Beyond the Grave By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com) Rating: A strong PG13 for physical abuse and necessary nudity Category/keywords: MT, UST, MSR Spoilers: Vague ones for Dreamland, The Amazing Maleeni, and some earlier eps. Archive: Anywhere, just keep my name attached. Summary: "This couldn't be happening, Scully thought. Mulder had gone up against some of the most insidious killers in decades, not to mention some creatures that the general population couldn't possibly believe existed. There was no way he'd die in a simple car accident." Disclaimer: We all know the characters aren't mine, and I'm not making money on any of them used in this story. Author's Notes: Despite indications to the contrary, this is not a character death story. It does however include some moments that will make you cringe, so be warned. Acknowledgments: Thank you to Laura and Mindy for giving me their betas and a good strong poke when I needed it. Feedback: Please, please, please with a cherry on top? It would make my day! Beyond the Grave By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com) God, it had been a long day. It was all that surfaced in Scully's mind as she gracelessly flopped down onto her living room couch. Both she and Mulder had been on the verge of calling it a day when Kim had called down. They needed an emergency double- check of an autopsy, she said, and Skinner had tapped her. And in a way, thank God he had. The autopsy, when she arrived, looked like it had been done by a first-year pathology student, and she'd spent two and a half unplanned hours cleaning up after the culprit and showing him exactly where he went wrong. Never mind the fact that he didn't seem interested in learning from a woman, and probably would have tossed her out of his morgue if the county coroner hadn't been there to make sure the job was completed properly. It was almost nine now, and she was exhausted. Glancing at the clock, she wondered if it was too late to spend the evening with Mulder. She could call him. Dinner, maybe a movie. . . But she just couldn't muster the energy to even get up off the couch. Kicking off her heels, she raised her feet to lie flat, her head slightly elevated and taking up the entire surface of the cushions in a way Mulder hated. But it usually got her a neck rub or at least the pleasurable feeling of his fingers running through her hair. There was just nothing like the feeling of Mulder's hands on her, and she prayed that some day soon, she would become even more intimately familiar with the sensation. She had closed her eyes, resting them against the dim light, wondering if she'd fall asleep right there. Unfortunately, it couldn't last and the world at large interfered with her relaxation. The fist ring of her doorbell went ignored - the solicitors could come back in the morning - but after three more urgent subsequent knocks, she realized that this caller wasn't going to just go away. "I'm coming, I'm coming," she mumbled, waddling on legs that had cramped after a day of standing. Looking at the clock on the kitchen wall as she passed it, she realized she'd rested a half hour. Not much, but it sure hadn't seemed like more than a minute or two. Opening the door, the hall light, intentionally dimmed for nighttime, revealed two men in blue uniforms. Police officers, her groggy mind told her. "Agent Dana Scully?" "Yes, can I help you?" "We apologize for disturbing you so late, Agent Scully. I'm afraid it's not good news." Suddenly, her stomach started to churn. What was wrong? "What's happened?" she asked, her voice slightly shaky. "At 5:58 this evening, there was a single-car MVA on a deserted stretch of highway just outside of DC. A blue Ford apparently lost traction on the wet roads, catching the left front tire on the median where it flipped several times before coming to rest off the road. There were no witnesses, but the car must have burst into flames from leaking fuel because the flames were reported from as far as a mile away." Thank God, she thought with relief. Her mother's car was green and it was a Chevy. But then . . . "We're sorry, Ms. Scully. The ID of the license plate we found at the scene came back to one Agent Fox Mulder." Her gasp didn't keep him from continuing. "Apparently, the plate came off when the car flipped. The license check came back to the Bureau, and Assistant Director Walter Skinner requested you be informed. He apologizes for not coming himself, but he wanted to go out to the scene." Leave it to Skinner, flashed through her mind a moment, while she was still in a numb state. It didn't last. Suddenly, the air around her grew foggy and too thick to breathe. The lack of oxygen made her weak, her legs unable to support her. "Mulder . . ." came a whisper from her lips as the officers made a grab for her, lowering her gently so she wouldn't be hurt. "Better call her boss," one of them said to the other. XxXxXxX He would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. He'd planned to ask Scully to join him for dinner on the way to their cars, but those plans were dashed when Skinner horned in once again on their time together. The preposterous thought of Scully having dinner with Skinner instead of himself crossed his mind briefly, but it was just a flash. He was confident that she felt the same for him as he did for her; they had simply been taking it slow. Slow, like the traffic he was stuck in, he thought as he looked at the myriad of cars that surrounded him. Well, Skinner said it wouldn't take that long. Maybe he could go home, change, pick up some food to go, and surprise Scully with a romantic dinner at home. The perfect Italian restaurant occurred to him as he ate, and he found himself even more eager to get moving than he had been. Eventually, just as a light rain began to fall, the traffic started to move. The road opened up, the traffic thinning until it was practically non-existent, and Mulder pushed the cruise control past sixty miles per hour. The speed limit may have been 55, but he knew that nobody would blink twice in this area if he took an extra ten. What happened next was a blur, and not just because of his speed. A large "pop" assaulted his ears as he lost control of the car. It skidded out of control, and the next thing he knew, the car was rolling. His last thought was of Scully as the car continued to spin, then finally coming to rest on its roof, well off the side of the road. Mulder breathed a deep sigh of relief. His face was cut and bleeding from flying glass, and he hung suspended from his seat belt, but he was, for the most part, safe. He'd be a mass of bruises in the morning, he realized, starting where his head had impacted on the side doorframe when he was tossed about, the belt and deployed airbag only partially effective. Unfortunately, the car wasn't new enough to have them on the sides. Now, he thought looking around, to get myself out of here. Releasing the belt was going to be a problem, he realized, hanging as he was. Luckily, engine noises at the same moment, drawing to a stop very nearby, spoke of rescue and freedom. He blinked as a flashlight was shone in his face, the beam piercing sore eyes. "You Mulder?" a voice asked. "Yeah, could you help me out here?" At any other time, he would have made a joke over his choice of words, but at the moment, he was hurting too much. It never even dawned on him that the man had called him by name. Instead of the anticipated reply, hands reached in through the broken window, one supporting him as the other efficiently sliced through the belt, freeing him. His rescuer pulled him out the window until he sat on the wet ground. "Guess the car's a total loss," Mulder said. "Thanks, buddy." Turning to the man, he didn't look in time to see the club swung at his head. Blackness surrounded him as his would-be savior laughed. "Pleasure to be of service, Agent Mulder." XxXxXxX The plan had been ten years in the making, and he was going to ensure that everything went perfectly. He'd lain in wait on this route every night for weeks, hoping for just the right moment. It was amazing what a good rifle with a scope could do in the hands of an expert marksman. Time was his enemy, though, so