Title: Memory:  Reclamation of the Soul 01/05
Author:  Daydreamer
Author E-Mail:  Daydream59@aol.com
Rating:  R - for violence and disturbing imagery
Category:  SA MSR but safe for non-shippers  
Archive: Yes, please
Feedback:  Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc.  They are
wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny and 
Gillian Anderson. I will make no profit from this, and 
neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have 
nothing material they can profit from.

Comments:  This is part three of a trilogy.  The stories are
connected and should be read in the order listed.
Memory:  Recovery of the Man
Memory:  Restoration of the Mind
Memory:  Reclamation of the Soul

Summary:  Mulder is abducted, beaten, and given a serum to 
stimulate memories of the night Samantha disappeared.  Scully
finds him, tends him while he recovers, then helps him deal 
with new memories of that fateful night.

Memory:  Reclamation of the Soul  01/05 

"You couldn't find anything?" Scully asked again in disbelief.  
She sat slumped on the overstuffed couch in the living room
of the safe house.

Skinner shook his head.  "I've exhausted all my resources," he 
paused, fixing her with an unblinking stare, "and I do mean *all* 
my resources, and I can not find one iota of corroborating evidence,
not one shred of supporting documentation."  He shook his head
again.  "If the information in that chart is accurate, then this has
been the biggest cover-up since Watergate."

Scully snorted in frustration, "And we all know how that ended.
I just can't believe the chart is a total fabrication.  Someone
had to remember something."

"Well, I did talk to his 9th grade teacher - that was the year his
sister disappeared."

"Ninth grade at 12?   Isn't that a little young?"

"Apparently he was advanced - fairly gifted as a child.  It may
have been tough on him, being so much younger, but he was 
tall for his age.  That may have helped.  But anyway, the teacher
thinks she remembers he had a broken arm that spring.  X-rays 
confirm, the arm's been broken, but I couldn't find records of 
treatment anywhere."

"That could be the incident he remembered in the shower the
other day."  She stopped and closed her eyes in horror, her
face resting in her hands.  "My God, his father made him sit
up all night with a broken arm."  She looked up at Skinner.
"What kind of a monster was he?"

Skinner nodded grimly.  "A monster, yes, but maybe a man
with demons of his own."  He rose and moved to the small
desk, taking up a position there, arms crossed, eyes on the
petite woman on the couch.

Scully wrinkled her nose and made a sound of disgust.  "No
excuse," she said shortly.  "Well, he can't hurt him anymore." 
She straightened, then asked,  "What about England?  Did 
you find anything on a time he may have been missing when 
he was in England?"

"Actually, yes, there was a period of about a week during one
of his terms, second year, when he just never showed for class.
When he came back, he explained it as a spontaneous trip
with friends, and of course, he made up the work so it wasn't
a problem academically."  Skinner took of his glasses and
rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "However, I couldn't find 
anyone who actually went on the trip with him, and the folks
we did get to talk to all remember how odd it was that 'Fox' 
went missing like that.  Apparently he was pretty studious
and it was out of character for him to take off like that."

Scully nodded, then bent to look at the chart resting in her lap. 
"I was there at Ellens Air Base.  I mean, I know he was missing
then.  I was there when he came out.  He looked like a zombie, 
drained, dazed, confused.  Lost.  I know they did something to
him that time."

She studied the chart some more, then closed her eyes in
thought.  "Lost.  That really is the right word.  He just seemed
lost that time.  Whatever was done had a profound impact on
his thinking processes, and his memory.  But he wasn't hurt
physically."  She opened her eyes and looked at Skinner.  "I 
mean, the chart lists specific physical trauma inflicted as 
reinforcement for the mental conditioning exercises, but there 
was no sign of physical abuse that time."

"Are you sure, Scully?  Maybe it was, well, somewhere, out of
sight?"

"There was no place out of sight."  She got up and began to pace.
"I made him strip down, everything, and I gave him a complete
physical."  She smiled at the memory.  "He, well, he objected, - we
still didn't know each other that well - but I insisted.  He wasn't 
even bruised."  She stopped by the window and gazed out.

Skinner stood and walked to her.  "So, what the hell have
they done to him?  And why are they still doing it?  And how
do we stop it?"

She turned and looked up at him.  "Exactly," she said.  "Those
are the questions for the day."

Skinner sighed and went back to his seat.  "I'm still carrying him on
sick leave, injured in the line of duty.  You're still assigned to his
case.  I've got 4 other agents working the background on the chart,
and 4 more splitting the investigation into his first disappearance, 
and the little incident at the hospital last week.  I don't know what
else to do."

Scully was nodding as Skinner spoke.  "I know you're doing everything
you can.  And I appreciate it.  Mulder does too, I'm sure."

"I can keep him here in the safe house, under guard, for a bit longer,
but if nothing turns up, and no more actions are taken against him,
I'm gonna have to cut him loose."  Skinner sighed again.  "I'm 
sorry.  I don't want to even consider it, because I have a feeling that
they - whoever they may be - are just waiting, biding their time, and
the minute Mulder is vulnerable again, they're going to swoop down
on him, and God only knows what they'll do this time.  I just don't
know what I can do to prevent it."

Scully walked to where Skinner sat, and laid her hand on his shoulder
squeezing gently.  "I know."

Skinner looked up and met her eyes.  "I'm sure you do," he said.
Scully took a step back, and he rose again, nervous energy forcing 
him to his feet once more.

He turned, saying,  "We have got to come up with some kind of a 
plan that will reduce his vulnerability.  If having them come after him
is inevitable, we can still make it as hard as possible."  Skinner cocked
his head and looked thoughtfully at Scully.  "Is he coming back to your
place when we have to leave here?"

She flushed slightly, then said, "I'd like him to, just because I really
don't want him to be alone.  But I have a feeling he's gonna fight me
on it."  She shrugged.  "He says he's worried about imposing.  I think 
he's worried I'll get caught up in whatever is going on.  Anyway,
I'll try and we'll have to see."

Skinner nodded.  "I'd rather you two be in one place, his or yours.  And
as you've said, yours has the extra bedroom."  Skinner gave the slightest
hint of a smile as he said the last, then went on.  "I want to work out 
a tentative schedule to have someone watching your place for while.  I
also want to map out some other options."  He gestured toward the 
table in the small dining area, already spread with papers, files, notes,
and folders.  "Shall we?"

Scully rose to precede Skinner and was halfway to the table when,
from the small bedroom, came the now familiar sound of a man crying.

******************************************************

Fox was frantic.  He'd fallen asleep and sometime while he was 
sleeping, they'd taken Samantha.  She was there when he drifted
off to sleep, wrapped tightly in his arms.  She'd been better that
day, smiling at him, and laughing at the silly stories he told to
amuse her.  She'd moved around some, stiff and sore as he was, 
but moving nonetheless.  

She'd been clingy - that's what Mom called it when she would hang
on people.  Sam didn't get clingy a lot, just when she was scared,
or sick, or tired.  But she'd been clingy today, holding his hand,
following him around the small room, sitting in his lap.  When
he tried to get her to lay down, she wouldn't unless he lay with
her.

He'd lost track of how long they had been here.  There was no 
window, no way to tell one day from the next.  At first, they had 
taken both of them to different rooms, and done their tests.  But
after the first few times, Samantha had stopped talking, stopped
moving, stopped crying.  When they came the next time, he had 
begged them to only take him, and they had.  He had been gone
a long time that time, and it had hurt a lot.  But when they brought
him back, Samantha was better.

From then on, he had tried to stay awake so he could go instead
of Sam.  But he had failed.  He had fallen asleep and they had 
taken her.  When he woke, he'd yelled at them, trying to get
them to come get him, bring her back.  But the door remained
locked and no one answered his pleas.

He'd gotten more and more upset, and finally had started crying.
They didn't like it when he cried, and he usually got punished, 
but he couldn't help it.  He was really worried about Sam.  She was
still little, and she couldn't take care of herself.  He was supposed
to take care of her.  That's what Dad always said when he left on 
a trip.  "Be a big boy now, Fox, and take care of your Mother and 
Samantha."  He always tried to, but now, he couldn't.

Finally, the door opened and a man told him to move away.  He
went to the far wall and waited while they carried Sammy in and
put her on the bed.  As soon as the door closed, he ran to the bed.
Sam lay on the bed where the man had put her.  Her eyes were
open but she wouldn't answer Fox when he talked to her.  He 
hopped up on the bed, and pulled her head into his lap.  He tucked
the thin blanket around her, and sat, speaking softly, humming,
his hand stroking her long hair, tickling her ear every now and
then.

Some long time later, the door opened again, and the man brought
a tray with a meal.  At first, Fox had tried to keep track of the days
by the food.  But they seemed to realize what he was doing, and
didn't bring food for a long time.  And he couldn't tell what time of 
day it was from the meal, because sometimes they brought the same
thing three or four times in a row.  He looked at the tray.  Today, 
it was breakfast again.

He rose carefully, settling Sam back into the bed, then brought
a cup with water over to the bed.  He knelt beside the bed.  "Sam," 
he whispered, "hey, Sammy, drink some water?"  But Samantha 
wasn't moving now. She wouldn't talk, she wouldn't eat, she wouldn't 
move.  When he moved her, she stayed just like he put her.  When her
eyes were open, she looked right through him.  He put the cup down, 
and rose slowly.  He crawled into the bed, sliding behind Samantha
and wrapping her in his arms again.  

"I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered, head buried in her hair.  "I'm sorry
I didn't take care of you better."  He began to cry, and his body shook
from the exertion.  "Please don't be like this Sam," he said, a small
whimper in his voice.  "Please be OK."  He lay with her for a while and 
she never moved, never responded.  Finally, he sighed, rose again, and 
went to eat his meal.  

He was sitting on the bed, Sam's head in his lap again, his hand idly
playing with her long curls, lost in thoughts of home, and comfort,
security, and being loved, when the door opened and the man came
in.  "Get up," he said without preamble.

Fox scrambled to his feet and stood facing the man.  "You leave her
alone," he said, his hands clenched in fists at his side.

The man laughed. "Such a fighter, little Fox," he said.  "Your fight
has won your freedom."

At Fox's confused look, the man went on.  "You can go home now,
little Fox."

Fox stood, staring in disbelief, then his eyes filled with tears.  "I can 
go home?" he asked.

The man nodded.

Fox swayed where he stood, then asked again, "I can really go home?"

Once more, the man nodded.

Fox lowered his head, staring at the ground for a minute, then 
looked up.  "I want my clothes," he said defiantly.

The man laughed again.  "Such a fighter."

Fox went to the bed and shook Samantha gently.  "Hey Sam, come on,
we're going home."  She didn't respond, and he looked up.  "I want
her clothes too," he demanded.  He turned his attention back to the little
girl on the bed.  "Sammy-Sam,  you gotta wake up.  We're going
home."

The man cleared his throat behind Fox, and he turned to look up at
him.  "Actually, Fox, that's not correct.  *You* are going home."

"What do you mean?" 

"You can go home.  She stays."

"No."  Fox stood and folded his arms across his chest.  "No. I won't
leave Sam here."

"You don't have a choice, my young friend."

"I am not your friend.  And I am not leaving my sister here, not for
 you, not for anybody."

"Fox, you really don't have a choice.  You go.  She stays.  End of
discussion."  The man reached out and took Fox by the arm and began
to pull him toward to door.  

"No!"  Fox was fighting, pulling against the man, kicking, screaming,
and unending stream of "No" flowing from his mouth.  He screamed
and fought, and pulled, and kicked, but the man pulled him inexorably
toward the door.


"No, no, no, no ,no, no, no, no, no . . . "

*********************************************************

Skinner and Scully reached the bedroom at the same time as the guard.  
After a quick look inside, they waved him off and entered.  Mulder
was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, long legs drawn up beneath
his chin.  Tears flowed down his face, and he was crying, "No, no, no,"
in nonstop monosyllables.

