From: livengoo@tiac.net Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 35/41 NC-17 Date: 24 Feb 1996 06:06:21 GMT Oklahoma (Part 35/41) By Amperage and Livengoo Copyright October, 1995 International Readers: No third season spoilers Rating: NC-17 for language and violence Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting. The FBI is the property of the US Government. Oklahoma and Louisiana and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo. ______________ The blade wash of the chopper kicked down weeds and sent clouds of dirt and lime scudding away from a clear circle. Samuel Rodriguez kept his head low and squinted in the wind as he dropped to the ground. Averman, behind him, was bent nearly double until both were well clear of the blades and the whirlybird was clawing its way back into the air. The ferry was docked again, and a big, taut-bellied man climbed down the loading ramp to meet them. Lights glittered green and red and white up the still-shadowy channel, announcing the Coast Guard launch. Its engine cough grew around them as they listened. Frito followed Averman, half running to keep up with the taller man's stride. Half-shattered oyster shells crunched loud in the pre-dawn, drowning the engine from up the channel. White dust from the shells was marking the cuffs of Averman's pants. The AIC had pulled a copy of a photograph from his pocket and was handing it to the ferry pilot as he came to a stop. "Mr.Angolier? Thanks for helping out. I'm Jack Averman. . ." The badge was open in the other hand, Averman's brusque voice edging out questions and complaints. "Is this the man you saw this morning?" The boatman took the shot, studied it. Frito could see at a glance it wasn't the one that had been on the news. Averman was testing for more than a superficial resemblance. The nod that finally answered them was confident. "Yeah. This was him . Nice guy, friendly. Bit of a holy-roller though. . ." "What do you mean?" Sam looked away from the launch, clear now in the gloom, to see the pilot glance apologetically between them. "Well, I believe an' I go to church and all, but I don't talk about Jesus all the time or anything. This boy talked like a real hand waver. Kept saying how it was 'a good day to meet Jesus on the waters.' At first, I figured him for an actor, cause he looked familiar and all. . . " He let the words trail off, turned to watch the white and blue craft pull snug and tidy up to the dock. A dark-haired young man waved from the deck, calling to them. Frito took off for it at a run, distantly aware of Averman thanking Anogolier, and hauling after him. Meyers leaned out from the deck, grabbing the doctor's hand to steady him and help him on board. "You got a good one?" Meyers glanced from Rodriguez next to him, to Averman, who had turned back towards the chopper. Averman nodded and broke into a trot towards his own ride. Sam took a breath and answered the younger man in a voice that carried all the tension he could not afford to let himself feel. "Averman'll spot for us from the air, and we'll handle the water. They're on Monkey Island, Meyers. It's the fucking end of the world, and there's no place left to run." Dirty gray sand blew over the road in serpentine patterns, ending abruptly sometimes where the Gulf had bitten the edges from the smooth ribbon of asphalt. Their headlights still shone on the blacktop, but they were fading with the coming day. Mulder slumped against the door. The glass of the window felt cool through his hair. Jon had lowered the windows a few inches and a wet, dawn wind full of seaweed and salt and the foetor of dead fish licked across their faces. The agent's eyes ached as the breeze dried them, but he needed to see everything, needed the mud-flat beaches snared in sea grass, and the water slowly going to burnished pewter under a high, hard sky. Jon's reflection was still clear and well-defined in the window next to Mulder's face. Fox's eyes slid shut, flicked open in a quick, almost panicky motion. His hair was in his eyes, but he didn't move the hands lying open and slack in his lap. The fresh abrasions of the cuffs stained the thighs of his pants. Mulder thought about shifting, about wrapping his hands around his wrists to stop the slow, red leak, but it was achingly hard just to curl his fingers, or to draw a full breath into his lungs. So hard. . . he had to work just to keep his eyes open. "You can go to sleep, you know. It's all right." Mulder thought a moment, pulled his chin around against the dragging numbness of his body. Jon's face was gentle, eyes alert and serene. It sent shivers up Mulder's spine, and drew his voice from deep inside him. The tiny thread of sound that escaped him could have belonged to the wind that ran so freely through the inches allowed it by the glass. "No. I don't want to sleep. Not now." "I'll wake you, Fox. When the sun rises. . . " "It'll be up soon. I'll wait." He pushed himself away from the locked door, into the cradle of his seat. His hands hurt in a far, far away throb. The dashboard clock flashed as the minute changed, catching his eyes. Five-seventeen. Blue and peach washed through the sky, but the burning edge of the sun was still hidden. The island rolled to the left, the brown, silted beaches and water were dull and glossy flat to the right, spilling away from the road. Pilings of docks and the tumble of breakwaters studded the water out there. Behind them, on the leeside of the island, the Calcasieu River washed all the castings of the land upstream down, down towards the island, towards the Gulf. Mulder could see it, a texture in the water. Ahead of them, sea grass and gently rolling land ran to the rack line, and flat down to the water. So flat, so brown. It didn't smell like his home, and it didn't look like his home. Mulder felt a sudden wash of misery flood through him, loneliness. It caught his breath and prickled tears into his eyes. Words had to meet that feeling, had to carry it out of him. "It's so flat. . . where are the stones? Where are the dunes?" "I don't know, Fox.. But listen to it, it still sounds the same. . . " "I don't hear bells. I don't hear buoys or foghorns." "Gulls. Water. God's wind in the grass and the sound of sand on sand. . . " Mulder shut his eyes, face pulled and his forehead hurt with the effort. His lips pursed tight. He took a long, shaky breath. "I want to go home, Jon." "Fox. . . " "I want to go to the Vineyard. This is so far away. This isn't where I belong. . . " Mulder felt a sudden fear. There was no way out. No way out and he would die here and Averman would forget. Averman wouldn't remember to bury him on the Vineyard. Samantha wouldn't be able to find him. "Please Jon. Not here. Not here." ". . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't take you there. They hurt you there, Fox." A soft, sad tone. "Listen to the water, Fox. The gulls. . ." Mulder stared out ahead of him, to the east, to the sun, and bit his lip to hold the words still. Ahead of them, in the growing light of the horizon, a dark shadow resolved itself. The agent squinted against wind and light, watching a shadow that quickly grew into a lumpen upright. Dark gave way to faded color and a dark skin of face, arms. The shape of a large, doughy woman turned to stare into the car, into his eyes. Strange, old eyes, and a black face that split into a smile he'd seen once before as she turned to watch them go, waved to them, loose skin of her arm flapping with the motion as he watched the loki dwindle in the side mirror. Swallowed and whispered her name to himself, and raised his eyes to the peach and pink glow of the horizon. He knew he was lost. Didn't need her to tell him. He'd just vanish here, so far away from home, and there'd never be a stone with his name in the seagrass, or a place for him. He'd be lost here in the warm, alien waters, and never find his way home again. His body pushed ever so slightly against the shoulder belt as Jon braked and slowed, turning the wheel to take them to the right, towards the Gulf, towards the water. Insects buzzed and flickered in on the gentling breeze as they slowed, and the young man pushed the buttons to raise the windows, locked them as he'd locked the doors. Sound and scent and motion of the outside world came to a sudden stop within the Suburban. They were sealed away again, in the bubble of the car. They rolled in neutral to a gentle stop, wheels muffled in the gritty sand of a sea-hardened beach. In front of them, the current raced faster and faster as the tide fled the land, water drawing itself away deep into the warmth of the Gulf, frothy foam marking the currents of the river as it surged out into the salt. The water