
want to know. He smelled the man's cigarette breath before he
heard him.

"How's the boy doing?" The question was leveled with very little
actual concern for the child's safety. More of a question of
performance.

"He's doing remarkably well. But I'm concerned about his
auditory memory. It's not as high as we'd like to see." This voice
was a new one, and again, Fox couldn't place it. If he hadn't been
hurting so badly, he would have opened his eyes to see who it
belonged to. Instead, he laid on the table and tried not to whimper.

"Will that cause long term problems?" This question came with the
now familiar accent.

"It could. I was hoping that we'd have high scores in all areas for
this subject. It's possible he won't be acceptable to the project
designers."

"Maybe it would be better to use him as the control subject then.
After all, it's not like there isn't another opportunity." Again from
Mr. Morley.

"Possibly," said the unidentified voice. "We might as well continue
with the tests as planned. We'll wipe him clean and then you can
take him back to the parents." This time when they jabbed the
needle into his arm, he didn't have the strength to cry out.

Fox knew nothing more until the car engine shut off and he found
himself laying in the backseat again. He slowly opened his eyes, but
the sun was far too bright and he squinted against it. He tried to sit
up straight but a wave of nausea curled him into a tight ball. The
car door opened and he could hear his father's voice.

"You said he'd have some minor side effects," Bill Mulder hissed.
He was just barely keeping his anger in check.

"I said he'd have an upset stomach. He does. He probably has a
headache, too, so don't shout, Bill. It would only hurt the boy
now." Fox heard the man talking, but didn't recognize the voice,
had no idea who the man was.

"I want to take him to a doctor. He's sick," his father said through
clenched teeth. He felt his father's hands around his waist, helping
him to stand, guiding him across the seashell drive and up the stoop
to the summer cabin. He could smell the sea air, but still didn't
dare open his eyes.

"Dad, I'm gonna throw up," Fox moaned and his father hurriedly
helped the boy into the bathroom, just barely in time. He could feel
his father's hand on the back of his neck, felt a cool, damp cloth
being placed there while he retched for an eternity. When it was
over, he slid down to lie on the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

He opened his eyes and saw a blurry version of his father, leaning
over him, pulling him up. "Come on, son. I'm taking you to the
hospital." His father's voice was warm, comforting. Fox caught an
undercurrent of deep concern.

"No! Dad please, no," the boy pleaded. He couldn't tell his father
why, but he was suddenly deathly afraid of going to the doctors.
Whatever happened, he couldn't go to the doctor. He started
sobbing, begging his father. "Please, Daddy, please. I'm OK.
Please. Don't make me go, please." He was boneless as his father
half dragged, half carried him out of the bathroom.

Fox squinted and could just make out the man, standing in the
doorway to the cabin. Casually, he lit a cigarette and watched as
Bill Mulder helped his son into the bedroom, pulled off the boy's
tennis shoes and helped him get under the covers. Bill pulled the
door half closed as he left the room, but Fox could still hear the
conversation.

"What did you do to him?" his father demanded. His tone was low
and menacing.

"Nothing. We did nothing to him, Bill. I told you last night in the
car. This was your test. He's just having a bad reaction to the
sedative, that's all."

"I want him seen by a doctor," Bill Mulder said defiantly.

"And be forced to explain how he managed to get prescription
sedatives in his blood stream?" the other man countered. "I don't
think that would suit anyone's purpose, Bill. Let this go. And by
the way, it worked. You passed the test. They're convinced that
you wouldn't do anything to betray them now."

Fox couldn't see his father, but he could hear the sigh of relief.
"Then the boy will be safe? They won't harm him?"

"I told you, Bill. I'll make sure no one ever harms Fox. I stake my
life on that. You can trust me, Bill. I'm the only one you can
trust."

There was silence. "I know that," said his father. "I'm sorry I
doubted you. I was just so. . . afraid."

"Perfectly understandable. Let's just forget this ever happened,
shall we?" Fox heard the screen door squeak. "Keep an eye on
Fox today, but I'm sure he'll sleep it off. You should be able to go
home this afternoon. Oh, and say hello to the women of the family
for me. That little Samantha is getting to be quite the young lady,
isn't she?"

"Yes, yes she is," his father agreed.

Fox knew only that he hurt all over. He curled into a small ball and
cried himself to sleep.

"Mulder. Mulder wake up. Mulder, it's all right, you're safe."
The words kept repeating themselves right in his ear. He finally
realized the truth to them and opened his eyes. He'd been crying in
his sleep.

All the monitor leads were gone. His hair felt slightly damp, like it
had been washed recently. He looked over at Scully and noticed
that she was wearing a different sweater than the one she'd been
wearing when he went to sleep.

