TITLE: Promised Land
Author: Laura Castellano
feedback to: lauritaC@excite.com
http://www.8op.com/laurita
May 22, 2000 - July 22, 2000

Rating: R                          

Spoilers: Hell yes, is there anything to write about now
other than "Requiem"?

Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be

Keywords: MSR, Angst for everyone

Mulder-sized thanks to my beta reader Julie, for asking
all the right questions and helping me keep it focused.
And to my foddx sisters for the inspiration and encouragement.

Archive: You're welcome to link to it at:

http://www.8op.com/laurita/promised.htm

     

Promised Land
Chapter 1


When it was her turn, the recovery had been simple, although
almost deadly.  She'd appeared in a hospital one day,
comatose, her arrival a mystery, and although they'd all
been certain they would lose her at first, they could hold
her hand, and talk to her through the coma, and it was
peaceful, and not such agony to watch.

They couldn't have realized that, of course.  Surely it was
agonizing to sit helplessly by as her body gave up its fight
to survive.  They thought it was difficult because they'd
had nothing to compare it with, and even her fight with the
cancer had been a known quantity, for the most part;
certainly it was a battle that was fought countless times
every day in nearly every hospital in America.  The
resolution might have been somewhat unusual, but nothing on
the X-files was ever mundane, not even expense reports.

Scully lay on her bed, propped up with three pillows, her
hands idly caressing her swollen abdomen as she lost herself
in thought.  It was one of her favorite activities these
days, work and strenuous exercise being forbidden, and as it
always happened, Mulder became real to her again.  She could
feel his strong arms around her, hear his whispered laugh in
her ear, and, if she closed her eyes and really
concentrated, she could smell the scent of him, the soap,
the sweat, the skin, his hair...all the smells she
associated with Mulder.

She remembered the last time she'd held him, afraid to let
him go, knowing he would refuse to stay.

"I won't let you go alone," she'd said, and had sent him off
with her talisman, the cross, that symbol that had sustained
them both when they had been separated in the past.  "Bring
it back to me," she'd whispered, pulling his lips to hers
for a last kiss, and he had nodded his promise.  Even then,
she realized now, she'd known something was wrong, had felt
a sense of foreboding that she was unable, at that time, to
identify.

She'd been more in control of her emotions in those days,
able to hold her breakdown until she was alone, but
Mulder--he was never good at goodbyes, and she had seen the
tears shimmering, unshed, in his eyes as he turned away.

She felt the familiar stab of pain through her heart at the
memory, but ignored it--what was there to be done? She had
searched everywhere on earth he could possibly be, hadn't
she?  She, Skinner, Langly, Byers and Frohike had literally
scoured the planet for a sign of him, although Skinner kept
insisting that he had seen Mulder disappear into the forest,
and witnessed the ship taking off with his own eyes.  Unlike
herself, Skinner was firm in his belief of what he had seen,
never wavering. Scully found that once the visual evidence
of anything unbelievable had disappeared, her memories
became muddled, confused between what she knew, from her
years of experience as a scientist, must be true, and what
had been right in front of her, if only briefly.

Mulder, though--Mulder was a believer, in the plausibility
of all things. Sorcerers, mutants, extraterrestrials...all
of them blended together in Mulder's view of the possible,
each met with the same acceptance he would give to the fact
that oak trees grew from acorns. She held to only one
impossible belief:  that one day he would return to her,
whole, healthy and completely himself. Every night and every
morning she prayed for his return with the renewed faith
that trying times always brought her.  It was funny, she
realized in her clearer moments, that while religion defied
science on many fronts, she accepted it because she had been
taught it from infancy, and yet she denied the knowledge of
things she had seen as an adult, claiming her memory was
untrustworthy or even absent, when in her deepest heart she
knew it was simply a truth her mind could not accept. She
threw up walls, barricades from the obvious when she needed
to do so, and she had hurt him with her refusal to believe
on more than one occasion.

The phone beside her bed rang, startling her from her
thoughts, and she almost ignored the shrill sound. There was
nobody she wanted to talk to tonight, nothing she wanted to
talk about.  Surely it would be one more attempt by
well-meaning friends to cheer her, or perhaps another wild
goose chase to follow.  It might even be Alex Krycek, whose
existence she had come to accept, barely. The knowledge that
Krycek might be the only link to Mulder when he was returned
was the one thing that kept her from killing the bastard,
and yet, so far, every time he had resurfaced with a
supposed "lead" it had been a dead end, one more damnable
brick wall against which to bang her aching head.  As for
Krycek, no matter how selfless his motives might appear, she
could not bring herself to trust him.  She would never
forgive him for the things he had done to them in the past,
never.  If it had not been for his interference all those
months ago, Mulder wouldn't have gone back to Oregon.  He
wouldn't have been taken, and he would have been here to
experience the wonder that was his child growing in her
womb.  She clung stubbornly to her blame of Krycek; it was
solid and sure.

"Yes?" she said curtly, picking up the phone at last,
because there was always the ghost of a chance it could be
important.  It could be real news about Mulder.

And this time, out of all the countless, useless times, it
was.

"Agent Scully?  Dana Scully?"

Her ears perked up; the voice was familiar, although not
immediately identifiable.  It was wrapped around memories of
Mulder, and that made it worthwhile.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Agent Scully, this is Billy Miles."

Her breathing stopped, momentarily--Billy Miles had gone
with the others.  He'd been missing all these months as
well, and if he had been returned--

"Mulder!" she demanded, unable to control the harshness in
her voice even though she knew it was not this boy's fault
that Mulder had been taken.  "Where is he?"

"He's here."

She didn't need to ask where 'here' was--everything had
centered around Bellefleur, Oregon, and suddenly it seemed
natural that Mulder would be there.

"Alive?"

"Yes.  He needs you."

Calming herself, forcing deep breaths, Scully thought
quickly.

"I can't fly right now, Billy," she told him.  "I'll have to
send someone else, a friend.  What's his condition?"

"He's...they hurt him pretty badly."  He was obviously
reluctant to discuss the shape Mulder was in, and his
coyness pissed her off

"How badly?"  she snapped, immediately regretting her anger.
She tried to remain calm, she tried not to frighten Billy
with her intensity, but all she could picture was poor
Mulder, alone and helpless, terrified, possibly in pain.

"He's just...I can't explain it," Billy said helplessly.
"He'd never experienced it before.  He was the only one
among us who had never--"

"All right," she interrupted.  "I'm sending someone out
there right away, tonight.  Can you look out for Mulder
until then?  Does he need a hospital?"

"I don't think a hospital is going to do him any good,"
Billy replied grimly.  "He needs you.  He keeps repeating
your name.  It's all he'll say."

That pain stabbed her again, and she closed her eyes against
its ruthless assault.  She terminated the call instantly,
her finger punching the speed dial button for Skinner.
Dragging herself to the side of the bed, for the first time
she cursed her unwieldy pregnant body.  If it weren't for
the baby, she could fly to Mulder, take him in her arms,
comfort him, heal him, but her doctor had specifically
warned her against flying, citing her age, first pregnancy,
medical history, ad nauseam. She'd agreed to everything; she
would take no chances with Mulder's baby.  Scully stopped
her thinking short, horrified that she'd even had such a
thought.  If it weren't for the baby, she reminded herself
forcefully, the promise of a part of Mulder surviving, *she*
would never have survived these past seven months.  Mulder's
child had been her savior.

The second she heard Skinner answer, she announced in a
rush, "He's back."

Skinner drew in a sharp breath.  "Where?"

"Oregon.  Billy Miles just called me.  He's back too."

Skinner realized the difficulty immediately--he'd been
forced to put her on desk duty several months earlier, per
her doctor's orders.  "I'll go tonight.  I'll bring him back
to you, Dana.  I promise."

"Hurry, Walter.  He's alone, and afraid."  She tried not to
let her voice choke on a sob, but he heard it anyway.

"I'll take care of Mulder," he promised her gently.  "You
take care of his child."

-----

Mulder lay in the corner, curled into the tiniest ball his
six-foot frame would allow.  He had been here for hours now,
remaining as silent as possible, occasionally allowing a
little whimper of fear to escape, then waiting, terrified,
barely daring to breathe, for them to discover him.

To make himself invisible was his only hope; maybe when they
came, they wouldn't be able to find him.  Maybe this time he
would fold up so small that he would meld into the wall, the
white clothing they gave him blending so completely with the
whiteness of the room that he would be invisible to them.
This time.

Something was different, though, and with careful thought,
forcing his tortured mind to focus on the puzzle, he finally
realized what had changed.  Normally when they came for him,
there was no hesitation.  They found him, unfailingly, no
matter how he tried to hide, jerked him to his feet, dragged
him from his cell, ignoring his screams of protest, and took
him to the bad place.  The hurting place. They were
oblivious to his tears and his pleading and his cries of
torment.  They went about their business as if he made no
sound; indeed, he wasn't certain they could even hear him.
They showed no pity, no mercy, no remorse.

This time was different.  This time, there was only one,
appearing as always in the shape of a man, a human, but this
human looked familiar, and he approached carefully, and his
demeanor did not pose a threat, somehow.  Mulder
instinctively knew that this one was different, but he still
crept further into the corner.  They had done things to him,
to his mind.  He could no longer trust his instincts.

This one knelt beside him, not touching, and spoke his name
gently.  Mulder had not heard spoken words in forever, until
today, until the other one, the one who brought him here to
this new cell.  That one had been gentle as well, appearing
non-threatening as he'd tried to get Mulder into the
comfortable bed, so different from the hard, narrow cot to
which he had become accustomed.  He had ignored the words,
knowing they were false, nothing but a cruel trick. He
didn't yet understand why, but with this new, bigger, more
comfortable cell, complete with simulated earthly daylight,
they were trying to lull him into a sense of security that
would end up hurting, somehow, always hurting. Everything
always hurt.  He refused to allow them to fool him, and so
he ignored the bed in favor of his corner, and prayed that
he would not be found out this time.  Surely, sometime, even
his prayers must be answered--Scully believed in them.  He
clutched at the charm around his neck, whispering his
good-luck word.

"Scully...Scully..."

"Mulder?" spoke the deceiving, careful and quiet monster
crouching before him, and Mulder buried his head in his
knees, wrapped his arms around himself and hoped they would
think he was dead this time.

He heard another voice, then, the one that had initially
tried to trick him.  Scully's name echoed in his ears, and
he knew it was only another fraud; Scully was not here.
Scully would never find him.  He knew she had tried her
best--she would do no less.  He knew and understood and
loved her and at the same time hated her for not being able
to rescue him from his own personal hell.