Scully walked slowly across the room and stopped about two paces in 
front of him.  "Mulder?"  she asked softly.  When he didn't respond,
she looked up and met Skinner's eyes.  A look of understanding passed
between them and he nodded. She turned back to Mulder, knelt, and 
said, "Fox?"

This time, his eyes met hers, and she was shocked by the pain she saw
there.  Lines etched into his face, mouth drawn and tight, his hazel eyes
pools of raw agony.  "Fox, sweetie, what is it?" she asked.

"Samantha can't come home." His voice was dull, lifeless. 

Scully glanced up at Skinner again, then asked, "Do you know where
Samantha is?"

"At the place."

"What place?" Skinner asked.

Mulder's eyes flew upward, and he scrambled to his feet.  "I'm sorry, Sir,
I'm sorry, I wasn't crying."  He swiped at his cheeks, brushing away the 
last of the tears.

Another look between Scully and Skinner.

"It's all right, Fox," Skinner said softly.  "Maybe you were just feeling -
sad?"

Mulder nodded, six feet tall, but a little boy's nod of agreement, of relief.

Scully reached out and took his hand.  "Come sit down, Fox."

He took her hand and allowed her to lead him to the bed, where he
obediently took a seat.  

"Fox," she said, "Can you tell us what happened to Samantha?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep shuddery breath.  He was closing
off from them, locking up, going deep within.  She reached out and
touched him, and he flinched.

"Fox," she said, a bit more loudly, "Fox, what happened to Samantha?"

His eyes squeezed shut, and his breath began to come in deep,
raggedy gulps.  He wrapped his arms around himself and he began
to rock.  A low moan escaped his mouth, and then he began to
chant, "No, no, no, no," over and over.

She looked at Skinner again, the look on her face asking, 'To push  
or not?'  Skinner stood, undecided, taking in Mulder's appearance 
and condition.  Finally, he gave a short nod.

Scully touched him once more, and he rocked even harder.  "Fox,"
she said, using a firm but gentle tone, "what happened to Samantha?"

At this third request, he seemed to fold into himself, to physically 
shrink, drawing back from her, pulling away.  He rocked harder
and harder, tears streaming down his cheeks, his face a mask of
pain.  "She. . ." he whispered, then a sob.  "She . . ." he tried
again.

"It's OK, Fox, go ahead," Scully said.  "She what?"

The rocking slowed fractionally, and his head lifted, meeting her
eyes.  "She wouldn't fight."  He dropped his head, and the
rocking increased again.

She placed a hand on each arm, gripping him tightly, and tried
to still the increasingly frantic rocking.  She pulled him to her, wrapping
her arms around him, and began to murmur soft, soothing words.
"It's OK, Fox, it's all right now.  Shhh, it'll be all right."

"She wouldn't fight, she wouldn't fight, she wouldn't fight," he
chanted softly.  

Scully pulled him closer, quieting him with her words and presence.
She continued to coo words of assurance and comfort, and he slowly
began to still.  He loosed his arms from around his chest and wrapped
them around her waist, resting his head against her abdomen.  She
held him tightly, one arm around his back and shoulder, the other 
stroking his hair.  Every now and then, she leaned over and gently
kissed his head.

He settled incrementally, eventually resting against her, his arms now 
loosely holding her.  He stayed this way for some time, letting
her pet him, letting her hold him, accepting her comfort.
Finally, with head still buried in her belly, he tentatively said, 
"Scully?"

Scully looked up in surprise.  She stiffened slightly, and stopped
in mid-stroke, mid-kiss.  She swallowed nervously, then said, "Uh,
yeah.  Mulder?"

"Yeah."  He snuggled into her tummy, leaning heavily against her, 
and his hand began to stroke her back, in tiny up and down movements.
"Scully, I remember," he said. His voice was indescribably sad, 
full of longing and wistfulness.  "I remember what happened.

*********************************************************

"And then what happened?"  Skinner asked.

They were seated in the living area of the safe house, Mulder and Scully
on the couch, Skinner in the chair across from them.  Mulder had been
exhausted by his latest foray into the depths of his memory, and had
lain down and slept all afternoon.  

Skinner and Scully had spent some time discussing how far and how
hard they should push him when he had these episodes.  Much debate
on the topic had yielded no firm decision and they were still going to
have to take each situation as it came, playing by ear so to speak.

Now, with dinner behind them, and Mulder rested, they were ready
to see if he could talk about what he had remembered.  So far, he
had been forthcoming, speaking openly about what he remembered.

How he and Samantha had awakened at a strange place.  How they 
had had painful tests done to them.  How he'd fought to keep them
from hurting Samantha.  How he'd 'volunteered' to go, if only they'd
leave her alone.  How, despite his best efforts, she was hurt, and 
then, how she retreated into herself, becoming non-responsive, 
drawing away, and leaving him alone to face their captors.

He'd just told of how he was sent home, and the words that the man
had spoken.  "Your fight has won your freedom."

Mulder looked up from his introspection at Skinner's query.  "Well,
Sam still wasn't moving or talking or anything.  I tried to get back 
to the bed, to hold on to her, but the man grabbed me and pulled me
out of the room.  I was screaming, and kicking, and crying, and 
some other people grabbed onto me, and then I felt a prick, like
from a needle, and that was all I remember.  When I woke up, I was
back at the summer house, and Sam was gone.  And all I could 
remember was seeing her float away in a cloud of light."

He paused and drew in a ragged breath.  "I don't know what they
did to me to make me remember it that way."  He looked up,
his eyes seeking Scully's.  "I left her there.  I just left her there.
And then I forgot all about it."  He shuddered and fought back
a sob.  "Oh God, I might have known where she was all along, 
and I just left her there and forgot about it."  He dropped his head 
into his hands, fighting to regain control.  

Scully slid over next to Mulder, and was talking softly to him.
She gently laid a hand on his arm and tried to pull him to her,
but he stiffened and resisted.  She switched tactics, and stroked
his arm, all the while continuing to talk softly.

Skinner watched silently.  'This man has been made to bear the
burden of responsibility for this for long enough.'  He flushed 
in anger, that Mulder had been so callously manipulated.  'Enough.'
He stood and said sharply, "Mulder, get up."

Scully and Mulder both looked up in surprise.  They both heard
the anger in his voice, took in his rigid stance.

Skinner softened his voice a bit and said again, "Come on, Mulder,
stand up.  I want to show you something."

Mulder rose shakily, then stood before the couch.  Scully watched
Skinner through narrowed eyes, warning clear on her face.

He gave a slight reassuring smile in her direction.  'Trust me - I
know what I'm doing.'  Then he shrugged.  'I think.'

Skinner reached out quickly, and spun Mulder around, pulling
Mulder's right arm up behind his back and using his own his
left arm to pull him tight against his body and hold him there.
Mulder was very effectively immobilized.

"What the hell are you doing, Sir?" Mulder gasped.

"All right, Mulder," Skinner whispered fiercely in his ear, "Get
loose."

Scully watched as the look on Mulder's face changed from one
of confusion to one of fury.  He began to struggle, pushing
back against Skinner, pulling against the hold on his arm, arching
his back against the arm across his chest.  He kicked out with is
legs, and swayed back and forth.  He stiffened completely, 
yanking hard against the arms restraining him, then sagged limply, 
forcing Skinner to bear his weight.

He fought for several more minutes, and Skinner stood impassively
through it all.  Finally, as Mulder's breathing turned to gasps
for air, and he was covered in a sheen of perspiration, Skinner
gave him a little shake and said, "Enough.  Stop now, Mulder."  

It took several seconds for the command to register, and then 
Mulder slowly stilled.  "I'm letting you go now, Mulder."
Skinner slowly turned the man loose, and then offered a 
hand as he swayed.  

He half turned the younger man to look at him, hand on
his elbow in support.  Mulder's eyes were closed, and his 
breathing was still ragged.  He trembled from the force of
his exertions.

"Did you try to get loose, Mulder?"

A tear slid down his face.  He nodded.

"Did you try really hard?"

Another tear, another nod.

"Did you fight as hard as you did when you fought me?"

The eyes opened and he cocked his head as he considered.  Finally,
a nod.

"Mulder, you were twelve years old.  A little boy.  You were a child
fighting grown men.  Do you understand what I'm saying here?"  
Skinner paused, looking at the trembling man before him.

The eyes were watching him, fastened to him unblinking.  Searching
for - what?  Forgiveness?  Reassurance?  Hope?  Skinner tightened 
his grip on Mulder, meeting his gaze, staring back, unflinching.

"It.  Wasn't.  Your.  Fault."

End of part 01/05

Memory:  Reclamation of the Soul  02/05


"Damn it, Scully, I am not a little boy who has to have his hand
held every second of the day!"  Mulder spat the words out, irritation,
frustration, and pleading warring for dominance in his voice.  He 
paced rapidly to the far side of the room.

"I know that, Mulder," Scully placated.  "But you are still having
both nightmares and flashbacks.  Surely you can see why I am 
concerned."

Mulder turned, running his hand through his hair, then said, "I can
see, Scully, and I appreciate your concern.  But I've been having
nightmares all my life."  He gave a shaky chuckle.  "And I'm
dealing with the flashbacks.  I'm not screaming and falling apart
anymore.  You didn't even wake up last night."

Her eyes narrowed.  "You had a flashback last night, Mulder?"

He nodded.

"About what?"

His eyes darted away again.  "That's not important right now,
Scully.  What is important, is that I dealt with it.  I am dealing
with it.  I can deal with it.  Alone."  

His eyes flicked to the door to kitchen, then widened when he realized 
Skinner was standing there, leaning on the jamb, and listening.

"Look," he took a deep breath, his eyes flicking from Skinner to 
Scully, "both of you,  I do appreciate-" he gave a vague gesture
taking in the room, the house, the two of them, "- all this, but I 
can't breathe here.  I can't stand all this hovering.  I *need*
to be alone."  He straightened and faced them.  "Surely you can
understand that."  Pleading won out.

Skinner spoke now, "Mulder, for all intents and purposes you 
were kidnapped.  We still don't know who did it, or even what 
they did to you.  I am extremely uncomfortable with the idea 
of you being alone."

Mulder drew a deep breath, and Skinner and Scully could see 
that he had reached some kind of an internal decision.  He walked
slowly over to the couch where Scully sat, stopping before her.

"Look Scully, my ankle is much better.   The cast is off, I can 
move on my own.  My shoulder is still stiff, and a little painful,"
he added honestly, "but I can take care of myself.  And I'm not
having the headaches anymore." 

 He smiled at her, the smile that told her he was about to do 
something of which she wouldn't approve.  "Sorry, Scully," 
he murmured, then he turned and looked at Skinner.

"With all due respect, Sir," he said firmly, " unless you plan on 
arresting my ass, and sticking me in protective custody somewhere,
I am going home."

*******************************************************

Mulder lay on the battered old couch, heart racing.  He was covered
in sweat and his mouth worked as he struggled to bring in enough
oxygen to fill his starved lungs.  His thoughts were chaotic - a
swirling mass of Samantha, and Scully, and - something else.  He
shook himself, then forced his body to sit up.  

A draft in the room caught him, and he shivered.  As his thoughts
slowly began to clear, he rose on shaky legs and headed for the
shower.

'Maybe being alone isn't such a good idea,' he thought, as he
searched for a clean towel.  He started the shower, then shed
his clothes and stepped in.

The warm water felt good, washing the fear sweat from his
body, easing the tension in his muscles.  He stood under the
steady stream and willed himself to relax.

He'd been home for a week now.  No one had bothered him,
there had been no more attacks.  Scully had called daily, but
he wouldn't let her visit.  Skinner called frequently too, and Mulder
suspected there had been a car outside the first few days he
was home, but he really was alone now.

And he was glad.  The nightmares had shifted and were no 
longer just of Samantha.  Now Scully's disappearance figured
prominently, and somehow, when he would waken, he was
left with the feeling that he knew more about it than he 
could recall.  Until he figured out what that was all about,
he couldn't face her - couldn't let her see him in his weakness
as he woke, trembling, crying her name, begging her forgiveness.

