DOMINATION PART TWO BY C SLATTON

Disclaimers in Part 1

At the edge of the park parking lot a purposely rustic sign read:
SAINT MARY'S WILDERNESS
GEORGE WASHINGTON NATIONAL FOREST.
Beyond, little orange flags staked out the Mine Bank Trail winding
through the great expanse of trees and snow.
Scully was grateful she'd opted for comfortable shoes. Mulder, park map
in hand, simply stepped out of the car and started for the path like a man with
a long way to go and a short time to get there. A ranger on duty stepped from
his little booth at the far end of the parking area.
"Sir, I'm sorry but all guests are required to sign--"
Mulder flashed his badge and kept walking. Scully, double stepping
behind him did the same. Bill reached for his wallet, then stopped and shrugged
sheepishly.
"I'm with them," he explained.
After two miles of hiking, Bill had to concede that Special Agent Mulder
was obviously in much better shape than he was. Sure, the trek had been a fairly
steady descent and the little creek they were following was pleasant enough but
since leaving the parking lot, Mulder hadn't slacked his pace in the least and
showed no sign of doing so. And he hadn't spoken a word. Bill heard his sister
panting behind him and was ready to call for a rest stop when Mulder broke into
a run.
Bill looked back at Dana and her look told him that at least one of them
had to keep up with this madman. Bill took off after him.
Scully caught up with them in a clearing. Somewhere up the trail, the
frantic whispering of a waterfall echoed through the trees. Beside them through
the brush, a cry cut through the quiet. It was very like a scream, but too
grating and hollow to be human. Metallic and raspy, still it sounded like
someone--no, there were several--crying out in unison. Crying out for help with
no hint of hope. She shuddered, even as she gasped for air, watching Bill watch
Mulder silently.
Fox stepped off the trail, quietly, deliberately and Bill followed
several feet to his right.
Mulder waved him back. "No, Bill, that's path in, get behind me,
you'll be less likely to destroy evidence."
Bill complied with a glance back at his sister who followed hard behind
them.
The underbrush was thick here, even in the winter; dead limbs and barren
bushes pulled at clothing and skin alike. But after several yards, Mulder had
stopped again. Bill peered round his shoulder a moment then turned to Dana. His
face was pale and he pushed past her back to the clearing, ignoring her
questions.
She approached her partner and fell against him, tripping on the
undergrowth. Mulder caught her on instinct, his eyes never leaving the sight in
the clearing beyond.
It wasn't really much of a clearing: just big enough to showcase a giant
hemlock wrapped in snow and it's pale little guest below.
"Mulder," she said quietly. "How did you know she was here. I mean
exactly."
"The cry of the peacocks."
And there, stepping cautiously in the underbrush was a peacock with his
hen. The peafowl regarded them in all its regalia, then his long bright
feathers folded with a raspy whisper. Mulder watched the birds retreat into the
forest: a fluttering of feathered eyes, blue-green and silver set in a field of
deep iridescent blue. There was another screech and Scully shuddered again. How
could such a beautiful creature possess such a terrifying voice? A voice of
multi-throated fear?
Next to her, Mulder was speaking, his own voice terrifying in its
stillness, his eyes still locked on the little form before them.
"Out of the window,
I saw how the planets gathered
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks.
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks."
Scully stood quite still in the midst of eerie calm. High above, a
thousand trees whispered, voices of angels conferring on the secrets of God. And
here she stood, in the middle of nowhere with a man quoting poetry over a
decomposing body.
She studied Mulder's profile, asked quietly, "You heard poetry in your
dreams?"
He shook his head like a man in a trance. "Wallace Stephens."
, Scully told herself. She tugged Mulder's arm and tugged it harder when there was no
reaction. "Let's get a team out here, Mulder. We need to do this right."
He nodded and allowed himself to be pulled away and led back to the car.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bill'd had enough. Five hours after the arrival of the Ident Team, no
one seemed in any kind of hurry to leave. He was hungry, he was tired and God
knew, he was cold. If this was the kind of thing his sister did all day, she
could have it. He'd been alternately run over by, run off by or generally
ignored by more badge carrying individuals than he'd ever seen on or off a
military base: FBI, sheriff's department, coroner's office, the parks service
and--of all things, the Fish and Game Commission. He'd never heard so much about
the process of decay, seen so many photos of body parts or smelled so bad in all
his life.
He'd always heard there was a sickening sweet smell about a decaying
human body. There was nothing sweet about this; this was acrid and hateful,
something that had no business in the world. At least not his world. It had
woven itself into his clothing, soaked into his hair, permeated his nose, clung
to him since that first horrified glimpse over Mulder's shoulder. Every deep
breath made him want to gag.
Where was Mulder anyway? He hadn't seen him for well over half an hour by
now. He made his way back up the trail to the parking lot, found Dana deep in
discussion with her boss--what was his name... Skinner. Yeah, that was it.
Skinner was standing listening, his arms crossed, staring impassively at the
rental car Dana, Bill and Mulder had arrived in. Bill blew into his hands to
warm them and followed Skinner's gaze: Mulder was sitting in the car, passenger
side, seat reclined. One arm slung over his eyes. The car didn't look like a
half-bad place to be to Bill either. At least he could turn on the heater and
warm up a few minutes.
Mulder didn't even glance over when Bill opened the driver's door and
slipped inside. The keys were in the ignition; Bill helped himself to the
heater. After a few minutes of thawing, he reclined the seat and tried to relax.
Presently he was sitting up again, gagging.
"The heater only makes the smell worse, Bill," Mulder said, his arm still
shielding his face.
"This is awful," Bill gasped, reaching for the switch and cracking the
window. "How do you get rid of it?"
"A good shower helps. Lemon shampoo will get the smell out of your hair.
Once it's in your sinuses, though," Mulder shook his head, rubbing his face
tiredly, "you just have to wait it out."
The two men sat in silence a few moments, struggling quietly with their
own thoughts.
"I couldn't do this, Mulder. I mean, what kind of cold-hearted son of a
bitch could tolerate this--" he stopped.
Mulder was quiet, half smiling, still reclined, his eyes still closed.
When he answered his voice was soft. Even in the quiet of the car, Bill had to
concentrate to hear him. "Go back into the woods, Bill. Go look at her again.
She's somebody's kid. Go look into those milky eyes and tell her that she isn't
worth your time. That the justice due her is not worth the threat to your
sanity. Look into those eyes and see your own kid. Then say the words. The man
that can do that, Mr. Scully: That's definition of a cold-hearted son of a
bitch."
Bill regarded Mulder in the quiet. There had been no animosity in the
voice, no anger, no detectable emotion at all and yet more passion than Bill had
felt about anything in his own life in years. Except maybe the birth of his son.
Bill looked over at Skinner and Dana. They were looking at photographs.
He watched his sister's face: nothing but quiet, academic interest, impartial
detachment. Her medical training stood her well.
"Dana says you started out in Violent Crimes right out of the FBI
Academy. Stayed with it for years. I can understand now why you went to the X-
Files. I'd have to get out of it, too. I mean, looking at this kind of thing
day in and day out... it has to destroy a man's faith in humanity."
Again that sleepy half smile. "Actually, I have a great deal of faith in
humanity, Bill. Given the opportunity to screw someone over, stab someone in
the back or cut them open and cannibalize their liver, someone'll do it. I have
complete faith in that."
Several more vehicles arrived; the funeral home had finally shown up
followed by--Bill shook his head--a catering truck.
"Do you ever have nightmares about this stuff, Mulder?"
That prompted a soft laugh. "Yeah."
"So why do you keep doing it?"
There was a pause. "Because I can."
Bill considered that a moment. "Dana says it's like a calling," he said.
Do you feel that? Like you've been called?"
Behind his closed lids, Mulder saw his sister that last night, long dark
braids hanging down, her nightgown glowing in the eerie light. Heard her voice
calling for him. "Fox! Help me, Fox!"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "You could say I've been called."
Dana was waving to them, pointing at the catering truck. Bill grimaced.
"You hungry, Mulder? You didn't have anything but coffee this morning, did you?"
"Are you hungry, Bill?"
"No."
"Go get you a 7-Up. It'll probably settle your stomach."
"Yeah? Can I pour it on my hair and get rid of the smell?"
"Whatever. Just don't try to snort it. It doesn't clear the sinuses."
It was hard to tell if Mulder was kidding and he looked so genuinely
tired Bill decided he should probably just let the man sleep. He'd always liked
7-Up, anyway.
With Bill out of the car, the world was again wondrously still. Mulder
chanced a brief peek from under his forearm: it was snowing again. Through the
frosted glass of the windshield, it was surreal and beautiful. Like a dream.
No. He wouldn't think about that just now. He grunted to himself softly. What
was it he had told Bruner? It was crap.
But it was true. Sometimes he thought that maybe if he didn't think so much he'd
be happier. Maybe if he could just shut it all off for a short while, it would
do him good.
The snow whirled outside and his mind, as always in overdrive, whirled
with it, even as he told himself he was not really thinking at all, that he was
calm and relaxed. Even as he told himself all these lies his cerebellum shifted
gears, not down but up, and suddenly his mind was wandering far from Augusta
County, Virginia, wandering in counties of the soul, territories of ruins.
He heard as with physical ears Samantha's baby squeal of terror at her
first real encounter with snow. <"Fox! The sky! It's falling in on us!> He heard
his own older, wiser-at-six-years-of-age laugh. Felt it in his throat. Felt her
chin in his hands, her tears drying on his fingers, felt the weight of her on
his knee, saw her glittering, attentive eyes as he told her the story of Chicken
Little. Saw her smile, felt her quick hug--in the car he gasped, his chest
suddenly too tight--then she was gone. Off to play in the dazzling new land of
snow. "Oh Sam," his voice echoed in the empty Ford, "I miss you." Then the car
was silent again. It was his mind that was screaming.
Years of fear and wonder and hope. And here he sat
at the other side of six years' fruitless work. No EBE's. No Little Green Men.
No Sam. No hope for Sam.
And no more wonder.
It frightened him, this new state of being he'd found outside his warm
cocoon of extreme possibilities. So this was "normal." He couldn't say too much
for it, but then he couldn't say too much about it, either, being such a recent
arrival. He was still struggling to find his place in it. To decide whether he
wanted a place in it. Both worlds could not be the truth. But which was the
lie?
Bruner was right. He had no test tube.
Mulder closed his eyes against the snow, saw Bruner's unblinking gaze
roaring maniacal joy as Fox swallowed his own blood there on his floor. Bruner
had found his place in this world of the normal. Locked up in the psych ward.
But Bruner didn't believe in UFO's. That would be crazy.
As a psychologist, Mulder had spent most of his adult life observing in
amazement his own latent psychopathic tendencies: denial, repression,
manipulation, fear of boredom. He wondered now how close he stood to that
magical border of sanity, how soon before he, too, joined the select society of
the sociopath. Whether there was even such a border left.
Because he was back in the snow again. Kneeling. Holding her hand. No. He
would not lay down. This time she registered no disappointment to his refusal.
This time she was colder than she had ever been.
Despite the whirling snow, his peripheral vision registered a movement:
the creature--man, he corrected himself-- with the seeds. He was coming again.
And she was scared.
"Fox. Help me."
But she had hold of his hand and refused to let go. He struggled with
her but it was no use and the hateful seed was getting closer. He buried the
fingers of his free hand in the snow and reaching around her, circumscribed a
circle of sorts, containing them both. He connected the lines just as the dark
figure approached. It stopped short of the circle as though hitting a wall of
glass, retreated into the hypnotic dance of snow.
Somewhere beneath her left side, near the heart, where the heart should
have been, a snake emerged. Bottle green skin reflected electronic fire as it
traveled slowly, pulling it's glassy slick body onto her chest and raising its
emerald head to regard him. It's eyes were the color of sea water. Bruner's
eyes.
Within the charmed circle, enwrapped by her serpent, she turned her head
to regard him. Her eyes were the color of milk. The jaw, slack now that rigor
mortis had loosened, moved, jerking, painfully.
"You will hear the words. And they will come to make sense to you." The
voice was not Samantha's. It was his father's.
He pulled away, his heart pounding, but her hand held him fast. The jaw
jerked hideously.
"Forgive me."
He screamed. With everything in him, he screamed. There was no sound. He
struggled in earnest now, too terrified to think, just wanting to be free of
this snowbound hell. Just wanting to hear the sound of his own voice, to know he
was alive. The snow was alive around him, writhing and whirling, gathering
light, sucking it up like a thing possessed. The force of the maelstrom pulled
lightening from the ground, swirling it up to the impassive stars. And threw it
back down at him.
It hit his chest with an explosion.

