Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 22.

*********

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
11:34 p.m.


The statue of Mary was fronted by a stand of candles, all in
multicolored holders so that the iron stand looked like it was
covered with stained glass made of light. 

Scully knelt before the figure. The statue's hands were pressed
together in prayer beneath her alabaster chin, her eyes looking down
at Scully with the patience of stone. There was a rosary in between
Scully's hands in front of her, given to her by a priest who'd been
doing rounds in the surgical waiting room, and the black plastic
beads on their kite string slipped between her fingers almost
absently, trembling from her left hand, her mouth moving over the
prayers in silence.

Now and at the hour of our death...

Deliver us from evil...

Now and at the hour of our death...

No tears. She was too tired for them. Her body, running on over 36
hours without sleep, couldn't muster them if she tried. 

Granger had gone back to the motel earlier, let himself into both
their rooms and gotten a change of clothes for each of them. She was
out of the bloody t-shirt and jeans, dressed in a clean pair of Levis
and a light, loose black turtleneck. It guarded against the air
conditioning of the hospital, always set, she thought, a few degrees
too cold for the living.

Around her, complete silence. The smell of candles, sending up their
smoke prayers. The lights were out in the chapel, all except for
single spots on the statues of Mary and St. Jude at their kneelers,
and another on Christ hanging on the cross, the latter suspended on
the back wall. The fifteen rows of pews were empty, the door to the
chapel closed. She'd shut it behind her when she'd come in. 

She reached the long single strand of the rosary, almost finished,
one hand coming up to cover her forehead. She leaned forward,
slumping on the kneeler slightly as the exhaustion settled over her,
a crushing weight. 

Heavy like Mulder had been in her arms, the Bronco racing along the
deserted reservation highway, his eyes on her face, then closing
against the pain, his breath hissing in an out between clenched
teeth, blood on his lips. A noise had started in his throat, like a
whine.

"Okay...okay..." she'd said into his face, though her adrenaline was
pulsing as she staved off panic. "We're almost there. Just hang
on..." 

Mae straddled his thighs on the seat to hold her hands over the hole
in his belly. She and Scully's eyes had met, Mae's expression grim. 

Scully had had to look away from Mae then. Instead, she'd returned
her gaze to Mulder's face, his eyes coming open lazily. She'd stroked
his forehead with one hand, the other beneath him on the entrance
wound. Blood was warm on her thigh beneath her hand. 

He was dying. She could tell from the way he looked at her that he
knew it, too. 

She could almost see him slipping out of his body as his eyes rolled
and closed and he lost consciousness, his face turned to her breast.

She stared into the candles, mumbling the prayers a bit now,
concentrating on the words to block the images from her mind.

He'd been in surgery for five hours. There was no word on when he
would be out. 

Finally, after sitting there with Granger, who was either silent and
looking at her helplessly every few moments or doting and trying to
get her to sleep or eat, she'd needed time to herself. 

The chapel had seemed the place to go. 

She was vaguely aware of the door opening behind her, creaking
closed quietly. Then footsteps, heavy and measured, coming toward
her. She clenched her eyes closed, dared not turn around. She didn't
know what would be waiting for her there. 

The footsteps halted just behind her as the person stopped.

A hand came out and settled on her shoulder. She recognized the feel
of it, though she couldn't really remember feeling it before.

Her fingers moved over the beads, finishing the prayer seeming,
suddenly, very important. Three Hail Marys, then the Apostle's Creed
and she was done. 

She opened her eyes, held the plastic cross in her fingers, the rest
of the dime rosary hanging down. She did not turn around. 

"Hello, sir," she said softly, but her voice sounded terribly loud
in the heavy quiet of the chapel. 

"How are you, Scully?" Skinner replied, his voice tired. 

"I'm all right," she said, her voice even more quiet. She still did
not turn, or acknowledge his hand on her. 

"Granger told me where to find you, about Mulder..." he said. "I
hope...I'm not disturbing you. I just wanted to see you, see if you
were okay." 

Now she did rise, stepped back as he removed his hand. She faced
him, and saw him take in her appearance, his face going more
concerned, though he tried to hide it. 

He was still dressed in his suit from work, his dark trench over it.
There was something so familiar about seeing him like this, something
that was a poignant reminder of the life she'd been worried she'd
left behind for good. It choked her emotions to look at him. 

"When did you get here?" she asked, and her voice tremored. 

"About an hour ago," he said. "I was on my way out here today
anyway, after I got a few things taken care of DC this afternoon. I
wanted to be here to head up the agents. I just got a report from
them, incidently. They've already been out to the canyon and gotten
everything they can in the dark. Owen Curran and the other man --
Rudy Grey, according to his driver's license -- they're both in the
morgue here now."

She nodded, trembling slightly as she struggled to contain what she
was feeling, to concentrate on what he was saying. He noticed, she
could tell. 

"I've spoken to your mother," he said, jumping to what he considered
to be a safe topic, she knew. "I told her the charges had all been
dropped, that agents were on the way to you. This was yesterday,
before I knew about Mulder and Curran. She doesn't know about any of
that. I told her yesterday that it might be a good idea for her to
stay away until we got you into protective custody. Of course, all
that's moot now..." 

She nodded. "Thank you, sir," she said, looked down. "I'll speak to
her myself when things with Mulder are a little more settled." She
couldn't think about her mother at this point. She couldn't think
about anything clearly. She put a hand on her forehead, rubbed at her
eyes. 

"You sure you're all right?" Skinner asked, bending slightly to try
to look into her eyes. She dropped her hand, met his gaze, nodded. 

"Yes," she said. "I'm just tired. I should get back to the waiting
room, though, in case there's any word." 

She looked at him and could tell he felt dismissed, but was being
understanding with her. She shook her head. 

"I'm sorry," she added quickly. "I'm very grateful for everything
you've done for us over the past months. I don't mean to seem--"

"It's okay," he said, and reached out to grip her upper arm as
though he meant to hold her up. "I know you've got a lot on your mind
right now. You don't have to apologize. I was glad to do everything I
did. I just wish I'd been faster with it all. Maybe none of this -- "
He gestured around them. "-- would have happened." 

She shook her head. "We could all drive ourselves crazy thinking
that way," she said. "Don't blame yourself for any of it." She
paused. "Though I understand. I'm trying not to blame myself, too." 

Now her eyes did rim with tears, and she put a hand to her forehead
again, pushing her hair back roughly. 

"He's going to be all right," Skinner said firmly, tightening his
hold on her arm. "You have to believe that." 

She pulled herself together, nodded quickly, wiped at her eyes.
"Yes," she said, though she didn't even convince herself. "I need to
get back now." 

"Okay," he said, and let her go. Then he walked beside her down the
long aisle and out into the cold corridor beyond. 


**

APRIL 11 
12:04 a.m.


Upstairs on the fifth floor, Joe Porter, still dressed in the blood-
spattered jeans and t-shirt he'd had on since leaving Mexico, sat
next to Mae's bedside in a recliner, watching her sleep. 

She was turned on her side, her legs drawn up, an IV coming from the
back of her hand. She'd been shivering in her hospital gown earlier,
and he'd layered blankets on top of her, gotten one for himself,
which he now huddled beneath. 

Mae's face was still pale in the room's florescent light, a light
sheen of sweat on her face. She was still shocky -- dehydrated and
exhausted from their ordeal. 

When they'd gotten Mulder into the ER, Mae had collapsed in the
waiting room, Joe barely managing to catch her as she'd slumped to
the floor. She'd been rushed back to the ER herself then, and the
doctors had examined her and decided she needed at least 24 hours of
observation and a steady regimen of fluids and bland food. 

Joe stood and went to the bedside, leaving the blanket on the
recliner, leaned over Mae and kissed her temple, barely touching her. 

The baby was all right, the doctors had said. Mae was going to be
all right. 

He couldn't believe how lucky they'd gotten.

Then he thought of Mulder and reconsidered that sentiment. 

Joe wondered how he was doing. He'd told Dana which room Mae was in
so that she could call and let them know any news, but there'd been
no word yet. Though he didn't know Mulder well, he had grown to
respect the man for how he'd talked to Owen and for his unwillingness
to leave Mae when Dana had been forced to choose between them. He
wanted to go down while Mae slept and check on how he was doing, how
Dana was doing. 

But then he remembered the hard truth of things -- Joe was, himself,
wanted for drug dealing in California, the ghost of his past that
still haunted him. And Mae...the fact that Dana hadn't had her taken
into custody already spoke volumes of their friendship. He wondered
if, as more and more agents poured into Show Low, Scully would be
able to continue hiding Mae. 

And now this man Granger was involved, as well. Joe wasn't sure what
he would do with all this...

He sighed, shaking his head as he smoothed Mae's long hair back on
the pillow behind her. 

His thoughts turned, as they'd been doing over the hours, to Sean.
Joe couldn't think of how to find his way back to the house where
they'd been held. What would that man -- Lantham -- do with Sean when
Owen didn't come back? 

Surely Lantham wouldn't keep him. He would want to give him to
someone, to Mae if he could find out she was alive. Lantham had
struck Joe as a man of some compassion, some conscience. The fact
that he hadn't participated in Owen's torture of him the way Grey had
-- and that he'd wanted to avoid the showdown in the canyon - showed
that he was probably wanting to extricate himself from all this as
quickly as he could. 

A nurse drifted in almost soundlessly and checked the drip on the
IV, then came around the bed toward Joe. He moved out of the way as
she touched the inside of Mae's wrist gently, her eyes on her watch
for several long seconds. 

"Is she okay?" he whispered, and the nurse looked at him kindly. 

"Yes, she seems to be doing all right," she replied, her voice
quiet. "Just let her keep sleeping. She'll be much better by
morning." The nurse looked at his shirt, the blood staining it. "Do
you want me to get you some scrubs to wear until you get a change of
clothes?" 

He considered, nodded. "Just a top would be good," he replied.
"Thank you." 

"I'll bring one back when I come back in to change her IV in an hour
or so," she said, and then she withdrew. 

Joe took his place beside Mae again, his thoughts returning to Sean.

There was only one way Lantham knew to contact any of them -- the
motel where Scully had been staying. He would know her name, that she
was checked in there. That would be where he would call if something
went wrong. 

He would have to risk going down to find Dana after all. He needed
to get her to check and see if there were any messages for her at the
motel, any word at all yet. And he knew the motel clerk wouldn't give
that information to him if he called himself.

Emboldened now with his plan to get Sean back, he leaned down and
kissed Mae's temple once again, whispered into her ear. 

"I'll be back," he said. Mae made a soft sound in response, but did
not awaken. 

Then Joe went to the door, flicking the light off as he left the
room. 


***** 

DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL 
12:45 a.m.


Tom Lantham sat at the foot of one of the two beds in the dingy
motel room, eating a bag of Soy Nuts and trying to do it as quietly
as he could so as not to wake the boy on the bed beside him. Sean had
finally cried himself out and dropped into an exhausted sleep about
an hour before, just as Lantham was watching the top news story on
the television, something about a double-murder in Hawk's Eye Canyon
on the outskirts of town. 

"The bodies have yet to be identified," the reporter had said, then
talked about the strong FBI presence at the scene, the strangeness of
the secrecy surrounding the two victims. 

No mention of anyone else there, he'd noted. 

The bodies had to be Curran and Rudy. Why else wouldn't either one
of them return to the house? Curran wouldn't leave without his son,
that much was certain. And Rudy wouldn't take off without Lantham.
Both of them being dead seemed the only answer to that riddle.

But what had actually happened in the canyon, he couldn't begin to
fathom. 

All he'd known was that when no one had come back to the house after
about 9 p.m., he'd gotten the hell out of there, expecting the cops
or the FBI or someone to come raining down on him any second. So he'd
packed up his and Sean's things and left, going the only place he
knew he might have a chance of meeting up with someone who could take
this kid off his hands. Then he could get back to Colorado as fast as
he possibly could. 

After he'd checked in, he'd left a message at the desk for
"Katherine Black," the name he'd overheard Owen tell Scully to use.
Sure enough, she was still listed as a guest, though she was not in
her room. He'd told the clerk to have her call room 18 when she got
in, and he'd heard nothing since. 

Nothing to do now but sit and wait, he thought, gnawing on the Soy
Nuts, the package crinkling loudly in the room. He glanced back at
Sean to find him still asleep, the boy's hand clenched around a
chipped metal car like his life depended on the thing. 

Poor little sonofabitch, Lantham thought, shaking his head. He hoped
someone would come and fetch him soon. Lantham was out of his league
with this one. 

The sound of the phone ringing nearly sent him out of his skin, Soy
Nuts flying as he dropped the bag, cursing. 

Beside him, Sean was sitting bolt upright in the bed, as well, his
small chest heaving. 

"It's all right," Lantham said, waving Sean off as he rose and went
toward the ringing phone. He picked it up. 

"Yeah," he said into it. 

"Mr. Lantham?" came a vaguely familiar voice. The man sounded
nervous. "This is Joe Porter. I got the message you left for
Katherine Black. Do you have Sean there with you?" 

"Yes, he's here. You coming to get him?" 

"Yes," Porter replied, relief evident in his voice, though he still
sounded guarded. "I'm in her room now. I'm coming right down." 

Lantham looked at the door. "You coming by yourself, Mr. Porter?
Because I don't want no cops or anything here."

"I don't want any cops or anything, either," Porter replied. "I just
want Sean." 

"All right," Lantham replied. "Come get him," and he hung up, then
turned to Sean, who was still breathing hard, his eyes wide. 

"That was Joe then?" Sean said, his voice pitched higher than usual. 

"Yeah, that was Joe," Lantham said, and stood, weary. "Get your
things gathered up. He's going to take you from here on out." 

Sean climbed from the bed, began putting his things in the small
suitcases he had open at the foot of the bed. There wasn't much to
pack up. Sean had put everything away before the knock came at the
door. 

Lantham drew his gun just in case, looked through the peephole. Just
Porter standing there, his black-and-blue face looking wide in the
front from the fish-eye view. Lantham opened the door for him. 

"Mr. Lantham," Porter said, nodding to him. Lantham gave him credit
for looking fairly sure of himself. Somewhere along the way, the man
had managed to find a clean white t-shirt, which made his face look
not quite so bad. 

Lantham looked around Joe to see if anyone had come with him, and
when he saw no one had, he reholstered the gun. Sean hustled from the
foot of the bed and around Lantham to Joe, who squatted down to hug
the boy. Sean had begun to cry again. 

"It's okay, Sean," Porter said softly against the boy's ear. "You're
okay now." 

Lantham watched the reunion, the sight making him disgusted and
somehow sad. This whole damn mess had disgusted him. He was glad to
be getting out of it now. No amount of money made what he'd seen
worth seeing. 

"Does he have his things?" the younger man said to Lantham, and
Lantham nodded, went and gathered the suitcases and tried to hand
them to Porter. Sean didn't seem willing to let Porter go, his small
arms tight around his neck. Joe rose and got his arms around Sean,
who gripped him with his small body. The boy keened quietly. Lantham
saw that Porter had his hands full. 

"Aw, for Christ's sake..." he said, shaking his head. "You got a
room here?" he asked, and Joe nodded. 

"Yes, just now," Joe said, cautious. 

"Then I'll take these down. You take the boy." 

Joe looked at him, still wary, and nodded, then turned and carried
Sean out to the walkway, down a few doors to number 22, Lantham
following with the small suitcases. He watched Porter fumble the door
open, push it and carry Sean inside. Lantham followed, tossed the
suitcases down on the nearest bed. 

"I'll be taking my leave of you now," Lantham said as Joe turned to
him, looking over Sean's trembling shoulder. "You don't know me and I
don't know you, okay? I did what I was paid to do but I didn't
believe in hurting anyone the way people got hurt. And I've lost a
friend in the process, I assume?" 

Porter nodded. "Yes, you have." 

"Well, then my debt's paid, with me bringing the boy back to you. I
hope you'll just let me go on." 

Joe nodded. "I will. Thank you for bringing Sean. You did right by
us to do that." 