The flashbacks had shifted too, and they were far worse.  No 
longer mere memory of the missing time, the time when he and
Samantha had been taken, and he had been returned.  Now the 
memory was also of the time after - the times when his father . . .  
Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to pursue that thought.
He shuddered.  Oh, yeah - the flashbacks were the worst.

He raised his head to the water, letting it flow over his face and
wash the sticky tear tracks away.  Sometimes he was so disgusted
with himself.  Would he ever stop crying?  He shook the water 
from his eyes.  He was coping.  He'd managed all his life - he would
manage now.  And, while he'd needed his solitude, he was about
ready to rejoin the world.  He was meeting Scully for lunch
today, then seeing Skinner about a return to duty.  He smiled, a
genuine, things are looking up smile, as he contemplated getting
back to work, and back to Scully.

He braced himself against the wall, and did the shoulder exercises
that his therapist had prescribed, then cleaned himself.  He
allowed himself a few more minutes in the warm water,
then reluctantly turned the water off and stepped out.

The towel was on the counter by the sink, and he grabbed it,
drying himself quickly, then wrapping it around his waist.  He 
padded down the hall to the small bedroom and carelessly tossed 
the towel on the bed.  He was digging in the dresser drawer for a pair
of boxers when a voice from behind him said, "Mr. Mulder."

*****************************************************

"Sir, he's not answering either phone."  Scully spoke in a clipped
voice, her fear evident.

"Where are you Agent Scully?"  Skinner asked.

"En route to his place.  I'll be there in about 15 minutes."

"All right.  I'm on my way as well.  Keep me informed."

Scully closed the phone and pressed a bit harder on the accelerator.
Mulder hadn't shown for their lunch 'date,' and while she knew
he might blow her off, he would never have blown off the 
meeting with Skinner.  The man was practically itching to
come back to work.  

So what the hell had happened?  

She slowed as the exit to Mulder's place came up, then got off
the interstate, slowing even more as she moved further and
further into the city streets of Alexandria.  She pulled up to his
building, found a spot to park, and hopped out.  She began to
walk toward the building, but her concerns were increasing, and
by the time she reached Mulder's door, she was racing.

She knocked once, and when there was no answer, she used her
key and entered.  "Mulder?" she called.

The living room looked OK.  A little messy, but that was 
Mulder.  She moved to the kitchen.  Nothing.  "Mulder?"
she tried again.  She pulled the cell phone and called Skinner.

"I'm here.  I had to use my key to get in."  She was walking 
down the hall toward the bedroom as she spoke.  "He's not
answering, and I haven't found him yet."  She peered in
the bathroom, noting the clothes on the floor.  "Where are
you?"  she asked Skinner.

She kept moving as she talked, making for the small bedroom
that Mulder rarely used.  More a storage area for his clothes
than a bedroom.  The door was half shut, and she stopped,
eyeing it warily.  "I'll call you back," she said into the phone
as she snapped it shut and slipped it into a pocket of her blazer.

She reached behind her and pulled her weapon from the holster
at the small of her back.  Holding the gun before her, she
called again, "Mulder?  You in there?"

She toed the door open, then stepped quickly into the room, 
gun trained on the figure on the bed.  She took a fast look
around the room, then holstered her weapon and approached
the man on the bed.

He was sitting passively, watching her but not reacting, not
speaking.  She looked at him and felt the fear rise up in her
chest.  Something had happened.  She walked slowly to him, 
then said, "Hey Mulder, you could answer when someone calls
you know."

His eyes followed her and she saw the confusion, the fear in 
them as he lifted his head to her.  He licked his lips nervously,
then scanned the room.  Worry set his features, and he cleared
his throat.  "Scully?" he whispered.  "Scully, I don't feel so 
good."

"What's wrong, Mulder?  Are you sick?  Hurt?"  She advanced,
placing her hand on his brow, looking closely at him.  He was 
vague, drifty, and she was sure she had seen this behavior in him 
before.  After Ellens Air Base. "What's the last thing you 
remember, Mulder?" she asked.

"I left the office early.  I wanted to go over my testimony on
Brandon.  I -  I . . . "  His voice trailed off.  "I don't feel so
good," he said again.

Scully's eyes were wide in horror, her mouth open in shock.
"The Brandon case?  My God Mulder, that was over a 
month ago."

He looked up to her with haunted eyes, shaking his head in 
denial.  "Scully, something is really . . ."  he stopped and
closed his eyes.  

She stepped forward and caught his arms, pulling him into
her body, supporting him.  "Mulder?" she asked softly.

"Dizzy," he whispered through gritted teeth.  "Can't think."

"Come on," she said.  "Let's get you up on the bed.  I think you
need to lay down."

He nodded and moved backward onto the bed, letting her help
him, finally settling with head on pillow.  His eyes were closed
and he lay on his side facing her.  

She sat next to him, and asked "Better?"

He nodded again, then dragged open fearful, worried eyes, and
said, "A month, Scully?  A whole month?"

She nodded gravely, then said, "Don't think about it now Mulder.
I want to look at you, then I want you to rest.  Skinner's on his way."

"I'm here," a deep voice said from the door.  "What happened?"

Scully looked at Mulder.  He had his eyes closed again, and didn't seem
interested in answering so she said, "We're not sure yet."  When he
started to speak again, she shook her head - no.  "Would you go 
out to my car and get my bag, Sir?"

Skinner looked at her, then at the unmoving man on the bed.  He nodded
once then turned and left.  "Mulder," she said softly.  "I need to take your
clothes off.  I need to look at you."

He opened one eye then said weakly, "Still trying to get my clothes off,
eh, Agent Scully?"

"You wish, Mulder," she responded as she tugged his t-shirt over his head.
"How's your shoulder?"

"Stiff.  Sore," he responded.  "Why?"

"You hurt it.  It was dislocated.  It's better now."  She rolled him onto
his back, and fumbled with the button on his jeans.  "Do you hurt anywhere
else?"  She finally got the button open then pulled the zipper down.

"Yeah - I feel sore.  Achy.  Tender.  My back and legs."   He paused
"And there." 

She froze.  "Here?" 

"Yeah - like I was kicked." 

She looked up to find him watching her through half closed eyes.  

"Shame I don't feel better so I could enjoy this properly."

She flushed, then tapped him on the thigh.  He lifted and she pulled the jeans
down over his hips and legs. His eyes were closed again, and  he'd thrown his
arm across his face.  "Just like Ellens," he murmured, and she could hear
the fear in his voice.

"It's OK Mulder," she soothed.  "We'll figure out what happened."

"What do you remember about Ellens?" Skinner asked as he entered the
doorway.  "Here," he said to Scully, handing her the bag.

"Just the case - that's the problem.  It's what I don't remember that
worries me."

"Shh," Scully said.  "Deep breaths."  She had the stethoscope on his 
chest and was listening.  He complied, lying quietly, breathing deeply.

"Sounds OK."  She took his wrist, then looked at her watch, counting.
"Respiration's OK too."  She flushed slightly, then said, "Sorry Mulder, 
but if you're hurting," she touched his boxers lightly at the waist, "these 
have to come off.  I need to look."

"Oh, no.  Not again."  Mulder was shaking his head.  He started 
to sit up, but Scully pushed him back.  

"It's me or the hospital, Mulder.  Take your pick."

"God, Scully, I hate this.  Don't make me do this."

"Come on Mulder, I'm a doctor."

"Yeah, but you work on dead people.  I'm not dead yet."

"Look, Mulder, you may not remember the last month, but 
I do, and you've already had several rather severe injuries.
Now, you let me check you out, or Skinner and I take you to the 
hospital, and they check you out."  She folded her arms across
her chest and gave him her best no nonsense stare.

Mulder grimaced, then shot Skinner a look.  "Oh, all right already.  
You may have to look, but he doesn't."  

Skinner raised an eyebrow, then turned his back, but not before Scully
saw the slight smile that crossed his face.  She bit back a smile of
her own, then said, "Take'em off partner."

Mulder groaned, then slid the boxers off, closing his eyes again.
His face was burning.

Scully took one look then said, "I think you're right.  It does look
like you were kicked." She touched him carefully, then asked, "Does
this hurt?"

He turned an even brighter shade of red, then mumbled,  "Mmmph."

Her hands moved slowly over him, slide then press, slide then
press, her touch delicate, then firm.  He groaned softly.  

"That hurt, Mulder?"

He shook his head, unable to speak. 

As she touched him again, she said, "Well, I don't see any signs of 
internal damage, though there is some swelling."

Skinner strangled a laugh, then coughed, clearing his throat.  Mulder
choked, then pulled away from Scully's hands, and rolled onto his 
stomach.  "Enough, Scully," he growled, "I'm sure I'll live."

Whatever retort she had been ready to make was chased from her
mind as she looked at his back.  She gasped, and Skinner turned,
coming to the bed.

"What?" Mulder said over his shoulder.  "What is it?"

Bruised red and purple stripes covered him. His whole back side 
was covered in welts, extending from his shoulders down to his 
upper thighs. 

"Just like in the chart," Scully whispered, and Skinner nodded
grimly.  

"What chart?" Mulder asked desperately, his eyes locked on the
marks that covered his back.  "Who did this to me?  Why don't
I remember?"

***************************************************

They were back at the safe house.  The last attack on Mulder had
allowed Skinner to once again get priority for the case, and he
had full access to additional agents, guards, and other security
measures.

Mulder had been understandably withdrawn, but was coming
around now, apparently having reached some kind of an internal
agreement.   He wanted to know everything he had remembered,
everything he had told them, of the nightmares and the flashbacks
that he could no longer recall.  

He'd had one nightmare since they had returned to the safe house,
but had not remembered anything upon waking.  He hadn't
regressed at any point either, and he felt he was coping quite
well with the upheavals in his memories and his life.

The welts on his back, buttocks, and legs had healed quickly,
disappearing within days.  He'd suffered no long lasting damage
from the blow to the groin, though he was afraid the effect
of Scully's exam would be of much longer duration.  *That* was 
quite firmly placed in his memory.  His face grew flushed as he 
thought about it, then glanced guiltily around to see if he had 
been observed.

He was alone.  He forced his mind to other things, then looked up
as Skinner entered, a small tray bearing three coffee mugs in his
hands.  He placed it on the table, then took a seat.  Scully came 
from the back of the house, pulling on a sweater as she walked.

"You're the psychologist, Mulder," she said, taking up the 
conversation as if there had been no pause.  "You tell me what
it sounds like."

"I know, Scully, I know."  He ran a hand through his hair, and
rose.  "My sister and I are taken to some place, for some kind of
painful tests, or something.  I get through it and get to go home.
She doesn't.  I feel guilty.  Classic survivor guilt."  

He walked to the window.  "But did it really happen?  I mean, 
first I just believed she was kidnapped, taken.  Then I 'recovered'
a memory of her abduction.  A memory I was sure was accurate.
Now I have a new memory."  He turned in frustration.  "How
the hell am I supposed to know what is real and what is not?"

"We have some supporting documentation for this memory, Mulder,"
Skinner reminded him.  "We have the chart."

"Yeah, but you and Scully said you can't corroborate anything in 
the chart.  What if it was planted?  A fabrication?  More lies?"

"We may not have concrete support, but we have some pretty 
incriminating circumstantial evidence.  Your teacher remembers
the broken arm."

"It was twenty-five years ago."  Mulder snorted.  "She was,
like, a hundred and ten even then."  He looked up, curious.
"How old is she anyway?"

Skinner colored slightly, then said, "Well, she is pretty old -
she's 85.  And she's got Alzheimer's."

Mulder groaned.  "Great.  Just great."

"But the trip in England, Mulder."  Scully piped up.  "No one seems
to have gone on that trip with you.  You were missing for a week."

"I just bummed around Scully, I told you that."

"But why?  Why then?  It was so out of character for you."

"I don't know."  He rubbed his head again.  "I just felt - confined -
like I needed to get away.  So I went."

"How did you feel when you got back, Mulder?"