he couldn't waste it. The area was devoid of traffic, but somebody had to come along eventually. Dragging Mulder to the trunk of his own car, he bound his captive's hands and feet before dumping him in the trunk. It had taken some work to find an older vehicle that didn't have the interior trunk release all the more recent models had. Finding a transient who shared Fox Mulder's height, weight, build, and coloring had taken a few weeks, too, and then he had to keep track of him until just the right time, when he was needed. The body had to be fresh. Said body was awkward to maneuver into the driver's side of the wrecked car, but it didn't have to be perfect. When it was burned beyond recognizing even teeth and bones, nobody would know whether the driver had been strapped in at the moment the car exploded. Two bars of plastic explosive affixed to the undercarriage of the car and a bullet through the gas tank accomplished exactly what he wanted. The car went up in flames. Even if they eventually found the evidence of the plastique, there were too many people who'd be only too happy to murder the agent to ever identify him. Nobody would ever miss Fox Mulder. XxXxXxX Skinner had tried. God knew he used every argument he could when she called, demanding the exact location of the accident so she could go to the scene. He'd explained that the car would probably be gone by the time she could get there. Then she demanded the location to which the body had been taken, and the location of the car as well. The fire had burned super- hot, he told her. There was no body left to recover. They'd given him what personal effects they'd found, nearly burned beyond recognition, including keys and a badge. He'd seen the car, and he didn't want her to have to see it herself, but she was nothing if not stubborn. He finally stopped fighting her, giving her the address to which the car had been taken. If truth be told, he had no idea what to expect from his agent when she arrived at the impound lot. He'd seen her in every circumstance, showing a variety of emotions, so he was no stranger to her many moods. But he'd never seen her right after telling her that her partner had been killed. They may not have said the words yet, he wasn't sure, but there was no doubt in Skinner's mind that there was a lot more between the two than simply a working partnership. It was a big loss to the bureau, and to him personally, but it was a momentous one for Scully. His thoughts were interrupted when another car pulled alongside his, coming abruptly to a stop after moving way too quickly into the lot. Jumping out of his own vehicle, he approached Scully's driver's door, opening it so she could emerge. Her face was a mask, devoid of every emotion, and it made a shiver run down his spine. Those blue eyes, normally as deep as the ocean, were as cold as ice, and ten times as hard. "Where is it?" she demanded, keeping her words to a minimum. "This way," Skinner responded, taking her by the arm. She didn't resist or pull away, but the muscles tensed. Since she didn't verbally object, however, he felt no need to withdraw his guidance. Around the impound building, toward the rear of the lot, the car came into view. Any paint originally coloring it had burned and peeled, the entire interior either burnt or melted. It was nothing but a shell. The fire was most definitely devastating. And then, Scully's eyes fell on the rectangular piece of metal that had been laid on the remnants of the trunk. Drawing closer, she picked it up. "They found the front license plate, somehow still attached to the car, but only barely. The rear was long gone." She ran her fingers over the charred surface, tracing out the letters. As she held it, tears began streaming from her eyes, yet she remained silent. Skinner didn't know what else to do, so he let her cry, always standing nearby. Seemingly hours later, he finally decided that he needed to help. From where the continuous tears were coming, he had no idea. Shouldn't she be dehydrated by now? "Scully." He was ignored as if he wasn't even there. "Scully, would you like me to call somebody? Maybe your mom could come . . ." He knew the suggestion got through when her breath hitched, but she still didn't move, and Skinner wondered if she'd ever move again. XxXxXxX It was so dark. Even blindfolded, he'd never experienced this level of complete darkness, and he wondered if this was what it was like to be blind. Hell, maybe he blind - he didn't know. There weren't even any phosphenes to create a semblance of light behind his eyelids. He'd thought that was impossible, but then, he also thought that there was no way he could be where he was. There was little doubt, he was in the trunk of a car, and it hurt. Cramped muscles, ropes biting into his skin, and a tire iron pressing into his side - every bump was a new experience in pain. And most agonizing of all was the throbbing in his head. Who'd put him here, he wondered. And how could he get out? Would the mysterious attacker return, or would he be left here to die of starvation or suffocation? Well, nothing was going to happen as long as he was in here and the car was moving, he thought, wondering if that was a good or a bad thing. He tried to identify each time the pavement type changed. "I sure hope you're out there looking for me, Scully," he whispered to himself as he stared into the blackness. He felt the grogginess taking hold, and closed his eyes, conserving his strength. He'd have to be ready when the lid of his prison finally opened. If he was going to fight off his abductor, it would take every ounce of strength he had. As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait - or so it seemed, but he may have dozed off at some point. Regardless, he finally heard a click, and poised himself to fight whatever was headed his way. Dim light appeared in the crack as the lid arose, and he tried to carefully judge the right time to move. One centimeter. Two centimeters Three Four Five One or two more, and . . . Six White hot pain burst from every pore of his body, shoving all thoughts of escape away with incredible force. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the word "taser" came to him. His body arched against the agony, this taser set higher than any they'd used in their FBI training. Lightning bolts ripped along his nerves until he finally couldn't stand one more second. Unconsciousness claimed him as the blackness overtook him, his last fleeting thought that he was dying from some sort of electrocution. XxXxXxX Bringing along the modified taser had been a stroke of genius, he congratulated himself. It would keep his "guest" obedient during the transfer from the car to what would be his home for . . . well, most likely the rest of his miserable life. Oh, and he intended to make it miserable. Just as miserable as his guest had made his own life, and more so. Mulder would be begging for the death, but he'd deny him until it was on terms and not his guest's. He raised the trunk lid, eyes wandering about the grounds of his country home as he did so. It was a modest house, recently purchased, with two bedrooms and one bathroom. A yard full of trees embraced it as a mother would her child, as his own mother had so many years ago, and there was a small shed, used to house lawn equipment and other miscellany. Most of these kinds of sheds came with a window or two, and this one was no exception. Only he'd taken extra steps, had boarded up the windows, run electricity to it, and made other interior preparations for this very special purpose. Lifting his unconscious charge from the trunk, he flung the dead weight carelessly over his shoulder. A smaller man would have staggered under the load, but it was nothing to him. He'd had little else to do during the dark years behind bars, so he'd worked on building his strength. Now, it was paying off, as he effortlessly took Mulder into the darkened shed. Mulder . . . he tried not to think of him by name. It only made him more human, and the man who had trespassed against him was anything but human. He didn't deserve to be treated with human decency or respect, and he wouldn't be. He'd considered suspending his betrayer from