From: Humbuggie Date: 6 Dec 2003 08:01:35 -0800 Subject: xfc: Merry Christmas, Mr. Mulder 1/1 Source: atxc "Merry Christmas, Mr. Mulder" By Humbuggie (c) 2003 Based on an idea by Linda61 and Humbuggie Feedback to san@sv-tales.com www.sv-tales.com Note from the author: This story was originally meant to feature on the Mulder's Refuge Christmas challenge. However, due to the fact that it's way too long and could not become shorter than it is now, I have decided to post it in this original form outside the competition. I took upon me the task of using all the words that were giving to use into the challenge: snow, hot chocolate, dust bunny, pan dulce, sauna, painting, cyber lover, paper cut, poetry, fan fixation, ice, wreck, mouse pad, ice cream, wine glass, popcorn, pillowcase, airplane, car keys, loud speaker, TV Guide, Voldemort, ER, magic eight ball, mug, hand cream, calculator, M&M's keychain. Rated: R for a few explicit curses, nothing major Type: Angst, MT, some comedy Story: After being bored to death at an alien convention, Mulder goes off on his own to chase a legend on a remote island in Finland. But when he arrives at his destination, he soon finds himself in a serious predicament ... and a bit of comfort from Mr. Bean. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Mulder" Chapter One "Are you going to purchase this 'Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer Alien Bit Me In the Ass- sweater' or are you just going to continue to stare at it for the next few hours?" Mulder looked up confused and saw the redheaded saleswoman standing impatiently before him, arms crossed across her flat chest. She reminded him of Scully, only a more lankier, angrier version of his partner. Not a woman to bitch with. The snow-white painting that hung on the wall behind her in contrast, made her look like an angel of hell coming to seek her vengeance upon the world. How he wished he could write poetry to declare his undying non-love for her. "Huh?" he retorted dazed, snapping back to reality, painfully aware of the throbbing in his right index finger where a piece of paper slit through just moments ago. He'd absent-mindedly been rubbing his pale green invitation for the conference when the paper cut through skin. "Oh yeah. Would you mind holding this against you for a second? Hmm, do you think that the red nose is hanging strategically between your breasts, or are you not happy with it? Do you think my friend will like this sweater?" "Only if she's in a Christmassy mood," the saleswoman replied dryly. "Is she the type of sentimental fool you would donate such a stupid gift to? Or the type of person that is as nuts about alien activity as those weirdoes we've been harbouring all weekend?" "Neither. Do you have any latex gloves or sharp knifes instead? I happen to be one of those weirdoes that stayed here and enriched your little hotel all weekend." The woman flushed angrily. "Is that all?" "Yes. Unless you have a TV Guide and a satellite TV I could borrow for a couple of days. I'm bored out of my wits here, freezing off my pan dulce in a hotel room with faulty heating. You'd think that such a grand hotel would at least be able to warm up its guests, right?" "Your pan what?" "Pan Dulce. Oh, I'm sorry. Apparently they use this expression in Argentina to talk about a butt, or an ass, if you will. But I guess it's impolite to use the word 'ass' in this hotel, right? That's all then, thanks. Wrap it up please. With green alien-type paper that you shipped in especially for us geeks. I wouldn't want you to get stuck with tons of it. I'm pretty sure you haven't had the opportunity to do a lot of packing, have you?" The woman huffed, moving to the counter where she used the ugliest wrapping paper available to wrap his purchase. Mulder hung around bored waiting for her to finish fiddling with the extra needless decorations one ripped off the paper as soon as one received the gift. He smiled politely through gritted teeth when she took even more of his precious time by pasting about five different stickers with the company's name on it. She taped them over the little, glow-in-the-dark alien faces that adorned the paper. Bitch. Then she had the audacity to charge him four bucks for the wrapping. Well, euros. Whatever. What was it with Europeans and their weird money? You could play monopoly with this shit. It felt and looked unreal. Mulder grumbled at the ridiculous total price and reluctantly handed his credit card over. He grimaced as she slid it through the reader. She returned with a ticket that he signed with a big sigh. If only he had Mama's Special Hot Chocolate that he always bought in the little coffee shop back home. A tad of warm milk, warm chocolate and one ice cream scoop of the darkest Belgian chocolate one could find. He'd kill to be able to sit in that shop right now and just enjoy the little qualities of life. But no, he was stuck in a hotel that had people vacuuming all day long, searching for dust bunnies underneath the beds. A room was *not* worth 300 bucks per night. No sir. It didn't even have the porn channel. Didn't Europeans love porn? Thank god for the Finnish sauna though, even though he hadn't been eager to show 'Lil' Mulder to the crowd of gorgeous blonde women that openly ogled him when he entered with his towel wrapped cautiously and discretely around his waist. "Have a good day, sir. And merry Christmas." If she grinned any more insincerely, she would chip her teeth. "Yeah yeah." Mulder strolled into the cool, fresh Finnish air and turned to his right, straight into the hotel lobby still filled with alien geeks and people who were nuts about anything paranormal. They chattered away in several languages varying from English to Dutch, to Finnish or even Klingon, and lord knows what other Star Trek language had been invented, and Mulder again regretted the day he'd been persuaded by the Lone Gunmen to come here. "The Helsinki Alien Raid is the biggest alien convention in the world, Mulder!" Frohike had exclaimed. "You'll find everyone here, including so they say some aliens who've come to check out our universe. You even get a free Darth Vader-gift and an alien mouse pad. You have to come. Charge the FBI's account. Who cares? This is the one event you cannot afford to miss." And here he was, sans Scully, and sans Three Gunmen who decided last minute they weren't going to come after all because Byers had the flu, and had infected his soul mates within 24 hours, and were now all sniffling like three stooges. He wanted them to be here, dammit, wandering around in their Plan 9 from Outer Space T-shirts for the past three days. But nooooo. "I'm getting too old for this shit," Mulder muttered under his breath as he tried to make his way to his hotel room. Three aliens stood in the far corner and were chattering to a woman dyed completely red and another who looked an awful lot like the chick who got spray-painted in Goldfinger. The agent decided to take the other way around, happy that he could escape the clutter of obsessed Star Wars-fanatics strolling around in their R2D2 outfits, and was almost in the realm of peace and elevator-quiet, when a woman wearing the largest earrings he'd ever laid his eyes on in his life rushed over to him. "Mr. Mulder! Agent Mulder!" Of course the 'agent' bit made people turn their heads to see what a real FBI-agent looked like. When it turned out he wasn't that extraordinary, they turned back and continued their chattering. He was intrigued by their fan fixation when some sort of celebrity walked by who'd played some sort of alien in a B-movie. "Yes?" he asked impatiently, painfully aware of the fact the woman's colourful contacts made him dizzy even looking at them. "You can't leave now. We still have our farewell dinner. We must salute our alien friends, mustn't we?" She leaned forward and whispered so that only he could hear, "Rumour has it that Valoraz Henboraz of the planet Ruphulius will be here himself!" "Oh, I can't miss that, can I?" Mulder replied. "Does he prefer to eat snakes or large earrings?" She smiled serenely, missing his sarcasm. "You, as an alien Reticulan expert, must sit next to him and find out if they are going to continue to probe us. I don't mind it so much but it's starting to itch, if you know what I mean." "Well, perhaps I'll ask while I'm getting drunk on Transmazatalian wine and eating Martian Caviar." "Agent Mulder, you are testy today. Did you not enjoy our convention?" "Oh yeah. I'm even wearing my "I got kissed by an alien" T-shirt. Why shouldn't I be happy?" "Alrighty then. I'll see you in ten minutes. Wear your best outfit." "Yeah, yeah." Mulder pushed the elevator button furiously, eager not to show his frustration, yet ready to kick some serious alien ass if anyone who even remotely looked like a Reticulan grabbed him by the collar and told him to drink goo. He forced his way through a pack of Klingon-riot-fanatics who nearly pushed him off the stairwell before making it safely to his room. He threw open the door and sunk down on the bed, resting his head on the pillowcase with the realization that it was still as cold as hell inside. He'd have given an arm and a leg to be in Rovinjemii, a resort where as said on the brochure Santa lives. 