by TexxasRose
(a.k.a. Laura Castellano)

laurita_castellano@yahoo.com

*****

DECEMBER 4

"Have you come to kill me, or to let me go?" Mulder asked as
the smoking man approached his chair. His voice held only
mild curiosity, as if either outcome was equally acceptable
to him.

"Neither, actually. To tell the truth, Agent Mulder, I have
good news and bad news for you."

Mulder laughed shortly. "And when have you ever told the
truth?"

The older man smiled, a chilling expression on his hardened
face. "I'm telling it now. The good news is that Agent
Scully is downstairs."

Mulder's grip tightened on the arms of the chair and his
face drained of color. "Why have you brought her here?" he
hissed. "What have you done to her?  You have me--leave her
alone!"

"Relax, Agent Mulder. She's unharmed. I brought her here so
you could see that for yourself, and to prove to her the
same about you. She'll be allowed up for a visit in a little
while, but first--the bad news."

Mulder settled back into the chair cautiously, uncertain
whether to believe the reassurance that Scully was safe.  He
found himself tensing as he prepared himself for whatever
bomb this man was about to drop in his lap.  Somehow, he
sensed the smoking man's idea of "bad news" would be almost
unbearable.

The elderly man glanced around casually, then seated himself
in the chair that Amelia used when she visited. "I suppose
Miss Steinmetz has told you why you're here?"

Mulder nodded, unwilling to have any sort of conversation
with this man--not now, while his defenses were so
unreliable.

"Has she given you any expectation of how long you'll be her
guest?"

"She said you'll let me out of here when I'm no longer a
threat," Mulder replied shortly.  "Which doesn't give me
much hope, since you and I both know I will *always* be a
threat to you and your conspiracies."

His visitor looked slightly taken aback for the shortest of
moments, then crossed one leg over the other with...could it
really be forced nonchalance?  He smiled again, a cold smile
that chilled Mulder's blood.

"You always were an intelligent young man," he commented
lightly. "It's one of the things I've admired about you.
That, and your willingness to do whatever it takes, accept
any risk, to get what you want."

Mulder crossed his arms and waited, giving no response.

"Unfortunately," the smoker continued, "progress on
perfecting the vaccine has been slower than we had hoped."
He paused a moment to let that sink in.

"How much slower?" Mulder ventured at last.

A shrug.

"We had planned on success within a couple of months. Now we
find it could take years."

Years. Mulder felt his chest compress at the word, and
suddenly breathing became a terrible chore. Closing his eyes
tightly, he concentrated on his respirations until he felt
he had them under control, then looked over at his nemesis.

"You're planning to keep me here forever," he stated
quietly, hoping his "other" would not choose this moment to
emerge; begging this man for his freedom would be more
demeaning than he could endure.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Mulder. Forever is a very long time.
On the other hand, I don't think you should make any
long-term plans just yet."

He lit another of his infernal cigarettes, avoiding Mulder's
eyes while he fumbled with the package and the match. After
dropping the used matchstick on the windowsill, he finally
turned back to the agent.

"Why?" Mulder rasped, hands clenched tightly in his lap.
"Why bother? Why not just kill me?"

Smoke into the atmosphere. "I can't."

"Then let me do it!"

No answer.

"Why?" This time a whisper, barely discernable.

"I have my reasons," the older man replied, standing, his
air casual. "Personal ones."

"It isn't enough that you killed my father, that you had
them abduct my sister, that my mother has suffered so much
because of you.  You won't be happy until my entire family
is destroyed, will you?  What is this sick need you have to
tear us apart?"  Mulder's voice had grown stronger with each
word, until he almost felt like himself, but the effort cost
him; he was breathing heavily by the time he finished.

Ignoring the agent's outburst, the smoker dropped his
cigarette into Mulder's half-empty water glass.

As as long as you're safely tucked away here, I can be
certain you won't endanger the project.  And it would be a
shame for Agent Scully to meet with some misfortune, should
you decide to become less...cooperative."

Mulder was out of his chair in a flash, his arm against the
other man's throat, shoving his enemy against the wall.

"You leave her alone, you bastard!" he raged, feeling the
surge of adrenalin overcome his weakness.  "This is between
you and me.  It doesn't concern her."

The man shook Mulder off, seeming unfazed by the attack, but
Mulder could see faint beads of sweat on his wrinkled
forehead.

"It can continue not to concern her, Agent Mulder.  All you
have to do is behave yourself."

Mulder tried desperately to hide the faint trace of hope the
words gave him.

"Can you promise me that?" he demanded harshly. "If I agree
to be a model prisoner, can you promise me that she'll be
safe?"

The smoker made a noise of amusement. "Oh, I wouldn't expect
you to be a model prisoner, Mr. Mulder. I doubt you're
capable."

"But she'll be safe?"

Eyes met eyes.

"Of course."

"And I'll be left alone? No using me as one of your lab
rats?"

A slight nod of assent.

Mulder's eyes held his for a long moment, and then the
younger man nodded slightly and turned away. He didn't know
whether he could trust the promise he'd been given, but he
really had no choice. If his incarceration would guarantee
Scully's safety he would willingly stay here forever, even
though it would be the worst kind of damnation.

"I'll send Agent Scully up," the visitor remarked mildly,
and left the room, locking the door securely behind him.

*****

Scully opened her eyes to the bright light of morning. She
was lying on a bed in a room she did not recognize.

She sat up quickly, swinging her legs to the floor and
carefully standing. After a minute of allowing her body to
adjust to the lack of motion and the residue of the drug in
her system, she was able to walk somewhat confidently across
the room. Scully half expected the door to be locked, but
when she turned the knob it opened easily.

Cautiously, she poked her head out into the hall and looked
both ways. It appeared deserted, so she stepped outside the
bedroom and made her way down the corridor until she came to
a staircase leading both down and up.

Quiet sounds of conversation drifted up to her, and with a
careful glance in that direction, Scully chose up.  It was
the most likely place for them to have Mulder stashed.

She'd gotten no more than three steps toward the third floor
when she was confronted by a woman, about her own size,
flanked by two of the biggest men Scully had ever seen.

"Ah, Agent Scully, good morning," the woman said brightly,
gesturing toward the downstairs flight, apparently willing
to ignore the fact that Scully had been snooping. Scully's
eyes narrowed as she recognized the woman who had tortured
Mulder on the videotape.

"Who are you?" she asked, firmly standing her ground.

"My name is Amelia Steinmetz. Welcome to Verlassen."
Amelia's smile seemed genuine, and Scully felt a moment of
confusion.  Why was this woman being so hospitable?

"Where's Mulder?"

Amelia nodded knowingly. "Of course. You want to see your
partner, and you will, very soon. Someone else is with him
right now, and as soon as he's finished you'll be taken
upstairs to see Fox. Will you join us for breakfast?"

She continued downward, and when Scully hesitated, one of
the men gently grasped her arm above the elbow and attempted
to escort her.  She shook his hand off angrily, but, not
knowing what else to do, followed Amelia.  They approached a
long table, laden with food, and Scully reluctantly took the
seat she was offered.

She wanted to hurl the heavy dishes at Amelia's head, wrap
her fingers around the blond woman's throat and choke the
life from her, but instead she remained politely silent. Her
defiance now would not help her partner.

A plate of food appeared in front of her, placed there by
one of the men, none of whom had yet spoken, and she
welcomed the delicious aroma in spite of herself.  She had
not eaten since early the day before, and should an
opportunity to rescue Mulder present itself, she needed her
strenth.  With that in mind, she muttered a resentful "thank
you," and began to pick at the fruit on the plate, her eyes
wandering the room.

Amelia attempted to draw Scully into casual conversation,
possibly thinking to put her at ease, but Scully was not
distracted. Finally, she put down her fork.

"Look, Miss Steinmetz--" she began firmly.

"Amelia."

"--Amelia, I appreciate your hospitality, but this really
isn't a social call. I was brought here to see Mulder. I
want to see him now. Where is he?"

"Anxiously awaiting your visit, Agent Scully," said a voice
from behind her, and she turned to find the smoking man
standing in the doorway.  "He's ready for her now," he
continued, directing his last words to Amelia Steinmenz.

Without a word, Amelia rose and, gesturing for Scully to
follow, led her up the stairs.

*****

"Mulder!" She managed to contain herself until the others
left and they were alone, then ran to him, eagerly throwing
herself into his waiting embrace.

Mulder gripped her tightly, running his hands through her
hair, over her face, up and down her back and arms, as if to
assure himself that she was real, flesh-and-blood real, and
not just another of his dreams. Scully drank him in with her
eyes, unable to get enough of him but saddened by the
changes she detected. He was pale, a weak shadow of himself,
and she could tell that his captivity had been harder on him
than she'd dared imagine.

"Oh Scully, I never thought I'd see you again," he murmured,
burying his face in her neck as he tried to wrap himself
completely around her.

"Mulder, are you all right? Have they hurt you?" she asked,
drawing back enough to get a good look at him.

He shook his head briefly. "No, they haven't hurt me. Not
really."

"Except for that one time," she pointed out.

He made a small, disparaging gesture.

"Mulder, I'm so sorry. That happened because of me. I just
wanted to find you and bring you home, I didn't really think
they would--"

"Don't, Scully," he interrupted. "Don't blame yourself. I'm
glad you were looking for me."  He let a tiny smile creep
over his lips.  "In fact, I counted on it. But now you see
that I'm safe, you can give up the search."

She went silent and still for a moment, surprised at his
unexpected words, and did not fail to notice that Mulder
turned away from her.  He would only have done that if he
had something to hide, something he didn't want her to read
in his eyes.

"Mulder, I'm going to find a way to get you out of here,"
she insisted, but he cut her off.

"No, Scully.  You can't."

Her face registered her confusion, and she waited for him to
explain.

"I have to stay here," he told her, fighting down the
"other" that wanted to take her in his arms and beg her to
help him, fighting down the tinge of desperation that tried
to color his voice.

She shook her head impatiently. "Mulder--"

"No, Scully, listen to me. I have to stay."

*****

Mulder shrugged, hoping his attempt at nonchalance was less
transparent than the smoking man's had been.

Scully wasn't ready to accept his words.  "This isn't like
you," she insisted.  "The Mulder I know would fight them,
fight to the death.  He'd--*you* would never give in."

"Scully, I haven't given in," he answered, his voice almost
harsh.  "It's just--it's better if you don't try to rescue
me.  It's better if I just...wait until they're ready to
release me."

Her eyes were shocked, angry, and although his own implored
her to accept his words at face value, he knew she could
not.

"What did they do to you?" she demanded tightly.  "What did
they say?  What did they threaten you with?"

Even he could barely hear his muttered response. "You."

"What?"

Mulder turned fully toward the window now, his hands
gripping the steel bars as he leaned on them, head bowed,
eyes closed. It was so hard to keep control of himself now,
was growing more difficult by the second, and he was afraid
of losing himself in front of Scully.  That would be the
ultimate humiliation, to appear weak before her.  With a
supreme effort, he straightened his shoulders and answered.

"They promised me you would be protected."

"And you believed them?"

He was silent for several long seconds.  "I have to believe
them."

She watched him for a timee, her heart aching for him,
seeing the position in which he had been placed and knowing
that Mulder--the man that Mulder was--had been left with no
choice but to agree with their demands. Finally she shook
her head sadly. "Oh, Mulder...don't do this."

He refused to look at her. He stood at the window, his skin
almost translucent in the beautiful morning sunlight,
staring out at the ocean--out past the bars that had become
his life. Finally, when long, uncomfortable minutes had
passed, he broke his silence.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Scully," he said, and
his voice was fragile; he felt the fragility, but the effort
to be normal was simply too much. "I'm here. They're not
going to let me go. You can't get me out, and I haven't
found a way to escape. It's better than death." She saw a
tight little smile grace his lips. "At first I didn't think
so, but it is."

"Mulder..." Her voice trailed off, and he was glad, afraid
that too many words from her might finally cause him to
break.

