===============================================================
ARCHIVE NOTE: Lesdean A. Warner's email address has changed.
(08MAY96) Please use the new address: xangst@marina-pt.com

===============================================================

Subject: New SOLITARY
Date: 31 Oct 1995

This one sprouted fully formed (Yea, like Athena from the head of Zeus,
grey eyes flashing) and I couldn't keep a lid on it. DEMONS WITHIN is
still coming, bit by bit, but this one just had to get out. It refers to a
few of my other stories, but only peripherally, so you needn't read any of
them before this one.

TIME NOTE: POST-ANASAZI (Watch it, Brits!) This will take place starting
around Christmas of this year, shortly after Scully and Mulder recover
from DEMONS WITHIN. There are no deviations from the established order of
the telly show (ie, Missy is still dead). It starts very much in the
middle of things, but bear with it, and you will, eventually, find out
what's going on.

As always, Mulder, Scully, etc. belong to Ten Thirteen Productions, Chris
Carter, Fox Broadcasting and the respective actors.
Brian Callahan, Carl Mossey, and the other agents are my own, as is
Conche.

Send all comments (flames and all) to LISDXPHILE@aol.com.

Thanks to Karen (of COMING BACK fame) and MacSpooky. Through their stories
and a few little emails, they've helped me hone my talents. Thanks, in
buckets, to Amp, whose THERAPY series gave such insight into Mulder. I
don't blame any of these for this story, but I thank them for much of the
good in it. (That's of course assuming that there *is* any good in it.)

Okay, here goes.

**********
SOLITARY

****
He shivered, the cold getting worse again. He supposed it was night--not
like it mattered in this darkness. He just liked to pretend that it was
important sometimes. That he was important.
He wasn't of course. He had done something so awful that he would live
forever in this cold dark. He deserved it. He could remember, dimly, an
FBI agent who asked him so many questions--too many. He had cried. He had
asked him to leave him alone, but still the questions came:
<What did you do with her?>
<Where is she?>
They were the same question, of course, but he had had so many
different ways of asking it. He curled into a tighter ball, his shoulders
rubbing the ceiling, his head tucked under for protection. He hadn't known
the answer for a long time, and even when he did know it, he didn't tell
them.
He deserved what he got now--life in the dark, pain, beatings,
starving. If he could starve forever, it still wouldn't be enough.
He'd lost her, and his dad was right--he was in charge. It was his
fault.
"Sam," he cried pitifully, his voice rough with tears and disuse. "I'm
sorry... I'm sorry..."

****

He hadn't drunk it. It took a lot for him to pour it on the ground,
hearing it drain away in the dark. He was so thirsty. But it was poison.
Simple fact--water was now poison. A lot of things had changed like that
in his time in the dark. Light was pain. Cold didn't feel like anything
anymore. Thinking used to be useful, now it was just... confusing.
Sometimes he knew what was happening--sometimes he didn't, but thought
he did. Through it all, there was one thing he knew--he'd been right.
Solitary could break a man. It could make you forget words, memories. It
could make you forget who you were.
He closed his eyes in the dark silence, listening to the breathing for
a moment, wondering if it was really his.
"Fox Mulder," he finally said quietly, not recognising his own voice.
"Fox Mulder."

****

He had hoped, this last time, that he would beat him hard enough to kill
him. He didn't hope for much anymore. He could remember hoping someone
would find him. He couldn't remember who that would have been. Certainly,
Mom and Dad were glad to see him gone. It *was* his fault, after all.
Still that hope had lingered for a long, long time.
He wished he would at least grunt when he hit him. It was like being
attacked by nothing--a nothing with a brick for a fist. He just wanted to
hear a voice again. Any voice. His didn't even work anymore.

****

It had been a long time. No beatings. No water. No food. He hoped this
would be the end. He hoped he'd just fade away here in a box for what he'd
done. How could he pay them back for her, except with his own life. It was
a fair trade.
Actually, he felt a little guilty--he wanted to die, so it wasn't as if
he was doing it for them. It was just all too hard for him now. He still
saw snatches of that person. There was something about... her? He shook
his head weakly. Something blue, a smoky sound, a bright smile.
He cried. He just didn't know any more. What was she? *Where* was she?
Wait, that was right. She was gone. It was his fault, right? That was
why he was here.
Right?

****

He could hear something--like a cry. Then, slowly, he saw the ceiling
coming off. The light was bright, painful. They were coming for him. They
had changed their minds, wanting him instead of her. He had to get to the
gun. He couldn't move, but he just had to. Dad was going to kill him. He
was *in* *charge!* It was his job to look after her, and he was just
letting her go. He wanted the gun. He wanted it so bad.
They were coming for him, and he couldn't get the gun, and he couldn't
move, and it was all his fault, and Dad was going to kill him!