'Come visit the magical land of Rovinjemii and find out if it's true what they say about Santa Claus. Bring your children and your happiness.' "I'm asking for a refund," he muttered as he dropped Scully's sweater on the bed next to the Special Edition Alien Green Magic Eight Ball he'd bought for the Gunmen. What a mess. Chapter two To his left, Mulder found himself next to a man who had disguised himself as Lord Voldemort. Red contacts, skinny build, white skin, very tall, and very long fingers. Reticulan? No, plastic extensions. Great, a Harry Potter fanatic. No thanks. Mulder turned to his right. Valoraz Henboraz from the planet Ruphulius turned out to be an enormous Texan guy who was once a woman that spoke with a very high-pitched voice, despite the fact he sported a huge beard sprouting from his chin, more hair dusting his very expanded chest that he'd draped in some sort of Roman outfit Charlton Heston might have worn. Mulder couldn't help but stare, fascinated at this strange creature. Perhaps there were aliens after all. At first he/she kept on babbling in a strange language that was supposed to be alien, but about six or seven Venus Cocktails loosened him up. "Let me tell you about Finland, my human friend," he lulled in a drunken stupor. "Finland has its own little secrets. And if someone tells you there is no such thing like an alien, let me explain to you the story about the Little Green Kids." "The Green kids? As in: The Offspring of Mr. Spock? Do they have long, pointy ears? Do they look like Gollum?" "I kid you not. Found on a small Finnish island called Biskops, or The Bishop's Island. I saw those kids myself, I swear to you. They were green. Totally, utterly green. No paint, no dye, no aliens. They were healthy, young kids and they were green." "There's a legend about green kids that were found centuries ago," Mulder replied, becoming slightly interested in what the she-man had to say. "It's a true story and has been accounted by many people. But I don't think that it's happened any time after that." "Well, it happened. Right here in Finland." "I don't believe you." "It's true. They keep it a secret. The Bishop's Island is very small anyhow and not inhabited except for a few townsfolk. The children are still there. The nearest town is called Taalintehdas. Even there, they refuse to acknowledge this odd event. They want it kept out of the press." "Then how did you find out?" He smiled. "My mother happens to be Finnish and lives in Taalintehdas. I was there two days ago. I saw those kids." "You weren't drunk?" "Do I sound drunk to you?" Mulder grinned. "Yes." "Okay, I'm drunk. But I wasn't then! I swear I saw them. It's true. Their skins were green. A boy and a girl, very young. Looked like brother and sister. They were found on the island, in a small icy cave. Nobody knows how they got there. I'm telling you, they are either very bizarre humans or aliens." Mulder glanced around and noticed nobody was even paying attention to their conversation. His interest was piqued. There was another hellish convention day planned for tomorrow. Perhaps he could sneak out, get to that island, check it out and return in time to catch his plane home. "Okay, so how do I get there?" "Oh, so you are going to take a look, are you?" The she-man frowned. "You're not a reporter, are you?" "No. I'm a I'm just interested. Can I get there by car?" "Sure. It's a three-hour drive. You have to get to Taalintehdas first, that's the larger town I spoke of. From there you can easily get to Biskops." "Are there ferries or something?" The she-man roared with laughter. "Agent Mulder, haven't you seen James Bond? We drive on the ice. It's so thick it can easily support a car. You have to be careful though: there's a lot of thin, slick patches too. So you have to drive where there are already car tracks. There won't be too many though: the island is as good as deserted. Only the strong survive on it. It's a rough place to live. Lots of places in Finland are like that. And take some warm clothes with you. It gets very, very, very cold out there." "Can you give me directions?" "Sure." The she-man frowned. "You're seriously going out there?" "I have nothing better to do." "But tomorrow is Star Trek day!" "I still have my Trek videos. Besides, I prefer ER just lately." She-man snorted and turned his attention to someone else, only stopping to talk when the alien Karaoke started. Mulder only managed to escape after being press-ganged into doing one doing backing vocals on the Star Trek parody. "Boldly going forward 'cause we don't have reverse." Now, why did that song remind him of Skinner? Chapter Three After sending an Email early Sunday morning to Scully's inbox he hadn't heard anything from her in days, not even after he had sent a whiny "Save me from this hell!"-Email, struggling with the slippery mouse pad that somehow always had him click on the wrong thing, and fighting with the foreign keyboard that had all the keys in the wrong order, leaving the message "Call me crazy but I'm so bored, I'm going to drive around the frozen Finnish hinterland looking for little green kids. I'll be gone for one day. Plane home Monday, as planned. Pick me up at the airport. Ciao, my cyber lover", Mulder packed up his bags. He yanked three thick sweaters down over his body. He was already wearing two in this very room, looking very wearily and angry at the heater-guys who kept on coming in and out at odd times, trying in vain to fix the heating. The fact there wasn't a single room available elsewhere in the entire city right now nearly drove him to the point of total, ice-cold insanity. He left Scully's sweater and the magic eight ball in the hotel room, knowing he would be back that night. His backpack carried some food - m&m's, including a free keychain!, cookies he couldn't pronounce, candy and sandwiches wrapped by the hotel restaurant -, water and 'survival equipment' like matches and a flashlight. Of course his gun and badge accompanied him as well. He needed protection against polar bears and any other wildlife he might encounter out there. Deer, elk, whatever. No moose on the loose, please. Last minute he also decided to fish a bottle of Finnish vodka out of the mini-bar and tucked it safely away. Why is it that a room can have an over-expensive mini-bar but no heating? If they didn't refund some of his investment, he would kick their pan dulces and make them eat cake. He put on his heaviest boots over warm socks and under his jeans, and grabbed the warmest jacket he had with him. In the parking lot the rental car he had arranged for late last night, was waiting for him. He picked up the car keys with a dangling Mr. Bean's head attached to, it laughing goofily. Gross! The rental turned out to be a Fiat Panda, brand new Car of the Year, and brand fucking small too. Brand fucking shiny and new, and brand-too-small. He crawled in, struggling with his long legs to sit behind the steering wheel. "Damn matchbox cars," he muttered out loud, shifting the chair backwards, almost hitting his head against the ceiling. As he switched on the engine, the car blasted some unrecognizable Finnish Dance tune through the speakers. He tuned it to another channel with a Finnish voice rattling away. All he could understand was that the female DJ's name was Katja or something. He turned the sound down and followed the she-man's directions driving out of Helsinki, heading for the direction of the town whose name he constantly forgot. The directions had been pretty clear. Mulder finally relaxed when he stopped thinking about the silly reasons why he was out here, locating some island in a strange country, following weird road signs with names that were too difficult to pronounce. Damn, his hands were still freezing and very dry. He should have snatched Scully's moisturizing hand cream on the way to the airport. There was thick snow outside covering the roads, the houses and just about everything else. It started snowing again and gritter trucks were constantly spraying the roads with salt. He drove slowly and carefully, still getting used to the stick shift. People walked by wearing heavy winter clothes, shoving their hands in their pockets and rubbing their cold, red noses. Kids played happily, making snowmen, throwing snowballs around. All houses were decorated for Christmas and he could hear music in the air. He passed a small Christmas market full of people laughing, joking, drinking warm 'gluwein', and eating pretzels. He stopped for a moment. He'd never been one for Christmas stuff but right now, with all his frustrations and a bad case of jet lag, he felt lonely. What the hell was he doing anyhow in this country, when he should have been home with the woman he loved, his friends and familiar stuff? He felt a bit better though, thinking about his flight home that would take him back to Scully. Christmas. Ah yes, another three days to go. By then, all of this would have been long forgotten. Hell, he would be back at Hotel Freeze by tonight. It was early yet and the drive to and from the island couldn't take up that long. He had his Finnish wodka, his unpronounceable cookies and he had DJ Katja to keep him company. What more could he wish for. He would merely go to the Bishop's Island, check out those kids, see if they were real and come back. No case file. Well perhaps a little one. And tomorrow he could pack up at the hotel and return home. The Finnish countryside delighted him as he drove through it. He loved the scenery and the peace and quiet. Finland was such an amazing country and had relatively few inhabitants. No wonder everyone had so much space. It felt so peaceful that he almost regretted not having Scully around to share this with him. Perhaps they could come back another time. The flight wasn't that long and who knows, next time she might actually be