"Go, Scully," he said in a low voice, turning partially
toward her but not quite meeting her eyes. "Go back home and
live your life. Do your work. Make a family. Forget about
me."

He heard her small gasp of shock. "Forget you, Mulder?" she
asked, her lips trembling with emotion. "How can I?"

It was too much.

His face drained of its last bit of color, and a second
later she was swept up fiercely into his arms, his tears
warm on the top of her head.

"Maybe not to forget," he choked. "No, on second thought,
don't...don't forget me, Scully. I couldn't bear it if I
thought you had."

Scully returned his embrace, wrapping her arms so tightly
around him that it seemed she would pull him completely
inside herself simply by the force of sheer will. "I
couldn't, Mulder.  You know I couldn't."

He tilted her face gently upwards with his long, slender
fingers, stroking away the streaks of moisture that marred
the perfection of her cheekbones.

He tried not to beg.

"Please, Scully, if you ever cared for me...just do as they
say. Walk away from it."

He met her shimmering eyes and fell into their depths,
drowning as he had so many times before, but this time he
knew there would be no rescue. "Don't try to help me. Let me
at least live out the rest of my life knowing..." He took a
deep, shuddering breath and stared out the window again,
fighting for composure. "...knowing you're safe."

He could tell she wanted to argue, to cry, to rail against
him for giving up, but to his relief, she instead nodded in
reluctant agreement.  His mouth opened again, and to his
shock, he found words pouring from the core of his soul,
words he never thought he'd speak--words he knew she needed
to hear now, when she was losing him.

"You do know that I've loved you all these years, don't you,
Scully?" He smiled through the tears that threatened to fall
again, fighting them back with a will, then rubbed his thumb
lightly over her chin and gently traced her bottom lip.

"Almost from the beginning," she whispered, and he
understood, he knew she wasn't responding to his question,
she was affirming her own emotion.  He only wished it had
all happened years before, without this catalyst to separate
them.

Scully reached her hand to his own face, touching it softly,
and he leaned into her hand, resting his cheek against her
warmth.  It was nearly his undoing, so after indulging
himself in the feel of her for a few seconds, he drew back
slightly.

"I've given up everything in my search for the truth," he
told her seriously. "I won't sacrifice you as well.  Not
again."

She opened her mouth as if to protest, and he silenced her
with his fingertips.

"I know you'll want to keep searching for a way to free me,
but if you continue, they'll kill you. Or me."

He could tell that his words gave her pause. She'd be
perfectly willing to risk her own life in her quest for
Mulder's return, but the idea that he might suffer because
of her actions would keep her in check.  At least, he hoped
that was the case.

"Don't offer up yourself needlessly, Scully. Promise me. It
won't get me back."  His eyes bored deeply into her,
compelling her, willing her to accept his decision and move
on.

"Maybe we could deal with them," she ventured hesitantly.

At that, Mulder gave a tired smile. "And offer them what?
Our silence? I already tried that. The risk is too great for
them. If we didn't keep our end of the bargain, killing us
in retribution would only be a minor satisfaction to them.
The damage would have been done."

"I just feel so helpless.  Mulder, what about Skinner?  He
could help--"

He shook his head firmly. "If you do that, they'll kill you.
And probably me as well."

He touched her forehead, the place where her cancer had
been, first with his fingers and then gently pressing his
lips there.

"For now, we have to play their game," he whispered sadly.
"I've turned it over in my mind a million times, Scully."
Again that tiny grin, that flash of his old self.  "Believe
me, I have plenty of time to think in here."

She sniffed lightly, delicately, and he was fiercely proud
of her for refusing to allow her tears to fall.  This was
the brave, proud woman he'd fallen in love with, and before
Mulder even guessed his own intentions, his lips pressed to
hers, then tried to draw back just that quickly.

Her hands behind his neck stopped him and of her own accord,
Scully deepened the kiss  until their mouths were open and
their tongues were exploring, battling, fighting the
knowledge that although this was their first kiss, it could
very well be their last.  Giving in, Mulder allowed her to
take him to a small part of heaven, if only for a moment.

Then reality intruded.

The kiss was broken, but not the embrace, when they heard
the sound of a key in the lock. His arms tightened
spasmodically around her for a moment, then released her in
quiet acceptance of the fate that awaited him.

"It's time to go," Amelia announced from the doorway.

*****

Scully glanced at her quickly, and then back at Mulder. His
face had taken on an impassive look, and she knew he was
forcing himself to maintain control in front of his captor.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, kissed her forehead
again, then with a whispered, "I'll miss you," dropped his
arms and stepped away. Their eyes locked for a long moment,
and he gave a slight nod as she reluctantly turned away.
Scully couldn't look back as she walked out the door,
leaving Mulder behind. She knew if she did she would break
down.

She left the room without another word.

*****

Mulder saw Amelia's expression, a mixture of sympathy and
determination, before she closed the door, locking him
securely away from the only person in his life that had ever
loved him unconditionally. He felt Scully's absence as
surely as he would feel the loss of breath should his
respirations cease. Mulder stood there for a few more
minutes, amazed that he could actually feel his heart
breaking. Finally he wrapped his arms around himself in a
fruitless attempt to ward off the pain, and slowly sank to
the floor, surrendering to the "other" Mulder, giving in to
the harsh, wracking sobs that tore through his body. He was
alone.

Abandoned.

*Verlassen.*
 
 
 
 

**********

DECEMBER 25

He glanced at her dully as she entered the room, then turned
back to the window. Amelia didn't spend as much time here as
she had in the past, mostly because Mulder stared blankly at
the ocean whenever she tried to talk to him. She wasn't sure
if it was simple depression or if he held her solely to
blame for his incarceration, but whatever the reason,
conversation with him had ceased to exist.  It was something
she regretted; he was an interesting man.

However, this was a special day, and she had a special item
for him, one that she'd been saving since the day of
Scully's visit. He had looked so...broken as Scully left him
that day, and Amelia was certain that was the exact moment
the will to live had completely left Fox.  She didn't know
about his "other" self, didn't realize he'd been constantly
at war with that part of his personality for months until at
last the "other" had won out, but there was one thing of
which she was very certain--Fox had given up.

Ignoring his disinterest, she pulled up her customary chair
and placed a gaily colored package in his lap.

"Merry Christmas, Fox," she said quietly, and waited to see
what he would do.

For a moment there was no reaction at all, as if it took his
brain several seconds to process her words, and then, so
quickly she almost missed it, a look of intense pain crossed
his features and was gone. He glanced down at the box in his
lap with a complete lack of curiosity, then wordlessly went
back to studying the horizon.

After a few minutes of silence, Amelia reached for the
package.

"Here, let me help you," she told him, and slid the ribbon
off so the lid could be lifted. When Mulder showed no
inclination to open his present, she pulled the top off the
box herself and dropped it to the floor. "Look at it, Fox,"
she commanded softly, and finally he lowered his gaze to the
gift in his lap.

A beautifully framed color photograph of Scully stared up at
him, and Mulder's breath caught as he looked into her eyes.
Amelia watched him carefully as he slowly reached out a
finger, just one finger, and touched the glass almost
reverently. As if uncertain that this treasure was really
for him, Mulder looked up at Amelia searchingly.  Her heart
ached at the pain and hopelessness in his eyes.

"It's yours," she told him, nodding reassuringly.

A quick smile touched his lips, and although it didn't stay,
its ghost remained, and suddenly his eyes weren't quite as
lifelessly grey as they had been before.

Amelia shifted uncomfortably.  Moments like this should not
be shared.

"I'll put it here on the table for you," she said briskly,
and reached to take the photograph from him.

Mulder didn't speak as Amelia placed the frame on the table,
but a small distressed noise resonated from his throat and
when she turned back to him, she was stunned to see tears
forming.

"Scully," he whispered slowly, reaching his hand toward the
frame.

She immediately returned his gift to him and, he took it
with both hands, pulling the picture close to himself in a
protective hug. Mulder closed his eyes, bowing his head over
the frame, and Amelia saw sadly that tears began to color
the fabric of his sweatpants as they fell. She again felt as
though she were intruding upon an incredibly private moment
of grief, but was at a loss as to how to comfort Mulder, or
if he even could be comforted.

Silently she picked up the box and the ribbon and stole from
the room, wondering if the photograph had been a stroke of
genius, or a very bad mistake.

Mulder sat for hours with the picture clutched firmly to his
breast.

*****

JANUARY 5

Mulder lay in his bed, carefully considering his next move.
It had to be quick.  It had to be sure.  There would only be
one chance, if that.

It had taken him weeks after his last suicide attempt to
reach this point, but the days and days of loneliness had
driven him once again to the brink of despair. He was ready
to try again.

This time was going to be a lot more painful, he knew, since
anything that could reasonably be used as a weapon had been
removed from his rooms. All but the furniture, he thought
with a grim smile of determination as he scooted himself to
a sitting position against the headboard. It stood five feet
above the bed and was made of solid cherrywood.

Mulder had actually laughed at himself for not realizing its
potential in the first place, only discovering it when he
had flung his arm against the headboard during a nightmare
and raised a nasty bruise. Since then he had been thinking,
planning, weighing the odds of success against the
consequences of failure.  He could do it successfully, he
finally decided, if the timing was just right. Should they
discover his act too soon, they would simply nurse him back
to health--and then, no doubt, lock him in a padded room for
his own "safety."

He couldn't endure one more day of "safety."

-----

His uneaten breakfast had just been collected, and he knew
George thought he was taking a nap. He should be able to
count on not being disturbed for several hours, and Mulder
hoped fervently that it was long enough. The unfortunate
drawback to his plan was that he was almost certain not to
die immediately. He felt behind his head to make sure he
hadn't dragged any pillows or blankets along when he had
moved into position. He wanted nothing there to pad his head
as it impacted with the solid wood.

It was time. Without further hesitation, Mulder leaned
forward, took a deep breath, counted to three, and
deliberately whammed his head back against the wood as hard
as he could.

The pain was incredible, something he could never have
prepared for.

Survival is instinctive, and even though he had tried to
psych himself up for this, he still found himself
involuntarily drawing back a little just before the impact,
thereby lessening its effect. Nonetheless, Mulder was
determined, so taking another breath and ignoring the nausea
caused by the first blow, he slammed himself against the
headboard again.

This time things went black for a moment and with a
desperate sob he fought to maintain consciousness long
enough to finish the job.

He had never felt anything as agonizing as this, not even
when he'd been six years old and had broken his femur
falling off the jungle gym.  Nothing, *nothing* could ever
hurt this badly.

And yet he had to do it again, because he was still
conscious, still breathing, still all-too-aware.

One more really good blow might be enough, he thought,
willing himself to inflict another.  His breaths short and
panting now, no longer deep and measured, he leaned forward
farther than ever preparing to deliver the final attack on
his battered head. His eyes were closed and so deep was his
concentration that he never heard the door to his rooms
being flung open or George's cry of dismay when he entered
the bedroom.
 
 
 
 

Mulder had just gotten up his nerve, after battling a moment
of almost debilitating nausea, when he felt strong hands
grabbing his shoulders, holding him down...stopping him.
Keeping him here.

"I need help in here!" George bellowed, and Mulder moaned in
fear, frustration and agony.  George's voice cut through his
head like a machete. He cursed his luck at being discovered
once again, and tears of despair coursed their way down his
face when George forced him to lay gently back against the
pillows.

"Don't stop me," he entreated through the pain,
"please...don't stop me..."

A moment later George cursed and hauled him back to a
sitting position, shoving a section of the sheet to his
face. For one happy second Mulder thought George was going
to smother him, and he tried to help by burying his nose in
the fabric, but instead George just dabbed at the blood that
had begun to pour from his nose.

By the time the nosebleed was under control, Amelia and
several of the others had arrived, including Dr. Tenger,
whom Amelia had invited to stay at the island for the next
few months on retainer. She'd commented mildly that she was
certain Fox would require his services sooner or later.  Now
it seemed she was proven correct.