****

Day 40

Christmas had come and gone... New Year's... even Martin Luther King Day.
It would be her birthday soon. No cheeky present, no shy invitation to
dinner, no settling for pizza and a video at her house...
No Mulder.
Scully sipped quietly at her coffee. "Damnit, Mulder," she asked in a
whisper, "where are you?"
She picked up the file. She hadn't looked at it in days--her
subconscious's way of telling her he was really gone, she supposed. She
knew it wasn't true. It couldn't be. She'd thought he was dead before,
but...
But he had come to her in a dream and told her that he was coming back.
And this time there had been no dream, no clues...
She wondered about the families of the other missing agents--she was
pretty much the only family Mulder had, excepting his mother. But Jerry
Prevan's third daughter had celebrated her fifteenth birthday without her
dad. John Carter's fiancee had watched their wedding date slip past. Carl
Mossey's wife had birthed their first child, and he hadn't been there to
hold her.
Their partners suffered, too. Deric Aldred seemed forever to be looking
for Jerry--to share a joke, or make a snide observation. Latham and
Callahan were no better, walking around like they'd lost half of
themselves.
And Scully? Well, Scully went about her business; performed the odd
autopsy, taught the occassional class... and tried to stay as far away
from every one else as possible.

Brian had lost it with her a week ago, as she had with him. His placid
acceptance of the situation annoyed her--it wasn't fair to Carl or Mulder.
They weren't pets who had run away. They were FBI agents who had been
kidnapped--they were out there somewhere. And they were *not* dead.

"Dana," he'd said quietly, his deep eyes speaking volumes of pain and
regret. "We have to face facts. They've been missing for a month. There's
so little probability of finding them alive now--"
"That we might as well give up and forget them?" she'd asked coldly. "I
don't think Carl's going to appreciate that... Neither will his wife."
"I don't think Mulder would have wanted you to--"
"Mulder is alive!" she'd nearly screamed. "He's alive, and he's waiting
for us to find him--not bury his memory!"
Brian hung his head angrily. "You're just like him."
She'd wrapped her arms accross her chest childishly. "Good!"
Brian ignored the outburst. "When you were gone... When your mom called
him to get the grave marker... He was so mad. He was sure you were
alive--that you'd come back."
She was shaking now. "And I did," she replied, a hint of purpose in her
steel blue eyes. "I did... So will he."

Brian had left her alone after that, which was just as well. She had a lot
to think about: the letters from Conche, his prison journals, the pysch
profile Mulder had put together on him some six months previous, not long
after they had returned from New Mexico.
She flipped through the photos--nothing special about them: empty cars,
graced only by the owner's gun and badge; a shot of Mulder's watch,
recovered by the side of the road; Jerry's overcoat found in Virginia. She
got to the letters, picked up the first one, forcing her eyes to run
through it, though she knew it by heart now:

Dear FBI,
I told your agents I'd pay them back for my life. I'm only taking what
they took. If you find them, they'll be what I became during those six
months in jail: hard, cold, and scared. One day, people will understand
that the legal system is more brutal than the 'criminals' they
incarcerate. For one mistake, I was thrown into a dark pit, like a
forgotten carcass, tenderised, and served up as an example of how a
prisonner of my 'ferocity' should be treated.
Well, for their mistakes, these agents will pay with their lives, but
first, they'll pay with their hearts and their souls and their minds.

He'd actually signed it, confident that they would never find him. And, in
truth, they hadn't. They had had virtually no leads to speak of--and
getting pulled off the case hadn't helped them in the investigation.

***********

Skinner had been cool, but she could see by the tightness in his jaw, the
anger lurking in his eyes, that he was no happier than she. He'd fairly
barked the words out.
"They want you off the case."
She had jumped to her feet as if spring-loaded. "Sir, I--"
"All of you, Scully," he'd said quietly, standing himself. "Callahan,
Aldred, all of you. The investigation will continue but..." He met her
eyes. "It's been decided that the four of you are too close to it."
She fumed for a moment, unable to say what she really wanted. <If you
think I'm just going to give him up for dead, you can go to Hell, you son
of a bitch!>
"Scully," he'd whispered, "They'll find them. But you can't just waste
your time running around in circles." He striaghted up, taking a deep
breath into his barrel chest. "I'm asking you to cooperate."
She just looked at him for a minute, almost getting the idea that he
didn't want her to cooperate. She couldn't say why that would be. Scully
pulled her spine out straight, meeting his eyes with something akin to
defiance. "May I ask," she said formally, "what my duties will be now,
sir? The X-Files aren't really cases that should be handled by one agent."
She watched curiously as he relaxed slightly. <I wonder who's
listening?> "You'll be doing consultation for Quantico and Violent
Crimes." His eyes tried to tell her something, and his words were the
cipher. "It's not a very time-committed job, Agent Scully," he said,
smiling back at her tentative, hopeful lips. "I hope you'll take some time
to yourself... Process what's happened."
She glanced quickly at the door to the right of his desk, straightening
further at his almost imperceptable nod. "Yessir," she answered quietly.
"I'll try to."
"Thank you, Agent Scully. You can go."

