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The suite was far too large for one and far too comfortable for the one in question to accept as reality. Not that Mulder felt comfortable. The sudden return of sensation had sent him into information overload, and his brain had responded by throwing his body into spasms. Arms wrapped around his knees, he'd curled up as tight as he could, shaking until exhaustion and pain had carried him into unconsciousness. When he woke up a few hours later, he was alone. That was the only thing that wasn't a surprise. The bright white lights were missing, replaced by an orange glow. An orange glow that seemed to be the product of diffused light arriving from one wall of the room. He turned to face it, snorting in a startled lungful of air when he felt his body move, rather than just his eyes. Violent shivering overtook him, stopped his eyes from focusing well enough to identify exactly what he was seeing. But he understood enough to know that the remembered shock of sensation had been sustained through his latest bout of unconsciousness. Terrified that it was a dream, he closed his eyes and tried to feel. As the shivers tapered off to something more manageable, he reopened his eyes - tentative, dreading that the action might be enough to wake him up for real. It was a bed; he was in a bed. Its mattress springs were giving a little as he shifted. His eyes were confirming his body's feedback; his brain was giving him permission to hope. The orange glow appeared to be sunlight flowing in through curtained windows So what if every joint and sinew was burning? Why care that every muscle was pulling to contraction before releasing, involuntary twitches rippling through his body from head to toe before fading out. Skin itched and screamed, like the sting of poison ivy alternating with the numbing tingle of an electric shock. It felt real. So real that if it was just a lie, then it was surely over. If he woke up now, death or madness would be a heartbeat away. He'd known that it was coming. They'd told him that he was ready, and he'd agreed with them. They'd told him that they planned to reconnect him and then send him back. But he hadn't expected to wake up in a suite at the Watergate Hotel. *** The shower hurt, water droplets slamming into him like a hail of darts. No matter. It was a good hurt, building his confidence in this new reality. Not easy to handle. He had to rest his head against the tiles to stop the room from spinning, before finally giving in, and sitting in the bath to complete the process of washing his hair. Drying himself, with what logically he knew had to be a soft, plump, fluffy towel was like scrubbing at raw skin with a scouring pad. Far too rough a treatment. So he used the towel only to dab the water away, letting himself dry in the free air by cautiously walking around. He dared to look at himself then, let his eyes study the man in the mirror. It didn't feel like him, but it was him, or close enough to be at least familiar. A little heavier perhaps, a little more muscle around the neck and shoulders, a little less angular maybe. His skin glowed, warmly golden. Truly he was viewing the product of optimized exercise, diet and UV levels. No skipped meals, no too busy days, no hours of burrowing through microfiche in small town libraries. Judging by the stubble on his chin, he guessed that he'd been shaved maybe 24 hours ago. Consistent with his view that when things had happened, they'd happened fast. Though even that theory was based on an assumption about beard growth that might not be valid. He snorted at that. Everything was based on assumptions. He was even assuming that he was in the Watergate Hotel just because the headed stationary and magazine said that he was. What could be easier to fake than a hotel suite? Time to check-out and move on. The wave of panic rolled over him again, just as it had every other time he'd tried to act on that instinct to go home. Back to his apartment, back to Scully, back to life. He'd been told not to do that. He'd told himself not to do that; it was just that he kept forgetting. Hardly surprising, he couldn't even remember how to stand in a shower and wash his hair without falling over. Why should he remember how to handle more abstract things? Almost inevitable that his sense of balance was screwed. Prolonged weightlessness alone could do it. Add to that, whatever game they'd played with his ears, his eyes, his body. He stopped adding things to the list. It was enough. There were enough reasons for the physical symptoms. So what was the reason for them dropping him off here, rather than in the woods where they'd found him? Or if they were bothering to bring him back to DC, why not take him back to his apartment? Or deliver him directly to a hospital? In fact, why the haste? From lying disconnected on an alien ship to fending for himself in a hotel room in what, he stroked his chin, in less than 24 hours. Because he was ready. Ready. And he was here because it was a safe place to get his bearings and be invisible. Because no Federal arrest warrants accusing him of killing 21 people in an arson attack would come crashing through that door. He should turn himself in. Get it over and done with. No. Not before he'd spoken to Scully and Skinner. Not before he'd had a shave. Not before he'd found his clothes. Not before the constant low-grade panic had stopped buzzing through his body and not before his skin had stopped prickling like someone was pouring ice-cold, fizzing coke onto his sunburn. And definitely not while his head was still spinning. He thought of another reason for the dizziness. How long since he'd last eaten? He found the room service menu and dialed. They welcomed him as Mr Hale. The phone was tempting his fingers to dial again. He pulled them away. Skinner, Scully, the Gunmen, his apartment, any place he could think to call, anyone he wanted to talk to was out of bounds. Any calls he made would lead the FBI and who knows who else directly here. He needed to be stronger for that, mentally and physically. It had been his own choice, he realized that now. They'd asked if he was ready, and he'd said yes. They'd asked if he needed time to adjust, and he'd said that he'd rather just go. Cold turkey rehabilitation. Which