Work Text:
Up from the Abyss
by J. Millington
August 1997
RATING: R
WARNING: (violence)
SPOILERS: Although it was outlined in early May, this story definitely
became a post-Gethsemane story, with additional spoilers for Demons and
Tunguska/Terma.
CATEGORY: XA
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files
characters used herein are the sole intellectual property of Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, and Fox Television Broadcasting. No infringement or
copyright invalidation is implied, or should be inferred, from their use in
this work of fiction All creative works and original characters contained
herein remain the sole prope‹rty of the author.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Miki Akimoto and Joyce McKibben for all their
encouragement and their suggestions (even those I didn't use). This story was begun
before we found out Mrs. Mulder's real first name, so she appears here as
Elizabeth Mulder.
SUMMARY: Skinner finds out what happened to Mulder and he and the X-Files
team are drawn into a web of conspiracy that throws Mulder's mother into
the thick of things.
==================
Part 1
Walter Skinner knew the exact moment he started down the road to hell. He
wasn't sure if he'd hit bottom yet, but every sign post along the way was
etched into his soul.
Pouring another drink, he ignored the way his hands shook.
Successful at work, Assistant Director of the FBI, well-respected by those
agents under his supervision, in favor with those above him. His father, if
he were still alive, would have been proud. His mother, on the other hand,
would have looked into his eyes, his heart.
"Oh, Walter," she would have said, "What have you done?"
==================
==================
Green Meadows Convalescent Home
Alexandria, Virginia
Every morning started just like this. Milton, the old man in the bed next
to him, woke first, coughing as if he was going to bring up a lung, then
hoisted himself into a wheelchair and headed for the bathroom.
The room's other resident tried to gather enough strength to open his eyes.
Mission accomplished. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to
think. If he allowed his thoughts to flow freely, his mind to really ponder
his situation, black despair gripped him and threatened to pull his sanity
down into a bottomless abyss. Blank existence instead of raging madness,
was there really that much difference? Either way it blotted out his
hopeless dreams. Dreams of what had happened, what might have been. Where
the hell was the nurse with his meds?
"Okay, gentlemen, time to get ready for breakfast." The nurse's aide
bustled into the room. She jerked the curtains aside, flooding the room
with light, leaving the bedridden form blinking furiously.
Ignoring Milton's half-serious ˘protests about the lack of privacy, she
raided the bathroom for a towel and warm, soapy washcloth.
"Rise and shine, Frank." The silent man stared straight ahead as she washed
his face with a quick efficiency. She fished an electric razor out of the
bedside table and shaved his stubbly chin. Rifling through the dresser next
to the wall, she selected clean clothes for the day. She swept the blankets
back in one smooth movement and proceeded to dress the limp form as if he
were some overgrown doll.
"Hey, Frank." The old man gave him a nod as he wheeled past. Milton made a
habit of looking his roommate square in the eye when he talked to him. The
doctor might claim Frank's brains were totally scrambled, but Milton had
seen the spark that flickered just below the surface. Especially before he
got his morning meds. Whatever they gave the poor guy really put him under
for the rest of the day. Probably for seizures or something, most of the
younger guys here had head injuries, car wrecks more often that notˆ.
When the aide breezed out of the room, Milton rolled over to Frank's side.
"I swear, boy, a body ought not to be that cheerful in the morning. It
can't be healthy."
One blink. Milton took that for a yes.
"Remember, how I told you that I didn't like the way they were keeping you
drugged up?"
Blink.
"Well, my niece has got a friend. . .well, actually, he's family on my
ex-wife's side. Only met the man once. But that's beside the point, which
is, if you're still interested, I can have him look into this thing."
Eyes stayed firmly open, like a question. Unsure whether he could really go
back. Like this. Unsure whether he could trust Milton or the old man's
friend.
"What I mean to say is, he's not a lawyer or nothing like that. He's a cop
or some such. It's just that I don't think the doctors are doing right by
you here. What do you say, want me to call this guy and ask him to look
into it?"
A pause. Then, slow and sure, a definite blink. Anything had to better than
this living, lonely death.
================================
================================
Washington, D. C.
The low roar of conversation filled the restaurant, as Walter Skinner
paused in the doorway. He still wasn't sure why he was here, Georgeanne's
call had come out of the blue. Of all of his ex-wife's relatives, he had
only ever felt at ease with this particular cousin; but they hadn't talked
in years. Had Sharon even told her about the divorce?
It didn't matter, he appreciated the break from work and from the tension
that had ruled his life for months.
She saw Skinner first and stood up from the table, giving him a hesitant
wave. She looked the same, perhaps a little thicker around the middle, but
neither one of them were exactly young any more.
She remained standing until he joined her. She held out her hand and gave
him a gentle, yet confident, handshake.
"Walter, I'm so glad you came. I feel silly, really, having called you at all."
"No problem. It's good to get away from the office onceÔ in awhile." The
waiter interrupted, taking their drink orders, before Skinner could
continue. "On the phone you said you had a problem. Somehing I could help
you with?"
"Do you remember Milton Davidson?" He shook his head, no. "There's no
reason why you should. He's my aunt's ex-husband, you may have met him at
our wedding. He's the black sheep of the family, in a way. Drank too much
for years. That, on top of his diabetes, ...well, his health's been
declining. Lost both legs to the diabetes and he's lived in a nursing home
for several years."
The waiter brought their drinks and took their order for lunch. Skinner let
Georgeanne continue, giving her time to spin the story out at her own
speed.
"I'm probably the only one left who visits Uncle Milton, and I don't get
out there as often as I should. A few months ago he got a new roommate,
apparently brain-damaged in a car wreck, tragic story. He's the nephew of
the hospital administrator, Dr. Paul Miller, but no one, not even his
uncle, visits him. Not much point, seeing as he can't talk or communicate.
Except with Milton. Milton's got the notion in his head that this man isn't
really who they say he is, that he's being held against his will.
"Uncle Milton is convinced that this man told him to try and find out
what's really going on." She fiddled with her drink for a moment. "It's
ridiculous, really; thinking that his roommate is communicating with him at
all. I saw the man when I was out there. He's a vegetable, doesn't even has
the strength to swallow on his own, they feed him through a tube in his
stomach."
She stopped, realizing that in her nervousness she was rambling. "Once he
remembered you, that you worked for the FBI, Milton insisted that I have
you look into this." She reached down and rummaged through her purse,
pulling out a paperback book sealed in a plastic bag.