"I did what I had to under the circumstances," Lantham grunted. 

Porter nodded again, his arms tight around Sean's back. Lantham
could tell the other man didn't believe him, and he really didn't
give a good goddamn.

And then Lantham went out, closing the door behind him. 

He walked down to his room, his suitcase not even unpacked. He
hoisted the dark bag, flicked off the television, and headed to his
car, leaving the key on the dresser. 

He'd paid for the room in cash, to make the leaving easier and less
conspicuous. That was how he always did it. Starting up his car, he
threw on the headlights, backed out, and headed down the main strip
of Show Low, past the hospital and the town all gone to sleep,
disappearing into the night. 


**********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL 
1:02 a.m.


Scully was sitting, tense, on the edge of one of the vinyl couches
in the surgical waiting room, Granger trying to stay awake on the
other side, a copy of Good Housekeeping on his lap. Skinner was
pretending to be engrossed in a Sports Illustrated, but he was
turning the pages too quickly to be reading anything. Scully looked
down at her hands, then watched the door to the OR as if her will
alone could bring the doctor out. 

After about ten more minutes, it worked. 

The doctor appeared, his mask still around his neck, pulling off the
surgical cap he wore. His outer surgical robe had been removed so
that he was just in clean scrubs now. He was peering around the
waiting room, and Scully stood to make it easier for him to see her. 

He came forward, and the smile he gave her as he made his way across
the room was wan at best. She swallowed as he looked at her, pushing
her hands into her pockets. Granger stood behind her, and Skinner
from the other side, both men's tension like a tangible thing in the
room around her. She did her best to push it away. 

"Dr. Scully, isn't it?" the doctor asked as he put his hand out.

"Yes," she said, and her voice sounded strange to her, too breathy.
"Dr. Kellerman, right?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, John Kellerman," he said as they shook
hands. "Agent Mulder's still quite critical, but he's out of surgery
and in the ICU. We just moved him down there." 

"What...how much damage was there?" Scully said, relieved and
concerned all once. It wasn't the best news they could have gotten,
but he was alive. Something in her unhitched with that knowledge. 

"It was quite extensive, I'm afraid," Kellerman said, shaking his
head. "The bullet hit his kidney going in and clipped his stomach
going out. There was a lot of hemorrhaging from the kidney, rapid
blood loss. And of course, the contents of the stomach drained into
the abdominal cavity, and you know what that can mean." 

"What?'" Granger asked. "What can it mean?"

Scully kept her eyes on the doctor's face as she answered him.
"There's a great risk of peritonitis, an infection of the lining of
the abdomen," she said softly. "I assume you've got him on high doses
of antibiotics." 

Kellerman nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, though he clearly
didn't take offense at the comment. "We're on top of that. The bigger
problem right now is the bleeding from that kidney. We managed to
save the organ itself, but with the blood loss being so fast and so
severe, I'm afraid he's slipped into a coma for now."

"A coma?" Skinner asked, clearly alarmed. 

Scully nodded. "Yes, that can be a complication from rapid blood
loss," she said faintly. 

"We've got him on life support at the moment," the doctor continued
quietly. "I understand he was in a creek for a short period of time
and aspirated some water. So we're going to give his lungs a rest in
case there are any respiratory problems from that. Shouldn't be for
more than a day or so. Just until we get him a little more stabilized
and see what his body's going to do. It's still touch and go right
now. The next 24 hours are going to be critical." 

She nodded. "Of course," she said, looked down. She heard Granger
move up closer behind her, but appreciated that he didn't touch her.
Not in front of the doctor. 

"When can I see him?" she asked, returning her gaze to Kellerman's
craggy face. 

"Give them an hour down there to get him settled in a little bit
better," Kellerman said. "Then you'll have to go on the ICU visiting
schedule. I know you're an MD and his medical power of attorney, and
I will keep his chart open for you to look at. But those are hospital
guidelines, and without you having privileges here, well... I can't
bend them too much." 

She nodded. "I appreciate you letting me see his chart," she said,
swallowed again. "I'll try not to backseat-drive." 

Kellerman chuckled once, a strange sound in the room. "You can say
anything you need to. I don't promise to take your advice, but I am
willing to listen. Why don't you all move on down there? They'll let
you back in about an hour." 

"Thank you," she said, nodding again and forcing a small smile she
didn't quite mean. 


******

THE PENTAGON 
WASHINGTON D.C. 
2:14 a.m.


Dr. Robert Padden walked the seemingly endless corridor, the floor
shining in the building's dim, night lighting. He crossed into a
large open area, an homage to men who'd won the Congressional Medal
of Honor, then through, passing into another maze of corridors that
led to the heart of the building. 

He remembered taking his son down this same corridor once, years
ago, when Ben was just a boy. He remember how proud he'd been, both
of showing the boy the building and of showing his son to the people
in the building.

Those days were not going to be over, he vowed to himself. He would
walk these halls again, and with the same regard he was held in then. 

He was going to see to that. 

The walls went from plaster to dark wood paneling, the pictures on
the wall from prints to oil portraits. Across one circular open area,
carpeting picked up, rich and green. 

He was getting close now. He could see the door at the end of the
hallway, partially ajar and bleeding brighter light into the
receiving area. 

When he reached the door, he stopped, straightening the tie and suit
he still wore from the day's proceedings. 

"Come in, Dr. Padden," a voice from within said. A pleasant voice.
He entered and the room smelled of books and leather and the
unmistakable scent of power. 

A figure sat behind a desk at the far end, and Padden went toward
the man, stopping before the desk. 

"Please," the man said. "Sit down." 

Padden turned to the leather wing chairs in front of the desk,
settled himself into one, his arms on the chairs delicately curved
arms. He regarded the man behind the desk coolly. 

"What is it I can do for you, Dr. Padden?" the man asked. Padden
tried very hard to read his tone, but it was impenetrable.

"I think you know why I'm here," Padden said, looking down at a
nail, then up again. 

"Yes," the man replied. "There have been some...issues...as of late,
I understand. This business with the two agents in the FBI. With Owen
Curran." 

"Yes," Padden said, and met the man's gaze, though it was difficult.
"Perhaps if I can still bring Curran in--"

"Curran's dead," the man replied. "I don't know if Agent Scully or
Agent Mulder killed him, but he's dead. One of my operatives sent
from Phoenix just reported that to me a few hours ago. So capturing
Curran won't help you, I'm afraid. You are, as they say, 'on your
own' with this situation now that Ashcroft is involved. We can't risk
involving the President in our affairs." The man levelled his gaze.
"I'm sorry. It will be a shame to lose you." 

Padden felt his face reddening and struggled to keep the emotions
down. He leaned forward slightly, pinning the other man with his eyes
in a manner that he'd never done before. He'd never had the nerve. 

"I know things," he said softly. "You know what I know. Now I need
your help with this, a way to get out of this. I don't expect to
remain head of the NSA. But I expect to be moved within the
organization." 

The man paused, leaned back in the chair. "You say you know things,"
he said quietly. "Is that a threat, Dr. Padden?" 

"No, it's a fact," Padden replied. "There are a lot of people who
would profit from the things I know, both personally and financially.
I think I'm too valuable an asset to be lost at this point. You all
have made me that way. So I'm asking for your help now. A favor,
perhaps. For years of service."

The man seemed to consider. "And if I say no? What then?"

Padden met the man's gaze again, a faint smile growing on his face. 

The man smiled back, nodded. "Yes, I think you're right, Dr.
Padden," he said. "I think there are some things that can be done.
And you're right -- you're too important at this point to be lost
from the organization. Give me 24 hours. I'll set things to right as
much as I can." 

Padden nodded, relief washing through him, though he didn't show it.
"Even with Ashcroft?" he asked. 

"Yes," the man replied. "Even with him." 

Padden stood now, reached across the desk. The man shook it, his
heavily lined face twisted into a wider smile. 

"We'll be in touch," the man said. "Try not to worry any more." 

"Thank you," Padden said. "I appreciate your loyalty in this. I've
been concerned." 

"Don't be," the man replied. "Goodbye, Dr. Padden. I'll be in touch." 


********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
2:22 a.m.


The ICU waiting room was designed to look more like a living room,
which made sense to Scully, since most of the people there were,
literally, living there while their family members or friends were in
the Unit. It had cloth couches, coffee tables, recliners, lamps
instead of overhead lighting. Two televisions cornered the room, one
with a VCR so people could bring in movies to watch. 

The waiting was hard. The hospital was doing everything it could to
make it easier. 

There was a priest and a nun there, as well, seemingly stationed in
the room. The priest was a different one than the one who'd given
Scully the flimsy rosary, but he was kind and didn't impose himself
too much. Father Hammond. That was his name. 

Scully felt pleased to have remembered that given everything else on
her mind. 

Granger was asleep in one of recliners, finally giving in to the
fatigue, his glasses askew on his face as he slept. Skinner had gone
off a little while ago, saying he'd be right back. He'd been trying
to catch her up on the news from the FBI, other news from Washington,
but she'd only been half-listening to him, and she knew he could
tell. He'd drifted into silence eventually and taken his leave.

After a few moments Skinner returned, looking awkward as he came up
and stood in front of her. He looted around in his pockets, pulled
out two triangular-shaped plastic containers, each holding pathetic-
looking sandwiches from a vending machine. 

"Turkey or tuna?" he said, proffering them both. 

She smiled faintly. "Sir, I appreciate the gesture, but I really
can't eat right now." 

"Scully, you've got to have something. Granger told me you haven't
eaten yet since you got here." He pushed the sandwiches closer to
her, looking at her sternly. 

She was too tired to argue. She reached up and took the turkey
sandwich, peeled back the plastic covering and took a bite. It tasted
exactly like it looked. 

Skinner reached into his pocket again, brought out another sandwich,
set it on the coffee table in front of Granger. Then he sat beside
her, pulled the cover off the other sandwich and started to eat.

She ate half the sandwich, set the rest down on the table in front
of her. She could see Skinner looking at her from the corner of her
eye, though she kept her eyes on the television, the canned laughter
of a sitcom mumbling in the room. 

"I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now," Skinner
ventured, and she saw him look down. "Your life has changed so much
in just the past day, to say nothing of the past few months." 

She chuffed softly. "Yes," she said. "Just not having to be hiding
or running is something to get used to. And now with Mulder being
hurt so badly... I can't even begin to think about being able to go
home and pick up my life again." She looked down. "I just hope I
won't be going back alone." 

She appreciated that he didn't dismiss her feelings by saying
something easy about Mulder. It was a real concern and he treated it
like one. 

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but...your hand," Skinner said
quietly. "Has it gotten any better?" 

She hadn't really thought about it being better or worse, with
everything else that had been going on. But now that she considered
it, it probably was some better than it had been. The loss of
strength she'd had in it at first was definitely better. 

"It shakes more when I'm overtired or stressed, but the rest of the
time it hasn't been that much of a problem. I haven't seen anyone
about it, of course. I'm hoping that once I do something more can be
done." 

Skinner nodded. "I hope so, too." He looked toward the door, where
two nurses had just come in. "I hope--"

"The family of Fox Mulder?" one of the nurses called, though she did
not do it loudly. Scully stood and the nurse came forward. The
woman's faint smile eased Scully's nerves. 

"I'm Sarah Gabriel," the nurse said, reaching a hand toward Scully.
"I'm Mr. Mulder's care plan nurse while he's in the ICU. You must be
Dr. Scully?" 

"Yes," Scully replied as she shook Gabriel's hand once. She
introduced Skinner, who had stood and was there beside her, by his
FBI title. 

Gabriel smiled that same stiff smile at him, shook his hand, then
returned her attention to Scully. 

"Since you're a doctor, I don't have to prepare you too much for
seeing him, I'm assuming."

"No," Scully replied. "I know what to expect. Can I see him?" 

The nurse nodded. "Both of you can go back, but only for fifteen
minutes. That's the hospital policy for ICU. Fifteen minutes out of
every hour. You've been told he's in a coma?" 

Scully nodded, swallowed. "Yes." 

"There's no hard evidence that he'll know you're there, but you
might consider talking to him, letting him know you're with him." The
nurse looked at Scully, smiled gently. 

Scully considered Gabriel's words. She thought back to her time in a
coma after her abduction, the strange world she'd inhabited while in
it. The one thing she could remember for certain were the voices
around her. Mulder's voice. 

She knew he would be able to hear her, as well. 

"I will," she said to Gabriel, and the tears -- both from the
present situation and from that memory -- started to ache behind her
eyes. 

"I'll take you back," the nurse said, and turned toward the door. 

Scully looked up at Skinner, and she knew the sadness she was
feeling was on her face now. She didn't want him to see anymore of
that than she had to show him. 

"Sir, if it's all right with you, I'd like to see him alone this
first time." She looked down, knowing the words were a concession.

"Of course," Skinner said, and she met his gaze. "I'll be right here."

"Thank you," she replied, and turned and followed Gabriel into the
corridor, leaving Skinner behind. 

The double doors whooshed open, admitting them both. The large room
she entered had a nurse's station in the center, monitors glowing
from it. Then, in a circle around the station, tiny rooms with glass
windows, all the patients visible from the central area of the
station. 

It looked too familiar to her. She heaved in a breath, let it out,
as Gabriel took her to the right.

She could see Mulder there behind the glass, tubes all over him, a
bank of lit screens behind. 

It was like she was moving in slow motion. Like everything was. 

Starting with Mulder's breathing -- slow and too-regular from the
respirator. 

"I'll leave you with him," Gabriel said softly. "Let me know if you
need anything." Scully didn't acknowledge her as she left. 

She took him in as she moved around to the side of the bed, her hand
gripping the guardrail next to his arm. His face was turned away from
her slightly. There were small pads taped to his forehead and temples
to record his brain activity, the respirator at the corner of his
mouth. His arms trailed IVs, an oxygen monitor biting lightly on his
finger. She could see the bulge of the surgical dressing beneath his
gown just below his ribs. He was covered to the waist with a white
blanket that smelled too much of bleach. 

A breath was pushed into him, let out slowly. Then again. It joined
the sounds of beeping around her. 

How many times have I been here, she thought bitterly. Right here? 

She reached down and took his hand. It was cold, and she bent his
arm up, holding his hand against the soft material of her shirt,
trying to warm it against her. 

"Mulder?" she called softly, her hand coming out to smooth down his
hair as she leaned over him, the tears coming now. She didn't even
try to stop them. 

What could she say to him? 

Finally she pulled in a breath, her hand lingering on his hair, and
said the only thing she had needed to hear from him when she'd been
lying as he was now. The only thing that mattered in the end. 

"Mulder, I love you," she whispered. "And I'm right here."


********** 


END OF CHAPTER 22. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 23. 


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 23. 

***********

13 STONELEIGH ROAD 
BETHESDA, MARYLAND 
APRIL 13 (TWO DAYS LATER) 
2:23 a.m.


Robert Padden walked down the long hallway that connected the study
to the living room, his gait a bit unsteady. He was on his fourth
scotch on the rocks, the dark liquid burning a trail down his throat
with each sip. He was looking into each room as he went down the hall
-- the last, the darkened guest room where his son slept when he came
to visit with his wife. 

The room looked sterile and unused. 

It had been a year since Ben had visited. Or was it more than that?
He couldn't remember. All Padden remembered was the stiff dinner at
the dining room table, Ben's tense smile as Padden had asked him
about his new assignment, how the new ship was treating him. Ben's
life in the Navy seemed a safe enough subject, a topic that wasn't
Ben's mother or Padden's work, which he couldn't discuss at all. 

It had been a lifetime of secrets from Ben, some by necessity and
some by choice. The affairs he'd kept to himself until he couldn't
any longer, until that night Diane had taken Ben and left his life
forever. 

Padden flicked off the light, the ice cubes in his highball glass
clinking softly against each other as he stepped a bit off balance
from the doorway. 

The years of silence between he and Ben had stretched between them.
They'd lingered for so long that they'd become two men who kept
almost everything in their lives a secret from the other, most
notably their own hearts. 