"Turn him over," Dr. Tenger instructed, and George picked
Mulder up as if he were no more than a tiny kitten and
deposited him face down on the bed as Amelia looked on,
tight-lipped with worry and anger.  "Carefully!" the doctor
ordered, but George had already dropped Mulder.

After checking Mulder over thoroughly, and making sure his
nose hadn't begun bleeding again when George had flipped
him, Dr. Tenger gently bandaged the bleeding gash that
Mulder had managed to create. "Don't let him sleep," he
ordered as he left the room.  "He does need to rest,
however.  Watch him.  I'll check back shortly."

"Don't worry, Doctor, I won't let him fall asleep," Amelia
replied grimly as the men left the room.

Mulder had kept his eyes tightly closed during the entire
examination, afraid to face her wrath, and wracked with
disappointment that his latest attempt at checking out of
Hotel Verlassen had failed. Now that they were alone, he
risked opening them just a tiny slit. She was sitting in a
chair beside his bed, studying him thoughtfully, and when
she saw him peeking at her she frowned.

"You might as well wake up and face the music, Fox," she
informed him. "You aren't fooling me."

He gave a small sigh and opened his eyes fully, thankful
that the light in the room was dim. The pain in the back of
his head was agonizing by now, and he was fairly certain,
from past experience, that they wouldn't be giving him any
pain medication this soon--not the good stuff anyway.

"What else did you expect me to do?" he asked in a raspy
whisper.

She reached over and brushed a lock of his hair away from
his eyes so she could look at him fully. Her face was still
grim. "What did I expect?  The unexpected, to be certain,
but not this.  Never this.  Not from you...from the man I'd
been led to believe you were.  This was nothing but a
cowardly little stunt, Fox."

He almost laughed--*Little stunt?*  He'd just tried to off
himself again, in the most creative way to date, and she
called it a *little stunt?*--then clenched his eyelids shut
as the pain slammed into him in a huge wave. The doctor had
given him an injection of anti-nausea medication, but it
clearly wasn't working; Mulder was feeling more and more ill
every second.  With great effort, he raised himself up on
his elbows, ignoring the lightning bolt through his head,
just in time to avoid retching all over himself.  Then
promptly fell face-first into the bilious mess.

As soon as Amelia realized what was happening she yelled for
them to get Dr. Tenger again. She held Mulder up as he
vomited all over the sheets, wiping at his face with one
corner of the fabric. When he finally finished, she pulled
his trembling body close to hers and ran her hand over his
back, murmuring soothing words to him as Dr. Tenger
administered yet another dose of medication.

The doctor checked Mulder's pupillary responses and seemed
pleased. Apparently he hadn't managed to do any further
damage to himself by vomiting. George and Martin carefully
plucked Mulder from the bed and placed him gently in the
chair, changed the sheets and returned him to the bed, all
in the space of a few minutes.

By the time Mulder was settled back under the covers he was
freezing, and fighting hard not to fall asleep. He had been
ordered by Amelia to stay awake, and feared dropping off now
might just try the last of her patience with him. He didn't
know what she would do but he did realize that he was
completely at her mercy, and that she was not above hurting
him if she felt it necessary. She'd already proven that.

"Keep him awake for another couple of hours," the doctor
told them. "Then it's all right to let him drift off to
sleep, but wake him up every half hour or so until about
mid-afternoon, just to make sure he still knows who and
where he is. If he shows any disorientation, or you're
unable to rouse him, call me immediately. Surely by now we
all know the drill," he sighed.

"George, Martin, why don't you take shifts," Amelia
suggested. "He seems to feel most comfortable with you two."

George settled in to watch Mulder, and Mulder covered his
face with his hands and tried to lose himself in his own
mind. He had tried. He didn't know what else to do.

*****

JANUARY 21

Mulder lay in the middle of the huge bed, pretending to
sleep while Jacob watched over him. Since his attempt two
weeks ago to bash his brains out on the headboard, Amelia
had decreed that he was to be watched round-the-clock,
thereby removing any and all privacy Mulder may have enjoyed
before. He didn't realize he missed it until he tried to go
to the bathroom and was followed inside by his enormous
keeper of the day. Since then he'd gotten somewhat used to
having someone else around him all the time, but several of
the men still made him feel uneasy, although he was unable
to pinpoint exactly why. None of them had ever treated him
badly, but a couple of them made his skin crawl. He had
learned to limit his bathroom time after that.

One of those who gave him the creepy-crawlies was sitting
watch over him now, which was why Mulder was pretending to
still be deep in slumber. Jacob had a look in his eye at
times that made Mulder distinctly nervous, and Mulder wasn't
sure if the look meant Jacob wanted to thrash him within an
inch of his life or throw him down and fuck him silly. Maybe
both, he thought with a shudder.

The door opened, and Mulder risked squinting a peek to see
who was entering. Mentally, he rolled his eyes.  Great, he
thought. Just great. Another day with Ian. Ian was the guard
Mulder had originally though of as 'Olaf', the largest of
the men who watched him and another who made Mulder uneasy.
Unfortunately he wasn't given a choice in who his handler
for the day was; they rotated--sooner or later it was bound
to work around to these two.

"He sure is a pretty boy, ain't he?" Ian smirked as he took
in Mulder's still form curled under the bedclothes.

"Yeah, real pretty," Jacob agreed. "I've been sitting here
for the last hour thinking how much fun I could have with
him."

Ian gave a furtive glance behind him to make certain he had
closed the door. "I won't tell if you won't tell," he
winked, and Mulder felt his bowels turn to water. He fought
to maintain his even, steady breathing so as not to give
himself away.

"You mean now? While he's sleeping?" Jacob gaped stupidly.

Ian leered again. "He won't be sleeping once I get my cock
up his ass," he vowed, leaning over the man in the bed and
reaching to draw back the sheet.

Like lightning, Mulder threw the covers aside and tried to
scramble off the bed, but Jacob grabbed him around the waist
and yanked him back. He wrenched Mulder's arms behind his
back and pulled his victim up against his chest. Ian caught
Mulder's legs and, with one swift pull, stripped him of the
sweat pants he'd been wearing for warmth.

"HELP!" Mulder yelled with as much voice as he could muster,
and was silenced a moment later by Ian's hard slap across
his face.

"Shut up, bitch!" he growled as Jacob clamped his big, beefy
hand down over Mulder's mouth.

Ian reached for Mulder's boxers, and Mulder began to fight
like a wildcat, managing to sink his teeth into the hand
covering his mouth. This only earned him another slap which
sent his ears ringing. The hand was replaced over his mouth,
much more firmly this time, and Mulder found himself getting
lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Frantically he sucked in
air through his nose as he continued to kick and try to
avoid Ian.

Ian grabbed both of Mulder's ankles with his hands and
forced his legs to the bed, then climbed on Mulder's thighs,
pinning him helplessly to the mattress. Unable to move,
Mulder watched as Ian triumphantly produced a large
pocketknife and flipped it open with a sinister smile. He
shut his eyes briefly, then forced them open again and fixed
his gaze on the knife, following it down until he could only
see the top of Ian's head bending over him. Seconds later a
cool rush of air caressed his genitals as Ian sliced his
boxers away from his body.

Mulder's struggles were becoming weaker as exhaustion
threatened to overtake him, and there was one horrifying
moment when he knew with absolute certainty that he was
about to be brutally raped. Ian stood up and began unzipping
his jeans, and Mulder closed his eyes, hoping that they
would at least do him the courtesy of killing him when they
were finished.

"Ian! Jacob! What the HELL do you think you're doing?"
Amelia's voice cracked through the room and all three men
jumped in surprise.

Mulder felt the hand over his mouth relax as Jacob
stuttered, trying to come up with a good explanation for why
the two of them were holding a completely naked Mulder down
on the bed. Finally he stopped trying to speak, released his
grip on Mulder's mouth and wrists, and eased himself out
from under the smaller man. Mulder grabbed for the sheet and
drew it over his entire body, burying himself in the safety
of the covers and leaving only his eyes peeking out. Once
safely hidden, he waited to see what Amelia would do.

She was red-faced and trembling with fury. "Have you
forgotten what will happen to all of us if we hurt Fox?" she
spat at them. "Fuck each other if you must, but you will not
touch him, do you understand me? I have no intention of
suffering the consequences of your actions. Now go. I'll
deal with you later."

Mulder watched from his hiding place as the two men slunk
from the room, completely cowed by their much smaller, much
fiercer mistress. The idea of the men who, just a few
minutes earlier, had been manhandling him as if he were
nothing more threatening than a plush toy animal being
ordered away by the diminutive blond struck him as suddenly
hilarious.

"I'm so sorry, Fox," Amelia began, turning to him after
Jacob and Ian had left the room. She stopped in surprise at
the shaking bed and the noise it was emitting. Walking over
and gently tugging the covers away from around Mulder's
head, Amelia found tears streaming down his face and his
body hitching with sobbing laughter.

"Oh...Fox," she said in a half laugh, sitting on the bed and
pulling him to her. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"

He burrowed into her embrace and shook his head quickly, his
desperate laughter quickly turning to real sobs as shock set
in.  His "other" had completely taken over now, he realized
from somewhere outside his body.  As a spectator, he watched
while she rocked him back and forth, rubbing his back and
smoothing his hair for a long time until finally he began to
calm down. Still she held him, and eventually his breathing
slowed and he dropped into an exhausted sleep, merging back
with his "other" just before losing consciousness.

His dreams were of his body, split neatly in two, neither
side alive, both halves bleeding, bleeding, until he simply
melted into the sand of Verlassen's beautiful beach.

-----

Amelia watched as Fox slipped into sleep, then eased him out
of her lap and down to the bed, quietly covering him. She
left the rooms, locking the door securely behind her, and
went to make another phone call.

*****

JANUARY 22

Mulder moaned softly in his sleep and rolled over, pulling
the sheet with him. Martin put down the tray of food he'd
brought and pulled the sheet away from Mulder. Mulder's eyes
flew open and he scrambled quickly to the other side of the
bed, a look of abject terror on his face.

"Relax, Fox. I'm an avowed heterosexual, and I like my women
willing." Martin smiled easily and went about straightening
the bedroom, careful to keep his distance from Mulder. "Sit
up. Eat your breakfast. Nobody's going to hurt you, I
promise."

Mulder regarded him warily, letting his eyes drift to the
tray of food. For the first time in days, he actually felt
as if he might be able to eat something, but he had no
intention of getting any closer to Martin than necessary. He
refused to take his eyes off the other man.

Martin, noticing his uneasiness, took the chair beside the
bed and dragged it over against the wall on the other side
of the room, then sat down and made himself comfortable. "Go
ahead and eat, Fox. I'll sit over here."

Cautiously, Mulder moved across the bed to the tray and
picked up a slice of toast. He raised it to his mouth,
keeping his eyes on Martin the entire time. Martin saw how
nervous Mulder was, so he picked a book at random off the
shelf beside his chair and settled himself to read, glancing
over the pages occasionally to check on the progress his
charge was making. Mulder eventually cleaned the entire
plate, finishing his first complete meal in weeks. When he
was done he sat back against the pillows, uncertain of what
came next.

"You need to have a shower," Martin commented, putting the
book he'd been pretending to read back in its place. Mulder
stiffened at the comment, but knew it was Amelia's order,
and that Martin would see that it was carried out.

When Mulder hesitated, the big man se sighed and stood up.
"You can do it yourself, or I can drag you in there and do
it for you, but it's going to happen. It's your call, Fox."

Mulder considered for a moment. Once he'd awakened, alone,
after the rape attempt, he had donned a clean pair of boxers
and sweatpants as well as a long-sleeved sweatshirt. He wore
it still, since he hadn't felt comfortable removing even one
item of clothing the night before when he climbed into bed.
He wanted to get cleaned up, but at the same time loathed
and feared the idea of being naked and vulnerable.

