Mulder stood outside Kim Cooke's hospital room for a long moment, eyes closed, mentally steeling himself for the confrontation.  Scully had walked him to the door, telling him everything she knew about what Kim had done, and what was now being done to her, and for her.  Then, after a call on her cel phone had confirmed that some preliminary blood tests had come back, she'd left him at the door with a sharp hug and a promise to check on Walter before she came back.

So now here he was, a million emotions at war within him, trying to decide on the wisest course of action. His nightmare was still vivid in his mind and his fear for Walter was still heavy in his heart, and he opened the door.

The room was dim, almost dark, but he could make out a figure lying on the last of four beds in the room. He switched on the bank of overhead lights immediately, then just as quickly shut half of them off at a cry of pain from Kim.  The light diminished considerably, but Mulder was still able to make his way to the far bed, seeing easily enough through the gloom.

He stepped up to the bed and saw that Kim was in four point restraints, bound by ankles and wrists to the bed, and his heart went out to her, remembering a time or two when he had found himself in a similar situation. Her head was turned to the wall, and he wasn't sure if she even knew he was there, so he cleared his throat quietly, and she turned to look at him.

Her red hair was plastered to her skull, and her cheeks were shiny with tears and sweat.  Her horribly bloodshot eyes rolled wetly in their sockets and she bared her teeth at him in a feral grin.

"Kim?" his voice was soft and hesitant. "Can you hear me?"

Her reply was an inarticulate grunt as she tugged at the restraints with wrists that Mulder noted were already badly chafed.  He felt an intense desire to untie her, and fought to hold his hands at his side as he leaned a little closer to her and whispered again.

"Kim, it's me. Agent Mulder.  Can you speak?"

She spit at him.

He recoiled with a wince and wiped hot spittle from his face with a tissue from the nightstand.  Keeping a little more distance between himself and the obviously quite deranged woman on the bed, he tried a different approach.

"Kim, I want to help you, but you have to tell me what's going on with you."

No reply.

"Kim, I thought you and I were friends."

More silence.

"I refuse to believe that you willingly shot Walter. You-"

She cut him off with a shout.

"Shut up! Shut up! Just shut your fucking mouth!" Again she tried to escape her bonds, but to no avail, and again Mulder reacted with a wince and a step back, both at her words and the volume of them.

"Kim, please-"

"You thought I didn't know? You thought you could just get away with it, didn't you? What happened to the Assistant Director was your fault. You made him sick, you know that.  I was saving him!"

Mulder was more than a little shocked, but tried to cover it up under the guise of professional interest. Scully's words quickly came back to him: "…you're too close to this, Mulder…" and he knew that she was right, that he was just about as worried for the young woman in front of him as for his lover busy dying in another room not so very far away. He again fought an internal war with himself, wanting to shake the hell out of Kim and maybe do a little shooting himself at the thought of what she had done to Walter, and at the same time untie her, take her in his arms and soothe her.

After several minutes, the psychologist in him won out, and he approached the bed again, warily, but with renewed determination and stray thoughts of Baltimore in his head.

"Kim, you're not making any sense. What did you think you were saving Walter from?"

"It wasn't enough that you were on your knees for half the men in D.C., Agent Mulder? Oh, don't think I don't know what you do, you bastard!"

He wanted to protest this accusation, but all he could do is stare at her in mute horror as she continued. 

"You made him like you! I don't know how, I only know that you did-he showed me! And I couldn't let you turn him into some kind of degenerate. Some kind of pervert like you! I saved him from all the sick things you do, and all the sick things you could give him. He should fucking thank me!"

"Oh, Kim…" his voice was low and sad and scared and he didn't think she even heard him.

"I'd do it again if I could. I'd kill you, too.  I'd kill all of you.  It's what you deserve! What you do is wrong, and evil, and what you did to him…" Her strident tone faded off, and she looked away from him, her breath coming in sobbing gasps, like she'd run a marathon. When she spoke again, she was still facing the wall, and her voice was low and harsh.

"You stupid fucking faggot."

He fled the room.

He knew it was unprofessional.  He knew he should be treating this like any other case.  He knew he had to get to the bottom of this, and quickly. He knew all this and more in the cold, clinical part of his mind that he used to deal with the John Roches and Donny Pfasters of the world. But he couldn't do it.