"This is all so melodramatic. Milton took this book, wiped it clean as he
could and pressed the man's fingerprints onto it. He wants you to check and
see if they really are the fingerprints of Frank Miller." She paused,
"I'll be honest with you, Walter. It's not that I really believe Milton's
story, but I wouldn't have even bothered you if he hadn't been so
insistent."
Skinner picked up the bag and turned it over in his hands.
Georgeanne reached across the table to take back the book. "Look, I'm
sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's silly to expect you to waste government
resources on Milton's fantasies."
"That's okay," Skinner set the book down on the table. "I can do this on my
own time, no problem. It might not come to anything, though. Unless Frank
Miller, or whoever this patient is, has ever been fingerprinted, there
won't be any record to compare it to."
"Thanks. You don't know how much this means to me. Milton may be a bit
eccentric, but I don't believe he's delusional. Honestly, I'm not sure what
to think."
=======================================
=======================================
Lifting the prints off of the book reminded Skinner of his early years in
the Bureau. It wouldn't hurt him to brush on basic forensic techniques. One
thing you could say for Milton, he did a really good job of collecting a
set of prints.
After he scanned the fingerprints into the computer, he waited for the
database to make a match. He was just taking a sip of coffee when the name
and picture rolled across the screen. The coffee cup hit the desk and
sloshed over his desk calendar.
That was impossible.
He sat there stunned for just a minute before he went to work. Pulling open
his bottom desk drawer, he took out the evidence bag that had sat there for
months, personal effects the DC police had given him. He shouldn't have
kept it, but the victim's mother wouldn't take it. Besides, it served
Skinner as a reminder, to be careful in the choices that he made.
He fumbled around in his briefcase for a pair of latex gloves. After he
pulled them on, he withdrew the slim leather wallet from the bag and dusted
it for prints. When he was done, he found that the impossible was
irrefutable. The prints on the wallet matched the prints on the book that
matched those on his computer screen.
Working as quickly as he could, Skinner erased the fingerprints from the
system and stashed the original copy in his briefcase, making sure the book
they were lifted from was still there. Placing the wallet back in the
evidence bag, he added it to the stack. Then he began a search for
information on Dr. Paul Miller.
Half an hour later he sat glaring at his computer. Pretty amazing how an
unmarried man, whose only sibling died in childhood could have a nephew. He
made a mental list of men in the Bureau who could be trusted. A short list.
========================================
========================================
The smell hit him as soon as he walked in the front door, that unpleasant
combination of disinfectant on top of the stale, unmistakable odor of
urine. Half a dozen grim-faced FBI agents and a pair of paramedics pushing
a gurney followed close behind him as he made his way to the nurse's
station. Protocol might call for him to serve the warrant to the
adminstrator's office first, but Skinner was banking on the element of
surprise. Secure the patient and his records first, then make the arrests.
The nurse at the desk rose in alarm as the group of dark-suited men and
women invaded her workstation. The balding man in the front flashed his ID
at her.
"Ms. Hoffman," Skinner read her name off her name tag. "I'm Assistant
Director Walter Skinner of the FBI. I have a court order to take custody of
the patient known to you as Frank Miller and to confiscate all medications
and medical records pertaining to him. Where can we find Mr. Miller?"
In a panic the nurse tried to stop the agents who were going through the
charts.
"Ms. Hoffman." Skinner grabbed her attention once again. "Where is Frank
Miller?"
"Room 213." She pointed down the hall, but the jiggling of the locked med
room door distracted h›er. "Look, you can't go in there. I need to call Dr.
Miller. Wait." Skinner blocked her hand as she tried to pick up the phone.
"Don't call the office. We'll make sure that Dr. Miller knows exactly
what's going on. Rosenthal, Bradley, go apprise the doctor of the
situation. Ms. Hoffman, please unlock the medication room. I want this
place turned upside down. You two," he motioned to the paramedics, "come
with me."
Skinner stopped in the doorway of 213. In the bed closest to the window a
figure lay staring up at the ceiling. He didn't turn his head at the sound
of someone entering the room. That didn't matter, Skinner recognized him
immediately from the profile.
Milton Davidson wheeled down the hall and tried to enter his room, but
found the doorway blocked by the gurney. "Hey, you two, let me in there."
The paramedics ignored him, they had their orders. It didn't stop Milton
from trying to get in on the action. "Walter Skinner, isn't it? I told
Georgeanne you'd come," he¸ yelled out to Skinner.
Skinner didn't hear the old man, all his attention was focused on the bed.
He walked over to the patient, making sure that he was in the man's line of
sight. It really was him. Or what was left of him. He grasped the man's
head in his hands, looking into his eyes, looking for signs of recognition.
"Agent Mulder, I've come to take you away from here."
Unable to speak, unable to move, tears rolled down Fox Mulder's cheeks.
As Skinner watched them load Mulder on the gurney, Bradley came back from
the adminstrator's office. The agent stared as they prepared Mulder for
transport. He was shocked. He knew they were gong to find the missing man
here, but he hadn't expected this. . .this wraith.
"That was awfully fast, Bradley."
The AD's voice snapped him out of his shock. "Sir, Dr. Miller wasn't in his
office. We caught his secretary on the phone as we walked in. I think she
may have tipped him off. I called the Alexandria PD to intercept him at his
home. He'll probably be gone, ‰but I'm heading over there with Rosenthal
right now."
Skinner gave him a curt nod and started to answer but his cell phone rang.
"Keep me informed." With a wave he dismissed the man and answered his
phone.
"Skinner."
"Mr. Skinner, this is Margaret Scully. You left a message on my machine."
"Yes, Mrs. Scully, it's imperative that I get in touch with your daughter
as soon as possible."
"What's this about? Dana left specific instructions that she did not want
to hear from anyone at work. After the treatment. . ." She searched for the
right words. "Mr. Skinner, while Dana has overcome her cancer, she has a
lot of healing left to do. You gave her a six month leave of absence. She's
not ready to come back to work yet."
Shit this was hard. Mulder's 'death' had devastated his partner. Her grief
over his suicide loomed over her, blotting out what should have been her
joy at conquering her own mortality. Unless. . .with a painful death
staring her in the face, could she have made her own deal? He didn't want
to believe it. He couldn't believe it. But she was the one who had
identified the body. And he knew a little bit about deals made out of
desperation.
"Mr. Skinner?"
"Um. . .just give your daughter a message. Tell her that I need to speak
with her. In person. This is something I can't discuss over the phone.'