When Martin didn't back down, Mulder slid off the bed and
stood uncertainly for a moment, then went to the dresser and
pulled out clean boxers and sweats. He started for the
bathroom, hesitating when he had to walk in front of Martin.

"I'm not going to lay a finger on you unless you force me
to," Martin assured him, and with a hopeless sigh, Mulder
decided his suspicion could gain him nothing. If Martin
wanted him, Martin could certainly take him easily.

He walked quickly into the bathroom and his guard allowed
him to close the door behind him, for which Mulder was
profoundly grateful. He hurried quickly through his shower
and threw on his clothes, terrified that at any moment the
door would be thrown open and he would be dragged out and
violated.  When he emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes
later, he discovered Amelia had returned.

"How are you, Fox?" she asked solicitously, and Mulder
shrugged casually.

"Okay," he told her.

"Come, sit down. Let's talk." She walked to the window and
gestured to his chair, and after a moment's hesitation, with
another long look at Martin, he crossed the room and sat
beside her. Nervously Mulder twisted his fingers together in
his lap, refusing to look at Amelia. He didn't know what she
was going to do to him now, but somehow he was sure it was
going to involve another loss of his freedom or privacy.
There was so little remaining now that he had almost nothing
left to take away, but he was certain Amelia wouldn't let
him go unpunished.  In the terror and confusion of losing
himself to the "other," Mulder was convinced he must have
been somehow at fault for yesterday's debacle.  The fact
that the idea made no sense didn't penetrate his
consciousness, not now, after all these months of captivity.

He was a mere shadow of himself now, and sometimes, in
private moments, he wondered if Scully would still want this
weak, frail, damaged Mulder, should he ever taste freedom
again.

"What are we going to do with you?" Amelia asked, a slightly
indulgent smile on her face.

"Let me go home?" he responded in a sarcastically hopeful
tone, irritated at the way she spoke to him, as if she were
his mother and he no more than an unruly toddler.

She ignored his comment.

"I have to keep you under watch, or you'll no doubt try to
strangle yourself with the bedsheets or something."

Mulder raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, as if considering the
option, and she sighed.

"This leaves me with a bit of a problem," she continued,
obviously not in the mood for his sense of humor. "I can't
run the risk of you attracting any more of my help--I can't
spare the rest of them."

He glanced up at her, suddenly sober. Surely she didn't
mean--?

"Ian and Jacob are...gone. They've been dealt with. Don't
worry, Fox, they'll never be able to bother you again."

Gone. Mulder supposed that meant she'd had them killed, and
a quick look over at Martin confirmed his suspicion.  Mulder
slumped back into the chair, hating the fact that all he
felt at the deaths of two men was relief.  All the same, it
was surprising that he, a lowly prisoner, rated that type of
vengeance.

"I think what I'll have to do is stick with Martin--you seem
to do all right around him--and one other. George?"

George. George was gruff and stern, but he had never been
unkind, and Mulder had never felt his skin crawl when George
looked at him. George had never run his eyes up and down
Mulder's body the way Ian had done on occasion. He looked
down at his lap again, feeling the awful defeat overtake
him, and nodded once. George would be all right.

"Now, as for you." She shook her head again and sighed
heavily. "I know if you get another chance to hurt yourself
you'll take it, and I don't know what else to do to prevent
it except immobilize you completely."

Mulder's head shot up and he was already wondering how best
to form his plea for mercy when she said, "I'm not planning
to do that, so don't panic."

He sat back heavily, eyes closed, exhaling a long breath of
relief. His desire to joke around was completely gone,
chased away by her threat.

Amelia leaned very close to him, so close their knees were
almost touching, and dropped her voice half an octave.  He
looked up into her serious face and waited. Her words
caressed over his cheek, a warning he dared not ignore.

"However, rest assured, I'll do what I must.  The next time
you get the urge to do yourself harm, Fox, take a moment to
picture yourself tied to your bed twenty-four hours a day."

He kept his gaze level, but paled slightly at her words--he
knew they were spoken without a hint of insincerity. If she
thought she had to keep him completely restrained, she would
do so. End of discussion.

He fought his "other," fought valiantly, and thought he'd
won until he opened his mouth and heard the "other" speak.

"I--" He stopped and swallowed convulsively, willing the
words not to come to his lips, losing the battle completely.
"Don't. Please. I'll--I'll behave."

Amelia waited a few seconds to answer, and Mulder felt sweat
bead up on his brow.

Finally she spoke a single word, "Good," and left the room.

Mulder watched her go, and his eyes had become empty again.

He hated himself.

*****

FEBRUARY 13

"C'mon, Mulder, you have to eat something or I'll be in
trouble," Martin said, his voice strangely gentle for such a
large man. He urged a bite of perfectly scrambled eggs
toward Mulder's mouth.

Mulder stared blankly out the window, unseeing.

He was gone.  The "other" had taken over.

He made no response as Martin pressed the food to his lips,
except to open his mouth a fraction of an inch. Martin was
able to tuck the eggs inside, but the recipient of the
chef's efforts didn't make a move to chew or swallow. He
just sat quietly, his vacant, sad expression unchanging.

------

Martin sighed and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. It
was going to be another long day with Mulder, he could tell.
Only a couple of weeks ago the man had seemed almost normal,
but now... Martin found himself wondering how much longer
Mulder would last.

Things had been pretty good after he and George had been
assigned to guard Mulder exclusively, and he'd even had some
interesting conversations with his charge at first, the most
enlightening being when he'd asked if Martin would call him
by his last name.

"Please," he'd said, and Martin could tell Mulder hated the
way that word spilled so easily from him these days. Martin
was willing to bet the only time the word 'please' had
crossed Mulder's lips before Verlassen was as a courtesy;
Mulder didn't seem the type of man to beg. Now it prefaced
nearly every sentence he uttered. "Everybody here calls me
Fox. I hate that name. Back home--" He'd broken off for a
second, turning to face the window so Martin couldn't see
his desolate expression. "I'd prefer it if you would just
call me Mulder," he'd finished, having gotten his breathing
under control. "Just Mulder."

"Mulder. Sure, I can do that," Martin had agreed easily, and
a new bond had been forged between them, albeit a very small
one--a certain type of trust had been created.

Now, sitting here in front of the eternal, blasted window,
Martin was getting fed up. Mulder had become less and less
responsive over the past few days, and Martin knew if he
didn't manage to get some food into the younger man soon,
Mulder was going to waste away into nothingness.

Trying desperately to get some show of emotion from Mulder,
he remarked snidely, "Maybe I could get Ian up here to hold
you while I forced it into your mouth."  He immediately
regretted his words when Mulder's blank expression turned to
one of loathing and he shifted his eyes from the ocean to
Martin's face.

Mulder swallowed quickly, and asked in a low voice, "They're
dead, aren't they? They were killed because of me."

"No, Mulder," Martin replied, sneaking another bite of egg
into the prisoner's reluctant mouth. "They were killed
because they tried to rape you. It's not quite the same
thing. They put us all in danger with their actions."

-----

Mulder smiled a tiny, sad smile. "Even locked away I can
still get people killed," he commented.

"You know," Martin replied casually, spearing some fruit on
the tines and offering it to Mulder, putting the fork down
when it was ignored, "it's great how you take the weight of
the world on yourself.  I mean--who needs Jesus when you're
so willing to atone for everyone else's sins?"

"You don't understand."

Martin shrugged.  "Try me."

Mulder glanced over at him, as if sizing up Martin's ability
to comprehend his level of responsibility.

"I got Scully's sister killed. I almost got Scully
killed...so many times. She's safe now, though." His eyes
drifted over to the photograph of Scully that was never out
of his sight, being carried faithfully from room to room as
he moved about the apartment. It was as if Mulder knew, deep
within his own mind, that if he didn't have Scully with him,
he would lose sight of why he was enduring this
imprisonment, and if he lost sight of that he would
surrender completely in the madness that threatened to
engulf him.

His suspicions, those that had been growing steadily more
certain for months now, were suddenly overwhelming, and he
wanted--no, he *needed*--reassurance.

"Do you think she really is safe, Martin? Do you think he
lied to me? What if she needs me to take care of her, or
protect her, and I'm not there?"

As quickly as he'd changed before, he changed again; the
"other" covered his face with his hands and tried to block
out the image of Scully lying in her hospital bed wracked
with the disease that had so nearly taken her life. "What if
her cancer's come back and I'm not there for her?"

Martin reached out, taking one of Mulder's hands and pulling
it away from his face in order to see a bloodshot hazel eye
peeking out.

"Mulder, she's safe."

Mulder glanced sidewise at him, the one visible eye focusing
on Martin's face.

"She's safe and she's well."

Mulder dropped his other hand and gazed at Martin eagerly.
"You know about Scully?" he asked excitedly. "What she's
doing? How she's been? Can you tell me about her? Martin,
please, tell me-- what do you know?"

Martin rolled his eyes a little and put the fork he was
holding down on the plate. It was more animation than Mulder
had shown in weeks. "I know some things," he confirmed, "but
you're not getting them out of me that easily."

Mulder stared back in shocked surprise. It hadn't occurred
to him to ask for information about Scully from Martin, and
now the big man was teasing him with it, wanting something
in return--wanting what?  Jesus, not that! No!...no...not
that.  Not that at all.  This was something much more
benign.  Martin was holding the fork out to Mulder, a chunk
of sausage speared on the tines. He wanted Mulder to eat.

Mulder almost laughed with relief.

He breathed a small sigh of relief and took the utensil
reluctantly. He'd been ill--he experienced almost constant
nausea.  There was no way he'd keep the food down, but if it
would get Martin to talk about Scully, Mulder would gladly
eat his breakfast and vomit up his guts afterwards.

Small price to pay.

He stuck the sausage into his mouth, waiting expectantly for
Martin to speak. When he had chewed and swallowed, Martin
said, "She's completely healthy."

Mulder's eyes lit up and he ate a bite of scrambled egg.

"She has a new partner."

At that, the hazel eyes clouded over, and Martin had to
gesture toward the plate before Mulder reluctantly took
another bite of breakfast.

"She's been paying the rent on your apartment."

Mulder froze for a second, unbelieving, and then a look of
incredible softness appeared on his face. He took the next
bite slowly, almost dreamily, and waited for his next tidbit
of information.

"She's adopted your fish."

The tears came without warning, and Mulder was powerless to
stop them, cursing himself inwardly even as he turned away,
burying his head in the crook of his arm. The fork clattered
to the floor, and he tried desperately to muffle his cries
against the chair.

Mulder felt the churning in his stomach increase with his
outburst of emotion, and soon, as expected, he deposited his
breakfast on the floor next to the chair. He was a little
surprised that it had happened so quickly, but he had known
that it was inevitable.

-----

"Shit, Mulder, if I'd thought it would have this effect on
you I'd have kept my mouth shut!" Martin grumbled as he set
Mulder's plate aside and stood up, pulling the other man to
his feet. "Come on, let's get you back to bed."

He threw Mulder's arm over his own shoulders and guided him
toward the bedroom, carefully avoiding the mess on the
floor. Mulder slumped against him, drained of all his
energy, and Martin practically had to drag him the first few
steps before Mulder was able to help out. Just as they
reached the bedroom, Mulder released his grip on Martin's
body and leaned over to retch again. Martin barely caught
him in time to prevent him going face first to the floor.

"You done?" he asked when Mulder seemed to have vomited up
every last bit of food in his stomach, and the only thing
coming out was yellow bile.

Mulder nodded weakly, a look of pure misery on his face, and
Martin, in exasperation, picked him up and carried him the
last ten feet to the bed. He lay Mulder down carefully and
covered him with the blankets, taking note of the way the
thin body on the bed was beginning to tremble.

"Martin?" the weak voice stopped him as he backed away.

"Yeah, Mulder?"

A pause. "How long have I been here?"

Martin sighed. He shook his head sadly. "Don't do this to
yourself, Mulder," he said firmly, and turned away, trying
to block out the soft sound of heartbroken tears.

