*XXXVIII*

Sunday, 12/10/95 6:45 AM

"...Foolish of you, James. You should have 
covered him. He's very cold.... Fox.... It's time to 
wake up." 

Mulder's desert-dry mouth shaped the soundless 
word, "No.... " 

"Wake up, Mr. Mulder." The Master's voice was 
even, kind; his hand was warm upon Mulder's 
forehead. The bound man flinched and moaned. 
He heard a tiny grating sound and then the cell 
blazed with light. His pupils snapped, constricted 
by the brilliance of the hundred-watt bulb that 
dangled from overhead. 

"Oh god," Mulder screwed his eyes up and turned 
his face away as goosebumps spread across his 
skin. He had fallen asleep-- he hadn't meant to-- 
hadn't wanted... and now it was morning. Time... 
time for-- "Oh my god.... " 

"Look at me, Mr. Mulder." But he couldn't. 
Wouldn't. The voice was firm. "Look at me or I 
will punish you. For your own sake, I cannot be 
lenient today." There was a sudden loud snap and 
Mulder jumped, opening his eyes to fix on the 
Master's black leather crop as it rapped against a 
blue-jeaned thigh. "That's right. Now look at 
me.... This is our last reveille, lad," the Master 
smiled wistfully. "By tonight you'll be over the 
hurdle and we can truly begin to help you."

Mulder shook his head just perceptibly, feeling 
his stomach clench with the understanding of 
what that little shake would bring. The Master's 
mouth narrowed into a purse. Long legs folded 
and the gray-haired man was squatting beside 
him, smelling of bay rum aftershave and oiled 
boots. "Listen to me, boy. Just listen. You can still 
prevent this. We don't have to go out into the 
dungeon." 

Mulder coughed on the cold, musty air. "Go to 
hell."

The Master sighed in tandem with another. 
Mulder's gaze lifted to Jim, who fretted his 
lower lip, then moved left-- to Bill, who'd shifted 
his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and 
wet his lips with his tongue. Mulder saw the 
jutting shape of an erection through the young 
man's jeans and looked quickly away, his stomach 
churning again. 

"I regret your stubbornness," the Master's voice 
brought Mulder full circle, back to the 
Englishman's seawater eyes. "I don't want to do 
this to you."

Mulder coughed again, swallowed back phlegm. 
"Bullshit. You enjoy breaking me. That's what 
you said. So have a ball today. Knock yourself 
out." 

Mulder winced as the Master clenched the handle 
of the crop, but his captor didn't strike. "James, 
William, help me get him to his feet."

He drew in as they bent over him, away 
from their hands. They heaved him up anyway to 
a supported stand on bound legs. There was a 
crinkle in his ear and a quick snap of blue silk as 
the Master pulled the scarf across his eyes. "Oh 
you sonofabitch!" Mulder snarled and tossed his 
head, struggled until Jim's hands left his waist and 
arm and he sagged against Bill, balance lost. Cool 
palms caught his cheeks and the blindfold's ends 
were tied off in a hard knot that pushed against 
the hot, tender lumps on the back of his head. 

"I know you dislike the blindfold, Mr. Mulder, but 
it will help you focus on the pain." A hand petted 
back his hair, moved down over beard stubble to 
grip his jaw as he tried to twitch away. "Are you 
ready, lad? You can still change your mind." The 
tight pinch softened. "Just ask me to take you 
upstairs to my bedroom." 

"No." 

Another sigh tickled his cheek with its closeness. 
Hands pushed beneath his arms, gripped his 
bound ankles. He kicked and twisted as they lifted 
him, growled his hatred-- flexing his body harder. 
"This is not going to help you!" Jim's voice high 
with stress; Jim's coffee breath.

Mulder whipped his head away. 
"FuckyoufuckyousonofaBITCH!" 

They staggered and struggled, almost dropping 
him as he writhed and cursed them, let his voice 
mark the ceiling and the walls, let the sharp shards 
of his tenor dig into the flesh of the house and scar 
it. "I will not! I will not!"

