Scully opened her eyes to the bright light of morning. She was lying on a bed in a room she did not recognize. She sat up quickly, swinging her legs to the floor and carefully standing. After a minute of allowing her body to adjust to the lack of motion and the residue of the drug in her system, she was able to walk somewhat confidently across the room. Scully half expected the door to be locked, but when she turned the knob it opened easily. Cautiously, she poked her head out into the hall and looked both ways. It appeared deserted, so she stepped outside the bedroom and made her way down the corridor until she came to a staircase leading both down and up. Quiet sounds of conversation drifted up to her, and with a careful glance in that direction, Scully chose up. It was the most likely place for them to have Mulder stashed. She'd gotten no more than three steps toward the third floor when she was confronted by a woman, about her own size, flanked by two of the biggest men Scully had ever seen. "Ah, Agent Scully, good morning," the woman said brightly, gesturing toward the downstairs flight, apparently willing to ignore the fact that Scully had been snooping. Scully's eyes narrowed as she recognized the woman who had tortured Mulder on the videotape. "Who are you?" she asked, firmly standing her ground. "My name is Amelia Steinmetz. Welcome to Verlassen." Amelia's smile seemed genuine, and Scully felt a moment of confusion. Why was this woman being so hospitable? "Where's Mulder?" Amelia nodded knowingly. "Of course. You want to see your partner, and you will, very soon. Someone else is with him right now, and as soon as he's finished you'll be taken upstairs to see Fox. Will you join us for breakfast?" She continued downward, and when Scully hesitated, one of the men gently grasped her arm above the elbow and attempted to escort her. She shook his hand off angrily, but, not knowing what else to do, followed Amelia. They approached a long table, laden with food, and Scully reluctantly took the seat she was offered. She wanted to hurl the heavy dishes at Amelia's head, wrap her fingers around the blond woman's throat and choke the life from her, but instead she remained politely silent. Her defiance now would not help her partner. A plate of food appeared in front of her, placed there by one of the men, none of whom had yet spoken, and she welcomed the delicious aroma in spite of herself. She had not eaten since early the day before, and should an opportunity to rescue Mulder present itself, she needed her strenth. With that in mind, she muttered a resentful "thank you," and began to pick at the fruit on the plate, her eyes wandering the room. Amelia attempted to draw Scully into casual conversation, possibly thinking to put her at ease, but Scully was not distracted. Finally, she put down her fork. "Look, Miss Steinmetz--" she began firmly. "Amelia." "--Amelia, I appreciate your hospitality, but this really isn't a social call. I was brought here to see Mulder. I want to see him now. Where is he?" "Anxiously awaiting your visit, Agent Scully," said a voice from behind her, and she turned to find the smoking man standing in the doorway. "He's ready for her now," he continued, directing his last words to Amelia Steinmenz. Without a word, Amelia rose and, gesturing for Scully to follow, led her up the stairs. ***** "Mulder!" She managed to contain herself until the others left and they were alone, then ran to him, eagerly throwing herself into his waiting embrace. Mulder gripped her tightly, running his hands through her hair, over her face, up and down her back and arms, as if to assure himself that she was real, flesh-and-blood real, and not just another of his dreams. Scully drank him in with her eyes, unable to get enough of him but saddened by the changes she detected. He was pale, a weak shadow of himself, and she could tell that his captivity had been harder on him than she'd dared imagine. "Oh Scully, I never thought I'd see you again," he murmured, burying his face in her neck as he tried to wrap himself completely around her. "Mulder, are you all right? Have they hurt you?" she asked, drawing back enough to get a good look at him. He shook his head briefly. "No, they haven't hurt me. Not really." "Except for that one time," she pointed out. He made a small, disparaging gesture. "Mulder, I'm so sorry. That happened because of me. I just wanted to find you and bring you home, I didn't really think they would--" "Don't, Scully," he interrupted. "Don't blame yourself. I'm glad you were looking for me." He let a tiny smile creep over his lips. "In fact, I counted on it. But now you see that I'm safe, you can give up the search." She went silent and still for a moment, surprised at his unexpected words, and did not fail to notice that Mulder turned away from her. He would only have done that if he had something to hide, something he didn't want her to read in his eyes. "Mulder, I'm going to find a way to get you out of here," she insisted, but he cut her off. "No, Scully. You can't." Her face registered her confusion, and she waited for him to explain. "I have to stay here," he told her, fighting down the "other" that wanted to take her in his arms and beg her to help him, fighting down the tinge of desperation that tried to color his voice. She shook her head impatiently. "Mulder--" "No, Scully, listen to me. I have to stay." ***** Mulder shrugged, hoping his attempt at nonchalance was less transparent than the smoking man's had been. Scully wasn't ready to accept his words. "This isn't like you," she insisted. "The Mulder I know would fight them, fight to the death. He'd--*you* would never give in." "Scully, I haven't given in," he answered, his voice almost harsh. "It's just--it's better if you don't try to rescue me. It's better if I just...wait until they're ready to release me." Her eyes were shocked, angry, and although his own implored her to accept his words at face value, he knew she could not. "What did they do to you?" she demanded tightly. "What did they say? What did they threaten you with?" Even he could barely hear his muttered response. "You." "What?" Mulder turned fully toward the window now, his hands gripping the steel bars as he leaned on them, head bowed, eyes closed. It was so hard to keep control of himself now, was growing more difficult by the second, and he was afraid of losing himself in front of Scully. That would be the ultimate humiliation, to appear weak before her. With a supreme effort, he straightened his shoulders and answered. "They promised me you would be protected." "And you believed them?" He was silent for several long seconds. "I have to believe them." She watched him for a timee, her heart aching for him, seeing the position in which he had been placed and knowing that Mulder--the man that Mulder was--had been left with no choice but to agree with their demands. Finally she shook her head sadly. "Oh, Mulder...don't do this." He refused to look at her. He stood at the window, his skin almost translucent in the beautiful morning sunlight, staring out at the ocean--out past the bars that had become his life. Finally, when long, uncomfortable minutes had passed, he broke his silence. "I don't know what you want me to say, Scully," he said, and his voice was fragile; he felt the fragility, but the effort to be normal was simply too much. "I'm here. They're not going to let me go. You can't get me out, and I haven't found a way to escape. It's better than death." She saw a tight little smile grace his lips. "At first I didn't think so, but it is." "Mulder..." Her voice trailed off, and he was glad, afraid that too many words from her might finally cause him to break. "Go, Scully," he said in a low voice, turning partially toward her but not quite meeting her eyes. "Go back home and live your life. Do your work. Make a family. Forget about me." He heard her small gasp of shock. "Forget you, Mulder?" she asked, her lips trembling with emotion. "How can I?" It was too much. His face drained of its last bit of color, and a second later she was swept up fiercely into his arms, his tears warm on the top of her head. "Maybe not to forget," he choked. "No, on second thought, don't...don't forget me, Scully. I couldn't bear it if I thought you had." Scully returned his embrace, wrapping her arms so tightly around him that it seemed she would pull him completely inside herself simply by the force of sheer will. "I couldn't, Mulder. You know I couldn't." He tilted her face gently upwards with his long, slender fingers, stroking away the streaks of moisture that marred the perfection of her cheekbones. He tried not to beg. "Please, Scully, if you ever cared for me...just do as they say. Walk away from it." He met her shimmering eyes and fell into their depths, drowning as he had so many times before, but this time he knew there would be no rescue. "Don't try to help me. Let me at least live out the rest of my life knowing..." He took a deep, shuddering breath and stared out the window again, fighting for composure. "...knowing you're safe." He could tell she wanted to argue, to cry, to rail against him for giving up, but to his relief, she instead nodded in reluctant agreement. His mouth opened again, and to his shock, he found words pouring from the core of his soul, words he never thought he'd speak--words he knew she needed to hear now, when she was losing him. "You do know that I've loved you all these years, don't you, Scully?" He smiled through the tears that threatened to fall again, fighting them back with a will, then rubbed his thumb lightly over her chin and gently traced her bottom lip. "Almost from the beginning," she whispered, and he understood, he knew she wasn't responding to his question, she was affirming her own emotion. He only wished it had all happened years before, without this catalyst to separate them. Scully reached her hand to his own face, touching it softly, and he leaned into her hand, resting his cheek against her warmth. It was nearly his undoing, so after indulging himself in the feel of her for a few seconds, he drew back slightly. "I've given up everything in my search for the truth," he told her seriously. "I won't sacrifice you as well. Not again." She opened her mouth as if to protest, and he silenced her with his fingertips. "I know you'll want to keep searching for a way to free me, but if you continue, they'll kill you. Or me." He could tell that his words gave her pause. She'd be perfectly willing to risk her own life in her quest for Mulder's return, but the idea that he might suffer because of her actions would keep her in check. At least, he hoped that was the case. "Don't offer up yourself needlessly, Scully. Promise me. It won't get me back." His eyes bored deeply into her, compelling her, willing her to accept his decision and move on. "Maybe we could deal with them," she ventured hesitantly. At that, Mulder gave a tired smile. "And offer them what? Our silence? I already tried that. The risk is too great for them. If we didn't keep our end of the bargain, killing us in retribution would only be a minor satisfaction to them. The damage would have been done." "I just feel so helpless. Mulder, what about Skinner? He could help--" He shook his head firmly. "If you do that, they'll kill you. And probably me as well." He touched her forehead, the place where her cancer had been, first with his fingers and then gently pressing his lips there. "For now, we have to play their game," he whispered sadly. "I've turned it over in my mind a million times, Scully." Again that tiny grin, that flash of his old self. "Believe me, I have plenty of time to think in here." She sniffed lightly, delicately, and he was fiercely proud of her for refusing to allow her tears to fall. This was the brave, proud woman he'd fallen in love with, and before Mulder even guessed his own intentions, his lips pressed to hers, then tried to draw back just that quickly. Her hands behind his neck stopped him and of her own accord, Scully deepened the kiss until their mouths were open and their tongues were exploring, battling, fighting the knowledge that although this was their first kiss, it could very well be their last. Giving in, Mulder allowed her to take him to a small part of heaven, if only for a moment. Then reality intruded. The kiss was broken, but not the embrace, when they heard the sound of a key in the lock. His arms tightened spasmodically around her for a moment, then released her in quiet acceptance of the fate that awaited him. "It's time to go," Amelia announced from the doorway. ***** Scully glanced at her quickly, and then back at Mulder. His face had taken on an impassive look, and she knew he was forcing himself to maintain control in front of his captor. He placed his hands on her shoulders, kissed her forehead again, then with a whispered, "I'll miss you," dropped his arms and stepped away. Their eyes locked for a long moment, and he gave a slight nod as she reluctantly turned away. Scully couldn't look back as she walked out the door, leaving Mulder behind. She knew if she did she would break down. She left the room without another word. ***** Mulder saw Amelia's expression, a mixture of sympathy and determination, before she closed the door, locking him securely away from the only person in his life that had ever loved him unconditionally. He felt Scully's absence as surely as he would feel the loss of breath should his respirations cease. Mulder stood there for a few more minutes, amazed that he could actually feel his heart breaking. Finally he wrapped his arms around himself in a fruitless attempt to ward off the pain, and slowly sank to the floor, surrendering to the "other" Mulder, giving in to the harsh, wracking sobs that tore through his body. He was alone. Abandoned. *Verlassen.