The Process By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com) Category: Post-ep. Written for After-the-Fact's Deep Throat challenge. Rating: PG13 Spoilers: Deep Throat Summary: Mulder's perspective on what happens from the time he's captured until the end of the episode. Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and everybody else don't belong to me. I'm not making any money on this, so a case would never hold up in court. Author's Notes: Thanks to Laura for the beta and concept on this. What would I do without ya? Feedback: Yes, please please please? The Process By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com) Dammit, I knew I should have worn my running shoes rather than these boots. It's a realization that comes to me too late, as I use every bit of my athletic abilities to dodge the small army coming down on me. But they're getting closer . . . I fight with every ounce of my being, but they still manage to overtake me. Have no one to rely on now – nobody who'd care enough to come after me. Scully flashes across my mind's eye, but I know that she hasn't been around long enough to really care what happens to me. I trust her somewhat, yes, but she has no reason to come in here with guns blazing to save my sorry ass. They're going to kill me, I mentally predict. Not that I mind dying so much – God knows I've wasted my life – but I just wish I'd been able to find out about Sam first. Aliens and UFO's I can do without, but her ultimate fate, the knowledge that has driven me, is the one thing I don't want to die without having uncovered. Surprisingly enough, the bullets I expect to pierce my body never come. Instead, I'm lifted, and strapped to a rolling bed that is whisked away into a military truck. Lying flat on your back, unable to see around you, you lose track of where you are and what's happening. At some point, I'm removed from the truck, but I don't know if this is before or after the needle is jabbed into my wrist. Far from the typical IV needle, I realize, but the warmth of whatever drug it holds flows through me at a rapid pace. I'm terrified. The medication has flooded my body, depriving me of any ability to speak or move much, yet I'm still awake. If they're going to suck out my brain, the least they could do is be sure I'm unconscious when they do it. I'm moving again, although I'm not sure how I know this. Oh, yeah . . . the ceiling above me is moving. The drug isn't affecting my vision, as a flash of white draws my attention to the side. What I see there is . . . what can I possibly say? It can only be the gold at the end of my rainbow: an aircraft, military in design, but made with what has to be alien technology. I wish Scully were here to see this . . . Suddenly, my vision begins to dim, and I realize that I may not have to stay awake through the pseudo-lobotomy after all. I'm not sure, as I sink under the surface, whether I'm grateful or not. I float for I'm not sure how long, surfacing briefly due to the agony in my eyes as some kind of foreign substance is dripped into them. If this is torture, then they're very good at it, but I've never been one to give in to pain, and I fight, until a cup is placed over my nose and mouth. Gas pulls me under again, and I wonder this time if I'll ever awaken. Noises. Clicks. Taps. Voices, in the distance, vague and indistinct. The smell of antiseptic. Where am I? Only one way to find out. PAIN! Shooting agony stabs through my head, and I want to die. I clench my eyes shut again, and even that hurts intensely. I can't stand to open my eyes again. As long as I lay completely still, not moving or looking or even thinking too much, the pain remains at bay, and I'm grateful for this small fact. Lying there, so still, my mind is a void. I'm afraid that the wrong thoughts will start the pain again, so I don't think any more than necessary. Necessary. Now that's an interesting concept, given the circumstances. I'm here, wherever here is, I can't even open my eyes to take it all in, nobody seems to be keeping track of my status or they'd know I'm awake. Hell, maybe they know and just don't care. Am I in a hospital? "Time for some tests," a voice says, and I shy away from it for a reason of which I'm not sure. I can't identify the speaker, but I sense a malevolence about him just the same. My welfare is not utmost among his areas of concern. "No," I whisper, grateful that the act doesn't make the pain any worse. I can't remember ever feeling this kind of pain. As a matter of fact, I realize, I can't remember anything at all. Who am I?! "Come on, Mr. Mulder. We know you're awake." Mr. Mulder. Is that me? It doesn't sound at all familiar; perhaps they're speaking to somebody else sharing my room. "I said get up!" There's no doubt that I'm the one they're speaking to as the demand is punctuated when a kick lands soundly in the middle of my back. I must be lying on a cot, as it comes from underneath. It looks like, regardless of my actions, I'm going to be facing some major agony in the immediate future. Might as well see what's happening to me. Slowly, I let my eyelids rise. They're dry and scratchy, but the knifing sensation remains at bay this time. Thankfully. "Do you know where you are?" A man, balding with glasses and beady eyes, bends over me until I can smell his fetid breath. Christ, buddy, haven't you ever heard of mouthwash? "Somewhere with a shortage of toothbrushes?" I say before I can curtail it. My sense of humor is rewarded with another kick, this one taking me in the side. Pain, but no permanent damage, it seems. He inundates me with questions. "What day is it?" "Who is president of the United States?" "Where were you born?" And then the biggie. "What's your name?" "Don't remember . . ." I mumble from between clenched teeth. How can I not remember something as basic as