Georgetown Medical Center
June 13, 2000
5:13 p.m.

Dehydration.

That is what I have been diagnosed with. I got a stern scolding from my physician about taking care of myself, how I should have recognized the signs, and some other things I already knew. Though dehydration is nothing to ignore, it is a welcome change to the death sentences I have been handed down since my time with the FBI. It is certainly treatable and I knew Mulder would not let me out of his sight without drinking a bottle of water until he was convinced I was better.

No, he can't. Because he is gone.

Despite the Gunmen's attempt to contact him after I fainted, it was too late. Byers came in earlier to tell me what had happened. While Frohike rode with me to the hospital in the ambulance, Byers and Langley called nearly every person in Bellefleur trying to get a hold of Mulder to no avail. Eventually they got a hold of Skinner who told them what we all feared: Mulder was missing.

I have to admit during my time on the X-files, I became hardened to the scenarios that Mulder and I faced. Families who were missing a loved one only received a courteous sympathy from me. Unlike Mulder I didn't have any personal experience to draw from, therefore, their grief was two-dimensional. I used to envy his ability to connect with the pain and people we met on cases, wishing I could understand where these people were coming from.

I'm sure Fate is laughing at me now.

Skinner has already stopped by to tell me what I already know. I would have felt bad for his sorrow, but it is nothing compared to the emptiness that I feel. Right now, I am having trouble focusing on the three words everyone felt necessary to repeat. Mulder. Is. Gone.

I would have cried at the injustice of it all, but I didn't want to give misery that much power. This year has brought the two of us much pain: Mulder's brain surgery, the end of his quest for Samantha, the failed attempt at the in vitro. This just seems to be one more thing to finally push me over the edge. I refuse to crumble now, not when Mulder is out there needing me.

A question pops in my mind: could last night be the last time I would ever see Mulder? Immediately, I am ashamed. It hasn't been a full day and I'm already giving up on him. My mind keeps going back to last night when we stood outside Skinner's office, clinging to each other. It is almost as if somehow we knew something tragic was about to happen.

I am nearly shaking in anger. I need to do something, anything, to find him. Years ago, he fought every battle he could to find me and I will not give him anything less. Looking out the window, I hope for some divine inspiration. Mulder, I silently ask, where are you?

* * * * *

I am released the next day after promising to follow through with the doctor's orders. The Gunmen are waiting in the lobby to take me home. There is a relief that washes over me because I don't have to call my mom to pick me up. Right now I don't have time or energy to spend assuring her things are alright. I am not that good of a liar anyway.

Langley takes the wheelchair from the nurse and pushes me towards the parking lot. If my mind wasn't so focused on finding Mulder, I would be humiliated at the attention I am receiving. My pride has been replaced with determination.

Once I am seated in the van, I spring into action. "I need a flight out to Bellefleur."

Frohike and Byers look at each other, silently arguing about who gets to tell me "no". Byers loses. "Agent Scully, we don't think it would be wise for you to go there. Everyone in that town already is familiar with who you are and you know how the sheriff feels about you."

It must be true about how looks can kill because before I can even speak, Frohike quickly pipes up, "But that doesn't mean we're not going to do anything. Byers is taking a flight out later today. We're hoping that people will be more comfortable talking to someone outside law enforcement."

I know they are right. Out of all the people in the world, I am probably the one who is least likely to succeed. Bellefleur breeds distrust for the federal government like bunnies mate in the spring. I especially have a disadvantage since it is my partner who is included in the latest upheaval there. I look at Byers. "What are you going to do?"

"There is a local chapter of MUFON there. If anyone knows anything about what is going on, they will."

I realize for the first time I am not alone in my quest. These guys are nearly as determined as me to find Mulder and rescue him. There is a sadness in their eyes that I recognize from my own reflection. Together, we will find him. We have to. "Thank you," I say sincerely.

There is one more order of business on my mind. "We need to find Krycek and Marita. They knew exactly where they were sending Mulder." The need to make someone pay for Mulder's disappearance is growing in my heart. I cannot think of two better victims of my rage.

Frohike looks at me with a sense of worry. "Do you think Mulder knew he would be abducted?"

The question is unexpected and I am unable to hide the impact it made. My eyes widen and my mouth drops open. Would Mulder betray me like that? Just leave without telling me what he knew? I think back to the last night I saw him. His words "It has to end sometime. That time is now" play in my mind. Was that his way of saying goodbye?