After cleaning up the mess that had been created by his
ill-fated attempts to get Mulder to eat, Martin checked on
him again. Mulder had fallen asleep, and studying him now,
Martin could clearly see the toll captivity had taken on
him. His skin was stretched tautly over the bones of his
face and had an unhealthy pallor. His entire body was
painfully thin, and when he'd picked Mulder up, the man had
felt light as a feather in his arms.

Martin lay his hand on Mulder's forehead, and frowned when
he felt the heat there. It might be nothing yet, but he was
pretty sure Mulder was developing a fever. He'd been
coughing and sniffling the last two days, but neither he nor
George had seen any sign of real illness. Now he wondered
how long Mulder had been hiding the nausea.

With another sigh, he pulled the covers tighter around the
shivering figure and left the room. He had discovered, much
to his surprise, that he actually liked the man in the bed,
and it disturbed him to think of Mulder wasting away here,
mind and body, pining for Dana Scully, life draining away
from him day after day after day. It disturbed him more than
he cared to admit. Surely there was an easier way of
guaranteeing Mulder's silence. Quietly stepping outside
Mulder's rooms, Martin flagged down George, who happened to
be starting down the stairs.

"Can you sit with him for a few minutes? He's asleep, and I
need to talk with Amelia."

"Sure," George shrugged. "No problem."

After making sure George was safely watching over Mulder,
Martin went in search of his employer. He found her in her
office, talking on the telephone with the man that Mulder
always referred to as 'Cancerman,' or 'Black-Lunged
Bastard.' a name which Martin privately found quite amusing.
It appeared that Amelia was getting an update on Scully,
something she tried to keep up with so she would have bits
and pieces of information to feed to Mulder when he was
particularly down--little tidbits to entice a bit more life
from him.  Martin berated himself for not thinking sooner of
the quid pro quo game he'd played with the food.

"And her checkup was normal? No sign of the cancer
returning?" she asked as she turned to Martin and held up
one finger to him. "That's good to hear, I'll pass it on to
him soon. He's been pretty depressed lately, this should
cheer him up a little....No....No, there haven't been any
more incidents like that, and there won't be.  The two men
guarding Fox now are completely trustworthy....Yes, Sir,
I'll keep you informed."

She hung up the telephone and turned to Martin. "Well,
Scully had her regular checkup yesterday and she's still
cancer-free. That should make Fox feel better," she told him
with a bright smile. "What can I do for you, Martin?"

"He's not going to last much longer," Martin told her
bluntly, ignoring her chipper mood. "And he's getting sick.
He puked up his breakfast.  Better get Dr. Tenger back over
here."

Amelia sighed.  "I knew I shouldn't have let him go," she
muttered to herself.  "But Fox has been so...sedate lately.
What happened?" she frowned, and as Martin filled her in on
Mulder's frighteningly deep depression, her worried look
deepened. "Do you think he'll snap out of it? He always has
before," she asked hopefully. Martin seemed to be something
of an expert at gauging the many moods of Fox Mulder.

"Amelia, he's dying," Martin explained patiently, wondering
why nobody else could see this. "He might live another six
months, but he's slowly dying. And this is cruel, keeping
him locked up here like this.  Why do we have to torture
him?" He stood quietly for a moment, thinking, and then
ventured, "What if he had an accident--one that couldn't be
pinned on us?"

Amelia looked suddenly wary, and Martin reached behind
himself, gently pushing the office door closed. He leaned in
to her and said in a voice that was practically a whisper,
"I could smother him with his pillow. It would be over in a
matter of minutes. He'd be out of his misery."

Amelia drew back, a thoughtful expression on her beautiful
face, and let the idea run through her mind for fully ten
seconds before beginning to slowly shake her head. "No, it's
too dangerous," she told him. "If there was an autopsy
performed, they'd figure it out, and we'd all be dead.
Besides, it's our job to prevent accidents happening to Fox.
Somehow, I doubt *he*," she added, jerking her head toward
the phone, "would accept that excuse.  We'll just have to
let things run their course, and do what we can to help
him."

"Why would there be an autopsy?" Martin demanded
incredulously.  "He couldn't exactly call a coroner and tell
him the FBI agent we've held captive for the past few months
died suddenly."

Amelia's face darkened.  "You never know with him," she
answered.  "He's a constant surprise."

Martin crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back
against the door, irritated at the turn of events, irritated
at Mulder, irritated at himself for caring what happened to
the man upstairs. "Then if I were you, I'd get back on the
phone and tell your boss he needs to come up with a better
solution than lifelong incarceration if he wants to keep
Mulder alive.  Although why the hell he cares is beyond me."

Amelia played idly with a pen on her desk for a moment, lost
in thought. Finally she looked up at Martin, seeing the
weariness etched in his face. She realized with sudden
revelation that he honestly cared what happened to Fox.
"I'll see what I can do," she promised him, "Although I
can't imagine what else he could suggest."

"Scully is the key, I think," Martin commented after a
minute. "He'll do anything for her. That picture of her is
the only thing that's kept him sane this long, if you ask
me. The reason he encouraged her to stop trying to rescue
him was because he was promised her safety. Maybe she could
be used as leverage to assure his silence. Although I doubt
he remembers enough of what was in that journal to do much
harm at this point."

Amelia sighed. "It was never a matter of him remembering
what was in the journal at all. It was simply the fact that
he knew the vaccine wasn't one hundred percent effective
that was the threat. Nobody outside our circle was supposed
to know that. If Fox had gone public with that journal, the
project would have been jeopardized. If we release him now
and he talks...well, the threat is still very real."

"That's what I mean. He'll keep quiet if Scully's
threatened."

She regarded him doubtfully. "Do you really think so? Fox is
so passionate about his truth."

"Believe me, Amelia, he's much more passionate about that
woman." Martin stood up straight and reached for the
doorknob, then turned back. "Think about it, would you?
Because I guarantee, Mulder isn't going to live much longer.
They should have just killed him in the first place."

Amelia sighed. "That's what we all told him, but he wouldn't
hear of it."

"Well, it's too late to change that decision now, but if he
still wants Mulder alive he's going to have to think of a
way to free him without endangering the project."

"Maybe we could find a way to give him a little more freedom
ourselves?" she asked questioningly, turning to Martin for
the answers.

"No. He'll just go back to trying to do himself in as soon
as he's strong enough. Walks on the beach and swims in the
surf aren't going to solve the problem, Amelia. That man is
dying."

He stalked out of the office and down the hall, leaving
Amelia to wonder how you could coax life out of somebody who
had lost the will to live.

*****

"I want to offer you a deal."

The smoking man frowned at Scully, standing in the depths of
shadow.  He didn't like to be summoned--he was normally the
person doing the summoning--but when the man assigned as
Scully's contact had told him she insisted on a meeting with
him, he'd thought it expedient to agree.

He reached into the pocket of his suit, fumbling for his
cigarettes, and withdrew an empty package.  Angrily, he
crumpled it and tossed it to the ground.

"And what makes you think you are in a position to offer me
anything, Agent Scully?"

Scully stepped closer, staring up at him with eyes that were
steely and unafraid.  He felt an unfamiliar sensation, and
realized it was discomfort.  He, who had seen many men die,
felt uncomfortable in the sights of this small,
insignificant woman.

"Because I have nothing left to lose."

He raised an eyebrow and waited.

"I know what you promised Mulder, in exchange for his
cooperation.  I'm here to offer you a similar arrangement in
exchange for his freedom."

He smiled, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
"You'll promise not to give me cancer?" he asked
sarcastically.

She was unmoved by his sense of humor.

"Mulder offered to sacrifice himself.  I'm giving you the
same."

His gaze grew more interested, and Scully nearly retched at
the implication.

"Not that, you bastard," she told him coldly.  "Frankly, I
doubt you're capable."

Inwardly, Scully winced at the crudeness of her talk, but
pressed onward forcefully.

"You wanted me before for experimentation purposes. Wouldn't
you like to finish the job?"

His eyes roved over her.  "What makes you think we weren't
finished with you?"

Scully's eyes narrowed.  "Because you and your Nazi doctors
left me alive," she spat.  "Alive and barren.  There must be
years worth of research you could use my body for."

"Ah, so you *are* offering me your body.  I want to be clear
on this."

Scully took yet another step forward, and felt a surge of
triumph when he moved almost imperceptibly backwards.

"You told Mulder I'd be safe if he cooperated.  Now I'm
telling you--if you let him go, and he doesn't keep your
secret...I'll go with you willingly.  You and your people
can do whatever type of--"  She stopped, unable to voice the
horrible offer.

"You trust him that much?"  His voice was mild, but she knew
better than to take it at face value.  If he wasn't
considering her offer, he'd be on his way by now.

She said nothing more--just waited.  The ball was in his
court now.

He regarded her coolly for a few moments, then said, "How
interesting."

And disappeared into the night.

*****

There was a knock at the door, and Martin opened it, leaving
Mulder in his usual spot at the window. It was Raymond with
their lunch. Martin inhaled deeply when he saw the tender
steak on the plates. He knew getting it into Mulder would be
a chore, but he was certainly going to enjoy his own.  The
cuisine was one of the best things about this job.

"Could you watch him for a second while I visit the john?"
he asked Raymond, and Raymond grunted assent while he placed
the tray on the table at Mulder's elbow.

Martin disappeared into the bathroom, and Mulder glanced
disinterestedly at the tray beside him. Steak. God, the food
here was incredible. Too bad he never felt like eating it.
He was sure it would compare with any famous restaurant back
home.

Home.

Mulder closed his eyes tightly, fighting back a wave of
emotion. He knew now would never see home again.

One of the violent coughing fits he'd been having gripped
him suddenly, and it took his mind off his memories for the
moment. When he'd gotten himself under control, Mulder took
a deep breath and glanced around the room. After making sure
Mulder was all right, Raymond strolled over to the other
window, turning his back on Mulder temporarily, and Mulder's
gaze played over the tray. His breath caught when he
realized that some fool had left two sharp steak knives on
the tray. There should have only been one, Martin's, because
obviously Mulder couldn't be trusted with a knife.

Someone had made a serious mistake.

Shooting a quick glance over at Raymond, Mulder snaked his
hand out slowly toward the tray and held his breath while
his fingers closed carefully over one of the knives.
Quickly, silently, he brought the knife close to his body.
Where to hide it? He heard the toilet flush and knew he had
only seconds to make a decision. In the chair? If they
discovered it was missing, that would be the first place
they'd search.

Water ran in the sink and Mulder hastily shoved the knife
into the waistband of his sweats, careful to point the blade
away from his bare skin as much as possible. He adjusted his
shirt over the knife a split second before Martin returned,
and when his guard lowered himself to his chair, Mulder was
sitting still, as quiet and detached as ever.

Inwardly,  he prayed Martin wouldn't hear the pounding of
his heart.

Martin nodded to Raymond and reached for the tray, taking
his own plate--and the solitary knife--and moving it out of
Mulder's reach. Mulder glanced at the food disinterestedly
and went back to staring out the window while Martin ate his
own lunch. He knew Martin would begin coercing him to eat as
soon as he finished.

*****

George placed the lunch tray on Amelia's desk and turned to
go, not wanting to bother her while she was working. He was
almost at the door when she spoke.

"George? Could you please bring me a knife?" she asked
absently, her eyes on the paperwork before her.

George swung around in confusion. "But I put it there
mysel--sonofabitch!"

He raced for the stairs, Amelia close on his heels.

"What is it?" she demanded as they approached Mulder's room.
"What's happened?"

"I put a steak knife on your tray, Amelia," he explained
grimly as he unlocked the door and flung it open.  "Someone
obviously mixed them up."

Martin and Mulder looked around, startled when the door flew
open and Amelia and George burst into the room.

"Where is it?" George demanded, instantly confronting
Mulder.

Mulder gave him a look of incomprehension and glanced
nervously at Martin, stifling the cough that tried to
overtake him.