<Go search for him again,> Scully thought to herself as she stepped out
the other door. Skinner had orders to pull her off the case, but it didn't
mean he had to stop her from researching it on her own. She wondered if
Cancerman was back on the scene, wondered how he could have convinced
Skinner to let him try to control him again.
Skinner was a shrewd man, though. More shrewd than he was ever given
credit for being. As long as he got what he wanted--eventually--he could
play company politics all day. She smiled at his manipulation of the
situation. She was free to search now, without the worry of getting too
close to anything. After all, she'd just *officially* been taken off the
case...

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

A lot of good it had done her.
She had entertained the thought that maybe the government had had
something to do with it--it wouldn't be the first time they'd hooked up
with a criminal to further their own goals.
But there was no evidence, not even a hint. And why woud they take the
other agents? If it was even Mulder they were after.
She sighed, looking at the letters before her, picking one at random:

Dear FBI,
Your agents aren't nearly as resilient as you wish they were. It took
weeks to break me, but they're already bleating like veal--

She resisted the urge to crumple up the paper. <Asshole!> She couldn't
imagine what they'd be put through by a psycho like Conche. He'd already
shown he could kill--usually brutally. That was what had started the
investigation on him all those months ago.
Not that Mulder had had all that large a hand in it. That was what made
her hurt so much: He'd done a simple pysch profile--two scant hours of his
time. And for that, he would be put through Hell.

*****************
6:45 pm
July 30, 1995

<ring> "Scully."
He had sounded so tired. He still seemed so tired, after all the time
that had passed since New Mexico--so tired. "Hey, Scully. What ya doing?"
"Just finishing a little paperwork, Mulder." She had heard the entreaty
in his voice, smiled at it. He knew so well how to manipulate her. "Want
to come over for dinner?"
She could hear the relief. "Sure. Want me to bring anything?"
She'd shrugged in her empty apartment. "Just yourself."

7:45 pm

"So," he was finishing, biting into his pizza, "it looks like this guy was
a drug dealer at one time... Either that, or he knows how they think."
"How does he kill his victims?"
Mulder grimaced. "I'm trying to eat here, Scully."
She smiled at his squeamishness. "Sorry. Pretty gruesome, huh?"
He shuddered. "You have no idea."

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

She did now.
In researching Conche's history, she had naturally gone back to the
incidents that had led up to his capture and incarceration. His fifteen
victims had all been drug dealers, and all had died in what Conche must
have thought was a fitting way, depending on what they sold. The five
crack dealers had been cooked alive, the straight coke dealers had bled to
death after he removed their noses and shot them through the lungs. She
didn't like remembering how the heroine dealers had died.

She stood up, moving silently into the living room, curling herself up on
the couch.
She didn't bother even being tired anymore. She'd never have thought
she could go so long without sleep, but it just wasn't important. What was
important was the one little key that would unlock the secret of the
missing agents' whereabouts. The fact that she might have had better luck
getting her neurons to fire after a few hours sleep hadn't even occured to
her.
She should have seen the signs coming. It had just seemed so
unimportant at the time.

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

"Hey, Spook!" Brian Callahan's bass voice had exploded across the room at
them. With a shared smirk, Mulder and Scully had joined him, Mulder
regarding the startled agents around him with something like amusement.
"Sure you want to sit with the bureau pariah, Bri?" Mulder had asked, a
friendly grin on his face.
Brian looked past Mulder to a woman who was just gathering her things
to return to work. Her glare froze him solid--Bri did so like to be liked.
"I'm already a bureau pariah, Mulder."
Mulder glanced over his shoulder, catching the irate young woman in
deep conversation with two girls from accounting. "I forgot," he said
amiably. "One girl too many, huh?"
Brian gazed at Scully wistfully for a moment. "I should have stayed
with you when I had the chance."
Scully's smile told him that it was probably too late--but she wouldn't
mind letting him try for a comeback. Mulder cleared his throat, and the
mood.
Brian dropped his eyes back to his salad. "You hear they overturned
Conche's conviction?"
"Brilliant," Mulder said, nonplussed.
"How could they," Scully had wanted to know. "There was enough evidence
to send him to death row. As it was, life imprisonment was letting him off
easy."
"Well," Brian said quietly. "If you don't dot your i's and cross your
t's, someone's bound to get off."
"So how do they explain the fact that he was thrown in solitary four
times in the six months he was in?" Mulder wanted to know.
"Frustration at being wrongly convicted, if you can believe it."
"The Criminal Justice system at its finest," Mulder decreed cynically.