persuaded to do something as nutty as this. * "Taalintehdas, Taalintehdas, Taalendaz, Haagendas." Mulder murmured as he arrived at the outskirts of the snow-blanketed town. He loved it instantly. The streets were adorable; the houses were picturesque, lovely. He was really enjoying this diversion. His spirits lifted. "Talk about Christmas," he said to himself as he parked the car and walked into town. He'd have a bite to eat first and then make some inquiries. He found himself a little Irish pub called 'The Ol' Man' and walked in. They were bound to speak English in here, he thought to himself, not realizing that most Fins already did. A woman came to serve him and asked in Finnish, "Yes?" "A beer and a lasagne, please?" "What beer?" she continued in fluent English without a trace of Irish to it. "Leffe? Hoegaarden? Something good?" "We have Hoegaarden and Lapin Kulkta." "Err- what?" "A Finnish beer." "Give me Hoegaarden." " It's expensive, sir." "Doesn't matter." The FBI expense account will cover it, Mulder thought solemnly afterwards, knowing Skinner would never pick up the bill for a five bucks-beer. No matter. She left him sitting at his table, painfully aware that several people were openly staring at him. They probably didn't see that many strangers around here, he realized. Hopefully they didn't consider him a reporter. They would shut up immediately then. Mulder looked around to find an older man focusing on him. The man nodded. He nodded back. When the beer was served, Mulder stopped the waitress. "Give that man a drink on my expenses and ask him to join me, please." "Okay." Sure enough, the older man soon approached his table. "A stranger?" he asked in English. "Yes. "American?" "Yep." "What brings you here?" "I want to go to Bishop's Island." "Aha. Biskops. Why?" "I'm a tourist." "No tourists ever go there." "Why not?" "Hardly anyone lives on that island, except for a few deer hunters and older people who refuse to leave it. Most youngsters live in the cities now, in towns like this. In winter you can go there by car, over the ice, but in summer you need to take the ferries." "So I can really drive over the ice to that island?" "Of course. But be careful. It's very treacherous. Some patches are very thin and crack under heavy weights. You have to follow the patch between the mainland and the island." "So it's perfectly safe?" "Yes. What do you want from the island?" Mulder considered lying, but realized the man already knew everything there was to know, so he decided to tell the truth. "I work for the FBI and I'm here on vacation. I'm interested in strange phenomenon, like " "- Like children that were discovered with green skin." "Yes." "Are you going to make it public?" "No, not at all." "Good." "Are you afraid I would?" "No, you seem like an honest man to me. But beware though. The islanders are not keen on strangers. They might not like you. In fact, they might kick you off their island." "Bad people." "You don't want to mess with them. They don't like that." I just dealt with anal probing aliens, Mulder thought ruefully. Who cares about islanders? "By the way, what time does it get dark around here? Just wondering." The man looked at him as if he had gone crazy. "3 p.m. You'd better hurry if you want to get there and back before dark." "Oh." * Mulder paid cash for his meal, leaving a very generous tip for the waitress who'd served him what had been a delicious hot Lasagne, which he'd eaten alone while trying to figure out what the local newspaper was trying to say. All he could decipher with his very limited Finnish was storm, snow and lots more cold wintry weather due. The waitress even took out her calculator and told him what to pay in US dollars. He thanked her and walked outside, feeling her watching him as he left. Taking a breath of fresh chilled air, he felt invigorated, strengthened and ready to rumble. Even wiggling his too long legs back in the too small car, didn't bring down his spirits. Before that, he walked up along the shore where the boats in the small harbor were trapped in thick patches of ice. He observed how a small, artificial route was carved into the ice to allow the fishing boats through. There were boats entering the docks as well, unloading their catch of cod and herring. Busy activity. He wondered if any of the boats ever got trapped in ice flows on the open sea. He turned to his right, seeing how a thick layer of ice covered the water between the islands and the mainland. In the far distance, he saw what appeared to be an island. Snow-white rocks, ice and a clear blue sky made it look very inviting. He couldn't see the houses from here though. "Is that Bishop's Island?" he asked a young man passing. "Yeah." "There are people living there, right?" "Yep, on the other side of the island. You can't see it from here. There's also deer, elk and other wildlife." "Thanks." "Just make sure you stay to the far left of the patch. That's the thickest part. The winds blow strongly there and thicken the ice." Mulder returned to his car. "Let's go all the way," he murmured, driving his winter-ready vehicle in the direction of the icy patch, realizing that he had never been very good at driving tests that involved sliding. Chapter Four The crossover in itself was quite a challenge. Mulder felt like Bond, James Bond there for a while as he steered his not-so-glamorous vehicle towards the island. He was terrified that he would veer off and hit one of the thinner patches of ice, and stayed as far to the right on the tracks as he could. There were car tracks all over the place, and some of them ran across the ice into totally different directions. It took about half an hour to get across the ice, and the agent exhaled his relief as he finally reached what appeared to be solid grounds. The car tracks then ran off to the right and left. Like everywhere else, the entire island was covered in thick, snow, the glare from the sun on it almost blinding him. The roads were as good as unrecognizable, as the tarmac too had vanished underneath a thick patch of ice and snow. Mulder stopped the car and climbed out. The winds felt extremely cold against his face and he shivered, even in his thick clothes. His hands instantly became ice cubes and his nose and ears felt as if they would drop off. He grasped the thick woollen hat he had bought a few days ago in town and shoved it down low over his ears. So, what now? He hadn't really thought about that yet. Just drive into town and ask about the kids? Would they look at him as if he'd gone nuts, or would they oblige him in what he was looking for? Perhaps they didn't speak any English. Perhaps they were like Eskimos or other races that lived in icy winter conditions. He hoped they wouldn't shoot or cannibalize him. Oh, shuddup Mulder. Don't be such a wus. Mulder shrugged, shuffled back into his car, getting another earful of Finnish tunes blaring from the radio. He turned it down, and took a right, following the route with most tracks. Mulder hummed and turned up the car heating as he tried to keep the vehicle on a steady pace on the road. It started to snow again. Thick, white flakes dropped on top of the car and windshield. The wipers couldn't keep up the pace. It became instantly worse, as if someone out there was throwing it into his direction. Like looking into a Star Trek warp field. Mulder slowed down the pace even more, feeling more nervous by the minute. What the fuck was he doing here, navigating on roads he couldn't even see? He could feel the wheels slip and lose their steady traction on the road more and more. He should really stop and Wait, wasn't that a house? Yeah, it was. More houses. About six of them. All dark, without Christmas lights but even so, shelter. He swerved to the right, stopping at a small entry to the little group of seemingly abandoned houses. No matter, he could wait here until the weather improved; hoping someone still lived here and kept up with their electricity bills. There had to be electricity here, right? This wasn't some place from the dark ages. He tried to see if there might be other houses nearby that showed signs of habitation, without success. He was alone in a little ghost town of six abandoned homes. He left the car parked where it was, next to the first house, which almost immediately became covered by snow, and walked up the path to the door. "Anybody here?" He asked loudly before knocking on the door. He tried the doorknob next only to find the house unlocked. He stepped inside, stomping the snow off his feet loudly, knocking again. The house was cold but not as icy as the air outside. He removed his hat, going further into the house, rubbing a hand over his mussed hair. A sense of despair overwhelmed him. What the hell was he doing here anyhow? This was a stupid, stupid idea. He should just drive back to the mainland, before the snow became heavier and stopped him from finding his way back. Even now, it looked liked he'd have to spend the night here and drive back tomorrow morning. Jesus! He pushed aside his negative thoughts and scanned the house. Obviously no one was home. He'd better try the others. Once outside, he stopped in his tracks as he heard several voices. His first thought was to approach the men and tell them he was lost. But his instincts warned him not to. He remained quiet, slipping back inside the house; and sneaked a look through the window, realizing that they carried rifles. And skins. And heads. Deer hunters! Mulder held his breath, automatically reaching for his gun. Fuck, it was in the car, lying