ISOMETRY
By syntax6





Two fifty-six a.m. Saturday night -- well, Sunday morning, really 
-- found Dana Scully shifting in the passenger seat of the Taurus 
to try to keep her rear end from going numb.  Somehow, errant 
sunflower seed shells had lodged in her underwear, and with Mulder 
sitting next to her, there was no discreet way to remedy the 
problem.  She kept one eye on the dilapidated warehouse down the 
street from them and one eye on the luminous green numbers that 
told her when she could swallow her next pill.  She had little 
hope of being discreet with that, either.

"Scully," Mulder said as he flicked another shell at the already-
brimming cup holder, "do you remember that time at Heuvelmans 
Lake?"

"I remember.  I remember the time *in* Heuvelmans Lake."

Mulder chuckled.  "We got dunked good, didn't we?  I can still 
remember the look on the Sheriff's face when --"

Scully leaned hear head back against the seat and let herself 
drift to the sound of his voice.  A few months ago, she would have 
worried that Mulder's sudden mention meant another trip to Georgia 
in a vain hope of sighting Big Blue, but not anymore.  

"Remember when" was Mulder's new favorite game.  He played it in 
the office and sometimes on the phone at night, but he always 
saved the really good rounds for evenings like this, when they sat 
hidden in dark alleys.  

An ad for Barnum and Bailey's on the radio:  "Hey, Scully.  
Remember when that guy came out of the ground at the circus freak 
funeral?"

A spider tiptoed across the windshield:  "Scully, do you remember 
those bugs in the National Forest?"

And then, with a sly, sideways glance:  "And the cockroaches in 
Massachusetts.  You remember them, don't you, Scully?  The ones I 
investigated with, uh, Dr. Berenbaum?  I told you not to come up 
there but you did anyway."

Yes, she would tell him, yes.  I remember.

The purpose of these jaunts down memory lane eluded her.  He kept 
them light and expansive, as if they were around a campfire 
telling adventure tales.  There was no push to make her shove 
back; no argument to crackle the air.  He wasn't out to make her 
believe in monsters, aliens or things that went bump in the night.  
Maybe, she fancied, this was how he kept his memory so fit -- 
regular exercise.  

Except he had never done this before.

Maybe it was a test to ensure that the cancer had not yet addled 
her brains.  If so, she gave him points for subtlety.  

Sudden pain crystallized behind her eyelids, shards that made her 
white-knuckle the armrest with one hand as she groped in her 
jacket pocket with the other.  Her shaking fingers found it -- 
relief in the form of a smooth plastic bottle.  She popped the lid 
still deep in the pocket, but Mulder heard the rattle.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine."  She didn't risk moving her eyes to look at him.  
Slow exhales and the nausea would fade.  Mulder set her water 
bottle in her hand as she withdrew the pills from her jacket.  
"Thanks," she managed, and then swallowed three in a row.

"Better?" he asked immediately.   As if the pills just magically 
exploded into her bloodstream.

"Better, yeah."  She backed it up with a direct look.

He blinked first, settling back into his seat.  "It's after three.  
I don't think this guy's going to show."

"What a surprise.  Anonymous tips are usually so reliable."  It 
came out sharper than she intended, fuelled by the lightning hot 
pain in her head.  She forced herself to relax her clenched jaw.  
"Let's give it another fifteen minutes."

She felt more than saw his nod.  A second later, the seed 
crunching renewed.  She rested her head against the windowpane, 
which was cold from the night air and fogged from all of Mulder's 
remembering.  With one finger, she traced a line through the 
condensation until it amassed into a single tear that trickled 
down into the door.

"Jeez, what a mess," she heard him mutter.  The air stirred as he 
brushed off his coat.  "Scully, you remember when I tried to 
change the toner cartridge in our copier myself?  Last time I mess 
with one of those fuckers."

"No," she murmured, only half-listening.

"C'mon, you must remember.  It was right after you came.  I got 
ink all over myself and the copier and you helped me clean it up.  
You said I reminded you of those old kid's jokes -- what's black 
and white and red all over."

"The toner was red?"

"No, my face was."  But the levity was gone from his tone; he 
sounded impatient, almost angry.  "C'mon, you really don't 
remember?"

"Mulder, I told you I don't remember."  She sat up.  "Pardon me if 
I don't recollect every mess you've made over the years."

He persisted.  "It was raining that day, I think.  The ink was 
going to run if I got wet."

"If you say so."  The pounding in her head had not receded.  She 
massaged her temples with one hand.

"I was wearing that red tie with the yellow circles --"

Jesus, enough already.  "Mulder!"

He stopped.

"I believe it happened, okay?  You don't have to give me a full 
report.  I believe you."

"But you should remember, Scully.  You were the only one there."

She drew a sharp breath, like a pinch in her lungs.  So that was 
it.  All his aimless recollections weren't so haphazard after all, 
she realized with abrupt illumination.  They were stories just the 
two of them shared, each to bear witness for the other.

If an FBI agent sticks his finger in unknown goo and his partner 
isn't there to see it...

She sighed.  "I'm sorry," she said, laying hand on the rough 
warmth of his wool coat.  "I'm sure it was very...dramatic."

"S'okay."  He shrugged.  "It was stupid.  Probably better that you 
don't remember."

"I remember you covered head to toe in bile.  Does that count?"

He scrunched his face as if smelling the incident all over again.  
"I wish neither one of us had to remember that," he said, and she 
smiled.  She gave his arm a squeeze before pulling her hand away.

"It's three fifteen," she said.

"Yeah.  There was nothing in the warehouse anyway.  If the 
Crawfords were ever working an operation out of here, they've been 
long gone."

Don't say it, she willed him silently.  Please, please don't say 
it.

"Sorry, Scully."

Her shoulder slumped a bit, heavy under his words.  She wished 
backward to a time when he never dared say them out loud.  "It's 
not the first time we've chased a dead lead," she answered.

He started the car.  "We still have that sighting in Oklahoma the 
boys told us about.  That could be something."

Could be.  Except it never was.

Mulder drove them back through the empty streets and she watched 
as the roar of the defroster stole their breath from the windows.

~*~*~*~*~*~

One of the most bizarre side effects of her cancer was that it had 
turned Monday into her favorite day of the week.  Fridays were now 
treatment days, at least twice a month, but weekends gave her time 
to regroup.  Monday seemed happy to see her, too, all crisp, cold 
air and bright sunshine.  Scully commemorated the occasion with a 
stop at the bakery on her way in to work.  For herself she ordered 
coffee and a raspberry croissant, and as an afterthought she 
picked up a lopsided blueberry muffin for Mulder.  

With the paper cup of coffee burning in her hand, she made her way 
down the basement stairs.  The office door was open and she could 
hear Mulder inside talking to someone.  Someone live, she 
realized.  Not the phone.

Outside of Skinner and the janitorial staff, they didn't get many 
visitors.  The X-Files didn't exactly make it onto the Bureau tour 
route.

Scully slowed her steps in the hall to see if she could identify 
the foreign voice, but she couldn't place it.  It was a woman, 
well spoken with a hint of a Southern accent.  Scully caught 
something about the Yeti; Mulder laughed.

"Hello," Scully said as she entered.  The woman was sitting in the 
chair by Mulder's desk.  Two coffee cups sat between them, and 
Scully could make out the remnants of what seemed to be powdered 
donuts.  Mulder still had a white smudge on the corner of his 
mouth.

"Hey," he greeted, swinging his feet down from the desk.  "Miranda 
Westfall, this is my partner, Dana Scully.  Scully, meet Miranda 
Westfall.  She's a professor at Johns Hopkins." 

The only Miranda that Scully knew was the one in the police 
warning, so that was the association she made.  "Hello," she 
repeated.

Professor Westfall stood up, revealing her full height.  She 
nearly equaled Mulder.  In her black turtleneck, boots and long, 
denim skirt she was a commanding figure.  Scully adjusted her cup 
and bag so she could shake hands.  In moving closer, she noticed 
that Westfall, despite her darker coloring, seemed to wear the 
exact same shade of lipstick she did.  Not a wise choice.  "Agent 
Scully," Professor Westfall said warmly.  "Of course.  It's nice 
to meet you."

Her familiarity suggested to Scully that she ought to recognize 
the woman, or at least place her name.  Maybe I am losing it, she 
thought.  "Westfall...you say you're a professor?"

"I say it as often as I can," she answered with a smile.  "I'm 
still trying to convince myself."  

Scully recalled those days well, when she'd looked in the mirror 
and tried to match the phrase "FBI agent" with the woman who still 
looked sixteen years old.  "New job?" she asked as she pulled over 
a third chair.

"Just started last year.  You know how it can take forever to get 
that PhD."

"Indeed," said Scully, though she'd gotten hers in just three.

"Professor Westfall teaches a class on Science, Myth and 
Mysticism," Mulder said.

That explains the Yeti, Scully thought.  Aloud she said, "And 
which one did you get your PhD in?"

Professor Westfall laughed.  "My PhD is actually in the philosophy 
of science.  But I was a chemistry major as an undergrad."

Mulder shot Scully a gleeful look -- bet wrong, didn't you?  She 
ignored him.  "What brings you here to the FBI?" she asked.

"Shameful pandering."

Scully lowered her coffee cup and raised her eyebrows. 

"There's still donuts here if you want one," Mulder said.  He'd 
managed to wipe off his face.

"Thanks, I'm fine."

"I figured a food bribe would help," Professor Westfall said.  
"And that's why I drove down here instead of calling again.  I was 
hoping that I could get one or both of you to come talk to my 
class.  Your work is exactly the kind of thing we're discussing, 
and it would be great for them to see how we're still grappling 
with the tension between western science and the unexplained."

"You're familiar with the X-Files then," Scully said.

"Somewhat.  I read my 'Post' thoroughly.  The two of you show up 
on the back pages quite often.  And then there's the Internet."

Scully winced.  "Of course."

"I wish I could tell you there's a big honorarium in it for you, 
but the best I can offer is a dinner in a nice restaurant.  It 
wouldn't have to be a formal, prepared lecture, though.  I just 
thought the students would enjoy hearing about your work."

Scully tried to imagine how she would have reacted to her and 
Mulder as an undergraduate.  Scoffing disbelief probably didn't 
begin to cover it.  But then, as undergraduate there was no way 
she would have been caught dead enrolled in a class entitled 
"Science, Myth and Mysticism."

Too bad, she thought.  Would have been the most useful thing I 
could have taken.

Mulder cleared his throat and leaned forward across the desk.  "I 
was just explaining to Professor Westfall that we can't take the 
time right now."

"Why not?" This was her job, was it not, to take the other side?

Mulder looked confused.  "Scully, the work...we have that lead..."  
His voice softened.  "We have to follow through.  We can't afford 
to take time away."

Oh, he almost had her.  That he truly believed the next tip, the 
next whisper on the phone, the next man in the shadows would 
answer all the secrets and somehow make her well again always 
melted her resolve.  The strength of Mulder's beliefs was a force 
to be reckoned with indeed.

"It's one afternoon."  She looked at Professor Westfall.  "Right?"

"Right.  Preferably Friday the 26th, but I'm flexible."

Perfect, thought Scully.  "I have an appointment then," she said, 
"but Mulder, you should go."

"No."  He gave a vehement shake of his head and folded his arms 
across his chest.

"You're much better at this sort of thing anyway."  She glanced at 
Professor Westfall.  "He's really the one you want."

"We can postpone," the woman said.  "Perhaps another Friday..."

Scully shook her head.  "No, really.  It's fine."

"I don't want to go without you," Mulder protested.

Scully regarded him.  And that's the problem, she thought with a 
pang.  You just might have to.  "Go," she said.  "Tell them about 
the man-eating Flukeworm."

Mulder hesitated a minute, then smiled.  "That is always a crowd 
pleaser."

"It's settled then," Professor Westfall said with a pleased smile.  
"The class starts at two thirty and runs until five after five, 
but you don't have to talk to the full time if you don't want."

"We have enough material to last through a dozen lectures," 
Mulder said, clearly warming to the idea.  "Hey, Scully, you 
remember that time we got caught in a frog rainstorm?"

"Toads," she corrected, but Mulder wasn't listening.  He'd turned 
his body towards Professor Westfall.

"It was the most amazing thing.  One minute, it's just rain, and 
the next minute these animals are pelting us from the sky."

"Really!  I can't wait to hear all about it, but I'm afraid I've 
got to run if I'm going to make my lecture for today.  I still 
haven't prepared the overheads."  She stood and gathered her coat.  
"Thanks so much for doing this.  I'm sure you'll be a big hit with 
the crowd."

"Let me walk you out," Mulder said, coming from around his desk.  
"You can give me directions on how to find you."

"Would you?  I got lost twice on my way down here."

"Back in a sec, Scully."

She raised her hand to show she heard.  "Nice meeting you, Agent 
Scully.  I do hope you'll come talk to the class some other time."

"I'll think about it, thanks."

As they left, Scully could hear Mulder continuing the toad story.  
She finished her coffee, but her croissant sat untouched in the 
bag.  Swivelling her chair around, she studied the office filled 
with wild pictures and incredible souvenirs from cases past.  
Mulder would give a good talk.

In the corner sat the copier.

"I was wearing the red tie with yellow circles --"  Yes. Mulder 
brushing more ink onto himself even as he tried to wipe it off.  
Her laughing.  It was the first time she'd seen him without his 
shirt off.  Of course.

"Yes," she told the empty room.  "I remember."

CHAPTER 2

Only when he sat still long enough to hear the thoughts in his 
head did Mulder acknowledge the irony of his situation.  Here was 
his main skill, his gift of intuition, honed through years of 
practice to a laser-sharp power of observation, and now Scully had 
rendered him blind.  He had become a kind of Mr. Magoo, bumbling 
around with his too-loud narrative and his too-bright enthusiasm.  
Why, no, he hadn't seen the pill bottle come out three times in 
one day!  Half-finished lunch?  Missed that, too.  Head down, 
distracted by papers, talking to the ceiling as she dabbed at her 
nose -- he'd mastered the art of looking the other way.

Except like now, when he had no other place to look.  

Their flight from New York was half-empty, and he'd already 
memorized the blue and gold diamond pattern on the seat in front 
of him.  Scully had the window but she wasn't using it.  She'd 
been asleep before they were airborne and hadn't so much as 
twitched since then.  As often as he'd teased her about her 
ability to sleep anywhere, it wasn't like her to conk out so 
dramatically at four pm on a Thursday afternoon.  

The sun streaming in caught the edge of her red-gold lashes.  He 
walked his fingers across the empty seat between them until he met 
her limp hand.  Gently, he brushed the papery skin that covered 
her fine bones.  She curled her fingers around him like an infant 
would but did not stir.  He let her hold him until the plane began 
its descent.

"Hey," he said, tapping the center of her palm.  "Scully, we're 
here."

She sat up with a jerk, pulling her hand away. "Hmmm?"

"Home sweet home."

She blinked.  "I always forget how short this flight is," she said 
as she checked her watch.

"It helps when you're unconscious."

"Beats reading the in-flight magazine," she countered, not taking 
the bait.

He pulled a magazine out and waved it in her direction.  "Hey, 
there's some quality merchandise in here.  I purchased an electric 
toothbrush and a knife that can cut through diamonds."

She didn't give him even a token smile, instead fussing with lap 
belt.  He did an excellent job of not noticing when she cinched it 
a notch tighter.  "It's a good that the storm held off," she said 
a minute later.  "Now you won't miss your lecture tomorrow."

"And you won't miss your, um, appointment."  He tested the waters 
using their agreed-upon oblique language.  He had no idea what 
sort of poking or prodding she endured at the hospital, and Scully 
seemed to prefer it that way.

"I could have easily rescheduled," was all she said.  End of 
discussion.  A part of him unclenched in relief; what she didn't 
tell him, he didn't have to know.  

The plane touched down and they did the commuter shuffle down the 
ramp with the rest of the weary travelers.  Mulder wondered how it 
was that the fast food kiosks and concession stands always seemed 
more welcoming in National Airport.  That's when you know you've 
done too much traveling, he thought grimly.  Joe's Hot Dogs starts 
to look like home.

"Hey, Scully, you want to grab something to eat?"

She did a double take at the hot dog stand.  "Now?"

"No, on the way home.  We could get a pizza or something."

"A pizza."  The frowny lines appeared between her eyebrows, and he 
regretted his offer.  "No, Mulder, I don't think so.  I have a lot 
of work to do tonight."

He rubbed his eyes with a tired hand.  "Fine, then I'll just drop 
you off."

"I'll take a cab."

"Scully -- "

"It's out of your way."

"I don't mind."

"I do."  She grabbed her bag from the luggage carousel.  Hers 
always seemed to come off the plane first.  He watched her 
manoeuvre it with ease, lifting it high and down in one smooth 
motion.  "Good luck with your lecture," she said.  "I'll see you 
on Monday."

His battered bag clunked down onto the carousel, and a crush of 
people surround him to meet the latest batch.  By the time he'd 
retrieved his luggage, Scully had disappeared into the crowd.  
Mulder ducked his head.  "Yeah," he said.  "See you." 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Somewhere along the line, his door had developed a haunted house 
creak.  It shuddered as he yanked his key free, then yielded with 
a groan, leaving him staring down the dark maw of his apartment.  
He kicked his bag with enough force to nudge it over the threshold 
and flung his keys in the direction of the coffee table. 

They missed.

Flicking the nearest light switch, he ambled over to the fish tank 
still in his overcoat.  "Hey guys," he said as he tapped the 
glass.  "Everyone still alive in there?"

They swished to and fro, mouths moving in silent clamor as they 
raced each other to the bubbling top.  "I solved the case," he 
told them while he sprinkled in some food.  Maude paused to give 
him the fish-eye but Harold kept right on chowing.

Mulder replaced the lid and shrugged off his coat.  No sooner had 
he tossed it aside when his phone rang, forcing him to pick the 
coat up again to dig the it from his pocket.  The glowing numbers 
were not Scully's.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Agent Mulder?  It's Miranda Westfall calling."

The lecture.  Right.  "Professor, hi," he said, sinking down onto 
the couch.  His bones gave a creak that would match his door.  
"What can I do for you?"

