From: Jaime Lyn Morris <leiaj@bellsouth.net>
Date: Wed, 14 Jul 1999 18:36:25 -0400
Subject: DANDELIONS ON THE WIND(1-4)

Ok, here are chapters 1-4.  Posting it this way should be easier for
those who wish to archive it.  (Amy at the Haven-you have automatic
permission cuz you already asked....)  This story is previously
unreleased to ATXC.  The only archives that have the uncut version are
"Visions of Truth," "X-Plicit Disclosures" and my fanfic page. All
others are missing scenes, as far as I know.

----------
Title: Dandelions on the Wind
Author: Jaime Lyn
Email: leiaj@bellsouth.net
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, Mythology
Category, S, A, R

Archival notes: Anywhere you may like, just email first.  Of course
though, you may want the first story to go along with this.  If you
don't have it, just ask.  I'll be glad to provide it-

Author's note:  First, let me just say that if it weren't for all the
wonderful volumes of email from all of you out there, this story would
never have come into being.  The vignette that preceeded this,
`Dandelions for Luck,' had been a standalone story originally, with only
the barest hint of a back story.   But when I got all those emails
begging for a sequel, I thought, hey, what the heck.  And then when I
started actually writing it, the whole thing just poured right out of my
fingers.  I warn you, it's long.

Also, let me warn you this: much of this is told from a very different
point of view. It's also written in a sort of flashback form, with
Mulder telling us a story, so get ready to journey into where everything
all began.  Also, get ready for some angst, for most of this is not
cutesy or cuddly.  Beware for lots of angst.  Don't say I never warned
ya!

And for those medical and technical buffs out there, my knowledge of
genetics and pregnancy and all that stuff is VERRRRY limited.  So if you
find that, through the course of this, you have to suspend some belief,
please bear with me. Just think to yourself, this IS the X Files, this
IS the X Files-

"Shiver Me Timbers" belongs to Bette Midler and I have no idea how old
it is.  I made up the age of the song.  :o)

For Nickie.  I miss you, and I can't wait to see you.  How many times
are we supposed to see the Phantom Menace?  Ha ha.

Here we go:

The secrets that we shared,
The mountains that we moved,
Caught like a wildfire out of control,
Till there was nothing left to burn and nothing left to prove.
And I remember what she said to me.
How she swore that it never would end.
I remember how she held on, oh so tight.
I wish I knew now what I didn't know then-
Against the wind.
We were running against the wind.
We were young and strong,
and running against the wind.
 ------ Against the Wind, Bob Seager and the Silver Bullet
Band

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dandelions on The Wind, Part 1: Shattered
By Jaime Lyn

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

-- 1 ---

Anonymous Journal Entry:
Cook County Hospital:

There is little that I remember these days, although sometimes it's
easier than others.  Some mornings I'll wake up, thinking that I need to
be somewhere, sweating and anxious, but always I'll recognize the walls
around me; the white and sterile air.  I'll sigh in resignation and fall
back upon my pillow, drowsiness and fatigue overcoming my senses. If I
could find the strength to wash it away, to brush back the exhaustion
that so often plagues me, I would do it.   But nowadays, it seems as if
that's all I feel, as if sheer lack of willpower is all my body is
capable of.  I feel so heavy sometimes, so drugged and manipulated, I
feel as if the puzzle before me is being shattered, scattered at my
feet, but I can never put my finger on why or how.

Or who.

Though sometimes, late at night, when there is no one hovering over my
bed, no nurse waiting to feed me painkillers or sleeping pills, I'll
close my eyes and dream. I'll feel the fog around me lift, the haze
muddling my brain disappear, and suddenly I'll be somewhere else.
Somewhere important, someplace where the key to the rest of me lies.
It's always the same place, the same feeling, and I can never quite
remember how or why I'm there. I just know that I am, and that I need to
be.

I'll be standing on the edge of a great cliff, staring down at the sea
below, watching it lap against the rocks and shoreline, a great calm
filling me.  I can sense that the water calms me almost instantly, that
I am placated by the comforting sound of the surf and the sea, though I
don't know why and I know I should be scared. But I'm not and I feel
claimed.  Claimed and calm, like the clouds.

But then in the background, always before I prepare myself to jump into
the dark, navy blue depths, I can hear crying behind me that stops me.
They are always the loud, wracking sobs of a man I can't see, and when I
turn around, his cries are all I hear, echoed against the calm of the
incoming tide.  And always I think that I know him.  I understand with a
fevered certainty that I know him.

I kneel to the ground then, gathering in my hand a flower nestled in the
soft earth, and my head picks up at his hitched breathing and occasional
gasps.  Somehow, from deep within me, from every ingrained fiber of my
being, I know that I belong to him-that I need him just as deeply and
as surely as he needs me to find him.  So I look and I look, searching
desperately for this man who cries beyond my reach, and somehow, I know
he cries for me. I know, and I feel a heaviness clamp over my heart.

I want to go to him.  I want to find him.

I never know why, but I but I feel consumed by him; as if a part of me
has been ripped away, and it is really his soul crying out for me, and
not his lips.

Then he calls out the word "Scully" over and over again, each time more
desperate than the last, and though I never understand what he means,
all I know is that I want to give it to him.  Whatever a "Scully" is,
whatever this thing is that haunts him, I know I would give my very own
life to give it to him.  I would cut away pieces of myself if it meant I
could give them all to him.

The feeling is always so strong, and always I feel consumed by it.  I
feel engulfed and swallowed.

But then, as always, I wake up.  I open my eyes to face the weariness
and fatigue that crashes into me, like the waves on that forgotten
shore, and he is gone.  I am once again, scattered on the wind.

And I am left with nothing.

***
Martin's Courtside Caf
Laughton, Ohio
June May 12th

***

The caf is light and airy today--today as any day, really, but I'm
not paying attention.  The sun is high and beautiful, casting sparkling
rainbow prisms along my clear, crystal glass, but I could care less
about that, too.  And come to think of it, I'm not all that thirsty.  I
don't know why I ordered a drink.  There is also, and I say this with
regret, because I love them under normal circumstances--an uneaten
hamburger-extra lettuce and cheese, hold the pickles-lying by my
notepad.  My notepad, by contrast, is full and written all over, the
page covered with doodles and scribbles and idle etchings.  I've been
sitting here for nearly an hour, not eating, not drinking, not writing,
but drawing endless patterns on a spiral notepad as aimless throngs of
people walk by.

In all practicality, I suppose I could just quit and let that be the end
of it.  I could just leave the bureau, leave Ohio, leave HIM and this
partnership, but the competitive part of  me-the part that used to
play baseball with the boys and stickball with the best, refuses to let
me.  I have been kicked down and thrown aside-shot down and ditched so
many times I can't even count them all, but I will not give him the
goddamn satisfaction.  Though, I must say, if he hasn't got a good
excuse this time-a reason why he felt the need to run off to some
hospital in Kansas City, without even consulting me-I am going to hurt
him.  I'm going to grab my gun and either shoot him or hit him in the
back of the head with it. I am just- I am just SO sick of the bullshit!

I mean, for godssakes,  I graduated from the Citadel when there were
only four of us women in the class. I finished the academy training at
the top of my class, gathering honors, prestige, and the nickname,
`dynamite' that made fun of my ability to do ten pushups faster than
anyone could breathe.  All my life, I've prided myself on the self
sufficient methods of the `take no prisoners' approach, and thus far, it
had served me.  Well, as a matter of fact.

But now things have changed.  They changed five months ago, actually,
and I remember it well-the  moment my carefully organized, easily
accessable life was turned upside down.   It was he day I walked into
his office, schedule and itinerary in hand, the words, `keep his ass out
of trouble,' echoing in my ears--ears that had heard enough wild
stories about him to fill a novel and then some extra volumes.

Now, I am the supposed rational half of a shattered, glued together
whole.  A big picture that I have been hastily drawn into, a post-haste
friendship that was never meant to be.  He shuts me out, he runs off, he
ignores me, but he is my partner. If you could even call it that.

And for months, I have let him get away with it.  I've watched over him
and volleyed for him. I've sat for endless hours under a dark, ominous
painted sky, and waited for him to return to me after embarking on yet
another fruitless goose chase.  I've nursed him to health, sutured his
wounds, and followed him everywhere. I've sat for months, endless,
droning months, and I've watched a man I've never really understood
wander the earth with a death wish so fierce I wonder how he ever walks
out of anything alive.

And this is besides the fact that I do it all for him-all of
it--without reciprocity.  I do it with the idea looming over my head
that none of it will ever be good enough-that none of it will be
enough to fill the shoes SHE left behind for me-shoes that noone could
ever fill. In his eyes, I am not her, will never be her, and that is all
it takes for me to be discarded. To be tossed aside like a dead rose.

Yet the sad truth is that I like the guy.  He's one hell of an
insufferable jackass, but I like him. I feel drawn to him. I don't
exactly know why I do, but I do.  I like him a lot, actually, which is
why I'm sitting here with an untouched glass of Dr. Pepper on my right,
and a nonsensical pattern of scribbling on my left.  On my lap lies the
note he left me this morning--yellowed now, crumpled and flattened
out--and I stare at the words, over and over, chasing phrases again
and again in my head until the letters stop making sense and my head
starts to hurt.  He left this for me--a few hours ago--after I
chewed him out for what must have been the third time this week.

Well, what can I say?  My self control has a limit, after all-and I
had just had enough-more than enough, actually. After awhile, I felt as
if I could take no more.  His always familiar "sorry, I ran out"
pathetic bullshit routine drove me over the edge and my ears began to
steam with annoyed and frustrated smoke.  My fists balled up. For a
moment, the world had a strange tilt to it and I couldn't breathe.

I was THAT angry.

So I told him-in no uncertain terms-that I would leave him.  I could
take no more, could not stand to watch him walk into the flames of hell
and never return-and I was leaving.  I was going to do it. I would
take my coffee cup, my laptop, and my pride that hung like an overcoat
on the door, and I would leave.

I walked out then-turning directly on my heels to keep my emotions
from reaching his keen and prodding eyes--the ones that seemed to know
everything without even knowing anything at all.  I stomped to the
bathroom, gritting my teeth into a fine powder, and proceeded to bang my
fist on the door with an anger that reverberated inside my head and
shattered the left over pieces of my heart.  My heart--the part of me
that felt so strangely drawn to him, even though I knew with all clarity
and melancholy that he was bad news. He was not mine to have or desire.
He was the brooding guy with a serious ice chip residing on the
shoulders that slumped to work every morning, the man who my father
warned me about when I joined the FBI.  His soul was already scattered
and ripped in two, and I would never be his.  I would never know his
smile, I would never find his unyielding trust.

But part of me craved him anyway.  I don't know why.  And if I don't
ever know why, it won't surprise me.

Because his note said, "Kate- 9 pm, my place.  Let me explain. -F' and
even though I know I should run in the other direction and not look
back, I am going to meet him anyhow.

If not for my own peace of mind and my insatiable desire to stick this
out-to the bloody end, if need be-then out of my damned curiosity
concerning the man who, for the past five months, has been an engima to
me.

I want to know who the woman in the picture on the mantle is.  I want
the whole godammned story, beginning to end, the reasons why he ditched
me this last time, and damn it, I am going to get them!

Even if it kills me in the process.

For I have dwindled in the shadow of a ghost for far too long.

***
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Just outside Laughton, Ohio
May 12th

***

He is finally going to tell me.

For the scientific part of me, that is the first thing that I think
of-the first thing that comes to mind as I sit here-in his living
room. In his abode.  In his life.

He is finally going to tell me.

The tea in front of me remains untouched, black and hot-the way I like
it, no cream, no sugar- Ordinarily I would probably find it to be a most
wonderful aphrodisiac.  Just me and my sweats-one mismatched sock, one
ripping, 5 year old bathrobe, one cup of hot earl grey-no cream, no
sugar.

He is finally going to tell me.

For the woman in me, however, there is a terrified place in my heart
that has opened just for this admission-this mythical story that I had
always thought-from the beginning-that I would never hear.  There is,
of course, the other part of me-that secret part of my heart that he
won't ever understand-that part that wants to believe that he trusts
me.  That he is telling me because he knows that to be my partner, he
must trust me with everything--his life, his faith.

His love.

But the again, something I am not, is stupid.

The intelligent part of me-the practical side of that self same
heart--the woman behind the woman-understands that I won't ever be
the possessor of things so dully important to him.  I won't ever be the
one who will sit here-in my five year old bathrobe and my mismatched
scrunch socks, I won't ever be the one to which he will grant full
smiles and gratuitous backrubs.  I won't hear him laugh with  me-not
in this lifetime, I don't think.

I am his partner but I am not her.

I have never been her and I will never be her.  In his eyes, I am not as
beautiful, not as intelligent, not as wonderful, and never as
trustworthy. No.  Never, ever as trustworthy. As a matter of fact, I
don't think that anyone will ever have his trust the way she had
it-the way she possessed it like the key to a safe.

My hair is not her red, my eyes are brown and not her blue, my voice is
mine and not hers.  My science is biochemistry and not pathology, and I
have never in my life worn a golden cross. I have also never been so
jealous of a woman I have never met.

I've never met her-but I've seen her-in the reflection of his eyes, in
the face of a daughter he tries to shield from the world, and in the
photos he keeps-but never lets anyone touch.

They're like glass framed shrines for my partner's beloved, red headed,
unfortunate snow white.

There are two pictures of her on the mantle, another one on the couch's
end table, and yet another one-facing the door.  I assume that the
last one's placement is because there is an unconscious part of him that
wants to think she can see him when he walks in.  He knows that she
can't, not really, but I think he likes to entertain the notion anyway.

One of the pictures on the mantle looks a little older than the other
three-a little more grainy-I think, but maybe that's just my eyes
going on me.

It's him and her playing baseball in what looks like old Greenway
Park--in what used to be DC-at night, and at home plate.  His arms
are wrapped around her in a protective, mock-tutorial stance, and her
fresh, young face is alight with brilliant laughter. There is a red hair
obscuring one eye, curled almost into her mouth, and there is a look of
determination belaying her delight.  The photo has been taken from an
odd angle-almost from the ground, it looks like, and if I had to
guess, I'd have to say that it was taken by a very short person. -Or, at
the very least, from a very small table.

