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Author: Daydreamer

Posted: 27 November 1998

Seek Ye<font

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12:07 am

"Mulder," he said sleepily, mumbling more around the mouthpiece than into it. He adjusted the phone, almost unconsciously, trying to hear the rasping voice on the other end a bit more clearly. As he listened, he could feel himself coming fully awake, electrified by the words spoken on the other end of the line.

He pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor and one arm braced against his thigh. The motel phone was tight against his ear, but he was still having difficulty hearing. "Wait a minute," he said. "You need to slow down. I can hardly make out what you're saying."

The voice on the other end took a ragged gulp, then whispered, "If you don't come now, they'll move her again, and you may never find her."

"Where?" Mulder asked urgently. "Come where?"

"I told you, the old mill, out on the ..." There was a sudden scuffle, then a muffled cry, and finally the sharp crack as the phone was hung up, hard.

Mulder sat and looked at the phone, then slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle. He ran his hands through his hair, his mind frantically searching for explanations. Who was the caller? Who was the 'she' referred to? Samantha? Scully?

He leapt to his feet in a sudden panic, and crossed the small room in two large steps. He opened the door between his room and Scully's and stepped in quietly. In the half-light of the moon and a street lamp, he could just make out her form, curled on her side, blankets pulled up to her chin.

He stood silently for a moment, waiting, and then she breathed.

And with her breath, he released his own, the one he hadn't realized he was holding. She was OK. She was here. She was safe. He stood for a minute longer, content to watch her breathe. Gradually, his breathing synchronized with hers, and his racing heart slowed. The panic receded and he was left only to fight the urge to go to her, to touch her, to assure himself of her continued place in his life.

With a soft sigh, he turned and went back to his own room, closing the door gently behind him. As he stepped into the room, he snagged the sweat pants he'd worn earlier on his run, and pulled them on over his boxers. He dug out a T-shirt from his suitcase, then clean socks. He finished dressing quickly, pulling his battered running shoes back on. Even as he wrestled the hooded sweatshirt that went with his pants on over his head, one hand was reaching for car keys, room key, and wallet. He swapped the battery in his cell phone for the new ionized one – supposed to last longer and shoved the phone in his pocket. He strapped the little ankle holster on last, checked his weapon, then rose and walked to the door.

With a backward glance, he muttered, "I'm sorry, Scully, but I

can't afford to let this go. Please understand." His mea culpa

complete, he trudged down the stairs and out to the parking lot to find his car, and hopefully, some answers as well.

12:15 am

She woke to the feeling of being watched. She

lay very still, forcing herself not to move, not

to react. Opening her eyes to the tiniest slit,

she peered across the room from her curled up

position in the bed. The washed out light from

the street lamps outside found its way around the

heavy drapery, providing just enough illumination

for her to see it was Mulder, standing in the doorway,

watching her.

She let her eyes close completely, then opened them

to look reassuringly across the dimness of the room.

He often did this, coming silently to her room in the

dead of night. When it first happened, she would

rise and ask if he was all right, was there something

he needed. But he was uncomfortable with her

questions, and would shrug and offer apologies for

disturbing her before padding quickly back to his

room. His room. The room on the other side of the

door. The door he used as a wall to protect her from

the threat he thought of as himself.

She had quickly learned, once she knew it was him,

to lay still, letting him take what he needed, letting him

work things out at his own speed. She would open her

eyes, and watch him, remaining silent, but letting her

thoughts and emotions flow out to him. Sometimes, just

standing by the door, watching her, would be enough.

He would gain whatever measure of comfort or

reassurance he required, then slip back to the other

side of the door.

Sometimes, he needed more. Then he would

steal quietly to the side of her bed, to stand,

or even kneel beside her, his eyes drinking in her

presence greedily. On one or two memorable

occasions, he had even reached out and touched

her hair gently, his fingers smoothing the unruly

strands. Sometimes he met her gaze, other times

he kept his eyes averted, as if ashamed of his

own need, his own perceived weakness. Sometimes

he stayed mere minutes; other times he stayed so

long, she fell back asleep under his watchful eyes.

He had begun this strange ritual the first year they

worked together. It hadn't taken long, after that

first case, for them to realize that adjoining rooms

were more convenient, and made it easier to confer

with one another while on a case. She'd learned

then how little he really slept. And how afraid he

was of letting anyone get close to him.

But close she had gotten, and closer they had

become as the years passed. And now it seemed

as if they were connected to one another in a

way she had never experienced. She was closer

to Mulder than she'd ever been to anyone, even

the few men she had been intimate with. And

yet, physical intimacy was far removed from

her relationship with her partner. Their joining

went beyond the physical, and while it left her

frustrated at times, she knew that in many ways,

Mulder was like a wild animal, and he would

have to come to her, in his own time, at his own

pace.

She sighed softly, a tiny expulsion of air, not hard

enough or loud enough to frighten him away, as she

realized tonight was a 'from the door' night. His

panicked breathing had calmed as she had been lost

in her own thoughts. She was still studying him,

wondering if she would ever figure this puzzle of a

man out. She offered him a half-smile, and saw the

longing on his face, but once more, he denied himself,

and turned back to his side of the door.

He'd be tense in the morning, unsure of her reaction,

as if she would be different despite this ritual's hundred

other happenings. Once he saw her smile, once he

knew she wouldn't speak of it, he would relax, and

things would return to normal. Until the next time

when his need would overcome his reticence, and

he would make his way to her room again. Needing

to know she was there. Needing to see her, or to

touch her. Needing the comfort of her presence or

the reassurance that she was still alive, and still with

him.

She sighed again. Someday, he would be ready, and

then he would do more than watch her in her bed.

He would be ready to join her there. She closed her

eyes, and shifted, then let herself drift back to sleep.

1:32 am

He'd driven this same stretch of road three times now, staring

in vain into the swirling fog as he tried to spot the turn-off to

the old mill that showed on the map. When he'd left Scully,

he'd gone to the rental and pulled the local map the car

company had provided. Apparently, the old mill was a bit

of a historic site and rated not only a mark on the map, but

a small description in the margin notes as well.

"Fierce spring thaws, causing the river to flow too

quickly

for the mill to run, resulted in its closure and abandonment

after only four years of operation."

Pulled from his thoughts when he saw a slight indentation in

the road, and a slight lessening of the fog on his left, he

turned

the wheel sharply and felt the wheels bump hard as he exchanged

asphalt for dirt.

He slowed somewhat, fighting the urge for speed, the

need to reach the mill and find out who had called, what

this was all about. He could feel the stress on the car

and tires as each bump in the road, each rut across it, jarred

the suspension and shook him within the Taurus' confines.

When was he ever going to learn and start renting four-wheel

drives? He shook his head ruefully, and slowed some more, as

the car hit an especially nasty rut and the wheels yawed hard

to the right, threatening to skid off into the line of scrub

bushes that bordered the narrow roadway. He grappled

with the wheel, finally succeeding in getting the vehicle

back onto the road, and headed in the direction of the mill.

Slowing still more, till he was traveling at little more than

snail's pace, he continued to make his way toward the end of

the hilly road, fighting the twin disadvantages of the rough

road and the heavy fog.

He was heading up a rise, the road narrowing even more,

and the scrub bushes on the right disappearing to be replaced

with an increasingly abrupt drop into -- what? The river he

supposed. It was a mill he was headed for. And the map

did say it was a swift river in spring. He could only

assume it would be on the other side of this rather steep hill.

He was just reaching for the map, to take one more look at

the route he'd laid out, when the car was struck violently from

behind. His body jerked forward, the seat belt catching him hard

across his chest. He automatically hit the gas, knowing that he

had to get away, and fast, because another hit like that would

surely trigger the automatic gas cut-off, and then he would be

a sitting duck. He could feel every bump and rut in the road

now, each one bone-jarring, but still he accelerated, not sure

who or what was behind him. The road rose rapidly, and

turned sharply to the left at the top of the hill.

As he crested the hill, he felt the impact from the rear

again,

and this time, at the speed he was moving and the sharp turn he

was making, he felt himself losing control. He struggled to

hold the car on the road, gunning the motor, but was rewarded

with a cough, then silence as the gas cut-off safety feature

kicked in. "Safety, my ass," he swore, as he fought to

regain

control of the vehicle that was now pulling hard to the right, to

the side of the road that seemed to vanish into nothing, hidden

in the fog as it was.

The wheels had lost all traction, and he realized he had no

hope of pulling the car out of its swerve. He still turned the

wheel desperately into the slide, but the wheels refused to grab,

and he continued to skid toward the edge of the road. Suddenly,

felt the wheels catch, traction was restored, and he clenched

the wheel, hopeful he might be able to pull the car back from

its precarious position, skimming along the side of a steep

embankment. He cautiously tapped the brakes, trying to slow

the car's momentum, and was rewarded with a slight clutch

as the brakes caught, the tires held, and the vehicle slid to a

stop.

He sat, panting, for a moment, then unfastened the seat belt

and bent to retrieve his weapon from the ankle holster. He was

in this awkward, uncomfortable position, long body folded over,

half under the steering wheel, when the car was hit again. This

time it was a strike from the side, a deliberate push, that shook

the car violently, caved in the driver's door, and sent the car

careening over the edge of the embankment.

