Profiles in Caring III(2/2)Profiles in Caring III(2/2)

Chapter 19 
"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every
experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.
You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this
horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'
You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
Eleanor Roosevelt: 
Scully roused slowly. Her head was pounding, an unending
pain behind her eyes, in her temples, and by the point of
impact on the back of her skull. She opened her eyes slowly,
then winced. She was laying on a small bed in a darkened
room, boards nailed across the window. It was still dark
outside as well. 
Her shirt was open and she could feel the room's cool air
across her chest. A hand lay against her left breast, pressing
down against her wound. 
"Mulder." It came out as a raspy whisper. She swallowed
and tried again. "Mulder?" 
"Here Scully, shhh, I'm here." He was sitting on the only
other piece of furniture in the room, a battered wooden chair. 
"Didn't work, huh?" Her voice was still not working right.
"Sorry." 
"Shhh, 's ok. You almost had him." He moved and sat
next to her on the bed, then kissed her gently on the forehead.
"How you feeling?" He shifted his hand, and looked at
her breast, then replaced the makeshift bandage. 
"Mmmm, not too good, Mulder. Hurts." 
"Where, Scully? Where does it hurt?" 
"Head - really bad. Dizzy. Nauseated. Arm. Breast."
She paused and struggled to look down at herself.
"Bleeding again? Leg, Mulder?" Her eyes drifted shut. 
"Scully, listen to me." Mulder touched her gently on the
arm, and she struggled to lift her lids and look at him.
"I know you don't feel good, but I need your help here.
Can you help me for a minute, please?" 
"Mmmm, try," she slurred out. 
"He knocked you out again, Scully. You've been unconscious
for a long time. You need to stay awake. What else do I do?" 
"Just, umm, stay 'wake." 
"Ok, stay awake. Got it. And Scully, he shot you in the leg." 
Her eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up. He caught
her in his arms and forced her to lie back. The sudden
movement had increased her nausea, and she suddenly began
to heave. Mulder held her and helped her lean over the side of
the bed as she suffered through a number of dry heaves. As her
shuddering subsided, he gently laid her back in the bed. He
carefully wiped her mouth. She closed her eyes in pain, wincing. 
"Scully, shhh, no more. Don't do this to yourself. Be still.
It was a clean shot, through the calf. I wrapped it, the bleeding
has stopped. What else should I do?" 
"Water?" 
"No, none to drink, none to wash with." 
"Need to wash wound." 
"I cleaned it as best I could with the sheet, then bound it in
strips of the sheet." 
"Bullet?" 
"Went through. Entry and exit wound." 
"Mmmm. 'k." Scully's eyes were closed and she began
to drift off. 
"Scully, Scully," Mulder called, wanting to shake her but not
daring to. "Don't go to sleep, Scully, please." 
"Hmm, not," she replied drowsily. "Hurts." 
"I know, Scully, I'm so sorry. But, please, be strong.
Stay awake. Stay with me. Don't leave me alone." 
"Not. Going. Anywhere." She reached out blindly,
groping for his hand. Even in her pain dazed state, she
knew Mulder would need the contact. "What else?" 
"The nail wound, it's pulled open. It won't stop
bleeding." 
"Lot?" 
"More a steady trickle. I keep blotting it, waiting for
it to clot." 
"Bind it. Tight." 
"Scully, that'll hurt. I don't want to hurt you." 
She gritted her teeth as another wave of pain and nausea
assaulted her. "Mulder, do it." She paused, breathing
raggedly. He held her hand and she could feel the tears as
they fell from his eyes onto her skin. 
He kissed her hand, then quickly pulled her unbuttoned
shirt apart. Tearing more strips from the sheet, he pulled
up into a sitting position, her head leaning against his
shoulder. He placed a pad of the linens against her wound,
then struggled to wrap the sheet strips tightly over her
breast. He finished as quickly as he could, then laid
her back gently on the bed. 
She lay with eyes closed, a grimace on her face, for
several long minutes. Then she opened her eyes slightly,
and looked at Mulder. 
Even through the pain and the blurred vision, she could
see he did not look good. Still shirtless, he was cold and
dirty. The wound over his eyes had begun to seep at some
point and there were tracks of blood running down his
cheek, and in his hair. He had been crying, too; she could
see the clean streaks through the grime on his face. 
The bandage on his right arm had come completely off.
The wound itself was puckered, torn in several places,
and bled slightly. When he wasn't using the arm by
necessity, he cradled it carefully against his body. 
"Mulder," she said softly. "Come. Lay with me." 
"I can't, Scully, I'll hurt you." 
"Yes. Cold. Need to." 
He looked at her, but she had already closed her eyes
again, content that he would obey. He shifted her
over slightly, wincing himself as he saw her tense.
He crawled carefully onto the bed, next to her, but
not touching her. 
"Cold." She coughed weakly. "Get under." 
He slipped under the covers stiffly, his injured
right arm held tightly to his body. She forced
herself to roll toward him, trying desperately to
suppress the wave of pain and nausea that threatened
to overwhelm her. 
He gingerly took her in his arms, pillowing
her head against the hollow of his shoulder.
He pulled her tight against him, selfishly
absorbing the heat of her small body as
he struggled to warm himself for the first
time since this whole ordeal began. 
She shivered once, and he pulled away. 
"No. Mulder," she whispered. "You need. Warm.
Stay." She tried to snuggle closer to him, every
movement a symphony of pain. Her head felt as if
it were going to explode. Her breast throbbed under
the tight wrapping. Her leg sent shooting pains up
her thigh and into her abdomen. 
"Scully." 
She heard him, as if from a distance. 
"Scully, come on, you gotta stay awake for a while." 
He was crying again. Somewhere above the pain,
her mind wondered why she always seemed to make
him cry. 
"Tired." She moaned. "Hurts." 
"Scully, we're gonna get out of here." He tightened
his grasp on her, holding her against him, feeling
her with every fiber of his being, willing her to be
all right. "Scully, we're gonna be ok." 
He felt the panic rising in his chest. He could feel
her slipping away, and was powerless to stop
it. 
"Scully," he pleaded. "Don't leave me." 
He felt her tense in his arms, her whole body
going taut. She opened her eyes and looked into
his, her right hand coming up to slowly brush
against his cheek. She pursed her lips, and
he leaned into her and kissed her softly. She
tensed even more as another wave of pain
crashed across her body. 
"Mul. Der," She gasped. "Gonna. Pass. Out." 
And she did. 
*********************************************** 
Skinner showered quickly, the warm water relaxing him
as the sweat was washed away. He was tired, so tired, but
he knew there was no hope of sleep for him in the near
future. As he finished soaping himself, he stepped fully
under the flowing water, then turned the faucet to cold.
As the heat disappeared, he felt himself abruptly growing
more alert. He stood under the cold flow for long minutes,
forcing himself to accept the punishing temperature,
penance for his failure to find his friends yet. 
He finally turned the water off and stepped out, shivering.
He dried himself, then dressed in the clean clothes he had
brought from his office, skivvies first, then t-shirt, socks,
shirt, and trousers. He threaded his belt through the
loops on his pants, then tucked his shirt in, zipping,
buttoning, and finally, buckling. He slid his feet into
his shoes, then folded up the collar of his shirt, sliding
the tie around his neck. 
As he stood before the mirror, he had a sudden sense of
de ja vue; after Emerson had escaped, Mulder had gotten
his break as he stood before a bathroom mirror. Skinner
stared into the fogged glass, willing an explanation to
the cryptic letters - SL. When nothing new came to mind,
he sighed, then tied his tie, picked up his bag, and headed
back up the stairs. 
He stashed his gym bag back in his office, glancing at the
clock. 'Going on noon? How long was I down there?' he
wondered to himself. He walked to the elevator for the ride
back down to the command center. As he waited for the
elevator to arrive, he pulled his cell phone and made a call.
"Larson," he barked, "I'm on my way back. I'll be there
shortly. Get everyone together. I want an update." 
Within five minutes, the team had gathered and team
leaders began to report. Nothing new from the teams
investigating Roberson's family. A bit more comprehensive
list of employers, but nothing that stood out. An
interesting list of church and religious affiliations,
none mainstream, all with UFO/alien/outer space tenets of
one sort or another. As the reports continued, Skinner
sat quietly, listening, occasionally making notes. He
watched as Larson ran the briefing. 
She had taken her blazer off and was wearing a monogrammed
silk shirt. He found himself staring at her left breast.
His thoughts drifted to Scully. It was her left breast that
had been so cruelly pierced with a nail. His mind wondered
from the meeting as he allowed himself once more, to wonder
how his agents, his friends, were faring. 
As the next team began a report on property owned or
occupied by Roberson or his family, Skinner continued
to stare at Larson. She had noticed his intent gaze at
her chest, and had flushed slightly. She met his gaze,
glaring at him pointedly. He returned his gaze to her
breast. There was something there. 
