XL Monday, 12/11/95 Scully's house 9:15 AM Tina stared at the folder named "Daily Dalliance" on the laptop's screen. Her long red fingernail tapped on the dark old wood of the kitchen tabletop. To Big Nose or not to Big Nose--was there actually a question? Nah. She clicked on the folder, finding a list of dated subfolders inside. They contained e-mails exchanged between Mulder and Dana--lots of them. "Am I a Miner Forty-Niner or what?" she asked the sparrows hanging glumly off Dana's snow-capped, empty bird feeder. One stretched its neck to tap its beak on the windowpane not in answer, but in threat. "Thatıs pathetic. Hitchcock material you ain't. Go beg Mr. Perfect next door." Tina turned away, folded her hands around her warm coffee cup and hunched toward the computer screen. >>> Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:01 AM >>> I'm in pain. In 15 minutes, I'll be dead. Must...have...salsa. >>> Fox Mulder 10/21/95 11:02AM >>> I starved a half an hour ago. I'm currently coming through to John Edward. >>>Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:02AM >>> Who? >>> Fox Mulder 10/21/95 11:04AM >>> That medium from the psychic fair. The one who wouldn't give up until that guy acknowledged Aunt Moopy, or Moxie, or whoever. >>> Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:05AM >>> 'Whomever.' >>> Fox Mulder 10/21/95 11:05AM >>> John Edward is telling you I say, "Potato, patato." >>> Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:05AM >>> Now he's saying, "What's the 'S' name? No, it's not a name; it's a food. 'S,' it's definitely an 'S' sound. Nope--they're really insistent, I have to stay with the 'S.'" >>> Fox Mulder 10/21/95 11:05AM >>> See, Scully, you do remember! A sudden creak nearly made Tina fire the shutdown command, thinking Dana was descending the stairs. But it was just the old house complaining or the ghost of a previous owner, as Mulder might insist. In either case, Dana was asleep and Hill hoped she'd stay that way. There was nothing for her to do; Dana was in the same purgatory as the Dear Departed. It was either sleep or beg one of her saints for a hamster wheel. Hill added another spoonful of sugar to her coffee, stirred, and kept reading. >>> Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:11 AM >>> 5 minutes. Get up and brush yourself off. What were you doing under your desk anyway? >>> Fox Mulder 10/21/95 11:13 AM >>> Not Important.... I need to reincarnate before we go. >>> Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:13 AM >>> Come back as a rich person so I can sponge off of you. 3 minutes. >>> Fox Mulder 10/21/95 11:14 AM >>> Okay, but for a while you'll need to change my diapers. >>>Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:15 AM>>> Enough! I'm walking across the room now. Austin Grill, here we come. >>> Fox Mulder 10/21/95 11:16 AM >> If it's too late and you don't get this e-mail, just know how much I loved you. Tina frowned. She clicked open another folder, finding these messages were older. >>>Dana Scully 7/1/93 2:10 PM>>> Why are we doing this? >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:11 PM >>> Because we can. >>>Dana Scully 7/1/93 2:11 PM >>> We could just talk, you know. >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:12 PM >>> Someone might be listening. >>>Dana Scully 7/1/93 2:13 PM >>> Why would anyone want to listen to us? >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:13 PM >>> Because they can. >>>Dana Scully 7/1/93 2:14 PM >>> Why are you so strange? >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:14 PM >>> Because I am. >>>Dana Scully 7/1/93 2:15 PM >>> Are you serious or joking about us not talking out loud? >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:16 PM >>> Can't you tell? >>>Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:16 AM>>> No. You give good pokerface. >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:16 PM >>> You're turning me on. >>>Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:17 AM>>> Goddamn it, Mulder. >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:17 PM >>> You seriously can't tell that I'm kidding? >>>Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:18 AM>>> No. How am I supposed to? With your reputation, how do I know you won't suddenly eat my face off like Hannibal Lecter? >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:19 PM >>> The BSU did not leave me with a residual taste for proboscises