He tried to straighten, but the car was twisting and rolling

its precipitous descent, and without the seat belt to hold him in

place, he was quickly becoming just another flying article inside

the vehicle as it rolled, and he rolled, down the hill. He felt

something -- the dome light, maybe? -- connect hard with his

skull and a wave of blackness threatened to overtake him. He

tumbled again from ceiling to door to seat to door, unable to

control

his body, unable to protect himself, and this time, the impact

with

the -- dashboard? steering wheel? -- was overwhelming and the

blackness rushed in.

'I'm sorry, Scully. I should've told you,' was his last

coherent

thought, and the last thing he remembered for a long time.

5:08 am

Cold. That was his first sensation. Wet. That was second. And

both were followed rather quickly with a third, one he would much

rather not be experiencing again. Pain. Pain was everywhere.

He took a silent inventory. Pain in his head, in his face, in his

mouth, the left arm, his belly, and his right calf. And his eye.

He struggled to open his eyes, the right eyelid lifting without

too

much difficulty, though he could feel the swelling there. 'Gonna

have a helluva black eye -- maybe two.' But the left lid wouldn't

open, and that was the one where the pain was located. He tried

to raise his hand to feel but the left arm wouldn't move at all.

'Definitely broken,' he thought. And the right one was trapped

under something. 'Something for every part of the body,' he

thought mirthlessly.

Cold was spreading, and wet seemed to be working its way

up his body. Or was it down?

The car was on its side, the driver side door that

had absorbed the impact buckled beneath him. His

head lay wedged between the two seats and his bottom

and back rested uncomfortably on the damaged door.

He was propped at about a 45 degree angle, with

the steering wheel pressed hard against his torso.

It was an awkward, contorted position, and he really

couldn't figure out how he had ended up like this.

But the worst part was his legs. Bent back around

the steering wheel and over the dash, his left leg was

folded at the knee and resting across the wheel from

his chest. But the right leg -- he tried moving it

experimentally and groaned as pain rocketed

through his calf and radiated outward -- his right

leg was protruding through the shattered windshield,

a sharp piece of metal, twisted from the windshield

frame, deeply embedded in the muscle.

His head was pounding, making it hard to think,

almost impossible to focus on anything for very

long. He knew there were things he needed to do,

but it was so hard to remember what they were,

and given his condition, he felt sure it would be

impossible to do them anyway. He was overwhelmingly

tired, and wanted nothing more than to let himself

drift away again, but some part of him knew this

was dangerous, and he moved again, seeking

the pain that granted him temporary alertness.

His clothes were soaked, and as he lay there taking

inventory, it seemed the water was getting deeper

in the car. Another reminder that he would have to

do something, and soon. Scully would know what

to do. The thought flashed through his mind from

out of nowhere, and he had a brief mental picture

of her -- first asleep in her bed, then answering a

ringing phone.

The phone! That was it. He would find the phone

and call Scully. She would come and get him, and then

he could rest and she would fix him up and everything

would be all right again. He moved again, this time

trying to keep the leg still, but risking the pain that

came from shifting the broken arm. He wriggled, working

to free the right arm, and finally obtained a bit of

movement. He managed to pull himself up enough to

reach into his sweatshirt pocket, and miraculously,

find the phone. He sank back down into the position

he had awakened in, and lay panting for long moments

as he fought unconsciousness.

Once he was able to think again, or what seemed to pass

for thinking at this point, he flipped the phone open and

pressed '1.' It took only two rings before a sleepy voice

answered, "Scully."

"Hey," he croaked. Was that tortured voice really

him?

He tried to clear his throat, but that provoked a fit of

coughing, which grew worse and worse and he began

to cough up blood. That immediately nauseated him

and he began to heave, which set off waves of pain as

he struggled to sit up and keep from choking to death,

and his stomach muscles jerked and spasmed, sending

ripple movements through his arms and legs. His

stomach emptied, he collapsed back to his former position,

the phone still held open in his hand.

Dimly, through the blackness that was overtaking him,

he could hear Scully calling him, "Mulder! Mulder!

Where are you? What's happening?"

He wanted to explain. He knew he had worried her. He

didn't want to upset her anymore. But there was nothing

more he could do at this point. If he woke up again,

he'd call her and explain. With his last rational

thought, he closed the phone, and gave himself up to

the darkness.

5:19 am

The chirping of the cell phone woke her, and she grabbed

it up from the bedside table, opened it and said,

"Scully."

A fractured voice made an indistinguishable sound,

but she knew it was Mulder. She was on her feet in a

minute, heading for the door to his room, but already

aware of what she would find. Sure enough, it was

empty and he was gone.

'Just let him be all right, let him be OK,' she breathed

in silent prayer.

He was coughing now, violently, and she began calling

him, "Mulder! Mulder! Where are you?" The coughing

changed to the sounds of sickness, and she knew he

wasn't all right, he wasn't OK. "What's happening?"

The retching sounds continued, and then she heard what

sounded like a gasp of pain, followed by an audible collapse

as his body relaxed from its unwilling exertion.

She was still talking to him, trying to get him to

answer, letting him know she was there, when she heard

the click of the phone being closed, and the connection

was broken abruptly. She closed her own phone

and called him back, hoping against hope, but, of

course, there was no answer.

She stood in the doorway, staring at his empty bed, then

began to take inventory to see what he had with him.

His Sig was still in his shoulder holster, folded and stuffed

under clothing in his bag, but his smaller gun and the ankle

holster were gone. Wallet and car keys -- gone. 'Damn, he

would take the car.' Both suits still hung in his garment

bag, so he was in casual clothes. She dug a little further.

His sweatsuit was missing.

She finished her inventory, then went and sat on his bed.

He hadn't gone running, as he often did in the dead of night.

That wouldn't have required the car keys. So he had to have

been off on a lead, and since he hadn't wakened her, it would

have been unrelated to the case they were on. She looked

at the small clock on the bedside table -- almost 5:30. It had

been shortly after midnight when he had crept into her room.

So he could have been gone for 5 hours. She wanted to scream

in frustration. In five hours, he could have gone anywhere,

gotten into any amount of trouble, done anything. He could be

miles away, or he could be lying in a ditch, half-dead. Her

frustration was rapidly joined by worry; by concern; by fear.

She flipped open the phone again, dialed, and once more got no

answer. He was missing; he was hurt; and she was going to have

to find him. But she couldn't do it alone. She didn't have the

resources to implement the kind of search she needed. She reset

the phone, then dialed again.

A rough male baritone answered, "Skinner."

"Sir," she began, "Agent Mulder is

missing."

8:38 am

It was still cold. And wet. Very wet. More wet. He pried

the right eye open and looked down at his lap which was now

totally covered in icy water. Cold and wet; could pain be

far behind? He tried to shift his body, and the anticipated

agony exploded: in his head, his arm, his belly, and his leg.

He froze in mid-movement, gasping for breath as he tried

to sort out the assault on his body.

The arm was broken; he could feel the ends of the bone shift

against each other and he groaned against the sharp pangs his

action created. There was something in his leg. From where

he lay, he couldn't see the leg, and he wasn't about to move

to take a look, but he could certainly feel something sharp,

something cold, something painful protruding from his leg.

And his head: the tiniest motion sent waves of agony rocketing

through his skull. The left eye seemed swollen shut beyond hope

and the right one would only open to a tiny slit. The light hurt

his eye; there was a non-stop ringing in his ears, and he wasn't

certain he could hear clearly anyway.

He was wet from his waist to his thigh and the wet was

icy. He was seated in a pool of river water that had flowed

in through the shattered window. His upper body was relatively

dry, but he could feel dried blood on his face and in his hair.

He lifted his right hand, gingerly touching his face and head,

and

found several swollen knots; above his brow, behind his ear, on

the crown of his head. Dried streaks of blood covered his cheek

from the wound over his left eye. His hair was matted with

blood and gore over the gash on the top of his head. The

injury behind his ear was swollen, the skin split from the

impact, and it began to bleed again as he touched it.

His inventory completed, panting against the physical

distress,

he slowly relaxed back to his former position, causing more

movement, and renewed pain, as he leaned his torso back against

the seat.

He took a deep breath and smelled blood. He swallowed,

tasted blood, and immediately became nauseated. He fought

to keep his stomach under control, afraid that if he gave in to

the nausea, the spasms in his stomach would cause him to pass

out again. There was too much blood. He probed the inside

of his mouth gingerly, feeling several lacerations, and prompting

another small flow of blood, which he was prepared for, and he

spat into the water that surrounded him.

He had to get out of the water. It was cold and his

extremities

were already going numb, except of course, for when he moved;

then there was entirely too much feeling, everywhere. But he

was going to have to suck it up and get out of the water.

He closed his eye, the pounding in his head making it hard

to see, to think. He lifted his hand again and carefully touched

his brow, then the spot above his left ear that ached so badly.

His hand came away red and sticky, and he fought the nausea that

swelled again. He took several deep breaths and steeled himself

for the coming agony. His single functional lid slid upward and

he eyed the interior of the vehicle as it surrounded him, trying

determine the best way out. After weighing several options, he

decided through the shattered windshield was his best course of

action. There might be another way, but thinking was just too

hard and painful, and he had to get out, now.

