"Hey, Marty. Enjoy your nap?"

Mulder didn't answer. Didn't move. Sauceda licked his lips nervously, waiting for some hint of recognition on the profiler's face. He'd opened the blinds that afternoon and the room was now awash with late evening sun. In the doorway, however, Mulder was nothing more than a darkly shadowed form, deep grays and black, absorbing all light, devouring it whole. He looked like death's apprentice come to call.

Sauceda stared down into the suitcase on the bed, struggling to reorient himself. His palms had started to sweat and he wiped them on his undershirt as he moved back to the dresser, checking the next drawer for necessary clothing, struggling to remain calm.

"You, ah, you hungry, Marty? I got some barbecue chicken from the deli up the street. We got soup, too. All kinds. Mitch went to the store and stocked up for you, kid."

Mulder again failed to answer, intent on watching Sauceda stuff socks into the case between stacks of underwear and blue jeans. He had the predatory stance of a stalking panther, muscles taut, coiled, perfectly motionless. The apartment was so quiet, Sauceda could hear Mulder breathe: short, desperate gulps following hard one after the other, but the struggle never reflected in the young man's shadowed face.

Sauceda moved to the closet, keeping his distance from the sentinel in the door. He kept his motions slow and deliberate and dredged up a tune to hum softly, a talisman against dread. He shuffled through the clothes hanging before him, his peripheral vision prepared for assault. Mulder moved into his visual field and he flinched, but the attack never came. Instead, Mulder crawled onto the bed, an image of cautious grace as he curled, catlike, on the far side of the mattress, back tight against the headboard. He resumed his silent vigil of Sauceda.

"Hey, kid, you want me to do this later so you can go back to sleep?"

Mulder's eyes, cold and feral, narrowed and he drew his knees tight against his chest. His head shook just a bit. Sauceda couldn't tell if it was an answer or just an attempt to find a comfortable spot on the pillow. He sighed and tugged Mulder's last remaining suits from the closet.

"Okay, kid, I'm about done anyway. So. You want me to pack the blue suit and the gray one?" He paused, regarding the nearly empty rack, knowing he was talking just to hear his own voice. "Or how about the brown one? You don't have much left till the cleaners get done--"

He turned from the closet, holding the selection up helpfully, expecting no more response than before. Mulder was sitting up, however, still staring, breathing through his mouth.

Sauceda licked his lips. "Okay. Blue and gray it is, then--"

"Where..." Mulder tried words on for size, "are we going?"

"Marty, Purdue told you--" Sauceda bit his lip. *Jeezus, Len, it's the kid's first full sentence of the afternoon, cut him some slack why don't you?* Sauceda tried again, pronouncing his words carefully, but keeping his tone agreeable. "We're moving to a hotel, kiddo. And not one of those dive joints, either. An honest to God three-star jobby." Mulder's expression hadn't changed much except for a twitch in his jaw. Sauceda shrugged reassuringly. "We'll still be in Washington. Purdue just thought it'd be better if this Sisy-whatsit wasn't visitin' your neighbors. Okay?"

He wasn't certain how much Mulder had managed to digest of that, but he gave the young man time to sort it out as he shimmied the suits into Mulder's carryall and tried to steady his own breathing.

"We're not going to the hospital?" Mulder's voice was painfully small. Sauceda froze, looking up into those haunted eyes.

"No, Marty," he answered solemnly. "Do you want to go to the hospital?"

Mulder blinked several times but didn't seem to be able to form words anymore. Sauceda barely managed to find enough spit to speak himself.

"You're not going to the hospital," he repeated carefully. "Okay, kid?"

Mulder blinked once more then, without a sound, folded abruptly down onto the bed. It was a movement of such total collapse that Sauceda was certain he'd fainted and sprung onto the mattress, kneeling to reach him, his heart pounding. But no, Mulder's eyes were still open, still slowly blinking. A fine sheen of perspiration bathed his forehead.

Sauceda checked Mulder's pulse tentatively. The young man watched him without comprehension. Sauceda took a deep, steadying breath.

"Marty? Look, I know you've got a lot going on right now, but I really need to know you're okay. Okay? Can you talk to me?" Mulder blinked at him calmly, apparently unconcerned or simply unable to speak. Sauceda ran a hand across Mulder's face, brushing the sweat away. It occurred to him that he had never dared such a touch before. Mulder would have never allowed it, would have removed Sauceda's arm just for having the audacity. In fact, Sauceda realized, he'd been touching Marty an awful lot lately, completely without retaliation. Sauceda's hand trembled as he pushed the rumpled curls from Mulder's forehead.

He'd surrendered. No defenses remained.

Marty had given up.