Before my thoughts can spin out of control, I force myself to fall on my old friend, logic. He wasn't leaving me on purpose, I tell myself, he was trying to protect me. Losing me was unacceptable to him, so he did the only thing he thought he could do: leave me behind. I look at Frohike. "No, he didn't know. He was fooled and used like he has been before."

My validation of Mulder must have been enough because no one else brings up the subject again.

I stare out the window and discover we are near the airport. Byers' flight must be taking off sooner than what I had thought. "I'll do everything I can to find out where Mulder is," Byers said softly.

I surprise myself and him by leaning over and kissing his bearded cheek. "I know you will."


FBI Headquarters
June 15, 2000
11:02 a.m.

This morning I opened an X-File on Mulder. It was one of the hardest things I had to do in my life. I wrote every detail of his abduction that I could find. Anything that could be attributed to the case, I included. Mulder used to tease me that on a good day I was thorough and on a bad day I was meticulous. I think back to my seventeen page report sitting on Mulder's desk. Yes, it was certainly a bad day.

Now, I am sitting outside of Skinner's office, listening to Kim's soothing voice as she speaks on the phone. I am assuming that since Mulder has officially been declared "missing" Skinner will make me the new acting head of the X-files department. The words "new partner" fill my brain, but I ignore them as best I can.

A sound of plastic hitting plastic breaks my train of thought, making me jump slightly. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully," Kim says apologetically. "The assistant director will see you now."

I nod my thanks to her as I stand up. Walking through the door, I say I quick prayer for strength. I walk into Skinner's office and sit in my customary seat. "Good morning, sir." Though he's behind his desk with his normal, stern, authoritive look, I can't help but to see the man who broke down in my hospital room two days ago.

"Agent Scully."

Warning bells went off in my head, There was something in the way he said my name that made me instantly on alert. Too professional. Too cold. Too...

"Due to Agent Mulder's disappearance, you will be named as the temporary head of the X-Files department," he tells me without preamble. I don't say anything, knowing there is something he has not told me. "However, despite this reassignment, you will not be allowed to participate in the investigation concerning Agent Mulder."

Forget about seeing red. I am seeing flashes of fire. How dare Skinner, of all people, ban me from finding Mulder? Despite my repulsion for my boss, I force myself to speak civilly. "May I ask, sir, why?"

He looks to the side of me and clears his throat. I have been in this office enough to know that means what he's about to say makes him nervous. Good, I think, let him squirm. "It has come to my attention that your relationship with Mulder may cloud your judgment," he says uncomfortably.

I close my eyes briefly. I think I know what this is about, but I might as well ask anyway. "What aspects would you be referring to?"

He knows that I have an idea what he is talking about. I can tell by his shift in body language. His eyes have softened a bit and look at me with pity. "So it's true? You and Mulder were trying to have a baby together."

Sometimes words have nothing on fists. They have a much better accuracy of hitting their target than the best boxer does. I have to force myself from physically recoiling at his words. How could something so profound for Mulder and me be summed up in one meaningless sentence spoken by another?

I still mourn for the lost chance of being able to bare my own children. Losing the chance to preserve my genes, my immortality, is something that haunts me. There will be no uber-Scullys, or uber-Mulders, ever. Countless faces of children that will never be haunt my dreams. No little girls with my red hair. No little boys with the "Scully cowlick." I will never receive a handmade Mother's Day card with my child's name sloppily written in it.

At least I wasn't alone. When the in vitro failed, it also marked the end of an era in the Mulder family line. Brought together by the tragedy, Mulder and I became more connected than ever. We were able to lean on each other during our time of mourning, something that we never trusted each other with before.

Skinner moves his head slightly, pulling me away from my thoughts. "I don't think it is appropriate for me to be discussing this with you," I finally answer.

Apparently I have mastered Mulder's ability to piss people off with one sentence. Skinner's shoots me a look of disbelief and starts pacing behind his desk. "What's inappropriate, Agent Scully, is the relationship you and Agent Mulder had!"

Skinner has been a good friend to Mulder and me at times, but he is not my father. I don't understand why he is reacting this way towards me. Of all the people I would have thought Skinner would understand the relationship Mulder and I have. "No, sir, you are mistaken. Agent Mulder and I did absolutely nothing wrong."

I refused to back down. My eyes challenge him as he looks at me, taken aback at my defense. Maybe he didn't realize that when the time calls for it, I can be more passionate about my cause than Mulder.

After a few seconds, he sits back down in his chair and takes off his glasses. "You have put me in an awkward position, Scully."

This surprises me. I have no idea what he is talking about. "Sir?"