* ********** DECEMBER 25 He glanced at her dully as she entered the room, then turned back to the window. Amelia didn't spend as much time here as she had in the past, mostly because Mulder stared blankly at the ocean whenever she tried to talk to him. She wasn't sure if it was simple depression or if he held her solely to blame for his incarceration, but whatever the reason, conversation with him had ceased to exist. It was something she regretted; he was an interesting man. However, this was a special day, and she had a special item for him, one that she'd been saving since the day of Scully's visit. He had looked so...broken as Scully left him that day, and Amelia was certain that was the exact moment the will to live had completely left Fox. She didn't know about his "other" self, didn't realize he'd been constantly at war with that part of his personality for months until at last the "other" had won out, but there was one thing of which she was very certain--Fox had given up. Ignoring his disinterest, she pulled up her customary chair and placed a gaily colored package in his lap. "Merry Christmas, Fox," she said quietly, and waited to see what he would do. For a moment there was no reaction at all, as if it took his brain several seconds to process her words, and then, so quickly she almost missed it, a look of intense pain crossed his features and was gone. He glanced down at the box in his lap with a complete lack of curiosity, then wordlessly went back to studying the horizon. After a few minutes of silence, Amelia reached for the package. "Here, let me help you," she told him, and slid the ribbon off so the lid could be lifted. When Mulder showed no inclination to open his present, she pulled the top off the box herself and dropped it to the floor. "Look at it, Fox," she commanded softly, and finally he lowered his gaze to the gift in his lap. A beautifully framed color photograph of Scully stared up at him, and Mulder's breath caught as he looked into her eyes. Amelia watched him carefully as he slowly reached out a finger, just one finger, and touched the glass almost reverently. As if uncertain that this treasure was really for him, Mulder looked up at Amelia searchingly. Her heart ached at the pain and hopelessness in his eyes. "It's yours," she told him, nodding reassuringly. A quick smile touched his lips, and although it didn't stay, its ghost remained, and suddenly his eyes weren't quite as lifelessly grey as they had been before. Amelia shifted uncomfortably. Moments like this should not be shared. "I'll put it here on the table for you," she said briskly, and reached to take the photograph from him. Mulder didn't speak as Amelia placed the frame on the table, but a small distressed noise resonated from his throat and when she turned back to him, she was stunned to see tears forming. "Scully," he whispered slowly, reaching his hand toward the frame. She immediately returned his gift to him and, he took it with both hands, pulling the picture close to himself in a protective hug. Mulder closed his eyes, bowing his head over the frame, and Amelia saw sadly that tears began to color the fabric of his sweatpants as they fell. She again felt as though she were intruding upon an incredibly private moment of grief, but was at a loss as to how to comfort Mulder, or if he even could be comforted. Silently she picked up the box and the ribbon and stole from the room, wondering if the photograph had been a stroke of genius, or a very bad mistake. Mulder sat for hours with the picture clutched firmly to his breast. ***** JANUARY 5 Mulder lay in his bed, carefully considering his next move. It had to be quick. It had to be sure. There would only be one chance, if that. It had taken him weeks after his last suicide attempt to reach this point, but the days and days of loneliness had driven him once again to the brink of despair. He was ready to try again. This time was going to be a lot more painful, he knew, since anything that could reasonably be used as a weapon had been removed from his rooms. All but the furniture, he thought with a grim smile of determination as he scooted himself to a sitting position against the headboard. It stood five feet above the bed and was made of solid cherrywood. Mulder had actually laughed at himself for not realizing its potential in the first place, only discovering it when he had flung his arm against the headboard during a nightmare and raised a nasty bruise. Since then he had been thinking, planning, weighing the odds of success against the consequences of failure. He could do it successfully, he finally decided, if the timing was just right. Should they discover his act too soon, they would simply nurse him back to health--and then, no doubt, lock him in a padded room for his own "safety." He couldn't endure one more day of "safety." ----- His uneaten breakfast had just been collected, and he knew George thought he was taking a nap. He should be able to count on not being disturbed for several hours, and Mulder hoped fervently that it was long enough. The unfortunate drawback to his plan was that he was almost certain not to die immediately. He felt behind his head to make sure he hadn't dragged any pillows or blankets along when he had moved into position. He wanted nothing there to pad his head as it impacted with the solid wood. It was time. Without further hesitation, Mulder leaned forward, took a deep breath, counted to three, and deliberately whammed his head back against the wood as hard as he could. The pain was incredible, something he could never have prepared for. Survival is instinctive, and even though he had tried to psych himself up for this, he still found himself involuntarily drawing back a little just before the impact, thereby lessening its effect. Nonetheless, Mulder was determined, so taking another breath and ignoring the nausea caused by the first blow, he slammed himself against the headboard again. This time things went black for a moment and with a desperate sob he fought to maintain consciousness long enough to finish the job. He had never felt anything as agonizing as this, not even when he'd been six years old and had broken his femur falling off the jungle gym. Nothing, *nothing* could ever hurt this badly. And yet he had to do it again, because he was still conscious, still breathing, still all-too-aware. One more really good blow might be enough, he thought, willing himself to inflict another. His breaths short and panting now, no longer deep and measured, he leaned forward farther than ever preparing to deliver the final attack on his battered head. His eyes were closed and so deep was his concentration that he never heard the door to his rooms being flung open or George's cry of dismay when he entered the bedroom. Mulder had just gotten up his nerve, after battling a moment of almost debilitating nausea, when he felt strong hands grabbing his shoulders, holding him down...stopping him. Keeping him here. "I need help in here!" George bellowed, and Mulder moaned in fear, frustration and agony. George's voice cut through his head like a machete. He cursed his luck at being discovered once again, and tears of despair coursed their way down his face when George forced him to lay gently back against the pillows. "Don't stop me," he entreated through the pain, "please...don't stop me..." A moment later George cursed and hauled him back to a sitting position, shoving a section of the sheet to his face. For one happy second Mulder thought George was going to smother him, and he tried to help by burying his nose in the fabric, but instead George just dabbed at the blood that had begun to pour from his nose. By the time the nosebleed was under control, Amelia and several of the others had arrived, including Dr. Tenger, whom Amelia had invited to stay at the island for the next few months on retainer. She'd commented mildly that she was certain Fox would require his services sooner or later. Now it seemed she was proven correct. "Turn him over," Dr. Tenger instructed, and George picked Mulder up as if he were no more than a tiny kitten and deposited him face down on the bed as Amelia looked on, tight-lipped with worry and anger. "Carefully!" the doctor ordered, but George had already dropped Mulder. After checking Mulder over thoroughly, and making sure his nose hadn't begun bleeding again when George had flipped him, Dr. Tenger gently bandaged the bleeding gash that Mulder had managed to create. "Don't let him sleep," he ordered as he left the room. "He does need to rest, however. Watch him. I'll check back shortly." "Don't worry, Doctor, I won't let him fall asleep," Amelia replied grimly as the men left the room. Mulder had kept his eyes tightly closed during the entire examination, afraid to face her wrath, and wracked with disappointment that his latest attempt at checking out of Hotel Verlassen had failed. Now that they were alone, he risked opening them just a tiny slit. She was sitting in a chair beside his bed, studying him thoughtfully, and when she saw him peeking at her she frowned. "You might as well wake up and face the music, Fox," she informed him. "You aren't fooling me." He gave a small sigh and opened his eyes fully, thankful that the light in the room was dim. The pain in the back of his head was agonizing by now, and he was fairly certain, from past experience, that they wouldn't be giving him any pain medication this soon--not the good stuff anyway. "What else did you expect me to do?" he asked in a raspy whisper. She reached over and brushed a lock of his hair away from his eyes so she could look at him fully. Her face was still grim. "What did I expect? The unexpected, to be certain, but not this. Never this. Not from you...from the man I'd been led to believe you were. This was nothing but a cowardly little stunt, Fox." He almost laughed--*Little stunt?* He'd just tried to off himself again, in the most creative way to date, and she called it a *little stunt?*--then clenched his eyelids shut as the pain slammed into him in a huge wave. The doctor had given him an injection of anti-nausea medication, but it clearly wasn't working; Mulder was feeling more and more ill every second. With great effort, he raised himself up on his elbows, ignoring the lightning bolt through his head, just in time to avoid retching all over himself. Then promptly fell face-first into the bilious mess. As soon as Amelia realized what was happening she yelled for them to get Dr. Tenger again. She held Mulder up as he vomited all over the sheets, wiping at his face with one corner of the fabric. When he finally finished, she pulled his trembling body close to hers and ran her hand over his back, murmuring soothing words to him as Dr. Tenger administered yet another dose of medication. The doctor checked Mulder's pupillary responses and seemed pleased. Apparently he hadn't managed to do any further damage to himself by vomiting. George and Martin carefully plucked Mulder from the bed and placed him gently in the chair, changed the sheets and returned him to the bed, all in the space of a few minutes. By the time Mulder was settled back under the covers he was freezing, and fighting hard not to fall asleep. He had been ordered by Amelia to stay awake, and feared dropping off now might just try the last of her patience with him. He didn't know what she would do but he did realize that he was completely at her mercy, and that she was not above hurting him if she felt it necessary. She'd already proven that. "Keep him awake for another couple of hours," the doctor told them. "Then it's all right to let him drift off to sleep, but wake him up every half hour or so until about mid-afternoon, just to make sure he still knows who and where he is. If he shows any disorientation, or you're unable to rouse him, call me immediately. Surely by now we all know the drill," he sighed. "George, Martin, why don't you take shifts," Amelia suggested. "He seems to feel most comfortable with you two." George settled in to watch