to the left showed glittery rose. Dark shadows marked the water, studded with lights that would soon be overwhelmed by day's light. "Look at it, Fox. So beautiful. . . " Mulder wrinkled his nose. "It smells like dead fish." His skin had crawled since he'd seen the woman, Essie, at the side of the road. Fear rushed through him, washing the numb distance away. "Dead fish. . . Another crime against God's world and creations. You're right, but it's still beautiful. Look at it." Boats rocking out there, in the early haze, and water creamed with froth that crested further and further out, leaving hard-packed beach behind. The sun's first sliver, vibrant rose, hung on the horizon. "We aren't going home, are we." It wasn't a question. Mulder knew the answer. "Not to the Vineyard, no. . . but we are going home. We are, Fox. Don't be scared. You truly don't need to be scared." The words were bitter, but he'd known what he'd hear. "Jon, I don't belong here. I'm not one of your children. . . " The smile on the handsome, young face was filled with sorrow and kind understanding. "Don't lie anymore, Fox. Please tell the truth this once. You've been hiding from it for so long. You don't need to hide from it anymore." "You and I have different truths, Jon." Mulder's voice was soft, and toneless. "You never did tell me why you chose me. Why you chose any of us. . . " Blue eyes left the water for a moment, took in his friend's face. "I remember you. I remember you in church, with the cast on your arm. And how sometimes you couldn't play. I didn't know then, didn't understand that you were hurt. But when I saw you again, I couldn't miss it." Mulder stared at him. "Miss what? I can see that you found most of them through Social Services, but not Adeena. Not me. . ." "I. . . I don't want to talk about this. It's not important now." "It's important to me. Jon, you're going to kill me. I deserve to know why, don't I?" He heard the strain in his own voice, the sudden burr of fear and despair. His hands stung when he braced himself on the edge of the seat. Jon's smile had slowly melted away, leaving his face furrowed with old pain. "I've always known, Fox. I knew when I was little. I know now. When we left the water and Daddy brought us to Oklahoma, I would watch the children by the side of the road. Most of them just looked away and went on, but some. . . I knew they knew. Their daddies had hurt them, or someone had hurt them. If they. . . if they'd been fucked, I could smell it. The fear clung to them like the smell of sex. The way they'd look away and not meet your eyes, or wanted to be touched so much. Just like me. . . and like you." A ripple of horror washed through Mulder. "No. Jon, my father never touched me. He didn't beat me. . . not until after Samantha disappeared. Jon, he didn't. . . " His eyes felt wide, and the words hurt in his throat. Elijah's smile and flat eyes met his protests. "I know. You don't. . .you don't smell like anyone ever fucked you, Fox. I wasn't sure for a bit. Maybe Samantha, I don't know. I don't know. But they hurt you, Fox. You're lying to me, and to yourself, if you deny that. You can lie to me, but you can't lie to God, Fox. Your father hurt you, and I know it. He hurt you, and others hurt you." Mulder was shaking his head, tiny, horrified motions. "Nononono. . . you don't understand." "No one should ever hit a child, Fox. Their excuses don't matter. They're evil if they hit a child. And there are so many of them, so many. . .Sarah showed me the way. Daddy wouldn't stop hurting her, so she went to Jesus. She just left. It can't be wrong to want to not hurt anymore, Fox. God can't have put us here just to be hurt. My daddy was wrong to hurt me and my brother and sisters. And your daddy was wrong to hurt you." "I keep telling you.. . . " words, choked with feelings, that wanted to be tears or screams. "You can't lie to me, Fox. I didn't have to smell it on you, though I can. I remember you, and you were hurt so often. Mary told me how you kept getting hurt. And you just let your friends hurt you here, and now. I think you must have been letting people hurt you for years." "You're wrong. Wrongwrongwrong! Please. . . " The words were jagged, broken things from deep in his chest, panicky fast as he watched Elijah turn the key and gun the motor alive again. "He taught you to let them hurt you, didn't he, Fox? It's the only thing you know how to do. That's why I brought you away. I just can't let you keep finding people to hurt you, over and over. I'm going home, Fox. They won't hurt us anymore. And I'm not going to leave you here all alone with them." A quick motion of Gragg's right hand pushed the Suburban into gear, and Mulder heard the engine revved against the brake, suddenly released with a violent lurch that threw them towards the surf. He braced himself on the dashboard as the big engine spun tires and kicked sand in a rooster plume behind the jeep, felt them lurch as they hit the shallow, receding water and drove, engine screaming, out into the tide-bared flats of the Gulf. The jolt as they hit water threw Fox forward against his seatbelt and sent spray in an iridescent blur that smeared the rising sun along the windows next to Elijah. Mulder's belt locked, holding him tight as the front wheels skewed on through frothy water and the rear wheels skidded wildly across unstable sand. The weight of the engine shoved the front tires down, letting them bite into surf-packed silt, dragging them through the knee-deep water the receding tide left off of Monkey Island. Elijah's ululating howl of joy rang in his ears, drowning the water that clawed at the Suburban's shell. Silt went to gel under their wheels and the big car slewed wildly, throwing Mulder against his door. Beyond Jon's wordless scream of welcome and the rushing clatter of the gravelly water slamming against the car, he could faintly hear a heavy, thudding sound. A bulbous shape was dark against the pallid blue of dawn sky, then the grill hit deeper water and Mulder was too busy to think about it. "Shitshitshit, oh shit. . . " His soft litany couldn't have reached over the sounds of the water and the racing of the engine. He was hanging in his shoulderbelt now, fingers clawing at the catch. Metal and plastic wouldn't yield and Mulder felt a nail bend and tear, couldn't look away from the water ahead of them and the water rising up towards the hood. The catch suddenly released, and he lurched forward against the dashboard. The nose of the heavy car was lower than its ass end now, borne down by the Detroit metal under the hood that kept the wheels churning through the mucky bottom while the rear of the thing started to bobble and float. Shock of sea under their wheels and the jeep jarred, scraped across a sand bar, with the water lifting and carrying the ass end of it. Arms shaking from so many days of fever and madness dropped Mulder's thin ribs onto the dash board, seatbelt dangling in the air then yanked back into its housing. Mulder glanced up, saw the feverish-bright eyes and the fixed smile on Jon's face, the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He was keening now, what sounded like names, maybe Sarah, maybe Michael. Mulder couldn't say and he really didn't care. He spun to yank at the door, hands catching at grips from an unfamiliar angle. A nail bent back as he ripped at the catch and he hissed. The handle flopped uselessly, inert. Water-blur on windows and light everywhere and no clear sight to be had. He couldn't see the horizon or the sun, only the insane wash of light and color around them and his muscles hurt and screamed at him as Mulder twisted, hands braced on his seat, trying to find a clear sight. Window buttons were mockeries, and door locks a lie. All the controls that could free him were guarded on the door by Jon's hand. The whole vehicle lurched and the nose sank more, water gushing up to splash over the hood. A sudden silence washed over them as the engine drew itself up into one last whine, coughed and died. In the quiet Mulder could hear Jon slamming his foot on a useless gas pedal. Braced with his hands on the dash board, elbows locked against quivery muscles, the analyst listened to panting that could have been his, or could have been Jon's, and turned his head in the moment's stasis to meet blue eyes and a flushed face. And Jon smiled. Wide and wild and crazy. White teeth and blue eyes and blue of sky and brown of water blurred across the glass behind him as the Suburban rocked and tilted further towards the nose, and a rushing sound yanked Mulder's eyes away and down to where water forced its way up by his feet, cold and gray. He'd thought he was spent, past being terrified or having