"I was ready to fight the Deputy Director in his decision for barring you from this case." I feel a sense of relief that it was not Skinner who made that decision. "But knowing you and Mulder were having a sexual relationship--"

"We weren't," I cut in.

He looks almost amused at my denial. I can see that question in his mind now: how else would you try to have a baby? "Sir, I attempted to get pregnant through in vitro fertilization. Mulder was a sperm donor."

I never realized when Skinner was truly embarrassed, his blush extended past his forehead. Nothing was said for several seconds while he got his thoughts together. "So, are you saying the two of you never slept together?"

This question is a like a minefield. One wrong step and the whole conversation will blow up in my face. "I am telling you, sir, how I attempted to get pregnant." Ambiguity was always my answer of choice when I am stuck between a lie and the truth that is no one else's business.

Skinner nodded, knowing he wasn't going to get a straight answer out of me. "All right, Agent Scully. I am prepared to allow you to investigate Agent Mulder's disappearance, but if there is one iota of anything suggesting your relationship with him has clouded your judgment, I will have to remove you from this case."

I can't suppress the small smile on my face. "Thank you." Before I stand up to leave, there is one other question on my mind. "What about a new partner?"

"You have thirty days to find Mulder. If you don't, your position as head of the X-files will be made permanent and an agent will be assigned to your former position,” he explained.

That is unacceptable to me. Mulder is my partner. I will find him. I have to.


Mulder's Apartment
June 17, 2000
7:17 p.m.

I let myself into Mulder's apartment quietly, almost as if I'm afraid there is a chance I'll find Mulder peacefully sleeping on the couch. It is the first time I have come over to his home since he disappeared. There is a strangeness that has settled over the apartment, as if everything has been frozen in suspended animation.

Walking into the kitchen, I see the mildew covered bowls in the sink. Quickly, I fill the sink with warm water and drop the dishes into it since no one else will. I don't mind the mundane aspect of this at all; it gives me something to think about besides the vacant apartment. Washing and drying his scant dishes takes no time at all and I find myself back in the living room.

I don't know why I am here; there is nothing that I will find that could lead me to Mulder. Maybe I just wanted to be close to him and this was the best thing I could get. I look at the fish tank, where all of the fish are still alive, surprisingly. Maybe the guys have stopped by to feed them this week. I sprinkle in a bit more food for good measure.

Finally, I make my way into the room I have been dreading since I arrived: his bedroom. Though it's only been in use for the past couple of years, the memories that I connect with his room are powerful. It is here that I let down the final barrier between Mulder and me.

Automatically, I go through the room, picking up his dirty clothes. I find his laundry bag and fill them with the garments, intending to take them home with me. There is no reason for Mulder to have return with a bunch of chores when he comes home. I pick up his running shoes and put them in the closet.

Suddenly, instead of being comforted by everything that reminds me of Mulder, I am becoming smothered by it. Every nuance of this place screams his name, demanding to know where he has gone. I quickly grab the laundry bag and turn off the bedroom light.

Making sure everything is alright, I make my escape to the hallway outside his apartment as speedily as I can. I close my eyes and lean against his front door.

I am not ready for this, a life without Mulder.


X-Files Office
July 5, 2000
9:33 a.m.

Every day brings the same pattern: work, worry, wait. Sometimes eating and dozing enter the equation, though I try to avoid both. My stomach rebels against anything I put in it and sleep has become my enemy; every minute I rest is one that I can never get back to finding Mulder.

It has been twenty days since Skinner and he went to Oregon and there have been no leads, no information, no hope. I ask myself for the hundredth time how Mulder was able to handle three months without me. Three weeks haven't even passed and I am a wreck.

I spend most of my time in the office, looking over any cases I can find about abductions, trying to find something to help me find Mulder. Since the majority of the files were never reconstructed after the fire, my resources are limited.

If I am not in the office, I'm usually at the Gunmen's. Though I never spent much time with them before Mulder's disappearance, they have offered me another connection to him. Hearing their theories on government conspiracies or the latest UFO hotspots bring me a bit closer to Mulder.

Like me, they have done everything possible to try to find any leads on the location of Mulder. Every chapter of MUFON and NICAP has all been put on alert to help find him. Despite all this, I can't help but to feel like everything we are doing is vanity and grasping for the wind.

Today I am in the office, rereading the case file about Samantha. I still have my doubts about the validity of what Mulder saw, but he received a sense of closure that I never thought he would know. Maybe he is with his sister now, reunited with her after so long.

