From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 3 Aug 2004 23:47:39 -0000
Subject: Beyond the Grave 1_5 by Mary Kleinsmith
Source: direct

Reply To: Buc252@aol.com


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 <anything> 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 <was> 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

Page 8 of 8


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 
<his> 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 cliche.  He didn't want this to be 
cliche.  

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 <really> 
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 facade 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 <want>, 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
Page 1 of 9


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 <I> 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 
<thought> 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 <everything> 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 <anything> 
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 <knows> 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
Page 1 of 9


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, <on> 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 . . ."

Page 6 of 6

They followed the man into what was nothing 
much 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 <know> 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