Scully was approaching the passenger side of the car with a thermos of
coffee when she saw him jerk. Then jerk again. She ran.
"Mulder!" She tapped on the misty glass as she opened the door. Fox
threw himself out of the car like he'd been shot, knocking her back against the
fender. He hit the pavement stumbling, holding his chest and gasping.
"Mulder!" She circled him warily, arms out to catch him if he would let
her. He was trying to speak but not to her, trying to breath, trying to stand.
She was afraid to approach him, afraid he would injure himself if she didn't.
"Oh God," he finally gasped, "Oh God, please make it stop." His erratic
pacing slowed and she reached out cautiously. He jerked away, stumbling in his
retreat.
"Mulder, it's okay. It's Dana. It's okay." She kept repeating the words,
matching his pace until he slowed and finally stopped. His eyes saw her at
last, registered the parking lot, then focused back on her again. He took
another deep breath, dropped his hands from his chest to his knees and
concentrated on breathing a moment. She approached slowly, touched his
shoulder, leaning over to study his face.
"Mulder, is it the sunflower again?"
He shook his head and straightened painfully, wiping his eyes. He tried
to smile and failed. "My chest hurts like hell," he gasped.
She took his arm and led him back to the car, all too aware of the
scrutiny of Bill and various members of local law enforcement. And Skinner.
She was grateful Skinner had let her handle this. So far.
Mulder was still not too steady and had to stop several times to catch
his breath. An EKG would not be a bad idea, she decided. She helped him back
into the passenger seat then knelt down outside the car beside him, the car and
the door shielding them from too close an inspection.
She told him to shut up and breath as she slid her stethoscope under his
sweater. He didn't argue and she wasn't certain that was a good sign.
Mulder sat quietly, breathing, watching Skinner watching him through the
tinted windshield. Skinner was on a cell phone. Fox waited for Scully to pull
the stethoscope from her ears before he spoke. "Everyone thinks I'm a nutcase."
"No, Mulder, we do not think you're a nutcase. You're under a lot of
stress and you haven't been able to rest. Which only exacerbates the problem. If
you could just sleep without having these damn dreams--"
He was only half listening. "In the waking state we check reality against
memory. In sleep: memory against memory. Ghost against ghost."
"Carl Jung?" she asked.
"Ray Bradbury."
"Mulder are you saying you've seen this before, like when you reopened
the Paper Hearts case--"
"No, " he shook his head. "No. But I've heard the words."
He was still staring at Skinner, but without seeing.
She frowned. "I don't understand."
"Neither do I."
She sighed, frustrated. "Mulder, I don't know what to tell you."
He was silent a minute, his eyes still vacant. "I never told you the
first dream, Scully," he whispered. She waited. "There was the snow. The stars.
The cold hands. Only the hands stretched out in the snow were not one of these
kid's." He looked over at her, rolling his head against the headrest, eyes too
green, too hollow. "They were my hands. It was me in the snow. Dead. Then the
other dreams started. That was a week before we knew this case existed."
"You're convinced these are some form of precognitive dream? Not just the
mind processing evidence?"
His eyes were closed again. He shook his head, his voice tired. "I don't
know."
Her reply was cut short by Skinner's voice close behind her. She jerked
to her feet guiltily. Skinner's eyes rolled off her and onto Mulder.
"Agent Mulder, step out of the car, please."
Scully moved aside to let her partner comply and followed the two men
across the parking lot to the spot where Mulder had stopped his retreat. A look
from Skinner kept her at a respectful distance. It was amazing, however, how
well sound traveled in a forest.
"Agent Mulder, with all due respect, I realize that most people go to a
psychiatrist when they're having some kind of trouble. That's fine. That's what
they're for." Mulder was regarding him patiently. Skinner's voice hardened.
"It's just that most people don't choose psychiatric help from a doctor who's
been committed to his own institution."
"Sir, with all due respect, most assistant FBI directors are not in the
habit of having psychopaths call them on their direct phone lines. And order
appointments for their agents." Scully was surprised by the sudden hardness of
Mulder's voice. From being bone-weary and resigned he was angry and calculating.
She didn't like the implications of the moodswing.
Skinner didn't seem to appreciate it either. "I told you to get in, see
this nut and get back out. Not call him back. Repeatedly. I specifically recall
ordering you NOT to let this son of a bitch into your head--"
"Sir, I believe he has information on this case--"
"Damnit, Mulder, that's just what he wants you to think. If he thought
he could play you along, he'd tell you were his secret love child, for
Chrissake. *I* called you in on this case. I called you in because I thought
you'd be the best person to handle it. Well, from what I've seen here and in
your partner's reports, you're not handling it--"
"And just what do you think you get when you try to out think a
psychopath? Stability? Order and propriety?"
"Do you hear yourself?" Skinner hissed. "We've been over this ground
before, Agent Mulder. How many times do you think you can put yourself in some
wacko's shoes, and then just waltz right out of them again when you're done?"
Mulder was as angry as Scully had ever seen him, it was all she could do
to remain where she stood. "I'm the investigator here," he growled. "Hell, I'm
the damned psychologist! I am sick and tired of everyone telling me what I can
and cannot think about this case--"
"Agent Mulder," Skinner warned, "You're losing it."
"Damn right, I'm losing it," He was shouting. "Spooky Mulder lost it
somewhere back in November of 1973 and I'll be damned if I'll lose her again."
He brushed past Skinner and was on his way to the trail when Skinner's voice
stopped him cold at the edge of the parking lot.
"Agent Mulder!"
The two men regarded one another in full view of all assembled personnel.
Skinner's growl was loud. "Just find this SOB."
Mulder didn't smile. "Yes, sir."
As Skinner turned to her, Scully picked up her jaw and followed her
partner back into the forest. Mulder was already shouting for a shovel.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"A snake." She graced him with one of her more provocatively speculative
looks. "Mulder, isn't that a phallic symbol?"
He sighed. "Only to little Freudians such as yourself, Scully. In fact,
in many ancient cultures, the snake was a symbol of wisdom and knowledge." He
looked at her pointedly. "That's why its on the medical staff of life symbol.
Unless of course, they're teaching a more hands-on comparative anatomy than I
remember."
"And the knowledge this serpent enticed you to was to look for this?"
She held up the evidence bag containing the little dirt encrusted vial. The
vial dug up from just seven inches of dirt below Jane Doe Five's heart. Or where
her heart should have been. For good measure they'd dug under the area
approximate to the missing liver as well. Nothing. Not even six feet down.
Mulder was talking. "There was probably a vial at every site. Probably
is one at every site."
"Skinner's contacted the authorities at each location. We should have a
full report by morning." She frowned at the medical vial, felt Mulder leaning
over to whisper in her ear.
"I'll hand you a thousand dollars with a smile on my face if that vial
does not contain the same substance we found in the Erlenmeyer flask."
She looked up sharply.
"You'll hear the words," he quoted, "And they'll come to make sense to
you."
Scully glanced back down at the hateful vial then she was watching him
again. "Is that what you think these girls are, Mulder? Merchandise? Experiments
in genetic manipulation?"
He began counting off his fingers. "Clear evidence of medical testing,
cryogenic freezing, no matches in FBI and CMEC data bases. Not to mention that
someone pops up and claims all four bodies and manages to erase the records?
Stop me when I come to something that seems just remotely improbable to you."
"Look, let's at least get the analysis on this vial before we jump to too
many conclusions here."
"Fine with me. I've got the Center for Missing and Exploited Children
checking their data bases and microfilm for eight year old females missing since
1955."
She blinked. "Mary Regina 55. Information you obtained from a certified
schizo--"
"He's not schizophrenic, Scully, he's sociopathic."
"So on what basis do you insist that he is a reliable informant?"
"On the basis of finding a dead body in the same park he identified."
As much as she would have liked to, she couldn't argue with that. "I'd
just feel a lot better about all of this if you knew something about this--who
is it again, Dr. Bruner?"
"I'll feel a whole lot better about this when we solve this case," Mulder
countered. "As for Bruner, Skinner's made arrangements for me to see him as soon
as we land."
Scully glanced back at the Assistant Director and Bill sitting cozily
musing over military life in the seats behind them. Mulder glanced past her at
the gleam of evening sun reflected on the Washington Monument. They'd be
landing at the DC/Baltimore Airport in a few minutes. He was grateful. God, but
he hated sitting still.
Scully was watching him again. That always made him slightly nervous.
When other women stared at him like that he was usually flattered and often a
little excited. With Scully, though, he was never too certain. He certainly
knew better than to get excited. At least in that way.
He smiled and hoped he emitted enough charm to dissipate any ill-will he
may have created. "I saved my peanuts for you, Scully," he patted his jacket
pocket and winked.
She frowned but held out her hand. "I'm still going with you to see
Bruner. Ooh, these are the dry roasted ones."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hey, sis, don't stay up too late, okay?"
"Okay, Bill. Sweet dreams."
"Goodnight."
Scully smiled after her brother as he retreated to her spare bedroom. She
could almost hear Mulder sing out his favorite "Goodnight" sign-off: "Goodnight,
John Boy." She leaned back into the couch, autopsy reports and chemical
analysis data shuffling across her lap. She rubbed her eyes wearily then stared
down at the phone. "Come on, Mulder. Call already."
She should have never let him talk her out of going with him to the
institution. But given their track record for being unable to hold on to
concrete data regarding the Erlenmeyer project, she'd agreed that analyzing the
vial was her first priority.
"I'll be satisfied," she'd told him, "if you could just get him to tell
us what the fascination is with Virginia parkland. If I have to see Skyland
Drive one more time--"
He had shrugged. "Maybe these guys are members of the Sierra Club."
Just now, it didn't help that he had been right about the vial. And it's
four counterparts.That they could have just as easily been labeled for them.

