Scully finished wiping the counter and shook the sparse crumbs into the sink. She ran the water briefly, watching as the morsels were swept up in a watery whirlpool and whisked down the dark drain. She wondered how that would feel; to be carried away by a tide and to just ride the wave into a place unknown. She did not think she would like it.

She gulped down the last of her orange juice and stowed the glass in the dishwasher. After tugging the faded kitchen curtains closed, Scully flicked on the express-wash and turned out the overhead light. The dishwasher hummed busily, and a peace settled over her shoulders. Another day conquered. Ambling down the hallway, Scully stopped only to toss a damp dishtowel into the laundry room before knocking gently with one knuckle on the wooden surface of the office door.

"Mulder?" she called softly, poking her head in as the light paneling swung slowly open at her touch.

He was sitting at his desk, broad back to the door, shoulders hunched and hair on the left side of his skull defying gravity at the oddest angle. Scully spotted a curly cord winding across the desk and knew that he was plugged into his headphones, focused intently on whichever documentary was currently flickering across the computer's monitor. Mulder's face rested on one fist, his elbow a paperweight for the messy scatter of reports littering his desk top.

Scully padded into the room, her worn grey slippers – necessary in the biting chill of winter and the curse of their temperamental heater – whispering softly against the floorboards. She reached out with one hand and tunneled her fingers through his scruffy hair, lightly scratching.

Mulder jerked, minimizing the screen and yanking out one earpiece. "Hey," he said, glancing up at her and swivelling around on his new chair. When the delivery men had first brought it, he had driven her nearly crazy, rolling around in his office as the wheels made an insufferable rumble against the wooden floor.

"Kitchen's done," she said, and Mulder tugged absently on the hem of her sweater. He swivelled back around to face his computer. "I'm going to bed," she murmured, cupping the back of his neck.

"Kay," he answered, sticking the headphone back in his ear. He brought up his documentary again and pressed play. "Experts are not certain of how the Man-Wolf survived so long in the Amazon…" Scully's eyes skimmed the English subtitles and she stifled a sigh. Resigned, she let him be. She wasn't up for an argument tonight.

"Don't stay up too late," she reminded him, pressing a brief kiss to the crown of his head.

"You got it, Doc."

Upstairs, Scully pulled on her cotton pyjamas. She threw an old sweater on for good measure, knowing the heater liked to quit half-way through the night. After a short routine in the bathroom, Scully wandered back into the bedroom and pulled the dull curtains closed. Though she knew there were no neighbours around for several miles in each direction, the coziness of having them closed brought her comfort. She slipped between the sheets of the typically unmade bed and clicked off the bedside lamp.

She was bone tired. The kind of tiredness that manifested itself in her legs and feet, causing them to pulse once her weight was no longer stressing the muscles. She lay on her back, embracing the delicious ache and floating on a cloud of semi-consciousness.

Sleep captured her swiftly and silently.

02:38 AM

Scully woke with a start. The room was dark, the other side of the bed cold and untouched. Consciousness and sleep argued for a few moments, both battling to take her. Finally, the building pressure in her bladder won out. Eyes still closed, Scully moved by memory through the bedroom and into the bathroom.

When she emerged, she was decidedly more awake than before. This time, the empty bed registered. It was not unusual for Mulder to remain in his office late. He made a habit of hibernating there when the rest of the world was asleep. Often times, he would come to bed long after she was asleep, waking her only with the dip of the mattress and his tossing and turning as he made himself comfortable. While it was nothing out of the ordinary, Scully still worried about his developing habits. Two-thirty in the morning was late, even for him.

Scratching her head absently and pulling her sweater more tightly against herself, Scully padded downstairs, braving the coldness of the lower level. She strained her ears, but there was only silence.

She walked down the hallway towards his office, from where a faint yellow glow slid beneath the door. She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Mulder sat, slumped over in his chair, face mashed against the surface of his desk. One headphone stayed in, the other dangled like the pendulum of a grandfather clock over the edge of his desk. The computer screen was dark, the small, alien-head screensaver floating around. The lights were on, but other than his fish swimming busily in the corner near the window, there was no movement in the room. His barely discernable snore snuffled into his nest of papers.

"Mulder," she called, shaking his shoulder. "Mulder."

He woke like he was walking through deep snow – slowly and heavily. His head came up, eyes blinking thickly against the lamplight. He winced as he straightened his back.

"Time 'zit?" he mumbled, patting the papers around him, digging for his watch.

"Two-thirty," she answered, placing her hand gently but firmly in the crook of his elbow. "Come on," she yawned, "Let's go."

He stood slowly and swayed a bit as the blood rushed down from his head. He followed her blearily as she flicked off the light and closed the door behind them. Mulder shuffled behind her up the stairs, putting a warm palm briefly on her back as they ascended.