He stood for minute, thinking.  "Actually, I was kinda sore."
He turned and looked at her.  "But don't read too much into that.
I did a lot of walking, all over the English countryside.  Slept
on the floor in hostels.  It's not unusual that I would have
been stiff when I got back."

"Well, regardless of what else happened, I was there when you
came out of Ellens.  You had been seriously mind fucked."
She crossed her arms.  "I know something happened that time."

Mulder still stood by the window, his thoughts drifting.  Something
may have happened, but he couldn't recall it.  And even if he could,
would it be a true memory?  Damn it, this was so infuriating!  He 
clenched his fist, then drew back, lashing out and striking the
window.  His hand went right through, shattering the glass, 
setting off the security alarms, slicing his wrist and arm.  Oh, 
God, what had he done?

Scully gave a little gasp, then ordered, "Don't move, Mulder."

He looked down at his arm, extended through the window,
blood dripping on the sill, the wall, the floor.

Oh God, he was gonna be in so much trouble. . .

***********************************************

He hadn't meant to break the window.  He'd been throwing
the ball up in the air, then catching it.  He knew he wasn't
supposed to play ball in the house, any kind of ball, but Mom
was feeling *bad* again today, and he had to stay inside to
help her.  

He'd wanted to go out, to be with the guys, to play for a change,
but he had to stay in, again, and be here for Mom.  He'd picked
up the ball and starting tossing it up, not really hard, just a little,
and catching it.  But he'd gotten mad, and as he got madder,
he threw the ball higher, and harder, but it was still OK 'cause
he caught it every time.

But then Mom had called, "Fox!" and he jumped, and missed
it, knocking the ball with his hand instead of catching it.
It headed for the window and he surged forward to get it
before it hit the glass.  He slapped at the ball again, knocking
it toward the floor, but his momentum carried him forward
and his whole arm went right through the window.

Now there was blood everywhere.  On the sill, on the wall,
on the carpet.  Oh God, he was gonna be in so much trouble.
And Mom was still calling him.

"I'm coming, Mom," he hollered up the stairs.  He carefully
pulled his arm out of the window.  He tugged his t-shirt off,
and wrapped it around his arm, staunching the blood flow.
He looked at the window.  He'd never be able to get it 
fixed before Dad got home, but he could get the blood cleaned
up.  

But first, he had to go see about Mom.  He scurried to the 
bathroom, and pulled out an Ace bandage, wrapping it tightly 
around his arm and hand.  It seemed to control the bleeding, 
and he hurried to his room, calling, "Be there in a minute, Mom,"
as he raced to find a long sleeved shirt."

As he pulled on the shirt, he worried that Mom would ask why he
was wearing long sleeves in the middle of summer, but then he
realized, she never noticed what he wore anymore, and never asked
why he did anything.  He finished changing then went to her room.

"Yeah, Mom," he said, "you wanted me?"

"Come here, baby," she reached out to him.  "Come sit with me for a
while."

Fox paled.  Oh God, no, she'd been drinking again.  He'd never 
get downstairs now.  Dad would see the mess and he'd be in 
even more trouble.  But if he didn't stay, Mom would complain 
to Dad that he wasn't *helping* her, and then he'd still be in
trouble.  Knowing that no matter what he did, it would still
come out the same, Fox walked slowly toward to bed, and into
his mother's drunken embrace.

When his father came home, he was still lying on the bed with his
mother.  She had drifted off to sleep, but he had been afraid to move
for fear of waking her again.  His arm was still bleeding; he could
see places where the blood had seeped through the shirt sleeve.  He
felt faint, weak, slightly dizzy, but whether it was from the bleeding
or from fear, he couldn't tell.  He lay stiffly, not moving, barely
breathing, as he listened to the  heavy tread of his father's steps
as he climbed to the second story.

There wasn't enough air in the room.  Fox remained motionless, 
eyes closed, as he waited for the bedroom door to open.  Maybe 
Dad would think they were both asleep.  Maybe he would leave 
him alone.  Maybe he would just be worried that he was hurt, like
he used to be.  And maybe pigs would fly.  

"Fox."

Oh God, he was angry.  He could hear it in his voice.  He lay
perfectly still.  Maybe he would go away.

"Fox."  A long, heavy silence.  "Don't make me call you again, boy."

He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at his father, standing in 
the doorway.  His father beckoned, one finger, saying "Come."

Fox rose on shaky legs, and walked slowly out of his mother's
bedroom.  He looked up at his dad.  No mercy there.  He lowered
his head.  "I'm sorry, Sir, I was going to clean it up, but Mom
called me."

His father's hands were at his waist, unbuckling the belt, pulling it
slowly through the loops.  He gestured towards the door across the 
landing.  "Your room."

Fox walked on leaden feet towards his room.  Behind him, he could
hear the sound of the belt as his father slapped it lightly into his
own palm.  He stood by the bed, already going numb, already
pulling away.

"Take'em down."

Fox fumbled with his own belt, then unbuttoned his pants and slid
them down.  He stood waiting, his pants around his knees.  

"Them too."

Fox swallowed hard, then closed his eyes.  His hands crept slowly to
the waistband of his underpants, and he slid them down as well.

"Off"

Fox pulled his pants all the way off, leaving them in a puddle at his feet.

"Over the bed."

The boy turned and lay across the bed, his hands extended to grab the
far side of the mattress, his bare bottom waiting.  He clutched the mattress
tightly, knowing that too much movement would just infuriate his 
father, and make it that much worse.  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, 
clenched his teeth, and waited.

"Count."

The belt whistled through the air, and he jerked at the impact.  
Fire exploded in his backside, and he gasped out, "One, Sir."

At 11, he began to cry.  At 24, he began to wail.  Somewhere 
around 35, he lost count, and began to plead.  It made no 
difference to his father, and he had no idea how many blows
he took. 

When it was finally over, his father dropped his underwear and his
pants onto the bed beside him.  "Get dressed.  Your arm is bleeding.  
I'm taking you to the clinic."

Fox rose obediently, tears streaming down his face, and pulled
the clothing on over his tortured buttocks.  He followed his father
down to the car, sitting perfectly still for the drive to the clinic.
Any movement would have only invited more of the same when
they returned home.  

At the clinic, it took fourteen stitches to close the gash in his arm,
but they were very kind to him when he couldn't stop crying.  
The doctor even gave him a shot of something that made the world
go fuzzy, and the pain recede.  He could feel the sting of the needle
against his arm . . .

**************************************************

He opened his eyes, and Scully was there.  God bless 
Scully, she was always there for him.  He smiled slightly 
at the thought.

Her eyes found his, and she smiled back.  "Hey partner, how
you feeling now?"

"Mmm, better, I think."  He lifted his arm, and looked at the
bandage wrapped around it.  "Did I need stitches this time?"

"This time?  What are you talking about, Mulder?"

"Fourteen stitches.  Last time I broke a window, it took fourteen
stitches."

She narrowed her eyes.  "I think I want to hear more about that.
But no, you didn't need stitches this time."

"Sorry about the mess," Mulder said.

She waved the comment away.  "When did you break the window
Mulder?"

He closed his eyes, grimacing at the memory.  It was so fresh, so raw,
like it just happened.  He almost felt that if he looked at his behind,
he would still see the marks of his father's belt.  "Uh, Scully?  I'm
not sure I'm up to talking about this right now."

He felt the bed sink as she came and sat next to him.  Her hand reached
out and he felt her touch his brow, then his cheek.  

"It's OK, Mulder, you can tell me.  I was witness to the flashback. 
I have a pretty good idea of what happened."

Behind his closed lids, his eyes filled with tears, and he shook his head 
vigorously.  "No, Scully, you couldn't know what happened."

"You broke a window and your father beat you," she said in a neutral
voice.

His breathing hitched, and the tears began to trickle down his face.
"He - he really beat me bad that time," he managed to get out.  He opened
his eyes, searching for her face.  He gave a half moan, half whimper at
the open disgust he saw there.  "I'm sorry," he murmured.  "I deserved
it.  I broke -"

She cut him off.  "Deserved it?  Deserved it?  What child deserves to be 
brutally beaten like that?  Mulder, nothing you could ever have done
would have made you deserve that."  Her face was sad now, her eyes
filled with tears.  She scooted fully onto the bed, leaning back against
the headboard, and pulled his head into her lap.  She stroked his hair,
playing with the wisps at the nape of his neck.  "You could never 
deserve that, Mulder."

"I lost Samantha," he whispered.  "I lost her and it was never the same.
He beat me, and I deserved it.  I let them down."  He began to cry then, 
great wracking sobs ripped from his chest, hot tears scalding her leg.

She struggled to lift him, to pull his large frame more fully into her lap
and she cradled his head against her breast.  She stroked him, cooing
words of comfort into his ear, and rocked him gently.  Gradually, the
tears ceased, and the sobs turned to sniffles.  As he settled, she said, 
"You, more than any child, needed love, and acceptance, and security, 
especially after Samantha disappeared. Think of your psych training.  You
 know how important that is in traumatic situations.  Your parents let
*you* down.  They were wrong."

She pulled him to her, tightening her embrace, trying to make him believe
through her touch, the words she was speaking.  She held him a minute
more, then softly kissed the top of his head, and said again, "You could 
never deserve that Mulder.  Never."

End of part 02/05

"So, if it's not regression, Scully, what is it?"  Skinner asked.

"More like withdrawal.  I think the whole situation has just 
overwhelmed him.  When we first came back to the safe house,
he was withdrawn, but he came around.  I think this last
flashback, really remembering what happened with his
father, has thrown him for a loop.  And I think he just needs
some time to assimilate everything."

Skinner was nodding.  "It's just really - weird - to see him like
this.  Quiet.  Passive.  Those are words I never expected to use
with Mulder."

"His whole world image has been shattered.  Things he remembers
may or may not be true.  Things he's built his life on may or may
not have happened.  He may have done things he has no recollection
of, or he may never have done things he does recall.  Everything
in his life is being called into question.  It's daunting for me to even
think about; I can't imagine how difficult it must be for him."

"And what do we do in the meantime?"

"What we've been doing.  Pursue the investigation.  Try to determine
what is real and what is not.  See if we can find the people that
did this to him."  She paused, looking sadly at the door to Mulder's
room.  "Give him time.  Try to be here when he needs to talk.
Try to make him feel safe.  Accept him, comfort him, help him."
Her voice dropped to a mere whisper.  "Care for him."

Skinner cleared his throat and Scully looked back at him, startled. 
 "Well, I guess what I mean is, just try to help get him through this."

"Help get me through what?"  Mulder stood in the door now, hair 
sticking up, one cheek still red and bearing the imprint of the 
bedspread from where he had obviously been sleeping.  He 
yawned and asked again, "Help get me through what?"

Scully looked up at him, affection and exasperation in her
face.  "Through this."  She waved her hands about.  "All 
this.  It's bound to be a little disconcerting."  She smiled up
at him.  "Why are you up anyway?"  She rose, suddenly
concerned.  "Did you have another nightmare?"

He smiled, then stepped forward into the room.   "No, 
no nightmare.  Believe it or not, I'm just thirsty."
He walked over to the couch and sat, then pulled Scully 
down to sit next to him.  He folded his arms around 
himself, then licked his lips nervously.

"Look, Scully, I just want to tell you that I - uh - I 
appreciate all you've done for me.  Are doing for me."
He ran his hand through his hair, then tentatively 
reached out and took hers.  "I don't - well, I mean,
this has been hard, all of it.  I'll admit I'm confused.
You've been - it's been really good knowing you're
here."  His thumb was gently stroking her palm.  He
held her hand a minute more, his touch gentle but firm.
He caught her eyes, holding them with his own.  "I
appreciate you," he whispered.

He slowly released her, then rose and walked toward
the kitchen.  He paused in the doorway, then said, "I
appreciate all you've done too, Sir," and ducked
through the door.

They heard the sound of water running, and in a few
moments, he was back.  He walked to his room, stopping
only long enough to say, "Good night," as he entered
and shut the door behind him.