the strength to care any more. He was wrong. Prop wash sent clouds of mist scudding to catch light and confuse the eye. It threw the double rooster tail of water away and whipped the dark surface of silt-stained riverine currents into a froth. And through all that Averman could see the carapace of the Suburban, skidding away from land and safety and sanity and into the rushing channel dug by thousands upon thousands of tides that shaped the coastal lands before men ever worked their way here, before men every spilled dirt and filth and left trails of death in their wake. Shiny black, under water and light, and suddenly it tipped down and away as the hood dove under that scummed surface, trying to find bottom, and the rear bobbed with the air it held, rocking and rolling in the growing violence of the tidal waves. Offshore, the launches hovered, kept at bay by sand bars and treacherous bottom. "We have them in sight, but cannot approach until they get into deeper water. We are preparing divers. . ." The Coastie's voice was curt and professional. Behind him Averman could hear a steady thread of Spanish curses. "How deep is it there?" "Ten feet maybe. Variable. We need a draft of at least fifteen. The current'll be carrying them this way, but they won't float for long." "Will they get out by you before they go under?" ". . . I can't answer that. I'm not sure it matters." It had tilted now. Nose down and he could see through the tinted back windows, make out figures in there, moving. No details, but movement. The headphones made his jaw ache where they gripped, and the light kept flashing into eyes widened by staring into dark places. Averman glanced at the pilot next to him. The man's face was set, watching the car below with the little attention that didn't go to keeping the aircraft in a tight circle. Watched the shadow of the chopper skitter across the water down below, shading the dark wedge of metal and glass. "Do what you can. Just do what you can." Salt spray and the smell of the rotting coast was on Sam Rodriguez' lips. And words. . . "Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory, Pray for all those who are in ships, those Whose business has to do with fish, and Those concerned with every lawful traffic And those who conduct them. Repeat a prayer also on behalf of Women who have seen their sons or husbands Setting forth, and not returning: Figlia del tuo figlio, Queen of Heaven." Behind him the rattle of tanks and the squeak of rubber broke the slap of sea against man's brittle shell. Shouts and the laughter of gulls all merging, and from Monkey Island the sound of morning. The sound of a bell. "Also pray for those who were in ships and Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea's lips Or in the dark throat which will not reject them Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell's Perpetual angelus." Eliot's words hung on the air between him and Meyers. Sam let the binoculars drop on their strap, not feeling the heavy casing as it thumped against his chest. He didn't need the lenses now. The glossy black roof wallowed out there on the water, where it didn't belong. Hanging in the air over it, the big chopper shimmied and wheeled, impressive and useless. "Holy shit. . ." Meyers' whisper cut through the clatter and babble. Divers were yanking their way into flippers and tanks, and Zinsmeier and Averman's voices bounced through the cabin. Meaningless sounds. The black shape rocked wildly as the tide-driven current slapped it sideways. Scylla's hungry tongue. Sam's ears were ringing, but he could hear that engine race as the jeep still tried to reach for bottom, drag itself further out. The chopper's drumming scream sang counterpoint as it veered off and clawed its way up past where its downdraft tore the spray into an iridescent mist around them. Then the chopper and the boats were all that was left. The Suburban's engine coughed and died as it dragged itself into the current and its wheels lost their grip. He couldn't see the hood anymore. Even with the binoculars it was just dirty water shimmering and brown flecked foam, and glass with blurred figures. It yawed drunkenly, canting its grill down towards the sand. The river drew it on, deep into the heart of the Gulf. "There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Grapes at the vanity of toil Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth." The jeep rocked and tossed them both as the waves and current slapped it deeper into the Gulf. Leather was soft and yielding under Mulder's fingers when he yanked his thin body over the back of the seat, sobbing with the sudden fear that he'd be too slow, too weak. In the corner of his eye Jon was twisting loose of his seatbelt and reaching and his fingers scraped a bruising trail down the agent's right leg then Mulder was clear and free and scrambling up the tilted floor of the jeep towards light and air and. . . Glass. Glass, another window. Another lock. Metal dug into the fingers locked around the handle that couldn't open the rear door of the Suburban. Elijah's fingers bit into his leg, then let go. "Fox, it'll be all right, let go. . . " "Fuck you! Let me the hell out of here!" "Fox!" "Nooo! No, you don't call me that and you don't take me through your fucking nightmares anymore! Leave me alone. . . !" The words scraped their way free of this throat, flat in the thick air shoved to the back of the jeep by the water. He could see it when he glanced down, mica-sparkle brown around the windows, cloudy and turbulent inside the car where it surged towards the dashboard and lapped at the fronts of the seats. "Damn it, Fox. . . " The red flush was bruise dark as Jon looked up at him. Mulder yanked his eyes away, looking up at sky that was being slapped out of his range by the water, the current. He could feel the metal cage jarring as the waves slammed it and tossed it further out into the Gulf. The air was thick and hard to breathe and made his ears pop. "Anh. . .anh. . .aanh" His breathing and his heart pounded in time with the dull thuds his hand made against the glass. Red smears marked the blue of sky. When he could see it, when waves didn't take it away and send his glass and metal trap bouncing like a toy. Hot trails rolled back down his arm and dripped from his elbow and he could feel the burn in his hands and his ribs and his throat and it didn't matter, none of it mattered, like the hands that were clawing up his sides now, trying to pull him down to the water and the dark and the mud and sand below. And a hand reached his shoulder. It was so hard to keep hold of the door, keep his sneakered feet anchored against the carpet and the front seats, so hard to sprawl against gravity's pull and the call of water beneath him. . . And Jon's voice. "Don't worry. I'm so sorry. I should have known you couldn't believe. . ." And Jon's hand around his throat, under his chin, until Mulder let go and spun and tried to get his arms up. Elijah was off balance and rolled as the car wallowed and the light was swallowed up. In the dim gloom, with sounds so hollow in pressure-painful ears, seeing the bubbles find the surface where he couldn't follow, Mulder rolled away from Jon, seeing a look of pity and anger and sorrow. And hearing the words. . . "We can't go back, Fox. Can I look again at the day and its common things, and see them all smeared with blood, through a curtain of falling blood? I can't. You can't. You'll get there first, but I won't let you stay scared, Fox. It's going to be all right." And Elijah crouched and there was no place to hide. Continued in part 36........................ =========================================================================== From: livengoo@tiac.net Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 36/41 NC-17 Date: 25 Feb 1996 07:18:00 GMT Oklahoma (Part 36/41) By Amperage and Livengoo Copyright October, 1995 International Readers: No third season spoilers Rating: NC-17 for language and violence Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting. The FBI is the property of the US Government. Oklahoma and Louisiana and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo. ___________________ "And the Spirit moved upon the face of the water. . .As the air of temperate seas is pierced by the still dead breath of the Arctic Current; And they came to an end, a dead end stirred with a flicker of life. . . In the restless wind-whipped sand, or the hills where the wind will not let the snow rest. Waste and void. Waste and void. And darkness on the face of the deep." Meyers' spine chilled as Rodriguez' words echoed hollowly through the sunlit clatter. The divers were running last-minute checks, one eye on their equipment and one on the slap-ripple of water where the last glimmer of metal shone in troughs. Farrigut, in yellow neoprene and striped tanks, watched beside them. "We'll be there soon. We have to get close enough not to get lost. We'll get them. . . " "It's taking too fucking long. . . " Meyers' stomach was a cold, knotted thing in his gut, and his hands clenched and released the sun-bleached wood of the coping. Water slapped their hull, met itself over the spot where there wasn't any jeep and no men could be seen anymore. When he turned his head, forced his chin around, Rodriguez' brown eyes were wide and fixed, and his lips moved with prayer and poetry. He spun, glared at Farrigut in his rubber and weights. "You're in your tanks, dive for God's sake!" Hard, steady eyes looked up into his, and a wide mouth tightened. "Listen to me, kid. That water's like diving in liquid shit. It's thick and dark and brown and it's hot on top but you go five feet down and it's cold as hell. A man can get turned upside down and lost before he knows it in this shit. We don't dive in it unless we got to, and if we got to then we don't dive until we know where we're going and we can do it right." "They're sinking. They're trapped and they're under and that fucking maniac. . . " "Can just wait or he'll have even more deaths to his name." Meyers turned his back on them, ignored the sounds and counted the seconds and there were too many. Too many. And he couldn't let it happen. Soft words to himself. "I know the water, I've dived. Hell, I grew up in the water. . .They're not going to make it. We're not going to make it." Sam's eyes were on his face now. He swallowed and looked back. "I shouldn't have left him alone. He told us what would happen." Sam stared back, words caught in that moment before they could drop and make sense. "You didn't know. . ." "He told us, Sam. And we didn't listen." He barely knew it but one foot was suddenly bare, and he was yanking the shoe off the other. Ignoring the shouts and the words and the water was warm and stinking-thick around him as he dropped over the side, then cold around his feet. He could taste it in his mouth when he swam. Taste of a smell of chemicals and mud and land and death. Seaweed and jellyfish caught and stung at his fingers, and the water hurt his eyes. Words meant nothing more than sound behind him. All the world was light and water and salt and the sound of his own breath in his ears as he swam. And the tide was rushing out and the waves slammed around him, four and five feet over his head. And then his hand hit something hard and it hurt, and his foot kicked metal. Meyers pulled up to tread water, seeing waves and snatching breaths as they pounded over him until he could feel the air in his lungs and his veins and knew it was time. And he dove. "And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel. . . " "No!" "Don't fight me. . . " Jon's hand was tight around his wrist and he could feel the muscles trembling and the thinness of skin and flesh over bone. Mulder pulled his knees up and kicked, and Jon's pain-doubled gasp bought him a moment. The blond was sprawled across the backs of the seats, gagging, hands wrapped around his groin. Mulder scrambled over him, felt his body clear the backs of seats and drop into water. The cold shock startled a gasp from him and a hiss of pain as salt bit into his wounds. He couldn't see the door locks. Tingling and numb fingertips pushed at anything that would move and Mulder pulled himself tight and small under the shelter of the steering wheel. Water slapped at his chin and stung in his eyes when the jeep shifted. He coughed, swallowing a mouthful, tasting death and chemicals, gas and oil and salt. Elijah's hands blurred pale in the gloom, trying to reach him, and he cringed lower behind the wheel watching the man wedged between the bucket seats. "I won't go back, Fox. You won't stop me." Fury and pain roughened the words. Mulder spat gray-brown water. "You want me to just lie down and die like those kids you butchered? Go to hell, Jon!" "You're wrecking everything. I won't let you ruin this for me." There, he'd heard it. He knew he had. A sudden click chased the echo of Jon's words and Fox felt the sudden, terrible surge of hope. He wanted to sob with frustration. His arms were so heavy, and his legs trembled with cold and weakness where they were tangled in the pedals. It took so much. He lunged suddenly, exploding from under the wheel to wrap his arms around the back of the driver's seat. Tried to force his body over it where the seat hung crazily, facing down to the floor of the Gulf. From the corner of his eye he saw Jon's face, a hand reaching for him. Shut his eyes and pulled with all the strength he had left until he was half over, legs hanging. So hard to breathe the thick air, and he could see the trail of bubbles chasing each other towards the light. The headrest dug under his ribs and he gagged and stared, as a blur caught his eyes, and he saw a face, puff-cheeked, at a window. Then a hand was balled into the cloth between his shoulder blades, and it pulled with a force that slammed his head against the door post and sent nausea-stained stars behind his eyes. A hand locked itself around his throat forcing that kicked-in-the-balls sick pain through his larynx and squeezing, squeezing the light and the color and the air out of his world until he couldn't feel the hands he was clawing at, and couldn't move and couldn't. . . couldn't. . . The sound was something he felt rather than heard. Even the red roar in his ears couldn't hide it. A single hammer blow that pounded the Suburban and ripped Elijah's hand off Mulder's throat. A desperate breath hit the agent's lungs, doubled him in a painful cough and deep confusion. Mulder forced open his eyes even as he sucked down another heavy lungful of air. The pounding was softer, odd, and Elijah had twisted to see. . . The pale blur of a face crazily puffed by air, black hair that floated and a hand pounding at a shatterstar bullet hole in the rear window where water helped force the glass to. . . "Oh SHIT!" Mulder snatched a last gasp of air as the glass folded in, creased along the bullet's damage and disintegrated into tiny chunks. Water helped carry Meyers into the small space where a pocket of air had become a tingling wash of fleeing bubbles. The Gulf's slap struck the men in the jeep, pinned Elijah to the wheel and threw Mulder into the glass of the door. Desperate hands had Fox's shoulders and were pulling him away. Mulder's eyes hurt with the water as they opened wide, saw black hair floating free and a round, young face by his. Then hands forced him towards a jagged, little gap where glass had been, and sent him out to follow the last air from the car racing up towards the surface and the light. He kicked, felt Meyers' hands shove at his legs. The metal trim was slick under his fingers as he pulled his aching body clear. In the gloom he could faintly see Meyers looking up, see Jon still thrashing in the front of the cab. Meyers suddenly jerked as a hand flailed, caught at him, but the water was pounding against the blood in Mulder's head, hurting his ears and forehead with stinging needles of pressure and the air in his lungs snatched him back, buoyed him up, towards the air and light that had to still be there, somewhere. He didn't look behind him, only locked his teeth and lips tight, and held onto the air in his lungs with all the will and fear and need to live he could find. And rose, slowly and steadily as Jonathan Elijah Gragg found what he had sought. "In a drifting boat with a slow leakage, The silent listening to the undeniable Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation." "Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Averman stared at dirty, empty water. He could see men in scuba gear, but they were casting around, unsure of where to look. The AIC could barely see more from his perspective. The jeep had gone under to be lost in the murk almost immediately. And the faint smudge of Meyers' shirt was long-gone. When the paleness of skin and cloth suddenly burst through into air, he mistook it for foam for an instant. Only an instant. Then he was cursing and the chopper was circling lower, trying to get a clear sight of the man. And trying, like a buzzard, to mark what was there to be found. "Did he get your boy? Does he have anyone else with him?" The pilot's voice was taut with nerves. "I can't tell. I can't keep a clean sight on him. . . " The AIC held the glasses so tight they hurt his face, trying to follow the man in the water. And waves kept driving him under, carrying him away. And he couldn't see. . . "Shit. We're shoving