He grunted at the thought, took a sip from his glass, and pulled his
rich green robe around himself like a cape. He continued down the
hallway into the living room, Part Two of Act Two of "Madame
Butterfly" bleeding from the Bose speakers set into the walls.

"Con onor muore chi non puņ serbar vita con onore..."

Padden grunted again. He was drunk now, for sure, and he didn't care. 

He went for the bar against the far wall, refilled the glass with
Glenfiddich and headed toward the open area in front of the huge bay
window. It overlooked the vast woods behind the house. 

He sipped, listened.

Another terrible day. Another meeting with Ashcroft, the formal
notice of his termination from the NSA. A hearing before the House
Intelligence Committee scheduled for tomorrow. Talk of charges. 

And still no word from the Pentagon. 

The music swelled around him, filling the room. He closed his eyes,
his head buzzing with it. 

It was time for him to make his contacts with the other sides. The
men at the Pentagon thought he was bluffing, clearly. But he was not
a man to bluff, and he would show them this. He would show them all. 

He put the glass to his lips, tilted it up and drained it,
swallowing fire. 

As he pulled the glass away from his face, something strange caught
his eye. 

Red in the glass. The ice cubes glowing. 

He stared at it for a few seconds, his brows squinting down. 

Then he noticed a thin red line of light, stretched like a taut
string from the window to the glass. 

He realized what it was a second too late.

The pinch of breaking glass, a perfect hole through the thick bay
window, the bottom of the highball glass falling away, ice and glass
raining to the floor. 

A bullet in his throat. 

Choking, he dropped the glass, his hands going to his neck to quell
the font of blood. He hunched and fell, his back hitting the white
persian rug beneath him. He turned on his belly, air gurgling from
him, one arm reaching out to help pull him back away from the window. 

"No..." he managed, his voice ruined, blood coming freely from
between his fingers. 

Beside him, the red circle of light moved next to his face, an inch
from his cheek. He pulled himself another foot. The light moved with
him. 

Finally, he stopped, both hands going to the wound now, the circle
of light holding beside him. He rolled onto his side, one arm falling
in front of him, reaching for the light, his hand a red claw.

The light sat in his palm, then began its slow and measured
movement. The music continued, rising. The light reached his elbow.
His upper arm. He lost sight of it for a moment and then it was
there, a line from the window going onto the side of his face, up
until it touched his eye, steady and far too bright. 

He did not close his eye. 

Glass broke. 


**********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 9:04 a.m.


Scully worked among the relative bustle of the changing of shifts in
the ICU, using the little bit of time she had with Mulder the best
way she could. She was working his limbs carefully, doing range of
motion exercises on him, rubbing at the muscles in his arms, moving
his elbows, his shoulders, his wrists. Then she moved down to his
legs, uncovering them to his knees as she gently lifted each one,
bending his knees slightly and massaging the long muscles of his
calves.

The whole time, she talked to him. 

She talked some about the status of the investigation. She told him
that Skinner had contacted his mother, and that she would try to see
him when he got back into Washington. She talked about Granger and
Skinner and what they'd been doing to keep her occupied when she
couldn't be with him, about Granger's penchant for rummy and for
reading crosswords out loud, and how the latter drove her crazy. She
told him the Yankees had won their opening day. She'd even remembered
the score and who was pitching from the week-old newspaper she'd
found in the ICU waiting room.

She wanted him to hear her voice. So she kept talking as she worked,
glancing every once in awhile at his still features, the respirator
and naso-gastric tube across his stubbled cheek, his eyes still
beneath their lids. His chest rose and fell, but otherwise, he was
still. 

It felt good just to touch him, as well, she had to admit. 

She reached down and flexed his ankle, her hand on the curve of his
arch. It was then that Kellerman came by, looking down at Mulder's
chart as he entered the tiny room. 

"Dr. Scully," he said, a slight smile on his face. "Our patient's
doing better today, I see." 

Scully returned the small smile, kept working on Mulder's foot,
pushing it forward and back. "Yes, his brain activity is getting
better. More responsive. And the early signs of peritonitis seem to
be under control." 

Kellerman nodded, reviewing the chart as Scully spoke. "I'm going to
go ahead and set up a pump for him for when he regains consciousness.
I see he's allergic to morphine. What have you used on him in the
past?" 

"Demerol seems to work well with him," she replied. 

"All right," Kellerman said, scribbling on the chart. "We'll do
that, then." 

Scully liked the turn in the conversation on many levels. She and
Mulder's doctor had reached a good "working" relationship over the
past two days -- she tried not to push too hard and he tried to
respect her for what she knew. She also liked that Kellerman was so
certain of Mulder emerging from the coma soon -- introducing a device
that would allow Mulder to dose himself with a painkiller as he
needed it showed Kellerman's faith in that. 

Kellerman moved around Scully to the side of the bed, checking all
the equipment himself, the readouts. He turned Mulder's head gently
toward him, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen light, shone
it Mulder's eyes one at a time. Then he lifted the covers and pulled
up Mulder's gown, checking the dressing.

"Looks good. No sign of infection." 

Scully nodded. She'd checked all this herself when she'd come in.
"I'm glad," she said, to be polite. 

Kellerman returned to the doorway, marking on the chart again. "I'm
going to pull that respirator when he wakes up," he said, almost to
himself. 

He paused, and Scully looked up from Mulder's face at the silence,
saw the doctor's serious expression. 

"He's going to be hurting badly when he wakes up," Kellerman said
softly. "You're aware of how painful belly wounds can be. And how
long they can take to heal." 

She nodded, moved to Mulder's other foot, flexing it, looking down
at it. "Yes," she said. "I know what we're in for." 

The "we" slipped, but she did her best not to be embarrassed by it.
It was a fact, after all. And she doubted it was a secret to
Kellerman at this point...

Behind the doctor, someone appeared in the doorway, and Scully
looked up to see a nurse, and, to her surprise, Albert Hosteen
standing there, a gentle smile on his face. 

"Mr. Mulder has another visitor," the nurse said to Scully. "Only
about ten minutes more, all right?" 

Scully nodded mutely and the nurse withdrew. Scully's gaze was
hitched to Hosteen's. Something in her unknotted at seeing him, and
she felt her lips curling in the first genuine smile for days. 

Kellerman turned and looked at the tall Native American man with his
denim shirt and his long hair around his shoulders, then returned his
gaze to Scully. 

"Take fifteen minutes," Kellerman said. "I'll have them get that
pump and I'll be back to check in on him later, if I'm not needed
sooner." Scully thanked him and he took his leave, letting Hosteen
enter the room. 

"Hello, Agent Scully," Hosteen said into the murmur of machinery in
the room. 

"Mr. Hosteen," she replied, shook her head as she looked down at
Mulder's face again. "Once again, we meet under grim circumstances." 

"Not so grim," he replied. "He is alive. From what Mr. Granger just
told me in the waiting area about what happened in the canyon, that
is in itself a remarkable thing." 

Scully chuffed. "Yes," she said, and set Mulder's foot down, then
reached up and covered his legs again. "I guess you're right."

She went to the far side of the bed, tucking the blanket around
Mulder's waist gently. Hosteen went to the other side, his hands on
the guardrail. 

They were silent for a long moment, Mulder's breathing hissing
between them. 

"You think he is very far away," Hosteen said, and Scully looked him
in the eye again. "But he is right here. And you have your lives
again, now that this man is dead and these charges have been dropped
against you."

Scully nodded, and she found herself fighting tears again for the
first time in awhile. Her association with Hosteen had left her
vulnerable to him, to his kindness, in a way that she wasn't usually,
even to Granger, who had proven to be a loyal friend. 

"I know," she said softly. "I know we have our lives back. It's just
so hard to believe that when I see him hurt like this." She reached
out and brushed Mulder's hair back behind his ear, his face away
still turned away from her.

Hosteen nodded. "I know that, in a way, it hurts you, too," he
replied. "You have a bond that way. It is both the greatest strength
and the greatest weakness between you. But only a weakness because
people may see it -- like this man Curran -- and use it against you."

Now the tears did come. "It saves us both," she whispered, met his
eyes. She had never spoken this openly about her relationship with
Mulder, not even to her mother. But then no one had seen it the way
this man had over the weeks in the desert. No one had spoken to her
about it this way, either. 

"You will have to learn to guard against that," Hosteen said softly.
"But you will learn."

Again a beat of silence.

"Victor is with me," Hosteen said, brushing the previous quiet tone
aside. "And I brought Bo, as I said I would." 

Scully grimaced. "We're not in much of a position to take care of a
dog at this point, Mr. Hosteen." 

"I will be staying for awhile," Hosteen soothed. "Victor wants to
buy a new truck, sell some horses here at the reservation. We have
some business. Victor and I will see to him." 

"I really don't think--"

"Trust," Hosteen said, putting a hand up. "Things will turn out the
way they should. I have feelings about things like this. And I think
you have learned the value of listening to feelings, even when they
don't seem to make the most sense here." He tapped his temple.

She swallowed back her reply then, smiled faintly and wiped her
eyes, then braced herself on the guardrail. There was no point
arguing with the man. She'd learned that long ago. 

They stood in the same companionable silence.

"How long do you think--" she began after a moment, and Hosteen held
up a hand, silencing her. She looked at him in confusion.

Then he lay the hand on Mulder's forehead, right at his hairline,
and closed his eyes.

Scully looked at the monitors behind her, at Hosteen's brows knitted
in concentration, then down at Mulder again. For a long few seconds,
nothing happened. 

Then, just beneath Hosteen's hand, Mulder's eyelids fluttered and
slowly slid open, staring at the ceiling above him. 

Hosteen removed his hand, smiled at Scully, who was looking from
Mulder to Hosteen, her eyes wide and more tears rimming them. 

"Mulder?" she called, reaching out to put her hand where Hosteen's
had been. She turned his face toward her, his eyes rolling a bit, his
throat working around the respirator. A small sound came from him, so
faint it was like a breath.

"It's okay, Mulder," she said, the tears still coming. "You're all
right." 

She watched his brow squint down, his eyes closing tight. Another
soft sound came from him, this one full of pain. As she looked at
him, twin tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and raced down
his temples to his hair. 

"Okay...okay...I'm going to get you something for the pain," she
said, and looked up at Hosteen, who had reached down to grip Mulder's
forearm in sympathy. 

"Could you get the nurse, Mr. Hosteen?" she asked quickly. Hosteen
nodded, released Mulder and stepped toward the doorway. 

"How..." Scully said, halting him. "What did you just do?" 

Hosteen gave her a small smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

"His hand was moving," he said. "I saw it. You did not." And then he
winked, went toward the nurse's station, moving fast. 

Scully looked at the spot where he'd stood, a smile coming to her
trembling lips. Then she looked down at Mulder as he opened his eyes
again, his gaze on hers, his hand inching toward her to touch her
belly with his fingertips through the railing. 

"Everything's going to be all right now," she said to him, stroking
his hair. 

People had been saying it to her for days. 

And this time, when she said it herself, she even believed it. 


*******

2:38 p.m.


"So there was an old fox that had three young kits, and when the
time came for the fox to teach the kits how to fend for themselves,
the old fox took them down a country road to a house..."

Mae stroked Sean's hair as she spoke, the boy spooned into her, his
face turned up toward the television that hung from the ceiling in
front of the hospital bed. Joe had found some cartoon, the sound
almost all the way down, but Sean's eyes were glued to it
nonetheless, a small action figure gripped in his hand near his face. 

"So they reached this house and there was this enormous racket of
talking going on inside it," Mae continued, continuing to stroke
Sean's hair. She looked over at Joe, sitting in the recliner,
watching them both, his lips still red from the split. "You know what
the old fox said to the kits then, Sean?" 

Sean shook his head, but his eyes did not move from the screen.

"Well, he asked the first one if he could tell him who was in the
house, and he couldn't. Then he asked the second one, and he couldn't
tell the old fox either. So then the old fox asked the third kit who
was in the house and he said: 'Either two women or twelve men.' And
the old fox said to that one: 'You'll do well in the world, my boy.'"

She reached down and gave Sean's side a poke, and it got at least a
smile from the boy, which she was glad to see. She laughed and he
pressed himself back into her as she tickled him again, though she
could not get him to laugh. 

Again her eyes met Joe's over Sean's dark head. Joe smiled to her,
but the smile had some sadness still in it. Since they'd told Sean
that his father was dead two days ago, Sean had nearly vanished into
himself, into his grief. Mae knew Joe ached for Sean as much as she
did. 

"Hey buddy," Joe said softly. "You hungry?"

"Aye," Sean replied, barely audible. 

"You want to come downstairs with me and pick something out?" Joe
asked, and Sean nodded.

"All right, Joe," he said, and with that, he started to rise, Mae
kissing his temple as he sat up, her hand on his back as he slid to
the floor. Joe stood and put his hand on Sean's head, smoothing down
his hair. 

"You want anything?" he asked, his voice tender. 

She smiled to him. "If you can manage some fries, I'll have a few,"
she said, and put her hand on the back of his neck as he bent down to
kiss her softly. They lingered there. 

"I'll be right back," he said, and she nodded. 

Alone, she closed her eyes, breathed out slowly. They were going to
release her this afternoon now that her dehydration and exhaustion
were under control. One day in the hospital had turned into almost
three, the vomiting only getting better in the past 24 hours. She
suspected that stress had had a lot to do with her being as ill as
she'd been, even in Mexico. Living hiding from her brother had taken
its toll on her even there. 

She was only now beginning to feel the freedom from that, beginning
to believe that part of her life was over. 

Now she just had to decide what the new life was going to look like.
But she felt somehow calm in the face of that. She felt, for the
first time in a years, a sense of hope that things could be different
than they had been. 

No matter what ended up happening. 

She knew it was entirely likely she would go through this pregnancy
in jail, that Joe would end up raising this child -- and Sean -- on
his own. And though the thought anguished her, a part of her was
ready for the life she'd led to be completely over, to be paid for
and done with. 

She was filled with regret for the things she had done. They felt
like weights on top of her, and she knew she would carry those
weights for the rest of her life.

There was a knock at the door, which struck her out of her
introspection. She turned onto her back. 

"Yes?" she called, and the door opened. 

Dana Scully walked in. 

Mae closed her eyes, opened them, her heartbeat picking up. 

This is it, she thought. It's over. 

** 

"You weren't asleep, were you?" Scully asked, closing the door
behind her. She saw the resignation settling over Mae, though Mae was
trying to return her smile.

"No, no," Mae replied. "Just lying here. Joe and Sean are fetching
something to eat." 

Scully came around the side of the bed, standing in front of the
recliner. Mae was taking in her appearance, she saw, with concern.
She knew she looked a bit rumpled, a men's dress shirt on over a
black t-shirt, the t-shirt tucked into her jeans, the top shirt tied
at her waist. The sleeves were cuffed up above her elbows, and her
hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She was a far cry from the very
formal "Dr. Black" Mae had known in Richmond. 

"I look like hell," she said, looking down and blushing. "You can
tell me." 

"No, no, you look fine," Mae said, though Scully could tell the
other woman was having to struggle for a normal tone of voice. "But
you do look like you're ready to get in that truck of yours and head
for the border." 

"Not anymore," Scully replied, and they both grinned at that, though
Mae's was brittle. 

They looked at each other for a moment. Scully regretted the
awkwardness between them that cropped up in those few seconds, the
tension in Mae's face and carriage. 

"How is Mulder doing?" Mae asked, and her voice shook a little. 

Scully smiled faintly. "He's just come out of a coma this morning,
and he's off life support," she replied. "He's still critical, but
he's going to make it." 

"Thank God for that," Mae breathed. "I feared the worst in the truck
on the way here."

"I did, too," Scully replied. She gestured to Mae. "How are you
doing? They've kept you for a long time." 

"Yes," Mae said, and her voice shook again as she spoke. "I've been
so ill -- morning sickness that lasts half the day -- but it's
getting better now that things have calmed down a bit."

"Your baby...it's all right?"