She bit her lip ruefully there on the couch. The face of the clock
returned her gaze. Eleven twenty-one PM. The phone
beeped abruptly and her grab for it sent papers flying.
"Mulder?"
"Hey." With just one word she felt the tension raging through the line.
"Mulder, where are you?"
"Try out your front window."
"What?" She scrambled to the curtain to see Mulder's car parked, lights
off, at the curb.
"Muld--"
His voice filtered painfully even through the cell phone connection. It
was deceptively light. That damned self-depreciating tone she so hated: "I've
been driving around for hours, Scully. Then it finally occurred to me that I
just didn't know where else to go."
She was out the door, closing it quietly behind her for Bill's sake, but
running to the car, the phone forgotten in her hand.
She slid into the passenger seat, holding the door ajar a moment, using
the light to assess her partner. Physically he seemed uninjured. Emotionally he
looked like he'd been dragged through hell and forgotten the way back out. He'd
been crying at some point not too long before. It worried her that he made no
effort to hide the fact from her. She closed the door and they sat in the silent
dark.
At last he spoke. "Bruner's dead."
She watched his profile, a bare outline and glint of moisture in the eyes
highlighted by the street lights. She didn't speak, waiting.
"It's been ruled a suicide. I've seen his cell, Scully. If that man
committed suicide--like --," he didn't elaborate on what was and
she didn't ask. "It just wasn't possible." He shook his head. "There wasn't even
a note. Megalomaniac that he was, there's no way he'd have even entertained the
idea of offing himself without taking out a full page ad in the Washington
Post." His eyes closed against his own sigh. "It happened about four." He
looked over at her, the line of his jaw tight, "Just after Skinner called to set
up my meeting. It was no suicide, Scully. I made them show me his cell. It's
been stripped clean. They'd already cremated his body. They'd dismissed his
regular orderly and have been blocking my attempts to contact him."
"Mulder, I'm sorry--"
"I smelled cigarette smoke in the cell, Scully."
Scully shuddered in the darkness, Mulder's gaze on her was cold as the
winter chill. What he was saying wasn't possible. Cancerman was dead. The body
had not been recovered but the blood...
"Mulder, I'm sorry," this time he didn't interrupt her. "I didn't realize
you and Bruner were so close--"
He sighed and looked away. "It's not that... I'm sorry. Why don't you go
back in and get some sleep, we can cover this in the morning--"
"Only way I'm sleeping tonight is with you in the same room."
He didn't even bother to make any of the usual remarks that kind of
statement would have left her wide open for. The idea didn't even occur to him
just then.
"Come on," she opened the car door. "You're staying here. Bill's already
asleep. And I'm not leaving him here alone to be another Melissa."
He followed her quietly into the apartment. Stood quietly by the door
while she went through turning off lights, checking windows and the back door.
She returned to the living room to find him still standing where she'd left him.
She stopped a moment and returned his gaze. He was looking through her.
"Mulder, take off your coat."
He complied numbly and she switched off the last room light in favor of
the table lamp at the window. Now they would cast no shadows. She cleared the
couch and called to Mulder, still standing by the door, his coat in his hand. He
came over obediently and she sat him on the couch, tossing his coat over the
back of a chair.
"What else, Mulder. What haven't you told me?"
"CMEC called." He managed to look tough and courageous and like a half-
drowned pup that'd been kicked one too many times. It was a talent, Scully
decide, but one he wasn't aware of. One honed from too much practice.
"Center for Missing and Exploited Children found us a match?" She sat
beside him, drawing her chilled legs under her.
"Five matches."
"Mary Regina?"
"Mary Regina Pitnam. Missing since November 1955. Elizabeth Anne Baron.
Missing since 1948. November. Angela Unger. November 1951. Genevieve Elliot.
November 1960. Miranda Bergen. November 1968." Throughout the recitation his
voice was flat, lifeless. Without his speaking it, Scully could still hear the
conclusion of his list:
He jumped when she laid a gentle hand on his arm. She left it there and
he looked over at her. There was no life in his eyes. No light. No hope.
"Mulder, we need to contact these families--"
"The Bergens were killed in a car wreck with their second child in 1982.
Mr. Elliot died of a heart attack in 1991; Mrs. Elliot of cancer two years
later. Angela Unger's father died in combat in Korea. The mother's in a mental
institution. A total vegetable. The Barons: murder suicide pact on the
anniversary of their daughter's =
disappearance. Mrs. Pitnam died of breast cancer in 1957. Mr. Pitnam's is in a
nursing home in Arlington, Virginia. About two miles from my apartment. I went
to seen him, Scully." He looked down at his hands. They were shaking just
slightly. "He has Alzheimers. I showed him a photo of his daughter that he and
his wife had given to police in 1948. He cried." Mulder closed his eyes against
his own tears, sitting forward to shake her hand away but not trusting his legs
enough to rise.
She gave him a minute. "You were right about the vial, Mulder." There was
no response. He sat, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands a long
while. At last he ran his hands down his face, steepling his fingers together,
staring at them hard.
"You believe God is good, don't you, Scully?"
She didn't answer.
His voice was remote and soft. "So why does He allow suffering like
this?"
She had no answer. She stood.
"Lie down, Mulder."
When she returned with blankets he was asleep. She slipped off his shoes,
covered him with a blanket and wrapped herself in one. She settled beside him on
the floor, her head resting on the cushion at his chest. She fell asleep to the
beating of his heart.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