and under-chin wattle. I do not eat face. >>>Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:19 AM>>> Why should I believe you? >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:19 PM >>> Because I'm smiling at you. See...? >>>Dana Scully 10/21/95 11:20 AM>>> I don't know. That could be a dissembling smile. >>> Fox Mulder 7/1/93 2:20 PM >>> No. I promise, Scully. It's an honest smile. Tina rested her chin on her upturned palm, her forehead furrowing with the evolution of her opinion. She'd been harping on Dana about evidence and the truth, and here it was: Mulder was playful-- like a naughty schoolboy passing notes; he was clever and affectionate. Yeah, Dana had tried to tell her he wasn't a jackass or a Svengali who'd taken her down Paranoia Creek with a spooky paddle, and the evidence seemed to support the testimony. After she had read the contents of seven more subfolders, Tina pushed back her chair and announced her verdict. "I think I see why Dana is drawn to him: He's a loveable wacko. He's rather like me, 'cause this is all about me, right? Because if not then I've got to admit I'm on the sidelines, jealous as shit." "Yeah, so take a number." If Tina hadn't recognized The Hickey's voice at the instant her adrenaline pumped, she might have plugged him. As it was, she managed to turn around slowly, although her fingernails dug into her knees. "How the fuck did you get in here?" The small man shrugged. "My ways are mysterious." "Right. I forgot you're a ninja or whatever." "More of a samurai but we don't have time for comparisons and contrasts." The leather of his black coat creaked as he pulled out a second chair from the breakfast table and sat down. "Listen up, Pocahontas, I know where Mulder is. Now we need a bust-out plan." Tina sighed. "Frohike--" "He's in Lucketts, out near Leesburg. Langly and I tracked down some of those phony-baloney company's business leads--" "Frohike--" "Byers went out there posing as a yuppie hell-bent on an old armoire, but the--" "The antique shops are closed for the winter." "How do you know?" "I went there yesterday." "You did?" "Yeah." Frohike glanced upward, aggrieved. "Ah!" He suddenly smiled again, holding up one gloved finger. "But did you narrow it down to Fox Run Farm?" "Wait. _Fox_ Run Farm?" "I know." He shrugged. "Byers went all doe-eyed and plaintive on a woman who lives by the shops. She clued him into a farm about a mile up into the hills. Says she's seen the guy who runs them walking that way after he closes up." Tina couldn't let it drop. "Youıre telling me Mulder is at Fox Run Farm?" The Hickey shrugged. "God has some sense of humor, huh?" Tina tossed up her hands in response, accidentally rapping her big turquoise ring against the windowpane. The birds on the feeder burst into flight and Frohike's eyes darted to the commotion then back to her face. "But now it's time to take the Fox from the farm, Agent Hill." Tina opened her mouth then looked at her coffee cup. Then she played with her ring for a moment as, once again, she persuaded her 'Inner Warrior' to put down the freakin' bow and arrow. Tina took a deep breath and tried to imagine herself as a gerbil going around and around, as a Buddhist prayer wheel going aroundŠ. "WeŠ we can't do it." "Can't do what?" The Hickey demanded. "We can't bust Mulder out." "Huh?" His eyebrows raised above the rim of his glasses. "Why not?" It wasn't getting easier to speak. "Because... *Because*!" Goddamnit, she was going to cry and she'd promised herself to be ice cool. Frohike leaned forward and touched her other hand. "Hey, Agent Hill--Tina--sweetheart. Talk to me," he coaxed. The endearment let her smile. "Shit, Melvin, you know you're really a pretty nice guy." "Tell me something I don't know: Tell me what's stopping us from getting Mulder out." "Them." She gestured outside. "The birds..? Oh. You mean Them with a capital 'T'?" "Yeah, with a big 'T' and big fat government conspiracy. Motherfucking Carl Handford--I thought he was wacko when he told us we just had to wait until they were done with Mulder. Now I get it. I finally get it." "You do?" "Yes. It's true. Every crazy-assed thing you all say is true." "Well, not everything." Frohike fumbled in his coat pocket. "My ways aren't that mysterious. I have a key. See?" He held up the brass shape. She ignored him. "I'm gonna have to be like Dana now," she said, not really to him, but to herself. "I have to take a big dose of Buck Up and be