Mae nodded. "Aye, they say it's fine. Somehow it's managed through
all this." 

A heavy silence hung between them, neither of them able to look at
the other. Scully started to speak, but Mae beat her to it. 

"You've come up to arrest me, haven't you?" Mae asked softly. 

Scully heaved in a breath, her eyes going to the door, then back to
Mae's face. 

"No," she said. "I haven't. And I'm not going to." 

She saw Mae sink a bit on the bed, as though every one of her
muscles had relaxed at once. Mae closed her eyes for a few seconds,
and Scully saw tears slip from beneath them. She reached out and put
her hand on Mae's arm, and the two of them ended up with their hands
locked together. 

"I owe you my life," Scully said quietly. "And I know you're not the
person you were before. So I want you to run. I want you to get out
of here and get out of the country and start your life over again. I
want that for you. For Sean. And for your baby." 

Mae sat up and reached for Scully, who went into her arms, pulling
her close for a long moment. 

"What about that man Granger?" Mae asked as they separated. "Won't
he tell that I'm here? That you're letting me go?" 

Scully shook her head. "Granger and I had a talk before anyone got
here. He knows what you did for me in Richmond, and he's not law
enforcement any more, anyway. He's left this up to me. We never
mentioned that you and Joe were at the canyon at all. My supervisor
doesn't know. As far as anyone knows it was a hostage situation with
just your brother and Mulder. There were dozens of footprints where
we were so there haven't been any questions."

Mae sniffed, wiped at her eyes. "Thank you," she said softly after a
moment. "That sounds so empty for what you're doing for me."

"It's plenty after what you've done for me," Scully replied, and
squeezed Mae's hand as Mae covered her face again, the tears of
relief still coming.

"It's okay," Scully whispered to her, her own emotions welling.
"It's all going to be okay."

"Mae?" 

Scully looked toward the doorway at Joe Porter standing there, still
wearing one of Mulder's t-shirts that she'd told him to get when he
went for Sean. He had an order of fries in one hand and Sean's hand
in the other. Sean was looking at her, clearly very afraid. 

She kept Mae's hand in hers as Mae looked behind her.

"It's all right," Mae said to them, and Joe went to the other side
of the bed, setting the food down on the nightstand. "Everything's
all right." 

Joe's eyes settled on Scully, something warm in them. 

"Thank you," he said softly. "You've given me my life once already.
Now you're doing it again." 

Scully nodded to him. "You're welcome," she murmured. Joe seemed
such a good man -- how he'd treated Mulder at the canyon, how much he
clearly loved Mae. Scully wish she'd gotten the opportunity to know
him better.

She dug into her pocket, pulled out the keys to the Bronco and
proffered them to Joe. He took them. 

"I won't be needing the truck anymore," she said. "Granger and I
snuck out earlier while I couldn't see Mulder and when no one was
around and cleaned it up some. There's about $500 in the glove
compartment for you, all that Mulder and I had left. Take it and go."

Porter nodded. "Thank you. We'll go today." Scully nodded in return.

Then she and Mae looked at each other, emotion passing between them.
Gratitude. Respect. All that made up their strange but very strong
friendship. 

"We won't ever see each other again," Mae said finally. 

Scully shook her head. "No," she said. "We can't."

Mae nodded, leaned forward, and the two of them kissed on the cheek.
Then Scully let her hand go and stepped back. 

Sean was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at Scully. She
turned to him, walked to where he stood and squatted down in front of
him so she was looking up into his face. He looked down with his
wide, sad eyes. 

"You okay, Sean?" she asked, and he nodded immediately. Too fast. 

"Aye, I'm fine," he said, but she could see his anguish in his face.
She reached for his hand and held it lightly, rubbing her thumb over
the back.

"Sean, I want to tell you something I've learned in the past few
months," she began. "Things happen sometimes...terrible things.
Things that hurt us so much that we don't think we can ever come back
from them, that we'll ever be like we once were again. But we can
come back. We can even be happy again." 

He cocked his head as he looked at her. 

"I know it's hard to believe that," she continued softly. "I know
you must be hurting a lot right now. But you're going to be happy
again. I promise you will be." 

Sean's eyes filled with tears, and he looked away, as though ashamed
for her to see them. 

She thought of Sean's father when she looked at him, the hatred that
had grown in him. She didn't want that for Sean. She didn't want any
of that to touch him. She hoped it wasn't too late.

"Just remember to be kind, all right?" she said, her voice breaking.
She reached up and stroked his cheek. "Stay kind." 

Sean looked at her for a long few seconds. Then, finally, he nodded,
wiped at his face, and stepped away from her toward Joe, who put an
arm around Sean's shoulder and pulled the boy against him, rubbing at
his chest, soothing him. 

With that, Scully stood and turned toward the bed again. 

She shook Joe's hand, no words passing between them as they nodded
to each other. Then she looked at Mae once more. Mae wiped at her
eyes just as Sean had, forced a small smile. 

"Goodbye," Scully said softly. "Take care of each other, all right?" 

"We will," Mae replied. "You and Mulder, as well. Goodbye." 

Scully hesitated only a second as she and Mae looked at each other
one last time. Then she went out the door.


*******


5:05 p.m.



"Two more minutes, Mulder," Scully murmured, stroking the hair back
from his forehead. "Just two more minutes." 

Mulder ignored her, his thumb pressing down the button attached to
the IV pump that dosed him with his pain medication. The machine
beeped softly, telling him that it was too early for another dose,
the light on it glowing red. Mulder hit it again anyway, his eyes
closed, his face away from hers. His chest was heaving as he panted
shallow breaths. 

Stricken, she reached down and covered his hand with her own, moving
his thumb off the button gently. "It's okay," she whispered. "I know
it hurts. Just try to hang on with me. Try to think about something
else." 

He turned his head toward her now, his glazed eyes opening and
settling on her face. She smiled to him, gripping his hand, keeping
her other hand on his hairline. "It's going to get better," she said.
"I promise it will." She leaned down and kissed his forehead,
lingering there. It seemed to calm his breathing some as she stayed
next to him. 

"Scully?" 

She looked up, saw Skinner standing there looking uncomfortable. She
felt a flush rise in her own cheeks, as well, but pushed it away. 

"I'm sorry to intrude," Skinner said softly, coming into the room
fully now. He was finally in casual clothes, the business with Curran
closed on this end. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets,
looking uncertain, but something was clearly on his mind. His jaw was
working. 

"You're not intruding," Scully replied, leaned up, her hand still on
Mulder's where he held the pump's button. 

"How's he doing?" he asked, going to the side of the bed. Scully
nodded toward Mulder, and Skinner looked from her to Mulder as Mulder
turned his head and swallowed. 

"How you doing, Mulder?" Skinner asked again.

"Okay..." Mulder breathed. The pain was still deeply etched on his
face, however.

"That's good," Skinner said. "I'm glad you're awake because this
concerns both of you." 

"What is it?" Scully asked, her brow creasing. 

Skinner pulled in a breath, let it out. "Padden was found murdered
in his home this afternoon. I just got the word. It looks like a
professional hit." 

Scully gaped. "My God," she said softly. 

"Don't..." Mulder swallowed again, blinking slowly up at Skinner.
"Don't make me...laugh..." he whispered. 

"There's a hell of a commotion about it in D.C.," Skinner said
tersely. "They've launched *another* inquiry into this whole thing --
Padden's death now -- and Deputy Director Rosen is coming out here to
interview both of you. They want to close this all out as quickly as
they can before the media starts to have a field day with it. The
press is already starting to dig into the story about the two of you -
- especially Mulder's part in the embassy bombing -- and Rosen wants
to have your official statements as fast as he can to head off
getting the Bureau embroiled in anything worse than it's in already." 

"Mulder's not ready for something like that," Scully protested. 

"I know," Skinner said. "I tried to tell him that. He's coming
anyway. Granger and I did some digging to help clear Mulder's name
and Rosen wants to go over that information with you both, to
separate you from Padden as much as he can." 

"Both of us?" Scully asked. "I didn't have anything to do with
Mulder's hunch about which embassy. I don't have any information
about Padden at all."

Skinner looked uncomfortable. "Some of the information Granger and I
found that helps clear Mulder...has to do with you."

At Scully's impatient, quizzical expression, Skinner pressed
forward. "The Overlook Motel on Afton Mountain," he said softly, and
looked away. 

Now Scully really did blush. 

"Ah," Mulder breathed. 

The pump beeped then, the light on it going from red to green.
Mulder turned his face slowly toward it and Scully nodded down to
him, releasing his hand. Mulder's thumb leaned on the button, the
painkiller flooding into the IV port. 

"He wants everything that happened in Mae Curran's apartment, too,"
Skinner continued. "He wants to have a clean story to tell Ashcroft
so we can get this whole thing over with." 

"I see," Scully said, watching Mulder's eyes loll and glass over as
the high dose of painkiller entered his system. His breathing calmed
almost immediately. "I'll tell him everything I can, of course." 

"Your relationship is going to have to come out," Skinner said, and
Scully looked up at him. Mulder turned to look at him again, too,
blinking in slow-motion. "Maybe not to the press, if we're lucky, but
to Rosen, definitely. I'm sorry." 

No use denying it now, she thought.

"We're not doing anything wrong," Scully said firmly. "You know
that." 

"No, you're technically not just by being in a relationship,"
Skinner replied. "But going to that motel together was a breach of
professional conduct for both of you. I think the best-case scenario
is a formal reprimand from Rosen for that."

Scully felt her frustration rising.

"And the worst-case scenario?" she asked, pinning him with her eyes.
Skinner looked from one to the other, then finally settled on Scully.

"He might want you separated," Skinner said softly. 

Scully shook her head, looking away. She was angry now, but there
was no place to put it. Skinner was merely the messenger. And she
already knew he would do everything he could to keep she and Mulder
from being pulled apart. 

"I'll do what I can," Skinner said, as if reading her thoughts. 

She nodded, and she saw Mulder nod, as well, though he was beginning
to drift off, his eyelids getting heavy. 

A nurse appeared from the station, came in the doorway. "Dr. Scully,
there's someone else who wants to come back," she said, and drifted
away as Scully thanked her. 

Skinner reached down and touched Mulder's shoulder. "Get some rest,"
he said, and Mulder nodded once. Then Skinner turned to Scully. "I'm
going back to the motel. I've got some business I need to handle
about all this. But I'll be back." 

"Thank you, sir," Scully said quietly. 

Their gazes hung, then Skinner left the room. 

Mulder turned back to her, his hand dropping the button and going
for the knot of his shirt at her belly. "Don't worry..." he breathed.
"They...won't do it." 

She reached down and took his hand again, being careful of the IV in
its back. "Don't think about that now," she said gently. "Just rest.
Let yourself rest..." 

She let her voice drift off, soothing him, leaned down and kissed
his lips carefully, just a brush, being careful of the gastric tube
and the canula. When she pulled her face away, he was asleep. 

She leaned back up, and pulled in a breath in surprise. 

Margaret Scully stood in the doorway, tears streaming down her
cheeks as she looked at her, one hand over her mouth. 

In the other, pressed against her chest, an open envelope, yellow
paper showing. 

The letter, Scully thought, closing her eyes. She'd forgotten all
about it in everything that had happened.

"Dana?" 

Scully looked at her mother. Tears rushed in.

She was around the bed in an instant, her mother meeting her
halfway. The embrace they shared was so tight they could barely draw
breath. Scully lost herself in it, as if nothing to could touch her.
Like when she was a child in her mother's arms. She felt that safe.

"Thank God..." her mother breathed, stroking her hair and rocking
her small body lightly. "Thank God...."



*************


END OF CHAPTER 23. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 24. 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 24. 

**********

APRIL 16 
(THREE DAYS LATER) 
10:35 a.m.



When Scully had first entered medical school, bright and young and
with a life behind her that was mostly untouched by tragedy, she had
seen nothing but possibility in front of her. She'd entered the
University of Maryland with the intention of being a surgeon, a
person who would do intricate, difficult work with the living with an
unwavering faith in her ability to save those lives. 

Perhaps it was that her life had been so devoid of real hardship
that made her initially taken with the dead her first year of medical
school. Her first cadaver had fascinated her, the secrets that it
seemed to hold. It had been a homeless elderly man, unclaimed by
anyone on his death. No affiliation. No history. Lifeless, it seemed,
in more ways than simply the absence of life within him. 

But as she worked, she found herself wondering about him, and
finding answers to her questions within his body -- bones brittle,
liver swollen with cirrhosis, the ghosts of malnutrition and of the
man's drowning himself in alcohol to hide from some pain she could
never know. 

But she did know. She saw his life written on his body, a braille of
suffering beneath her instruments and hands. And she honored that
suffering. By the time she covered him for the last time, she felt
she understood the life he had led, one that had brought him to her,
a woman he did not know but who would be the last to touch him, if
anyone had ever touched him before her at all. 

She didn't know why the man, known only to her as "John Doe #311,"
was on her mind this morning. Why that body among the hundreds of
others she'd seen over the years. 

Perhaps it was because one often returned to beginnings when endings
seemed in sight. And she was looking at an end to that kind of
discovery and affiliation that she'd found with others, even in their
deaths. 

Sitting in the examining room of the hospital's well-staffed clinic,
a battery of testing and bloodwork behind her from the past three
days, she stared at her hand and saw that ending. Curran had quite
possibly taken that part of her life away with his drug, as surely as
he'd tried to take Mulder from her, coming so close to succeeding in
that that even now, with Mulder finally stable in the ICU one floor
down, she still felt the fear at losing him. 

Hope, she reminded herself, watching the faint trembling of her hand. 

If the past weeks had taught her anything, it was the value of that
gossamer feeling. She would hold onto it. She clenched her left fist
in her lap and held onto it, waiting for the doctor to come through
the door and tell her future, tell what exactly Curran *had* managed
to take away. 

She was nervous, but she was ready to hear the truth. She was
through running. And that meant from everything. Even this. 

After another moment, her doctor, a man in his late-40s named
Conlin, came through the door, a grip in his hand and a folder
stuffed with her test results in the other. He smiled stiffly to her,
and she returned it. 

"How are you, Dana?" he asked, approaching her where she sat on the
edge of the table. 

"I'm fine," she replied. "I've been...anxious to know what you've
found, of course, but I'm fine." 

He nodded, handed her the grip, which she took in her left hand. It
was a "V" of metal and rubber, with a digital readout set into one
side of it. He flicked it on, stood back with his arms crossed, the
folder still in one hand.

"Squeeze," he said, nodding at her hand. 

Scully leaned in on the device, closing its metal jaws with her hand
until the two sides nearly touched. She gritted her teeth, bearing
down on it. 

"Release it now." 

She did as she was told, and Conlin took the grip from her and
checked the readout. Then he had her repeat the process with her
right hand. 

When she was done, he checked the reading again, his expression both
pleased and perplexed. 

"What does it say?" Scully asked, nervous.

Conlin shook his head. "This shows the same thing I've been seeing
all along. There's only a slight discrepancy between the strength of
your left hand and your right." 

Scully nodded. She knew this. "What about the nerve conduction
study?" she asked. "What did it show?" 

Conlin opened the folder and looked at it, then proffered the sheet
to her. She looked at it, reading over the results. 

She released a breath, closing her eyes. 

"No damage that we can perceive," he said. "The nerves in your arm
and hand are fine." 

Thank God...

"The only thing that I *did* find, in fact, is this," he said, and
pulled out another sheet from the folder, handing it to her. "You
said you were exposed to some sort of drug -- a serotonin-inhibitor,
right?" 

She nodded, looking at the printout. 

She gaped at it. 

"The drug's still there," she breathed. 

Conlin nodded. "Yes, it would appear so," he said. "Though there is
also the presence of several other compounds which would appear to be
derivatives of the drug itself. Which I would infer to be a good
sign." 

Scully looked up at him. "It's breaking down then." 

Conlin nodded. "That's my guess. I can't be sure, of course -- I've
never seen a drug like this -- but that's my guess."