Mulder, and Mulder covered his face with his hands and tried to lose himself in his own mind. He had tried. He didn't know what else to do. ***** JANUARY 21 Mulder lay in the middle of the huge bed, pretending to sleep while Jacob watched over him. Since his attempt two weeks ago to bash his brains out on the headboard, Amelia had decreed that he was to be watched round-the-clock, thereby removing any and all privacy Mulder may have enjoyed before. He didn't realize he missed it until he tried to go to the bathroom and was followed inside by his enormous keeper of the day. Since then he'd gotten somewhat used to having someone else around him all the time, but several of the men still made him feel uneasy, although he was unable to pinpoint exactly why. None of them had ever treated him badly, but a couple of them made his skin crawl. He had learned to limit his bathroom time after that. One of those who gave him the creepy-crawlies was sitting watch over him now, which was why Mulder was pretending to still be deep in slumber. Jacob had a look in his eye at times that made Mulder distinctly nervous, and Mulder wasn't sure if the look meant Jacob wanted to thrash him within an inch of his life or throw him down and fuck him silly. Maybe both, he thought with a shudder. The door opened, and Mulder risked squinting a peek to see who was entering. Mentally, he rolled his eyes. Great, he thought. Just great. Another day with Ian. Ian was the guard Mulder had originally though of as 'Olaf', the largest of the men who watched him and another who made Mulder uneasy. Unfortunately he wasn't given a choice in who his handler for the day was; they rotated--sooner or later it was bound to work around to these two. "He sure is a pretty boy, ain't he?" Ian smirked as he took in Mulder's still form curled under the bedclothes. "Yeah, real pretty," Jacob agreed. "I've been sitting here for the last hour thinking how much fun I could have with him." Ian gave a furtive glance behind him to make certain he had closed the door. "I won't tell if you won't tell," he winked, and Mulder felt his bowels turn to water. He fought to maintain his even, steady breathing so as not to give himself away. "You mean now? While he's sleeping?" Jacob gaped stupidly. Ian leered again. "He won't be sleeping once I get my cock up his ass," he vowed, leaning over the man in the bed and reaching to draw back the sheet. Like lightning, Mulder threw the covers aside and tried to scramble off the bed, but Jacob grabbed him around the waist and yanked him back. He wrenched Mulder's arms behind his back and pulled his victim up against his chest. Ian caught Mulder's legs and, with one swift pull, stripped him of the sweat pants he'd been wearing for warmth. "HELP!" Mulder yelled with as much voice as he could muster, and was silenced a moment later by Ian's hard slap across his face. "Shut up, bitch!" he growled as Jacob clamped his big, beefy hand down over Mulder's mouth. Ian reached for Mulder's boxers, and Mulder began to fight like a wildcat, managing to sink his teeth into the hand covering his mouth. This only earned him another slap which sent his ears ringing. The hand was replaced over his mouth, much more firmly this time, and Mulder found himself getting lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Frantically he sucked in air through his nose as he continued to kick and try to avoid Ian. Ian grabbed both of Mulder's ankles with his hands and forced his legs to the bed, then climbed on Mulder's thighs, pinning him helplessly to the mattress. Unable to move, Mulder watched as Ian triumphantly produced a large pocketknife and flipped it open with a sinister smile. He shut his eyes briefly, then forced them open again and fixed his gaze on the knife, following it down until he could only see the top of Ian's head bending over him. Seconds later a cool rush of air caressed his genitals as Ian sliced his boxers away from his body. Mulder's struggles were becoming weaker as exhaustion threatened to overtake him, and there was one horrifying moment when he knew with absolute certainty that he was about to be brutally raped. Ian stood up and began unzipping his jeans, and Mulder closed his eyes, hoping that they would at least do him the courtesy of killing him when they were finished. "Ian! Jacob! What the HELL do you think you're doing?" Amelia's voice cracked through the room and all three men jumped in surprise. Mulder felt the hand over his mouth relax as Jacob stuttered, trying to come up with a good explanation for why the two of them were holding a completely naked Mulder down on the bed. Finally he stopped trying to speak, released his grip on Mulder's mouth and wrists, and eased himself out from under the smaller man. Mulder grabbed for the sheet and drew it over his entire body, burying himself in the safety of the covers and leaving only his eyes peeking out. Once safely hidden, he waited to see what Amelia would do. She was red-faced and trembling with fury. "Have you forgotten what will happen to all of us if we hurt Fox?" she spat at them. "Fuck each other if you must, but you will not touch him, do you understand me? I have no intention of suffering the consequences of your actions. Now go. I'll deal with you later." Mulder watched from his hiding place as the two men slunk from the room, completely cowed by their much smaller, much fiercer mistress. The idea of the men who, just a few minutes earlier, had been manhandling him as if he were nothing more threatening than a plush toy animal being ordered away by the diminutive blond struck him as suddenly hilarious. "I'm so sorry, Fox," Amelia began, turning to him after Jacob and Ian had left the room. She stopped in surprise at the shaking bed and the noise it was emitting. Walking over and gently tugging the covers away from around Mulder's head, Amelia found tears streaming down his face and his body hitching with sobbing laughter. "Oh...Fox," she said in a half laugh, sitting on the bed and pulling him to her. "They didn't hurt you, did they?" He burrowed into her embrace and shook his head quickly, his desperate laughter quickly turning to real sobs as shock set in. His "other" had completely taken over now, he realized from somewhere outside his body. As a spectator, he watched while she rocked him back and forth, rubbing his back and smoothing his hair for a long time until finally he began to calm down. Still she held him, and eventually his breathing slowed and he dropped into an exhausted sleep, merging back with his "other" just before losing consciousness. His dreams were of his body, split neatly in two, neither side alive, both halves bleeding, bleeding, until he simply melted into the sand of Verlassen's beautiful beach. ----- Amelia watched as Fox slipped into sleep, then eased him out of her lap and down to the bed, quietly covering him. She left the rooms, locking the door securely behind her, and went to make another phone call. ***** JANUARY 22 Mulder moaned softly in his sleep and rolled over, pulling the sheet with him. Martin put down the tray of food he'd brought and pulled the sheet away from Mulder. Mulder's eyes flew open and he scrambled quickly to the other side of the bed, a look of abject terror on his face. "Relax, Fox. I'm an avowed heterosexual, and I like my women willing." Martin smiled easily and went about straightening the bedroom, careful to keep his distance from Mulder. "Sit up. Eat your breakfast. Nobody's going to hurt you, I promise." Mulder regarded him warily, letting his eyes drift to the tray of food. For the first time in days, he actually felt as if he might be able to eat something, but he had no intention of getting any closer to Martin than necessary. He refused to take his eyes off the other man. Martin, noticing his uneasiness, took the chair beside the bed and dragged it over against the wall on the other side of the room, then sat down and made himself comfortable. "Go ahead and eat, Fox. I'll sit over here." Cautiously, Mulder moved across the bed to the tray and picked up a slice of toast. He raised it to his mouth, keeping his eyes on Martin the entire time. Martin saw how nervous Mulder was, so he picked a book at random off the shelf beside his chair and settled himself to read, glancing over the pages occasionally to check on the progress his charge was making. Mulder eventually cleaned the entire plate, finishing his first complete meal in weeks. When he was done he sat back against the pillows, uncertain of what came next. "You need to have a shower," Martin commented, putting the book he'd been pretending to read back in its place. Mulder stiffened at the comment, but knew it was Amelia's order, and that Martin would see that it was carried out. When Mulder hesitated, the big man se sighed and stood up. "You can do it yourself, or I can drag you in there and do it for you, but it's going to happen. It's your call, Fox." Mulder considered for a moment. Once he'd awakened, alone, after the rape attempt, he had donned a clean pair of boxers and sweatpants as well as a long-sleeved sweatshirt. He wore it still, since he hadn't felt comfortable removing even one item of clothing the night before when he climbed into bed. He wanted to get cleaned up, but at the same time loathed and feared the idea of being naked and vulnerable. When Martin didn't back down, Mulder slid off the bed and stood uncertainly for a moment, then went to the dresser and pulled out clean boxers and sweats. He started for the bathroom, hesitating when he had to walk in front of Martin. "I'm not going to lay a finger on you unless you force me to," Martin assured him, and with a hopeless sigh, Mulder decided his suspicion could gain him nothing. If Martin wanted him, Martin could certainly take him easily. He walked quickly into the bathroom and his guard allowed him to close the door behind him, for which Mulder was profoundly grateful. He hurried quickly through his shower and threw on his clothes, terrified that at any moment the door would be thrown open and he would be dragged out and violated. When he emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he discovered Amelia had returned. "How are you, Fox?" she asked solicitously, and Mulder shrugged casually. "Okay," he told her. "Come, sit down. Let's talk." She walked to the window and gestured to his chair, and after a moment's hesitation, with another long look at Martin, he crossed the room and sat beside her. Nervously Mulder twisted his fingers together in his lap, refusing to look at Amelia. He didn't know what she was going to do to him now, but somehow he was sure it was going to involve another loss of his freedom or privacy. There was so little remaining now that he had almost nothing left to take away, but he was certain Amelia wouldn't let him go unpunished. In the terror and confusion of losing himself to the "other," Mulder was convinced he must have been somehow at fault for yesterday's debacle. The fact that the idea made no sense didn't penetrate his consciousness, not now, after all these months of captivity. He was a mere shadow of himself now, and sometimes, in private moments, he wondered if Scully would still want this weak, frail, damaged Mulder, should he ever taste freedom again. "What are we going to do with you?" Amelia asked, a slightly indulgent smile on her face. "Let me go home?" he responded in a sarcastically hopeful tone, irritated at the way she spoke to him, as if she were his mother and he no more than an unruly toddler. She ignored his comment. "I have to keep you under watch, or you'll no doubt try to strangle yourself with the bedsheets or something." Mulder raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, as if considering the option, and she sighed. "This leaves me with a bit of a problem," she continued, obviously not in the mood for his sense of humor. "I can't run the risk of you attracting any more of my help--I can't spare the rest of them." He glanced up at her, suddenly sober. Surely she didn't mean--? "Ian and Jacob are...gone. They've been dealt with. Don't worry, Fox, they'll never be able to bother you again." Gone. Mulder supposed that meant she'd had them killed, and a quick look over at Martin confirmed his suspicion. Mulder slumped back into the chair, hating the fact that all he felt at the deaths of two men was relief. All the same, it was surprising that he, a lowly prisoner, rated that type of vengeance. "I think what I'll have to do is stick with Martin--you seem to do all right around him--and one other. George?" George. George was gruff and stern, but he had never been unkind, and Mulder had never felt his skin crawl when George looked at him. George had never run his eyes up and down Mulder's body the way Ian had done on occasion. He looked down at his lap again, feeling the awful defeat overtake him, and nodded once. George would be all right. "Now, as for you." She