the poor bastard under. . . " A sure hand pulled back on the stick and the bird lifted away from the serrated water. Averman looked down and breathed a curse, but under his breath he mouthed prayers. A prayer for the living and a prayer for the dead. And down below, so far away, he could see a white launch and a small, brown man. And knew that Rodriguez was waiting to say goodbye to a friend. The downdraft was a slap in his face, driving spray across the surface before the whirling blades carried the chopper up. Mulder barely noticed; another squat, foam-toothed wave loomed up to crush him under its weight. The analyst fought, forced his legs to kick, flailing with both hands. Heavy denim and sneakers pulled him down and the Gulf hit him in the face again. His mouth and nose were full of water and the cough doubled his body, carrying him under. So hard to hold onto himself against the sluggish, trembling ache. His lungs screamed to draw freely. Too hard. . . he felt the sudden water in his nose as his lungs drew, and terror jolted through him, heady and real. It got Mulder back up to the surface, gasping and flailing. A capricious wave caught and lifted him, showing him boats circling so close. As close as the sky and the sun. He couldn't feel his hands or feet. Not even the sting of salt in cuts. The bruised ache of exhaustion swept aside anything so trivial. Water slapped hard against his face again, pushing him under. Fog was eating up the world now, red and black and hurting him as it took the edges and kept growing. He threw his head back, reaching for air, but met only water and there wasn't anything left. All going away and the whirlpool had him. Scylla and Charybdis, sang a hollow voice in his mind, and it went round and round and he was going under now and he felt something wrap around him but it was just the mermaids singing and singing, and he couldn't hear anymore. No voices would wake him and all that was left was. . . The song and the dark. Rodriguez felt the launch shudder as the engines reversed to pull it to a stop. Orange dye spread over the blue-brown water, but here it was hard and pure and small, billowing out from three men in the water. Plastic covered two faces, but the third drew his eyes until he forced them away, and let himself slip down. He didn't want to see. He was afraid to know. There were shouts and the clamor of rescue was acid in his ears. The men up above had spotted someone. Coasties milled around, doing things he didn't try to follow. They didn't waste time with winches and harnesses, using muscle to simply drag the slack body of a man up over the side. Sam could hear his limbs thud and splash to the deck, and slowly turned to stare at the gray face. He couldn't feel the blood drain from his own face, or the warm deck under his butt. Just stared as Dr. Truong and one of the sailors went to frantic work to get the water out of Fox Mulder's lungs, to find a pulse and force the life back into the body they'd found. He waited, looked up. They were looking, but hadn't shouted, weren't gathered. There wasn't another face. The sea had yielded one body, and only one and might yet take him back. Rodriguez shut his eyes and saw words on a page. When he opened his eyes it was still Mulder's thin frame splayed on the deck, under Truong's hands. Face down, they pushed the water out of him. What looked like gallons spread clear and shining across the painted deck, spilling from gray lips and nostrils. It was taking so long. Some part of him knew it when they started CPR, and counted their breaths with them. He wanted to walk across the deck, take up the count with them, help pull a life away from the Gulf's greedy water. And he couldn't. Couldn't move and was afraid to feel or hope or try to reach for this life. Elijah and the Gulf had taken Marion. Truong could fight for a dead man, he didn't know any better. Sam knew. He'd said his prayers for the dead. Rodriguez watched a broad back posting up and down. His mind found the memory of the horses at home, of his friend posting the way Jenni told him. . . In memory a dry voice yelled across a paddock. "The sadist who invented this shit didn't get enough sex! I won't be able to screw for a week!" Saw Francis, stiff legged and laughing, moving up and down so much like this. The technician wasn't laughing. Truong's voice was urgent and impossible. "Got a pulse. C'mon, you bastard, breathe. . . " His words were loud in a waiting silence. Sam swallowed, tried to force himself over there. And couldn't. He couldn't stand to watch Fox Mulder die again in front of him. His eyes were closed, trying to shut out fear and sorrow and hope. He didn't want to hear Truong's words, and take hold, and finally let go again. "A curse is slow in coming. . . It cannot be diverted An attempt to divert it Only implicates others At the day of consummation. . . What ambush lies beyond the heather. . . And behind the smiling moon? And what is being done to us? And what are we, and what are we doing? . . . We have suffered far more than a personal loss - We have lost our way in the dark." Words came back from a battered page in the dead of night. Words that had guided Elijah, who had led them here. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and let the words wash away hope and fear and leave him where he'd been led. Then Marion started coughing, started breathing. Chills were running up and down Sam's spine and his mind was trying to understand something, but the shapes and words didn't seem to fit any of the thoughts in his head. Truong was shouting and the words that should have meant so much to him faded and were noise in the sunlight. Marion had been wrapped in blankets, and the launch slammed across the water, driven by its big motors. Sam could hear the sirens echoing over water. The familiar howls of ambulances and police cars. Someone put a hand on a shoulder he knew was his and shook him a little. "Doctor? Doctor Rodriguez?" It talked more, but he let the words go by. Remembered miracles. Jonah in the deep. Marion had been dead. He'd known it. He'd waited to say goodbye. The Blessed Virgin had said that Sam would take his friend to the door. . .and he'd known that he had. And another had taken him through. But Meyers had gone through the door with Elijah. He'd known. . . miracles just didn't happen. Another voice was talking to him. Sam felt words somewhere in his throat, but they didn't make sense and he didn't bother to say them. The boat wasn't bouncing anymore, not slamming him as it hit water, and he knew this voice. "Christ, Rodriguez. What the fuck happened?" He looked up at Averman, vaguely registered a long, long pause. Felt his neck lower his chin as the AIC crouched down to look into his eyes. "Rodriguez? Sam?" "Where's Meyers?" ". . . I don't know. They're still looking." Sam giggled. He felt it welling up and he didn't want it but he couldn't stop it. It tickled his nose and hurt his head and made the tears roll down his face. His nose was stuffy. "They won't find him. He's gone, Jack. That's what it takes to save the damned. Blood, Jack. It takes blood." "Sam. . . " "He knew, Jack. Elijah knew. Marion knew. 'This way the pilgrimage Of expiation Round and round the circle Completing the charm So the knot be unknotted The cross be uncrossed The crooked be made straight And the curse be ended.'" Averman's voice was hoarse, thin. "Sam, listen to yourself. It's over now, son. It's over, let it go. . . " He turned and yelled to someone else, and Sam giggled again. Giggled as the older man ordered someone to get another ambulance. "Listen, Jack. He knew. '. . . the curse be ended By intercession By pilgrimage By those who depart In several directions For their own redemption And that of the departed.'" Averman's eyes were shut tight. Tears streaked his drawn face as he looked away from Samuel Rodriguez' wide eyes and hollow voice, and words he should never have learned. Remembered a dog-eared page in a little book with Eliot's lost, sad face on the cover. And he cursed the memory of a marked page and turned back to look into Sam's face. And gave the final benediction of Sam's profane prayer. "May they rest in peace." Continued in part 37.................... =========================================================================== From: livengoo@tiac.net Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 37/41 NC-17 Date: 26 Feb 1996 05:59:53 GMT Oklahoma (Part 37/41) By Amperage and Livengoo Copyright October, 1995 International Readers: No third season spoilers Rating: NC-17 for language and violence Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting. The FBI is the property of the US Government. Oklahoma and