He dragged his hand down to his abdomen, and was surprised

to find the cell phone resting on his belly. That was where

the ringing had been coming from. He'd thought it was in

his head. He had a vague recollection of calling Scully, and

then not being able to speak to her -- his wounded tongue

wouldn't form the words. He lifted the phone again. Maybe

he could do better now. He had to do better now!

He opened the phone and pushed '1' again, and this time

she answered, "Mulder? Is that you?"

"Uh-huh," he answered. He couldn't help himself;

despite

the discomfort, he was smiling at the sound of her voice.

Everything would be all right now. Scully would come and

get him. He relaxed so at that thought, he almost slipped

away again, but her voice, calling his name, brought him

back.

"Mulder? Mulder! Answer me! Mulder! Are you there?"

"Mmm," he mumbled. " 'm here."

"Are you all right?"

"Hurts."

"Where?"

Where? His thoughts clouded and he glanced around. His vision

was fuzzy and with only one eye, his depth perception was nil.

Where what? Where was he? 'Scully, it hurts too much to play

twenty questions,' he thought, but actually saying it was beyond

him. Instead, he answered the obvious.

"Car," he croaked.

"You're in the car?"

'Please don't make me say it again, Scully. It hurts. It even

hurts

to think.' But once more, he could not voice his thoughts. He

was waiting now, waiting for her to come get him, and he could

feel the blackness beckoning. It called to him, promising

surcease

from pain, a place to rest, a way to avoid the struggle.

"Mulder!" she was calling him again. "Stay with

me, partner."

"Mmmm," he mumbled.

"You're in the car. Where's the car?"

He looked around. Where was the car? It was on its side, but

where? He looked down. It was in the water. And the water

was cold. He shivered and pressed the phone tighter to his

ear. "Inda wata," he rasped out, and immediately began

cough.

"Water? Oh, sweet Jesus, what have you done? Where,

Mulder?

What water?"

He was still coughing, though weakly, and he strained to bring

it under control. His mouth was bleeding again, and he turned

his head and spat several times, avoiding swallowing the coppery

fluids.

"Cold, Sculleeee," he cried. Oh, God, he was crying.

What

would she think now? She'd think he'd lost it, that's what.

But he hurt everywhere, and she was busy asking questions

instead of coming to get him, and he was cold, and wet, and

tired, and it was so hard to think, and talk, and hold the phone.

His thoughts were a jumbled mess, coming and going at

random, bouncing from one place to another, and he

couldn't focus on any one thing for very long before the

pain rose up and chased it away, leaving him to start

again.

"Mulder?"

Scully was calling him again. How long had she been

saying his name? He tried to shake his head to clear it,

but that caused the pounding to escalate, and he nearly

dropped the phone as he reached up to clench his

temple. He brought the phone back to his ear, and

whispered, "Cold. C'mn get me?" Oh, God, now he

was whining. First crying, now whining. She'd never

come for him now.

But she was there, her voice in his ear, soothing, calming,

promising.

"I'm coming, Mulder. I'm coming. But I need you to tell

me where you are."

Didn't she listen? He already told her where he was. He

cringed at the thought of having to repeat himself, then

remembered, this was Scully. He could do anything for

Scully. "In. Da. Wa. Ter." He enunciated as clearly

as he could.

"OK, Mulder, that's good."

Good, he was doing good. She understood him. She would

come get him now. But she was still talking.

"I know you're in the water. I need to know where the

water is."

This was too confusing. He was answering her questions,

but she just kept asking more. "Hurts," he mumbled

again. Maybe she would understand now. It was just

too hard to talk.

"Mulder, can you move?"

"Uh-huh." Good. That was easier. Ask yes or no

questions,

Scully. I can handle those. I can move, but it hurts. It

hurts to move.

"Is there a lot of water?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is it moving? Is the water moving, or is it still?"

He began to cough, a deep choking sound that stole his

breath and jarred his chest and head. Please, come get me,

Scully. It hurts. He took a ragged breath, gasping inarticulately

into the phone, then began to cough again. When he came back

to himself, from the foggy place of pain and torment, he heard

her still calling to him.

"Mulder, please answer me. Tell me you're still with me,

partner. Tell me you're still there."

" 'm here, Sc ..." He gave up. It was just too hard,

and it

hurt too much.

"Mulder, I think you need to get out of the water.

Can you move enough to get out of the water?"

Out of the water? That was a good idea. Maybe if he got

out of the water, he wouldn't be so cold. Yep. That was

Scully, always coming up with the good ideas. Out of

the water. He closed the phone, and began to survey the

interior of the car, looking for a way out.

8:46 am

An APB had been issued for the rental, and Scully was

in the process of updating the local police, getting Mulder's description out to everyone in a five hour driving radius.

Checking flights from the nearest airport would have to wait until Skinner arrived with more people from the Bureau. There was no train depot in this town, and the

bus station wasn't open at night. But that didn't preclude

having to check those places in neighboring towns.

Scully thanked the local police chief and watched as he

left the room. She checked her watch. She'd been trying

Mulder's cell phone every ten minutes for the last three hours,

with no luck. Skinner was due in about 45 minutes, and with

the locals pursuing the area public transportation, she had

nothing to do but wait. And she didn't like to wait. She pulled

the phone to try Mulder again, and was surprised when it

rang before she could start to make her call.

She flipped it open, filled with expectation, and said

breathlessly,

"Mulder? Is that you?"

There was a mumbled response and she found herself smiling.

He was still alive, still trying to reach her. She waited for him

to speak again, and when he didn't, she cried, "Mulder?

Mulder!

Answer me! Mulder! Are you there?"

Another mumble, then a barely distinguishable, "I'm

here."

"Are you all right?"

"Hurts."

Of course it hurts. You knew he was hurt. Why did you ask

if he was all right? She mentally kicked herself. Who knew how

much time she would have, and she was asking dumb questions.

Get focused, she chided herself. Find out the important stuff.

He was hurt. Start there.

"Where?"

There was a long pause and she thought she'd lost him again.

She was about to speak again when his voice came through.

"Car," he finally said. His voice was a mess. Hoarse

and raspy,

and he spoke only with obvious effort. And he still hadn't told

her where he was hurt. The car must be important, or he

wouldn't have brought it up.

"You're in the car?" she asked, hoping to draw him

out,

get more information. Information she could use. Like

where exactly was he? And how badly injured? She was

frantically thinking, racing through possibilities to account

for the sound of his voice, when she realized he wasn't

talking again.

"Mulder!" She was calling him, trying to get him

back,

keep his attention. "Stay with me, partner."

Another mumble, this one softer. Was he growing weaker,

or had the phone slipped from his face?

"You're in the car. Where's the car?"

She waited, hoping for an articulate and exact answer,

but not really expecting it. Whatever injuries he had sustained,

had affected not just his speech, but his thought processes.

He was having a hard time communicating in more ways

than one. She froze. Head trauma. He had to have hit his

head. But was he attacked? Abducted? Did he just go

for a ride and have an accident? What the hell was going on?

Finally he spoke again, and she strained to understand him.

He was coughing again, violently, and she couldn't do or

say anything to help him. She worked on making sense of

his last slurred words. What had he said? In the water?

"Water? Oh, sweet Jesus, what have you done?" She

could

feel the panic rising and she beat it down to ask, "Where,

Mulder? What water?"

She could hear him bring the coughing under control, and she

listened as he spat, loudly, several times, then he was back.

"Cold, Sculleeee ..."

Oh, God, he was crying! He must be in terrible pain, and so

confused. And cold. That was clear enough. Cold and wet?

And it was late March -- the water would be icy. He had to

get out of the water and get dry, or hypothermia would set in.

She called him again and got no answer. Had hypothermia

already taken hold of him? Was that why he couldn't think,

couldn't talk? "Mulder?" she called again, and was

rewarded

with a response this time.

"Cold." His voice was a mere whisper, barely audible

to her

ears. "C'mn get me?" Her eyes filled as she realized he

was

looking to her for rescue. He was pleading with her to come

and get him. And she would -- if she could only figure out

where the hell he was. And he was crying again. She began

to murmur soothingly to him, promises of warmth, and safety.

Promises that she'd come for him, that she'd take the pain

away, and under her gentle tone, she could hear him calm.

"I'm coming, Mulder. I'm coming. But I need you to tell

where you are."

She listened as he took a deep breath and then in a stronger

voice, said, "In. Da. Wa. Ter." Each syllable was

clearly

spoken, but offered no help at all.

Her frustration and fear mounting, she took a deep breath

and said, "OK, Mulder, that's good. I know you're in the

water. I need to know where the water is."

But he had apparently reached his limit because all he said

was, "Hurts." She needed to try to deal with his

injuries. If

she could get him stabilized, even slightly, perhaps he could

be more coherent and help them find him.

"Mulder, can you move?"

"Uh-huh." Well, that was clear enough. Maybe she

should stick

with yes and no questions.

"Is there a lot of water?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is it moving? Is the water moving, or is it still?"

He was coughing again. She could hear the agonized

groans as he hacked and choked. Her heart went cold as she

listened

to him struggle just to breathe, and she had to call him several

times before he answered again.