on the passenger seat next to his badge. Don't let them find the car. Don't let them find the car. Don't let them find Don't let them walk in here! Mulder ducked back around the window with the old, worn-out curtains and wooden benches, waiting in pure fear for them to find him. They must know someone's here. They must see the car. It wasn't even hidden. However, the men stopped in the centre outside the six houses. Two of them disappeared into one of the others and left the skins and heads there. They exited again a few minutes later, returned to the group, and trudged off in the direction of the woods behind a small hill that protected this little group of houses. Mulder instantly realized what was going on. Deer hunting was illegal in these parts of the country. This must be their hideout. They must have shot deer in the woods on the centre of the island, and transported the skins and heads over the ice back to the mainland after a couple of days. No one would find them here during winter. It was the perfect place to live, hunt and hide out. The agent felt shivers run down his spine. He had to get the hell out of here, but temptation warred within him to find where they hunted the deer and stop them. He could drive back to the mainland and warn the police where they were. Yeah, good idea. He sneaked out of the house carefully, heading towards the dark red Fiat that was now completely covered in snow. The freezing flakes still fell very thickly. Mulder's body seemed frozen to the core. He ached to get back in the warmth of the car, drive off and forget any of the stupid plans he had, but he couldn't. Instead, he reached for and checked his gun, and shoved it in its holster, hidden underneath his jacket. Pulling his hat down back over his ears, he hurriedly headed into the woods, slipping and slithering after the men. He found their tracks easily, even though the snow did its best to cover them up. Their voices were loud and uncaring, as if they didn't give a damn in the world who heard them. Mulder's investigative sense kicked. What if they were the only ones left on the island? What if they had killed off everybody else? No, surely not. People would be missed. Perhaps the inhabited part of Bishop's Island was even further away than he thought. It could be at least another half hour drive. Mulder's dread returned when he heard the first shots. They seemed to echo from everywhere. He ducked, keeping low as he moved through the woods, eyes on alert for the men. They must have scattered because more shots came from all around him. He had to do something; remember where he was, retrieve his tracks and find somewhere that had contact with the mainland. No, getting back to the mainland was his best solution now. Poor animals. The agent spotted one of the hunters, his rifle cocked ready to shoot a young deer. He reached down slowly and grabbed a stone partially hidden under the snow. He tugged it free, ducking as he lobbed it into the hunter's direction; it struck the hunters arm, throwing off his aim and alerting the deer. The shot went up in the air. "Fuck!" the hunter yelled in Finnish, and another one appeared. "What the hell was that?" Mulder knelt and crawled, scurrying back over his own tracks towards the houses. A deer rushed across his path, startling him, and a gun went off. Mulder felt a sharp, eye-watering pain lance through his left arm and shoulder. The shock hurled his body backwards onto the snow. He lay there quietly, struggling to regain his breath; silently numb for a few seconds before realizing he'd been shot. "I hit something," the hunter yelled to his partner. "I'll go look." Mulder rolled over onto his belly and could kneel up without being seen, his left arm clutched to his chest by his right. He could feel the blood pouring down the inside of his sleeve from the wound. He had to do something quickly. The pain was bad, very bad, but it kept him alert. He felt his body jumping into survival mode. He clawed his way back up, staying low enough for the hunters not to spot him. He a different route back to the houses, hiding behind cover of trees, bushes and rocks. Later, he would not be able to remember how he'd made it, or how he'd stayed up on his feet. Constantly, his mind faded in and out, in and out. He had no real idea of where he was going, yet his instincts brought him directly back to the houses and the car. He spotted two jeeps standing behind the other houses now. Good thing the hunters were all in the woods. Frantically he stopped, panting heavily, eyes screwed up in agony while struggling out his jacket and the top sweater. A huge bloody hole gaped from his sweater, and another one in his arm. He tried to see but couldn't. The world twisted around him. He leaned heavily into his car, tearing up the sweater with his teeth and right arm. The fabric hardly ripped without a huge frantic effort. But finally he had an emergency tourniquet that he could wrap tightly around his arm in an attempt to stop himself bleeding out. The bullet was still lodged in his arm, and would have to stay there for now. There was no way he could get it out. The shock really started to settle in. Mulder had allowed his mind to stop feeling the deathly threat hanging over him, and now replaced by the dangerous lure of sleep. No! He had to move on and stay alert, stay awake and jump into action to save himself. No one would find him here. No one would help him. He was left to his own devices, and his resourcefulness to save himself. He had to get back to the mainland: Alert the cops, and get himself picked up for some urgent medical help. Yeah, good idea. Mulder somehow crawled back into his car; cursing the day someone invented the stick shift. Every breath, every driving manoeuvre sent pain leeching right through him. At least the hunters had no idea he was around. They weren't following him. He steered the car back onto the main road or at least something that he assumed was the main road and tried to find his way back onto the ice patch connecting the island to the main land. Shivers ran down his spine, the pain a constant sending beads of sweat onto his lip. Scully would kick his ass. Had to do something. Stay awake. Turn up the radio. Get some music going. Sing. Yeah, good idea. Sing. " 'Round round baby, round round, don't need no man, got my kicks for free' " His fingers were white knuckling the steering wheel now. Oh good one, Mulder. Free kicks, that's a fact. Stay awake now. Don't get delirious. Oh look, there's the ice. Good, just concentrate and drive, stay alert. Stay to the right. No, the right, Mulder. The right! And stay awake now. Awake. Awake! Mulder's head slumped forward onto the steering wheel, losing control over the car as it swerved dangerously to the left onto ice not equipped to hold any vehicle. The agent wasn't aware of the car slowing down, until it came to a halt on a dangerously thin patch. While passing out, he'd knocked the gear into neutral, foot slipping off the gas, stranding the fiat in the perilous icy landscape. Chapter Five At first, the world was an eerie place of complete silence. Even the wind seemed to have slowed down. The only sound was the music still banging through the car speakers. From a distance, you would see the man inside had passed out, his face slumped over the steering wheel. He seemed hurt, blood all over his hands and clothes. His face was ghastly pale, distraught with a sense of pain, even in his unconsciousness. The silence was over. The giant cracking sound betraying the ice giving way was loud enough to pierce through the loud music. Mulder didn't hear it. The weight of the car sunk into the ice, sucked down with icy fingers right through its treacherous thin patches no longer able to hold it. And soon, the largest crack of all split the ice into two large slabs, frigid water pouring into the space, the force of it swirling in around the car. The vehicle seemed to slide in like a knife through butter. Its hood dipped forward thrusting its trunk end up in the air, like the Titanic on her Maiden Voyage decent into the depths of the Atlantic. Soon enough the car started filling with water, swirling around Mulder's feet and legs. It didn't wake him at first, but he slowly regained consciousness, startled by the freezing cold water. The agent's brain didn't grasp the seriousness of the situation, at first. His dreams were of being back in Helsinki, sitting with weird aliens that talked in the oddest languages. He watched as their fingers grew extensions, and they became taller by the second. Then they kept squealing in his ears and he covered them with his hands. Only to realize the sharp noise blasted from the car radio speakers. Where was DJ Katja when you needed her? Mulder shook his head confused and dazed, and lowered his right hand discovering find that the car had already filled with water up to his waist. The graveness of the situation hit him like a mule kick. Mulder's instincts sprung in action on realizing he was trapped inside water filled car, about to submerge beneath the ice. Even if he made it outside, he was going to become hypothermic at any rate. The water was heart-stoppingly freezing. He shook violently with cold, as he struggled with his senses against the strange urge to fall asleep, and just allow his body to drift away. No, that wasn't like him. He was a fighter. Shouldn't give up like that. Panicking, he pushed and shoved at the door, jammed shut by the ice pressure, kicking it so hard that the thick slabs of ice trapping it were pushed