And that had been it. None of them had thought another thing about
it--until Friday morning.

===========================================================================

From: lisdxphile@aol.com (LisdXPhile)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: New SOLITARY 2/3
Date: 31 Oct 1995 21:24:57 -0500

****************************
SOLITARY
Part Two

7:30 am

Scully frowned slightly as she pulled into the parking garage. <Does he
*live* here?>
Mulder's car was already in its customary parking space, too much elbow
room around it, barely competing with the five or six other cars parked
around. She pulled her car up next to it, a little angry. Sometimes, his
obsession with work made her feel like she wasn't giving enough to the
job. <Right, Dana. Like you're not on call twenty-four hours a day.>
She had only glanced at the sedan, but something metallic on the
driver's seat had caught her eye. She leaned in closer, and caught her
breath.
On the seat sat his Sig and badge, and, with them, a small card which
said simply: Four. She tried the door, more worried when it opened easily.
She didn't touch anything, but died a little when she saw a smear of what
had to be blood on the headrest.

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

And he was gone. As were the three other agents who had testified against
Conche at his trial. It didn't take a genius to run the fingerprints from
the card against Conche's, nor above average intelligence to know they
would be his before the computer even flashed his blunt, pasty face on the
screen.

The manhunt had been amazingly comprehensive--even by FBI standards. With
four of its own missing, the Bureau had a vested interest in finding them.

But it was hopeless. Somehow, Conche had managed to cover his tracks.
Still, she mused, drifting off slightly despite herself, Mulder's original
psych evaluation had said that Conche liked to play games. He had left
solid evidence against himself on the cards in the agents' cars. Her
exhausted brain rolled all the clues she had over and over...
He had been in solitary...
<Your agents aren't nearly as resilient as you wish they were...
they're already bleating like veal-->
<I was thrown into a dark pit, like a forgotten carcass>

Scully's head snapped up, and she all but broke her leg lunging for the
file.
"Where is it... Come on, come on... *There!*" She hooked her hair
behind an ear. "All right, work history... There it is--Virginia Meat
Packing Company..."
She grabbed the phone, dialing absently as she scanned farther down his
file.
"Information Retrieval."
"Is Danny around?"
"Sure," the young man on the other end replied. "Can I tell him who's
calling?"
"Agent Scully."
It took Danny a second to get to the phone. "Yeah, Scully?" He sounded
tired. "What are you doing calling at this hour?"
"Looking for information on meat packing companies."
"Going into business as a butcher?"
<Maybe,> she thought vengefully. "I need to find out if there are any
old meat packing plants in the DC area. Big ones."
Danny was intrigued. "This about Mulder?"
Scully almost smiled. "It had better be.Call me when you get
something."

Day 41

It had taken Danny all of two hours to come up with a list of eight plants
in and around DC. Scully and the other three started searching at dawn the
next day, each trying to catch the rhythm of his temporary
partners--hoping this would be the key to his real one.

"So what makes you think he's here, Dana?" Brian had asked, refusing to
let himself get excited.
Scully pulled out her gun as they approached the third building on
their list. She'd told Skinner about the find, but hadn't requested
backup, as she told him she would. She would get Mulder back herself.
"Conche likes to play games, right?" she asked tightly as Aldred
jimmied the door. "He left us clues." Her voice held irritation now, at
her self, her obtuseness. "We just weren't quick enough to pick up on it."
She'd explain later, her eyes said as they slid into the huge
warehouse.