Mulder arched and slammed his head backwards 
into gut muscle-- saw sparks and heard a gasp. He 
pulled in his knees and jutted them forward, 
feeling a grinding jar in his hips as his heels 
impacted against leather-padded ribs. For a 
moment everything swayed, then there was 
swearing, the collision of bodies against his, and a 
drop. His blistered, beaten ass hit frigid concrete 
and made him scream. Rough fingers gripped his 
chin again, digging into the skin and bone, as 
Mulder struggled to turn his head away. "You are 
going to gain nothing by this, Mr. Mulder. 
Absolutely nothing!" 

"Fuck you," he choked out as waves of pain washed 
up his back and down his legs. "I got 
nothin't'lose." 

"Be quiet!" The Master shook his chin harshly, 
then released him. "James, help me..." The 
callused hands gripped his shoulders and pulled, 
twisting him over, while Jim's softer hands rolled 
his hips. 

"No!" He struggled as they pressed him face 
down against the hard, cold, gritty floor. 

"Here. Do it," the Master's voice commanded 
from above. 

And then Mulder's slightless world exploded into 
scorching white that flashed like lightning 
with each stroke of the crop across his back. 
Fingers knotted in his hair, holding his head still 
as he tried to toss it against the agony. The crop 
came down again and again. A roar filled his 
ears.... 

Mulder gagged at the foul odor burning his 
nostrils, felt the accidental brush of fingers 
holding something small beneath his nose. He 
tried to open eyes bound by silk and saw only
blue. "Shit," he moaned as the smell brought 
back the pain. "Oh shit.... " Cold metal beneath 
him, his wrists burning beneath his own weight, 
cuffs jamming into his spine. It was sticky under 
his back and throbbing. The knot of the blindfold 
felt like a spike poking his skull, and hands 
gripped his ankles, leaning weight into the task. 
When a finger stroked his unshaven cheek, 
Mulder jumped. He caught the smell of bay rum 
again and a soft voice spoke, close by. "You're on 
the table, lad." 

"No, no.... " 

"I'm offering you one last chance to let go and 
give yourself to me. If you do, we'll go upstairs 
right now and I'll treat you very, very gently. 
Wouldn't you like that? Wouldn't you like to rest 
in my warm bed without the tie-downs? To have 
all the morphine you need, to sip some tea or 
some broth?" Mulder felt a little tug at his throat. 
"To not wear this collar, hmmm? For you I'd 
make the exception." 

He heard his own shallow gasps. Finally 
swallowed. Said nothing. 

"Fox, all the lessons that remain can be learned 
without pain. You'll never have to feel the strap or 
the crop again, just the caress of my hands. Listen 
to me, colt: I will love you. I will make you one of 
my own. You'll look forward to coming back 
here. This house can be your haven, where you 
can be Fox and not have to be Mulder. And all 
you have to do is ask me to take control." 

"Get the hell away from me," Mulder turned his 
face from the voice. "Get away!" 

"Listen to me, lad," the Master was still speaking 
quietly, but anger strained his coaxing tone. "All 
you have to do is say 'mercy.' Just that one, small 
word." 

Mulder sucked in deep to yell, "NO! Now get the 
fuck away from me--" then his voice unraveled 
into coughs and pants. 

The Master's sigh was hard and harsh and full of 
disgust and the voice backed away from him. "All 
right. You've made your choice. It's only a 
temporary choice, Mr. Mulder; it won't empower 
you long. Jim-- help William strap his ankles 
down, please." 

Mulder flinched at the pinch of the buckles as the 
tight, stiff leather replaced softer suede. "Would 
you like to hear about today's lesson, Mr. 
Mulder?" the Master's voice circled round to the 
foot of the table to come up along the other side. 
"It's a simple torture-- no complicated 
mechanisms-- but quite effective. I came across 
the technique in a memoir of a soldier interned by 
the Japanese during the Second World War. 
William will administer the pain. He's quite 
skilled at it." 

"You trained him well, you sonofabi--" A finger 
touched Mulder's lips, stilling him instantly.

"And you are better trained than you think, my 
boy. Now let me finish: William will endeavor to 
force your arms over your head from behind. 
Hopefully, before William dislocates both your 
shoulders, you'll beg James for mercy." 

"Sir?" Mulder heard Jim chirp in surprise. 