She stared down at the paper, a smile teasing her lips, though she
was afraid for it to come. "The drug is most likely causing the
tremor then." 

Conlin shrugged. "I can't see any other cause for it. There's
nothing physically wrong with your arm or your hand. You know, I've
seen this before with some other drugs. Risperdal, for example. It
gives symptoms similar to Parkinson's Disease. Tremors and such, and
often only in one area, like a hand or a foot or on one side of the
face. It wouldn't surprise me if that was the case with this, as
well, though we'd need to do a lot more study to nail that down." 

He looked embarrassed now. "We're not exactly equipped for that kind
of research here. But I'm sure once you get back to Washington you'll
be able to find someone who can do it, if you don't want to undertake
it yourself, of course. There might be some chemotherapies that can
be done to hasten the breakdown of the substance. I just don't know." 

She kept her eyes on the paper for a long moment, considering what
it all meant. This explained so much. Like the continuation of the
almost hallucinatory dreams over the past months. Much like those
she'd had when she'd first been exposed to the drug. Some of the
dreams she'd had since Tennessee were only slightly less vivid
versions of what she'd experienced then. 

When she looked up at Conlin, he was smiling. 

"I'm glad to have been able to give you good news," he said. "I must
tell you, on my first examination, I feared what we might find with
all these tests." 

She nodded. She'd been fearing it for so many weeks now. She hadn't
even realized how tightly she'd been holding herself until she began
to slowly unclench with the news. 

"Thank you," she said softly. "I appreciate you rushing all this
through for me." 

Conlin handed the chart to her and nodded. "Like I told you when you
came to me -- we push things through for law enforcement. Here you
go. These are your copies to take back east with you. Let me know if
I can do anything else between now and the time you leave." 

"I will," she said, and slipped off the table. She offered him her
hand, and he took it, and now her smile did come. 


**********


CHESAPEAKE BAY 
OFF WILLOUGHBY SPIT 
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA 
11:13 a.m.


Jimmy Shea steered the thirteen-footer around the bridge point,
heading out from Willoughby Bay near the naval base over the tunnel
of Interstate 64, the brown/green water stretching out as far as he
could see. The boat rocked on the chop as he headed out away from the
bridge that led to the tunnel entrance, the interstate choked with
traffic even at this hour. 

He needed to put some distance between him and the cars, and he
headed out into the open bay now, leaving a greenish wake behind him,
the hulk of three aircraft carriers perched on the horizon behind
him. He watched them for a long moment, the new pipe he'd just bought
on the trip back from Arizona clenched between his teeth, the wind
burning the tobacco within it. 

Ruby would have his head for smoking the thing, he thought. He'd
have to pitch it before he got on the plane. But that wasn't until
later that afternoon. He'd enjoy the sweet tobacco while he could. 

The engine growled its way through the cold water, taking him out
past the point of Ocean View, around towards the mouth of the bay
where it would eventually meet the Atlantic. Once he'd reached a
place well out of the sight of land and where there were no other
boats to be seen, he cut the engine, the boat rocking even more as it
slowly came to a halt in the water. 

He got up from the seat behind the steering wheel, went for his
duffel bag that he'd stowed at the stern. He had good sea legs, and
rode the boat well as it rose and fell. He didn't even have to hold
onto the sides as he made his way to the rear. Reaching the long
duffel, he took one final look around, then unzipped it. 

The rifle case was there, his fishing tackle laying beside it,
jumbled together. He braced his feet a bit more, then drew the long
case out, set it on the deck, and unhooked the latches, pushing the
case open in grey mid-day light. 

The rifle, still assembled. The rich wood of its stock. The well-
oiled workings and barrel. The trigger's black showing signs of wear,
the only part of the gun that did. 

He studied it for a long moment, settling down onto the side of the
boat, his hands on his knees as he looked at it with his tired pale
eyes, the pipe still between his teeth, smoke leaking from the corner
of his mouth and getting pulled away by the wind. 

The gun had been with him for as long as he could remember. How many
nights had he lain awake on watch, hidden away in some safehouse, the
rifle across his lap? How many times had he lain in wait, just below
the ledge of a window, peering over through broken glass at someone
below, someone walking down the street, alone and unaware? 

There had been a time in his life, long long ago, when the memories
of these things would have given him some measure of pride. 

But not anymore. 

Now they only made him tired, and deeply sad. What he'd given his
life to seeming...if not wrong, terribly empty. He had done what he'd
done for reasons, of course, and he knew this. 

But now? 

Now he had only the vision of Owen Curran in his mind, the boy he
had known grown into a man who had grown mad in the face of all that
Shea had once believed in. Shea saw only the shot as it had hit home.
The spray of gore. Owen's body dropping onto the sand and lying
there, instantly still. As though it had never been alive at all. 

Perhaps, in the end, it hadn't, he thought, and shook his head,
reaching up to remove the pipe from his mouth. He stared into the
bowl, then back at the rifle on the deck. 

Perhaps, in the end, there had been a part of him that had never
been alive, either. His life lost to the Troubles. To the killing.
Were it not for Ruby, he would have felt he'd come away from his life
with nothing. Nothing at all. 

Back home they had cobbled together an uneasy peace. Looking down at
the rifle, he looked within himself and decided, sitting there with a
noontime storm rolling in from the south, to do the same. 

He replaced the pipe in his mouth, reached down and picked up the
rifle, feeling the familiar weight of it, catching the faint
fragrance of gunpowder and oil as he lifted it, holding it front of
him. 

With two steps toward the side of the boat, he stopped. Then,
thrusting out with both arms as hard as he could, he threw the rifle
as far away from him as he could, watched it arc into the air, then
disappear into water's darkness. 

He was not quite satisfied as he stood there for a long moment,
pulling on his pipe. A gust of wind kicked up and nearly took off his
fisherman's cap, and he reached up and held it on, tugged it more
tightly into place, his eyes on the spot where the gun had entered
the water. 

Then, seeing the storm clouds coming in, he turned, went back to the
duffel. A few more tosses and the ammunition followed the gun into
the water, the gun oil. All of it. Until the case was empty. Then he
picked up the gleaming rod and reel, laid them in the rifle case on
all the padding, hooking the hooks into the foam. 

He closed the case, replaced it in the bag, and stowed it again,
heading back to the wheel. The engine coughed as he touched the
ignition, the rented boat coming to life. 

In four hours, he'd be at the Norfolk Airport, the truck left with
one of Conail Rutherford's friends. A puddle-jump to Dulles, and he
would be on his way home, to Ruby and good bread and his boat, upside
down, its spine and ribs waiting for him to come and close them over,
to prepare the boat for the sea.

He thought all this as he pushed the throttle up, sending the boat
into a wide arc as he turned and headed back toward the Spit, leaving
behind him a wide wake of motion.


***********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
1:08 p.m.


"Mulder, puff out your cheek for me."

Scully swished the razor in the kidney-shaped basin on the
nightstand, lifted the tubes once again from Mulder's cheek. She
reached in carefully, scraped the razor up his cheek, leaving a line
of skin in the shaving cream. She rinsed the razor, repeated this
until his cheek was clean of both foam and stubble. 

"You don't have to do this, Scully," Mulder said faintly, looking up
at her as she rinsed the razor again, cleaning out stubble with a
washcloth that was hanging over the rail of his bed. "Rosen isn't
going to care what I look like when he chews us out. If anything the
stubble might get me some sympathy." 

Scully smiled at that, more of a cringe. "I think you're going to do
fine in the sympathy department," she said.

"I look that bad still?" he protested, but his voice could still
barely manage. 

"No, you look fine," she lied, reaching in and tilting his chin up
slowly, running the razor up from his throat. "I just meant that you
being in the ICU and the chewing out being limited to as close to
visiting time as possible will probably save you from getting too
much." She smiled mischievously. "I just don't want to ever see you
with a beard again." 

"Hey..." he said in a wounded voice as she rinsed. "I thought you
liked the beard." 

She smiled. "I did. But that doesn't mean I want to see it again."
The smile waned. "Too many associations."

He nodded, met her eyes seriously, what they'd been through passing
between them once again in a fleeting few seconds. Then she tilted
his face and continued shaving him.

It took her a few more minutes, but then his pale face was smooth,
the layer of dark stubble gone. She wiped his face gently with the
clean side of the damp cloth, moving the gastric tube and the canula
as she worked off the last of the white. When she was finished, she
bent down and kissed him softly. 

"Thank you," he whispered while her face was still close. 

"You're welcome," she replied, and kissed him again. 

She stood back then, straightened her suit, lay the washcloth over
the basin and set the razor beside it. 

"You look good," he said, and she smoothed the front of the jacket
down. 

"I don't," she replied, looking down at the black suit, the skirt
hanging on her. "This suit is almost two sizes too big for me now.
But I figure it's better to meet Rosen like this than in my jeans and
one of your shirts. We need to appear to be taking this seriously.
Because it is serious." 

She watched his face darken as he looked at her, something fierce in
his exhausted eyes. 

"I won't let him separate us," he said, but the strength of his
words was tempered by the crack that formed in his voice, the last of
it coming out as a whisper. 

She smiled faintly to him, affection in her eyes. "I know," she
murmured, and reached down to take his hand, their fingers lacing.
"We'll do the best we can." 

He nodded again, gave her hand a squeeze. 

"You've got to be tired," she said, stepping back and releasing his
hand. "I'm going to leave and let you sleep some before Rosen gets
here. Skinner said they'd arrive at about 2:30 or so. You've got some
time to rest." 

"I'll try," he whispered, and they both knew he wouldn't. There was
too much on both their minds, too much at stake. 

"I'll be back," she said. It was what she said to him instead of
saying anything close to goodbye. She trailed her hand down his leg
as she went around the bed and left the room. 

Outside in the waiting room, her mother was waiting. She stood,
smiling warmly, as Scully went to her on a couch on the far side of
the room. Other families clustered around, though the place was more
empty since it was the visiting interval. Scully was glad for the
relative privacy. It helped her already-jangled nerves.

"Is Fox all right?" her mother asked. "You look worried."

"No, Mulder's fine," Scully replied, shaking her head. "I'm
just...nervous. About this meeting coming up."

Her mother nodded sympathetically and they sat -- close together,
almost touching, as they had been every time they were together since
Margaret Scully had arrived. 

"I know a lot is at stake right now," her mother continued. "I'm
sorry that after everything the two of you have been through you're
having to do this, too. But I'm sure it will work out just fine." 

Scully shook her head, looked down. "He has every reason to separate
us," she said, something angry in her voice. Angry at herself. "What
I did was...stupid. Calling Mulder like I did that night. Meeting him
like that while I was on assignment." 

"You were upset," Margaret Scully replied. "From what little you've
told me it sounded like you needed someone with you that night. I
don't think you should be punished for needing someone." 

"Mom," Scully said softly. "I was undercover. I could have
jeopardized the entire operation if someone had followed me and seen
me with Mulder. It was irresponsible. Rosen will blame me for calling
Mulder, but he'll blame Mulder for coming, and say it was our
relationship that clouded both our judgements." Her voice grew more
faint. "And he'll be right. In some respects, at least." 

Her mother was quiet on hearing this, and Scully let the silence
stretch, looking down at her hands. 

"You know, seeing you in that suit..." her mother said softly, and
she smiled. "It reminds me of that time when you were in high school
and your father and I had to go with you to see the principal.
Remember that?" 

Scully chuckled. "When I got caught for sneaking off campus?" she
asked, and she laughed again. "Now *that* was stupid. All that to
make sure I got tickets to the Billy Joel concert." 

"Which your father then didn't let you go to," her mother rejoined,
her voice mock-stern. 

"Of course," Scully said. She looked down at her suit. "And I
insisted on wearing one of your suits in to see Mr. Speldman. I
thought it would make me look more 'adult.'" 

Her mother nodded, smiled wider. "And what you really looked like
was a teenager wearing her mother's church clothes." 

They laughed together -- quietly, considering the space.

"I couldn't tell you that at the time, of course," Margaret Scully
said. "You were going to go in there and try to meet him as an equal,
suit for suit. And you did. You admitted you'd done wrong, but you
didn't exactly apologize for it, either. It had been something that
mattered to you, and what mattered to you was more important than the
rules." 

"I was still in the wrong," Scully replied. "The policy was very
clear." 

"Yes, you were still in the wrong. And you were willing to take the
punishment for it, including not being able to go to the concert. But
you weren't ashamed of doing something that was important to you."

Scully's smile faded a bit as she returned her gaze to her lap.
"This is a little bit different than that, Mom," she said softly. 

"It's different, yes," her mother said, reaching up to push a lock
of Scully's long hair behind her ear. "In some ways. In some ways
not. I was proud of you for how you handled that. You had a sense of
yourself that I admired." 

"You were proud of me then?" Scully repeated, incredulous. "You
could have fooled me." She looked into her mother's face now, the
other woman's eyes warm.

"Sometimes we can't tell our children things like that when they're
young," she replied, reaching out to lift a small piece of lint from
Scully's otherwise pristine suit. "But fortunately we get to do it
when they're older. And I am proud of you. I'm proud of what you've
done through all this." 

Her voice dropped, and she reached out to touch Scully's hair
softly. "Especially given what you've been through." 

Scully looked down again, nodded. It still struck her that she'd
told her mother about the rape. She was also struck how relieved she
was to have done it. 

Her mother cleared her throat. "And I'm proud of what you have with
Mulder," she continued. "I don't think you should apologize for any
of it."

With that, her mother stood, gathered up her purse. "I'm going to go
down and get some lunch. Why don't you come with me? I think it would
do you some good to get away from here for a little while, before all
this happens. And you need to eat." 

Scully nodded, still considering everything that her mother said.
She felt a flush at hearing her mother say the things she had. The
flush of a child who speaks to a parent and who finally feels, in
some respect, completely understood.

"All right," she said, stood, and followed her mother out of the
room. 


***********


2:43 p.m.



Mulder had done his best to doze since Scully had left, but as the
time when Skinner and Rosen would arrive drew closer, he'd found
himself getting even more keyed up and frustrated. The pain in his
belly and back throbbed through him, as well, since he'd refrained
from taking any more painkiller since Scully had left. He wanted to
be as alert as he could, and the drug doped him up, made him tired
and his thinking fuzzy. This was no time for that. 

He looked down at the small wand with the button on the end dangling
over the railing and sighed. He'd hoped it wouldn't hurt *this* much
to go without, and the strength of the pain surprised him. 

His breathing was more shallow now as he tried to keep his belly
from rising and falling as much as possible. He also lay very still,
staring up at the ceiling, to keep from aggravating the surgical
sites with movement. 

He hated being so helpless. He didn't want to appear this way to
Rosen when he came in. He wanted to appear as strong as he felt
inside about what he and Scully had done, what they'd been through. 

He wanted to be ready to fight if necessary. He hoped he was up for
it, because he might not get another chance. 

He closed his eyes, tried to let out a normal breath. His stomach
burned. 

"Mr. Mulder?" a voice said from the doorway. He opened his eyes and
saw Debbie, one of the day nurses, standing in the doorway, looking
at him with concern. 

"Yes?" he said, and the pain was in his voice. 

"Are you all right?" Debbie asked. "Your respiration and pulse are
up." 

He nodded. "I'm okay," he replied, holding up a placating hand.
"Thank you, though."

She looked unconvinced, but relented. "Let us know if you need
something, especially if the pain gets too bad," she said, and when
he nodded, she disappeared back toward the nurses' station. 

He closed his eyes again, tried to slow his breathing back down. On
top of everything he had to admit he was nervous. That wasn't helping
matters much. 

He and Scully had actually had very little contact with Rosen. He
was fairly new -- on the job since the previous summer, but Mulder
and Scully had gone on to Richmond in December, limiting their time
under his supervision. Mulder had, in fact, only met him once, a
meeting about the budget of their division, in which Rosen had been
formal and no-nonsense, but had allowed their expenditures based on
their solve rate. He'd struck Mulder as a reasonable man, but also a
man who followed the book to the letter. 