"I'll relay the message." Her tone was cold, she clearly didn't want to be
Skinner's go-between. "Good-bye, Mr. Skinner."
Skinner walked alongside as they wheeled Mulder out to the ambulance. It
was an almost physical pain to watch him lying there, cut off from the
world. He had never known anyone as alone as this man. Loneliness was
something Walter Skinner could definitely relate to.
==========================================
===========================================
When Elizabeth Mulder had begun her wait, the sunshine had streamed through
the living room windows. She was chilled now in the growing shadows and
still the phone hadn't rung.
Don't talk t"o anyone about your son. He had been quite specific on that .
Not if you want him to live.
She pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and drew it around her.
They hadn't called yet. She sat here in the dark and waited, afraid to
move. What must Fox think of her? Could he think of her? They wouldn't let
her go to him, but they'd showed her a picture, so pale, like an invalid,
lying in that bed. Nothing permanent so far, he'd promised her, as long as
she cooperated.
She hated herself. Now she knew what Bill must have gone through. Use the
daughter to manipulate the father, the son to coerce the mother. As a
family, the Mulders were a farce.
She jumped when the phone finally rang.
"Hello."
"Mrs. Mulder, this Assistant Director Walter Skinner, with the FBI."
"Yes, we met at the...." She couldn't bring herself to say it. The funeral.
Whose ashes had she scattered in his name?
Skinner mistook her silence for grief and was unsure how to breach it.
Elizabeth Mulder saved him the trouble.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Skinner?"
"Mrs. Mulder, there has been a horrible mistake. Recently we discovered
that the man we believed to be your son, the man found dead in his
apartment, was not Fox."
"What are you saying?"
"Your son is alive. We found him in a Virginia convalescent home. He's
being transferred to Georgetown University Medical Center.'
"I don't believe you."
"Mrs. Mulder, let me assure you that there is no mistake." At least not
this time. "Fox Mulder is alive."
"Leave me alone, Mr. Skinner."
He stood there at the door of the nursing home staring at the silent phone
in his hand. She'd hung up. How could she hang up?
"Mr. Skinner, we're ready to go here."
Glancing at the still figure on the gurney, a chill went down his spine.
How much had Mulder overheard? He made a quick decision, tossing his keys
to the agent nearest him. "Follow us in my car. I'm going to ride in the
ambulance."
======================
======================
There was an undercurrent of excitement and confusion in the J. Edgar
Hoover Building. The whispers faded whenever they saw Skinner coming, but
he still caught enough of it, Spooky Mulder back from the dead. The tone of
the conversations shifted from awe and fear to skepticism. Some actually
believed that Mulder had faked his own death to get out of trouble, but no
one could name exactly what that trouble might have been. Skinner did
notice that Bradley and Rosenthal and the other agents who'd gone with him
stayed out of that line of speculation. No one who had seen Mulder at that
nursing home could possibly believe he was there by choice.
It was almost time for the his meeting with Mulder's doctor when Kimberly
let him know he had a visitor.
"Tell him to come back, I'm on my way out." As he hung up the phone, Dana
Scully forced her way into his office. The fact that she had chosen to come
in didn't surprise him, she had a finely honed sense of duty. The fact that
she came dressed casually, in a sweater and slacks, underscored her
defiance at being asked to come at all. She radiated cold fury at his
intrusion on her private life.
"Sir, you told my mother that you needed to speak with me urgently."
"Yes, Agent Scully, sit down." He plunged right in. "Agent Scully, I've
asked you here today to go over your report on Agent Mulder's death."
That chipped the ice a little, but she composed herself quickly before
replying. "I have nothing to add to that report."
"According to the police report you barely glanced at the body. I've just
reviewed the crime scene photos. The position of the body was poor and
between the wound and the blood that obscured his features, how certain are
you that the man found in that apartment was, in fact, Fox Mulder?"
There was no hiding her distress now. "Those were the clothes he had been
wearing earlier in the evening. The hair was..." Her voice broke. "Why are
you asking me this now? The autopsy confirmed my identification."
¯It's recently come to my attention that neither the pathologist who
performed the autopsy, nor the diener who assisted him, can be located.
They have both apparently vanished. The body, as you know, was cremated.
There is no way to verify the autopsy report. I ask you again, how did you
know that the dead man was your partner?"
She jerked out of the chair as if to leave, but simply stood there, her
shoulders shaking in repressed grief. When she finally continued her voice
was soft, barely audible.
"I was just so afraid. Afraid of not being able to work any longer. Afraid
that if I continued to work, my weakness would put Mulder's life at risk."
She turned toward face him. "I was afraid to die without knowing the
reasons why and Michael Kritschgau gave me those reasons. But Mulder kept
pushing, you know how he was. So I told him. I told him that it was all his
fault. That they were killing me so he would believe.
"I'd always wondered if there was any limit to his capacity to draw down
the guilt of t˛he world on his shoulders and keep on going. I pushed until I
found his limit. I wanted him to live for the both of us. I thought...I
believed that if I left him with the answers, if I found the truth he was
searched so hard for, that it might ease, somewhat, the pain of losing me."
"But now he's dead and you're alive."
"Why are you asking me about this?" Her face was a portrait of agony.
"Agent Scully, yesterday evening I accompanied a team of FBI agents who
rescued a man housed in a Virginia convalescent home under the name Frank
Miller. This man has been drugged and held against his will for the past
five months. This man is Fox Mulder."
"No." She collapsed in to the chair beside her. "No." It was all she could
manage.
She looked pale and sick, as if in the space of the past minute Mulder's
return to life had drawn her back down to the brink of death. Skinner was
convinced of her innocence. They were all pawns in a game he was determined
to figure out. When he continued his voice was gentle.
"Scully, I was just on my way to the hospital to check on his condition.
Why don't you come with me?"
====================
End part 1
Part 2
When he awoke it felt like he was in a coffin. In this tiny space the
ceiling was only inches from his nose. He still couldn't move, couldn't
talk, he couldn't get out. Help! I'm alive in here! In the onrush of panic
he felt his heart begin to race.
"It's all right, Mr. Mulder, you're having a scan done. Just lie still,
we're almost done." The technician droned on, her exact words less
important than the fact that she knew his name. She knew who he really was.
He was in the hospital. Now he remembered, Skinner had found him.
"Unnh." He surprised himself. He could talk. Not very eloquent, but his
first word in months.