was ok. He heard the knock on the door. Room Service. Clothes? Too many things to do, one thing at a time. He headed back to the bathroom and wrapped the robe around himself. He could acknowledge it then. He hadn't been left in an hotel room to "fend for himself" - he'd been left in a good hotel with everything he needed to get other people to do the "fending" for him. Money? Ok, that could wait. He could tab the tip as well as the food. He asked for the food tray to be delivered directly to the table, sensing that his balance was barely adequate to keep himself upright. With the room empty again he made his way to the food, lifted the lid from the plate and almost keeled over. Everything was hypersensitive, not just his skin. The brief whoosh of steam hurt his eyes; the smell of garlic and chili almost made him gag. Maybe he should have gone for the cheese sandwich and saved the fantasy food for later. Maybe the coffee wasn't that bright an idea either. He could almost hear Scully trying to fuss over him. He could imagine himself arguing with her, even as he did as he was told. He remembered a dislocated finger and her hands folding over his. His eyes shifted to the phone again and he had to force himself to look away. Flat 7-Up might be a safer option; he poured the can into the glass and left it to get warm. Great. Just great. He started laughing, amazed that he still had it in him to be angry and frustrated about anything. Given where he was 24 hours ago, it seemed like he had very little to complain about now. Laughing made him dizzy and breathless. He flopped back down on the bed, leaving the whole mess until later. When he woke up, everything was at room temperature. Gloomy but realistic, he ordered turkey sandwiches. It seemed appropriate somehow. The misfiring nerves had lost a little of their prickliness. Without his whole body screaming for attention, individual body parts were now making their presence felt. His head hurt, he was shaky, cold and hot, his stomach was cramping. OK, that was all OK, no problem, just dehydration and low blood sugar. Sighing, he looked at the food and drink on the table and accepted it for what it was - medicine. It didn't have to taste good. And in honesty, it didn't. He just needed to get some liquid past his sandpaper dry throat. Then he'd have to get hold of some toothpaste, and a toothbrush, and a razor. One thing at a time. For now, he focused on sipping a little more water and keeping it down. That one task carried out to the best of his admittedly, limited ability, he tried to work through the list of things he needed to do before he was truly "ready" for anything. He checked the closet and was not disappointed, the clothes he was wearing the night he was abducted were neatly folded on the shelf, still in their hotel laundry bags. Such a leisurely way for them to have disposed of any trace evidence. Not that he'd anticipated there being any. Just that he might have felt qualms about putting the clothes on if he'd thought there might be anything. Like the qualms he'd felt about stepping into that shower and washing them off his body? Not that he could do that, not that he would ever be able to do that. He leaned heavily against the closet, his fingers clinging on to the wooden doorframe for balance, suddenly absurdly grateful that he still thought of them as them. He breathed in carefully, sensing the rapid acceleration in his heart rate and knowing that his body couldn't handle it. "Our fates are entwined," they'd told him. And he'd believed them. Still did. The great thing about a place like this was that you could order almost anything from room service. He wrote a shopping list. He just hoped that Mr Hale's credit card could take the strain. He forced himself to drink another glass of water before going back to bed. When he woke up the room was dark. The first time he'd known darkness since they'd reconnected his eyes. Even when they'd been disconnected, it hadn't been real darkness, more like a glowing back projection screen on which they could run any movie they chose. His throat tightened and he had to fight the panic. His hand shaking as he remembered that he could move. He reached out to the wall and scratched his way along the surface until he found the light switch. Breathing out, he blinked and looked in disgust at the fingernail he'd just cracked. Disturbed by that trivial warning about his lack of ready-ness, he tried to ignore it. He focused instead on the more mundane frustration of not having any scissors. Why had they let his nails grow so long, yet shaved him at least once per day? Ah, that was the giveaway. When he curled his lip back, he could have felt any facial hair, could have used it to gauge how many days he'd been on the ship. Fingernails? He couldn't have even seen them. Mulder was glad that he was lying down. When the wave of nausea struck, he was relieved that all he had to do was roll onto his side and keep very still. He'd been taken more than three months ago, he knew today's date from the newspaper he'd had delivered to the room. He'd halfheartedly tried to piece together a timetable of events since the abduction. It was pretty much impossible to know. How long had it taken Krycek to set the link up? How long had Carver held the unit? How long between Carver losing the communicator and Carver being killed? How long since he'd last spoken to Scully? No way to judge it. Waiting took forever. Drugged sleep took no time at all. He'd just have to ask them. Soon. He wondered if he could make his thoughts go quiet for long enough to send a message over the link, surely the only safe route out. Of course, his thoughts were only part of the problem; he also needed to block out everybody else's thoughts. Mostly, that was easy. The mass of people were going about their lives, doing their jobs, washing their hair, eating their food, watching their TVs. The difficulty came with the ones who were doing it while screaming in pain or crying out in anger. Years as a Federal Agent hadn't deadened his reaction to other people's distress, and years as a profiler had just sharpened his instinct for danger. Truly, he couldn't hear himself think. His thoughts flashed back to the voices that "they" had used to talk to him, when they'd come in on their favored