"I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?"

A bad time, Mulder thought.  That was one way to describe his life 
these days.  "No, it's fine.  I just got in."

"Oh! I tried you at the office and they said you were out in the 
field.  I don't mean to trouble you --"

"It's no trouble."

"--but I just wanted to see if you were still able to lecture 
tomorrow."

"Of course."  He forced some animation into his voice.  "I'm 
looking forward to it."

"So are we.  I mentioned the possibility of the man-eating 
flukeworm, and the students were all very excited."

Mulder allowed himself a small smile.  "That's because they didn't 
have to roll around in the sewer with it."

"You're kidding."

"I wish.  Listen, I'm glad they're excited.  I'll be sure to start 
with that, then."

"Terrific." She paused, and her voice took on a hint of teasing.  
"So you're back from another case.  Should I be looking for you 
and Agent Scully in the Post tomorrow?"

"No, you can skip the fine print this time.  We were in New York 
working a series of murders in a Hasidic Jewish community.  
Somehow I don't think that's likely to make the news on Capitol 
Hill."

"Ouch.  Sounds like a hard case."

Was it?  Not by X-Files standards, it hadn't been, but that didn't 
explain the strange ache that plagued him still.  He and Scully 
escaped unscathed this time.  So why did he feel as though someone 
had wrung out his insides like a sponge?  "Revenge murder with a 
twist," he said eventually.  "The twist being that the original 
murder victim was the one exacting the revenge."

Professor Westfall didn't even blink.  "Ghost?"

"Golem."

"Oh, I've read about that," she said, "and not just in the Jewish 
texts.  There's a long tradition in many religions of those kinds 
of myths, where someone is brought back out of love only to have 
things go terribly wrong.  Today these stories survive as bad TV 
movies and Stephen King novels, but they're still with us."

Mulder actually pulled his phone from his ear to stare at it a 
second.  "So you believe in this sort of thing."

"Well, it does sound incredible, and I've always taken these tales 
as more metaphor than fact.  But I suppose it makes sense in a 
way," she mused. "If you posit the existence of a soul -- a spirit 
without form -- then the opposite should exist as well."  

"Not everyone posits the same way you do."

She laughed.  "I learned that a long time ago, Agent Mulder.  
Someone keyed the words 'hippie freak' into my car a couple of 
months ago.  The campus police investigated the students, but 
frankly I suspect it was a member of the faculty."

"Really?"

"Let's face it, no one in the eighteen to twenty-two age bracket 
uses the word 'hippie.'"

Mulder grinned.  "Point taken."

"And I was hired into a tenure track position against a few 
strenuous objections from people outside the department.  But I'm 
hoping my large enrollment and positive evaluations will vindicate 
me in the end."

"So I'm a ratings stunt, that's what you're saying?"

"Let's just say that tomorrow I expect unusually high attendance 
for a Friday afternoon class."

"Uh huh.  It all becomes clear."

"No, really," she protested through more laughter, "it's not hard 
to get them in the seats.  This material has the same resonance 
for them as it would for anyone.  Take your golem, for example.  
Who hasn't wished they could bring back a lost loved one just 
through sheer force of will?  Anyone who has mourned a 
grandparent, a friend or even a pet can identify with that."

"Yes."  He sat up and let his eyes wander around his shadowed 
apartment.  "You sound like you speak from experience."

"Of course," she answered softly.  "Even hippie freaks are human, 
you know.  You're telling me you don't know the feeling?"

Like a genie, her words conjured it up again -- a slithery smoke 
that started in the pit of his stomach. Helplessness wafting so 
thick it choked.  The constriction of terror as it squeezed him 
from the inside out.  Every night the same fevered dream and the 
chant that never left his mind -- bring her back bring her back -- 
anything, I'll do anything.  No more teasing.  No more taunts.  

*I will not do anything wrong ever again* written to fill 1000 
pages.

Star light, star bright.

"Uh, of course," he said, groping for words like a man in 
quicksand.  "I know.  Except...except in my case it didn't work."

Until it did, the hiss continued.  About twenty years later.

"No," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," he said.  "Nothing."  He stood up and walked around his 
coffee table.  
"I'm sorry, I should go."

"Of course.  Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

He clicked off the phone and tossed it on the couch, continuing 
his aimless pacing.  It wasn't the same at all, he reasoned.  Not 
at all.

Anythinganythingatall.  Middle of the night promises made on tear-
stained sheets.  Begging, bargaining, shouting into the wind.  

Star light, star bright.

 -- is anybody listening?  

Three months later, there she was again.  Taped up and 
reassembled.  Rough around the edges but just about the same, 
right?  Close enough for sure.  

Be careful what you wish for.

~*~*~*~*~


Scully sat up in her hospital bed, concentrating on smoothing out 
all the wrinkles from the blanket around her.  It was softer than 
the ones she was used to from her visits over the years, made 
special for patients whose skin might be worn thin from toxic 
drugs or dried out from radiation.  She had studied all the 
treatments from the instant she'd been diagnosed, but no printed 
words could capture the reality of being cooked from the inside 
out.  No one had mentioned the fact that your body could become so 
conditioned to the dizziness and nausea that it started sending 
them along earlier, just at the sight of the pale blue hallways or 
the wisp of the cotton gown against your skin.

"Knock-knock," a woman called on the other side of the door.  
Scully drew her knees up to her chest, undoing all her hard work 
eliminating the wrinkles.

"Come in."

Her oncologist, Vanessa Alton, entered the room carrying a 
clipboard in her hand.  She was a willowy woman, with quick, dark 
eyes and high cheekbones that suggested her Masai ancestry.  
Scully knew from overheard talk in the waiting room that some 
people did not like Dr. Alton's bedside manner.  "She's a 
little...fierce for me," one woman had confided when Scully 
mentioned Alton was her oncologist.  "It's almost like she's going 
to war."

Exactly, Scully had thought.  And in a war, she wanted Dr. Vanessa 
Alton on her side. 

"Good afternoon," Dr. Alton said as she dragged a stool over to 
the bed.  "How are you doing today?"

"Okay."

Dr. Alton scanned the information that the nurse had jotted down 
earlier.  "Blood pressure is good.  Any nosebleeds this week?"

"No."

"Great."  Dr. Alton looked up.  "How about at work?  How are you 
holding up there?"

Scully felt herself flush as she remembered her hasty retreat from 
the airport last night.  She'd poured herself into a cab and 
managed to give her address before passing out again.  The poor 
driver had had to shake her awake at her apartment stoop.  

"I'm all right."  When Dr. Alton looked skeptical, Scully 
straightened herself and tried to sound more convincing.  "Really.  
It's going okay.  I'm just a little tired."

Dr. Alton glanced at her records again.  "You've lost another 
three pounds," she said, not unkindly.  "No wonder you're tired."

Just the thought of food made Scully's stomach pitch and roll.  "I 
eat."

"You need to eat more.  Is it the nausea that's a problem?"

"Not...not usually."  How to explain the extreme exhaustion she 
faced every night?  It took every ounce of energy she had to 
complete a day at work, and heading into the kitchen to slice and 
dice when she got home was just more than she could handle.

Dr. Alton was still watching her, apparently waiting for 
elaboration.  "I eat," Scully repeated.  "I'm not just not very 
hungry these days."

"Understandable.  But it's important to keep your strength up.  
Try eating smaller portions more often, okay?  Set an alarm to 
remind you if you need.  And here's another tip:  share meals with 
others when you can."  She smiled.  "We tend to eat more when we 
have company."

Scully dropped her gaze.  "Okay, thanks."

"Now about the pain meds.  Janet wrote here that you need a refill 
already?  Maybe we should try something else if these aren't 
getting it done for you."

"They're fine."

"Dana."  Dr. Alton touched her arm.

Scully looked up reluctantly.  Stronger meds meant stronger side 
effects.  How long before she had to quit working?  How long until 
they just switched to morphine and let her die?

"You can lie to yourself if you want," Dr. Alton said.  "But if 
you lie to me I can't help you."

Scully hesitated.  She hugged her knees.  "Okay," she said.  "What 
else have you got?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

All the murmuring ceased as Mulder entered the classroom in front 
of Miranda Westfall.  He halted under the power of sixty pairs of 
curious eyes and leaned backwards to whisper, "These are college 
kids?  They look like they should be home watching 'Sesame 
Street.'"

She patted him on the shoulder.  "I know.  It's terrible.  What's 
worse is that they look younger every year.  Here, let me set 
those up for you."  She took his slides from him and went to the 
projector booth at the back of the small auditorium.  "Class, this 
is Agent Fox Mulder from the X-Files division of the FBI."

Mulder raised his hand in acknowledgment.  He backed up until he 
felt the lectern hit him from behind.  The class snickered.  "Hey, 
everyone.  It's, uh, nice to be here.  Been a long time since I 
was in a college class."

"Do you have to go to a special college to be in the FBI?" one 
girl called out.

"No, you can go to college anywhere.  The FBI academy will train 
you once you graduate."

"Does the FBI really investigate ghosts?" another girl asked.

The skinny boy sitting next to her gave her a swift elbow.  "Not 
ghosts, *aliens*."

Mulder shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands in his 
pockets.  "Well, actually, we do a little bit of everything.  The 
X-Files unit was created to investigate cases in which traditional 
techniques have failed to provide any answers."

"Like ghosts," the girl said with satisfaction.

"Exactly."  At that point, Professor Westfall got the projector 
working and a faint picture of the giant fluke worm appeared on 
the screen behind him.  "Instead of me telling you what we do," 
Mulder said, "why don't I show you?"

The lights dimmed.

"This is a photo taken about three years ago.  Initially it wasn't 
an X-File at all.  We were responding to reports of a creature, 
perhaps an alligator, that was attacking sewer workers in New 
Jersey.  As you can see, what we found was anything but an 
alligator."

He looked out at a sea of scrunched faces staring at the screen.  
Some of them had tilted their heads to the side.  "Bites on the 
victims revealed marks consistent with a fluke worm -- only much, 
much larger."

"But it's got human eyes," said one student.

"It had a lot of human characteristics," Mulder agreed.  "We 
hypothesized it might be some kind of hybrid."

A hand shot up from the front row.  Mulder squinted around the 
projector light and saw a petite girl with her black hair cut 
short in a perfect straight line.  She regarded him from behind 
large owlish glasses.  "Did you do genetic typing?" she asked.

"Uh, no.  We didn't get a chance.  It was being transported for 
further testing when it...escaped."

There was a collective gasp from the class, but the girl in the 
front row was unfazed.  "If you didn't do any genetic testing, 
then you can't say for sure it was a hybrid."

Mulder dropped his chin to concede her point.  "No, we can't say 
that for sure.  Our best guess is that the mutant was a result of 
the Chernobyl disaster since the incident reports suggest its 
origins were in the Russian sea."

"But radiation shouldn't cause DNA from one creature to combine 
with another," the girl said.  "It simply mutates the DNA within a 
single specimen."

"Gina," someone from the back groaned.  "Give it a rest, already."

"I don't mind," said Mulder.  "We don't have that much experiences 
with the levels of radiation seen in the Chernobyl accident, so we 
don't really know the extent of the damage that can occur.  And 
wouldn't you allow it's possible, given how genetically similar 
all carbon-based organisms are, that DNA mutation within one 
creature could cause it to resemble something else entirely?  
Something genetically related?"

Gina frowned.  "I suppose it's possible."

Mulder nodded with satisfaction and hit the button for the next 
slide.  "Now this one..."

"But a man and a flukeworm aren't that genetically related."

"Gina!" the class yelled.

"Maybe you should save more questions on this subject for after 
Agent Mulder is finished," Professor Westfall said.  Gina folded 
her arms over her chest and said nothing.

Mulder turned back to the screen, hiding a smile.  "This slide 
here is from a hotel room where the occupant mysteriously 
vanished.  All we found was the ash-like print you see there on 
the floor."

"Spontaneous human combustion!" one of the boys said.  
"Cool!"

"Well, sort of, yes," Mulder said, turning back to the class.  
"What we found was..."  He stopped when he saw Gina's hand in the 
air.  "Yes, Gina?"

"There doesn't seem to be anything there but a large dark stain.  
It could be ash from anything, or even ink.  Did you analyze a 
sample for human remains?"

"As a matter of fact, we did.  We analyzed several samples and all 
were consistent with the residue of burned human flesh."

"I don't suppose you had them tested for accelerant, too?"

"I suppose we did.  None found."

"Was the victim an alcoholic?  With a high enough blood alcohol 
content, perhaps --"

"GINA!" everyone around her hollered in unison.  

Mulder just laughed.  "No, she's right," he told the class, 
feeling lighter than he had in months.  "It's important to ask 
questions.  Let me see how many of them I can answer, okay?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully paused for breath before putting on her sweater.  The 
treatment was over, but the agony was just beginning.  Her skin 
felt like a blanket of lead weighing her down.

Dr. Alton entered.  "Hey, you made it through another round.  Good 
for you."

"When do we see if it's working?"  Scully sat gingerly on the edge 
of the bed.

"We'll do another scan next month to assess any progress. Right 
now it's still too soon to tell."  She gave Scully a concerned 
frown.  "You look awfully pale, Dana.  How are you getting home?"

Taxi, Scully thought.  It was probably already waiting outside.  
"Uh, my mom is meeting me downstairs."

"You want me to get her?  Have her help you out?"  Dr. Alton was 
already turning to leave.

"NO!  No, I'm fine.  I'll just meet her in the lobby."

"Okay, then.  Call me if you have questions.  Otherwise, I'll see 
you in two weeks."

Scully nodded, forcing herself to pay attention to the other 
woman's words.  They seemed slowed down in her head, like playing 
a record at half speed.  She bid goodbye to Dr. Alton and was 
relieved when the elevator was blessedly empty and silent.  She 
leaned against the cool wood paneling and waited for the ding to 
signal her to move again.

Outside, it was drizzling, but her taxi sat idling with its heater 
running.  She climbed inside and gave her address.   The leathery 
smell of the interior made her stomach clench, and for a few 
minutes she had to concentrate on not being sick.  At last the 
feeling subsided.  Closing her eyes, she rested, listening to the 
cars swoosh past on the wet street. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Fantastic!"  Professor Westfall was beaming at him, and Mulder 
found himself grinning back.  It wasn't often someone looked at 
him with such naked appreciation.

"It went okay?" he asked her as the students filed out around 
them.

"It went great."  She grabbed his hands and squeezed.  "Thank you 
so much for doing this.  I really enjoyed it, and I know the 
students did, too."

"It was fun."  The word tasted strange on his tongue, like a 
foreign berry picked just under ripe. 

"Sorry about the rough time Gina gave you.  I should have 
mentioned she's a live wire."

Mulder glanced over at the small body loading giant textbooks into 
her backpack.  She paused to push her glasses up on her nose.  He 
caught her eye and smiled.  "It's okay," he said, turning back to 
Professor Westfall.  "I like her."

"I do, too.  She keeps me honest.  Listen, I have a couple of 
quick things to do around here and then I owe you a dinner.  You 
want dress up Italian or slightly grungy pub?"

"Grunge sounds great."

"My kind of man.  C'mon, I'll show you around the department."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully let herself into her apartment and shrugged off her coat.  
When it slid from the hook and crumpled to the floor, she gave it 
a long, baleful glance but decided to leave it there.  The energy 
required to bend down and pick it up might be all she had left in 
her.  She used it to walk to the bedroom, where the shades were 
still drawn from the night before.  Or was it the night before 
that?  

She took off her shoes and climbed under the covers.  The room 
spun around for several nauseating seconds.  She kept her head 
still as she reached for the phone.   "Hi, Mom," she said, a 
minute later.  "Yes, I'm home.  It went fine.  Yes.  Yes.  I'll 
eat in a bit, okay?  Yes, Mulder picked me up.  Everything is 
fine."

Her mother chattered on until it made Scully's teeth hurt just to 
listen.  "Mom, I've got to go.  I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

She clicked off the phone and curled up with it under her chin.  
Her bedside clock read quarter to six.  She forced her eyes to 
stay open despite the fact that her hands twitched from fatigue.  
Mulder would be calling soon to make sure everything was all 
right.  Every Friday he called after treatment.  Must be awake for 
that.  He would call and she would say she was fine.  Just like 
always.


CHAPTER THREE

"This is the place," Miranda said, and pulled him into a narrow 
brick entryway.  She paused to shake cold rain from their shared 
umbrella.  The damp air had revived the scent of her shampoo, 
breathing spring into their cramped quarters even as fat winter 
drops fell from the ends of their coats.   Her arm slid across his 
middle when she reached for the door handle.  "Always sticks in 
the rain," she said, giving the heavy wooden door a hard yank.  

"Here."  Mulder looped his arm over her head and grabbed the 
frozen handle.  One sharp tug sent the door flying open and 
Miranda stumbling back against him.  He jumped but she flashed him 
a smile.

"Thanks."

Inside, she unwound her scarf as he took in the atmosphere.  Black 
and white pictures of Baltimore from the sixties decorated on the 
walls, camouflaging paint that had yellowed with smoke and age.   
A lone ceiling fan stirred air that smelled of old wood, stale 
heat and wet woolen clothes.   Mulder crunched a few scattered 
peanut shells as he moved to check out the items on a nearby 
shelf.  Bowling trophy, 1983.  A windup monkey with a bass drum, 
and a beer stein that could have easily held twenty-two pints.   
He smiled and tapped the monkey's drum.

"Hey, Doll.  I've missed your face around here.  How you been?"   

Mulder turned at the voice and found Miranda leaning across the 
bar to squeeze the man behind it.  The low hanging lights caught 
his bald head in full shine.  "Good, Win," Miranda replied.  "I've 
been good.  Insanely busy but good.  Listen, I want you to meet 
someone."  

She stretched a hand back, and Mulder ambled over to her.  "Win, 
this is Fox Mulder from the FBI.  Agent Mulder, may I present Win 
Flynn, owner and proprietor of Carly's Pub."

Flynn folded his beefy arms across his chest and cocked his head 
at Mulder.  "Fox," he said.  "You don't say."