He didn't sleep through the rest of the night, of course. The previous
dream had repeated itself and by 2:17 AM he was struggling to escape Samantha
again.
Samantha with his father's voice. In his mind he was screaming, fighting
for his life. Scully woke as these events
translated into a whimper and a soft shuddering of his body against her arm. She
watched him, his face running with sweat, his breathing tight and too rapid. She
was shushing him again in the twilight of the room and laid her hand on his
chest just as the dream's lightening bolt slammed into it. His body convulsed
and this time she had enough on the ball to jump away.
He hit the floor with a thud, his body jerking compulsively. Scully ran
for her medical kit. A moment later she was back and he was still. He was no
longer breathing rapidly.
He wasn't breathing at all.
Scully searched for the pulse in his neck: thready and overly rapid. She
left her hand on his neck, rubbing just below the angle of his jaw to stimulate
the carotid sinus while she dug in her bag. She released him to load a syringe
with verapamil and inject him with it. He took a shallow gasp of air when the
needle entered his arm and she bowed herself in relief over the syringe even as
she pushed the plunger.
A few minutes later she was threatening to sit on his chest to keep him
on the floor. And threatening to break his arm if he came up with any sexually
suggestive remarks about that threat.
"You'd better be glad you cleared your physical last month or your butt
would be in the back of an ambulance right now, Mr. Mulder."
"What happened? I remember the dream--"
"Paroxysmal atrial tachycardia triggered by an anxiety attack. In your
sleep, no less. Mulder, we really need to see about having you evaluated for
anxiety and sleep disorders."
"I'm not living on a bunch of drugs, Scully," he sighed from his position
of surrender on the rug. "Besides, it's not usually this bad and you know it.
It's just this damned case." He shook his head, stopped shaking it and looked at
her. Even sleep starved and disheveled she managed to be one of the most
beautiful women he had ever met. His throat hurt suddenly and he didn't think it
had anything to do with the dream.
"Mulder, are you okay now?"
He closed his eyes to clear his head, nodded. "I'm just really tired."
And cold. His chest still ached and the pain lingered in his arms. Clinically,
he knew she was right. Emotionally... He pushed it down deep somewhere, wherever
it was he pushed all the crap in his life, all the sadistic shit he dealt with
in his cases. The I'll-Deal-With-It-Later Pit. Phoebe had called it the
Scarlet O'Hara Syndrome: "I'll think about it tomorrow" (Southern accent not
optional). Come to think of it, Phoebe was down there somewhere too. He didn't
want to think about that just now either. The pit was getting awfully full....
He heard Scully's voice, that silk voice, felt one satin hand on his
chest, the other pushing that one stubborn damn lock of hair away from his
forehead. He'd been thinking of getting a hair cut. It could wait a few more
weeks. Maybe she'd do that more often.
"Tomorrow--," she corrected herself: "Today is Sunday. No case. No files.
I don't care who dies. And we're declaring a moratorium on dreams." Her hand
thumped his chest imperatively.
"Understand?"
He smiled at her through veiled eyes. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."
She was digging in her bag again. "Take this," she ordered. "I'm putting
you in my bed. And that original offer of a broken arm still stands."
Mulder sat up and regarded the tablet. Triazolam. Well, he'd be out for a
good six hours, and in short order, too. He accepted water glass and swallowed
obediently. By the time Scully had him undressed and tucked in he was pretty
well numb. It wasn't an unpleasant experience; at least nothing hurt for a
change. He watched her flit in and out of the room, hauling his clothes to the
laundry room, turning off lights, asking if he were warm enough, bringing in
another blanket, saying something. Saying something else. Yeah, sure. Whatever.
By her fifth trip into the room he was out cold and she turned off the
lamp.

Four hours later his eyes jerked opened, abruptly aware that he was in an
unfamiliar room. After all the cheap hotels he'd had to stay in doing field
work, you'd think that wouldn't be such a shock. He was also immediately aware
of a soft familiar fragrance of shampoo and Heaven Scent and the even softer
pressure of a woman's arm across his upper abdomen. Scully.
She lay modestly on top of the quilt she'd covered him with, wrapped,
fully clothed as far as he could tell, in a blanket of her own, her breathing
deep and even, her hair glowing amber in the bright morning light spilling
around the drapes.
This was no time to revel in fantasies, however. Mulder heard Bill
tiptoeing around in the kitchen. The current situation was ripe with
possibilities. Most of them ending with Mulder attending a funeral. His own.
Mulder looked down at the little hand dangling at his side, and tried to
work out the physics necessary to disengage himself without waking her.
Thankfully, her arm was far enough down his chest to rest predominantly on the
quilt. With cautious maneuvering he managed to hold the quilt level and slip out
of the bed sideways, gently shoving the pillow into roughly his sleeping
position before lowering her arm. Her breathing never even broke it's rhythm
and he slipped off into her bathroom more than a little impressed with himself.

He found she'd set out the knapsack he kept at her place and fished out
toothbrush and jeans. The turtleneck had always been a little tight across the
chest but the knit was comfortable and besides the stretch cleared out most of
the wrinkles.
He waited, listening for Bill's footsteps before he emerged. Nothing.
Bill'd probably gone back to bed. Mulder stepped out into the living room and
Bill greeted him from the couch.
"Morning, Mulder." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the
world: Fox Mulder sneaking out of his sister's bedroom. Mulder was caught too
far in left field to worry about blushing. He took a deep breath.
"Hey, Bill."
"I made coffee. Hope you like it strong."
"Thanks."
In the kitchen Mulder contemplated a quick dash for the porch but
realized he'd left his keys in his coat pocket. Which was in the living room.
With Bill. He heard Scully's voice:
"Cluck, cluck," he whispered, staring into the Maxwell House.
He walked back into the living room and settled in a chair. Bill was
staring into a corner. It was either politeness, anger, or the man had the worse
case of early-morning-stares Mulder had ever seen.
It wasn't that early.
Mulder couldn't for the life of him come up with anything to say so he
didn't.
It was Bill who broke the uncomfortable silence. "The stuff you guys
do..." He stopped, looked at Mulder directly. Mulder swallowed. "It's a
difficult job."
It dawned on Mulder that Bill wasn't referring to anything that might
have transpired in the bedroom and he blinked slowly then allowed the man the
courtesy of full eye contact. "Yes," he said.
"It's not for everyone."
"True."
"And you think it's not for Dana."
Mulder's eyebrows scrolled up just a tad. "I've never said that. She's a
good agent, an objective investigator. She's tough and determined and, despite
anything you may have heard about talent, nine-tenths of the job is just so much
graceless determination. She has that. And a hell of a lot more grace than most.
Certainly more than me."
"Then why have you asked her to give up?"
Mulder took a minute to wonder where all this was coming from. "Has she
told you that?"
"She told me that you've asked her from time to time to consider leaving
the X-Files, of going back to teaching at Quantico. Are you denying that?"
Mulder regarded the man. "No, I'm not denying that. You've seen what it's
done to her. God, Bill, you've sat enough hours with her in the hospital
wondering if she was going to pull through--"
"And she did."
"Yes, she did. But look at what our work has cost her. Jeezus, Bill,
she'll never have children--" Mulder cut himself short, glancing toward the
bedroom and lowering his voice again. He was gripping the coffee cup in both
hands, the heat radiating into his fingers was intense and he accepted it as his
due just then. He looked back at the man on the couch. "She lost her--your--
sister while following me around trying to find mine. There's just too much of
this shit that seems forever to keep turning back to me. To my goddam family.
It shouldn't destroy her and her family. I shouldn't let it do that. I
shouldn't allow her to continue working with me--" His voice was a just short of
a dull hiss now and he stopped abruptly. He had no words to explain his
frustration with himself. That he had never been able to convince Scully to
leave the X-Files. Had never wanted her to leave them, really. Had often
wondered if he could go on with them if she did ever opt to leave. He stared
down into the blackness in his cup. Little stars of liquid light reflected back
up at him in the silence.
"But what if it's important?"
Mulder looked up to find Bill watching him.
"What if it's important, Mulder?" he repeated. "I mean, to more than just
you. From what little Dana's been able to tell us, some very powerful people
seem to be expending a great deal of energy hiding things everyone swears don't
exist. Keeping you and her from certain kinds of information. And someone,
somewhere's expending a great deal of energy keeping you two alive. Why all the
sabotage and double talk? The cover-up--I mean, if there's nothing to cover-
up... why bother? That's what this is all about, isn't it. That's what these X-
Files are. Like these kids you keep finding. They've been missing, what? Twenty,
thirty, forty years, some of them?" Bill shook his head. "Listen, I'm not saying
I believe in UFO's and little green men or five-headed hydras of whatever the
hell it is you think you're chasing but if your sister was abducted or kidnapped
or whatever, there was a reason. My sister's dead--and there damned well better
be a reason. I want to know why. Dana wants to know why. I don't know how to
find an answer like that." He leaned forward. "I asked you yesterday why you do
this and you said, because you can. I believe you, Mulder. I don't believe a lot
of the hair-brained crap I've heard you believe or used to believe, and I don't
care. But I do believe you know how to find answers. That you'll keep at it
until you do."
Mulder was suddenly staring at his coffee again. Bill glanced back at the
bedroom door.
"Mulder, I don't understand a lot of things about you and my sister, but
I do know that she can't do this on her own. She needs you. And when you do find
the answer, she wants to be there. " He looked back at Mulder and there was no
love in the man's eyes but there was something of a grudging respect Mulder had
never expected and didn't feel he deserved under the circumstance. "As much as I
want to protect her, as much as it would hurt to loose her, I can't deny her the
right to try."
Bill poked a thumb at the photos and autopsy reports of the Jane Doe's
littering the floor by the couch. "You're so worried about not silencing the
voice of the dead. And you're probably right." His voice was soft. "Try and have
the same mercy on the living now and then. Let Dana keep looking for her truth."
Mulder had closed his eyes, his head bowed. He took a deep breath and
found himself smiling as he looked up again. "Yeah," he said with a lightness he
didn't feel, "like I could run her off."
Bill gave him a reluctant chuckle and shook his head. "She always was the
pitbull of the family."
, Mulder thought. He didn't doubt
that destined-for-sainthood Mother Scully didn't have her share of fangs as
well, when pushed. Sounded like his kind of people. He was smiling at Bill when
Dana emerged abruptly from her bedroom, a hairbrush forgotten in her hand.
She took in the scene with her heart pounding. Mulder and Bill in the
same room. Alone.
And smiling at each other.
She blinked rapidly for a minute. Now they were both staring at her. And
smiling. Weirdness.
"Who wants breakfast?" she asked sweetly before cutting her eyes to
Mulder. "You raise your hand with a yes or I'll--"
"--break my arm, I know, I know." He waved a hand obediently.
Bill laughed. "Jeez, you two argue like you're married or something."
"Well, the way I have to watch after him sometimes we might as well be."
Mulder nodded to Bill. "Suits me just fine. From what I hear, married
people don't have sex, either."
Bill's witty reply was cut short by the explosion of the hairbrush
impacting the wall above Mulder's head with a bang a little too hard to be
playful.
Both men regarded her in shock but it was Mulder's eyes she caught: his
look of bewildered amazement became just a glint of something else and his eyes
smiled ever so slightly, intrigued on a level that sent a thrill through her. It
was not a sensation she was certain she was comfortable with. She felt a warm
blush rising from other areas she was not comfortable with at the moment and she
left the room as abruptly as she'd entered it, muttering something about a
shower, the door thudding firmly behind her.
Bill regarded Mulder thoughtfully. "I think you hit a nerve there, Fox."
Bill obviously had his sister's gift for understatement. It must have
been in the Scully gene pool somewhere.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