Of course if he is with her that means he is dead and I will never see him again. I quickly close the file in front of me. There is a dulling pain behind my right eye, signaling the beginning of another migraine. I have had six of them in as many days. The toll of Mulder's absence is mental and physical. Every day, my weary body is getting that much closer to giving up.

I close my eyes, imagine Mulder's strong arms around me, giving me strength. Suddenly, my cell phone rings and I jump in my chair. "Scully," I answer.

"We have a possible lead, Scully," Frohike says excitedly. "Three people were dumped at Sacramento Regional Hospital. One of them was Billy Miles. There was another woman and man with him but they're listed as Jane and John Doe. We have booked you a flight out of Dulles."

Quickly I say thanks, grab my briefcase and run to the elevator. Hang on, Mulder, I think, I'm coming.

**************

I burst into the emergency room like people do in movies. I don't care who I have to fight, argue or yell at, I am going to see Mulder.

There is a nurse who is doing paperwork behind the registration desk. "Excuse me, I need to see a patient who is here. His name is Billy Miles."

The nurse stares at me as if I'm insane. I slowly take out my badge. "It is pertaining to a missing person's case. Please. I need I need the room numbers of him and the other two patients' who were admitted with him."

Maybe it's the frantic look in my eye or the fact she sees my gun in the holster, but she ends up giving me the room numbers. I turn down the hall and start walking towards room 108. Both Billy Miles and John Doe are in there. Butterflies dance in my stomach. I know Mulder is here; I can feel it.

Finally, I find the room I am looking for. When I open the door, I see Billy asleep on the bed. "Hi, Detective Miles," I whisper in case he is really awake. He doesn't move so I go to the curtain behind him so I can see Mulder. I pull it back with a smile.

Which is a complete waste. The man lying on the bed is not Mulder. My mind starts to shut down. Only three words play in my mind: it's not him. Suddenly I feel foolish for rushing out here on a flight all the way across the country. A quick call to the nurses' station describing the John Doe would have saved me a lot of heartache.

Though my unshed tears blur my vision, I recognize the man as Ray Hoese, the missing wife of Teresa. I quickly wonder if she was the woman who was brought in with them. At least one family got a happy ending, I think bitterly.

The weight of my failure is bearing down on me. I ask myself the question I should have proposed weeks ago, how am I supposed to find one man out of over five billion people? My logic answers my question: I can't.

For the first time since Mulder went missing, I ignore the optimism of my heart and listen to the reality of my mind. My chances of finding him are marginal at best. Who is to say when Skinner had his back turned from Mulder that one of the people working with Krycek didn't grab him and drop him off in the middle of China?

The more I think about it, the clearer one thing becomes; there are too many unknown variables pertaining to Mulder's disappearance and because of that success is impossible.

Defeated, I let myself out of the room. Instead of returning the way I entered and risk the admitting nurse seeing me, I go through the exit that leads to the main hospital. In my mourning, I let one lone tear fall. It is the first time I have allowed myself to cry for Mulder.

Once I am outside the hospital, I sit on the beach next to the main entrance. I pull out my phone, intending to give the guys a piece of my mind.

After two rings, Frohike answers, "The Lone Gunman."

Rather than angry, my voice sounds weary. "It wasn't him." It hurts to say the words.

I hear him gasp. Obviously, this is not the news he's expecting. "We were so sure," he says softly. A few moments pass, allowing him to collect his thoughts. Finally he asks, "Was Billy Miles there?"

"Yes," I answer. "The John Doe is Ray Hoese. I didn't check, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Jane Doe is Teresa Hoese."

"Well, maybe you can talk to the two of them and see if they remember anything about Mulder," he suggested.

I don't feel like now is the time to fill Frohike in on my realization of the futility of our search, but I don't want to lead he or the other guys on either. "He's not going to remember anything." The tone of voice leaves no room for argument.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure," I admit. I think to the two people who have the most knowledge of Mulder's whereabouts. "Have you guys found anything on Marita or Krycek?"

The silence on the other end of the line fuels my frustration. These guys are supposedly some of the best hackers the world has to offer. Surely they can locate two people who have so many ties to the evil government they track.

"Um, we haven't caught up with them yet," he mumbled.

I am tempted to yell at him, demanding that he and the others find them as atonement for sending me out on this false lead Rationally, I know they would never intentionally hurt me. It is this knowledge that saves him from my wrath. "Why don't you focus your energy there? The answers we are looking for is with them."

I must not be doing a good job of suppressing my anger because I can swear I can hear Frohike wincing. "Sure, we'll do what we can."

