Chapter Text
Seek Ye
Part 1
12:07 am
"Mulder," he said sleepily, mumbling more around the mouthpiece than into it. He adjusted the phone, almost unconsciously, trying to hear the rasping voice on the other end a bit more clearly. As he listened, he could feel himself coming fully awake, electrified by the words spoken on the other end of the line.
He pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor and one arm braced against his thigh. The motel phone was tight against his ear, but he was still having difficulty hearing. "Wait a minute," he said. "You need to slow down. I can hardly make out what you're saying."
The voice on the other end took a ragged gulp, then whispered, "If you don't come now, they'll move her again, and you may never find her."
"Where?" Mulder asked urgently. "Come where?"
"I told you, the old mill, out on the ..." There was a sudden scuffle, then a muffled cry, and finally the sharp crack as the phone was hung up, hard.
Mulder sat and looked at the phone, then slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle. He ran his hands through his hair, his mind frantically searching for explanations. Who was the caller? Who was the 'she' referred to? Samantha? Scully?
He leapt to his feet in a sudden panic, and crossed the small room in two large steps. He opened the door between his room and Scully's and stepped in quietly. In the half-light of the moon and a street lamp, he could just make out her form, curled on her side, blankets pulled up to her chin.
He stood silently for a moment, waiting, and then she breathed. And with her breath, he released his own, the one he hadn't realized he was holding. She was OK. She was here. She was safe. He stood for a minute longer, content to watch her breathe. Gradually, his breathing synchronized with hers, and his racing heart slowed. The panic receded and he was left only to fight the urge to go to her, to touch her, to assure himself of her continued place in his life.
With a soft sigh, he turned and went back to his own room, closing the door gently behind him. As he stepped into the room, he snagged the sweat pants he'd worn earlier on his run, and pulled them on over his boxers. He dug out a T-shirt from his suitcase, then clean socks. He finished dressing quickly, pulling his battered running shoes back on. Even as he wrestled the hooded sweatshirt that went with his pants on over his head, one hand was reaching for car keys, room key, and wallet. He swapped the battery in his cell phone for the new ionized one - supposed to last longer and shoved the phone in his pocket. He strapped the little ankle holster on last, checked his weapon, then rose and walked to the door.
With a backward glance, he muttered, "I'm sorry, Scully, but I can't afford to let this go. Please understand." His mea culpa complete, he trudged down the stairs and out to the parking lot to find his car, and hopefully, some answers as well.
12:15 am
She woke to the feeling of being watched. She lay very still, forcing herself not to move, not to react. Opening her eyes to the tiniest slit, she peered across the room from her curled up position in the bed. The washed out light from the street lamps outside found its way around the heavy drapery, providing just enough illumination for her to see it was Mulder, standing in the doorway, watching her.
She let her eyes close completely, then opened them to look reassuringly across the dimness of the room. He often did this, coming silently to her room in the dead of night. When it first happened, she would rise and ask if he was all right, was there something he needed. But he was uncomfortable with her questions, and would shrug and offer apologies for disturbing her before padding quickly back to his room. His room. The room on the other side of the door. The door he used as a wall to protect her from the threat he thought of as himself.
She had quickly learned, once she knew it was him, to lie still, letting him take what he needed, letting him work things out at his own speed. She would open her eyes, and watch him, remaining silent, but letting her thoughts and emotions flow out to him. Sometimes, just standing by the door, watching her, would be enough. He would gain whatever measure of comfort or reassurance he required, then slip back to the other side of the door.
Sometimes, he needed more. Then he would steal quietly to the side of her bed, to stand, or even kneel beside her, his eyes drinking in her presence greedily. On one or two memorable occasions, he had even reached out and touched her hair gently, his fingers smoothing the unruly strands. Sometimes he met her gaze, other times he kept his eyes averted, as if ashamed of his own need, his own perceived weakness. Sometimes he stayed mere minutes; other times he stayed so long, she fell back asleep under his watchful eyes.
He had begun this strange ritual the first year they worked together. It hadn't taken long, after that first case, for them to realize that adjoining rooms were more convenient, and made it easier to confer with one another while on a case. She'd learned then how little he really slept. And how afraid he was of letting anyone get close to him.
But close she had gotten, and closer they had become as the years passed. And now it seemed as if they were connected to one another in a way she had never experienced. She was closer to Mulder than she'd ever been to anyone, even the few men she had been intimate with. And yet, physical intimacy was far removed from her relationship with her partner. Their joining went beyond the physical, and, while it left her frustrated at times, she knew that in many ways, Mulder was like a wild animal, and he would have to come to her, in his own time, at his own pace.