His initial joy at making himself heard dwindled as they wheeled him back
to his room. The ceiling whisked by, images tickled at his peripheral
vision, just out of range. He would give anything to be able to turn his
head and‰ look.
=====================
Playing hostess to this man was the most reprehensible thing Elizabeth had
ever done. How had she ever thought him attractive? Once she had found his
open expression of emotion refreshing, so unlike her husband. At first
Bill's aloof nature had seemed enigmatic, like a mystery for her to solve.
Eventually she discovered that the only real mystery was how a man could
turn so completely away from his wife and children. So she had turned to
this man, a colleague who openly admired her, at least when they were
alone. Now as he casually brushed his hand along her cheek she steeled
herself not to shudder.
"There can be no more delays. What you've given us is incomplete. You
helped Bill compile the data, either find the rest of the records or detail
what you remember of the information." He lit another cigarette, taking a
long and casual drag from it. "Whatever happened to your enthusiasm? Before
Fox was born you were the Project's greatest proponent."
"Before Fox was born, I had no idea what the goal of the Project really was."
"You knew enough. You knew that mankind stood on the threshold of a new
day, and you wholeheartedly committed yourself to that plan."
Her response was cut off by the ringing of the phone. One glance at her
visitor reminded her to be careful.
"Hello."
"Mrs. Mulder."
Oh God, not Walter Skinner. Not now. "Mr. Skinner, I told you not to call
me again." She slammed the receiver down, hard.
Skinner jerked the phone back from his ear. Something was definitely not
right with that woman, something other than grief. Scully sat still and
silent beside him. She hadn't uttered a word since they'd left the office.
He kept expecting her to ask some questions, to at least inquire about
Mulder's condition. But to inquire about his health, she would have to
first believe that he was really alive.
Agent Bradley waited for them at the entrance to the hospital. He nodded to
Scully, but directed his comments to Skinner.
"Sir, Dr. Yode
r left a message that he would be delayed about thirty more
minutes, something about the running a few more confirmatory tests on
whatever it was they giving Mulder in the home. He also said to remind you
that he needs to get in contact with Mulder's next of kin, to okay some
treatment decisions."
"Agent Scully, I need your help with this."
"Sir?"
"In lieu of his mother, you are still listed as Mulder's emergency
contact." He didn't give her time to protest. "Bradley, tell Dr. Yoder
we'll meet him in Agent's Mulder's room whenever he's ready. Scully, come
with me."
She didn't protest. The whole experience was surreal. This couldn't be
happening. Mulder was dead. She had seen the body. She had identified the
body. But if he wasn't dead... All these months and she hadn't even tried
to look for him. She couldn't bring herself to consider her betrayal.
They came to a halt just outside a doorway flanked by two agents she
vaguely knew. Both men stepped aside at their approach. Scully followed
Skinner into t‚he room, drawn along in his wake with no momentum of her own.
The room was quiet except for the gentle rhythm of the pump which fed the
steady flow of nutrients into the figure on the bed. His eyes were open.
Skinner left Scully standing in the doorway and walked straight to the bed,
addressing him as he approached.
"Mulder, I've brought someone to see you." He reached over and turned
Mulder's head in Scully's direction.
Mulder's eyes grew wide in recognition. Forgetting for the moment that he
couldn't talk, he tried to call out to her, to say her name. All that came
out was a low moan.
Scully backed against the wall, shaking her head from side to side. Bolting
out of the room she fled down the hall in a panic.
Skinner was left standing there, unsure what to do next, uncertain which of
them needed him the most. Mulder's eyes, more expressive today, clearly
echoed distress over his partner's reaction. Skinner took that as a cue.
"Look, I don't know what you remember about˜ the day you 'died.' Hell, I
can't even imagine what you've been through for the past five months. But
the day you disappeared, Scully identified a body in your apartment. Your
body. For the past five months she's been certain that you were dead."
Mulder's brow furrowed slightly in... concern? Surprise? Doubt? Skinner
watched as the man turned his head almost imperceptibly toward the door.
"Fine. I'll go after her. and make sure she's all right. When I get back,
Dr. Yoder wants to go over your test results and medical records. Are you
up to that?." How had Milton said he communicated with Mulder? "Give me a
blink if that's okay."
Blink. Mulder's face definitely reflected worry now, and some stronger
emotion. Anger perhaps.
Skinner found Scully in the waiting room, her head bowed down and held
between her hands.
"Agent Scully."
She looked up, her face ravaged by grief and guilt. "What have I done?"
"Nothing. You haven't done anything, Agent Scully, but believe a carefully
crafted plot. A plot aimed specifically at destroying your trust in Mulder
and the X-Files at a time in your life when you were afraid and vulnerable.
They manipulated you and told you what you wanted to believe. They gave you
a rational, a scientific explanation for the X-Files."
She started to reply, but he cut her off. "Before you say anything, just
here me out. Michael Kritschgau, the Department of Defense employee who
convinced you of Mulder's manipulation, disappeared at the same time that
you went into the hospital for treatment. They played upon your weakness to
shut down the X-Files once and for all.
"But there's something else at work here. Why go to all the trouble to
stage an apparent suicide and then hold the 'victim' in storage? It doesn't
add up. Something's going on, Scully, and Fox Mulder is the key. The rest
of us are just being pulled along behind him."
He glanced at his watch. "Dr. Yoder should be here in ten minutes and we
can begin to sort this all out. But right now there's a man in fithere who's
worried about you. Make your peace with Agent Mulder."
At the sound of someone entering the room, Mulder tried to turn his head
toward the door. Beyond his line of sight, Scully stood there, her eyes
red-rimmed. She watched him for a minute, taking in his emaciated form.
Silently she walked over to the bed and reached out a hand to touch his
face. It was warm and solid. Real. He was real.
He moved his head to the side slightly, trapping her hand between his cheek
and the pillow. Now that he had a good view of her, he looked her over,
searching for signs of her own illness. Hazel eyes asked the question.
She understood. "I'm fine, Mulder. A combination of computer-assisted laser
surgery and gene-therapy. The cancer's gone."
His relief was obvious and immediate.
"But what happened to you? Oh Mulder, I believed you were dead. I thought I
drove you to..."
He moaned trying to tell her that it wasn't her fault.
"What have they done to you?" Her voice dropped to a whisper.
He wanted to tell her. He wanted to let her know how grateful he was that
she here, alive and healthy. For the first time in months, he wanted to
live.