As the real estate team leader began to recite his
list of properties, Skinner suddenly stood up. He
walked to the front of the room and reached out to
Larson. There were audible gasps from across the
room and she froze as his large hand traced the
monogram on her shirt. 
"What's your name, Larson?" 
She colored again, and looked at him. "Sara, Sir."
she replied tightly as she removed his hand from her
shirt. 
"SL," Skinner said. "Mulder left SL for me. Why?" 
Skinner felt himself drifting away from himself. He
seemed to step back and watch himself. Had he really
just fondled a female agent in front of dozens of
others? He shook his head. There was no time for that.
It was very close. He was very close to understanding
what Mulder had been trying to tell him. 
As he focused again on the shirt, he felt himself
growing cold. How does Mulder do this? How can he
stand this feeling of disconnectedness? Skinner
was tempted to shake himself, to drag himself back
to the present while he still could, but he knew that
Mulder and Scully were depending on him to figure this
out. SL - what did Mulder mean? 
He reached out for Larson again, his fingers brushing
the letters once more. She stood still under his
touch, seeming to know that something else, something
serious was happening. "SL," he said again. And then,
like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. UFOs, abductions,
Scully's abduction to be exact. "Skyland Mountain." he
said. "Check the property list for Skyland Mountain and
surrounding areas." 
The room was silent, everyone waiting as the team leader
scanned the list. "I have a cabin in Luray, Virginia." 
"That's it. Scramble, people, we're moving. Get everyone
going. Call Luray locals, whatever else is around there.
Get Virginia State Police, SBI, local Bureau, shit call
out the fucking National Guard. We are gonna make the
raid to end all raids. We are taking that fucker down."
Skinner stood as people raced to make their preparations
for the rescue. He walked carefully over to Larson. 
"Agent Larson - Sara - I apologize. My behavior was
inappropriate. You are within your rights to bring
me up on charges." 
Larson's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she said,
"No, Sir, I didn't understand at first. It was my initials.
You figured it out. None of us could. No apology is
necessary. Let's go get our people." 
Skinner held out his hand, and as Larson took it, said,
"Thank you, Agent Larson. And, yes, let's do go get
our people." 
************************************************************** 
Mulder woke, and the first thing he realized was that
he wasn't in the bed with Scully anymore. The next thing
was that he was tied again, this time to the floor. And
the next thing was that he wasn't in the bedroom anymore,
but rather, on the floor of the living room. 
Harold had driven large pegs into the floor of the cabin
and Mulder was tied spread-eagled to them. He turned his
head and looked to see if he could see Scully. No sign
of her. That could be good or bad. No sign of Harold
either. "Scully," he called quietly. No response. He
tried again. Still no response. Hopefully she was still
sleeping safely in the warm bed. He pulled against the
ropes restraining him. Nothing. He was tightly secured. 
Both arms were pulled tightly away from his body,
over-extending the muscles. It was painful, regardless,
but for his already injured arm, it was excruciating.
He had a very bad feeling about this. He looked around
for anything he could get to, anything he could use,
if he could just get free. Nothing. He closed his eyes
in pain and frustration. 
He opened his eyes when he felt a heavy boot prod him,
not too gently, in the side. Harold. He looked up but
didn't speak. 
Harold stood above him, a bag in his hand. His eyes
gleamed with a manic excitement. "Well, Agent Mulder,
at last you are going to begin to atone for what you
have done." 
"What exactly have I done, Harold?" Mulder tried to
keep his voice neutral, his face composed. 
Harold looked at him, almost surprised that he would
ask. His face turned quizzical as he tried to puzzle
out the meaning of Mulder's question. "I'm not sure,"
he said in a small voice. But then the anger seemed
to take over, and his voice grew stronger as he went on,
"You know what you've done. That man, the man at the
place, he said this was all because of you. You are
the only success that THEY have." 
Even Mulder could hear the capitals as Harold said
THEY. "Who, Harold, whose success? And what is all
because of me?" 
Harold dropped the bag and put his hands over his
ears. "Stop it," he screamed, "just stop it! You
will not confuse me." He paused, gathering himself.
"I am going to show you what they did to me.
Harold pulled his shirt out of his pants and lifted
it, showing his abdomen to Mulder. 
"See this." He pointed to the pock like scars covering
his belly. "Every time, Agent Mulder, every time, THEY
put these needles in me. Over and over, hundreds of
needles. I would pass out from the pain." He bent and
retrieved the bag. "I am going to share that experience
with you." 
Mulder shuddered as he watched Harold pull the first needle
out of the bag. It was long, and thick, and shiny, and
all it needed was a syringe to complete one of his worst
nightmares. <Oh, shit! He must have robbed a fucking
horse doctor to get needles that big. I am seriously
fucked here.> "Harold, there's no need for this," he began.
He broke of in mid sentence as the first needle was plunged
into his bare abdomen. "Shit!" 
"Harold, please, stop, let's talk about this. Oh fuck!"
The second needle was rammed home. "Jesus, Harold,
stop this!" he cried as the third needle was plunged
mercilessly into his tender belly. Mulder continued to
plead, his breathing growing ragged and his words turning
to sobs as Harold relentlessly stabbed needle after needle
deeply into his smooth stomach. At last, Harold stopped
and rose. 
Mulder lay panting, sobbing, tied to the floor. Twenty
large needles rose unevenly from his belly. Harold
reached down and ran his hand over all the protruding
needles, pushing them further in and wiggling them about.
Mulder had clung to sanity, clung to consciousness during
the whole deal, but at this last action, he finally gave
up, screamed, and passed out. 
Harold stood looking at him. "This is what it's like,
you self-righteous prick," he snarled to the unconscious
man. He went to the kitchen and filled a bowl with water.
As he reentered the living room, he looked at the hall
to see Agent Scully clinging to the door frame. 
As he watched, she whispered, "Mulder, I'm here." and
collapsed, unconscious again, in a heap on the floor. 
Harold laughed. "Oh yeah, one tough cookie." 
He dumped the water on Mulder and laughed as he
sputtered back to awareness. Every breath, every
movement was torture. Harold knew how much the
needles hurt. He had been there himself, but now,
this was retribution. 
Mulder looked up, trying to attain a neutral
facade to speak to this madman. "Harold,"
he began, "please, I haven't done anything to you.
I investigate alien activity. I may be able to
help you figure out what was done to you." 
Harold just stared at him, unmoved by his little
speech. He lit a cigarette and put in on the edge
of a small table. As Mulder watched, Harold
unbuttoned his pants, and began to remove them. 
<Oh God, no, not that, no, not that, anything
but that> Mulder began a mantra in his mind as he
began struggling desperately against his bonds,
heedless of the pain this caused. 
Harold looked up, puzzled, as Mulder suddenly
began to thrash about. As he realized what Mulder
was thinking, he began to laugh. "Oh, no, Agent
Mulder, not that." He laughed harder. But before
we're done, you may be wishing that was all I had
done to you. You must atone for your transgressions." 
Mulder stilled and watched as Harold lowered his
pants to his knees and then turned, putting one
foot in front of the other, so that the tender
inside of his thigh was visible. Mulder winced
as he looked at the hundreds of tiny scars that
covered the sensitive flesh. Burn scars. 
"Harold, no, you don't have to do this." 
Harold pulled his pants back up and picked up
the burning cigarette. As he advanced, Mulder
began to moan. As the cigarette touched denim,
the moan turned into a scream. He screamed for a
long time, until his voice was hoarse, and he had no
energy left to scream. Then he cried. Then the cries
turned to whimpers, and finally, blessedly, the
whimpers turned to silence as he, once again, passed
gratefully into unconsciousness. 
Harold put the last cigarette out, just behind
Mulder's knee, and rose. "God, I'm hungry. Time
for breakfast," he announced to nobody in particular.
Checking Mulder's bonds one last time, he grabbed his
keys and walked out the door. 
************************************************** 
Mulder came to again as a soft hand stroked his
cheek. Scully was laying next to him again. "How
did you get here?" he asked dazedly. 
She had untied his left hand, and now lay against him,
fighting to stay conscious, but unable to move anymore.
Every last ounce of strength had been taken in crawling
from the doorway where she had collapsed over to where
Mulder lay. She had untied his hand, and tried to move
to his other side to untie his other hand, but her strength
had given out. 
"Mulder," she whispered, "couldn't help you." Her eyes
filled with tears as she thought of what he had endured,
his screams still echoing in her ears. She kissed his chest,
all she could reach without moving again. "Let you down.
Sorry. . ." her voice trailed off as he pulled his hand up
and stroked her hair. 
"Shhh, Scully, I'm amazed you were able to get here at all."
He paused, his own exhaustion making words difficult. "We
have to get out of here, Scully," he whispered urgently. 
"Can't make it Mulder." she panted. "You go. Get help." 
"I'm not leaving you, Scully." 