She sighed softly, a tiny expulsion of air, not hard enough or loud enough to frighten him away, as she realized tonight was a 'from the door' night. His panicked breathing had calmed as she had been lost in her own thoughts. She was still studying him, wondering if she would ever figure this puzzle of a man out. She offered him a half-smile, and saw the longing on his face, but once more, he denied himself, and turned back to his side of the door.
He'd be tense in the morning, unsure of her reaction, as if she would be different despite this ritual's hundred other happenings. Once he saw her smile, once he knew she wouldn't speak of it, he would relax, and things would return to normal. Until the next time when his need would overcome his reticence and he would make his way to her room again. Needing to know she was there. Needing to see her, or to touch her. Needing the comfort of her presence or the reassurance that she was still alive, and still with him.
She sighed again. Someday, he would be ready, and then he would do more than watch her in her bed. He would be ready to join her there. She closed her eyes, and shifted, then let herself drift back to sleep.
1:32 am
He'd driven this same stretch of road three times now, staring in vain into the swirling fog as he tried to spot the turn-off to the old mill that showed on the map. When he'd left Scully, he'd gone to the rental and pulled the local map the car company had provided. Apparently, the old mill was a bit of a historic site and rated not only a mark on the map, but a small description in the margin notes as well.
"Fierce spring thaws, causing the river to flow too quickly for the mill to run, resulted in its closure and abandonment after only four years of operation."
Pulled from his thoughts when he saw a slight indentation in the road, and a slight lessening of the fog on his left, he turned the wheel sharply and felt the wheels bump hard as he exchanged asphalt for dirt.
He slowed somewhat, fighting the urge for speed, the need to reach the mill and find out who had called, what this was all about. He could feel the stress on the car and tires as each bump in the road, each rut across it, jarred the suspension and shook him within the Taurus' confines. When was he ever going to learn and start renting four-wheel drives? He shook his head ruefully, and slowed some more, as the car hit an especially nasty rut and the wheels yawed hard to the right, threatening to skid off into the line of scrub bushes that bordered the narrow roadway. He grappled with the wheel, finally succeeding in getting the vehicle back onto the road, and headed in the direction of the mill.
Slowing still more, till he was traveling at little more than a snail's pace, he continued to make his way toward the end of the hilly road, fighting the twin disadvantages of the rough road and the heavy fog.
He was heading up a rise, the road narrowing even more, and the scrub bushes on the right disappearing to be replaced with an increasingly abrupt drop into -- what? The river he supposed. It was a mill he was headed for. And the map did say it was a swift river in spring. He could only assume it would be on the other side of this rather steep hill.
He was just reaching for the map, to take one more look at the route he'd laid out, when the car was struck violently from behind. His body jerked forward, the seat belt catching him hard across his chest. He automatically hit the gas, knowing that he had to get away, and fast, because another hit like that would surely trigger the automatic gas cut-off, and then he would be a sitting duck. He could feel every bump and rut in the road now, each one bone-jarring, but still he accelerated, not sure who or what was behind him. The road rose rapidly, and turned sharply to the left at the top of the hill.
As he crested the hill, he felt the impact from the rear again, and this time, at the speed he was moving and the sharp turn he was making, he felt himself losing control. He struggled to hold the car on the road, gunning the motor, but was rewarded with a cough, then silence as the gas cut-off safety feature kicked in. "Safety, my ass," he swore, as he fought to regain control of the vehicle that was now pulling hard to the right, to the side of the road that seemed to vanish into nothing, hidden in the fog as it was.
The wheels had lost all traction, and he realized he had no hope of pulling the car out of its swerve. He still turned the wheel desperately into the slide, but the wheels refused to grab, and he continued to skid toward the edge of the road. Suddenly, he felt the wheels catch, traction was restored, and he clenched the wheel, hopeful he might be able to pull the car back from its precarious position, skimming along the side of a steep embankment. He cautiously tapped the brakes, trying to slow the car's momentum, and was rewarded with a slight clutch as the brakes caught, the tires held, and the vehicle slid to a stop.
He sat panting for a moment, then unfastened the seat belt and bent to retrieve his weapon from the ankle holster. He was in this awkward, uncomfortable position, long body folded over, half under the steering wheel, when the car was hit again. This time it was a strike from the side, a deliberate push that shook the car violently, caved in the driver's door, and sent the car careening over the edge of the embankment.