"You're right, I don't say," Mulder agreed pointedly.  "I'm 
Mulder."

Flynn grinned.  "I hear you.  Winston's no prize either.  Call me 
Win."

"Not Carly?" Mulder asked, and Flynn roared.

"Carly's my daughter.  Her mother used to give me hell for naming 
a pub after a six year old, let me tell you.  But she ain't six 
anymore.  My baby got married last year and moved to Buffalo, so 
now I've got to make do with the likes of this one."  He nodded at 
Miranda.

"My apartment is three blocks from here," she explained to Mulder.  
"Win, we're going to take the booth in the corner, okay?"

"It's all yours, Doll."

"He seems nice," Mulder said as they walked towards the back.  

"Yeah, I stop in whenever I need a lecture about how I should get 
out more or how I'm not eating right.  The fact that Win's 
dispensing this advice over a plate stacked with onion rings 
doesn't seem to lessen the passion of his message."  
She stopped at the booth and eyed him.  "You're not one of those 
guys who needs to sit facing the TV, are you?"

Mulder looked up to see that ESPN was muted above them.  "My 
season doesn't start for another few months," he said as he slid 
across the scarred wooden bench.

"Ah, a baseball fan.  The Orioles look like they might actually do 
something this year."

A waitress dropped off their beer and Mulder sipped his Black and 
Tan.  "No, it'll be the Yankees all the way."

Miranda leaned over the table at him.  "The Yankees!  Didn't you 
say you grew up in Boston?  Pinstripes are persona non grata 
there." 

Mulder shrugged and smiled.  "I enjoy living dangerously."

"You know, I sensed that about you," she said, giving him an 
appraising look.  

"Yeah?" He straightened in his seat.  Women usually sensed he was 
crazy, not dangerous.

"Yeah," she said, pretending to think.  "You mentioned something 
about you wrestling around in a sewer with a giant fluke worm?  
That's either dangerous or stupid, and my mother always said to be 
charitable, so..."

He tossed a peanut shell at her.  "How's that for dangerous?"

She ducked.  "For a man with a gun, you sure have crappy aim."  
She flicked a shell from the table, catching him square on the 
chin.

"Returned fire," he said as he picked up a handful of peanuts.  
"Now I'm authorized to kill."  She laughed and tried to fend off 
the rapid succession of 
shells he pelted in her direction, her long legs knocking against 
his under the 
table.  He tried to pin her in one place with his knees, but she 
squirmed free.

"OKAY, OKAY!" she cried at last.  "Truce." 

"There is no truce in the FBI.  This would be the part where I 
break out the 
handcuffs."

She arched an eyebrow at him.  "That might not be so bad."

"What?"  Mulder halted his fiddling with the shells and pulled his 
hands into his 
lap.  SEX! his mind supplied, complete with helpful images.  SEX.  
It had been so 
long for him that sex seemed like one of those impossible theories 
he and Scully 
always argued about.  "I, uh...um."

"Oh, jeez."  She shook her head and gave him a rueful smile.  "I 
didn't 
mean...sometimes I just say the first thing that pops into my 
head.  Gets me in 
trouble all the time.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean anything by it."

"Right."  Mulder gave a short nod to indicate he had known it all 
along.  His mind 
didn't give up hope so easily, however, and kept circulating 
distant memories of 
skin on skin.

"For all I know, you've got a girlfriend at home with a ring on 
her finger."

Mulder traced the lip of his beer glass.  "Uh, no."

"No ring?"

"No girlfriend."  Just the words were enough to evaporate the porn 
show running in his head, as though his neurons realized it was a 
hopeless cause.

"Huh."  She sipped her beer.  "I could have sworn you were taken.  
I'm pretty good at guessing these things, you know."  She held the 
glass to her chin and studied him through narrowed eyes.  "What 
about Agent Scully?"

"She's not..."  He coughed.  "She's not seeing anyone either."

Scully has sex with men from bars, his brain started up again.  
You're the only loser in this equation.  You stay home and jerk 
off while she goes out in her fuck me shoes and drinks tequila 
shooters until her eyes go wild and his hands move up the inside 
of her thigh and she likes it and then he --

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut.  He knew no details, of course, but 
creativity filled in plenty.

"I just thought," Miranda said with a shrug, "the way you answered 
David in class today-"

"What?"

"David.  When he asked you about Agent Scully in the photo?  He 
asked if he joined the FBI could he work with her and you said -"

"'No, this one's mine.'"

"Exactly."

"A joke," he said, because that's what it was.  Scully had made 
herself quite clear on that matter:  I'll fuck a paranoid 
psychotic murderer before you, Mulder.

"Okay," Miranda said.  She looked uncomfortable.  "I didn't mean 
to pry."

The waitress came with their burgers, breaking the tension, and 
Mulder busied himself with shifting beer and his sodden cocktail 
napkin.  "We're just partners," 
he said when the woman had gone.

Miranda smiled.  "Good ones, it seems from your work.  I'm sorry 
she couldn't have come with you today."

Mulder hit the ketchup bottle a little too hard.  "Shit!" he said 
as red sauce splattered everywhere.

"It's okay, take my nap-"

"I have to make a phone call," he said, sliding out of the booth.  
"I'll be right back."

People had been crowding in during his drink with Miranda, and he 
had to thread his way through the noise, smoke and bodies to find 
a quieter spot near the restrooms.

~*~*~*~*~

The phone pulled her from sleep like a rope hoisting a grand 
piano, each ring dragging her closer to consciousness.  She felt 
around under the covers for the receiver with her eyes still 
closed.  Joint pain had set in, making her feel rusted and creaky.  
She clicked "on" just as her machine picked up, and she used the 
message time to swallow the cotton from her mouth.

"Hello?" she said after the beep.

"Scully?  It's me.  I hope I didn't wake you."

She curled into the pillow at the sound of his voice.  "What time 
is it?"

"It's almost eight.  I'm sorry I didn't call earlier.  How are you 
doing?"

She made a small humming noise and considered.  Dense, as though 
she would sink to the bottom; her head was heavy but her limbs 
were weak.  There were pinwheels of light spinning behind her 
eyes.  She shivered under her blanket.  "I'm all right."

"Do you need anything?"

Each week she measured the cost of saying yes, the price of 
needing him.  If it was just one night, she might be able to take 
it back on Monday.  She could put on her pressed suit and serious 
expression and ignore him when he looked at her with eyes that had 
seen her retching over the toilet bowl.  Maybe if it were just one 
night she could still say, "I'm fine" and make him believe it.
     
Tears pricked her eyes.  "It's still raining," she said when the 
wind swept gusts of water against her windows.  Just this once, 
she would say yes.  She wouldn't even have to get out of bed to 
let him in; she could just say, "Mulder, come over," and he would 
be there to untangle the hair from her eyes and fetch the heavy 
quilt from the closet.  She would still hurt.  She would still be 
dying.  But at least she wouldn't be alone.

"It's pouring here, too," he told her.  "If it keeps up like this, 
the drive back could be interesting."

"Drive?"  Drive back from where?  Had she been speaking aloud and 
not realized it?

"I'm still in Baltimore."

"Oh."  She blinked in the darkness, remembering.  "Your lecture.  
How did it go?"

"It was great," he said, and she could hear the smile in his 
voice.  "I wish you could have been there.  There was this one 
girl in the class named Gina who could have been your understudy.  
I think you would have liked her.

"Mmmm."  She was drifting, half-listening, waiting for her cue 
when he asked if she wanted him to come over.  "I'm glad it went 
well."  

"Excuse me," Mulder muttered, and she heard a man's voice in the 
background.  There was music, too.

"Mulder, where are you?"

"Carly's Pub.  It's this little hole in the wall outside the city, 
but the beer is pretty good.  Miranda bought me dinner after 
class."

His tone was upbeat, happy.  Scully pushed herself up on the 
pillows and tried to focus.  "So you're still with her then."

"Yeah, but I can duck out if you need something."

"No," she said, her voice sounding far away to her own ears.  "You 
should enjoy your dinner.  You earned it, after all."

"'Kay."  He acquiesced without their usual argument.  "You should 
eat something, too."

Scully swallowed hard to control the flash of nausea.  "I...I 
will."

"Good."  He hung on the line, maybe searching for concrete advice 
he could give.  Mulder liked specific tasks.  But all he said was, 
"Okay, then.  Call me if you need anything."

She was already forming her battle plan for the rest of the 
evening - fetch quilt, swallow pills, crawl back into bed.  She 
would have two more days to patch herself up before she had to see 
him again.  "I'll call," she said, pretending as though she meant 
it.  He pretended to believe, too.  They hung up without saying 
goodbye.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Outside Carly's the rain had stopped, leaving black shiny streets 
and heavy frosty air.  The cold didn't touch Mulder; his blood 
hummed warm from alcohol and laughter.  She was teasing him again, 
bumping shoulders as they walked down the street.

"Zombies?"

"Yep," he answered.

"Sea monsters?"

"Naturally."

"Big foot, of course."

"Of course."

"ESP?  Astral projection?  Reincarnation?"  She walked backwards 
in front of him, her hands deep in her pockets.  He felt charged, 
crackling, like an electron about to be pulled into her orbit.

"Yes, yes and yes," he told her.

She stopped, forcing him to halt as well.  "Agent Mulder, is there 
anything you won't believe?"

He made a show of considering.  "Maybe not.  Maybe I am the gold 
standard of belief."

"In chemistry we would call you absolute zero."

"I've been called worse."

She laughed, and the sound of it echoed down the quiet street.  
"Tell me about another one of your cases," she said as they 
resumed walking.

"Well, not too long ago we investigated several deaths in the San 
Joaquin Valley that were linked to El Chupacabras."

"You're kidding me!  I did a paper on El Chupacabras in college.  
That myth has such a fascinating history and persists with amazing 
strength in some communities today."

Mulder gave her a sideways glance.  "I know," he said, and she 
blushed.

"Sorry, bad habit.  I tend to slip into lecture mode at the drop 
of a hat."

He smiled.  "I bet you got an 'A' on the paper, though."

"I still have some of the books I used," she admitted.  "There is 
one I found in a dusty used bookstore that's quite old.  It shows 
some of the earliest known sketches of El Chupacabras ."

"Really?  I'd like to see it some time."

"How about now?" she countered, stopping again.  "My apartment is 
just up there and around the corner.  I could make coffee, too, if 
you like."

Mulder's mouth went dry.  Out in the open air, he could manage the 
dizzy buzz in his head and the loose heat of his bones.

"I understand if you have to get going," she said when he 
hesitated.  

A graceful out, he thought, but his feet remained stuck to the 
pavement.  Maybe it was the way her gloved hand grazed his jacket.  
Maybe it was the three beers he'd consumed with dinner.  Maybe it 
was just his insatiable curiosity, but he wanted to see what would 
happen next.  A dare to himself:  how far could he go without 
tumbling down?

"Uh, sure.  For a minute," he said finally.  

Her apartment turned out to be one half of an old, Victorian-style 
home.  She led him into a living room equipped with crown 
moldings, large front windows and a high ceiling.  The hardwood 
floor creaked under their feet.  "Please excuse the mess," she 
said, switching on a floor lamp.  Buttery light shone over the 
cherry coffee table, a burgundy high-backed chair, and gray 
stuffed sofa.  Papers littered the table, and he saw a teacup 
hiding under one printed sheet.  There was a chenille throw draped 
on the couch, but it seemed to have been appropriated by a fuzzy 
white cat.  "That's Arabella," Miranda said when she saw 
him looking.  "She's quite friendly."

Mulder tested that hypothesis by sticking his fingers under the 
creature's soft chin.  Arabella stuck out her neck and leaned 
obligingly into his hand.  He smiled as she started to purr.

Miranda took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair.  
"Can I get you anything?  Coffee?  Tea?"

"I'm fine," Mulder answered.  

"Let me see if I can find that book."  She walked across the room 
to the large bookcases that lined the far wall.  Mulder ambled 
over as well.  "I don't see it here," she said after a moment.  
"Let me check the bedroom.  I'll be right back."

While she was gone, Mulder scanned the titles on her shelves.  She 
seemed to be a classic mystery buff; he noted many tales of little 
old English ladies solving murders on the sly.  Incan history.  
Ghost stories.  Medieval myths.  He leaned down to see the lower 
shelves.

*When A Loved One Has Cancer*
	
*How to Fight Cancer and Win*	
	
*The Breast Cancer Survival Guide*

Unable to resist, he pulled out the first one.  His heart pounded 
in his ears as he flipped it open to the middle.  The faint scent 
of dust assaulted his nose.  "Sometimes chemotherapy and radiation 
can result in irritating rashes on sensitive skin," he read.  The 
one sentence was enough to make his stomach clench.  Rashes? Did 
Scully get them?  What other stuff was going on that he didn't 
know about?  

Suddenly, he felt a bit like a voyeur. 

He palmed the one book and bent over to see the others.  

"I found it," Miranda called as she re-entered the room.

Mulder startled.  "Hi.  I was just...uh, I was looking at your 
books."

She dropped her gaze to the one he held in his hand.  "It's okay," 
she said, but he scrambled to put it back.  When he stood up 
again, Miranda was at his side.

"I just saw you had a lot of books on cancer."  He stumbled 
around, feeling enormously awkward.

"My mother had it.  She died two years ago."

"God."  Now he felt awful for trespassing.  "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she said, hugging herself.  "I miss her every day, but 
by the end she was so sick that it was almost a relief when she 
died.  I know that's a terrible thing to say."

Of course it wasn't, but Mulder felt a flash of anger anyway.  He 
couldn't imagine ever being grateful that Scully was dead.  "It's 
understandable," he said aloud, even though he didn't.  Not 
really.

Miranda gave him a wistful smile.  "Arabella was her cat, you 
know.   Having her here helps me remember."  She hesitated a 
moment, then laid a hand on his arms.  "I'm sorry if you know 
someone..."

"A friend," he interjected quickly.  Scully was such a private 
person, and she guarded her illness so closely.  He wouldn't open 
her up to pity when she wasn't around to counter it.

"I'm sorry," Miranda said.

"She's going to be okay," he said, because he was the man who 
could believe anything.  "I know she will."

Miranda rubbed his arm.  "Of course."

They stood like that another moment, the warmth of her touch 
seeping through his coat and down into his skin.  He could feel 
the burn from each of her fingers.  

Slowly, she slid her hand down until she met his.  He let her 
clasp his fingers, and that smallest caress set his skin 
vibrating.  He heard her shallow breathing.  
"Fox," she murmured, "I want you to know -"

"I should go."  He broke their contact and took a step toward the 
door.

"But you haven't even looked at the El Chupacabras book."  She 
scooped it up from where she had set it on an end table.

"It's okay," he said, still moving in the direction of the exit.  
"Maybe another time."

She followed him with the book in hand.  "Here," she said, "why 
don't you take it with you?  That way we can be sure there will be 
another time."

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob.  "I don't know..."  

She slipped the book into arms.  "Take it."

"I can't let you do this."

"Too late," she whispered, and kissed his cheek.  "You already 
have."


CHAPTER FOUR

Chin in one hand, pen in the other, Mulder heaved his best put-
upon sigh as he documented the paranormal in triplicate.  Scully's 
briefcase and overcoat lay on the table at the other end of the 
office, but Scully herself was nowhere to be seen.  It wouldn't be 
fair, he reasoned, to fill out all the paperwork himself.  She 
probably had her own slant on things, and he didn't want to 
deprive her of the opportunity to make her views known.

He drummed his pen on the desk and glanced idly around the room.  
The book Miranda had lent him sat where he had left it when he 
arrived that morning, leaning against his basketball on the shelf.  
He rolled his chair over and picked up the book.  The worn binding 
sloughed against his palm as he traced the faded El Chupacabras 
image on the front.  

Flipping the cover open, he found Miranda's name in delicate 
script on the inside.  He smiled and swivelled in his chair, 
propping his feet on the desk as he began thumbing through the 
musty pages.  In the middle, there were photographs of a wall of 
red rock that had a fierce fanged creature etched into it.

The phone rang, and Mulder groped for it with one hand, not taking 
his eyes from the book.  "Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak with Dana Scully please?"

Mulder put his feet down and paid attention.  "She's not here at 
the moment.  May I take a message?"

"That would be great.  This is Barbara from the Georgetown 
Hospital, and we need to talk to Ms. Scully about scheduling an 
appointment as soon as possible."

"Uh, sure.  Is everything okay?"

"Just have her give us a call sometime today, all right?"

"All right, I'll tell her."  Mulder hung up the phone and put the 
book aside.  Of course her doctor couldn't give him any specific 
information, but lately his lack of real knowledge about her 
illness and its treatment had been needling him.  He'd made a few 
awkward passes at asking Scully, but she always clipped him off 
before the full sentence was out of his mouth.

"I'm fine, Mulder."

Which they both knew was an utter lie.  Penny Northern and a dozen 
women like her could have testified to that fact, had they not 
been dead and gone of the precise disease now eating away at his 
partner.  But Scully knew these terrible truths as well as he did, 
and he didn't see what good it would do to rub her nose in it.  
Still, for all the conspiracies, cover-ups and dirty deals he'd 
seen over the years, he'd never before encountered this particular 
kind of quiet frustration.  No cloak and dagger informant was 
going to slip a note under his door:  

"Want to know the truth about your partner's health?  Meet me in 
the garage in half an hour."

"Hey," said the object of his thoughts as she breezed through the 
door carrying a stack of folders.  Her smart purple suit snapped 
with her quick steps, and her hair had not one strand out of 
place.  It seemed impossible that he was taking messages for her 
from a cancer ward.

"Hi," he said, straightening himself up.  "I missed you this 
morning."

"I've been at the lab.  Did you need me for something?"

"No, but your doctor's office just called."  He skimmed his 
fingers along the edge of his desk, avoiding her eyes.  "They want 
you to call them back ASAP to schedule an appointment."  He risked 
a glance at her to see if she might want to elaborate, but her 
face gave nothing away.

"Okay, thanks.  I'll call them."  She dug out her cell phone and 
turned her back, but she didn't leave the room.  Mulder bit his 
lip and tried not to breathe.  "Hello, this is Dana Scully.  I got 
the message that you called?  Yes.  Okay.  Did she say how low?"