"Hurts, Mulder. Can't move anymore." 
"I'm not leaving you, Scully," Mulder said again, more
determined than before. "I'll carry you if I have to,
but we have to go." 
He started to reach over and untie his other hand, but
the movement reminded him that the needles were still in
his abdomen. <Oh fuck! This is gonna hurt!> He gritted
his teeth, and began pulling. 
When he had removed the last one, he lay back, panting,
his breath ragged, tears streaming down his cheeks.
After a moments rest, he sat up, his whole body tensing
in pain as his legs screamed, his belly screamed, his
head screamed. He ignored it as best he could, and untied
his feet. 
Free at last, he turned to look at Scully only to find she
was once more unconscious. He rose, struggling with every
movement, pain washing over his legs and belly, and lifted her
to the couch. Laying her gently down, he began to
look around. He knew they had to get out of there, before
Harold got back. Neither one of them was strong enough
for another round with Harold the Insane. 
He searched the small cabin. <No clothes, no shoes, oh shit.
Virginia mountains, bare foot and shirtless, injured and
in pain, in February. We have a winner!> On the table in
the small kitchen was a map of Shenandoah National Park.
There was a red marker line tracing its way from the main
roads onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and finally, through
back roads to what he assumed was the location of the cabin. 
Looking at the map, he saw a ranger station. By road it was
about 15 miles away. But if he could cut across country,
it was only about 3 miles. Mulder stopped, thinking.
Could he carry Scully three miles in his condition? Did
he really have a choice? Shaking his head in answer to
both questions, he took a large knife from the drawer, and
went to strip the bed linens. He took all the linens he could
find, fashioning a poncho type shirt for himself from the
bedspread, tying it around his waist with the rope he had
been tied to the floor with. 
Going into the second bedroom in search of more linens,
he was surprised to find a phone. It hadn't occurred to
him to even look for a phone. He lifted it, and was even
more surprised when there was a dial tone. He stood
staring stupidly at the phone for a minute, then swiftly
punched in a number he knew by heart. His heart was pounding
so hard, he could hardly hear over it, and he was feeling
light-headed from lack of oxygen. He forced himself to breathe,
waiting impatiently as the phone finally connected and he heard
the first ring. 
"Skinner." 
Mulder had never heard a more welcome sound. He cleared his
throat, and tried to speak. His voice was raspy, ruined from
the constant screaming, and he could barely raise it above a
whisper. "Sir," he began, but was interrupted when Skinner
cut in. 
"My God, Mulder, is that you?" 
Mulder could hear the combination of panic and relief in
the older man's voice. 
"Yes, Sir, I . . ." Once again, he was cut off. 
"I'm on my way, Mulder. You're at Roberson's cabin in
Luray, right? I've got every available officer converging
on the scene now. My official ETA is about two hours - but,
Mulder, I'll be there in an hour and a half. Are you
all right? Is Scully all right?" 
"Sir, we can't stay here. Scully's hurt bad. Get medical."
A sob broke from Mulder's throat. "I'm taking her to the ranger
station near Stanley. Meet me there." He paused, not sure
what else to say, but not ready to give up the connection
to the outside yet. It was amazing how quickly Roberson
had succeeded in psychologically isolating him. 
Skinner seemed to sense Mulder's hesitation, his aloneness.
He was sure that Scully wasn't the only one in need of medical
attention. 
"Mulder, I'm coming." He spoke with passion, channeling
his long controlled emotions into his voice. "Do you hear
me, Mulder? I'm coming to get you and Scully. It's
going to be all right. Mulder? Mulder?" 
Mulder swallowed hard. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. The
ranger station. I'll get her there as quick as I can, but
it's a long walk." 
"Mulder, wait, Mulder, you can't walk! Mulder? Damn it,
Mulder, don't you dare try to walk!" Skinner was yelling
into the phone, but it was too late. Mulder had hung up
and walked back to the living room to attend to his final
preparations. 
He tore the sheets into strips and wrapped his feet, working
quickly now as he grew increasingly concerned over how long
Harold had been gone. He bandaged his thighs with strips of
sheets as well, trying not to look at the raw, oozing mass of
burns, trying not to feel anything. 
He took the remaining blankets, and went to the couch.
Wrapping Scully as carefully as he could, he bent and
lifted her into a modified fireman's carry. Hefting her
across both shoulders, he tried to balance her weight
as evenly as he could. "Sorry, Scully," he whispered,
I know it's undignified, but we've got a long way to go
and I won't make it any other way." With the knife
tucked into the waist of his jeans, he crossed the room,
went out the door and set off toward the ranger station. 
******************************************************** 
Harold took his time in town. They were both out, the
women may never regain consciousness, and the man was
securely tied. Why rush? He had a nice breakfast, then
went to an early movie. 'One good thing about tourists,'
he thought, 'they make the stores and theaters keep reasonable
hours.' After the movie, he made a run on the grocery store.
No point in coming in to town every day, after all. 
He packed the groceries into the trunk of the car, the
handcuffs he'd used on Mulder glinting as the sun, shining
almost straight down, caught them. He scooped them up
carelessly, swinging them in his hand as he thought of other
things he had experienced; things that the FBI man would
have to share if he was ever to atone for his sins. 
Harold shook his head. Thinking of what had happened to
him, and what he was doing to Mulder confused him. He
knew that Mulder was responsible; someone had to be
responsible. Things didn't just happen. 
But exactly what Mulder was responsible for - that kept
shifting in his mind. Was it the aliens? Where there
really aliens? Or was it all part of the Invasion
project? It got mixed up in his head. Was it the
military? They could be in on it? Or was it the FBI?
This Mulder was an Agent for the FBI - maybe they were
responsible. Mulder had said he investigated things
like this. Could that be true? 
Harold shook his head again. This train of thought
was not productive. It confused him and made his head
hurt. It was like every time he tried to focus on what
had happened to him, a fog rolled in and a pain broke out.
It was easier not to think about it. The man had said
Mulder was responsible. That was all that mattered. 
He got in the car, ready to return to the cabin and
resume Mulder's atonement. There were so many things
that he could still do. He thought back to Colonel
Kinsley. She had tried to atone, but in the end, her
whole family had to pay. It had been such hard work
and his head had hurt for weeks after. But he had
done it. And he would take care of Mulder as well,
no matter what the cost to himself. 
He drove back to the cabin, ready to resume
the work that had to be done. When he pulled up
in the driveway, he was surprised to see the
front door open, flapping loosely in the wind. 
He jumped out of the car and raced into the
house. The pegs on the floor were empty, their
prisoner gone. He ran to the bedroom, empty, the
bed stripped. The other small bedroom was empty as
well, the linens also missing. Where the hell
did Mulder think he was going to go? Everything
was locked down for the winter. He was on
foot, carrying the woman. Where would he go? 
Harold went to the kitchen and pulled out the map.
He studied it for a bit, ruling out places one by
one, until he came to the ranger station near Stanley.
About 15 miles by road, but much closer across country.
Harold's eyes narrowed as he thought it through. He
might just try it. Mulder was strong, and he was
determined. He might be able to carry the woman
the three miles across country. 
Well, Mulder would be in for a surprise, if he got there! 
Chapter 20 
"Dwell not upon thy weariness, thy strength shall be
according to the measure of thy desire."
Arab Proverb 
Mulder paused for a moment, his heart racing, chest heaving, as he
tried to catch his breath. He lowered Scully to the ground, leaning
her against a fallen tree trunk. She had neither moved nor spoken
since they left the cabin and he was worried. It was cold, but
he was moving, generating heat. She was cold too, and not moving.
At least the sun was out, that had to help some. 
But she was so still, so quiet. He was worried about her head,
her chest, her wrist, her leg. He forced himself to his knees
beside her, struggling through the pain from the burns on his
thighs. "Scully, hey Scully," he called softly, as he stroked her
cheek. He brushed her hair back from her face, and leaned in,
kissing her gently. "Scully, please . . ." His voice drifted away
as he waited in vain for her to respond. 
He kissed her again, then checked her bandages, pulled the bed
linens and blankets that he had wrapped her in more securely
around her, and sat beside her on the log. 
He looked at the cloth he had wrapped around his feet. The bottoms
were dirty and <was that blood?> the cloth was beginning to tear
and fray. He tightened the bindings, knowing he needed to protect
his feet as best he could. He looked down at Scully again,
propped bonelessly against a rotted log. How had he managed
to get her into this? All he wanted to do was take care of
her, and look what happened. Tears formed in his eyes, and
he brushed them roughly away. <No time for self pity. Get
moving!> 
He clambered to his feet, then stood a moment, fighting dizziness.
He was tired, in pain, weak. His back and shoulders ached
from carrying Scully. His injured arm screamed with every
step he took. His feet felt every rock, every stick, every
root on the ground. He wanted nothing more than to curl up
and sleep everything away, but Scully was waiting. 