out of the way. Mulder sucked in a breath as he gave it one last hefty kick, sending it backwards with a thick groaning thud. In seconds, the car lurched onto its side as a gargantuan icy swell filled it completely. The agent felt himself being pulled with the water vacuum, sucked down into its killer whirlpool with the car's tremendous weight pressed down on top of him. His lungs screamed and the bite of the water almost froze his heart in his chest. He panicked! Mulder fought against the cold that overwhelmed him and the frigidness of the water that bled right through his clothes, freezing him to the bone. His body became numb. His eyes shooting open amidst of stream of bubbles, and the pounding in his ears he struggled, lungs bursting to hold his breath but he somehow managed to find a hole in the ice only a few inches away. He forced his battered numb body to go into that direction. As soon as his head and torso pushed through the surface, his lungs took great heaving gulps freezing air that burned excruciatingly deep in his chest. . He shivered, his teeth were chattering and hurt all over, becoming more numb by the second. Get out, Mulder! Get up. Now! Do something. Though unable to feel them anymore, his fingers grabbed onto the sharp edges of the ice, gasping to regain his strength. He watched as the car sunk deeper into the water, and he realized it had taken his backpack with it. He had vodka in there. Vodka would warm him up. His flashlight was in there too. It might not work anymore, but just maybe... He had to get his backpack. Everything was in there. Mulder took a deep breath; summoning all his strength he dove back into the water. Fortunately, the car was sinking very slowly. It would take a while before it hit rock bottom. He was a good swimmer and with fresh surge of raw adrenalin, within a few seconds, he had his backpack from the passenger seat gripped between his teeth and out the car. His left arm felt numb and useless unusable as he clawed his way to the surface. The car sunk deeper as he struggled to break the surface again, sucking in the lung paralyzing air and gasping for breath. He crawled onto the ice with the last of his might, shoving the rucksack before him. He was so tired, so very tired. And bone cold. Sleep. Yeah, good idea. No! Not a good idea. Get up. Move. Get out of those clothes. Find help. The agent crawled on hands and knees, protecting his injured left arm as he tried to focus on what to do now. He knew that he could die right here on the ice. He was a sure victim for hypothermia. It might already be too late. His body might already be dying. No, had to get out of here, into a warm place with heating or open and fire. The island, or the mainland? The island it had to be. The mainland was too far away. He'd be dead before he made it that far. He pulled himself up, shivering in his soaked, frozen clothes as he staggered slowly and insecurely back to the island, forgetting for heartbeat that there were hunters out there, and that he might become their next prey. * The ice was slippery, but Mulder hardly cared. His feet barely managed to shuffle him forward. He was constantly losing control over his body, slipping and almost passing out. One time, his fall almost sent him straight into oblivion as he fell on his left arm, precisely on the place where the bullet was still stuck in flesh and bone. He must have broken his upper arm because the pain roared right through him. It was grinding as he moved and he could barely stand it, gritting his teeth as he struggled on for all he was worth. Even as his feet hit the more stable surface, Mulder realized all too well he'd never make it to civilisation where there were people to help him. He was struggling to stay awake long enough to even take his next step. His lungs felt on fire from the frosty air, which clung to him in a constant white cloud around his face. How would he ever make a two three hour hike into town? It was useless. He might as well drop to his knees and die on the spot. No! He had to make it. Even if he had to find the hunters and beg them for help, he would make it. When he first arrived at the island, he'd gone to the right. This time, he chose the left path, going over it slowly, unsteadily. So slow. Very calm. Oh fuck. The agent felt tears of anguish and despair stinging his eyes when he became aware of the fact that no one even knew he was here. He'd never told Scully or any of his friends. He hadn't left a message at the hotel. As far as everyone thought, he was in Helsinki doing some Christmas shopping. Who would ever think of looking for him here? How could he have been so mind numbingly stupid? He groaned deep down in his soul, biting his lip until it bled as the pain yanked him back into the present. Shuddup, Agent Mulder. He looked down at his backpack now carried in his right hand, remembering the bottle of vodka. Sinking onto his knees, he fished it out and unscrewed the bottle, that small action sending rigors of sheer agony through his system. He sipped at it first, and then knocked back two large gulps of it. The 21% alcohol shot a trail of fire through his oesophagus down into his stomach, burning into clear acid. Fuck, that helped! It was like receiving a boost from an electrical charge. He could feel the vodka warming him up from within, giving him a strange renewed sense of strength all through him. He rummaged back through the backpack. Flashlight? It still worked. Thank god for Duracell bunnies. Cookies? All soaked and inedible. Or were they? Perhaps he should try to dry them out. His survival depended on all the food he could find, and might be all for a while. Good thing he'd had that filling Lasagne before. Matches? Useless. Soaked through. He threw them back in. His wallet was wet too. As were his badge and gun. But knew his gun would still work. In a worse case scenario, he could shoot his own deer and eat it. Nah, maybe not. He'd rather have moose instead. He pulled himself to his feet and began to trudge on again, keeping his head high in the cold air to keep himself awake. He hated the way his clothes stuck to him. He'd never felt this cold in his life, as another arctic wind bit into him with a thousand icy teeth, stealing his breath. He knew he was bound to have pneumonia if he didn't do something soon. The road suddenly veered to the right and left another smaller path trailed to the left. He was far enough away from the woods where the hunters were. Perhaps there was another village here. Please, let someone be here, his desperate thoughts were punctuated with painful gasps. It took a Herculean effort just to concentrate on getting one foot in front of the other. Instead, the agent came across a single house in a smaller lane. It had a mailbox. Mulder felt his spirits lift. A mailbox meant someone lived here. His feet seemed to grow wings as he moved quickly up the path, realizing all too quickly the house too was deserted. Well, perhaps not deserted. Locked. He peered inside, peering through the curtained windows. The living room held decent furniture, a television set, lamps and lights, a stove, an open fireplace. Someone had to live here. He knocked on the door several times, but no one responded. Behind the house, he found a locked backdoor. The lock was old and rather flimsy. A quick firm pull on the handle and the lock gave out at once. Inside, it was cold and felt abandoned. His spirits sank again with realization that this must be a summerhouse, the owners were probably enjoying Christmas on the mainland right now, and they'd use this only house during the warmer periods. They'd be warm and safe with their loved ones, which was where he should be. Where he fervently longed to be. He wandered dejectedly into the living room. A couch, the fireplace. The electricity was obviously shut off. Perhaps there was an emergency generator. He'd have to check that out later. In the bedroom, he found a closet that held some men's shirts and other clothes that were at least three sizes larger than he was. Summer clothes mainly, but also a few fleeces and warm sweaters. He looked wistfully at photo frames standing on a night table, of an older man and woman, and some children and obviously grand children. A deep-seated pain from years gone by, skittered through him when he assimilated remembrance of another, more personal family photo. Blankets and sheets lined another closet. He threw them all on the huge inviting bed that rested near the window. The bathroom yielded nothing except for a stocked medicine cabinet. Something at least. No hot water. Everything felt freezing cold. He'd seen logs in the backyard, stacked and ready to use. For autumn use, no doubt. He'd make great use of them later if he could muster the energy to carry them in the house. Right now he needed heat, and see to his arm. His core temperature was probably at quite a dangerous, potentially life threatening low. His survival depended on it not dropping further. "Sorry folks," Mulder muttered shaking again as he started stripping. He had to get rid of all the sopping wet clothes and get warm. He had no time to start up a fire now. He'd have to do that later. He dropped his clothes where they fell on the carpet, his arm hurting like a bitch in the process. The wound looked ugly and infected already. He'd have to deal with that later, knowing he had to raise his body heat first before he could do anything else. The agent wrapped a white T-shirt from the closet over the still leaking wound, and crawled naked between the many