Sauceda wanted to slap him, suddenly. Hit him just to *make* him fight, just to have some kind of reaction other than this vapid withdrawal. The desire was so strong that he laced his fingers through his own graying curls, gulping air. He didn't dare strike the younger man. If he slapped him and Mulder didn't respond--

Sauceda backed off the bed, frantic, bumping into the suitcase in his flight. The lid slamming down echoed like a gunshot in the silence and brought him to his senses. He took another deep breath. And a second, just to be sure, and dredged up a smile from somewhere around his ankles.

"Okay, Marty. Look. How about I just fix us some tea? How would that be? You like iced tea, doncha, Marty? Yeah?" Mulder blinked at him rapidly for a second and seemed to be trying to remember. Sauceda grinned, relieved by even so minor an improvement. "Yeah. Yeah. Sounds good, huh? I'll be right back, then. Don't you go anywhere, 'kay?"

Sauceda stumbled for the kitchen and busied himself with getting ice into a couple of disposable glasses. His hands were shaking and ice cubes kept escaping him, splintering onto the tile, skittering this way and that. Sauceda was oblivious to the mess. Something had to give, here. He couldn't hold up to this. Hell, he didn't think he could even stand to look at the kid anymore. Not like this. Jeezus, if Marty had some drugs in him, he could see it, but the kid was stone cold sober--

Sauceda jerked at the soft click of a door closing somewhere in the apartment, then the even quieter click of a lock.

"Marty?"

Sauceda tossed the glass into the sink. More ice, slivered by the impact, joined the water on the floor as he sprinted for the bedroom. Mulder wasn't on the bed any longer and the bathroom door was shut, light shining from the crack near the floor. Sauceda jerked the doorknob, already anticipating its resistance, swearing anyway when it refused to yield. He slammed his fist against the doorframe.

"Goddam it, Marty, you open this door!"

"I'm taking a shower." Mulder's voice was muffled. The "screw-you" tone had Sauceda's blood pressure soaring on the first word. *That damned Baez is gonna have a lot to answer for on these freaking mood swings--* Sauceda froze there, his jaw working with realization. *Well, hell, Sauceda, this is the fight you wanted, isn't it?* He choked down grief and gratitude and got his voice level.

"Okay, kid, you can take a shower if you want. But you need to unlock the door, okay?"

There was no response.

"Marty, come on. Unlock the door. You don't have to open it. Just unlock it. Hear?"

Again, no sound in the room beyond.

Sauceda was suddenly, guiltily, missing the compliant patient from earlier today. Still, he was grinning like a madman while he shouted. "Look you little ass, I know you're not in the shower, yet, the water's not even running-- Shit!" The water started up obediently with the words still in Sauceda's mouth. He listened, shaking with anger, fear and joy.

And all he heard was water, just the water hitting the tub. No irregular splash, no thump of a body beneath the stream. Sauceda's grin dissipated. He'd spent most of the day locking away knives and breakables, just to be on the safe side. He'd even removed the glass tumbler from Mulder's toothbrush rack. All the young man had in there was a cake of soap, a bottle of shampoo and a dozen towels. Still, Sauceda had too much respect for Mulder's intelligence to convince himself he'd covered all the bases. He swore softly, realizing he hadn't gotten around to unscrewing the medicine cabinet from the wall. It had such a nice big mirror on it, too....

Sauceda shook his head, amazed at his own stupidity. Marty was his partner and Sauceda trusted the man with his life. He just wasn't too keen on trusting Marty with *Marty's* life right now.

Sauceda backed up, gauging the door for where to put his foot. He'd never kicked in a door in his life and he knew that most efforts were not as easy as they might seem. He'd seen Marty kick them open with leading man abandon, but Sauceda had never been the leading man, not even in his own life. Besides, Marty was liable to kill him for this-- Sauceda pushed the thought aside, licked his lips, and sucked in a good breath. Then stopped, his foot in mid-air. *Well, screw this,* he stomped his foot down and popped his hands on his hips, *that's what the hell I've got Mitch and Gregg for--*

Still as if on cue, someone tapped on the front door. Sauceda rolled eyes at no one in particular and slammed a fist into the bathroom door before stalking into the dining room.

Purdue was already on his way in, and paused in the doorway, Gregg peeking curiously over his shoulder.

"Sauceda? What's going on--"

"Well, it's about goddam time you showed up," Sauceda wailed. He flapped an arm in the general direction of the bedroom. "Hell, the kid's locked himself in the bathroom and won't open the damned door."

Gregg's eyes were wide and he opened his mouth but Purdue closed the door in his face before he could get the words out. The ASAC eyed the older man gently. Sauceda paused, trying to remember what he'd looked like the last time he checked. Razor burn ran across his cheeks and halfway down his neck on both sides. The paunch he usually strapped in with a corset was resting over his belt, and he had barbecue sauce and ink stains on his T-shirt-- and that was just the stuff he could identify. Sauceda imagined the mixture of rage and relief on his face wasn't too pleasant, either.