like her." "What?" "I have to be like Dana now." "Hunh," Frohike grunted. "You couldn't be like her if you tried." "I could try harder." "You'd OD on Buck Up." "Thanks bunches." "Well." Frohike patted her knee. "Welcome to the Counter Illuminati, I guess. Living in basements ain't all that fun, but you get used to it." ******** 11:23 A.M. The narcotic juices that dripped through the IV tubing allowed Mulder to drift, to be both there and, at the same time gone. His body was limp; he felt elongated with toes an abnormal distance way away. The warming light was bright overhead, yet everything was dim and thick. The gray-haired man was beside Mulder, paring the fingernails of his slack hand, removing stray skin cells containing DNA codes that might tie victim to abuser. Mulder closed his eyes and drifted, becoming aware again when little tingles along his scalp raised the other hairs on his crown. Fuzzy thinking gave way: the Master was dragging a fine-toothed comb through his hair. His captor would wash the trace evidence from between the teeth instead of bagging it for the lab... Georgetown Hospital. Mulder peered over the shoulders of nurses who performed the same ritual on Scully. The respirator clunked and her chest rose; it hissed when it let her exhale. She was bruised, swollen, comatose, but the tickling of the comb's tiny teeth stirred something in her brain's primal core and milk dripped from her lactating breasts. A nurse repeated to him that she was scrubbed and douched when they found her, but he had to be sure there was nothing remaining. When Scully woke up she would want the evidence; she'd demand to know why he hadn't gotten it, so he pressed them again to do a full rape kit. They lowered the white drape and spread her legs, combed her public hair and took samples from inside her, looked at him as if he was violating her all over again... Mulder eyes flew open as his cock was lifted. The gray-haired man holding the bloodless organ leaned down to ask softly, "Do you need help? It's never wrong to ask for help." Mulder closed his eyes again, trying to signal that he could stand the intimate touch if it assured the mercy of the IV, the cool flow of oxygen from the nasal cannula, the warmth of the overhead light, and the lack of anger in anyoneıs voice. Samantha, justice, the Truth--all were a million miles out on a star in a constellation shaped like scythe. He'd wear its cuts forever. Mulder felt a ripple of disharmony and let these thoughts go. The Master and Jim were fastening down his wrists and ankles. He didn't care. The tethers that bound him were loose, so Jim could hold Mulder's thighs apart for the Master to comb him like they'd combed Scully. "Good boy," his captor murmured when Mulder didn't twist or pull against the ties or fight Jim's downward pressure. In fact, he'd moved away again to no place imaginary, no place of memory, just someplace Blank. Mulder felt the unwelcome reconnection to his body as the two men shifted him off the metal table onto the hospital cot. Once out from under the lamp, he was overwhelmed by cold and began to shiver. "Give me another blanket from the warmer," the Master commanded. Mulder heard Jim hurry to comply then softness and heat enveloped him--a comfort so sudden and intense that he moaned. The Master's latex-gloved hand moved to stroke his hair. "Shhhh. I'm here, Fox. You're quite unwell, but I'm taking care of you." "Sir," Jim sounded tentative, "what did you tell him about Mr. Mulder's condition?" "I said he'll need do for Fox as he's done for Carl. I suggested the facility that's previously been discreet. We'll wait for him, keep the medicine flowing, and continue with our arrangements. Hand me that syringe." There was no needle stick; instead Mulder felt the new narcotic dose travel up his forearm from the IV port, a delicate line of ice. He hoped it was the Good Stuff, hoped to be asleep again in moments. The sweet dizziness had just begun when Jim said, "I'm sorry we have to leave the farm." "Yes. This is a fine old house," the Master replied. "What a shame it is to burn it." A spark flared in the tinder of Mulder's curiosity but faded with his consciousness. ****** 4:25 P.M. Texaco gas station, Route 15 North, Leesburg, Virginia Skinner stared at the beating windshield wipers, hypnotized, while Mephistophiles-on-his-shoulder conjured up the battered prisoner about to be released. Skinner's demon didn't need to work at the