"Mulder, please answer me. Tell me you're still with me,

partner. Tell me you're still there."

" 'm here, Sc ..." That was all she got. She had to

do

something. She had to find a way to help. He'd said he

could move. Try and get him out of the water.

"Mulder, I think you need to get out of the water.

Can you move enough to get out of the water?"

She was still waiting for a response when the phone suddenly

clicked, and he was gone. "Son of a bitch!" she swore

and

she threw it to the bed. "Son of a bitch!"

9:22 am

"How long has he been missing, Agent Scully?"

Skinner

asked. He had just arrived and had taken over the small

table in Scully's hotel room. Agents were searching the

room next door, but he held little hope they would find

anything.

"If he left right after I saw him, then he's been gone

about 9 hours."

"And you're sure he's injured?"

"I'm sure."

"But you don't think he's being held against his

will?"

Skinner was making notes as he spoke, jotting down her

comments and also making task assignments for the

team he had brought with him.

Skinner looked up to see her shaking her head, her

hand brushing loose strands of hair back from her

face as she paced alongside the bed.

"No, Sir. I think he was either deliberately hurt by a

person or persons unknown, or he's been injured in an

accident." She stopped for a moment, and looked up

to meet his eyes. "Either way, he sounds terrible and I am

extremely concerned for him. He was confused,

unable to articulate clearly. He appeared to have

both physical and mental problems with communications."

He was watching her, one part of his mind thinking of

Mulder, the other part analyzing her condition. She was

worried, her brow seemed permanently furrowed. She was

dressed, but had not taken her usual care with her clothing.

One corner of her shirt was only half-tucked, and her face

was bare of make-up. He frowned, then said, "Explain."

"Well, he didn't sound like he was thinking straight.

I asked him where he was, and he responded, 'car.' "

She started pacing again, the cell phone clutched

tightly in her hand.

"And the physical problems?"

"Just his inability to articulate -- his insistence on

using

one and two word answers to my questions. I think he

was actually having trouble forming the words."

She stepped over to the table, standing behind him

and scanning his notes.

"So what do you suspect?" He started writing again,

listing her possible injuries. He was trying to determine

what type of medical arrangements needed to be

made, but there wasn't enough information yet.

He pulled out the chair beside him, and motioned

for her to sit, taking her hand and gently pulling

her down when she seemed unwilling to comply.

She narrowed her eyes, then said, "I'd say head

trauma for sure; possibly facial trauma as well.

That can have an impact on speech. Or some type

of oral injury. If he's been in a car wreck, he could

be pretty banged up."

"So we start searching every body of water within

250 miles of here. I've got Bureau people contacting

all the pertinent law enforcement officials within

our radius." He was still watching her, his eyes

taking in the signs of stress and worry.

She met his eyes, then bounced back to her feet,

unable to be still. "He still isn't answering his cell

phone."

"Just keep trying," he responded soothingly.

"I've got

DC on stand-by to try and track him if -- he jumped at the

sudden glare she shot him and hastily amended himself --

when he answers again. If we can keep him long enough,

they should be able to triangulate on the signal and give us

his coordinates." He paused, removed his glasses and rubbed

his eyes, then said, "Keeping him on the line long enough is

going to be the problem I'm afraid."

He replaced his glasses, and made a few more notes

as she paced by the bed, her fingers hitting the

redial button on her own phone with each circuit.

"Scully," he called, halting her frenzied back

and forth movement. "Did he say or do anything

else?"

"Yes," she said sharply. "He said he hurt. Over

and

over again, he said he hurt." Her voice broke

and she fought for control. "He cried. He said he

was cold. And then he begged me to come and get him."

She abruptly turned her back to him, her shoulders

gradually losing their stiffness as a soft sob escaped her.

He looked at her, unsure of what to do. He didn't

know if his presence would be welcome or not. But

her distress was too much to bear and not react, and

he rose and walked over to where she stood by the bed.

Lifting his hand, he tentatively placed it on her arm, and

turned her to face him. "We'll find him, Dana." He

gave her a small smile.

She took a big gulp, then nodded. "Yes, Sir, we'll find

him."

"You keep trying the phone. Maybe he'll answer. In the

meantime, everything we could be doing to find him is

being done."

She sniffed quietly, then discreetly rubbed her nose.

"Scully?"

She looked up at the AD.

"Uh, I hate to bring this up, but do you know what

kind of battery he had in the cell?"

Her eyes widened, and she looked at the phone in her

hand. Dropping it on the bed, she raced to the door

to the other room, shoving her way past the agent who

was standing there.

Skinner quickly followed her. He watched as she lifted

the battery that was in the charger, then rummaged in

Mulder's bag, eventually emerging with another battery.

She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling audibly, the

looked over to where Skinner stood.

"He's got the new one," she breathed in relief.

"He's

got the new ion one. It should last 24 hours." She

glanced at her watch. "If he turned the phone on

when he left -- and he usually does, he's pretty good about

that -- then he's got about thirteen more hours. Maybe

more if he didn't turn it on until he called me the first

time."

"So we can't expect any contact from him after thirteen

more hours."

She was nodding again, struggling to be professional, yet

needing his reassurances.

He walked to her and took the batteries from her hand.

Smiling,

he said, "Then we'll just have to find him before our time

is up.

I'm not going to lose him now. I've almost got him trained

to turn his paperwork in on time."

10:10 am

He'd been laying here a long time. The cold had seeped

into him, draining him of energy and motivation. But

Scully had said get out of the water. So, he had to get out

of the water. And it was going to have to be through the

windshield. There wasn't any other way out. And it was

going to hurt like a bitch to do. The mere thought of

movement was painful, and the reality would be torture.

Mulder shoved the phone deep in the sweatshirt pocket,

then pulled the zipper, making sure it couldn't fall out.

'Don't lose the phone, Mulder,' he chanted to himself.

He took a deep breath and grabbed the steering wheel

with his right hand, then pulled, hard, and levered

his body up and over the dashboard. The movement

caused him to roll on his broken arm and he screamed

as he slid across and down the hood into the water.

The blackness that was threatening to carry him under

was immediately chased away with his impact in the

icy water. He jolted alert, tried desperately to remain

standing, and managed several steps to the bank of the

river. As he reached the bank, he collapsed gratefully

onto the dry earth, and let himself rest. Overcome with

pain and exhaustion, he slipped away once more.

11:47 am

When he came to again, he was on his side, the broken

arm clutched to his chest. His mouth was full of blood

again, and his stomach was churning. He turned his

head a bit more and spit several times, trying to rid himself

of the foul fluids. He stayed there, unmoving, tears

running down his face, as he struggled to think through

the pounding in his head, to plan, to decide what to do.

Scully would know what to do. Scully would make it

stop hurting. Scully would take the cold away. Where

was Scully? Why hadn't she come to get him?

He took a deep breath, then cautiously released the

hurt arm, wincing as it moved slightly. He had to get

moving. If Scully hadn't come for him, it might be

because she couldn't. He would have to go to her.

He started to rise, then looked down at his leg when

a sharp pain rocked him. There was a piece of metal

twisted and bent, sticking out of his calf. He reached

down, almost without thinking, and pulled it loose.

He shuddered as his nerve-endings caught fire and

carried their messages of agony through his body.

He was panting now, his whole body trembling from

the combination of cold, and pain, and shock. He had

to move. If he lay here, he would die. He managed to

get to his feet, and began to stumble along the bank of

the river. He walked for a while, his body on autopilot,

thinking only that he had to get somewhere; he had to

meet someone. Was it Scully he was going to meet?

As he trudged along, he struggled to remember what

had happened. He hurt everywhere. Every step jarred

his arm, and sent ripples of pain all up the limb. He

could feel blood oozing from the gouge in his leg, and

his head felt as if it were ready to explode. He tripped

then, landing on a rock, and once more was engulfed in

pain. He lay there, writhing, taking deep gasping breaths

that never seemed to fill his lungs, as he tried to sort things

out in his dazed state. There was a ringing in his ears and

it made it hard to think. There had been a car wreck, right?

Was Scully in the car? He stopped suddenly and looked

around. This wasn't right. He was on the edge of a river,

the water racing in its course. There was no car here.

What had happened? Where was Scully?

He rolled to his side, fighting the nausea that swept up with

the action and clutched his arm more tightly to his chest.

Something wet trickled down his face, and he lifted his hand

to touch his brow. His fingers touched a wound, covered with

clotted blood. His head was hurt. How did he hurt his head?

Was that why it was so difficult to think?

He had to find Scully. He forced himself to his feet and began

to walk again. He had to keep moving and in his dazed and

confused state, he didn't realize when he began to drift from

the river, heading into the trees that lined the water's edge.

He plodded on, oblivious to the tree limbs and overgrown

vines that slapped his face and clawed at his body. He was

beyond seeing, beyond thinking, almost beyond feeling, when

he tripped over a fallen log and fell to his knees.

He looked down at his leg and saw blood there, too.

Had he hurt himself in the fall? He was so cold. And

he hurt so bad. Everything hurt. All over hurt. And

now he was tired. He knew he needed to fight being

tired. He had to keep moving. His head ached and

there was that same ringing in his ears.