"I'll handle Mulder, Hot Sauce. Why don't you go home for a while?" Purdue suggested quietly. "You need a break."

Sauceda regarded the confident face and finally felt the full impact of his own anger. "Oh," he growled. "So, now I need a break, do I? Well, screw you, sir." He slammed back the nearest dining room chair and dropped into it heavily. "I sit here all damned day, alone, thank you so very much, supervising the Mayor of Loony Tune City, and now I need a freaking break--" Sauceda wanted to cry, suddenly, but he'd be damned first. He shook his head, marveling at his own impulsive mood swings. "Shit." He sighed. "You want the latest update? The kid caught me packing his things and thought we were hauling him to a hospital."

Purdue bit his lip and glanced away.

"He knows he's not going," Sauceda moaned, "but now he won't unlock the bathroom door. I can't follow his mind, anymore, Reg. Hell, he was five steps ahead of me before all this shit. Now I don't even think we're on the same planet half the time."

"Well, I don't need the two of you lost in space, Sauceda. You're going home for a while. That's an order."

Sauceda studied his hands, flexing his fingers, thoughtfully. "Well... I *did* hear back about that file. The one on the sister?"

Purdue took a step forward, "Yeah?"

"I've, ah," Sauceda blushed unaccountably, cleared his throat. "I've got a, ah, friend in Records and--"

"And she found the file. Good work. Have her courier it over ASAP. I want that damned thing yesterday."

Sauceda was blushing in earnest, now, not wanting to know how Purdue knew the *friend* was a woman. Hell, the last time he and Dorothy Bahnsen had... met, was a decade ago. Sauceda still couldn't think of her without breaking out in a sweat, though. He'd give the ASAC credit, his instincts were good.

"Tell her to be discreet about it," Purdue was saying. "I had lunch with Skinner this afternoon. A clandestine little cafe in Logan Circle, *his* choice. Hospitalizing Mulder's out of the question. That smoking bastard has something up his sleeve and he's sniffing around for an excuse to bring Mulder in on an official evaluation. Skinner claims he doesn't know what the hell it's about, but I need that file. And Mulder on his feet, fast."

Sauceda shook his head. "The file, I can handle. I told her to leave it where it was, that way she's not responsible for it, ah, disappearing without a file request, you know? The only record on it was on an old card file, back before the Bureau went so damned hi-tech. Anyway, I can pick it up in the morning." Purdue nodded. "Tell you what," Sauceda rubbed at an ache in his shoulder, "we get the kid set up in the hotel tonight and I'll go home for a few hours. You get someone else to take a shift--" He glanced up, the words freezing on his lips as Purdue grimaced. "What?"

"We've-- got a security problem--"

"Security problem." Sauceda repeated the words blankly.

Purdue waved his hands, helpless. "Hotel's closing out a vacuum cleaner salesman's convention--"

"And you're afraid of what? Some clown trying to sell Marty an Electrovac?"

"There's just too much going on there, Sauceda," Purdue's own strain was evident in his deliberate patience. "I'm not moving him until I have a few more empty rooms on our floor. Most of the reps will be gone by tomorrow anyway. We'll wait, move him about one in the afternoon. I've got a few more details to cover tonight, then I'll start running shift with you."

Sauceda scrubbed at his face. "Hell, Reg, there's no sense in that. You've got a damned department to run. I'll go home tomorrow night and--"

"No. You'll go home tonight. Gregg and Mitch will watch the kid. They know him well enough. Mitch's mom's diabetic so he's used to needles. I want you to explain the Valium to him. Maybe load up some Thorazine, just in case. Tell him what to watch for."

Sauceda was staring at him like he was sporting that secondary head again. "So, you think it's just that easy, huh?"

Purdue sighed. "No, Hot Sauce, I don't think it's just that easy. I think you need a rest and right now, dammit, this is the best we can do. You think he's going to be a problem the boys can't handle, put him down before you leave."

Sauceda's answer was cut short by the whispered movement behind him. Mulder, clad in jeans and a T-shirt, limped slightly as he entered the dining room. He paused in the doorway, gaze drifting past Sauceda to the ASAC. He met Purdue's eyes defensively, hugging himself against the ASAC's quiet regard.

"Agent Mulder," Purdue acknowledged softly. It was more a question than a greeting. Mulder didn't answer it.

Sauceda frowned, staring at the leg Mulder was favoring. "Whatsamatta, Marty? You bump into something?"

Mulder searched Sauceda's face coldly, but didn't turn his head, keeping Purdue in peripheral focus. "Yeah," he agreed distantly. "I bumped into something."

"Want me to look at it--"

"I put a Band-Aid on it. I'm fine."

"Really?" Sauceda was watching the young man's eyes.