image, really. It just had to paste Mulder's head on Carl Handford's body. Skinner had seen the results of Handford's regular 'reinforcements.' Last year, his dyspeptic conscience had ordered him to visit Carl in the hospital. He'd found Handford at Fairfax Mercy in a private wing reserved for VIPs and the wealthy. The agent had been insensible on morphine. Skinner had lifted the neatly tucked blankets and peeked beneath the short cotton gown to see the reality behind the medical bills on which he'd scribbled "OK" and his initials. He'd thought he had steeled himself against wincing but the mental barrier had been breached, admitting a flood of emotions, swirling and dirty. One of the nurses had caught him, the sorry-ass AD Peeping Tom. He'd expected a tongue lashing, but she'd smoothed the sheet and blanket around the sleeping patient and had asked Skinner whether he was a relation. When he'd replied that he was Handford's boss, her hard gaze had softened behind thick-framed glasses. "I've taken care of Carl twice before. No one's ever come to see him. I'm glad someone finally showed up--that someone cares about him. Doesn't this man have any family or friends?" Skinner ducked his head, focused on her nametag, 'Gail.' "He--he's divorced. I think his parents are dead. How bad did they--," he stumbled in his attempt to change the topic. "How's he doing?" She'd looked down at Handford with fondness but with resignation. Carl would heal, the nurse told him. While he did so, he'd be no trouble--quiet, courteous, patient--unlike most of the other patients on the private floor. When the doctor signed Carl out, he'd leave. "But I'll see him again, won't I?" she'd asked. When Skinner had nodded, her mouth drew down. "What the hell is happening to this man?" The phone rang and Skinner jumped. Heart thudding, he picked it up from the passenger seat and flipped it open. "Yes?" "I'm in the green car that just pulled up to the air pump," a quiet, even male voice told him. "Follow me." Through the wet windshield, Skinner saw the car--a nondescript Toyota--and the suggestion of a dark-haired driver beyond fogged windows. When the car pulled out onto Route 15, so did Skinner. They headed west, toward the Potomac crossing at Point of Rocks, but turned onto a side road just before the bridge came into view. The way was narrow and curving, wending across a forested mountainside. Eventually, the slope and trees gave way to farmland and a grand old house and its outbuildings. The green car circled the stable, barn, and sheds to park at the front of the house, near a white- columned porch. Sharon loved old houses and she would have cooed over this one, Skinner thought. It was colonial, no doubt, with the oldest wing constructed of local gray slate, a second wing built of red brick probably in the early 1800s, and the impressive porch added later still. Sharon would have pictured George Washington sleeping there or women standing on the upper porch wearing broad antebellum skirts. She'd see nothing sinister in the whitewashed stone foundation--never imagine that behind those walls was a torture chamber where Fox Mulder had been bound, tormented, electro-shocked, and ass-raped. By the time Skinner parked and alighted, the driver had already vanished into the mansion, leaving the front door standing open. It was a different man, tall, lean, and gray haired, now filling the empty space. This must be Mulder's captor, Dr. Taylor from the video, who had stunned Skinner with an early morning call. Mounting the steps brought the AD up to Taylor's level, and he paused to take his measure. In all ways Skinner judged himself the alpha male but he knew Taylor was no flimsy aristocrat, as his voice on the phone and his horsy attire implied. This was a snake with the strength to immobilize even strong victims like Mulder, to twist around them and hold them down helpless, to push inside their bodies en route to devouring their minds. Skinner was entering his lair, not as a victim, yet as a potential one, if the way the man's cool blue eyes scanned Skinner in return was to be judged. The AD felt a tingle spread across his skin but did not blink. "Come in, assistant director." Taylor gestured. Skinner stepped past him into the entry, reflexively wiping his wet shoes on the mat, scanning walls that were blank but for paint scuffs and nail holes. As he followed Taylor into the living room, they passed boxes stacked near an imposing hardwood