route, mind to mind. So calm and uninflected. Mulder understood it now, the words had to be enough. Because emotions swamped and overwhelmed, emotions had to be removed. And how had he sounded to them? No wonder they'd kept on drugging him into oblivion. The memories surged through him, couldn't keep them out, no matter how hard he tried. Emotions could kill. So little distinction between the thought and the deed that he'd killed three of them without even realizing what he was doing. Oh, he could scream about self-defense, howl about being a hostage, but in the end, he'd learned an ugly lesson. Had the assassin who'd killed Carver and his crew thought of it as murder or was it just another day at the slaughterhouse, destroying the human animals like so many unwanted cattle? Shaky at the clash of memories and ideas, he tried closing his eyes and was rewarded by feeling the bed swim beneath him. Bad move. Cautiously, he reopened his eyes and was relieved to feel the spinning sensation slow down. OK. Got to keep trying. Got to be ready. Got to talk to Scully. Got to be practical about what he was capable of doing. Fine. Something to eat. Something to drink. Another shower. Get dressed. Start acting like a human again. He eyed the TV set. Much as he liked the idea, he hadn't actually been able to hear the thing last time he switched it on, too much other stuff clamoring for the same circuits in his head. Fine, that would be another milestone. He'd just add it to the list of things he'd fantasized about and was planning on doing, like eating chili, drinking coffee, and talking to Scully. Bile rose in his throat and he was forced to hold onto the doorframe to stop himself from crashing to the floor. Ready? What a fucking joke. Soon, soon would have to be soon enough. He caught another glimpse of the phone and it was tempting him to do something, something suicidal. He went back into the bathroom, and carefully closed the door on the danger. *** When he woke up the next morning, he felt less tired but no more ready. Physically, he was on the mend. His body, that yesterday had seemed somehow blurred and incoherent, was slipping into focus and becoming, at least, predictable. With a list of mundane objectives and by keeping each task simple he could even get some things done. Trivial in every case, yet when taken together, they represented a move back to reality. Sighing as he eased himself out of bed, he knew he ought to give himself a break. If they had dropped him off at the hospital, then no one would condemn his rehabilitation steps as unworthy. To keep clean, fed, watered, and to coax his body back to movement would be accepted as a full-time job. Here, listening to the babble of strangers' thoughts, with other people's crises and complaints hissing through his brain, he felt useless. Without other people to say that it was OK to need more time, it was hard not to feel like it was already over. Like he'd already lost. He had, hadn't he? Already lost. That was why he was back here. The sudden shortage of air made his head spin. Time to lie down and curl up again. He deliberately lay on his side so that he could study the phone. Let fantasies about calling people on it hypnotize him, if not to calm, then at least to stillness. Something buzzed past his ear, like a stealthy mosquito keeping just out of his line of sight. He turned, chasing the noise, but the noise followed him. Ah, he was ready then.
The decision about readiness had been taken out of his hands and he was glad of it. He returned to working on those mundane, little steps. Thought positive thoughts, like how he would have enough time to shave and get dressed properly before they got here. Focus. He closed his eyes and tried to blank everything out, but only succeeded in triggering another dizzy spell. Shaky and breathless, he needed to keep moving, little steps. One at a time. He succeeded in washing his hair without the need to sit down in the tub. With a few minutes spare, he switched on the TV and tried to understand what the voices were saying, channel surfed until he found something with a plot he could follow. Women's soccer. He shrugged, maybe one day he'd work his way back up to basketball. Too soon, he heard them coming. Scully, pensive but eager. Skinner, taking her lead, apparently literally as well as metaphorically; Mulder could feel him tiptoeing behind her. Did Skinner ever actually tiptoe? An idea so incongruous that he almost laughed. The Gunmen, anxious. He could see their point. They didn't know who they would be meeting; they were right to be suspicious. And Krycek, Alex Krycek, joker in the pack, all fizzing adrenaline and no plans. Well, that would soon change, Alex could think on his feet. Someone else? Someone new. Nicholson, perhaps? More puzzled than any of them. He wondered about that Federal arrest warrant, the likelihood of murder charges that would be hard to shake. What had Nicholson thought of that? Had Scully's faith won him over? Had her surface shell of skepticism stopped her from sounding convincing? Soon enough. Heart beating faster, louder, he opened the door. They were less than ten feet away. Like the opening of a blast furnace, suddenly he was being swept away by their energy. An overload of emotions hit and he stumbled away from the door. Head spinning, he coughed out an attempted greeting and pulled back into the room, rested his weight against the desk and tried not to collapse. It had been bad enough when room service made their deliveries, but he'd always been careful to try and stay deaf to them as they moved. And they'd obliged by moving swiftly, without placing demands on him - well trained. The six people who marched into his room were definitely a crowd. A loud and discordant crowd. Angry and confused and so fucking loud. Focus failing, he concentrated on not falling over. It was hard to see individual faces, their features were all jumbled up like they'd escaped from some Picasso print. They looked so old, so tired, so much like something was eating them away. Scully stepped forward, bright damp eager eyes. Her hands open and outstretched in a gesture that should have felt like a greeting but made his body recoil in panic. She flinched at his response and her chin quivered, her forced, yet honest, smile fading into a