"Really." Mulder stood like he expected to be tackled. Purdue frowned, watching the exchange. Sauceda ran his tongue over his bottom lip, trying to track the lie he was certain of. Mulder's stance was intractable, however; he would tolerate no dispute. The pathologist decided that discretion was perhaps the better part of confrontation, for the moment.

Mulder hesitated, taking one long look at the men who had invaded his home before turning for the couch and his remote control. He managed not to limp at all now, Sauceda noted, suddenly completely confused.

Purdue studied Sauceda's face. The older man chewed his cheek a minute, watching Mulder, before glancing back to the ASAC.

"You're right, Reg. I need a break. I'm starting to see symptoms behind every breath that boy takes."

Purdue kept his voice low below the blare of the TV. "What symptoms? What's going on now?"

Sauceda stood, and Purdue followed him through to the bedroom, quick-stepping past Mulder's fierce focus on the television screen.

"I was worried," Sauceda admitted, sotto voce, "about that list of symptoms Baez nixed on his official report. You know, fascination with suicide, self-mutilation and such. So, anyway, I child-proofed the entire apartment straight off: knives, forks, glass, belts, ties, spare electrical cords. Everything I thought we could do without, I had Gregg lock up in the trunk of my car. That doesn't cover everything, of course. He could always hang himself with a lamp cord or something..." He sighed, scanning the bathroom for some hint of mischief. "I don't let him wander off anywhere by himself for more than a couple of minutes. Hell, I don't even trust him with safety razors. If anyone could turn something like that into a weapon, it'd be Marty, you know?"

Purdue nodded solemnly.

"So far," Sauceda shrugged, "he hasn't had the snap to complain. Which is not necessarily a *good* thing with Marty, you understand. I'm hoping it just means that he's not contemplating anything drastic. Hell, I'm probably being paranoid for no good reason, but--"

"I understand, Lenny." Purdue peered over Sauceda's shoulder into the bathroom: there were damp towels on the floor and one in the sink. Sauceda collected them, shaking them out, pausing as he noted the Band-Aid wrapper in the sink. Actually, there was more than one wrapper. More than several, in fact.

Sauceda frowned and leaned to examine the contents of the trash can: tissue and another wadded up Band-Aid. Another bit of wrapper floated in the toilet bowl. The bathroom was humid with shower mist, the mirror still frosted with condensation. Sauceda collected up the wrappers, counting out a good half dozen, then considered the combination of slightly damp skin and cheap adhesive. He tossed the wrappers into the toilet and flushed them away with a sigh. Purdue rose to tip-toe, watching the paper swirl in the bowl.

"Yep, seeing symptoms behind every breath he takes." Sauceda gauged the height of the sink cabinet and leaned to examine that, too. The lower edge was rough, the Formica on the corner loose and sharp as a knife-edge. Mulder could have easily scraped his upper thigh, just below the groin.

"Well, hell, it's not like the kid's going to bleed to death or anything."

Purdue straightened from his own examination and considered the calm on Sauceda's face. "Everything okay, then?" he asked.

Sauceda nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's okay. Look, I'd like to put him down for the evening, I'd feel better about leaving if I could, but he's in son-of-a-bitch mode again and it's not going to go over too well." He grimaced. "I need to get him to eat something first, anyway. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Purdue intoned without enthusiasm.

"I'm going home for a while, Marty."

Mulder didn't look up for that announcement either, patiently enduring Sauceda's heavy sigh. Purdue, Mitchell and Gregg were making soft noises at the front door.

"You gotta eat before I go, kid. Otherwise I ain't going. Understand?" Sauceda said it like it was some kind of threat and should warrant compliance. Mulder kept his eyes on the screen before him and didn't so much as blink.

Sauceda threatened to bring him some soup; Mulder continued his oblivious routine. He really saw no point in all this emphasis on eating. Hell, if he couldn't keep down something as useful as a Valium, then what was the point? He sniffed thoughtfully, rubbing at the pain behind his left eye, now a constant companion. Maybe he should ask for something stronger. Something injectable perhaps, bypassing his finicky stomach altogether. The thought was frightening, though. Lenny would chose the Thorazine and Thorazine robbed Mulder of, well, everything: all will, all reason. It was just a little too damned thorough and Mulder enjoyed the sensation of blissful thoughtlessness too much not to fear it. It's why he'd been so busy in the bathroom, locked in with his numbness and the penknife, carefully slicing his way back to conscious thought, using the pain to force himself to think. It wasn't enough, though. He wondered how deep he'd have to cut next time, just to find himself beneath the layers of apathy. Lost in such considerations, he scarcely noticed that Sauceda had trotted off, swearing softly.