The other one on the mantle-- the one in the golden frame with the
trim is the one that fascinates me to no end. The funny thing though is
that I have no clue know why.  Maybe it's got something to do with her
smile-the way the corners of her cupids bow lips turn up like a
secretive Mona Lisa. Every time I see it, it makes me wonder-  what was
she thinking, in that exact moment freeze framed in time?  What did that
smile mean to her, painted upon such a mischievous expression?

But maybe it's not even her-well, not entirely anyway.  Maybe it's
him-the way he appears so-aloof.  Nonchalant. As if he had
inadvertently stepped into a photo he wasn't expecting, but he put his
arm around her anyway, just because he could.   Maybe it's the way his
expression screams that he loves her, the way his half grin tells me he
needs her, without giving much away at all. Maybe it's the way his eyes
speak to me, telling me that he belongs there-with her. Forever
incased in a kodak moment.

Or maybe it's just nothing and I'm crazy.

At any rate, there's another one on the end table.

It looks like it was taken about five and a half years ago-or maybe
just a little earlier, judging from the size of her distended stomach.
Like the mantle pictures, she is smiling here, but there is more
maturity in her eyes--more aged wisdom-as if whatever she'd seen, been
through, or whatever she'd done since the baseball picture was taken had
aged her mentally. She is also about 5 sizes bigger here than she had
been in the ones on the mantle-though not dressing any less smartly
than she had in the last two pictures.  Her white button down blouse and
black pants give away her professionalism and her integrity. She seems
to exhude it, even though she's the size of a small house.

He is there too.

His head is against her stomach-hand cupped around his right ear,
against her belly, as if he is waiting for her abdomen to speak to him.
There's a faintly amused look on his face, a look of mischief, and
underneath that smile of hers, I can see a similar light.  She looks as
if she's going to shove him away at any minute-as if she's taking this
photo to humor whomever is standing behind the camera.  He just looks
pleased as heck.

The one on the counter that faces the door is a very different picture;
one that, I assume, he must look at with reverence daily.

It is her by herself, standing in front of what looks like a bush or
some very tall flowers.  From the way her hair is angled, I assume that
there must have been a slight breeze that day.  And from the angle of
her chin, the direction of her gaze, I also assume that she was not
aware this photo was being taken.

Her face is cast slightly downward-her bright blue eyes obscured by
thick, auburn lashes that barely brush her faintly freckled cheek. Her
scarlet, unpainted lips are slightly ajar, as if she is holding back a
giant secret, and her slender fingers are wrapped around the petals of a
tiny dandelion flower.  She is staring at it as if it holds the ominous
secrets of her universe, and her fingers play upon the tiny yellow
blossoms like a teenage on the verge of a round of "he loves me, he
loves me not."

He loves you, I silently think to the beautiful woman forever encased
under the glass of a picture frame.  Trust me, he loves you.

She is his snow white, but she won't ever wake up.

It is, perhaps, the cruelest twist of fate I've ever seen.

I try not to look that often, but sometimes I can't help it.

He walks slowly into the room, rubbing his temple, and smiles an
apology.  His hair is sticking out at all angles, and there is a slight
bit of dark stubble decorating his chin from where I can tell he hasn't
shaved.

I'd brush away that errant hair, but I doubt he'd appreciate it.

"Sorry," he says, distractedly, dropping something into my lap.  "She
couldn't find her teddy bear."

I nod at him as if I understand the toils of raising a child, which I
don't, but I can pretend, for his sake. I do a lot of things for his
sake, actually, but I doubt that he notices.  Like I said, I'm not her.
I won't ever be.

Much of him, I think, is somewhere trapped in a strange limbo-wrapped
inside a dream where he waits for her.  Sometimes, I wonder how long
he'll wait.

 Carefully, I wrap my fingers around what he has just handed me.  It's
an old yellowed newspaper, still intact, still complete and relatively
organized in much the way it had been five years ago.   Exactly what
he's doing with a five year old newspaper escapes me at the moment, but
that's why I'm here.

He's finally going to tell me.

"Tell me," he says, taking a seat across from me on the opposite couch.
"Do you remember that?"

I stare down at the headline and furrow a brow, suppressing a shiver.

Oh god, do I remember this..

I was in the academy back then-mustering through training and hell
week, getting by as a young, nave little urchin, but I don't think
there is any way I could have missed this.  There isn't any way I could
have forgotten.  I don't think there is a person in this world who has
forgotten about it.  We were all affected by it-if not directly, then
through the loss of valued economic resources-NYSE headquarters, the
hub of modern industry, the white house, the Hoover building.  Jobs
lost, lives lost-

"Remember this?" I ask, taking a breath.  "How could I not, Fox?  This
was perhaps the most horrific terrorist attack in the history-"

He looks at me as if he knows more than he's letting on. It's a look
I've gotten quite used to in the five months we've been partnered.
Usually, though, he leaves me in the dark.  He lets me sweat.  He
doesn't tell me.

Now, he's finally going to tell me.

`Four major cities leveled in weekend macabre,' I re-read, running a
finger over the headline.  `New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Washington
DC, destroyed.'

The words dance a horrific waltz inside my head, bumping and colliding
until I am taken back to the day-to the anxiety, the airraid
drills-the impassioned speeches by directors who had lost loved ones,
trainers who had lost friends, co-workers.  The fear and anxiousness.
The evacuation of government buildings all over the United States-the
president going into hiding, the massive chaos that reigned in front of
my eyes from a FBI sanctioned war room.  Fire, debris, explosions.  Men
whose faces we could not see that burned the secure blanket of American
innocence to the ground.

I take a breath and stare at him, wondering why he would bring this up.
Why this would be important. I read her file-I memorized the facts and I
know when it happened.  This wasn't it.

He leans forward.

"What if I told you that was no terrorist attack?"

My breathing hitches.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, confused.  He does not answer,
merely waits for me to continue my myraid of disbelief over what he
believes to be truth.

"They- they caught the guys," I insist, looking at him, then at the
paper.  "The masterminds-terrorist faction leaders from Serbia and
Yugoslavia, the aftermath of-"

He laughs, bitterly, running a hand through his cropped, chestnut hair.
His eyes are mirthless, hazel orbs devoid of any passion except for the
work that contains him and the daughter he dotes upon.

Why is he laughing at me?

"What's so funny?" I ask, straightening my back a little, jutting my
chin slightly. I am sick and tired of being pushed around. I am sick and
tired of being laughed at.  I am sick and tired of being ignored.

I'm sick and tired of being compared to a woman that I can never be.

And, sure enough, he shakes his head, looking at me, admitting, "that's
something Scully would have said."

I shake my head back at him, anger roiling inside me like a vast ocean
during a hurricane.  My heart hurts and my head hurts and right now I
can't decide which is worse.

I let my mouth run away with me.

"I am NOT her," I tell him, low, fevered, "I am NOT Scully, Mulder."

I force my fists to stay still and unclenched upon my lap.  His eyes
change moods suddenly, at the sound of his last name coming from my
lips, and I close my eyes so that I don't have to look at him.  I could
say it a million times, remind him till I turn blue, and it still
wouldn't stop him.   I could work with him and remain by his side until
we're old and decrepit, until the sun stops setting and the world
crumbles.  It still wouldn't stop that brain of his from
comparing-from looking at me and seeing a paler, less magnificent
version of what once was.

I'm sick of him looking at me and missing her.  I am not her.

"Don't ever call me that," he tells me, fevered, clenching his teeth
until his molars grit and his jaw moves.

I refuse to flinch.

We stare at each other for a long moment.

I remember a time, once, when we were first partnered, that someone told
me that he never used to let anyone call him Fox.  I heard that
colleagues who used the name-often proceeded by the word "spooky"-
would frequently get black eyes and harsh words.  Strangers who used it
were rebuffed-corrected, frowned at.  He despised his first name and so
he was "Mulder" to anyone and everyone who ever knew him.  He was Mulder
at work, Mulder at home, Mulder to the gunmen, Mulder to her-

He's not Mulder to me.

He makes me call him Fox, though he still hates the name.

Nobody is allowed to call him Mulder anymore.

"So," I ask uncomfortably, trying to change the subject but still
suffering the sting.  "Are you going to tell me or are we going to argue
all night?"

He sighs, looking older in those intriguing eyes than a man his age
ought to look.   His face screams of countless horrors he has visited
once, when he lived them, then revisited again and again, in nightmares
and dreamscapes I couldn't ever imagine.

But that's why I'm here.

He is finally going to tell me.

"You may need to spike that tea with something stronger," he jokes,
weakly, trying to leaven the moment.

I do not smile.

"Try me," I tell him, watching him closely for a reaction.  "I want to
know."

His jaw hardens.  "First is first," he manages, softly, then, "How much
do you already know?"

A feeling of  nausea falls over me and I cross my legs, left over
right.  I take a deep breath and wait for the feeling to pass, for the
nausea to wash away-like it always does when I think about the stories
I've heard-the horror tales about poor Mrs.  Spooky--the tough,
stubborn woman who went in and didn't come out.  My predecessor-the
woman I am not, the woman I will never be, the woman I am compared to on
a daily basis by not only him, but everyone who knew her.  The
resilient, beautiful red haired woman who was kidnapped by madmen, held
hostage, held at gunpoint, abducted by forces unknown, ridiculed for the
company she kept-namely, him, infected with Cancer, and always came back
fighting-right to the end.

She was like the mythical, tragic, heroine of the bureau.  The woman
nobody had really known, but who had prompted more stories and tales in
every department, than any killer or murderer ever had.  Fantastical,
crazy stories that went around the Ohio office like wildfire,
speculating all sorts of things about the trials and tribulations of
poor Mrs Spooky and her renegade partner, "Spooky Mulder" before they
had graced the Laughton field office.  They were FBI folk tales.

"The higher-ups are trying to placate him," one colleague had told me
once, warning me right before I had met him-right after I had been
assigned. "He thinks dangerous things.  Does dangerous things.  They're
trying to make sure he doesn't kill himself over her. They're trying to
re-create her with you."

It was a statement that had scared me more than alien stories and tales
of woe and horror for the victimized Dana Scully.  It had scared me down
to my core.  It still does, and I still think it, even now.

It scares me because I know that it's true.

"I know about the abduction," I finally manage, setting the newspaper
aside.  "I was-told- When I asked Skinner- he contacted me- email- he
told me everything about her-"

I pause and he is silent.

"Everything but the end," I finish, "Everything but this, apparently."
I point to the newspaper and he nods, swallowing and shifting his legs.
"If they weren't terrorists, Fox, then who were they?"

He looks down at the paper, licking his lips absently.

There is a part of me that wishes and wants with ferocity for him to
heal-for him to let go of her and remember that there are others who
care. That I am here and I care. I would look after him. That I want to
help him.  I wish he would let me.

But, like I said, I am not stupid.

And I don't care what it takes, but he is finally going to tell me.

"What happened, Fox?" I ask, gently.

He sighs and looks back at me, blinking once before he softly clears his
throat.  "Alright-the end, it is," he says, forcing nonchalance, as if I
have just ordered a burger and fries, rather than asking him how his
world ended.

I nod and he starts, slowly, "About five years ago, we were on a
case-Scully and I-that is, but it wasn't an X File. We were just
assisting a friend of hers.  Some guy whose name I don't remember-Scott?
Steve?  Was that it?  Steve something or other-" His voice trails off
and he waves an errant hand.  "Not important- anyways, we stopped off at
some McDonalds somewhere and ah- it was hot-outside- I think- The
beginning of the end of the beginning."



***
Aproximately five and a half years ago
May 5th
Washington DC,
Local Mc Donalds

***

"Oh, real attractive- thank you-"

Mulder chewed and chewed, swallowed, then sipped his drink before
exclaiming, "ahhhhh-" to his partner like a cheesy coke commercial.

She wrinkled her nose in response.

"Mulder, that shit is going to clog your arteries."

He took another sip.

Two finely manicured fingers poked at the red box on his tray in
disgust, stabbing at Mulder's food and grabbing part of his lunch in
distain.  Then, as if to further illustrate her point, she rubbed a
particularly soft french fry against a napkin to produce an offending
grease stain.  She held it up and displayed it to him.

Mulder only grinned and grabbed another bite of his triple
cheeseburger--gobbs of ketchup and mustard oozing out the side like
primordeal slime.

"Yes," Mulder managed between bites, swallowing, "Yes, true, maybe so
BUT-" He shot her a waggled eyebrow. "where is your sense of adventure,
doctor Scully?"

Scully rolled her eyes.

"I must've left it at home with my light saber," she answered dryly,
poking a fork at her limp salad.

Mulder reached over the table to yank a tomato off her fork, causing an
offended, "hey!" before he deposited it in his mouth with a self
satisfied smirk.  She glowered at him, weakly, trying to suppress a
grin.

"Too bad the force isn't with you," Mulder joked, smirking, chomping
noisily on her last tomato.  "Or else you would have seen that one
coming."

Scully rolled her tongue inside her cheek and grinned, mischievously,
leaning over the table, closer and closer, until she was inches from his
face.  His eyes fell upon her lips and she opened her mouth, in a low
voice starting, "you are one fu--"

A nervous, male voice interrupted them.

"Scully?  Mulder?"

Flustered, Scully nearly banged her head against the overhanging
lightfixture as she moved away and fell back against the seat.  Mulder
did his damndest to suppress a vicrorious grin.

"Can we help you?" he asked the young, nervous agent, while lifting a
fry to his mouth.

The agent watched them for another moment longer, biting his lip before
managing, "we need backup.  Our man was spotted about four blocks away.
Larren just called me from his cell.  There was gunfire-we think the
guy's in there."

Mulder and Scully eyed each other for a moment, then pulled themselves
to their feet simultaneously.  Scully straightened out her jacket, self
consciously, and her hand automatically fell to her side to feel the
protective bulk of her gun, nestled underneath her jacket.  Mulder
tossed his trash into a nearby receptical and eyed his partner again.
She nodded at their wordless exchange and looked at her friend-poor,
nervous, Pete Barker. He was a new agent and as a result, he was always
so timid when it came to things like this.  She felt almost sorry for
him- well, almost-

"Pete, " she said, authoritatively, "I think you should stay here.  Call
the SAC, apprise him of the ah, the situation.  Agent Mulder and myself
will be able to provide adequate backup.   Just let us know where we're
going-"

***
Back to the present:
May12th
Mulder telling his story:

***

I wrap a finger around the handle of my mug of tea and watch the last
puffs of steam rise up and disappear into the air.  It's been sitting
here for nearly ten minutes now, probably longer than that, and I have
not touched it.  Whereas once I had thought I wanted it, I am now as far
from thirsty as a person can get.  Go figure.