"What are you talking about, George?" Martin questioned,
putting one hand on Mulder's arm to calm him.

"The knife," Amelia told him impatiently. "There was a mixup
in the kitchen and Fox was given my tray by mistake. Where's
the knife?"

Martin shook his head while Mulder cowered back into his
chair, breathing heavily, frightened by the intensity of
their reactions.

"There was only one knife delivered to this room, and it's
right here," he assured them, holding up his own steak
knife, which he had been very careful not to let go of for
even a second. "Mulder hasn't touched it."

George gave Mulder a suspicious glare. "Are you sure?" he
asked Martin.

"Of course I'm sure, it's the first thing I looked for," he
said testily. "I know my job."

Amelia shook her head, positioning herself directly in front
of Mulder's window.

"Stand up, Fox," she ordered.  He did, skittering quickly
out of her way, and she stuck her hands carefully down all
around the cushion of his chair. Finally satisfied that he
hadn't stashed the knife there, she turned to George.
"Search him," she commanded.

George reached for Mulder and Mulder backed away, holding
his hands out protectively.

"I don't have it," he insisted, licking his lips nervously
as George advanced on him. "I'm not *allowed* to touch a
knife. I'm not even *allowed* to take a piss by myself!"

George grabbed him by the biceps and Mulder reacted
violently, the memory of his near-rape still too fresh in
his mind.

"Leave me alone, you bastard!" he yelled, struggling as
George shoved him up against the wall to hold him in place.

"Fox, he's not going to hurt you," Amelia interrupted
sharply. "Just let him search you, or hand over the knife."

"I don't have your stupid fucking knife!" Mulder screamed,
completely out of control now. "I don't have anything at
all!"  His voice cracked with emotion.  "I just want to be
left alone.

"I've lost every bit of freedom I ever had because you
people couldn't keep track of your fucking journal! I never
asked to have the damned thing delivered to me, and the next
thing I know I'm a fucking non-person. Keep your hands off
me!"

He kicked out frantically at George and George looked over
to Amelia for direction. She nodded reluctantly, concerned
at the violent reaction George had drawn from Fox, and
George released Mulder after a long, direct look into the
smaller man's eyes.

Mulder slumped down to the floor, coughing severely again
and gasping for breath, and with an aside to Martin to watch
Mulder closely, the two left his rooms.

Martin, who had observed the whole scene with some
amusement, merely commented, "I don't suppose I'll be able
to persuade you to eat at all now, will I?"

Mulder didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer.

*****

Downstairs, Amelia asked George, "Do you think he has it?"

"Oh yes," George nodded certainly. "He has it."

Amelia stood still, thinking for a moment, then said, "Watch
him carefully tonight."

*****

FEBRUARY 14
12:30 a.m.

Mulder surveyed George between the slits of his eyelids as
he pretended to sleep. His guard had been nodding off
occasionally in the chair, and Mulder was hoping George
would fall fully asleep so he could retrieve his knife from
the sofa where he had managed to hide it when Martin's back
was turned that afternoon. He studied George patiently,
waiting until his head slumped against the arm of the chair
and his breathing deepened, and then began to slide slowly
and carefully out of bed.

Mulder placed his feet on the carpeted floor gently and
stood, grateful that the floorboards in his bedroom didn't
creak. He made his way one cautious step at a time to the
sitting room, and was leaning over the sofa feeling between
the cushions for his prize when suddenly he was grabbed from
behind.  One of George's massive arms snaked around his
waist and a huge hand covered his mouth.

"You don't want to do that, little one," George hissed in
his ear, and after a moment of shocked struggling, Mulder
went limp with defeat. George had caught him in the act, and
he was doomed.  He didn't even dare argue over the degrading
term with which George had addressed him.

George reached down between the cushions where Mulder had
been groping and retrieved the knife, holding it up in front
of Mulder's face so the moonlight gleamed off the shiny
silver blade.

"Nice try," he commented dryly, giving Mulder a little
shake.

Mulder kept his silence.

"Go into the bedroom and wait for me." Mulder nodded weakly
and George released him, striding purposefully toward the
bathroom.

Mulder obeyed, turning on the bedside lamp so George could
find his way back to the bedroom easily, then sat on the bed
to wait, the very model of good behavior. Couldn't hurt to
try and earn brownie points at this stage of the game. He
shivered, feeling suddenly like a small child, waiting for
his daddy to come to his room and punish him.

He heard footsteps, accompanied by an odd ripping sound, and
wondered what George was up to. His answer came when George
entered the bedroom carrying the remains of Mulder's
oversized bath towel. It was now in four long strips over
George's arm, and Mulder swallowed hard, wondering what
George was planning to do to him. He knew this act would not
be forgiven easily.

"Are you going to rat me out?" he asked in a low voice,
keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor as George
approached him.

"Nope. Not yet, anyway," George answered, and Mulder looked
up at him hopefully.  As badly as he'd hoped to hide his
crime from George, the thought of Amelia discovering his
treachery was tenfold more terrifying.

His hope faded with George's next words.

"Lie down, Fox."

Hesitantly, Mulder did as he was told, and sighed in
resignation as George began looping one of the long towel
strips around his wrist. The guard tied the towel firmly
around Mulder, then affixed it to the nearest leg of the
large bed, knotting it securely. He then repeated the action
on Mulder's other wrist and both ankles. When he was
finished, Mulder was spread out on the bed, tightly secured,
unable to move more than a few inches.

"I believe Amelia threatened you with this if you were so
foolish as to try and hurt yourself again," George commented
mildly.

"But I wasn't--"

George held up his hand.  "Please, Mulder, credit me with
*some* sense, would you?"

After a few seconds consideration, Mulder gave up,
completely conquered. George would never buy his lie.  Hell,
a five-year-old wouldn't buy it, it was that lame.

"I think I'll let you spend the rest of the night this way
to give you a little taste of what it would be like, and
then we'll try again." He reached over and patted Mulder's
cheek condescendingly with his big hand. "This'll be our
little secret, okay, Fox?"

George went back to his chair and sat, picking up his book
and opening it to the page he'd been reading earlier that
evening.

"Good thing for you that I'm not like Ian and Jacob, isn't
it?" he commented with a chuckle, and smiled at the grimace
on the face of his prisoner. Mulder would learn. George
would make certain of it.

*****

Mulder lay awake the rest of the night, squirming
occasionally to try and ease the uncomfortable cramping in
his muscles.  At one point he glanced over at George, hoping
to elicit pity from his keeper, but George had stared back
impassively and turned another page in his book, wordlessly
returning to his reading. Mulder sighed quietly and
concentrated on relaxing his aching shoulders. He wished
he'd asked to use the bathroom before George had tied him
up, but he wasn't about to risk life and limb by requesting
permission now.

Hours later, as dawn began stealthily creeping over the
horizon, George rose, stretched, and reached for his
pocketknife. He cut the towel strips off Mulder's wrists and
ankles, and helped him rise to a sitting position. Mulder
suppressed a groan and allowed George to haul him upright,
then stood carefully, with the other man's assistance, and
stretched his sore muscles.

When he had loosened some of the kinks in his back and
shoulders, and gotten the feeling back in his legs, Mulder
turned to George, his eyes downcast. "So. You gonna do that
every night, or was this a one-time deal?"

George laughed. "I won't tie you up again, Fox.  Not without
Amelia's order.  But if you do anything else stupid on my
watch, I *will* tell her about this."  He leaned close to
Mulder to add emphasis to his words, his laughter completely
gone. "You know what she promised to do."

Mulder swallowed and gave a slight nod. "But if I
don't--give you any trouble...you won't tell her?" He looked
up hopefully at George. "I don't think she'd be inclined to
cut me any slack at this point."

George laughed. "You're right about that, Fox, but your
secret is safe with me. As long as you behave."

Mulder shrugged his agreement and started for the bathroom.
He only got two or three steps across the room when a wave
of dizziness hit him and he started to fall. George managed
to catch him just before he hit the floor, and pulled him
back to his feet. Taking a good look at Mulder for the first
time, George noticed the flush on the smaller man's face.

Mulder clung to George as another bout of coughing shook his
frame, and when it finally passed he gasped for breath.
George lifted him back to the bed and pushed him down on the
pillows, piling them up behind Mulder's back so as to
elevate his head and chest. Mulder's breathing was labored,
and when George put his hand to Mulder's forehead he drew it
away quickly.

"You're burning up," he stated with dangerous calm. "Why
didn't you tell anyone you were sick again, Fox?"

*****

Mulder lay quietly in the bed, eyes closed most of the time
against the pounding in his head, suffering the pokes and
prods being inflicted on his body yet again as Dr. Tenger
examined him. He could hear voices flowing around him, but
it was too much trouble to try and make out the words over
the noise of the jackhammer in his brain, and he simply lay
there and let them do with him as they would.

He'd thought his "other" had completely taken him over
before, but he had been wrong.  Now, the "other" was the
only Mulder who existed.  The real Mulder, the strong one,
had been locked in a closet somewhere in the recesses of his
mind.  He should have wondered if his real self would ever
emerge again, but the "other" didn't care.

As always, whenever something uncomfortable was being done
to him nowadays, Mulder hoped fervently that the person
inflicting the discomfort would kill him when they were
done, but as always, he knew that they would patch him up
and leave him alive to suffer. Mulder had been steadily
praying for death to a God he wasn't sure he believed in,
and the lack of response wasn't helping convince him of the
existence of such a deity. Surely, he reasoned, if there was
a God, He would have mercy on Fox Mulder at some point; on
the other hand, if Mulder was to be consigned to Hell for
eternity, why had God taken him there early?

He concentrated on that burning question, a philosophical
puzzle to occupy his mind, when Dr. Tenger raised him to a
sitting position and forced him to cough. Coughing hurt his
head and it hurt his chest, but Mulder was unable to escape
the tickling in the back of his throat. It would become more
and more annoying as time passed and he repressed the cough,
until eventually it restricted his breathing and his
traitorous body expelled the cough forcefully, causing him
great pain in the process. Dr. Tenger said if he held a
pillow firmly to his chest when he had to cough, it would
lessen the pain. Dr. Tenger lied.

Now Mulder pondered the existence of God and His reasons for
torturing one poor pathetic soul while Dr. Tenger collected
his sputum sample from Mulder and helped him lie back.

He felt someone take his arm and wrap a rubber tourniquet
around it to draw blood, but Mulder didn't bother
protesting. It wasn't as if he had any rights any longer
anyway. He was just somebody's piece of property, hidden
away and forgotten.

Abandoned.

*Verlassen.*

The tourniquet was removed and he heard Dr. Tenger's voice
rumbling unidentified words, and Amelia's higher, softer
tones responding. A moment later someone patted his face,
and Mulder wanted to slap the offending hand away but didn't
have the strength to lift his arm.

"You in there, Mulder?" Martin asked, leaning close to his
patient's face.

Mulder responded to the voice he recognized as belonging to
the closest thing to a friend he had in this forsaken place.

"Why does God hate me, Martin?" he asked in a puzzled voice,
as if the answer to that question held the answer to all of
life for him. "What did I ever do to make God hate me?"

*****

Mulder's voice had the confused inquisitiveness of a very
young child, and Martin feared he had finally slipped over
the edge of sanity.

"God doesn't hate you, Mulder," he said as he helped Mulder
get settled back under the covers and piled another blanket
on him. "Nobody hates you."

"Nobody loves me, either," Mulder mumbled pathetically,
snuggling his shivering body into the warmth of the
blankets.

"Scully does," Martin pointed out, turning her picture on
the nightstand so Mulder had a clear view.

Mulder's eyes opened a slit and fell on the picture.

"Scully..." he said softly. "You have your faith. Your faith
saved you when you were dying, not me. It was never me. Can
your faith save me now, Scully?" he pleaded in a whisper,
his eyes drooping closed again. Soon his breathing evened,
although it was still too shallow for Martin's liking, and
he dropped off to sleep. Martin studied him worriedly for a
few moments, then left the bedroom to find out the doctor's
verdict from Amelia.