Scully and Skinner looked at each other.  Neither spoke
for a long time.   Finally, Scully broke the silence.  "That
was weird.  Even for Mulder."  Skinner nodded, then 
they both rose to make their own way to bed.

**********************************************

"That was excellent, Sir."  Scully pushed the plate away 
and sat back in her chair.  "I didn't know you could cook."

Skinner chuckled.  "Don't let word get around.  It might 
impede my tough guy image."  He poured more batter
on the griddle for the next batch of pancakes.  "I just got
tired of take out all the time, so I taught myself in self defense."
He looked over at her.  "These will be ready shortly if you
want to wake Mulder."

She rose, saying, "I almost hate to share."  She heard Skinner
laughing again behind her as she made her way to the small
ground floor bedroom Mulder was using.

The door was still shut and she knocked softly.  When there
was no response, she knocked again, a bit harder.  Still no
response.  She knocked again, firmly, and called, "Hey, Mulder,
time to get up."  Still no answer.  She looked behind her
to see Skinner standing in the kitchen doorway, obviously
drawn there by her knocking.

She called through the door, "Mulder, I'm coming in.  Hope
you're decent," and turned the knob.  No movement.  She looked
up again, finding Skinner's eyes, and said, "It's locked."
She began pounding furiously on the door.  "Mulder, let me
in!  Mulder!"

Skinner was across the living room in several large strides,
and he immediately grabbed the knob, rattling it.  He, too,
began pounding, and calling,  "Mulder, open the door!"

When there was still no response, he said to Scully, "Stand 
aside," and took a step back.  He braced himself, then hit
the door, hard, with his shoulder.  The thin jamb splintered,
the door flew open, and he fell into the room. 

Scully was right behind him, gun drawn, eyes scanning
the room.  No sign of a struggle, nothing out of place, and 
no sign of Mulder within.  The bed was neatly made and placed
squarely on the pillow was a note.

Scully raced over and began to read, not touching the paper.
Skinner was standing over her, reading over her shoulder.

Scully,

I know you're gonna be annoyed with me, but I need to know 
what's going on with my head.  I can't find out if I'm tucked 
away all wrapped in cotton being kept safe.  

Try not to worry too much.  I'll be all right.  I always am.
Keep Skinner from sending out the National Guard, and
I'll be in touch when I can.

	Yours,

		Mulder

They both stood staring at the note, neither moving.  Finally,
Scully muttered, "You are a dead man, Mulder.  This time you 
won't get off with just a shot to the shoulder.  I'll kill you myself."  
And Skinner nodded grimly.

"All right, Scully, let's get started.  We need to find him 
before anyone else does.  I need to go to Headquarters and 
get the search going again.  You come with me.  You can
start on a list of relatives, friends, and acquaintances that need
to be contacted."

The agent in charge of safe house security entered the room
just then.  "My guy just told me.   Mulder's missing."

Skinner turned to glare at him.  "Yes, he is.  I want a
detailed explanation of how that occurred.  And I want the
names of the agents on duty last night.  I want to know
how the hell Mulder got out of here with no one seeing 
him.  And I want all of it on my desk by noon.  Is that
clear?"

The man swallowed hard, nodded, then made a quick exit.

Scully was still standing by the bed, staring at the note.
Skinner hesitantly placed a hand on her shoulder and 
said, "He'll be OK.  We'll find him."

She took a deep breath, nodded, then said, "Let me get
changed, Sir, and I'll be ready to go."

***********************************************

It hadn't exactly been easy to get out of the safe house, 
but it hadn't been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do
either.  It helped that security was designed to keep intruders
out, not necessarily to keep the occupants in.  Mulder 
congratulated himself as he slipped through the bushes into 
the next yard and worked his way down the street, keeping 
to the shadows.  

He looked at his watch.  He needed to find an ATM.  Whatever
he was able to draw out tonight would be it.  Knowing Scully,
she'd have them freeze his account first thing.  He was several
blocks away now, with no sign of pursuit.  He started looking
for a phone.  After walking several more blocks, he found one
outside a small neighborhood market, and made his call.

"Byers?  This is Mulder."  "Yeah, I was, but I'm OK now."
"Thanks, but look, I need you to come get me."  "It's a long
story.   I need you guys to find someone for me."  "Not too
far from the apartment.  A little market - The Neighborhood
Stop."  "All right.  Thanks, man.  See you soon."

Mulder replaced the phone, then scanned for a place to
wait.  An out of sight place to wait.  Finally retiring into
a narrow opening between two townhomes across from
the market, Mulder settled in to wait for his ride.  Almost
30 minutes later, a nondescript sedan pulled up to the curb, 
and Mulder jogged across the street slipping in to the back
seat.  

"What's this all about Mulder?" Langley asked from the
passenger seat.

"Yeah," Byers added as he pulled away from the curb, "this
is a little too much cloak and dagger, even for you."

"Look, I just need to find someone, and fast.  I figured you
guys could handle that for me."

Langley bristled.  "Person doesn't exist that I can't find.  Who
you want?"

"Guy named Geoffrey, with a G, Talmadge.  Doctor." 

"Where's he practice?"

"Don't know."

"Specialty?"

"Don't know."

"Med School?"

"Don't know."

"Geez, Mulder, is there anything you can tell me?"

"He probably worked for the government in the 70's.  May still
be working for them.  Probably around 50, maybe 55 now.  Beyond 
that, you're on your own."  Mulder grinned in the dark.  "Think of
 it as a chance to show your stuff Langley."

Mulder was scanning the streets as he talked.  He leaned forward, 
tapping Byers on the shoulder.  "Pull over for a minute."  Byers 
brought the car over to the curb, and Mulder hopped out, making 
for the ATM.  He inserted his card and pulled the max out that he 
could, then jogged back to the sedan."

"Mulder."  The car was turned off and Byers was turned around in 
the seat, looking at him.  "What the hell is going on?"

"Look, are you guys gonna help me or not?  'Cause if you're not,
I'm outta here. I'll figure something else out."  He glared at Byers, 
a contest of wills.  Finally, Byers sighed, turned around, started the 
car, and drove off.

Frohike was waiting when they reached the offices of the Lone Gunman.
Mulder repeated his request, including the few facts he had, and the 
three Gunmen settled in for the cyber search for Dr. Geoffrey Talmadge.  
Mulder found the couch, laid down, and went to sleep.

Just before dawn, Langley jumped up.  "Got him!" he yelled.  Mulder
was up in an instant, and he joined Byers and Frohike as they gathered
behind Langley.  "Eastern Virginia Medical School, Norfolk, Virginia, 
class of '68.  Did time in the NHS, repaying the med school tuition.  Then 
went to work for NIH.  Carried on the rolls in both places, but no record 
of *where* he actually worked.  First time he emerges with both a job
and a paycheck is early '94.  Now in private practice in Charleston,
SC."

"How'd you find out he wasn't where the payroll indicated?" Mulder
asked.

"I looked for patient charts with his name as attending," Langley said
smugly.  "Couldn't find any." 

Mulder patted him on the shoulder.  "Nice work.  Thanks, guys."
He looked over at Frohike, "Can I borrow the car, Dad?  And, uh, 
maybe your VISA?"  He gave his most charming smile.

Frohike went to his desk and fumbled in the drawer, eventually
producing a set of keys and small  plastic card.

"Am I going to regret this, Mulder?"

"Probably.  But thanks."  He headed for the door, address for 
Geoffrey Talmadge in hand.  "Do me a favor, please?  Wait
as long as you can before you tell Scully where I've gone, OK?
I don't want her getting hurt in all this.  And," he looked at the 
floor, "tell her I'm sorry."

*****************************************************

"Apparently, he got up, caught the outside guard's attention by
 tapping on the window, then got him to let him out the front door.
Walked around with him for a while with the guy, talking, then 
excused himself to come back in and never did.  In other words, 
he just walked away."  Skinner slammed his fist on the desk. 
"Even as we speak, heads are rolling."

Scully nodded grimly.  "I froze his bank accounts, but not before
he pulled five hundred out.  He's got funds for a while."  She
shook her head.  "Were you aware of the extent of his assets?"

Skinner nodded vaguely, his attention on the folder he was reviewing.
"Inheritance," he elaborated.  "The man comes from money.  Old 
money.  Martha's Vineyard.  It came up early on in his career
because of the way he dresses - too expensive for someone on his
salary.  There's a notation in his personnel folder."  Skinner
looked up at her.  "Makes you wonder about that rat hole apartment
doesn't it?"

"Well, he doesn't have money now."  Scully smiled smugly.  "I've
got agents tracking down everyone I can think of who he might 
turn to for help, but knowing Mulder, he's out there on his own."
She began to pace.  "I didn't want to pull the people off the ongoing
investigations, because I feel anything that comes up about his
disappearance, either disappearance, hell, any of these disappearances,
can only help to locate him now.  And if it doesn't help locate him, 
maybe we can locate whoever's after him, and shut them down."

"You've got whatever resources you need, Scully.  This has top
priority as far as I'm concerned.  We've got an injured agent
wandering around out there, known to be in danger, and with
impaired memory.  Anything you want, you've got."

"It's taken all morning to get the teams established and 
redistributed, but I think we've got folks moving in the right 
direction.  And, I do have one lead I want to follow up on 
in person.  I tried calling earlier, but I didn't get an answer,
which in and of itself is suspicious with these guys."  She gave 
Skinner an appraising look and said, "You may find this 
interesting.  Wanna come?"

*************************************************

Skinner stood next to Scully, enduring the video scan being
made, scowl on his face.  She was talking into a speaker 
mounted on the wall by the door.

"Frohike, he's all right."  She glanced sideways at Skinner.
"Let us in."  Scully was getting  annoyed.  "I need help with
Mulder.  Skinner's providing it.  But I want your help, too."  
She was tapping her foot in frustration as the door swing open.  
"Finally," she muttered under her breath.

Skinner looked down at the short little man who opened the
door at the same time he looked up, eyeing the taller man
warily.  Each stood assessing the other, until Frohike 
turned, extended an elbow, and said,  "Agent Scully, if
I may?"

Scully shrugged at Skinner, accepted Frohike's offer
of escort and walked with him down the dark hallway to the
interior of the building.  Skinner followed, an almost amused
look on his face.

As soon as Scully saw the Byers and Langley, she knew they
knew where Mulder was.  "All right, you three, give," she
ordered.

Three faces flushed, and three sets of eyes looked guiltily
at the floor.

"He didn't want us to call you," Langley offered.

"Beside the point," Scully said shortly.  "Where is he?"

Three sets of shoes shuffled back and forth as the men
moved nervously, each one eyeing the others."

"I don't care what he said," Scully said.  "He is in more
trouble than he let on to you, you can be sure of that.  Now
tell me where he is."

After another little silence, Frohike finally offered, "He
doesn't want you to get hurt."

Scully exhaled loudly, complete exasperation written on
her face.  "I am not going to repeat myself again."  She
walked over to Frohike, reached out and took hold of his
shirt.  Meeting him almost eye to eye,  holding him tightly,
she said slowly and deliberately, "Tell me where he is."

Frohike looked at the floor again, silent, until Byers
spoke up, saying, "South Carolina.  Charleston."  He
rattled off an address in the heart of the city.

Scully released Frohike and walked over to Byers.  "When?"

He cleared his throat, then glanced at the other two, both
of whom were eyeing him angrily.  "Early - about 5:15."
He cleared his throat again, his glance sliding sideways
to Frohike, and added, "He took the car.  Frohike's car."

Skinner pulled his cell phone, dialing as he spoke to the
shorter man.  "What's the plate?"

Frohike shot a look to kill at Byers, then recited the information
for Skinner.  Skinner passed it on to the dispatcher for
release to local law enforcement agencies.

Scully was talking to Byers again.  "John, find out the 
airline schedules for me, please?"

He obediently sat at the computer and began searching.
There was a flight at 6:15, through Charlotte, arriving
in Charleston at 9:25.  He might have been able to make 
that one."

"Not for him," Scully corrected.  "For me.  What's the
fastest way I can get there?"