He shook his head to try to clear the fog, then leaned carefully
down to touch Scully again. His hand smoothed her hair, and
he softly called her name. "Scully, we need to move again.
Hey Scully, could you just let me know you're with me?"
His voice caught and he swallowed a sob. "Please?
Scully, you know what trouble I get into when you leave
me unattended." He gave a strangled laugh, and bent to
lift her. 
As his arms went around her, her eyes fluttered open.
He quickly dropped to his knees, heedless of the pain.
"Hey, Scully, you're with me!" His voice was pure
joy. 
"Mulder," she whispered, her eyes slipping shut again.
" 'S ok." 
He buried his head in her hair, holding her close, and
a few stray tears fell as he sobbed silently. "Scully,
it's gonna be all right. Skinner's coming. We'll
be all right." 
"Hmmm, 'k," she slurred. 
Mulder was suddenly energized. <She's still with me!>
"We gotta move, Scully" He rose shakily to his feet
again, then lifted her. "Up you go." He struggled
for a minute to get her settled across his shoulders
again, then took another minute to get her balanced. 
"Scully?" he called once he had her positioned. 
No response. 
"Scully?" He hoped for an answer, but she was unconscious
again. Realizing this, he set off once more, determined
to reach the ranger station, and Skinner. 
He padded along through the woods, relying on the
sun to keep his direction. It had climbed high in
the sky, and was almost directly overhead now. Mulder
figured he'd been walking about an hour, and still had
a mile or so to go. 
Scully was unmoving across his shoulders. He worried
that with no support, and the blood pooling in her
head, he was injuring her even further, but he couldn't
have left her behind! As he struggled to continue,
putting one tender foot in front of the other, trying
to ignore the many pains throughout his body, he tried
to think of what he would do when he reached the ranger
station. 
His mind was fogged, his thinking cloudy. He knew that
he was injured, probably in shock. The combination of
the wounds Harold had inflicted on him, the cold, and his
own already weakened condition, was making him very dazed
and confused. 'Skinner will be there,' he thought.
'He'll know what to do.' 
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Mulder was
startled at the ease with which it had come. When had
he begun to think of Skinner as someone he could turn
to? How long had it been since he had someone he
would trust, besides Scully? He shook his head.
He needed to be making a plan. But again, the
thought came unbidden, 'Skinner will take care of it.' 
He shrugged and focused on keeping his movement steady.
Scully was hurt badly as it was, he didn't want to
add to it if he could help it. He shrugged his shoulders,
reseating her across them, shifting under her weight
as he unconsciously tried to ease the burden. 
He looked up again, judging the time, trying to
figure out how much further he had to go. He was
exhausted. He had pushed on so far on almost pure
adrenaline and determination, but he was wearing
down and wearing out, fast. 
He closed his eyes, briefly, just to give himself
a short rest, taking a few more steps in his
self imposed blindness. As he opened his eyes
again, he realized that he was about to step
right into a muddy creek. 
He tried to halt his forward movement, but it was
too late, and he only succeeded in overbalancing
himself, coming down hard on his left ankle. Then
as the soft creek bank gave way, the ankle twisted
hard, and he slid heavily down the short bank into
the icy water. Landing heavily on his left knee,
he thrust his right hand out and caught himself
before he fell completely forward. 
So far he had managed to keep Scully from getting
wet, but with only one hand to hold her, he felt
her begin to slip. Pulling his right leg entirely
into the frigid water, he quickly sat back on his
heels, submerging himself to the waist. He
struggled to regain his balance, and to balance
Scully once more. 
When he finally had her secured, he was shivering,
his teeth chattering. The left ankle was definitely
sprained, possibly broken. He had to get out of the
water, but he couldn't put Scully down, and he
couldn't get up holding her. Walking on his
knees, he crossed the tiny creek, and then leaned
all the way down, almost laying on the bank.
He rolled Scully over his head and onto the bank. 
He paused, panting, then struggled to his feet,
bearing his weight on his good right foot. Once
upright, he gingerly placed the left foot down,
and tested it. <Oh, shit, that hurts!> Not
broken, it would bear weight, but it hurt like hell. 
His wet jeans clung to him, the burns on his legs
newly awakened and making their presence known quite
clearly as the cold, muddy water soaked into the
open wounds. He shivered uncontrollably, and felt
himself slipping into the early stages of hypothermia.
<Get moving. Keep moving.> 
He climbed out of the water, and went to Scully
on the bank. He stood staring down at her for
sometime, before his mind made the connection that
he had to pick her up again. He reached down and
hefted her, throwing her over one shoulder this time,
and began to move. <Keep moving - must keep moving> 
As he plodded steadily along, his shivering grew
worse and his teeth began to chatter. He tried
to focus on movement, keep going, almost there,
get Scully to safety. Every step was agony as
his weight came down on the injured ankle and the
wet burns chafed against each other. Desperate
for relief, his mind would drift away, then he
would suddenly start to awareness, not remembering
where he was or where he was going. 
He had to pause frequently, to shift Scully,
to rest his ankle, to catch his breath. He began
his own survival mantra "Get Scully to the ranger
station. Skinner will know what to do. Get Scully
to the ranger station. Skinner will know what to
do." He chanted it out loud, through chattering
teeth, using his own voice as a focal point to keep
himself from slipping away, to keep himself moving,
to keep himself from giving up. 
At last the woods began to clear, and in the distance,
Mulder could see the small, concrete block building
that was the ranger station. He crossed the last
few yards more quickly, and approached the building
eagerly. He looked around, hoping to see anyone
but Harold. There was a bench outside the building,
and he gently lay Scully there. 
No one was around, the parking lot devoid of cars.
<That's odd. Where's the ranger?> Mulder limped
to the door and grabbed the knob. A turn and push.
Nothing. Mulder pounded on the door, calling hoarsely,
"Help! I've got injured. Help! Isn't anyone here?" 
But the building was empty, and locked. 
******************************************************** 
Skinner closed the phone, tempted to throw it through
the window, but managed to hold onto both it and his
temper. He did bring his hand up and slam it down on
the dash, his one concession to the growing rage that
was threatening to overwhelm him again. 
The driver, Bouvier, said, "It was Mulder? Where
are they? Are they all right?" 
"Scully's hurt, I think Mulder is too, but he didn't
say anything." Skinner paused, rethinking the short
conversation. "They were at the cabin in Luray. They're
on the move now. I'm not sure what happened or how
they got loose, but Mulder said it wasn't safe for them
to stay at the cabin and wait for us. He's carrying -
carrying - Scully to the ranger station at Stanley." 
"Shit, that's miles from Luray, isn't it?" Bouvier
asked. 
Skinner suddenly began to dig furiously through the
maps, searching for the detail map of Shenandoah
National Park. He studied it a minute, then looked
up. "It's 15 miles from the cabin," he said in
amazement. 
He lowered his head again, took another measurement
using his finger, then added, "Or three miles if
he goes cross country. Which I'm sure he will." 
He sat quietly a moment, then picked up the cell and
called the operator who was channeling communications
for the team. "I need to speak to the ranger at
Stanley station," he demanded. "And while you're
getting that call for me, get the medical coordinator
as well. We have at least one injured." 
He waited impatiently until, at last, a slow
southern drawl said, "Mr. Skinner, Sir? This is
Ranger Clyde Bohannon. Can I help you Sir?" 
"Are you at Stanley Station, Bohannon?" 
"Uh, no sir, I'm not. I'm at Massanutten." 
"Then why the hell are you on the phone?"
Skinner was frustrated and it was showing.
"I asked to be patched through to Stanley." 
"Uh, well, yes, Sir, I guess you did. But
there's no one at Stanley, Sir. It's closed
in the winter." 
Skinner was silent, his mind working furiously.
This meant the station wouldn't have transportation
out, and Mulder and Scully would still be vulnerable
should Roberson get to them before he did. Well,
he would just have to get there before Roberson. 
"I see. Well, thank you Mr. Bohannon." Skinner
disconnected. 
The phone chirped again and Skinner opened it.
"Mulder, is that you?" he asked hopefully. 
"Medical for you Sir," the operator said. 
"Patch them through." 
"Medical, Sir." 
"I've been in contact with Agent Mulder. He has
advised me that Agent Scully is injured and in need
of medical assistance. I want two units dispatched
to the ranger station at Stanley. They are to get
as close as they can, but not be observed. The
perp is still unaccounted for, and may be occupying
the station. Get your units into position and ready
to respond as soon as I give the all clear." 
"Yes, Sir. Two units, Sir?" 
"I suspect Agent Mulder is injured as well. Be sure
that copies of my agents medical data is made available
to the responding units. Make sure the correct blood
types are available. Do whatever it is that you do 
to assure - do you hear me? - assure that my agents
will not experience any delay in securing appropriate
treatment for their injuries." He paused, then added,
"Wait for my call." and hung up. 