shook her head again and sighed heavily. "I know if you get another chance to hurt yourself you'll take it, and I don't know what else to do to prevent it except immobilize you completely." Mulder's head shot up and he was already wondering how best to form his plea for mercy when she said, "I'm not planning to do that, so don't panic." He sat back heavily, eyes closed, exhaling a long breath of relief. His desire to joke around was completely gone, chased away by her threat. Amelia leaned very close to him, so close their knees were almost touching, and dropped her voice half an octave. He looked up into her serious face and waited. Her words caressed over his cheek, a warning he dared not ignore. "However, rest assured, I'll do what I must. The next time you get the urge to do yourself harm, Fox, take a moment to picture yourself tied to your bed twenty-four hours a day." He kept his gaze level, but paled slightly at her words--he knew they were spoken without a hint of insincerity. If she thought she had to keep him completely restrained, she would do so. End of discussion. He fought his "other," fought valiantly, and thought he'd won until he opened his mouth and heard the "other" speak. "I--" He stopped and swallowed convulsively, willing the words not to come to his lips, losing the battle completely. "Don't. Please. I'll--I'll behave." Amelia waited a few seconds to answer, and Mulder felt sweat bead up on his brow. Finally she spoke a single word, "Good," and left the room. Mulder watched her go, and his eyes had become empty again. He hated himself. ***** FEBRUARY 13 "C'mon, Mulder, you have to eat something or I'll be in trouble," Martin said, his voice strangely gentle for such a large man. He urged a bite of perfectly scrambled eggs toward Mulder's mouth. Mulder stared blankly out the window, unseeing. He was gone. The "other" had taken over. He made no response as Martin pressed the food to his lips, except to open his mouth a fraction of an inch. Martin was able to tuck the eggs inside, but the recipient of the chef's efforts didn't make a move to chew or swallow. He just sat quietly, his vacant, sad expression unchanging. ------ Martin sighed and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. It was going to be another long day with Mulder, he could tell. Only a couple of weeks ago the man had seemed almost normal, but now... Martin found himself wondering how much longer Mulder would last. Things had been pretty good after he and George had been assigned to guard Mulder exclusively, and he'd even had some interesting conversations with his charge at first, the most enlightening being when he'd asked if Martin would call him by his last name. "Please," he'd said, and Martin could tell Mulder hated the way that word spilled so easily from him these days. Martin was willing to bet the only time the word 'please' had crossed Mulder's lips before Verlassen was as a courtesy; Mulder didn't seem the type of man to beg. Now it prefaced nearly every sentence he uttered. "Everybody here calls me Fox. I hate that name. Back home--" He'd broken off for a second, turning to face the window so Martin couldn't see his desolate expression. "I'd prefer it if you would just call me Mulder," he'd finished, having gotten his breathing under control. "Just Mulder." "Mulder. Sure, I can do that," Martin had agreed easily, and a new bond had been forged between them, albeit a very small one--a certain type of trust had been created. Now, sitting here in front of the eternal, blasted window, Martin was getting fed up. Mulder had become less and less responsive over the past few days, and Martin knew if he didn't manage to get some food into the younger man soon, Mulder was going to waste away into nothingness. Trying desperately to get some show of emotion from Mulder, he remarked snidely, "Maybe I could get Ian up here to hold you while I forced it into your mouth." He immediately regretted his words when Mulder's blank expression turned to one of loathing and he shifted his eyes from the ocean to Martin's face. Mulder swallowed quickly, and asked in a low voice, "They're dead, aren't they? They were killed because of me." "No, Mulder," Martin replied, sneaking another bite of egg into the prisoner's reluctant mouth. "They were killed because they tried to rape you. It's not quite the same thing. They put us all in danger with their actions." ----- Mulder smiled a tiny, sad smile. "Even locked away I can still get people killed," he commented. "You know," Martin replied casually, spearing some fruit on the tines and offering it to Mulder, putting the fork down when it was ignored, "it's great how you take the weight of the world on yourself. I mean--who needs Jesus when you're so willing to atone for everyone else's sins?" "You don't understand." Martin shrugged. "Try me." Mulder glanced over at him, as if sizing up Martin's ability to comprehend his level of responsibility. "I got Scully's sister killed. I almost got Scully killed...so many times. She's safe now, though." His eyes drifted over to the photograph of Scully that was never out of his sight, being carried faithfully from room to room as he moved about the apartment. It was as if Mulder knew, deep within his own mind, that if he didn't have Scully with him, he would lose sight of why he was enduring this imprisonment, and if he lost sight of that he would surrender completely in the madness that threatened to engulf him. His suspicions, those that had been growing steadily more certain for months now, were suddenly overwhelming, and he wanted--no, he *needed*--reassurance. "Do you think she really is safe, Martin? Do you think he lied to me? What if she needs me to take care of her, or protect her, and I'm not there?" As quickly as he'd changed before, he changed again; the "other" covered his face with his hands and tried to block out the image of Scully lying in her hospital bed wracked with the disease that had so nearly taken her life. "What if her cancer's come back and I'm not there for her?" Martin reached out, taking one of Mulder's hands and pulling it away from his face in order to see a bloodshot hazel eye peeking out. "Mulder, she's safe." Mulder glanced sidewise at him, the one visible eye focusing on Martin's face. "She's safe and she's well." Mulder dropped his other hand and gazed at Martin eagerly. "You know about Scully?" he asked excitedly. "What she's doing? How she's been? Can you tell me about her? Martin, please, tell me-- what do you know?" Martin rolled his eyes a little and put the fork he was holding down on the plate. It was more animation than Mulder had shown in weeks. "I know some things," he confirmed, "but you're not getting them out of me that easily." Mulder stared back in shocked surprise. It hadn't occurred to him to ask for information about Scully from Martin, and now the big man was teasing him with it, wanting something in return--wanting what? Jesus, not that! No!...no...not that. Not that at all. This was something much more benign. Martin was holding the fork out to Mulder, a chunk of sausage speared on the tines. He wanted Mulder to eat. Mulder almost laughed with relief. He breathed a small sigh of relief and took the utensil reluctantly. He'd been ill--he experienced almost constant nausea. There was no way he'd keep the food down, but if it would get Martin to talk about Scully, Mulder would gladly eat his breakfast and vomit up his guts afterwards. Small price to pay. He stuck the sausage into his mouth, waiting expectantly for Martin to speak. When he had chewed and swallowed, Martin said, "She's completely healthy." Mulder's eyes lit up and he ate a bite of scrambled egg. "She has a new partner." At that, the hazel eyes clouded over, and Martin had to gesture toward the plate before Mulder reluctantly took another bite of breakfast. "She's been paying the rent on your apartment." Mulder froze for a second, unbelieving, and then a look of incredible softness appeared on his face. He took the next bite slowly, almost dreamily, and waited for his next tidbit of information. "She's adopted your fish." The tears came without warning, and Mulder was powerless to stop them, cursing himself inwardly even as he turned away, burying his head in the crook of his arm. The fork clattered to the floor, and he tried desperately to muffle his cries against the chair. Mulder felt the churning in his stomach increase with his outburst of emotion, and soon, as expected, he deposited his breakfast on the floor next to the chair. He was a little surprised that it had happened so quickly, but he had known that it was inevitable. ----- "Shit, Mulder, if I'd thought it would have this effect on you I'd have kept my mouth shut!" Martin grumbled as he set Mulder's plate aside and stood up, pulling the other man to his feet. "Come on, let's get you back to bed." He threw Mulder's arm over his own shoulders and guided him toward the bedroom, carefully avoiding the mess on the floor. Mulder slumped against him, drained of all his energy, and Martin practically had to drag him the first few steps before Mulder was able to help out. Just as they reached the bedroom, Mulder released his grip on Martin's body and leaned over to retch again. Martin barely caught him in time to prevent him going face first to the floor. "You done?" he asked when Mulder seemed to have vomited up every last bit of food in his stomach, and the only thing coming out was yellow bile. Mulder nodded weakly, a look of pure misery on his face, and Martin, in exasperation, picked him up and carried him the last ten feet to the bed. He lay Mulder down carefully and covered him with the blankets, taking note of the way the thin body on the bed was beginning to tremble. "Martin?" the weak voice stopped him as he backed away. "Yeah, Mulder?" A pause. "How long have I been here?" Martin sighed. He shook his head sadly. "Don't do this to yourself, Mulder," he said firmly, and turned away, trying to block out the soft sound of heartbroken tears. After cleaning up the mess that had been created by his ill-fated attempts to get Mulder to eat, Martin checked on him again. Mulder had fallen asleep, and studying him now, Martin could clearly see the toll captivity had taken on him. His skin was stretched tautly over the bones of his face and had an unhealthy pallor. His entire body was painfully thin, and when he'd picked Mulder up, the man had felt light as a feather in his arms. Martin lay his hand on Mulder's forehead, and frowned when he felt the heat there. It might be nothing yet, but he was pretty sure Mulder was developing a fever. He'd been coughing and sniffling the last two days, but neither he nor George had seen any sign of real illness. Now he wondered how long Mulder had been hiding the nausea. With another sigh, he pulled the covers tighter around the shivering figure and left the room. He had discovered, much to his surprise, that he actually liked the man in the bed, and it disturbed him to think of Mulder wasting away here, mind and body, pining for Dana Scully, life draining away from him day after day after day. It disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Surely there was an easier way of guaranteeing Mulder's silence. Quietly stepping outside Mulder's rooms, Martin flagged down George, who happened to be starting down the stairs. "Can you sit with him for a few minutes? He's asleep, and I need to talk with Amelia." "Sure," George shrugged. "No problem." After making sure George was safely watching over Mulder, Martin went in search of his employer. He found her in her office, talking on the telephone with the man that Mulder always referred to as 'Cancerman,' or 'Black-Lunged Bastard.' a name which Martin privately found quite amusing. It appeared that Amelia was getting an update on Scully, something she tried to keep up with so she would have bits and pieces of information to feed to Mulder when he was particularly down--little tidbits to entice a bit more life from him. Martin berated himself for not thinking sooner of the quid pro quo game he'd played with the food. "And her checkup was normal? No sign of the cancer returning?" she asked as she turned to Martin and held up one finger to him. "That's good to hear, I'll pass it on to him soon. He's been pretty depressed lately, this should cheer him up a little....No....No, there haven't been any more incidents like that, and there won't be. The two men guarding Fox now are completely trustworthy....Yes, Sir, I'll keep you informed." She hung up the telephone and turned to Martin. "Well, Scully had her regular checkup yesterday and she's still cancer-free. That should make Fox feel better," she told him with a bright smile. "What can I do for you, Martin?" "He's not going to last much longer," Martin told her bluntly, ignoring her chipper mood. "And he's getting sick. He puked up his breakfast. Better get Dr. Tenger back over here." Amelia