the rafters by his arms, but it seemed to easy - almost cliché. He didn't want this to be cliché. Stripping the clothes from his captive, he fastened a leather cuff to his right wrist. It was the kind used to restrain patients in a mental hospital, and would withstand the man's weight for quite some time. An identical cuff was fastened around his right ankle, allowing him to be suspended sideways, his flank exposed and vulnerable. Now, all there was to do was wait for the agent to awaken. Then, retribution could begin. XxXxXxX This couldn't be happening, Scully thought. Mulder had gone up against some of the most insidious killers in decades, not to mention some creatures that the general population couldn't possibly believe existed. There was no way he'd die in a simple car accident. Maybe . . . Something touched her, and it took a moment for her to realize that her mother had sat down beside her. "Honey?" The eyes that turned to Margaret Scully were vacant. Lost. "Mom?" Her voice was just as empty. "Sweetheart, are you okay?" When Mr. Skinner had called, he'd simply said that they were at Dana's apartment and that her daughter had needed her. She appreciated the consideration of Dana and Fox's boss, calling her to come over, but he'd been resistant to giving any details. "He's gone, Mom." "Who is gone, Dear?" Suddenly, Dana was on her feet, pacing madly. "It can't be. Mulder's a very good driver. He wouldn't just..." "What did Fox do, dear?" Dana wasn't so much responding to her mother's questions as she was simply babbling. She paced and ranted through a few more unanswered questions before her mother had finally had enough. Stepping in front of her daughter, she grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her mildly. "Dana, what is going on?" Tear-filled eyes turned to her and seemed to focus. When the first sobs broke through, Maggie wrapped her daughter in her arms. "It's okay, sweetheart. It'll be okay," she soothed the trembling woman like she had as a child all those years ago. Something was very wrong here, but what . . .? Oh, God. Fox . . . "Dana, is this about Fox? Where is he?" Scully took a few shuddering breaths and then spoke quietly. "He'd gone, Mom. He's dead." Dead?! Maggie led her to a sofa and got her to sit down again, taking a position beside her. There was no reason not to believe it was true, but she knew her daughter would need help dealing with his loss. They sat silently until the sobs finally died out, Dana lifting her head slowly from her mother's shoulder. "It was a car accident," she stated, her eyes overflowing again. "Everything we've been through, and it was a simple, stupid car accident." "Oh, Dana . . ." "How could he do this to me, Mom? How could he leave me before . . ." "Before you could tell him that you loved him?" The shocked look on the agent's face replaced the agony momentarily. "How did you know?" "Dana, sweetheart, a blind man could have seen it with a cane. You have always thought that Fox was the one who wore his heart on his sleeve, but in this occasion, you were just as easily read. You loved him - there's no shame in that." Maggie fought down the sorrow in herself for the loss of this fine young man who she'd hoped one day would be a member of her family. "How will I go on without him?" It was a question Maggie could only answer from experience. "You just do. You get up every day and go to sleep every night. And each day, it gets a little easier." Realizing that her mother spoke from the experience of losing Scully's father, her eyes were opened. "Do you still miss him, Mom?" "Every single day, sweetheart. But they'd want us to keep living." "I don't know how anymore," Scully said, feeling her throat constrict yet again. "Don't worry, dear," her mother responded. "I'm here to help you." XxXxXxX His captor had barely touched him, yet the torture was already unlike any he'd ever experienced. Suspended from the ceiling for what seemed like forever by his right arm and right leg, he felt as if his shoulder and hip were on the verge of pulling out of joint, the sinews and muscles around them screaming every second. His face dripped perspiration, some of those drops also coming from his eyes, although he didn't realize it. He'd been left absolutely alone as well, but every sound, every creak startled him into thinking that the inevitable next step in his captivity was commencing. Whoever was holding him here had yet to show his face, leaving Mulder to wonder, in those moments when he could drag his mind from the pain he was experiencing, who it was who was doing this to him and why. If he was expecting a quick answer, he wasn't going to get it. It was only minutes before the man entered, his face covered. And not just covered with a typical ski mask or a lady's stocking. He wore theatrical makeup - the kind you'd see in the movies - applied with glue and completely obscuring the wearer's face behind a façade of pure evil. Mulder knew that, if he were ever to encounter Satan, he'd look like this face. Intellectually, he knew what his captor was doing: a psychological game to try to instill terror in his captive. And while Mulder would have liked to have sworn it wasn't working, the slight niggling at the back of his neck told him otherwise. "Welcome, Agent Mulder," the voice said precisely, so as to conceal any accent, he presumed. "So nice of you to join me." "I don't remember RSVPing your invitation," Mulder stated calmly, belying his true feelings. "It was an invitation I wasn't about to let you refuse," the deep voice responded. "What do you want from me?" Mulder demanded. "What do I , Agent Mulder?" he asked "It's very simple. I suffered in jail because of you. And now, you'll suffer . . . much worse." Stepping forward, the man raised a hand, and Mulder flinched, catching sight of the metal adorning the fingers of his captor's right hand. Old fashioned brass knuckles. "Wait!" But before he could say anything more, the first blow fell, followed by another, and then another. He began on Mulder's mid-section, his right flank especially exposed, although Mulder tried to protect it with his free left hand. But gravity was working against him, the pressure on all his joints keeping him from taking too much action to defend himself. Each blow not only damaged his body, but put extra stress on his right shoulder and hip, making them feel even more like they'd dislocate any second. A loud crack designating at least one broken rib seemed to signal his assailant, and the blows moved from his body to his face. The first cut his cheek and split his lip, dazing him so that he missed the next few blows. When he became aware moments later, there was intense pain in his eye and nose, and he could see blood dripping onto the floor. "This is going to wreak havoc with my profile," Mulder quipped through swollen lips. His captor stood back for a second, panting with his exertions. "Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Stepping forward, he drew his arm back for another strong blow, landing it on Mulder's rib cage once again. The last thing Mulder heard before he passed out was the snap of another rib. XxXxXxX It had been a long night. Maggie Scully couldn't remember ever seeing her daughter look so lost. She'd finally led her to bed around three a.m., but she hadn't stayed down for long. Now, it was half past six and she was up again. "I have to go to work," Dana said, seemingly in a daze. "No, honey. There's no work today." "But if I don't go, Mulder will go out by himself. I can't let him go out by himself." Maggie was at a loss. She knew that denial was a normal step in the grieving process, but this was something more. Was it possible that Dana was sleepwalking? "Come and sit down, sweetheart," she said, guiding her daughter to the sofa. "There's plenty of time to get to the office. For now, why don't you just close your eyes, and I'll make you some breakfast." Blearily, Dana nodded. "Sounds good, Mom." She lay down, her head resting on an armrest. "My poor baby," Maggie whispered, stroking the red hair. "It'll be all right, I promise." But she wasn't entirely sure how. XxXxXxX Gentle hands, small but strong, pushed the hair from his face, freeing