look of pure anxiety. Stand still. Stand still. Stand still. He screamed at himself to pay attention and to try not to do any more damage. As if he'd ever be able to do that. As soon as she touched him, his head spun and the contrast with other times was too much to take. Last time he'd heard her thoughts, they'd been her, nothing more. Last time he'd touched her, he'd relished the contact. She tried to pull him closer, he felt her arms fold around him, the softness of her hair under his chin, smelt her life and warmth. He gasped at the shock of impact. She staggered back an instant later, her hand shifting protectively towards her stomach, her eyes going wide in alarm. Mulder took the opportunity to inch further away, making sure the desk chair now stood between them. Dread and panic, a cacophony of noise and impossible emotion. Mulder looked quickly around the others as they stood in stunned silence, shouting so loud and so incoherently inside his head that he wouldn't have been able to hear them even if they had decided to speak. Skinner moved forward, and gently pressed his hand against Scully's arm, a forewarning that, unless she moved of her own free will, his next action might be to drag her further away. She got the message, retreated to sit on the edge of the couch, her eyes fixed on Mulder's face. The last place Mulder wanted to look was into Scully's eyes. Scanning the scene, he hunted for something a little less frightening to focus on. He saw Mike Nicholson, the calmest place in the room. Angry and confused, the same as the others, but without the emotional investment to make it hurt. More importantly, underneath that confusion and anger, there was something else. Nicholson ultimately looked more curious than distressed, and that was a much friendlier place to visit. Mulder tried to respond to Mike's curiosity. "I am him." Fuck. That was smooth. Talking about "him." He chased round his brain looking for the better phrasing. Me. He. Him. Mulder. Them. Too much meaning for too few words, too easy to read between the lines of too direct a response to the question he'd heard in Nicholson's thoughts. The room was getting even rowdier and he knew they'd heard too much in his words as well. He tried to keep locked on Nicholson. "I'm not a morph." He almost laughed as he heard Nicholson's follow-up question coming in loud and clear, despite the crush of background noise. "Yes, they really do morph." Nicholson mouth moved, but he said nothing. Mulder nodded. "I can hear you." Mike Nicholson shook his head, a little stunned, definitely uncomfortable, but ready to roll with it. Mike decided it would be better, for his own sanity and maybe for the people in the room, if he asked his next question out loud. "Did you kill those people?" "No." "Prove it." "I can't, can't prove anything." "Morphs?" "Not even them. Scully's seen them, so has Krycek." Skinner intervened, threw his words down like he was playing the trump card. "Eddie Van Blundht." "He's been destroyed." And Mulder flinched again, backing away from the sound of his own words and their betrayal of who he ought to be, who he'd been. He tried again. "Van Blundht was murdered, at the hospital. His records have been destroyed." "When?" Mulder shrugged, shaky. How long ago had they told him that? Days maybe. But recent, much more recent than the death of Carver's crew. Not long before they'd returned him. In the absence of a reply from Mulder, Skinner started tapping in numbers on his phone. Mulder concentrated on his breathing and tried to force the noise in the room down to nothing more than a loud annoying buzz. Almost succeeding in turning it into a kind of white noise, a whitewater roar in which none of the screams were distinct enough to be audible. Skinner addressed his words to everyone. "My secretary is checking." He looked back at Mulder. "Why?" "Why not?" Anger in the air, white light and a percussion of fury. Mulder tried to look at Nicholson but the pain in the room erupted and billowed heat, like the flash of an explosion, flaring up too close for comfort. Mulder pushed his fists against the top of the desk, hoping that the physical reaction might block the mental one. He curled his fingers tighter and was rewarded by the sensation of another nail cracking as shaky muscles finally cooperated and gave him what he needed. It would be a hell of a lot easier if they could hear his thoughts. He kept breathing, shallow but even, built up the energy to speak. "You're right, Walter. Eddie could have given us a starting point for a defense. They are clearing up the known genetic anomalies. He's in the X-Files. It made him an obvious priority." "To whom?" "Them. The other faction." "And which faction do you belong to?" Scully's voice was ice and fire. And Mulder's determined efforts to keep her thoughts at bay crumbled like a pack of cards as he failed to block his ears or his mind in time. His body froze, making it almost impossible to breathe, his head pulsing with new panic. Scully ran towards him, but he reacted fast enough to throw an arm forwards to warn her off. She stumbled to a halt as if she'd hit an invisible brick wall. Palms open, her body said the words her mouth never would, she pleaded against the rejection. No mercy, he kept the barriers up against her. His eyes chased over the faces until he found Krycek's. Krycek was alert to the tension, recognized that something was going to have to give. Alex was beginning to make plans. Krycek looked carefully at Mulder then glanced over at Skinner's laptop computer resting by the door. Mulder blinked an acknowledgement. A sharp intake of breath from an old enemy and Mulder knew that his message had been received and understood. If they, the them out there, had asked him his intentions before returning him to DC, he wouldn't have known the answer. He still didn't have an answer. Instincts, emotions and intellect were pulling in different directions. Years of training and duty as an agent, warred with months of indoctrination as a hostage, and were slipped into the blender of decades of him, the man inside. There were patterns in the mix, streaks that could mean something or nothing but which he knew would vanish if he just let the brew keep spinning. There was no steadily clearing picture, just more