His fingers flew across the keyboard, then he looked up,
saying,  "There's a flight out of Dulles at 3:05 - direct
to Charleston, arriving 5:03."  He scanned the monitor
a moment longer, then looked up again.  "That's your
best bet."

She smiled down at him.  "Book it for me, please?"

Skinner spoke up, "Book two."  He pulled his wallet 
out and handed Byers his government AMEX card.  He 
spoke to Scully.  "I can get agents out of the Columbia 
office down there to try to intercept him, but they're still
about a two hour drive."

She shook her head.  "He's going to be upset enough as it
is that I - that is, we - came after him.  Let's not make it 
any worse for him.  We'll go alone, and just hope we get to
him before anyone else does."

Byers made a series of entries, then handed the card back
to Skinner and wrote down a number.  He handed it to Scully.
"Your confirmation number."

"Thanks, John."  

As Scully and Skinner turned to leave, Langley spoke up.
"We were just trying to do what Mulder said."

Scully turned to face them, her voice softer now that she
had the information she wanted.  "I know.  He's just not,
well, it may not be the best time for him to be taking off
on his own.  He's not,"  she paused searching for the word,
"himself," she finally finished.

***********************************************

Mulder eyed the old building on Tradd Street carefully.  The 
brass name plate was bright, shiny, but didn't look brand new.
He scanned the street.  Renovated row houses, three and four
stories, full of boutiques and cafes, doctors, lawyers, and other
professionals.  Dr. Geoffrey Talmadge would certainly fit in here.

He shook himself from his reverie, and stepped to the front door,
opening and entering.  If his assumptions were correct, the man 
inside should be able to answer some very long held questions for 
him, and help him figure out what was happening with his memory.

He walked quickly to the receptionist, flashing his badge as he 
identified himself.  When she reached for the phone to call the 
doctor, he stopped her with a touch.  "Just take me to him, please."

"But he's seeing patients," she objected.

"He'll see me," Mulder maintained.  "Just show me where he is."

The young women led Mulder down a hallway, then indicated a
small, crowded office.  "You can wait in there." 

Mulder shook his head.  "I want you to take me to him.  Now,"
he said forcefully.

The woman eyed him cautiously, then lowered her voice.  "Is
Dr. Talmadge in some kind of trouble?" she breathed.

Mulder just looked at her, using her suspicions for his own
advantage.  "Just take me to the doctor, please," he repeated.

She smiled conspiratorially, and led him further down the hall.  
She knocked on a closed door, then opened it when a deep 
voice asked, "Yes?"

"This gentleman is an FBI agent, Doctor, and he insists on
speaking to you right now.  I tried to explain you were seeing
patients, but . . ."  She spread her hands in a 'what can I do?'
gesture.

Mulder smiled to himself.  Oh yeah, she wanted the scoop
on the good doctor, but not enough to risk her job.
"Doctor Talmadge?  I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you
to come with me Sir."

An older woman seated on an examination table, and a 
slighter younger nurse were both watching the proceedings
with wide eyes.  Talmadge flushed slightly, then said, "Of
course, Agent . . .?"

"Mulder."  Mulder watched with grim satisfaction when the
man visibly blanched.  He recovered quickly, however, and
said to the receptionist.  "It's all right, Mary.  Please cancel
my appointments for the rest of the day."  He turned back
to the two women in the room.  

"Mrs. Jacobs, I think you're doing fine.  Nothing to worry 
about.  Just give the medication a bit longer to take affect."
He shifted his attention to the nurse.  "Sharon, please see
Mrs. Jacobs out and make sure she has everything she needs."
Back to the woman.  "Call me if you need anything between
now and your appointment next week.  And now, if you'll
excuse me?"  

He slipped out the door and beckoned Mulder to follow him
to his office.  Once inside, he closed the door, then indicated
Mulder should take a seat on the couch.  Cautiously, Mulder 
did so.  "You don't seem totally surprised to see me," he said.

"No, not really," Talmadge seated himself in a chair across from
Mulder.  "I heard they had taken you again, and it hadn't been
completely successful. Amateurs," he said disdainfully.  He looked
at Mulder and lowered his voice.  "And how are you, little Fox?"

Mulder shivered, suddenly feeling dizzy.  "Mulder," he murmured.
"Everyone calls me Mulder."

"I know, Agent Mulder," Talmadge said soothingly.  "Tell me, do
you know anything about computers?"

Mulder nodded.  "Some," he said hesitantly.  "But I have questions
for you, Dr. Talmadge.  I came to ask you questions."  Mulder's 
voice was quiet, tentative, questioning.

"It's all right, little Fox."  Talmadge was speaking softly, almost in
a monotone.  "You'll get to ask your questions.  But first, can you tell
me what a programmer does when he wants to be able to access
his application quickly and easily?"

Mulder was growing sleepy.  He shook himself, then said, "He leaves
a way in, a password or hot key that will take him right in - a back door."

"Very good, little Fox."  Talmadge droned.  "A back door.  Exactly.
You are doing very well, little Fox."

Mulder eyelids were drooping, and he struggled to remain erect.  "A
back door," he repeated.  He shook himself again, and asked, "What
does that have to do with me?"

"Ah, little Fox, you are quite inquisitive.  And persistent."  Talmadge 
looked closely at Mulder, watching him fight to stay awake, to
stay upright.  "The human mind is very similar to a computer.  And
someone who works with human minds, like myself *little Fox,* 
can also leave a back door, as a way to get 'back in' to the subject."

Mulder began to list to the side.  "A back door?  To a person?"
He struggled to think it through, fighting the fogginess that was
clouding his mind.  This wasn't the way things were supposed 
to go at all.

"Yes, little Fox," Talmadge crooned, "a back door."  He
paused, then asked, "Wouldn't you like to rest now, and you 
can ask me your questions in a little while."

Mulder nodded.  "Just a short rest," he said as he slid sideways
on the couch, stretching out and closing his eyes.

"You rest, little Fox, close your eyes, and rest."

Mulder obediently closed his eyes, and Talmadge waited patiently
as Mulder's breathing slowly evened out and it became apparent
he was falling asleep.  Once Talmadge was sure Mulder was
sleeping soundly, he rose and walked to his desk.  Taking a key
from his wallet, he unlocked the lower desk drawer and pulled
out a chart, a chart the looked suspiciously like the one Mulder
had recovered at the hospital.  He opened it and began to
write.

End of part 03 of 05

Memory:  Reclamation of the Soul  04/05


"I've got a bag in the trunk, Sir.  I carry one with me at all
times.  Five years with Mulder has certainly taught me to be
prepared, if nothing else."  She looked up briefly from the road,
then said, "How 'bout you?"

He shook his head ruefully.  " 'Fraid not.  I do have an extra suit
back at the office, but that's about it."  He looked at his watch.
"I think we've got time to run by my apartment and let me
grab something real quick."

She agreed and they headed to Crystal City.  Skinner pulled his
phone and began making calls.  As he waited for the first call
to go through, he commented, "I need to let someone know I'm
going to be out of town.  You too.  I also want to touch base with
the teams, keep them going.  I don't want anything to slip through
the cracks just because we think we've got a lead on where our
boy might have gone."

Scully nodded grimly.  "With Mulder, nothing's ever a sure bet."

Skinner made several more phone calls, checking in with his
assistant, Kimberly, and the leaders of the various teams working
to track down information on Mulder's first disappearance, the
incident at the hospital, and his 'escape' from the safe house.

By the time he had finished, they had pulled up outside his building
in Crystal City.  He looked at Scully and said, "Give me a few
minutes, please."

She nodded and he hopped out of the car and raced into the building.
Ten minutes later, he was back and they were on their way to the 
airport. 

The flight itself was uneventful, departing on time and arriving on 
time.  Scully fidgeted nervously during the whole flight, her normal
discomfort over flying eclipsed by her concern and fears over Mulder's
whereabouts and his safety.

They deplaned, each with their carryon luggage, and were met by
an agent from the Columbia office.   The man had lived in Charleston
for some time and knew his way around the city.   He provided a 
car and was there to act as driver and guide. 

Scully handed him a slip of paper with the address written on it
and they climbed into the car.  "Tradd Street," the agent said.   
He looked at his watch.  "That's right in downtown."

Arriving at 5:00 in the evening on a weekday did have its 
drawbacks, and they were caught in the busy downtown traffic. 
But eventually, slowly, they crept their way  into the downtown
city streets and were able to secure parking somewhere close
to the address they were seeking.

The Columbia agent was dispatched to the back of the building,
while Skinner and Scully took the more direct frontal approach.
Moving toward the building, they were both surprised to see
that it appeared vacant, derelict, unoccupied.  A glance up
showed a darker, cleaner patch of paint, indicating that a sign 
of some sort, perhaps a nameplate, had fairly recently been fastened 
to the lintel, but it was missing now.

A knock on the front door yielded no results, and Skinner was 
surprised when the door opened easily at his touch.  Stepping
inside, he felt for a light switch, and was again surprised when
light flooded the small reception area.  The room itself was 
empty, no sign of recent occupancy. 

Scully walked in and moved about, quickly surveying the
small room, then going to the reception desk.  Skinner
followed her and they walked into the rear of the office.
They opened each and every door they passed as they 
moved further into the building.  The rooms were bare, 
cabinets empty, closets barren.  

And while the overall intent may have been to give the
appearance of long term vacancy, a place that hadn't been
occupied for a prolonged period of time, the lack of
dust, the general overall cleanliness, indicated that that
was a false assumption.

As they looked closer, it appeared that most likely there had
been a very hasty departure, and in reality, the place had
been occupied most recently, perhaps that very afternoon.

They continued on through the back door, meeting up with 
the local agent, sharing their observations with him, determining
that he too had found only vacant space.  They walked slowly
but determinedly back to the car, ready to begin again, 
certain the Mulder was somewhere in the city of Charleston.

*************************************************

Mulder slowly came back to himself, not really wakening,
because he hadn't really been asleep, and not really coming
back to consciousness, because he hadn't really been 
unconscious.  He'd been somewhere in that foggy place,
removed from himself, outside his own mind, and his own
experiences.  That place he'd come to know intimately as
a child.  The place of safety, the place of security, the place
where he could somehow remove the essential Fox Mulder,
the person that he was, the inner being, from whatever was
happening to him, the shell, the body, the outer self.

He experienced a familiar feeling of disorientation, 
something that he hadn't experienced since he was a
child.  He blinked several times, swallowed hard, took
a deep breath, and slowly lifted his head and took in his
surroundings.

He was in a small bedroom, hands bound together before 
him, connected to the foot board of the bed by a tether of
medium length.  He himself was actually seated in an
overstuffed arm chair at the end of the bed.  There was
enough play in the line to allow him to rise and move 
around, and so he did.

He moved toward the small window and was able to look
out, but he couldn't get close enough to touch it.  Through 
the window he took in a fairly standard residential scene.
Across the narrow street, he could see a row of small, well-kept
Cape Cod style homes, each one differing from the other only
in the choice of color or siding or perhaps a small addition.

The yard were well maintained, indicating that this was a
neighborhood of home owners.  Not necessarily well-to-do,
but folks who obviously displayed pride in ownership.  Children
played on the sidewalks and the occasional car went by.

He thought briefly of trying to yell and attract someone's attention,
but a closer inspection revealed that the window was at least 
double paned, and possibly triple paned, which made him
think that perhaps any attempt to attract attention would not
only go unnoticed from the outside, but would perhaps bring
unwanted attention from the other occupants of the house.

He walked back to the chair and sat, his mind turning to the
mechanics of how he had actually gotten here.  He closed
his eyes, forcing himself to think back.  The last thing he
remembered clearly was boarding the plane at Dulles, address
in hand to find the elusive Dr. Geoffrey Talmadge.  

He thought he remembered changing planes in Charlotte,
arriving in Charleston, driving to the doctor's place of
business.  But after that, it was a blank.