Somehow, it still managed to smell carnal, though it had been years
since the place was closed down. Scully tried to listen to everything at
once as they spread out, searching the darkness. Her head hurt after a
while, listening for something--anything--that would tell her her partner
was here. The silence was oppressive.
"Dana!" Brian's whisper all but scared her upstairs. She turned
silently, tracking toward him.
"I found the basement stairs," he said quietly, explaining to her
puzzled eyes, "There are probably freezers down there--walkins. They'd be
the perfect place."
Deric Aldred had come up behind them, and his face paled markedly. "He
put them in freezers?" he asked, his voice little more than a squeak.
Scully put a steady hand on his shaking shoulder. "The power's off,
Deric," she hissed, praying he wouldn't lose it, as he seemed likely to.
"They're just lockers without the compressors."
He nodded nervously, but seemed reluctant to follow them down. Perry
Latham came up behind him, giving his other a shoulder a squeeze, and
leading him toward the stairs.
Scully whirled suddenly as the outer door to the plant yawned quietly
open. All four agents, already on edge, raised their guns, ready to fire.
"Don't!" Scully called suddenly, dropping her own gun arm. "It's
Barrons."
The young agent looked like a high school student dressed up for
halloween, but the six agents behind him gave the illusion no credence.
"What are you doing here, Jamie?" Scully asked angrily.
"The AD sent me. We found out that a drug-dealing friend of Conche's
owns the building." He smiled down at her astonished look. "You're good,
Scully, but it's the little details that can nail it down."
Scully would take umbrage at the cocky child's condescension later.
Right now, she just wanted to get into that basement and, hopefully, if
there was the God she'd been lead to believe in all these years, find her
partner.
"We've got a paramedic team outside, just in case," Barrons informed
them, a little darkness marring his grey eyes. "Any sign of Conche?"
Scully shook her head as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and
stopped. She couldn't help the little voice inside that told her she would
get there too late. It was even louder than the one that told her he had
never been here at all. "Please, God," she whispered, silencing both of
them. "Please let them be here."
The first few meat lockers were empty. They were also roasting,
contrary to their design. Scully's mind skittered away from the image of
Mulder sweating away in one of those things. She willed her hands not to
shake as she pulled open another door.
"Perry!" Her whispered cry brought the man to her side instantly.
He swayed lightly on his feet, staring down at the man in the cell. It
took him a moment to bend down and feel for a pulse. When he did, the
ragged man grabbed his hand with all the ferocity of a tiger.
"Johnny!" Latham cried out, startled, scared, and joyous all at once.
"John, it's Perry."
Carter sounded as if he hadn't said a word in years--as if he'd
forgotten how. "Perry? That you?"
Latham didn't notice his tears. "Yeah, it's me, John."
Carter seemed to take a minute to gather his strength, and when he
spoke again, it was with more control. "Dannette? She okay?"
Latham smiled, laughed a little high. "She's gonna kill you, buddy. You
missed the wedding and everything."
Tears threatening, Scully turned away, heading for another door, when
she was intercepted by Barrons. "Scully, you need to see this."
"Mulder?" her voice sounded pitifully eager to her own ears.
Barrons shook his head. "No." He put a hand on her arm as he wondered
whether she'd cry. "Just come with me."
Scully would have resisted, but his grip on her arm was vise-strong.
She suddenly got the idea he was trying to keep something from her. Maybe
while she had been with John and Perry, someone had found him. Maybe he
was dead. Maybe he wasn't even here and Conche was playing more headgames
with them. She tried to pull out of his grasp.
"Damnit, Scully," Barrons hissed. "I found Conche and I want you to
take a look at him."
Scully suddenly fell quiet. *Found* him? Not *caught,* not *tracked
down,* but *found.* She followed him to a locker at the far end of the
hallway, her shadow bouncing off of myriad surfaces as the men around her
flashed their halogen torches, searching.

Conche was lying in the center of the locker, his face a devastating
white. "What happened?" Scully asked as part of her wished he was alive,
so she could kill him herself.
"I was hoping you could tell me. He looks like--"
Barrons was cut off by a rough shout in the hallway, followed by
Brian's voice, close to tears. "Damnit, Carl! Carl! It's me. It's Brian!"
There was a heart-wrenching pause, then: "Damnit." Somehow the whisper was
worse than the shouts.
Carl lay sprawled on the ground, Brian hovering over him as if
protecting him from the others.
"He just..." Deric gulped. "He just attacked him. Like he didn't know
who he was." Aldred looked up, the anguish in his eyes causing a stray
tear to trail from Scully's eyes. "Then he just... collapsed."
Brian stood up, a glower on his face. "Where the Hell are those
paramedics, James?" He gestured to his partner. "I want to get him *out*
of here!"
Barrons nodded his young head, dashing past quickly and heading for the
stairs. Scully went back to searching.
Twenty minutes later, she was in silent tears.
"Where is he, Brian?" she asked quietly, glancing over at Aldred, whose
eyes held the same pain. "Where are they?" She suddenly found herself
pacing angrily. "Damnit!" She gestured to the farthest cell. "*He's* dead!
How the Hell are we going to find them if he's not around to drop us any
more *fucking* clues?"
Brian walked toward her, but she turned suddenly, heading for that
locker with purpose.
"What?" Brian asked, following.
"His final game," Scully said quietly, running her hands over the body,
looking for something. She found it, and pulled the letter from his coat
pocket. "One more clue."
She opened the letter, reading aloud as Aldred joined them:

Dear FBI,
There's two of them for you. Hope they didn't give you any trouble--If
they're still alive. You'll have to wait for the rest of the cattle. I
couldn't keep them all in one place, you know. Far too easy.
Have fun with your hunt.
I'm sure you'll find them eventually. If not, I've paid for my crime,
as they will pay for theirs. My life was gone the moment I was sentenced.
Theirs were gone the moment they each stepped into that witness box. Such
pain from such a little space--no more than five feet square. Less maybe.
Sorry to deprive their partners of just revenge, but I deserve only
what I've given myself.