Mulder's ears practically went out on stems as he devoured each 
bit of cryptic information.  Low could not be good, whatever it 
was.

"All right, yes.  I can come in at five.  Would that be okay?"

Mulder's eyes flew to the clock on the wall.  Five was over four 
hours away.  Something was low, DAMMIT, and low enough to warrant 
a call.  Four hours seemed a long time to wait.

Scully hung up the phone and put it back in her pocket.  "What are 
you reading?" she asked, lifting her chin in the direction of 
Miranda's book.  She took a step closer and frowned.  "Mulder, not 
that Mexican goat sucker thing again."

"No," he said, slipping the book into a drawer.  "It's nothing.  
What, uh, what did the doctor say?  Is everything all right?"

"Fine."  But he waited her out this time, refusing to break her 
gaze.  She sighed.  "The labs came back from my blood tests on 
Friday and my white cell count is a little low.  They just want to 
repeat the test, that's all.  It's nothing."

Her echo of his dismissive words effectively shut that topic in a 
drawer, too.  He ducked his head.  "Okay.  Then I guess I'll go 
grab a quick sandwich up the street.  We've got to have these 
triplicates filled out by tonight."

"Can I join you?"

He halted in putting on his coat.  "For lunch?"

"Yes." She lifted her eyebrows. "If that's okay."

"Of course it's okay.  I'll even buy."

She eyed him as she reached for her things.  "Maybe we should run 
some lab tests on you," she said.  He held the door and she walked 
out under his arm, missing his smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The weekend rain had pushed out the cold and washed in a temporary 
air of spring.  Both Mulder and Scully left their coats 
unbuttoned, flapping like great black capes behind them as they 
walked.  In the early days of their partnership, it had seemed to 
Mulder that either she was scrambling along just behind him or he 
was forced to slow his lope so she could keep pace.  He couldn't 
recall making a conscious decision to alter his gait permanently, 
and Scully had not grown longer legs, but somehow they now 
matched.  The cadence of her heels had become part of his own 
internal rhythm, like a heartbeat, constant and strong.

Suits jammed the sandwich shop, as though the recess bell had rung 
on Capitol Hill.  Mulder stood in line while Scully stalked a 
table.  After twenty minutes, they had a two-person place by the 
window and thick turkey sandwiches with golden chips.  Mulder 
waited a moment so he could start with Scully, but she had lifted 
the top slice of bread from her sandwich and was busy realigning 
all the ingredients inside so they were even across the bottom 
slice.  "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your 
food?" he asked, amused.

"It tastes better this way."  Satisfied, she reassembled her 
sandwich and took a bite.

"Yeah?"  He knew he sounded inordinately pleased.  With a mental 
note, he filed "Turkey Sandwich" under "Foods Scully Will Still 
Eat."

As if reading his mind, she glanced at his plate.  "Can I have 
your pickle?"

He grinned.  "Scully, you can always, always have my pickle."

She hid a smile as she plucked it off his plate.  "You know, my 
father used to tell this story about a magic pickle he saw in 
Puerto Rico once."

"It danced, it sang, it pulled a rabbit from a hat?"

"Not quite."  She paused to lick her fingers.  "It brought good 
luck.  The story was that this farmer was struggling to hang on to 
his land after a couple of years of drought sent him into debt.  
His latest round of crops was doing well, but he needed a chunk of 
money to hold him over until the big, end-of-the-summer harvest.  
Then in the middle of July, the nearest town decided to hold a 
country fair, complete with a contest for the best produce."

"I can see where this is going from a mile away."

"Ah ha," she said, tilting her head at him.  "I bet you can't."

He made a sweeping motion between them.  "Pray continue, then."

"The farmer got word of this contest and went out to his fields to 
select the best quality vegetables to enter in the contest.  There 
were round, red tomatoes and zucchini as long as your arm, but he 
knew that neighboring farmers had these kinds of vegetables as 
well."

"But not the pickle," Mulder interjected.

"No, not the pickle.  Out in the farthest field he found the 
perfect cucumber. It wasn't the largest or the fattest, but it had 
a pleasing shape and a lovely green color."

"Scully, say 'pleasing shape' again."

She ignored him.  "So the farmer picked the cucumber and took it 
to the fair.  He was so certain it would win that he didn't bring 
any other vegetables to enter in the contest.  Unfortunately for 
him, the prize money went to a giant eggplant."

"Huh," Mulder said, setting down his sandwich.  An unexpected 
twist.  "That doesn't sound so lucky to me."

"It wasn't," she agreed.  "Dejected, the man collected his 
cucumber and returned to the farm.  The story says that on the way 
home, his tears fell on the cucumber and that's when it took on 
its luck, but my father was skeptical about that part.  In any 
case, the next day, the man pickled his beloved cucumber and then 
took it to town to sell at the local grocery.  The grocer 
immediately fell in love with the lone fat pickle in the jar, and 
he paid top dollar for it -- more than the farmer would have 
received at the fair.  The grocer put the giant pickle on display 
in his window and said he would sell it to the highest bidder.  
The funny thing, though, was that people started coming by just to 
see the pickle.  His business boomed, and the pickle became the 
talk of the town."

"That's still not magic, though," Mulder argued.

"I'm not finished.  The man who owned the grocery was blessed with 
a lovely wife, but they had been unable to have children.  One 
night he took the pickle home to show his visiting mother-in-law, 
and he brought it in his bedroom that night for safekeeping.  The 
very next month he found out his wife was pregnant."

"And it was the pickle that did it," Mulder said, deadpan.

"In a manner of speaking, at least that's what the grocer thought.  
Anyway, he took the pickle back to the store but vowed not to sell 
it.  He told everyone of its powers and people from all over the 
country started coming by to rub the pickle jar and make a wish.  
Dad said he talked to a couple of people who swore the pickle made 
their dreams come true.  And that--" she said as she picked up his 
pickle and bit off the end of it, "--is the story of the lucky 
pickle."

"Lucky pickle," he said, shaking his head.  "I can't believe those 
words came out of your mouth."  But he knew he sounded completely 
charmed.

"I didn't say I believed the story."

"Of course not."  He looked down at her plate.  "And I'm still not 
eating those things."

She shrugged.  "More for me."

All you want, he thought as he watched her polish off half of the 
sandwich.  In the hum and hustle of the small shop, they could 
have been any two government flunkies dawdling to avoid going back 
to their desks, and Mulder searched his brain for a light topic, 
anything to keep the illusion going.

"Tell me more about your lecture," she said before he could think 
of something to say.  "Did you make true believers out of them 
all?"

He smiled and leaned over the tiny table towards her.  "You were 
right about the fluke worm story, Scully.  It was a big hit.  
Eugene Tooms made a pretty big impression, too.  The kids got a 
good laugh out of me and a naked guy under and escalator."

"Then you didn't make them believers," she said.

"No?"

"If they believed these things were real, Mulder, they wouldn't be 
laughing.  They'd be terrified."

Mulder thought of the disappeared young woman with the quick smile 
and easy trust who had walked into his office four years ago, and 
wondered if maybe Scully believed more than she claimed she did.  
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "Well, here's a kind of 
laugh," he tried again.  "I think Professor Westfall was flirting 
with me after the lecture."

Scully didn't laugh.  She paused with her sandwich partway to her 
mouth.  "You *think* she was flirting?"

"Okay, I'm pretty sure."  He fiddled with his straw wrapper, 
gauging her reaction in quick glances.  Why he felt the need to 
confess this little detail of his Friday, he did not know.  Maybe 
this was how their relationship worked, where they each served 
volleys across the net hoping to discombobulate the other.  Scully 
returned his shot.

"And what did you do?" she asked.

"Uh."  Frantic fiddling.  He hadn't really expected her to press 
onward with the conversation.  "I guess I let her do it."

Scully snorted.  "You make it sound like she mauled you in a dark 
alley, Mulder."

"It wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"  Her gaze nailed his, and he realized he'd 
been pinned.

"It was, um, it was...weird."

"It can't have been too weird if you stuck around for more."

If there was a correct reply, it failed Mulder.  "Forget I 
mentioned it," he said.  "It doesn't matter anyway."

Scully's brows knit in a frown.  "So you're not going to see her 
again?"

"Am I going to...no, I'm not going to see her again.  I can mail 
the book back to her."

"What book?"  Understanding dawned on her face.  "Ah, the Mexican 
goatsucker.  She's into that, is she?"

"Define 'into,'" Mulder replied with a slight leer, deflecting as 
best he could.  Scully was not dissuaded.  She leaned across the 
table.

"You should see her again."

Okay, he could play at this game.  "Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, give me one good reason."

Scully drew back. "You -- you like her."

He shrugged.  "I like a lot of people."

"Fine, whatever," she said, setting aside her napkin.  "Do what 
you want.  I won't play defense attorney in the case of 'Mulder 
versus A Real Life.'"

Irritation flashed through him, hot and quick.  "Real life is the 
best reason to say no.  You may have noticed we don't exactly work 
a standard nine to five job."

"And Lord knows everything is about the work."  

She stood to leave and he grabbed her wrist.  "Scully, especially 
now --"

"Don't you dare make this about me."

"But you know.  You know better than anyone the consequences of 
being associated with me."

She went perfectly still in his grasp and bowed her head.  "I 
always knew you thought it," she whispered, not looking at him.  
"I never believed you'd say it out loud."

"Scully..."

She yanked herself free and swept up her coat in one single, 
efficient motion. He watched through the cold glass as she 
disappeared into the crowd.   Alone he sat, his knees bumping the 
table, with her unfinished sandwich. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"What about sex?" 

"Excuse me?"  Dr. Alton paused from taking Scully's blood 
pressure.

"Sex.  I can still have it, can't I?"  Scully knew her tone 
bordered on defiant, but she was still simmering from her 
lunchtime conversation with Mulder.

"As much as you want," Dr. Alton said, but Scully derived no 
satisfaction from the answer.  The sad truth was that she didn't 
want, not really.  It took every ounce of energy she had just to 
brush her teeth in the evenings.  Radiation and chemotherapy 
seemed to have withered every sexual impulse she had.  "You got 
someone particular in mind?" Dr. Alton asked with a smile.

"No," Scully sighed, some of her anger seeping out.  "I just want 
to know the possibility is there."  Because it had occurred to her 
as she had stewed about Mulder that the possibility could 
disappear at any day.  That she could die without ever having been 
touched that way again.  And yet there was Mulder, throwing away 
such a chance while laying the blame at her feet.  "God damn him," 
she muttered.

"Ah ha," Dr. Alton said.  "So there is a specific him."  She 
released the cuff and Scully wiggled her hand as circulation 
returned.

"Trust me, there isn't.  Mulder and I just had an argument today." 

"About sex?"

"In a roundabout way, I guess.  There's this...woman."

"Oh," Dr. Alton said knowingly.

"It's not like that.  He's refusing to go out with her."

Dr. Alton shone a light in Scully's right eye.  "And you think he 
should."

"She's pretty and she seems nice."

"Maybe you should go out with her."

Scully pulled away.  "If she had the right chromosome combination, 
I would.  But Mulder is just determined to end up alone."

"Oh," Dr. Alton said again, this time more gently.  She wrote down 
the results of the exam on Scully's chart, then set the pen aside 
and squeezed Scully's hand.  "He's not alone," she said.  "And 
maybe that's what he's trying to tell you."

~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*

Scully drove home in the dark and dragged herself up the stairs 
into her apartment building.  Exhaustion layered every portion of 
her being, from the physical to the emotional.  She looked forward 
to opening a can of soup and collapsing on the sofa.  Smothering a 
yawn, she trudged the last few steps and turned the corner into 
her hallway.

She halted with a blink.

Sitting in front of her door was a large jar containing one single 
fat pickle.


CHAPTER FIVE

The two phones in his house rang slightly out of register with one 
another, like calling birds, despite the fact that they were 
attached to the same line.  Mulder grabbed the closest one and 
shut them both up.  "Hello?" 

"Hello, Fox?"  It was Scully and yet it wasn't.  His brain took a 
moment to resolve the confusion, and when he figured it out, his 
tone shifted to cautious.

"Hello, Mrs. Scully.  How are you?"

"I'm all right, thank you.  How are you?"

"Fine," he said, taking a page from the Scully handbook.  He 
lowered himself into his desk chair and rocked backwards.  If 
there was something wrong, he was going to make her be the one to 
say it.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you.  I'm calling because it's Dana's 
birthday in a couple of weeks and the family is having a kind of 
surprise party.  Her brothers are flying in and my sister is 
coming down from New York."

"Surprise party," Mulder repeated, wondering about the wisdom of 
this boondoggle. Scully kept an itemized, daily "To Do" list in 
her appointment book; she did not seem to enjoy surprises.  
"That's, um, that's great."

"I just thought with everything that's been going on..."

"She'll love it."  

"We hope you can come, of course.  It will be the afternoon of the 
twenty-second rather than Monday the twenty-third.  Maybe you 
could help get her out of the house so we could set up?"

Mulder tried to remember the last time he had attended a birthday 
party.  College, he supposed, when they all piled into the pub and 
drank themselves silly to celebrate.  But the thought of Scully 
surrounded by streamers and balloons made him smile.  "I'll do 
whatever you need," he said.

"Great."  He heard a rustling of paper on the other end and 
imagined the older Scully kept a rather neat list herself.  "The 
main reason I'm calling -- this is a little strange for me to say 
-- is I've realized I don't know who Dana's friends are these 
days.  She never mentions anyone, and I thought maybe you would 
know."

Mulder's smile faded.  Once there had been friends.  At the 
beginning, her stakeout chatter had been peppered with names -- 
people with ordinary names to match their ordinary lives -- and 
he'd just tuned her out until she'd started talking about work 
again, about what was important.  

This is serious business Scully, keep up, keep up.  If we run fast 
enough we might just figure out what we're chasing.  She'd shed 
people as she shed pounds, becoming lighter, leaner, unencumbered 
bone and gristle.

He took a deep breath.  "She never mentions anyone to me either."

"Oh," she said, a small sound, heartbreaking in its wistfulness.  
"I see.  It will just be family then, and you."
"And me," he agreed.  He would go and smile and stand in for all 
the people lost along the way.  He would try to be enough.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder left the heater off in his car and the night chill seeped 
in through the vents; his white knuckles gripped the wheel with 
purpose.  Invigorated, reckless, he pointed the car toward the 
highway and did not stop to think about the consequences.  By 
damn, if she had been following his lead all these years then the 
least he could do was show her a different path.

Don't make this about me, she had said, but he didn't know how to 
measure otherwise.  She was the metric of his life.

He found Miranda's apartment with no trouble, and the dash clock 
winked out at ten thirty-three as he cut the engine.  Grabbing her 
book, he got out and jogged across the deserted street.  The 
chain-link gate squeaked as he pushed it open.  He walked up the 
steps and rang the bell for the first floor, then hung back, his 
breath puffing in the damp cold air.

A moment later, he heard footsteps and the white curtain on the 
door pulled aside.  Miranda peered out at him from behind squarish 
glasses.  He gave her a feeble wave.

"Agent Mulder?"  She opened the door and he saw she was dressed in 
her pajamas.  Flannel checked pants stuck out beneath her robe.  

"Hi.  Sorry about the hour."

"That's okay," she said, but still sounded a bit confused.  "Would 
you like to come in?"

"NO!"  He back-pedaled.  "No, thanks.  I know it's late.  I wanted 
to return this and ... and to see you."

"You did." She accepted the book and leaned against the doorframe, 
her arms folded across her chest.  

"Yes.  I wanted to know if you might like to have dinner some 
time.  Uh, with me."

She raised her eyebrows.  "Why?"

"Why?"  He shoved his hands in his pockets, shifting from one foot 
to the other.  "The other night...I thought you might want to."

"And you made it pretty clear you didn't."

"Um."  This was supposed to have been much easier.  "I'm sorry.  
Maybe I should just go."  

"No, wait."  She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm.  "I 
didn't mean to give you a hard time.  It's just when you left like 
that the other night, I didn't really expect to see you again, and 
now here you are out of nowhere."  She slid her hand down his coat 
until she grasped his hand; hers was soft and warm.  "I just want 
to understand."

She took a step closer to him, her bare feet on the cold wooden 
boards of the porch.  Not everyone disappeared when he told.  
Scully had stayed on his bed that first night and listened to the 
whole story without judgment.  When he had knocked on her door the 
next morning, he'd expected no answer, but there she'd been -- 
still believing in him.

If they really believed, Scully had told him today, they'd be 
terrified.

He swallowed with difficulty.  "I don't do this very often," he 
said to Miranda.

She squeezed his hand and smiled.  "Well, I didn't think it was an 
act.  And hey, we're just talking about dinner, right?"

"Right."  

He tried to imagine it, he and she dressed up in a nice restaurant 
and surrounded by clinking wine glasses and scraping forks, tried 
to make it real in his head.  But the image kept zooming in and 
out, blurring, and making him 

"When?" Miranda asked.

"Uh..."  He hadn't gotten that far in his plans.

"How's Thursday?  I'm going to be in DC that afternoon doing some 
research."

"Thursday.  Thursday's good."  If real life had people like 
Miranda in it, maybe it was worth a try.  She would be his secret 
partner as he went deep undercover as an ordinary citizen. 

"Seven thirty?" she said, when he didn't elaborate.

"Great.  I'll, uh, I'll probably still be at the office."

"I know where that is."  She teased him gently.  "Just keep going 
down the stairs until you can't go down any further."

"That's me.  The FBI's most unwanted."

"Now that," she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek, "is certainly 
not true.  Good night, Agent Mulder."

"Good night."

The warmth vanished with her, replaced by a slicing wind.  Mulder 
touched the spot on his cheek where Miranda's lips had been.  He 
stood tingling on the porch for a moment before returning to his 
car.  Like any good field agent, he dug out his cell phone to 
report his findings.


Scully awoke to a ringing phone and a couch imprint on her face.  
She rubbed her cheek with one hand, reaching around the huge 
pickle jar with the other to retrieve her phone from the coffee 
table.  "Hello?"