Louisiana and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo. __________________ It was quiet in the country. At night, there were the security lights but nothing else. No towns close by to cast halos of light onto the horizon. Just the sweet blackness of night and the pure radiation of stars burning their light down onto a world filled with crickets and innocuous night creatures. He'd been here a day now. A whole day. Woken late at night on Thursday in Saint Pat's in Lake Charles. Spent Friday morning getting the truth out of everyone. Meyers was dead, Sam was on tranqs, flying to California to be in the arms of his family. Meyers was dead and Sam was having a nervous breakdown. Meyers was dead and Sam was going crazy too. Meyers was dead and Sam. . . Mulder tried to break the incessant drumming of those two thoughts, by staring at the television set. PBS. Something about animals. He couldn't follow the announcer's voice, and it didn't feel real enough for him to care. He'd picked up. Averman had argued and argued and there'd been a psychologist and then a psychiatrist, but in the end they'd had to let him go. Averman had stayed right there, like a quiet shadow. Upgraded the flight back to DC to first class. Ridden beside him, quiet, not trying to talk to him. Averman had snatched the bag of peanuts and the coke. Sprite instead. No peanuts. And the airport. National Airport. In retrospect, it had been fucking embarrassing. Averman steering him, one arm on his elbow, clutching. And then the Senator and the two hulking men who'd taken up position like Mulder was going to cut and run. Mulder wanted to get up from his place on the couch. Wanted to, but his body had settled in. It was fucking tired and now he had a place on the couch. When he moved it was like his joints creaked. His skin was feather-sensitive. And he hurt everywhere. His eyes felt like he'd been crying for hours--purified of all their tears. Fucking kidnapped. There had been no choice, just two men and one of them had had Valium if Mulder had tried to cut and run. Averman was an Agent, Matheson was a senior senator and Mack was a psychiatric RN. If he'd caused a scene they would have looked like fucking heros and he'd probably still be here. Here or in that damn hospital at Georgetown. He could still hear Matheson's voice in his ears, after they'd picked up all his luggage, deposited him into the fucking Bentley. "You have a choice, Fox. You can go with me and get better. We've gotten you as much leave time as you need. Or you can fight it and I've got a friend at Georgetown who's talking with Dr. Guiterriez in Oklahoma. They've guaranteed a bed on their secure psychiatric ward for you. Please, Fox. Come to the house in Virginia." The second man had been Matheson's driver. Averman had nodded, relieved when Mulder mumbled something. Gotten out, heading back to the taskforce and a world that wasn't Mulder's anymore. So he was here. Trying not to cry. Watching the television with Mack. And Ingrid. Ingrid was the housekeeper. It was a very nice house. A horsebarn in back. Ten miles from the closest town. Mulder's room and Mack's room had a bathroom between them. The doors had had latches to lock but someone had taken them off. Recently. Mulder had seen the latches lying on the kitchen table when he came in. His bedroom had expensive, antique furniture and a thick pile carpeting and a fireplace. But it was uncluttered, without knickknacks, and the bedcovers, plain functional things, were out of place in the midst of luxury. The wall outlets had been replaced with blank plates, except for the one under the bed, but his alarm clock and his lamp were plugged into that and you would have to move the heavy, carved, oaken bed to get at that outlet. The clothes he'd left in DC, some of them had been in the room when he'd gotten there. Matheson had given the rest of his luggage to Ingrid to sort through. He'd sat Mulder down, on this very couch, in the big back den, and talked clearly to him. It all seemed like a thick haze. A translucent, pearlescent haze that kept anything from touching him. Wrapped him in cotton wool. "Fox. I'm going to be able to keep everything safe for you. If that's what you want. I know you're having a hard time thinking right now. But I have to know." Matheson had been sitting on the coffee table. "You don't want to take psychiatric disability, do you?" "No." He'd shaken his head, wrapped his arms around his chest. "Do you want to stay in VICAP?" "Yes." "Now, I want you to think long and hard about this. You're not in the hospital, and I, personally, think you can come back from this. But I have to know. I'm going to be pulling some strings and calling in some favors to keep this quiet. Are you going to be able to get better? Not just partially better. All the way?" Mulder had started to say something about how he wasn't sick and that there wasn't anything wrong with him. And then he'd remembered when Averman told him Meyers was dead. He remembered when he'd finally gotten word that Sam wouldn't come see him because Sam was having problems of his own. He remembered banging his hand against a bedroom wall. He remembered Averman's hands on his shoulders as he was held against a hotel bed and a needle stung his butt and made the world recede. "I want to get better," he'd said simply. It was the best he could do. "I'm going to try." Soft, simple words that really didn't sound anything like him. Quiet words. It had been enough for Matheson. Supper had been a protein drink and oatmeal. Not bad. Not the oatmeal anyway. Mack had helped him eat, helped him form his fingers around the spoon. He'd hated that. Needing help. God, he hated it all. He was hungry and he wanted food and they gave him oatmeal. He hated this, being dependent. Being childlike. It irked and niggled at him. There were other pictures on the television set. They moved too fast for him. And Mack was speaking. Mulder shook his head and focused on Mack's lips. Mack probably worked his way through college as a bouncer. "First a bath and then bed," Mack was saying patiently. "Come on." "I'm not tired," Mulder replied, mostly for form's sake. His throat hurt, was raw. He could only whisper. Mack smiled patiently. "Come on. Do you need help walking?" "I don't need your help," Mulder replied, indignant. "I don't need any one's fucking help." "Come on." There wasn't much choice. Someone had laid his old ratty shorts and a t-shirt out on the bed for him. He wanted to take the clothes and sling them across the room. He could find his own fucking clothes. Damn it. Damn it. He walked into the bathroom; Mack was there. Sitting on the toilet. "I'm not taking a shower with you here," Mulder said, hands on his hips, exasperated. "Fine. Then I'll run you some bath water." "I'll take my shower by myself," Mulder replied. Take a quick shower and then fall into bed. Try to forget that the room was politely childproofed. "Fox, I can't let you take a shower by yourself. If you want to take a shower I'm going to stay here. If you want to take a bath, I'll go away." "I want to take a shower, without you here." "You're not strong enough. If you fall, you could hit your head. It's not safe." Mack's voice was patient. "You have two choices. But showering by yourself isn't one of them." "NO," Mulder replied. "I'm going to take a shower without you hovering over me." "That's not an option. In a few days, when you're stronger, it may be. But tonight it's not an option," the big, blonde man said easily. "No." It was irrational. He knew he would lose. But right at that moment, Fox Mulder didn't give a fucking damn in hell. Just didn't fucking care. He wanted to take a shower by himself. Didn't want someone outside the curtain waiting to catch him. Didn't want to squat in bathwater and feel it fill with dirt and crud. He wanted to fucking take a shower by himself. Mack took a deep breath. "Fox, let's get you undressed and into the tub." "You're not touching me!" He felt is voice grow shrill. "I'd let you do it if it were safe. But it's not safe. Not tonight. Come on. Why don't we just put you to bed now? We'll discuss it again in the morning, when you're feeling better." Mulder stared at the nurse. "NO. NO. Will my options be any different?" Mack didn't answer. "Fox, come on. This isn't a big deal. Calm down." And suddenly it didn't really matter anymore. He felt his control slipping away, replaced with a sudden irrational anger that boiled from some deep fire inside him, some fire he didn't know existed. It burned and he couldn't stop it, couldn't stop anything that happened. He was so pissing mad. Treated like a child and there were blank plates on the outlets and the locks were missing