staircase. Open crates marked 'Fragile' and the lines of elegant furniture beneath padded shipping blankets were evidence of what been a patrician decor. A blond man wearing jeans and a leather jacket stood on a ladder preparing to remove an oil painting from above the fireplace. Skinner recognized him immediately--he'd helped the aide-de-camp chain Mulder's legs apart, leaving him so obscenely exposed for the camera. When the blond threw a smirk toward Skinner, it met narrowed eyes and a grinding jaw. "Where is he?" Skinner demanded of both men. "Patience, Mr. Skinner," Dr. Taylor replied airily. "I did not bring you here to keep Mr. Mulder from you. But I need to talk to you first--instruct you--" "Instruct me? In what?" Skinner cut in, glowering. "Ramming a stun baton up his ass?" "Hardly." Taylor sniffed. "And there's no need for bellowing or pugilistic poses." Skinner looked down, realized that his fists were clenched. He forced them into his coat pockets where they could go unseen and unused. "Talk," Skinner prodded Taylor in a quieter tone. "But nix the Royal We." The gray-haired man huffed and turned away. He walked with echoing footsteps under a dividing archway into the recesses of the large room. Skinner watched impatiently as the man rummaged, eventually returning with several shopping bags from local chain stores as well as clothing on hangers shrouded in dry-cleaning plastic. The latter Taylor held up for Skinner to view before draping the garments over a packing box, saying, "This is what he wore here." Taylor placed one of the bags on top. "In here are his shoes, his smalls, and the contents of his suit pockets. Mr. Mulder's holster, weapon, and credentials weren't with him when he arrived. I would, of course, return them if he had brought them." "I have them," Skinner said tersely. "Good. I'll have these items placed in your car, shall I? And here are new things for his trip to hospital." Taylor held out the third sack and Skinner liberated a fist, willed it to uncurl to grasp the handle. "The arrangements we discussed are made," Taylor continued. "You'll take Mr. Mulder to the 'green' parking deck of Fairfax Mercy. There is a service door where you'll be met by physicians who will extend care to him within a private area." "The closed ward where they put Agent Handford?" "Yes, where they nurse Carl," Taylor agreed. "Everything will proceed normally and you'll approve the resulting costs." Skinner agreed with an annoyed shrug. "I've disconnected Fox's IV and he's had some Valium within the last hour. He should be malleable enough for you to handle." "Can he walk?" "I doubt it," Taylor sounded dry. The implied seriousness of the injuries made Skinner frown. "So, what--I bring him out in a fireman's carry?" "I shall assist you. Come for me when you're ready and we'll move him to your vehicle," said Taylor. He quickly appended what was surely meant to assuage Skinner's pride. "He's not a heavy man, I know, just quite long-limbed." The AD forced another shrug and accented it with a quirked eyebrow. "Are we finished, doctor?" Taylor shifted his weight. "There's one more thing. You understand that because of unfortunate circumstances, I have not been able to complete Fox's training--" "Torture," Skinner interjected. "Call it a spade." "Assistant Director, a wiser man would hear this without interruption." Skinner grunted but insinuated nothing into the pause that Taylor provided. The Englishman's high forehead had creased with annoyance as well as an earnestness Skinner recognized when the man spoke again. "Mr. Skinner, I am much more than a torturer." "Yeah. You're a brainwasher, too." The doctor shook his head. "Not exactly. The methods I employ use both pain and pleasure to bond the patient to me. Once that occurs, I sculpt the patient as our employers desire." "_Our_ employers?" "Yes. Yours and mine... Oh." The Englishman momentarily smiled. "You're on the short list for Group membership, aren't you? You were meant to be tested, too, on that doleful day when the Group imposed on Fox. But you didn't come, did you? If you'd done so, you'd have both pleased them and helped him. He might have lain quietly while you fucked him. He was so worn by fighting and you'd have been familiar... Yes, we might have been that lucky." The AD swayed. Cancerman's video allowed him to easily conjure the scene that Taylor proposed: The straps that held Mulder beneath hot Hollywood lights had been loosened