"He hasn't said anything except Agent Scully's name.  He
just curls up and jerks away whenever I try to touch him."

Skinner straightened, looking Billy up and down.  The boy
seemed fine--perhaps a bit shaken and thinner than he should
be, but in possession of all his faculties.  Not at all like
the stricken man who was now trying to shrink even further
into the protective corner.

"Have you ever seen this before?" Skinner asked, staring
down at Mulder, feeling somewhat foolish, talking to this
young man about alien abduction experiences as if they were
a part of everyday life.

Billy nodded soberly.  "The first time is always the worst,"
he said, almost apologetically.  "And they hurt him pretty
badly.  We saw."

"You saw what they did to him?"

"Well, not everything, but..."

"Tell me.  I need to know."

Billy cast his glance down at the man on the floor, closing
his eyes quickly as if to block out a horrible, remembered
vision.

"I can't," he said shortly.  "There are no words for it.
Besides, there's nothing you can do about it now.  He'll get
better.  Or he won't."

Skinner gave him a sour look, kneeling in front of Mulder
once again.

"Mulder?" he asked, reaching out a hand carefully toward the
terrified agent.  He drew it back instantly when the
curled-up man tried to crawl through the wall in an attempt
to avoid him, whimpering pathetically.

"Agent Mulder, do you know where you are?"

"...hurt me don't hurt me Scully I want Scully I want..."
The words were barely audible but Mulder's lips moved
frantically, forming them over and over again.

"Believe it or not, this is progress," Bill said.  "When we
were first returned, the only word he would say was her
name."

Skinner glanced up at him.  "Progress?" he asked sourly, and
then softer, almost to himself, "I have to get him home.
How the hell am I going to do that when he doesn't even know
where he is?"

"I don't think you should try to move him yet.  Stay here
for a few days.  Maybe he'll come out of it enough to
recognize you.  If you can get through to him that you're
taking him to her..."

"He's so thin," Skinner observed, standing again and taking
a few steps back, feeling strangely hurt when Mulder visibly
relaxed.  It wasn't Mulder's fault that he was in this
situation, he reminded himself sternly.  If anyone was to
blame, it was Alex Krycek for sending Mulder out here, but
even that wasn't entirely true.  Mulder had come of his own
free will.  They had all believed at first that he'd
sacrificed himself to save Scully, but now Skinner wondered
if Mulder had known all along that he would be taken--he'd
watched Mulder walk calmly into the forest and never return.

"Let me try," Billy offered.  "He might feel easier with
me."

He slowly approached the quivering Mulder, kneeling beside
him as Skinner had done, and reached out a hand, equally
slowly.  Mulder watched him warily, his eyes shifting back
and forth between Billy's face and his hand, until the hand
lay on his shoulder, not hurting, not threatening, just
resting there.  Gradually, when several minutes passed and
Billy did not move, Mulder relaxed a tiny bit.

"Agent Mulder," Billy said in a voice that was almost a
whisper.  "Would you like to get into bed?  Would you like
to sleep now?"

"Don't hurt me."  It was the first coherent sentence Mulder
had spoken.

"I won't hurt you," Billy said kindly.  "I only want you to
rest.  Will you get into the bed?"  As he spoke, he
indicated the double bed, shoved against one wall of the
bedroom.  "Come, stand up.  I'll help you."  He took
Mulder's left hand, slowly, always slowly, helping him to
his feet.  Mulder's entire body trembled, and he clutched at
Billy's arm to keep from falling.

"All right, one step.  Put your foot out.  One step."  Billy
spoke as gently as if to a small child, encouraging him, and
Mulder did as Billy said, putting his right foot out six
inches, tentatively resting his weight on it, searching
Billy's face to make certain he was doing right.

"Don't hurt me," he whispered again, clutching fiercely at
Billy's arm.

"No one is going to hurt you, I promise.  Take another
step."

Four steps later they were beside the bed, and Billy eased
Mulder down onto it carefully.  When his back hit the
mattress, Mulder's face changed, grew frightened.  The
softness was a shock--he'd expected the hard table where
they'd abused him so many times--but still, the monster had
him lying down, and that was a bad position in which to be.
He lay there quietly while Billy lifted his feet to the bed
and spread a blanket over him.  There was no use resisting
at this point.  Once they had you on the table, they were
going to hurt you, and there was nothing you could do or say
to stop them.  Still, he had to try.  If he didn't try, they
won and he descended into total madness forever.

He couldn't move now.  He didn't know when the monster had
injected him with the drug that always paralyzed his arms
and legs, he hadn't felt the prick this time, but already he
couldn't move.  Luckily, he had the word to keep him from
falling over the edge... the word he repeated over and over,
like a magic charm even as they tried to wrest control from
him.  They could control him physically, but they could
never take away the small feeling of triumph that his word
gave him, however briefly, and even when they delved into
his mind, the word remained untouched.

Scully.  Scully.

"Please don't--don't hurt me again," he begged hoarsely,
tears beginning to seep from beneath his clenched lids.

"Shh, it's all right," Billy soothed, patting Mulder's
shoulder lightly before backing away.  "Nobody is going to
hurt you this time.  We're going to let you sleep now."

Mulder lay there, unbelieving, tense, waiting for the agony,
and when it did not come, he dared to hope the voice was
telling the truth.  Finally deciding he must take advantage
of every painless moment, he allowed himself to relax enough
to drift into a light sleep.  He would need his strength for
when they began the testing again.

The two men stood silently, watching as Mulder sank into an
exhausted sleep, and once he was breathing evenly and
slowly, left the room, leaving the door ajar to hear any
sound the tormented man might make.

"What the hell was done to him?" Skinner demanded roughly.
It was more of a shock to see Mulder like this than he'd
expected, but the truth was, he hadn't really known what to
expect. If anything, he'd pictured Mulder in the same shape
Scully had been in when she'd been returned--comatose, weak,
even dying, perhaps, but...not this.  This fearful, pleading
Mulder was a stranger to him, and he didn't like the
transformation one bit.  It was as if the true Mulder had
been exchanged for his complete opposite.  Where was the
defiant, self-assured agent Skinner had called a friend?
And more to the point, how was he supposed to get this
traumatized shell of Mulder back home to Scully so he could
heal?  And would he heal?  Was there a chance Mulder might
never get any better than this?  Skinner refused to give
that thought credence.  Mulder was strong; he would survive.

Billy sank heavily into a chair, hating the question,
resting his face in his hands for a few minutes while he
considered how best to explain to Skinner that Mulder was in
a natural state for what he'd endured.  Finally he shook his
head in frustration.  It was impossible to explain
post-abduction trauma to someone who had never had the
experience.  That was why the stories sounded so incredible
when abductees told them.  That was why everyone thought
they were crazy.

"I can't explain to you what happened to him," Billy
repeated wearily.  Suddenly the whole world felt like a
weight on his back.  He had returned from months away too,
only to learn that his father had been killed by the alien
who had taken him to the ship.  The realization of his loss
was only just beginning to seep in--Billy had been so
concerned with Mulder that he hadn't yet had time to grieve.
At heart, Billy Miles was a very kind man, and Mulder's
situation had demanded that he put his own troubles aside
for a time.


Even though he and the others had not suffered overmuch this
time, Mulder had been a new specimen. The aliens had
subjected him to extensive testing in order to establish a
baseline at first, and then they had apparently discovered
something about him, some anomaly, that made them want to
test him further.  Something was wrong, Billy could tell.
They couldn't get complete control of Mulder, they'd had to
use drugs to subdue him, and even then, they had only been
partially successful.  Billy was confused-- he had never
seen this happen before, but he was guiltily glad that they
were much too consumed with the puzzle that was Mulder to
care much what the rest of them did.

While the other abductees were left to themselves, allowed
to mix with one another and simply exist, Mulder was kept
alone, confined, and every day they seemed to find some new
way to torment him. Billy believed, from his own
experiences, that they had no concept of human pain, that
they had no concept of humans as sentient beings, aside from
those with whom they had struck bargains in the past. Mulder
was nothing to them, no more than an interesting lab animal,
and therefore his pain was inconsequential, if they even
knew it existed.  If they knew, they did not care.

"So you keep saying," Skinner responded tersely, "but I
don't understand why.  Do you know, or don't you?"

"I told you before, there aren't words for it!" Billy
flared, his temper at last frayed to the breaking point.
Had this man forgotten that *he* had been taken as well?

In the next instant, he regretted the thought.  His past
seven months had been a holiday compared to what Mulder had
endured.

Seeing Skinner's look of exasperation, Billy backed off.  It
was obvious that Skinner's patience was wearing thin as
well.

"It's hard to explain," he said hesitantly.  "Sometimes it's
in your mind, and sometimes it's all over your skin and
sometimes it's just inside you, but it always hurts."  He
paused, searching for the proper way to tell this man what
his agent had endured.  "It was worse for him.  I don't
understand it, but they were only concerned with him.  The
rest of us were pretty much ignored once they discovered
him.  Something about him-- I don't know, I only know they
left us alone for the most part and concentrated on Agent
Mulder."

"He didn't appear to have any scarring," Skinner said
thoughtfully--it was one of the things he knew about Billy;
the boy had plenty of scars.

"They aren't obvious, but they'll be there.  Maybe only
inside."  He paused.  "They're better at hiding them than
they used to be.  Their techniques have...improved?"

"But what did they *do*?"

"I can't explain!" Billy shouted, frustrated at not getting
through to this seemingly intelligent man.  Couldn't Skinner
understand that beings not of this world used methods of
what they would call "science" not of this world, and that
their procedures could not be described in words of this
world?  "It doesn't matter, anyway.  There's nothing you can
do about it now, it's done."

Skinner's eyes narrowed.  He knew Billy wasn't bullshitting
him, and yet he couldn't wrap his mind around this "no
words" concept.

"He needs to be in a hospital," he said at last.  "Surely
there are some medical tests and procedures that could help
us determine--"

"There are no medical procedures to be done for him now,"
Billy said flatly.  "And don't you think he's had enough of
testing?"  Skinner turned away, frustrated at his own
helplessness, but Billy pressed on.  "He's barely hanging
onto sanity now.  If you take him into a hospital, they're
going to label him as emotionally disturbed and slap him in
a psych unit."  He moved in front of Skinner, refusing to
allow the older man to elude his gaze, willing him to
understand by the very force of his words.  "They'll put him
in restraints, they'll drug him--he might not survive.  I've
been there, Mr. Skinner.  Believe me, a hospital is the last
thing he needs."