Scully stood shaking for a moment, until Brian put a warm hand on her
shoulder. She turned up to him, her eyes red. "You should check on Carl,"
she whispered, defeated.
Callahan held out his hand. "Come with me?"
Scully nodded, and he supported her out.

Day 48

Conche had known more about drugs than they'd given him credit for. Mossey
and Carter had been given regular doses of a pyschotropic she could barely
believe had been synthesised. The resulting psychosis was proving
extremely difficult to ameliorate. She was sure she'd never seen anyone
cry like Dannette Kittery did as she sat by her fiance's bed. Unless it
was Carl's wife.

They'll had puzzled over that last letter, given it to the codebreakers,
had it analysed by the best. They still knew nothing. The other meat
packing plants had, of course, had nothing to do with it.
She lay back on her couch, wondering just where the Hell Conche would
have put them. Every day they were gone, the probability of them being
found alive dipped closer to zero.
She sat up quickly as the door shook under a heavy knock.
"Dana?"
She stood, sliding the chain off and letting Brian in. "What is it?"
"I think I know where Conche took them."
She stared for a moment before it registered. When it did, she gripped
his arm fiercely. "Where?"
"Remember how he talked about the witness box? About the size of it?"
"Yes."
"And he mentioned cattle? And veal?"
She squeezed his arm hard enough to raise bruises. "Brian, where do you
think they are?"
"There's an old factory farm in Virginia, about twenty miles west from
where they found Jerry's coat." He paused significantly, and Scully
thought of ways to beat that streak of melodrama out of him. "They raised
veal there--in dark little stalls, about--"
"Five feet square," she finished, reaching for her coat. "Did you call
the local bureau?"
Brian nodded. "They'll call us en route if they find something."
He'd never pushed the mustang as fast before. He never would again, if
he could help it, but he had been through just what she had, and he wanted
this part of it to stop. As a flash of Carl lying limply in his hopsital
bed assaulted his mind's eye, Brian realised that the next part was likely
to be much harder for her.

The drive had taken too long. Scully's every muscle twitched in annoyance
as they entered Maystown, Virginia, heading for the hospital. <He's
alive,> she kept telling herself. <Just remember that he's alive.>
She launched herself out of the car, leaving Brian rushing after her.
The police officer who met her at his room held up a hand to stop her.
"Agent Scully?" he said quietly. "The doctor wants to speak with you
before you go in."
She would have ignored him, but Brian laid a large hand on her
shoulder, as the doctor rushed up efficiently. "Agent Scully, I'm Dr.
Hyman. I'm the consulting physician in your partner's case. There are some
things I think you need to know, before--"
"We already know about the drugs, doctor," she said quietly, straining
against Callahan's grip. "We've already retrieved the other agents--"
Hyman shook his head. "Your partner seems to have ingested only small
amounts of the drug, compared to the man he was brought in with. He seems
to have ingested very little of anything, truth be told." He looked down
at the chart in his hands. "He's severely dehydrated and malnourished.
There's a great deal of superficial physical trauma and three broken
ribs." He looked up at her. "He's dissociative--totally unaware of what's
going on around him." He gestured to the police officer next to him. "When
they found your partner, he was catatonic, curled into a tight ball,
completely unresponsive." His eyes lidded with compassion. "His mental
condition hasn't changed."
Scully only heard him dimly. Curled up in a ball, catatonic. Like a
twelve-year-old who's lost his sister. She looked up as she realised that
the doctor had stopped talking. "Can I go in now?" she asked petulantly.
He simply nodded and stepped away from the door.

His eyes were open, but they didn't even try to stare at the cieling above
him. His cheeks were sunken, the skin at his collarbone hanging limply
over his bones. What little weight had kept his frame together had long
since been shed. Still, she thought she'd never seen anything so beautiful
before.
"Mulder?" Her voice was gentle, not a hint of the tears she kept
tightly in check. "Mulder, it's Scully."
Not a flicker.
"Mulder," she tried again, taking his hand gently. "Mulder, it's okay.
I'm here. I'm here."
Brian turned quietly from her as she sat talking quietly for ten or
fifteen minutes. She didn't seem to care that he didn't answer. At least
at first. Toward the end, her voice modulated painfully, the tears coming
whether she would have them or no.
"Dana?" He put a hand on each of her arms. "Dana, come on. Let's go."
She let herself be lead for a moment. "Where?"
"We'll get a hotel room. Get some sleep. We'll come back first thing in
the morning."
She turned angry eyes on him. "You're going to leave him alone!?"
Shrugging out of his grasp, she sat back down.
"Dana..."
"He's been alone for weeks, Brian," she explained quietly, tearfully.
"I wasn't there."
Brian nodded gently. "Do you want coffee, Dana?"
She shook her head, again taking her partner's hand. She looked up at
him. "Thank you, Brian."
He nodded, wondering at her. When they first started working together,
she had thought Mulder hated her. Brian wondered if she knew when she had
fallen in love with him--or if she knew at all.