My gaze rises and captures Mulder's, our eyes connecting.  My breathing
is almost non-audible and my lips silent as he continues the story I
feel I have been destined to hear.  I have been sent to him to help him,
I think, or at least I hope.  But to what end I can offer that help, the
parameters of that pledge, it is all still not clear to me.   I'm hoping
that it might be-after tonight.

"So anyways," he says, folding and unfolding his hands in his lap, " we
went down to the scene. But by that time, the guy had wasted his entire
clip, thankfully not killing anyone, and Larren and Mathews had already
had the guy holed up.   They just needed us so that they could safely
make the arrest, make sure there were no surprises waiting-stuff like
that, you know, same old drill."

I nod and he continues, "so it was more a matter of backup than life or
death.  All we had to do was stand there with our guns drawn.  Easy
enough-"

***
Ten minutes later,
Sampson's Warehouse,
Washington DC,
May 5th

***

"How long have they been in there, you think, Scully?"

Scully looked back at her partner and glanced briefly at her gold tone
watch, making sure to stay straight and textbook against the wall with
her gun.

"Five minutes, maybe" she answered, distracted, her eyes darting around.

Mulder pursed his lips, letting out a slight sigh as he glanced around.

Scully licked her lips absently and turned her head left, then right.

`So, Scully-" Mulder said casually, or-as casually as he could say
anything while standing outside a warehouse with his gun drawn--" What
were you going to say when Steve-"

"Pete, Mulder."

"Pete" Mulder ammended, "Right. Sorry.  When Panhandle Pete--" he paused
to watch her reaction and almost smiled when she suppressed an enigmatic
grin.  "Interrupted-"

"Interrupted. what, Mulder?"

She was battling harder to force back her smile, and he bit his lip and
continued, "So- when he came in and--"

"GOT EM, AGENTS!  CLEAR?"

The yell came from inside, and Scully yelled back, "CLEAR!" as she
lowered her gun.  Mulder followed suit and caught her gaze, briefly.
She finally smiled. He smiled back. Soon after, Agents Larren and
Mathews exited with a very pissed, very dirty looking Darren
Walter-accused bank robber and little known car thief.  They nodded
their thanks to Mulder and Scully and hurled him away-as he hurled
obscenities in every which direction.  Scully shook her head and
proceeded to put her gun away in its clip, turning away from the
arrest.  She was busy struggling with a non-compliant, stubborn holster
when Mulder opened his mouth, about to make his usual smart assed
comment.  She shot him a warning look before he could even breathe to
get it out, and his phone elicited a very loud-very whiny, high pitched
squeal.

"Saved by the bell," Scully muttered, still yanking on her apparently
stuck leather holster.  Mulder shrugged and turned in the opposite
direction, looking for a better reception as he cursed himself for not
re-charging the damn thing. He clicked it on and barked, "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder," Pete Barker's voice sounded, nervous as always, "How'd
it go?"

Mulder fought down a thin smile and rolled his eyes, entertaining the
notion of telling Barker that the impending arrest had ended in a
shootout and a bloodbath, resulting in the deaths of five civilians and
several housepets.  A picture of the guy having a heart attack inside
McDonalds crept into his head, and he nearly snickered at his own silent
joke.   "It went fine," Mulder finally decided upon, glancing at his
watch, impatiently.  He and Scully had baseball tickets for a game that
started at four, and it was going to be an hour drive-

Mulder paced forward, "Look, Pete, they've got Walter in custody right
now, if you want to contact Mathews or-"

"OW!"

Mulder swiftly turned his head at the sound of the gasp to see Scully,
hunched over and gripping her ankle in annoyed, dulled, pain.  Oblivious
to the concerned voice of Pete Barker on the other end, Mulder lifted
the phone from his ear and eyed Scully, concerned. "You ok?" he asked,
leaning closer.

Scully did not answer for a moment, merely rubbed her ankle, scrunching
her face in pain and confusion.  "It- Ow- ow- fuck-I think-" she
started, her voice breathless, "I think something- stung-ow- me-"

Mulder furrowed a brow, flashing back to another time something had
"stung her."  She had uttered those exact words to him, and he
remembered it all too well. It had been in his hallway--during one of
the most important, sensual moments of his life- with his hands
caressing the nape of her neck-her hairline, that place between her
cheek and her jaw-  Her arms around his neck, her eyes half closed in
barely hooded need- he had been about to kiss her- about to tell her-

And then she'd been taken from him.

Mulder shook off the disturbing thought, pushing it back into the
recesses of his mind. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar he told himself,
watching her closely.

"But you're ok?" he asked again, stepping closer to her, eyeing her
ankle. "Right?  Scully?"

Finally, she looked up with a slight grimmace and nodded, "Yeah-" Her
back straightened and she nodded again, looking up to catch Mulder in
the eye with a clouded gaze.  "I'm ok," she breathed, softly.
"I'm-fi--"

Then her eyes rolled up into her head and her body fell forward.

--- 2 ----


***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***


  The air conditioner clicks on suddenly, startling both of us, and on
my back I can feel the chills of artificial air circulating the room.

Fox takes a deep breath and shakes his head, closing his eyes for a
moment to try and regain his thoughts.  It occurs to me, now as I watch
him fight off regret and self-blame, that this must be more than simply
painful for him to talk about.  It must be more than excruciating-more
than horrible.  Especially so since I know Fox-and I know his brain.
Especially since I know he is doing more than telling this story. He is
reliving it.  He is reliving every moment and every memory. He is
reliving her laugh and her smile, and her tears.   He is reliving a time
in his life he doesn't ever talk about to anyone.  Remembering the last
years of a woman whose name is never allowed to be uttered in his
presence-not by me, not by anyone but him.

A woman I have never met, but have been jealous of for the last five
months of  my life.  A woman I only know as "Scully."

"A puncture wound," he says, suddenly, interrupting my thoughts with
soft words he means for me to understand. When I do I nod, but I do not
speak.

"She was out for about ten minutes," he says, slowly. "And every fucking
minute of it was excruciating. I thought she was going to die, I
thought-"

He pauses, runs a hand raggedly through his hair, then continues,
"Anyway, I called 911 and they checked her out. Gave her an OK.  Said it
could have been an allergic reaction to an insect bite or the scratch of
a rusted nail.  Bullshit, I had thought.  I didn't buy it-She didn't
want to blow it out of proportion.  So we were at odds-like usual-and
we argued about it, until I finally threatened to spend the week singing
a thousand bottles of beer on the wall unless she went to a doctor."

He lets out a light, reminiscent chuckle at that, and I try to force a
smile at that which I can't understand.  What was she like? I can't help
but wonder.  Did she roll her eyes at him a lot?  Did she laugh?  Did
he?  What kind of person was she, to make him into the kind of man that
lived and thrived upon her well being?  What kind of person was she,
when they laughed together, when they took that picture of the two of
them, playing ball?

"So Scully went, without me-like she had insisted--and the doctor
told her it was a puncture wound-very small, but definitely from a
needle, considering the ugly track mark that was left behind from a
sloppy incision-the traces of some sort of substance left on her skin-"
He shivers at that, then goes on, "when tests were run, Scully found out
that she had been injected, apparently with some sort of hormone
inducing drug---an excess of estrogen and accelerant--it had caused
an adrenaline rush that made her faint, it would give her headaches and
an occasional cramp or two, but otherwise, as Scully had told me `it was
oddly harmless.  Puzzling.'  I had thought so too.  So we went back and
scoured the scene-looking for hypodermic needles that she might have
stepped on by accident. We found nothing."

He stretches and I un-cross my legs, leaning back into the couch with
rapt interest in this story.

"I tried not to think about it during the next few days, but it bothered
the shit out of  me-" He manages a weak half-smile, making sure I'm
still with him, and continues, "But Scully told me to let it go.  She
was fairly adamant.   Even though she was getting miserable headaches
and stomach aches. `let it drop,' was all she said.  `I'm fine.' Was
all said. I should have known better.  Three days went by until finally,
on the evening of  that first-" he stops to point at the newspaper
beside me, "that first massacre, Scully went in to do an autopsy and
just didn't come back out-"

***
FBI Headquarters
Washington DC
May 8th,
Five and a half years earlier

***

"uh huh- uh huh.yeah-"

Scully glanced up from her laptop and regarded her partner as he rolled
his eyes and nodded, dully.  His gaze shifted and caught hers, and his
eyes rolled skyward again.  She turned and leaned against the back of
her chair, shooting him a raised eyebrow, and his hand came up to open
and close rapidly-mimicking a duck quacking.   She closed her eyes
wearily and shook her head.

"uh huh- yes sir.  I understand, sir.  Of course, sir."

"Can I kiss your ass, sir?" Scully added playfully, under her breath.

Mulder bit his lip to fight off a smile and his eyes widened at her, as
if to say, `did I really hear you say that?'

Scully returned the look with a smug glance, silently replying, `you
know you just did.'

Mulder shook his head in disbelief and hung up the phone, giving her one
of his many `guess what we have to do that you're not going to like?'
looks.  Scully sighed and rose to her feet, stretching her arms,
groaning, "Oh god, what now?"

Mulder shrugged and leaned back against the desk.  "Autopsy," he said,
dryly.  "Then a meeting with Skinner-unless your autopsy runs late, in
which case it's me and Skinner.  Unless your autopsy can wait till
tomorrow, in which case I have errands to run and it's you and Skinner."

Scully quirked an eyebrow at him and folded her arms, wearily. "You mean
he doesn't care?" she asked, confused.

Mulder shrugged again.  "He just said one of us.  Both of us would be
nice, but one of us would do just fine."

Scully nodded knowingly, leaned back against her smaller desk, and she
eyed Mulder for another moment longer.   Silence gave way to the low
creaking of the air conditioner, and both partners narrowed their eyes
in mock competition.  Mulder jutted his chin at her, grinning.  Scully
took a long, deep breath.

"Alright G-man," she finally said, moving forward.  "All or nothing-no
best two out of three crap. Winner gets to miss the meeting. Odds or
evens?"

Mulder matched her poise and cleared his throat. "Odds," he told her
with a grin, extending his hand.

"Shocker," she teased, wryly, extending her own hand.

"You're going down," Mulder vowed, closing his palm in a fist.

"Wrong again, crackpot," Scully joked lightly, closing her hand in a
similar fist to his.

They watched each other for a moment, eyes connecting on a level all
their own.  Scully bit her lip and Mulder fought down the racing of his
traitorous heart. It was getting harder and harder lately, trying to
control what he felt-

She took a breath, then, "Once, twice, three, shoot!"

Both threw out a simultaneous hand, fist closed, index finger extended.

Mulder let out an exaggerated groan and Scully grinned victoriously. Her
head waggled slightly in self satisfied smugness, and her arms folded
lightly across her chest.  Her posture screamed "I told you so," and she
eyed him as she made her way out, leaning into his shoulder just long
enough to tease, "G-man loses again.  Let's hear it for science."

And then she slipped away before he could make a lunge to grab her.

"I'll be in the morgue if you need me!" sounded her smug, content alto
from the hallway.

He rolled his eyes.

"Say hi to the stiffs for me, willya Scully?"

A poke of his head through the open doorway revealed Scully's flushed
cheeks and tiny little grin, her head cast downward in a failed attempt
to hide her amusement, as the elevator doors closed behind her.

Mulder smiled, feeling warm all over, and closed his eyes.

***
Four hours later
Assistant Director Skinner's Office
May 8th

***
"So, Agent Mulder, if you'll just debrief Agent Scully on the major
parameters of this case, I don't see any reason why the two of you can't
fly out tomorrow."

Mulder nodded and stared down at the folder in his hand, alternately
flipping the pages and watching the AD.  His brow wrinkled as he skimmed
line after line, and finally he flipped the case file closed.  Ghosts,
strange claims, people running, mel-pel from an old abandoned mansion.
Just the usual-

"Sounds fine," Mulder said, decisively.  "I'll be sure to--"

But before he could finish, his cell phone rang, shrilling wildly from
inside his coat pocket.  Skinner eyed him warily, pursing his lips.
Mulder shrugged sheepishly and forced a discreet smile towards his
superior. Great timing, Scully, he thought, trying to avoid Skinner's
accusing glare.  Just great.  His tiny Nokia rang again, and he quickly
slipped his finger inside the folds of his jacket, yanking out his tiny
black annoyance, flipping open the bottom half.

"Mulder," he sighed, dully.

"Agent Mulder?" came the unfamiliar voice.

Mulder closed his eyes and shook his head, rubbing his temples.  He
blinked once, then twice, and replied, "speaking. Can I help you?"

The agent on the other end cleared his throat, then managed a stammer
before he spoke, "Agent Mulder, you need to come down to the morgue
immediately."

Mulder was up in a shot, heart pounding, head swimming.  What could have
possibly--oh no- Every time he got a call like this, it meant. Oh
noooo-His chest suddenly felt heavy and he had a sinking feeling-as if
part of him was missing. No- no, no, no- He thought, horrified.  Oh god-
something's happened- Oh god, Scully..

Skinner frowned and leaned forward, questioning, "Agent Mulder, what is
it?"

Mulder ignored him, trying to muster up the strength and state of mind
to ask the question he was dreading.  The question that he was starting
to have a sinking feeling about.  His left hand clenched and unclenched
tightly, releasing and rereleasing stress and fear that he knew Scully
would scold him for feeling.  He closed his eyes and slowly managed,
"Is- is it Scully?  Is Scully alright?"

The man on the other end took a quick breath. "Well," he replied,
nervously, "see, that's the ah- problem, ah, Agent Mulder-Agent Scully,
she's ah-"

Mulder shook his head impatiently and squelched the urge to pound his
hand into something.  Skinner stared at him silently, waiting, watching,
and his hands gripped the edge of the desk. It didn't take a rocket
scientist to figure out that something was very, very wrong.

"Spit it out!" Mulder all but screamed, his wits end fast approaching.

The other man cleared his throat again and finally blurted, "The
morgue's a disaster Agent Mulder.  It's been trashed but- but nobody saw
anybody enter or exit.  We-we think somebody broke in.  But- Um, we
don't know because Agent Scully was the only one there and she's ah-
she's gone-"

Mulder's heart stopped.

"What do you mean, she's gone?" he bellowed into the phone.  Skinner's
eyes widened.