He sat quietly, thinking, then opened the phone again.
"Get me Larson," he said without preamble. When she
answered, he said, "Who do we have within immediate
response to the ranger station at Stanley?" 
"Stanley, Sir? I thought they were in Luray?" 
"They're on the move, should be at Stanley soon.
Now who's already there? Anybody really competent
for this type of thing?" 
He heard her pause, knew she was weighing the pros
and cons of slamming her fellow law enforcement
officials to her boss. At length she said, "No,
sir, only locals are in position and ready to move." 
"Shit, that's what I was afraid of." Skinner
paused, furiously trying to work out a new plan.
"All right. Here's what you do. Send the locals
to the cabin. I suspect it will be deserted, but
we've got to cover it. My team will be at Stanley
in," he paused, looking at Bouvier. 
"Twenty to thirty minutes, Sir. These mountain
roads are a bitch." 
"Fifteen minutes, Larson. Any locals still at Stanley
are to wait for me. I don't want Sheriff Andy getting
killed by this lunatic. And I don't want Mulder or
Scully further injured through incompetence. You
make that clear, you hear?" 
"Yes, Sir. And Sir? Good luck." 
Skinner grunted and closed the phone. 
"Move Bouvier, fifteen minutes." He closed his
eyes and leaned back in the seat as he felt the
car accelerate. 'Hang on guys, I'm coming." 
*************************************************** 
Mulder sagged against the door. He had come so
far, and now, shelter, warmth, perhaps safety
was within reach, and he couldn't get to it. He
stepped back from the door, backing into the
parking area, and appraising the building. Windows. 
He looked down, his eyes scanning for ground for a
good size rock. He spotted one, hobbled over, then
bent and picked it up. Limping slowly back to the
building, he raised his arm and heaved. The glass
shattered with a satisfying crack. Using the rock,
he cleared the bottom ledge and crawled through. 
He came around to the door, opened it, and went
to Scully. Lifting her carefully in his arms,
he carried her in and kicked the door shut behind. 
The station was small. It was warmer than the
outside, but not by much, and that advantage
would dissipate quickly with the now 'open'
window. A tiny reception area was separated from
the ranger's work area by a chest high counter.
A bench was under the broken window, and a swinging
gate opened into the work area. 
He pushed through the gate, and walked over to
the desk. Using his left knee, he balanced
Scully with one hand, and swept the desk clear
with the other, then laid her down again. He
paused a moment to straighten her head, and
brush back her hair, cupping her face in his hands
and kissing her softly on her lips. "We're here,
Scully. We made it. Skinner will be here soon."
He kissed her again, then moved to see what else
was in the building. 
A short, narrow hall led to a back storage room,
a tiny bathroom. There was a small living/sleeping
area in the storage room, complete with cot. Mulder
thought of bringing Scully back to it, but was
worried that she would be vulnerable alone if Harold
got to them before Skinner. <Come on, Walter, we need
you now!> 
How could he keep Scully safe, away from Harold, yet
not outside. He was aware enough of his own depleted
reserves to know he could not hope to prevail if it
came down to a physical battle with Harold. <Where
are you, Walter?> He looked around, taking in the room,
the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The ceiling?
It was a drop ceiling, with tiles that could be pushed
up. He went into the bathroom. Standard home commode.
He could use it to climb up to the ceiling. 
He climbed up and pushed the tile aside, then hoisted
himself up. Thin metal rods held the tiles in place.
The tiles themselves were too flimsy to support even
Scully's weight, let alone his own. But someone had
laid a plywood crawlway, over the metal, leading to the
ventilation ductwork. He wasn't the first person to
access the 'attic' this way! 
He went back and picked Scully up and carried her to
the bathroom. "Sorry, Scully," he apologized, as he
pulled her over his shoulder for one more trip. Using
the wall for support, he managed to get up onto the
seat of the toilet, and then onto the tank. He stood
for a moment, gathering the last of his strength, then
lifted Scully up, feet first, through the hole in the
ceiling, almost dropping her onto the plywood. He held
her hand for a minute, kissing each tiny, cold finger. 
He climbed down and went out to the storage area, pulling
blankets and the small pillow off the cot, and then returned
to Scully. He covered her with what he had found, trying to
tuck her in securely, the slid the pillow under her head.
His lips traced her eyes, her nose, and finally her lips,
and he whispered, "Hang in there, Scully. Hang in there for
me, please." Then, reluctantly, he left her and slid the
tile back in place. 
He climbed down, and turned to go back out to the
front office, intending to call Skinner again.
He hobbled out to the office, lifted the phone
and dialed Skinner's cell. 
"Mulder?" Skinner answered. 
"Yes, Sir. We're here." Mulder was exhausted. He
could barely stand, and speaking was taking entirely
too much effort. "Where are you?" he heard himself
whine. 
Skinner's voice was soft, patient, understanding,
full of concern as he answered gently, "I'm coming,
Mulder. I'm coming. Just a few more minutes, ok?
Can you hold it together for a few more minutes?" 
Mulder nodded, then stared at the phone as he heard
Skinner ask, "Mulder? You still there?" 
He shook himself out of the daze he had fallen into
and murmured, "Yeah, few more minutes." He was
silent for a moment, then added, "I put Scully in
the ceiling, just in case." 
"In the ceiling? Mulder, what are you talking about?" 
Just then, a vicious pain exploded in Mulder's side,
he dropped the phone, and collapsed on the floor, screaming.
The phone lay unheeded next to his head, as he writhed
and sobbed on the floor. 
In the car, Skinner was screaming frantically into the
phone, "Mulder, Mulder, answer me! God damn it - what
the hell is going on there? Mulder, come on, Mulder!" 
As he lay there, gasping for breath, agony erupted all
up and down his left arm. He pulled it across his
body, clutching it in his right arm, and tried to
roll onto his stomach, but as he was completing the
move, something hit him in the small of his back, and
he screamed again. He curled into a fetal position, trying
to push away from the instrument of his torture. His mind
had lost all ability for coherent thought. 'Must get
away,' was all he could think. 
Skinner's heart stopped as he heard Harold faintly through
the phone, "Hello, Agent Mulder. "You've been very bad." 
**************************************************** 
Skinner was counting the minutes now. According to
the map, they should be at the station just - about -
now. He could see it in the distance, but there
was a vehicle, a lone vehicle in the parking area. 
He pulled the radio and yelled, "Abort. Abort.
Our perp is in the building. He has hostages.
Abort." Turning to Bouvier, he said, "Slow, and
drive by." 
As they rode past, Skinner could see the broken
window on the front of the building, but that was
all. When they were out of sight on the other
side, Bouvier stopped the car, and they got out. 
Skinner spoke into the radio. "Approach on
foot; use the surrounding woods for cover, and
remained concealed. Team 2, take south. Team
3, east. Team 4, north. When you're in position,
check in." 
He and Bouvier set out through the trees, angling
back to the small building. "We have west, Boo,
that puts us in the front, no cover." They got
to the fringe of the woods on the northwest corner
and stopped, waiting for the others to get into
position. 
As they waited, an ear shattering scream split the
air, and Skinner was on his feet and running. As
he ran, he yelled into the radio, and into the air,
"Move, move, move, all agents, this is a go! Move!" 
************************************************** 
Mulder came to, arms over his head, handcuffed
to the ceiling fan in the work area, his whole
body aflame. He moaned, and regretted it immediately
when he was greeted with another touch of the stun gun.
He writhed, unable to breath, wondering if his heart
had stopped. And if it hadn't, he kinda hoped it
would. 
Harold watched patiently, until Mulder was still
again. Then he asked, "Where is the Agent Scully?" 
Mulder shook his head. "I had to leave her." Tears
rolled down his face. "I couldn't carry her." 
"I don't think so, Agent Mulder," Harold said, and
leaned forward with the prod. 
Mulder jumped, pulling back as far as he could,
and a whimper of fear escaped his throat. "I
couldn't carry her, I couldn't," he babbled.
His mind was so pain fogged, he really wasn't sure
where Scully was. Did he really leave her in
the woods? 
"Not good enough Agent Mulder." Harold leaned in
again, laughing as Mulder twitched at the brief
contact. "It's not pleasant, is it? Do you
know how many times THEY did this to me? Do you
know what project Invasion is?" 
Mulder shook his head furiously, "No, no, I don't,
Harold, tell me. What is it?" 
Harold laughed again. "I'll trade you one answer
for one answer. I go first. Where is Agent Scully?" 
Mulder sagged. He was going to die. Skinner would
come, he would find Scully. She would be all right.
He had to believe that. But, if Harold touched him
with the electric prod again, he was going to die. 
Harold stepped forward, grinning as Mulder whimpered
and tried to pull away. He chuckled as Mulder feebly
kicked out at him with his injured left foot, almost
hanging himself as he lost his balance. As Mulder
struggled to get his feet back under him, and take
his weight off his arms and shoulders, Harold pounced. 