inponderables, that appeared and disappeared in an instant. Was there a right answer, a right thing to do, or just a right now? Right now. All Mulder knew about himself was that emotions were unsteady and his instincts were not his own. It would be so easy to bury himself in Scully's trust. So easy to hand her the choices that were impossible for him to make. To give her responsibility for his future as well as that of the new life growing inside her. In the silent stand-off that followed, the noise of the group's thoughts surged and swelled in Mulder's head and he let them in, a formless sea of other people's emotions drowning out his own responses. Only Mulder didn't flinch when Skinner's phone buzzed back to life. Skinner walked to the window, cupping his hand over the phone in an illusion of privacy. "And that's confirmed?...The same team?...Right." When he turned back to face the room, Skinner's eyes immediately locked onto Mulder. Mulder didn't look up, just kept studying the floor and his bare feet with their overlong toenails. "Mulder." Even Skinner's most insistent AD-delivering-an- order voice didn't force Mulder to lift his head. Skinner changed tack, his voice taking on the authority of an interrogation room. "Agent Mulder. Where were you yesterday morning?" Where? Here maybe, but asleep? There maybe, but comatose? "I don't know." "Who told you that Van Blundht was dead?" "They did." "This room became George Hale's two days ago. I repeat. Where were you at 9am yesterday morning?" Mulder shook his head, lacking any reply beyond the one he'd already given. Scully took up the slack. "Sir? Can you tell us anything?" "Van Blundht was one of six men who died in a fire in the records' office of the hospital. As of today, the prime suspect in that case is Agent Mulder." "Why?" "He signed in as a visitor less than an hour before the fire. The accelerants used were the same as in the attack on Carver's lab. There's security footage of Mulder leading Van Blundht away from his room. One of the staff remembered Mulder from previous visits. The media don't have the story yet." Skinner directed his next words firmly back at Mulder. "Give me one good reason not to call your location in." Mulder rocked slightly on his feet. "I didn't do it." He took deep breaths, struggling against the sudden shortage of air that was reminding him just how far from ready he really was. His head was starting to spin again. Even Skinner didn't believe him. What chance did he stand with anyone else? Skinner had seen the abduction. Or maybe that was it, if Skinner could believe that Mulder had been taken so easily by them, maybe he could also believe that this returned Mulder was not the man who'd been lost. Hell. Mulder's deep breaths were turning into rapid gasps for air that wasn't arriving fast enough to help with the lightheadedness he was feeling. He didn't even blame Skinner. Couldn't do really. He'd had the same idea himself. Skinner tried to offer him an escape route. "Another morph? Why frame you, Mulder?" Because they could? "I told you." "Right. Because one of the factions wants you. For what? What do they think you'll do?" "Be a voice, in places they can't go. Protect the modified humans." "Genetically modified by them." "Genetic throwbacks." Mulder almost laughed, though he knew he shouldn't. "They say they are just switching on the extra features that were part of our original specification." Scully was mercifully inquisitive and Mulder was grateful that she wasn't going to insist on feigning disbelief or disinterest, despite having this audience in the room. "Such as?" "Eddie could morph; Gibson could hear people's thoughts; Modell could force his thoughts on other people." "Modell?" "An experiment. A warning they'd say. Of how ill-prepared we are for the changes." There was an uneasy stillness as they considered it. It gave Mulder an unwelcome freedom to think above the roaring waterfall of their thoughts. Of course, he was only telling them, the story that "they" had given him. He was just parroting back the threats and warnings that had provided the cold heart of their reeducation messages. They'd blasted him with their plans and their logic, over and over again, and it felt so real. More real that sitting in a hotel room. Was it possible to drown in fresh air? It certainly seemed that it might be. And maybe that would be for the best, because at least then he wouldn't be a variable in the equation any more. No more worrying about whether he was a plus or a minus in some much bigger picture, just a zero, fading into oblivion. Zero. That was always an option. Scully moved forward again and Mulder retreated, waving his hands ahead of him to brush her away. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes openly begging for his attention now. He lifted his face to look at her and the loss and emptiness in his eyes made her take a step back. Skinner surged up to Scully's side, brushed a protective hand over her arm, glared at Mulder. "What the fuck's going on?" Mulder stared back at them, unfocused, rocking slightly, clearly unsteady on his feet. Unsteadier still in his thinking. "I can't be near her. I need time." Scully folded an arm over her stomach, flinching as if she'd just taken a punch. A gasp. And another. Until short staccato gasps became a shudder and her reserves of strength crumpled and the briefest of shakey whimpers escaped her lips. Skinner wrapped an arm around her, drawing her closer. Frohike moved forward, and took up position as a guard between Mulder and Scully. Byers stepped in too, adding his weight to Scully's human shield as Skinner tried to persuade her to move further away. She didn't move, shrugged out of Skinner's grip, threw her elbows out from her sides to warn would- be comforters away. Her eyes remained fixed on Mulder, looking for some truth. "How?" The question made sense to no one except Mulder and Scully. Mulder tried to answer, Scully deserved an answer. After all, the baby was inside her. Mulder's words were intended just for Scully. "She can hear me." Scully shook her head, rejecting and accepting it at the same time. It could be true, literally true, vibrations and sound could travel through the placenta. But that wasn't any sort of an explanation for the acrobatics performance that was now underway