"Another bad dream?" she asked, sympathetically. She reached
over and brought a straw to his lips so he could take a drink.

"I'm on water now?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"Juice, if you want it" Scully said with a smile. "They're bringing
you a tray--jello, broth, standard stuff. You missed out on lunch.
You sort of sacked out on us--you've been out of it for almost 20
hours. We would have been more concerned if the EEG hadn't
assured us you were just sleeping." Still, he could see the little
creases in her forehead that showed she'd had little sleep and too
much to worry about.

"What did the test say? Am I having seizures?" he asked, fearful of
the answer, but needing to know.

Scully gave him her best smile. "Nope. You passed. All A's, as a
matter of fact. You can now tell those bozo's in VICAP that you
are NOT screwed in the head--well not physiologically speaking, at
least," she teased. She was silent for a moment and then grew
serious. "Did more of the memory surface?"

He nodded, silently biting his bottom lip.

"Well, when you can talk about it, I'm here," she said quietly,
stroking his hand with her thumb.

She leaned back and waited for a few minutes. He sat there, staring
out the window of his private room as it overlooked Canal Street.
How could he tell her what he now knew--a horrible truth that he
didn't want to accept? His father had willingly handed him over as
a sign of loyalty. Knowing the caliber of men his father associated
with, it was no small wonder that they would request something
that heinous of one of their underlings.

But it was worse than that. He'd been unfit for their project. He
was a 'control' subject. That would explain why they kept leaving
him alive when it would have been simpler just to eliminate him.
They still needed him. He was still part of their 'project'. A
shudder ran through his body when he thought of that.

And Samantha was still in their clutches, probably. Had they wiped
her memories, too? It suddenly occurred to him that they had done
it to him not just once, but three times--that summer, then again
when she was taken. And even more recently, when he had broken
into Ellens Air Base, looking for the recovered UFO. He still
couldn't remember how he had arrived at the gate of the
compound. He'd been sick the rest of that day, just as he had when
he'd been returned to his father. They probably used the same
technique all three times.

He looked over at his partner and could see that his silence was
hurting her. She didn't want to be shut out, but didn't feel it was
her place to push him into telling her, either. Whatever happened,
he was sure she'd be there to help him sort it all out.

He smiled at her. "Scully, do you remember the story of Abraham
and Issac? From the Old Testament. God demanded that Abraham
sacrifice his only son to him as an offering of his loyalty."

Scully's brow furrowed in confusion. "Yeah, Mulder. I remember
that story. But God didn't let Abraham go through with it. He had
him sacrifice a lamb instead."

"I know, Scully. But didn't you ever wonder, how Issac must have
felt?"

She swallowed hard. She'd thought about it, actually, as a child, in
religion class. The nun had been very clear that it was Abraham's
total love of God that led him to make such an incredible
commitment. And that it was God's further love of Abraham and
his son that stayed the father's hand. But still, it was a very hard
lesson to learn. "Mulder, I guess so. But God didn't let Abraham
go through with it. He didn't let him kill Issac," she pointed out
quietly.

"I guess God is more merciful than our government," Mulder said
with a snort. "Of course, anyone who's ever had a run in with the
IRS could attest to that," he added, but he didn't smile, and the
joke fell flat.

"Mulder, are you sure? I mean--"

"Scully, I'm as sure as I am of my own name. My father handed me
over. He handed me over to that bastard who chain smokes. I
never recognized him until these dreams, but I remember now. I
remember it all. My father must have questioned them, asked too
many questions, I guess. Mom told me once that he and I always
were a lot alike. At the time, I didn't know what she meant." He
sighed and closed his eyes. "How could he do that? I mean, he
believed that they wouldn't hurt me, but Scully, he didn't know for
sure. And he went along with it. Just like a good little soldier."

Scully was having a very hard time getting any moisture down her
throat, it was so tight. "Mulder, he probably felt he had reasons."

"Oh, I'm sure he did. But why did he stay, why didn't he take
Mom and Sam and me and run? Why didn't he try to keep us
safe?" She could see the tears in his eyes as he spoke. He was
silent for a moment and then wiped angrily at his nose. "But I think
he didn't want to give me to them, Scully. I know that's stupid, but
I really think he didn't want to. He just didn't know what else to
do."

"Mulder, I'm so sorry," she said, but it sounded so lame to her ears.
This was a pain a thousand times worse than any she could
prescribe for--this pain ran too deep and hid too well.

He nodded again and stayed silent, chewing on his lip. When she
thought she would leave him with his thoughts, he reached for her
hand. "You know how psychologists are always saying that parents
teach by example?" he asked and she gave him a confused look, but
nodded in agreement. "Sometimes it's teachings us what 'not' to
do."

the end.