"It's me, Scully."

"Mulder?"  She sat up, blinking sleepily as she tried to read the 
clock across the room.  "What time is it?"

"Quarter to eleven.  Oh, shit -- were you asleep?  I'm sorry."

"No, no.  It's okay.  I wasn't in bed."

"I wanted to find out how the test went," he said.  "At the 
doctor's."

"I'll know the results tomorrow, but everything seems okay."  She 
ran her fingers over the smooth cool glass jar in front of her.  
The giant pickle bobbed inside.  "I found your rather strange 
offering when I got home."

"It's a big one, isn't it?"  She could hear the smile in his 
voice.  "Maybe it's even lucky.  You should hang on to it for a 
while to make sure.  Don't eat it."

"No," she said, smiling too, "I won't eat it."

"You were right about today, Scully.  I can't blame anyone else 
for my choices."

"No, I shouldn't have pushed you."

"No, you were right."

Her heart stopped.  "I was?"

"I think maybe I get too focused on what I can't have.  I keep 
chasing the impossible and inventing stories for myself about why 
my life has to be the way it is.  I don't know.  Maybe it does 
have to be this way, but I thought after what you said I would at 
least check out the theory."

"I'm not sure I'm following you, Mulder."

He was quiet for a moment.  "Maybe you're following me too much."
 
"What?"

"I took your advice, Scully.  I'm in Baltimore at Miranda's.  
Well, outside Miranda's.  We're going to have dinner on Thursday."

"My advice."  Scully closed her eyes and leaned her head back 
against her sofa.  "Yes."

When she didn't say anything further, Mulder spoke up again.  "I 
should let you get some sleep.  I just wanted you to know I heard 
what you were saying today.  G'night."

"Night."  She lay back down on the couch, her eyes even with the 
pickle.  It blocked out everything else in her view.  I took your 
advice, he'd said, as though they were playing some grownup 
version of Simon Says.  In the space of a few hours, he had 
transformed her from the martyr in his life to host of The Mulder 
Dating Game.  

She eyed the pickle with disgust.  "Lucky, my ass."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thursday morning, Scully had a homicide and a cup of coffee for 
breakfast.  The homicide was certainly more interesting than a 
bagel -- a high-ranking General shot to death in his limo by a man 
who wasn't there -- but not as filling.  She tamped down her 
stomach's small pathetic grumbles and soon it fell silent 
altogether.  

By noon she was blinking away spots from her eyes, but she 
attributed the fuzziness to Mulder's crazy theory about Teager 
hiding himself by slipping into holes in his victims' visual 
fields.  

"Mulder, there are no such holes," she told him in the car, once 
they had served their warrant.  

"I've done the tricks, Scully.  In science class in the third 
grade -- hold a piece of paper out with a cross on one side and a 
circle on the other.  Look straight ahead and move the paper back 
and forth and the cross will disappear and reappear as it goes in 
and out of the blind spot."
 
"Not if you have both eyes open," she argued.  "It's true that 
each eye has a blind spot from where the ocular nerve enters the 
brain, but the other eye compensates for that small hole.  
Besides, we're talking about a section of the visual field that is 
maybe a couple square centimeters; there's no way you could miss a 
grown man."

"But haven't you told me -- "  The phone rang and cut him off.  
"Mulder," he said.  Scully watched his face for hints about the 
caller.  "Yes.  Yes, sir.  We'll be there."

"What's going on?" she asked when he had hung up.

"Teager just showed up at the Vietnam Memorial and then 
disappeared again.  Skinner wants us to meet him there. There's a 
rededication of the wall scheduled for tonight, and Skinner's 
worried some of the officials be targets."

"From a dead man."

"Who is apparently not so dead."

The ache behind Scully's eyes intensified.   Four years ago there 
had been only two categories of people in her life -- dead and 
living.  Then Mulder had come along with a whole new filing 
system.  "Not so dead," she said, trying out the label.  "But 
apparently also invisible."

He shook his head.  "I still think it's a trick.  Didn't you tell 
me that the eyes are really a tiny part of vision?  That we really 
see with our brains?"

"The signals coming in through the eyes are very rough, yes.  The 
brain has to refine and classify them before we can recognize even 
simple lines."

"Exactly!"  Mulder slapped the steering wheel for emphasis.  "So 
the brain could perhaps be fooled into 'deciding' something isn't 
there when it really is."

Scully turned her head as if to look out the window, using the 
time to slip two pills into her mouth.  She swallowed them dry.

"Admit it, Scully -- we only see what we want to see."

~*~*~*~*~*

It turned out, as usual, that Mulder was at least partially right; 
Teager wasn't dead.  Except then he was, and now she had blood on 
her clothes and bags under her eyes.  "You want to drive?" Mulder 
said, jangling the keys at her.  She managed a shake of her head.

He slid behind the wheel, and she slipped into her seat beside 
him, fumbling with the seatbelt buckle twice before finding the 
catch.  The roar of the engine seemed overloud, the sound leaping 
up from beneath her to drown out her pounding heart.  She gritted 
her teeth and willed herself not to be sick.

"Fuck," he said a moment later.  She pried her eyes open enough to 
look at him.  His gaze was on the dash.  "It's almost eight.  I 
was supposed to meet Miranda at seven-thirty."

"So call her."

"I don't know her number."

In the dark, Scully felt perversely satisfied.  "She'll 
understand."

"Yeah, I'm sure people stand her up because of invisible assassins 
all the time."

"Well, she'll have to get used to it."  She could feel Mulder's 
eyes on her, but she refused to answer his look. 

Back at the Hoover building, she lagged behind as they walked 
through the lobby.  Her feet felt weighted down even has her head 
felt curiously light.  Mulder stopped short when they rounded the 
potted plants, and it took her a moment to figure out why.  
Miranda sat on one of the long benches.

"After hours," she said as she stood with a smile, "apparently 
they don't like civilians wandering the building around 
unsupervised.  I figured I could wait here."

Scully caught Mulder's rueful look.  "Sorry about that," he said.  
"We got hung up on a case."

Miranda glanced at the bloodied edge of Scully's suit jacket.  "It 
would seem so.  Everything okay?"

"Fine," Scully answered.  The ground rolled beneath her feet and 
she swallowed hard.  "I'll just be downstairs."

"Yeah, come on downstairs for a minute," Mulder said to Miranda.  
"I'm really sorry about this."

The bright fluorescent lights of the elevator shone like lasers to 
Scully, and she kept her eyes focused downward. She could see 
Miranda reflected in the metal panels, reaching for Mulder's 
shoulder.  "You have a leaf," Miranda said, and Scully dropped her 
gaze even more.  

The room went black.

Scully sucked in her breath and grabbed for the railing.  "You 
okay?" she heard Mulder ask.

"Yeah."  She blinked and her vision returned, but her heart rate 
had doubled.  She retained her death grip on the rail.

"Sure?" Mulder pressed.

"Mulder, I'm fine."  It came out more harshly than she intended, 
but she just wanted the questions to stop.  She needed every 
precious bit of concentration to go to the office, fetch her 
things, and go home.

The soft ding of the elevator signaled their floor and Scully 
walked out first.  Sit down for a few minutes, she coached 
herself.  Catch your breath and everything will be fine.

"I understand if you want to postpone dinner," Miranda was saying 
as they entered the office.

Please, Scully thought, go.   She sat in her chair.

"Uh..." Mulder hedged.  He sat, too, and rubbed his eyes with one 
hand.  "I have reservations at La Scala."

"Fancy," Miranda observed.  There was a pause.  "Maybe a bit much 
for tonight?"

"Well, then how do you feel about cheese steaks?"

"Love 'em."

Mulder shuffled some paper around and stood.  "Then I know just 
the place.  Scully?"

"Hmm?"  Scully grabbed the nearest folder and opened it.  The 
words blurred on the page, but she made a good show of reading.

"You want to come get a cheese steak?  My treat."

"No, thanks," she answered, not sparing him a glance.  Taxi, she 
thought.  There's no way I can drive home.

"'Kay.  I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Nice to see you again, Agent Scully," Miranda said.

Scully nodded in her direction.  "Bye."

They left and Scully breathed in the quiet.  The journey back to 
Georgetown seemed as impossible as a trip to the moon, so she 
broke it down into small mental steps.  Phone.  Taxi.  
Soon she could climb inside and close her eyes.  When she opened 
them again, she would be home.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Instead of linen tablecloths and crystal, they had particleboard 
and red plastic cups, but the steak was tender and the cheese was 
hot.  "These are great," Miranda said, taking a healthy bite of 
hers.

"Best in the city," Mulder agreed.  He could feel some of the 
evening's stress evaporating from his body.  "Just try not to 
notice the grease."

Miranda smiled.  "I'm glad you were stilling willing to have 
dinner with me.  You look like you've been through the wringer.   
Wrestling in the sewers again?"

"No, we were involved in that trouble at the Vietnam Memorial 
today."

She shook her head, confused.  "What trouble?  I've been cooped up 
in the library all day."

"An ex-POW tried to assassinate one of the generals at the 
rededication ceremony."

"My God," Miranda breathed.  "What happened?"

"We stopped him."  He didn't detail how, or mention the two 
successful murders they'd had earlier in the day.  But Miranda 
didn't seem fazed.  She leaned forward, her eyes alight.

"So what was the X-File?"

Mulder shifted backwards on the bench, uncomfortable.  It was one 
thing to recount old glories over a couple of beers, quite another 
to titillate while three men lay freshly dead.  "I really can't 
get into it," he said.

"Oh.  That's okay."

He tried changing tacks.  "How did your research go?"

"Great," she said, brightening again.  "After your mention of 
El Chupacabras the other night, I got to thinking it would be 
interesting to do a lecture on Hispanic myths, perhaps near the 
end of the semester.  Maybe you could come back for that one."

"Could be."  He swirled the ice around in his glass.  "Hey, have 
you ever heard of a lucky pickle in Puerto Rico?"

"You've got to be kidding me.  A lucky pickle?"

"Sure."  He told her the story, and she laughed when he finished.

"That is some tale.  I bet you anything that a clever pickle 
vendor invented it to boost sales."

He smiled.  "So you'll believe in goatsuckers but not magic 
vegetables."

"Pickle power?"  She was teasing him again, the way Scully used to 
do.  His toes curled with happiness.  "Just how is that supposed 
to work?  Is it like a genie in the lamp, where you rub the jar 
and the pickle makes your wish come true?"

"Maybe it's like the Pope," he said, catching on, "where you 
request an audience with the pickle."

Miranda laughed.  "I think you can go to hell for that analogy."

"Nah."  Mulder paused for effect.  "I'm sure his Eminence and the 
pickle play for the same team."

"You're positively awful!"  Miranda tossed her napkin at him just 
as his cell phone rang.  The hilarity ceased.  "More work?" she 
asked.

"Shouldn't be."  He dug out the phone but didn't recognize the 
number glowing on his small screen.  "Hello?"

"Fox Mulder?"

"Yes, this is Fox Mulder."

"This Gabrielle Lucas from the Georgetown Medical Center.  
I'm calling because you are listed on Dana Scully's emergency 
contact card."

Mulder stood up so quickly that he knocked the table, causing the 
cups to jump.  "What happened?  Where is she?"

"Ms. Scully was admitted to our emergency room a short while ago.  
You might want to come down here at your earliest convenience."

"What's wrong?  What happened?  Is she okay?"  Mulder struggled to 
yank his coat free from where it had caught between the seat and 
the back of the bench.

"Fox?"  Miranda gave him a worried look.

"All I can tell you is that we're treating her now.   I promise 
we'll give you all the details when you get here, sir."

"I'm coming.  Tell her I'm coming."  He snapped off the phone and 
freed his coat.  "Scully's in the hospital," he said, already on 
the move towards the door.  "I've got to go."

"Wait!  I'll drive you."

"No, no," he muttered, fumbling for his keys.  "It's fine."

Miranda caught up with him on the sidewalk and snatched the keys 
from his hand.  "You're not going to do her any good if you wrap 
yourself around a tree."

"Okay, whatever.  Let's just go!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully had vague recollections of being loaded onto a stretcher 
and wheeled into the hospital.  She was reasonably sure she'd 
answered some questions about her name and the year, but she 
couldn't remember where they told her she was.  Still the 
hospital, she observed, noting the striped curtain and the IV in 
her arm.

Dr. Alton poked her head around the curtain and ended the mystery.  
"Hi," she said.  "I was just leaving when I got word they'd 
brought you in.  Seems you gave some poor taxi driver quite a 
scare."

"He brought me here?"

Dr. Alton entered the makeshift room and picked up Scully's chart.  
"You took a pretty hard snooze in the back of his cab.  How are 
you feeling now?"

"Fuzzy."  Scully tried to sit up, but Dr. Alton gently pushed her 
back down.

"None of that."

"What happened to me?"

"I'm not sure," Dr. Alton said, scanning her records.  "But I can 
guess.  How much have you eaten today?"

Scully thought back through a day that felt more like a year.  
"Coffee," she said.  "Animal crackers.  Some of a ham sandwich."

"Mmm-hmm.  How much of a ham sandwich?"

"I'm really not sure."

"Well, I am.  It wasn't enough.  I know you want to keep this job, 
Dana, but you're going to have to take better care of yourself."

"I work these kinds of days all the time.  It's never been a 
problem."

"You've lost eighteen pounds," Dr. Alton said more gently.  
"Your body doesn't have the kind of reserves it did before.  
You need more rest and regular meals."

"I need to go home," Scully said.

"Not until Dr. Canera releases you.  I think your Mom is on her 
way."

Scully closed her eyes.  "Great."

"Hey, if it were up to me, I'd keep you until after your treatment 
tomorrow."

"Mmm."  Scully was trying to make her sluggish brain come up with 
a good story to tell her mother.  

Dr. Alton sighed and squeezed her hand.  "Feel better, Dana.  
I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder crashed through the emergency room doors with Miranda on 
his heels.  "Dana Scully," he said to the receptionist.  
"They told me she was brought here."

"One minute, sir -- "

"Fox!"  He turned at the sound of Mrs. Scully's voice.  "I just 
got here," she said.  Her cheeks were pink from the cold.  "What's 
going on?  How's Dana?"

"I don't know."  

"Mrs. Scully?"

"Oh, thank God," Mrs. Scully said, her hand to her heart.  
"Dr. Alton."

The name was familiar to Mulder, but he had never met the woman.  
He searched her face for any clues about how bad the situation 
was.  Dr. Alton greeted Scully's mom with a calm smile.  "Dana is 
okay," she said.  "She's all right."

Mrs. Scully covered half her face with one hand.  "Really?  
She's okay?"

"She just overdid it a little."  Dr. Alton gave Mulder an 
appraising look.  "You must be Agent Mulder."

"Yeah." Invited to join the inner circle, he took a step forward.  
"What happened to Scully?"

"My guess is that she let her blood sugar get too low, but you'll 
have to talk to Dr. Canera about that.  He's her treating 
physician in the ER."

"Can I see her?" Mrs. Scully asked.

"I'm sure you can."  She hesitated.  "Let me ask you something," 
she said to Mrs. Scully.  "How is Dana doing after the treatments 
on Fridays?  I get the feeling she might be downplaying her 
fatigue a little."

Mrs. Scully wrapped her arms around her waist.  "I wouldn't know," 
she said stiffly.  "He's the one who picks her up on Fridays."

The hairs on Mulder's neck stood up.  "No, I don't.  She said you 
stay with her."

"Oh, God," her mother said, turning away.

"So let me get this straight," Dr. Alton said.  "What I'm hearing 
is that *no one* is picking her up from treatments?"

"I just don't know what to do," her mother said.  "I just don't 
know what to do anymore."

"We'll figure it out," Dr. Alton assured her.  "Right now why 
don't you go and see Dana?  And go easy on her -- she's had a 
rough day."

Her mother pursed her lips.  "I need a glass of water.  I need -- 
to sit down for a minute."

"Okay, let me help you."  Dr. Alton's voice was soothing.  
Mulder drifted away from them, back into the emergency room.  

"Dana Scully?" he asked a passing nurse, and she gestured to a 
curtain near the back.  All the beeping and the voices faded away 
as he approached the tiny area.  He drew back the curtain.  
"Scully?"

"Mulder."  She was as thin and pale as the sheet.  Blood stained 
the collar of her suit, remnants of an unchecked nosebleed.

"Scully," he repeated, and tears filled her eyes.  He stepped 
forward and took her small, cold hand.  His throat ached.  
"Scully, what are you doing?"

She squeezed.  "The best I can."



CHAPTER SIX

Miranda was easy to spot in the waiting room.  Long legs crossed 
and a dog-eared copy of "People" in her lap, she was the only one 
not keeled over in either pain or anxiety.  He took a deep breath 
and dragged himself over to where she sat.  "Hi," she said when 
she saw him.

"Hi," he said as he plopped down next to her.  "I'm sorry to take 
so long."

"Don't be silly.  I've been perfectly fine here.  How is 
Scully doing?"

"She's okay."  He plucked at the large button on his overcoat.  
Indoors nearly two hours now, and he still hadn't gotten around to 
taking it off.  "She's sleeping.  They're going to keep her 
overnight."

"What happened?"

Mulder leaned forward, his face in his hands.  This was always the 
question, the one for which he'd follow a million miles of yellow 
brick road to find a wizard with the answer.  Surely somewhere 
there was the original sin, the person with the first blood on his 
hands, someone to explain why his life just kept unraveling as he 
stood by with the strands choking everyone around him.  "Scully's 
sick," he said.  "Cancer."

"Oh, how awful." She touched his shoulder.  "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah."  He rubbed his face a couple of times and sat back in his 
seat.  "Awful doesn't even scratch the surface."

"No, it doesn't."  Miranda paused.  "I never would have guessed 
she was sick."

Mulder puffed out a short breath.  "Believe me, she wants it that 
way."

"She must be a person of great fortitude to keep working as she 
has.  I admire her strength."

"It's complicated." 

Miranda laced her fingers with his and rose from her chair.  
"Why don't we go down to the cafeteria and get a sandwich.  
You can explain it to me."