She refused to allow him to go home.
"What's the problem, Scully? Don't you trust me?"
"No, Mulder, I don't. Not when it comes to knowing when to stop." She
glanced through the kitchen back into the living room where Bill was sprawled
over the couch with the phone. Tara and Mom were checking in with all the news
fit to tell and then some from their adventures in New York. She'd probably need
to take out a small loan to cover the phone bill. She turned back to Mulder,
found him staring out the kitchen window, his body wired with more nervous
energy than any man had a right to on four hours of sleep.
"Mulder, listen to me. Last night should have been a warning to you.
You're body is screaming for down-time and if I have to tie you to the hood of
my car, you're going to listen to it. You're staying right here where I can keep
an eye on you."
"I'm not a child, Scully. It would be nice if you could remember that ever
so often."
she thought. But aloud she
said, "I mean it, Mulder. Don't bother arguing."
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I don't want to argue with you, Scully. I
haven't had enough sleep for that."
"And who's fault is that?"
He looked her dead in the eyes and she instantly regretted the pettiness of
the statement.
"It's not anybody's fault, Scully. I just don't sleep very well sometimes.
I'm sorry if that suddenly comes as such a shock."
Bill interrupted her answer. "Well, the girls'll be back in Baltimore
tomorrow and I'll be out of your hair, sis." He rubbed the top of Dana's head
playfully then stopped, finally noticing the tension in the room. He glanced at
Mulder, back at his sister and decided it was time he started making some of the
decisions.
"Mulder?"
"Bill."
"You look like hell. Why don't you go take a nap while Dana and I get out
and spend a little quality time together?"
It was slightly more than a request and Mulder smiled, much to Dana's surprise.
Well, Mulder could see she came by her drill sergeant manners honestly.
Dana was shaking her head, "Bill, I think--"
Mulder cut her short. "I think it's a great idea." He looked at his partner
pointedly. "If I can prevail upon the good doctor for another sedative, I'd like
to catch up on some sleep."
She looked from Mulder to Bill and back again. She didn't know what Bill
had threatened Fox with to get him to cooperate but if she could find out, she'd
be bargaining with it for all it was worth.

This time he managed six hours sleep before the dreams began.
Dreams. Well, same dream anyway. Again. Sam holding him urgently in the
snow. The lightening exploding in his chest. This time he'd been through it
enough times to expect the blast and caught himself before the full impact of
the panic set in. He woke on the couch, sweating and shaking, his breathing
labored, his chest on fire and pain radiating down both arms. Clinical
diagnosis: anxiety attack. He rose shakily,
wrapping his arms around his chest. Where was that damned blanket? He was
freezing.
Scrounging Scully's bedroom, he heard the faint ring of his cell phone
coming from her bureau draw. She'd hidden it under some very pretty lacy items
and he smiled as he answered the phone, holding one of the more interesting
little numbers up for closer inspection.
"Mulder."
"The bench, Mr. Mulder. Five o'clock. Tonight."
"Who is--" The line was dead. Mulder stared at the little nightie without
seeing it. Something he'd heard in the background. A song. He hummed the snatch
of tune softly, then closed his eyes in realization. The Stones. .
He found his old leather coat in Scully's closet--he'd wondered where he's
lost it--but had no such success locating his keys. Knowing his partner, she'd
taken them with her as insurance that he'd be there when she got back.
His timing was lousy. Scully Incorporated met him on the porch.
"Going somewhere, Mulder?" Dana asked.
Mulder recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one and sighed,
looking at his watch. It was just now one. He had four hours and only a twenty
minute drive. He looked up smiling. "Yeah. How about lunch? I'm starving."
"Well," Bill answered while his sister was at a loss for words, "I was kind
of hungry for Chinese, myself."
That did it. Mulder was beginning to like Bill more every time the man
opened his mouth. Of course, he had little doubt that Bill still thought
Mulder's middle name was Onesorrysonofabitch, but hey, the man had a beautiful
sister and he liked Chinese. He couldn't be all bad. He wasn't far from wrong on
the name bit, either, sometimes...
"How about it, Dana?"
"Bill, Mulder's favorite Chinese restaurant is Oodles Noodles in DC. Almost
to Dupont Circle--"
Mulder smiled. "That's okay, Scully. Bill
doesn't mind. Hey, Bill, after lunch we can stop just a couple of blocks over
and take you on a tour of the Woodrow Wilson House. It's great, you've gotta see
it..."
"Okay," Dana knew when she was out-gunned. "But we take my car." She pulled
Mulder's keys from her coat pocket, shook them ominously and repocketed them.
Mulder had seen less formidable guardians at the front gates of Fort Dix. If he
argued, she'd be even more suspicious than she already was, and he wisely
estimated she'd already reached the upper limits of her credulity scale.
"Sure, fine. Whatever." He smiled.
Minutes later, a delighted Bill was climbing into the backseat of her car
and Scully grabbed Mulder's arm. "And just how many times have you seen the
Woodrow Wilson House, Mulder?"
"Scully, I'm just about to make it my second favorite site in Washington."
"I don't know what you're up to, but whatever you're hauling us to DC for
had better not be stamped official business."
"I promise, Scully. This is not official business." He took the passenger's
seat. Bill thought, *I miss Tara.* What he said, more to himself than to
the table at large, was, "I'm glad I don't have to live like that anymore." He
glanced up, caught Mulder's eye without really intending to. Mulder looked over
at the couple in question, then looked away. Bill wondered just how closely he'd
hit a mark.
The exchange had not gone by Dana unnoticed. She fielded the attention away
from her partner--she was a pro at that lately--by smiling, saying, "I know men
look at sex a lot differently than most women, but personally, I never saw the
attraction of a one night stand."
Mulder surprised them both by answering, "Well, Scully, some men like sex.
They also like women." He shrugge. "And sometimes they just like to have them
both together in the same room." He regarded his Heineken, his voice softer. "Of
course, most of us anticipate having something slightly more enduring by the
ripe old age of thirty-six."
Bill realized just how sore a mark he'd hit and played with his napkin,
considering his response. "Well, sometimes life just doesn't work out the way
you want, Mulder. Sometimes it takes all you have just to pursue what matters
most to you."
Mulder closed his eyes, rotated the tension in his neck. "Then when you
find out what that all important thing really is," he said, still in that soft,
flat voice, "you realize you've used up all your energy. And your nerve."
Bill caught Mulder's eye and held it, then looked pointedly at his sister.
"I don't know, Mulder. Maybe it doesn't take as much nerve as you think."
Scully felt innuendo the size of a Boeing jet slide over her head. Mulder
was staring hard at Bill. Bill was returning the gaze, but not unkindly.
Mulder could feel his heart pounding suddenly, felt Scully's confused
expression. Some highly analytical nerve in his brain registered the fact that
she had stopped breathing temporarily. The nerve twitched and he felt the memory
of a soft arm across his upper abdomen. He dropped his gaze abruptly and excused
himself.
"Mulder, are you okay?" Her voice made him wince but he only nodded and
made his way to the men's room. Sometimes that woman's voice was nothing short
of pure silk. He wasn't quite out of earshot when he heard the voice turn hard:
"Okay, Bill, just what the hell was that all about?" Good, let Brother Bill
sweat a little. It'd do him good.
Apparently Scully hadn't gotten her answer by the time he got back to the
table: the two greeted him with tight smiles.
The smile of the waitress was more genuine as she sat a plate with a single
fortune cookie on the table. "Your friend near the door said you needed this."
"What friend?" Mulder stretched over in his seat to see the area near the
door. No one he recognized.
"An older gentleman." She shrugged, baffled by the intensity of the look
Mulder gave her. "Hey, just an old guy in a business suit. You don't want the
cookie?"
"No... Yes, thank you."
She shrugged at Scully and Bill, leaving the table as Mulder snapped the
cookie open and pulled out the slip of paper. Scully remembered him giving that
same look reading another little slip of paper...
"What is it, Mulder?" She was talking to his back again. By the time she
could react, he was halfway out the restaurant, running for the door, the
fortune clutched in his hand. She two-stepped after him, not totally oblivious
to the people staring. Good thing he'd already paid the check, she thought.
Cold air blasted into her face and she found Mulder striding down the
sidewalk after a car just speeding away from the curb. Diplomatic plates and
heavily tinted windows. She noted the number on reflex, realizing the odds were
good that they were bogus. Mulder had stopped at the corner, realizing the
futility of his situation. He jerked when she touched his arm.
"What is it?" she repeated.
Wordlessly, he presented her with the paper. She read: "If a shark stops
swimming, it dies. Never stop swimming." She looked up at her partner's profile.
He was still staring after the long gone vehicle.
"Mulder, Deep Throat is dead."
He was silent a long moment then looked at her quietly. "Not everything dies, Scully." He looked at his
watch: 2:47. Just over two hours. He looked up again and smiled at Bill standing
over Dana's shoulder. "Well, kids, looks like the next stop is Mr. Wilson's
House."