"Probably pneumonia," she told him when he asked. "He's
taken the samples of blood and...stuff...to make sure, but
he's fairly certain."

"What will he do about it?"

"Intravenous antibiotics to start with, I suppose," she
said. "I really don't know. He looks to me as if he needs to
be in a hospital."

"He needs to be released. Or killed," Martin told her
flatly. "We can't keep pulling him back from the edge of
death forever. He hates us for it, you know. Hates us for
keeping him alive all this time.  Sooner or later, with a
man like Mulder, hatred becomes dangerous."

She made a gesture of helplessness. "I don't know what to do
about it, Martin. If I'd realized what we were getting into,
I never would have volunteered to let him bring Fox here.
How was I to know it would turn out like this? I had hoped,
after a time, that he would adapt."

"Mulder isn't the kind of man who will ever adapt to being
kept in a cage like an animal," Martin told her. "He's got
to be released, or one way or another he's going to die."

Amelia studied Martin intently, as if trying to read his
thoughts, and he smiled because hers were so transparent.
"Don't worry," he assured her complacently. "I won't do him
in until you give me the order."

"See that you don't," she commanded. "Your attachment to him
worries me."

"Nothing to worry about, Amelia," he said as he left to
return to his duties. "I just happen to like the man, and I
think it's a shame to put him through this. My loyalties are
still with you. They always have been."

*****

FEBRUARY 18

"Fox?"

Mulder turned his eyes, no longer a bright green-brown hazel
but faded to a dull grey, toward the voice. It was the
woman. A woman. Scully? No, Scully was gone, he couldn't see
Scully anymore. What was this one's name? She took care of
him, he remembered, and although thinking made his head
ache, he reached deep into his memory for her name. Amy. Was
that it? No. Am--something...

A cool hand brushed the hair back from his forehead
tenderly. "Fox," she said again in a voice that was almost a
whisper. "You have a visitor."

She moved aside and Mulder saw movement behind her. A man
this time. He closed his eyes in dejection. He didn't want
have to try remembering another name. He still hadn't
dredged up the woman's. One impossible task at a time,
please.

The man settled himself into a chair at Mulder's bedside,
and Mulder gazed at him blankly, thinking that he looked
familiar but too tired to try and pin an identity on him. He
waited for the man to speak, hoping it would give him some
clue as to who this person was and what he wanted. Why
couldn't they just let him die in peace? He had overheard
voices, one of them insisting he was going to die soon, and
Mulder wholeheartedly concurred. He had every intention of
giving up on life just as soon as these people quit pulling
him back from that sweet, dark abyss he had tried to slip
into on several occasions.

God was watching Mulder very closely, and every time it
looked as though Mulder might escape from Hell, God had one
of His angels drag Mulder back. God was cruel, and Mulder
meant to tell Scully so the next time he saw her.

Oh...Scully...he'd forgotten...he couldn't see her anymore.
Someone else would have to tell her how cruel God could be.

"Hello, Agent Mulder," the man said in a wispy tenor voice,
and Mulder recognized it instinctively, if not
intellectually. His face took on a pleading expression, even
while he knew, from somewhere deep within, that pleading
with this man was pointless, and humiliating.

"Home," he whispered through the soreness in his throat
caused by days of coughing up sputum and blood and anything
else that his body chose to eject through his lungs. He
closed his eyes, exhausted with the effort of speaking, but
his lips mouthed the word again. Home.

"You want to go home, Agent Mulder?"

Dull grey eyes probed the visitor from the bed, conveying
everything and nothing in a flat stare.

"I might be able to arrange it."

Something in Mulder heard these words but refused to believe
them--God was simply playing cruel tricks on him again. If
he went home, he could see Scully...but he couldn't see
Scully anymore...if he went home the world would end but if
he stayed here only *he* would end, and one man's life was a
small sacrifice when the fate of the world was at stake, so
why were they keeping him alive just to torture him, why
couldn't they just let him go let it end let him die let him
die let him die?

"I'd like to offer you a deal, one that would allow you to
resume your old life. It would also allow you to be with
Agent Scully."

Now he had to speak, to tell the voice to go away, tell
God's angel to go back to Heaven and leave him alone in his
own private luxurious Hell and not to ever, ever again take
Scully's name in vain. He opened his mouth to tell the angel
this but all that came out was, "Scully?"

"She's anxious to have you back. I'm sure we can work
something out, but before we do, you have to get well enough
for us to have a real discussion." The man leaned closer to
Mulder, and Mulder could smell the acrid scent of cigarette
smoke clinging to him. "Do you understand? You have to fight
the illness--you've always been a fighter, haven't you?
Fight your way back, Agent Mulder, and we can make a deal."

"Deal," Mulder whispered inaudibly.

"Yes, a deal. But we can't make a deal if you die, Mulder.
You have to fight. You have to win. Then you can go home and
be with Agent Scully again."

Mulder's lifeless eyes tracked the man as he rose from his
chair and walked toward the door. He turned at the doorway
and faced Mulder again. "Remember, Fox, if you want to deal
with me you must win this battle."

They stared at each other for a moment and then Mulder gave
a small nod and closed his eyes, wondering what this fight
was that he was going to have to win, and if this would be
the last fight, and if winning meant he finally got to die.

*****

MARCH 8

It had been a long and arduous battle, but Mulder was
finally back in his chair at the window, although he had to
be half-carried there by Martin. He leaned limply back
against the upholstery and let the morning sun bathe his
face. It felt so good to finally be warm again, after his
weeks of shivering fever, and to breathe easily again after
weeks of coughing and fighting for oxygen. Although his
strength was almost nonexistent and he was at his lowest
weight ever in his adult life, Mulder could actually say
that for the first time in a long time he actually
felt...good. Which just went to show that everything was a
matter of perspective.

Enjoying the feel of the heat on his bare skin, Mulder again
tried reaching into his subconscious to remember the dream
he'd had during his illness. He vaguely recalled someone
leaning over him smelling of smoke and speaking to him of
home, but it had to have been a fever dream. He would never
be allowed to go home. He knew that now.  Occasionally he
even told himself he was resigned to it, but deep down he
knew that was a lie. He would never resign himself to living
in a cage.

The door opened behind him suddenly, and Mulder perked his
ears up, unmoving. He heard Martin rise from the chair
beside him and opened his eyes to see who was taking his
guard's place. He raised one eyebrow at the face that
presented itself.

"I knew there was a reason to live," Mulder commented dryly
in a voice that barely worked.

"Well, I'm glad to see you haven't lost your sense of
humor," the visitor responded, blowing smoke into Mulder's
face. Mulder held his breath for a moment until the smoke
cleared, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a
cough.

"Why are you here?" Mulder asked impatiently, anxious to get
back to his basking. "Did you come to satisfy yourself that
they were keeping me alive? Don't worry. I'm watched more
intently than a circus freak."

"No, Agent Mulder. I came to discuss our deal."

Mulder's heart skipped a beat.

Deal?

"You have my attention," he said finally.

"You don't remember."

"Remember what?" Mulder asked curiously. Surely it had been
a dream. Hadn't it?

"I told you there might be a way for you to return to your
former life." A sunbeam caught the smoke and made it shimmer
for a moment.

Mulder coughed once, unable to suppress it any longer, and
it earned him a sharp look from Martin, who settled back on
the sofa when he decided Mulder wasn't in any danger.

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked carefully when his
respirations were again under his control.

"Well it isn't complicated, Agent Mulder. You give me
something important to me, and I give you your life back. A
deal, plain and simple."

The elderly man's look was inscrutable, and Mulder searched
his face for a clue as to what kind of trap he might be
about to fall into. "What do you want from me?"

"I want your promise that you'll keep quiet about the
journal, the vaccine...everything."

"And for that you'll let me go home?" His voice almost broke
on the word 'home'. Almost.  He controlled it just in time.

The smoking man nodded silently.

"Why? Why now, after all this time?" he asked incredulously.

Ashes flicked. "You're dying."

"And that doesn't make you happy?"

"No."

Mulder digested this information for a few minutes. "What's
the catch?"

"No catch, Agent Mulder. You keep your end of the bargain
and I keep mine."

Mulder shook his head, a grim smile touching his lips.  "I'd
have made this deal long ago, you know that.  Why are you
willing to risk it now?  What happens if I talk? You'll send
me back here?  You must realize I'll die before I'll let you
do that."

The visitor nodded his head sagely. "I suspected as much.
No, I'm afraid the threat of imprisoning you again wouldn't
be very effective. I had something else in mind. Something a
little...closer to your heart."

Mulder was certain for a moment that particular heart had
stopped. Gripping the arms of the chair tightly, he willed
it to begin beating its rhythm again.

"Scully," he said flatly.

"Yes."

"Don't hurt her. You already have me, don't hurt her."
Mulder tried hard not to beg, but he knew if they took
Scully they could have anything they wanted from him.  This
man obviously knew it as well.

"We have no intention of hurting her, Agent Mulder. Agent
Scully has been cancer-free for quite some time now," he
commented mildly. "I can make certain she stays that
way--lives a long and healthy life."

"Or?"

"Or I can make certain she doesn't." He dropped his spent
cigarette into a glass of water on the table and reached
into his pocket to withdraw his pack.

"And as long as I keep my mouth shut, Scully's safe?" Mulder
pressed, wanting to be clear about exactly what was expected
of him.

"Of course," the smoker said around the Morley between his
thin lips. "You see how simple it can be?"

Mulder stared out the window at the ocean. It had been his
only view for so many months that he had forgotten what else
life had to offer. The idea of leaving this prison was at
once exhilarating and frightening. To be a man again,
independent, with a life, a job--

"What about my job?"

The smoker took a long drag on his cigarette, leaving a
glowing orange tip for Mulder to stare at while he waited
for the answer. "You'll be reinstated," he said at last, "as
soon as you're fit. You and Agent Scully will be partners
again. I wouldn't be surprised to find that soon you even
get your X-files back."

Mulder's eyes lit up at the prospect. If it had been anyone
else offering him this deal he would have accepted it
without thinking, but this man had proven too many times in
the past that he could not be trusted. He sat silently for a
few minutes, thinking through all the possibilities, and
finally decided that he had only one choice.

"I accept," he told the smoker, and the older man smiled
gently, managing to convey the message that he'd never had a
doubt about Mulder's compliance. "There's just one thing you
should know," Mulder continued.  "If you don't keep your end
of the deal--if Scully suffers even a little because of
you--I'll rip you apart with my bare hands."

That earned him a real smile. His visitor stood, then,
flicking his ashes into the water glass. "Good. I expected
no less of you, Mulder. Consider it a bargain, then." He
started for the door and was stopped by Mulder's voice.

"When do I get out of here?" he asked quickly, trying to
keep the pleading out of his voice.

The man turned back. "As soon as you're strong enough, Son,"
he said, and before his words could register with Mulder, he
was gone.

Mulder sat back in the chair, a sensation of incredible
relief washing over him, but it wasn't because of the deal.

It was because he had conquered the "other."

*****

Mulder was a changed man, Martin thought as he brought the
dinner tray into the room. As soon as the smoker had left
Mulder had insisted Martin help him into the shower, and
then he had put on clean clothes and even tried getting some
exercise by pacing purposefully through the small apartment.
Finally he had exhausted himself and Martin had forced him
back to bed for a nap. Mulder had insisted fretfully that he
didn't need one, but he was asleep almost before Martin had
him safely on the bed. He slid Mulder's shoes off and pulled
the covers over the sleeping form with a little smile.
Apparently Mulder was going to attack living with the same
energetic determination he had exhibited in his attempts at
death. The change would be refreshing.

As it often did, however, Mulder's enthusiasm soon got the
best of him. His determination to regain his health in a
matter of mere minutes caused his fever to return, and he
had to be confined to his bed for several days in order to
let his body begin catching up with his mind in the recovery
process.