He rose, nervous energy forcing him to pace.  This was all
so frustrating.  Every time he felt that he was getting
somewhere, that things were beginning to make sense, that
he was *remembering,* it was like it was snatched away from him.
He felt like the answers he had sought for so long were being 
held out in front of him, tantalizingly close.  Yet every time
he dared to reach for them, they were yanked away and he fell
on his face.

He tugged hard on the line tethering him to the bed and the
bed shook but did not move.  That caught his attention and
he knelt down briefly, only to find that the bed was secured
to the floor.  He felt his frustration mounting, and he was
rapidly being overtaken by a wave of rage.  He pulled as hard
as he could and walked as close to window as he could, 
but he still could not touch.

He pulled again and walked in the other direction, but he
could still not reach the wall there either.  He walked back to
the bed.   With his hands tied together, he could not grasp
the posts of the four poster bed, so he turned, placing his
bound hands under the chair, lifted it, and threw it halfway 
across the room.  He gave a strangled yell, then collapsed in
a puddle on the floor at the foot of the bed.

As he had half expected, his display of temper brought 
attention.  The door opened and a head appeared.  A voice
said, "Oh, you're back with us.  I'll tell the doctor."  The
head withdrew and the door closed.

Mulder sat disconsolately in a heap on the floor at the foot of
the bed.  Soon the door opened again, and Dr. Talmadge
entered.  Staying far enough from Mulder that he couldn't 
reach him, the doctor asked, "And so, little Fox, are you 
feeling better now?"

Mulder looked up.  There was something about the way the
man talked at him that made his mind go fuzzy.  It made 
him detach from reality.  It made him feel that he wasn't
totally here in the present.  He looked up, meeting the
doctor's gaze and said, "Don't call me that.  Everyone calls
me Mulder."

"Everyone but me, little Fox.  I've known you for a very long
time now.  And when I first met you, I made you my little Fox,
and you'll always be my little Fox."

Mulder's breathing began to slow and he felt the heaviness on 
his eyelids again.  It was as if he were drifting away and he was
powerless to prevent it.  In some far corner of his mind, he
felt his awareness calling out, begging, pleading, entreating him, 
'Remember this!  What is happening is important.  *Remember*
this!'  but he was powerless before the doctor's soothing voice.

"That's right, little Fox.  Don't fight it so."  The doctor chuckled.
"You were always such a fighter, little Fox.  That's why you've 
been such an interesting subject."

Mulder's eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even.  The doctor
observed him for a few minutes longer, then he walked over to the
chair, picked it up, and set it back on its feet.  Then he walked over
to Mulder and gently tapped him on the shoulder.

Mulder slowly opened his eyes, unfocused, staring straight ahead, 
but seeing nothing.  

"Come on now little Fox, stand up."

Mulder climbed slowly to his feet, then stood awaiting further 
instructions.  Again, the doctor touched him gently, "Come, little
Fox, have a seat."

Mulder took two steps forward and sat in the chair.   His eyelids
slowly sank and his head began to droop.

Doctor Talmadge sat on the bed, directing his attention at the man
in the chair.  "Now, little Fox, we have some work to do."

*****************************************************

Skinner and Scully were at the Charleston Police Department, 
meeting with the local agent who had been appointed to act as
their liaison.  They were busy making plans to have the local
police track down the owners and occupants of the businesses
surrounding the Tradd Street address Scully had been given.
Despite the fact that businesses were closed by now, and it was
growing later by the minute, information was available through
city data bases and they had already compiled quite a list.

Agents had been sent down from the Columbia office and working
together with the local police, interviews had already begun.  As
Skinner continued to coordinate the search, Scully settled at a 
computer and began her own search on Dr. Geoffrey Talmadge.
Given the information that she had, she was baffled when nothing
came up.  She ran the search again, and again, the answer was
nothing.  Picking up the phone, she dialed a number, then
said, "Langley, it's Scully.  Turn off the tape."

She waited to give him time to pretend that he had, then she
said, "Run a search on Geoffrey Talmadge again.  Call me on 
my cell when you get a result."  She hung up without saying
good-bye.

She pushed back from the computer table, rose, and walked
over to a small window, standing stiffly, staring outward.
Skinner took in her rigid stance, the tense set to her shoulders,
the slight trembling of her hands.  He turned to the liaison
and said, "I need some air.  Come with me."  And the 
two men left the room.

As Skinner leaned in to pull the door shut, he looked at 
Scully again, just as her head dropped, her hands rose to 
her face, and her shoulders began to shake.  He quietly
pulled the door closed, then slowly followed the other
man down the hall thinking, 'Mulder, you just don't know
what a lucky bastard you are.'

***********************************************

"And what happened to Samantha, little Fox?"  Dr. Talmadge
asked.

"She went to the testing place," Mulder responded.

"How do you know this, little Fox?"

"I was with her."

"How did you get to the testing place?"

"I - I'm not sure.  It was - there was a light - and - someone
or something - that  I, I didn't know.  I, I couldn't see.
Samantha - Samantha fl - floated in the light.  I, I  . . ."
Mulder was growing agitated, his body tense, his muscles
twitching.

"Shh, it's all right little Fox.  It's all right," Talmadge soothed
and Mulder visibly calmed.

"Now.  What happened at the testing place?"

"There were tests.  There were - they did things to us."

"Do you remember what they did?"

"It hurt.  It hurt Sammy really bad.  She wouldn't talk to me."

"All right little Fox.  And what did you do?"

"I fought.  Every time they came to get us, I fought.   Finally
they stopped taking Samantha, but then it hurt even more - the 
things they did to me."

"You were a fighter little Fox.  You always were.  And then what
happened?"

"Samantha, Samantha stopped talking.  She stopped moving.  She
just stopped being there - even though she was, right there, beside
me."

"And what happened?"

"Samantha - she wouldn't fight.  She gave up.  Maybe the things
they did to her were worse than the things they did to me."  Mulder's
voice was sad.

"No little Fox.  The things that were done to you were also done to
Samantha, no more, no less."

"But then, she was little, she was younger than me.  It was my job
to take care of her. To protect her.  I didn't do my job."

"No little Fox.  You did your job just fine.  Samantha wasn't as 
strong as you.  It wasn't her fault; it's just the way that she was.
And the things that were done to her, affected her, differently, than
they affected you."  Talmadge paused, then went on, "Do you 
understand little Fox?  It wasn't your fault."

Mulder sobbed.  "It feels like it was my fault."

"I know little Fox," the doctor soothed.  "But it wasn't."  The 
doctor straightened and his formerly soft voice turned firm.  "Now,
the things you will remember, little Fox.  You will remember 
being taken, with your sister."

"Taken," Mulder echoed.

"And you will remember the light, little Fox."

"The light."

"And you will remember that there were painful procedures,
but you won't remember exactly what happened."

"Painful."

"You will remember that Samantha was sick from the testing."

"Sick."

"And so when you went home, she couldn't come."

Mulder's eyes filled with tears and the doctor hurried to say, "It's
all right, little Fox.  She couldn't come, but it wasn't your
fault."

The doctor looked critically at Mulder.  "Do you have questions
for me, little Fox?" he asked.

Mulder was lost in a fog.  "Skinner said it wasn't my fault,"
he said hesitantly.

"That's right little Fox, it wasn't your fault."

"I - have - these nightmares - about Scully," Mulder said.

"No little Fox, you don't remember anything about the time
your partner was missing.  You weren't involved, you did
everything you could to find her, and anything else is just your
own mind thinking up new ways to haunt you."  The doctor
gazed sadly at Mulder.

Mulder sat quietly for a minute, then said, "I remember - my
father beating me."  He paused and cocked his head, then said,
"Why didn't I ever remember that before?"

The doctor looked down at the floor.  He took a deep breath
and said, "I had repressed it.  It wasn't felt that you needed to
know that.  But yes, there were many times when your father
beat you."

Mulder's breathing hitched and he swallowed a sob, as he fought
to maintain his composure.  

"Easy, little Fox, easy," the doctor soothed, and Mulder felt the 
feeling of detachment creep back over him.  

"I remember - other beatings," Mulder said slowly.  

"Yes, little Fox," the doctor agreed.  "You're a psychologist.
You of all people can understand what an abused child does
to protect himself.  You're feeling a little bit of it now.  The 
detachment, the separation.  What did you do when your father
used to come for you, when you knew it was gonna be bad?"

Mulder shuddered, and said, "I went to a safe place."

"A real safe place?  Or a safe place in your mind?"

"A safe place in my mind," Mulder answered.

"When working with you, little Fox, I found you were
more - compliant - if I could catch you when you were
detached, in your safe place.  And so there were times when
you were beaten."

Mulder sat quietly, his thoughts clouded, his mind foggy, 
aware on some level that he was already semi-detached.  Some
small spark of consciousness made him realize that there
was something in the way the doctor talked to him that 
yielded control to the older man.  He lifted his head, and
pried his eyes open, finally gazing at the doctor seated on the
the bed.

"What happened to me?  Why me?  Why my sister?"

"Your father's job with the State Department was just a front
for what he really did," Talmadge said.  "You were bright,
very bright.  It was thought you would be a good subject
for the tests we were conducting."  Talmadge sighed.  "It's
involved little Fox."

There was a long silence, then Talmadge spoke again,  "When
you leave here you'll remember enough of your beliefs about
extra-terrestrials, your commitment to finding answers, your
passion for solving the mysteries that surround us.  Mysteries
of life from other worlds, mysteries of life right here on earth.
The governments that rule us, the men that control us.  It will
all be there, waiting for you, giving you purpose, keeping 
meaning in your life.  You won't remember me, my little Fox.

"But for now, you were taken when you were twelve, you were 
taken again when you were twenty, sort of a follow-up to the
initial experiment.  That was the extent of my work with you
little Fox."

"What about Ellens?" Mulder asked quietly.

"I wasn't involved in that, and quite frankly, I think it was a
debacle.  But an even bigger debacle was whatever was done
this last time you disappeared.  I don't know why they felt
it was necessary to take you again, and I don't know what
they were trying to accomplish.  But all they did was damage 
all the careful work I had done.   And now, here I am, and here
you are, and we have to clean up the damage."

Mulder blinked.   "What does that mean?"

"That means, little Fox, that you need to detach so that the
right things will stay where I put them."

Mulder's eyes grew wider.  "Detach?" he asked fearfully.

"Yes, little Fox.  It's time to go to your safe place."

End of part 04 of 05

Memory:  Reclamation of the Soul  05/05

It was nearly midnight before they got a break.  The realtor
who handled the building on Tradd Street was out of town
and her records weren't up to date.  They were having 
difficulty locating her to get current information.  One of the
agents interviewing an occupant of a building on the next 
street, discovered purely by accident, that not only did this
person rent from the same realtor, but she knew how to 
find the woman.

A quick phone and they determined that the building had
been rented to a Dr. Geoffrey Talmadge, as expected, 
approximately five weeks earlier.  A date that corresponded
closely with the time Mulder had first turned up missing.

Upon asking the realtor if she had anything else she could
tell them, she told them Dr. Talmadge had rented a home in
the neighboring town of Summerville, about a thirty minute
drive from the city.  Scully got the address, thanked the woman
and hung up.

Turning to Skinner, she said, "I think I know where he might
be."

The drive to the bedroom community of Summerville went
quickly.  As they rode, Scully was hardly able to control her
excitement, her concern, and her fears.  It was with relief that
she opened her phone to answer when it rang.

"Scully."

"Hey, Dana, it's me, Langley.  Man, this is so weird!"

"You couldn't find him, could you?"

"The dude has vanished!  Not a trace anywhere.  He doesn't
exist.  Weird.   Oh, uh, sorry we can't help."

"No, it's all right Langley.  I'm not surprised.  Look, I gotta
go now."

"You find Mulder?"

"Not yet, but soon."

" 'kay.  Luck."

"Thanks."  She closed the phone and leaned against the window.
"Talmadge has completely vanished from all computer records.
He no longer exists."

"Why am I not surprised?" Skinner commented.

With the assistance of the local law enforcement officials they were
 able to go directly to the house.  The lights were out, the 
neighborhood quiet as expected for 2:00 am in the morning.