"I mean she's gone," the man answered, sufficiently subdued.  "Nobody
knows what happened.  She's just-gone-"

***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

The tea's cold now, I vaguely realize, curling my fingers around the
edge of the handle.  I start to turn it slowly with my thumb and my
index finger, and the watery ring I've left behind on the coffee table
expands and reforms on the wood.  I should've used a coaster, the
nervous ten year old in me thinks, for the briefest of moments.

But then the woman takes over again.

And I realize that his story is starting to freak me out. Big time.
More than big time, actually--though mind you, in the past five
months  I've probably seen more horror and depravity than big breasted
sorority girls in cheesy vampire flicks.  Not that I really understand
exactly what it is that's freaking me out, not that I have a grip on why
I feel so nervous right now, but still.

I have a feeling that this conversation is going to give me nightmares
for weeks.

Fox looks at me, pausing slightly in the telling of his tale, and leans
back into the couch.

"So I went down to the morgue, like they asked me, and it was a mess."
He closes his eyes to remember, and my hands fall away from the coffee
mug.

"I remember thinking- it was my fault.  Somehow, I should have known-or
been there-" I shoot him a sympathetic glance, and he sucks in a
breath, then continues, "but I kept my wits as best I could-and I
called her cell.  When there was no answer, I called her apartment.
Still nothing.  So I scoured the building-probably pissing off a great
number of people-and finally, I called the gunmen.  I asked them to
look for anything-any clues--any phone calls that had been made to
her.  Anyone who may have looked her up or called her cellular account.
I even had them check her email."

I run a hand through my hair and furrow a brow, trying to understand
just where he is going with all this.  It's all so strange sounding-so
paranoid and incredible. And if he were anyone else I might accuse him
of lying to me.  Of putting me on.

But not this man. I've seen too much in the past five months with this
man to distrust him-to think he would lie to me.  I feel with my heart
and my soul that he wouldn't.

Maybe that makes me crazy.   Who knows?

"So what happened?" I ask, quietly.

He lets out a bitter, painful sounding chuckle and pulls his right leg
onto the couch, lazily.  I watch as his gaze shifts so that he is
staring at the picture on the counter.  His face softens-as if he truly
believes she is looking back at him--and then he looks back at me.

"I had spent so much time throwing my weight around the Hoover building
that it never occurred to me that I should check her apartment," he
says, with a shake of his head.

My mouth drops.  "You're kidding," I admonish, almost managing a smile.

He shakes his head again. "Nope," he responds, softly.  "After about an
hour or so-give or take traffic, I got over there.  She was asleep on
the couch-like she had been taking a nap.  At first I was relieved-I
called the gunmen to let them know--but when I went to wake her, it
became pretty obvious that she was not just sleeping-"

***
About an hour and a half later
May 8th
Scully's apartment

***
"Scully?"

Mulder knelt gently by the couch, reaching a shaky hand to touch the
forehead of his slumbering partner.  His fingers brushed across her ear,
over the back of her russet, sunset hair, and finally came to rest upon
her right temple, gingerly.

"Holy shit, Scully," he gasped, lowering his hand to grip her right
shoulder.  She was burning hotter than a barbeque grill.

He shook her gently, once, twice, then moved his hand towards her lower
bicep.  He shook her again, but there was no response.

"Scully, come on."

Reaching up securely with both hands, he gripped her arms and turned her
over, flipping her onto her back so that he could see her face. His
hands shook and his breathing became ragged, and his eyes widened as he
took in her appearance. Her normally healthy, ivory smooth pallor was
flushed and sweaty, her brow beaded with perspiration.  Her eyes were
squeezed shut, her breathing deep and uneven, her hands sprawled over
the arm of her couch like a discarded towel.  Mulder's expression turned
to horror.

Not again, he thought, watching her nervously- oh god, not again-

He shook his head definitively, trying to control his shaking hands, and
yanked his cellular phone out of his pocket.  Think, he forced his
brain, still staring at his partner as if she were already dead.  Think,
goddamn it!

"It's ok, Scully," he told her, breathlessly, trying to swallow his
fear.  "I'm gonna get you to a hospital.  You're gonna be fine.  Don't
worry-"

Nervously, Mulder stared at the touchtone keypad of his phone-weighing
his options as carefully as he could, given the circumstances.  Call or
take her myself- call or take her myself.It was like standing at the
edge of a bridge and determining whether or not he would jump.  What was
the right thing to do?

He examined the numbers, swallowing, and focused on `911' as anxiety
welled its way into his throat like a lump or a heavy rock.  Like a fast
moving slideshow, the events of the last time he had called 911 for help
flashed through his head with blinding clarity. The ambulance- the
gunshot-  Losing her-again.

It was more than he could fathom.  He stared back at her.

"Alright, Scully," he finally decided, bending down to lift her limp
body into his arms, "that's it. We're blowing this pop stand."

His hands swiftly bent underneath her knees, then her back, and he
lifted her easily.  She whimpered, and one arm fell sideways, dangling
like the cog of a grandfather clock.  Securing her weight, he looked
down to smile at her lightly, wondering if she could hear him.

"See what you get for-" he adjusted his arms and bent slightly, "for-
beating your crackpot partner at `evens/odds?'  Nothin' but trouble,
Scully.  I'm telling you-"

His voice came out shakier than he would have liked, and to his dismay,
she didn't move.  She didn't even blink.  Not a whimper or a groan.
Nothing.  He watched her and took a breath, taking quick strides towards
the door with his heart in his throat.  Hang on, he thought. Hang on-

Swiftly, Mulder reached the door and leaned against the wall, bracing
his weight and hers against the molding next to the apartment
entranceway.  Her body shifted left, sharply, and he turned right to
compensate.  He let out a groan and reached for the door handle, lightly
commenting, "great time to get the flu, Scully.  My sword and trusty
white steed are still in the shop."

There was no response.

He bit his lip and managed to turn the knob, yanking the door open as he
winced against Scully's light-but not feathery-frame.  He took a deep
breath and moved-carefully balancing his partner--walking forward
until he crashed-

Right into Frohike.

"What the?---"

"Mulder!" Byers gasped, taken aback, "I-" he paused and focused on
Scully's limp form. "What happened-what's going on?"

Mulder shook his head and tried to shove past them, balancing his
partner in his arms like a 5 foot 3 paperweight.  "Not now," he
growled.  "Just help me get her to the hospital."

Mulder took a step and Langly moved into his path--stopping him with a
shake of his blond, scraggly head.  Mulder gritted his teeth and stared
at his friend, confused and angry, and desperate as hell.  Langly stood,
unflinching, and his eyes briefly focused on Scully's pathetic state,
softened, and then hardened as his gaze came to focus on Mulder's.

Mulder swallowed angrily.  "Move.  Out.  Of.  My.  Way," he managed,
putting barely concealed hostile emphasis on each word.

Langly shook his head again.  "No can do," he said, gravely.

Mulder shot him a murderous glance and then shifted his gaze upon Byers,
then Frohike.  Both looked away guiltily, clearing their throats with
something strange on their faces-something Mulder couldn't place.  It
looked like fear-like guilt and fear, though he couldn't discern it in
his current state.

All that mattered was Scully.

"I have to get her to a hospital, goddamn it," he gritted then,
seriously considering putting Scully down so that he could shoot his way
out of the building-if that was what it was going to take.

"You CAN'T," Langly replied, standing his ground even though he knew
Mulder was in a precarious state.

Mulder took a breath, narrowing his eyes.  "Why the fuck NOT?!" he
demanded, looking from one gunmen to the other, cradling Scully in his
arms like a porcelain doll.

"Because there IS no hospital anymore," Frohike answered with death and
terror in his voice, and so much fear in his expression that Mulder
nearly dropped his partner where they stood-

---- 3 ---


***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***
The air conditioner kicks back off and the room is bathed in
uncomfortable silence.

I swallow, hard, and Fox stares at me as if he believes there is
something to be learned from all this.  Something I should take with me,
or something I should watch out for in the future-should I ever
encounter the death and destruction of an entire city.

I shiver at the thought.

"It was gone," he finally says, sighing as he stares off into space.
"Blown sky high-as Frohike so succinctly put it.  The hospital was
first-a test run, I assumed--then the Television stations, radio air
towers, and the telephone lines.  Communication was being deliberately
cut off--creating a helpless panic."

Helpless panic- Oh god.

Pictures and imagery of a helpless, horrified public flash into my
brain.  Screaming children and terrified adults. Fire and massacre
painting the streets with the blood of the innocent, as buildings
crumble like sugar cones. People.  People everywhere.  Littering the
streets.  Flooding the sidewalks. Running, fleeing, with nowhere to go.
Nowhere to run.

Dark shivers race up my spine and my head begins to pound.

Fox continues, "Frohike, as it just so happened, was checking his email
when he got a message from one of his online hackers-a guy named `the
brain' who had, in the past, fed them information like dog treats on a
hot day. In the message, as Frohike would later tell me, it said,
`they're coming. Get out, now. There's no time.'  Then there were
directions to an old, abandoned underground railway system-  One that
ran the border of DC and Maryland-where Frohike had been instructed to
go.  As far from the major cities as we could get, the guy later told
us.  Anywhere else we'd be safer."

I nod, barely, my eyes glued to his, my brain rivited by this tale of
horror unfolding.  This story of struggle and events that I had lived
through-but never experienced to his extent.  A story that I had
heard-read about, listened to, watched on TV- when it came back to
us-but didn't see for myself. No.  Not like he had.

I no longer have any doubts in my mind that this will give me nightmares
for weeks on end. And almost certainly, later, I will go home and be
sick.  For a long, long time-

"But first," Fox goes on, his voice sounding farther and farther away, "
we had to get out of the building. We had to run through the streets
before we could escape the city--and I had to try and wake Scully.
Otherwise, there was no way we were going to make it--no way in hell,
though to tell you the truth, I didn't think we would anyway-"

***
Five and a half years ago
May 8th
Scully's apartment Complex Hallway

***

Mulder stared down at his partner and shook her again--grasping her
shoulders like a vice and forcing her body to wobble.  Her head lolled
listlessly to the side and she groaned, pathetically.  Mulder closed his
eyes in frustration and looked back at the guys.

He nodded to Langly, who pressed a pack of ice to her flushed cheek and
spoke into her ear, desperately, as if he felt the entire building was
going to be blown to the ground unless they moved.  "Wake up!" he
called, loudly, "damn it, Agent Scully, wake up!"

Scully groaned again and managed a, "mmmph," before falling back into
the land somewhere between wakefulness and complete unconsciousness, her
lashes fluttering against her red, freckled cheeks.  Langly sighed and
closed his eyes in a similar fashion to the way Mulder had.  He pursed
his lips and shook his head, defeated, his heart racing and his pulse
thumping into his ears.

Mulder grimmaced and stared at her, his body doing a sudden jump as the
city's air raid alarm began to howl and echo into the night like a
restless scream.

The four men stared at each other in horror, breathing deeply and
swallowing their fear until physical illness nearly took its toll.
Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath-

All around them, people began to crowd the hallway--neighbors in their
evening wear-jogging clothes, pyjamas and sweats, children clutching
at the hands of their parents in adamant confusion.  They crashed and
slammed into each other  like waves onto a beach, gasping and
speculating-shoving and pushing, as confusion and pandemonium dictated.
The sirens outside wailed louder, car alarms going off, police sirens
littering the air with the fear of approaching death.  Screams erupted
all around and Scully's next door neighbor pointed towards the hall
window--the building across the street glowing ablaze in fire like a
roman candle.

That was all it took.

Everyone began to scatter helter skelter into the hallway and down the
stairs like ants from a disenchanted mound.

"We've got to get out of here," Byers said, lowly, taking deep breaths.
"We need to hurr--"

He halted when he heard the loud `slap' that seemed to drown out the
sirens and car alarms, the screams and panic.

Mulder's face had turned away when his palm connected with Scully's left
cheek, his hand resonating a slap that stung his ears and sent her head
flying to the right.

Byers winced.

All at once, Scully's eyes shot open in shock and surprise-her hands
flying up-swatting in front of her face as if warding off a swarm of
angry locusts.  Mulder swiftly took hold of her wrists and halted her
movements-grabbing her arms so hard he feared he might break bones, his
expression fierce and determined.  Scully merely stared back at him
disoriented, her pupils dialated and wild-her breathing deep and
ragged.

Her mouth opened, and she managed, "Mul-wha-"

"Listen to me, Scully," Mulder interrupted, speaking to her as loudly as
he could--forcing her to hear him over the storm of pandemonium
reigning all around them.  "You have to trust me.  Don't ask any
questions.  Don't say anything. Just get up as quickly as you can-I'll
help you-and try to hang onto me. Ok?  Just get up and try to stand so
that we can get out of here.  We need to get out of here.  Just nod if
you understand."

Scully's eyes widened in fear and confusion, but she stared at her
partner and nodded, quickly.

Mulder nodded back, pushing an unruly red hair tenderly out of her eyes,
reassuring her with a simple gaze of trust and love.  `I'm not going to
let anything happen to you,' his eyes told her, and she believed.

`I trust you,' her foggy eyes tenderly returned.

Langly, Frohike and Byers quickly got to their feet, staring out the
window at the panic below.  Frohike's hand flew to his mouth in horror,
and Langly cursed, "shit" under his breath while Byers just stared
--as fire after fire erupted around the city-engulfing buildings
miles and miles away-alighting the sky like twisted lightning.

"The end of the world," Langley murmured, mortified.

Mulder ignored them as best he could and pulled on Scully's wrists to
help her to her feet.  His adrenaline pumped wildly into his ears and
alarms hammered pain into his skull.  Hurry, Scully, he thought
desperately.  Oh god, hurry..

It took them about a minute or so, and she wobbled and teetered
drunkenly, but finally, he got an arm around her shoulders and she got
her knees to hold her weight.