Day 51

"Mom says hi," Scully said quietly, placing the reciever back in its
cradle. "She hopes you get better soon."
Dead eyes sought the ceiling, each second of that gaze killing her a
little more.
"Mulder, do you remember my birthday last year?" She smiled tearfully
at the memory. "You bought me that little Braves doll--the one with the
spring for a neck?" She brought his hand up with her two to rest her head
on them. "So what are you going to get me this year?" Scully asked,
noticing her tears as they fell onto their entwined hands. Some part of
her fantasised that the feel of her tears on his hand would suddenly snap
him out of it.
She closed her eyes, just crying. She couldn't do this anymore:
couldn't talk to an empty shell. Couldn't make conversation with someone
who just wasn't there anymore.
"Mulder," she asked after a time, her eyes still closed against those
gravel-dead orbs of his. "Can't you just talk to me? Please?" She opened
her eyes. Any view of him was preferable to none. "You're missing such an
opportunity to tease me, here, you know? Sitting like a little
housewife..." She placed his hand back on the covers, crossing her arms
over it and laying her aching head in the cradle they made. For the third
time in as many days, she fell asleep with her head resting on his arm.

***********

There was a voice he recognised. He could figure out the name if he tried,
but he couldn't work up to caring. Still, that voice was so sad. It didn't
try to be, but it couldn't help itself. He felt vaguely guilty. He also
remembered another time he had heard that voice. He was in a hospital, and
that voice had been next to him, welcoming him when he woke, providing an
anchor.
It couldn't be *them.* They had other ways of getting to him. They
didn't need this kind of lie--not with so many others to choose from.
Did that mean it was safe?
No, his dad was going to kill him. He'd been left in charge and now she
was gone and he was going to just hit him and hit him and he had tried to
get to the gun--he had tried--but he just wasn't fast enough.
Wasn't fast enough. Now she would die. He would never know who had
taken her, nor who had given her back. Not really. The government--but
what part of it?
<I'll be happy to save the government the plane fare--I just need to
know which government that is.>
<I told her you were going to be all right... How did you know? I
just knew.>
That voice. Was it saying something now? Was it safe to find out?

===========================================================================

From: lisdxphile@aol.com (LisdXPhile)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: New SOLITARY 3/3
Date: 31 Oct 1995 21:25:15 -0500

*******************
SOLITARY
Part Three

Brian slipped quietly into the room, not wanting to wake her. Mulder's
eyes were closed--though these days, that didn't mean anything at all.
Open or closed, the store was empty. He gently placed the sandwich and
drink on the tray, adding his note, intending to slip out. He needed to
get back to DC--needed to see Carl. He'd called Lynn every day, and she
said he was getting better, but he needed to see for himself.
He jumped slightly when Scully's eyes flew open. "Brian," she said
simply, brushing her hair back off her face.
"I'm going back to DC."
"'Bout time," she joked reservedly. "Carl will get jealous if he knows
you're spending this much time with another sick agent."
She rose to let him embrace her. "I'll call you," he said quietly,
running a hand down the side of her face with a sad smile. "I really
should have kept you while I could--before you gave yourself away to
another man." Before she could ask what he had meant by that, he was gone.
"Brian's a little strange, isn't he, Mulder?" she asked, resuming her
seat and pulling the tray over to her. She wasn't exactly hungry, but, as
Brian and pointed out, if she dropped dead of starvation, how was that
going to help Mulder?
"Still, he's cute," she said with a small smile. "A little tall,
though, don't you think?"
Her eyes strayed to his. She couldn't help it. She didn't want
to--didn't want to see the not-him there, didn't want to let the hope well
up in her again, only to go dry. She let her eyes drift back away.
"I think you're about the right height, though," she observed. "A
little thin, but my lasagne can fatten anyone up." She considered a
moment. "You might even be cuter than he is--in a stranger sort of way."
She smiled sadly. "Course, you're awfully quiet. I like my men with a
little more spunk."