This was no brief wisp of a touch, but solid and
complete contact. Harold planted the electric prod firmly
against Mulder's belly, and didn't pull back. 
Mulder screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and then
he passed out. 
*************************************************** 
Skinner went through the broken window in one leap.
Weapon drawn, he landed in a crouch, and then rose,
gun pointing directly at Harold Roberson. 
"Drop it, Roberson," he ordered, "Now!" 
Harold released the stun gun and turned, arms already
rising. As he took in the sight around him, his
shoulders slumped and he seemed to shrink in on
himself. He looked at Skinner and the other agents
as they filled the small room. "I guess I have
to go back to the hospital now," he said in a small
voice. 
Agents had stepped forward and cuffed Harold and were
leading him from the room. Skinner pulled himself over
the counter and went quickly to where Mulder hung,
unconscious from the fan. "Support him, Boo," he
said, as he pulled the desk over and climbed up to
uncuff his injured friend. His keys fit the cuffs,
and Mulder slumped down into waiting arms. Skinner
hopped down and reached out for Mulder. 
"There's a cot back here," and agent called. 
"Bring it," Skinner ordered. 
As quickly as they set it up, Skinner laid Mulder
on it and called for water and a cloth. "And get
the paramedics rolling. Tell them the scene is
secure. And get that asshole out of my sight." 
Agents bustled Harold out the door, as Skinner
gently bathed Mulder's face. "Somebody find
a blanket. He's freezing. And help me get these
wet clothes off him." 
Willing hands came to gently help. The strips of
sheet were unwound from around Mulder's feet,
causing gasps when those gathered saw his bloody
soles and the severely swollen ankle. 'How the hell
was he able to walk?' Skinner wondered. As Skinner
began to unwrap the strips from Mulder's thighs,
the younger man stirred. 
"Sir," he croaked. "I knew you'd come." 
"Sorry I wasn't here sooner, Mulder." 
"Yeah, traffic's a bitch." He closed his eyes again. 
"Mulder, hey Mulder, don't go to sleep on me here."
Skinner was feeling panicky; this man was seriously
injured and he didn't think he had begun to catalog
the injuries. "Mulder, stay with me, please." 
"Scully," Mulder began, then stopped as he was overcome
by coughing. "Ahhh, hurts," he moaned. "Scully -
shot." 
Skinner made an upward gesture to the agents still in
the room, saying, "Check the overhead." They fanned
out, all eyes appraising the ceiling. "It's all right,
Mulder, we're getting her now." 
>From the back, an agent called, "Found her. She's
unconscious. I need some help here." 
Several others scurried to assist, and Mulder sighed.
"Been out - long time. Hurt bad." His eyes were
closed, but he was making an effort to stay awake,
be aware. "Bastard shot her - because of me." He
coughed again. 
"Shhh, Mulder," Skinner soothed, "don't try to talk.
Medics will be here any time now. Mulder, what happened
to your legs?" 
Mulder tried to look down at himself, but it was too
much effort. "Legs?" he asked foggily. "You mean
the burns?" 
"Burns? Jesus, Mulder, what did that bastard do to
you?" As Skinner spoke the sirens were heard and
within minutes Scully was being loaded onto a gurney
and heading out the door. 
Mulder began struggling to rise. "Scully," he cried. 
Skinner held him tightly. "Hush, Mulder, she's
going to the hospital, and so are you. Just hold on
a minute more. Your ride is coming." 
As the medics pulled the second gurney into the building,
Skinner rose, lifting Mulder in his arms, and placed him
gently onboard. Mulder moaned slightly, then settled. 
"It's ok, now Mulder." Skinner murmured. "Scully's ok,
and you're going to be ok too." He paused, and took the
younger man's hand, heedless of the agents that stared.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here before, but I'm here now, and
you can rest. It's ok to rest now." 
Mulder lifted his eyes briefly, meeting Skinner's own,
then closed them, whispering, "Get Scully to the ranger
station. Skinner will know what to do." As Skinner
watched, startled by his friend's statement, Mulder
drifted into unconsciousness. 
"Hey, Mulder," Skinner leaned over, whispering into his
ear. "You did it. You did real good, son. I'm proud
of you." 
Chapter 21 
"Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those
few be well tried before you give them your confidence.
True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must
undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity
before it is entitled to the appellation."
George Washington 
Skinner was dozing in the big chair that had been brought
into Scully's room for him. She stirred in her sleep, and
he was immediately awake, going to stand beside the bed.
When she didn't move again, he took her hand for a moment,
then went and reseated himself. 
>From his visit to his recovering agents, through their abduction,
torture, and rescue, until now, with them both safely ensconced
in the local hospital, the past 72 hours had been a blur
of activity. After his arrival at the ranger station, Skinner had
overseen Mulder and Scully's transport to the hospital, in
Harrisonburg. 
The catalog of injuries was incredible. Scully had a concussion,
and a gunshot wound to the leg. Her wrist had been damaged
again, and the doctor had had to reset it. Her breast was heavily
bandaged, the healing that had occurred since the initial injury
having been erased by the new trauma. But, in reality, she had
fared better than Mulder. She had apparently been unconscious
for much of the time they were under Harold's control, and he
had left her largely alone. 
Mulder, on the other hand, was a completely different issue.
But then, wasn't he always? He had a hairline fracture of the
skull, over his eye, and, of course, concussion. Then there were
the burns. From his groin to his knees, the inside of Mulder's
thighs were covered in tiny, but deep, cigarette burns. Skinner
shuddered, just thinking of it. 
Mulder's arm had separated again, the muscles that were torn
by Emerson's nail, pulled apart, and more surgery had been
required to repair the damage. And then there was the ankle
Mulder had turned, then walked on, eventually earning himself
a stress fracture there as well. And his feet. The soles were
little more than hamburger, raw and lacerated, tender beyond
belief. 
And more burns from contact with the electric stun gun. How in
hell had an escaped mental patient managed to get one of those?
Skinner shook his head ruefully. Nothing could ever be easy with
Mulder. Of course, the fall in the creek had exposed the open
wounds to all sorts of little microorganisms, happy to get in out
of the cold, and he was battling numerous infections. His feet,
his thighs, and his arm, all had angry red streaks radiating out
from the injury. 
And all those little pin pricks on his abdomen. Needle tracks?
Until Mulder was able to tell them exactly what had happened,
those were still a question mark. 
Skinner had ridden to the hospital in Harrisonburg with Mulder,
pleased that they had complete records on both his agent. Scully
was quickly taken to surgery, to repair her leg, and Mulder was
trundled off to the OR as well. While waiting for word on their
conditions, Skinner had arranged Roberson's transfer back to DC.
He had also used his position as Assistant Director of the FBI
to arrange medevac transport for both his agents, to Georgetown
Medical, as soon as they were stable. 
Scully had emerged first, her leg repaired, full recovery
expected. Skinner had insisted on being with her in the recovery
room, and was pleased when she woke naturally as the anesthesia
wore off. They had talked briefly, she asking about Mulder and
he giving her the edited version, then she drifted back to sleep.
Within the hour, she had been moved downstairs to her own room. 
Skinner had returned to the waiting room, anxious for word on
Mulder. His surgery had taken longer, but at last, he too, had
gone to recovery. Skinner had once again stood next to the
bed in recovery, waiting for his agent to awaken. It was no
surprise when Mulder pulled himself up to consciousness, looked
around, then croaked, "Scully?" 
He had reassured the younger man that she was ok, and that
he would be too. Mulder had gazed steadily into his eyes,
then raised his hand slightly. Skinner had taken Mulder's
hand into his own, and squeezed gently, as Mulder had said,
"I knew you'd come. Didn't even have a plan, just knew
you'd come." 
Skinner had soothed him, saying, "Shh, Mulder, it's over
now. You did good. But now, you need to rest." 
Mulder had nodded and his eyes slid shut obediently, but
his fingers had remained clutched around Skinner's hand.
It was a long time before he relaxed enough that Skinner
could pull away and sit back down. But he hadn't minded
it at all. 
Mulder had finally been moved downstairs to a private
room as well. Skinner had planted himself in the younger
man's room, concerned that he would awaken and become
distressed if he was alone. He had been very groggy from
the anesthesia, never seeming to come fully awake. And then
he had spiked a fever, despite the antibiotics they were pumping
into him through the IV. 
He had awakened at last, feverish, delirious, intent on getting
out of the bed. Skinner had physically restrained him, not
allowing the hospital to strap him down. Almost climbing
into the bed with Mulder, Skinner had held him, wrapped
in his arms, as Mulder had thrashed and fought with unseen
demons. Skinner had listened helplessly as his friend had
cried for Roberson to stop, had begged for Scully's freedom. 