Skinner nodded at last, still not really understanding but
willing to let the matter drop, for now. Crossing quietly to
the bedroom door, he peeked inside to make certain Mulder
was still sleeping, then pulled out his cell phone and
dialed Scully.  She answered on the first ring.

"You found him?" she asked breathlessly.  "How is he?  Is he
alive?"

"He's alive, Dana, but..."  Skinner bit his lip, not quite
knowing how to proceed, until her concerned voice jarred
him.

"Just tell me, Walter," she said sternly.  "God knows, after
the past seven months, news that he's alive is better than
I'd hoped for at times."

"He's in a highly emotional state," Skinner explained,
keeping his voice as clinical as he could, trying not to
realize that it was Mulder, *Mulder*, his friend, lying on
that bed, afraid to let him near.  "He doesn't seem to
realize where he is, he thinks he's still...in their hands.
He thinks he's going to be hurt."

Scully, who had hoped Mulder would be spared any remembered
pain, as she had been, bit back a sob, cursing the hormones
that made her an emotional wreck these days.  Dana Scully,
hard-assed FBI agent, cried at the drop of a hat lately.

"Does he recognize you?"

"Not yet," he told her gently, "but he's asking for you.  I
wish--"

"I'll drive there," she said immediately.  "I'll get in the
car and be there as fast as I can."

"No!" he ordered gruffly.  "You can't take the chance.  You
know what your doctor said about taking easy the last few
weeks."

"Walter, I won't risk losing him again!" she retorted
sharply.  "If he's there, and I'm the only one he'll
recognize, then damn it, I'm going to give him a friendly
face!"

"Scully--"

"Look, I won't drive it myself, all right?  I'll get the
guys to bring me.  I'm sure they'll agree.  They can drive
in shifts, we can be there in two days.  Walter, don't try
to stop me.  Nothing in heaven or hell is going to keep me
away from Mulder now, do you understand?"

She was bordering on the hysterical, he realized, and the
thought of Dana Scully in hysterics boggled the mind.  There
was nothing he could do or say to stop her.  The best he
could do was to try and manage the situation from afar.

"I'll call them and arrange everything," he agreed, albeit
reluctantly, trotting out the 'boss voice' that was
occasionally effective with her, although not as often as
he'd like.  "You get ready to go.  They'll be there soon to
pick you up."  Then he ruined the "boss" image by asking
anxiously, "Okay?"

She thought for a minute.  Skinner could handle the details
while she packed for herself and Mulder, something familiar,
something he could feel at home in.  His jeans and favorite
gray t-shirt, the one she slept in every night since his
disappearance.

He had left his casual weekend clothes at her apartment on
the last night they had spent together.  Once she'd come
home from the hospital, numb from the dual shocks of
Mulder's abduction and her own, unexpected, unbelievable
pregnancy, she'd fished the shirt out of the laundry hamper,
pulling it over her head, inhaling his scent, watching as
the gray turned black in spots, dampened by her tears.  She
had steadfastly refused to wash it for the first month,
until the smell of her own skin on the fabric overshadowed
the smell of Mulder. Only then did she risk laundering the
precious item, and as soon as it was safely dried and
folded, it went back under her pillow, ready for her to slip
it over her naked skin before climbing into bed, only to wet
the pillow with still more tears of grief and loneliness.

God, but she had missed him.

"All right," she said at last.  "You call them, but Sir--if
you can't arrange it, I'm driving myself."  She put down the
phone without waiting for his reply, and hauled herself up
from the couch. Walter would arrange it, all right.  He had
never stopped blaming himself for "losing" Mulder, no matter
how many times she had tried to explain to him that he had
been as helpless in the face of it as was she.  They'd
wanted Mulder, and they'd taken him, and he'd gone there,
giving them their opportunity, at the urging of Alex Krycek.
It was as simple as that.  And she would never forgive
Krycek for it. She would also never believe his protested
innocence; Krycek worked for whichever side would benefit
him the most, and for some reason he had wanted Mulder gone.
Or maybe it hadn't even been as personal as that.  Maybe
they'd given him something in exchange for delivering
Mulder.  Lies within lies, hidden in puzzles within
puzzles--she was so sick of it all.  She would probably
never know the true answers, and right now, she didn't give
a damn.  She just wanted Mulder back.

When the guys pulled up outside her apartment two hours
later, she was ready, more than ready.  She'd packed clothes
for herself and Mulder, necessities for a week, not knowing
how long it would be before Mulder could make the trip home,
and something else very important. Mulder's cherished
photograph of Samantha.  A permanent fixture on his desk at
home, had for the past seven months resided on Scully's
bedside table. It reminded her, oddly enough, not of the
girl in the picture at all, but of her devoted older
brother, who had spent his life in search of her, only to
find she had been lost to him for years.  It was a symbol of
a quest, but more importantly, it was a symbol of the man
behind that quest, the man who never gave up, the man who
could conquer anything in the face of incredible odds.

Tucking it carefully into her suitcase, nestled protectively
among the clothing, she prayed he would be able to overcome
one more time.  She wanted him back, but she needed *all* of
him.  She needed the man she loved.

She needed the father of her child.

Scully stepped outside, not waiting for the boys to come in
for her, and stopped in surprise at what now stood in front
of her building.  She'd expected their ancient van, in fact
had already resigned herself to a long, uncomfortable trip
in it, but this vehicle looked like--

"It's a used ambulance," Langly confirmed, hopping out and
gallantly swinging open the back door.

Scully stuck her head inside and saw two cots, one piled
high with comfortable pillows, and on the floor between
them, a large ice chest, filled with drinks and munchables.
The usual barrier between front and back was gone, making it
a simple matter to move from the front seat to the cots in
back.  Amazed, Scully turned to the three men who now stood
gathered around, awaiting her approval.

"I can't believe you did this so quickly," she said, shaking
her head with a smile of wonder.

Byers offered his hand, helping her climb into the back of
the converted ambulance, and they settled her on a cot,
leaning her against the soft pillows.

"We wanted you to be as comfortable as possible," he told
her seriously, stowing her suitcase beneath the cot.  "None
of us want to face Mulder if anything happens to you or the
baby."

She placed her hands protectively across her stomach and
smiled her thanks, her eyes welling with tears again.

"Let's get this show on the road," said Frohike brusquely,
embarrassed at the show of emotion from Mulder's normally
stoic partner.

He and Langly climbed into the front seat while Byers
stretched out on the extra cot and, to Scully's surprise,
fell asleep almost instantly.  She was too excited to sleep,
although it had been a long night, so she lay there, barely
noticing the jostling of the vehicle, her thoughts centered
only on the man she sought.  It was irrational to believe
that he would be unchanged, she knew, but she couldn't help
picturing him the way he had looked the last time she'd seen
him.  She could almost feel his skin beneath her fingers.
Skinner had told her he was in bad shape, but what exactly
did that mean?  How changed would she find him?

She closed her eyes, instinctively clutching at her neck for
the cross that had not hung there in seven months. And she
prayed.

_____

Skinner sat quietly, watching the steady rise and fall of
Mulder's chest as he slept.  He could almost count the ribs
beneath the odd white fabric covering them, and he wondered
just how long it was since Mulder had been decently fed.

"He needs to eat something," he told the young man who had
just entered the room.

Billy nodded.  "Nothing too heavy, though.  The nourishment
they give you is...different.  It's not food, exactly.
That's why he's so thin."

"Soup?"  Skinner was trying hard not to be annoyed at this
boy, who was doing his best, really, to help Mulder.  It was
just that there was so little that could actually be done,
and if there was one thing Skinner hated, it was feeling
powerless.  Billy nodded again and disappeared, while
Skinner's eyes never left his friend.

Mulder had awakened once, early that morning, screaming
frantically, and Billy had been the one to calm him, Billy
had been the one to speak softly to Mulder until he quieted,
his frightened, bloodshot eyes still darting about the room
in search of danger, his tense body pressed against the wall
but relaxing, little by little, until at last he slept
again. Skinner stayed back, in a chair against the opposite
wall, out of Mulder's immediate line of sight.  He hoped
Mulder would come out of it enough to recognize him before
Scully arrived, but if he didn't...well, Skinner was pinning
all his hopes on Scully.  Mulder knew her, whispered her
name over and over again, wanted her nearby, and it was she
who would be his salvation, Skinner was certain.

He had been amazed, observing Mulder as he slept, to
discover the slight bump beneath the white shirt. Lifting it
oh-so-carefully so as not to awaken the slumbering agent, he
was astonished to find Scully's cross.  How it had survived
all those months, why it had not been taken away, he had no
idea, but Skinner recognized a miracle when he saw it--even
a small one.  No wonder Mulder remembered Scully.  He had
managed to hang on to the only tangible evidence he had of
her in spite of everything he'd been through.

Skinner's thoughts were interrupted when Billy returned,
carrying a mug of steaming soup, and he realized he hadn't
even heard the microwave bell.  Nodding his thanks, he took
the mug and set it gently on the table beside the bed.  If
Mulder didn't wake up soon of his own accord, he supposed he
should try to rouse him, but the thought of pulling Mulder
from what appeared to be peaceful sleep into the horror of
his memories stayed his hand.  Soup could be reheated;
precious rest might not be recovered so easily.

Before the mug had cooled completely, before Skinner became
afraid at the length of time he'd slept--almost twelve
hours, not counting the one frightening episode--Mulder
slitted his eyes open, closing them again almost
immediately.  Skinner sat back and waited, watching, silent.
He wondered if Mulder would recognize him now.

In a moment, the eyes sneaked open again, just a hair.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder let out a little sigh.  "Scully?"  His hands, still
trembling, although not as badly as before, groped upwards
of his chest to locate the gold chain, pulling the tiny
talisman from beneath the shirt and gripping it tightly.

"She's on her way.  Do you remember who I am?  Do you know
where you are?"

"S-Sir?"

Skinner smiled broadly.  "Yes, Mulder, it's me.  You're safe
now."

"Don't know where..."  It seemed too much of an effort for
Mulder to speak, as if all the energy had been simply
drained from his body, but Skinner took heart at the few
words he'd said; Mulder seemed to be approaching lucidity at
last.

"I have something for you to eat," he told the agent.  "Do
you need help to sit up?"  Of course Mulder needed help,
Skinner knew, but he also knew that offering assistance
could be met with terror.