to let the prisoner's muscles relax, to let circulation return to ghostly hands and feet. Skinner's own hands gently part Mulder's thighs while his eyes stay soft, promising pity. Biting his lip, Mulder nods in choiceless acceptance then closes his eyes and his head falls back to the table. He gasps, and Skinner with him, as the sphincter gives way and the head of Skinner's cock presses into the satin inside... Jesus. Thankfully, his full coat covered his unexpected erection. A flush of shame mounted his cheeks at both his arousal and at having accommodated those bastards so long after realizing that Mulder was the good man, the honest man who deserved his alliance--not those Shadow Men who'd first lured Skinner with the apples of duty and honor. Those men were the liars and the damned, and Skinner would have damned himself, too, through the heat and slickness of Mulder's unwilling flesh. Suddenly, he saw that Taylor was studying him with open interest. "What game are you playing?" "No game, assistant director. You didn't help Mr. Mulder then but you have an opportunity now." Blood was beating inside Skinner's head and his rigid cock. He withdrew his other hand from his pocket to wipe it over his scalp. "How?" "When I'm gone, Fox will need a new male to dominate him. It would be to his benefit, I think, if that was you. Might it also be your inclination?" "What? I'm not going to hurt him to keep him in line!" Taylor shook his head. "No, he shouldn't need physical discipline but he shall require governance--" "He'll be taken care of," Skinner snapped. "You don't have to worry about that." The booming in his head was getting louder. Could an erection cause an aneurysm, Skinner tried to recall, or was it an aneurysm that caused erectile dysfunction? "He'll need to be told what to do," Taylor insisted. "I guarantee it." The conversation, and the feeling in his groin, was becoming insufferable. "Mulder will be free to make his own damned decisions. If he needs my advice, he'll ask for it." "No, assistant director. He'll--" Skinner's voice vaulted to a Marine Corps shout, "No! No more! Take me to him _now_!" The young assistant jumped to the floor from the lower rungs of the ladder. "William, no," Skinner heard Taylor caution him quietly, but the blond man's shoulders lifted as he bristled and he kept coming forward. The doctor moved to block the approach while Skinner sneered over Taylor's shoulder at the lackey, half- wishing he'd bring it on--give Skinner a pass to punch his fucking face in--and maybe Taylor's, too, if he stayed in the way. "William, stand where you are!" the Englishman's pleasing voice took on a startlingly dark undertone. "One move and I'll flay you 'til the blood runs." The brutal base note stopped both the assistant and Skinner short. Goosebumps stippled the skin beneath the AD's suit and coat, and he wondered if Mulder, less protected, had provoked something similar. Oh hell, of course he had. Fox Mulder could piss off a rock or a statue... There was an ironic quip there somewhere about whipping blood from stone. Mulder would be quick enough to find it, even under the lash. Taylor's inner sadist was already tucked away, but the Englishman sounded frustrated and righteous. "Assistant director, you're obviously unable to listen, but mark my words, you'll be sorry about not grasping the psychology. But off with you before this turns into chaos, just as every other damned thing has. Follow that passage to where it turns. Mr. Mulderıs in the infirmary--first room on the right." The AD spun and strode in the indicated direction, striving for calm or at least a game face. A gallon of Valium wouldn't keep Mulder from freaking if Skinner loomed over him with a heaving chest and an urgent erection. What little faith Mulder kept in the world must be nuked, and on a good day Skinner knew the agent barely trusted him. He paused outside the room, tamping down, telling himself that release could be found later in the sparring ring or on the firing range, or by taking his hard-on into his own hand. The "infirmary," Skinner discovered, was a well-stocked clinic, prepped to stitch back together the men whom Taylor picked apart. Skinner's eyes found and then quickly avoided an exam table with dangling unfastened restraints, moved his focus up to surgical lights, then down again to a rimmed steel tray with a scrub-green liner awaiting an outlay of sterile instruments. Cabinets and countertops