He shivered as a chill breeze blew across him, and he

sought a pocket to put his hand in. He had unzipped the

sweatshirt pocket and stuck his hand in, seeking warmth,

when his knuckles met hard plastic. He uncurled his

fingers and grabbed the phone, pulling it out.

It was ringing. That was where the ringing was coming

from. Scully hadn't forgotten him. She was going to

come and get him. He gave a sob of relief and grappled

with the phone, his numb and weakened fingers refusing

to obey his mind's commands. He finally got the phone

open and lifted it to his ear, only to be met with silence.

He dropped the phone, crying out his dismay, then allowed

himself to fall forward onto the leaves covering the ground,

and gave himself up to the despair that consumed him.

1:24 pm

The locals had a mobile command post set up outside the

motel and Skinner had been conferring with the police

chief. Until there was some kind of a break, there was

very little else that could be done beside a continued

watch for the car. He thanked the chief and headed back

to Scully's room.

"He's still not answering, Sir," she said as Skinner

walked back into the room. "Is everything set to track him

if I can get through?" It was the third time she had asked

the same question, but Skinner knew she needed the

reassurance.

"Everything's ready. Danny is all set to go on my

say-so."

He growled in frustration. "All we need is contact."

"It's been 13 hours now, Sir. Hasn't anyone come up with

something? No word on the car? Anything?"

He shook his head sadly. "The motel manager got the

phone records for us and we do show he received a phone

call at 12:07 this morning. But we haven't been able to

track where it came from yet." As she started to speak,

he waved her quiet, then said, "I've got people on it.

Believe me, we are pursuing every possibility."

"And search teams?"

Skinner shrugged helplessly. "They're on call, ready to

go on a moment's notice. But, Scully -- Dana -- we have

to have a place to start." He spoke gently. "You know

that."

She nodded. "I know. I'm worried. If he could call,

he would. He must be badly hurt." She straightened

slightly, then lifted her head and said, "But we're going

to find him. I have to believe that."

Skinner nodded encouragingly. "We are. Go ahead,"

he nodded at the phone in her hand, "try again. Maybe

this will be the one."

She hit redial, then began to pace, unconsciously waiting

for the cellular company recording to tell her to close

the phone, so she could try again. As she counted off the

rings, she was shocked when she heard a quiet click, then

Mulder mumbled, "Scleee?"

"Mulder? Yeah, it's me! Mulder, stay with me now.

I can find you now. You have to stay on the line!"

Scully was frantically waving at Skinner, and he already

had his phone to his ear, talking to DC. "They're on

it,"

he whispered, and she nodded in relief.

"How you doing, Mulder? You still with me?" she

asked

and was rewarded with another mumbled response. Please,

please, stay conscious. Got to keep him talking.

"You were hurt pretty bad, Mulder. Can you tell me

what happened?"

"Car," came through in a weak voice. He sounded

terrible.

In addition to the obvious difficulty he was having with

articulation, he sounded sluggish. Was it the cold? Or

was he in shock? Blood loss?

"Are you bleeding, Mulder?"

"Uh-huh."

Oh, God. He was bleeding. How much? And for how long?

And from where?

"Can you tell me where, Mulder? Where's the blood?"

There was a long silence, and Scully began to call his name

again. When he still didn't answer her repeated requests,

she was afraid she had lost him. She looked up at Skinner

and demanded, "Are they getting this?"

He murmured into the phone, then nodded.

OK, deep breath, still connected. Talk to him, Dana. Keep

talking.

"Mulder, c'mon partner, I need you to answer me. Is your

head bleeding?"

A mumbled response, almost unheard, unintelligible.

"I need more, Mulder. A little louder. Is your head

bleeding?"

Whispered. "Uh-huh."

"What else, Mulder? What else?"

"Hurts." Several deep gasps. "Scleee ..."

A moan.

Her heart was breaking. How long was this going to

take? She glared at Skinner impatiently, daring anything

to go wrong, then turned her attention back to her

injured partner.

"I'm coming, Mulder. Skinner's got people tracking you.

As soon as the trace comes through, we're on our way.

Hang in there, partner, I'm coming." A sob of her

own snuck through, and she took a deep breath to regain

control. "Mulder? Do you hear me?"

She said his name several more times with no response.

She was once again glaring in Skinner's direction, when

he closed his phone, said "Got it!" and rose to walk to

stand beside her.

"Lost again," she said worriedly, then slowly closed

the

phone when it became clear the connection was broken.

"It's all right," Skinner said comfortingly.

"We've got the

coordinates. Let's go get him."

He strode briskly to the command post outside, climbed the

two steps up to the door, then stepped inside, waiting for

Scully to follow.

"Chief? We've got coordinates. Let's take a look at that

map."

The two men spread a map and sought out the specified

coordinates. Skinner finally pointed and said, "There!"

"That's down by the river," the chief said.

"How far away?" Scully asked. "He's

injured."

" 'Bout an hour to the road above the site. Gonna have to

go down the embankment to get there. Not a real accessible

area. It's off the road to the old mill."

"I don't care how inaccessible it is. Let's roll,"

Skinner ordered,

then turned and marched out the door.

"Medical?" she asked, as she followed him to the

car.

"Coming with us. Locals, FBI, Search and Rescue, and

medical. We got it all. Let's pick him up."

1:26 pm

Mulder woke to ringing again, and this time knew immediately

it was from the phone that lay before his face on the ground.

He scrambled to pick it up, open it, and say, "Scleee?"

It was a pretty garbled version of her name, but she would know

he meant her.

She was talking to him now, her voice a dull, but comforting

buzz beneath the roar of the pain in his head. He smiled,

content to hear her, but she was asking him something, he

could tell by the inflection in her voice. What had she

said?

"... what happened?"

Oh, God, Scully, haven't we done this? He struggled to

remember. What happened? "Car ..." he wheezed. The

car was involved. He was in the car? Where was she?

He looked around, suddenly concerned. Where was Scully?

He pulled himself upright again, ready to resume his search,

when he realized he was still holding the phone and she

was talking to him.

"... bleeding ..."

Bleeding? He looked down at himself. Oh, yeah, there was

bleeding.

"Uh-huh."

She was talking again. Scully, it hurts. Stop talking and come

get me. It hurts so bad. And I'm cold. I'm really cold. Please

come get me.

"Hurts." He was gasping now. It was too hard to try

to talk

to her. Didn't she understand? "Scleee ..." he moaned.

She wasn't talking anymore, and he was too tired to ask

her why. He was gathering his strength to try to speak, when

he heard her say, "Lost again." Scully was lost? He had

find her. He closed the phone once more, and staggered off

into the trees. When the closed phone slid from his numb

fingers, he didn't even realize. He had one thought now -- keep

moving and find Scully.

2:35 pm

There was the car. You could see it on its side in the

river. Skinner looked at the embankment, searching for

a safe way down. He was going to insist they move on

over the hill and go down to the mill, then work back

along the river-bank. Scully wasn't going to like it,

but there was no way they could get the teams down

this escarpment. He looked up at the people awaiting

his commands, then looked again, realizing Scully

was missing from the group.

"Where's Agent Scully?" he barked.

A murmur rippled through the group, as people looked

around and spoke quietly to one another, but there

was no answer.

Oh shit! I'm busy studying avenues of approach, she's

taking the avenue of approach. He looked down over the

edge and let his eyes scan back and forth. Sure enough,

there she was, off to the east and moving down the

embankment at a breakneck pace.

"Damn it, Scully! Stop before you kill yourself!" He

was

annoyed, but not surprised when she didn't respond.

He turned to the others. "Chief? Would you take the

team to the mill and work back to this position along the

river?" At the chief's nod, he continued, "I'm going

after my other wayward agent." He held up his

phone. "Keep in touch."

One of the Bureau people stepped forward, holding

a small, metal cylinder. "Here," he said to Skinner,

"if we're splitting up, you take this, turn it on, and

keep it on your person. It will let us find you with

the Global Positioning uplink."

Skinner nodded as he accepted the beacon and slipped

it into a pocket. He then looked at the dog handlers

with the Search and Rescue team. "Can your dogs get

down there?"

The others had dispersed, loading quickly into vehicles

for the trip to the mill. The two handlers exchanged

glances, then the younger man said, "I'll give it a

go." He walked to the edge and looked over, saw

Scully still working her way down, and commented,

"Determined, isn't she?"

Skinner nodded, "You have no idea." He turned and

lowered himself over the edge and began scrambling for

hand and toe-holds. The two dogs went barreling past him,

slipping and sliding their way to the bottom. He looked

over and saw the handler making his own way down the

treacherous incline.

Skinner was about a third of the way down when his foot

slipped and he fell several yards before he caught himself.

He clung to the earth wall, taking deep breaths, and thinking,

'Scully, if we live through this, I may just kill you myself.

Damn, stubborn woman!'

He made it the rest of the way to the bottom, to find the

object of his immediate frustration wading back from

the car that lay half submerged just beyond the river-bank.

She shivered as she spoke. "He's not in there."

Skinner took his jacket off, insisting she put it

on as he said, "Damn it, Dana, you can't go charging

off by yourself! That's why we work in teams!" He

looked down at her, her shoes filled with water, pants

soaked to her thighs. And now you're all wet! The water

must be like ice!"