Mulder swallowed again, feeling heat rise in his 
cheeks. Cold perspiration continued to roll down 
his face, drip onto the table under his neck. The 
finger lifted from his lips and there was a long, 
waiting silence, then a grunt. "As you will, Fox. 
As you will.... William, he's yours." Footsteps 
moved toward the dungeon's door. "The instant 
you change your mind, Mr. Mulder, William will 
stop. James will fetch me and I'll give you a jab to 
take all the pain away.... Jim, as soon as he begs 
your mercy, you stop this." 

He heard chasing steps. "Begs ME, sir?" 

"That's right, James," The Master's voice retreated 
with his footfalls. "I'll be upstairs. When he gives 
in, you come and fetch me." 

"But, sir, I--" 

"Here, take the crop and use it if he says a word 
other than 'mercy'." 

"Yes, sir. But, sir--" 

"Just take care of it, James!" The Master's boots 
pounded up the stairs. 

Jim's slow, hesitant steps returned from the hall 
and came to a stop by Mulder's left side. Jim was 
watching him, he knew, watching him shake. 
Maybe Jim was shaking, too. "Bill," the young man 
nearly whispered, "get this over with as fast as 
you can." 

"Whatsamatter, Jimbo? Got some love in your 
heart for the pretty boy? I'm looking forward to 
payback, myself." 

"Oh shut up," his cohort suspired. "We wouldn't 
be here right now if you hadn't freaked him out."

"Hey, you got to screw with him; I got to screw 
with him--"

"It's not the same thing and you know it. You 
deserved the ass-kicking you got."

Mulder lifted his head from the table. "You both 
deserve to rot." He felt his tendons strain and 
stand out as he rasped, "So'sit necrophilia with 
you, Jimbo?"

There was a buzzing stillness then Jim spoke 
again. "Do what I tell you, Bill," he sounded tight.
"After Him, I'm in charge. Climb up on the table and
do it fast, just like I said." 

"Okay, okay. Just be cool, man. I'll break him 
quick and dirty. You'll see. Help me sit him up." 

"Fine." 

Mulder heard a small click and then the collar dug 
into the back of his neck, pulling him up while a 
hand pushed between his shoulder blades. His 
mind reeled and his breathing sped. "You heard 
our Master," Jim spoke sternly. "Don't say 
anything but 'mercy' when you're ready to, 
understand?" 

Mulder didn't reply, just drew ragged breaths. He 
felt a thud and a jiggle as William clambered up 
on the tabletop behind him. Mulder tried to 
squirm at the touch of warm hands on his 
shoulders, but William's grip was firm. A knee 
jammed into his back, tearing at the bloody cuts 
as it pushed him down until his nose touched his 
knees. Jim kept him there by a short grip on the 
leash. Mulder hissed and gasped, feeling the older 
wounds on his back pull open again. 

The hands left his shoulders and moved to his 
wrists still locked together by the biting metal 
cuffs. Then the scalding pain began as his arms 
were lifted. His face was pushed further against 
his knees; his chest was tight against his thighs as 
his shoulders tried to give against the force of the 
upward thrust. 

There was no air and as the pain built, the color yellow 
filled his brain. Sweat soaked him and he couldn't 
scream and couldn't breathe until William relented 
and let him rise up enough to gulp air and moan. 
Then it was down again, his chest crushed and the 
pressure on his joints building until he thought the 
bones would have to snap. Blood thumped in his 
veins and his ears; his lungs blazed in his chest. 
There was a howling sound as he felt himself 
slipping away....

"Stop," Jim's order cut through the thickening 
haze and a grip on the collar pulled him upright. 
"What do you have to say, Mr. Mulder?"

"'Mmnn...."

"Yes?"

"Mmm not Gumby, dammit."

"What...? Oh Jesus. You stupid fuck.... All right, 
Bill. Go on."

"Aren't you going to thump him?"

"No. Just do it."

Bill's hands pulled Mulder's wrists up and forced 
him down again, compacting him, the balls of his 
arm bones turned unnaturally, screaming in their 
sockets as his elbows tried to bend backwards. 
When he was let up again, the in-rush of air 
finally let him gasp.

"It really hurts, doesn't it? You don't want to feel 
this shit anymore, Mr. Mulder. Just say 'mercy'," 
Jim urged.

Mulder said nothing.

"Say it. C'mon, say it."

He managed another headshake.

"Okay, then. Go on."