He tried to straighten, but the car was twisting and rolling in its precipitous descent, and without the seat belt to hold him in place, he was quickly becoming just another flying article inside the vehicle as it rolled, and he rolled, down the hill. He felt something -- the dome light, maybe? -- connect hard with his skull and a wave of blackness threatened to overtake him. He tumbled again from ceiling to door to seat to door, unable to control his body, unable to protect himself, and this time, the impact with the -- dashboard? steering wheel? -- was overwhelming and the blackness rushed in.
'I'm sorry, Scully. I should've told you,' was his last coherent thought, and the last thing he remembered for a long time.
5:08 am
Cold. That was his first sensation. Wet. That was second. And both were followed rather quickly with a third, one he would much rather not be experiencing again. Pain. Pain was everywhere. He took a silent inventory. Pain in his head, in his face, in his mouth, the left arm, his belly, and his right calf. And his eye. He struggled to open his eyes, the right eyelid lifting without too much difficulty, though he could feel the swelling there. 'Gonna have a helluva black eye -- maybe two.' But the left lid wouldn't open, and that was the one where the pain was located. He tried to raise his hand to feel but the left arm wouldn't move at all. 'Definitely broken,' he thought. And the right one was trapped under something. 'Something for every part of the body,' he thought mirthlessly.
Cold was spreading, and wet seemed to be working its way up his body. Or was it down?
The car was on its side, the driver side door that had absorbed the impact buckled beneath him. His head lay wedged between the two seats and his bottom and back rested uncomfortably on the damaged door. He was propped at about a 45 degree angle, with the steering wheel pressed hard against his torso. It was an awkward, contorted position, and he really couldn't figure out how he had ended up like this. But the worst part was his legs. Bent back around the steering wheel and over the dash, his left leg was folded at the knee and resting across the wheel from his chest. But the right leg -- he tried moving it experimentally and groaned as pain rocketed through his calf and radiated outward -- his right leg was protruding through the shattered windshield, a sharp piece of metal, twisted from the windshield frame, deeply embedded in the muscle.
His head was pounding, making it hard to think, almost impossible to focus on anything for very long. He knew there were things he needed to do, but it was so hard to remember what they were, and given his condition, he felt sure it would be impossible to do them anyway. He was overwhelmingly tired, and wanted nothing more than to let himself drift away again, but some part of him knew this was dangerous, and he moved again, seeking the pain that granted him temporary alertness.
His clothes were soaked, and as he lay there taking inventory, it seemed the water was getting deeper in the car. Another reminder that he would have to do something, and soon. Scully would know what to do. The thought flashed through his mind from out of nowhere, and he had a brief mental picture of her -- first asleep in her bed, then answering a ringing phone.
The phone! That was it. He would find the phone and call Scully. She would come and get him, and then he could rest and she would fix him up and everything would be all right again. He moved again, this time trying to keep the leg still, but risking the pain that came from shifting the broken arm. He wriggled, working to free the right arm, and finally obtained a bit of movement. He managed to pull himself up enough to reach into his sweatshirt pocket, and miraculously, find the phone. He sank back down into the position he had awakened in, and lay panting for long moments as he fought unconsciousness.
Once he was able to think again, or what seemed to pass for thinking at this point, he flipped the phone open and pressed '1.' It took only two rings before a sleepy voice answered, "Scully."
"Hey," he croaked. Was that tortured voice really him? He tried to clear his throat, but that provoked a fit of coughing, which grew worse and worse and he began to cough up blood. That immediately nauseated him and he began to heave, which set off waves of pain as he struggled to sit up and keep from choking to death, and his stomach muscles jerked and spasmed, sending ripple movements through his arms and legs. His stomach emptied, he collapsed back to his former position, the phone still held open in his hand.
Dimly, through the blackness that was overtaking him, he could hear Scully calling him, "Mulder! Mulder! Where are you? What's happening?"
He wanted to explain. He knew he had worried her. He didn't want to upset her anymore. But there was nothing more he could do at this point. If he woke up again, he'd call her and explain. With his last rational thought, he closed the phone, and gave himself up to the darkness.
5:19 am
The chirping of the cell phone woke her, and she grabbed it up from the bedside table, opened it and said, "Scully."
A fractured voice made an indistinguishable sound, but she knew it was Mulder. She was on her feet in a minute, heading for the door to his room, but already aware of what she would find. Sure enough, it was empty and he was gone.
