“Now I lay me down to sleep
I just get tangled in the sheets
I swim in sweat three inches deep
I just lay back and claim defeat.”

***

Mulder bent forward and pressed a kiss to Skinner’s brow, which was furrowed in sleep. Skinner made a sound and Mulder shushed him, saying,

“Just going for a run. I won’t be long.”

Another sound, still sleep-muddled but more affirmative, and Mulder moved away from the bed. He checked that he had the room key tucked safely in the pocket of his running pants, then turned abruptly and left.

He was surprised at how chilly it was outside. The sun was up, barely, but it was fighting with a light fog and a cool breeze, and none of the elements seemed to be winning. He shivered a little as he stretched arms and legs in the parking lot out front of the motel, but knew he’d warm up once he began running in earnest. The weather gave him pause, though; as he realized that the long, odd summer was finally coming to an end.  He didn’t know how he felt about that.

Deciding for the moment that it was a problem to worry over another time, he flexed calves and thighs once more, and then took off at a slow run, letting his muscles adjust, then picking up speed as his body warmed to the task.

The fog tried to close in on him, and he played cat and mouse with it for a while, racing ahead of it, then slowing to let wispy shrouds create a soft focus landscape around him; all the while relishing the warm ache in his body and the cool air filling his lungs.

In the course of his outstanding career with the FBI, Fox Mulder had been shot, poisoned, punched, kicked, throttled, hit by a car, stabbed, bitten by snakes, exposed to radiation and alien viruses and verbally abused.

He’d never been hamstrung before.

At first it felt as though his leg had suddenly gone to sleep. There was no pain, but his ankle twisted under him, and he put his arms out with a yell, bracing himself for a fall.

“Wha-fuck?”

He caught himself well, but still felt a shuddering jolt run through his arms and shoulders, and tiny pebbles and chips of concrete from the sidewalk bit painfully into his palms.

He swore again, loudly, and rolled onto his back, then sat up to assess the damage to his leg, and find out what the hell he’d tripped over.

He wasn’t prepared for the blood.

A steady flow, streaming from the back of his knee, pattering like raindrops onto the sidewalk.

The pain set in immediately and he cried out involuntarily, reaching out to cradle his hurt leg. Warm blood poured over his hand and he made another wounded sound.

The fog seemed suddenly thicker somehow, and he didn’t see his assailant lunging at him until it was too late.

Had he not been hunched over his leg, he might have died right then, his throat slashed open as effectively as his leg had been. But his awkward angle saved his life, and the straight razor pulled through his arm instead.

He fell backwards with a yelp and the razor swung again, hissing through the empty air where his head had just been.

“What the hell--?”

Only silence answered him as he pulled his arm close to his chest, smearing blood over the front of his sweater. His breath was coming in short mewling gasps, and his leg was going numb.  He whipped his head back and forth, eyes rolling wildly as he tried to make out what was happening. Turning onto his side, he tried to get to his feet, and found the task impossible. His leg would not respond at all, and trying to move it only brought on fresh pain intense enough to make his eyes water.

Now lying on his uninjured side, he pushed with his good arm, trying desperately to raise himself up, somehow, or get himself away. He didn’t feel panicked, just horribly alone and cold, and some clinical detached part of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Scully informed him that he was going into shock. 

He had achieved some sort of crawling, crab-like movement when the next blow came. Not a slash this time, but something heavy and club-like that smashed into his side with enough force to crack ribs and twist him over onto his stomach. A scream, and a second strike, this one to the base of his spine, and his motor control was reduced to nil. He squirmed in place, awash in pain, unable to make the connections between his mind and his body that would allow him to get away. He could only thrash mindlessly as neurons fired uselessly and gave him misery rather than motion.

He struggled hugely, and to no avail, calling out for help. There was no response, aside from the fog clearing just enough that he could see a figure on the sidewalk a few feet ahead of him.

Now he was panicking. Realizing the extent of his injuries, and his inability to escape had not had the power to reduce him to rabbit-in-a-snare heart-pounding fear. But the site of Walter Skinner standing on the sidewalk ahead of him, arms tied behind his back, and a blank expression on his face…

Even in the midst of his panic, Mulder tried to understand, to rationalize, to put together what was happening. Was it another gay bashing? Was it aliens? What had caused this? How had they been found? How did Walter get here? A million unanswerable questions, clamouring for attention, blocked by his fear for the man before him, his fear for himself.

Movement behind him, but he couldn’t turn to see what or who it was. Instead, he called out his lover’s name, and blood flecked his lips when he yelled.

Skinner seemed not to hear him; no movement, glasses covering his eyes, making them impossible to see. 

“Walter!”

A dark shadow looming over his broken body, and Mulder cringed away from it, crying out Walter’s name over and over, trying to warn him, trying to save him. 

Something that felt suspiciously like a hiking boot kicked him in the head, and he felt himself fading. Shades of gray washed agonizingly over him, and he fought, but to no avail. 

He came back to consciousness with a sick groan as he felt more than heard the sound of a body hitting the sidewalk in front of him. Forcing his eyes open, the first thing he was aware of was the blood. His own, hot and sticky under his body, then more, not his own, trickling towards him on the pavement.

“No!” he didn’t want to see the rest. The shattered wire rims lying twisted next to the body. The gaping scalp wound, freshets of blood streaming from it. He was crying and screaming and struggling with a body too damaged to respond, and Walter lay unmoving in front of him.

Another crashing blow to Skinner’s head, more blood splashing onto Mulder. He still couldn’t make out who was doing this, but he realized it wasn’t a club, wasn’t a bat, wasn’t your typical implement of homophobic destruction. As more blows rained down on his lover’s skull, Mulder realized that the object currently turning the man’s head into a bloody ruin was thick and plastic and jointed.

“Oh my god…” His throat was thick with blood and tears, the words could barely pass through lips gone cold and blue, and he realized that death was here. It was all around him. His lover was dead and he was dying, and there was no good reason for it. No reason at all.

“Walter…” one last time, and he looked up as their assailant approached him, apparently done with Skinner and coming back to finish the job. 

“No, please…”

And then it was done, and the fog covered everything.