led him along a visual trail to the back of the room where a high, barred window admitted some daylight. Beneath it, a still form rested on a hospital cot. "Mulder?" he queried, his nostrils twitching as he scented rubbing alcohol and povidone iodine. "Mulder, it's Walter Skinner. I'm here to help you. Don't be afraid." Although he received no response, saw no movement, Skinner approached the bed slowly. Mulder was all-but-swaddled, blankets pulled up to his chin and a plump pillow tucked beneath his head. The bedding was neat, crisp, and white, but Mulder's face was gray and bruised, his lower lip split and swollen, his eyes sunken. If Skinner hadn't heard the agent's wheezing breaths, he'd have sworn Mulder was set to play the star of a body dumpsite. His jaw slackened with shock and his heart twisting, Skinner willed himself to squat next to the bed, to ask softly, "Can you hear me, buddy?" A part of the AD's mind registered the spoken endearment as a situational anomaly while the other part recognized and affirmed the declaration. "Wake up for me. C'mon. Wake up." Mulder shuddered and his trembling hands emerged from beneath the covers to hide his battered face. His skin was incredibly pale; to Skinner, it appeared as if Mulder wore white gloves. Skinner wanted to comfort the man through touch but spoke soothingly instead. "I'm going to take you to a hospital." Dark eyes peeked between fingers--suspicious--but he knew Mulder wanted to believe. Skinner let Mulder weigh the evidence, waited while balancing on his toes with his fingertips and coat tails brushing the floor. Finally, Mulder withdrew his ashen hands into the cocooning blankets. His eyes were closed again--tighter now, as if determined. "It's okay, Mulder. You don't have to look at me. Just so you know who I am and that I'm not here to hurt you." The plastic shopping bag crinkled as Skinner pulled out a new pair of gray sweat pants, price tags intact. Their plastic tether broke easily, the effort barely stinging his hands, and the slips of stiff paper fell to the floor. When he looked back, Skinner saw slivers of Mulder's dark irises, covertly watching. He held up the pants. "Ten ninety-nine from Wal-Mart. I guess your walking clothes won't be cutting into anyone's profit margin." Mulder didn't respond, still playing possum. "All right," Skinner said as he rose, garment in hand. "Let's get you dressed. Just let me do all the work. I'm going to drop the rail and turn back the covers." When he peeled back the layers of bedding, Skinner found to his disgust that Mulder was unshielded by a hospital gown or pajamas; he was nude, instantly shivering, one hand splayed over pubic hair and genitals while the fingers of his other hand clawed the bottom sheet. Compelled by Mulder's shaking and fear, Skinner moved quickly, trying not to see what the poor man so obviously wanted hidden, forcing himself to ignore the cuts, contusions, and ligature abrasions that might mesmerize him or make him ponder his culpability. One leg into the sweat pants. The other. Mulder cried out hoarsely when Skinner lifted him by the waist to drag the elastic waistband up to his hips. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to get you dressed so you're warm," Skinner told him, fumbling to tear the tags off the matching grey sweatshirt. When he lifted Mulderıs arm to slide it into a sleeve, the younger man threw back his head but kept the reactive sounds of pain caged in this throat. "Christ, I'm so sorry," Skinner apologized, doubling his care. Even so, each further movement clearly caused Mulder agony. When the shirt was finally on, and Skinner nearly frantic, he burst open the wrapping on a pack of white gym socks then snatched a pair from the half-dozen that scattered on the floor. He slipped them onto Mulder's feet then added another pair on top for extra warmth. Skinner knelt again by the cot, allowing himself, just once, to stroke the hair back from Mulder's fever-hot forehead. "Mulder, look at me. I need make sure you understand me. C'mon, look at me now." The agent's eyelids lifted slowly; he fixed on Skinner and didn't blink, just stared with saucer-sized pupils dilated by drugs. "Okay," Skinner said softly, "here's what happens next: I'm going to leave you for a minute to get Taylor and then we're going to carry you to my car. Then you and I are going straight to the hospital. I promise that Scully will be there later." Mulder's breathing went fast and shallow and a sheen formed over his scrying-mirror eyes. Skinner frowned in disconcertion as it resolved into tears that trickled down past Mulder's temples. "What's wrong? Are you scared?" The man on the cot turned his head away. 