'Just let him be all right, let him be OK,' she breathed in silent prayer.
He was coughing now, violently, and she began calling him, "Mulder! Mulder! Where are you?" The coughing changed to the sounds of sickness, and she knew he wasn't all right, he wasn't OK. "What's happening?" The retching sounds continued, and then she heard what sounded like a gasp of pain, followed by an audible collapse as his body relaxed from its unwilling exertion.
She was still talking to him, trying to get him to answer, letting him know she was there, when she heard the click of the phone being closed, and the connection was broken abruptly. She closed her own phone and called him back, hoping against hope, but, of course, there was no answer.
She stood in the doorway, staring at his empty bed, then began to take inventory to see what he had with him. His Sig was still in his shoulder holster, folded and stuffed under clothing in his bag, but his smaller gun and the ankle holster were gone. Wallet and car keys -- gone. 'Damn, he would take the car.' Both suits still hung in his garment bag, so he was in casual clothes. She dug a little further. His sweatsuit was missing.
She finished her inventory, then went and sat on his bed. He hadn't gone running, as he often did in the dead of night. That wouldn't have required the car keys. So he had to have been off on a lead, and since he hadn't wakened her, it would have been unrelated to the case they were on. She looked at the small clock on the bedside table -- almost 5:30. It had been shortly after midnight when he had crept into her room. So he could have been gone for 5 hours. She wanted to scream in frustration. In five hours, he could have gone anywhere, gotten into any amount of trouble, done anything. He could be miles away, or he could be lying in a ditch, half-dead. Her frustration was rapidly joined by worry; by concern; by fear.
She flipped open the phone again, dialed, and once more got no answer. He was missing; he was hurt; and she was going to have to find him. But she couldn't do it alone. She didn't have the resources to implement the kind of search she needed. She reset the phone, then dialed again.
A rough male baritone answered, "Skinner."
"Sir," she began, "Agent Mulder is missing."
8:38 am
It was still cold. And wet. Very wet. More wet. He pried the right eye open and looked down at his lap which was now totally covered in icy water. Cold and wet; could pain be far behind? He tried to shift his body, and the anticipated agony exploded: in his head, his arm, his belly, and his leg. He froze in mid-movement, gasping for breath as he tried to sort out the assault on his body.
The arm was broken; he could feel the ends of the bone shift against each other and he groaned against the sharp pangs his action created. There was something in his leg. From where he lay, he couldn't see the leg, and he wasn't about to move to take a look, but he could certainly feel something sharp, something cold, something painful protruding from his leg. And his head: the tiniest motion sent waves of agony rocketing through his skull. The left eye seemed swollen shut beyond hope and the right one would only open to a tiny slit. The light hurt his eye; there was a non-stop ringing in his ears, and he wasn't certain he could hear clearly anyway.
He was wet from his waist to his thigh and the wet was icy. He was seated in a pool of river water that had flowed in through the shattered window. His upper body was relatively dry, but he could feel dried blood on his face and in his hair. He lifted his right hand, gingerly touching his face and head, and found several swollen knots; above his brow, behind his ear, on the crown of his head. Dried streaks of blood covered his cheek from the wound over his left eye. His hair was matted with blood and gore over the gash on the top of his head. The injury behind his ear was swollen, the skin split from the impact, and it began to bleed again as he touched it.
His inventory completed, panting against the physical distress, he slowly relaxed back to his former position, causing more movement, and renewed pain, as he leaned his torso back against the seat.
He took a deep breath and smelled blood. He swallowed, tasted blood, and immediately became nauseated. He fought to keep his stomach under control, afraid that if he gave in to the nausea, the spasms in his stomach would cause him to pass out again. There was too much blood. He probed the inside of his mouth gingerly, feeling several lacerations, and prompting another small flow of blood, which he was prepared for, and he spat into the water that surrounded him.
He had to get out of the water. It was cold and his extremities were already going numb, except of course, for when he moved; then there was entirely too much feeling, everywhere. But he was going to have to suck it up and get out of the water.
He closed his eye, the pounding in his head making it hard to see, to think. He lifted his hand again and carefully touched his brow, then the spot above his left ear that ached so badly. His hand came away red and sticky, and he fought the nausea that swelled again. He took several deep breaths and steeled himself for the coming agony. His single functional lid slid upward and he eyed the interior of the vehicle as it surrounded him, trying to determine the best way out. After weighing several options, he decided through the shattered windshield was his best course of action. There might be another way, but thinking was just too hard and painful, and he had to get out, now.