Mulder's arms were pushed upward again, his 
chest crushed by his thighs, his nose bent by his 
knees. The blindfold, soaked with perspiration, 
stuck to his face. He wanted to shake it off, 
wanted to scream so badly, but there was nothing 
to breathe, nothing.... Mulder's arms and 
shoulders and back and hips felt skewered with 
agony, a thousand spiders crawled along his 
nerve ends. His stomach convulsed, trying to send 
up bile. 

"Hold up, Bill," Jim's voice was nearly swamped by the
rushingsound in Mulder's ears. Then the ammonia 
stench was back, stinging his nostrils and making 
him cough. "C'mon, Fox. I can't let you black out. 
You've got to take it until you beg." 

Mulder drew air in a desperate gulp as Bill's knee 
ground into his spine, pushing him down as his 
arms were forced up, up. Mulder felt a pain in his 
chest like something had shattered. His heart 
began to speed. It didn't slow with the 
decompression and oxygen of his next respite. A 
rattle escaped his throat with the fever-hot breath 
he exhaled. When Mulder was pressed down again 
his racing heart faltered then beat with a force like 
blows from inside. The taste of metal filled his 
mouth and warm fluid ran over his knees as wet, 
reflexive sounds escaped his throat. 

"Let him up!"

The hemorrhage gushed from Mulder's nostrils 
and spilled from his mouth over his lips and chin. 
"Fox, can you hear me?" Jim demanded. Mulder 
grunted around what seemed like a 
stone blocking his throat. He shivered 
uncontrollably, made a liquid gasp, and suddenly 
wanted to say it, tried to say it: Mercy. But his 
lungs spasmed in a reflex bid for air and aspirated 
blood instead.

'Way to go, smartass,' a detached part of him 
derided. 'You just wasted your last breath.' 

"Bill, we have to stop."

"Naw. He's gonna break. Give me a minute." Bill 
hoisted Mulder's handcuffed wrists upward and 
applied renewed force. Mulder felt the searing of 
muscles and nerves. Bones popped in his 
shoulders. His ribs caved inward as his chest was 
compressed against his thighs.

Asphyxiating.

No...already asphyxiated.

His heart tripped, paused, pounded a few hard 
beats then stopped.

"Epistaxial hemorrhage." Phantom Scully's voice was
detached and clinical. "Compressive trauma to the 
abdomen...heart failure due to hyper-excitable 
state associated with terminal struggle...."

Suddenly, a crazy quilt of colors flooded his brain 
and words rolled by as if on a screen. It was 
eidetic snatches of Alice: 'Down, down, 
down...would the fall ever come to an end? 
Wonder how many miles I've fallen? Must be 
somewhere near the center of the earth.... Wonder 
if I shall fall right through the earth? How funny it 
will seem to come out among the people who 
walk with their heads downwards.... ' 

****

It had snowed another quarter-inch during the 
night. Dr. Taylor sat on the sun porch, looking out 
over fields crisscrossed by hoof-print trails. Ice 
crystals glittered on the glass panes. Peripherally, 
he saw a speck figure on a horse canter across the 
white sweep to the west. It hurt to try to follow 
her progress, but he forced his pupils farther into 
the corners of his eyes, relishing the ache behind 
his eyeballs. His head and jaw were locked at an 
uncomfortable angle, so were his neck and spine. 
His fingernails dug into the flesh of the opposite 
arm. But he didn't move, didn't relax. He could 
bear the discomfort for hours. He'd been trained to 
bear it by his Mistress. 

Footsteps jarred the stairs, coming fast and hard as 
they entered the drawing room and pounded 
across it, stopping just behind him. The footfalls 
allowed the Englishman to look away from the 
breast-soft hills. He smiled at his favorite. "So, 
Mr. Mulder's finished fighting at last? Excellent. 
Get the medical supplies to my bedroom while I 
comfort him. Set up an IV of Ringer's, the 
morphine--" 

He watched Jim shake his dark head. Fear-pale 
skin contrasted with the black of his bangs, beard, and 
mustache; a dribble of sweat ran along his nose. 
"You need to come downstairs, sir. Please. Right 
now." 

Taylor's eyes widened, and he pushed away the 
truth to let something more palatable usurp it. A 
sudden cruelty glazed his tone, "Is the colt still 
saying 'won't, won't, won't'? I specifically told you 
not to come up unless he asked for mercy, James." 