The tour of the Georgian town house turned out to be interesting enough to
keep Mulder from being too fidgety. But by the time they reached "the dugout,"
as Wilson had apparently termed his private office, Scully had grabbed Mulder by
the left wrist, yanking just a bit too hard to be friendly.
"Look at that watch one more time," she hissed under her breath, "I'll
pull that arm off and beat you with it."
Mulder feigned innocence and smiled. Scully shook her head. It was a
good thing he was unaware of the effect his smile had on most people. Otherwise
he'd be using it as a weapon. She was watching him like the proverbial hawk.
The problem was, she knew he was well aware of that fact and seemed to be
totally unconcerned about it. Oh, he protested his innocence, certainly, but he
was making no real effort to convince her of his sincerity, something he often
had no problem doing when he really tried.
Bill was delighted, pointing out the chair in the drawing room purchased
in 1812 for the White House by President Monroe.
Mulder raised an eyebrow. "You know Bill, most people just steal the
towels and ashtrays." Any other time Mulder might have found this enjoyable.
Wilson had, after all played a large role in drafting the United Nations
Charter. But right now, the nicest thing about this place was the fact that it
closed at four. Time enough to lose the Scully's, and walk to the Metro stop at
Dupont Circle. He could transfer trains to the Blue Line at Metro Center and
get off at the Smithsonian. From there it was a pleasant jog over the
Fourteenth Street Bridge and on to the Memorial.
The problem would be making a clean get away from Scully. The female
version thereof, anyway. But even she couldn't hope to track him once he was in
the press of human traffic in and out of the Metro station. She was good. But
he'd been playing this game much longer than she had.
So why hadn't he figured out a good excuse to get Scully out of his hair
for the evening? He had exited the building quickly after the tour and was
standing on the sidewalk, hands buried in his coat pockets against the cold,
considering simply walking off when no one was looking. Scully looped a gloved
hand through the crook of his elbow and interrupted the thought.
"Mulder, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said too abruptly. He sighed. "Sorry. I just really wish
people would stop asking me that."
Scully regarded his profile as he gazed up the road. The tightness of
his jaw, the twitch of movement around the mouth, the darkness across his eyes.
She'd come to know him more intimately in some ways than she had ever claimed to
know anyone. And yet he was himself still a mystery deep enough to be an X-File
of his own. Mulder was a =
unique man, full of little quirks and subtle shifts, all of which were standard
operating procedure. It was when he was playing "normal" that she got worried.
And he had played normal just a little too well today.
"So," she said, "just how do you intend to ditch me this evening?"
He lowered his head and looked at her sidelong, not trusting himself to
turn his head to view her fully. He shook his head and shrugged.
"I thought I'd take the Metro over to Frohike's. Have a beer, catch up
on the latest conspiracies and get him or Langley to drive me home."
"Why don't you let me drive you to Frohike's?"
He sighed.
"I'd rather take the train, Scully."
"You're not going to Frohike's, Mulder, and we both know it."
He pulled away from her abruptly, pacing a few yards away before turning
back to her. His voice was level and soft but firm.
"As you so considerately pointed out to me once, not everything in your
life is about me. Well, that's a two way
street, Scully. This is my life. You've chosen as much of it as you want. You
might have the decency to leave the rest of it to me, okay?"
The words tumbled out as though someone else were speaking, there was a
prophetic ring to them as they hung in the air and although he had spoken them,
he knew he would be days deciphering their exact meaning. But that was later.
Right now his gut was churning and there were sharp pains in his chest and arms.
And he'd hurt her. Hell, he'd hurt himself. But Fox Onesorrysonofabitch Mulder
had a date with a park bench in half an hour and just enough cash for the ride.
She was watching him. He was in pain, she knew, and in more ways than
emotionally. Wherever it was he was headed, she didn't want him going. She
considered her options.
"Don't you trust me enough to let me drive you to Dupont Circle?" She
felt Bill step up behind her, quietly, realizing something incomprehensible to
him was happening between his sister and this man.
Mulder stood regarding her, his eyes screaming incoherently, precious
seconds ticking away. "I'll walk. Bill, thank you for the day. Take your sister
home."
He turned on his heel and proceeded up the street, hands still deep in
his pockets, shoulders set.
Dana fairly pushed Bill to the car and got in the driver's seat. She
gunned the car away from the curb, making as much of a scene as possible. Maybe
he'd think she was pissed off and dumping him there. Maybe he'd think she was
driving home. Maybe he wouldn't guess she'd be waiting for him at the terminal.
Problem was , if she were Mulder, she wouldn't be fooling her. If she
were Mulder, she'd---

She slammed on her brakes, making a very illegal U-turn in the middle of
Massachusetts Avenue.
Seconds later she slammed her hand against the steering wheel. Too late.
In the precious minutes it had taken her to get back to Decatur Place Road, he
was gone.
Bill didn't bother to interrupt the screaming silence.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder made the bench with five minutes to spare. He sat, half turned, eyes
squinted in the gathering of evening twilight. They'd be turning on the lights
shortly. Mulder knew what he would see: soft white lights shining up from the
grounds, casting the shadows of pines against glowing granite. The interior
lights would reflect soft green, and great bronzed Jefferson himself, all five
tons, would look down at him from his lofty heights. God, but he loved this
place. This took him back. Back to when Scully had first joined the X-Files.
When he himself was new to the basement office--
A figure approached across the grounds from the monument, proceeded down
the steps. A figure in a battered gray trenchcoat. Mulder's heart beat faster
and he stood. He heard Scully's voice in his ear:
Halfway down the steps, the figure turned and headed away from him. Mulder
opened his mouth to call out and stifled a yelp as a hand was laid on his
shoulder.
He spun round and found himself looking into the dark eyes of Wallace
Elliot, Bruner's orderly.
"Dr. Verber?"
Mulder couldn't tell if the question was sarcastic or not and let it go.
"Good evening, Wally. You're a hard man to find."
"I hope so. There seems to be somebody out there who would like to make
certain that I'm permanently unavailable." His eyes were bloodshot with dark,
heavy bags. He blinked wearily. "Anyway, thanks for coming."
Mulder nodded. "The Knicks are playing Cleveland tonight. Anybody planning
on missing that, I figured it had to be important."
Wally didn't smile. He sat down on the bench and leaned forward like a man
trying to make a smaller target. Mulder watched him a minute, took his own
nervous glance around.
"Who told you about the bench, Wally? Who told you how to reach me?"
"The man at the Institute that night. He said I needed to find you. To tell
you what I knew--"
"The cigarette smoking man?" He sat down. "What is it you know, Wally?"
Wally looked away nervously toward the Tidal Basin. It was getting dark
fast. "I don't know what you think you know, man--"
"I know you've been dumping those bodies. And I know you didn't kill those
kids."
Wallace jerked and stood, towering over Mulder. He was sweating profusely
in the chill night air, tiny snowflakes pelted his immense shoulders. "It was
something Bruner was into. Something from way back. Something he wanted known--"
"So why didn't he just take out an ad in the Post?"
Wally shook his head. "He said there were a lot of people in on this,
people that he couldn't touch. He wanted them to hurt. Even if it was just to
make them sweat--"
The sudden roar of rifle fire cut across the lawn and as in slow motion,
Mulder saw Wally's knees buckle, his body convulse, knocking Mulder back and to
the ground. Mulder stumbled for the shelter of the Memorial, running low,
vaguely aware of the sound of squealing tires, a vehicle approaching across the
bridge and more gunfire.
Suddenly he was on the ground, tumbling onto the steps, the marble
brilliant in the twilight. The colder part of his mind told him the floodlights
has come one. He gasped, rolled onto his back, one hand clutching the pain the
lightening bolt of the rifle had delivered to his chest, the other held his gun.
It was too heavy and he heard the Glock slam into the marble as he dropped his
hand. He opened his eyes and regarded the stars looking down on him. Stars
involved with the business of darkness. Like him. They had no choice. Like him.
He moved weakly against the ridges of the steps, they were oddly slick with
something... The hand on his chest reaching out for--for what? He lay there
quietly and considered, a dark shape against the cold expanse of white, a
negative of the lights above him, drifting into a darkness of his own.
From very far away, he heard Scully scream.

Bill had manned the cell phone starting with their return to the Wilson
House. This time he'd seen enough not to question the need for the search, nor
her urgency. And far from feeling they were chasing after some errant child, his
heart beat faster with wondering just what it was Mulder was trying to protect
Dana from that he would proceed alone.
First phone number she'd barked at him was a dead end: guy had answered the
phone in a laid back surfer kind of voice and Bill could have sworn he'd said
"Lone Gunmen." He'd promised to call the minute Mulder showed up and to not give
her cell number to someone named Frohike. Next call was to security at the J
Edgar Hoover Building. She'd handled that one herself, rattling off her badge
number and leaving orders for someone to call if Mulder checked in.
By the time she'd shoved the phone back to him, they were in front of the
Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History. Dana bailed out with Bill close
behind. She flashed her badge to the guard on duty and showed a photo of her
partner. Bill wondered if she carried it out of affection or because she
frequently needed it for occasions such as this. Knowing Dana wasn't the type to
even carry photos of her own mother, Bill settled on the latter.
"Damn," she whispered, walking back to Bill, her eyes scanning Constitution
Avenue.
"Where else?"
She considered DC's layout, as best she knew it and wracked her brain for
other "Mulderish" locals. She pursed her mouth, turned back to the guard.
"Excuse me, could you tell me how I get to the National Aquarium?" She knew
he'd met Deep Throat there once. The guard shook his head.
"Closed at two on Sunday, Miss."
Bill started to ask if the guy ever visited anything other than museums in
his off time but the desperation on Dana's face closed his mouth.
She was thinking out loud. "Deep Throat used to meet him at the Jefferson
Memorial--Jeezus, Dana, Deep Throat is dead. Think!"
Bill sighed. Said nothing.
She whispered. "Think, think... The Thinker met him at the US Botanic
Garden-- Come on, Bill!"
And they were off again.
The Garden greenhouse areas were closing for the evening and Dana hauled
Bill through the park, petite, dainty little legs fighting to cover ground
rapidly. Bill mused that should he ever convince her to retire from the Bureau,
she could open a tourism guide: Washington DC in Two Hours or Less. Bill breezed
past statuary and carefully labeled plants of all kinds. He'd have to bring Tara
here in the spring...
At the rose garden, Dana swore again.
"Maybe you should take him up on that shooting offer," Bill quipped. Then
seriously again. "He acted like he didn't have much time, right? So this place
he went had to be in DC... Or maybe he just went back to his apartment---"
She shook her head. "That just doesn't feel right... Okay, one more spot."
She was jogging this time. "And if he's not there, I just may take him up on
that offer."
*If someone hasn't beaten me to it.*

