Mulder shivered, jarring himself into the land of the living. The cold, faded tile beneath him sucked the warmth from his body. Standing slowly, Mulder felt as weak as a frat boy with a two-day hangover. He moved towards the sink, intending to get a drink of water and maybe a quick wake-up splash. Before he had taken two steps, his left wrist screamed a warning. The metal of the handcuffs scraped against the copper piping, scratching off a thin layer of mold-green to reveal the shiny red tone that was a sure indication of copper's presence. Mulder stopped, momentarily confused. Why was he chained up in the bathroom? His brain finally caught up with his body, and he remembered.
Raising his free right hand, he hovered over the tender skin of his neck, praying that this had all been a bizarre nightmare. He felt around for a moment, the soreness of his skin rendering it almost numb, and then felt them. Two small, perfectly round holes. Only a thin crust of blood surrounded them; at least he wouldn't bleed to death. Stretching his body as far as he could, he turned on the sink. Gloriously clear water cascaded down into his cupped hand, and he drank thirstily; the lead-like tang bothering him none at all. He couldn't seem to get enough; his body demanding a liquid substitute for the blood he had lost. Finally sated, Mulder turned off the water and froze. There was somebody upstairs. He looked up, the bare floorboards creaking as bars of light flickered through the cracks and a man's footsteps paced across the floor.
Mulder opened his mouth to yell for help, and then snapped it shut again. What good would that do? Even if he were free to go, he couldn't. Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes. Was this his destiny? To become some kind of blood Stop-and-Go until he died? And how long would it take? How many times could he take the pain; how long before his body could no longer function? Killing his captor seemed the only escape, but how could he? The bathroom had not a scrap of wood; even the walls were damp cement. The ceiling boards were many feet beyond his grasp, even if he stood on the toilet, which the handcuffs definitely prevented. He couldn't even wish for his aliens to abduct him. At least, as long as he was here, Scully was safe.
If anything, the sudden maelstrom of thoughts increased his exhaustion. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, making him feel lightheaded. He sat back in his place, still faintly warm, and leaned against the wall. Fatigue overcame him, and he slept once more.
"Get up. It's time." Brandon said harshly, kicking Mulder's thigh with the side of his boot. Mulder blinked several times, eyes adjusting to the now too-bright glow of the lone light bulb. Brandon didn't repeat himself. Yanking Mulder to his feet, he pressed him back into the corner. Mulder stood; the only thing keeping him upright the firm wall behind him and Brandon's palm pressed against his chest. Brandon stood there, huffing slightly in impatience.
"Well?" He demanded, and Mulder finally clued in. He turned his head, exposing the partially healed wounds. As Brandon's fangs sunk once again into his neck, Mulder trembled. A thin sheen of sweat appeared on his brow, his lips a charcoal smudge. It hurt, but not as bad as last time. Perhaps because the holes were already there, or maybe because he was so cold he could barely feel his own skin, whatever the reason, Mulder actually found himself drifting off.
He awoke to the sensation of fangs slowly peeling from his neck, irritating his over-sensitive skin. He didn't know if he had passed out or merely fallen asleep, and at that point it didn't really matter. The sudden absence of Brandon's support left his limp body free to crumple to the floor. He sat shivering in his corner, the thin suit he wore almost no protection from the hunger of the walls. Brandon was back at his computer, clicking away.
"Cccan I have a blanket?" Mulder's wispy voice floated out of the bathroom.
"What?"
"It's cccold. Please, ccan I have a blanket?" Mulder asked, hating the needy tone in his voice. A sigh and footsteps.
"Here." Brandon said contemptuously, tossing the thin wool throw in his direction.
Wrapping it around as best he could, Mulder held it tightly closed, his fingers a frosty vice. The fabric was rough and woven loosely; its color old olive brown. He didn't raise his head from studying it, too tired to make the effort. His fingers… the nails were blue. He couldn't muster up much of a reaction, except to think that maybe this was why he was so cold, so tired. He needed water, but the mere thought of standing made him faint. He licked his dry, indigo-tinged lips, and fell into a restless sleep.