my name? "Do you know where you are?" "You've gotta be kidding," I remark, trying to control the hysterical laugh I feel overtaking me. "Your name is Fox Mulder," he tells me, and I'm grateful for this bit of information. It sounds somehow more familiar this time. "Gee, thanks. What's yours?" He's not amused, this time kicking my legs. I'm going to be one massive bruise when I get out of here. If I get out of here. Belatedly, I realize that my arms are in restraints, held down to the sides of the flimsy cot with leather and buckles. One more kick and it'll most likely topple over. A knock on the door to my room, vacant I now see except for the cot on which I'm lying, draws the interrogator from my side. He turns back, briefly. "You're a special agent with the FBI," he adds, giving me more much-desired information about myself. So that's how I got into this predicament. Turning his back to me, I watch as he opens the cell door. A much-younger man enters the room half way. "His partner's got Mossinger, and she's demanding his release. She's threatening to go to the press if we don't hand over Mulder." "How long?" "They'll be here in about an hour. What are we going to do?" "Let him go." It sounds so simple. "Are you crazy?" "The expedited procedure worked – better than we could have even hoped. He doesn't even remember his own name. She can have him, for all the good it'll do either of them." "But won't they be suspicious? It's not just a little piece this time – it's his entire memory!" "They can't prove anything. After a while, some things may come back to him, but not for awhile. And not the things that really concern us." I listen to this exchange with a certain amount of relief. Somebody's coming to get me, I think, feeling like a forlorn child at summer camp. I wish I could remember who this partner was who cared enough to threaten such obviously-powerful men, but nothing comes to mind. He said I was an FBI agent, so this person – this woman, I realize, remembering the men saying "she" – must be my partner at work. I hope I recognize her when I see her, I think. While I'm pondering my situation, the two have stopped talking, coming instead into the room together. Surprisingly, the younger man – who wears a white doctor's coat – begins to loose my bonds. "Playtime over?" I ask. "It's just begun," the older man says with a cruel smile. "We have to make sure you understand that pursuing us is not in anyone's best interests." I stand for the first time, and my legs are as wobbly as a newborn colt, yet I proudly stay on my feet. The doctor stands behind me, supporting me slightly, and while I'm grateful, I don't have the chance to express it. My interrogator sneers at me, giving me a moment to look into his eyes before the blows begin. Most of them fall on my stomach, and a few on my legs, making it hard to remain upright. I'm not sure how long it goes on before my body, already weak, gives in and falls to the ground. I'm conscious, but I won't be able to move for a few minutes. They take advantage of my disability. Two goons come in, hefting me up between them and carrying me through a hallway and out a side door, where the sunlight assaults my eyes. It's so bright, they begin to water and tear. A jeep pulls up beside us and I'm dumped into the passenger seat. If I weren't feeling so lousy, I could make a run for it, but as it stands, I think staying here is my best option for staying healthy and alive. They said they were taking me to my partner, right? "Gee, thanks for the lift," I tell the driver, finally catching my breath and sitting up straight in my seat. "You are not welcome," the man says seriously. Tough crowd. "When we get to the gates," he instructs me, "you are to go directly to your partner's vehicle and leave quietly. "Make any trouble, and you'll both be imperiled." I nod my head blearily, realizing all too clearly that I'm not fully with it at the moment. The beating and whatever they did to my memory has taken its toll – I'm not about to cause any trouble at the moment. As we approach, I see a sedan sitting on the other side of the gate. It's not a knight on a white horse, but I'll take it. The jeep pulls to a stop as the gates are opened, and I clamber out, my legs still unsteady. I walk like a drunken man, taking a few steps before I look up to see my savior. Petite, feminine curves, red hair tied up in a ponytail, and a determined look immediately identify her, and information instantly comes flooding back. It's too much all at once, and I stop wavering, as it all falls into place in my head. The Bureau The X-Files Aliens Samantha Scully I need think no further, for I am certain of who this woman is now. Dana Scully, my partner. The car's license plates say Idaho, and I recall coming to the spud state to investigate a kidnapping. But what happened? "Get in the car, Mulder." I hear the words, but I'm frozen in place. "Get in the car!" she yells, and it's enough to get my feet moving again. The reporter comments on "what you've seen here," but whatever I've seen is no longer in my mind. It would be funny if it wasn't so damn disconcerting. I wonder what it is I've seen and forgotten. Been to forget. We're moving before I even realize I've sat down in the car. Scully looks at me with concern, and I don't want to tell her she has a damn good right to be. "You okay, Mulder?" she asks after a heavy sigh. I can't lie to her. "I think so." I'm not sure of much at the moment. I have to ask. "Scully, I . . ." "What?" "How did I get here?" I don't have to be all that aware to realize my question upsets her. She takes a breath and licks her lips. "What's the last thing you remember?" "Nazi stormtroopers took our files." "Not quite," she smiled gently at me. How could I ever have forgotten her? Shifting in my seat, the blows my stomach took make