it from where it was stuck in the dried blood. A cool cloth wiped his cheeks gently, and although his arm, leg, and ribs still shot hot agony through him, he reveled in the feeling of being cared for. "Mulder. C'mon, Mulder, wake up." "Scully," he said, barely able to manage the syllables through abused lips. "Get out of here before he sees you." "It's okay, Mulder. I'm going to take you home." "Hurts . . ." "I know you hurt. Just hold on." "Watch out for him, Scully," he mumbled. "He's taken care of, don't worry. You're safe," she soothed. A sob broke through the barrier keeping his emotions contained. "Thank God. Will you take me home?" Another sob. "Please, take me home." Lifting his head, which seemed to weigh a ton, he looked at her beseechingly. But before his eyes, she slowly faded away, and he was alone once again. XxXxXxX There were no windows in his prison, making it impossible to tell whether it was day or night. Despite the pain ripping through his body, he knew he'd either slept or was unconscious for at least some of the time since he'd imagined Scully rescuing him. He wondered when "he" would be coming back. Would "he" give him the chance to rest, releasing him from this more-than-uncomfortable position? Mulder made a wish that the answer was yes, but, as the expression goes, he wasn't holding his breath. As if there was a monitor telling him when his captive awoke, "he" came in, still concealed. This time, his gait was slow, his grin decidedly evil, and the scent of tobacco assaulted Mulder's senses, drawing his attention to the cigarette "he" raised to his lips. He took a long draw, exhaling the smoke before speaking. "Looks like you've had better days," his captor said with a cruel chuckle. Rather than answer the taunt, Mulder turned determined eyes to his tormentor. It wasn't easy, since lifting his head was becoming more and more difficult with each passing hour. "Y'know, those things'll kill ya. Plus, they're a dead giveaway that you're one of the bad guys." Mulder's attempt at humor fell on deaf ears. "Oh, but Mr. Mulder. This," he motioned with the cigarette, "isn't for me. I actually brought it especially for you." "Sorry, I don't smoke . . ." "So you say," "he" said, drawing closer and taking another drag on the cigarette. Mulder saw the end glowing red hot, then watched in horror as it approached his exposed stomach. He tried, but was unable to withhold the shriek when it made contact with his skin, sending forth fumes of burning flesh. It was a nauseating smell, and as his captor moved the cigarette to a new location on his body, Mulder lost control of what little was still in his stomach and vomited onto the filthy floor. The burning continued, one small circle after another applied all over his exposed body. It singed the hairs on his legs, arms, chest, and groin, until all he could manage were strangled whimpers, his mouth still dripping as his stomach heaved. Finally, the torture stopped. He barely clung to consciousness as his captor grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head up. "Now, look what you've done!" he ranted. "You filthy, disgusting pig!" Each time "he" uttered a word, another blow fell. The assault seemed to calm the assailant. "I guess I'm just going to have to clean you up. Can't have you hanging around like this, can we?" The voice was unclear, but Mulder was able to make out the gist of its words through his addled mind. Releasing his hair, his abductor disappeared for a moment before returning with a garden hose. Squeezing the trigger, a fine but forceful stream of water erupted from the nozzle, and "he" directed it toward Mulder. It hurt, like tiny needles, but he was offered no reprieve as it moved over his body. "I will not allow this," he said as the stream moved, from stomach, to chest, to neck, and finally, to his face. It rinsed away the residue of his vomit, and Mulder opened his mouth to catch part of the stream, trying to ease the unrelenting thirst. Finally, the spray moved down his body again, traveling to his lower body. Mulder didn't understand what had upset the man so much until he moved around to his back, directing the spray at his back and buttocks. As he was pelted with the water, he realized that he'd lost control of more than his stomach when the most recent bout of torture began. His own feces were hosed from his body to fall onto the floor and be washed down the drain. The grogginess overtook Mulder, the pain from the spray hitting his wounds enough to drag the consciousness from him. Once again, he lost his hold, and drifted off into nothingness. XxXxXxX It wasn't news to her that she was Mulder's executor, nor that she was listed as his closest family. The one who would have to make arrangements, should the need arise. She'd agreed when he'd asked permission to list her as such, but never truly believed that she'd ever have to actually perform the duties put forth in his will. She hadn't been informed of the entire contents yet, but Mulder's lawyer had been content to give her details of what he wished for his final arrangements. It was unusual, she thought, but she had no experience in this sort of thing. His mother had apparently purchased a burial plot for him years ago, despite his desire to be cremated. Although the plot was a full-sized vault - big enough to hold a coffin - his few remaining ashes, what little there was that could be retrieve from the wreck, would be placed there beneath a small headstone which she was allowed to choose. The service, surprisingly enough, would be a religious one if she could arrange it. While not being a church-goer, he had enough of a belief and knew that it would make Scully feel better as well. It took some doing, but the FBI Chaplain agreed to conduct the funeral at a nearby church, after which there would be the procession to the gravesite and the full honors which Mulder was due as somebody who had died serving his country. Through it all, Scully was grateful for her mother's presence, as well as that of Skinner. It had been unexpected, but he seemed genuinely interested in making sure that this went as smoothly and as easily as possible for her. He'd driven them to the mortuary, to see the grave site and the chaplain, and had taken care of all the arrangements for the military presence that would be there. Now, she sat in the living room in the dark while Maggie and Skinner made coffee in the kitchen. She knew they'd try to get her to drink something, but she hadn't been able to consume a thing all day, especially coffee. She felt certain that, should she even try, an upset stomach would be the repayment. Convincing her mother of that however, would be nearly impossible. "Sweetheart, I made some chamomile tea," Maggie surprised her, coming into the room and setting a mug on the end table beside her. "Mom, I can't. . ." "Just try, okay, honey? It might settle your stomach." Her mother's powers of perception constantly amazed her. "Just try a sip." As her mother cajoled her, Skinner came into the room and sat in one of the chairs nearby, a cup of tea in his own hand. "Listen to your mother, Scully," he said softly, perhaps the most gentle she'd ever heard him. "You need to keep up your strength." "Why?" "Because, Sweetheart, Fox would want you to." "What about what want, Mom?" she suddenly beseeched, her eyes beginning to tear again. Would she ever stop crying? But the floodgate of her words as well as tears had opened. "I want this to be a bad dream. I want to wake up and have the phone ring and hear Mulder on the other end. I want . . . I want . . ." "What else do you want, Dana?" Maggie asked gently. "I want Mulder to kiss me! I want to wake up in the morning and see him lying next to me in bed. I want to feel him . . . I want . . ." She broke into sobs, burying her face in her mother's shoulder while Maggie and Skinner exchanged looks. It wasn't a surprise to either of them that there was more emotionally between the two than they saw, but it verified whether or not the pair had ever acted on it. They probably figured they had their whole future laid out before them. Unfortunately, now, there would be no tomorrows. XxXxXxX Noises, objects moving, brought him slowly