Mulder's eyes opened again, staying wide this time, fixed on
the older man's face.  "Eat?"  He said the word as if he'd
never heard it, as if it had no meaning for him at all.

"Food, Mulder.  You know--nourishment?"  There was nothing
to grin about, except for the fact that he was so damn glad
to see a glimmer of the real Mulder, a Mulder who recognized
him.  Skinner reached out his hands slowly, and after an
initial darkening of fear in Mulder's eyes, the agent
allowed Skinner to grasp him beneath his arms and pull him
to a sitting position.  He leaned against the headboard
heavily, breathing like a man starved for oxygen.

He looked up at Skinner, his gaze never wavering now.
"Scully?" he asked again, weaker this time but still intent.

"She's coming."  Skinner debated for a second whether or not
to tell Mulder about the baby, then decided it was too much
to hit him with all at once.  Mulder was barely cognizant
now, he only just recognized Skinner.  He didn't want to
risk sending him back into the horror with any sudden
shocks.

Instead, Skinner picked up the mug, feeling the warmth it
still retained, decided it didn't need reheating yet, and
offered it to Mulder.  Mulder stared as if a mug full of
warm broth was a curiosity yet unknown to him.  Slowly,
Skinner brought the soup toward Mulder's mouth, and when it
was beneath his nose, Mulder inhaled deeply.  All of a
sudden a huge smile broke out on his face.  Skinner smiled
back, again feeling like a bit of an idiot, but it was just
so good to see some sign of humanity in Mulder at last.

"Food," Mulder said, recognition in his voice, eager, but
still so weak.  He reached for the mug with uncertain
fingers. Skinner had to help him--the soup sloshed out when
Mulder tried to hold it.  The trembling in his hands had
increased again, suddenly, and Skinner reflected that Mulder
reminded him of an excited child.

Skinner held the mug while Mulder took a tentative sip, then
grabbed at the mug with both hands, wrapping his fingers
around Skinner's in his haste to gulp the broth.

After a few healthy swallows, Skinner pulled it away, and
felt a knife of remorse at the expression on Mulder's face.
Now the excited child looked as if his only Christmas
present had been stolen.

"Not so fast," he said kindly.  "You can have it all, but
you have to drink it slowly.  If you gulp it down you'll get
sick."

Mulder nodded reluctantly, pulling the mug toward his mouth
again.  He watched Skinner over the rim of the mug as he
drank, protesting each time the cup was taken away and
displaying obvious relief when it was returned.  When at
last it was empty, Skinner took the mug and replaced it on
the table, then reached to help Mulder settle back into the
bed.

He forgot to move slowly.  

He was met with terror.

"Don't hurt me!" Mulder cringed, pulling away, and Skinner
immediately drew back, raising his hands to show that he was
not a threat.

"I won't hurt you, Mulder," he said in what he hoped was a
soft, reassuring tone.  "I won't even touch you if you don't
want me to."

As the short bout of fear faded, it was replaced by the
realization of what he had done, and to whom. Mulder looked
suddenly crestfallen, even ashamed.

"Sorry," he muttered, but Skinner refused to accept an
unnecessary apology.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Mulder," he insisted. "It
was my fault.  I shouldn't have tried to rush you.  I don't
want to frighten you. I only want to help."

"Scully?" Mulder asked again, sounding so plaintive that
Skinner cursed inwardly, wishing above all else that he
could somehow magically produce Mulder's partner.

As Mulder stared up at him, hazel eyes glazing over, Skinner
was suddenly afraid Mulder was slipping back into his
earlier, frenzied state, and was at a loss as to how to
prevent that.

"Sleep now, Mulder," he said, hoping a soft voice would turn
away the wrath of Mulder's subconscious.  "Scully will come
for you.  She always does."

The words seemed to ground Mulder, Skinner saw with relief,
pulling him away from the abyss of horror.  As if
recognizing the truth of them, Mulder settled back against
the pillows and closed his eyes, opening them quickly a time
or two, making sure he was still safe, then at last drifting
off to sleep.

"He'll be like that for a day or two.  Afraid, like that."

Skinner turned to see Billy watching from the doorway.

"I'm not sure if he really remembers who I am."

Billy nodded.  "Probably.  He seems to know you mean him no
harm, at least, but he's learned to trust no one."

Mulder's catch-phrase, Skinner reflected ironically.  And
yet, he'd trusted Krycek...or had he?  Again, Skinner
wondered what had gone on in Mulder's mind of which none of
them were aware.  Mulder had been almost totally silent on
the flight to Oregon, and during the drive to the spot where
the space craft was supposed to have been downed.  In fact,
he'd spoken more in those last five minutes with Skinner
than he had in the five hours before.  It was as if he'd
been...preparing, and for the hundredth, maybe thousandth
time in the last seven months, Skinner wondered just what
Mulder's plans had really been.

-----

"Shit!" Scully muttered as they made their way slowly, too
damned slowly, across Montana.  A post-Christmas snowstorm
had taken them by surprise, and Scully could feel the
anxiety building in her as she leaned forward, gazing into
the whiteness over the dash.

"Relax," said Frohike, who was driving this shift. "Mulder's
not going anywhere."

They exchanged a glance--because neither of them would ever
again be sure that Mulder wasn't going anywhere, wouldn't be
taken from them--and then both resumed their forward stares.
After a while, her eyes began to droop, and she leaned back
against the seat, trying desperately to find a decent
position, one that didn't make her feel as if she was
leaning against a pile of rocks.

The cots in the back were reasonably comfortable, but Scully
had insisted upon sitting up front today, as if it would
make the miles fly by faster, and Langly and Byers, who had
taken turns driving throughout the night, were both sound
asleep.  She could have dislodged Langly, he'd had more
sleep than Byers, but she didn't have the heart. The three
of them had treated her like a piece of fine porcelain on
this trip, and while it irritated her to be so coddled, it
had also touched her deeply.  She would never have believed
it when they first met, but these guys possessed the
proverbial hearts of gold.  Their friendship and support,
along with Skinner's, and the knowledge that she was
carrying Mulder's child, were the only things that had kept
her going these last few months, when the loneliness and
heartache threatened to pull her down.

Scully still didn't know *how* she had overcome infertility,
and for all she knew, this baby might be her only chance for
motherhood.  Right now it was the only piece of Mulder she
had left, and she wasn't going to take any chances with it,
so she allowed the coddling, in spite of her natural sense
of independence.  It made the guys feel useful.

"We'll be there by tomorrow," Frohike commented, and a few
minutes later, "The storm seems to be letting up a bit."

Scully peered out the window again, and indeed, it did seem
clearer.  It had been snowing steadily since early that
morning, and now, hours later, she wanted to scream with
frustration.

She stared out the window into the whiteness, lost in
memories of Mulder, unconsciously clenching and unclenching
her fists, and Frohike watched her out of the corner of his
eye.  They'd all seen Scully change while Mulder had been
missing, not just in the obvious way, but subtle changes.
She no longer had the hard edge she'd once possessed, and
Frohike didn't know how much of it was pregnancy, and how
much was simply missing Mulder.  She had an air about her at
times, when she thought nobody was watching, almost of
defeat, although she always managed to hide it when she was
aware of scrutiny.  He thought, deep down, she'd given up
hope of ever seeing Mulder again, and now that the promise
of him was just miles away, she was frantic to actually lay
eyes on him, touch him, have something tangible to convince
her that he was really back.

Scully yawned deeply, aware that she'd barely slept since
receiving Billy's call and that it was unhealthy for both
herself and her unborn child, but damn it, how could she
sleep when Mulder was so close?  She knew she wouldn't
really believe it until she saw him for herself.  Langly
tapped her on the shoulder, motioned her toward the cot he
had just vacated, and she didn't argue this time.  She
settled herself on her side, a pillow tucked between her
knees and another under her arm, and closed her eyes, hoping
sleep would come.

When she had been a little girl, she, like all children,
always had trouble falling asleep on Christmas Eve, knowing
the gaily wrapped packages downstairs held hidden treasures
to delight her heart and soul.  At those times, her mother
would sing to her, brushing her hand carefully through
Dana's hair, whispering to her that the sooner she slept,
the sooner it would be time to wake up and open the
presents. She felt like that child now, knowing that if only
she could fall asleep, miles would pass unnoticed and when
she awakened, Mulder would be that much closer.  She longed
to wrap him in her arms, bury her face in his chest, and
never let him go.

Buried beneath her longing, though, lay her secret fear.
What kind of Mulder would she find at the end of this
interminable road?

-----

This morning, Mulder had managed to pull himself to a
sitting position without assistance, and he'd barely
flinched when Skinner held out the mug with the warm soup.
Skinner saw that as a great improvement.

He was still afraid to give Mulder anything more solid than
the mushy, almost melt-in-your-mouth noodles that came with
the soup to eat, for it had only been two days since his
return.  So far they'd managed to avoid any mishaps with
food intolerance.  Skinner figured they'd been lucky.

Today, Mulder took the mug, still held in Skinner's steady
hand, drew it to his lips, then frowned and pushed it back.
The trembling in his hands came and went now, but always
when others were nearby, it was present.  It was very
pronounced this morning.

"What is it?" Skinner asked, removing the mug from Mulder's
shaky grasp.

"Don't like it."  Mulder's eyes were downcast, his voice
weak, but there was an unmistakably stubborn expression on
his face. More improvement.  Not begging them not to hurt
him, not asking for Scully, just complaining about the food.
This boded well.

"You don't like the soup?"

Mulder stared at him mournfully, giving an almost
imperceptible shake of his head, and Skinner was reminded of
the bowl of brightly colored candies his grandmother had
always kept on her coffee table.  Every time he would visit
her, he would ask for a piece of the candy, and every time
he put it in his mouth, he ended up spitting it out because
beneath the pretty beads of red and pink and yellow and
green, hiding like some vile creation from the devil's
kitchen, was black licorice.  Walter hated black licorice.
He never remembered, from visit to visit, that Grandma's
pretty candy was really just black licorice in disguise, and
he was always disappointed.  Mulder had that look on his
face now, as if he'd been anticipating chocolate or caramels
and had been handed black licorice.

Skinner glanced at the soup in the mug; he'd barely noticed
it when Billy handed it to him.  Tomato.  Before, it had
always been chicken noodle.

"You don't like tomato soup?"

Mulder shook his head again, more noticeably this time, a
look of mild disgust on his face.  Skinner smiled.

"No problem, Mulder," he grinned.  "I'll just get you
something else."