"Sir, I think-- I think he's--" The small man 
looked down and Taylor's eyes followed. Drawing a shaky
breath, Jim opened the clenched  fists he held in front
of his chest. His palms were red and wet. 

Taylor felt the heat drain away from his face 
leaving it clamy. "No." He rose to his feet, saying it 
again, "No." 

"Please hurry. Please." 

"You let William kill him." 

"No! I didn't!" Jim's tone snapped upward with his 
gaze. "I-- he-- there was blood and he just stopped 
breathing.... " 

Taylor bolted. His boots rang on hardwood, 
drowning the quieter pounding of Jim's sneakers, 
as they sped down the long, turning hall to the 
infirmary. Skidding to a stop, he pulled open a 
drawer, snatched a stethoscope, and hung it 
around his neck. "Get the oxygen and the pulse-
ox! Marta!" he shouted then remembered she 
wasn't at hand. "Damn it! I'll bring the suction and 
the defibrillator." Taylor grabbed vials from the 
high cabinets and dropped them into his shirt 
pocket. He yanked the small machines by their 
handles out of the lower cabinets and took off 
again in a run. "Hurry, James!" 

The dungeon stank of iron, sweat, and mortal fear. 
The body he saw lying on its side on the table was 
impossibly blue and bloody. William looked up at 
him quickly then continued unlocking the 
prisoner's handcuffs with the small steel key. 
Taylor placed equipment and on the tabletop and 
jerked his head toward the door. "Go help James." 

"Yes, sir."

Taylor brushed the sprung cuffs off the table, 
hearing them clatter on the concrete as he rolled 
his charge onto his back. Fox's face was almost 
unrecognizable from the spilled blood and Taylor 
flashed on a Neolithic dead man rubbed with 
ochre to mark the transition between worlds. But 
he'd be damned if Fox would leave them 
behind as his killers. Taylor's fingers sought the 
carotid as he held his breath and tried to ignore his 
own rapidly beating heart. 

Nothing. 

Nothing. 

Nothing. 

"James! Hurry-- we need that 
oxygen!" The Englishman grabbed Fox's chin to 
tip his head back. His fingers, now wet and 
crimson, pressed down on the hardness of teeth to 
further open Fox's slack mouth. There was thick 
blood at the back of the throat. Quickly, Taylor 
switched on the suction machine, inserted the 
catheter into the patient's mouth and whisked the 
blood up the clear tube. He saw the trachea for a 
moment then it became obscured again by 
hemorrhaged red.

"Here," he barked at Bill, "take the suction tube 
and keep the oropharynx clear."

"The what?"

Of course William didn't understand. The idiot 
paid attention to nothing but lessons on inflicting 
pain, Taylor thought as he rounded on his boy. 
"The back of his throat. Now take the suction and 
do it!"

The oxygen tank banged on the floor by his feet. 
Taylor grabbed an endotracheal tube in his right 
hand and a laryngoscope in his left. "James, turn 
on the defibrillator get those paddles on his chest 
and the pulse-ox on him " 

 "Yes, sir." Jim sounded meek. 

The doctor took a deep breath and slid the tube 
down the unconscious man's trachea. "Good," he 
sighed as the tube bypassed the esophagus and 
slipped down the passage to the lungs. Jim's body 
was trembling against his side as the young man
placed the bright orange gelpads over 
Fox's sternum and the lower left side of his 
ribcage. "No, James," he tried to keep his voice 
gentle as he corrected, "Switch the paddles 
around. The one in your left hand goes on the 
sternum-- see? It's marked." 

"I'm sorry, sir.... We've never had to really use 
this before."

"I know," Taylor agreed, relieved to hear the 
defibrillator was now acting as an EKG, pinging a 
burst of Fox's renewed heartbeats. James had attached the 
oximeter to Fox's finger. Taylor grimaced at 
the 63 percent reading. He inflated the small cuff 
around the endotracheal tube and began to 
squeeze the ambu-bag. He paused just long 
enough to put on his stethoscope, then resumed 
bagging as he placed the disk on Fox's chest 
above the lungs, listening for breaths. He looked 
down at the pulse-ox's monitor where it lay beside 
his charge's fist, which was still clenched from torment. He 
longed to smooth the hand flat but needed to see 
whether the level of blood oxygen would rise and 
to watch the irregular rhythm of the heart.