back to consciousness, but this time, when he opened swollen eyes, he realized the room was still dark. Whatever he'd heard . . . whatever he'd he'd heard . . . was gone. The room was absolutely quiet and dark, and Mulder wondered from which direction his assailant would come next. Seconds, then minutes passed with nothing happening except for the pain in his own body. His left arm, hanging limply towards the ground, felt dead, but he tried to lift it anyway. He only managed a few inches, no more than half a foot, before his strength gave out and the limb dropped limply. "Ahhhhhh!" The sudden weight pulling on his shoulders was the final straw for the abused right shoulder, pulling it out of the socket. He'd had a dislocated shoulder before, but nothing compared to this agony. He begged for someone to come and relieve the agony, but nothing happened, and his sobs turned to whimpers, as he descended into a gray, hazy place between wakefulness and unconsciousness. He wasn't sure how long he hovered in this place. It could have been hours, but in that time, nothing touched his senses. Even the pain in his body was diminished, nearly disappeared as he drifted in a world of nothingness. He wondered how long he could stay in this world, hoping it was longer than he was sure he'd be allowed. His absolute quiet was ripped apart abruptly by a cacophony of noise louder than anything he'd ever experienced. It tore through his brain with an entirely different kind of agony, the sound coming out of the darkness from somewhere beneath him. He tried to cover his left ear, the more vulnerable one, but his arm just no longer had the strength to maintain the position for long, and as the sounds grew louder, his ability to protect himself diminished until he could finally no longer do it at all. Squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as he could, he gasped in pain each time the volume was turned up. It increased decibel by decibel, until a sharp pain tore through his ear. He shrieked, feeling warm liquid drip from the shell of his ear. The sudden pain silenced the racket in that ear, so he half thought that it might be worth it. He tried not to dwell on the possibility that he'd never hear out of that ear again, or that the same could eventually happen in the right. The world spun around him, the damage to his ear causing vertigo to grip his head. The only thought that was able to develop in his mind was that it didn't matter if he wetn deaf because he didn't think he was going to make it out of there. XxXxXxX The arrangements were completed, all the work was done, and with the funeral not until the day after tomorrow, Scully had no idea what to do with herself. She moved around at lost purpose, finally finding herself in the basement of the Hoover building with no real memory of how she'd gotten there. As she sat in Mulder's chair in the dark, thoughts of their times together flowed over her. This is where it had begun. They'd met here. They'd argued here. And they'd become friends here. They'd closed ranks and stood against the worst the world had to offer, and come out the other side intact every single time. What would she do now? She couldn't imagine continuing here alone, or, God forbid, with another partner. It was just too much to fathom. Opening the desk drawer, she reached for a tissue, noticing all the personal things that had accumulated in the drawer over the years. Her tears came again as she studied them. A pair of oddly intersecting coins, a half-dollar that Mulder had once pretended to pull from her ear, a baseball card for his favorite player, and, of course, the ever-present photo of Samantha were but a few of the non-FBI-related items that were scattered throughout the drawer. What would happen to them all now? "Scully . . ." The whispered greeting came from the doorway, where a vague silhouette blocked what little light the hallway had to offer. She hadn't even heard the door open, but there was little doubt as to who was standing there. "Sir . . ." "Your mother called me. She was frantic when she couldn't locate you. I had an idea where you might be." A sniffle. "I don't know what to do with myself, Sir." Moving to squat beside her, looking up into her blue eyes, Skinner touched her cheek gently. "Nobody expects you to do anything right away, Scully. You can have as much time as you need." Scully laughed bitterly. "Time? I've already got too damn much time. How could he do this to me? How could he leave me?" Her eyes looked so lost, even in the dim light, that he nearly wanted to cry for her. "It wasn't his choice, Scully. If I know Mulder at all, I know that he'd never choose to leave you. You were to him - everybody in the Bureau knew it, even if he hadn't had the courage to tell you yet." A sob shook her. "I don't think I can do this without him. I don't think I can do without him." Her grief overtook her again, and she collapsed to the floor, falling into Skinner's arms where she cried her eyes out. It wasn't a situation with which he had much experience, but he held her and let her cry, remaining a still, solid support until a shadow fell over both of them. Looking up, he saw Kim standing in the doorway, tears rolling down her face. In her hands she held some paperwork, no doubt planning to speak to him about some administrative matter, but she couldn't help but be drawn into the sorrow of her coworker. She exchanged a nod of understanding with her boss, coming into the room to bend down beside the grief-stricken agent. "Come on, Scully," Skinner said as the two of them helped her to her feet. "I'll take you home." XxXxXxX "Wake up, cop!" The angry words came along with slaps to his face and head, leaving his head ringing. The room tilted on its axis, Mulder's equilibrium skewed by the damage to his eardrum. If there was anything left inside him, he knew he'd have thrown it up by now. How long had it been since he'd eaten? At least he was getting water. Twice since the first incident, his captor had hosed him down, and while it may not have been the original intent, Mulder had managed to capture some of the precious liquid in his mouth, moistening a throat dry and painful from screaming. This time was different, though, Mulder realized as "he" stood beside him on a small step ladder. He was fastening something above him, but Mulder was too weak to even lift his head to look. How much more of this could he take before his body just gave out. But he had a reason to hold on, an utter certainty that, if at all possible, Scully would come for him. She wouldn't give up until she knew what had happened to him. As if reading his mind, the man's words interrupted his thoughts. "Look at you, calling out for that pretty partner of yours like a baby callin' for his mama. Well, I got news for you, asshole, she ain't coming. No, there'll be no rescue for you." All Mulder could think of was her safety. "If you hurt her . . ." "Oh, don't worry - Agent Scully is perfectly safe. But see, she's not coming for you, because she thinks you're dead!" Paper rustled, and then his head was yanked up by the hair and a newspaper was shoved in front of his face. FBI Agent Killed in Rush Hour Motor Vehicle Accident "Nobody's coming for you, Mulder, because nobody you aren't already dead. You're mine to do with as I please until I get bored and finally kill you for real." It couldn't be true, Mulder tried to convince himself, but he knew, deep down, that it could very well be. "Scully," he whispered, picturing her in his mind. "Scully can't help you now. You're entirely under my control." "You're going to kill me," Mulder mumbled weakly. "Yes, eventually," he agreed, almost magnanimously. "But a quick death is too easy." Mulder's captor reached up again, and water began to sluice down over him - not a hard spray, but a soaking one. It saturated his every pore. Suddenly, something horrifying entered his field of vision. His torturer held a set of jumper cables, and Mulder thought that you didn't have to be an Oxford graduate to know what was going to happen next when he saw that they were connected to a nearby car battery. "No!" Mulder screamed with all the energy he had left in him, but it didn't help. White hot