"Thank you," I say and hang up my phone. I walk slowly to my car; my heart is full of despair and loneliness.

I have lost hope.

********************

That night, I dream. Instead of the endless expand of black I often associate with sleep, I am in a large circular room. It is cool in here, despite the long sleeve sweater and pants I am wearing. Across the room, I see a light shining down on a table. It is too far away to see if there is anything on it. Giving in to my curiosity I cross the expanse of the room.

As I step forward, I see it is an exam table. There is a person strapped down. My heart begins racing. This person is in trouble. I start to run towards them, trying to see if they need help.

My feet freeze as I get close enough to see who it is: Mulder. His hoarse voice barely registers in my ears; it is no louder than a faint whisper. He cries the same thing over and over: my name.

I look at his naked body. There is not one part of him that has been untouched. Long, thin scars run across his body. Puncture marks are up and down his once muscular arms. Bruises cover most of the bottom half of his body, varying in color from dark purple to sickly yellow. I look at his face and see trails of dried tears on his cheeks. I feel like vomiting.

"Mulder," I whisper, but he doesn't acknowledge me.

Suddenly, the light begins to get brighter. His body starts to twitch violently, he fears what is coming. A laser beam comes from the light fixture and starts to slice Mulder open.

"Stop it!" I scream, trying to run closer. No matter how hard or fast I run I can get no closer to Mulder. "Mulder!"

My surroundings change around me immediately. I am back in my hotel room, drenched in sweat. My dream seems so real; my hands are still shaking. I wonder if Mulder ever dreamed of me when I was away. I hope not.

I walk to the bathroom and turn on the light, soothed by its gentle glow. Forcing myself to calm down, I pad across the room and sit in the chair behind the desk. I think of this afternoon, wanting to give up on searching for Mulder. Seeing what my subconscious has created, I now know I can't.

I must find him.

I will not give up on him ever again, I vow.

My hands are itchy for something to do. I grab the complementary pen and paper and begin writing. "Dear Mulder," I start, "I just woke up from the most horrible dream..."


Dana Scully's Apartment
July 15, 2000
7:41 a.m.

Ten days have passed and I am no closer to finding Mulder. The guys have been unsuccessful in their attempt to find Marita or Krycek. The lack of progress is taking a toll on my resolve to find Mulder.

To make things worse, I received a phone call from Skinner last night to inform me that my new partner assignment was scheduled for 9 a.m. today. The pain of Mulder's absence is still so fresh; I can hardly believe it has been a month since I have held him in my arms.

I didn't sleep the whole night. Looking in the mirror, I see a shell of a woman staring back at me. I haven't looked this terrible since my battle with cancer. My hair is limp, my cheeks are sunken in and thanks to Skinner's phone call, my eyes are bloodshot.

I know if I get assigned a partner, my focus will no longer be able to be solely on my search for Mulder. The agent will want to go investigate cases outside Mulder's abduction. Part of my mind is welcome to that idea; obviously Mulder isn't meant to be found.

Quick on the heals of that traitorous thought, I rebuke that part of me. Every second should be devoted to his search. One month is nowhere near a long time and it's impossibly small to the time of peace that is due to Mulder and me.

Flashes of a perfect future fill my mind. A night of watching movies and eating popcorn. Going on vacation to the beach together. Walking hand in hand down the Mall, not caring who sees us. Lazy Saturday mornings spent in bed together.

Finally, after a night of stress and worry, I make my decision. I walk to my computer and quickly compose a letter to Skinner, informing him that I am taking a personal leave of absence. There is no doubt in my mind he will approve it, I only question the status of the X-Files when I return.

When we return, I correct myself.

No job, no position, nothing is more important than finding Mulder.


Victorville, California
August 6, 2000
3:24 p.m.

After that morning, I have been visiting spots that have a connection to Mulder. I visited his father's grave in D.C., his mother's in North Carolina; I went to Martha's Vineyard for several days then went down to Quonochontaug; I even flew out to England to tour the grounds of Oxford, trying to imagine an innocent Mulder with his whole life in front of him. I need to reconnect with Mulder, to feel his passion, his energy.

Now, with eight days left in my month long leave of absence, I am in Victorville, California standing in the field where Mulder says he saw Samantha for the last time. I am hoping to have some sense of peace wash over me as it did with him. So far, I am unsuccessful at obtaining it.

I walk further into the field and lean against one of the large trees. There is a slight breeze flowing through the tress, making chills up my arms. It is the first time I have felt anything in weeks. I look up into the cerulean blue sky and begin speaking, "Mulder, I need you to come back. Find your way to me."