sighed. "I knew I shouldn't have let him go," she muttered to herself. "But Fox has been so...sedate lately. What happened?" she frowned, and as Martin filled her in on Mulder's frighteningly deep depression, her worried look deepened. "Do you think he'll snap out of it? He always has before," she asked hopefully. Martin seemed to be something of an expert at gauging the many moods of Fox Mulder. "Amelia, he's dying," Martin explained patiently, wondering why nobody else could see this. "He might live another six months, but he's slowly dying. And this is cruel, keeping him locked up here like this. Why do we have to torture him?" He stood quietly for a moment, thinking, and then ventured, "What if he had an accident--one that couldn't be pinned on us?" Amelia looked suddenly wary, and Martin reached behind himself, gently pushing the office door closed. He leaned in to her and said in a voice that was practically a whisper, "I could smother him with his pillow. It would be over in a matter of minutes. He'd be out of his misery." Amelia drew back, a thoughtful expression on her beautiful face, and let the idea run through her mind for fully ten seconds before beginning to slowly shake her head. "No, it's too dangerous," she told him. "If there was an autopsy performed, they'd figure it out, and we'd all be dead. Besides, it's our job to prevent accidents happening to Fox. Somehow, I doubt *he*," she added, jerking her head toward the phone, "would accept that excuse. We'll just have to let things run their course, and do what we can to help him." "Why would there be an autopsy?" Martin demanded incredulously. "He couldn't exactly call a coroner and tell him the FBI agent we've held captive for the past few months died suddenly." Amelia's face darkened. "You never know with him," she answered. "He's a constant surprise." Martin crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door, irritated at the turn of events, irritated at Mulder, irritated at himself for caring what happened to the man upstairs. "Then if I were you, I'd get back on the phone and tell your boss he needs to come up with a better solution than lifelong incarceration if he wants to keep Mulder alive. Although why the hell he cares is beyond me." Amelia played idly with a pen on her desk for a moment, lost in thought. Finally she looked up at Martin, seeing the weariness etched in his face. She realized with sudden revelation that he honestly cared what happened to Fox. "I'll see what I can do," she promised him, "Although I can't imagine what else he could suggest." "Scully is the key, I think," Martin commented after a minute. "He'll do anything for her. That picture of her is the only thing that's kept him sane this long, if you ask me. The reason he encouraged her to stop trying to rescue him was because he was promised her safety. Maybe she could be used as leverage to assure his silence. Although I doubt he remembers enough of what was in that journal to do much harm at this point." Amelia sighed. "It was never a matter of him remembering what was in the journal at all. It was simply the fact that he knew the vaccine wasn't one hundred percent effective that was the threat. Nobody outside our circle was supposed to know that. If Fox had gone public with that journal, the project would have been jeopardized. If we release him now and he talks...well, the threat is still very real." "That's what I mean. He'll keep quiet if Scully's threatened." She regarded him doubtfully. "Do you really think so? Fox is so passionate about his truth." "Believe me, Amelia, he's much more passionate about that woman." Martin stood up straight and reached for the doorknob, then turned back. "Think about it, would you? Because I guarantee, Mulder isn't going to live much longer. They should have just killed him in the first place." Amelia sighed. "That's what we all told him, but he wouldn't hear of it." "Well, it's too late to change that decision now, but if he still wants Mulder alive he's going to have to think of a way to free him without endangering the project." "Maybe we could find a way to give him a little more freedom ourselves?" she asked questioningly, turning to Martin for the answers. "No. He'll just go back to trying to do himself in as soon as he's strong enough. Walks on the beach and swims in the surf aren't going to solve the problem, Amelia. That man is dying." He stalked out of the office and down the hall, leaving Amelia to wonder how you could coax life out of somebody who had lost the will to live. ***** "I want to offer you a deal." The smoking man frowned at Scully, standing in the depths of shadow. He didn't like to be summoned--he was normally the person doing the summoning--but when the man assigned as Scully's contact had told him she insisted on a meeting with him, he'd thought it expedient to agree. He reached into the pocket of his suit, fumbling for his cigarettes, and withdrew an empty package. Angrily, he crumpled it and tossed it to the ground. "And what makes you think you are in a position to offer me anything, Agent Scully?" Scully stepped closer, staring up at him with eyes that were steely and unafraid. He felt an unfamiliar sensation, and realized it was discomfort. He, who had seen many men die, felt uncomfortable in the sights of this small, insignificant woman. "Because I have nothing left to lose." He raised an eyebrow and waited. "I know what you promised Mulder, in exchange for his cooperation. I'm here to offer you a similar arrangement in exchange for his freedom." He smiled, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "You'll promise not to give me cancer?" he asked sarcastically. She was unmoved by his sense of humor. "Mulder offered to sacrifice himself. I'm giving you the same." His gaze grew more interested, and Scully nearly retched at the implication. "Not that, you bastard," she told him coldly. "Frankly, I doubt you're capable." Inwardly, Scully winced at the crudeness of her talk, but pressed onward forcefully. "You wanted me before for experimentation purposes. Wouldn't you like to finish the job?" His eyes roved over her. "What makes you think we weren't finished with you?" Scully's eyes narrowed. "Because you and your Nazi doctors left me alive," she spat. "Alive and barren. There must be years worth of research you could use my body for." "Ah, so you *are* offering me your body. I want to be clear on this." Scully took yet another step forward, and felt a surge of triumph when he moved almost imperceptibly backwards. "You told Mulder I'd be safe if he cooperated. Now I'm telling you--if you let him go, and he doesn't keep your secret...I'll go with you willingly. You and your people can do whatever type of--" She stopped, unable to voice the horrible offer. "You trust him that much?" His voice was mild, but she knew better than to take it at face value. If he wasn't considering her offer, he'd be on his way by now. She said nothing more--just waited. The ball was in his court now. He regarded her coolly for a few moments, then said, "How interesting." And disappeared into the night. ***** There was a knock at the door, and Martin opened it, leaving Mulder in his usual spot at the window. It was Raymond with their lunch. Martin inhaled deeply when he saw the tender steak on the plates. He knew getting it into Mulder would be a chore, but he was certainly going to enjoy his own. The cuisine was one of the best things about this job. "Could you watch him for a second while I visit the john?" he asked Raymond, and Raymond grunted assent while he placed the tray on the table at Mulder's elbow. Martin disappeared into the bathroom, and Mulder glanced disinterestedly at the tray beside him. Steak. God, the food here was incredible. Too bad he never felt like eating it. He was sure it would compare with any famous restaurant back home. Home. Mulder closed his eyes tightly, fighting back a wave of emotion. He knew now would never see home again. One of the violent coughing fits he'd been having gripped him suddenly, and it took his mind off his memories for the moment. When he'd gotten himself under control, Mulder took a deep breath and glanced around the room. After making sure Mulder was all right, Raymond strolled over to the other window, turning his back on Mulder temporarily, and Mulder's gaze played over the tray. His breath caught when he realized that some fool had left two sharp steak knives on the tray. There should have only been one, Martin's, because obviously Mulder couldn't be trusted with a knife. Someone had made a serious mistake. Shooting a quick glance over at Raymond, Mulder snaked his hand out slowly toward the tray and held his breath while his fingers closed carefully over one of the knives. Quickly, silently, he brought the knife close to his body. Where to hide it? He heard the toilet flush and knew he had only seconds to make a decision. In the chair? If they discovered it was missing, that would be the first place they'd search. Water ran in the sink and Mulder hastily shoved the knife into the waistband of his sweats, careful to point the blade away from his bare skin as much as possible. He adjusted his shirt over the knife a split second before Martin returned, and when his guard lowered himself to his chair, Mulder was sitting still, as quiet and detached as ever. Inwardly, he prayed Martin wouldn't hear the pounding of his heart. Martin nodded to Raymond and reached for the tray, taking his own plate--and the solitary knife--and moving it out of Mulder's reach. Mulder glanced at the food disinterestedly and went back to staring out the window while Martin ate his own lunch. He knew Martin would begin coercing him to eat as soon as he finished. ***** George placed the lunch tray on Amelia's desk and turned to go, not wanting to bother her while she was working. He was almost at the door when she spoke. "George? Could you please bring me a knife?" she asked absently, her eyes on the paperwork before her. George swung around in confusion. "But I put it there mysel--sonofabitch!" He raced for the stairs, Amelia close on his heels. "What is it?" she demanded as they approached Mulder's room. "What's happened?" "I put a steak knife on your tray, Amelia," he explained grimly as he unlocked the door and flung it open. "Someone obviously mixed them up." Martin and Mulder looked around, startled when the door flew open and Amelia and George burst into the room. "Where is it?" George demanded, instantly confronting Mulder. Mulder gave him a look of incomprehension and glanced nervously at Martin, stifling the cough that tried to overtake him. "What are you talking about, George?" Martin questioned, putting one hand on Mulder's arm to calm him. "The knife," Amelia told him impatiently. "There was a mixup in the kitchen and Fox was given my tray by mistake. Where's the knife?" Martin shook his head while Mulder cowered back into his chair, breathing heavily, frightened by the intensity of their reactions. "There was only one knife delivered to this room, and it's right here," he assured them, holding up his own steak knife, which he had been very careful not to let go of for even a second. "Mulder hasn't touched it." George gave Mulder a suspicious glare. "Are you sure?" he asked Martin. "Of course I'm sure, it's the first thing I looked for," he said testily. "I know my job." Amelia shook her head, positioning herself directly in front of Mulder's window. "Stand up, Fox," she ordered. He did, skittering quickly out of her way, and she stuck her hands carefully down all around the cushion of his chair. Finally satisfied that he hadn't stashed the knife there, she turned to George. "Search him," she commanded. George reached for Mulder and Mulder backed away, holding his hands out protectively. "I don't have it," he insisted, licking his lips nervously as George advanced on him. "I'm not *allowed* to touch a knife. I'm not even *allowed* to take a piss by myself!" George grabbed him by the biceps and Mulder reacted violently, the memory of his near-rape still too fresh in his mind. "Leave me alone, you bastard!" he yelled, struggling as George shoved him up against the wall to hold him in place. "Fox, he's not going to hurt you," Amelia interrupted sharply. "Just let him search you, or hand over the knife." "I don't have your stupid fucking knife!" Mulder screamed, completely out of control now. "I don't have anything at all!" His voice cracked with emotion. "I just want to be left alone. "I've lost every bit of freedom I ever had because you people couldn't keep track of your fucking journal! I never asked to have the damned thing delivered to me, and the next thing I know I'm a fucking non-person. Keep your hands off me!" He kicked out frantically at George and George looked over to Amelia for direction. She nodded reluctantly, concerned at the violent reaction George had drawn from Fox, and George released Mulder