'Yeah, you're scared that I'm a lying sonofabitch.' Skinner answered his own question internally. He touched Mulder's arm lightly and reassured him, "You're really going to see Scully. She's gonna be glad to have you back. She's been looking for you awfully hard." Mulder's chest hitched with a sob. "What's wrong?" Skinner asked again. "Don't you believe me?" "I suspect it's that damned video," replied a droll English voice from behind. The AD looked over his shoulder to find Taylor leaning against the doorframe. "He thinks it was meant for Dr. Scully. I've been unable to convince him otherwise." "Shit," Skinner whispered as it dawned on him that Mulder had known about the videotaping while it was occurring. He let his head hang for a moment in terrible empathy then the deep breath that he drew lifted both his chest and his chin. The AD molded his hands around the sides of Mulder's face and ordered the man to look at him once more. Mulder complied, peeping through his thick, wet lashes. "Listen. That tape was for me, for reasons I'll explain later--reasons you finally deserve to hear," Skinner told him. "I watched it, so I know the fucking nightmare they put you through, but Scully hasn't seen the tape and she never will. I swear on my mother's grave. Scully. Hasn't. Seen it. Now can we get out of here?" A moment passed. Skinner stayed stern. "I said are we done here, Agent Mulder?" Beneath his hands, Skinner felt Mulder's jaw shift and watched him slowly lick his lips. He didn't actually speak, but mouthed two words that Skinner could read. "Yes, sir." "Good." While he spoke to Mulder, the AD peripherally noticed Dr. Taylor move into the room. But as he got to his feet, Skinner was surprised to find the man directly behind him holding a syringe between fingers and thumb, ready to stab and push down the plunger. His heart raced as he realized he was blocked in between the doctor and the cot--imagined that his next recollection would be waking up under illumination and mirrors. But Taylor stepped past Skinner, leaning over to bare Mulder's hip and slip in the needle. "What did you just gave him?" The AD demanded. "Antibiotics and pain meds," Taylor responded coolly, readjusting the waistband of Mulder's loose pants. "I timed the dose so he'll be comfortable for the journey. It's rush hour and the hospital is on the far side of Fairfax." Seeming finished with Skinner, the tall, thin man bent again, reaching out to caress Mulder's cheek, to let his hand rest where Skinner's had been. "Oh my lad, my lad," he said softly, "Listen to me before you fall asleep and wake up long away. I give you my word that I'll help put this horrid mess to right. I _can_ make it better, Fox. I'll be there when you decide it's time." Skinner's mouth turned down as startlement changed to proprietary anger. He was ready to push between captor and victim when he saw Mulder's eyes open fully to meet Taylor's. The Englishman smiled. "Yes, Fox. Yes. You're a good boy. And here's your parting gift--I can't tell you about your sister, but I can tell you that her name was Rachel Dewer." "What the f--" Taylor cut Skinner off sharply. "Quiet! I have no time for you." The gray-haired man stroked Mulder's cheek again and Mulder blinked as if fighting the drugs that funneled down his consciousness. "Rachel Lethwait Dewer, Fox. She's gone and can't ever be returned, but you deserve to remember your wife's name. Taking it from you was very, very unfair. Now sleep, colt, and be glad you've had some satisfaction of Them." Mulder's lids slipped shut. When Taylor bent further to kiss the still man's lips, Skinner squeezed Taylor's bicep hard enough to bruise (he hoped) and yanked the doctor back a step. "I don't know what the hell you're up to now, but it's finished. Understand? And I don't need your fucking help getting Mulder out of here. I'll carry him myself." Releasing Taylor with a shove, Skinner scooped Mulder up under the arms and knees and hurried out of the mansion, into Christmas cold and the waiting car. He didn't relax the tension in his neck and spine or the iron grip of his hands on the wheel until they'd made it to Route 66 and he could set out his flashing dash light and pick up speed. ...