The clinking of can, pan and can opener echoing from the kitchen brought him back to a semblance of numbed reality. Purdue had taken Sauceda's place, kneeling on the floor to put himself at Mulder's eye-level. The ASAC explained the situation to the profiler like Lenny hadn't just told him all this crap. He introduced Gregg and Mitch like Mulder'd never met them before. Like Mulder hadn't sat beside Mitch at the RICO lecture at the Academy, like he hadn't come this close to breaking Gregg's nose for that smartass remark about Mulder's collar wearing the same lipstick as Grace Anderson over in Handwriting Analysis. Even if it had been hers, it'd been none of Gregg's goddam business, as far as Mulder could recall.

Mulder flicked the volume control up another notch as Purdue droned. "Bride of Frankenstein" was coming on, for Chrissake. Didn't the man have any respect for the classics....

Purdue swore and relieved him of the remote. Mulder registered the sudden loss and instantly rewarded the ASAC with more attention than he'd apparently anticipated.

The ASAC rose and took an involuntary step back as Mulder swung his legs off the couch. Mitch and Gregg stepped forward, training evident in every muscle. Gregg was stone white. Sauceda paused in the process of entering the room, soup bowl in hand, jaw suddenly slack.

And just as suddenly, everyone froze. Even Purdue's "Easy, Agent" warning was forgotten on his lips as he watched Mulder slip into catatonia in mid-breath.

For seconds that felt like years, Mulder stared at Purdue without seeing, feet on the floor, hands braced on the edge of the couch to help him rise. Only Mulder didn't get up. He just sat there, lost in amazement.

He moved his chin finally, a parody of slow motion, and looked down to his left hand where it gripped the couch cushion. He lifted the hand cautiously, left it hovering in mid-air as he examined the spot where it had been. The dark leather gleamed from the track of his sweaty palm. And there they were: the tiny set of pin holes he'd felt beneath his hand as he'd struggled to rise.

No. Not pin holes.

Kitten claw holes.

He felt entire corridors shutting down in his brain. The pounding of his heart became the echo of impenetrable walls slamming into place, barring both entry and exit. This was the final betrayal, then: his mind had had quite enough of him and was shutting down occupancy.

His vision was still operational, however, his hearing functioning. Mulder registered the fact that he was still breathing, that his muscles, while sluggish, were managing to hold him upright. *Great. Take my sanity and leave me living. Son of a bitch--*

Mulder felt the dip of the couch cushion and vaguely registered a large, hulking shadow next to him. He flinched as the shadow moved and it immediately stopped. Mulder licked his lips hesitantly, still staring down at the tiny holes invisible to all eyes but his own.

There was a bowl moving slowly from the shadow into his line of sight. Mulder surprised himself by accepting it. The dish was hot, stinging his hands, and the burning was answered by the throb of the cuts the penknife had left on his thigh. Between the two pains, Mulder felt almost alive again. Well, alive enough at least to hear Sauceda telling him he had to eat. He *had* to.

Well, of course he had to. Lenny told him so and Lenny didn't lie. Not much, anyway. Not about something like that.

Mulder complied as best he could, frowning when his hand sloshed most of the liquid out of the spoon. Noodles were a distant temptation, tiny bits of chicken a lie he couldn't swallow. Lenny had told him he had to eat and he wasn't eating. But he had to. There was just not enough of Mulder's mind available to explain why all this should be so frightening. He stared into the bowl, the spoon rattling against the ceramic even as he fumbled to hold it steady, and his vision blurred into a soup of its own.

Beside him, Sauceda's voice came soft and pained.

"Here, Marty. That's too hot to eat, isn't it? Let me get you some more."

The pathologist's coffee mug was on the counter. Amazing how such mundane objects could be so damned comforting, could rouse the mind back to rational action. Sauceda dumped the remains of morning coffee into the sink, and washed out the ring before filling it with Marty's soup. Most of the noodles remained in the bottom of the bowl but Sauceda was in no shape to fret about it. He sloshed a little water into the broth and tapped a spoon around in it. A few quick, deep breaths and he spun on his heel for the living room.

Purdue watched him pass, followed him silently. Gregg and Mitch were politely staring out the window, unwilling sentinels in Mulder's brave new world. Marty had at least completed his examination of the couch cushion. Sauceda frowned; when he'd left the room he'd been reeling with the image of Marty so vulnerable and lost. Mulder was still seated where Sauceda had left him, but his eyes were closed in concentration, his left hand a fist, pressing hard on his thigh. There was nothing overt that Sauceda could identify but something in the action spoke of ravenous anger, a desperation dangerous in its intent. The pathologist licked his lips, the cup trembling suddenly in his grip.

"Sauceda?"

Purdue's quiet voice made him turn, assuming an ease he didn't feel. Sauceda let his eyes rake over the ASAC and quickly away, unwilling to look him in the eye. He moved on to the living room but didn't dare presume to sit beside the man on the couch. He squatted down beside Mulder instead, his back to Purdue, leaning to address his partner softly.