He rose and made his way into the kitchen, where Billy was
pouring the remainder of the soup into a bowl for his own
lunch.  Billy looked up when Skinner entered, raising his
eyebrow questioningly.

"He doesn't like tomato," Skinner said, setting down the
mug, and Billy shrugged, picked it up, and poured the
contents into his bowl.

"There's chicken and there's vegetable," he said, gesturing
toward the cupboard.  "You can give him whatever he likes."

"We'd better stick with chicken.  He did okay with it
yesterday." Skinner opened the cupboard and pulled out the
familiar red and white can, the kind found on his mother's
pantry shelves when he was a kid, and no doubt Mulder's
mother's pantry shelves as well.  It was, after all, a
longtime staple of the American diet.

It didn't take him long to heat the soup, and soon he
returned to Mulder, hoping the progress that had been made
wouldn't disappear in the next few hours.  Since Skinner's
arrival, Mulder's reactions had been unpredictable, to say
the least.

His agent was sitting exactly where he'd left him, and
Skinner breathed a small sigh of relief.  Early this
morning, they'd had to coax him out from beneath the bed
when a car had turned the corner, shining its headlights
into the bedroom. The bright light had convinced Mulder he
was about to be abducted again, and their initial attempts
to pull him out from his hiding place had sent him into a
frenzy, screaming, kicking, worming his way as far under the
bed as possible until his back was against the far wall. It
had taken Billy, that time, to calm him down.  Mulder seemed
to recognize in Billy a kindred spirit, if not completely
understanding who he was, and Skinner was gradually learning
when to step back and let the Miles boy take over.

"Chicken," he said now, approaching slowly and holding the
mug out to Mulder.

Mulder stared at it for a moment, as if confused as to what
Skinner was offering him, then his face cleared and he
reached eagerly for the food.  Skinner steadied the mug
until Mulder got a good grip on it with both hands, then
allowed him to control it by himself.  Mulder had seemed to
accept his edict that the soup not be drunk too quickly,
lest he vomit it back up, and now that he realized each meal
wasn't his last, was content to sip slowly at the warm
liquid.

Skinner resumed his chair, picking up the book he'd grabbed
off a shelf, (something about the air force and military
secrets, something he wasn't really paying attention to at
all, and if you asked him the title when the book wasn't in
his hand, he couldn't have told you) and left Mulder alone
to eat.  The younger man sipped at the soup mechanically,
one sip every three or four seconds, rhythmically.  It was
unnerving.  Nobody ate like that, Skinner thought, unless
they hadn't been allowed to eat at all in so long that
they'd forgotten what it was all about.  He wondered how the
aliens had gone about getting nourishment into their
captives--obviously not in the usual way.

When the mug was empty, Mulder held it out and Skinner took
it from him silently.  He was almost to the door, intending
to return it to the kitchen and maybe get Mulder a drink of
water, when the voice stopped him.

"Thank you, Walter."

Skinner turned slowly, afraid to frighten this new,
tentative Mulder.  "You remember me?" he asked softly, and
Mulder nodded.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

Mulder's face clouded over and he began to pluck at the
sheet covering him.

"Mulder, do you remember?"

Still no answer, like an obstinate child, and Skinner got
the impression in those few seconds that Mulder did, in
fact, remember too much.  He hoped to god he was wrong.

A thought struck him, suddenly, and he wondered why it
hadn't occurred to him before.  So far, there hadn't been
many parallels between Scully's abduction and Mulder's, but
he felt a growing certainly that they had at least one
thing in common.  Crossing to stand over Mulder, trying to
smile reassuringly so the other man would not be frightened,
he stretched his hand out slowly.

"I won't hurt you," he told Mulder gently.  "Don't be afraid
of me.  I've never hurt you."

At first, he really thought it would work--Mulder regarded
his hand with some fear as it approached, but he seemed to
be winning an inner battle with himself, as if his intellect
knew he had nothing to fear from Skinner.  The war appeared
almost won when Skinner's hand touched the back of his neck
and Mulder went berserk.

"No!" he yelled, drawing back and kicking at Skinner,
flailing his arms in his haste to retreat.  "No, don't touch
me there!"  He scooted to the other side of the bed, his
knees drawn up protectively, and stared at Skinner with
fear-widened eyes.

Skinner backed away immediately, but not before his fingers
had scraped across the tiny, telltale scar, confirming his
suspicion.

Mulder and Scully now had matching implants.

Billy appeared in the doorway, watching as Mulder rocked
back and forth slowly, chanting under his breath, "...don't
touch me there don't hurt me Scully Scully where's
Scully..." and Skinner wanted to yell in anger at himself
and his own stupidity. Mulder had been doing so well until
he'd screwed it all up by trying to touch him, and for what?
Did it fucking matter whether or not Mulder had an implant?

"He'll be all right now," Billy told Skinner, taking the
empty mug that Skinner had forgotten he held.  "He'll calm
down in a few minutes.  Why don't you wait in the other
room."

It wasn't a request, and Skinner allowed Billy to give him a
gentle shove only because he knew it was in Mulder's best
interest.  Seething, wanting to slam the boy against the
wall for coming between him and his friend--the man who had
saved his *life* damn it--he forced himself to relax.  His
anger was irrational, born of fear and fatigue, and it
couldn't help Mulder now.  Billy could.

A few minutes later, Billy emerged from the bedroom, still
carrying the empty mug.

"I think he'll be okay now," he said, gesturing with his
head toward Mulder's room.  "He's pretty much calmed down."

"Why is this happening?" Skinner demanded.  "I don't
understand--one minute he knew who I was and the next--"

"Flashbacks," Billy said shortly, and left the room.

Flashbacks.  So Mulder was remembering the things that had
been done to him, and something, something involving that
implant, had hurt him badly, enough to make him terrified of
having it happen again.

Shit!  How dense could he be?  He remembered when he'd
returned from 'Nam, and the months of horrific flashbacks
he'd endured. They would come upon him suddenly, triggered
by a host of different things or sometimes nothing at all,
and they had not left him quickly.  He shook his head
impatiently.  He needed to get his act together; Scully
would be here soon, and she would not tolerate even
well-intentioned idiocy, not if it hurt Mulder.

Cautiously, wary of startling Mulder, Skinner pushed the
door open to find his agent lying on his side in the bed.
When he approached, Mulder gave him a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he offered.  "I kind of freaked."

"I'll say," Skinner agreed, taking his seat again.  "You
okay now?"

Mulder nodded, staring out the window at the lightly falling
rain, the grey day, as if seeing into the future.  Or the
past.  

"They gave me an implant."

"I know."

"They can hurt me with it."

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that.  Mulder lay
quietly.  He seemed to fugue out for a few minutes, but
finally came back to himself enough to ask, "When is Scully
coming?"

"She's on her way right now."

"So she'll be here today?"

Skinner rubbed his forehead, hoping to banish the headache
that was attempting to begin there.

"Probably tomorrow."

"She's not flying?"

"No."

Mulder closed his eyes at that, seeming not to question why
his partner wasn't racing to get to him as quickly as was
humanly possible.  Then his brow furrowed for a moment, and
he looked as if he was trying to solve a puzzle which was
missing several pieces.  At last he opened his eyes and
triumphantly announced, "Scully's afraid of flying."

If Scully was afraid of flying, it was certainly news to
Skinner.  The fact that Scully flew everywhere on a regular
basis seemed to have eluded Mulder, and Skinner decided this
explanation would suffice for now.  If Mulder needed to
believe that Scully feared getting on a plane, that this
imaginary fear was the reason she was not yet at his side,
he wasn't about to argue.  Instead, he just nodded and
picked up his book, watching surreptitiously while Mulder
lay there, breathing evenly, staring into nothingness for a
long, long time before sleep finally claimed him again.

-----

"Sixty more miles," Byers announced, glancing at the road
sign they had just passed.

Scully's breathing quickened.  Sixty miles.  One more hour
until she would be with Mulder again.  How could she wait
another sixty minutes to hold him? And how would she find
him?  That was her biggest question, and her worst fear.
Skinner had spoken to her several times, unable to give her
any concrete information, saying only that Mulder was "in
bad shape."  It had driven her nearly mad.  He did say
Mulder was asking for her, though, so at least Mulder
remembered.

She looked down at her belly, enormous with his child, and
hoped he would find this to be good news.  Oh, she had no
doubt he would be happy for her--he knew how much she'd
craved motherhood--but how would *he* feel about being a
father? Their intimate relationship had been so new they'd
never dared discuss anything as permanent as marriage, and
since neither of them thought she could bear children,
there'd been no reason to mention that possibility at all.
In fact, that first night together, in the wee hours of the
new year, somewhere in the back of her mind while Mulder was
holding her and kissing her and generally driving her wild
with need of him, she remembered thinking that there was a
tiny silver lining in the cloud of her barrenness; she no
longer needed to concern herself with birth control.

She almost laughed out loud, remembering the moment,
remembering his face when she'd told him later of her
thoughts.  He hadn't known whether to laugh or brood, but
she'd finally coaxed a grin from him.  She'd never come to
accept the idea of being unable to have children, but she
had grown used to it, as if it was a familiar ache that had
become part of the white noise of everyday living.  She no
longer felt a sharp pain when she thought of it. The miracle
of finding out she was pregnant, really pregnant, just after
she'd learned that Mulder was gone...the emotions had almost
overwhelmed her.  Indescribable happiness coupled with
indescribable pain.

She hoped never to experience such a thing again.

-----

He'd had another nightmare, and this time neither Skinner
nor Billy was able to bring him out of it.  Mulder was
underneath the bed again, and since their one attempt at
fishing him out had proven disastrous, they decided to leave
him there temporarily, keeping watch to make certain he
wasn't in any danger, but refusing to alarm him further.

He'd screamed a lot, at first, swinging at them when they'd
tried to calm him.  Billy had hollered for Skinner to hold
him, fearing Mulder would become completely unmanageable,
but Skinner refused.

"Let him go," he ordered firmly.  "He's not hurting
anything, we're only frightening him more."

Once Mulder realized he wasn't under attack he'd scrambled
beneath the bed, huddling against the wall, moaning Scully's
name again and again.  Skinner knelt beside the bed at
first, talking calmly to him, but when he seemed to be
having no effect, he simply seated himself in his usual
chair and waited.

After fifteen or twenty minutes, the mumbled pleas for
Scully stopped.  After half an hour, a hand emerged, then an
arm, wriggling, and soon the rest of Mulder followed.  He
sneezed, emerging from his hidey-hole, and Skinner regarded
him solemnly.