Day 52

He remembered the name now. He had been trying to recall it for a long
time now--however long a long time was. Scully. Sculy, Scully, Scully. He
repeated it silently to himself a few times before trying to remember how
to say it. It had been such a long time since he had said anything.
Wait though. He had to say *something*--he couldn't just say 'Scully.'
He had to have a followup. He remembered being worried long ago, worried
that he'd forget something important. That he'd miss something. Something
important. Something that made her smile. He remembered that smile.
<I remembered your birthday this year, didn't I, Scully?>

His eyes opened slowly, taking a minute for his mind to synchronise to
them. The ceiling was desperately boring. He turned a very sore head to
one side. This was much better. She sat there, her head cradled on a bed
of his arm and hers. She wore a white shirt, her hair--so red, he hadn't
remembered it being *so* red!--was tied back from her face. He wanted to
see that face--see if it was like he remembered.
Something told him there was something wrong with his thought
processes, but he didn't want to listen to it.
He wanted to listen to her. But he couldn't do that if she was asleep.
<Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully...>
"Sc--" <Well, that was no good!>
"Scu--"
He was at a loss. He moved his arm, jostling her slightly. She sat up
quickly, taking a moment to focus on him. When she did, she opened her
mouth in a big smile. He didn't get to see that often, and he really loved
it, but he wanted--
"Mulder?" Her voice was warm and surprised and lovely.
He smiled. That was better. <Okay, let's try this again.> "Scu--" He
frowned suddenly.
"Wait," she said, all but jumping up from her seat. "I'll get some
water."
He shook his head. Not the water. That was what made him feel strange.
It made him forget. He didn't want to forget her again. Never ever.
She tried to give him some water, a little worried when he wouldn't
take it. Then she remembered how the drugs had been administered--and not
just this time. "Mulder, I promise this is not poisoned," she said gently.
"Just drink a little bit, okay? Trust me."
Wasn't he supposed to trust no one?
<Deep Throat said trust no one. But that's hard, Scully.>
Too hard. He allowed a little of the liquid to drip into his parched
mouth.
"Scully." That was much better. Kind of crackley, not very loud. But it
worked. It made her smile again. He was doing pretty good here.
"Are you feeling better?" Inane question, but it was something to get
him talking. If she could just get him talking...
He nodded, wishing she'd talk more. "What time is it?"
She looked out the window, a fond smile on her face. "Late."
He frowned. That wasn't what he asked, was it? "What time... of year?"
She seemed suddenly guilty, and he had a flash of that same look on his
own face. "It's February, Mulder."
He took a moment, not sure why that should have significance for him.
Suddenly he knew. "It was December."
She smiled again, not quite as convincingly. "It *was.*" He wasn't
connecting. She hoped it was just temporary. Maybe if he slept.
"Mulder, you've got to be tired," she said gently, feeling like she was
trying to convince her godson to go to sleep. "We can talk later."
He nodded briefly, than looked back up at her. "Talk to me, Scully," he
asked quietly.
She sat a moment. "What do you want me to say?"
He shrugged, a little painfully. There was still so much he didn't
remember. "What did you do for you birthday last year?" He closed his
eyes, wanting just to listen to her. "What did you do for your birthday
this year?"
"I haven't had my birthday this year, Mulder," she answered, taking his
hand as she settled back in her chair. He'd be all right. He had to. A
little rest, a few days. He wouldn't even miss her birthday. She convinced
herself so perfectly that she had no trouble prattling on while he fell
asleep.

Mulder woke, stiff, sore, but very clear. Scully sat in a chair beside
him, her head laying back gently against the back, her hand wrapped in
his. He remembered a few vague moments from the day before, very little
for far too long before that. His last memories were of a small tight box,
darkness, and beatings. He shuddered suddenly, worried that he couldn't
remember more.
He was so thirsty! He couldn't remember why, but he remembered that he
hadn't had water in so long. He tried to reach for the pitcher beside his
bed, trying not to shift the hand Scully had in hers. He failed miserably,
annoyed at his own clumsiness as she roused quickly.
Her smile was tentative. "Morning."
"Good morning," he said apologetically, horrified at the raw quality of
his voice. His throat hurt. "I was trying to get at the water," he
explained.
She nodded, disengaging their hands as she reached for the pitcher,
pouring him a very small glassful.
"Aw, Scully! I'm *thirsty!*"
"You are so dehydrated, any more than that would send your body into
positive shock," she said jokingly."
He sipped grudgingly at the water, thinking that it tasted sweeter than
anything he'd ever drunk before. He looked up at her, noticing something
for the first time. "Scully..."
"What?"
"You're... *skinny!*" He said it as if it was a disease.
"If more women heard men say it that way, no one would *dare* to be
anorexic," she quipped pleasantly, glad to have the real Mulder back. She
looked him over. "And you don't win any prizes yourself, beanpole."
He looked down at himself with a chagrined smile. "Guess not."
They lapsed into a comfortable, happy little silence. When Mulder broke
it, his voice was a bit more normal. "Am I supposed to know what happened
after Conche konked me?" he asked quietly, smiling at his rhyme.
Scully looked at him, almost envious. Nearly two month of his life were
gone, as she'd missed three. But he could have the answers. She had them
for him. He had none for her--at least none that made sense.
But that was life, wasn't it? Anyway, he was here, he was better, and
she could rid him of something she'd never be rid of--uncertainty.
Mulder lost himself in her voice as she told him all about it.

END