He shook his head, remaining seated.  "It's late.  I should take 
you home."

"You're not driving anywhere.  C'mon, let's eat something."  
She tugged until he stood up, and his stomach picked that moment 
to rumble into action again.  Adrenaline had vaporized the three 
bites of cheese steak he'd had earlier.

"I guess a sandwich would be okay."

Downstairs they purchased pre-wrapped plates and cans of soda.  
The lack of windows made it hard to discern how late it was; young 
people in scrubs and wrinkled loved ones waiting out the night sat 
scattered about the pale yellow room.  Mulder followed Miranda to 
a narrow booth and slid in across from her.  

Miranda glanced at him as she removed the plastic covering from 
her plate.  "When my mom was sick, everyone walked on egg shells 
around me, figuring that I didn't want to talk about it.  But 
really, they were the ones who didn't want to talk.  'How's it 
going, dear?  Good, good.'  The doctors gave her six months to 
live, and I still had to present a good front to the outside 
world."

Mulder bit into his club and chewed without tasting.  His pulse 
still beat high and rapid in his throat.

"I stopped at the drug store one night on my way home from the 
hospital," Miranda continued.  "The clerk said, 'Have a nice day!' 
and I went outside and sobbed in my car for half an hour."

"Scully is...Scully's going to be okay."

"Oh," she said, startled.  "Of course she is."  Miranda reached 
over and squeezed his arm.  "I didn't mean...I'm sorry.  All I was 
trying to say is that I know how hard it can be to get through a 
day when you're falling apart inside."

Yes, he thought, feeling himself crumble a bit more.  He put down 
his sandwich.

"You want my pickle?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

"Scully usually eats my pickle."

Miranda smiled.  "You've known her a long time, haven't you?"

"Four years.  I didn't want a partner but they gave me one anyway.  
God, she was green.  She stepped into my office with this serious 
little face and acted like she knew everything."

"I'm sure you disabused her of that notion," Miranda said.

"Actually, I'm not sure I ever did.  You know Gina from your 
class?  Well, that was Scully.  That *is* Scully.  She's got an 
argument for everything."

"It takes two to argue," Miranda said mildly, and Mulder smiled.

"True.  We eye each other over the pile of evidence and see who 
can come up with a theory first.  Every big word I use, Scully 
digs up one larger."

"Sounds like the makings of a perfect partnership."

Mulder shook his head, bemused, and popped open his can of soda.  
"You've been great tonight, with everything that's happened.  
Thanks.  I owe you one."

"I was happy to help.  And the only thing you owe me is dinner."

Mulder nodded as he took another bite of his sandwich.  "I'll have 
to get back to you on when."

"No hurry."  She rested her chin on her hand, studying him 
intently.  

Mulder brushed crumbs off his shirt.  "What?" he asked around a 
mouthful of food.

"I'm just trying to figure out if I should be offended or 
flattered."

"Um...I'm not following you."

She sighed and straightened herself in the booth.  "You lied to me 
when you said you weren't attached.  Clearly, you are.  Very much 
so."

Mulder swallowed the lump of bread in his throat.  "I didn't lie."

"I think I'll go with 'flattered,'" she said to herself.  "It's 
better for the ego."

"Miranda, I'm not seeing anyone."

"Scully."

"We're friends.  Partners."

"On the outside, maybe."  She reached across the table and brushed 
her fingers over his heart.  "But not in here."

He squeezed his eyes shut.  "That doesn't change anything.  
It doesn't count."

"Fox," she said, and when he opened his eyes she was looking at 
him with a sad smile.  "You beautiful, stupid man.  That's where 
it counts most of all."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully had to blink several times to be sure she had opened her 
eyes because the room was as black as the inside of her head.  Her 
limbs felt heavy under the sheet, her tongue swollen in her dry 
mouth.  She shifted as she tried to get her bearings.

"Dana?"  Her mom's soft voice floated across the darkness.  A 
second later, a tiny light switched on.  Scully turned her head 
and squinted at her mother.

"Mom?  You're still here?"

"Of course I'm here.  How are you feeling?  Would you like some 
water?"

"Yes, please."  She struggled to sit up as her mother poured some 
water into a pink plastic cup.  It felt smooth and cool in her 
hand, and she was reminded of Koolaid on hot summer days.  "What 
time is it?"

"It's after one."  Her mother wiped the tray where condensation 
had accumulated around the pitcher.

"You should go home and get some rest.  I'll be fine."

Her mother stiffened; then completed her task with one precise 
swipe.  "You are not fine.  You are running yourself into the 
ground, and I just don't understand it."

"Today was a mistake I won't make again."

"Do you listen to you doctor, Dana?  Because I just had a very 
illuminating conversation with her tonight.  You have to slow 
down.  You have to take care of yourself."

"I am taking care of myself!"  There certainly wasn't anyone else 
cleaning the toilet after she was sick or juggling all of her 
medication bottles.  Mulder, her mother -- everyone wanted an up 
close look at her illness, but they didn't seem to realize what 
she was sparing them.  "I am handling this the best way possible, 
Mom.  You have to trust me on this."

"Trust you?  How am I supposed to do that when I get a call saying 
my daughter in the ER because she passed out in the back of a 
cab?"

Scully closed her eyes and sank into the pillow.  "You don't 
understand."

"I do understand," her mother said fiercely.  Scully felt the bed 
sag, and her mother grabbed her hand.  "I know exactly what it 
feels like to lose a daughter.  You're not the only one who's 
terrified here.  But pretending you're not sick is not going to 
make everything magically better, Dana.  It only makes things 
worse."

Scully opened her eyes again to find a lock of hair had fallen 
into her face; her mother brushed it away.  "I'm not pretending 
I'm not sick," she said.  "But I won't pretend to be dead either."

"Oh, Dana.  No one is asking you to.  But all this running you do, 
all this stress.  And for what?  Just to put yourself in the 
hospital?  This is a time you should be concentrating on spending 
time with your family.  You should be doing things you love."

*I am.*  

The guilty words popped into Scully's head unbidden, and she 
immediately dropped her gaze.  Her actions spoke louder, she 
supposed:  I have my priorities, mother.  You're just not one of 
them.

Her mother squeezed her hands again.  "I used to rub your back 
when you weren't feeling well, remember?  And make the special 
soup?  I should be taking care of you now. Instead I hardly see 
you."

Scully blinked back exhausted tears.  "Mom, I'm not trying to hurt 
you.  I promise you that.  I just don't know why you would even 
want to be here during the treatments when there is nothing you 
can do.  I'll be sick whether there is anyone around to see it or 
not.  It doesn't matter."

It was her mother's turn to look away.  "It matters to me."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The following Friday morning he made his opening gambit.  
"Scully, they're showing 'The African Queen' at GW this Sunday 
afternoon.  What do you say we check it out?"

Across the room, Scully took off her glasses and wrinkled her nose 
at him.  "A movie?  No, I don't think so."  She returned her 
attention to her laptop.  "I have to take advantage of the 
weekends I don't have radiation treatment, and I have a ton of 
work to catch up on this week."

"But it's a classic!  Bogey and Hepburn!  Leeches!  C'mon, 
Scully, I know you love leeches."

She smiled faintly but did not look up.  "Another time, 
Mulder.  Why don't you see if Miranda will go with you?"

Because I'm not supposed to get Miranda out of the house for a 
surprise party, he thought.  No doubt *she* would cooperate and 
just go to the damn movie.

He tossed a pencil at the ceiling in frustration.  It bounced back 
and hit him in the eye.  "Dammit," he muttered, clutching his 
injury.

"Hmm?" Scully still wasn't looking at him.

"Scully..."  

Just tell her, part of his brain said.  She'd want to know anyway.  

Mrs. Scully would have your jewels on a platter if you ruined the 
surprise, the other half warned.

"Mulder, what have you done?"  Scully got up from her table.

"It's fine," he said as he rubbed his eye.  He blinked a few times 
to fix the blurriness and all was well again, but Scully was 
already standing over him.

"What happened?" she asked, leaning down.

He used his two good eyes to check out the shadowy hollow between 
her breasts.  "Nothing," he said.  At that moment, another pencil 
let loose from the ceiling and landed in her hair.

"Mulder."

"Oops?"

She removed the pencil and sighed.  "Serves you right, then," she 
said as she tossed the offending object back on his desk.  She 
then glanced up at the collection that still stuck to his ceiling.  
"You better take those down before you go blind."

"It's art, Scully.  I'm saying something about the limits of 
mankind to achieve his dreams."

Scully folded her arms and sent him a look of equal affection and 
exasperation.  "No, you're saying something about man's attention 
span when it comes to filing expense reports."

"But in an artistic way."

She rolled her eyes and started to walk back to her desk. 

"Scully, wait!  I, uh, I need your help with something."  At her 
instant look of concern, he felt a little guilty.

"What is it?  Is it your eye?"

"No, uh...it's...it's my bathroom!" She arched an eyebrow at him 
and he scrambled for an explanation.  "I'm...I'm painting it this 
weekend, and you've got good, steady hands.  What do you say?  
Help me out for a couple of hours?"

The little lines appeared between her eyebrows.  "You want me to 
help you paint your bathroom."

He nodded vigorously.  "I helped you move your furniture that one 
time."

Her shoulders rose and fell with her sigh.  "Fine.  Saturday 
morning okay?"

"Sunday afternoon." 

She narrowed her eyes.  "I thought you wanted to see 'The African 
Queen' on Sunday."

"I'll catch a Saturday show."  He didn't offer anything further, 
so after another minute of staring at him curiously, Scully shook 
her head.  

"Sunday it is."

He told her one o'clock, and at the stroke of one, Scully knocked 
on his door.  Scully seemed to have beaten the laws of physics at 
their own game; no matter what the hour of day or traffic 
patterns, she always arrived precisely when she said she would, as 
if the time-space continuum parted for her like the Red Sea.  

He opened the door and had to adjust his gaze downward to meet her 
eyes.  Without her heels, Scully reduced to one size smaller, like 
one of those Russian dolls that fit inside themselves.  She wore a 
faded gray FBI sweatshirt and a girly, time machine ponytail that 
catapulted him back to their early days when Scully had waged 
daily war with her hair.  

"I'm having a crisis," he said by way of greeting.  "Should I go 
with 'Ocean Breeze' or 'Misty Forest'?"

Scully hooked her jacket next to his and joined him by the paint 
cans.  "You bought both of them?"

"Yep."  Mulder put his hands on his hips.  "What do you think, 
Scully?  What would Martha do?"

"Martha would use one of her millions and hire someone else to do 
it."

"Yes, but--"  He held up the cans.  "Blue?  Or green?  Leafy?  Or 
breezy?  And why does the interior decorating community think that 
I'm so hot to pee outdoors?"

Scully dropped her chin to hide a smile.  "Use the blue," she 
said.  "You haven't had much luck in the forest."

"Ah, true.  It's important to cultivate good bathroom karma."  
He set the green paint back on the coffee table, and she followed 
him to the bathroom.  "I cleared out all my junk earlier so it 
should be all set to go.  You can get first dibs on the brushes."

She perused the assortment he had lying on the counter next to the 
sink.  "Just bought one of each, did you?"

"It took me long enough to find the damn paint aisle in the first 
place.  I was not about to go back any time soon."

"We should take the shower curtain down first," she said, moving 
to stand on the edge of his tub.  She disappeared behind the blue-
striped plastic until all he could see was her sneakers peeking 
out below.  "Mulder!"  

He turned at the sound of her laughter bouncing off his porcelain.  
"What?"

She held a rubber alien bath toy above the curtain rod.  "What on 
earth is this?"

"That's Frohike being a smart-ass.  Or so he thinks.  I got even 
by calling the thing Melvin."

"I don't even want to think about the significance of you bathing 
with a toy named after Frohike, Mulder."

Huh.  He hadn't thought about it that way.  She had a point. "I'll 
move it to the bedroom," he called, and Scully dissolved into 
fresh echoing giggles.

"Much better."  She freed the curtain from the last of the hooks 
and held it out to him.  "Get rid of this and hand me the tape and 
the one-and-a-half inch brush.  I'll start over here."

He did as she requested and then popped the lid on "Ocean Breeze."  
Scully straddled his tub to tape up the molding.  He hoped she 
worked fast because they were due back at her house at four.  

"How do you do that?" he asked her after a solid hour's worth of 
painting.  His strokes left sliding blobs that careened over the 
tape border and plopped onto the floor.  Scully's tape was nearly 
clean.

"Do what?"

"My hands have so much breeze on them they might blow away." He 
held up his palms to prove it.  "You don't have a drop on you."

She shrugged.  "Learn to remove the malleus and the incus without 
disturbing the stapes, and you could paint a straight line, too."

"I think I'll leave my incus where it is, thanks.  How are you 
doing for paint?  You need some more?"

"No, I've got plen--"  She broke off in mid-sentence for a wet, 
choking cough.  Mulder looked over and saw his newly-painted wall 
splattered with blood.

"Shit, Scully!"  He leapt over the paint cans, skidding on the 
sheet they used as a drop cloth. 

"I'm okay."  She tipped her head back and pinched her nose.  A 
trickle of blood ran down neck.  

Mulder batted the toilet paper roll until it unraveled a long 
trail of tissue.  "Here," he said as he handed it to her.  Scully 
coughed again.

"Your wall..."

"Can wait.  Let me get you down from there."  He wrapped his arms 
around her and lifted her to the ground.  "Here, sit."

Scully sat on the lid of the toilet and he crouched next to her 
with more tissue in hand.  "I'm fine," she said, still staunching 
the flow.  "It will stop in a minute."

He squeezed her knee and said nothing.  Surrounded by pale blue, 
he saw only the deep red of her blood.  A lock of hair had pulled 
free from her ponytail and wisped against her cheek.  It seemed 
pale and faded next to the life force leaking out of her.  

"Stop looking at me like that."  She straightened and wiped the 
last of the blood from under her nose.  "I'm fine."  Wordlessly, 
he stepped aside and let her go to the mirror.  "Oh, my God," she 
breathed.

Flecks of blood dotted her chin and the front of her sweater.  

"Scully..."

She turned on the water faucet with a sharp twist, drowning him 
out.  "Do you have an old rag?  I should be able to get most of it 
off the wall with just cold water."

"Maybe you should sit down for a minute.  Take it easy."

"How about in here?"  She opened his small linen cabinet, but he 
pulled the door from her grasp.

"I'll get the wall.  You sit down."

"It's fine, Mulder."

"I'll fix it."

"No!" The cabinet door took the skin from his fingers as she 
slammed it shut.  "You can't fucking fix it!"  

She left the bathroom with small, angry steps, and he stood there 
with toilet paper still in his hand.  It stuck to his palm as he 
tried to shake it away.  He heard her in the kitchen banging some 
more doors.  Cautiously, he padded down the hall.  "Scully?"

"These will have to do," she said, brushing past him with a roll 
of paper towels.  

He traipsed after her into the bathroom and watched her wet the 
towels and climb back onto the ledges of the tub.  She attacked 
the bloodstains with vicious swipes.  He could see her knuckles 
turning white from across the room.  Leaning against the 
doorframe, he said nothing while she exhausted herself.  The fight 
left her all at once, her shoulders wilting, and the hair falling 
back into her eyes.

"We'll have to paint over it," she said, her gaze fixed on his 
grout.

He walked over to her, saw her fingertips peeping out from the 
edge of her sweatshirt.  They were cold and wet when tickled them 
with his own.  "It's okay."

"I'm sorry."

He took her hand and pulled her back down.  "Me, too."  She leaned 
into him, sniffling against his tee-shirt.  His thumb found the 
soft hairs at the back of her neck, and he kept a slow rhythm 
until she shuddered in his arms.  "Better?"

He felt the heat from he cheek as she nodded.  "I'm all right."

He kissed her head and she pulled away.  He squinted.  "I think I 
got paint in your hair."

"We're even then.  I got blood on your shirt."

He looked down, and sure enough, there was a small smatter of red 
on the edge of his shirt.  "True partners," he remarked, and she 
smiled.  "I'll make you a deal.  You finish that strip right 
there, and I'll take care of the tub.  I've got the bigger brush 
anyway."

"Men and size," she muttered, but she was still smiling.

Mulder took his brush and covered the faint spots with a few easy 
strokes.  Gone but not forgotten.  He knew he could bring home a 
little Luminol from the lab, a little UV lighting, and the marks 
would still be there -- evidence that this day had existed.


CHAPTER SEVEN

The doorway to Mulder's bathroom turned out to be the perfect size 
for one Mulder and one Scully, provided the Mulder kept his arm 
stretched over her head like a chin-up bar.  He smelled of paint 
and of warm, sweaty male.  "I think breezy was the way to go," he 
said as they surveyed their handiwork.  "It looks good."

"It does seem brighter in here."

He bopped her gently on the head with his elbow.  "Thanks for your 
help."

"You're welcome."  She smiled, surprised to find she meant it.  
When she'd awoken tired and achy that morning, she had considered 
canceling on his little home improvement project, but now that it 
was done, she relished the feeling of satisfaction.   Often at the 
end of her days with Mulder, she had more questions than she had 
answers, nothing tangible to show for their work.  It was nice to 
see something through to the end, even if it was only a tiny blue 
bathroom.

"So now we have two options," he said.  "We can stand here and get 
high on the fumes, or we can go grab some pizza at the Taverna."

She looked up at him.  "Mulder, the Taverna is all the way over 
near my place."

"But they have the best pizza."  He lowered his arm, squeezing 
them tighter together in the doorway.  "And we can pick up a copy 
of 'The African Queen' and watch while we eat.  What do you say?"

Her stomach grumbled.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, grinning.

"Yeah, okay.  Let me wash the worst of the paint from my hands and 
we can go."

"Oh."  He sounded suddenly pained, and she turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Um...nothing."  He scratched the back of his head and gave her 
the once-over.  "I could loan you a shirt or a sweater or 
something.  If you want."

She looked down at the blood splattered across her sweatshirt.  
"I've worn worse.  I'll just change when we get to my place."