"Guess I freaked again," Mulder said sheepishly, refusing to
meet Skinner's eyes.

"Guess you did.  Better now?"

Mulder nodded.  "I was having a dream.  They were..."  His
voice drifted off, and then he shook his head sharply, as if
to banish the memory.

"You know, you don't have to talk about it yet, but if you
want to..."

Mulder grasped the blanket hanging there, painfully pulled
himself to a sitting position, and leaned against the bed.
After a long minute he whispered, "Yet?"

Skinner raised an eyebrow.  "Did you think you could just
push the memories down inside yourself forever?  Mulder, you
of all people know the danger in that."

Skinner's words were spoken calmly, but Mulder could hear
the steel behind them.  He closed his eyes momentarily,
giving a slight shake of his head to show that yes, he knew,
even though right now he didn't necessarily agree with
Skinner's assessment.

"I don't want to talk about it...yet," he muttered.

"That's fine.  Do you need some help getting back into bed?"

Mulder considered, wanting to spring to his feet like the
man he'd been before, but lacking the energy.  The testing
took a lot out of a person, he'd known that even
before--hadn't it almost destroyed Scully?--but until he
experienced it for himself, day after day after day with no
opportunity in between to regain strength, he hadn't
realized how long-lasting the draining effects could be.
After willing his body to rise several times, and seeing it
simply refuse to obey, he finally had to swallow his pride
and admit he needed assistance.

Skinner took pity on him, didn't make him say the words,
accepted his chagrined expression as a request for help.  He
reached down, slowly, not making the mistake of approaching
too quickly again, and Mulder, after masking the fear that
barely crossed his face before it was gone, the fear that he
knew was irrational and misplaced, but couldn't prevent to
save his life, allowed Skinner to take him by the arms and
pull him to his feet.

He glanced down at himself and realized for the first time
that his feet were bare. His clothes were somehow familiar,
yet odd-- similar in design to hospital scrubs, but made of
a fabric he could not identify.  It didn't seem to get
dirty, ht noticed, puzzled at the fact.  He'd been under
that bed for half an hour, and Billy Miles was never going
to win the Housekeeper-of-the-Year award.  Some of the dust
bunnies under that bed were so big they were scary.  His
face was dirty, as were his hands and his bare feet, but the
clothing was completely unsoiled.  It wasn't even a matter
of brushing off the dirt--it simply hadn't retained any.

"I don't like this," he said, unclearly, and Skinner,
naturally not understanding what he meant, just helped him
into bed, covering him carefully because Mulder had begun to
shiver.

'Shock,' said Skinner's subconscious, but the only thing he
could think of to do in cases of shock was keep the person
warm.

"I want this off," Mulder said, staring up at Skinner.

"What?" asked the older man, clearly confused.

"These clothes.  I don't like them."

Skinner thought for a few seconds--Mulder was staring down
at the white shirt with distaste.  Surely he had something
his agent could wear.  With a sigh, Skinner realized he
should have packed some sort of bag for Mulder, but he'd
been in such a hurry, he was lucky to have remembered even a
few things for himself. "All right," he said at last.  "Will
you let me help you?"

Mulder nodded, and Skinner carefully pulled the shirt over
his head, taking care not to break the chain on Scully's
cross, then removed the pants.  He averted his eyes when he
realized Mulder wore nothing beneath them, but Mulder seemed
unconcerned, burrowing beneath the covers to get warm.

Skinner fished around in his overnight bag, producing a
shirt and a pair of sweat pants, too large for Mulder, but
they would suffice.  At least they would help to keep him
warm, and give the man some dignity.  Skinner pulled the
shirt over Mulder's head, then handed him the sweats and
turned his back while Mulder slid them on.  When he turned
around again, Mulder was once more huddled under the
blankets.

"Thanks," he mumbled sleepily to Skinner, and then,
"Scully?"

"Soon," Skinner promised.  "She'll be here soon."  He moved
toward the door, intending to ask Billy for some extra
blankets.

"I need her."  The words were whispered so softly that
Skinner almost missed them, might have done so if he hadn't
just at that moment glanced back tell Mulder where he was
going, seen the lips moving, practically read the words from
them.

-----

When they finally arrived at the Miles home, Langly grabbed
Scully by the arm as she bolted from the vehicle--it was the
only way to prevent her tearing up the sidewalk on her own,
and although a steady rain had been falling all day, it was
now dark, and the temperature was dropping quickly.  He was
afraid the cement would be covered with a thin sheet of ice.

"Hold on, you'll fall," he warned sharply, ignoring her
venomous look and helping her up the walk.

"I'm not a fucking invalid!" she snapped, and instantly
regretted her anger.  "Sorry, Langly," she muttered.

He shook his head slightly.  "It's cool."

Before they reached the porch, the door was thrown open and
Skinner emerged.

"Thank god you're finally here," he announced. "Scully, are
you okay?"

"Fine," she answered shortly.  "Where's Mulder?"  She shook
off Langly's helping hands and took the steps two at a time.
Skinner grabbed at her arm, but she evaded him as well; she
was incredibly tired of being babied by men.  Scully was
certain if one more person tried to "help" her walk, she
would end up pulling out her weapon.

"Agent Scully," Billy greeted her.  He was sitting in the
cozy living room, a glass of wine in his hand, and rose to
pour one for her.  Almost immediately he stopped, staring at
her pregnant belly.

"So that's why you weren't able to fly," he commented, a
small smile playing about his lips as he drained his own
glass.  She looked him up and down briefly, her physician's
mind categorizing by force of habit.  Drug abuse, probably
prescription, and more than likely the beginnings of a
drinking problem.  Who could blame him, after what he'd
suffered?  Mentally shrugging off Billy's problems, she
turned to Skinner.

"Mulder?" she asked again, her impatience showing in her
brusque tone.

"In here," Skinner told her, leading her toward the bedroom
where her partner lay.  "You should go in alone.  He gets
frightened if he's overwhelmed.  And Scully...move slowly."

She nodded, already halfway through the door, and when she
saw him she stopped dead.  What a sight he was--and what a
beautiful sight for her very sore eyes.

His hair was longer--obviously his captors hadn't cared
about giving him regular haircuts--and shaggy, and the
darkness of it framed his pale face, giving him a surreal
appearance.  His cheekbones were hollow, his eyes sunken,
his ribs too obvious, but he was Mulder, her Mulder, here at
last. He observed her warily for a second, then, when he
realized who she was, his face melting into an expression of
combined hunger and tenderness that left her breathless.

In the next instant, he changed again.  His eyes drifted
lower, then widened in shock as he saw her belly jutting
out, revealing her condition.   His face grew suspicious,
cold, and before she could speak, he turned away to face the
wall.  His hands clenched the covers tightly at his sides
and she could see he was fighting back tears.  She shook her
head, confused at his reaction, until it dawned on her that
Mulder couldn't possibly realize the child she carried was
his.

She fought back a surge of anger--how could he ever *think*
such a thing?--then, forced herself to remember that Mulder
had, in all likelihood, been through hell, that he might not
remember what had happened before he was taken, that he
might not be himself.

"Mulder?"  She said his name tentatively, afraid of what his
reaction would be, but there was no reaction at all.  He
just continued to lie there, staring at the blank wall,
avoiding her.  She crossed cautiously to the bed,
remembering to move slowly, and sat next to him. She
searched his still form for signs of panic and to her
relief, detected none.

"I've missed you," she told him softly, covering one
clenched fist with her hand.

"Obviously."  The sound was bitter, and she felt another
wave of righteous anger.

Grasping his chin tightly between her fingers, she forced
him to face her.  He fought her, but didn't have the
strength to free himself, so since he could not escape her
physically, he closed his eyes, shutting her out.

"Damn it, Mulder, look at me!" she insisted.

He refused, lying passively while she still held his chin.
At last, frustrated, she released him, and the shock of
seeing the marks she'd left on his face brought her back to
reality.  This was Mulder, and he'd been missing for months.
He'd no doubt endured horrible things--Skinner had said
they'd hurt Mulder, but could give no details, and now here
she was, expecting him to be overjoyed at the revelation of
impending fatherhood.  He was still adjusting to being back.
No doubt the pregnancy hadn't even really sunk in yet.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she whispered, fighting back the hated
tears again.  "I'm so sorry...I tried to find you...we
searched everywhere..."

Those tears came then, in spite of her efforts, rolling down
her cheeks in big, fat droplets, making her nose run.  She
sniffed, and that, at least, got through to him.  He opened
his eyes to her, and in their depths she finally saw him,
*him*, the Mulder she'd always known.  He was still in
there.

The relief and remembered pain washed over her without
warning, and Scully could do nothing more than lay her head
on Mulder's chest and bathe him in her tears.  She clutched
at his shoulders, wanting to feel his arms around her, but
for long moments there was nothing.  Grief had never felt so
lonely as it did now, while he lay unmoving beneath her.

Then, just as she'd begun to believe he'd changed forever,
afraid he didn't love her any longer, perhaps hated her for
not finding him and bringing him home, she felt movement.
His arms rose, slowly, ever-so-slowly, and one trembling
hand stroked her hair.  The other rested lightly on her
back, rubbing gentle circles there.  Her sobs increased at
his touch, relief at last outweighing the fear--at least he
wasn't repulsed by her.

She thought she felt his lips move against the top of her
head, and forced herself to quiet her sobs.

"Sorry...I'm so sorry..." His murmur was barely audible, but
it was all she needed.

"Mulder, I tried," she said again, raising up to look into
his face.  "We all did."  She swiped at the tears still on
her face, giving him a tiny smile.  "I'm so sorry--" Her
voice hitched on a stray sob and she fought for control.
"--I know they hurt you--"

"Scully."  He said her name so simply, and yet it was a
sound she'd almost despaired of ever hearing again, and the
magic of it on his lips sent her back into her crying spell.

Dimly she was aware that she was behaving like--well, like a
pregnant woman, she supposed--but she didn't care.  She'd
fought back an ocean of tears since Mulder's disappearance.
She was entitled.  She was due.

"Scully...how?" he asked at last, his voice strained, and
after a moment of puzzlement, she realized what he was
asking--he still did not understand whose child she carried.

"Mulder, the baby--it's yours," she told him urgently.  "I
didn't realize you were thinking...  I love you, I told you
I loved you and I have never stopped loving you. I could
never let another man touch me after you, the very thought
of it...Mulder, I could never..." she finished in a whisper.
Her fingers clutched anxiously at his arms, as if she feared
he might slip away at any moment.