"Guys!" Mulder yelled over the mayhem, and they turned, nodding their
heads.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Frohike managed, and he raced to the
emergency stairwell, Mulder, Scully, Byers and Langley following swiftly
behind.  Swinging the door open carelessly, the tiny man launched
himself down the stairs, two at a time-careful to watch for impending
signs of danger as screams echoed into the hallway, telling of
unspeakable horrors they still had yet to visit.  Byers' forehead began
to drip with sweat as he ran, and his eyes closed intermittently to
block out the wails of sirens and screams. Langley lagged behind and
rushed to Scully's side--grabbing an arm opposite Mulder to lift her
legs off the ground completely-giving the three of them more leverage as
they half pulled, half dragged a disoriented Scully down the long
stairwell--two flights and a lobby still ahead of them-

***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

Fox frowns for a moment and runs a hand through his short cropped, brown
hair.  His eyes look tired and drained-as if he's been wandering and
wandering for a hundred years without water.  Sometimes, I think his
world is like an empty desert-one hot and dry, though devoid of
sunshine. Vast and endless-stretching like time-but with no light.
He never lets the light in-

Not ever since she's been gone-

I watch him and I wonder just how long it's been since he's spoken to
anyone about this.  How long has he had it bottled up inside him like a
tightly lidded Pandora's box?  He keeps the truth-or, at least-his
truth, so close and steadfast to himself that it's a wonder I'm sitting
here with him.

Good lord, am I the only one he's told?  Who else knows, I wonder. Who
else knows the whole story-- besides the gunmen and him?    Does Mrs.
Scully know?  His mother?  Who else was there?

But more importantly-what does he tell his daughter?

How do you explain to a little four year old girl that the world is full
of good and forgiving people, when you've seen it burned to the ground
by those same people who swore to protect you?  How do you look her in
the eye and tell her why Mommy isn't with her?  What do you say?

How does it not hurt to look at the child who reminds you of the love
that you lost?

So much pain-

It occurs to me now that my partner is weary of most things and
people-that he is paranoid and unforgiving at times. Untrusting and
cynical, and damn near exhausting to even sit in the same room with.  He
is not by any means the easiest man to get along with--take it from
the person he tried his damndest to drive away-but underneath it
all--underneath the exterior- lies a good heart.

I firmly believe that.

I wouldn't have stayed with him if I didn't.  Or at least-that's what
I continually tell myself-that yeah, he may wrap that heart tightly
beneath an air of brooding sulkiness--he may deny its very
existence--but it is there.  I see it-I see it whenever he says her
name.

And it drives me crazy that sometimes I wish I were her.

"Scully was tired," he says, breathing upon the phrase, "obviously she
had been drugged, but she managed as best as she could.  We all did. We
ran for it-stepping over people-bodies, crashed cars- It was- it was
like the Nostradamus theory about the end of the world- you know that
one?"

My brain flashes back to an old theology class and I nod, silently.

"We had to make it across fifth," he continues, softly.  "Somehow, we
had dodge the fire-fire everywhere."  He looks directly at me,
catching himself inside a memory.  "There were men with blowtorches that
looked like machine guns-men who were not really men- men who could
take out entire city blocks with little more than a two foot walk.  Men
with no faces and no consciences- And there were- bees- bees
everywhere."

I frown and stare at him, confused.  Now he's lost me.  I honestly don't
understand how there could have been men with no faces-men who were not
really men.  But maybe that's just him-getting ahead of himself-like
usual.  I also don't understand where the bees came from, or how they
fit in here.  I hope that he'll tell me-that eventually he'll let me
know just how it is that his "no-terrorist" theory came about and why
these "not terrorists" had no faces. Does he mean figuratively or
literally, I wonder.  I can never tell with him-

He forces a smile.  "Sorry- I ah-" he waves an errant hand. "Anyhow, I
dragged Scully down the streets and tried to keep her from totally-
well- freaking out on me.  Frankly, there wasn't much I could do-other
than to hold her up and keep her quiet.  By that time it had occurred to
me that I had no idea how she had ended up unconscious on her couch, and
that it was very possible she could have been in shock-or worse.  I
figured-if we lived-that I would be able to check her out once we got
to this supposed underground tunnel.   But it wasn't going to be easy.
Before I could even try and do anything, we had to climb into the sewer
grate at the corner of fifth and Carnon-into the city's water system-"

***
Five and a half years ago,
Scully's apartment lobby,
May 8th

***

The five of them hurried down the stairwell, eyes darting, legs taking
two and three steps at a time, the echoes of their shoes and rushed
footsteps nearly silent against the explosions seeping in from
outside.   Car alarms and police sirens wailed and screamed, and the
barely audible sounds of metal against metal, horns blaring in the
distance- told of car crashes and downed traffic lights all over
Georgetown.

Frohike reached the doorway first-waving a desperate hand to stay
down-to stay against a wall-keep away from the entrance to the lobby.
If there was anyone standing in the hallway, he figured, at least then
they'd have the cover of the wall for a few seconds-long enough to bolt
upstairs and climb a fire escape, if need be.

Mulder yanked Scully's shoulder towards him and then stood ramrod
straight against the left wall-keeping Langly on the other side of
Scully so that she wouldn't fall forward.

Her eyes rolled around in their sockets for a moment-her mind reeling
from the over exertion, and her head lolled to the side to shoot Mulder
a questioning glance.  He breathed in deeply and turned his face to see
her-to make sure that she was alright.

Her blue, normally sparkling eyes were dull, her pupils dialated and
fuzzy-her dazed expression telling him that her steel trap mind had
not yet properly processed the situation.  Her mouth was slightly ajar
in restless confusion-her lips somehow unable to voice what her mind
was trying to convey.  In short, she looked drugged-brain damaged,
helpless.

That scared him more than anything.

Suddenly, the door flung open and Mulder winced as his ears were heavily
assaulted with the shrieks of sirens, car horns, and chaos.  From inside
the tiny hallway where they stood, he could make out the orange-red glow
of fire, ripping into the evening sky like a sick fireworks display.  An
86 Chevy van had overturned in front of the building-it's side and
rear ends completely smashed in, glass from the front and side windows
littering the pavement- catching the rays of fire and splintering them
like prisms on a sunny day.  The power cable--or what had been left of
the powerline that was once the traffic light- had snapped in two like
a lanyard string.  It lay sparking a fire of its own by the coffee shop
across the way.

And if that hadn't been enough to cause a roadblock, hundreds of
thousands of panicked people flooded the streets like an ocean of
humanity-screaming and running for their lives--hopping over cars,
dodging fallen debris, tripping over their feet and the feet of others
to get better leverage for their scramble.  They ran and they shoved.
They yelled and they disregarded the weak-the fallen.  There was no
time.  No time for anything.

Frohike sucked in a breath and Byers stepped forward in shock.

"Holy shit," Mulder barely managed, almost losing his grip on his
partner as he watched the mayhem unfold in the street.  He turned and
shot Langly a determined look.  "We're getting out of here," he vowed,
pulling Scully into the hallway, motioning for the gunmen to follow.

He took another deep breath and stared into the disoriented eyes of his
partner.

"I need you to keep up with me," he told her, breathless.  "Ok, Scully?
I need you to run.  Can you run?"

Scully watched his lips and opened her mouth to respond, but only a low
whimper came out and her eyes closed in frustration.

"Fuck," Mulder cursed under his breath. He held onto her tighter and
straightened his back.  "Alright.  Fine.  It's fine.  Let's just
go-Frohike-where--"

"Left!-Then straight to Carnon!" came the yell-before Mulder could even
finish the question.  Frohike's unspoken phrase was left dead in the
air--`we can't all run together.  We're going to have to split up.'

 Mulder nodded at him briskly before hurrying to the building's
entrance.  He took a quick glance right, nearly getting his head chopped
off by running passerby, and yelled as loud as he could back to the
guys.

"The grate!  At the corner of Fifth and Carnon!  We're going in!  Meet
us!"

He did not run until he recognized Langly's faint, "Hear ya!  Fifth and
Carnon!  GO MULDER!"

And he took off like a shot-shoving his way through the panic stricken
fray like an angry bulldozer.  His left hand roughly clamped around
Scully's middle, he did his best to half-run, half-drag them through the
screaming, terror stricken mob.  A crack sounded from above them, and he
looked up with a hundred other people just in time to catch shrapnel,
falling like rain from the sky.

"Shi--"

He didn't even get the word out.

Without warning, he was slammed into from behind--several dark
hispanic looking men, tall guys he only saw in a blur of motion, toppled
over him in nervous succession, rolling onto the pavement with bloodied
screams of horror and pain.  Their arms and sleeves had been drenched
with glowing yellow fire, and they fell into the streets, eyes awash in
horror.  One by one they were engulfed by flame, and Mulder's eyes
widened in fear as he yanked Scully into an alcove beneath a fallen
wooden frame.   Holding her close, he tried to shield her with the bulk
of his bodyweight, but he knew that it would be no use if they were
found. If they were targeted, they would die. It was that simple.

Scully's breathing came out ragged and shattered, and she clutched to
the collar of Mulder's jacket with shaking, sweaty hands.  For the
briefest of moments, he realized that she had no clue what was
happening.  She couldn't possibly understand it in her frenzied, drugged
state.  All she knew was the loud noise,  the heat, and him pulling her
around like a wet rag doll.

`We're gonna make it, Scully,' he thought to her, as if that could make
things better.

Swiftly,  Mulder's head turned to peek up and over the edge of their
makeshift wooden shield.  From his vantage point, he could make out the
backs of men with torches--torches that shot out flames like an
airplane engine-and he swallowed hard.  These were the men who had
destroyed those abductees, set them ablaze at Skyland Mountain.  These
were the men Scully had seen in her regression therapy,  he realized, in
a split second.  These were the men who were not men at all.

And they moved with agonizing slowness.  So many of them- destroying
everything they touched.

An old man lying in the street put his hands up, as if in surrender, and
he was decimated like a leaf under a shoe.  Men and women around him
ran, tripping over each other to fall onto broken shards of glass--and
they were eliminated in a single motion, their mortified screams
piercing Mulder's ears until he knew he'd never forget the sound.

Finally, he yanked Scully to her feet, hard, and managed the only word
he could think of.

"Run!"

He grabbed her arm and took off-dragging her with him as debris and ash
flew into his face like snow in February.

"Run!  Scully."

For a minute or two he had to drag her-holding her waist to keep her
upright, but soon he felt her head spin around to look behind them-as if
her mind was returning to her. She gasped in fright.

Her leg muscles slowly began to come back to her, and she started to run
with him-not as fast and not as strong, but as hard as she could,
gripping onto him for dear life. A chance look behind him showed the
faceless men again-moving like molasses through the crowd as they set
fire after fire, people falling in flames left and right.

"Faster!" he ordered her, yanking on her arm to pull her. "Hurry,
Scully!  Run!"

More car horns honked and blared into the night sky.  Air raid sirens
and scattering crowds screamed and wailed of unspeakable horror as the
exploding of windows inside buildings gave way to stained glass rain.
The crackling of erupting flames spat ashes and debris into the
air-polluting the oxygen around them with smoke.  Scully began to
cough uncontrollably, and Mulder watched her carefully as he pulled her
faster, securing his grip on her arm.

Above them, a snap like a firecracker exploding resonated, and shards of
glass flew into the crowd-knocking half the men and women to their
knees, screaming in terror. Dark slats of wood fell from the roof, and
Mulder's legs were knocked out from under him--someone crashing into
him from behind like a battering ram. The wind rushed out of his lungs
like a gush, and his hands flailed as lost the grip on Scully's arm.
Her tiny body fell loose from his, and she yelped as she slammed into
the mob, her hands flying to shield her face as she dropped to the
ground in a curtain of ash.

Mulder coughed and sputtered, then widened his eyes in fear.

Scully- oh god- where was Scully-

"SCULLY!" he yelled at the top of his voice, his eyes darting, his hands
shoving shoulders and heads out of his way.  Damn it, he couldn't see.

"SCULLY!"  His head jerked left then right.  "SCULLY, ANSWER  ME!"

When his head turned again, he caught sight of something else-and his
heart lurched into his throat.

Bees.

Hundreds of thousands of Bees-closing in on the city like a black
plague.

His hands closed into fists and he fell back onto the ground, horrified,
stupified. "oh shit.SCU-LLY!" He yelled, helplessly. "SCUUULLLYY!"

And then he heard it-from somewhere along his left--a loud, high
pitched, terrified shriek.

"MULDER!!!  OH GOD, MULDER!!!!"

His head snapped in the direction of her voice and through the smoke and
ash he found her-spotted her russet head kneeling in shock next to a
bloodied corpse alongside a half-burned building.  Her hands were
covered in soot, her arms shaking in terror, and blood soiled the front
of her Donna Karan blouse and black tailored pants.

"Scully-jesus-"

Shoving errant bystanders out of his way, he rushed to her side, his
stomach still reeling from his fall, his skull throbbing in pain. Her
head turned as he approached and she stared at him with her arms spread,
her still hazy brain non comprehending, as if seeking benediction.

She swallowed, then managed a gasp, as if just finding her voice.
"Mulder," she wailed, miserably. "What-"

He didn't let her finish.

Yanking her roughly to her feet, he clamped onto her arm with the
strength of an electric magnet.  She stumbled with a yelp then gripped
him back, and they took off.  Her head turned and her eyes widened in
fear as she watched the men with torches who followed-the bee swarm
that grew closer to the crowd and seemed to be attacking the faceless
men who attacked them.

It was war.

In front, Mulder could make out the gray metal sewer grate on the corner
of Fifth and Carnon-the metal manhole cover that had been overturned
in the melee. He tugged on Scully's arm harder.

"A little further," he urged, frantically.  "Just a little further..."

Scully's breathing began to turn awkward and she started to slow down,
gripping Mulder's arm with a shaky underhanded fist.  She swallowed and
gritted her teeth, trying to keep up, and spoke again, "Mul- der- What.
Happening. What-"

But her lungs were desperate for air and she couldn't get out the phrase
without losing breath.  Her eyes were still foggy and disoriented, her
expression wild, and Mulder did not answer her as they reached the
manhole and stared down.  She looked back up at him, terrified and
bewildered.

"GO!" he ordered, briskly.  "Climb down, Scully!"

She stared at him and hesitated.

"DO IT!" he ordered frantically, and Scully needed no more prodding. She
nodded, taking a breath as she bent down, and then she crawled her way
into the manhole-shakily at first, then steadily as she went.  About a
quarter of the way down, Mulder joined her, pausing only long enough to
catch his breath and yank the 10 pound manhole cover over their heads
behind them.

"Keep going," he ordered, firmly.

The overhead noise all at once seemed to lower about twenty decibals,
and Mulder breathed a slight sigh of relief as he realized that they
were relatively safe-down here-if only for the moment, at least.  His
heart still pounding, he allowed his pulse to gradually equal out, his
legs slowly descending behind Scully's.