======================
Linus Yoder took the time to go over a few details in his patient's chart
one more time before he began. As he looked up, he caught a glimpse of Fox
Mulder's eyes, dark and intense, as if they were drilling into his soul for
answers. Unfortunately the answers he had to give only raised more
questions.
"Yesterday evening, when we admitted Mr. Mulder into this hospital, he was
completely unable to communicate. Voluntary muscle response was almost
completely absent. Because of his inability to swallow, a gastrostomy had
been performed. That's a feeding tube surgically implanted in the
abdomen," he added at AD Skinner's questioning glance.
"The medical records that accompanied Agent Mulder, under the name of Frank
Miller, indicated that the patient had suffered a debilitating head injury
ten months before his admission. Extensive testing done by Dr. Harriman,
the consulting neurologist, revealed no signs or symptoms to corroborate
that diagnosis. The only medication he was receiving was phenobarbital,
supposedly to control seizures brought on the head trauma. The FBI labs
verified that the medication seized at the nursing home was, indeed,
phenobarb. The serum phenobarb levels in the toxicology screen confirmed
that the patient had been regularly receiving this drug. In the absence of
any apparent head injury, it is my belief that this medication was being
used to keep Agent Mulder sedated. That does not, however, explain his
paralysis.
"What put us on the right track was the feeding tube. The only other
substance he received on a regular basis was a specially formulated
nutritional solution. We had that analyzed and found something really
strange. An anomalous substance was being pumped into the gastrostomy tube.
Definitely not an FDA-approved vitamin supplement. It appears to be a
synthetic neuromuscular blocking agent, similar to those derived from
curare, but able to somehow it selectively targeted the voluntary muscles
and didn't interfere with the diaphragm or inhibit breathing."
"If this is a curarifrom muscle relaxant, the symptoms should dissipate
rather rapidly. When was his last dose?" Scully asked. Back in the familiar
territory of medicine, Skinner noticed that Scully seemed more in control
of her emotions.
"That solution was discontinued before they transported him to the
hospital, about eighteen hours ago. There's been some improvement in his
condition, but keep in mind that this whole incident has several unique
factors." That was an understatement, the entire situation was bizarre and
unsettling. "This drug is unlike any others in it's class, we have no way
of knowing exactly what it's half-life is or how long it will take to leave
his system completely. Similar medications are always given by injection,
not ingested. And they're only used for brief periods of time, usually to
immobilize a patient during surgery. There's no way to tell what the
residual affects of long-term use may be."
"But there's also nothing to indicate that he won't make a full recovery."
Skinner was trying hard to make sense of the situation. Surely they
wouldn't have taken the time and effort to keep Mulder safely tucked away,
without certain assurances for his ultimate well-being.
"We're going to proceed with his care plan, with the goal of a full
recovery. But it wouldn't be honest of me not to cover the possible
negative outcomes. He was getting an awful lot of this stuff, apparently
for months. There could be residual muscle weakness, lingering paralysis.
I'm just guessing here. To tell you the truth, I don't know what to
expect."
"What about physical therapy?" Mulder's frailty worried Scully. "It's going
to take an extensive program to rebuild his strength."
"Yes, it will, and we'll start on that on a limited basis as soon as he is
able. We've already begun tapering off his phenobarbital, immediate
cessation of barbiturates would cause severe withdrawal symptoms, something
that he's not physically prepared to deal with at this time. If I can get
your permission, I'd like to schedule a surgical consult in the next few
days to see about removing the gastrostomy tube as soon as he's able to
swallow, hopefully within the next couple of days."
The conference continued around him while Mulder raged. Talk to me, damn
it. I'm right here in front of you. He groaned in frustration, trying to
insert himself in the conversation. Scully just patted his hand, trying to
reassure him, and turned back to what Dr. Yoder was saying.
===========================
===========================
She put the pen down and looked over what she had written. After her
'miraculous' recovery from the stroke, Elizabeth found herself recalling
details of events that she thought long forgotten. That particular aspect
of her healing she had kept to herself. She'd hoped that she could convince
them that she no longer remembered her work. But now that Fox's life
depended on her memory, she dredged every detail no matter how
insignificant it seemed. Of course they'd given her no idea which aspect of
the project was being revived. Sometimes secrecy became a disease, a cancer
eating away at those who maintained it. The lack of trust in the consortium
eroded the bonds that had held co-conspirators together.
That was no longer her problem. All that mattered was freeing her son from
the threats they held over him. It was four days since Walter Skinner had
last tried to reason with her, a full week since Fox had been rescued from
his prison. All that was left for her to write out was the aborted Russian
project, something Bill had described to her as a wild goose chase. Maybe
now her son could really be free from their threat.
End part 2
==========
=====================
Part 3
Skinner watched as the thin man hobbled slowly across the room, first
pushing the walker out in front of him and then dragging each foot after
it. All the while the physical therapist hovered by his side keeping up a
steady barrage of encouragement.
"That's great, Mr. Mulder. Better than yesterday. Only five feet more. You
can do it."
She might as well have saved her breath. Her patient drew all the
motivation he needed from within. During the past two weeks his relief at
being rescued had turned to frustration with the continued weakness of his
body and rage at the men who had put him here. Not that he expressed that
much in words. He'd been strangely quiet, almost as if he had gotten out of
the habit of speaking. As stingy as Mulder had become with his words, his
moods and emotions were telegraphed more than ever on his face.
He hadn't been much help to the team investigating his disappearance, his
written statement brief and lacking in details. He remembered being alone
at home, watching television. The next thing he remembered was waking up in
a nursing home completely unable to move. It was a cold document, devoid of
emotion. There was no mention of his distress over the progress of Scully's
disease. Not a hint of her rejection of everything he believed in. Facts
without cause, acts without motive. Mulder was barely able to cope with
all that had happened, his mind wouldn't let him explore the _why_ just
yet.
Skinner kept expecting him to ask about the source of Scully's cure, but he
was glad the topic hadn't come up. The truth was, he wasn't sure if Scully
had stumbled across the innovative treatment on her own or if it had been
conveniently placed at her disposal. Was it payment for Skinner's
clandestine chores or a trade-off for Mulder? Skinner didn't know for sure,
and he wasn't sure if he really wanted to know.
Mulder reached the end of the session and sat down heavily in the
wheelchair. He looked up at Skinner, acknowledging his presence for the
first time.
"Sir."
"Agent Mulder." He turned to the orderly waiting to pick up his patient.
"I'll take him back to¯ his room."