Bill saw the dome of the Jefferson Memorial from the moving car just as the
lights came on. The marble lit up like light through amber and he had to force
himself to look away, sweeping the great manicured lawn for some sign of Mulder.
Then the first shot rang out. Dana brought the car to a squealing halt
just off center from the front of the Memorial. Then the second shot and she
exploded with a scream, jerking frantically at her seat belt.
"Call 9111," she managed to gasp then, "Oh God!" and she was running,
stumbling across the lawn to the Memorial. Bill relied on his service training
to keep his mind clear as he gave the location to the dispatcher even as he
followed. He could see where his sister was running in the twilight: past a
great slumped body against a bench, up to the steps where Bill could see Mulder.
The phone went slack in Bill's hand. Something about the way Mulder lay against
the cold white expanse of marble, the cross position of his arms, the whiteness
of his face, the open, vacant eyes. But there were no peacocks here. The only
thing screaming was Dana.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was a bright light suddenly. Not flooding everywhere like light does
but focused, like a laser beam. He jerked, struggling to get away.
They were back! Coming for him like they'd come for his sister--
The shadows pressing around him, shouting dully, distantly, unfocused as
the light approached. He stopped struggling. This was brighter than the light
that had come for Samantha. He'd heard of this light. Descriptions from hundreds
of case files of near death experiences floated briefly through his head,
floated gently away. There was no tunnel here, no figure in this light.
The figure was the light.
Suddenly there was no fear. Just a great sense of peace. A sense of having
arrived at someplace he'd struggled to reach all his life.
The light spoke to him. Assured him that someday he would remember the
words.
That they would come to make sense to him.
He turned his head to another presence beside him. Through the press of
shouting, probing shadows, Melissa Scully reached out to touch him gently,
smiled.
"Hello, Fox."

The surgeon made several more notes before closing the chart and handing it
to her.
"We lost him twice in the ambulance and again in the OR Considering the
nature of his injuries, his recovery is remarkable."
Scully nodded, looking over at Mulder's sleeping form. The steady blip of
instruments were a sweet song. They had removed the trach tube four hours ago
and still the rhythm of his breathing had remained steady, his oxymeter good.
They'd moved him to a private room after only eighteen hours in the ICU. World
record for Mulder. She still didn't know where his parents had come up with a
name like Fox but after this little side trip, he needed to consider changing it
to Lazarus.
There was a rustling at the door and she turned to see Skinner peering in
hesitantly, the security detail he'd posted at Mulder's door looking over his
shoulder curiously. The surgeon excused himself to finish rounds and the
Assistant Director entered.
They stood in silence a moment watching Mulder breathe.
"I understand I'm witnessing a miracle," Skinner kept his voice low.
"The bullet penetrated one lung, narrowly missing the aorta, exited his
back a little too close to his spinal column for comfort, but... He should make
a full recovery. Of course, he hasn't regained consciousness yet. We can't be
certain that there aren't further complications from the blood loss..."
Skinner nodded, sparing her the necessity of elaborating. "You were right
about those diplomatic plates," he said. "The car was found in Chinatown this
morning. Torched. The body in the park was Wallace Elliott, an orderly at the--"
"Maryland Institute for the Criminally Insane. Yes, I know."
Skinner gave her a hard look. "He told you about Bruner?"
She sighed, crossed her arms. "I know Bruner was some kind of doctor. That
he was a patient at the Institute and that Mulder was convinced that he had some
knowledge of the disposal of these bodies. Have there been any more recovered?"
"No. As far as the Bureau is concerned the case is closed."
Her jaw dropped. Skinner kept his masked face on Mulder.
"Sir--"
"These killings took place some twenty years ago--"
"Sir, may I remind you there is no statute of limitations on murder--"
"Leichman closed the case this morning, Agent Scully."
"And as his superior you have every right to demand it be reopened."
"You have not been apprised of all the facts, Agent Scully. I will not
allow you to pursue this case any further. Not alone."
"Had Agent Mulder been apprised of all the facts?"
Skinner didn't answer.
"How did Mulder come in contact with this Bruner character."
Skinner ground his teeth momentarily. "Bruner called me requesting contact
with Agent Mulder on a personal matter."
"Personal to Mulder?"
"I was told that is was important for Mulder to pursue the matter. That I
should also refer Leichman's case."
"Did you tell Mulder there were outside influences prompting your
decision?" Skinner was silent. "You sent him into this with no prior
understanding of the situation." It was not a question.
Skinner squirmed briefly under her steady gaze. "That's about the size of
it, Agent Scully. I took a chance."
"And almost cost Mulder his life."
"Your partner knows the risks inherent in continuing his work." He looked
at her coldly. "And so do you. If the risks are unacceptable, walk away."
"I can't walk away."
"No, Agent Scully, you just won't walk away."
"Not until they let Mulder walk," she closed her eyes briefly. "And we both
know they won't let him do that."
Skinner watched the single tear track down her face, disappear around her
jaw. His first meeting with her, a fresh idealistic instructor from Quantico,
was a lifetime away somehow. He should have sent her back to her classes, told
Blevins to go to hell.
Her eyes were granite as she stared right back. Her voice was barely a
whisper but tough and cold. "Mulder was once offered the chance to avenge me. To
become a player in this game instead of a damned pawn. He refused to sell out.
What was it they bought you with?"
Skinner allowed her gaze to sear him a moment more then turned to the door.
Before pulling it open he turned back briefly. "Agent Mulder would be interested
to know. Pitnam died last night. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He
was holding his daughter's picture."
Scully waited for the door to close before she allowed a second tear to
fall. She sat heavily in the chair next to Mulder's bed, struggling to pull
herself together. She studied his hand, so still there on the bed. Her mind's
eye remembered it moving, fidgeting, playing with the pen in the car.
Remembered his questions.
"Why does God allow all this suffering?" she whispered.
Mulder's own voice answered, a gravelly whisper. "Maybe he's in pain. Maybe
he just wants to share his heart."
Scully stood, searched his face. Coming from anyone else, that would have
sounded like so much sentimental dribble. But from Mulder.... >From Mulder, she
could believe it, accept it.
"Welcome back, Mulder."
He tried to smile, managed a weak grimace. "So, is this your way of getting
me caught up on my sleep?"
She sighed, laid her forehead on his shoulder. Neither spoke for a long
while. Finally she felt his hand on her arm.
"Go home and rest, Scully. I'm not going anywhere for a while."
"I am home, Mulder." She didn't raise her head, felt him tense suddenly,
then just as suddenly relax.
"You're a sick woman, Scully." His voice was warm against her hair.
"Must be the company I'm keeping," she said.

