******************** I wrote this a while back, while I was reflecting on the number of times that Cancerman has had both Mulder and Scully in his custody with absolutely no witnesses. They've been stopped by black-uniformed gun-toting goons so many times now (or at least it seems like they have), that I've begun to wonder what goes on *after* that. That's all this piece is. This is a short scene, with spoilers for "Apocrypha." It's a fill-in-the-blank sort of piece, and its my first attempt at getting into Mulder's head. Critiques of my success or failure at that task are welcome at the e-mail address below. I wrote this before "Pusher" was shown, which doesn't make it obsolete but might change how it reads. Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Cancerman, and the very existence of the X- Files belongs to Chris Carter, Fox-TV and a media Consortium with the power of a million lawyers at their disposal. They are used with much respect but without permission. ****************** "All the Way Home" by Sara VanLooy svanlooy@mail.coin.missouri.edu "You saw nothing, Mr. Mulder." Those were the last words Mulder heard before a gloved hand roughly shoved his chin towards his chest. He was being bundled into a waiting car by the black-ops team that Cancerman had brought with him to track them down. He could hear grunts of indignation from Scully, who was being manhandled into a separate car, and he almost smiled; she might be small, but she wasn't going anywhere easily. He hoped that if they killed her it was quick. He was shoved onto his stomach in the back of the truck, and found his face pressed into the floor hard enough to give him carpet burn. The pressure on his back was insistent, and he wondered if this would be the last time he got in Cancerman's way. If this would be the time his body was found in an alley, or ditch. Or not found. He wondered how long whatever magical protection he held would last. There had been no protection for his father. Or for Scully, who would have been killed except for the accident that had left her sister dead in her place. But after a few minutes, the weight on his back lifted. The truck was moving now, over bumpy dirt and gravel roads, and he rolled over and sat up. The commandos surrounding him sat silently, their faces covered with black cloth and dark glasses. This time they weren't going to kill him. He hoped the ones in Scully's truck were just as friendly. He couldn't stand it if anything happened to her, after he dragged her out here. They had been so close. He knew that in his bones. That somewhere, maybe just around the next corner or through the next door, Krychek had been there. With his alien passenger. And maybe more -- maybe the proof that he'd been looking for. So close, and now it was all gone. Every last bit of it. He didn't have the alien, the ship, the digital tape. He didn't even have Krychek. He didn't have his father's murderer, and Melissa's,in custody. He had nothing. Sadness welled up in him, so suddenly and so high that his throat felt full, and he had to blink his overheated eyes rapidly to keep tears away. He'd be damned if he'd cry in front of these louts, these empty-minded mechanoid tools of the Conspiracy. He'd rather throw up, and he felt perilously close to doing that, too. He'd had Krychek. Had him. He could have taken him into custody at any point. He could have called for backup to meet their plane in DC, could have arrested him in the airport, could have had the key and the tape and his father's murderer. Could have had the power to make Cancerman grovel and tell all his secrets. "But I was too damn hot to get that proof." he muttered. "Shut up!" one of the men next to him growled."No talking." That was fine. That suited his mood. Because if he talked, all this mental crap might come spilling out in front of these strangers, who still might kill him, and that would just be the perfect end to a perfectly horrible day. When had the importance of facts overtaken the importance of people? When had it become more pressing for him to get vindication of evidence of UFO's than to lay his father's soul to rest or to find his sister? When had his need for proof of this conspiracy taken priority of helping Scully find peace with her sister? He had gotten so obsessed with his paper proofs that he had started ignoring Scully's human needs. He had been denying those beseeching blue eyes that carried all those messages she was too proud to put into words: "Will I be alright?" and "What did they do to me?" And "Mulder, watch your back." He was so focused on the evidence, on exposing the government's lies, that he had neglected part of the Truth; that part made up of human beings. Scully might be faulted for her overreliance on The System, and he could never understand her basic trust in others to do the right thing, but he shuddered, thinking that maybe what he had done was worse. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No proof. No DAT. No Krychek. No Samantha. No father. And no Scully. Not really. Though she had been at his bedside when he came to, though she had smiled her wry smile, he wasn't fooled. He had hopelessly distanced himself from her, and the fact was driven home to him when she presented her findings. The man who shot Skinner was the man who shot Melissa, and she had discovered this on her own while he was off chasing aliens. And he had let Krychek slip away because he wanted to to hunt aliens more than he wanted to catch real killers. Except that he was a failure at both tasks, while Scully, little by-the-book Scully, had churned through the boring stuff, the first-year academy lessons about evidence retrieval and had come up with something. More than he had, certainly. Thinking back, he couldn't pinpoint where things had gone so wrong. Obviously it was after his father's death. After Melissa's death. Scully had closed that inscrutable shell of hers and gone right back to work, and he had become more and more oblivious to anyone except himself. But he couldn't see where it had become so serious; the distance had insidiously grown and grown until he could barely remember how things were before. The next partner assigned him would be a spy, of course. The last two certainly had been intended as such. This spy would be checked out more carefully; Scully's assignment had backfired badly on the shadowy figures who had chosen her. He knew for certain he could never again trust a new partner. He laughed a bit to himself at the irony of him having to prove to her that they were on the same side. She'd been the original enemy, of course, but now, he'd rather have no partner at all than anyone other than Scully. He'd rather be alone. He was alone. With nothing to show for his labors, and no one to show it to. All gone... It was like a rising chant in his head. Time had passed, and the sky had grown darker, while he sat and thought in circles, circles that narrowed and closed around him, drawing him downwards. The road they were on had long ago become paved, then multilaned, and now he realized they must be approaching civilization in some form. He could see the lights of a city reflected off the clouds a few miles away. Just as he noticed this, he was pushed down onto the floor again with a swift motion, and he heard the metallic sounds of large guns being fussed with. A dark scratchy blanket was tossed over his head and wrapped to cover his ears. He could feel it was being held in place by at least one pair of hands. he thought, more hopefully than rationally. He found he didn't really care one way or the other. The truck slowed, turned, idled. It turned and continued slowly for some time, as though they'd gotten off the highway. There were speed bumps, more bumps, then a sudden stop. A bit of rustling ensued, and then he heard the door open, felt cold air blowing into the truck, and heard voices muttering "Go! Go! Go!" He smelled moist air and car fumes. He was grabbed by shoulders and knees suddenly. They lifted him, gave the blanket a few more twists around his head, and hauled him roughly out of the truck. They took no more than a step or two before they dropped him, hard, onto a concrete floor, and as he struggled to unwrap his head he heard doors closing--more than one door. And two vehicles roared away, the sounds echoing against some sort of ceiling. It took him several seconds to untangle himself, and when he did he saw that he was in a parking garage, on a nearly empty floor. Next to him, Scully was lying on her back, trying to unwind several layers of fabric which covered not only her eyes but also her mouth. Her movements were slow, and he suddenly feared that they had hurt her. He sat up and knelt by her, hooking his fingers under the loops of sheeting and pulling them away from her face. "Scully, are you okay?" Mulder asked. That horrible feeling had risen into his throat again, tightening it. "Scully?" She yanked off the last layer herself and looked up at him. "I'm fine? Are you?" He sighed with relief,feeling some of the weight lift from his chest. "I've been better. I've got a badly bruised pride, however." She smiled and sat up stiffly, rubbing a sore spot on her shoulder where she'd hit the ground. "Oh, look. They dropped us off at the Fargo Airport." she said, deadpan. "How kind." Mulder, meanwhile, had noticed something else. "Look, Scully, they dropped off our bags, too. They've been ransacked, but they left us our return tickets." He laughed--grimly, but a laugh. "Well, he wouldn't want to put the Conspiracy to any extra expense, Mulder," Scully smile grew as she took in the absurdity of it all. "After all, commando units and helicopters don't come cheap." He shook his head, but had to laugh with her. "But Mulder," she continued, her face becoming serious, "We've still got a problem." he thought. He steeled himself for what he feared would follow. He was unprepared for the smile that returned as she finished with, "I hope they dropped off the rental car for us. You've lost two already this week." He smiled. Maybe things could be okay again. She was willing to talk to him after all this. She was willing to laugh. Cautiously, gently, he reached out and smoothed a lock of hair that had been rumpled into a cowlick by the sheets. "Well, we'll just have to put all our rentals next month in your name, won't we?" She returned his arch look with a smirk of her own. But she didn't object. --End-- ******************** I wrote this a while back, while I was reflecting on the number of times that Cancerman has had both Mulder and Scully in his custody with absolutely no witnesses. They've been stopped by black-uniformed gun-toting goons so many times now (or at least it seems like they have), that I've begun to wonder what goes on *after* that. That's all this piece is. This is a short scene, with spoilers for "Apocrypha." It's a fill-in-the-blank sort of piece, and its my first attempt at getting into Mulder's head. Critiques of my success or failure at that task are welcome at the e-mail address below. I wrote this before "Pusher" was shown, which doesn't make it obsolete but might change how it reads. Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Cancerman, and the very existence of the X- Files belongs to Chris Carter, Fox-TV and a media Consortium with the power of a million lawyers at their disposal. They are used with much respect but without permission. ****************** "All the Way Home" by Sara VanLooy svanlooy@mail.coin.missouri.edu "You saw nothing, Mr. Mulder." Those were the last words Mulder heard before a gloved hand roughly shoved his chin towards his chest. He was being bundled into a waiting car by the black-ops team that Cancerman had brought with him to track them down. He could hear grunts of indignation from Scully, who was being manhandled into a separate car, and he almost smiled; she might be small, but she wasn't going anywhere easily. He hoped that if they killed her it was quick. He was shoved onto his stomach in the back of the truck, and found his face pressed into the floor hard enough to give him carpet burn. The pressure on his back was insistent, and he wondered if this would be the last time he got in Cancerman's way. If this would be the time his body was found in an alley, or ditch. Or not found. He wondered how long whatever magical protection he held would last. There had been no protection for his father. Or for Scully, who would have been killed except for the accident that had left her sister dead in her place. But after a few minutes, the weight on his back lifted. The truck was moving now, over bumpy dirt and gravel roads, and he rolled over and sat up. The commandos surrounding him sat silently, their faces covered with black cloth and dark glasses. This time they weren't going to kill him. He hoped the ones in Scully's truck were just as friendly. He couldn't stand it if anything happened to her, after he dragged her out here. They had been so close. He knew that in his bones. That somewhere, maybe just around the next corner or through the next door, Krychek had been there. With his alien passenger. And maybe more -- maybe the proof that he'd been looking for. So close, and now it was all gone. Every last bit of it. He didn't have the alien, the ship, the digital tape. He didn't even have Krychek. He didn't have his father's murderer, and Melissa's,in custody. He had nothing. Sadness welled up in him, so suddenly and so high that his throat felt full, and he had to blink his overheated eyes rapidly to keep tears away. He'd be damned if he'd cry in front of these louts, these empty-minded mechanoid tools of the Conspiracy. He'd rather throw up, and he felt perilously close to doing that, too. He'd had Krychek. Had him. He could have taken him into custody at any point. He could have called for backup to meet their plane in DC, could have arrested him in the airport, could have had the key and the tape and his father's murderer. Could have had the power to make Cancerman grovel and tell all his secrets. "But I was too damn hot to get that proof." he muttered. "Shut up!" one of the men next to him growled."No talking." That was fine. That suited his mood. Because if he talked, all this mental crap might come spilling out in front of these strangers, who still might kill him, and that would just be the perfect end to a perfectly horrible day. When had the importance of facts overtaken the importance of people? When had it become more pressing for him to get vindication of evidence of UFO's than to lay his father's soul to rest or to find his sister? When had his need for proof of this conspiracy taken priority of helping Scully find peace with her sister? He had gotten so obsessed with his paper proofs that he had started ignoring Scully's human needs. He had been denying those beseeching blue eyes that carried all those messages she was too proud to put into words: "Will I be alright?" and "What did they do to me?" And "Mulder, watch your back." He was so focused on the evidence, on exposing the government's lies, that he had neglected part of the Truth; that part made up of human beings. Scully might be faulted for her overreliance on The System, and he could never understand her basic trust in others to do the right thing, but he shuddered, thinking that maybe what he had done was worse. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No proof. No DAT. No Krychek. No Samantha. No father. And no Scully. Not really. Though she had been at his bedside when he came to, though she had smiled her wry smile, he wasn't fooled. He had hopelessly distanced himself from her, and the fact was driven home to him when she presented her findings. The man who shot Skinner was the man who shot Melissa, and she had discovered this on her own while he was off chasing aliens. And he had let Krychek slip away because he wanted to to hunt aliens more than he wanted to catch real killers. Except that he was a failure at both tasks, while Scully, little by-the-book Scully, had churned through the boring stuff, the first-year academy lessons about evidence retrieval and had come up with something. More than he had, certainly. Thinking back, he couldn't pinpoint where things had gone so wrong. Obviously it was after his father's death. After Melissa's death. Scully had closed that inscrutable shell of hers and gone right back to work, and he had become more and more oblivious to anyone except himself. But he couldn't see where it had become so serious; the distance had insidiously grown and grown until he could barely remember how things were before. The next partner assigned him would be a spy, of course. The last two certainly had been intended as such. This spy would be checked out more carefully; Scully's assignment had backfired badly on the shadowy figures who had chosen her. He knew for certain he could never again trust a new partner. He laughed a bit to himself at the irony of him having to prove to her that they were on the same side. She'd been the original enemy, of course, but now, he'd rather have no partner at all than anyone other than Scully. He'd rather be alone. He was alone. With nothing to show for his labors, and no one to show it to. All gone... It was like a rising chant in his head. Time had passed, and the sky had grown darker, while he sat and thought in circles, circles that narrowed and closed around him, drawing him downwards. The road they were on had long ago become paved, then multilaned, and now he realized they must be approaching civilization in some form. He could see the lights of a city reflected off the clouds a few miles away. Just as he noticed this, he was pushed down onto the floor again with a swift motion, and he heard the metallic sounds of large guns being fussed with. A dark scratchy blanket was tossed over his head and wrapped to cover his ears. He could feel it was being held in place by at least one pair of hands. he thought, more hopefully than rationally. He found he didn't really care one way or the other. The truck slowed, turned, idled. It turned and continued slowly for some time, as though they'd gotten off the highway. There were speed bumps, more bumps, then a sudden stop. A bit of rustling ensued, and then he heard the door open, felt cold air blowing into the truck, and heard voices muttering "Go! Go! Go!" He smelled moist air and car fumes. He was grabbed by shoulders and knees suddenly. They lifted him, gave the blanket a few more twists around his head, and hauled him roughly out of the truck. They took no more than a step or two before they dropped him, hard, onto a concrete floor, and as he struggled to unwrap his head he heard doors closing--more than one door. And two vehicles roared away, the sounds echoing against some sort of ceiling. It took him several seconds to untangle himself, and when he did he saw that he was in a parking garage, on a nearly empty floor. Next to him, Scully was lying on her back, trying to unwind several layers of fabric which covered not only her eyes but also her mouth. Her movements were slow, and he suddenly feared that they had hurt her. He sat up and knelt by her, hooking his fingers under the loops of sheeting and pulling them away from her face. "Scully, are you okay?" Mulder asked. That horrible feeling had risen into his throat again, tightening it. "Scully?" She yanked off the last layer herself and looked up at him. "I'm fine? Are you?" He sighed with relief,feeling some of the weight lift from his chest. "I've been better. I've got a badly bruised pride, however." She smiled and sat up stiffly, rubbing a sore spot on her shoulder where she'd hit the ground. "Oh, look. They dropped us off at the Fargo Airport." she said, deadpan. "How kind." Mulder, meanwhile, had noticed something else. "Look, Scully, they dropped off our bags, too. They've been ransacked, but they left us our return tickets." He laughed--grimly, but a laugh. "Well, he wouldn't want to put the Conspiracy to any extra expense, Mulder," Scully smile grew as she took in the absurdity of it all. "After all, commando units and helicopters don't come cheap." He shook his head, but had to laugh with her. "But Mulder," she continued, her face becoming serious, "We've still got a problem." he thought. He steeled himself for what he feared would follow. He was unprepared for the smile that returned as she finished with, "I hope they dropped off the rental car for us. You've lost two already this week." He smiled. Maybe things could be okay again. She was willing to talk to him after all this. She was willing to laugh. Cautiously, gently, he reached out and smoothed a lock of hair that had been rumpled into a cowlick by the sheets. "Well, we'll just have to put all our rentals next month in your name, won't we?" She returned his arch look with a smirk of her own. But she didn't object. --End--