Exhausted, she reached the bottom rung and collapsed to the watery
ground, sucking in air desperately as her hands closed in fists against
the mud and water.   Mulder quickly reached the floor behind her and
dropped to her side, rubbing her back as she coughed and sputtered, her
mouth wheezing as she took in breath after breath, eventually slowing
and steadying as the seconds passed.

"Ok-" Mulder managed softly, running his hands down the back of her
head, then her spine, then up again.  "It's alright- we're ok-"

Scully swallowed another mouthful of air and let out a gut wrenching
sob, her back hitching to control a spasm that wracked her spent frame.
She swallowed again and gasped again, her body starting to shake and
tremble as she lay there--crumpled, sick and exhausted.

"Oh- god-Mulder-" She finally managed, her voice coming out echoed
into the darkness of their cavern.

Mulder closed his eyes in sadness, in grief for what he had seen, for
the dead he had been forced to step over, and for the total disregard
for human life that they had just witnessed.  It was the end of the
world, and he would never live to forget it.

Gingerly, he leaned down and wrapped his long, muscular arms around
Scully's shoulders, pulling her to him.  Her hands reached up to clasp
onto his shirt, her fingers gripping and shaking, and she collapsed
against him in a torrent of terrified tears.

"Mul- God- what- happened- what-"

He just held her, protectively, his eyes closing as she sobbed and
sobbed-

--- 4 -----

***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

I was back in the academy when all this happened-when my new partner
and his old partner's world had been burned to the ground in horrible
mayhem.  I remember-I was studying for finals, munching on some Raisin
Bran and highlighting keywords when the first alarm had gone off.  It
was- weird at first. Not horrifying or particularly mortifying, just-
weird- really weird.

At first, I had thought that maybe it was just a drill.  Maybe they were
just pulling the alarm because of some sort of safety requirement we
used to have in high school-something about a certain number of fire
drills we were supposed to have each year.  Maybe it was just
procedure.  Maybe they were testing us. Maybe some drunken moron had
pulled the alarm.

At any rate, all I had known was that whoever it was had damned shitty
timing.  After all, I had two exams to study for the next day, and it
was already ten o clock-or, I think that was when the first one went
off-at ten o clock.  Yeah-that was it. I think.

Then my roommate had barged in like a hurricane on speed and yelled to
me that we had to leave.  I had been confused and angry-that she would
interrupt my studying for such a ridiculous joke-but when I saw her
watery eyes it had tipped me off that she was not joking.  So I opened
my mouth to speak, but she interrupted me. We had to evacuate and get
the hell out, she had said. DC and the Hoover Building-the
headquarters- had been decimated. New York, LA, and Chicago were all
being attacked by terrorists and we were rumored to be next.

It was shocking, to say the least-

And I don't remember much after that except for the hazy fog that seemed
to pass like time in a bottle.  Running down the cement steps of
Quantico to the screams of "Move! Move!"  pulsing in my ears.  Riding in
some sort of FBI sanctioned vehicle with eleven others to some war room
underground.  Then the days afterward, when TV was restored and news
crews got in--showing a disbelieving world that lives had been
destroyed while everyone else did their dishes and drank coffee.  It had
all passed like a blur I never wanted to accept.  A horrible blot on the
history of humanity that I had never personally experienced to the
extent that Fox had-running through the sewers on only the faint hope
of survival.

I feel as if my skin is crawling and I am living it again.  Through Fox
Mulder's eyes, I am reliving the most horrible chapter of American
history-and I have a feeling that it's going to get worse before it gets
better.

Oh god, what have I gotten myself into here?

Fox watches me with concern.  "Are you alright, Kate?" he asks, using my
name for the first time since I walked in here.  The thought that he
could actually be concerned about my well being is almost foreign.  He'd
spent months and months running from me and this partnership as if I
were the plague incarnate, and it's only been recently that I have begun
to feel like something more than a doorstep to him.

"I'd be lying if I told you this wasn't disturbing," I say honestly,
shoving a long, auburn curl out of my way and over my shoulder.  He
watches my hands twined in my hair with rapt interest.

I look absolutely nothing like her, but I think it bothers him that I
have red hair, anyway.  Somebody once told me that red hair always looks
like the sunset-that no matter who you were, red hair was like the
sunset on a warm day in March.  I had only laughed and exclaimed how
ridiculous that sounded. My hair was just red to me-it was hair and
not poetry.

Not to him, though.  To him, she was poetry.

God, how many times do I have to remind him that I am not her?

"Sorry," he apologizes, then forces a half smile. "Maybe I should go get
you a runny egg-"

I stare at him for a moment and then close my eyes, shaking my head.  He
lets out an intermittent chuckle and folds his arms, self satisfied.

"Ha, ha," I mutter, supressing my own smile.

I remember runny eggs-It was an inside joke between the two of us-one
that sprung from many months ago-- after I had witnessed an Autopsy
for the first time.

Good God, it was the most awful experience of my life.

All I could remember was the smell, the awful, AWFUL smell, then the
unveiling of the corpse-one that had been covered in some sort of
yellowed substance, and Fox's whisper in my ear, "looks like runny eggs,
doesn't it?" and that was all it took.  My eyes rolled up into my head
and I fell forward.  Vaguely, I remember that I passed out, but to this
day, I have no idea how long I was out.  All I know is that when I came
to, Fox had given me a cold washcloth-patting my arm while laughing so
hard that his face nearly turned blue.

I think it was the first time he had realized I was NOT Scully.  That I
didn't want to be.  I also believe that it was only time I had ever seen
him smile.  I remember cataloguing it safely in my mind because it made
me feel free-part of his team-and I wanted to make him laugh again.

But that was two months ago, and he hasn't laughed since.

I open my eyes to finally smile at him warmly, and softly, I urge him to
continue.  This is disturbing me, insanely, but I can't help it. I'm
rivited.  I'm hooked on his voice and his tale, and I want to know what
happened next.

"Go on," I whisper, gently.

He nods.

"Well," he says, breaking our gaze as he clears his throat, "by then,
the city was nearly destroyed.  Burned to the ground.  DC and the
surrounding areas were eliminated-some of Maryland, some of Delaware-"
He pauses to breathe deep, then, "We stopped for a few minutes, but then
we had to move.  Quickly. Scully was becoming more sentient-more in
charge of herself, I guess. She was confused and shocked, but she kept
insisting that she could walk on her own, and she was angry-feverish
and angry..." He stops to cough, covering his mouth with his hand, then
returns to his story. "Now, the only thing that was holding us back was
the fact that her body was weak and tired. She was still running quite a
fever, and we still had to roam the tunnels in search of the guys and
their contact.  Supposedly, this guy-the brain-- was going to rummage
up some supplies for us. Directions on how to get out of the city-where
the hell we should go and where we'd be safe."

I nod, then shift my body weight and ask, "Did he know why it happened?"

Fox purses his lips then nods, recalling the memory.  "Yeah, kind of" he
tells me, slowly.  "This guy knew everything-he had hacked into
government computers, telephone lines, you name it. He was one nasty,
paranoid son of a bitch, but he knew what he was talking about, and if
it wasn't for his information-and his sister-I never would have
figured out what had been done to Scully-"  he pauses to raise an
eyebrow at himself, shakes his head sheepishly, then adds, "Well,
no-scratch that.  I would have figured it out eventually-we all would
have-but I never would have guessed that soon."

I shake my head, confused.  Once again, my erst-while partner has gotten
ahead of himself and left me on the side of the proverbial road.  I
sincerely hope that he turns around in his memory mobile to come and
pick me up. I seem to be missing the journey here-

Apparently, he notices my befuddled state. A smile creases the corners
of his lips, and he shakes his head at himself. "Sorry," he apologizes
again. "Jumping too far ahead."

I shoot him a look and nod, as if to say, `duh.'  He leans back and nods
to himself, as if to say `right you are.'  His hands start to figit on
his lap.

"Where was I?" he mumbles to himself, then suddenly remembers.  "Oh
yeah, that's right.  The tunnel."  He clears his throat.  "So anyways,
once Scully's shock began to subside, the anger and rage over what had
happened began to set in.  She was pissed off and delirious, and- we
fought- a lot.  More than a lot actually, because she was angry and out
of her mind with fever and I wanted to kill her-" He pauses and smiles,
looking far away-

I quirk an eyebrow at him.  "But?" I ask, encouragingly.

"But," he conceeds, truthfully, " She was my partner.  She was the
reason I was still alive and driving her nuts, and no matter what she
said or did, I was going to repay the favor.  I was certainly NOT
prepared to let her die on me." His face turns sad and wistful, his
chest deeply expanding and contracting.  "There wasn't anything I
wouldn't do for her, if it meant she'd keep on breathing-"

***
Five and a half years ago
May 8th
Under the City

***

The sound of dripping permeated the uncomfortable silence, and water
sloshed loudly around their ankles as Scully sloppily yanked herself to
her feet.  Mulder crouched low next to her, as if spotting her possible
fall, and Scully shot him a menacing glare.

"Don't do that," she muttered under her breath, holding a shaky hand to
her head to ward off the dizziness.  "I'm fine. I'm not going to break,
Mulder."

She looked away and cracked her neck.

Mulder sighed and pulled himself to his feet, stretching his arms and
legs to get the circulation back. Only a few moments earlier, his
partner had been holding on to him so tightly that he thought she might
break him in half.  But no, he thought, annoyed.  No she's fine.  I'm so
sure-

He squeezed his fist and his knuckles cracked loudly in the echoing
tunnel.  He pursed his lips and stared at Scully.

"Yeah," he mumbled back.  "You certainly sound like yourself again."

Scully stopped rubbing her throbbing temples just long enough to stare
at Mulder as if he'd grown two more arms.  "And what the hell is that
supposed to mean?" she demanded angrily.

Mulder shook his head, exhausted suddenly.  "Nothing," he sighed,
wearily.  "Nothing, Scully. Let's just keep going."

Her eyes dropped from his and she nodded, cocking her head to the right
and then the left.  "And where, exactly, would that be?" she asked,
pointedly.

Mulder only shrugged.  "I don't know," he admitted.  "I don't know-"

Scully leaned back and closed her eyes at that, taking in their murky
surroundings with distaste.  Water running, flowing and dripping echoed
into the stillness of their new found hole, and she breathed a slow
breath, nearly coughing on it.  It tasted like bile and was
awful-bitterly, disgustingly awful and stale.  It reeked of fear and
death and confusion.  It felt like suffocation. When she exhaled, her
head still felt clouded with confusion and drugs, and her stomach swam.
Butterflies rumbled.

She felt terrible and she was angry.  At the world, at the men who had
done this, and at Mulder-One thing that bothered her and punctured
through her foggy haze; one thing that refocused her heart and made it
beat with anger, was him.  Mulder.  Mulder making her decisions for her-
again.

How often had they ended up here, she wondered.  In some sewer, or some
tunnel underground?  Always going, always running from forces unseen and
unreckoned.  Where were her choices, her decisions in this partnership?
What if, god forbid, she didn't want to run against the tide anymore?

Where was her right to live or die or help the wounded that burned to
death above them like the flames of hell?  Where was her choice to try
and save them?  What right did Mulder have to take that away from her?
What right did he have to drag her around and decide the value of her
life for her--to let others die in her place?  To leave blood on her
hands like this?

But more importantly, what right did he have risking his own life to
save her?  When exactly had he gotten the idea that she'd be grateful if
he died for her?  When the hell had he assumed that she would
automatically want her life in exchange for his?

Scully watched him and shook her head, fighting off the ferocious
onslaught of dizziness. "Left," she decided for them, turning in that
direction.  Mulder put his hand on his hips, staring at her.  He did not
move, and she turned to face him, her skin flush with fever.

"What?" she demanded, hotly.  "What are you staring at?"

"You don't look so good," Mulder replied, waving a hand towards her.
"Are you sure you should be-"

"What?" she spat. "Am I sure I should be WHAT?"

Mulder closed his eyes and bit the inside of his mouth as a control
measure. "Nothing," he muttered, taking up the slack behind her. "Left
it is."

Scully watched him for a moment, then pursed her lips and nodded,
turning to slosh unsteadily through the left flank of the sewer,
scrunching her nose against the smell. Mulder walked closely behind her
and kept observant, keeping a close eye upon her every move.  From the
way she teetered as she walked and the way she held her stomach, she
looked as if she were going to keel over at any moment.  She looked
green and sick and feverish, but any attempt at trying to help her would
only get him grief, he realized with slight anger.

God forbid I should save her life, he thought, watching her back.  God
forbid I should prove to her that she means more to me than- well- me.

Suddenly, that last thought repeated inside his head, over and over.  It
swam and swam until it finally settled into a familiar pattern that he
recognized but rarely acknowledged: She means more to me than my own
life.  She means more to me than my next breath-

More watery beads echoed into the muskiness of their dark cavern, and
brownish, cloudy liquid rushed past their feet.  The darkness was
oppressive, and the smell was almost unbearable, but still they trudged
on-slowly but surely.  Mulder treaded softly behind Scully, and Scully
kept silent-her back arching slightly with every deep breath she took.
They traveled like that for minutes, silent and still in shock-- when
Scully suddenly stopped in her tracks and Mulder's back went stiff.

"Scully, what is it?" he asked nervously, eyes darting, hands at the
ready for- for anything he could think of to protect them.  For a moment
she did not respond-did not even move to breathe.

And then she turned around to face him, and almost immediately he knew
what it was.

Her face was green up to her eyeballs and her cheeks were sweaty-he
could tell even in the dark.  Her hand was clamped protectively over her
mouth, and when a shaky arm reached out for him, he grabbed it quickly
and helped her bend over to relieve her aching stomach.

They spent what seemed like hours in that position, Mulder squeezing his
eyes shut while rubbing Scully's back, Scully expelling the contents of
her stomach until all that was left were dry heaves.  He sighed and
stood there-waiting until she was finished, then helped her pull her
weak frame upright.  She teetered and shook for a second, then waved him
away in an almost annoyed fashion.

"Scully," he offered gently, "Maybe it would be better if I-"

"Don't," she cut him off, curtly. "I'm-" she paused to let out a loud
cough, then continued, "I'm fine.  I don't need you to do anything,
Mulder.  You've done quite enough already."