agony shot through him as the cables came into contact with his body, jerking him and making his body arch in a way he wouldn't have believed it still could. "He" moved them from one body part to another, no area going untouched. Back, front, side, chest, abdomen, arms, legs, and worst of all, genitals. There was a break of no more than a moment before the onslaught began again, but this time, Mulder jerked his torso away from the cables before they made contact. It was purely instinct, but it failed to help him, making matters worse when he felt his hip pull out of joint. Now, his weight was suspended completely by the muscles and tendons in his arm and leg, the bones being of no support. And the electric shock torture continued until the darkness finally took him away. XxXxXxX For a man who'd always thought he had no family and very few friends, the funeral was very well attended. People whose lives had been touched by Mulder had come out full force, and even many members of the Bureau he'd thought looked upon him with disdain attended the ceremony with dignity and respect. Scully thanked God that she hadn't been asked to speak, since she was having a hard time even accepting the condolences of those around her. Through it all, her mother and her boss stayed close by her side in silent support. As she sat in the front pew, she stared up at the crucifix that adorned the altar and begged for answers. How could this happen to them? They had so much left to do, and there was so much left unsaid between them. She wished she was alone, so that she could say all the things that had gone unspoken but catalogued them in her memory instead for a later time. They'd assumed they'd have forever to find an easy way to move their relationship forward. How wrong they were. . . This wasn't the way she'd imagined her first ride in a limousine coming about, she thought as she was led to the car to go from the church to the cemetery. Mulder's remains were in a box in the other car, both vehicles provided by the funeral home that had taken care of all the other arrangements. She didn't know if this type of procession was unusual for somebody who had been cremated - it seemed like most similar cases resulted in a memorial service - but she knew that this was what Mulder's mother would have wanted, and it was what she needed in order to say good-bye. The day was sunny and warm, and the gravesite was in a lush, green area of the cemetery. Chairs had been placed around the grave where she, her mother, Skinner, and the Gunmen sat while the Chaplain said a final set of prayers, sending Mulder's soul on to his final reward. She took the carefully-folded flag with which she'd been presented and held it close to her chest, a last memento of a very special man. As everybody walked away from the grave, Dana Scully dropped a single, red rose into the hole with the small box. "Good-bye, Mulder." XxXxXxX Fox Mulder dragged himself back to wakefulness with difficulty, but something was happening, and he needed to know what. Sounds in the room indicated activity, but he simply didn't have the energy to lift his downcast eyes due to his many injuries and abuses. Still, he was able to see booted feet as they approached him. Jingling noises, and then he was abruptly dropped to the concrete floor with all the grace of a bag of cement, knocking what little breath he had left out of him. "What's happening?" he demanded with more strength than he really had, but no answer was given and he was left to wonder. Finally down from the suspended position, he wondered if he was being given a sympathetic break - unlikely, it seemed - or if this was finally the end. He was almost hoping it was. His body was one large wound, and he was unable to move a finger let alone an entire arm or leg. His captor must have known it, because he made no move to restrain him in any way. He could only guess what his body must look like: cigarette burns, bruises, cuts, and electrical burns were probably just the start. Mulder didn't have the strength even to scream when he was dragged into the open air, the sunlight assaulting his eyes and shooting needles through them. He'd been in the dark for . . . well, he wasn't sure how long, but ever since he'd been here. Seemingly, forever. His hips and buttocks bounced off rocks and bumpy ground as he was pulled by his good arm - if you could call it that - through the yard to the rear of a car. Hoisted roughly and dumped unceremoniously into the trunk, Mulder sighed a heavy sigh when the lid came down and he was alone again. Wherever he was being taken, he knew it was very likely his last stop on this earth. He wished he could see Scully one more time, bringing her face to his mind and holding it there while he lost his hold on consciousness yet again. XxXxXxX Fox Mulder had thought he'd felt terror in his life, but nothing he'd ever felt before compared to this experience. When he'd been dumped into his kidnapper's trunk, he truly never expected to awaken again, but now, here he was. But where was this? His small prison was dark, and dank, without sufficient room to move even if he had been capable. It must have been just wide and long enough for a man's body, with little to spare. And worst of all, his mouth was taped shut with something strong, wrapped around and around his head so there was no chance for removal. He tried to concentrate, to keep from hyperventilating from the waking nightmare. Breathing was difficult, but he knew he couldn't allow himself to overcompensate Why would his abductor bother to tape his mouth shut? The question flashed through his mind as a myriad of others pushed it just as quickly aside. What was the purpose of this, being utmost in his mind. Suddenly, in the darkness, a voice spoke, muffled as if it were far away, yet laced with coldness. He wondered if the sound quality was due to his non-functional left ear, or if something else was also going on. "This is where I leave you, Agent Mulder," it said. "In case you haven't figured it out by now, you're four feet underground, in your very own grave. Or, more precisely, your grave. I set up this pipe so that you could hear everything that's going on around you as you slowly waste away to nothing." Ah, that's why the tape. Couldn't have him calling out for help, could he? "Farewell, Agent Mulder." And then it grew silent again. He wished he could lift his arms, find the pipe and see if he could at least see sunlight at the end. That is, if it was even daytime. He also wished he could sleep, rest his body and drift away. If this was how he was going to die, he'd rather it be sooner than later. But the terror that gripped his throat kept any peace from overtaking him. XxXxXxX The day after the funeral was rainy, and Scully couldn't help but think it fit her mood. She had taken some leave time from the Bureau, hoping to find some direction for her life now that Mulder was gone. She knew Mulder put his life into the work, and while it challenged and intrigued her, she realized that she'd mostly stayed with it because of him. She didn't have the heart to continue on without him. So first thing in the morning, she found herself at the cemetery. A foggy mist blanketed the area, giving it a surreal quality, but she had no problems whatsoever in finding the spot where they'd buried him. Studying the stone and the freshly-turned dirt, the sense of loss overtook her again, and she fell to her knees, uncaring that the wet ground was saturating her jeans. "Mulder, I miss you," she sobbed in her still- fresh grief. "I know you're probably wondering why I'm not at work, but I just can't . . . I can't go there anymore and not have you with me. Although a piece of you will always be in my heart, I can't do it without you. "There's so much I wish I'd done . . . we'd done . . . when we had the time. I wasted so much time pushing you away, when all I really wanted to do was let you in. There's so much of me that you never got to see, that I didn't share with you because I was afraid of being hurt. And now, I'm hurting more than I could ever have imagined. I should have said the words a long time ago," she sobbed, laying a hand on the dirt. "I love you, Mulder. I'll always