Scully and Skinner moved to the door, followed by agents
carrying a ram.  Knocking rapidly, Skinner hollered,
"FBI - open up."  The local agents swung the ram, the
door buckled, and they entered.  Turning on lights,  the
agents fanned out throughout the house.  

It wasn't long before a gasp was heard and a voice called
out, "Got him."

Scully raced down the hall, pushing through the group of
taller, broader men, and entered the small back bedroom.
Mulder lay across the bed, trousers around his knees, his
fingers clutching the side of the mattress as he cried quietly
into the comforted.  His bottom once again bore the 
unmistakable signs of a beating.  

"Oh, Mulder," Scully breathed, as she walked quickly to 
the bed.  "Mulder?"  He didn't move.  She reached out,
gently touching his hair, brushing it back from his face.

He dragged his eyes open, upward, slowly finding her face.
Then, in a broken voice, he said, "Hurts, Scully."

"I know Mulder," she said.  "I'm so sorry."  She turned to
the agents crowding the doorway, and ordered, "Clear this
room, now!"  As the agents sheepishly began to file out,
Skinner forced his way in.  He took a long look, then said,
"What do you need me to do?"

She shook her head sadly.  "I think we just need to take
him home."  She looked back at the man on the bed and
said, "I'm going to pull your pants up now.  It's not going
to be pleasant."

He nodded, then gritted his teeth, and waited.

She gently raised his pants up over his tortured buttocks,
then helped him to stand.  Skinner produced a knife, and as
he approached cautiously, he said,  "Mulder? Let me cut the 
ropes."

Mulder held his hands out and Skinner quickly severed his
bonds.  Mulder rubbed his wrists, each in turn, as Scully 
stood looking at him.  Finally, he looked at her and said,
"What?"

"Aren't you gonna - don't you want to zip up?"

Mulder glanced down, then shrugged.  "Hurts.  Guess I
should be used to it by now." 

She walked over to him.  "At least it wasn't your back as
well, this time."

Mulder gave a derisive snort.  "Small consolation."

Scully looked at Skinner.  "Do we have to go back now, or
can we wait till morning?  He's not going to be comfortable
traveling."

Skinner looked appraisingly at Mulder.  "He looks dead
on his feet to me anyway."

Scully looked at Mulder carefully as well, and said, "Yeah - we
better stay the night."

With Scully on one side and Skinner on the other, Mulder slowly
made his way out of the house.

Sitting was torture for Mulder, and Skinner went to the closest
motel he could find.  Quickly checking them in, he took only
one room.  When Scully raised an eyebrow at that choice, Skinner
shrugged and said, "I'll feel a lot better if I know where he is tonight."

Scully nodded in agreement.

Skinner carried the bags, and Scully helped Mulder to the room.  
Once inside, she said, "Well partner, you're gonna have to drop'em
again."

Mulder closed his eyes.  "This is beginning to be a habit with you
Scully."

She gave a small laugh and said, "Come on, drop'em."

He said, "As long as I don't have to lay on my back," as his hands 
lowered his trousers.  Leaning against the wall, he stood quietly
while Scully applied the soothing lotion to his tender backside. 
'This ranks right up there with my last exam,' Mulder thought.

"You're probably gonna want to sleep on your stomach, and I 
seriously doubt you're gonna want to wear your undershorts."  
Scully's soft hands were gently rubbing the lotion in, her touch
feather light against his raw skin.

'Great,' he thought as he glanced down at himself.  'And just
how do I get to the bed without her seeing that?'  She finished,
and withdrew her hands.  "All right, Scully, just allow me a 
modicum of modesty and turn your back while I get to the bed,
OK?"

Scully did as requested, and Mulder made his way quickly to
one of the beds, shrugging as he noticed Skinner's amused 
smile.  He pulled back the covers, then lay on his stomach, 
adjusting himself as best he could, and pulling only the sheet
up over himself.  He said, "Don't you have anything you can
give me for pain, Scully?  Not that your - massage - wasn't
great," he teased.

She ignored his innuendo and said, "Thought you'd never 
ask."  She went to her bag and pulled out a syringe.  "This
is a muscle relaxant, with a fairly heavy pain killer."  

Mulder opened one eye, took in the needle, and said, "No way!
That needle is not touching me back there!"

Scully laughed and said, "No Mulder, it can go in your arm."

"Oh.  OK."

She gave him the injection, then stroked his hair softly, saying
"Try to get some sleep.  I won't say it looks worse than it feels,
'cause I don't know how it feels.  But it should be better by
tomorrow."

Mulder was already beginning to feel the effects of the medication.
He nodded sleepily.  "Hey, Scully," he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"It, uh, it sure feels good to know you're here to save my butt."  He
closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

********************************************************

Another two months went by before Mulder was finally able
to go home.  He'd spent several more weeks in the safe house,
with strict instructions that he was not to leave, which he actually
followed this time.  When no further attempts were made against
him, and he was released, he obediently followed Scully home 
and stayed at her place for two more weeks, until finally,
once again, that old feeling of not being able to breathe crept 
over him.

It had taken another week to convince Scully and Skinner to let
him go home, but he had, and he had been home a few weeks
now and things were settling back into a routine.  He and 
Scully had gone out of town a couple times on cases, and
nothing untoward had happened. 

All in all, he seemed to be at no greater risk now than he'd
ever been.  And once again, as much as he needed his time 
alone, Scully had spoiled him, and he found himself missing
her.  Missing going *home* to her apartment.  Having 
someone there to talk to.  Taking turns with the cooking.
All the domestic things that he'd never really pictured
himself doing, he'd not only done at Scully's, but had
enjoyed.

He found himself looking forward to tonight, when he'd been
invited to come to her place for dinner.  It wasn't a *date,* of
course, because they didn't *date.*  They were just partners,
weren't they?  'Yeah,' he told himself. 'Just partners,' as he
once again relived that delicate examination.  "Hmmm,"
he mused out loud, "almost worth getting kicked again."

He finished dressing, then gave himself a once over.  Jeans
and a polo, casual but not grungy.  He passed.  He grabbed
the bottle of wine he'd bought and headed out for the drive
over to Scully's.

Once there, he parked and sat looking up at her apartment.
'We're only partners,' he said to himself, 'only partners.'
He got out, walked in, and knocked on the door.  When she
opened it, he held up the wine bottle and said, "Hope this 
doesn't bring back too many bad memories."

She laughed at him, then waved him in, taking the bottle 
from him.  Mulder hung back a bit as she led the way to
the kitchen.  He took in her trim figure, the tight blue jeans,
the soft, but clingy silk shirt.  He hair was pulled up in a loose
bun, but tendrils escaped it, curling at the nape of her neck,
and around her face.

She paused in the doorway and said, "You coming, or not?"

That was his Scully, ever the practical one.  He gave a quick
grin and followed her into the kitchen.

"Mmm, smells wonderful," he said.

"Yeah, my mom's lasagna recipe.  Hope I did it justice."

Dinner was nice.  Conversation stayed in the relatively mundane.
They didn't talk about work related issues, no monsters, no
mayhem, no madness.  Yet both enjoyed the companionship,
the opportunity to be together.

They worked together to clean the kitchen, falling easily into a 
pattern they had established during the weeks he had stayed there.
'It comes back so easily,' Mulder found himself thinking.  'I could
really, really get used to this.'

When they were done, Scully handed Mulder his wine glass, then 
picked up her own and the bottle and led the way back to the living
room.  She took a seat on the couch, placing the bottle on the coffee
table.  She took a sip form her glass.

Mulder seated himself on the opposite end, long legs stretched out
before him, slouched back, at peace, comfortable, feeling like he
belonged.  

"So, Mulder," Scully began.  "We never really talked about what
happened down in Charleston.  I mean, you had to write it up,
the factual part, but what really happened?  I get the feeling that
not everything made it into the report."

Mulder leaned further into the couch and closed his eyes.  He took
another sip of wine and let himself enjoy the good feelings that
surrounded him right then.  Did he really want to go into this?
Well, it was Scully who was asking.

He opened his eyes and sat up a little bit, turning to look at her.
He placed the wine glass on the coffee table, then reached out
leaving his hand to lie on the couch halfway between them.

She met his eyes, and her own widened slightly.  She looked
at the hand, waiting so patiently, then slowly, tentatively, she
reached out and took it.  With Scully's hand firmly clasped in 
his own, he began.

"I remember - I remembered a lot of things, Scully.  There's no 
doubt my dad was an abusive SOB, and somehow, I buried it
or repressed or whatever.  But I remember it all now.  Somehow
that's not nearly as important as remembering Samantha.  I don't
know if there were extra-terrestrials involved or not.  I remember
the light. I remember her floating.  I remember being in the 
light.  And there was - something - there that didn't seem human."

He paused and closed his eyes briefly, and Scully slid closer to 
him on the couch.   He looked up, smiling gratefully at her, released 
her hand and put his arm around her shoulder, tucking her into the
hollow of his side.  "I'm not sure what it was, Scully.  There were
enough people there that were human, and the things they did
made any non-humans just fade into the background, if indeed
they were ever there to begin with."

His hand idly stroked her shoulder, occasionally darting up to play
with the wisps of hair that framed her face.  "I don't know what
happened, Scully.  Somehow, whatever was done to me when 
I was twelve, whatever was reinforced in me when I was twenty,
it was like they stole my soul.  I was only partly me"

He paused and she reached out to lay her hand on his chest,
to stroke gently, soothingly.  He took a deep breath and went on.
"I don't know what happened at Ellens.  I don't think - I don't
think that was planned.  I think the first two were planned as
part of an experiment, to see what they could do to me.  I don't
know why they picked me and Sam.  I don't know why I came
out OK and  she didn't, but I think that whatever was done to me
at twelve, whatever was done again in England, I don't think
what happened at Ellens was part of it.

"Maybe I saw something, or learned something that was too 
threatening for them to let me keep it.  Whatever it was, whatever
was done to me that time, it wasn't done with the same level of
professionalism, the same finesse, as the earlier ones."  He sighed
then reached around her to pull her into a hug.  "This is so hard,
Scully," he said, his mouth buried in her hair.

"Shh, Mulder, I know.  You don't have to do this if you don't 
want to."  She hugged him back.

"Nah, Scully, it's all right.  I do."  He released her.  "I haven't
got a clue what happened three months ago.  What triggered
that, I, I don't know.  But something happened in Charleston,
whatever, whatever was started by that, this Geoffrey Talmadge, I
must have found him, because I just don't *feel* the way I did about
things three months ago."

He stopped and looked down, gazing seriously into her blue
eyes.  "Scully, I can't explain it.  I, it's not, I mean, I'm still
me.  It's not that I don't believe, because I do.  It's not that I
won't keep looking, because I will.  And it's not that I won't
be fighting, because I am.  But Scully, they took something
from me when I was twelve years old, and all my life I thought
it was my sister. But it was me - my soul.  And somehow, some 
way, whatever happened to me in Charleston, I reclaimed my 
soul.  I took back my own."

He rose, lifted the wine glass and drained the contents.   He 
walked to the window on the far side of the room and stood
for a minute looking out into the peaceful night, then turned
and said, "They took away my ability to do anything but hunt 
for Samantha, and I won't ever stop searching for her, but I can
do more now.  And I want to do more.  Scully?"

She'd been watching him carefully and she rose now, walking
across the room to join him.  He reached out both hands and
she carefully took them in her own.  He pulled her closer,
and she tilted her head up to look him in the eye.

"Scully," he said again, "I want a life.  A life with you."

She smiled, then freed her hands and reached around to pull
him into an embrace.  His hands circled behind her, and they
stood locked together for a moment, staring into each others
eyes.  Slowly, carefully, Mulder leaned down and with just
the barest touch, brushed his lips across hers.  

He pulled back, looking into her eyes once more.  She smiled
and stood on tiptoe to reach up, capturing his lips with her
own, this time holding him for long seconds as the world
faded away.  When they parted for air, Scully said, "I'd like
that, Mulder. I'd like that."

End 



Daydreamer