They passed through the hallways, each man lost in his own thoughts. Two
agents trailed behind them, shadowy reminders that Mulder might still be in
danger. When they reached his room, Mulder waved off any assistance and
slowly levered himself out of the chair and onto the edge of the bed. His
every movement was slow and exact, no motion wasted. Everything he did was
steeped in purpose and Skinner was afraid that purpose was revenge. Which
brought him to one of the reasons he was there.
"Agent Mulder, there has been a new development in your case. Last night
Paul Miller's car was found at the bottom of a ravine in West Virginia.
Apparently it crashed and burned two weeks ago. The remains inside have
been positively identified as those of Dr. Miller.
Mulder threw him a look, as if to say 'What else did you expect.' Skinner
continued.
"The investigation is still ongoing. I have to ask, do you have any idea
what they wanted? Were you interrogated? Did they give you any
indication--"
"No." Mulder's anger bubbled to the surface, but he still couldn't talk
about it. He stretched out on the bed, turning his back on more questions.
"If you don't mind, I'm tired."
"There's one other thing. I understand they're releasing you in a few days.
Where did you plan to go?"
Mulder closed his eyes, too exhausted to deal with one more problem.
Someone else now lived in apartment 42 and he had no where to go. His
mother didn't answer her phone and she hadn't returned his messages.
Whenever Scully came to see him, the meeting was tense, there was so much
left unsaid between the two of them. She had a chance for a new life now, a
safer one free of the X-Files. He couldn't answer Skinner's question
because he honestly had no idea what he was going to do.
"I thought that might be a problem so I've already arranged a safe house
for you." Mulder protested more out of habit than conviction.
"Is that absolutely necessary?"
"Whoever's behind this," he gestured at the wheelchair, "can't be too happy
to have their plans interrupted."
"Is that your professional assessment or is there something you're not
telling me?" He knew about Skinner's bargain for Scully's recovery, but how
far would his boss have gone? Would he have traded one partner for the
other?
"I don't _know_anything. Whether you believe it or not, I've been
manipulated in this situation the same as you and Scully. But I'm through
playing their games." Games in which the other man held all the cards and
kept Skinner in the dark. That was over. All deals were off now. "It stops
here. If they want you they'll have to come through me."
"Fine." Resigned but still distrustful, he had no where else to go.
============
Unknown location
New York
Sometimes he wished that he had never started smoking. But the act of
lighting up gave him a sense of ritual, a focus of concentration that
allowed him the chance to collect his thoughts and maintain control. And
control was all-important. They had called him to New York on the spur of
the moment, hoping, perhaps, to catch him at a vulnerable time. He ignored
their scrutiny, he had nothing to hide. The consortium's main goal,
retrieval of data on the early days of the Russian project, had been a
success. Now that Elizabeth had given him all that she knew, Skinner's
rescue of her son didn't matter.
"You lost Agent Mulder." That fat prick never stated anything that wasn't
obvious.
"On the contrary, " He took a long slow drag on the cigarette and stared
until the other man looked away, "I know exactly where he is."
"As do we." The English member of the group deserved watching. Of them all,
he was smooth and dangerous. "We no longer need to hold the son in order to
gain his mother's cooperation. Her memories about the Russian project have
been remarkably stimulated. There are, in fact, several details in her
report that will help us in rebuilding the black cancer program."
The smoker started to relax, but the Englishman wasn't through yet. "It
might surprise you to find that we've uncovered a new source of information
in that regard. Information that sheds new light on Fox Mulder's potential
benefit to the program." He turned to his valet, "Tell him to come in now."
Who could he be talking about? Mulder had run into dead ends in his
investigation of the black cancer. The Russian agent had been one step
ahead of them all, destroying the evidence before Mulder could find it or
the consortium hide it. The man had murdered all the test subjects,
destroying the oily 'worms' that had inhabited them. Their source for more
of the creatures had dried up. He hid his surprise as the young man entered
the room.
"I believe you already know Alex Krycek. He was one of yours for a while,
wasn't he?"
Krycek sauntered into the room, acting the part of an equal to those
present, not at all what one might expect from a fugitive from justice. Or
from a man who had recently suffered such a debilitating injury. The rumors
about the prosthetic limb were true.
"Mr. Krycek." He casually flicked the ash from his cigarette. "My
condolences on the loss of your arm."
A brief cloud passed over Krycek's face, but was just as quickly hidden.
So, the boy was still touchy on that issue.
"Mr. Krycek has provided us with information on the nature of the Russian
anti-serum from the Tunguska research project. He's also given us the name
of an accessible subject, a carrier from whom we can extract samples of the
organism. Someone who has already survived the initial stages of the
process. It seems the Russians were able to accommodate Mr. Mulder into
their program after all."
That was a surprise. "Surely you're not depending on the word of this man.
A man utterly lacking in honor."
Krycek bristled at his words, but his patron waved him off. "I'm not
totally without resources of my own. Mr. Mulder recently underwent
extensive medical testing. Tests that confirm the presence of the black
cancer." He smiled broadly.
"And Agent Scully didn't find anything suspicious in those results?"
"She never saw them. The results were switched before she or the attending
physician got a look at them. With the addition of the Russian research
data and formulas and a living test subject, we are ready to begin the
program once again. When you return to Washington we want you to retrieve
Agent Mulder. And this time, see to it personally."
=========================
Skinner sat in his car debating whether to confront Mulder's mother tonight
or wait until morning. He'd already been there for half an hour, trying to
decide what to say to the woman. Her denial of her son's existence was
incomprehensible.
He couldn't help but compare Margaret Scully and Elizabeth Mulder. Scully's
grief over Mulder's death had nearly torn her apart and the physical ordeal
of her cancer treatment had been grueling. Through it all her mother had
been her anchor, the link to life that kept her grounded and sane. Now her
partner faced the aftermath of physical and mental pain almost more than he
could bear. If anyone ever needed a link to sanity now, it was Scully's
partner, a man almost totally without friends or family. In that moment he
made his decision and got out of the car.
When Elizabeth Mulder answered the door she showed no surprise at seeing
Walter Skinner standing there. Instead, she appeared irritated or, maybe
afraid, an attitude at odds with her cheerful greeting.
"Mr. Skinner, what an unexpected pleasure."
"Is it?"
"We haven't had a chance to talk since Fox's memorial service. It was so
nice to see his friends and colleagues there, I'm sure that's what he would
have wanted." She rattled on like a confused and lonely mother, but her
face was sane and serious. "Why don't you come into the kitchen, I was just
about to make some tea."