blankets and sheets. His skin felt icy cold, his body quaking and shivering as if there were no tomorrow, clenching his teeth against the pain and chill. He crawled in as deeply as he possibly could and curled up like a foetus, pulling all the blankets over his head. They cocooned him completely. Warm and safe like a mother's womb. And before long, despite his pain and worries, he felt his body drift off into a very welcome sleep where pain did not exist. Chapter Six Mulder opened his eyes and stared dazedly at the spots dancing on the ceiling. Colourful shards of sparkling light that danced before him. At first he thought he was going mad, until he realized it was the winter sun filtering in through the curtains, cascading its light show around the ceiling. The sun! Where was he and how? He couldn't remember where he was or when, or how he had gotten here. He rolled his body to the left and then stopped in his tracks. He was naked. He could feel the blankets hugging his skin, cool against very warm. He lifted them up and looked down. Yep, definitely very naked. How in the world did he wind up nekked in this place? Heat radiated from his entire body. His left arm hurt like a bitch: he could hardly bear touching it. Then the memories returned. He had been shot by accident, and then he'd attempted to leave, but had lost control and driven the car into the ice. Or had he? No, that must have been a bad dream. He rose up stiffly, slowly, starring down at the pile of discarded clothes that had dried to a cold puddle on the ground. His hair was dry now as was his body, but he felt too warm. He must have a fever. But he felt relatively ok. Sick and weary yes, but fine, despite the circumstances. He was very lucky. He could have easily died in the water, sinking into the icy deep with the car, resting there for eternity where no one would ever have found his body. Only during summer, when all the snow had melted away, would they find him, the sea giving up unrecognisable secret. Perhaps someone would have found the remains of his badge and go, "Oh wait, that's the geeky FBI-man who went missing twenty years ago!" No, don't go there now. Stay here and think what a lucky bastard you are. Mulder carefully shoved the blankets away. His feet feeling unsteady as he padded naked across the floor. He rummaged through the closet and nightstands to find a large set of boxer shorts. He pulled those on, followed by jeans and a white t-shirt that he finally got over his head with much difficulty over his injured arm. Soon he had warm socks on his feet, but his shoes were still soaking wet. He'd have to find some other footwear and get a fire started to warm up his belongings. All the clothes he'd found were way too large, but in a way they gave him comfort. He even felt a tad hungry. The agent ambled into the bathroom, where he caught sight of himself in the mirror. What a sight! Was that really him? Puffy eyes, very pale skin, dark rings underneath his eyes, pale lips. But at least he was still alive. He turned to take a look at his arm, pulling away the blood caked T-shirt that had covered the wound. That didn't look good at all. The entire area was brightly inflamed and seemed infected. The bullet entry wound wasn't that large. It must have only been a .32 that had hit him. He'd been lucky. It could have been a .44. And that would have been a much more severe blast wound. He winced as he probed the area. He'd have to clean it out as much as he could, and put some sort of gauze or bandage over it until he could make it to a hospital. He found the medical kit shoved in the back of the bathroom closets and dug out bandages, scissors, tape, and something that looked like a disinfectant fluid. He tried to read the label and made out the word 'Savlon' on it. Okay, that would do. Wait. Didn't that hurt like a bitch? Oh, never mind. He had to do it anyhow. Some cotton swabs too. Good. Oh, Paracetamol too. In worst-case scenario he could knock himself out. It took more than half an hour amidst a lot of Mulder's wincing and groaning, punctuated by a bunch of "Fuck!" and "Shit!" 's, and a couple of near-passing out-sessions, but finally he managed to disinfect and bind the wound with medical gauze, while biting his lip, ignoring the ordeal from hell and his own stupidity that put him here in the first place. The entire wounded area felt inflamed and very hot but at least it was disinfected now. That was something. Mulder stretched his back and stepped out of the small bathroom. He had no idea what time it was. Where was his watch? Oh yeah, he'd dropped that on the ground next to his clothes. He picked it up and looked at it. 3 p.m. 3 p.m.? That was impossible, wasn't it? Fuck. It was 3 p.m. on Monday! He had lost an entire day. Damn, his muscles felt so sore. And that headache just wouldn't go away. He shook his head. He had to find a way to get out of here, to get back to Helsinki and to get on his four o'clock plane. Okay, forget that. There was no way in hell he had time to get back and make it for that flight home. Scully would be waiting around at the airport for nothing. She would be worried. Would she call the cops? Would someone try to find him? But how long before they came looking? One day? Two days? Three? Four? By that time he could be eaten alive by the bears that no doubt roamed these woods, or the elk that might trample him when he came outside to retrieve logs, and not forgetting the hunters who would kill him for interfering in their business. So, no four o'clock plane. No returning home. Why in the world had he gone this far? Had he been that bored? Yes, he had been. So bored that he risked his life coming on this foolish wild goose chase. And now he had to get the hell out of here again, and somehow return home where there was comfort and Scully-care. Oh hell. Okay, first things first. Food. Had to find some food, and build up that lost strength. Mulder swayed as went downstairs, finding himself unsteady on his legs. He finally staggered into the kitchen, panting a few seconds before he opened all the closets one by one. He didn't find much, except for some cans with beans, peas, pineapple and canned fish. Canned fish? In such a location surrounded by fishing boats and fresh fish? He almost laughed. Okay how about the fish with the peas. That almost sounded tasty. Better than the out-of-date popcorn next to the empty wine glasses. He took a mug out of the closet and rinsed it with cold water. Then, to add to his frustration, the water suddenly stopped running. Damn it! All that was left had to have been sitting in the taps. He found a can opener in the cupboard, opened the two cans and dropped its contents on a plate. A fork was needed next. He found one quickly and moved to the living room, sitting down on the couch. Hey, it almost felt like home. Only, without electricity, hot water or TV. And cold food, he grimaced as he spooned in the unappetising meal. "No porn today, Mulder," he spoke aloud, while munching on food and juggling the plate on his legs. His left arm felt terrible, constant stabbing pains all up and down his arm and shoulder. But then what? What now? He had to do something useful with himself. Perhaps find a means of communication with the main land, or with the folks living on the island. Perhaps he should find a way to hike out of here, towards the village. There could be people right around the corner and he wouldn't even know it. The agent stood up and immediately felt his legs buckle from under him. He seized the closet door and pushed himself up again. What the hell was that? He started to get a bit worried. He was weak, that's all. Weak and feverish. He shook his head, getting rid of the cobwebs. Easy there, buddy, he told himself. Now sit down, have a breather and then try again. The agent's frustration at the lack of lights, heat and electricity inside the house, only became worse when he realized that it wasn't even four p.m. and already it was getting dark outside. He had to get some wood inside the house, light a fire, and get the place heated up. It was going be to sub-zero in here later. It was no use attempting to get back right now. In the pitch-black darkness he would probably end up in some ditch, or back on the ice and falling in the water. He had little strength and the gripping coldness still inhabited his body. He realized as much when he ventured out and started grabbing logs of wood to carry back inside. There weren't many logs but what there was, seemed heavy and firm. They would burn for a long time. Now hopefully no one would see the smoke coming from the chimney. "On the last days before Christmas, Agent Mulder built himself a fire place and slowly went mad," he said aloud, trying to ignore the fact he was desperately worried about his isolation, not to mention his health. Why should he be worried? He was okay. He had food if you could call canned peas and beans that and he had a house and a bed to sleep in. All he had to do was wait until morning, and as soon as it became light, he would find a way to get out of here. He was fine. Right? He threw three large logs into the fireplace and rummaged through the house hunting for matches that he finally found after a very exhaustive search in another kitchen closet, underneath two sets of unused kitchen gloves. Thank god the house was at least inhabited during summer. It meant there was plenty of equipment to keep him alive and well. It cost him all the strength he had left but finally, after half an hour or so, the fire slowly started crackling. He