She raised up to see the expected look of joy on his face,
and was surprised to find it guarded; he was afraid to
believe her.

"I discovered I was pregnant the day after you disappeared,"
she pressed on, refusing to let him throw her off track.
"It's all I've lived for since then.  Your child, and
finding you."

The hoped-for expression of happiness began to creep through
then.  He pulled her back down to his chest, murmuring
unbelievingly, "Mine?  Oh god Scully, mine?  Our baby? How?"
His question this time was genuine, and now she was inclined
to give him an answer.

"I'm not sure," she admitted.  "I was hoping you would help
me figure that out, but I think it must have something to do
with that time I went with the smoking man."

His eyes narrowed at the memory, still crystal clear in
spite of all the muddle in his mind.  Some things hurt too
badly to be forgotten.

"He drugged me, Mulder," she continued, "sufficiently that
he was able to undress me without my knowledge.  Who knows
what he could have done to me, or had someone else do, while
I was unconscious?  Maybe he did something to the chip."

He winced at the mention of implants.

"Are you sure..."  He bit his lip, knowing what he was
thinking was awful, but afraid to believe that the dream of
Scully having their child could possibly come true.

"Yes," she said firmly.  "I've had every possible test run.
It's a boy, perfectly healthy, son of one Fox William
Mulder.  No doubts whatsoever."

His hands crept down to touch her abdomen reverently.  "A
boy?" he asked, tears of joy thickening his voice at last.
"Our baby boy, Scully?  Yours and mine?"

"Ours," she confirmed, smiling happily at the normalcy of
the scene, all at once, finally, knowing it couldn't last.

There was a knock at the door, and she raised off his chest
to call, "Come in."

Skinner pushed the door open a crack, peering inside.
"Everything all right?" he asked, trying not to look
concerned and failing miserably.

The beaming smiles on the faces of the two agents were his
answer.  With a great feeling of relief, he smiled back at
them and retreated.

Two seconds later, all hell broke loose.  

Scully had run her hands lovingly down Mulder's arms,
twining her fingers in his, lightly pinning him to the bed,
not even intending such an action, just letting what felt
natural take its course, when he suddenly lost it.

"No!" he yelled, tensing and jerking away, trying to escape
her.  His larger body was so weakened that even she, a small
woman eight months pregnant, was able to hold him in place,
and she did, afraid that he would injure himself with his
thrashing.  He was flailing wildly beneath her, his legs
kicking, head turning from side to side in terror.

"Don't!  Don't hurt me don't touch me!" he yelled, twisting
frantically in her grasp.

Skinner was at Mulder's side almost instantly, pulling
Scully away from him and holding her when she fought,
unfazed by her increased size.

"Scully, stop!" he ordered the struggling woman in his arms.

"Let me go, damn you!" she panted.  "What's wrong with him?
What's happening?"

"He's having a flashback," Skinner told her grimly.  "It's
better to let it run its course--there's nothing you can
do."

She jerked again, still trying to escape Skinner, when
Mulder flipped himself off the bed and skittered into the
darkness beneath it. She heard small, keening moans coming
from him, hitching sobs, almost incoherent pleading for
invisible hands to release him, not to hurt him, and then
came the worst, because he was calling her name, calling for
her to help him, save him, make them stop hurting him, and
suddenly it was all too much for Scully.  She was grateful
for the strong grip of Walter Skinner when the world went
black around her.

Skinner grabbed at her as she began to fall, pulling her
upright.  He looked around, startled, when Billy spoke from
behind him.

"You stay with him," Billy said, reaching for the
unconscious woman.  "I'll take care of Agent Scully."

He lifted Scully, bracing himself for her size, and carried
her to the living room.  He lay her carefully on the sofa,
and by the time he'd fetched a glass of water from the
kitchen, she was beginning to awaken.

"What--?" she asked, staring up at him in confusion, and
then, remembering, "Mulder!"  She tried to jerk to a sitting
position, but Billy's firm hands on her shoulders stopped
her.

"Just relax, Agent Scully," he told her, forcing her to lie
back.  "He'll be fine.  Mr. Skinner is with him."  He shook
his head.  "We've been through this with Agent Mulder a time
or two already."

"But what...?" she asked, finally accepting the glass of
water he pressed on her, downing it quickly.

While she drank, he explained, "He has flashbacks.  They can
be...really bad, sometimes.  It's better to let him come out
of them on his own.  If we try to hold him down, they only
get worse."

"I was afraid he'd hurt himself."

"I know, but so far he hasn't."

"Mulder never did take very well to being restrained," she
commented, holding out the empty glass.

"I think that's the problem," he told her soberly.  "He was
restrained a great deal of the time while we were--"  He
broke off, rising abruptly to return the glass to the
kitchen, and Scully shoved herself up so she was reclining
against the arm of the sofa.

"Billy, what happened to him?" she asked without preamble
when he returned, and Billy sighed heavily.

"I can't even begin to put it into words," he said shortly.
"I've already told Mr. Skinner this more than once.  Nobody
can understand it unless they've experienced it for
themselves.  There aren't English phrases to describe the
tests and procedures. They hurt like hell, and Mulder was
put through them every single day.  There's nothing more for
me to tell you."

She shuddered inwardly at his words; while she'd known there
was a very real possibility that Mulder would be subjected
to the testing during his abduction, she had hoped
that--like her--he would remember nothing.  Apparently that
was not the case, and she cursed Krycek anew for sending
Mulder into this situation.

Before she could begin formulating yet another plan for
Krycek's murder, the bedroom door opened and Skinner
emerged, looking pale, but somewhat collected.

"He's asking for you, Dana."

She was off the sofa as quickly as her cumbersome body would
allow, creeping quietly into the bedroom where Mulder now
sat safely in a chair, staring out the window.  He was
wrapped snugly in a blanket, still shivering slightly.

"Mulder?" she asked hesitantly, and was startled to see
fresh tears on his face when he turned to her.

She forgot Skinner's admonitions about moving slowly, forgot
everything except that the man she adored was in pain.
Holding out her arms to him, she was relieved to find him
respond, reaching for her, clutching her to him desperately,
like a man grasping at a life preserver.  His tears wet her
face, and she brushed them gently away.

"Oh Scully, they messed me up so bad..."  He couldn't finish
his sentence.  Holding her tighter still, pulling her into
his lap so he could wrap his arms entirely around her, he
began to sob quietly into her shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me?" she asked softly, when his sobs
had subsided a bit.

"I--don't know how to--they got inside my head and they hurt
me, Scully, I tried to fight them for as long as I could...I
tried every time..."

"Shhh, it's all right," she soothed, gently rocking his head
against her breast.  "You're with me now, everything's all
right."

"I can't remember anything--and then it will suddenly hit
me--then it's gone again--"

"Mulder, that's probably a blessing."

"I just want to forget it all."

"I know," she said, stroking her fingers through his hair
over and over, calming him.  "I know.  It's over now."

He was bathed in sweat, and after a little coaxing, she
managed to persuade him to change his clothes, with a little
assistance from her.  When she opened the bag to pull out
fresh boxers and a soft shirt, his eyes fell on the picture
of Samantha.  Slowly, he reached for it, and Scully gave it
to him, watching as he gazed at it for several minutes, his
face impassive.  Finally, he stroked a finger across the
glass in a tender caress.

"Do you think they did to her...what they did to me?" he
whispered sadly, and she could do nothing for his pain
except draw him to her arms and hold him while he sobbed out
the grief.

Eventually she got him back into bed, his limbs shaking with
fatigue, and then she sat beside him and held his hand until
he fell asleep.  Just as his eyes began to droop closed, he
forced them open again.

"Scully, when is our baby due?"

She smiled, stroking the hair away from his eyes.  "In two
weeks," she said gently.  "Now sleep, Mulder, you're
exhausted."

-----

"How are we supposed to get him home?"

The men swung around to stare at Scully as she entered the
dining room, where they had all gathered around the table.
She realized, from the expressions on their faces, that none
of them had given the problem a thought, except possibly
Skinner.

"I just assumed he would fly back..." Byers said hesitantly.

"If it was safe to put him on a plane, I'd have done that
myself," Skinner pointed out.

"Then he'll drive back with us," Frohike said, and Langly
gave a snort.

"What's gonna happen when he goes off his tree again?" he
demanded.  "You want to try to control him?"

"You have a better idea, you long-haired punk?" demanded
Frohike angrily, and Byers jumped in immediately.

"Hold it!" he said sharply.  "This isn't helping Mulder."

"He's liable to have a flashback at any time," Billy
offered.  "Especially these first few weeks."

"So, we can't fly him, we can't drive him...what other
alternatives are there?" Skinner asked.

No one had an answer except Scully, and she hated the words
even as she spoke them.

"We drug him," she answered softly.  "We keep him under all
the way home so he can't hurt himself."

"You can't do that to Mulder!" Byers protested.

"What else can she do?" Langly asked him.  "If Mulder freaks
out on the trip, there's no telling what might happen."

Nobody liked the idea, but they had to reluctantly agree.

"We need to have him medically examined," Scully began, but
Billy shook his head emphatically.

"Don't do it, Agent Scully.  Don't take him to a hospital.
He won't be able to handle it, and there's nothing they can
do for him."

"But Billy," she argued, "I need to know what was done to
him, physiologically.  I need to know what we're dealing
with, and you can't seem to tell me, and neither can
Mulder."

"Maybe we could get a friend of ours to check him out,"
Frohike offered.  "Again, we could keep him under while it
happens so he doesn't go off the deep end."

Wearily Scully sank into a nearby chair.  The idea of
drugging Mulder against his will and having him examined by
a doctor was abhorrent to her, but she knew he would never
agree to an examination.  He was still so easily frightened,
and the episodes seemed to come on without warning.

"All right," she finally agreed, "but I'm going to be with
him every second."

"Sure," Frohike told her.  "I'll go on ahead with Skinner
and make the arrangements.  The rest of you can drive back
with Mulder."

"What about the drugs?" Scully asked.  "It's a good idea,
but where are we supposed to get something to keep him out?
I can't just whip out the old prescription pad, you know."
She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but she was
tired, and the headache that had been building all afternoon
was in full force now.

"I've got that covered," Billy said, leaving the room and
returning shortly with several medicine bottles.  "You'll
have to get these down him, but they should do the trick."

Scully took the bottles, three of them, and looked them
over.  "Percodan?" she asked, raising one eyebrow, and Billy
shrugged.