"Marty? I brought you some more soup, kid."

Mulder's eyes snapped open with a gasp. And there it was again, that lost, wondering quality that Sauceda had left when he'd stumbled to the kitchen. There was a wild desperation to it now, however, that made the skin down Sauceda's back crawl.

"Marty? You still here?"

Mulder scanned his partner's face. There wasn't a great deal of comprehension in his expression but he accepted the mug, holding it with both hands, staring into it's depths like a young Nostradamus pondering his mirror of time.

"It's okay, Marty. I cooled it down for you." Sauceda waited, then whispered. "Drink, Marty."

Mulder sipped the hot liquid dutifully, then greedily. Sauceda actually smiled, watching him, turning to share the smile with Purdue. The ASAC had planted his back against the wall, like he didn't trust his legs to keep him vertical. He held Sauceda's glance a long moment. By the time Sauceda turned back to Mulder, the mug was lowered, empty. The profiler was watching him expectantly.

Sauceda grinned at him, delighted with such progress, and leaned to blot soup from Mulder's upper lip; the young man's eyes narrowed, however, and Sauceda thought better of it. Mulder wiped the liquid away with the back of his hand, his focus never leaving Sauceda's face.

Sauceda took a deep breath and gently retrieved the mug, backing away before he asked the burning question of the evening. "You want to sleep *now*, Marty?" He pronounced the words carefully.

Mulder's eyes went wide with comprehension, narrowed again, his head lowering and Sauceda's heart sank. But Mulder nodded, a grateful glance from under dark lashes. Sauceda blinked at him, his own comprehension slower, unwilling to believe his grave good fortune.

His voice remained wary. "You want to sleep in the bed, kid?"

Mulder's eyes were wide again. A shake of the head.

"Okay," Sauceda assured. "That's okay, kid, you sleep out here if you want to." Purdue handed Sauceda the syringe full of tranquilizer. Sauceda received it without looking away from Mulder's face, waiting for explosive retaliation.

But at the sight of the syringe, Mulder wriggled back onto the couch, not in fear, but passive expectancy. He lay on his side, his left hip within Sauceda's reach, and cradled his head against the pillow. His gaze swung from the syringe to Sauceda's face patiently.

Sauceda heard himself thinking *you lay down and we'll go night-night* in a voice he usually reserved for his grandson. He bit his tongue to keep the words from popping out. Mitchell and Gregg made themselves scarce as Sauceda worked the button on Mulder's jeans.

Sauceda delivered the drug, and quietly handed the syringe back to Purdue. Then he pushed Mulder's hip back against the couch. Watching the profiler's face all the while, Sauceda tugged Mulder's jeans down to his knees. Mulder's eyes were big and the profiler stopped breathing momentarily, but he did not resist. The pathologist examined Mulder's upper left thigh: a half dozen Band-Aids lined up neatly across the skin, disappearing up into the leg of Mulder's briefs. Blood soaked through the little pads and oozed in bright rivulets from the pressure Mulder's fist had applied to the wounds. Sauceda tugged at the leg of Mulder's black jockeys: two more Band-Aids lay hidden in the hollow of his groin but the injuries appeared to go no further.

Purdue laid a towel across Sauceda's shoulder and the pathologist fumbled for it blindly, patting at the blood. Sauceda's medical kit appeared from nowhere and he busied himself with gauze and antiseptics. Mulder watched the two men silently, completely without expression, his head pillowed on his hand.

The wounds bandaged to his satisfaction, Sauceda patted down the pockets of Mulder's jeans, seeking the weapon. There was nothing.

"Where is it? Marty, where have you got it hid? Huh?"

Sauceda stared into the eyes regarding him. A man could get lost in those fathomless black holes that sucked in whole worlds of horror and let nothing back out again. The drug had began its work and Sauceda watched in fascination as Mulder's eyes glazed slowly over, still unmoving, unblinking.

"I swear, Marty, we'll tear this damned place apart till we find it. Hear?" But Mulder didn't hear.

Sauceda sighed, turning to tug the young man's jeans back up. He got them zipped and buttoned then ran his hands across Mulder's chest and back, looking for a razor blade, perhaps, taped to the skin. Purdue patted down his legs, producing the same results.

Sauceda looked away at last, up at the ASAC standing at his shoulder. Purdue's eyes begged assurance and his head nodded solemnly when Sauceda couldn't give it. Together they tucked Mulder under his worn blanket. Purdue surrendered the remote control and watched a minute as Mulder's thumb twitched through fifty-six channels of cable.

Pathologist and ASAC joined the two other agents in the kitchen. No one seemed particularly chatty and Sauceda handed Mitchell a pad of paper with a breakdown of symptoms and possible drug reactions. They waited, listening as Mitch read them aloud. Gregg's eyes were big by the end of the page. Mitchell shook his head but didn't protest.