love you, and I'm sorry we missed the chance to be together the way I think you would have liked. We could have been happy." She broke into fresh tears, unable to even speak any longer. Uncaring of the soil that would get into her hair and on her face, she lay her head down on the grave, her tears soaking the dirt. Through her tears, a pale vision appeared, and she blinked her eyes and tried to focus. She rose slightly with the effort. Great, she thought. Now I'm hallucinating. What she saw then knocked her back onto her rear with its emotional impact. Her heart pounded in terror, and her throat was instantly dry. She knew she had to be as white as a ghost, what she was seeing surely something out of a classic horror movie. There, appearing out of the dirt, was a hand. A very familiar hand. "Oh, my God," she whispered, watching as the fingers moved. The owner was obviously alive, but weak. She didn't question - now wasn't the time. It was a time for action and she took it. Grabbing for her cellular, she dialed 911, quickly giving them information and her agent ID and badge number, but not explaining too much. How could she? Somebody was buried alive - not something you encounter every day. "Please hurry," she said before quickly closing her phone and shoving it down into a pocket. Then she began to dig. "Hang on!" she called, using her bare hands to displace the soil as fast as possible, but she seemed to be making no headway. "Can you hear me? Don't you give up on me, Mulder!" It had to be him. . . . It just had to be. . . . She continued to dig frantically, her sobs intermingled with her grunts from the effort. The arm came more into view, and she'd barely uncovered the elbow when she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Ma'am, let us," a uniformed man said, and she realized it was a rescue worker. She allowed herself to be moved aside while the rescue workers concentrated on removing several feet of dirt, an ambulance and paramedics standing by with equipment close at hand. "We've got cardboard, I think," somebody called, and they worked harder until finally, it was revealed. A cardboard box saturated with moisture from the rain, and a single spot where the occupant had managed to tear a hole big enough to extend his arm upward. Thank God whoever had put him in there hadn't thought to put him face down. Looking down into the hole as Mulder was revealed, she found she could do nothing but weep, only this time, in shock, and, yes, joy. They ripped the box aside, leaving the broken man lying supine. His arm had dropped back to his side, there was duct tape encircling his head to silence him, and his nude body was covered with marks she didn't even want to think about identifying. It took four firemen and two paramedics to hoist Mulder from the hole in the ground, and she could see that it was an agonizing process for him. About half way through, he went limp, and she was grateful that he'd no longer be suffering while at the same time worried that he was so weak. Finally, once he was accessible, they were able to concentrate on him. "Respiration's shallow but steady, blood pressure is 70 over 40." "Temp's up, but not dangerous. We should be able to move him." They hefted the stretcher into the ambulance, and Scully climbed in with them before they had a chance to refuse. Good thing, too, because nobody was going to keep her from his side. "Agent, could you please sit up here?" one of the medics asked her, and she moved to a small seat near Mulder's head, where she began to pet his hair and whisper to him. "Hold on, Mulder. You've got to hold on for me. I can't stand to lose you twice in one week." She kept up her litany the entire way to the hospital as the paramedics started an IV and slid an oxygen mask over Mulder's nose and mouth. When the doors were finally yanked open, he was whisked away from her before she could chase after him, leaving her stranded and alone in the waiting room. She knew better than to interfere in their attempt to help Mulder. Despite still being slightly in shock at his reappearance, her instincts were functioning well enough that she went to the nearest bank of pay phones. "He's alive, Mom," she said simply, her voice breaking. "He's . . ." Maggie was obviously taken entirely unaware. "Fox?" "Yeah." "Dana, I know this has been hard for you . . ." "Mom, I haven't lost my mind. I'll explain everything when you get here, but Mulder's alive. He's being evaluated right now." "Where are you, Sweetheart?" "Arlington General." "I'm on my way - just stay where you are." "You'd better believe it," she said, causing her mother to chuckle. Maybe the long nightmare was nearly over. "Call Skinner, please?" "No problem, honey. I'll be right over." She paced and sat, sat and paced, waiting for word on Mulder's condition, but nothing came. "Dana!" "Mom!" She ran into her mother's arms, only vaguely aware at first that Skinner was at her side. "Scully, what's happening? Your mother said . . ." "He's alive, Sir," she said, turning to face her boss from the security of her mother's embrace. "How is that possible?" Skinner asked, stunned. He'd known what Mrs. Scully said, but he wasn't sure he could believe it until he actually saw the agent for himself. "I don't know, Sir. I went to visit Mulder's grave this morning, and while I was there, he just pushed his hand up through the dirt. It looked like somebody, most likely whoever inflicted his injuries, put him in a box and buried it on top of the vault lid sometime during the night." "But why would anybody do that?" "I've been thinking about it while waiting for the doctor to come out, and I don't think that whoever did this ever intended Mulder to get out of that box. They just didn't bank on Mulder's fortitude. Or on his surviving this long." "All this time . . ." Skinner shook his head in disbelief. "I wish I knew how much longer the doctor would be," Scully said impatiently. "I need . . ." "Dana Scully?" A man in scrubs stood in the doorway with a chart in his hand. "I'm here," she said, rushing up to him, Maggie and Skinner right behind her. "How is he?" "Why don't you come into my office and I'll go over it all with you - there's quite a lot here." He turned his attention to her companions. "Are you with her?" "Yes, I'm her mother," Maggie volunteered. "And this is Fox's boss, Assistant Director Skinner of the FBI." "Okay, if you'd all join me then . . ." They followed the man into what was nothing more than a small room with a desk, but it would serve the purpose. "Now then. I'm Dr. Saulkes." Scully smiled, and he added, "Please, I've heard every joke, believe me." "Sorry," she grinned. "Now, about Agent Mulder." "What's his condition, Doctor? Can I see him?" "Not right away, no," he said. "It appears that your partner has been the victim of some very malicious torture, Agent Scully. The kind that's designed more to hurt than to kill. I saw a lot of this in the middle east during the Gulf War, but wherever this guy learned, he was a pro. He's in critical condition, but once he wakes up, it'll be upgraded to serious but guarded." "That's all fine and good, Doctor, but what are his injuries?" Scully was getting impatient, and Maggie rested a hand on her arm in an effort to keep her calm. "Well, his right shoulder was dislocated, three of his right ribs were broken, and his right hip was also dislocated. Based on this and the chaff marks on his right wrist and ankle, I'm guessing that his kidnapper had him strung up by that arm and leg. This is confirmed as the condition of the muscles and tendons in those joints indicate damage that was caused by the weight of his body being put entirely on them. He has a broken nose and cheekbone as the result of a beating that also tore tendons in his neck. There are also bruises and cuts on his body probably from the same beating. He's malnourished, and has both electrical and what I think are cigarette burns on just about every part of his body. His left eardrum has been perforated. "They're taking him to surgery now to repair the dislocations, since the surrounding tissue is too badly damaged to reset them the old fashioned way. While we're in there, an audiological specialist will work on