"Tape the tube in place and take over bagging," he 
ordered Jim. When it was done and his hands 
were free, Taylor took an ampoule of Epinephrine 
from his shirt pocket. The syringe felt cold as his 
thumb pressed down and clear fluid shot down the 
tube, then he snapped the needle and threw it on 
the floor. "Come on, Fox. Come on, colt," he 
spoke into Fox's ear as Jim continued to vent the 
CO2 in Fox's lungs with quick squeezes of the 
bag. "Come back. It's all right. You can come 
back. There won't be any more hurting. It's all 
over and I'm so sorry." 

"His blood pressure is rising," Jim reported. The 
monitor pinged again machine-gun quick as Fox's 
heart struggled to find its rhythm.

"Stop bagging," Taylor told Jim and bent to listen 
again for spontaneous respiration-- heard it this 
time. "He's breathing on his own." Taylor 
gestured at the tubing that ran from the 
endotracheal tube and snapped his fingers. Jim 
quickly hooked it to the oxygen tank and the 
airflow hissed. "Good. Good." Taylor stroked the 
sweat-drenched hair away from Fox's 
forehead. "Come back to me now. It's safe to 
come back.... William," he turned slitty eyes on 
the man he'd ordered to do this. "Don't just stand 
there. Run upstairs and draw me 4 milligrams of 
Versed." 

When Bill returned, the Master straightened up, 
feeling his spine pop. With a cotton ball, he 
cleaned off a patch of skin that had turned from 
asphyxiated blue to pale gray. The clean, brisk 
smell of alcohol was as comforting as the change 
in skin color. The needle of the fresh syringe 
slipped under the skin of his charge's bruised hip, 
channeled in the drug. His colt didn't need to feel 
that tube down his throat or to remember it. The 
Versed would take it all away.

"His sat is up to 90 and the BP is still rising, sir," 
Jim said.

"Excellent." He snapped the needle and once 
more tossed the spent syringe away. "Go up and 
get the space heater going and put blankets in the 
warmer. As soon as we get Mr. Mulder up there 
we need to start an IV. Get Ringer's ready." 

"Yes, sir." 

Taylor wiped away blood from Fox's face with a 
fresh alcohol wipe and cooed gentle words. Now 
his charge's coloring held a touch of pink, of life. 
Arythmias still broke the line of solid, fast 
heartbeats, but the stretches of a solid pulse were 
growing longer. 


********

7:15 A.M.

The bucar had died on Route 50, just before the 
exit to 95 South. Scully'd phoned for assistance 
then sat there with her emergency blinkers flash-
flash-flashing as the cold seeped in. At first, 
she'd wanted to rage against the Fuck You finger 
that fate had raised, but ended up deciding not to 
give the fickle universe any satisfaction . She'd
opened her laptop, clattered the keys to create a
bullshit report for Skinner.

It had been nearly 3 a.m. when FBI fleet services 
turned up with a replacement vehicle. The AD's 
report had been finished, as had been a long-
overdue letter to Aunt Olive and a forced-smile 
chit-chat with a female State Trooper who'd 
stopped to investigate then stayed as company 
for her sister cop. At least the squad car had 
been warm and there'd been a thermos of coffee. 
Then Scully had driven the 25-odd miles to 
Alexandria, unlocked her front door, and in the 
living room, found Tina on her side by the 
cluttered coffee table, face muscles slack and lips 
parted by slumber. Beyond Tina and the table, the 
pinstriped couch had beckoned like a spider's web 
decorated by soporific cushions. "Go on-- eat me," 
Scully'd muttered as she slipped off her shoes, 
sighed as her body was accepted and accommodated.
Rest....


Later, Scully awoke mauling one eye with a fist, 
slowly realizing that the discomfort was a contact 
lens caught up under the lid. She'd forgotten to 
take them out again. Blame the Sofa of Lethe.... 

When Scully returned from the bathroom down 
the hall, her lenses expelled to their cleaning pods 
and her glasses perched on her nose, she found 
Tina sitting up, combing her fingers through her 
hair. Her friend's ruddy skin had an undertone of 
green and there were circles beneath her eyes.