"Yeah, about that..."  She raised questioning eyes to his in the 
bathroom mirror as she scrubbed her hands with practiced, 
efficient motions.  He opened his mouth and then shut it again, as 
if changing tactics.  "We're stopping for the pizza first, 
remember?"

She frowned and used his hand towel.  "We won't be there long. 
I'll just keep my coat on."

"Okay."  Mulder gave a frustrated sigh, and her irritation level 
rose a notch.  Here was a man who skulked in empty graves, playing 
Pick Up Stix with the long white bones, and now he was squirming 
over a few spots of blood?

"It'll be fine," she said, giving him a pointed look.

He shrugged.  "I just want it on the record that I tried."  

It must be the fumes, she thought, shaking her head as she trailed 
after him into the living room.  They collected their coats and 
agreed to take separate cars to the pizza parlor.  "Sausage, 
pepperoni and onions," he said in the elevator.

"No pepperoni.  And I want a vegetable."

"Olives--"

"Are not a vegetable."

"And I am not eating a pizza with leaves and stems on it."

The elevator dinged and she fished her keys from her pocket.  
"Peppers," she said, "and I'll get a side salad."

"Deal."  

But she knew he would make sure to beat her to the restaurant, 
just in case.

Back at her apartment the hallway was Sunday quiet, with long 
purple shadows from the setting sun.  Someone had pulled 
Mulder's string, though, and he kept up a steady stream of chatter 
behind her.  "No, listen, Scully -- I was reading last week, and I 
think you'll find this very interesting: given that the cells in 
our bodies are charged, it's possible that the naturally-occurring 
electromagnetic fields could be harnessed as a form of mind-
control."

Scully let his words rumble around inside her without assigning 
them any meaning.  She caught her breath, closed her eyes, 
capturing the coldness of the key against her fingers, the spicy 
pizza air, and the unseen solid Mulder at her back.  She'd learned 
to hoard time in smooth-stone moments, slipped deep in her pocket.

Mulder fell silent at the scrape of her key in the lock, just in 
time for a thump inside her apartment and the escape of a 
distinctive child-like giggle.  Scully drew back and blinked at 
her door.  "Did you hear that?"

"Um, what?"  

She turned to look at him and he looked at the ceiling.  "Oh, God.  
Tell me you didn't."

"It wasn't me!"

"Oh, no."  She fisted her keys and raised one arm in despair. "I'm 
not going in there."

He crowded closer, bumping her with the box.  "You have to.  The 
pizza's getting cold."

"We can eat it here in the hallway."

"Scully."  She opened her eyes and favored him with a baleful 
look.  "Open the door."

She drew a long, put-upon breath, and reinserted her key.  
Wincing in anticipation, she pushed open the door.

"Surprise!"

Scully stood with her shoulders drawn up around her ears, as if 
someone had doused her with a bucket of ice water.  Someone 
snapped a flash photo in her face.  Bill once told her that her 
pictures made her look like a robot imitating a human, only Bill 
had used the word "mandroid."

"Happy birthday, honey," said her mother.

Mulder gave Scully a not-so-subtle shove into the apartment, and 
she pasted on her best mandroid smile.  There was a "Happy 
Birthday" banner stretched across the wall over her windows, and 
she just knew someone had stood on her antique chair to put it 
there.  

Relatives she had not seen in years peeped out among bunches of 
helium balloons.  Aunt Ruth gave her the same exaggerated finger 
wave she'd had since Scully was three.

"Dear heavens," her mother said, reaching for her.  "Is that paint 
in your hair?"

Scully ducked from her touch.  "Yes."

"I had to get her out of the house somehow," Mulder explained.  He 
was still holding the pizza box.

"Well, come on in here and join the party.  Allison and Mark have 
come all the way from Nebraska!  Isn't that wonderful?"

Scully had vague memories of her cousin Allison showing her and 
Melissa how to French braid their hair one summer that their 
parents had rented a cottage together for a week.  She'd sent a 
card -- and candlesticks? -- to Allison and Mark's wedding years 
ago.  "Yes, wonderful," she said aloud, trying to smile at her 
cousin.  Allison nodded back.

"Dana!"

Scully turned towards the voice and found herself crushed in a 
huge hug.  "Charlie," she said, letting him rock her nearly off 
her feet.  She curled her fingers into his scratchy wool sweater 
and smiled against his shoulder.  

"How are you?" he asked into her ear.

"Good," she said, pulling away.  He tugged her ponytail and 
smiled.

"Thirty-three, huh?  I can't believe it.  I remember when you used 
to pin me to the ground and make off with my water gun.  I walked 
around with knee-shaped bruises on my ribs the whole summer I was 
six years old."

"I could still take you."

Charlie's smile dimmed a little but he nodded.  "Sure, sure you 
could." 

Everyone had been watching them, so when they fell silent, the 
tension expanded to include the whole room.  Her mother flitted in 
and started to remove Scully's coat.  "Stay a while," she said.  
It came out too stiffly to be teasing.

Scully shrugged out of her jacket, and her mother's eyes grew 
round.  "Dana..."

The blood.  Of course.  Scully turned away from the faintly 
horrified looks of her relatives.  "It's fine," she said.  "I'll 
just go change."

She shot Mulder a look as she left.  He'd plastered himself nearly 
to the wall, still wearing his coat and clutching the pizza.  He 
looked so uncomfortable that she couldn't be too upset at him for 
his role in the afternoon's shenanigans; no doubt her mother had 
twisted his arm, too.

She did, however, take a certain delight in leaving him to his 
wide-eyed terror as she disappeared into the bedroom.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You must be Mulder.  I'm Charlie, Dana's brother."  Charlie 
extended his hand, and Mulder set down the pizza so he could 
reciprocate. 

He saw pieces of his Scully in so many faces around him -- a chin 
here, an earlobe there.  Here was her brother with the same 
piercing, pale eyes.  Mulder thought this must be how 
archeologists felt on a dig, reconstructing a civilization through 
dusty bits of the past.

"The one in Atlanta," Mulder said as he shook Charlie's hand.  
"She's mentioned you."

Charlie gave him a quick smile.  "All of it lies."  He held on to 
Mulder's hand when Mulder would have pulled it away.  "She's 
mentioned you, too."

Mulder's smile was rueful.  "All of it true, I'm sure."

He hoped Scully wasn't too truthful, though; Scully might be 
confident of her ability to take down her tall, broad-shouldered 
sibling, but Mulder didn't relish the opportunity himself.

An older woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a neat perm stepped 
forward.  "So you're one of Dana's work colleagues?"

"Yes, Ma'am.  My name is Fox Mulder."

The woman pursed her lips.  "I'm still not clear how she went 
through medical school and ended up working for the FBI."

From the way the rest of the Scully family looked around at the 
walls, it was obvious no one else was clear either.  Charlie 
scratched behind his ear.  "Something about aliens, right?"

"Charlie!"  Mrs. Scully's voice cut in from all the way across the 
room.

"What?"  He turned back to Mulder.  "Stands to reason they're out 
there, right?  We can't be the only ones in the whole damn 
universe.  I think it's just as well that the government is 
keeping a lookout."

Mulder wrinkled his brow, trying to figure out whether the man was 
joking.  He could never tell with Scully, either.  

Charlie walked over to the buffet table set up in front of 
Scully's bookcase.  "You want a beer?" he asked.

"Uh, sure."  Mulder took off his coat and went to join him.  

Charlie handed him a bottle of Sam Adams.   "Tell me the truth," 
he said, "what did you think of 'Independence Day'?"

~*~*~*~*~

Scully returned in slacks and a lavender sweater, but there was 
nothing she could do about the paint in her hair.  Her mother 
squeezed her around the shoulders when she reentered the living 
room.  "There you are!  Sit down and eat something.  Tara and I 
were cooking all day."

"Tara's here?"  With Tara came Bill.

"Yes, she's in the kitchen.  Bill was supposed to come but work 
kept him in California at the last minute.  He sends his love."

"So Tara came *alone*? To see me?"

"Of course she did.  Everyone wanted to see you."  Her mother 
smiled and fussed with Scully's hair.  Scully ducked her again.

"Mom, I've spoken to Tara maybe four times in my life."

"All the more reason you should visit with her now.  She studied 
biology in college, you know.  I'd bet you have lots in common."

As if on cue, Tara emerged from Scully's kitchen carrying a tray 
of tiny pastries.  "Dana, hi.  Happy birthday."

"Thanks."  Scully searched for something more to say.  "Thanks, 
uh, for coming.  Everything looks great."

Tara's smile broadened.  "These are wild mushroom and goat cheese.  
Try one."

Scully accepted a miniature turnover, and it flaked apart 
deliciously in her mouth.  "Mmm, these are marvelous."

"Thanks.  It's my mom's recipe.  Oh, before I forget -- Bill 
wanted me to say how sorry he was that he couldn't make it.  He 
said he'll give you a call today or tomorrow."

"Mom mentioned.  How is he doing these days?"

"He's good.  He's taken up golf, if you can believe it.  I tell 
you, the Navy boys have nothing on the kind of language you hear 
out on the putting green.  It's supposed to relax him, but now 
every spare minute he's trying to get a ball into a cup in our 
dining room."

"Bill never does anything halfway."

"Funny."  Tara popped a pastry into her mouth.  "He says the same 
thing about you."

Scully lowered her gaze.  "I guess there are worse things he could 
say."

"Well, look at you, still working full time.  I think in your 
position I'd quit my job and travel around the world.  Have some 
fun."

"Fun?" Scully echoed.  

Tara turned a deep pink.  "But that would be silly for you, right?  
You get to travel all the time for your job!  Don't mind my 
rambling.  I should, um, check the oven.  Happy birthday again."

Scully let Tara flee to the safety of the kitchen, then turned 
around to study her room full of relatives and sagging streamers.  
She sighed so deeply it stirred her hair.

Happy, she thought.  Right.

~*~*~

Mulder took up his usual spot as a fringe-dweller, watching from 
the edge of the crowd as Scully opened her presents on the couch.  
A pair of little girls who had been mainlining sugar all afternoon 
bounced on either side of her; it was a good thing Scully had 
strong sea legs.

"Perfume," she said as she lifted a small vial from a silver box.  
She uncapped and sniffed obligingly.  "Thank you."

Mulder folded his arms and leaned against the wall.  Scully, he 
knew, had stopped wearing perfume since she'd been sick.  Whether 
it was the smell or the feel that bothered her, he did not know, 
but he had noticed that she smelled only of mild soap these days.

Scully pulled a large, brightly wrapped package on to her lap.  
"That one is from me," her mother said.

"Rip it!  Rip it!" hollered the little urchin at Scully's left.  

Scully smiled and tore the paper off in one long rip.  The box 
inside held white pajamas and a white terry cloth robe.  "Thank 
you," Scully said, holding them up so everyone could admire.

Mulder sipped his beer and watched her add to the pile:  two 
winter sweaters, chocolate, fuzzy slippers and -- patterned 
scarves.  Three of them.  And two hats, as well.

As she displayed the last one for the group, Scully met 
Mulder's gaze at the back of the room.  She gave him just the 
slightest quirk of one eyebrow, and he had to look away so as not 
to laugh.  Clearly, her family had all been expecting her to be 
bald.

Mulder sobered as he mentally evaluated her loot.  Every last one 
of the gifts could be used immediately; she'd received no summer 
clothes, no magazine subscriptions, no nonperishable food items -- 
nothing to suggest she might be around past spring.  He wondered 
if she'd noticed.

"Mine's last," Charlie said, handing her a package that looked 
like a wrapped pineapple.  

Close, Mulder amended as Scully withdrew what appeared to be a 
small, petrified porcupine. 

"Thanks," she said, turning the prickly fruit over in her hand.  
"What is it?"

"It's a horned melon," Charlie explained as he pushed forward 
through the group.  "You'll be getting about a dozen more in the 
mail soon."

Scully frowned at the fruit.  "At least it won't get lonely."

"It's the Fruit of the Month!  You get a different one each month 
for a whole year."

"A whole year."  Her eyes filled with tears, and that's when 
Mulder knew she'd noticed.  He blinked back his own.  Scully stood 
up and cupped Charlie's face in her hands.  "Thank you," she said, 
kissing him on the cheek.  "I love it."

He smiled and shrugged off her affection.  "I know you like to eat 
healthy."

The excitement had passed, so the adults drifted away from their 
cluster like dazed sheep, with the hyper children nipping at their 
heels.  Mulder did his best to stay out of the way.  Mrs. Scully 
cornered him by the armoire.  "Fox, would you clear off the buffet 
table?  We're going to bring the cake out."

Mulder would do pretty much anything for cake, so he began 
gathering up empty plates and bowls.  When he had amassed a stack 
of dishes more precarious than the tower of Babel, he staggered 
towards the kitchen.  Tara rescued him at the threshold. 

"Thank you," she said.  "Now we just need Dana."

Mulder craned his neck around.  Sure enough, his partner seemed to 
have disappeared.  "I'll find her."

He did a slow circle around the room and didn't find her lurking 
in any corner, so he ambled down the hall to her shadowed bedroom.  
"Scully?"  He found her discarded sweatshirt on the bed and ran 
his fingers over the soft, worn cotton.  The sight of the dried 
blood filled him with sudden dread, and he went to the bathroom 
door.

"Scully?" he said, tapping gently.  No answer.  "Scully, are you 
in there?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

He bit his lip, his face still millimeters from the door.  
"You're sure?"

The doorknob turned and the door creaked open just a bit.  He took 
this as a sign and pushed it in, peeking around the edge.  Scully 
was leaning against the rim of her tub.  

"Everything okay?" he asked.

She nodded.  "You can come in."

He closed the door behind him and joined her at the bathtub.  
"I would have thought you'd had enough hanging out in the bathroom 
today, Scully."

"Maybe I'm becoming an addict."

He leaned in so his shoulder pressed against hers.  "There's cake 
outside.  You're missing your own party."

She snorted.  "This isn't a party, Mulder.  This is a wake."

"Scully --"

"Tara's even wearing black!"

He paused.  "I hear it's very slimming."

"Mul-der."  She rested her forehead on his upper arm.  "I can only 
imagine what my mother told these people to get them to come here 
today.  I haven't talked to some of them in five or ten years.  
They don't know me.  They're just here because it might be their 
last chance, like I'm some sort of K-Mart blue light special.  
Limited time only!"

He cupped the base of her neck.  "Ah, the evils of bargain 
basement love."

She gave a watery laugh against his sleeve.  "This whole thing is 
so mawkish, Mulder."

"Yeah, but they mean well.  And there's cake."

She pulled away and made a face at him.  "I guess we know why you 
came."

"Guilty."  She sighed, and he tugged her hand. "C'mon.  It's not 
so bad, is it?"

"This is so not how I wanted to celebrate my birthday, Mulder."

"How did you want to celebrate?"

She traced the square edge of a bathroom tile with her toe.  
"I don't know.  Pizza and 'The African Queen' sounded pretty 
nice."

His cell phone rang.  "Well, we know it's not you," he said as he 
dug it out from his pants.  "Hello?"

"Fox, hi.  It's Miranda."

"Oh, hi, Miranda."

Scully stood up from the tub.

"I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time."

"No, it's fine.  What's up?"   Scully moved to leave, but he 
grabbed her hand.  "Just a second," he mouthed.  She pulled free.

"I wanted to see if you were interested in that dinner.  I have 
something I'd like to give you."

The words barely registered as Scully shut the door behind her 
with a soft click.  "Uh, sure...dinner, you said?"

Miranda's laugh crackled over the phone wires.  "Are you down in 
the sewer again?  You sound all hollow and distracted."

"I'm, uh, in the bathroom.  Long story."

"I don't even want to know.  When is good for you?"

"Um, Wednesday, maybe?  I can drive up."

"Perfect." They arranged a meeting and he ended the call.  

Mulder followed the loud laughter to the living room, but 
Scully had already blown out her candles, a smoke halo around her 
head.  Her mother handed around perfect squares of chocolate on 
the good china.  Forks clattered.  People chatted.  Scully took 
three bites and put hers aside.

No one asked her if she'd made a wish.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Whatever her thirty-third year had in store for her, it didn't 
seem to include a pizza.  Mulder had tried; she gave him that.  
"Scully," he'd said as they had gathered their coats to go home.  
"Let's go to Bernie's and grab that pizza.  What do you say?"

She said yes because no would have put her alone in her apartment, 
ticking off the seconds on what was liable to be her last birthday 
ever.  Bernie's was just loud enough to drown out the thoughts in 
her head.

Their order placed, they played chicken over a plate of tortilla 
chips.  Mulder crunched a half dozen in quick succession and then 
waited her out, his gaze flicking from her face to the nachos.  
But she was saving room for the pizza.

"Happy birthday to you..."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, it registered that someone else 
in the room shared her birthday, but she paid the waiters no mind 
until they stopped at her elbow with a sparkling snowball.  
Mulder's grin nearly split his face in two.

"I didn't know it was your birthday, Scully."  

Oh, a cheeky lad, he was.  She figured he'd assumed her birthday 
was the day before.  It's not like he'd made any effort in the 
past.

"Mulder, you've never remembered my birthday in the four years 
that I've known you."

"That's the way I like to celebrate it is every four years.  
It's like dog years that way."

"Dog years.  Thank you."  She smiled even though she was the dog 
in that scenario.  Eyeing the pink marshmallow confection, she 
wondered what Emily Post would say on the delicate etiquette of 
vending machine cakes.  Did she really have to eat it?

"I got you a little something."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."   

He wiggled the straw between his teeth and handed her a small 
wrapped -- wrapped! -- present, which she accepted with some 
trepidation.  She wasn't sure which would be worse, a silly 
trinket or an expensive bauble.  For a one-time purchase, a person 
could go all-out.

"Apollo 11," she said as she looped her finger through the key 
chain.  Mulder grinned and bobbed his head, obviously pleased.  
She forced a smile.  "I'm touched."

"Read the back."

She read the commemoration of the 1969 mission but still didn't 
get glimmer of understanding.  I was born in sixty-four, she 
thought.  Not sixty-nine.

Mulder ducked his head.  "It's, uh..."