That latter part might be what would cause he and Scully the
problems, he thought, sighing. 

He turned his face toward the monitors, his eyes still closed,
listening to the cadence of his own heart for a long moment. 

"Mulder?" 

Scully's voice this time. He turned his face toward the door, opened
his eyes, and she was standing there, looking at him with concern.
Behind her, Skinner stood, clearly tense. 

And beside him, Deputy Director Jack Rosen, looking for all the
world like a Deputy Director in his graying hair, flawless suit and
bland tie. 

"I'm awake," he said, and cleared his throat to force his voice to
work, even though the action caused him pain. 

Scully nodded and led both the men in, Scully going to the side of
the bed furthest from the door as Rosen took up the foot, Skinner
staying near the door. 

The room was crowded with three people in it, he thought. No wonder
they had a "two-person" rule, which Skinner had gotten permission to
break in the interest of "official FBI business." Kellerman had
agreed reluctantly. 

"Agent Mulder," Rosen said, nodding down to him. "How are you
feeling?" He had a rich voice, his accent pure New York. Agents
called him "The Godfather" behind his back. 

"I'm all right, sir," Mulder replied, nodding back. 

"Agent Scully tells me you've been making steady improvement," he
replied, looking at Scully, then back at Mulder. "I'm relieved to
hear that."

"Thank you," Mulder said faintly. "I'm doing my best." 

Rosen shifted his weight, leaning on the foot of the bed, leaning
closer. He addressed both Mulder and Scully, pursed his lips. "Well,"
he said. "We have some talking to do, I think." 

Skinner shifted, as well. "Deputy Director Rosen and I have been
discussing the situation in the car on the way down from Winslow," he
said, intent on his shoes. 

"Yes, I've been fully briefed at this point," Rosen said. He spoke
slowly, quietly. As if to himself. "I know about how you, Agent
Mulder, came to the conclusion that it was the Irish Embassy that was
going to be bombed, how you extrapolated that. I know about what
happened in Mae Curran's apartment in Richmond." 

He paused a beat and looked at Scully, clear regret in his eyes, and
Mulder saw her look down, her cheeks pinking slightly, and was proud
of her when she looked back up and met Rosen's gaze. 

Then Rosen continued. "I know about your actions following that,
Agent Mulder. About what's happened here. And I, of course, know
about Robert Padden's involvement with all this, his apparent motives
and his actions." He shook his head. "To say there were extenuating
circumstances in this entire affair would be a gross understatement.
Don't you agree?" 

Mulder nearly cracked a smile, though Rosen didn't intend for the
statement to be light at all. 

"Yes, sir," Scully replied for them both. 

Rosen continued. "And to say that you both are owed apologies for
what you've been through with this would also be an understatement."
He looked down. "You'll both be compensated for the time you were
away, of course. I think, given the circumstances under which this
all occurred, you've both handled this, for the most part, in the
best manner you could. And you'll both have whatever time it takes
for you to recover from your ordeal, as well." 

"Thank you," Scully said softly, and Mulder nodded as Rosen looked
up at both of them. 

"There is one thing that I'd like to know from you both, however,"
he said, standing straight again. 

They waited. 

Here it comes, Mulder thought, and he could see the same thought
cross Scully's mind as her eyes came down again.

"How often can I expect to get reports of two of my agents violating
procedures and tenants of professional conduct while on an
investigation because they are involved in a personal relationship?" 

Mulder felt heat rising in his own face at the blatant mention of he
and Scully's relationship. It had been a secret for so long that
hearing it spoken aloud by the Deputy Director was jarring as hell.

Then he considered how to answer Rosen's question. He knew the
answer Rosen wanted to hear, but he also knew that given the same set
of circumstances, he would do the same thing again. 

Scully's momentary silence seemed to indicate she had come to the
same conclusion. 

"Sir," Scully began at last. "The situation I was involved in at
that time of the operation warranted my contacting Agent Mulder. He
was the Chief Profiler on the case, and Dr. Padden had made it
impossible for us to have contact. I was concerned about the status
of my cover and afraid for my life." 

"Agent Scully," Rosen said, crossing his arms. "I understand you had
some compelling reasons for your actions. But I hope you're not going
to stand here and try to convince me that your personal relationship
with Agent Mulder had nothing to do with your decision to call him." 

Scully met his eyes, and Mulder saw something flare in them. 

"Agent Mulder's expertise and our relationship as partners for seven
years prior to this incident was the basis for my call," she said
evenly. "Our personal relationship is a part of that partnership at
this juncture, admittedly. So no, sir, I'm not going to try to
convince you of that." 

"And you, Agent Mulder?" Rosen asked. "Are you going to tell me your
feelings for Agent Scully had nothing to do with your decision to go
to her that night?" 

"No, I'm not going to tell you that, sir," Mulder said, as
unapologetically as Scully. 

"Well, I have to tell you, Agents, that causes me some concern."
Rosen put his hands back on the footboard, tapped lightly with one
hand. "A great deal of concern, in fact. Agents who are willing to
put their feelings for one another ahead of things like proper
investigative and tactical procedures...they're not much use to the
Bureau." 

Mulder drew in a deep breath through the canula, spoke. "Agent
Scully was being put in a situation of tremendous and unnecessary
risk. She knew that. I did. Granger did. And so did Padden, as we
well know now." 

He stopped, took another breath. Pain throbbed as he inhaled, and he
had to close his eyes for a second. He felt Scully shift beside him,
noting the pain he was in. He opened his eyes, nodded to her, then
continued. 

"Given those circumstances, it was entirely appropriate for her to
do what she needed to do to protect herself." He looked at Rosen with
his tired eyes.

"That wasn't her decision to make, Agent Mulder," Rosen replied, but
he sounded more fatigued than angry. "Not according to regulations."
He looked at Scully, who was nodding. 

"Yes, sir," she said. "That is true. It was not my decision to make.
I did violate procedure by doing what I did, and I'm prepared for the
consequences of that violation." 

"Yes," Mulder added. "I am, as well." 

Rosen seemed to consider this. Mulder watched Skinner looking from
Rosen to them and back again. 

"You still haven't answered my initial question, Agents," Rosen
said. "How many times am I going to get a report like this?"

Mulder looked up at Scully, and she at him. 

"I would hope that the same sort of circumstances wouldn't arise
that would warrant such actions on either of our parts," Scully said
quietly. 

Rosen nodded. Mulder could tell Rosen was aware that neither he or
Scully had apologized for what they'd done, and that he didn't like
it. 

"But if they did?" Rosen pressed. 

"Then my guess is we would both do the same thing we did, sir,"
Mulder said, and his voice was hoarse now. "But short of those
circumstances...no. You would not receive that report." 

Rosen looked to Scully, who nodded. 

Rosen sighed, crossed his arms again, regarding them both. 

"Convince me that I shouldn't separate you, Agents," he said after a
moment. His voice was harder than it had been. 

"Our solve rate comes to mind," Mulder said instantly, unable to
keep the edge out his voice. 

"Yes, there is that," Rosen said, nodding. "But there's no saying
that you both wouldn't be equally as effective with other partners,
in different divisions." He paused. "I need a better reason than
that."

Again, Mulder and Scully were silent, considering. 

"I'll make it easy on you," Rosen said. "Give me *one* reason why I
shouldn't separate you. The one thing I can't refute."

Mulder felt his heart sinking at that. That didn't make it easy on
them. It made it impossibly hard. Scully looked down at him, and he
told her he had no answer with his eyes. 

Then something came over Scully's features. She raised her chin,
pulled in a breath, and looked at Rosen. Her eyes were flint.

"That," she said. "Despite everything that was put up against us,
everything that's happened to us, we're both still alive. And that is
*only* because we were together through it." 

Mulder thought about that in the silence that fell among them. As if
to prove Scully's point, the only sound in the room was that of his
own heartbeat on the monitor, an even sound, comforting to him in its
predictability. 

He glanced at Scully, loving her for the answer.

Rosen regarded Scully for a long moment, his arms still crossed.
Then, something softened in him, and he glanced at Mulder, then
turned and looked at Skinner. Skinner nodded. 

"All right, Agents," he said, uncrossed his arms. "We'll give it
another go. But I must warn you now. I want separate motel room
receipts while you're in the field. I want the personal out of the
office. I want things neat and clean and by the numbers from now on.
Am I clear on that?"

"Very, sir," Scully said. 

Mulder nodded, pulled in another deep breath, and this time the pain
hitched in him, a bolt going from his belly to his back. He couldn't
help it, but he cringed, stiffening as he held his breath, his eyes
closing.

"Mulder?" Scully said softly, concern in her voice. "You can have
another dose now. Go ahead and take it." 

Mulder opened his eyes, nodded. He fumbled for the small wand and
sunk his thumb on the button, the pump beeping. 

"I'm going to leave you alone, Agent Mulder," Rosen said. "Let you
get some rest. I'm going to be coming back this afternoon to get a
few gaps filled in from Assistant Director Skinner's accounts to me.
But that can wait." 

Mulder nodded, the familiar buzz starting in his head from the
painkiller. His eyes drooped, but the pain became a touch more
tolerable. 

"I'll answer anything I can," he said, almost too quietly to hear.
He felt sleep tugging on him, its irresistible pull. But his
breathing had picked up again with the pain. 

Debbie returned to the doorway, her concern etched more deeply in
her features. "You're all going to have to go," she said. "We're
getting concerned about his vitals." 

He was vaguely aware of Scully turning to the monitors. "Yes, he
needs to sleep," she said. She turned back to Rosen and Skinner. "If
you'll both step out with me now?" 

He smiled faintly, despite the pain. That was Doctor Scully talking.
He'd know that voice anywhere. And not even Rosen outranked *her*. 

The last thing he was aware of was the sound of footsteps, his eyes
already closing as a drugged sleep touched him and pulled him under.


**

Granger saw Rosen, Scully and Skinner outside the door to the ICU
waiting room. He'd stationed himself at a couch across from the
doorway so he could watch when they came out, so he could be
conspicuous should Rosen decide he needed to talk to him. 

He wanted to be of any use he could in all this, so he'd made sure
he'd gotten back from the motel in time for the meeting. 

He watched Rosen reach out, offer his hand to Scully, who shook it.
They were speaking, but he couldn't make out all the words. He did
hear the word "sorry" pass from Rosen to her. He wasn't sure what to
make of that. Rosen could be sorry about a lot of things, splitting
Mulder and Scully up one of them. He pursed his lips, trying to fill
in the gaps. 

Then Rosen turned toward the door and saw Granger sitting there. He
led the way into the waiting room, Scully going to the corner where
her mother was sitting, doing one of the crossword books Granger had
brought back from the Walgreen's. 

As she passed him, she snuck a glance at him, gave him a small
smile, and nodded. 

Granger let out a sigh. It had worked out all right. He felt a smile
curling his lips, which vanished as Rosen made his way over to him,
Skinner right behind. 

Granger stood, wiped his hands on his jeans. His palms had been
sweating. 

Rosen stopped in front of him, Skinner beside him. Both of their
faces were unreadable. 

"Mr. Granger," Rosen began. 

"Deputy Director Rosen," Granger replied, and Rosen reached his hand
to him, and Granger shook it once. 

"You've been enormously helpful in this whole business, Mr.
Granger," Rosen continued, nodding to him. "Were it not for your help
in this matter, I'm not sure things would have worked out as well as
they have." He glanced around the waiting room. "If you can call this
'well,'" he added. 

"I do call it 'well,' yes," Granger said, and chanced a smile. Rosen
gave him a rough approximation of one back. 

"I understand you've left the CIA," Rosen said, and Granger nodded. 

"Yes," he replied. "That's not the kind of work I want to do
anymore. I'm a bit disgusted by the whole thing, if you'll pardon my
saying so." 

Rosen nodded, pinned Granger with his gaze. "What kind of work is it
that you do want to do, Mr. Granger?" 

The question took him off guard, and he was silent for few seconds.
"I'm not sure what you mean," he said finally. 

"I mean, is it profiling you don't want to do, or being in law
enforcement in general, or being an agent? What would you like to
keep and what would you like to leave behind?"

Granger considered. "I've spent my life learning to profile. I'd
like to find some capacity -- somewhere -- to do that. I'd like to
stay in law enforcement in some way, as well. But being an
agent...that I will be leaving behind." 

Rosen nodded again. "I see," he said. "Well, why don't you come work
for me?" 

Granger gaped, looking from Skinner to Rosen and back. Skinner's had
a slight smile on his face. He nodded to Granger.

"In...what capacity?" Granger asked. 

Rosen put his hands behind his back, stood straight, regarding
Granger even more seriously. "Violent Crimes. As a civilian profiler.
I think I can make room on the staff for you, if you're interested.
You would advise the agents on various cases. Not a lot of field
work, but it would still be profiling. And you'd still be in law
enforcement."

Granger was quiet for a few seconds, and Rosen pressed forward. 

"It might be a slight pay cut from the CIA, but not much." He
paused, still regarding Granger with his business-like gaze. "What do
you say, Mr. Granger? You need a job. I need someone with the clear
investigative talents and dedication to the work that you've
demonstrated." 

Granger found himself smiling now. He nodded. 

"Yes, sir," he said at last. "That sounds like a wonderful
opportunity. I'd be very interested in that." 

Rosen nodded, looked at Skinner, who did the same. "Assistant
Director Skinner will see to the details. When can you start?"

Granger looked around the room, glancing at Scully and then back
into Rosen's face. 

"I was intending on using some of the time Agent Mulder is in the
hospital here to go do some sightseeing," he said, and looked down
shyly. "Grand Canyon, that sort of thing. I've never been to the
Southwest before and, well, I'd like to see more of it than I have."
He met Rosen's gaze again. "Then I thought I'd make myself available
to help get Agent Mulder back to Washington. I think Agent Scully
will probably need some help with that." 

"I see," Rosen said, his face coming up with that same stiff smile.
"See this thing through to the end, as it were." 

Granger nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "It feels like the right thing
to do."

"Well, that would be fine," Rosen replied, and he reached his hand
out again and Granger took it. "I'll expect to see you in the Hoover
Building in a few weeks then." Rosen shook his hand and let it go.

"Thank you, sir," Granger said. 

Rosen nodded, and with that, he headed for the door.

Skinner stood there, his face amused. 

"What's so funny?" Granger said, smiling back. 

Skinner looked to the side, back at him again. "I'm just really
looking forward to having someone else at the FBI who's willing to
break every rule in the book," he said wryly. 

Granger chuffed. "I only do that when it's clear that everything
going on around me is wrong," he replied. "Much like yourself, if you
don't mind me saying." He grinned. "Not to worry, sir. I'll be good." 

Skinner shook his head. "They should have never put you with
Mulder," he said, and reached out to shake Granger's hand. "God help
us all." 

Now Granger laughed aloud, and Skinner's smile widened. 

"I'll be in touch," Skinner said as their hands dropped, and they
said goodbye, Skinner going to where Rosen had paused beside the
door, waiting for him. The two men went out, leaving Granger, who was
still smiling, behind them.


***********


APRIL 23 
(ONE WEEK LATER) 
9:28 a.m.


"Trust." 

Albert Hosteen said the single word softly as Mulder put a hand up
over his bare stomach, as if by reflex, to grip the older man's wrist
and keep him from touching him. Hosteen reached with his other hand,
took Mulder's, easing his grip off and then laying Mulder's hand back
down beside him. 

Scully watched all this, feeling for Mulder, but amused at Mulder's
indoctrination into Hosteen's cryptic, gentle ways. She smiled to
him, reassuring him. 

Around them, morning sunlight pooled in the room, falling across the
bed in warm bars through the open blinds in the spacious, private
room. Scully closed her eyes as it warmed her where she sat in one
the chairs in the room, the recliner where'd she spent most of the
last three days since Mulder had been moved from the ICU. 

Scully's mother was still back at the motel, Granger there, as well,
just back from his week-long roadtrip around the state. If they were
true to form, she thought, both would be in shortly. 