swayed as he made his way upstairs, grabbed a blanket from the bed and brought it down to the big settee, that to Mulder's dismay, turned out to be quite an uncomfortable place to sit, or lie down on. He chose the old tattered couch instead and rested his head on a comfortable cushion. He spent the next hour staring at the flames, hoping his body would finally heat up. It never did. Chapter Seven Later in the evening, Mulder woke up shivering in bone numbing cold. He was still covered in thick clothes, with the warm blanket in front of the roaring fireplace but his body felt absolutely frozen. His teeth clenched, the agent practically crawled upstairs in the dark and back underneath the sheets and duvet. Curling himself up as he had done the day before, he finally fell asleep, not realizing that his body was fighting off a raging fever that slowly took over. Mulder knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes. His head spun. The headaches had become worse. His stomach felt wrenched. He wasn't hungry but felt extremely weak and worn out. His muscles ached all over. Must be a lousy bed, he thought, spotting a big brown bear with a missing eye staring at him. Whoa, he hadn't seen that before. It sat on a bench on the other side of the bed, starring at him sadly. It looked like the little Mr. Bean-bear, from the episodes. Oh, poor thing. "Feeling sorry for me, bear?" Mulder groaned, grasping it from his seat and clutching it. "Me too." The agent made his way downstairs, feeling utterly deprived of luxury and comfort. He would have given an arm and a leg right now for water, decent food or anything that could make him feel human again. But no. All he had, was himself and the stuffed Bear that he called Mr. Bear. In the living room the fire was now out. It took Mulder ages to realize it was nearly noon. He'd slept through the night and most of the morning. Oh hell. He was never going to make it this way. He had to find someone, someone who could help him out of this ordeal. He just didn't have the energy left and felt confused. Every movement was like trudging through quicksand. He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed another can of peas, only to realize he suddenly down on the ground, on his behind, staring at the kitchen table. Something was very wrong, and he knew it. He had hardly any control over his limbs. He could barely move. Oh shit. He tried to pull himself up, but any effort he made, seemed ineffective now. He was like a puppet without control over his strings. This was not good. The agent's heart pounded in his chest, with the realization that he was in bigger trouble that he'd originally thought. This was not normal. It had nothing to do with hypothermia, he was fairly certain of that. Yes, his body was freezing, yet overheated at the same time. His temperature was going through the roof, he could feel it. That was it! He had to get the fever down. Then he would be okay. He would be * The agent stared unfocused at the spotted ceiling above him and ordered his body to move. Move! It was pitch black in the kitchen. Night time, perhaps. He didn't know. No way of knowing. Couldn't do much. Not even read his watch. This was getting worse by the hour. He'd passed out. He must have. Why else was he lying here on the kitchen floor? The tiles felt so cool and yet so warm. Skin on stone. Damn, that felt good. He rolled onto his right side until he was on all fours. If Scully could see him now. Slowly the agent forced himself to return to the living room. He used the couch to crawl up on his knees and then to stand upright. There, that wasn't so bad, was it? He could walk a few steps and then Oh brother, sit down again. Okay, calm, sit down. Easy. Nothing to it. You can do it. Thataboy. Good. Uh oh. Not good. Legs buckling, knees hitting the floorboard. Mulder groaned and felt his stomach lurch. His head swayed. Not good at all. Dark. * Mr. Bear pitifully looked down on him with its one eye. There was still no one to pick him up, Mulder thought exhaustedly, feeling unbelievably incredulous about his own actions. Of course no one was here. They would find him when his nuts had frozen off and he was well on his way to arctic hell. Mulder felt a bit better, even though his body obviously wasn't exactly in shape to go anywhere but this house. Great. He sunk into the chair, feeling desperation bleeding through the fog inside his head. This was not the way to go, and especially not before Christmas. Oh god, Scully. What would she think? Would she ever find out? Would she miss him? Guilt rushed through him. Enough of that. No! He had to keep moving. He had to make this place more comfortable. Yeah, that was it. Make it better, prettier, more inviting. He could celebrate Christmas here waiting for her. Ain't that right, Mr. Bear? Christmas alone was not so bad, was it? It could be fun. He could set up a tree, and use things from the house to decorate it. He could give Mr. Bear a nickname. Scully. Oh wait, wasn't there a clown's wig upstairs in the children's bedroom? There was a massive amount of toys there. Yeah, he could dress her up and pretend she was here. Oh god, he was losing it. He crawled upstairs, entered the spare bedroom and rummaged through the wooden toys, the dolls and clothes. The clown's wig was there. He hadn't dreamt it. He took that downstairs and put on the bear's head. "There you go, Scully. How does that look? What? You're missing latex gloves and knife? Don't worry. I've bought you a Christmas gift. Oh crap, that's still at the hotel. Don't worry about it. You're fine. Nothing wrong. I'll get it to you later." The agent moved slowly through the room, and pretended there was music in the house, festive lighting, and Christmas decorations and heating and everything that a man could possibly want. He pretended he was eating a slice of pizza and drinking a cold beer that filled his spirits. He swayed to the silent music, trying to dance to it, pretending to hold Scully. Holding her in his arms and telling her how beautiful she looked. He got drunk on the vodka while pretending to unwrap gifts, and sitting in Scully's apartment getting high on life. Such a pretty picture, Scully. Too bad you're not here to save my ass. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Mulder. You're as lonely and crazy as Mr. Bean." Chapter Eight What time was it? Must be very late in the evening. Mulder found himself sitting up, stretching his back and looking around. Oh, that was better. He could actually walk again. Strange. How can one walk properly when one is badly hurt and feverish? Weird. This must be a dream. He was drunk, no doubt. High on life itself, and the dreams it gave him as it propelled him towards death. Oh, no matter. He shrugged. He was happy here. No worries about that. What a nice room. The fireplace worked. Logs were crackling and sizzling in it, and the flames shot up high, spreading a warm glow through the room and into his bones. Or was that the fever? Mulder realized his left arm didn't even hurt anymore. He turned towards the kitchen and spotted someone rummaging through the cupboards. "Where do you keep the glasses?" a voice called out to him, and he smiled when he realized it was Scully. "In the top one, to the right." She came into the room, wearing a great little outfit: black trousers, a dark red sweater. Oh wait, that was not just a sweater. It was the Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer sweater he'd brought her somewhere. He laughed at the little pom-pom swaying between her breasts. His brain swam with joy at seeing her. "You look great. Where did you get that?" "From your room of course. Before I came to save your butt." "But this is a dream." "Yes, Mulder, it is. Who cares? It's a nice dream. Here, have a chestnut. I roasted them especially for you." He laughed. "As long as that's all the nuts you roasted." "Mulder, you are always the horny one, aren't you? Even in your dreams. But that's okay. Here, have a grog. Let me slide under the duvet next to you." "But Scully " "You don't want me to slide under the duvet with you?" "That's not it, but " "But what?" "Am I dying or what? I must be." "Yep. But it's okay. It feels good. You're fine. You'll enjoy it." "But I don't want to die. I want to stay alert and wait for you, and not abandon you." "You won't have abandoned me. You're always in my thoughts." "Then help me." "I can't, Mulder. You did a very silly thing going off to find some kids that don't even exist. It was all a prank, Mulder. A joke. Some kids smearing paint on their faces and then spreading the story like an urban legend. By the time summer arrives, the rumor would have gone through the world, and set the scene for great tourism. It was as simple as that." "They existed, Scully." "Once, they did. But not here." She leaned into him and tapped on his nose. "The problem is that you sometimes do wild things, and you forget about the ones that love you. Bad boy." "Isn't the real Scully coming to get me?" "How would she do that? She doesn't even know where you are." "She must know. She's got a nose to find me, and track me down. She always has." "Yeah but you were a very bad boy running off like that without telling her." She wagged her finger in front of his face, her eyebrows arching beneath her hairline. "I wasn't that bad. Really." "Okay then." The dream-Scully leaned into him. She felt and smelled awfully real, he thought as he adjusted his position and allowed her to rest against his chest. Everything just seemed so real. He