Keeping him in bed at night was never a problem for George,
because one look at that stern face and Mulder remembered
the night he had spent immobile at the hands of this
particular guard. He had no wish for a repeat.

Martin, on the other hand, at first had quite a chore
keeping Mulder down during the first day. Eventually George
noticed his trouble and whispered a hint into his ear, and
on the second day of Mulder's forced bedrest, when Martin
arrived for his shift carrying strips of toweling over his
arm, Mulder shrank back into the bed and watched him
carefully, making no move to rise.

He was no fool.

Martin lay the strips across the back of the chair that he
would occupy for the day and settled himself comfortably.
Finally Mulder could stand it no longer and had to speak.

"You've been talking to George," he stated flatly.

"George and I do exchange notes frequently," Martin
confirmed, working hard to keep the smile from his lips.

He heard a small sigh from the bed and Mulder turned on his
side, curling into a ball. "All right, you win," he
muttered. "I won't make any trouble."

Martin reached for his book, still fighting to suppress his
amusement. "It's easier that way," he agreed, opening it to
his page and beginning to read. At least he knew he wouldn't
have to coax Mulder into eating.

*****

APRIL 1

"Mulder, sit down," Martin ordered, and Mulder obeyed,
flinging himself to the sofa for the space of about sixty
seconds. Then he was up again, restlessly prowling the
apartment. He'd been at it for over an hour and Martin was
ready to knock him over the head and tie him to the chair.
Today was the day Mulder was to be taken home, and George
reported that he'd been awake at four a.m., unable to sleep
any longer, pacing. At this rate they wouldn't need to drug
Mulder to keep him asleep during the transfer, Martin
thought, he'd simply wear himself out.

Mulder had put on a little weight during the last few
weeks--not enough, but it was a start. The most difficult
thing had been getting him to rest long enough for his body
to begin recovering from the pneumonia that had almost
killed him. Mulder simply couldn't accept the fact that he
was weakened, and constantly pushed himself too hard if
allowed.

Martin had finally gotten down into Mulder's face and
growled at him that he was to take a nap in the morning and
another in the afternoon, without argument, or he was going
to tell Amelia about the knife incident. Although Martin
doubted Amelia would follow through with her promise to tie
Mulder to the bed now that suicide wasn't his immediate
goal, the threat had the desired subduing effect. Mulder
took his naps obediently, although with much grumbling.
 
 
 
 

"When are they going to get here?" Mulder demanded for the
fiftieth time, much like a small child. He peered anxiously
out the window, searching the skies for any sign of the
helicopter, but there was nothing. Every minute that passed,
Mulder was becoming more and more convinced that this
promise of freedom had all been nothing but a cruel hoax on
Cancerman's part, and that soon someone would arrive to
laugh tauntingly in his face and tell him so. He had even
asked Martin if that was the case, reminding him that it
was, after all, April Fool's day, but Martin had laughed and
assured him that he was indeed going home.

Home. Mulder shivered when he thought of it. Scully. How
would he find her? Would she have bonded with this new
partner of hers to the point that she wouldn't want Mulder
back? Would she refuse to return to the X-files division if
he was reassigned there? She had as much as told him she
loved him right here in this very room, but she'd never
actually spoken the words, had she? Never come right out and
said them, not the way he had. And it had been so many
months ago. Even if she'd felt it then, who was to say her
feelings hadn't changed?

He unzipped his bag and took out the photograph of her that
lay atop his clothing. Her soft blue eyes shone up at him
and Mulder felt his heart melt. She was smiling her
incredible smile in the picture, the one that he'd rarely
seen in the past couple of years. Life had become so
difficult and complicated for her because of him. What if
she'd relished her return to relative normalcy while he was
away?
 
 
 
 

"You think too much, Mulder." Martin's words interrupted his
thoughts and he looked up, startled. Martin shook his head
with a fond grin. Mulder had no idea how many of his
thoughts played out across his face sometimes. With a sudden
rush of surprise, Martin realized he was going to miss
Mulder's company.

Their conversation came to a halt when the sound of chopper
blades filled the room. Laying the picture carefully in his
bag, Mulder rushed to the window. His face was that of a kid
after a visit from Santa when he saw the chopper set down on
the helipad outside. After a moment, a figure emerged, and
Mulder saw that it was the smoking man. He had a horrible
moment of pure fear that the man had come to shoot his
dreams down until he felt Martin's hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Mulder. You really are going home. It's not a
trick."

Mulder turned to face the man who had become, in a strange
way, his friend. He put his hand over the one resting on his
shoulder for a moment. "Martin, I--thanks," he managed
awkwardly.

Martin smiled. "It's been interesting, Mulder," he said
pleasantly. "I've never had a job keep me hopping the way
you have."

The door opened and Amelia entered, smiling happily. "Ready
to go?" she asked Mulder, and without a word he grabbed his
bag from the sofa, zipped it, and followed her out the door.

Mulder took two steps into the hallway and froze. He hadn't
been outside these rooms in months, and he was suddenly
gripped with an overwhelming feeling of agoraphobia. A
moment later he felt Martin's reassuring hand at his back.

"You all right?"

Mulder took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. I'm just
beginning to realized how fucked up I am by all this."

Martin laughed. "You'll make it, Mulder. You're a survivor."

They walked him outside where they were met by the man who
held Mulder's entire future in his hands. The smoking man
and Amelia exchanged pleasantries while Martin stored
Mulder's bag in the helicopter and Mulder drank in the
sights, sounds and smells of the outdoors.

Finally, Mulder was urged into the passenger seat by the
older man. He hesitated briefly before climbing in,
realizing suddenly that he was about to be drugged and
helpless in the hands of his enemy. Who knew where he might
wake up, or even if he would wake up? Finally shrugging,
Mulder decided that anywhere was better than here. At least
it would be a change of scenery. He settled himself in the
seat and put on his seatbelt. The expected syringe was
produced and Mulder frowned, but made no comment as his body
was injected with the drug that he was promised would make
him sleep through the journey.

The location of Verlassen would remain a secret.

As the helicopter lifted into the air Mulder took his last
look at the island that had been his prison for so many
months. The sun glinted off the steel bars that covered the
rooms where he had been locked away for so many months and
he shivered. He turned his gaze from Verlassen and toward
the blue sky. He was going home.

Minutes later he drifted off to sleep.

*****

APRIL 2
 
 

"Mulder?"

A soft hand was in his hair, smoothing it gently. It must be
Amelia. That would mean he had managed to hurt himself
again. With a small groan, Mulder opened his eyes and
glanced around himself. Distantly familiar sights greeted
him, sights he hadn't seen in far too long. He raised his
eyes and met Scully's blue ones, filled with both concern
and happiness. She continued to stroke his hair, and Mulder
smiled, shutting his eyes again, still woozy from the drug.

"Scully?" he asked, swallowing to lubricate his dry throat.

"Yes, Mulder?"

He was silent for a moment. "Are you real?"

She laughed through her tears.  "I'm afraid so, Partner."

He reached up to embrace her gently and found himself
pulling her down fiercely close to him, to lie atop his body
and enter into his soul. He inhaled the scent of her deeply
and ran his hands over her as if to reassure himself that
she was not an apparition. Scully nuzzled into his neck,
placing soft kisses there and he felt the wetness of her
tears on his skin.

"It's real. I'm really home," he said dazedly, as if
unconvinced still.

"Yes you are," she told him happily, raining more gentle
kisses on his face and holding him as tightly as he held
her. "And Mulder?  I hope you won't be offended if I tell
you I'm never letting you out of my sight again."

A thought struck him suddenly, and he knew if he was without
her for even a moment he would die. "Scully?"

"Hmm?" she asked burying her face in the warm chest beneath
her.

"Will you marry me?"

She froze for a second, taken aback by the question, and
raised her head to look in his eyes. The desperation she
read in them matched her own.  He was traumatized and
damaged, but was there anything wrong with Mulder that
couldn't be repaired?  She doubted it, and she certainly
wouldn't trust anyone else to oversee his recovery.

"Let's discuss that later," she told him simply, leaning in
to kiss him again. The kiss deepened and without warning
they were on fire, pulling and ripping at each other's
clothing, tearing away the barriers in the effort to get
closer to one another, get inside one another, merge
together in such a way that they could never be separated
again.

Scully tore the shirt over Mulder's head and kissed her way
down his chest, licking at the still-too-prominent ribs and
eliciting a groan from him when her tongue lapped at his
stomach. Sadly she caressed the faint scars he still bore
from the time Amelia Steinmetz had tortured him.

Scully forced herself to hake off that thought. He was back.
Now it was time to welcome him home.

She could feel his hardness beneath her and eagerly reached
for the buttons of his jeans, too loose on his slender body.
Mulder reached up and removed her shirt, sliding it off her
shoulders and tossing it to the floor. He placed his hands
over the cups of her bra, cradling her warm breasts and
relishing their softness. Pulling her back down to his
chest, he reached behind her to unfasten the clasp, and soon
the bra joined her shirt.

Scully felt his mouth find her nipple and gave a feline
growl, grinding her pelvis into his with ferocious intent.
This first time was not going to be slow for either of them,
she thought as she felt the tension building in her body. It
didn't matter.  Fast and furious suited her just fine right
now.

She pulled away from him long enough rid him of the
remainder of his clothing, and Mulder and drew her back down
atop his nude body.

He feasted on her neck, chest and breasts while his hands
roamed over her back, cupping the soft swelling of her ass
and slipping inside her pants. Scully devoured any bit of
him she could reach--ears, neck, chest, nipples--and thought
that nothing had ever tasted so sweet to her as Mulder's
tender, pale flesh.

She felt him tug at her zipper, and rose to help him remove
her slacks and panties.  When they were both completely
naked he flipped them over so that he lay above her,
conquering, claiming, marking her as his own. His mouth was
everywhere on her body, and Scully thought later, when
rational thought returned, that she had never been so
thoroughly worshipped.

Mulder merely offered up thanks that his "other" had at last
been vanquished.

Their joining was frenzied and intense, ending with a jolt
that made them both cry out and cling to each other with
fierce determination when it was over. Finally, after long,
long minutes of lying melded together, they rose and went to
shower. They never took their hands off one another.

Washing her body under the warm spray, Mulder took her into
his embrace and kissed her tenderly, feeling the heat
building within his body again, and this time they made love
with a softness that soothed their aching souls and made
them both believe that they could be together, and that
everything would be all right.

Later, lying tangled together with her on his bed, Mulder
looked around his apartment with comfortable familiarity.

"Did they tell you they were bringing me home?"

She raised up on one elbow to look at him. "I received a
message this morning that there was a package waiting here
for me," she smiled. "Imagine my surprise when it turned out
to be my very own man."

He caressed her face. "You kept everything just the same,"
he commented lazily.

Scully snuggled closer to him. "I knew you'd be coming back
someday," she told him. "I wanted you to have your own home
to come back to."

"But how did you pay for it?" he asked curiously. She'd
obviously been covering the rent on his place all these
months out of her own pocket, not to mention some of his
other expenses.

Scully shrugged. "I managed," she murmured softly.

"I'll make it up to you," he said, gently running his
fingers over her soft skin and relishing the feel of her
flesh and blood body in his arms after so long holding onto
nothing but dreams.

"You can make it up to me by never leaving my sight again."

Mulder smiled and pulled her closer. "I can do that," he
agreed before drifting off to sleep again.

Three days later they were married, quietly and without
fanfare, and as they left the courthouse Mulder's arm
tightened around Scully almost painfully.

He thought about the truths he had been searching out for so
long, and the lies that had almost destroyed them on
occasion.

Somehow none of it mattered any longer.

He looked down at his wife and kissed her softly on the lips
right there in the middle of the sidewalk, relishing the
freedom and the feel of her and the knowledge that she was
finally his.

Truth be damned, Mulder thought as he tasted her lips.

This was truth.

THE END