Only Victor and Albert were here now, Victor sitting still in one of
the chairs and watching his grandfather work. 

She watched Mulder lean his head back down on the pillow. He
swallowed nervously and nodded for Hosteen to continue. 

Hosteen, dressed in a dark green shirt and his jeans, a wide red
ceremonial headband around his forehead, leaned back over Mulder, a
soft leather bag filled with things that clinked softly together as
he shifted it in one hand. He rolled it in his fingers. The other
hand he carefully lay on the bump of the dressing over Mulder's
stomach. 

He said something in Navajo, rolled the bag again, gently moved his
hand from side to side over Mulder's bandage. Mulder lay very still
as he did this, but his fists were balled at his sides. 

Scully watched, interested and warmed by Hosteen's intention with
the ceremony. She'd learned to be open to Hosteen's ways, and though
she didn't share his faith, she could see no harm in what he was
doing. 

And who knew, she thought, letting out a calm breath. It might even
do some good. 

She smiled as she opened herself to the possibility. 

A few more phrases in Navajo and Hosteen removed his hand, set the
bag down. Then he reached for a small box, no larger than a ring box,
that he had laying next to Mulder's thigh. He opened it carefully,
pressed his finger into it, darkening the tip of his finger with the
contents. 

Then he reached up to Mulder's pale forehead, smoothing Mulder's
hair away from his face. Once he had Mulder's skin completely
exposed, he drew a line down the center of Mulder's forehead with the
dark substance -- ash, she guessed by the way it flaked, sending dark
flecks onto Mulder's brow. 

Then he dipped his finger into the box again and crossed the line
horizontally. Scully was reminded of Ash Wednesday with the mark that
Hosteen had left, though the mark was much larger. 

Hosteen finished by laying his hand on Mulder's hairline, his eyes
closed, for a few seconds. Mulder's eyes drifted closed at the touch,
as well. 

Scully watched, and for some reason the sight made her eyes burn
with tears. She blinked them back. 

"There," Hosteen said, and removed his hand. He looked down at
Mulder and smiled, that same twinkle in his eyes. "You are cured." 

Mulder laughed stiffly. Scully smiled. 

"All right, you are not cured," Hosteen amended, snapping the box
closed and lifting the bag. He pressed both into this pockets. "But
it will help. I promise." 

"Thank you," Mulder said, and he clearly meant it. He'd only
recently regained his full voice, the full tenor, and Scully was
happy every time she heard the strength of it. Mulder was coming back
to himself slowly but surely. 

"You are very welcome, Agent Mulder," Hosteen said, reached up and
took off the headband, holding it in his hand. He looked at he and
Scully. "Time for us to go home now."

Scully nodded, stood, as did Victor. Victor touched the brim of his
baseball cap as he looked at Scully. 

"Take care, Agent Scully," he said, and Scully found his shyness
around her sweet. Victor wasn't used to being around women much, and
sometimes it really showed. 

"I will, Victor. Thank you for everything." 

"Any time," Victor said softly. "I'm glad you're doing so much
better." 

Scully angled her head, accepting what he said. 

Then Victor turned to Mulder on the bed. He gripped Mulder's hand
hard, tugging on it slightly. Mulder grinned at him. 

"When you coming back to learn how to break horses?" Victor asked.

Mulder chuckled again. "Yeah, right. As if I haven't had my ass
kicked enough lately." 

"Oh come on," Victor chided. "You'll be good at it. Chaco's all
right, you know. I'll keep her ready for you. You get your holes
healed up and come take a vacation with me. I'll show you what to
do." 

"All right," Mulder relented, and Victor let go of his hand,
satisfied. 

"All right," he repeated. "Be well, Mulder." 

"You, too, Victor," Mulder replied, and Victor drifted out of the
room into the hallway. 

It was Mulder who reached his hand toward Hosteen first, and Hosteen
took it, held it for a few seconds, shaking it slightly. 

"I owe you my life again," Mulder said, his voice quiet, somber. "We
both do. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you for what
you've done for us." 

Hosteen let go his hand. "No need to repay me, Agent Mulder," he
said. "You have done and continue to do what is right. That is all
the payment I need. I was glad to help you again. Someday perhaps you
will return the favor to me. Who knows what may happen. Just see to
Bo for me, all right? If he does not fall in love with your friend
Granger, who has him in his motel room now." Hosteen winked. 

Mulder nodded, smiled, as Scully always saw him do when Bo was
mentioned. It made her smile, as well. 

Man and his dog, indeed, she thought, shaking her head.

"I will see to him," Mulder replied. 

Hosteen looked at Scully, then at him. "And remember what I told you
about the geese, Agent Mulder. One goes down, and the other waits. Do
not worry yourself about the time on the ground. It is the cycle of
things. Especially when one is bound for life." 

Mulder nodded, glancing at Scully. "I'll remember," Mulder said
softly, smiling again. "Goodbye, Mr. Hosteen." 

"Goodbye," Albert said, and then he looked at Scully, nodded toward
the hallway. 

Perplexed by their exchange but understanding his intention now, she
followed him out. 

Victor was down at the end of the hallway at the elevators,
something unspoken having passed between them about Albert's need to
be alone with the agents. Scully looked at Victor, then up into
Hosteen's face. He was smiling. 

"I hope you will not find this to be a condescending thing for me to
say," Hosteen began. "But I am very pleased with all you have done. I
hope you are pleased, as well." 

He did not say "proud," but Scully knew that was what he meant. The
tears stung her again, and she had to look away, down at his booted
feet. 

"No," she said. "I don't find it condescending at all. I'm glad to
know that. And yes, I am pleased." Her voice grew faint at the last,
trailing off. 

"You should be," Hosteen replied, but she still could not meet his
gaze, though she could feel it. "What you have been through, what
you've done since...it is a very difficult thing to do. Shows a
strength that everyone around you can see now." 

Now she did look up, and the tears were there. "I..." She hesitated,
glanced down, then up again. "I couldn't have done this without you,"
she finished. "I don't know if you'll ever know how true that is. How
important what you've done for me has been." She wiped at her face
quickly, sniffed, looked down again. 

"You did most of it yourself," he said gently, reaching out to tip
her chin up, leaving a dot of ash on her pale skin. His eyes were
shining. "You just needed a guide. I was simply your guide. Nothing
more." 

"You underestimate yourself, Mr. Hosteen," she said. 

"You have done the same," he replied. "But I do not think you will
so much anymore." 

She smiled a small smile at that, though the tears were still
coming. "I hope you're right," she whispered. 

"We are not saying goodbye," he said, his chin coming up. "You and
Mulder will come see me. I have feelings about things like this. We
will see each other again."

"I've learned to trust your feelings," she replied. 

Albert smiled to her, and she smiled back, wiping her eyes again. 

"It is not considered proper for me to do so, but I know in your
culture it is a sign of friendship for two people to embrace on
leaving one another." His voice was very formal, but there was a
warmth beneath it. 

"It is," she agreed, nodding. 

He opened his arms to her then and she went into them, her head
barely reaching his shoulder. As his arms closed around her shoulder,
she let the tears come. 

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything you've done." 

"You are welcome," he replied, and then he let her go, turned and
started down the hallway toward Victor and the elevators. 

She watched him go, stood there in the hallway as he waited for the
elevator to come. Then he and Victor got in, and she met his eyes
until the doors closed and he was gone. 

She remained there for a long moment, nurses passing back and forth,
a patient with a walker moving slowly down the hall, a nurse beside
him with her hand on his arm. 

She gathered herself, pulled in a breath and let it out, her eyes
closing. 

Then she opened them, feeling good. Feeling whole. 

She turned and went back into the room, back toward Mulder and into
the warm morning light. 


********* 


SKY HARBOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 
PHOENIX, ARIZONA 
MAY 3 (TEN DAYS LATER) 
3:23 p.m.


"Come on, old man," Granger teased. 

"Hey," Mulder protested, though he was panting. "Easy with
the...'old man' stuff. I already feel...112..." 

Scully walked backward down the aisle of the plane, poised should
Mulder lose his balance or have his knees buckle on him. But then
Granger was behind him with his arms beneath Mulder's, his hands
barely reaching Mulder's shoulders but supporting him nonetheless. He
was basically holding Mulder up.

Mulder took one slow step after another. His hands gripped the
headrests of the plane's seats as they went through the first-class
section toward the first row of seats in Coach, the wider aisle at
the front of the section that faced the bulkhead. Scully had
requested the row of two on the left side of the plane, thinking it
would be easier for Mulder to turn and sit down there. His walking
was still unsteady at best and she didn't want him having to twist
too much. 

"You okay, Mulder?" she asked, watching his face flush. 

He nodded. "It's hurting a little," he admitted softly. 

She swallowed. It must be hurting a lot for him to admit to it at
all. 

He'd been stoic since they'd left the hospital that morning, the
four of them -- her mother still with her -- piling into an airport
van they'd called all the way from Phoenix to carry them and Bo to
Phoenix for the long trip back to Washington. The van had been almost
full between the people and all their things, including Bo's rather
large airline carrier that Granger had picked up for Scully at the
local WalMart in Show Low. 

She still remembered Bo shifting from side to side in the carrier as
the baggage handlers had come to get him, Mulder speaking softly to
him from his wheelchair beside the counter as the handlers took him
away. The dog's familiar whine as he disappeared from sight through
the doorway. 

"I'll give you another shot when we get settled in," she said to
Mulder now. "We're almost there. Just a few more steps." 

He nodded, started walking again, Granger half-carrying him down the
aisle. 

They reached the front seats and Granger let Mulder go, Margaret
Scully coming behind him with her and Scully's carry-ons, a flight
attendant coming from the other direction. 

"Is he okay?" the man asked. "Do you need anything?" 

"A blanket and a pillow would be nice, thank you," Scully said
quietly as Mulder eased himself into the seat nearest the window. He
reached up and loosened his tie a bit, looking uncomfortable in his
dark suit. 

It was Skinner who had suggested the suits for them both, and for
Granger. Skinner would be meeting them on the other end with a Bureau
van to take them to Scully's apartment, but there had been a leak to
the press -- most likely from the hospital or from someone at the
airline. The press was involved in their story now and how it
intersected with Padden's and Curran's. 

Skinner had said to expect television cameras at Dulles. 

The whole thing made Scully cringe. Mulder was still so weak. She
was glad to have Granger and her mother there to help run
interference. 

Her mother had kept sandwiches coming and crackers in her purse and
kept Scully's spirits up through the long waiting as Mulder slowly
gained back some strength. And Granger had been taking of care of Bo
for her since Hosteen had left Show Low. Things wouldn't have gone as
smoothly as they had so far without their help. 

Her mother handed her the carry-on bag, and Scully sat and began
looting through it, pulling out a small bottle of Demoral and a
syringe. Mulder still had an IV shunt in the back of his hand (pills
weren't yet a good option, given his stomach), and Scully began
drawing the medication as the attendant came back with a blanket and
a pillow. He set them on the floor.

"Let me know if you need anything else," the man said. "We're just
about to start general boarding."

"Thank you," Scully said again. "I appreciate you letting us get on
first." 

"No problem," and then he drifted back up the aisle.

Granger and her mother took the window and the aisle across from
them, buckling themselves in. Scully tapped the syringe, cleared the
air from it, then braced Mulder's arm with hers, careful not shake
him with her trembling, as she injected the drug into his hand. 

"Thank you," he said, and she stood in front of him, fumbling around
his hips for the seat belts, clicking them in place over his hips.
Then she settled back down in her seat and buckled herself in. 

People began bumping their way down the aisle, a line of normal
faces -- older couples; women with children, men behind them carrying
car seats; younger people with headphones already in place and t-
shirts that spouted designers' names and slogans; businessmen talking
on cell phones before the doors closed behind them. 

It was so normal that Scully found it surreal. She and Mulder could
be anywhere, going home to Washington from any case. She shook her
head, struck by how much of her life she'd been away from, and for
how long. 

So much time gone by -- more than five months since she and Mulder
had gone to Richmond, and so much change since then. So much pain,
first, and then so much more than that. The ease that comes at the
healing from intense pain. The simple joy of that.

It choked her to think about it. 

She turned and saw her mother leaning forward, looking at her
through the line of people. 

"You okay?" her mother said softly, and Scully nodded, forced a
smile. Her mother nodded and leaned back. 

Soon the heavy pull of take-off, the buckskin desert and mountains
out the window. 

Beside her, Mulder slept, tucked beneath the flimsy blue blanket
emblazoned with United Airlines' logo. He'd forsaken the pillow and
had his face turned toward her but not quite touching her, his hand
lightly clasping hers, even in his sleep. 

She watched the window, watched the sky turn from cerulean blue to
dark blue to navy, and finally into darkness as the plane left the
sun behind it. 

Three hours into the flight, Mulder still asleep, she gave him
another shot, being careful not wake him, so they would not arrive in
Washington with him in pain.

Then she sat back, felt herself ease as the plane nosed further
east, and after a few minutes, she finally slept herself. 

*

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the 'fasten seat
belt' sign in preparation for our descent into the Washington D.C.
Metropolitan Area..." 

Scully pulled herself awake, took in her surroundings with some
surprise, then she relaxed, pulling her suit jacket back into place,
uncramped her neck. Looking to her right, she saw her mother
engrossed in a book, the light over her seat illuminating the
paperback in her hands. Granger was asleep, his glasses slightly
askew. 

She turned her face toward Mulder, who was still dozing next to her,
almost touching her shoulder now, his face supremely peaceful in his
sleep. 

She let go of his hand, leaned forward as far as the seat belt would
allow and looked out the window. 

Below her, the headlights of the beltway, the cluster of brightness
that was D.C., far off in the distance. 

The city where her life was waiting. Her and Mulder's life. 

She smiled as she saw the lights draw closer, leaned back to her
seat and inched her face toward Mulder's, touching her lips to his
cheek, which didn't stir him. Then she moved over to his mouth and
pressed her lips to his, staying there until she felt him draw in a
breath, though his eyes did not open.

Instead of speaking, he leaned down and kissed her again, lingering.
His hand tightened around hers. 

She reached up, touched the side of his face, stroking his smooth
cheek. 

"Mulder, wake up," she whispered, and he opened his eyes. They were
shining in the cabin's dim light. She nodded toward the window and he
turned to look out it, then back to her face. 

"We're home, Mulder," she said softly, gave his hand a squeeze. He
smiled. 

Then she leaned back up in the darkness, her hand still on the side
of his face. 

The plane banked north, the city of light stretching out beneath
them. 

Smiling, she kissed him again. 


**********


END OF CHAPTER 24. CONTINUED IN EPILOGUE (CHAPTER 25).

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is the Epilogue (Chapter 25).

**********


GEORGETOWN 
WASHINGTON D.C. 
DECEMBER 24 
CHRISTMAS EVE 
(SEVEN MONTHS LATER) 
8:35 p.m.


Scully opened the door to her apartment, Bo's nose going through the
door first, his black muzzle pushing the door all the way open as he
pressed his body into the living room. Scully was right behind him,
already tucking the mail beneath her arm as she reached down to
unclip the dog's green-and-red striped leash from the matching collar.

Scully smiled as she looked at the collar and leash -- both of which
had appeared during the time they'd left Bo with Granger while they
went to Pennsylvania on a case. Granger was such a wonderful sap, she
thought. Only he would think about getting his "foster dog," as he
called Bo, a Christmas leash and collar. 

She'd found the whole thing corny but decidedly sweet. Granger
really did like keeping Bo. He said a part-time dog was the best kind
of dog to have, and with the amount of time she and Mulder spent in
the field, she was glad for the sentiment on his part. He made
keeping the dog possible.

"Did he eat already?" she asked as she entered the apartment, Mulder
right behind her. 

"Yeah, Granger fed him before we got there for dinner," he replied,
already loosening the rich maroon tie he wore with his black suit.
"He's been out already, too, he said." 

She handed the leash back to Mulder, and he gathered it into his
hand and set it on the armoire by the door as Bo trotted into the
living room as if he owned the place. 