his eardrum - with any luck, he'll regain full hearing in that ear. The x-rays show the ribs are stable for now, and should be okay if we just tape them up and keep him still." "That'll be the real test," Skinner chuckled, feeling a bit better from the doctor's words. It sounded like, with some work, Mulder would come out of this okay. "Well, if he follows directions," Dr. Saulkes said, unconsciously echoing Skinner's thoughts, "with a lot of work, he should come out of this almost as good as new." "Almost?" Scully asked, concerned. "Will he be able to go back to work?" "Barring unforeseen circumstances, Agent Scully, I'm willing to go out on a limb and say yes. He should regain one hundred percent of the hearing in his left ear, but even if there's a deficit, it'll be slight. And, of course, his right ear wasn't affected at all. He may also suffer from discomfort in his joints on the right side of his body when the weather is damp - all those things you always hear people complaining about anyway. But it shouldn't affect his functioning on duty." "Okay, good," she said with a sigh. "Now the tough question: how long?" "I'd say a week to ten days in the hospital, then four weeks of intensive therapy. After that, he'll be able to go back to work on desk duty, but he'll still have therapy two to three times a week for six months, until he's back to full strength." "Six months . . ." "I know it sounds like a long time, but he's been through an incredible ordeal. I don't know the details of how he got into this condition, but I'd also recommend him talking to somebody. PTST is a very large possibility if this was intentionally inflicted." "Damn!" Skinner said, drawing the eyes of all three of those around him. "I need to call the Bureau. There should be a guard stationed at Mulder's door." "I'll advise the staff," Saulkes said. "Please ask your people to be as inconspicuous as possible." "I will, but the safety of my agent has to come first." "It's a given that whoever did this to him never intended him to find a way out of that grave," Scully repeated shaking her head. "How could anybody do this to another person." "He's been sending people to prison for many years, Scully, even pre-dating your partnership," Skinner said. "I don't even know where to begin trying to investigate them all, but if he or she comes after Mulder, I want our own people there to make sure we head them off." "I'm sure it'll be fine," the doctor said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go up to the OR and observe the surgery. He'll be in intensive care at least overnight once he comes out, so if you want to wait in the ICU waiting room, I'll be sure to either come or send somebody once he's finished." "Will I be able to see him?" "Once he's settled, I don't see why not." Saulkes stood and left them, as Skinner went to make his phone calls. "Mom, you don't need to stay. You've been so . . . I don't know what I would have done without you, but . . ." At a loss for words, she hugged her mother. "Dana, I'm not leaving you until I know Fox is out of danger, so just forget it. Now we're going to go down to the cafeteria and get some coffee, then go up to the waiting room. Mr. Skinner will be looking for us there." Not surprisingly, that's exactly what happened. "Thank you," Skinner said as Maggie handed him a Styrofoam cup of heaven. He took a sip, careful not to burn his lips or tongue. She'd remembered, black with two sugars. "Just the way I like it." Dana looked at her mother quizzically. "How . . . .?" Maggie smiled at Skinner mysteriously. "You always reminded me of my late husband, and that's how he always took his. You could say I got lucky." "Well, it's appreciated," Skinner smiled back, taking another sip. The coffee was long gone by the time a nurse finally came out to say that Mulder's surgery was finished and he would be being moved from recovery to ICU within a half hour. About that time, two agents arrived and Skinner gave them instructions and details of what they had to watch out for. "I'm headed back to the office," Skinner told the Scullys afterwards. "I think the best thing to do is for Mulder to remain, officially, dead. The fewer people who know he was found, the less likely whoever did it will try to finish the job." "I almost wish he would try," Scully said with anger in her voice. "If I could get my hands on whoever did this . . ." "You would take him into custody, and you know it. You're too good an agent to do otherwise." "Why don't you go on in with Fox, dear," Maggie said, speaking for the first time since they'd entered the waiting room. She nodded, but specified to her mother, "you should go home. I'll call you if there are any changes." Agreeing, Maggie and Skinner left, and Scully made her way to the inner sanctum of the hospital in search of her partner. XxXxXxX A hazel eye appeared, the lid to its mate too swollen to do likewise, and Scully longed to soothe away the swelling with a touch. "Good morning," she whispered with a smile. "How's the pain?" "Somewhere between getting shot and being electrocuted by a computer program," he quipped. "I can call the nurse . . ." "No, I can manage." "Do you remember what happened to you?" Scully asked him. "Too well," he responded with a groan. "I'm sorry." "Whatever are you sorry for?" she asked, stunned. "None of this is your fault." "He told me that he made you think I was dead. I know how I would have felt . . ." "I blame him for that, Mulder, not you." She knew that some things had to take priority. They needed to be sure he was safe before they could have the conversation she knew was forthcoming. "Do you know who it was?" "He wore movie prosthetics on his face so I couldn't see." He chuckled weakly and then groaned at the pain it caused. "Made himself look like some evil. . . monster. Guess he didn't realize that I've seen it all before." "We both have," Scully responded, thinking of some of their more terrifying cases. "The doctor says that if you relax and stay in bed, you'll be okay." "I'm glad to hear that," he winced as he tried to move a bit. "It sure doesn't feel like it." The sadness took hold of her voice again. "Mulder, I can only imagine . . ." "You don't want to imagine, trust me. How long before I can go back to work?" "Six weeks for the office, six months for the field. But you're going to get there, Mulder. It's just a matter of time." "I'll go crazy, Scully," he said, and she could have sworn she saw a twinkle in his eye. "I'll be sure to keep you busy," she smiled, thinking of all the time they could have together. Reaching up, she took his hand. "We have some things to talk about." "Yeah," he agreed, rubbing his left thumb over the back of her hand. "The worst thing about dying was the idea of doing it without being able to say good-bye to you." "It was the worst thing that ever happened to me," she said, a tear falling from her eye. She tried to lighten the mood. "The funeral was very nice, though. Nearly the entire Bureau showed up." "They just probably just wanted to be sure I was really dead and not just putting on an act," he said, but the sentenced trailed off to silence. "Is something wrong, Mulder?" He seemed to be looking deep inside himself, searching his memory. "When I was a rookie, I wrote a profile that helped to catch a serial killer named Benjamin Rockwood. He was murdering amateur thespians because he saw them as competition. He turned out to be a makeup artist who was aiming for loftier goals." "Do you think he's the one who did this to you?" "I know he was. It was his voice, and the makeup proves it. I knew it sounded familiar all along, but I just put my finger on whose it was. But he was sent to jail for life. . ." "I'll call Skinner. He should be able to find out what's happened to him." "I what's happened to him," Mulder said. "And everybody else will know it, too, once the Bureau tracks him down." "You just leave that up to the Bureau, and rest. Heal. It's what your body needs." "Hey," Mulder smiled, but he was growing groggier by the second. "Maybe, some day, you can take me to see my grave." "Mulder," she responded, kissing him gently on his swollen lips. "That's one place I never want to see again." The End