after a long, direct look into the smaller man's eyes. Mulder slumped down to the floor, coughing severely again and gasping for breath, and with an aside to Martin to watch Mulder closely, the two left his rooms. Martin, who had observed the whole scene with some amusement, merely commented, "I don't suppose I'll be able to persuade you to eat at all now, will I?" Mulder didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. ***** Downstairs, Amelia asked George, "Do you think he has it?" "Oh yes," George nodded certainly. "He has it." Amelia stood still, thinking for a moment, then said, "Watch him carefully tonight." ***** FEBRUARY 14 12:30 a.m. Mulder surveyed George between the slits of his eyelids as he pretended to sleep. His guard had been nodding off occasionally in the chair, and Mulder was hoping George would fall fully asleep so he could retrieve his knife from the sofa where he had managed to hide it when Martin's back was turned that afternoon. He studied George patiently, waiting until his head slumped against the arm of the chair and his breathing deepened, and then began to slide slowly and carefully out of bed. Mulder placed his feet on the carpeted floor gently and stood, grateful that the floorboards in his bedroom didn't creak. He made his way one cautious step at a time to the sitting room, and was leaning over the sofa feeling between the cushions for his prize when suddenly he was grabbed from behind. One of George's massive arms snaked around his waist and a huge hand covered his mouth. "You don't want to do that, little one," George hissed in his ear, and after a moment of shocked struggling, Mulder went limp with defeat. George had caught him in the act, and he was doomed. He didn't even dare argue over the degrading term with which George had addressed him. George reached down between the cushions where Mulder had been groping and retrieved the knife, holding it up in front of Mulder's face so the moonlight gleamed off the shiny silver blade. "Nice try," he commented dryly, giving Mulder a little shake. Mulder kept his silence. "Go into the bedroom and wait for me." Mulder nodded weakly and George released him, striding purposefully toward the bathroom. Mulder obeyed, turning on the bedside lamp so George could find his way back to the bedroom easily, then sat on the bed to wait, the very model of good behavior. Couldn't hurt to try and earn brownie points at this stage of the game. He shivered, feeling suddenly like a small child, waiting for his daddy to come to his room and punish him. He heard footsteps, accompanied by an odd ripping sound, and wondered what George was up to. His answer came when George entered the bedroom carrying the remains of Mulder's oversized bath towel. It was now in four long strips over George's arm, and Mulder swallowed hard, wondering what George was planning to do to him. He knew this act would not be forgiven easily. "Are you going to rat me out?" he asked in a low voice, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor as George approached him. "Nope. Not yet, anyway," George answered, and Mulder looked up at him hopefully. As badly as he'd hoped to hide his crime from George, the thought of Amelia discovering his treachery was tenfold more terrifying. His hope faded with George's next words. "Lie down, Fox." Hesitantly, Mulder did as he was told, and sighed in resignation as George began looping one of the long towel strips around his wrist. The guard tied the towel firmly around Mulder, then affixed it to the nearest leg of the large bed, knotting it securely. He then repeated the action on Mulder's other wrist and both ankles. When he was finished, Mulder was spread out on the bed, tightly secured, unable to move more than a few inches. "I believe Amelia threatened you with this if you were so foolish as to try and hurt yourself again," George commented mildly. "But I wasn't--" George held up his hand. "Please, Mulder, credit me with *some* sense, would you?" After a few seconds consideration, Mulder gave up, completely conquered. George would never buy his lie. Hell, a five-year-old wouldn't buy it, it was that lame. "I think I'll let you spend the rest of the night this way to give you a little taste of what it would be like, and then we'll try again." He reached over and patted Mulder's cheek condescendingly with his big hand. "This'll be our little secret, okay, Fox?" George went back to his chair and sat, picking up his book and opening it to the page he'd been reading earlier that evening. "Good thing for you that I'm not like Ian and Jacob, isn't it?" he commented with a chuckle, and smiled at the grimace on the face of his prisoner. Mulder would learn. George would make certain of it. ***** Mulder lay awake the rest of the night, squirming occasionally to try and ease the uncomfortable cramping in his muscles. At one point he glanced over at George, hoping to elicit pity from his keeper, but George had stared back impassively and turned another page in his book, wordlessly returning to his reading. Mulder sighed quietly and concentrated on relaxing his aching shoulders. He wished he'd asked to use the bathroom before George had tied him up, but he wasn't about to risk life and limb by requesting permission now. Hours later, as dawn began stealthily creeping over the horizon, George rose, stretched, and reached for his pocketknife. He cut the towel strips off Mulder's wrists and ankles, and helped him rise to a sitting position. Mulder suppressed a groan and allowed George to haul him upright, then stood carefully, with the other man's assistance, and stretched his sore muscles. When he had loosened some of the kinks in his back and shoulders, and gotten the feeling back in his legs, Mulder turned to George, his eyes downcast. "So. You gonna do that every night, or was this a one-time deal?" George laughed. "I won't tie you up again, Fox. Not without Amelia's order. But if you do anything else stupid on my watch, I *will* tell her about this." He leaned close to Mulder to add emphasis to his words, his laughter completely gone. "You know what she promised to do." Mulder swallowed and gave a slight nod. "But if I don't--give you any trouble...you won't tell her?" He looked up hopefully at George. "I don't think she'd be inclined to cut me any slack at this point." George laughed. "You're right about that, Fox, but your secret is safe with me. As long as you behave." Mulder shrugged his agreement and started for the bathroom. He only got two or three steps across the room when a wave of dizziness hit him and he started to fall. George managed to catch him just before he hit the floor, and pulled him back to his feet. Taking a good look at Mulder for the first time, George noticed the flush on the smaller man's face. Mulder clung to George as another bout of coughing shook his frame, and when it finally passed he gasped for breath. George lifted him back to the bed and pushed him down on the pillows, piling them up behind Mulder's back so as to elevate his head and chest. Mulder's breathing was labored, and when George put his hand to Mulder's forehead he drew it away quickly. "You're burning up," he stated with dangerous calm. "Why didn't you tell anyone you were sick again, Fox?" ***** Mulder lay quietly in the bed, eyes closed most of the time against the pounding in his head, suffering the pokes and prods being inflicted on his body yet again as Dr. Tenger examined him. He could hear voices flowing around him, but it was too much trouble to try and make out the words over the noise of the jackhammer in his brain, and he simply lay there and let them do with him as they would. He'd thought his "other" had completely taken him over before, but he had been wrong. Now, the "other" was the only Mulder who existed. The real Mulder, the strong one, had been locked in a closet somewhere in the recesses of his mind. He should have wondered if his real self would ever emerge again, but the "other" didn't care. As always, whenever something uncomfortable was being done to him nowadays, Mulder hoped fervently that the person inflicting the discomfort would kill him when they were done, but as always, he knew that they would patch him up and leave him alive to suffer. Mulder had been steadily praying for death to a God he wasn't sure he believed in, and the lack of response wasn't helping convince him of the existence of such a deity. Surely, he reasoned, if there was a God, He would have mercy on Fox Mulder at some point; on the other hand, if Mulder was to be consigned to Hell for eternity, why had God taken him there early? He concentrated on that burning question, a philosophical puzzle to occupy his mind, when Dr. Tenger raised him to a sitting position and forced him to cough. Coughing hurt his head and it hurt his chest, but Mulder was unable to escape the tickling in the back of his throat. It would become more and more annoying as time passed and he repressed the cough, until eventually it restricted his breathing and his traitorous body expelled the cough forcefully, causing him great pain in the process. Dr. Tenger said if he held a pillow firmly to his chest when he had to cough, it would lessen the pain. Dr. Tenger lied. Now Mulder pondered the existence of God and His reasons for torturing one poor pathetic soul while Dr. Tenger collected his sputum sample from Mulder and helped him lie back. He felt someone take his arm and wrap a rubber tourniquet around it to draw blood, but Mulder didn't bother protesting. It wasn't as if he had any rights any longer anyway. He was just somebody's piece of property, hidden away and forgotten. Abandoned. *Verlassen.* The tourniquet was removed and he heard Dr. Tenger's voice rumbling unidentified words, and Amelia's higher, softer tones responding. A moment later someone patted his face, and Mulder wanted to slap the offending hand away but didn't have the strength to lift his arm. "You in there, Mulder?" Martin asked, leaning close to his patient's face. Mulder responded to the voice he recognized as belonging to the closest thing to a friend he had in this forsaken place. "Why does God hate me, Martin?" he asked in a puzzled voice, as if the answer to that question held the answer to all of life for him. "What did I ever do to make God hate me?" ***** Mulder's voice had the confused inquisitiveness of a very young child, and Martin feared he had finally slipped over the edge of sanity. "God doesn't hate you, Mulder," he said as he helped Mulder get settled back under the covers and piled another blanket on him. "Nobody hates you." "Nobody loves me, either," Mulder mumbled pathetically, snuggling his shivering body into the warmth of the blankets. "Scully does," Martin pointed out, turning her picture on the nightstand so Mulder had a clear view. Mulder's eyes opened a slit and fell on the picture. "Scully..." he said softly. "You have your faith. Your faith saved you when you were dying, not me. It was never me. Can your faith save me now, Scully?" he pleaded in a whisper, his eyes drooping closed again. Soon his breathing evened, although it was still too shallow for Martin's liking, and he dropped off to sleep. Martin studied him worriedly for a few moments, then left the bedroom to find out the doctor's verdict from Amelia. "Probably pneumonia," she told him when he asked. "He's taken the samples of blood and...stuff...to make sure, but he's fairly certain." "What will he do about it?" "Intravenous antibiotics to start with, I suppose," she said. "I really don't know. He looks to me as if he needs to be in a hospital." "He needs to be released. Or killed," Martin told her flatly. "We can't keep pulling him back from the edge of death forever. He hates us for it, you know. Hates us for keeping him alive all this time. Sooner or later, with a man like Mulder, hatred becomes dangerous." She made a gesture of helplessness. "I don't know what to do about it, Martin. If I'd realized what we were getting into, I never would have volunteered to let him bring Fox here. How was I to know it would turn out like this? I had hoped, after a time, that he would adapt." "Mulder isn't the kind of man who will ever adapt to being kept in a cage like an animal," Martin told her. "He's got to be released, or one way or another he's going to die." Amelia studied Martin intently, as if trying to read his thoughts, and he smiled because hers were so transparent. "Don't worry," he assured her complacently. "I won't do him in until you give me the order." "See that you don't," she commanded. "Your attachment to him worries me." "Nothing to worry about, Amelia," he said as he left to return to his duties. "I just happen to like the man, and I think it's a shame to put him through this. My loyalties are still with you. They always have been." ***** FEBRUARY 18 "Fox?" Mulder turned his eyes, no longer a bright green-brown hazel but faded to a dull grey, toward the