couldn't believe his world would end like this. It couldn't. Could it? Chapter Nine Mulder felt himself being touched. Warm hands. Scully? No, it wasn't her. Rough hands, male hands. Male smell: oily. They checked him out everywhere, turned him over, and examined at the wound on his arm. Voices in another language that sounded far away, like in a tunnel or something. Couldn't hear what they were saying. It sounded strange. They were tearing at his clothes, removing the top sweater with force. Someone was putting out the fire in front of where he lay. It was distorted hazy and he felt like he was in a furnace. Mulder gulped in air painfully and tried to look at the men around him, but felt he couldn't do a single thing. Too weak. His mind had lost control over his body. He let himself go with the flow, suddenly recognizing a man's face. He was one of the deer hunters. He was moved on top of the large dining room table. Someone spoke to him in that odd language. He looked into the man's eyes but didn't reply. The men spoke to each other. They didn't seem that bad. In fact, their voices seemed more anxious than anything else. "American," Mulder enunciated hoarsely. "I'm an American." "American? How did you get here? Who are you?" The bearded deer hunter continued in fluent English. "You were shot." "You shot me." "Fuck. Why didn't you say so? You should have called out for help! What are you doing here hiding out?" "Killers." "Who?" "You!" "Us?" The hunters looked at each other and rattled on in Finnish before returning to English. "Mister, you have the wrong idea about us. This is a breeding place for deer. We are legitimate hunters. We hunt for meat." "But " "Don't talk, mister. You have high fevers. Your arm is in very bad shape. We're calling in for help. Don't speak now and keep your strengths up. You're fine with us. We'll talk care of you." Mulder stared at the deer hunter, realizing the stupidity of the situation. Here he was, all this time hiding out and trying to save himself, while help had been only a few feet away. But were they for real? What if they weren't? He couldn't take the risk, now could he? His gun, where did he leave the gun? He couldn't remember: Somewhere, in the empty rooms of this house where he'd spent the loneliest hours of his life. The hunters were heatedly arguing about something in the corner of the room. One of them was on some sort of walkie-talkie. Mulder knew this was his chance. He let his body carefully slide off the table, sunk onto his legs, holding onto the wooden edge as he gained composure. Okay, this was it. Just a few feet away to freedom. He staggered his way out of the room, snatching up the red-wigged-bear , taking it with him. Couldn't leave Scully. Mulder slowly opened the front door, shutting it quietly, crawling on hands and knees now, he realized it was freezing cold out and all he had to wear was a sweater and T-shirt. Damn, the icy wind bit into him like teeth, seizing him at once. He would never make it far. No worries. He'd get somewhere. Anywhere was better than here. Danger screamed through his veins but seemed strangely muted. Confusing. He turned and saw the men coming after him. "Where are you going?" the bearded man shouted. Mulder knew he never stood a chance against them. He forced his body to move forward, eager to get to some sort of hiding place. Before him was a wide-open white expanse, and there, there was the icy road again. And the treacherous patches that lead straight to the mainland. Hey, Scully was there. He could see her waving at him. That's where he had to be. Blinded by driving snow, Mulder swayed towards her, only to be blinded by dazzling lights coming from above him. Automatically his hand shot up in front of his eyes, dropping the bear, and dropping like a stone to the icy ground himself, snow and freezing wind pelting his now helpless body. The sound of the wings clipping above him sounded hypnotic. Scully came out of the light, looking like an angel. So, maybe there was a miracle, right? Someone that came over to him, to tell him he had received another chance to live. After all, wouldn't it be amazingly dumb to die like this? A frozen Muldersicle: he sniggered against the bear at that. The angel took him in her arms and rested his head against her chest. "It's okay," she soothed, trying to wrap herself over him like a blanket. He felt fingers on his face. "You're fine now. You're with me." The others gathered around them and looked down at them as Mulder tugged on his partner's sweater, murmuring, "You forgot to put on Rudolph." Chapter Ten The hospital was small, yet somehow cosy. There was Christmas music everywhere, and people were in happy moods. A miracle had happened today and everyone was aware of it. A missing FBI-agent vacationing in Finland had been found after three days of searching, alive but badly hurt. By the end of the day, before midnight, the word quickly spread that he would be fine. The bullet lodged in his arm had been surgically removed, and his raging fever had been brought down. He was off the respirator and on oxygen now. Everyone involved was waiting around until he woke up, to see the redhead that wouldn't leave his side. The story quickly went around and even reached the national newspapers, tabloids that the redhead FBI agent had called in after a desperate effort to find her partner. There had been no trace of him, you see. Nothing to lead her to him. He had left no word. All anyone knew was that he had hired a rental car, and left his hotel unexpectedly in the morning, yet never came back. It seemed so they said that the redhead had turned up as a surprise on Sunday morning to accompany her partner to some convention he was at, and found him gone. At first she was frustrated, but then that frustration was replaced by fear. And that night, she called in the local police's help and filed her friend as missing. Then they scanned the Helsinki area, looking for the little Fiat Panda he had hired, but to no avail. After another frantic day of searching, they called in the national newspapers. It was only then that a few people from a little town called Taalintehdas called, and said they had seen him. And a big man, who was once a woman, reported himself to the police and confessed that in a drunken stupor, he had sent the missing agent off on a goose chase to the Bishop's Island. As night was already falling on the third day of his absence, the redhead agent was on her way to Bishop's Island courtesy of a police helicopter, that would also be used to scan the island, reports came in from some deer hunters using the rough ice to drive their cars to the mainland. They had found a small Fiat Panda embedded in ice and water, right next to the track. And, at the police's insistence, they decided to search the island, hoping to find him on a whim of luck in the woods. Finally, they found him in Mr. Paulsson's summerhouse. One that would be left for the winter and not be inhabited until spring came, hence no utilities like light and heat. They'd found the agent on the ground, sick hypothermic and close to death. When he'd woke up originally in the house, he took off in his delirium, thinking they had come to kill him. Instead, they saved him. The police helicopter rushed the agents to the small hospital of Taalintehdas, where Mulder underwent emergency surgery needed to save his arm and his life. It was a miracle he'd survived. * Mulder's pale face was turned to the left, towards the window that bright winter light shone through when he opened his eyes. The first thing he became aware of, were the flowers. Flowers everywhere. All over the place. On the windowsill, in at least a dozen vases. Near the door on the ground, even more sitting on the little table over the end of his bed. And fruit. So much fruit. What was this? Were they trying to fattening him up after his obligated diet of tuna and peas? His arm was strapped up tightly and rested in a large sling over his chest. It ached, but not as much as it did before. Now he could actually think straight again. It must have been poisoning. Lead poisoning. What else could have caused him to feel so damned crappy and delirious before? He hadn't been able to think, to act, or do anything he should have done. He had been hallucinating like crazy the whole time. He really had come too close this time. He didn't know what it was about the room but something was missing. Yes, now he remembered. Scully wasn't here. Disappointment and letdown surged through his heart. It had been a dream, hadn't it? He wasn't alive anymore. This was some twisted damned nightmare consisting of a hospital room and a whole slew of funeral flowers. But his disappointment walked out the door as soon as the woman that held his life together walked in. She was not alone. "Look who's awake," Scully smiled, approaching the bed at once. She touched his hand, and then his cheek and forehead. "You're fine, Mulder. You're doing great. It's all over now. We'll explain everything later." "No, I'm not fine," he crooned, staring at her. "Why not?" "You're not wearing Rudolph." "Oh, aren't I?" She grinned widely, unzipping the jacket that concealed the obnoxious sweater he had bought for her at the hotel gift shop. The little pom-pom jiggled back and forth with her every move. "Look," she enthused gleefully, turning her back to him. "An alien bit my ass." He laughed carefully first, then louder. "I'm thirsty. Any vodka left?" "Not on your life. Merry Christmas Mulder." "That's Mr. Mulder for you." She groaned. The End