"Can do," he vowed hollowly.

Sauceda frowned but nodded anyway. He wriggled his finger for the man to follow him and wound up with the whole kitchenful following him to the bathroom. As if a unit, they double-stepped past the television; Mulder's glazed stare might as well have been radioactive.

Sauceda's little band gathered outside the bathroom door, Mitchell front and center with his pad of paper.

"Got a pen, Mitch?" Sauceda asked, yanking open a cabinet drawer.

A dark hand handed Mitchell a Bic over his shoulder.

"Ah. Yes, sir," the agent assured.

"Take notes." Sauceda's voice rose and fell as he opened drawers, patted them down, pulled them out and turned them over, and slammed them back in place again. "Okay. Marty should sleep all night, probably most of the morning with that dose I gave him."

"Sle-ep a-ll ni-ght," Mitchell inscribed this information on his pad of paper as he quoted. "Uh-huh."

Sauceda was on to the next cabinet; his voice muffled as he flipped out towels and linens.

"Under no circumstances," he growled, "do you clowns let him sleep on his back. He likes to sleep on his back but if he gets nauseated-- and he does-- he's liable to choke if he's on his back--"

"Keep-him-m off his baa-ck," Mitchell mimicked, scribbling dutifully.

"If he starts in on his 'I-wanna-shower' routine, tell him that as God is your witness, you'll drug him again. And call me. Do not call 911, unless my wife tells you I'm dead or something. If you have to call 911-- which you're *not* going to do-- tell them I gave him Thorazine--" the rest was obstructed as Sauceda dropped to his knees and shoved his head in the cabinet under the sink.

Gregg was watching over Mitchell's shoulder. "I don't think there's an 's' in Thorazine, Mitch--"

Mitchell gave him an elbow to his ribs and returned to his dictation as Sauceda popped back out of the cabinet, catching his breath, both hands planted against the floor.

"I wrote the dose and all on the pad next to the phone. If he wakes up, let him go to the john-- but *not* by himself, no matter who he threatens to kill-- He gives you any flack, make him pee in a damned cup. Then give him a Valium. A blue one. But just one. And call me. I can be here in ten minutes." Sauceda sat on the floor and frowned up at the ASAC. "I don't know what the hell he's used. I've even checked for razor blades taped to the plumbing. Nothing."

Purdue nodded at the toilet. "How about the tank?"

Sauceda scrambled up. "I checked that earlier today--" He checked again, however, peering into the water, then running his hands down the back of the ceramic, then down the tile wall. He sighed as he straightened, rubbing his face wearily. "Nothing. Hell. I don't know. There's not much we could do with him now, anyway." He pointed a stern finger at the two younger men in the door. "I swear to God, if I come back here and find one scratch on him that I didn't know about beforehand, I'll castrate the both of you, understand?"

Both men nodded solemnly, shuffling as they said their "Yes, sir's," and Sauceda rolled his eyes at the ASAC.

Purdue shook his head. "I need you rested, Sauceda. Especially now that we know what we're up against." His voice softened. "We're fresh out of options here."

Sauceda regarded Mitchell and Gregg, sizing them up carefully. Mitchell was tall like Mulder and a good fifteen to twenty pounds heavier. And Gregg, well, Gregg could have been a halfback but it was clear that Gregg was about half-scared of Marty. Which probably meant he had pretty good sense.

"He's hell on wheels when he's angry, boys," Sauceda warned. "He'll look you straight in the face with a smile like an angel and lay you flat out, and not take a second breath in between. The kid's old man learned to swear from Patton himself and there's enough acid in that tongue to corrode platinum. Barring that, he can charm you into letting him sleep with your sisters and convince you he's doing them a favor. You keep him calm. You keep him quiet. And you do *not* under any circumstances leave him alone. Not even to take a leak. Especially to take a leak."

Mitchell nodded. "Can do," he assured again.

Purdue and Sauceda stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Jeezus, Reg," Len sighed. "Why can't I just wait and do this crap tomorrow night?"

Mulder couldn't recall inviting Gregg over. Hell, he couldn't even imagine *why* he would have invited him over. He felt no great shock or outrage one way or the other, however. He was still quite well cocooned within his Thorazine haze, his emotions and body both pleasantly numb. There was the dispassionate patter of rain against the window, the distant percussion of thunder in the unseen sky another floor above. Mulder listened quietly, taking comfort in the ominous rumble. He liked the rain; somehow it always reminded him of Samantha and days spent indoors playing board games or reading. Days when life was pleasant, or at least when unpleasantness was blissfully forgotten. Through the fog in his head, he felt neurons spring to life, off to analyze these thoughts, unbeckoned, clambering their way down the more accessible corridors of his brain. He waited, contentedly, confident of their return.