inside her body. She tried not to shake too visibly, but the violence of the assault was leaving her no choice. Breathless, she edged back, working by feel rather than sight until she found the couch again and tentatively sat down. Almost immediately, even that was too much, and she had to let herself lie back, almost curling up onto her side as she did. Five angry men turned toward Mulder, only Krycek retaining any real distance from the lynch mob frenzy that was building. Krycek took advantage of their distraction to pick up the laptop computer and head for the door. Mulder sensed their need to act, felt the way their adrenaline levels were surging as they looked for something positive to do. They weren't going to get the chance. He lifted his hands in an abrupt, angry gesture ordering everyone to stay back. He walked towards the shivering body of his partner. Skinner hadn't moved since Scully had pushed him away. He stood now, frozen in place, his hand finding its own way to his holster. Byers tried to block Mulder's path, but Mulder didn't pause, and Byers couldn't follow through with enough force to make his resistance anything more than just a gesture. Nicholson, who had also stepped forward and certainly could have followed through, paused instead, deciding to hover over the reunion rather than to stop it. He waited, content to stay alert and ready until he got an order from Skinner, or a signal from Scully. An instant later and Mulder was sat on the couch, next to his partner, leaning into her space. He tried to block out the sound of the other men, sensing that it would be futile to ask for privacy or even demand a little faith that he wasn't going to tear her to shreds. Why would they have faith? They didn't even know for sure that he wasn't the arsonist. They didn't even know for sure that he wasn't a morph Impossible. There was no right way to handle this. Even in his most lucid and imaginative dreams, he'd never resolved it, never found quite the right words. He certainly hadn't anticipated having an audience. Though perhaps that was for the best. With or without an audience, there would be no right way. Fuck it. Like it mattered what they thought. He slid along the couch until he was almost behind her, curving his body around hers, folding her into his arms, nuzzling into her neck. "I'm so, so, sorry." His fingers stroked across her belly, soothing them both. If he let the white noise of the other people in the room wash away his own consciousness, he could freewheel. He could start begging her not to hate him. Beg her not to want him to stay. Time drifted away. She stilled, the tension draining, her body becoming quiet, her thoughts calming to the point where he could hear her. Hear her sounding like someone who sounded like her. He could also hear her demand that he get the onlookers out of the room. It didn't matter to him. His thoughts hadn't been his own for weeks, months. What did it matter if they heard the things he was willing to say aloud? It mattered to her. He had to clear his throat before talking to the assembly. "Scully wants some privacy." More noise, in his ears now as well as in his head. A babble of confusion as they tried to argue but weren't quite competent to form a united front. Mulder rose to his feet, pulling Scully to sit upright, ready to carry her if necessary away from the couch and into the bedroom. Skinner sounded like an Assistant Director of the FBI, taking charge, "I don't think that's wise." Mulder ignored the warning and drew her up into his arms. Skinner moved forward. Mulder realized that he was ready to intervene now and looking only for the method least hazardous to Scully. Skinner was already cursing himself for failing to keep Mulder away from her. He prepared his voice to howl out an order to put her down, but Scully just buried her face closer to Mulder's body, hiding herself in him. Skinner stiffened at her move, then tried to understand it. "Agent Scully?" She drew in a deep breath, but it provided her with only the smallest volume of sound. Barely audible. "Please." Nicholson was the least involved and perhaps because of that his voice had a clarity that Skinner hadn't quite delivered. "We'll be right here." Mulder half-smiled, pressing his nose into Scully's hair as he felt her thoughts buzz with a little pride at how good a temporary partner she'd chosen. He mumbled into her ear. "Yeah, good choice." Inside the bedroom and with the doors closed on the group outside, Mulder could pretend that the rumble of their thoughts was just the sound of too many TVs, playing too loud, through too thin walls. Carrying her was a foolish move. The dizziness almost caught up with him before he reached the safety of the bed. He'd loved the thought of it and the feel of it, what pounded at him now was the sickening reality that he'd done it despite the risk of hurting her. A trivial hurt compared to the rest, but it nagged, announced itself as a symptom of some much deeper problem. The men in the outer room were arguing, trying to keep their voices down, even as their anger flared. Despite their clamor, he could hear Scully clearly now. Through a haze of blood red anger and soft blue emotion, he could hear her. Confusion and fear and so much trust and it hurt to listen to her like this and not to be able to explain properly. And he wasn't sure which question she wanted answered first and which ones she didn't want answered at all. So he waited until she was willing to say it out loud. She cleared her throat, whispered the most painful of words. "Who is she, Mulder?" The children will still be children. That's what they'd told him. Should he destroy that for her as well as him? "A baby." He paused, struggled with the words. "You'll know what to do." "Will I?" Oh God. He scrambled through his thoughts, looked at the mass of contradictions he found there and didn't have an answer. Except the ones they'd given him. And he couldn't bring himself to say their words. "Just love her." "Where will you be?" "Not here." She cried then, as a hundred unadmitted fantasies crashed into the wall and shattered. Cried for herself, and a baby, and a man, and a world that didn't know enough to cry for itself. He held her, wishing that he could tell her that he needed only days or weeks to make