When he woke again, he was alone and the phone was ringing. In the process
of reaching for it he realized they had removed more tubes while he was out.
Especially the more painful one they always insisted on shoving in his groin.
That being discovered, he answered the phone delightedly, ignoring the low roar
of pain the movements caused.
"DC Morgue. You stab 'em, we slab 'em."
"And good evening to yourself, Agent Mulder."
Every hair on Mulder's arms rose to attention. He laid back as much to
absorb the shock as to relieve his pain.
"I see the reports of your death have been grossly overstated," he said.
"Damn my bad luck."
An appreciative chuckle filtered through the receiver. "I understand your
reticence to believe this, Agent Mulder, but you're going to be glad we had this
little chat. Very glad. Maybe even grateful."
"Grateful enough for what?" Mulder snorted, "To hunt you down and finish
your execution? Sure. I can do that."
"Same rules still apply as last time, Mr. Mulder. I die, the truth you need
dies with me. Nothing's changed."
"Oh, but things have changed, you black-lunged bastard--" The venom he
threw into the receiver made him wince with pain and he had to lay back a minute
to recover before continuing. The man on the other end of the line waited
patiently.
"I'm not playing this game anymore," Mulder gasped. "I want out."
"Do you?" The voice was condescendingly patient. "Where's your partner,
Agent Mulder?"
Alarms went off in Mulder's head that had nothing to do with his EKG. He
glanced round the room. A blanket lay rumpled across the recliner, Scully's
shoes tucked under it. Her overnight case was open on the cabinet. The silence
was deafening.
"Are you there, Mulder?" The voice was light. Carefree. But then it always
was. Suddenly it dawned on Mulder why he hated that tone so much. Because if he
had nothing left to lose that's how he would speak. Like it didn't matter. Like
nothing would ever matter again. The voice spoke again. "Has it never been a
source of speculation to you, Mr. Mulder, that all the other women you and Agent
Scully have encountered from the project were taken more than once? Some of them
many times. All of them at least several times. All but Agent Scully."
Mulder didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't really think he could at
the moment.
"You always believed her disappearance was intended to keep you in line.
Perhaps you're right. Or perhaps it was intended to keep you moving; not to
drive you away but forward." There was a lengthy pause. "Or has that fact never
occurred to you."
Mulder found his voice as the receiver went dead. He lay quite still a
moment longer, gathering his wits, breathing hard. Once in another hospital room
he'd told Scully he had found the faith to keep looking. Now he'd been handed a
reason to do so.
Ignoring the near blackout level of pain, he sat up on the edge of =
the bed, dialed Scully's cell number. The blanket rang. Mulder's heart sank as
he caught sight of her coat hanging from the back of the chair. The phone was in
her pocket. She wouldn't have left it here if she'd gone home. Hell, she
wouldn't have left her shoes. Not even to step out for coffee...
Mulder hit the power buttons on the monitor and the IV pump and
disconnected himself viciously. He found his bloodstained jeans in the closet;
his leather jacket wasn't much better and there was a new hole in the back. No
shirt. What the hell, maybe people would mistake him for a rock star.
He found his gun in the false bottom of Scully's overnight case. He
searched her overcoat and found hers in the pocket. He upholstered it and
slipped it into his waistband.
It was the night shift, thank God; the corridor was fairly deserted. Mulder
noticed a folding chair with a table presenting a cup of coffee just across from
his door. Where were Skinner's guard dogs? Mulder touched the Styrofoam. Coffee
was still warm. The realization sent his chest into an entirely new level of
pain and he had to concentrate to remind his body how to walk to an elevator.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder was certain Scully couldn't have been gone long when he found the
body on the elevator. Nightshift or not, bodies don't generally travel up and
down too many floors before being discovered. Mulder recognized the man from his
days in the bullpen. Rick Barclay. General Assignment. Wife and three little
girls, last Mulder had hear. His neck had been snapped. His gun was still in
it's holster.
Mulder punched the garage level button. Looked like Barclay was going to
have to take another trip and wait for someone with just a little more time....
By the time he stumbled out into the garage, Mulder was sweating profusely.
God, but his chest hurt... He tracked his gun slowly, efficiently, scanning the
cavernous floor. An echo of a car door being shut very softly. He turned,
ducked low to run, cringed with pain, slipping slightly on his own blood
dripping silently on the concrete.
He ran anyway, grateful for the quiet rubber soled boots, bloodstained as
they were. He rounded a column, brought his gunsite to bear on the man just
stepping into the car.
"Federal Agent, freeze!"
The man paused, one hand on the car door, the other on the roof, his back
to Mulder. The car's interior lights shone through the darkly tinted glass
revealing a familiar head resting in the backseat. She wasn't moving.
"Step away from the car and keep your hands where I can see them. I assure
you I am armed."
"You're making a mistake, Agent Mulder."
The voice was familiar and his gut rolled over. But he'd run across one
too many formerly dead acquaintances today to be too excited. "If she's dead or
hurt in any way, your biggest mistake will have been not remaining dead."
X turned and regarded him, keeping his hands on the roof of the car. The
young man was too easily agitated....
"She's alive. Merely drugged."
"Too bad we can't say the same for the guy in the elevator." He interrupted
X's reply, "Yeah, I know, I'm just a naive schoolboy who still insists on
calling murder 'murder' instead of 'business as usual.' Just part of my charm, I
guess." He nodded at Scully. "What do they want her for this time? They forget a
few tests? Want to do a follow-up? See if she has anything left they can
destroy?"
X did not answer.
Mulder's voice was quiet, flat and hard. "You know you're not taking her
out of here. I'll kill you were you stand."
X stepped away from the car, hands to his sides but still in plain sight.
"Now," he said. "Or later. It's all the same to me. And if not me, they'll send
someone else for her."
"Why? What do they want from her?" Mulder's voice cracked. He was trying
hard not to choke on the blood bubbling in the back of his throat.
X tilted his graying head, watching him. "They don't want anything from
her, Mr. Mulder. HER life is not important to them."
The words brought Mulder's rage up several levels and he felt his finger
tighten the trigger, felt the trigger responding. Then suddenly he hit that
plateau where his thoughts suddenly cooled and condensed, the excess blowing
away like steam when lava hits the sea. Cancerman's words echoed in his head,
light and laughing. He experienced a epiphany.
X stood motionless, watching the younger man's finger relax, watching
those intense eyes turn a sleepy, deep green. Mulder took a step back, his gun
level, his face visible only as a half-silvered image =
in a view finder. Mulder was smiling. Not the sweet smile of delight, but a
genuine smile nonetheless that made X shiver involuntarily.
"It's not her life that is important," Mulder repeated the phrase. X
waited. "But you seem to have a vested interest in mine, don't you?"
"Mr. Mulder--"
"I'm your tool, right? That's what you always said."
X nodded warily.
"Well, tonight we put that glove on the other hand, sir."
X stiffened. "You go to hell, Agent Mulder--"
"That's exactly where I plan on going." Mulder moved his weapon: the barrel
under his own chin, his finger still on the trigger.
X took an instinctive step forward, stopped. "What the HELL do you think
you're doing--"
"Dealing. We both know there are some lines I won't cross. I won't take
human life at random even to find the truth. But MY life is quite another
matter. That's a field on which I think I can handle being a player."
"No!"
"Why?" Mulder hissed, cold rage the only thing keeping him on his feet.
"Why is my life so important?"
X shook his head, shaking his fists in frustration. "You are the key!
Damnit, you die and the truth dies with you!"
"What do you care? What is the truth? Why is it important to you?"
The older man was sweating. He held his hands out to Mulder, palms down.
"You said you would deal. Just put the gun down and we'll talk."
"I'll leave the gun where it is and we'll still talk."
"Agent Mulder, you're bleeding--"
"And I'm about to bleed a hell of a lot more. What's it to you?
"Mr. Mulder," X growled, "you will NOT DO THIS."
Mulder regarded him dispassionately, tired. "I read once that once a
man's hit thirty, there's not a day that passes that he doesn't think about his
own death, at least at some level. It's what drives us forward. That day hit
me when I was twelve. So I've had at least as much time as you to get used to
the idea." He paused to breathe. It was getting harder. "This is no bluff. You
know better. How about it? What is it worth to you? What'll you give me for not
pulling the trigger?"
X was having an epiphany now. It seemed to be catching. He turned his gray
head to the motionless figure in the car.
Mulder nodded. "Now your catching on."
X looked back at him. "She lives," he said.
Mulder pushed. "She lives and she remains here with me. Untouched."
X regarded him. Mulder could almost see the gears turning behind those
dark, intelligent eyes. "You forget, Agent Mulder, I'm not the only player in
this game. Should--"
"Should someone else have any problem with the terms of our agreement,
you'll just have to convince them." Mulder's body was weakening, but his eyes
had not so much as blinked. "Anyone," he hissed, "Anyone touches her and it's
over."
X smiled. "But, think, man. If you blow yourself away, who would she have
left to rescue her?"
Mulder returned the smile. "I'll make those arrangements. Don't worry." He
paused to breathe again. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it. Now."
X straightened to his full height and regarded the pale shaking man with
eyes of cold steel. He nodded. "Her life is yours. She lives." His voice was
hard. "YOU live. And you KEEP MOVING."
Mulder lowered the gun, slumped against the column. He raised the site
again as X reached into his pocket. The black man showed him the cell phone,
punched in a number. Mulder slid to the floor and lost consciousness as X called
for emergency personnel to the garage level.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"But the seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart,
who hear the word, retain it, and by preserving produce fruit with patience."
The minister closed his book and looked up. "Let us join in a moment of
reverence for our dear brother, Walter Pitnam."
Mulder looked over at Scully; her head bowed, eyes closed, red hair glowing
in the sunlight. He bowed his own head to stare at the coffin being lowered
slowly into it's plot. He inhaled deeply, slowing the intake as a whisper of
pain shot through his chest. The hospital had released him only a few hours
before and he was still trying to assure Scully he was well enough to go home
alone.
She'd even suggested his calling one of the Lone Gunmen in to babysit. But
he'd talked to the guys two days ago, when he'd woken back in his hospital room,
tubes intact. All the tubes...
No, the Gunmen were working on... other things. Contingency plans.
They weren't his only ace in the hole, although he hadn't told them that.
Should they ever need to implement one of those plans, they would find a little
more help that they would have expected. Formidable help.
Mulder shook his head. It was so simple. He couldn't believe he hadn't
thought of it before.
Scully didn't know, of course. He could never tell her. She'd never
forgive him for connecting his life so completely with her own. Never stop
worrying over herself for his sake.
Since the cancer had gone into remission, she had reveled in her
independence, distancing herself emotionally from all the people she had relied
on through her illness. Especially him. It wasn't a conscious decision on her
part, certainly, but the fact that it was an unconscious reaction didn't make it
any less human, any less true. Any less painful. Right now, he was simply a
reminder of death. And she wanted to live.
And that's just what he wanted her to do. So he'd told her the kidnapper
was part of Wallace and Bruner's team. That he'd frightened the man off. That as
soon as he'd heard Wally and Bruner were dead, he would slip away into the
network of lies and disappear.
What was that Deep Throat had told him? That a lie was best hidden between
two truths?
He felt her hand reach over and settle itself into his. He peered out at
her sidelong from under dark lashes. Those brilliant liquid eyes asking if he
was okay. He closed his eyes, squeezed her hand gently, rubbing her fingertips
easily with his thumb.
* I'm fine, Scully. Everything's going to be okay.*
As she took his arm and he allowed her to lead him back to the car. She
looked down at the hand she held, quiet and strong. Alive. She wouldn't tell
him, of course. Wouldn't tell him that she was drugged motionless in the car
that night. Motionless but not unconscious. He wouldn't worry about her so much
if he believed she didn't know. And she knew he would never tell her for the
same reasons.
"Hey," he said, slipping into the driver's seat. "I never asked you how
Bill was doing."
"Oh, he's alright. Glad to be home, I think."
Mulder smiled. "I bet."
"He did strongly suggest that we both remain with the X-Files."
Mulder paused before turning the key, regarding her warily.
She smiled. "Apparently, he doesn't think Washington's tourism industry is
quite ready for us."
"So, which part of the weekend seems to have been the determining factor,
the Institute or St. Mary's Wilderness?"
"Apparently the Wilson House was a little more excitement that he's used
to.
He laughed. "Jeez, Scully, I can't take your family anywhere."
"That's just what Bill said."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was quiet. In a forest of virgin pine the hemlock bowed it's branches
against the wind and sun. A cloud passed lazily above, trekking across the sky
in leisurely fashion, gazing down at the lush land below. Spring was fast
approaching.
Grass pushed its way through the soft earth, wrapped around roots and
rock, reached up to tickle at the skeleton lying stretched full length upon the
ground. Dainty little foot bones rested very ladylike side-by-side. The remains
of outstretched arms warmed in the sunlight bathing the tree.
Winds whispered and branches responded in hushed tones high above. Far
below, the pale little remains lay quiet on an expanse of green.
And stared unblinking into the sun.

END
"To believe in one's dreams is to spend all of one's life asleep." --Chinese
proverb.

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