And with that, she pushed back her shoulders in defiance, preparing to
continue her journey.  Her throat cleared and she moved away from
him-taking careful, measured steps.  Mulder's eyes narrowed and he
folded his arms defensively over his chest, staring at her accusingly.
"Excuse me, Scully?  Did I miss something here?"

Scully shook her head and turned, walking away from him in disgust.
"No," she threw coldly back over her shoulder.  "You haven't missed
anything, I assure you.  I'm fine.  I'm here. I'm not dead.  And thank
you very much for the sentiment, Mulder.  I appreciate it. Once again
you've made my choices for me, but at least I'm alive, right?" She
paused, then added, sarcastically, "That matters."

She picked up speed and Mulder followed quickly behind-catching up
with her to grab her arm, spinning her around with ferocity even though
she was still thoroughly sick-and probably high with delirium.  They
stared each other down in the darkness and he felt her pulse throbbing
beneath his fingertips.

"Yes," Mulder answered with a fevered, impassioned tone, "Yes, goddamn
it, that IS what matters, Scully.  It matters because YOU matter to me.
You-I- my god, don't you understand?  Your life MEANS everything to me.
Everything.   I am NOT going to apologize for wanting to keep your
ungrateful ass alive. Sorry. Doesn't work that way."

Scully's mouth opened in anger.  "Ungrateful?!" she managed, enraged,
"I'm Ungrateful-" She paused, then exploded, "What exactly is it that I
am supposed to be grateful for?  That you risked getting yourself killed
in order to shove your way out of the city with me?  That you stepped
over the helpless and the innocent to keep me alive?  That you dragged
me down here without so much as a THOUGHT as to whether or not I might
have wanted to help any one of those people up there?  Is that what I'm
supposed to be grateful for?"

Calm. Keep calm-She's delirious, he thought.  Look at her eyes. They're
unfocused. Dialated-red rimmed and bright with fever. She doesn't mean
it- doesn't mean it-

"I'm supposed to THANK you for taking away my right to decide whether I
should live or die? I'm supposed to THANK you for making me run over the
defenseless so that you could SAVE me?  Is that what you call it,
Mulder?  SAVING ME?!" Her breathing deepened and her eyes grew wilder.
"Well, I'm not saved, Mulder!" she yelled. "I'm not saved and now
there's blood on my hands!  There's blood everywhere I look because you
thought I wanted to be saved!  But I don't want to be saved this way!
This isn't SAVED, MULDER!"

Mulder stared at her uncomprehending and he shook his head,
dumbfounded.  Delirious or not, she had a lot of damned nerve. "Jesus
CHRIST, Scully!" he exploded.  "What the hell was I supposed to do?
Leave you there?  Let you play Mother Teresa in a situation neither of
us had ANY control over, while some man without a face burned you to a
crisp as I watched? NO THANK YOU!"

When he paused, Scully was still staring at him with dialated pupils.

He shook his head and tried to wrestle with anger that seemed to burn
hotter with every word that came out of her mouth. On the one hand, she
was pissing him off in a way only that she was capable of, but on the
other- She was still running a fever and was dangerously delirious on
top of it.   It was more than quite possible that she had no clue what
she was saying.  He needed to at least calm down-for her sake.

Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep breath, managing, "Alright-Ok...
I know that you're upset right now, Scully.  I know that you're angry, I
know-but I also know that you're running a pretty high fever. You're
sick and you don't know what you're saying.  Let's just not do this-"

Scully ripped her arm away from him and glowered, her stomach playing
flip flops in her chest again. "Oh, fine, Mulder. So I'm crazy, is that
it? So I'm wrong in thinking that you would have let yourself die-that
you would have sacrificed yourself-all in the name of saving your
helpless, sickly partner?"

Mulder grit his teeth and shook his head, managing, "Scully, you kno-"

"Is that what you thought would be best?" She demanded, loudly.  "Is
that what you think I would have wanted?  For you to play Martyr?  For
you to give your life for me?  Did you not even THINK, maybe for a
SECOND, that I didn't want to be saved at the expense of your life?
That maybe I wouldn't want to live at the expense of those you plowed
down and ignored to save me?  Did that never OCCUR to you, Mulder?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed and he stared at her in shock. "You mean while I
was running for my life down fifth street?" he roared, infuriated.  "No,
it didn't!  Are we even on the same PLANET, Scully?!"

"NO!" she retorted.  "No, I don't think we are! God-Mulder-how-how many
children could have survived had you not been so wrapped up in making
sure that I did? -if you would have let go of your need to be my
protector-your selfish desire and your guilty conscience for just one
second-to keep me alive? My god- After all that we've been through
Mulder.did you honestly think I would have WANTED to live this way?  To
know that you could have led others to safety-but chose not to?  That
you could have saved someone-anyone-but you didn't?  Is this what
you think I wanted?  My life at the expense of innocents?  To live
knowing that someone else died because you shoved them out of your way?
Did it even matter to you what I might want?  Was it that godamned worth
it to--"

"YES!" he yelled in her face, silencing her.  "YES!  You are everything
to me, Dana Scully!  Jesus Christ-do you even understand what you're
saying?  Because I don't think that you do!"

Hands shaking, head throbbing, she stared at him till her fists balled
up.

Then she furrowed her brow and shoved hard at his chest-needing to hit
something-anything she could get her hands on.  Her arms seemed to pulse
and throb, and she wobbled from the effort, her energy draining.  Then
she hit him again, tears covering her cheeks and chin, sweat beading up
on her forehead.  "I know what I'm saying and I know that there's
blood!" she shrieked, deliriously, "Blood everywhere, Goddamn you!  I
could have saved someone, Mulder!  We could have helped them but now
there's blood on my hands!  Children are dead!  People are dying up
there and you don't care!"

She hit him again, her knees sagging and trembling, her arms shaking
uncontrollably.  She stared at him with wild, bright eyes, and he
sighed, letting her yell until she tired herself out.  She would regret
this later, he knew--the yelling and the irrationality of her
argument, but right now she needed to scream out her delirium until she
couldn't scream anymore.  She needed to cry and yell and curse and even
if it was at him- well, so be it.

"You could have died with them!" she went on, hysterically, "And for
what?  To save me-when there were others that should have lived?!
DAMN IT, MULDER! I don't FEEL SAVED! I don't feel ALIVE!  I feel dead!
I've been dead inside for so long, and you should have let me be!
GODDAMN YOU!"  Her legs gave out on her then, and automatically, Mulder
reached secure arms underneath her knees and her back to hoist her up
into his arms, gently.

"Why didn't you let me die?" she whimpered, her eyes falling out of
focus.  "I don't want to live at the expense of another life, Mulder.  I
don't want to live knowing you could have died saving me."  She
hiccuped, and Mulder held on tighter, trudging forward heavily with her
in his arms.

He kept his mouth shut and tried to focus on his breathing-on anything
but her hiccuping and her efforts to keep from breaking down.

He needed to stay sane right now-for the both of them.

"Mulder, please," she managed, gulping breath after breath. "No more
blood like this, please-"

Her voice sounded changed, and her words became slurred, as if she were
going to fall asleep.  Her hair matted across her sweaty forehead, and
her arms pressed against his chest as if undecided whether she wanted to
stay or be put down.  "Please don't die, Mulder," she whispered,
hoarsely.  "I wouldn't want to live if you died.  Why can't you
understand that I wouldn't have wanted to live if you would have died?"

Mulder's lower lip shook slightly, but his eyes remained focused, his
gaze staring straight, staring ahead of him down the tunnel.  He needed
to keep his calm-he needed to ignore her so that they could find the
gunmen-so that he could get them out of there and into somewhere safe.
Someplace warm where she could cry all the tears she wanted- and he
could wipe them away without worrying about dying-

"They died, I die, everyone dies," she continued, her voice trailing.
"But not like this-it's not right.  You should have just let me go,
Mulder. You could have saved yourself and so many others- people- so
many.children-" Scully closed her eyes and gripped Mulder's shirt,
breathing deeply as she whispered, "So many children are dead-why do all
the children have to die, Mulder?  Always because of me, the children
have to die-"

Mulder sighed and walked forward, his legs aching and throbbing, his
arms heavy from the weight of her.  His eyes clouded over with salty,
bitter tears, and he let one fall down the crook of his cheek, dripping
past his chin.

"It's not your fault, Scully," he whispered, tenderly, "I promise you.
It's not."

Her head fell gently against his chest in exhaustion, and she coughed,
sucking in oxygen to replace the air she kept letting out.  "But it is-"
she insisted weakly, as if sleep were right on the heels of claiming
her.  "I live and I live, Mulder, but the children always die.  My
children die, Mulder. My family, my friends-I go on and I persevere, but
everyone else has to die in my place.  It's not right.  What if this
time I had wanted it to be me instead?  You took that away from me,
Mulder.  You took away my choice.  My chance to save you, don't you get
it?"

Mulder shook his head and continued on, sheer exhaustion starting to
creep up on them both. "No," he told her, dully, the thought of what she
was suggesting horrifying for him to even hear.  "No, I don't get it,
and frankly, I don't think you're in any position to, either."

Her fingers wrapped around a cottony crease in his shirt and she shook
her head, closing her eyes, tiredly.  "I understand-" she breathed, "I
understand that if I don't save you, you'll die saving me, and I don't
want your blood on my hands- their blood is on my hands and I couldn't
save anyone else- Please don't die, Mulder.  I can save you from me-if
you'll let me-"

Then she fell heavy in his arms and her breathing deepened, her body
drifting off into a feverish slumber. Her arms dropped and dangled away
from her side, and Mulder paused to catch his breath.

Faintly, he tried to understand just what it was that Scully was trying
to tell him.  Save him from her?  What did she mean by that?  Was she
just overly delirious, or was there some truth in her words?  Did she
honestly feel that it was her fault those people had died?  She couldn't
honestly believe that it was her responsibility to save them-could she?

Mulder shook his head.

He started to move forward again and tried shrug off the idea that
Scully would sacrifice herself because she thought it would save him.
He could never be saved if something happened to her, he thought sadly.

"It's ok," Mulder muttered to her, trying to get his sense back
together.  "We're going to be fine now.  No more saving anyone from
anything, alright Scully?"

But she didn't hear him of course.  She was asleep and burning up with
fever.

----- 5 -----



***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

"In a way she made sense, and in a way she didn't," Fox tells me,
softly. "See, there was a part of both of us-a part of our commitment to
each other as partners and as people- that was always very similar in
context. And that was the certainty that one of us could die at any
given moment-and that neither of us wanted to be the one who was left
behind.  I would have died for her-she would have died for me.  It was
an unspoken agreement and I knew that she would have willingly
sacrificed herself for me-if that was what it took, but that wasn't
what I wanted.  I think that she was mad at me for taking that choice
away from her.  For thinking in those same lines as she---for
understanding that I would have died trying to keep her alive.  I know
that wasn't what she wanted, either, but I didn't care. Both of us were
fighting for the right to throw ourselves on the proverbial grenade, but
neither one of us really wanted to win."

He stops and cracks his knuckles, yawning like he hasn't slept in weeks.
His eyes have the dullness of weary men, the listlessness of those who
have wandered for so long that they can sleep no longer. Sometimes, I
wonder if he does--sleep, that is.  I wonder if he lies down to rest
his head, or if he just stays up all night to torture himself because
she's not lying there with him.  Does he see her--that night, those
horrors, every time he closes his eyes?

It's something I can't even begin to fathom.

"But then, thank god, she fell asleep and didn't wake up till we saw the
guys again, awhile later when we were all tired and at a standstill.
She didn't remember any of what she had said, and I certainly didn't
remind her.   And by then, we had found this guy who the gunmen called,
`the brain,' and as it turned out," Fox pauses to expel a short chuckle,
then continues, "his real name was Josh." He laughs again, and I try my
best to smile, to make as if I find this amusing as well. I still don't
understand a lot of it, and come to think of it, I don't understand a
lot of HIM, period, but I can pretend with the best of them.

"He was one paranoid asshole," Fox muses, his eyes taking on that far
away quality again. "And I thought I was going to have to break him in
half, but at least he knew what he was talking about. He explained to us
how he got his hands on the information he had, and I filled in the
blanks. It was exhausting and tedious, but it got us somewhere, at
least-even if Scully just lied there tossing and turning, her fever
getting higher. And to add insult to injury, this guy-the `brain,' Josh
or whatever--he threatened to blow Scully's head off the second he
spotted her.  He thought she was going to infect us and kill us all, and
to be honest, I think I was a little afraid of that too.  But he wanted
me to leave Scully behind-something I was NEVER going to do, and if it
wasn't for his sister, the doctor- Well, let's just say there would have
been a shoot out if she hadn't jumped in to mediate." He sighs, then
goes on, "Anyway, an agreement was reached, and he would let his
sister-Kylee- help us an long as I `swore to keep my sick and probably
contagious partner the hell away from everyone because he didn't want to
die.'-Like I said, he was an asshole, but thank god for him at that
moment-"

***
Later that night,
Five and a half years ago
Inside the tunnel under the city

***

"-kill you, if you so much as THINK of---"

"--infected, and I'm not gonna die because your wife--"

"PARTNER!"

"WHATEVER!"

Langly, Byers and Frohike stood at the ready, hands raised, palms out to
try and mediate an increasingly dangerous situation.  On the one hand,
they had Fox Mulder, who was tired, angry, and would willingly die for
his partner before he let any harm come to her.  And on the other hand,
they had Josh `the brain' Eckerly, a paranoid thirty-something computer
hacker, who wielded a sawed off shot gun and the frightening theory that
Scully had been infected with a virus that would kill them all within
hours.

Mulder refuted, and Josh insisted. Mulder yelled, and Josh pointed a gun
at his head.  Mulder refused to back down, and Josh threatened to pull
the trigger. It was a precarious catch 22, and the guys knew that both
sides would willingly kill each other before they would shake hands and
make nice. It was sad, but it was true.

"Look," Byers tried, slowly.  "Let's just calm down and-"

"Shut up," Mulder ordered, angrily.

"Yeah, shut up," Josh agreed, just as angrily.

Byers sighed.  At least they agreed on one thing, he thought.

So he shut up and let them argue-maybe because he thought they'd wear
themselves out, or maybe because he thought they'd realize that they
were all on the same side. But whatever the reason, there was really
little else for any of them to do at that point.  What else was there
for him to say?  It was either be slaughtered by Mulder or be shot by
Eckerly, and neither option was particularly appealing.