I feel foolish. If anyone heard me, they would think I am crazy. But, my sorrow is not for them to judge. I slowly walk back to the car, feeling like I accomplished what I needed to do.

On my way back to the hotel, my cell phone rings. "Scully," I answer.

"We found Marita," says an excited Langley.

I pull the car over to the side of the road, unable to stay focused on driving. "Where?" My heart is pounding. This could be my chance at finally getting Mulder back.

"She's staying in a suburb outside Seattle. In Redmond. Where are you?" he asks.

"In California," I say, not elaborating. Let them think I am out here visiting Bill. "I'll be up there as soon as I can. I'll call you when I arrive."


Redmond, Washington
7:31 p.m.

I am sitting outside an upscale apartment building, watching the unconcerned movements of Marita. Fifteen minutes ago, I arrived here. Frozen by trepidation, I have yet to get out of the car.

What if she doesn't know where Mulder is?

Pushing my worries aside, I make sure my gun is loaded and get out of the car. I place my gun in the holster and cross the parking lot. Getting closer to her apartment, I see her in her kitchen unhurriedly slicing something on the counter. Good, the element of surprise will be to my benefit.

I knock on the door and wait for her to open it. I imagine her surprise when she looks through the peephole and sees me. Slowly, I hear her turning the knob. Good, I didn't want to have to cause a scene by kicking her door in.

"Agent Scully," she says smoothly.

"Mind if I come in?" I ask civilly, nodding towards the living room.

Surprisingly, she allows me entry into her home without any complaint. "Please," she says as she moves out of my way.

I walk five paces and spin around to face her. "Where is he?" I demand.

Thankfully, she doesn't feign ignorance about who I am talking about. Instead she answers my question with one of her own. "What makes you think I know anything?"

I roll my eyes, my hand itching to pull my gun on her. "You and Krycek break into the FBI Headquarters and within three hours Mulder is on a plane that leads to his disappearance. It doesn't take much to figure out the connection."

"Agent Scully, I can assure you I know nothing about the location of Agent Mulder," she replies calmly. Her voice is like Scotch. Smooth when you first encounter it, but after a while it makes you nauseated.

Unlike Mulder, I don't plan on letting anyone pull me on a chain. Crumbs are meant for mice, not a grown woman who is desperately looking for her lover. I pull my gun and point it at her. "I'm sure you can find someone who does know. Like Krycek."

Her eyes widen. For someone who has worked with some of the most evil men in the world, she seems awfully finicky having a gun in her face.

"Put the gun down." I could swear her voice was shaking slightly.

I shake my head. "Not until I get some answers."

"Please. I'm pregnant."

My body is hit with instant recoil. "What?" I ask in disbelief.

"I found out a few of months ago. Please, don't shoot me," she pleads.

Suddenly, things become much clearer in my mind. She and Krycek must have worked out some deal with Them. Deliver Mulder and she will be able to have her baby with no worries.

"Is it Krycek's?"

She nods. "Yes."

The term spawn of satan pops in my head. "You tell him he has 48 hours to give me the location of Mulder. Or else you and your baby die." I know I could never pull off what I had spoken; I only hoped Marita believes me.

Fortunately, she does. "I don't know if I can get a hold of him that quickly."

I smile bitterly. "You're a smart woman. You’ll figure something out. And don't try to go anywhere."

She studies my face for a few moments. My resolution to find Mulder is all she sees there. She knows I won't leave her alone until I get the answers I want. "I won't," she assures me.

I put my gun away and walk towards the door. "Good. I'll see you the day after tomorrow." I close the door before she can say anything else.

*********

Staying awake for two days has taken its toll on me. I have only left my car when it was necessary; when I came back, I found Marita still in her apartment. Either she's taken my threat seriously or the exact opposite. I can only hope for her sake it's the former.

I do not want to put her or her baby at risk, even if the price is Mulder. How can I take away the one thing that will elude me for the rest of my life from another woman? To do so would make me no better than the men who stole my fertility.

I walk to the door with a phony confidence and knock firmly on it. Although I have been thinking about it non-stop, I have yet to come up with a course of action if she refuses me the information I need.

"Agent Scully," she says, standing in the doorframe. I can tell by her body language she is not going to let me inside this time. She hands me a piece of paper with several words on it. "He will be there in 24 hours. He will need your help."

I take the piece of paper from her and hold it closely to me. I pray that this is not a false lead; I have no doubt that if I were to return here Marita would be gone. "Thank you," I say.