voice. It was the woman. A woman. Scully? No, Scully was gone, he couldn't see Scully anymore. What was this one's name? She took care of him, he remembered, and although thinking made his head ache, he reached deep into his memory for her name. Amy. Was that it? No. Am--something... A cool hand brushed the hair back from his forehead tenderly. "Fox," she said again in a voice that was almost a whisper. "You have a visitor." She moved aside and Mulder saw movement behind her. A man this time. He closed his eyes in dejection. He didn't want have to try remembering another name. He still hadn't dredged up the woman's. One impossible task at a time, please. The man settled himself into a chair at Mulder's bedside, and Mulder gazed at him blankly, thinking that he looked familiar but too tired to try and pin an identity on him. He waited for the man to speak, hoping it would give him some clue as to who this person was and what he wanted. Why couldn't they just let him die in peace? He had overheard voices, one of them insisting he was going to die soon, and Mulder wholeheartedly concurred. He had every intention of giving up on life just as soon as these people quit pulling him back from that sweet, dark abyss he had tried to slip into on several occasions. God was watching Mulder very closely, and every time it looked as though Mulder might escape from Hell, God had one of His angels drag Mulder back. God was cruel, and Mulder meant to tell Scully so the next time he saw her. Oh...Scully...he'd forgotten...he couldn't see her anymore. Someone else would have to tell her how cruel God could be. "Hello, Agent Mulder," the man said in a wispy tenor voice, and Mulder recognized it instinctively, if not intellectually. His face took on a pleading expression, even while he knew, from somewhere deep within, that pleading with this man was pointless, and humiliating. "Home," he whispered through the soreness in his throat caused by days of coughing up sputum and blood and anything else that his body chose to eject through his lungs. He closed his eyes, exhausted with the effort of speaking, but his lips mouthed the word again. Home. "You want to go home, Agent Mulder?" Dull grey eyes probed the visitor from the bed, conveying everything and nothing in a flat stare. "I might be able to arrange it." Something in Mulder heard these words but refused to believe them--God was simply playing cruel tricks on him again. If he went home, he could see Scully...but he couldn't see Scully anymore...if he went home the world would end but if he stayed here only *he* would end, and one man's life was a small sacrifice when the fate of the world was at stake, so why were they keeping him alive just to torture him, why couldn't they just let him go let it end let him die let him die let him die? "I'd like to offer you a deal, one that would allow you to resume your old life. It would also allow you to be with Agent Scully." Now he had to speak, to tell the voice to go away, tell God's angel to go back to Heaven and leave him alone in his own private luxurious Hell and not to ever, ever again take Scully's name in vain. He opened his mouth to tell the angel this but all that came out was, "Scully?" "She's anxious to have you back. I'm sure we can work something out, but before we do, you have to get well enough for us to have a real discussion." The man leaned closer to Mulder, and Mulder could smell the acrid scent of cigarette smoke clinging to him. "Do you understand? You have to fight the illness--you've always been a fighter, haven't you? Fight your way back, Agent Mulder, and we can make a deal." "Deal," Mulder whispered inaudibly. "Yes, a deal. But we can't make a deal if you die, Mulder. You have to fight. You have to win. Then you can go home and be with Agent Scully again." Mulder's lifeless eyes tracked the man as he rose from his chair and walked toward the door. He turned at the doorway and faced Mulder again. "Remember, Fox, if you want to deal with me you must win this battle." They stared at each other for a moment and then Mulder gave a small nod and closed his eyes, wondering what this fight was that he was going to have to win, and if this would be the last fight, and if winning meant he finally got to die. ***** MARCH 8 It had been a long and arduous battle, but Mulder was finally back in his chair at the window, although he had to be half-carried there by Martin. He leaned limply back against the upholstery and let the morning sun bathe his face. It felt so good to finally be warm again, after his weeks of shivering fever, and to breathe easily again after weeks of coughing and fighting for oxygen. Although his strength was almost nonexistent and he was at his lowest weight ever in his adult life, Mulder could actually say that for the first time in a long time he actually felt...good. Which just went to show that everything was a matter of perspective. Enjoying the feel of the heat on his bare skin, Mulder again tried reaching into his subconscious to remember the dream he'd had during his illness. He vaguely recalled someone leaning over him smelling of smoke and speaking to him of home, but it had to have been a fever dream. He would never be allowed to go home. He knew that now. Occasionally he even told himself he was resigned to it, but deep down he knew that was a lie. He would never resign himself to living in a cage. The door opened behind him suddenly, and Mulder perked his ears up, unmoving. He heard Martin rise from the chair beside him and opened his eyes to see who was taking his guard's place. He raised one eyebrow at the face that presented itself. "I knew there was a reason to live," Mulder commented dryly in a voice that barely worked. "Well, I'm glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor," the visitor responded, blowing smoke into Mulder's face. Mulder held his breath for a moment until the smoke cleared, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a cough. "Why are you here?" Mulder asked impatiently, anxious to get back to his basking. "Did you come to satisfy yourself that they were keeping me alive? Don't worry. I'm watched more intently than a circus freak." "No, Agent Mulder. I came to discuss our deal." Mulder's heart skipped a beat. Deal? "You have my attention," he said finally. "You don't remember." "Remember what?" Mulder asked curiously. Surely it had been a dream. Hadn't it? "I told you there might be a way for you to return to your former life." A sunbeam caught the smoke and made it shimmer for a moment. Mulder coughed once, unable to suppress it any longer, and it earned him a sharp look from Martin, who settled back on the sofa when he decided Mulder wasn't in any danger. "What do you mean?" Mulder asked carefully when his respirations were again under his control. "Well it isn't complicated, Agent Mulder. You give me something important to me, and I give you your life back. A deal, plain and simple." The elderly man's look was inscrutable, and Mulder searched his face for a clue as to what kind of trap he might be about to fall into. "What do you want from me?" "I want your promise that you'll keep quiet about the journal, the vaccine...everything." "And for that you'll let me go home?" His voice almost broke on the word 'home'. Almost. He controlled it just in time. The smoking man nodded silently. "Why? Why now, after all this time?" he asked incredulously. Ashes flicked. "You're dying." "And that doesn't make you happy?" "No." Mulder digested this information for a few minutes. "What's the catch?" "No catch, Agent Mulder. You keep your end of the bargain and I keep mine." Mulder shook his head, a grim smile touching his lips. "I'd have made this deal long ago, you know that. Why are you willing to risk it now? What happens if I talk? You'll send me back here? You must realize I'll die before I'll let you do that." The visitor nodded his head sagely. "I suspected as much. No, I'm afraid the threat of imprisoning you again wouldn't be very effective. I had something else in mind. Something a little...closer to your heart." Mulder was certain for a moment that particular heart had stopped. Gripping the arms of the chair tightly, he willed it to begin beating its rhythm again. "Scully," he said flatly. "Yes." "Don't hurt her. You already have me, don't hurt her." Mulder tried hard not to beg, but he knew if they took Scully they could have anything they wanted from him. This man obviously knew it as well. "We have no intention of hurting her, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully has been cancer-free for quite some time now," he commented mildly. "I can make certain she stays that way--lives a long and healthy life." "Or?" "Or I can make certain she doesn't." He dropped his spent cigarette into a glass of water on the table and reached into his pocket to withdraw his pack. "And as long as I keep my mouth shut, Scully's safe?" Mulder pressed, wanting to be clear about exactly what was expected of him. "Of course," the smoker said around the Morley between his thin lips. "You see how simple it can be?" Mulder stared out the window at the ocean. It had been his only view for so many months that he had forgotten what else life had to offer. The idea of leaving this prison was at once exhilarating and frightening. To be a man again, independent, with a life, a job-- "What about my job?" The smoker took a long drag on his cigarette, leaving a glowing orange tip for Mulder to stare at while he waited for the answer. "You'll be reinstated," he said at last, "as soon as you're fit. You and Agent Scully will be partners again. I wouldn't be surprised to find that soon you even get your X-files back." Mulder's eyes lit up at the prospect. If it had been anyone else offering him this deal he would have accepted it without thinking, but this man had proven too many times in the past that he could not be trusted. He sat silently for a few minutes, thinking through all the possibilities, and finally decided that he had only one choice. "I accept," he told the smoker, and the older man smiled gently, managing to convey the message that he'd never had a doubt about Mulder's compliance. "There's just one thing you should know," Mulder continued. "If you don't keep your end of the deal--if Scully suffers even a little because of you--I'll rip you apart with my bare hands." That earned him a real smile. His visitor stood, then, flicking his ashes into the water glass. "Good. I expected no less of you, Mulder. Consider it a bargain, then." He started for the door and was stopped by Mulder's voice. "When do I get out of here?" he asked quickly, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice. The man turned back. "As soon as you're strong enough, Son," he said, and before his words could register with Mulder, he was gone. Mulder sat back in the chair, a sensation of incredible relief washing over him, but it wasn't because of the deal. It was because he had conquered the "other." ***** Mulder was a changed man, Martin thought as he brought the dinner tray into the room. As soon as the smoker had left Mulder had insisted Martin help him into the shower, and then he had put on clean clothes and even tried getting some exercise by pacing purposefully through the small apartment. Finally he had exhausted himself and Martin had forced him back to bed for a nap. Mulder had insisted fretfully that he didn't need one, but he was asleep almost before Martin had him safely on the bed. He slid Mulder's shoes off and pulled the covers over the sleeping form with a little smile. Apparently Mulder was going to attack living with the same energetic determination he had exhibited in his attempts at death. The change would be refreshing. As it often did, however, Mulder's enthusiasm soon got the best of him. His determination to regain his health in a matter of mere minutes caused his fever to return, and he had to be confined to his bed for several days in order to let his body begin catching up with his mind in the recovery process. Keeping him in bed at night was never a problem for George, because one look at that stern face and Mulder remembered the night he had spent immobile at the hands of this particular guard. He had no wish for a repeat. Martin, on the other hand, at first had quite a chore keeping Mulder down during the first day. Eventually George noticed his trouble and whispered a hint into his ear, and on the second day of Mulder's forced bedrest, when Martin arrived for his shift carrying strips of toweling over his arm, Mulder shrank back into the bed and watched him carefully, making no move to rise. He was no fool. Martin lay the strips across the back of the chair that he would occupy for the day and settled himself comfortably. Finally Mulder could stand it no longer and had to speak. "You've been talking to George," he stated flatly. "George and I do exchange notes frequently," Martin confirmed, working