He followed her through the house, watching curiously as the she picked up
a notepad and pen along the way.
From the rear of the truck Frohike leaned over the seat and pinned Mulder's
shoulders down while Skinner and Scully freed Elizabeth from his grasp.
Frohike helped Scully lay her patient to the rear of the truck where she
had room to work.
As soon as he felt them drag his mother away Mulder rose off of the back
seat, screaming. Skinner practically had to sit on him to keep him down.
Mulder's screams faded into moans as he rocked back and forth, feeling lost
and abandoned.
Skinner drew the younger man close to him, offering him what clumsy comfort
that he could and keeping him out of Scully's way. As he held him, Skinner
began to wonder about the amount of blood that covered Mulder's clothes.
Head wounds bleed profusely, but this looked like too much. As gently as he
could, he checked the agent for injuries. Pulling up Mulder's shirt he
found the wound to his side.
"Langly, do you know where you're going." The blond was driving like a madman.
"Nearest hospital's about five miles away."
Keeping one arm around Mulder, Skinner drew out his cell phone to call in
the emergency. He identified himself and told them to expect two gun shot
victims.
"Two?" Scully looked up.
"In his side. Looks like the round passed through her and into him." Scully
looked stricken, torn between helping her partner or his mother. "I'm
applying pressure to slow down the bleeding," Skinner reassured her. Even
though her partner was injured, Scully couldn't pause in working on her
patient. Every second was crucial, if she was going to save this woman.
Mulder's moans faded into silence. Skinner turned the injured man's face
toward him, afraid that he had lapsed into unconsciousness, but Mulder's
eyes were open.
"Agent Mulder, we're almost there." Mulder didn't respond, but stared
straight ahead, unfocused, traumatized by one tragedy too many.
>From the back of the truck Scully's voice barked out orders to Frohike as
he tried to help. Skinner found himself momentarily disoriented. The
unmistakable oily scent of the military vehicle, the smell of blood, the
cries of the wounded, and the sharp tang of fear pulled him back. If he let
himself drift, he could almost believe that he was back in Vietnam,
evacuating injured comrades from the combat zone. He could almost here
ghostly voices calling out, 'Medic. We need a medic over here.' But this
wasn't Vietnam, it was Virginia and these weren't soldiers brought down by
enemy fire, but American citizens, shot down by agents of their own
government. Skinner wanted to vent his anger. He wanted revenge. But here
and now he needed to take charge and shove the frustration down. That was
story of his life, push away the emotions and buckle down to the task at
hand. Maybe now that his chief opponent was dead, maybe there could be
peace for awhile, at least for himself. He wondered if Fox Mulder would
ever be at peace again.
====
The bitter waiting room coffee sat uneasily on Skinner's stomach. Frohike,
Byers, and Langly took off as soon as they unloaded their passengers and
Skinner couldn't blame them. He and Scully might be able to placate the
local law enforcement with their credentials, but Mulder's friends would
have faced some difficult questions. Half an hour after their arrival, the
doctor treating Elizabeth Mulder pronounced her dead. Now they waited for
news on Mulder's condition. He glanced at Scully. She sat on the vinyl
couch, he head tilted back and her eyes closed. He doubted if she was
sleeping.
A doctor emerged from the treatment area, scanning the name on the chart in
front of him. "I'm Dr. Mecklin. Are you the FBI agents that brought in Fox
Mulder.?" Both Skinner and Scully nodded and introduced themselves.
"The bullet entered his chest, cracked a rib, was deflected and passed out
his side. He's going to be in considerable pain, but the injury isn't too
serious. It looks like his nose is broken. We've cleaned up the abrasions
on his face and arm and I've started him on antibiotics as a precaution.
Those injuries were all minor, but stand a pretty good chance of
infection." He eyed them suspiciously before he continued.
"Both his wrists are cut, from handcuffs by the look of them, and there are
a number of bruises...Was this man a suspect in your custody?"
Skinner eyes met Scully's and he gave her a nod, permission to respond.
"No, he's my partner. This is a rather complicated situation. Agent Mulder
and his mother were...kidnapped a short time ago. In their escape tonight,
they were shot."
"His mother. That would be the second gunshot patient they brought in. Dr.
Reynolds took her in Trauma Room 3."
"That's right"
"Do you want me to check on her progress for you?"
"No, that's okay." Mecklin seemed surprised at her answer. "She's dead,
massive head trauma." Scully explained.
"I see." That explained a lot. "Mr. Mulder's condition is stable and we're
moving him up to his room now. To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried
about his mental status. Right now he's conscious but non-responsive. Was
he present when his mother was shot?"
"They were sitting next to each other. We believe the bullet passed through
Mrs. Mulder and into him."
Mecklin scribbled a note in the chart before he continued. "What I want to
do is keep him sedated for a day or two, give him time to gain some ground
on his physical recovery so he'll have a bit more strength to deal with the
his mother's death."
"It's a little more complicated than that. You need to get his recent
medical records. This is the third time Mulder's been held against his will
in a little over a year. This is also the third time he's had a close
family member disappear or die violently while he was helpless to prevent
it."
She related to Dr. Mecklin the bizarre tale of Fox Mulder's life. Skinner
stayˆed in the background, churning over the events of the past few
months.He felt freer now the Cancerman was dead. But he also ached for
Mulder. The agent's life had been hell on earth, and from the amount of
guilt his mother carried, the tragedy had started early.
He vowed to himself that whatever it took, he would help Mulder through
this. The truth was, he needed the man more than ever. Now that his
long-time nemesis was dead, he wasn't even sure what the face of the enemy
looked like any more. They could run circles around him and without
Mulder's knack for sticking his nose into their business he didn't even
have an idea of where to start looking.
===========
The next afternoon Skinner found Scully right where he had left her,
sitting in a chair in Mulder's room. At least she'd found time to go home
and shower. She looked up as he came in.
"How's he doing?"
"Physically, he's doing okay,"
"And mentally?"
"We don't know yet. Mecklin's going to hold off on sedation right now and
wait and see ˙how he does when he wakes up. What about you? Did you find
anything?" She sounded more polite that hopeful.
"About what you'd expect. By the time I got a judge to issue a warrant and
assembled the team to serve it, they had the place pretty well sanitized.
No sign of activity of any kind, illegal or otherwise." He lowered his
voice but the outrage seethed in every word. "How did he keep at it for all
those years? Every time the two of you ever came close to the truth, they
jerked it all out from under him."