it right, that she need not fear his absence, that he would soon be back at her side. He wished that he could tell her that it would take just one word from her, that he only needed her instruction to make him stay. But he couldn't lie, and he was glad of that because maybe that meant that somewhere deep inside, he was still himself. And maybe that meant he could be himself again. Mulder didn't have the words that could kiss the hurt better, nor the moves that could promise her a happy ending. He wrapped himself around her, molding his body to hers. He nuzzled into her, taking comfort from the silk of her hair against his cheek, the smell of her that he'd remembered so clearly even when other sensations became impossible to imagine. He stored up the sensations for the drought ahead. His hand folded over hers, caressing her fingers, his thumb stroking across the soft skin he found. Guilty, he recognized his acts for what they were, self-comforting gestures in the face of her pain. Relaxing a little, only as he realized that she seemed to be drawing strength from him, just as he did from her. When he thought she could hear him again, he lifted his hand to touch her face. "They think I'll go away, lick my wounds, and that because they're right, I'll go and work for them." The tiny gulp of sound from her was an order to keep talking. His fingers swirled through her hair, pushing it back behind her ear so he could stroke her cheek more easily. "I'm useless to them as a zombie. That's why they let me go." And as a wanted man? This time, he ignored the fact that she hadn't said it out loud. "If it comes to it, they'll loan me a morph for the trial." "God." Her squeak of reaction could easily have been the start of a hysterical cough of laughter, but exhaustion took even that escape from her. She struggled with her breathing and finally mumbled the rhetorical question. "But only if you're a good boy?" "If I'm a good boy." "And will you be?" She stroked the back of his hand as it shifted to rest against her belly. He swallowed. "What? And break the habit of a lifetime." "Not even for this?" "Especially not because of this. She's going to be special, Scully." "Then stay." "And do what they want?" "There must be something..." "Not yet, not until I know it's me who's making the decision. If I stay here, it'll be in jail." "Unless you work for them?" He left the answer unspoken. She was struggling for breath, but kept talking, sensing that it might be her last chance to keep him close. "I'll come with you." He buried his face against her neck. "I don't know who I am. What I might do." "I know you." Ah, if only that were true. She'd known him. She might yet know him again. But she didn't know him now; he didn't even know himself. Didn't know if he could be turned against her by them, if her needs contradicted theirs. Didn't know if his thoughts could kill. Didn't know if he could ever be a force for good in the life of that baby she carried. Didn't know what good meant. He whispered his words, hoping that he could find a way to explain enough. Knowing that it would be better if she came to the conclusions for herself. "Why do you think they let me go?" "Because, they don't need you any more." He smiled, almost chuckled at her optimism. "Because I'm ready." Deep breath. "They say that I'm smart enough to see things their way. That I'll cooperate, become a spokesman for them. And." He paused. Almost started laughing. After all, it was pretty funny. "And be a mentor for the children." "Including her?" Her words were faint, but sang loud in his ears. "Yeah." "But you won't?" "That's the trouble. I would. Right now, I'd do it in a heartbeat. And it's so hard to walk away." "But?" His body tensed and he felt an angry kick to his hand where it rested on Scully's stomach. Calm, calm, calm, he told himself. Calm, calm, calm, he told the new life in her belly. The baby stopped struggling, he could hear her snuggling down again. "But, I will." He wanted to explain it, but he didn't have the words. Maybe if he could find his most dispassionate voice, his best disguise, his most clinical psychological terminology, then just maybe, he could tell her. Quote chapter and verse on the problems encountered by hostages, about the ease with which sensory deprivation destroys boundaries, undermines the sense of self. After months of having not only every physical sensation, but every thought and emotional response monitored and controlled and firmly regulated, he couldn't trust his instincts or his reasoning. It hadn't just been his body that had been forced to accept their restraints, in the end he had accepted them, too. Stayed quiet and listened, been impressed by their logical argument about how a more resilient and talented human race would be a better ally for them. Moreover, there had been a perfect synchronicity about it. Tougher, brighter humans, all senses and powers turned on and tuned in, would clearly be a more dangerous enemy to an alien opposition who would prefer to view human bodies as hatcheries or slaves. If he let them jail him for that massacre at Carver's office, for the deaths of Van Blundht and the others at the hospital, then he would die in prison. It would be the easiest thing in the world to make a de-facto execution look like the inevitable mis-adventure of a pretty-boy Fed who'd strayed too far from the guards' protection. That is, if they bothered to do anything. They might do nothing, certain the Court case would run their way. Might live long enough to see Scully and the baby though. He flinched at that, angry with himself for this last indulgence. Why did he decide that this meeting had to be face to face? Why not just drop off the face of the planet and disappear. What on earth had possessed him? Why the hell had he suggested that she come here? Why do this now? Why not wait until he was really ready, until he could explain himself properly, until he knew what he had to do? However many months away that might be. He shivered. Maybe because that "right" time might not be months away, it might be never. Panic sat only skin deep in his body and it simmered there now, he could feel his blood pressure rise, his heart rate surge. "Mulder?" Her voice was soft, tentative. In pain. Alarmed, he responded in an instant. "Are you