hard to keep the smile from his lips. He heard a small sigh from the bed and Mulder turned on his side, curling into a ball. "All right, you win," he muttered. "I won't make any trouble." Martin reached for his book, still fighting to suppress his amusement. "It's easier that way," he agreed, opening it to his page and beginning to read. At least he knew he wouldn't have to coax Mulder into eating. ***** APRIL 1 "Mulder, sit down," Martin ordered, and Mulder obeyed, flinging himself to the sofa for the space of about sixty seconds. Then he was up again, restlessly prowling the apartment. He'd been at it for over an hour and Martin was ready to knock him over the head and tie him to the chair. Today was the day Mulder was to be taken home, and George reported that he'd been awake at four a.m., unable to sleep any longer, pacing. At this rate they wouldn't need to drug Mulder to keep him asleep during the transfer, Martin thought, he'd simply wear himself out. Mulder had put on a little weight during the last few weeks--not enough, but it was a start. The most difficult thing had been getting him to rest long enough for his body to begin recovering from the pneumonia that had almost killed him. Mulder simply couldn't accept the fact that he was weakened, and constantly pushed himself too hard if allowed. Martin had finally gotten down into Mulder's face and growled at him that he was to take a nap in the morning and another in the afternoon, without argument, or he was going to tell Amelia about the knife incident. Although Martin doubted Amelia would follow through with her promise to tie Mulder to the bed now that suicide wasn't his immediate goal, the threat had the desired subduing effect. Mulder took his naps obediently, although with much grumbling. "When are they going to get here?" Mulder demanded for the fiftieth time, much like a small child. He peered anxiously out the window, searching the skies for any sign of the helicopter, but there was nothing. Every minute that passed, Mulder was becoming more and more convinced that this promise of freedom had all been nothing but a cruel hoax on Cancerman's part, and that soon someone would arrive to laugh tauntingly in his face and tell him so. He had even asked Martin if that was the case, reminding him that it was, after all, April Fool's day, but Martin had laughed and assured him that he was indeed going home. Home. Mulder shivered when he thought of it. Scully. How would he find her? Would she have bonded with this new partner of hers to the point that she wouldn't want Mulder back? Would she refuse to return to the X-files division if he was reassigned there? She had as much as told him she loved him right here in this very room, but she'd never actually spoken the words, had she? Never come right out and said them, not the way he had. And it had been so many months ago. Even if she'd felt it then, who was to say her feelings hadn't changed? He unzipped his bag and took out the photograph of her that lay atop his clothing. Her soft blue eyes shone up at him and Mulder felt his heart melt. She was smiling her incredible smile in the picture, the one that he'd rarely seen in the past couple of years. Life had become so difficult and complicated for her because of him. What if she'd relished her return to relative normalcy while he was away? "You think too much, Mulder." Martin's words interrupted his thoughts and he looked up, startled. Martin shook his head with a fond grin. Mulder had no idea how many of his thoughts played out across his face sometimes. With a sudden rush of surprise, Martin realized he was going to miss Mulder's company. Their conversation came to a halt when the sound of chopper blades filled the room. Laying the picture carefully in his bag, Mulder rushed to the window. His face was that of a kid after a visit from Santa when he saw the chopper set down on the helipad outside. After a moment, a figure emerged, and Mulder saw that it was the smoking man. He had a horrible moment of pure fear that the man had come to shoot his dreams down until he felt Martin's hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Mulder. You really are going home. It's not a trick." Mulder turned to face the man who had become, in a strange way, his friend. He put his hand over the one resting on his shoulder for a moment. "Martin, I--thanks," he managed awkwardly. Martin smiled. "It's been interesting, Mulder," he said pleasantly. "I've never had a job keep me hopping the way you have." The door opened and Amelia entered, smiling happily. "Ready to go?" she asked Mulder, and without a word he grabbed his bag from the sofa, zipped it, and followed her out the door. Mulder took two steps into the hallway and froze. He hadn't been outside these rooms in months, and he was suddenly gripped with an overwhelming feeling of agoraphobia. A moment later he felt Martin's reassuring hand at his back. "You all right?" Mulder took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. I'm just beginning to realized how fucked up I am by all this." Martin laughed. "You'll make it, Mulder. You're a survivor." They walked him outside where they were met by the man who held Mulder's entire future in his hands. The smoking man and Amelia exchanged pleasantries while Martin stored Mulder's bag in the helicopter and Mulder drank in the sights, sounds and smells of the outdoors. Finally, Mulder was urged into the passenger seat by the older man. He hesitated briefly before climbing in, realizing suddenly that he was about to be drugged and helpless in the hands of his enemy. Who knew where he might wake up, or even if he would wake up? Finally shrugging, Mulder decided that anywhere was better than here. At least it would be a change of scenery. He settled himself in the seat and put on his seatbelt. The expected syringe was produced and Mulder frowned, but made no comment as his body was injected with the drug that he was promised would make him sleep through the journey. The location of Verlassen would remain a secret. As the helicopter lifted into the air Mulder took his last look at the island that had been his prison for so many months. The sun glinted off the steel bars that covered the rooms where he had been locked away for so many months and he shivered. He turned his gaze from Verlassen and toward the blue sky. He was going home. Minutes later he drifted off to sleep. ***** APRIL 2 "Mulder?" A soft hand was in his hair, smoothing it gently. It must be Amelia. That would mean he had managed to hurt himself again. With a small groan, Mulder opened his eyes and glanced around himself. Distantly familiar sights greeted him, sights he hadn't seen in far too long. He raised his eyes and met Scully's blue ones, filled with both concern and happiness. She continued to stroke his hair, and Mulder smiled, shutting his eyes again, still woozy from the drug. "Scully?" he asked, swallowing to lubricate his dry throat. "Yes, Mulder?" He was silent for a moment. "Are you real?" She laughed through her tears. "I'm afraid so, Partner." He reached up to embrace her gently and found himself pulling her down fiercely close to him, to lie atop his body and enter into his soul. He inhaled the scent of her deeply and ran his hands over her as if to reassure himself that she was not an apparition. Scully nuzzled into his neck, placing soft kisses there and he felt the wetness of her tears on his skin. "It's real. I'm really home," he said dazedly, as if unconvinced still. "Yes you are," she told him happily, raining more gentle kisses on his face and holding him as tightly as he held her. "And Mulder? I hope you won't be offended if I tell you I'm never letting you out of my sight again." A thought struck him suddenly, and he knew if he was without her for even a moment he would die. "Scully?" "Hmm?" she asked burying her face in the warm chest beneath her. "Will you marry me?" She froze for a second, taken aback by the question, and raised her head to look in his eyes. The desperation she read in them matched her own. He was traumatized and damaged, but was there anything wrong with Mulder that couldn't be repaired? She doubted it, and she certainly wouldn't trust anyone else to oversee his recovery. "Let's discuss that later," she told him simply, leaning in to kiss him again. The kiss deepened and without warning they were on fire, pulling and ripping at each other's clothing, tearing away the barriers in the effort to get closer to one another, get inside one another, merge together in such a way that they could never be separated again. Scully tore the shirt over Mulder's head and kissed her way down his chest, licking at the still-too-prominent ribs and eliciting a groan from him when her tongue lapped at his stomach. Sadly she caressed the faint scars he still bore from the time Amelia Steinmetz had tortured him. Scully forced herself to hake off that thought. He was back. Now it was time to welcome him home. She could feel his hardness beneath her and eagerly reached for the buttons of his jeans, too loose on his slender body. Mulder reached up and removed her shirt, sliding it off her shoulders and tossing it to the floor. He placed his hands over the cups of her bra, cradling her warm breasts and relishing their softness. Pulling her back down to his chest, he reached behind her to unfasten the clasp, and soon the bra joined her shirt. Scully felt his mouth find her nipple and gave a feline growl, grinding her pelvis into his with ferocious intent. This first time was not going to be slow for either of them, she thought as she felt the tension building in her body. It didn't matter. Fast and furious suited her just fine right now. She pulled away from him long enough rid him of the remainder of his clothing, and Mulder and drew her back down atop his nude body. He feasted on her neck, chest and breasts while his hands roamed over her back, cupping the soft swelling of her ass and slipping inside her pants. Scully devoured any bit of him she could reach--ears, neck, chest, nipples--and thought that nothing had ever tasted so sweet to her as Mulder's tender, pale flesh. She felt him tug at her zipper, and rose to help him remove her slacks and panties. When they were both completely naked he flipped them over so that he lay above her, conquering, claiming, marking her as his own. His mouth was everywhere on her body, and Scully thought later, when rational thought returned, that she had never been so thoroughly worshipped. Mulder merely offered up thanks that his "other" had at last been vanquished. Their joining was frenzied and intense, ending with a jolt that made them both cry out and cling to each other with fierce determination when it was over. Finally, after long, long minutes of lying melded together, they rose and went to shower. They never took their hands off one another. Washing her body under the warm spray, Mulder took her into his embrace and kissed her tenderly, feeling the heat building within his body again, and this time they made love with a softness that soothed their aching souls and made them both believe that they could be together, and that everything would be all right. Later, lying tangled together with her on his bed, Mulder looked around his apartment with comfortable familiarity. "Did they tell you they were bringing me home?" She raised up on one elbow to look at him. "I received a message this morning that there was a package waiting here for me," she smiled. "Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be my very own man." He caressed her face. "You kept everything just the same," he commented lazily. Scully snuggled closer to him. "I knew you'd be coming back someday," she told him. "I wanted you to have your own home to come back to." "But how did you pay for it?" he asked curiously. She'd obviously been covering the rent on his place all these months out of her own pocket, not to mention some of his other expenses. Scully shrugged. "I managed," she murmured softly. "I'll make it up to you," he said, gently running his fingers over her soft skin and relishing the feel of her flesh and blood body in his arms after so long holding onto nothing but dreams. "You can make it up to me by never leaving my sight again." Mulder smiled and pulled her closer. "I can do that," he agreed before drifting off to sleep again. Three days later they were married, quietly and without fanfare, and as they left the courthouse Mulder's arm tightened around Scully almost painfully. He thought about the truths he had been searching out for so long, and the lies that had almost destroyed them on occasion. Somehow none of it mattered any longer. He looked down at his wife and kissed her softly on the lips right there in the middle of the sidewalk, relishing the freedom and the feel of her and the knowledge that she was finally his. Truth be damned, Mulder thought as he tasted her lips. This was truth. THE END