"-stupid asshole! You are going to get us all killed---"

"--Me?! YOU are going to get us all killed with that gun pointed--"

Witheringly, Byers, Langly and Frohike turned to stare at Josh's only
companion-his younger sister, Kylee-while the echoes of Josh and
Mulder's angry, equally passionate claims rung louder and louder inside
their impromptu meeting area.  She merely closed her eyes-as if trying
to ward off the battering anger--and Frohike looked from Byers to
Langly nervously.  Josh paused to take a breath and Mulder held onto
Scully tighter.  He glared at the object of his rage and leaned back
into the dusty, spider webbed booth.  Then they both opened their mouths
at the same time and started yelling again-their arguments bouncing
off the unstable walls of an abandoned boxcar situated in the middle of
an underground railway system.

"You are one crazy son of a bitch!" Josh yelled. "She's been tainted
with that goddamn virus, half dead with fever, and you think I'm going
to sit here and let her get us all killed?!"

Mulder shook his head and growled back, "how many times do I have to
tell you?!  She is NOT infected with some disease-she's been drugged!
YOU are the crazy son of a bitch if you think I'm going to let you kill
her when there's no reason--"

"SHUT UP!"

It was a soprano like voice that came from behind them, and all the men
turned their heads to regard the diminuitive looking woman who was
coming to her wits end .  She was a soft blond haired, blue eyed,
innocent looking thing, covered in dust and soot, and tired as
hell-not to mention pissed beyond belief.

"Damn it Josh," she admonished, angrily, "I can't take anymore of your
screaming!  Leave Agent Mulder alone for christ sakes!  If he says that
Agent Scully isn't infected with the black oil virus then I believe
him."

"But Kylee-"

"NO!" she yelled, angrily.  "Don't `But Kylee ANYTHING!' I don't CARE.
We both know that you're not going to kill either of them, so why don't
you act like a fucking grownup and just put the gun down before someone
gets hurt!  That woman needs medical attention and I am a doctor who can
prescribe it. So while I TRY to help her, why don't you explain what it
is that you think we need to do-rather than standing here screaming
your stupid head off like a goddamned ten year old!"

Mulder swiftly shut his mouth and stared at the frazzled woman he now
knew as `Kylee' in respect, not to mention shock.  Where had she come
from, he wondered.  He hadn't even noticed her when he had walked in
here with Scully, but now he was more grateful than surprised.  If she
was really a doctor, like she claimed, then there was more hope for
Scully than he could give her, and praise the heavens for it.  Right
now, he would sell his soul for an Orthodontist if it meant that the
person had more medical training than he did.

He stared at the small woman hopefully, and she stared back, tipping her
head in a makeshift cordial fashion.

Josh sighed and put down the gun, defeated.  "Meet my sister," he
muttered, lowly.

***
About 15-20 minutes later
Still in the abandoned boxcar underneath the city

***

Langly rubbed the back of his head and cracked his neck, lounging
against the crumpled booth of their huddled `warroom.'  As far as any of
them could tell, they were safe here for the time being, and now they
needed answers more than anything else. They needed to know what had
happened, to understand where they could go from here.  It wasn't going
to be easy, though, and it certainly wasn't going to be pretty.

"How did you find out about all this," the blond haired gunmen asked
Josh, and Josh leaned back and sighed.

"I hacked into the DOD database," he answered, warily. "I had been
fooling around one night and I broke into the mainframe. From there, I
checked into military defense files-thought maybe I'd find something
on the air strike-you know-national security shit that they don't
want us to know about.  But instead of that, I stumbled across a list of
cities. On one side, they had the major US cities: LA, Chicago, DC, and
New York.  And on the other side, there were major cities throughout the
world: Hong Kong, Tokyo, Moscow, London.  Next to each city was a date
and a red dot. Today's date was positioned next to every major US city.
The international cities were dated about ten months from now."

Langly nodded and leaned back, watching Josh intently.

"And that tipped you off?" Frohike asked, watching Kylee tending to
Scully out of the corner of his eye.

Josh shook his head.  "No," he said, "It wasn't that, exactly, but more
the idea that this list was encrypted in five different ways and
scrambled on eleven different bandwidths. It was the fact that it was
just a listing of cities, far as I could tell, and it was attached to
another encrypted file that read, `evacuation, project plan being
implemented, precautionary measures to proceed carefully.' Then, when I
tried to read the file attached-the one that described this `project,'
my computer when haywire and shut down."

The gunmen all nodded in agreement, murmuring to each other in
confirmation, and Mulder rolled his eyes from his spot beside them on
the mildewy floor.  It wasn't THAT fascinating, he thought, annoyed. It
wasn't like this `brain' person had discovered the fountain of youth, he
had just been in the right place at the right time with the right
equipment. It was common-boring.  Old, to an extend. It was just the
same old hacking tale that anyone and their grandmother could have
guessed, and frankly, Mulder wasn't interested how Josh had gotten this
far.  He didn't care about the where's or why's.  All he cared about was
getting out alive with Scully, and Scully was still tossing and turning,
sick with fever.

Mulder gritted his teeth and balled his fists in frustration, watching
Kylee attend to Scully on the other side of the room.  It felt like the
other side of the country to him, and he squeezed his fists even
tighter. That had been the deal they had all decided on-Scully got to
live, but only if she lived as far from the healthy as Josh felt suited
him.  Kylee could attend to her needs, but only if the both of them
remained on the opposite side of the boxcar--away from everyone as far
as they could get.  And Mulder--as Josh had snidely declared-was to
stay away from Scully for as long as he deemed necessary. -Otherwise,
Josh would not hesitate to put a bullet first in Scully's head-and then
in Mulder's. It had taken all of Mulder's strength of mind-and a look
at the size of Josh's shot gun- to even comply with the demands.   But
Scully's safety mattered more to him than his proximity to her, and so
he had agreed.

Silently, though, he cursed himself for having lost his gun in the mob
above them.

Scully groaned again, tossing onto her left side, and Kylee raised
another washcloth to her forehead.  Earlier, the woman had given Scully
some form of tylenol to try and lower her fever, but from where Mulder
stood, he couldn't figure out if it was working, yet.  She had also
tried to get Scully to drink some water, to rehydrate herself, but
Mulder couldn't tell if that had worked, either. The light was still
dimmed and convoluted where he sat, casting shadows upon the floor and
walls, and he couldn't get a good look at Scully's face. It was starting
to drive Mulder crazy that he couldn't make out Scully's face.  He
needed to see her, to be near her, he thought, anxiously.  He needed to
know what was going on.   This guessing game that his mind was starting
to play with his heart was doing him no good at all.  He felt trapped.

"So I followed this agent back to her house," Mulder managed to catch,
his brain wandering slowly back towards the conversation.  "And I had a
buddy of mine from AT&T trace her number.  The next day-I asked him if
he could tap her phone.  I wasn't sure exactly what I would get, but
wasn't expecting what I heard."

Mulder sighed and leaned back on his haunches, pressing his head tiredly
on his palm.  "So what did you hear?" he asked, dully.

Josh turned and shot him a contemptuous look, but continued, "I heard
her talking to some man-an older guy, I think. He told her to leave the
city before the colonists came, and by colonists, I'm assuming he meant
those bastards with the blow torches." Josh paused and ran a hand
through his thinning, black hair.  He adjusted his thick rimmed glasses
and went on, "Anyhow, the guy was fairly adamant.  He told her that
there would be a war-that if both sides came, the colonization would
cancel itself out due to some warring faction going on-but that lives
would be lost in the process.  And this guy was precise, exact--he was
someone who must have seen death everyday to not care one way or the
other.  But he cared about her-I think-- he kept insisting that she
leave, and he asked her if plans for the procedure to be implemented had
been set into motion-"

At the word `procedure,' Mulder sat up straighter and stared hard at
Josh, suddenly very interested.  "What procedure?" he asked, hotly.

Josh shrugged.  "Beats me," he replied, leaning back into the booth.
"All I know is that it was to be performed before the colonization
started-something about fertilization methods derived from research on
transgenic oil.  He said the word merchandise a few times, if that means
anything, and he talked about gestation periods using previously
inactive ova. He mentioned something about how it could revolutionize
their resistance--create immunity."

Mulder glanced at the gunmen briefly, his heart beating wildly, his eyes
boring into Josh the `brain's' with barely controlled nervousness. The
wheels in his head began to turn, and he pushed up and away from the
ground, remembering snippets of conversations and cases from forever
ago-and not so forever ago-all coming back to him. His father had
mentioned "merchandise" to him, once, and then the word had turned up
beside Scully's name on a digital tape.  Everything that had ever
happened to him, he thought anxiously, everything since 1993, it always
went back to her.  They always took her because of him. Anytime there
was a procedure to be done or a life to be risked, they took her away to
injure him and suppress his work.  They had used her as their guinea pig
consistently, year after year, over and over, ever since they had been
partnered, and now she was sick again.  Last time she had been sick it
was because of them, and now she was sick again.  Damn it, he thought,
angrily. After all they had been through, after all the pain she'd
suffered, why did it always have to be her life they tampered with?

"They took Scully," Mulder said suddenly, angered and pacing back and
forth. "They took her once and then they did it again, goddamn it!  They
KNEW!  They KNEW this was going to happen, and so they took her to be
tested upon in hopes that it could save them. They knew this war was
coming and they didn't try to stop it. They gave no warning. They let
all those people die, and they took Scully to use as a lab rat! My god,
what if they-" Mulder stopped pacing for a moment and ran a shaky hand
through his hair.

Byers watched him uncomfortably, and Langly and Frohike nodded in
agreement.  It made sense, they realized-in a sick sort of way.

"I TOLD you she was infected!" Josh exclaimed, rising out of the booth
in anger.  "I KNEW it!  She was injected with whatever those bees were
carrying and now we're all going--"

"SHE'S NOT INFECTED WITH ANYTHING!" Mulder bellowed, rage coursing
through his veins and blood, his hands slamming fist first onto the
table.  "That's exactly my fucking point!  She's not dying, she's not
sick, she's not mutating, and she's NOT going to kill us all!"

Mulder resumed his pacing and glanced back at his partner who had, once
again, been victmized at his expense--used as a means to serve an end,
and this time-he was afraid the results would have repercussions
greater than either of them could fathom.

"Fertilization," Mulder muttered to himself, turning to make a third
trip in front of the booth.  "Fertilization- why would they-" then he
stopped and opened his mouth in shock.

"What is it, Mulder?" Langly asked, nervously.

Mulder merely stared at him in dull recognition, before calling to Kylee
from across the boxcar.

"Kylee!" He yelled, waving an arm, "I need to ask you something!"

Kylee paused in mid step and turned on her leather worn heels,
traversing the length of the boxcar quickly.  She shoved a blond, dirty
hair out of her eyes with a soiled, slender hand, and watched Mulder
questioningly.  "Yeah?" she asked.

Mulder swallowed. "Tell me something," he managed, hoarsely, remembering
Scully's run in with a needle only a few days before.  "Why would a
woman normally get injected with estrogen excellerant, if she were a
healthy, unencumbered person?"

Kylee stared at him and frowned at the request, as if completely puzzled
he would ask it.  Her brow furrowed and she took a breath, starting,
"Well, normally, women who experience complications while trying to
conceive may get injections of estrogen to try and induce ovulation.
Some that go through in-vitro fertilization get hormone injections to
smooth along a pregnancy.  Women who otherwise couldn't produce the
proper hormones for gestation get them to ensure---"

Mulder closed his eyes and nodded at her, waving an impatient hand.

"Right, right-But you're saying that it usually has to do with
pregnancy," he interrupted, anxiously. "In normal cases, that is.
Correct?"

Kylee watched him and shrugged, noncomittally.  "Well- yes, in normal
cases--"

Mulder  nodded and questioned, "What if the woman was otherwise
infertile?"

Kylee frowned, then asked, "you mean, if an infertile woman was
implanted with another woman's ova?"

Mulder nodded. "Something like that," he answered, vaguely.

Frohike's legs tapped nervously under the booth and suddenly he leapt
up, nearly banging his head into the wall as he demanded, "just what are
you saying here, Mulder?"

Mulder silently regarded the little man and resumed his seventh trip in
front of the decaying boxcar booth.  He knew that Frohike only had
Scully's best interests at heart, but this was hard to explain to
himself-let alone to anyone else. How the heck could he rationalize this
and pretend that it was alright?  How would he explain it to
Scully--forgetting about Frohike, Byers, Langly, and anyone else who
enquired about it?

Langly turned his head to acknowledge Frohike and murmured in agreement.

"Yeah," he concurred, softly. "Just what are you getting at, man?"

Mulder closed his eyes in resignation and sighed, turning to face the
whole group.  Oh god, he thought, miserably.  Oh god-

"I'm saying-" he paused and took a deep breath. "I'm saying that I think
I'm starting to understand happened-to a general degree."

Then Mulder turned to Kylee and shifted his weight, glancing nervously
between her and the moldy cracks in the decrepit walls.  "While we were
on a case the other day," he explained, turning his head again,  "Scully
was stuck in the ankle by someone wielding a nasty needle full of
hormones.  I'm assuming that it was someone who PLANNED to take her the
next day-someone who knew how to use her and how to find her- someone
who decided to borrow her body for their agenda-to-to carry out an
experiment they hoped would yield a cure-"

Mulder's jaw clenched and his head shook, disgusted.  "Those RAT
BASTARDS!  That's what they're trying to do!"

Kylee threw her arms up and watched Mulder pace, exasperated.  "Speak
English, Mulder!" she ordered, annoyed.  "You're losing me, here. Who
borrowed Scully's body-and why?"

Undaunting, they all stared at him with rapt attention.

Mulder shook his head and stared over at Scully, his heart beating
fast.  "A government with an agenda-the men who couldn't stop the war
they started." he managed, taking slow measured breaths as he watched
her.   "But that's just it.  I don't think Scully's sick at all. I think
she's having a reaction to a procedure that was done on her.  Something
that was orchestrated in order to try and generate an immunity. A
different kind of immunity to whatever it is those alien factions were
planning."

Langly's eyebrow rose and he looked at Mulder with trepidation, not
wanting to ask the question he knew one of them was bound to ask anyway.
For a moment, the word seemed to hang on an edge-noone speaking, noone
daring even to breathe.

Finally, Byers broke the silence. "What kind of immunity?" he managed,
softly.

Mulder gulped, nervously. "The kind that takes nine months to gestate,"
he replied, hoarsely.

____________________________