He dragged his hand down to his abdomen, and was surprised to find the cell phone resting on his belly. That was where the ringing had been coming from. He'd thought it was in his head. He had a vague recollection of calling Scully, and then not being able to speak to her -- his wounded tongue wouldn't form the words. He lifted the phone again. Maybe he could do better now. He had to do better now!
He opened the phone and pushed '1' again, and this time she answered, "Mulder? Is that you?"
"Uh-huh," he answered. He couldn't help himself; despite the discomfort, he was smiling at the sound of her voice. Everything would be all right now. Scully would come and get him. He relaxed so at that thought, he almost slipped away again, but her voice, calling his name, brought him back.
"Mulder? Mulder! Answer me! Mulder! Are you there?"
"Mmm," he mumbled. " 'm here."
"Are you all right?"
"Hurts."
"Where?"
Where? His thoughts clouded and he glanced around. His vision was fuzzy and with only one eye, his depth perception was nil. Where what? Where was he? 'Scully, it hurts too much to play twenty questions,' he thought, but actually saying it was beyond him. Instead, he answered the obvious.
"Car," he croaked.
"You're in the car?"
'Please don't make me say it again, Scully. It hurts. It even hurts to think.' But once more, he could not voice his thoughts. He was waiting now, waiting for her to come get him, and he could feel the blackness beckoning. It called to him, promising surcease from pain, a place to rest, a way to avoid the struggle.
"Mulder!" she was calling him again. "Stay with me, partner."
"Mmmm," he mumbled.
"You're in the car. Where's the car?"
He looked around. Where was the car? It was on its side, but where? He looked down. It was in the water. And the water was cold. He shivered and pressed the phone tighter to his ear. "Inda wata," he rasped out, and immediately began to cough.
"Water? Oh, sweet Jesus, what have you done? Where, Mulder? What water?"
He was still coughing, though weakly, and he strained to bring it under control. His mouth was bleeding again, and he turned his head and spat several times, avoiding swallowing the coppery fluids.
"Cold, Sculleeee," he cried. Oh, God, he was crying. What would she think now? She'd think he'd lost it, that's what. But he hurt everywhere, and she was busy asking questions instead of coming to get him, and he was cold, and wet, and tired, and it was so hard to think, and talk, and hold the phone.
His thoughts were a jumbled mess, coming and going at random, bouncing from one place to another, and he couldn't focus on any one thing for very long before the pain rose up and chased it away, leaving him to start again.
"Mulder?"
Scully was calling him again. How long had she been saying his name? He tried to shake his head to clear it, but that caused the pounding to escalate, and he nearly dropped the phone as he reached up to clench his temple. He brought the phone back to his ear, and whispered, "Cold. C'mn get me?" Oh, God, now he was whining. First crying, now whining. She'd never come for him now.
But she was there, her voice in his ear, soothing, calming,
promising.
"I'm coming, Mulder. I'm coming. But I need you to tell me where you are."
Didn't she listen? He already told her where he was. He cringed at the thought of having to repeat himself, then remembered, this was Scully. He could do anything for Scully. "In. Da. Wa. Ter." He enunciated as clearly as he could.
"OK, Mulder, that's good."
Good, he was doing good. She understood him. She would come get him now. But she was still talking.
"I know you're in the water. I need to know where the water is."
This was too confusing. He was answering her questions, but she just kept asking more. "Hurts," he mumbled again. Maybe she would understand now. It was just too hard to talk.
"Mulder, can you move?"
"Uh-huh." Good. That was easier. Ask yes or no questions, Scully. I can handle those. I can move, but it hurts. It hurts to move.
"Is there a lot of water?"
"Uh-huh."
"Is it moving? Is the water moving, or is it still?"
He began to cough, a deep choking sound that stole his breath and jarred his chest and head. Please, come get me, Scully. It hurts. He took a ragged breath, gasping inarticulately into the phone, then began to cough again. When he came back to himself, from the foggy place of pain and torment, he heard her still calling to him.
"Mulder, please answer me. Tell me you're still with me, partner. Tell me you're still there."
" 'm here, Sc ..." He gave up. It was just too hard, and it hurt too much.
"Mulder, I think you need to get out of the water. Can you move enough to get out of the water?"
Out of the water? That was a good idea. Maybe if he got out of the water, he wouldn't be so cold. Yep. That was Scully, always coming up with the good ideas. Out of the water. He closed the phone, and began to survey the interior of the car, looking for a way out.