"I had to check." She looked around, then ran

forward

several yards, pointing to the ground where it was

disturbed. "Here! He came out here!" She knelt,

touching

a leaf dark with dried blood. "He's bleeding."

Skinner called the handler over. He pointed to the

leaves. "Have them start here."

The man whistled and the dogs came. He leashed the

animals then pointed to the ground and waited while

they sniffed. He pulled on the leash, then said,

"Find!"

Both dogs took off with the three seekers behind them.

They were following the river-bank, the dogs' noses to

the ground. They walked along the river for a good

20 minutes, then the dogs began to pull into the trees.

As they followed the animals into the woods, Skinner

pulled his phone, and called the team. "ETA?"

"We're at the mill, working our way back to you. I

don't know how long it will take."

"Are the dogs loose?"

"Yeah, and we've got the coordinates logged into the

GPS tracker. We should be able to come right to you."

Skinner looked over at Scully, noticed her attention

was fastened to the dogs, but lowered his voice anyway.

"Get here fast. Full medical team. Bring everything.

There's a lot of blood." He closed the phone and moved

on deeper into the woods.

They reached a fallen log, covered with the dark stains

of half-dried blood and the dogs went crazy. Scully knelt

by the log and gently touched the blood, then began rocking

silently on her knees. A hushed keening came from

her throat and Skinner dropped to his knees beside her.

"Dana -- what? What is it?" he asked, the concern

evident

in his voice.

"There's so much blood," she whispered. "Every

step,

everywhere we walked, there was blood everywhere."

She lifted haunted eyes to his face. "How can he still be

moving when there's so much blood?"

"He's strong, Dana, and he knows you're coming. He'll

be all right." He rose and gently lifted her to her feet.

"C'mon, let's keep going. We'll find him."

She nodded as she let him help her up, then staggered as

stress and her own exhaustion threatened to overcome her.

Skinner reached out quickly, holding her arm and steadying

her while she regained her balance. She stood, unmoving, her

eyes closed and taking deep breaths. Skinner stepped closer

and moved his hand from her arm, reaching out to put his arm

around her.

"Are you OK?" he asked quietly. "Do you need to

take a

minute?"

She took another deep breath, then straightened. "No. I'm

fine. Mulder may not have any minutes for me to take." She

lifted tormented eyes and said, "We have to keep

looking."

She started to step away, but he held her tightly, halting

her forward motion. "If you need to rest, if you need

to stop, if you need anything, you tell me," he

whispered fiercely. "We're going to find him, but you

are not going to hurt yourself in the process."

She gazed into his dark brown eyes, surprisingly compassionate

behind the steel-rimmed glasses that served to hide so much,

and slowly nodded. She let herself relax into his strength

for a second, then pulled away, and this time, he let her go.

She stepped over the tree, eyes scanning the ground for signs

of Mulder's passage. The dogs were milling about, noses to

the ground, intent on their search. Scully stood silently,

watching as they circled one another, and crossed back and

forth across the semi-path they were following. In frustration,

she pulled her cell phone again, hit '1,' and waited. She was

soon answered in stereo, the ringing in her ear, echoed by

a just audible ringing in the distance.

Without further thought, she took off, racing through the

woods, oblivious to the branches that clutched at her clothing,

and scratched her face and hands. Skinner was right behind,

trying to catch her, to pass her, to make a path for her that

would not be so difficult, but she was beyond caring for

those mundane things. All that mattered was to find the

source of the ringing.

She leapt over another fallen tree, landing hard, and almost

stumbled forward into a small grove of closely set pines.

The ringing was louder, right in front of her, and her

eyes were seeking frantically for any sign of Mulder.

"Mulder!" she cried. "I'm here!"

She was still searching, still looking for the source of the

ringing. It was so loud, so clear, it had to be here.

"Mulder!" she called again, and was joined this time

Skinner's deeper baritone as he, too, called for his missing

agent.

Scully was circling the grove, the insistent ringing teasing

them, tantalizingly close, but still unseen. She stepped around

a tree, still hoping to find her partner, be he injured,

bleeding,

dazed, or unconscious, it did not matter as long as he was

found. As she rounded the large tree trunk, she stopped

so suddenly that Skinner plowed into her from behind and had

to grab her to keep them both from toppling to the ground.

They stood together, panting, as both looked in horror at

the sight before them.

There on the ground lay Mulder's cell phone. And he was

nowhere

to be seen.

2:57 pm

Mulder shivered as a cloud passed over the sun, then looked up

to see the daytime star emerge from its temporary shelter. To

be shining so brightly, it sure wasn't helping the cold that

still

engulfed him. He shivered again, then forced his feet to move

forward.

He was getting weaker, he could tell. But he had to keep

moving.

Scully would want him to keep moving. She wouldn't want him

to give up, to give in. Even through the constant pain, the

fatigue

that now threatened to overwhelm him, the cold that had him

shivering in the middle of the day as if it were the darkest

night in

January, even through it all he could still feel her with him,

connected

to him in a way he could never explain.

He stumbled forward, only his need to see Scully keeping him

upright, keeping him moving. The pounding in his head, the

roaring in his ears, the mind-numbing pain throughout his body,

all made focus and concentration so difficult. He forced himself

lift his feet, shuffling forward toward some unseen, almost

unknown

goal, mindlessly chanting: I need to see Scully. I need to see

Scully.

I need to see Scully.

Through the fog that filled his mind, he thought of his

midnight

visits to her room. She was so patient with him and his

complexities.

He would rise, panicked, consumed by fears half-seen and less

understood, and go to her. Sometimes standing in the door,

sometimes drawing near to her to take comfort. And always,

just being with her worked its magic and he was healed.

The mere memory of her soothing presence, her tolerance for

his intrusions and her understanding of his compulsions,

strengthened

him, and he moved a little faster, with a bit more confidence.

It became his mantra: I need. I need. I need.

And in his clouded mind, his thoughts twisted and he wondered,

'What do I need?' I need to see Scully. I need to be with Scully.

But I need to keep her safe. I need her to be secure. I need her

to be happy. Those conflicting needs were what kept him from

fulfilling his wants.

He wanted to be with Scully. He wanted to stay with her

always.

But he also wanted to be out of the car. He stopped, swaying in

place for a moment as he looked around confusedly. Well, he

was out of the car. Now he wanted to be out of the woods. And

out of the cold. And he wanted to not hurt for a while. And to

sleep. Sleep would be really good right now. He was so tired.

He'd learned at an early age the difference between need and

want.

He'd wanted Samantha to come home. He'd wanted Mom and Dad

to stop fighting. He'd wanted everyone to be happy again. But all

he'd been left with was a need to understand, a need to figure it

all out, a need to know what happened. Oh, yes, he understood the

difference between want and need.

He began to stagger forward again, going uphill now. Movement

was growing more difficult with each step. It hurt too much now.

Everything hurt. It was too hard to keep moving. He just needed

to rest, just for a minute. He tottered toward a large tree,

thinking

he could slide down and lean against it, rest a bit, then resume

his journey

to find Scully. He stood there, eyes closed against the coming

pain of lowering himself, and let his mind drift once more to

the comforting vision of Scully, asleep in her bed. He would

come to her room and she would open her eyes, filling him with

her care and acceptance.

He felt a hot wetness on his cheek, and lifted a hand,

surprised

to find that he was crying. He stared at the tree before him, but

saw only Scully.

He wanted nothing more than to go to her, to slide into the

bed

with her, and join with her as man and woman were meant to be

joined. And he felt she would welcome him, welcome him into

her bed, into her heart, into her soul. And he would be safe, he

would belong, he would be home.

He closed his eyes again, the darkness coming for him as he

took

one more step forward. The ground dropped beneath his feet and

he fell into an indentation in the earth. He landed upright, but

barely, and then began to topple forward. As his head crashed

into

the unyielding tree trunk, and he crumpled to the ground, in his

mind's

eye he saw only Scully.

He would find her. He would get to her. And then, things would

be all right again.

Until the next time.

3:10 pm

"How far could he have gone?" Scully asked, her

frustration

mounting. "And why can't these damn dogs find him?"

Skinner looked at her. She was standing by a tree, eyes

fastened

to the dogs who milled about in a small space of open ground. She

looked ridiculous in his jacket; it dwarfed her completely. But

perhaps it was helping to keep her warm. He shivered as he

thought

that there would not be enough heat in the world to keep her warm

if they did not find her partner in time.

He scanned the woods -- once they had left the river-bank, the

forest

had deepened quickly and they were now in a thickly treed area,

with little sunlight filtering through the closely spaced pines,

elms, and maples. Saplings of all sizes vied for space, and

light,

and a chance for growth, making forward progress increasingly

difficult. With no other clues to Mulder's whereabouts; they were

at the mercy of the dogs.

"He's wet, Scully," Skinner said in response to her

question. "And

the ground is wet as well. It's bound to make tracking

harder."

She nodded absently, and he knew he had been dismissed, her

mind completely absorbed in the hunt for Mulder. He shivered

again in the chill March air, and then breathed a sigh of relief

as the dogs stiffened and then took off.