"My doctor is a longtime friend of my father's.  He pretty
much gives me whatever I need to sleep.  I've only used two
of those--they're pretty strong.  I recommend them."

She looked at the other two prescriptions--Xanax and
Vicodin--and agreed.  She handed them back to him, slipping
the Percodan into her pocket.

"How are we going to get him to swallow them?" Byers
demanded.  "Mulder hates any kind of drugs, you know that."

"He'll take the first one, because I tell him to and I'm not
in the mood to argue," Scully said grimly.  "The rest, we'll
worry about when the time comes.  I think I can get them
down him while he's conscious enough to swallow but not
conscious enough to object."

"You're the doc," Byers said in a tired voice, stretching
his arms above his head.  "Billy, is there a comfortable
floor where I can crash?  I think we should leave tomorrow,
as soon as we've all had a chance to get some rest."

"I can do better than that," Billy told him.  "This sofa
makes into a bed. There's a recliner there--" he pointed to
the chair occupied by Langly--"and in Agent Mulder's room."

"I'll sleep there," Scully said quickly.  "It's easier for
me to breathe in a recliner anyway, and I want to be near
him in case..."

"Just remember not to try restraining him," Skinner warned.
"If he has another episode, leave him be, and call us if you
think he's going to hurt himself."

"I'm sure you'll hear the noise anyway," she sighed,
accepting the blanket Billy offered her and making for
Mulder's room.  It had been a long few days, and now that
the opportunity for sleep presented itself, she intended to
make the most of it.

-----

She approached him, the bottle of pills hidden in her hand,
feeling awful about their decision, knowing they really had
no choice.  There was no other way to get Mulder home
without the risk of him hurting himself, or someone else,
being too high.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked him, slowly
lowering herself to sit on the bed beside him.  

He turned on his side, tucking one hand beneath his cheek,
and studied her.

"What is it?" he asked at last, and she raised her eyebrows,
as if in surprise.

"What is what?"

He sighed.  "Scully, after all these years, don't you think
I know when you have something on your mind?  You have to
tell me something, something you'd rather not say, I can see
it in your eyes.  Just tell me."

She shook her head, a sad smile on her lips.  "You do know
me too well," she murmured, staring out the window at the
gently moving trees.

"Not too well, just well enough," he corrected.  

She expected him to ask again, but he didn't, he just waited
patiently until she held out the prescription bottle.

"We had a long discussion last night about the best way to
get you home safely," she confessed.  "We decided this might
be the best option."

He looked at the bottle, then his eyes flicked back to her
face and he waited some more.

"I should help you avoid the nightmares," she told him in a
rush, hoping her words sounded believable, afraid they
didn't.  "You've been through so much already, and we just
don't want you...traumatized anymore..."  Her voice trailed
off as his he gained a knowing expression.

He held out his palm, resignation on his face, and she
reluctantly shook two of the pills into his hand.

Now it was his eyebrow that raised.  "Two?"

"It's important that you sleep soundly," she told him,
staring at his shoulder, the glass of water on the bedside
table, anywhere but into his eyes.

"Right," he said in a clipped tone, and before she could
reinforce the argument, he tossed the pills to the back of
his throat and swallowed them, washing them down with a
healthy swig from the glass.  "That should make sure I'm no
trouble to anybody."

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she whispered, stroking his face with
her hand.  She fought to keep the tears from welling in her
eyes, but he saw, anyway.  "I just don't know what else--"

Mulder placed his hand over hers.  "It's all right, Scully.
I understand."

"Do you?" she asked regretfully.  "Do you really?"

He nodded.  "Just make sure the guys don't get any weird
ideas while I'm out.  You know how much they love their
practical jokes, and I don't want to wake up with my head
shaved," he grinned, rubbing her fingers comfortingly.

She laughed then, half laugh and half sob, really, wiping
away the gathering tears.  "I'll guard you with my life."

He close his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him, and just
before it did, he thought he heard her whisper, "You are my
life."

-----

The trip back was long, boring and blessedly uneventful,
although Scully would not have been surprised if she'd gone
into early labor with all the jostling she endured.  This
retired ambulance obviously needed new shocks.

Mulder knew, when he allowed Scully to give him the
Percodan, that when he awakened he would no longer be at
Billy Miles' house in Oregon, but it never occurred to him
that they would drug him all the way across the country.  He
expected to make the trip in an airplane, in a few hours,
not in the back of a makeshift van over the course of
several days.

The number of days, and indeed any sights there might exist
to be seen, were of no consequence; Mulder passed the trip
in a haze.  Every time Scully approached him with a bottle
of water and a pill in her hand, he fought her, but his
fight was useless--he was weakened, and drug-stupored, and
besides, if he gave her any trouble, Byers or Langly would
hold him while she forced the pill into his mouth, clamping
his jaws together until he had no choice but to swallow.  He
fought more out of a desire to regain control than out of an
objection to the drug; Scully's promise was true--he did
avoid the nightmares.

It was less than two days, but it felt like weeks to Scully
as she forced yet another dose on her partner.  He resisted,
again, and she had to call for help, again.

"Langly, can you hold him?"

"I've got him, Scully."

Mulder's arms flailed weakly, his head turning from side to
side in protest until Langly grabbed his jaw, holding him
still, forcing it open, and Scully was able to shove the
medication into his mouth.

She hated what she was doing to him, saw the anger and
betrayal in his eyes, but still she continued.  Her fear
that Mulder would have a violent flashback and either harm
himself or manage to escape from them--and she shuddered at
the use of the word 'escape' but there was really no other
appropriate term--kept her resolute.  She forced the
Percodan into him, crying softly to herself once he was
asleep, stroking his cheeks, face, hair, hands, just to
touch him, knowing that the evil she did to him now was
keeping him safe.  She knew he would forgive her, once they
were home and he regained his senses.  He had to.

For Mulder, it was a time of blackness and confusion.  When
he was awake, he was barely aware, but they did allow him to
emerge from the influence of the drug long enough to get
food into him, and to answer the necessary calls of nature.
He was vaguely aware of being supported by two of the guys
while he relieved himself, barely conscious of the event.
Then it was back to the cot, and back to the pills, and he
was just grateful, somewhere in the part of his brain that
still functioned on an intellectual level, that they didn't
tie him down.  He knew why Scully was doing this to him, and
thus he could not hate her, but all that was forgotten in
the animal ferocity to avoid being forced, yet again, to
swallow a small pill that produced complete helplessness.

When at last the vehicle stopped moving, and two of his
friends dragged him to his feet, supporting him as he
shuffled along, he was certain the torment was over.  He was
wrong.

They took him inside a building, unfamiliar and reeking the
sterile smell of hospitals.  His eyes drooping but kept
determinedly open, he began to panic, but he was only
half-conscious, and Byers and Langly kept a firm grip on
him.  He could hear Scully's gentle voice speaking to him in
a steady stream of reassurance.  At least he assumed that
was what she was doing; he was unable to make out more than
a word here and there.

His terror peaked when he forced his heavy lids open once
again and realized they were in an examining room, complete
with table for the victim to lie upon, to be immobilized
while they--

"No!  Let me go not again don't hurt me!"  He yelled as
loudly as he could, but no one came to his rescue, and the
men--more than the two now, there were more--wrestled him
forcibly to the table.  Glancing around wildly, he saw the
faces of his friends--Langly, Byers, Frohike, Skinner, and
another man he didn't recognize.  The day he had always
dreaded had arrived at last.  The aliens had taken the form
of people he recognized, people he trusted.  He felt angry
tears of frustration sting the back of his eyelids as he
struggled helplessly against them, outnumbered by their
superior numbers and their incredible strength.

He could hear Scully ordering, "Put him out, *now*!" and his
tears turned to sobs of despair.  

"Not her, not Scully!" he moaned as he felt his wrists and
ankles being strapped down.  The larger strap came over his
chest, and then he was staring up into the machine, the
machine that hurt oh god it hurt so bad always so bad please
no Scully don't let them hurt me why are you letting them
hurt me

There were hands holding his arm still, a sharp sting, and
then merciful darkness.

"Are you all right?" asked Dr. Jones, concerned at Scully's
pasty white face, and she nodded weakly as she sank into the
chair Frohike provided.  She'd thought--they'd *all*
thought--that Mulder was more out of it than he'd proven to
be, and the scene just played out had shaken her badly.
Hearing him call her name in his terror--she had a sudden
flash of understand for what Mulder had lived with all those
years, remembering Samantha calling to him for help. She
buried her face in unsteady hands, fighting back tears, and
felt a gentle rubbing on her back.  Raising her head
slightly, she saw Byers gently soothing her.

She watched while Dr. Jones--and she didn't for one second
believe that was his real name, but the guys all assured her
he was a genuine medical doctor, and trustworthy--removed
Mulder's clothing, examining him from head to toe, took
x-rays, drew blood, and as many other tests as she could
think of that might help them diagnose what Mulder had
endured at the hands of his alien captors.  It was when she
rose to do her own physical exam that she found the scar
from the implant--Dr. Jones hadn't examined the back of
Mulder's neck, but somehow Scully just knew, even though
Skinner had never mentioned it to her, that Mulder would
have a chip.

"Matched set," she muttered, her fingers lightly scraping
across the scar, fully healed, so the chip must have been
implanted soon after Mulder was taken.

"What?" asked Dr. Jones, but she ignored him.  Her eyes met
Skinner's, and he nodded grimly.  He'd known.

"Get him dressed and let's get him out of here before he
wakes up," she snapped at the guys suddenly.  "I won't have
him traumatized again.

They scrambled to do her bidding, well-used by now to her
sudden mood swings.  They had never wanted to fuck with
Scully at the best of times, but pregnant...none of them was
that stupid.  Mulder was dressed and loaded into the back of
the ambulance, driven to her apartment and put into her bed
as quickly as was humanly possible.

"You going to be all right?" Skinner asked quietly after the
other three had left.

Fiercely telling herself that she would *not* break down
now, that she *would* retain her dignity, she muttered, "I'm
fine, Walter."  Then, feeling guilty, she squeezed his hand.
"Thank you so much.  For everything."

"You'll call if you need anything?" he said, and she knew it
was more a demand than a request.

She gave a little smile and a quick nod.  "I'll call."

When he had gone, and she was left alone with Mulder, she
removed his jeans and the grey shirt, stripping him down to
his boxers, biting her lip at the way they hung on his thin
frame.  Refusing to give in to the tears again, she climbed
into bed beside him, cuddled close to his still form, and
fell into an exhausted sleep.