This was about Kim, someone he had trusted as a friend, as his lover's friend, a woman he knew to be good and loyal and above all open minded. This was about Walter, the man he was in love with and who loved him back in a way he knew wasn't wrong, or evil, or even, for the most part anyway, dirty. And, finally, this was about him. He was personalizing the case because it was personal, about as personal as anything in his life. He heard her last words again in his head, and sank to the floor outside the room with a half stifled sob, remembering the name calling of childhood, the questioning angst of teenage years, and the final acceptance he'd found in his adult years, a deluge of memories flooding his brain and making his head reel. Added to the already chaotic thoughts about the nightmare he'd just had, and what it might mean, and the shock of his confrontation with Kim, it was altogether too much, and he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but clasp his knees to his chest and cry a little and wonder what the hell had happened to his world. Skewed it might have been, but not like this. Never like this…

"Mulder!" 

He wiped the back of his hand across his wet eyes and pushed himself slowly back up the wall to a standing position when he heard Scully's voice. She was moving down the hall at a quick pace, holding a file folder in one hand and her cel phone in the other.

"Scully, what have you got?" He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice and failed miserably. Scully gave him a look that told him everything he needed to know about how worried she was for him, and at the same time how annoyed she was that he was trying to work this case. 

"Have a look at this." She handed the folder to him and hit one of the speed dial buttons on her phone. While he tried to make sense of the medical data he was looking at, she spoke into the phone.

"Frohike? Scully. Shut off the tape recorder.  No, shut it off.  What have you guys found? Yes, yes, we got that, too, but-what? Okay, listen, I'm with Mulder, and we'll bring over the information we have here. Yes. Yes, I was just there-no change. Listen, we'll be right there." She hung up the phone, and Mulder gave her a helpless look.

"It's carbon, Mulder. The same carbon we found in Skinner when he was poisoned."

"But Kim isn't showing any of the symptoms that Walter had, Scully. How can it be the same thing?"

She frowned. "I don't know that it is the same thing, Mulder. But it's a place to start. And Frohike says they've got something there, so we need to get this information to them right away. Come on." She touched his arm and pulled the file out of his hands. When he didn't move, she looked into his face, and saw that he was looking not at her, but at some point past her. She recognized that deep thought look from dozens of other cases, and knew he was about to make some leap that at first would sound so ridiculous that she'd want to laugh outright, but that in the end would probably be so close to the mark that it was almost spooky…

She tugged on his sleeve and brought his attention back to her.

"Did she tell you anything?" she asked quietly. He opened his mouth, closed it quickly and shook his head.

"Nothing useful," he replied.

"Let's go." She didn't pursue it, knowing he'd reveal whatever it was in his own time and that she'd be ready to hear it when that time came.

"You go, Scully, and let me know what you and the guys find. I have an idea where this may have come from, who might have done this. I might even know where to find him."

"Really?" She looked skeptical now.

"I think so. I'll have my cel. Keep me posted." And he turned away from her to walk away at a brisk pace. Scully watched him until he disappeared around the corner, looked down at the file in her hand, then, sparing a last glance at the room housing the woman who had caused this entire thing, walked back in the direction she had come from, idly wondering if Mulder knew what he was doing, and if this was going to be any help in saving Skinner.

***

After stopping briefly upstairs to find that there had been no change to his lover's condition, Mulder got in his car and raced home, mind on autopilot.  He entered his apartment, looked around guiltily at the mess, then, realizing that this was the least of his problems, sped through the cluttered boxes of the living room and into the bedroom, shedding clothes as he went. He jumped into the hottest shower he could stand, and washed quickly, relishing the way the soap and water seemed to dissolve the nasty hospital smell he fancied still clung to him.

He took extra care dressing, picking out a black t-shirt (not his favorite one, he thought it best to wear something newer) and tight jeans. He left the black trench coat he'd been wearing earlier on the chair where he'd flung it when he came in, and opted for his three quarter length  leather coat instead. He also ignored  runners in favour of dark beige construction boots.  He surveyed himself in the bathroom mirror, liked what he saw, and left the apartment as quickly as he'd come. 

Back in the car, it didn't take him long to get to the warehouse district of downtown Washington. Nestled in between audio equipment outlet stores and a few expensive specialty stores that were doing well despite the dire warnings they'd gotten about setting up in the area, were several empty buildings, loft apartments for lease by the week, month, and year, and a couple of bars.

Mulder parked his car in front of a large neon rainbow flag, shut it off, and took several deep breaths before exiting the vehicle, looking furtively around to see if anyone was nearby  to see him or recognize him. Then, with that mental steeling again firmly in place, he pulled open the black door under the sign, backed away a little from the loud music that flowed out of the open door, then entered the club.