"They got something," the handler said, and all

three of them

raced after the animals. They were climbing a small incline,

Skinner finally able to lead and clear a way for Scully. He

reached

back and grabbed her hand, tugging her forward, trying to

lend her a little of his strength. The dogs were pulling

excitedly,

and the handler was having trouble keeping them in areas clear

enough for the humans to follow.

They crested the rise, the dogs first, then the handler,

finally

Skinner, still holding Scully. As the terrain leveled, Scully

broke free of Skinner's grasp, and stepped away, arms wrapped

about herself. The dogs were sniffing the ground again, turning

in circles and pawing the ground.

Scully gave a snort of frustration, and took several steps

forward

across the clearing. The ground leveled out for a ways, then

began to slope gently downward again, but in one place, there

was a slight drop-off. As if following a beacon, she walked

straight there, then stopped, and gasped. There, folded into

himself at the base of a towering pine, was her partner.

She jumped down beside him, calling, "I've got him,

Sir!"

He was laying face down, his left arm extended at an

unnatural angle. As she knelt beside him, a trickle of dark

blood oozed from his slightly opened mouth, joining a

growing pool beneath his chin.

"Oh, God, Mulder, what have you done?" she breathed.

She watched his chest rise slowly, noting that he was at

least breathing steadily despite the injuries she had already

noted.

She turned to Skinner as he knelt beside her. "Where's

your medical team?" she demanded.

He had his phone out already, and was speaking before she

finished. "We've got him. Where are you?" He paused,

listening, then snapped, "Well, move faster! I need you here

now!"

He turned to Scully. "They're on their way. Should be

here

any time now." He nodded to Mulder. "How is he?"

Her hand was on his neck, fingers probing gently. "I've

got

a carotid pulse, weak but steady." She looked up.

"Here,

we need to turn him over. You take his hips. Hold him as

straight as you can." She was maneuvering above Mulder's

head, forming a cage for his skull with her arms, her hands

on his shoulders. "We need to logroll him -- maintain the

spine's relative positioning at all times. Understand?"

Skinner nodded, and she began to count. "One, two, three,

roll." They turned him carefully, and Scully released him

at once. She was stripping off Skinner's coat, then her own

sweater, and finally was down to her shirt. She pulled it off

without thinking and began trying to rip it into strips.

When the material resisted tearing, Skinner reached and took

it, saying, "Here, I'll do that. Put your sweater back on

before

you freeze to death." He bit the cloth savagely, then

pulled,

and was rewarded with a mighty 'rip.'

Scully glanced down at herself, colored slightly, and shrugged

back into her sweater. She was examining his head, looking

gently at his mouth for the source of the bleeding. "Hey,

Mulder,"

she whispered, as she dabbed at his face, gently wiping blood

away from the numerous lacerations and contusions. "Hey,

partner, I'm here."

"Mmmm," he moaned in response, then made a sound

that

could have been her name.

She touched the gash over his brow, wincing as it began to

bleed.

"Ah, shit, Mulder, I'm sorry." Her eyes filled with

tears as she

touched him once again, noting the horribly swollen eye.

"I'm

sorry. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. C'mon, Mulder, be all

right."

She touched Mulder's arm gently, wincing again at the bend

between elbow and wrist, then moved swiftly to look at his leg.

His pants were torn and blood soaked, and as she pulled the

material back, the wound began to ooze again. She pointed

to the leg and said, "Apply pressure to that. I need to look

his head." She took a couple of pieces of the torn shirt,

and

crawled back to Mulder's head, saying, "And where the hell

is your medical team?"

Skinner was listening to her murmured commentary as he

wrapped the cloth tightly around Mulder's leg. As he

pressed firmly against the open wound, Mulder moaned, and

he found himself letting up on the force he used. "Not your

fault, Scully," he said gruffly, as he pulled his makeshift

bandage together, tucking the end under itself.

She looked up, startled, as if she had forgotten she wasn't

alone, and he saw her tears and her pain. "Here," he

reached

out to her, "look at this. Is it all right?"

She moved again, checking his bandage, and shook her

head. " 's OK. Thanks." She raised her head, scanning

the clearing. "Where the fuck are they?" she muttered

as she slid back up to crouch by Mulder's head again.

"Coming," Skinner responded, and he nodded at the

far edge

of the clearing. He rose and called to the people, "Here!

Over here!"

Two paramedics approached quickly, a backboard held between

them. As the police and FBI agents filled the clearing, forming

a loose semicircle around Mulder and Scully, he noted that

everyone, everyone, carried some piece of additional

medical equipment. He smiled grimly. At least they had

listened when he told them to bring everything. He only hoped

it wouldn't be needed now.

"Somebody give me a stethoscope," Scully ordered.

"Aren't you his partner?" one of the paramedics

asked.

Skinner stepped forward and removed the stethoscope from the

man's neck, placing it in Scully's outstretched hand, and quite

possibly saving the man's life. "She's his partner and a

doctor. You better listen to her," he warned.

"This is a 38-year-old male, status -- post motor vehicle

accident,

significant head and facial trauma, with obvious deformity of

his left arm; avulsion laceration of right leg, and I need vitals

immediately. He's breathing on his own, unresponsive to verbal,

but responds to deep, painful stimuli."

As he watched, the paramedics quickly placed a cervical

collar around Mulder's neck. They rolled him gently onto

the backboard and carefully strapped him down. Both legs,

both arms, his torso, and his head were securely fastened to

the molded poly-board. Scully had equipment now, and she

was swiftly making a more in-depth assessment.

"He's breathing all right; shallow but clear. No wheezes,

no crackles, breath sounds are equal. I don't hear any

fluids." She looked up. "You have his BP?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am," the medic answered.

"80/palp."

"Get an IV going and open up the fluids."

She reached out and touched Mulder's hand, "Sorry,

Mulder, but you're gonna have to wake up and tell me

if you don't want the IV. I know you can do it." She leaned

over, touched his neck, her eyes on her watch as she counted

his pulse. "Weak, but steady," she rapped out.

"Are you

getting this?"

She looked up at an EMT who was standing near the backboard,

and the man jumped, then answered, "Yes, ma'am," as he

fumbled

with a clipboard and began to make notes.

"Not his left hand!" she said to the medic starting

the IV.

"Use the right one; we're going to have to splint the left

arm."

She looked around again. "You," she singled out the

other

medic. "Get his pants off and do something about the gouge

on his leg. Clean it up and -- do we have a splint?" The man

nodded, and scissors appeared, followed shortly by the gauze

and tape. "And what's the matter with you people? Doesn't

anyone know how to set up the oxygen? Get him started on

high flow O2."

Skinner stepped forward and touched her shoulder. "Easy,

Dana. They know their job. Give them room to work."

She took a deep breath, then murmured, "Sorry," as

she

turned back to Mulder. "C'mon, Mulder," she said,

"stay

with us." Someone had given her a flashlight and she was

prying Mulder's eyes open, shining the light in as she continued

to monitor everyone's activities. Oxygen was duly

produced and a mask fitted carefully over Mulder's face.

One of the medics was inserting the line into Mulder's

good arm, as the other one was cutting his pants off to

clear the way to the wicked looking wound on his

calf. She applied a pressure bandage to the gouge, then

splinted the leg in a cardboard splint that was produced

from one of the many boxes being carried by the search team.

Another splint was produced and the broken arm was

immobilized as well. "Blanket?" she asked, then waited

until one was given to her.

Spreading it gently over her partner's still form, she

whispered, "You're all right, Mulder, you're going to

be all right. You just hang in there, and it's all going to

work out." She reached out and gently pushed his hair away

from his face as she waited for the last splint to be secured,

then smoothed the blanket down over his left side. Beneath

her touch, his right eye fluttered open, and a piercing gaze

captured her.

"Scleee," he croaked. "y'came."

"Shh, Mulder, of course I came. What else would I

do?"

"Need ..." he panted.

"Shhh, you don't need to do anything right now. Just

rest.

We're going to get you out of here and get you taken care

of."

"Need ..." he repeated stubbornly, his right hand

clutching the

air as he sought to grab onto her, the strap holding his arm in

place. She reached out and seized his hand, cradling his larger

one between both of her own.

"Mulder, you need to stay awake, but if talking is

painful,

you don't have to talk. Just stay with me." Her voice broke

and she suppressed a sob. In a mere whisper she repeated,

"Just stay with me, Mulder. Stay with me ..."

"Need ..." he tried again, but was overtaken with

coughing.

"Shhh, Mulder, hush now. It's all right. Calm down.

You're

going to be all right." She was speaking softly, and her

soothing

words soon helped to settle him. He closed his eye briefly, then

opened it to stare at her and she knew he wouldn't give up

until he had said his piece. She lifted the mask from his

face, and asked, "What, Mulder? What do you need?"

"Need. You." He closed his eye again, gave a little

sigh,

and released her hand as he relaxed, the tension visibly flowing

from his body.

"I'm here, Mulder," she whispered. Heedless of the

audience

watching her, she leaned over and gently kissed his cheek.

"You've got me."

She looked at him a moment longer, then lifted her head.

"We ready?" she asked. At the paramedic's nod, she

said, "Then

let's get him to the hospital."