"Thirsty," he explained as he lumbered into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light as he filled a plastic cup and drank in long swallows.

Scully slid once more underneath the covers, shifting around trying to locate her leftover warm spot. Finding it, she nestled in and hung on to consciousness only long enough to ensure that Mulder made it out of the bathroom. Her half-lidded eyes followed his silhouette in the darkness as he stripped to his boxers, kicked his socks under the dresser, and fell into bed with a muted thump. He tangled the sheets around himself as usual, and Scully hung on to her side of the blanket.

"Night," he mumbled, his mouth slack. His shoulder pressed warmly into her back. His hand reached over and squeezed her hip. She anchored herself to the sensation. Too tired to respond with words, she grunted in the back of her throat and pushed against his shoulder.

05:16 AM

The shrill, insistent ring of a cellphone roused her from the caliginous depths of sleep's murky pond. She resisted the pull, but it was too late and her face broke the water's surface. She landed in her bed like a heavy stone. Scully rubbed her eyes and pushed on her elbows, glancing at the clock. Early. Too early. She wasn't on call – she didn't have to be in until nine. Too early.

"Phone," Mulder mumbled into his pillow, submerged in blankets.

"Yes, thank you, Mulder," she sighed in irritation, flinging back the comforter. She walked hazily to her purse, which rested on a chair in the corner, and dug through until she located the small device.

"Hello?" she answered, holding her forehead in her palm.

"Dana?" A female voice on the other end asked.

"Yes," Scully shivered against the cold.

"It's the hospital. We have a bus crash. Emerg is swamped. I'm sorry," the woman said with regret.

"I'll be there," Scully sighed, still half asleep. She closed her eyes. "Give me an hour."

Scully hung up and tossed her phone disdainfully on the bed before plopping back down on top of the covers. "Mulder," she poked the lump on the other side of the bed.

He mumbled unintelligibly. Scully pushed at his shoulder again, and he groaned and buried his face under his pillow. "I got called in," she said, curling up to his back. Don't fall asleep, she reminded herself.

"Need a ride?" He mumbled gruffly, face still under the pillow.

"No, I brought the car home yesterday." Sometimes, after a long shift, Scully would catch a taxi home, too tired to drive the forty minute commute.

"Okay," he said, turning over to face her. He kissed her, and pushed her messy hair away.

She lay still a moment, enjoying the warmth and the sleepiness. She reached up to touch his face.

"Shave that, please," Scully implored, as she had every day this month.

"You wound me," he pretended, yawning. He flopped onto his back and scratched absently at the sparse hair on his chest. "When will you be home?"

"I don't know."

"Call me."

"I will."

And then she was gone.

It was still dark out as Scully drove down the road towards the hospital. Her headlights cut through the early morning fog and, in the distance, the sky was gradually taking on a lighter, fresher shade of grey. She drove in silence. She never turned on the radio in the early morning. There was just something about this time of day that begged for peace, for quiet. The roads were always empty. This one was only half-maintained, like an afterthought. The car bumped along, speeding over the cracks in the concrete.

Scully was surprised to see what looked like a roadblock up ahead. In all their years of living here, she had rarely seen another car on this road – let alone an entire set up.

She slowed as she approached.

When a man dressed in a dark uniform approached the car with a flashlight, Scully rolled down her window.

"Ma'am," he greeted, glancing taking a quick glance into her vehicle.

"Hello," she answered, furtively trying to see what was happening ahead of her. There looked to be only three other cars, and they were parked horizontally across the road, lights off, blocking the way. Quiet alarm bells were triggered in her mind.

"Step out of the vehicle, please," the man said.

"Can I see some I.D.?" Scully requested, placing her hand on the gearshift, ready to peel out if she had to.

"Ma'am, get out of the car," he repeated, his hand shifting to the gun on his waist.

"Show me your identifi-,"

The man had his gun drawn more quickly than she could register, and its cold, sharp barrel pressed unforgivingly into her cheek through the open window.

"Get out of the car."

She was sluiced in cold. She willed herself not to panic. Her heartbeat pounded through her skull, and all the noise around her died out. The motor of the car became silent. The wind was still. She was simultaneously aware of everything and nothing. She slowly raised her hands in the air. Unthreateningly, she reached for the handle on the door and it opened with a small popping noise.

"That's good," the man said in a soft voice, the gun still mashed against the side of her face as she inched her way out of the car.

When she was standing before him, he reached out and slammed the door closed, and then turned her so that her belly pressed sharply into the handle. Using one hand to keep the gun against her skin, he frisked her, patting at all the pockets of her trench coat to see if she had any concealed weapons.

"Who are you?" Scully asked, thanking God that her voice remained steady and unbroken.

She received no answer.