OK?" "The baby." He forced his thoughts to slow down, and felt the violence that was assaulting Scully from within. His mind flashed on an image from his days in the ISU, profiling a slasher who'd sliced open pregnant women in a grotesque parody of a caesarian section. The idea assaulted him, leaving him short of breath. It didn't help Scully either; the new blast of pain that followed was forcing gasps and whimpers through her lips, growing, building toward some nightmare crescendo. Calm, calm, calm. Scully was shaking now, taut with the effort to keep still and not scream. He shifted on the bed, maneuvering Scully's body so that she faced him and then slid carefully down her torso until he could press his ear gently to her belly button. Within seconds he could feel the fetus's battle subside. Scully could feel it too; she started to breathe normally again. She spoke in a whisper. "Is she sick?" Anything but. "No, no. She's angry, upset." "With us?" "She doesn't understand." "I don't understand." Mulder sighed, a little shiver of a laugh as he moved position again, resuming his previous place of honor, resting close behind her in the bed. What could he possibly say? The child was already responding to his emotions. She got angry and, untutored, took it out on Scully because Mulder was upset. What the hell would she do if he went to jail? What the hell would she do when she grew up? What a fucking mess. And the only way out was to work for them because they were his best chance of building a defense in a court case, and more importantly, his only chance of protecting himself or anyone else from the others. How fucking convenient! Cute of them to blame it on the "others." What if there weren't any others? Welcome to a brave new world. A life based on knowing fuck. Except he did know that if he didn't calm down soon, Scully would be in agony. He had to get away from here, get his emotions in check. Learn how to think clearly again. Weigh up the months' worth of story that he'd been told. Test it if he could. And he couldn't do that here. A rumbling behind his ear and he scratched back at it, irritated by the distraction. Then realized what it was.
He sat up abruptly, startling Scully back into action. She immediately tried to follow him, but was forced to lie down again as the baby renewed its struggles. Time to go? Why the hurry? Another few hours, another few minutes. What could it matter? He tried to clear his head and concentrate. Suddenly knew. Oh God. "Did you phone anyone before you came here?" Scully's words were forced and strained, and were somehow the truth, yet not the whole truth. "No." "The Gunmen." He tried to focus in on the idea. "Fuck. They hacked into the hotel records and found out who was on the guest list for this room. Right?" She groaned, nodded the barest of acknowledgements. Mulder started to roll off the bed. "There's a Bureau team on its way." "Oh God." She held on tightly to his hand, sensing what was coming next, but trying to deflect the argument to more solid ground. "We won't leave you in there. We'll find a way. Find a defense. You don't need them to defend you. Maybe there's another Van Blundht. Maybe one of his kids." And lead them to another bunch of innocents to kill? No way. "I've got to go." "Mulder." He drew her to him, knowing what had to be done. He met her sad, impossibly blue eyes with the briefest of smiles. Stroked his fingertips across her belly and was grateful for the peaceful response of the life inside. In the stillness, Mulder leaned forward, pressed his forehead against hers, wishing that he could let her know all he thought and all he felt. Scully sighed, and there was no pain in the sound, just understanding and trust. And he had to gulp for air then, because that made his next act harder as well as easier. There was so much warmth in her touch, as their breath mingled and she tried to give him her faith. So much hope in her heart as she tried to wish him a safe journey and a safe return. And he wondered again why he was leaving and why she was staying. It was not right that it should end like this. It wouldn't end like this, he wouldn't let it. And there was such power in knowing that she would still be here, because she wouldn't let it end like this either. He pulled back slowly, the hardest move he'd ever made. His body, a stubborn deadweight as he struggled against weak and uncooperative muscles that couldn't believe his brain was serious in its orders. Infinitely slow, he rose up to his full height and forced himself to smile. And suddenly it seemed right that he should smile, because he was doing only what had to be done and Scully had given him her permission. She might not have agreed with his decision, but she'd accepted it, understood that it was his to make. His eyes, clear and bright, looked down on her and there was so much love, so much left to say and this was not the time. "I won't say goodbye." She tried to smile, but didn't quite make it. She sucked in her tears. "Nor will I." He smiled again as he walked to the bedroom door and the men who'd waited outside so patiently, or more accurately so impatiently, almost walked straight over him. All was well. Perhaps it was not the right choice. But he'd live with that. Hindsight was apt to be the best and harshest judge, and its judgment would be final. And that was OK, because he could see no further than his next move. And perhaps that was fortunate, because maybe what lay beyond that move was a terror that could paralyze him if he saw it too clearly. Krycek would be waiting for him outside. Mulder would insist that the laptop be left behind, somewhere safe, for Scully to find. And there was no way to know what would happen next. Except that this way, there might be a next. Lousy odds, but... The shark dies if it stops swimming. Skinner, Nicholson, and the Gunmen stepped eagerly to Scully's bedside. Scully played her role to the hilt, drawing and holding their attention with her damp eyes, careful movement and quiet words. A lingering last look over a snapshot scene taken from a different life and a final deep breath. He tore his gaze away, drew energy from it, wanting to believe in one more extreme possibility. Another swim, then. And Mulder was gone. THE END All Done, Bye, Bye. |
Disconnected Vby Joann Humby |