Before I can turn around, she starts speaking again. "I didn't mean for Agent Mulder to get hurt. I only did what I thought was in the best interests of protecting my child."

I have nothing else to say to her, this woman who sold out my love for her own. As I walk to the car, I look at the piece of paper. The address is that of Georgetown Medical Center. Where else would the Consortium use for their dumping ground? I ask myself bitterly.

I pull out my phone and dial the Gunmen. "I need a flight out to D.C. as quickly as possible. Mulder's on his way home."

*******

Mulder's Apartment
August 9, 2000
8:30 p.m.

I sleep on the entire trip back to D.C., grateful for the fact it was a non-stop flight. The rest of the day I forced myself to get ready for Mulder's arrival. While I still don't trust Marita, my heart can't help by to be energized by the information I received last night.

As I am feeding Mulder's mollies, my cell phone rings. "Scully," I answer.

"There's been a John Doe admitted at Georgetown. He fits Mulder's description," Frohike says.

Frowning, I look at my watch. Two hours early. "She said he'd be there in twenty-four hours."

I can almost hear him shrug. "Maybe she's worried about your gun wielding skills. You should go check it out. Do you want me to send Byers down there?"

"No!" I say quickly. If it is Mulder, I want him to myself, if only for a little while.

"Ok, but if you need anything call us," he instructs.

********

After the shortest trip to the hospital, I walk calmly into the ER. I refuse to make a fool out of myself again. "Excuse me," I say to the nurse, pulling out my badge, "you recently admitted a John Doe. I need his room number."

She winces. "Yeah, I know who you are talking about. Room 103."

"What's wrong with him?" I demand.

She put her hands up to stop my questions. "Now you know I can't answer that, patient confidentiality and all that. But let's just say I wouldn't wish what happened to him on my worst enemy."

My heart pounds in my chest. Flashes of my dream from several weeks ago pop in my head. Please, God, don't let him have suffered like that. Quickly, I find my way to room 103.

I knock on it gently. When I get no response, I open the door cautiously.

I see gauze and bandages. I see IVs and tubes running to his body. I see machines hooked up to him, monitoring all of his vital signs.

I see Mulder.

On shaky legs, I walk across the room to his bed. There are countless bruises showing; I can only imagine what the gauze is hiding. His hair has been shaved very short. The hospital gown can not hide the ribs starkly sticking out. He has never been more beautiful in my life.

"Mulder," I whisper. "Can you hear me?"

His eyes flutter open. I take that as an encouraging sign.

"It's me, Scully," I continue.

This time his eyes do open. He looks at me like a parched man eyes a glass of water, hungrily, desperately.

He mouths something to me, but I am unable to hear his words. I study his lips closer. My gut tightens as I realize what he is saying: Go away.

For a moment, I am consumed by rage. How dare he push me away mere seconds after being with him again? Doesn't he know what I went through to find him?

I pause. Of course he doesn't. All he knows is that he has been brutally injured; he must have seen the looks of horror on people as he was admitted into the hospital.

Grabbing his hand, I force him to look in my eye. "Mulder, I'm not leaving you."

His eyes close slowly. I don't know if he's disappointed or relieved. Maybe he's simply exhausted as I am. A few moments later, his breathing changes and I assume he is asleep.

I carefully extract his hand and go looking for the physician on duty. I need to know what happened to Mulder.

****************

Three hours have passed since I found Mulder and I almost wish I hadn't pursued the information about Mulder's health. I can barely convince myself to recollect all that I had read in his chart. Ten broken bones: both legs, four ribs, his right wrist, his nose, his ulna on his left arm, and his collarbone. There are several unexplained scars across his body, mostly on his stomach and back. His ankles and wrists have dark purple bruises on them. All over his body are small, quarter sized bruises. His vocal cords have been ruptured and he is severely malnourished. The physician, Dr. Stephens had no answer as to how Mulder obtained such injuries.

I didn't bother to tell him he would never know.

Dr. Stephens was sure that Mulder could make almost a complete recovery physically. He strongly urged getting Mulder into counseling. Even from so short of time spent with him, Dr. Stephens could see the early signs of depression.

I called the Gunmen, Skinner and my mom. So far, they have not come to the hospital. I am sure they all have there reasons, but their absence surprises me nevertheless.

I knock on the door to let Mulder know I am coming in. The few times I have seen him since I first saw him were busy talking to the physicians and nurses. This time it would just be he and me, unless he pretends to be asleep again.