"Tina, you look like shit," Scully said from the 
doorway to the living room.

"Back atcha with extra topping, Mutt.... When did 
you get home?"

She came into the room and dropped onto the 
sofa. "Around four. You were out cold."

Hill looked blearily at her big silver wristwatch. "I 
was up until three-ish. Then I don't know what the 
fuck happened. Maybe I was abducted by a--
ah....errr," she trailed off, wincing. "Ummm...I 
thought you were staying the night in Annapolis?"

"I was, until I met a tall handsome stranger in a 
bar."

"Alan Rickman?"

"It was Carl Handford."

"No kidding? Mystery Date, Part Deux?"

"Carl was following me for Them."

Tina's lips made a puckered circle. "Ooooo. 
Sweet."

"Yeah. Especially because he helped me connect 
some dots about who--"

"Dots!" Hill suddenly sat up straight, her dark 
eyes growing round. "Christ, dots! I connected 
some, too! You know how Handford said he was 
taken somewhere near White's Ferry? Well, guess 
what? Nothing belongs to DT Enterprises or 
Linganore, Limited, in all of Northern Virginia 
except two antique shops right near White's Ferry, 
in Lucketts. I drove out there yesterday afternoon. 
Both stores were closed up, but the place was a 
Happy Hunting Ground for the galloping gentry. I 
was waiting for bluebloods to unleash their hounds."

When Scully cocked her head and squinted, Hill 
flapped her hands like a spastic bird. "Oh. Oh-- 
you know-- you remember the deal about the 
houses that had to be refitted or that burned 
down? Big Stately Wayne Manors? Well, 
Lucketts has got 'em. Lots of 'em. Carl had to 
have been broken out there in one of those 
mansions."

"Tina, Carl and I figured out that the man who is 
breaking Mulder is the same one who broke him--
this Dr. Taylor. We've got to find out which 
house is his. I doubt it's going to be as easy as 
looking in the phone book."

"I already did." 

"Shit." Scully frowned, then, "Okay. Okay-- we need
a house-to-house search." She fumbled in her jacket
pocket for her cell phone before she remembered
their dilemma. "Damn it! We can't." She rubbed her
forehead. "We can't let them know we're getting close. I 
don't suppose you've found any trace of Taylor in 
these papers? We've got to peg this fucker down. 
We've got to have proof undeniable of a 
connection."

Tina shook her head.

"Dammit," Scully whispered. A lump was 
rising in her throat. She closed her eyes and willed 
her soul to steel, but when the sofa creaked, the 
cushion dipped, and her balance shifted, Scully 
went fluidly toward Tina's warmth. As her head 
lolled against her friend's breast, Scully told 
herself that hunger and exhaustion had made her 
physically weak. But that was a lie, wasn't it? 
What was weakened-- what was stressed and 
depleted-- was her spirit, and the comfort Tina 
offered was genuine. There seemed to be so little 
that was anymore, besides Mulder. If he were 
there, he would tell her to grab what's true by the 
tail-- by the handful, if there was enough of it.

Scully didn't cry, but she now longed to.
Tina stroked her hair and held her and it felt good-- felt 
like mercy. Eventually, Hill asked, "Better?"

"Yeah." She turned her face up to kiss Tina's 
cheek. "You help me."

Under her lips, Scully felt the shape of her friend's 
face change as she smiled. "I'm glad, Sweetie.... 
Jesus, Bunny, I'm so glad we're all right."

"Mmmm."

"Dana, we are okay, right?"

Scully lifted her head to look at Tina squarely. "I 
don't know-- only God knows exactly what we 
*are*, but we're okay."

Hill sighed and Scully felt Tina's slight stiffness
ease away. "We can be whatever you want, you know.
We can be anything. And whatever we are doesn't have to 
take away from what you have with anyone else," 
her friend said. "When all this is over-- it'll be 
better to work it out then."

Scully laid her head against Hill's chest again. The 
breath drew in and out of Tina's lungs, gently 
lifting and lowering Scully's head. "Bunny?"

"Yeah?"

"Just promise me we can screw at least once-- just 
so I can get it out of my system."

Scully smirked and left Tina hanging for a 
moment before she answered. "Okay. I 
promise you at least one enormous fuck....
That's more than Tom Colton ever got."

....