Skinner and Scully silently watched the sleeping man for a while, each one
of them lost in private thought.
"Agent Scully, how much do you know about Mulder's mother?"
"What do you mean?"
"When the smoking man lay dying, he said something to me, something that
led me to believe that Elizabeth Mulder might have been....intimately
familiar with him. Do you believe that she knew anything about him and his
activities?"
Scully collected her thoughts before she answered, weighing the hints and
evidence she'd accumulated over the years. "I know Mulder suspected
something. After he went to Goldstein to recover his memories, he believed
that he was on the verge remembering something important. I honestly don't
know what that might have been. Things deteriorated rapidly after that. I
did get the sense that she had done something she wasn't proud of."
"She's not alone in that, Agent Scully."
===========
Walter Skinner slammed his hand into the call button, summoning the
elevator. Goddammit. For a a solid week Mulder had vegetated in that
hospital bed, not speaking to anyone. Not catatonic, Scully had assured
him, but not ready to deal with the world just yet. He'd dropped by to
check on him this afternoon, but he finally had to get out of there. The
silent figure on the bed reminded him too much of the man he'd pulled out
of a nursing home a month ago.
Now the psychiatrist in charge of Mulder's recovery was hinting at the
likelihood of long-term inpatient care and Mecklin agreed with herˇ. After
all the tragedy and persecution Mulder had endured, this latest loss had
finally proved too much for him. He'd given up.
When the door opened he started to step in and, lost in thought, he nearly
ran right into Scully.
"Sir?"
"Sorry." Although he hid it well, he was upset and Scully knew him well
enough to see it.
"What is it. Has there been any change?"
"No. Nothing like that." No change at all. "Agent Scully, Dr. Mecklin's
going to talk to you about long-range plans. Mulder's not eating and the
night staff reports that his sleep has been disturbed every night."
"I know. Mecklin called me at home just before I left." Scully looked torn,
as if she was really considering the option. "He's got a point. Mulder
never really recovered from the muscular weakness that resulted from his
medications at Green Meadows. Without proper rest and nutrition that
recovery will be slowed, maybe permanently impaired. But..."
"But sedating him into oblivion and force feeding would be a little too
much like recreating that experience."
"Exactly. How do they expect him to recover when they put him through that
all over again?"
"You're preaching to the choir, Agent Scully. I've got to get back to the
office. Call me and let me know what you decide."
The television droned on in the background. Mulder wasn't really listening
to it, but he knew it was there. For the first time in days he noticed
things. The lingering pain in his side. The nurses laughing in the hall.
The dust motes drifting in the shaft of light by his bed. Skinner coming
and going. Mostly, he noticed how much he wanted to fade away again.
Without turning to look, he knew when Scully came into the room. The
distinctive click of her footsteps made its way from the door to the side
of the bed. She stood there, waiting. His thoughts drifted. The scrape of
the chair's legs as she pulled it close to the bed brought him back to the
here-and-now. How long had she been standing there?
"Mulder." When he didn't answer she brushed his arm lightly with her
fingertips, a tactile connection to the world. "Mulder, you need to talk
about it. Your mother wouldn't want you to shut yourself off like this."
His mother. The woman who'd apologized for the genetic manipulation of her
children, saying it was for their good. Who'd bargained away five months of
his life, while she dredged up his father's dirty little secrets for her
lover and his friends. The memories came, unwanted. He tamped down his
anger, trying to reclaim the calm of nothingness. Too late. Scully must
have seen some change, some brief spark in his stony expression.
"Tell me about it. What what happened to you and your mother in there?"
"You want to hear about my mother." The words were soft, almost a whisper.
"She used me, Scully. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't even know what
I am."
"Mulder, you're not making any sense."
"Sense. Where is there any sense, any meaning, in manipulating a fetus
before it's born?" His voice rose steadily. If he could hate her, then
maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad. "She let them 'improve' her babies for the
betterment of all mankind. And when they asked her to scrape up the
remnants of my father's work, to find the hidden documents he thought might
protect us, she drug her feet. Five months, Scully. She left me rotting in
that nursing for home for five months trying to make a better deal with
them. She confessed it all to me."
He was yelling now, almost screaming at her. She started to grab the call
button to get the nurse, but he snatched her wrist in a painful grip.
"She worked for them. Kritschgau was right, after all. My whole life was a
fabrication. What were they trying to do? God, Scully, what did they do to
me?"
He released her hand and wrapped his arms around his chest, his eyes
squeezed tight as he lost the battle for control and dissolved into
wrenching sobs. Scully summoned the nurse. Soon he felt the sharpness of
his pain ease somewhat, as the sedative began to course through him.‡
"She loved me, Scully. I want to hate her, but I can't. I miss her so
much." Limp and drained, he sunk back into the pillows and let sleep him
carry away.
===========
Three figures made their way through the halls of Green Meadows
Convalescent Home. Mulder's steps were careful and slow, Scully and Skinner
adjusted their pace to his. Mulder had surprised them by admitting that he
needed help. He took the anti-depressants, faithfully kept his physical
therapy appointments, and met regularly with his therapist. He wasn't ready
to come back to work yet, but now it looked like that day would eventually
arrive.
Skinner had been dubious when Mulder insisted that the needed to come back
to Green Meadows. But the therapist approved, Scully agreed, so here they
were. Most of the staff overlooked them, assuming they were relatives come
to visit an uncle or grandmother. One or two of them eyed Mulder curiously,
as if they recognized his face, but couldn't quite figure out why. MuldeÍr
ignored them all. During his stay here, he'd been unable to roam the halls,
unable to even turn his head to look around, so he concentrated on drinking
in the sounds and smells of the place.
As they approached Room 213, Mulder suddenly stopped, sagging against the wall.
"You okay?" Scully laid her hand gently on his arm.
"Yeah, I guess so. Although suddenly I wonder what I'm going to gain by
this, except maybe a new batch of flashbacks and nightmares."
They waited for him to pull himself together. From inside the room, Milton
Davidson's voice boomed. "My god, it really is you, ain't it, boy. Almost
didn't recognize you vertical. Georgeanne said you'd be coming by. That
Walter with you? Come on in."
Mulder found himself drawn in by the boisterous old man. Skinner watched
him as he hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed that had been his
prison for so long. He'd been rescued because one old man believed in him.
Now Mulder was starting to believe in himself once again.
The End