"What do you want?" She tried again, biting her lip in frustration as her wrists were cuffed behind her. I should be fighting, she admonished herself. But a voice in her mind assured her that this man would not hesitate in pulling the trigger should she give him the slightest reason to.

Again, she was only met with silence. The man finished his search and his cuffing, and pulled her away from the car.

"Now," he murmured into her ear, "Let's go."

As they walked the short distance toward the other cars, three more men emerged from the foggy darkness and met them half way. Scully was trembling, but forced herself to remain stoic and expressionless. Don't let them know, she urged. Be strong.

"Get her car off the road," the man holding her said. "Leave it in the bush, I don't care, just make sure it isn't found." One man of the three stepped away and continued toward Scully's white car. Scully's heart sank. She had left the keys in the ignition; he'd have no trouble with his mission.

"Where's Mulder, love?" the man asked, his arm clenching around her elbow. "Is he at home?"

Scully was silent.

"Come on," he urged, twisting her arm. "One way to find out, isn't there?" He opened the door to one of the three cars and shoved her in with no regard to her cuffed arms and her consequent imbalance. She hit her head on the roof on the way in. It burned and throbbed. She pushed back angry tears.

The man got in the front seat, and his companion sat shotgun. To her great dismay, Scully saw the second accomplice open the back door and felt the car dip as he sat down beside her.

With neither a seatbelt nor her arms to help steady her, Scully swayed dangerously as the driver did a brusque U-Turn and headed back in the direction of their house.

The front passenger pulled off their mask. Scully was shocked to see a pony tail of blonde hair tumble out. The woman turned around and stared at Scully with a cruel smile. "Guess you'll be a little more than an hour, huh?" she winked, and then faced the front again, face expressionless.

Scully wanted to throw up. The whole thing had been a setup. How had she not realized? How had she not known that bus crash victims would have been transported to the city, and not to her hospital? How had she missed the caller's lack of identification? Her breathing picked up as her panic rose. Mulder. They wanted Mulder. Why? How had they even been found? Who were these people?

They were nearing the turn off for their road.

"Do it now," the driver ordered, glancing at the man sitting beside her. "We need time for it to swell."

Scully had barely wrapped her mind around the sentence when the man sitting next to her grabbed her shoulders and pulled her around until she was facing him head on.

"Sorry, love," the driver added.

A fist collided with her left cheek. The pain was immediate and excruciating. She had no control over the tears that rose and spilled down her cheeks. The left side of her face throbbed, pounding in a counter-rhythm with her heart. She had never before been hit so hard. Her mind spun in a dizzying haze, the colours behind her eyes were bright and blinding.

It was a long time before she chanced opening her eyes. When she managed to raise her aching head, the woman was starting at her again.

"Sweet," she announced, looking at what was surely a bump the side of a golf ball on Scully's cheek. "Nice effect," she added, turning back to the road.

Confusion reeled in Scully's mind, alongside the nearly insurmountable ache in her face.

Scully felt sick. She willed herself not to throw up. She weakly tried to push against the handcuffs around her wrists. Instead, she slumped against the cold window and let the cloudiness overtake her.

"Wake her up," the driver said, and there was a hand shaking her shoulder. "Jesus Christ, how hard did you hit?"

"You fuckin' told me to," another male voice said, and the shaking resumed.

"For God sake," a woman's voice said, and there was some shuffling and then cold wetness on her face. Scully opened her eyes. The woman, still sitting in the front seat, was holding an empty water bottle and the front of Scully's blouse felt damp.

"Morning, Love," the driver said. "This the place?"

Scully glanced outside, and when she saw their old, homey farmhouse, all the lights dark and Mulder's truck parked outside, she closed her eyes in utter defeat. She did not make a sound. She bit her lip and tasted metal.

"I'll take that as a yes," the man sitting beside her said.

The strangers exited the vehicle one by one, and the driver opened her door. Cold air blew in and swirled around her, making her even dizzier. The gun was once against pressed against her skull.

The man grabbed her elbow once more and pulled her roughly to her feet. Scully's legs wobbled under her weight before deciding to hold her body upright. Her feet dragged on the dewy grass at the walked up to the front door.

The woman hopped up the steps, and did a tiny, graceful pirouette on the landing. She stepped in front of them and pounded sharply three times on the wooden door.

So strange that they would knock, Scully thought, hazily. What the hell was happening? She closed her eyes. She fell against the man beside her, and though he didn't move to help her, he stayed put. Her head lolled, and her vision swam dangerously.

"Here we go," the woman murmured in glee in Scully's ear, before taking her earlobe between her teeth and biting it, then licking, as if she were her lover.

An angry tear squeezed out the side of Scully's swollen eye as she heard Mulder's footsteps on the stairs.

"Showtime," the woman whispered.