She stood, bracing herself to take one corner of the board,

but

Skinner was there first, pulling her away. "Oh no you

don't,"

he said. He waved at the circle of people. "Plenty of muscle

for

that. You come with me." Two agents stepped forward to

assist the paramedics as they lifted the backboard and began the

trek back to the waiting vehicles at the old mill.

She bucked beneath his hand, but his grip was implacable.

"No," he whispered, "You've done your part. You're

the

doctor here. Let them carry him. You watch him, make

sure he's doing OK on the trip." He pulled her forward,

following the paramedics as they moved back toward the

mill. He looked down at her, then stopped a moment, and

touched her chin, lifting her head to meet his eyes. He

carefully brushed a tear from her cheek and said, "He's

going

to be OK, Dana. He's got a lot to live for."

She gave a little sniff, then nodded, and he released her.

"C'mon, I'll walk with you. Fox Mulder isn't going to

let a little thing like a car wreck keep him down for long."

11:18 pm

"Scully," Skinner said sharply, then immediately

felt guilty

when she jumped. He softened his tone and said, "Come sit

down. You're making me nervous."

She shook her head and continued to pace. "This is taking

too

long," she said.

"Scully, please," Skinner repeated. "Come and

sit. You're

making me nervous and tired."

"No!" she said sharply, continuing her back and

forth

movements. "All they needed to do was clean and close

the wound on his leg. Why the hell is this taking so long?"

Skinner was at a loss. He had no answers. But he certainly

had a few questions. And top of the list right now was how

much longer Dana Scully was going to be able to stay on her

feet without falling over or falling apart. She'd been up since

5:30 that morning, frantic with fear and worry. She'd spent

a good part of that day in heavy physical activity as they

searched

for Mulder, and she hadn't stopped for food or drink. And she

hadn't sat down since they reached the hospital almost four

hours ago.

'Enough,' he said to himself as he rose. He planted himself

firmly in the path behind her, determined that she was going

to sit, to rest, and to drink something, if not eat. She took two

more steps, turned, and walked straight into a tall, broad,

impenetrable barrier -- his chest. She glared up at him, then

started to go around, but he reached out and stopped her, his

hands gentle, but firm on her arms.

She growled at him, an angry, pained sound, guttural and low,

and he almost let her go. Instead, he tightened his grip and he

could feel her trembling slightly beneath his touch.

"Dana,"

he said, "You are exhausted. You have to rest or you won't

be able to function. Mulder is going to need you, and he

doesn't need you so depleted you can't think or see

straight."

He bent low, looked her directly in the eyes, "Now --

sit down!"

He was saved from having to enforce his last command when

a throat was cleared from the doorway to the waiting room.

They both turned to see a man standing there, looking

at them with open curiosity and mild amusement.

"Excuse me," he said, "I'm Dr. Chao. I'm

looking for a Dana

Scully? Next of kin for Fox Mulder?"

Scully pulled away from Skinner and answered, "That's

me. I'm Dana Scully. How is he? When can I see him?"

"All right, Ms. Scully," the doctor began, and was

quickly

interrupted by Skinner.

"Doctor Scully," he corrected.

The doctor looked up. "Pardon?"

"Doctor Scully," Skinner repeated. "She's a

doctor."

"Oh, I see. My apologies, Dr. Scully." The man

nodded at

Scully then looked back at Skinner. "And you are?"

"I'm Agent Mulder's supervisor, Walter Skinner." He

extended

his hand and the two men shook.

"Would you please tell me how Mulder is?" Scully

snapped.

"And where he is? I need to see him."

The doctor returned his attention to Scully. "Yes, of

course,

I'm sorry." He walked toward the couch and indicated she

should be seated. "Have a seat and I'll bring you up to

date."

Scully sat reluctantly and Skinner smiled inwardly. At least

this doctor had succeeded in getting her off her feet. He walked

over to the couch and stood before them, listening as the doctor

began.

"Mr. Mulder has sustained numerous traumas from his

accident.

On arrival he was responsive, but disoriented, slightly

combative, requiring sedation for scans. Head, abdomen,

and pelvis scans were negative. After his arm was splinted

in the ER, he was transferred to the OR for surgical debridement

of the wound on his calf."

"I know all this," Scully interrupted. "How is

he? And what

took you so long to finish the debridement?"

Dr. Chao looked up at Skinner for a moment, almost

questioning,

then returned his gaze to Scully. "Recognizing that Mr.

Mulder

had been sedated upon arrival, the choice of anesthesia was

critical."

Scully's eyes widened. "Oh, no ..." she breathed.

"What?" Skinner was lost. "What does that mean?

What happened?"

"How long?" Scully asked.

"Almost three hours."

Skinner spoke again. "What are you talking about?"

Ignoring the AD for the time being, Scully asked, "Is he

awake, now?"

"Mr. Mulder has not come fully awake, no," Chao

answered.

"Enough doctor speak," Skinner ordered. "Agent

Scully, explain

what is going on to me, now."

Scully looked up, abashed, and said, "They weren't sure

how much

anesthesia Mulder could tolerate. Putting someone under is always

tricky. But putting someone under who has a concussion and is

already

sedated is extremely tricky. You're sort of working blind as all

of the

normal responses are altered. They expected him to wake three

hours

ago, but he still hasn't come out of it." She turned to the

surgeon and

said, "I still need to see him. Where is he?"

"They're moving him from recovery to a private room

shortly. You

can join him there in about half an hour. Room 306." Dr.

Chao smiled

at Scully. "Despite the nature and severity of his injuries,

Mr. Mulder is

in excellent physical shape. We have every hope that he will

awaken on

his own at any time now."

"Thank you, Doctor," Scully said as the man rose.

"We'll go down and

wait for him."

"No," Skinner said, causing both Chao and Scully to

look at him. "You

said half an hour, right Doctor?" The man nodded and Skinner

turned to

look sternly at Scully. "We are going to get something to

eat, and then,

and only then, will we go see Mulder."

As Scully started to protest, Skinner crouched before her on

the couch.

"He's asleep -- out -- whatever. You said so yourself. He

won't be in his

room before midnight. You haven't eaten all day." A bit of

pleading

whine was creeping into what was supposed to be an authoritative

directive. He shook himself mentally, and continued. "You

need to

take care of yourself as well as Mulder. Please -- come eat and I

promise

to have you back before your coach turns into a pumpkin."

Seeing the genuine concern in Skinner's face, Scully nodded,

then said,

"Midnight. No later, all right?"

The AD rose to his feet then pulled Scully up as well.

"Deal," he

said as he led her from the room.

12:48 am

Skinner had been good to his word, and they were back in the

hospital by midnight. They had reached Room 306 as Mulder

was being moved from the gurney to the room's bed. As the

orderlies shifted him, the movement reached him in whatever

state he was, and he moaned softly.

"Careful," Scully hissed as she moved to stand by

the bed. She

had taken his hand, refusing to move as the nurse came in to

take his vitals.

It had been a battle, but she had finally succeeded in getting

Skinner to go back to the hotel. He hadn't wanted to leave

but she had needed some time with her partner, alone. Skinner

was coming back in a few hours, with clean clothes for her

and her travel case so she could wash up.

She was taking advantage of her privacy to make her own

examination of Mulder. His head was bandaged completely,

providing him with an almost comic turban appearance. She

touched his cheek gently, noting that the swelling around the

left eye had receded somewhat, though it was still quite bruised

and discolored. He'd been cleaned at some point, and just being

able to see beyond the blood and grime made a difference as she

noted the numerous lacerations and contusions that covered every

inch of his body.

His left arm had a cast on it now, the white of the plaster

standing

in stark contrast to the blue hospital gown he wore. She pulled

back

the covers to look at his leg, not surprised to see the wrapping

covered his entire calf. While she had the covers back, she snuck

a quick peek under his gown, checking his abdomen and noting

the nasty bruise that covered his left side.

She glanced down and was surprised that he hadn't been

catheterized. Well, that was one threat that just might get

him to respond.

She moved to stand by his head and softly said, "Hey,

Mulder,

time to wake up." He didn't respond so she stroked his face

gently.

"Hey partner, it's me. You with me, Mulder?" He stirred

slightly

and she felt a flicker of excitement. She was holding his hand,

cradling it carefully around the IV inserted into its back.

"C'mon, Mulder, c'mon back to me." He moved again,

and his

eyelids fluttered. "That's it, Mulder. You can do it. Time

to wake

up, sleepy-head."

One eye popped open and he murmured, "That's Sleeping

Beauty,

and you're s'posed to wake me with a kiss."

She laughed at that, then said, "Maybe I would, if you

really were

Sleeping Beauty."

He opened the other eye and whispered plaintively, "You

could

pretend."

She looked down at him, this man that frustrated and

exasperated

her, worried and frightened her, challenged and excited her, and

she thought of all the things that were about to change. Of the

risk

she was about to take. Of the unspoken rules that were about to

be broken.

She squeezed his hand gently, then leaned over and brushed her

lips across his own. She pulled back to see his eyes widen in

surprise, then she leaned in again, and kissed him once more.

It was a feather of a caress, her lips skimming his own, mindful

of his tender wounds, but it was an exchange of spirits that had

been waiting for five years.

She pulled back again, meeting his eyes, eyes that had moved

from surprise to desire, and she said, "When I kiss you,

Mulder,

there's no need to pretend."

<center>End

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