He basically did, she thought, watching the sleek dog go for the
floor in front of the couch where he'd left his Booda Bone, his
winter coat thick and making his well- muscled body look soft and
shiny. 

Bo whined as he found the big yellow bone and settled down in front
of the coffee table with it gripped between his paws, gnawing
instantly as if he'd been thinking about the thing the three days
he'd been gone from the apartment. 

Mulder closed the door behind them, turned the lock and went
immediately to the tree in the corner of the living room, plugging it
in. The tree lit up with its dots of white light, the ornaments
gleaming and the packages beneath the tree bathing in the soft
shadows of its needles.

Scully smiled as she saw it, going to the tall table that reached
the couch's back, setting the stack of mail down with her keys and
stretching, smoothing the back of her black dress down. 

"So you like Robin then," Mulder said, loosening his maroon tie and
stripping out of his dark suit jacket. 

Scully nodded. "Yes, she seems very nice, and she seems to make
Granger happy. He dotes over her." Her smile widened. "It's very
funny to watch." 

Mulder came up to her then, curled his arms around her waist and
tugged her against him. "And I don't dote over you?" he asked, his
voice teasing but deep. 

"Not like that, thank God," Scully said, her arms going around his
neck. They kissed softly once. Twice. She felt his hands going up to
her shoulder blades, then down again to the small of her back. The
beginnings of an urgency she knew so well from him, one that she
loved. 

"It feels good to be able to touch you," he said against her cheek. 

"It's only been three days, Mulder," she said, but the words pleased
her. 

"Three *long* days in the field..." he replied, and his hands
cradled her hips, pulling her closer against him. 

"The case was your idea," she replied, nuzzling him. "It wasn't mine
to go out three days before Christmas chasing--"

"Don't say it."

"--a lonely 50-year old man in a Yeti outfit scaring children and
cows." She couldn't help herself, and the laugh bubbled out of her.
He leaned back and rolled his eyes. 

"Now how was I supposed to know that?" he asked, pressed his
forehead to hers. "The pictures looked very authentic and you know
it." 

She laughed again. "If I'd looked more carefully I would have seen
the zipper," she murmured, and kissed him again. He tried to deepen
it, his hands tightening on her hips, but she pulled back slightly,
her fingers in the fringe of his short-cropped hair above his stiff
white collar. 

"You promised me we could open gifts tonight," she said softly. 

"We can..." he replied, his voice thick. "Later." 

She shook her head and stepped back now, straightening her dress for
effect. 

"I've just had a wonderful dinner with Granger and Robin and I'm
pleasantly stuffed with chicken curry and good wine. It's Christmas
Eve and we have until noon tomorrow before we have to be at my
mother's." Her eyes twinkled with a childlike pleasure. "And I've
been shaking that box you have for me under the tree for two weeks
now when you weren't looking and I'm ready to know what's in it." 

He smiled, put his hands in his pockets. "All right, all right," he
relented. "Can we at least change first? I want out of this suit." 

"Agreed," she said, and gave him another smile, and they headed for
the bedroom.

The drawers on the right side of the dresser were his now, and
Scully watched him rummage through them for his sweatpants and a t-
shirt. Most of his clothes were here, in fact, his apartment nearly
abandoned since their return from Arizona. He spent maybe two nights
a week there, just enough to give them each a taste of their previous
solitude and make them appreciate both the time alone and the times
when they were together more. 

She pulled off her shoes and black hose, watching the smooth plane
of his back as he undressed, the scar on it a small distraction from
the lovely play of muscle as he pulled the t-shirt over his head,
stepped into the sweats, drawing them up over his navy boxers. 

She went for her side of the dresser now, pulled out a pair of white
silk pajamas, began to unbutton her dress. 

"You want tea?" he asked, and she nodded. "I'll go put on the
kettle." And he moved out of the room. 

She undressed languidly, dressed just the same. She heard Mulder
turn the radio on in the living room, instrumental Christmas carols
lilting back to her. She smiled and rejoined him just as the kettle
began to whistle.

He was in the kitchen, Bo leaned up against his legs, the bone in
the dog's mouth. Mulder was petting him absently as he poured boiling
water into the teapot. She gathered the cups and took them to the
living room, and he brought the tea, not far behind her. He sat on
the couch, laying the pot on the coffee table next to the cups. 

Bo sprawled out beside the couch closest to Mulder, letting out a
slow breath as though he were deflating, and she began looting under
the tree, pulling out boxes, looking for the one she'd been so
interested in. It was a smallish rectangular one that was quite
heavy. 

"Just one tonight, remember?" he chided. "That was the deal."

"I've got it," she replied. "Which one do you want?" 

He pointed to a gold-foil wrapped package close to the base of the
tree. "That one. The one with the green bow that's kind of small that
it looks like you've been trying to hide." 

She balked as she reached for it. It was the gift she had the most
apprehension about, the one she'd thought long and hard about giving
him at all. 

"You sure you want that one?" she tried. 

"I do," he said, mock-stern. "You got to pick yours and that's mine." 

"All right," she said, and picked up the package, replacing the
boxes before she returned to the couch, sitting beside him. 

"You first," he said, smiling to her. She smiled back, looking down
at the box in his hands. She was nervous looking at it. 

"You okay?" he asked, touching her chin to make her look into his
face. 

"Yes," she said, and gave him a smile with a little less anxiety
behind it. She did her best to shake the feeling off. "Okay, I'll go
first." 

She picked up the heavy box, started on the paper carefully. 

"Are we saving paper?" he asked after a long few seconds. 

"I hadn't planned to," she said, intent on pulling the paper apart
at the joined seams. 

"Then RIP IT OPEN," he said, and she laughed with him. 

"Okay," she said, and did as she was told. 

A plain white box, heavy cardboard, giving nothing away. She worked
the top open, peered inside. 

A globe of glass in the dim light of the lamp behind her. She
reached for it, cradled it in her palm as she turned the box upside-
down and let the globe slip into her hand. 

She held it up to the light. Her eyes stung, but she was smiling. 

A snowglobe. This one glass with a heavy metal base. Inside it, a
carved castle with spires topped with tiny ribbons, the windows
looking like stained glass. 

"Oh, Mulder," she said softly. 

"Here," he said, reaching over. "It does this, too." She let him
take it from her and watched as he turned it over in his hand,
winding a butterfly winder in the base. He returned it upright, snow
falling inside it, as he handed it back to her.

Pachebel's Canon in D started to play, and as the music started, the
windows in the castle lit up, the whole globe glowing with red and
blue and golden light. 

"It's so beautiful," she whispered. 

He smiled to her. "I thought..." He hesitated, continued. "I thought
you might like a new one." 

She looked at him, and the tears did rim her eyes now, remembering
that day in Arizona at the motel. That terrible day. 

Then she looked at the beautiful thing in her hand now, at his
smile, his hand coming out to push her hair behind her ear. 

"I didn't mean to make you cry," he said, and she shook her head,
leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, cradling the side of his
head in her hand, her thumb stroking his ear. 

"It's okay," she said, still close to his face, and he nuzzled at
her, nodded. She leaned back, looked down at the snowglobe again.
"Thank you so much for this." 

"You're welcome," he murmured. She set the snowglobe down on the
table gently, folded her hands in her lap as she regarded him with
his box. 

"My turn?" he asked, and she could see he was watching her face,
confused by her reaction to the gift he held. His voice sounded a
little uncertain. 

She swallowed. "Yes," she said, nodded.

"Scully," he said gently. "You know I'll like anything you give me
because it's from you."

She nodded. "I know. Go ahead and open it." 

He gave her one last quizzical look, then pulled the bow off,
reaching down and sticking it on Bo's head to get her to smile. The
dog didn't stir, but she did smile. Then he started in on the paper.

In a few seconds he had the thing out, and was holding it up into
the light to get a good look at it. 

"My God, Scully," he murmured. 

She looked at the gift. A shadowbox picture frame, gold at the
edges. And inside it, professionally mounted against the backing -- 

A pressed pink sweetheart rose. 

"It's..." She saw him swallow and keep himself from continuing. 

"It's Emily's rose," she finished for him, and his face shot toward
hers. She nodded at his stunned expression. 

"Yes," she whispered. "I do believe that now." 

Emotion crossed his face -- surprise, then a touch of sadness at the
memory of that time, then a tiny smile. 

"I got it from my mother a few weeks ago," she continued. "I wanted
you to have it. I thought it was right that you should have it." 

"But...but why me, Scully?" he asked, looking from the rose to her.
"Why give this to me? My God. It's what you have left of her." 

She took in a breath, let it out, unable to meet his eyes as she
spoke. "The one thing you have always wanted from me, since we first
met, has been my belief," she said quietly. "And I haven't been able
to give that to you for most of the time we've been together." 

She paused, and now she did look up at him. His eyes were filling
with tears.

"And now...with everything we've been through...with so many things
I can't explain and with the trust that I have in you, the love I
have for you...I offer you that belief. As much as I'm able to give
it." 

She watched a tear come down his cheek, catching in the light as he
looked at her. 

"It is what I have left of her," she whispered. "And I want to share
that with you. I want her to be, like everything else in our lives
now, ours." 

She was in his arms then, his grip almost too tight as emotion swept
over him. She was crying, as well, but pressed her lips to the side
of his throat, feeling his breathing hitch. 

"God, I love you," he whispered. 

"I love you, too," she replied in the same voice. 

"No one's ever given me anything like this," he said, the tears in
his voice. "Not in my life..."

She smiled, the tears still coming. "You're welcome, Mulder," she
murmured, and turned, tasting salt on his lips as she kissed him
again. 

This time the kiss did deepen, his hand cradling her face, their
faces angling. Her hands trailed down his chest, her palms pressed
flat against him. 

"Let me make love to you now," he murmured, breathless, as they
separated, coming up for air. "Please..."

She nodded. "Yes," she replied, wiping at his cheeks, and he kissed
her again, set the frame carefully down and stood. 

"Give me a minute," he said, and he touched the side of her face. "I
want...just give me a minute." 

"Okay," she replied, gave him a smile as she turned her face and
kissed his hand. "I'll wait." 

With that he withdrew, going down the hallway toward the bedroom. Bo
rose and fell in behind him, the bow still on his head. They both
threw shadows from the bedroom light as they went.

She closed her eyes, blood singing in her veins, giving her a warm
flush. She could feel it already. The cool of night air against her
bare skin. His warm mouth on her body. The press of his weight as he
wrapped himself around her, over her. The opening of her body to him,
the feel of the soft skin of his hips against the insides of her
thighs. 

The feeling of fullness, and the heat, and the sweat. 

All of it as natural to them as air and breath. 

She opened her eyes, gazed down at her hands as she smiled with it,
her body quickening. Readying. 

Both her hands were calm and still, her palms open in her lap,
holding shadows and light. 

The smell of scented candles came from the bedroom, the light going
off in the doorway, replaced by the flickering of tiny flames. 

She rose then, went to the kitchen and switched off the light,
washing the room with darkness. Then she moved to the table behind
the couch, reached beneath the gold glass shade to turn the lamp off,
as well.

Then something caught her eye, there in the pile of mail. A splash
of something pink against a background of white. 

She reached down and drew it out from the pile, looked at it for a
moment, puzzled. 

A footprint. Pink. A baby's footprint pressed to the back of a plain
white postcard. She turned it over, saw her name and address printed
neatly on the front, the postmark a General Delivery. Somewhere in
Australia. 

She turned the postcard over again, looked at the footprint. Beneath
it, in tiny neat lettering, two words. 

Katherine Ann.

The smile that broke over her face was wide and open and delighted.
She traced the footprint with her finger -- the tiny lines. The
wrinkles of it. The dots of toes and the curve of a tiny heel. She
touched the postcard to her chest. 

"Scully?" Mulder called from the doorway to the bedroom, and she
turned toward him, saw him backlit by the light of a dozen candles,
the light playing over the bare skin of his back. 

"I'm coming," she murmured, and he nodded, returned to the bedroom. 

She slipped the postcard back in with the mail, hiding it in the
flyers and bills. 

Then she reached for the lamp and flicked it off, the Christmas tree
the only light in the room now as she went to the bedroom, faint
music filling the room, and the lights on the tree small and warm and
bright as starlight. 


*********

END






AUTHOR'S NOTES: 


Hey everyone. You still with me? Long trip, eh? :o) 

Many thank yous to say. Many many. And I'm going to forget someone,
and let me apologize in advance for that. I try to keep notes on the
people who help me along the way but sometimes I lose the notes! :O}
An overall thank you first then -- if you wrote me an email giving me
ideas, helping me with research, correcting me on something I was
doing not-quite-right (that I actually listened to!).....my thanks to
you! 

THANKS TO: 

The readers: The emails of encouragement, the stalking, the
occasional analysis, the general cheerleading...it feeds a WIP
writer's heart and soul. It's great to know you're not writing into a
void, and many of you have made me feel like this mattered to you on
some level, and I appreciate that so much. 

Thanks especially to Amy at the Haven and the Haven Stalkers for all
the support. Thanks to Missy J, csw, Linda, deb, Jen (the Screamer!)
and everyone else who wrote me regularly. I've loved hearing from
you. 

The "Readers:" These are people who were not official betas to the
story, but who read for me, giving me general reactions and
occasional suggestions. Sue, Nlynn, Jean, Arwen, and Beth. 

The Community: A great great big thank you to Scullyfic for the
support and the research help, on everything from what Spam looks and
tastes like (too many to name!), to the Irish neighborhoods in NY
(Mara and Lil Barb and others) to rock bands of the early 80s (Jill
and many many others). And everything in between. What a great place
to be. To Gwinne for her fondness for Pottery Barn furniture and her
friendship. 

* Special thanks to Cindy for the medical advice. It's always good
to have a paramedic in your corner. Everyone should go out and get
one. ;o)

* To Kris at the Imaginarium for the wonderful website.

* To Sue and Nlynn for the great collages to augment the story. 

And finally, the Betas: I know everyone says this, but I have the
greatest beta team on the planet (okay, so I'm a little biased on
that...):

To Shari: for everything from kicks in the rear to PR work, and for
keeping my website spiffy and up-to-date. For formatting and for
careful "eagle-eye" editing on the text itself and on
characterization. Nobody catches better. For her friendship and
concern through this experience. I feel privileged to have become her
friend through all this. 

To Sheri: for the best fiction-writing lessons in the world and for
being hard on me once again so that I didn't take the easy way out of
what I was doing and so that I kept learning. For her friendship and
advice and cheerleading and support (like taking me fishing on the
Chesapeake Bay when I'd spent three days on a scene and couldn't get
it right. Caught some croaker and fixed the scene!) The best friend a
writer -- and a person -- could hope to have. 

To Dani: my comrade-in-arms, who rolls up her sleeves and gets dirty
with me in this, helping me keep up with the plot (not an easy task!)
and telling me what a reader wants and how to make it fit with what I
want. For her loyalty and her companionship through long days of
writing. For her friendship, which means the world to me. 

Writing can be a solitary and sometimes lonely activity, and they
have made sure that, for me, it has not been. 


This story is dedicated to Shari, whose strength gives me strength,
whose faith gives me faith. I would not have started writing
fanfiction were it not for her, and it has given me more than I can
say, including some of the best friends of my life. I owe her a great
debt, and I hope this story is a small repayment of that debt. 


My next book will be called "The WIP Diet," and will deal with how
to work off the weight from 14 months of eating a pan of brownies a
week. (Kidding! Where would I have been without my brownies? If
you're blocked, you should try it.) 

(Thanks, incidently, to my official corporate sponsors, Duncan Hines
and Twinings Tea. ;o))

Seriously though, my next story (which will probably be a novel,
knowing me) will continue this story and is tentatively called "The
Road Not Travelled." I hope to begin it over Winter Break in
December. 

I'm staying in the Goshen Universe, folks. So you AU fans....here
you have it. :o)


Thanks so much for reading, everyone. It's been a great experience
for me.


Bone 
Bonetree@aol.com