and he couldn't even fucking take a shower alone and he hated standing there, every fucking bone on his face in sharp detail and his eyes were smudged and ringed and looked very nearly like he had two black eyes and he'd lost twenty pounds and his hands and his wrists were bandaged and screaming at him and here was Mack who didn't understand any of it, trying to fucking tell him, fucking tell *him* what to do. Mulder lashed out. Crying. "Stop it. STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO." He knew he had to hit something. He knew he had to have the pain coursing through his body, had to cause some sort of pain somewhere or he wasn't sure what the anger would do. Wasn't sure what would happen. He just couldn't stand the anger and the rage and it was all churning and. . . Mack's arms were strong around him. His back was pressed against Mack's chest and Mack had Mulder's arms crossed, had Mulder's wrists in his big, beefy hands. Mulder struggled. Fucking didn't care. Fucking just hoped that he hurt something, kicking and fighting and screaming at the top of his lungs. Didn't matter anymore. Fucking didn't fucking care. He spent his rage kicking and screaming and trying to get loose, trying to get away, trying to hurt Mack. Seeing himself in the mirror, his body locked against Mack's, his face contorted, thin, wraithlike body twisting madly. He hated what he saw and yet he couldn't stop it. There was no way. He couldn't make it end, couldn't make the pain any less. It was exhaustion that finally won out. He fought and fought and squeezed every last bit of energy out of his system. He was huddled in a tiny ball on the tiny montage of tiling in the bathroom, Mack hunkered over him, still clutching his wrists. His face was on his knees and he was sobbing, couldn't breathe. Sobbing and tired and he could hardly move. He weakly made a motion, trying to show that he still had energy. Mack's hands were firm. He wanted to speak but the sobs that burst out of his fragile body kept him from it. The sobs hurt and took energy he didn't have. The sobs wracked him and made everything shake and he couldn't stop them. He couldn't make it end. It wouldn't end. It wouldn't ever end. Jon and Elijah and Meyers' young stupid face. Meyers. Staring at him like he was the messiah come to an ignorant flock. Meyers talking to him. Frito was crazy too. If that last fact was supposed to make him feel better, it didn't. He was only dimly aware of being almost carried into the bedroom and being set on the overstuffed easy chair, of his shirt being unbuttoned and the t-shirt being slid on. Of hands unbuttoning his levis, of moving his butt so that the jeans could slide off and then again so that the shorts could go on. He huddled in the chair in a ball, sobbing. Everyone was gone so far into the long, long dark. No one had fought. He was given a glass of water and he expected pills. Pills or a syringe. But there was no needle or syringe. There was only a glass of water and then covers being tucked over his shoulders, lights being dimmed to murkiness and then to nothing, and he was scared. "Pleasepleasepleaseplase." The voice was a child's. Mulder wondered who was begging in such a young, terrified, pitiable voice until the bedside lamp came on. "Are you frightened of the dark?" Mack's voice was soft. Mulder hiccupped, trying to keep out the sobs that had suddenly renewed themselves. "No." Mulder embarrassed himself with the sobs that punctuated his voice. Mack stared at him. "Okay. Why don't I leave the bathroom light on. Will that be enough or do I need to get you a nightlight or leave on a lamp?" No mockery. Just a simple question. "Enough," Mulder managed. "Okay. Do you want me to stay while you go to sleep." "No." Nononono. He wasn't a child. But everything was so far away now. Everything had receded into nothingness. Everything was distant. Jonathan's body lay on a slab in the cold and someone had pulled out all his organs and sewed him back up. Jonathan was dead, he had gone were he had sent all the children. Was there a heaven? Fox knew there was not, but he desperately wished there was. Jon would be with Mary and Sarah. Everything would be all right. But there was no heaven. Mack took the water glass. "I'm going to sit in the door. If anything happens I'll be here. But it'll be like you're alone." Mulder swallowed. Nodded. Mack rolled out of his bed, feet hard against the hardwood floor of his bedroom, he raced across the two bedrooms, flicking on Fox Mulder's bedroom light. The screams were loud and terrified, and Mackenzie Forrester had no idea where Fox Mulder could find any energy at all, much less enough to scream and scream and scream like that. His figure was small and terrified, buried against the headboard. Ingrid was in the doorway and Mack waved her back away. Mulder's eyes were open. "I want my dad." The voice was terrified. "I want my dad." Mack swallowed, not sure how to answer that. Mulder wasn't here, wasn't listening. He was lost in some world his mind had decided was safe to play out nightmares in, because it was night. Because it was night and people didn't think you were psychotic when you had bad dreams. "Your dad can't come." "I want my dad," Mulder insisted. "I know you do." Mack got closer, Mulder scrambled even more tightly against the polished wood. "I know. But I'm here." "I want my Dadda. Where's my Dadda? He didn't hurt me. He didn't. Please let my Dadda come." Mack knew that Mulder had been abused, knew that from the conversation with Averman. Still he felt his stomach drop, felt the blood drain from his hands, felt his body grow cold. "It's okay. He'd be here if he could. But he can't. But I'm here. I'll take care of you. Like your Dadda." "I want him." The howl was inhuman, but the long form did not resist as Mack sat down on the bed and pulled him. The howling was painful. It did not strain Mack's ears. But there was something broken in it. He held Mulder's shoulders and head against his chest and rocked and tried to compete with the howls and the tears with lullabies. Held onto the psychotic form and rocked comfortingly and wondered what, if anything, Mulder would remember of this in the morning. The bath was quick and hot. He took off the layers of sweat quickly, got out, dried himself off. It still bugged the hell out him. Mack had given him nothing. No drugs. Mack hadn't sedated him. He pulled on boxers and then blue jeans and a shirt. The clothes felt so rough. He was tired. Clean and sweet smelling and tired. He lay on the bed, curled up on his side, waiting for Mack. The footsteps were quiet. An afghan. Mulder rolled over. "You didn't give me any drugs." "No." Mack watched as Mulder pulled himself up into a sit. "You should have given me drugs." "It worked out without drugs." "Do you have drugs?" "Yes." Mulder stared at Mack. "Why didn't you give me drugs?" "It wasn't the best thing for you." "How do you know that?" Mulder asked. "I talked a long time with Jack Averman. He told me everything. As long as I don't have to, I won't use drugs." "I suppose I should say I'm sorry." "If you're not sorry, don't apologize." Mulder considered Mack. Tried to reason out Mack's line of thought. Found he couldn't and just sat there. "I'm not crazy," he said softly. Mack wondered about that, but didn't challenge it. He'd had this charge for less than eighteen hours and had already gone through two crises. Matheson had scoured for someone like Mack. Good and confidential and willing to do a lot for a lot of money. The guy should probably be in a seclusion room somewhere. But the people around him were going to give him every chance to get his shit together before they took that road. And, you had to respect the things this man had accomplished. He deserved this chance. Even if it was an incredibly unlikely thing. He still deserved this chance. Mack gave the barest nod. "Why don't you come to breakfast?" "More oatmeal?" "I think she made some malt-o-meal for you." Like that was so much better, Mulder thought, put his socks on, slowly, painfully, then forced his feet into shoes. He ate half the bowl before he was too tired. "It's okay," Mack said, taking the bowl and dumping it into the sink. "But you're going to have to eat fairly often." Mulder swallowed and nodded. Drank a little more of the chocolate protein friend, a little flat Sprite. "I'm making potato soup for lunch," Ingrid informed them. "And some cup custards. Is there anything you like, Fox? It's got to be soft and light." "If you don't mind." Mulder gave an unsteady, half smile. "Please stop calling me Fox. I hate the name Fox." "What do people call you?" Mack exchanged a glance with the housekeeper. She seemed nice enough. And she hung on Matheson's every word. Matheson said jump and she turned green. "Mulder." Mack nodded at this, got up. While he was down the hall, Ingrid sat with him at the table. No one spoke. Mack came back with a small box. Tape and gauze and salves. Mulder sat, watched as Mack bandaged his hands, biting his lip, chewing on it, really, watching Mack salve and bandage the cuts and the burns, wrap cooling cloth over the raw places on his wrists. Mack gave him some Tylenol and the antibiotics he'd gotten in Lake Charles when it was over. Looked at the back of Mulder's head where he'd hit it. A nap before lunch, curled up on the bed, with a crocheted, (or was it knitted? It looked crocheted. Mulder's mother hadn't been much for either, although there had been plenty of female relatives who *had*.) afghan tossed over him. A nap that stretched on and when he woke, shadows were long and the light was golden, honeyed. His mouth felt funny, nasty and rubbery. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and wandered, barefoot, into the back den. The television was on, nominally, and Mack was reading The Eye of the Dragon, the new Stephen King. "Well. It lives." Mack's voice was friendly. "Yeah," Mulder replied sheepishly. His stomach growled. "What time is it?" "About seven." "Shit." Mack grinned. "Don't worry about it. When you're asleep I don't have to play Race Bannon, companion." "Did you ever wonder if Race Bannon was more than Dr. Quest's friend. . .I mean. . ." "Yeah. They were always *looking* at each other and there were so rarely *babes*," Mack replied. "Well, if you're expecting to get any Bannoning, forget it. I'm saving myself for some completely mindless encounters with the female of the species." Mack grinned. "At least you don't have to lie." "About what? Unless it's true what they say about guys with big muscles. . " He followed Mack down the hallway and into the kitchen. Ingrid was sitting at the table, writing a letter. She smiled at Mulder's approach. "I expect you're starving." "I'm hungry," Mulder replied, grinning sheepishly. "Ravenous." "Sit down," Ingrid ordered. She was a beautiful woman, even in her sixties. Her body was still slender, and her face was patrician. She spoke with a slight German accent, even though Mulder guessed she must have been in the states for many years. "Do you want Gatorade, Koolaide or Seven-up." "Seven-up." "Now, what was that about guys with muscles?" Mack asked. Mulder blinked, tried to remember the conversation. "Oh. . .Guys who build big muscles are making up for deficiencies in. . .uh. . .other areas." Mulder grinned. "Now, tell me why you have to lie." "Because women hear male nurse and think fag. I'm doing this because I like being able to work where I want, when I want, and always be in need." Ingrid brought Mulder his Seven-up, set it on the slick, polyurathene surface of the kitchen table. She set down a place setting and a cloth napkin. "I made an appointment for Monday with Dr. Walters. The senator knows her very well. She's a GP in Markville. There's also a therapist, Dr. Jacob Reid." "I don't want to go to any therapist," Mulder replied, darkly. "Well, Dr. Reid said to give you a few days to adjust, so we can put it off." Uh-huh. Mack thought about the tears and the anger and the confusion. "But you have to see someone. Tomorrow's Sunday. Do you go to church?" Mulder shook his head. "I don't believe in that," he said finally. Eliot believed in God, eventually. Why? Mulder wondered that, sitting there, staring across the evening dusk. Ingrid brought him a steaming soup bowl of potato soup. Everything was over and he was sitting here. Like Tiresius with his wrinkled dugs. Ingrid was watching something outside, distracted. Mack helped Mulder with the spoon. Mulder felt tears of frustration, but he let Mack help him. It would get better. It had to, didn't it? He ate his soup and didn't think about the answer to that question. Because it didn't have to get better. The screams. Again. Another night. More screams. And screams and screams and even when the lights came on suddenly, bathing the big bedroom in light, he was screaming. More energy tonight. He was between the wall and the heavy wardrobe. Huddled, trying to hide, to be small. Mack's approach sent him into hysterics. Sent him scrambling, terrified, his eyes bright and round, scattering light like crystal. "NONONONO." Mack swallowed and tried to wait. Tried to hope that he would calm down on his own. That he would be consolable. Averman had said. . .Averman had warned him. He watched Mack with fear and distrust. Crying and sobbing and rocking himself. Holding himself tightly in a tiny ball. Mack felt his heart sink. He hadn't wanted to give drugs. Hadn't wanted to send Mulder spiralling down. Oh God, that would be the first step leading to committal. Mulder wasn't hurting himself, just huddling terrified. Sobbing, screaming. Trying to make himself even smaller. Mack sat down cautiously, slowly. Sat and watched Mulder. The screams lost their severity eventually. As raw as his throat was, Mack had to wonder how he'd screamed as loudly, as long as he had. The howls lost their severity and became whimpers. There was something awful and horrible in this, in sitting and watching. In Mulder curled up. So terrified he would not speak. This terror, Mack swallowed to stare at it. This was not terror from the kidnapping or from the breakdown. This was something that went even deeper than beatings and bruises and never knowing when the belt would fall. "Mulder?" Mack asked softly. Mulder did not respond. Tried to swallow, acted though it was painful. "Mulder, I'm going to get you some water? Okay?" Mulder said nothing. Just stared. Mack moved. Got up. Went into the bathroom for water and a cup. "Jonathan said it was all right. But Sam's not dead." Mulder was speaking to the air, a soft, quiet tone as though to reassure himself. "I saw this blue light. And there was water in the car. Sam's not dead. They held me down and told me it would be all right. They always hold you down when you're hurt. They told me it would be all right. Tiresius in his grey skin. I assumed a double part. They always came back. They always come and you can't do anything." He was babbling now, his sandpapery voice muttering the words quickly. Mack sat back down with the water glass. "Fox." For some reason the name came easily. "Fox. I have some water. I want you to drink it." Mulder stared at Mack, finally acknowledging him. "She's not dead, is she? Jon said she was dead." His swollen eyes threatened more tears. His nose was red and puffy and he breathed rapidly through his mouth. Mack swallowed. "Come on. I know you need to drink some water." He pushed the water glass forward. "Pleasepleaseplease. Tell me she isn't dead. Tell me she isn't dead. Tell me they didn't come. SHE ISN'T DEAD!" His voice went up to the top of his current register. "No, Fox." Mack didn't know if it was the right thing to do, just knew that he couldn't answer that question with anything else. "No Fox. She isn't dead." "Jon said she was dead." It was a childish whine, made gut- twisting by the soft desperation and sorrow that ran through it. "Jon said I had to go to heaven to see her. He said she was dead." "It's okay." He still didn't know who Mack was. But he was willing to be comforted now. Willing for Mack to be there. "It's okay, Fox. It's okay." Mulder closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His mouth choked. He began sobbing anew. Quieter sobs, not frantic. "Fox. Come on." Mack set down the glass of water. Put a hand around Mulder's sharp, thin shoulder. "Come on." He pulled the long, emaciated body out of the corner by sheer force, wrapped himself around Mulder, until the younger man was cradled in his arms and lap. "It's okay. "I'msorry. I'msosorry. I'msosorry. I am. I loved her so much. I didn't want it. I'msorry. They came and I. . .I. . .they always took me before. . .Allmyfault. ..Myfault." "It's all right. Shh. It's okay. It's okay." Mulder continued the slow litany of guilt and pain, counterpointed by Mack's soft shushing of calm until morning came, until finally, he dropped off into exhaustion, huddled, his face pressed against the crook of Mack's arm, clutching at the material of Mack's t-shirt. Face red and puffy. He scarcely moved when Mack picked him up, curled him up in the bed. He woke just for a moment, face swollen and miserable, stared at Jon. "I'm sorry," he muttered again. "It's okay," Mack said, putting a soft, calming hand on the dark brown hair. "Everything's all right." Continued in part 38...................... ===========================================================================