At last, the doctor had elected to sedate him, hoping that he
would be calmer, the fever induced delirium under control,
when he woke again. So, secure in the knowledge that Mulder
would be out for a while, Skinner had moved into Scully's room.
He had an agent stationed in Mulder's room, with strict orders
to come for him if the man even turned over in his sleep. But
so far, all was quiet across the hall, and here as well. 
He'd managed to sleep some, though the chair wasn't the most
comfortable, and had gotten something to eat. He'd made
the necessary phone calls to process Roberson, delegated the
paperwork to Larson and Bouvier, had the evac copter on call
for transfer to DC as soon as his agents were ready, and now,
had put his official position aside, and was here as a friend,
watching over those he cared about. 
Scully coughed, and he jumped up, going to her quickly. Her
eyes opened and then widened when she saw him standing there. 
"Hey, Dana, I don't look that bad, now do I?" he joked, his hand
reaching out to touch her arm. 
She cleared her throat and tried to speak, but only the merest
whisper emerged. He offered her water, and she sipped, then
tried again. "Mulder? Where . . ." she stopped, a weak cough
cutting her off. 
"Shh, Dana, it's ok, he's all right." At Scully's raised eyebrow,
he amended, "Well, he'll survive." She nodded and he continued. 
"He was hurt pretty badly, but nothing that wasn't fixable. At
least nothing physical. Torture is always . . ." he stopped at
her gasp. 
"Torture? I remember hearing him scream, and I tried to get
to him, but I passed out in the hall." Her eyes took on a
faraway look as she struggled to recall the details of what
happened. "I came to, and he was tied down to the
floor. I crawled over, and untied his hand, then - well, that's
all I remember." She closed her eyes, then asked tightly,
"What did he do to Mulder?" 
"He burned him. First with cigarettes, then by shocking him
with a stun gun." 
Scully shuddered. "But he's gonna be all right?" 
"He should be. He's strong. He's got an infection in the
wounds, but he's on massive antibiotics, so it should be
under control soon." 
"Why are you here? Instead of with him?" 
Skinner chuckled. "You two are incredible. Two weeks
ago, Mulder wakes up and I'm by his bed, and he tells
me to go sit with you." He smiled, then added, "Is it
my personality or what? 
"Actually, he's been awake, and it wasn't pretty. He
was feverish . . ." 
Scully interrupted. "Mulder doesn't handle fever well." 
"No kidding. You need to get that in his records, Scully.
Anyway, he was thrashing about, trying to get out of the
bed, trying to fight Roberson, I think, and definitely trying
to find you, and the doctor decided to sedate him for a while. 
He paused, assessing her strength. "Dana, do you know
what triggered this? Why did Roberson focus on Mulder?" 
Skinner chuckled to himself as he watched her visibly pull
on her 'Special Agent' persona, preparing to respond
professionally to his inquiries. 
"No, Sir, it was not clear. The man was clearly delusional,
rambling, violent when challenged. Mulder asked him
why he was doing this, and the man hit him and nearly
knocked him out!" Scully was still outraged. 
"That would account for the skull fracture then,"
Skinner mused out loud. He looked at Scully. "We
weren't sure where he picked that up." 
"Skull fracture? Oh, God, what else can happen
to him?" Her eyes filled and she began to shudder,
trying to control herself. 
But Skinner was already moving. He lowered the
rail on her bed and sat next to her. He pulled her up
to his chest carefully, cradling her head with one
hand. His strong arms encircled her, and he rubbed
her back gently. "Ok, now, it's all right," he
crooned to her. "Go ahead, it's all right." 
Casting aside her barriers, she buried her head in
his broad shoulder, and cried. Too much had
happened in too short a time, and she just couldn't
carry it all alone. She needed this, she needed to
cry, she needed a friend to hold her, to help her
through this. To help her and Mulder through this. 
As her sobs quieted, she turned her head and
rested her cheek on his chest. She relaxed into his
arms, and let him hold her, enjoying the sense
of safety his strength and presence brought.
He held her quietly until, at length, she pulled
away. He helped her lie back down, fluffing
her pillows, and fussing with the covers. 
"I need to tell you something," she began. "I'm
not good with emotions, personal relationships,
that sort of thing. I - I don't like being
emotional. I've always liked science because it
was rational, and I try to be rational myself. And
I don't cry. Ever. And certainly never in front
of anyone." 
Skinner nodded as she paused, gathering her thoughts. 
"I always have to succeed. I never learned how to fail.
But the reason I never learned how to fail, wasn't
because I was so good, it was because I only did the
things I knew I could succeed at." She paused again,
taking a deep breath. 
"You're like that, too, aren't you? You keep your
distance so people won't know that you're afraid to
try." She looked up at him, as he nodded again.
"I've closed myself off to so many possibilities in
life, in relationships, in my career, just because
I was afraid I might fail." 
"But Mulder isn't afraid to fail. He tries,
over and over again, until he succeeds. Nothing
is impossible to him, because he is always
willing to make an attempt. He's teaching me
that it's ok to fail, as long as you keep trying." 
"And when you care about someone, you can never
fail if you just keep trying." 
She reached out and caught his hand, holding
his large one in her smaller one. He stopped and
looked at her. "Thank you, Walter," she said.
"Thank you for being here. Thank you for
everything." 
He nodded gravely, recognizing the gift that
her words expressed. He leaned over and kissed
her, a simple kiss on the forehead, but a symbol
of how much things had changed between them
all. 
He smiled as he straightened and said, "What are
friends for?" 
********************************************** 
Scully was sleeping again, peaceful slumber,
when there was a quiet knock. Skinner rose
and crossed the room, opening the door. 
"He's moving around some, Sir." the young
agent reported. 
"Ok, you stay here with Agent Scully for a
while. I'm gonna go sit with Mulder." 
The young man nodded and entered the room,
moving toward the chair by the bed. Skinner
looked back at Scully, checking to make sure
she was still sleeping soundly. This separate
rooms rule was bothersome, and the one thing
his rank as AD hadn't been able to get past.
In Virginia, males and females did not share
a hospital room, no matter what the situation. 
Skinner had managed to get them on the same
floor, the rooms across from each other. He
had spent a good bit of time crossing that
hallway as he went from one room to the other. 
He entered Mulder's room, and sure enough,
he was moving some under the covers. Skinner
expected Mulder to be groggy, possibly
becoming agitated again, when he woke enough
to realize he had been sedated. Mulder hated
to be knocked out. Skinner smiled. 'Can't
stand the thought that he might miss something.' 
He was thinking of Scully's words, how fear of
failure could limit your possibilities severely.
He was guilty of doing that; she had him pegged.
But here, in this friendship, with these two
people, he wasn't going to let fear of failure
govern him. He was going to be here for them,
to help them through their recoveries. And
then, as their supervisor, he was going to
try to be more active in the cases they took
on, or at least available for support. 
Mulder groaned, and Skinner walked to the
bed, speaking softly. "Mulder, you coming
back to us now?" 
Mulder groaned again, then opened his eyes
and looked at Skinner. "Didn't we just do
this, Sir?" 
Skinner laughed. "Yeah, we did. What, once
wasn't enough for you?" 
Mulder gave a weak smile, then asked, "Scully?" 
"She's ok, Mulder. She's across the hall,
sleeping. I have an agent in the room and I've
been bouncing back and forth from here to there
myself. She's all right, and she's safe." 
"When can I go see her?" 
"Mulder!" Skinner snorted in exasperation. "Do
you have any idea what condition you're in?" 
"Apparently not ambulatory, from your reaction.
I'll use a chair, please?" 
Skinner smiled again, fondly. "I'll check with
the docs in a bit. She's asleep now, anyway."
As Mulder pouted, Skinner laughed aloud, then
added, "I promise. We'll work something out." 
Mulder smiled then, joining in the laughter.
"Don't say it - I already know - I'm obsessive." 
As Skinner shook his head, Mulder turned
serious. "How's her leg? And her head?" 
"She has a concussion, but she's been awake
and aware on several occasions. I was just
talking to her a few minutes before you woke
up. They did surgery on her leg; she'll make
a full recovery." 
Skinner caught Mulder's eye, then said,
"As will you, IF you will follow doctor's
orders this time. You're a mess, Mulder,
and we need to know what he did to you." 
Mulder grimaced, then looked away. "I don't
want to talk about it." 
"Mulder, you have to talk about it. I have
to know how to charge this man. We need to
know what he did to you." 
Mulder shuddered, and closed his eyes. "He
hit Scully in the apartment. He knocked her
out. He made me carry her to the car. 
"She got loose in the trunk. She attacked
him when he opened the trunk, but he knocked
her out again. Then he shot her. He just shot
her, no warning, no hint, he just shot her.
She was fucking unconscious and he shot her!" 
Mulder's eyes filled with tears and began to
slide down his cheeks. "Whatever he did to me,
I deserved. I told her to sit down, and then
he hit her. I encouraged her to attack him, and
he knocked her out. And I just watched as he shot
her. I just stood there and watched." 