themselves known again, and I grimace. "You okay?" "For a human punching bag," I admit. "What did you see in there, Mulder? What happened to you?" "I have no idea," I say, and I realize how true it is. That part of my memory remains elusive. "Until I woke up, that is. The rest is all too clear." "I'm going back to the hotel," she said suddenly. "You need to be checked out if you're in that much pain. And you're squinting like you have a headache." "The headache to end all headaches," I say. That'll happen when you get part of your brain sucked out. "I want to go see Mrs. Buddahaas." "Why, Mulder? What good could it do now?" "Maybe . . . I don't know. I just need to." And for the first time in my career, I utter the magic word. "Please?" I can tell by her reaction that it's going against her better judgment, but she gives in. Feeling as disheveled as I'm sure I look, I'm soon standing on the family's front porch. I can't believe it, but the wife all but slams the door in my face. Scully and I argue briefly, but I know it's a lost cause. She's determined to leave town, and I'm just too exhausted and achy to fight her on it. Oh, yeah. She doesn't miss that for a second. "I've changed my mind, Mulder. You have your choice: we can go back to the hotel to pick up our things and I can check you over there, or I can take you to the nearest hospital and they can do it." "I'm okay, Scully," I say, getting annoyed with her controlling tendencies. If this is the way our partnership is going to be, I'm not sure if it's worth it, yet I know I'll put up with it as long as I can continue investigating the X-Files. "You're not, damnit," she says, shocking me. I never took her for the vulgar type. "Every time you move, you're in some level of pain. Look, I promise. If it's nothing major, I'll forget the whole thing, but I have to be sure." "Don't want to get a reputation for hospitalizing partners, huh?" I grin. "I don't give a damn about my reputation, Mulder. I what happens to you – that you're safe – can't you accept that in the spirit in which it's intended?" Put like that, I feel like a first-class heel. Okay, so I hate doctors, but taking it out on her is hardly fair. "So what's it gonna be, Mulder. Me, or the ER?" "Well . . . if I choose door number one, do you promise to defend my honor if we're accused of breaking the rule about male and female agents consorting in the same motel room?" "I will, but I won't need to, because you're the only one who'll be undressed." Her eyes twinkle, the mood lightens, and I'm instantly feeling somewhat better. Not physically, but emotionally. Maybe she really does care. Back at the hotel, I expect to find out rooms ransacked, but everything is where we left it. We go into her room, mostly because I know from when I ran off earlier that hers will be neat and tidy. When I occupy a space, I tend to occupy he space, with clothes over the backs of chairs and laid out on the bed. This will save her the embarrassment of seeing my boxer shorts. "Okay, Mulder. Everything off but your shorts," she said abruptly. Okay, maybe I'll be the one who is embarrassed. "I never said . . ." "Hospital, Mulder. It was your choice, and I won't hesitate to take you in." "Scully . . ." "Strip, Mulder. Or I'll insist that the shorts go, too." She's trying very hard to hide a smile, and I somehow know that I'm going to be all right. We're going to be all right. She wins. Standing before her in my shorts, I realize that turnabout is fair play. Our positions are very similar to that night on our first case, only this time, I'm the one being exposed. "Oh, my God," she says, circling around me, and I don't think that she's commenting on my athletic physique. I admit, looking down on myself, there are quite a few bruises. "It's nothing," I try to convince her, but she'll have none of it. She runs medically- trained hands over my ribs, stomach, and lower back – the areas where the bruises are the most intense. She must find them acceptable because she then takes my arm by the wrist, examining every inch of them. Her expression turns even more serious. "Mulder, these look like needle marks! And there's more than one set. What exactly happened at the base?" "I really wish I could tell you," I assure her, sitting down. "I don't remember a thing until I woke up in a cell. There was a certain amount of . . .physical contact. And then they said you were demanding my release." "I know needle marks when I see them, Mulder." "I'm not saying that's not what they are. I believe it – I just don't remember it." She nods, looking into my eyes and feeling my pulse, taking my admission at face value. "Well, you seem to be okay, except for the bruising of course." She stands up, laying a hand on my hair and ruffling it a bit. I find that I like it. A lot. "Promise you won't run off like that alone again, please? We're partners, and we have to act like it. I'm committed to making our partnership work, but you have to meet me half way. I'll trust you, Mulder, but you have to trust me, too." "I can't deny something that I know is true because you don't want to see it, Scully," I argue up at her. She paces the room while I sit on the edge of the bed, nursing my bruises. "Okay, let's make a deal. I promise to be more open minded, if you promise to give me the option of going along with you. Deal?" "Deal," I say, offering my hand. As we shake, I add, "partner." She's smiling, and I realize I like it. The twinkle in her eye is back. "There's just one more thing you really need to know, Agent Mulder," she says, blushing slightly, and I wonder what's coming. "What's that, Agent Scully?" "Some boxer shorts gap." She turns and walks away from me, her shoulders shaking with withheld laughter as I find it's my turn to blush. And in these circumstances, you can bet your last dollar that I do! The End.