Mitchell passed into his line of sight and reached for a slice of still steaming pizza from the box on the coffee table. He stopped as he noticed Mulder blink.

"Hiya, Mulder. You hungry?"

The face was kind, but not pitying; Mulder had always liked Mitchell. He was that rare combination of honest investigator, blue-flamer and solid family man: everything, in fact, that Mulder had ever wanted to be. And knew he never could. Another set of neurons bumped about in the fog, seeking out theories for this random observation but Mulder ignored them-- he was still waiting for the first group to get back. He didn't respond to the proffered pizza, too involved with the internal exchange to reply.

He did note, at last, that Gregg, too, was all interest now, wide blue eyes regarding him over the coffee table. There was an awkward silence and not for the first time in his life, Mulder realized he was the cause. He wished he hadn't wakened and wondered vaguely why he had.

He managed to get out "I'm thirsty," even as he searched the Thorazine haze for snatches of a dream strong enough to have roused him. He'd surrendered the quest by the time Gregg got back from the kitchen with a glass. Mulder watched blearily as Mitchell poured soda from the two-liter bottle on the coffee table. Mitchell hesitated, with the glass half-full, continued to the three-quarter mark before finally offering the drink to Mulder.

"Uh-uh," Gregg intercepted the glass and popped in a straw. He nodded to the profiler while he held the liquid to an angle Mulder could manage.

The fizz burned on the way down but didn't manage to dispel the Thorazine cotton wadding in his brain. Mulder drank the liquid greedily until the fizz began to choke him. He stopped to cough and then drank some more.

Gregg's hands were patient but not overly gentle when he settled the profiler back under the blanket. Mulder realized he probably would have slapped Gregg for any overt show of kindness and the agent knew it. Mulder frowned at the thought and what it said about him. After twenty-six years, however, he had grown accustomed to the realization that sometimes just being himself was unsettling enough for most people.

Mitchell leaned back over the coffee table. "You need to take a leak or anything, Mulder?"

Gregg sighed wearily.

Mulder shook his head. He would have thought the caffeine in the soda would have given him a bit more snap but if anything, he was drowsier now. He frowned again, eyes automatically back to the TV screen: a bunch of people at a bar. One of them was wearing a postal uniform...

Mitchell's voice in the gathering haze: "Well, hell, Gregg, man's gotta take a leak sometime. Think something's wrong--"

"Mitch, any idiot can look at him and tell he's dehydrated. If he needs to go, he'll say so. There's no sense in getting him riled up over nothing. Hey, what kinda games has he got in that computer, anyway--"

After a number of efforts, the most strenuous being mental, Mulder managed to get relatively vertical. He sat a while longer, recovering, before his brain began the slow and arduous task of assessing his current situation.

Remains of pizza littered the coffee table, cold and unappetizing in the light of the TV. Soda in a bottle. More soda in bright disposable glasses. A well of comforting familiarity flooded him at the sight of the glass with the straw.

He was thirsty, he realized, a solid bit of reasoning for his conscious mind to latch onto.

He knew better than to trust his still unconscious fingers, though, and leaned precariously to the coffee table, using the straw to sip the liquid from where it sat.

He frowned. The soda was flat. *Well, Of course, it's flat, Fox. You've been asleep how many hours now?*

The VCR clock was still in view but he didn't bother to consult it, not certain he could handle the math just yet. Besides, it wasn't the flat part of the soda that bothered him. It was that bitter edge it left in his mouth. A bitterness he wouldn't have tasted with the fizz...

Mulder sat back on the couch, eyes large and empty in the darkness.

He sat in the flickering glow of the television, listening to the familiar sounds in the walls, the sounds of home. The chilled silence left by the passing rain.

He sat staring into the dining room, lit by the dual glow of the hall light through the transom windows and the computer screen on the desk.

He sat a long time thinking about that oppressive stillness, thinking about the fact that he'd surrendered his gun. Thinking about the deadly seriousness of a .22 slug through the heart.

Thinking that it, at least, would be quick...

He didn't remember reaching for the phone. Didn't remember dialing it. Just knew that somehow Sauceda's sleepy voice was suddenly on the line and that the sleepy was gone at the sound of Mulder's quiet "Len?"

"Marty? Hey, kid-- Hey, you okay? What-- ah, where's Gregg?"

"I dunno."

"You in the living room, kiddo?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then he's probably in the bedroom asleep. Where's--"

"Lenny?"

"Yeah, kid. Listen--"

"Remember in Wheeling. 'Member when I asked if you'd come see me if I was laid out and gutted on my dining room table?"

"Jeezus, Marty, don't think about that stuff right--"

"Lenny, how 'bout if it's Mitch instead?"