Mulder was crying now, huge gulping sobs torn
from his chest, shudders wracking his frame.
Skinner moved closer, and looked for a way through
the maze of monitors, wires, and tubing, to reach
the anguished man. He finally sat on the side of
the bed, and scooped him up, much as he had done
Scully, holding him as the tears fell, soothing
him with his presence. 
Mulder sobbed for long minutes, then began to
quiet. As his sobs lessened, he started to
stiffen in Skinner's embrace, embarrassed.
But Skinner just tightened his hold, murmuring
"It's ok, Mulder, you can let go now and then.
It's ok." 
Mulder relaxed again, leaning heavily against
Skinner. "You know, Sir, all the way through
the woods, I kept trying to think. But I was
so tired, and everything hurt so much, and
Scully was so heavy, and I just couldn't think.
I knew I needed a plan, but I just couldn't think." 
He sighed, remembering his fear, and exhaustion. 
"But then, I kept thinking, 'Skinner will be there.
He'll know what to do.' I just sorta abdicated
it all to you in absentia. I'm really glad you
showed up when you did." 
Skinner hugged Mulder, pulling him tightly to
his chest. "Mulder, I am so proud that you
felt you could count on me. I'm glad I was able
to get there. I just wish I'd been sooner." 
Mulder pulled back, looking at Skinner, and
then tried to lay down. Skinner helped him
lay back in the bed, then started to rise. 
"No, stay," Mulder said, catching Skinner's wrist
in his hand. "You were there when it was
important. I think he was going to kill me, and
you kept him from doing that. You made him stop
hurting me." His eyes turned introspective, and
his voice lowered, becoming soft and vulnerable.
"When someone was hurting me, there's never been
anyone who would make them stop before." 
Skinner swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
There was an incredible amount of information in
those few words, and he didn't want to say the
wrong thing. Instead, he took the younger man's
hand, and gently squeezed. He reached up and
brushed a wayward strand of hair from Mulder's
eyes, and said, "You're welcome, my friend." 
*************************************************** 
Skinner was back in Mulder's room. It was late.
He had been back and forth as both his agents
slept then woke, then slept again. He was about
to head back over to Scully's, and the comfortable
chair, when he realized Mulder was awake and
staring out the window. 
"Mulder?" 
Mulder's head never moved, his eyes never left the
window. "Did you know I am afraid of needles?
Have been ever since I was a kid. After Samantha,
I was - sick - for a while. Shit, I was catatonic.
Anyway, they were always sticking me with needles.
A shot for this, a sedative for that, a test here,
a test there. I felt like a fucking pin cushion." 
"And?" Skinner prompted. 
"Harold hit me. He almost knocked me out when he
hit me with the gun. It hurt. Still hurts." He
winced as his hand touched the bandage over his eye.
"He burned me, cigarettes, right through my jeans.
I could feel it get warm, then the cloth caught fire,
then the tip actually touched me, and he just pushed
and pushed, twisting it in. It hurt, too. 
"And then, when he hit me with the cattle prod,
or stun gun, or whatever the hell that was, I
thought for sure I was going to die. I couldn't
breathe, my heart seemed to stop beating, I could
feel this intense searing pain radiating out from
the point of contact." Mulder stopped, and shook
himself. His voice dropped and Skinner had to
strain to hear him. 
"He stuck needles in me. All in my belly. Over and
over again - twenty needles. I counted them. Long
needles. Deep in my belly. He tied me down and stuck
fucking needles in me!" Mulder shuddered and a sob
caught in his throat. 
Skinner tensed, unsure if he should go to him, or
wait for the rest. 
"I hate needles, and that bastard just shoved them in
me. And I think," he paused again, voice dropping
to the merest whisper, "I think, it has happened to
me before." 
"What?" Skinner's voice was loud in the silence.
"When?" 
"After Samantha." He paused. "You know about,"
he tapped his head gently. 
"Your memory, yes." 
"I don't remember a lot from around that time. Things
from right before, things from right after. And I
especially can't remember exactly what happened. Were
we in the loft? Or in the living room? Did I get
the gun? Or did I just wake up and she was gone? I
just can't remember. And now, I can't remember what
happened with the needles." 
"It's ok, Mulder," Skinner could see his friend growing
agitated. "You have to stay calm. You're sick, you're
tired, you're hurt. Let yourself heal. When you're
stronger, you can deal with all this." He reached out
and took Mulder's hand. "I'll help you if I can. And
if you'll let me." 
Mulder nodded, then changed the subject. "I want to
see Scully." 
"Mulder, the doctor says in a few days. Please be
patient." 
"Sir, after our little bonding events," Mulder smirked,
"I feel I should warn you, I am about to be a real pain
in the ass." He sat up. "I am going to see her, now.
And nothing short of tying me up and shooting me full
of drugs is going to stop me." 
Skinner's eyes locked with Mulder's and a long time
passed. Finally, Skinner sighed in defeat. "Let me
see if I can get a chair. Promise you won't get
up until I get back? Your feet and your ankle just
can't take it, Mulder." 
"I'll wait." 
Skinner slipped out into the hall and walked quickly
down to the equipment room. He grabbed the wheelchair
and pushed it back up the hall. He had already scoped
out where it was kept, because he knew it would come
down to this, Mulder's insistence on seeing Scully
the one constant in this world. He was actually
surprised Mulder hadn't pulled this sooner. 
He pushed the chair into the room, only to find
Mulder busily unhooking monitors and leads. 
"What are you doing?" he whispered fiercely. 
Mulder looked up, eyes wide with innocence. "What?" 
"Mulder, I should make you walk after all!" 
"And you were going to leave them on?" His hand
moved to the hated IV. 
Skinner just shook his head. "Leave the IV in
Mulder. No negotiation on that one. You pull
it and the Skinner express is history." 
Mulder looked up, gauging Skinner's seriousness,
then nodded in agreement. "Help me onboard?" 
"You are so lucky that I work out, Mulder,"
Skinner grunted as he lifted Mulder bodily and
positioned him in the chair. 
"Shit, Sir, I didn't mean you had to carry me,"
Mulder groused, embarrassed again. 
"No weight on the feet or the ankle, Mulder,
no weight. Got that? That means you stay in
the chair, understand?" 
"Geez, make him an AD and he thinks he runs
the world," Mulder muttered. 
Skinner snorted, then pushed Mulder out
the door, across the hall, and into Scully's
room. "You do realize, you've just made me
an accessory to escape, or transporting fugitives,
or, even worse, disobeying hospital directives." 
Skinner dismissed the agent sitting next
to Scully's bed. "Take a break, get a cup
of coffee. I'm gonna watch them both for a
while." 
Mulder chuckled, then grew quiet as Skinner
pushed him near Scully's bed. She was sleeping
and Mulder just sat, looking at her as if she
were the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.
Skinner positioned the Mulder up next to the
head of the bed, then stepped back, and retreated
to the door. 
As he watched, Scully's eyes fluttered open, and
then widened as she saw Mulder sitting next to
her bed. "Mulder! What are you doing here? How
did you get here?" 
"Shh, Scully, keep it down. Skinner is an expert
in covert operations." He waved his hand in the
direction of the door, and Scully smiled at Skinner. 
"Scully, you ok, really?" 
She pulled her attention back to Mulder. "Of course.
Just a few bumps and bruises. Hurts some, but not
too bad. Good meds." She indicated the IV in the hand
nearest to him. 
Mulder nodded, then tentatively reached for her hand.
As he gently cradled it in his own larger one, he asked,
"Is this ok? I don't want to hurt you." 
"Oh Mulder, you could never hurt me." She reached up
and pulled on him "Come here." 
He lowered the side rail, then leaned over and laid his
head on her shoulder. "But Scully, I did hurt you. I
let him hurt you. Oh Scully, I'm so sorry. . ." He
began to sob, and she soothed him quietly, rubbing his
back and stroking his hair. 
"It wasn't your fault, Mulder. Shit happens. You know
that. I know that. It just happens." 
Skinner listened, embarrassed to be eavesdropping, but
unwilling to leave them. He was fascinated at the
openness Mulder displayed with Scully. He was needy,
dependent, insecure, and willing to lay it all before
her, secure that she would make things right. And
she did. As he watched, Mulder calmed and lifted
his head. Skinner could see he was stronger, surer,
more in control. Scully was truly his touchstone. 
"Mulder, you saved me. You kept going when anyone
else would have given up. Skinner told me you carried
me 3 miles on a broken foot! It wasn't your fault,
Mulder." 
He looked deeply into her eyes, assessing the truth of
her words. Finally, he leaned in and brushed his lips
against hers, kissing her softly, tenderly. "I couldn't
leave you Scully. You are my life." 
He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her again.
His hand played with the hair around her face. "You
are my life, Scully," he said again. "I love you." 
End