Since he can't speak yet there is a pad of paper and pen on the tray they serve his meals on. He has already propped the bed into a near sitting position. Before I can sit in my chair next to his bed, he hands me the pad.

His writing is extremely messy; either he's attempted to write with his broken arm or use his left hand. "How long?" it reads.

I look up into his eyes. I remember that fear; the not knowing if it had been a week or a month. The terror of knowing the rest of the world has gone on without you. "Almost two months," I say quietly. Speaking in a normal volume seems inappropriate.

His body stiffens. His eyes show disbelief. To him, he was holding me in his arms a day ago. He takes the paper away and starts writing again. He is trying to write with his left hand. "Skinner?"

"He's fine, Mulder. After you were...taken, he returned back to Washington," I explain. I lick my lips. "Do you remember anything about what happened to you?"

"No," he mouths, shaking his head. He begins writing again. "Am I going to live?" he writes.

For some reason his question breaks down whatever walls I thought I had constructed when I first saw him. His journey to full health was going to be a long, painful one, but he was going to make it. Tears fill my eyes. "Yes, Mulder," I assure him. "You're going to be fine."

***************

Four days have past since Mulder's return. It is interesting contrast to see us in his hospital room together. I am beaming; I often find my cheeks aching from smiling so much. Though his injuries are atrocious, I am so relieved to have him in my sight. He, on the other hand, has been vacillating between fits of rage and hours of sulking. He is frustrated, depressed and annoyed.

When he was transferred into a regular room, I brought him my laptop, making it easier for him to communicate. I have seen him working on a rather long document, but he has yet to show it to me.

I have spent all my time in his room, talking about everything and nothing. I have spoken more to him in the past four days than I have in the past four years. I share my perspective on current events, how the Yankees are doing, the gossip around the FBI, anything I can think of to keep him connected to me.

Fortunately, I have not been the only visitor to see Mulder. The Gunmen have stopped by a couple of times. When they come over, I let them visit Mulder alone. I wonder what he says to them; the first time I saw Frohike walk out of his room, there were tears in his eyes. Skinner showed up yesterday; the guilt in his eyes was more pronounced after he saw what had happened to Mulder.

It is eight o'clock now. Visiting hours have just started. Though I could have forced my way into staying in Mulder's room overnight, I know he needs time to decompress, to mourn, and he can't do that with me around.

I knock softly on his door before opening it. He is waiting for me; I can see something already typed on the screen of my laptop.

"When can I get out of here?"

He cannot be serious. His injuries prevent him from surviving in the real world. Even the most basic things, such as speaking and walking, will have to be relearned to a certain degree. "Mulder, you know what Dr. Stephens told you yesterday. You're going to have to stay at a long term facility until your body heals," I say gently.

"NO!" he electronically shouts.

I run my hand through his hair carefully. I can imagine the way he feels; his freedom has always been paramount to him. "You'll be back on your feet before you know it. You just need to take time and make sure you do things the right way."

"I hate this," he types.

Pity floods my heart. Though I know he would resent it, it is the only way I can feel seeing this shell of Mulder lying in bed. "I know you do. But, Mulder, you're here. That's all that matters."

He shoots me a nasty look. I know he doesn't agree with my assessment of the situation. It looks like today will be spent with angry Mulder.

"Have you looked at any of the facilities yet?" I ask.

He turns the laptop away and begins typing frantically. At least with him having to communicate this way, I know when he's about to give me a piece of his mind. The typing continues from nearly a minute. Finally, he turns the screen so I can read it.

"No and I'm not going to. I don't care who gets the job of teaching me to walk again. Why don't you pick something out yourself? You seem happy with me being here. You care more about me getting better than I do myself," I read.

I am saddened by his lack of spirit. Since he has come back, there has been no desire on his part to try to further his recovery. "Of course I care, Mulder. I love you."

This isn't the first time I told him that, though I hadn't spoken those words to him since he returned. I nervously wait for a response. It's hard to read his emotions since he has turned away from me.

When he doesn't respond, I begin speaking again. "I know this is hard for you. Everything you knew has been taken away from you, but I'm here for you. Good days, bad days...it doesn't matter, Mulder because I know that there is nothing worse than not knowing where you are. Nothing."

That makes him look at me. The haunted tone of my voice must have connected with him. He carefully sets the laptop on the tray next to him and reaches his hand to me. It is the first time he has initiated physical contact with me.

"I love you too," he mouths.

I lean over and brush my lips over his own. Though his lips are still slightly chapped, mine couldn't be more content. Mulder will get better. It is a promise I silent make to him and myself.