Snapshot: Absolute Deep by Danielle Leigh Snapshot is a slice of life from the members of the X-files universe. Any season, any universe, anything. They are not connected in anyway. Author's notes: Takes place during Deep Throat before Mulder and Scully return to D.C. Feedback: oldviolin7@aol.com He awoke, gasping from the pain. It was all he knew. Mulder bit back a cry or a sob and held his head. Inside the cap of bones, the liquid matter of his head pulsed and twitched. He tried to breathe. And he tried harder not to scream. He held his hands to his forehead, and buried himself facedown the pillow, surprised to feel the wetness on the cheap motel pillowcase. Tears. And sweat. A sharp, jagged bolt of thunder flashed beneath his skull and he bit into the pillow. Those fuckers. Those fucking butchers. What have they done? Mother of god, what have they done? The pain was white violent heat unlike anything he had ever known. The muscles on his arms and legs jumped in sympathy and they pounded from the intensity of keeping himself together. He waited for the next violent moment inside his head. He didn't have to wait long. Mulder's existence narrowed to only his head, and all other stimulus was blocked out. He did not know if he breathed or touched or screamed or looked. Only the pain was left. "Mulder." Scully. It said a lot that he hadn't even heard his door open. A painful cough -- almost a retch -- escaped from his lips. NO. Dammit. This was not how he wanted to be seen. He wanted her to know only the cool and dignified persona -- Spooky in full riot gear. How could he possibly regain control after this? "Leave," he whispered through cracked lips. And felt coppery wetness on them. Blood. She didn't answer him but suddenly he knew she was there. Sitting on his bed next to him and he felt her hand in his. "No," she said quietly. He almost sobbed. Instead a harsh burst of laughter crept out of his dry throat. "Please, Scully. Just -- just --" Scully grabbed on of his hands and held on tightly. "Just squeeze it, Mulder. As hard as you need to." He thought he smiled. Brave, sharp, stubborn little girl. I like you, he thought. And I didn't even know it. He wondered if she was wearing the same robe he had seen only two weeks ago in Oregon and the thought brought a smile to his face. "Scully...what are you wearing?" "More than you are," she said after a long moment. "Shoot. I didn't forget underwear again, did I? I do that sometimes." "And sometimes I like to kick the ass of the senior agent. It's a hobby." He laughed even though it wasn't much of a joke and it set off a painful spasm. FUCK. Ashamed, Mulder squeezed her hand for all he was worth and sobbed quietly. After, he felt her other hand smooth back his sweat-soaked hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said and tried to let go of her hand. "Don't you even think about it," she growled. And if possible she clasped his hand with even more strength. They sat in silence for three more such episodes. "Mulder," Scully said, her voice hoarse and deep. "Maybe I should call an ambulance --" "No. NO. They are the ONES, Scully. They are the people that did this." A beat. And then another one. He heard her sniffle a little and realized she was crying. "I'm afraid, Mulder." He swallowed and realized with a painful twist in his gut -- he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. I am too. "Aren't you going to describe your sleep-ware, Scully? Since I've only seen you once in such a state I think it's only fair..." She sniffled again and blew her nose on a Kleenex. All right, he could hear her thinking. All right, Mulder. We'll play. "Fair?" He grinned and _knew_ she was arching an eyebrow at him. "I'm incapacitated. Think of the opportunity I'm missing out on...I at least _deserve_ the visual." They bickered for an hour or so and Scully grilled him on the sexual discrimination policy of the Bureau and the great bureaucracy that is the United States Government, while he interrogated her on her underwear preferences. He labeled her a prude and she called him a MAN. Mulder had to laugh at that. Later it was disco versus new wave, East coast versus West coast, American versus Japanese, science versus para-science and any other topic they could possibly clash on. Between bouts of sparring the pain returned with slowing frequency, until he knew it was daylight when the warmth of the sun infiltrated the blinds of his hotel window. Their hands were never separated. "I think it's over, Mulder." He didn't say anything. Her voice sounded so low. Tired and worn, like a rope that was about to break. It's not over, Scully, he thought. It's just begun. "Perhaps," she started, and stopped. The sound of tears returned. She didn't go on. She knew that were no 'perhaps' for him. Blind men could only deal in absolutes. The End.