But then a woman showed up with the news that one hundred and 
thirty-four people were dead, perhaps including sweet loser 
Max Fennig.  So again there was no pizza.

That night, they squeezed themselves into the NSTB briefing room 
to hear the tape played, and four dozen men and women falling 
silent to listen to the pilot's anguish.  

Scully leaned against the wall mostly out of sight and thought of 
one hundred and thirty-four gravestones all in row.  Died 
February 23, the day she was born.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Twenty-four hours later she was back at Bernie's again, this time 
with a witness in custody and a drunken lab tech slurring birthday 
greetings at her.

"I'm with someone," she told Pendrell when he grabbed her arm and 
offered to buy her a drink.  Pendrell looked over at the tall man 
in army fatigues sitting at her table, and his face melted from 
apprehension to relief.  She wondered who had been expecting to 
see.

"Let me buy him a drink, too," Pendrell said.

Scully frowned.  The last thing she wanted was Pendrell stumbling 
around attracting more attention.  "No, it's okay," she said, even 
as someone bumped her from behind.

Some guy on the television sunk an impressive basket and the crowd 
erupted in fireworks display of waving arms.  Scully threaded her 
way back to Sergeant Frisch and cast a glance around the room.  
The rodeo-like atmosphere wasn't as welcome when she had to watch 
every merry patron with a suspicious eye.

A familiar face near the door drew her up short.  Lanky, with an 
angular face and comical moustache, he jerked his gaze away.  
Something about the way he was standing...

"GET DOWN!" she hollered, just as the first shot exploded.  But 
for Pendrell the warning came too late.  A hapless hero, he 
lurched into the path of the bullet before it could reach its 
intended target.  

Scully felt herself ripped open as well, torn between tending to 
the fallen agent and chasing the escaping assassin.  She tried a 
mix of both, succeeding at neither, until at last dropping to her 
knees beside Pendrell.  "We still haven't celebrated my birthday, 
Pendrell.  I'm not gonna let you off the hook like this."

Pendrell wheezed and blood bubbled from his chest.  A moment 
later, the EMTs took him away.

Scully felt a tickle under her nose, and when she wiped her nose 
with her hand, it came away wet and warm.  She dug out a wad of 
tissues.  As the ambulance lights disappeared from outside, she 
and Pendrell became blood brothers by proxy, the reds seeping 
towards each other on the thin cotton.

When Skinner arrived, she had precious few answers to give him.  
He, in turn, had a web to weave about a cover-up poised to land 
both Frisch and Mulder in military jail.  Scully glanced to where 
Frisch waited with a group of DC officers.  "This man has damaging 
evidence about the cause of that plane crash, and his life is in 
danger.  The military is responsible for downing that plane."

"They are admitting as much," Skinner said tersely.  "But 
Frisch's story is not the one they're telling."

"What is their story?"

Skinner ignored her.  He grabbed her wrist and drew up her arm so 
the bloodied tissue was between them.  His eyes accused her of a 
different kind of cover-up.  "I'm not going to put another agent's 
life in jeopardy just to keep her in the field."

"I'm fine."

"I suggest you make sure of that when you go to the hospital with 
Agent Pendrell."

~*~*~*~*~*~

She passed muster with both the ER staff and Dr. Alton, who 
frowned at the blood flecked over Scully's shirt.  "It's not 
mine," Scully told her, lifting her chin in defiance.

"I'm not sure that's better," Dr. Alton said.  She gave 
Scully a concerned look and then looked at the ER's records.  
"What happened?"

"There was a...a shooting tonight.  An agent was hurt.  He wasn't 
even on duty at the time."

"I'm sorry."  Dr. Alton set the paperwork aside and met Scully's 
gaze directly.  "I hope he'll be okay."

Scully looked away.  "He died in the ambulance on the way here.  
The bullet pierced his lung."

"I'm so sorry."  She squeezed Scully's hand.  "You must have been 
standing pretty close," she observed as she touched the dried 
blood on Scully's sleeve.  "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I treated him.  Tried to stop the bleeding."

Dr. Alton's tone was sympathetic.  "I'm sure you did everything 
you could, and I'm glad that you're okay."

Scully nodded again, barely listening.  She'd been thinking in the 
car on the way over how strange it was to walk around dragging a 
death sentence behind her like a ball and chain, how she bizarre 
it was that she'd adjusted its weight.  But Pendrell had risen 
that morning none the wiser.

Birthday girl, he'd called her.

She was beginning to feel like a macabre bookend, surrounded by so 
much death.

"Can I go now?" she asked Dr. Alton.

"I don't see why not.  Take it easy tonight, will you?  Get some 
rest?"

"Sure."  Breezy lies came easier these days.

Dr. Alton signed her release papers and Scully collected her coat.  
She walked out of the chaotic ER and into the relative quiet of 
the waiting room.  Skinner stood up at the sight of her. 

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine."  She gave him a curious look.  "I didn't know you were out 
here."

He shifted uncomfortably and glanced around the room.  "Sit down, 
Scully.  I want to talk to you."

"Sir, if Mulder has in fact been arrested--"

"There is nothing we can do until morning.  I already checked.  
Repeatedly.  Just..."  He waved his hand at the chairs.  "Sit for 
a minute, okay?"

Scully followed him to a quiet corner and sat stiffly on the very 
edge of her chair.  She put her hands into her pockets as Skinner 
lowered himself into the seat next to her.  "What is it?" she 
asked.

Skinner took a deep breath.  "I'm asking you to be honest with me.  
Mulder won't.  He'd swear the moon was made of green cheese if he 
thought that's what you wanted."

In her pocket, Scully felt the cold, hard metal of the Apollo 
11 key chain.  Moon, she thought, darkly amused.  She clenched it 
tight.  "Are you suggesting we've been lying to you about 
something, Sir?"

"Not lying."  He chanced a look at her.  She met it head-on.  
"I know you want to keep working, Agent Scully, and I want to 
support you in that decision.  But in order to do that, I have to 
be sure that your illness is not jeopardizing your safety or the 
safety of the agents around you."

Scully went rigid.  "If this is about tonight, about 
Pendrell--"

"It isn't.  At least not directly.  There is no way you could have 
prevented what happened tonight.  I know that."

"Then I don't understand the problem."

"The problem is--"  He broke off and tried again.  "A few months 
ago, you said you were strong enough to keep your job, and I 
didn't question that.  Here we are weeks later, and I don't know a 
damn thing more about how you're doing.  You say you're well 
enough to keep working.  Okay.  But what about next week?  What 
about next month?"

Scully felt herself flush under his censure.  The medallion grew 
slippery in her palm.  "I am doing my job just as I always have.  
If you have specific doubts, I wish you would share them.  
Otherwise, you'll just have to trust me."  She paused.  "That's 
all I ever asked of Mulder."

Skinner bit back a curse.   "I don't want to take your job from 
you.  I just don't want to see you get hurt."

The day's emotions came welling up, and Scully swallowed them back 
down.  "You can't stop it," she said hoarsely, and Skinner turned 
his head.  

She slipped one hand out of her pocket and reached across to take 
his hand.  In her other pocket, the key chain gave her something 
tangible to push against.  "We're all at risk," she told Skinner.  
"Every minute of every day.  I'm no different."

Skinner opened his mouth and shut it again, but he didn't pull 
away.

"My father used to say that a big part of life was just showing 
up," Scully continued, "and that's what I intend to do for as long 
as I can.  It's all any of us can do, is show up and hold on 
tight."

Skinner didn't say anything.  He turned to look at her again, and 
she did her best to smile.  He twisted their hands so his enfolded 
hers.  

He held on tight.

~*~*~*~*~*

Sometimes, Mulder mused as he stood with Scully in Max's trailer, 
it wasn't such a bad thing to be unwanted.  The army had let him 
loose from jail, and the aliens had tossed him back with the rest 
of the passengers.

Scully moved to leave and he followed her. "It's still early," she 
said as they walked across the damp night earth.  "And I'm going 
to be gone half of tomorrow.  We could probably finish up the 
reports tonight if you want.  Maybe we could finally get that 
pizza."

He stopped.  "There's no hurry.  If we can't finish tomorrow we 
can do it on Monday."

"Why wait?  The NSTB will want to see our findings as soon as 
possible."

"I'll make sure it gets done tomorrow."

"Mulder."  She tilted her head at him, teasing.  "Normally you're 
quite willing to spend the evening at the office with greasy 
takeout.  You have a hot date or something?"  When he didn't 
answer, her smile faded.  "Oh."

"It's not really a date-date," he explained as they began walking 
again.  "I owe her dinner from the last time--"

"When I rudely interrupted with my little emergency.  I remember."

"Scully..."

"It's fine, Mulder."

"I would cancel except I already had to bail on her last night.  
She probably hates me as it is."

"No," Scully sighed.  "I'm sure she doesn't hate you.  You're 
right.  There's no reason why we shouldn't be able to finish the 
reports tomorrow morning.  Go and have fun."

Only the way Scully said it, it sounded vaguely threatening.  "Uh, 
not too much fun.  It's just dinner."

"Right.  You mentioned."

"We'll probably just grab a burger or something."

"Mulder! You don't need to give me an itinerary.  I don't care."

Liar, he thought.  Maybe she was irritated about changing plans 
midstream.  Even when she didn't write it down, Scully always had 
her schedule detailed in her head.  "We can get a pizza this 
weekend if you want."

Scully halted in her tracks.  "Mulder, listen to me very 
carefully.  I do not care about the pizza, okay?"

"Okay."  But as walked to the car, he made a note to have one 
delivered to her.  She needed to know he was paying attention.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Hey," Miranda greeted him when she opened her door.  "You look 
like you've been through the wringer."

"It's been a long week," he agreed.  "I'm sorry I couldn't make it 
the other night.  I was in military jail."

"Yeah, that's what they all say."  Miranda grinned and gave him a 
quick hug.  "You're all right now, I hope?"

"There's no jail strong enough to hold me."

She laughed as she pulled away.  "Let me grab my things and we can 
go.  How does cheap Mexican sound?"

"Perfect.  I'm starving."

"Bread and water diet not enough for you?" she called over her 
shoulder.

He patted his stomach.  "I had Scully bake me a cake with a file 
in it."

"How is Scully?" she asked as she reappeared on the porch.

Mulder sobered.  "She's doing all right, I think.  She's back at 
work.  It was her birthday this week."

"How nice!  I hope you got her something good."

He thought of Scully's face as she talked about the key chain and 
smiled.  "I think I did okay."

Miranda directed him to another hole in the wall, this one called 
Tiajuana Tacqueria.  "The décor is horrendous," Miranda whispered 
as they entered, "but the tortillas about melt in your mouth.  I 
would do unspeakable things to the chef to get his mole sauce 
recipe."

The woman who took their order was as round as she was high.  
Mulder order the enchilada special and proceeded to do some 
serious damage on the chips.  "Is that the hat dance song I hear 
playing?" he asked, looking around the orange room.

Miranda tried to keep a straight face.  "Three guesses where it's 
coming from."

Mulder's gaze settled on a plastic potted cactus holding a guitar.  
"Don't even tell me."

"I told you the décor was awful."

"This salsa is worth it, though," he said as he shoveled the 
chunky sauce onto a chip.  "Good choice."  He glanced at her.  
"I'm kind of surprised you agreed to go out with me again."

"You're good company," she said.  "And I have something I want to 
give you.  Consider it a belated Valentine's gift."

"Uh..." Mulder squirmed in the booth.  Valentine's had come and 
gone without registering in his brain at all.  Miranda dug out a 
wrapped package from her large shoulder bag and set it in front of 
him.  "You really shouldn't have," he said.

She rested her chin on one hand, not looking the least bit 
uncomfortable.  "Open it."

He ripped off the blue swirled paper and lifted the lid on the 
box.  Under the tissue paper, he found a small stack of books.  
The top one read:  "When Someone You Love Has Cancer."

"These are yours," he said, lifting them out.

She nodded.  "I don't need them anymore, and I figured you could 
use them about now."  For the first time, she frowned a little.  
"I don't know the specifics of her illness, so I just included all 
the ones I had.  I hope that's okay."

"Sure, sure.  Thank you."  He flipped open the top book to its 
table of contents.  Recipes, alternative medicines, meditation -- 
the chapter called "Lovemaking" made him draw in a sharp breath.  
"I...I can't accept this."

"Too late."  Miranda sipped her beer straight from the bottle.  "I 
don't accept returns."

He put down the books and shook his head.  "You don't understand.  
Scully and me...we're not like this.  There's no way for me to do 
these things."

Miranda smiled.   "Ah, but that's the easy part.  You just do 
them."


CHAPTER NINE

Whoever wrote that romantic song about Boston in the springtime 
had obviously forgotten the March wind chill factor of thirty-two 
degrees.   As they walked across the MIT campus, Scully hunched 
her shoulders to make herself a smaller target for the slicing 
wind and then let Mulder's breadth block the worst of the gusts.  
"My father wanted me to study here," Mulder said.  "He was class 
of fifty-five."

"Really?  You've never mentioned it."

"Yeah, he was a engineer math geek.  We argued for six months 
before he finally let me go overseas."

"What was wrong with MIT?"

"It was here."

She smiled.  "I see.  So the attraction of Oxford was..."

"It was far, far away."

"You know, it's funny that you considered MIT because I considered 
it as well."

Considered was probably too mild a word, she corrected to herself.  
She'd practically memorized the brochure.  Strong stone buildings 
nestled near the river, where sailboats tilted in the wind.  
Powerhouse physics classes.  Teachers who hailed from all over the 
world.  Plus, there was the opportunity to study in Boston, with 
its huge per capita college rating.  So many schools in such a 
small space -- it was like Mecca for a hungry brain, and she had 
wanted to come worship.

Mulder nudged her with his elbow.  "So what happened?"

"No money," she said.  "Dad was determined to put us all through 
school, but a Navy Captain's salary only stretches so far." 

"We could have been here together," Mulder said as they reached 
their car.  "Passed each other in the halls and never even have 
known it."

She had a flash of them rising at the same time from separate 
library carrels, their eyes meeting and --

"I would have kept right on walking," she agreed.  "Unless you 
crashed right into me.  I took six classes my freshman year and 
barely had a thought that wasn't expressed as an equation."

He glanced at her before starting the car.  "Wouldn't have 
mattered.  We were going to meet anyway."

She met his gaze.  "So certain you always are, Agent Mulder.  
If you had gone to MIT instead of Oxford, you might not have ended 
up working for the FBI.  And I might have decided to remain a 
doctor."

"Nah."  He touched the back of her hand with one gloved finger.  
"You said it yourself, Scully, in your thesis -- each universe can 
only have one possible outcome."

So that's what the warm feeling inside of her was:  fate.  
She smiled and shook her head.  "I had no idea you had such a high 
regard for my senior thesis, Mulder.  Certainly not to the point 
where you could quote chapter and verse."

"It's like a mini Scully time travel machine.  I get a peek at 
what you were like in your younger years."  He shot her another 
look.  "Besides, it's fun to watch you think."

"It is?"

"Sure."  He returned his eyes to the road.  "Smart is sexy, 
Scully.  You said that, too."

She felt herself pinken under her winter coat, prickling and 
tingling in the dark.  "I know what I said." 

If it were anyone else, she'd think he'd meant it as a pass.  
She had sometimes wondered, during occasional bouts of strange 
fantasy, how such a moment could ever occur; she and Mulder 
exchanged barbed theories and cold pizza slices, not fresh flowers 
and lingering glances.  Four years in, if Mulder did attempt a 
pass, she would probably fumble it.  Mulder and Scully -- ruled 
incomplete.

He had Miranda now anyway, she told herself as she turned to look 
out the night skyline.  And you wouldn't want to trade.  She might 
get romance, but it comes in such a small package.

Miranda had to make do with a rare, hurried lunch or an 
interrupted dinner.  Scully had four years and counting.  If 
Mulder were a wishbone, she'd definitely snapped the bigger half.

"This isn't the way back to the hotel," she commented, shifting to 
look at him.

"Nope.  I have something to show you in the city first."

"In Boston?  Mulder, it's late.  Aren't you tired?"

"It's not that late, and we can grab something to eat on the way 
back. Trust me, you'll like this.  It's not that far; just up the 
river."

Scully looked out her window again at the Charles, the river that 
had shimmered blue in her old brochure.  Now it was a black ribbon 
that glowed with yellow city lights, as if someone had split the 
sky and the stars had tumbled into the water.  The road curved 
with it, hugging the shoreline, and Scully could feel her body 
adjust with each bend.  She'd always liked rivers, liked living 
near them.  Rivers had a destination and purpose; if you followed 
one, you could always find the sea.

Mulder stopped just before the river did and turned into the 
parking structure for a large brick building equipped with an odd 
white spire.  "We're here."

"The Museum of Science?" Scully said as she checked out the signs.

"I used to come here a lot as a kid but haven't been inside in 
years.  They're probably only open for another hour or so. Come 
on."  He grabbed her hand and tugged her, as always, into the 
unknown.

Inside the museum, they examined the technology behind the blue 
screen.  Mulder gave the weather report for three giggling 
children.  He paid the miniature Tyrannosaurus Rex to hear it 
roar, and they both climbed inside the space capsule.  Scully had 
a chance to make waves with the giant simulator; Mulder pretended 
to surf next to the glass.  On the third floor, they circled a 
giant Rube Goldberg device that stretched near to the ceiling.  
Plaques on the wall explained about momentum and the transfer of 
energy.

"I bet you could detail the physics behind every bit of this," 
Mulder said as they watched a ball roll from track to track.

"Perhaps," she said.  She selected her own ball.  "But that would 
take some of the fun out of it."

They stood shoulder to shoulder, heads back, and watched her ball 
ride the elevator up to the top of the wire track.  It crashed 
through the tiny doors and whizzed around the curves.  "You have 
to admit it would be tempting to go backwards," he said.  "If we 
could."

"Back in time?  I suppose the idea is fascinating in the 
abstract."

Her ball came rattling down the last track, and he hit the button 
to set it in motion again.  "You certainly thought so at twenty-
three."

She tilted her head to look up at him.  "Mulder, young adults are 
hardly known for possessing the wisdom of the ages and I was no 
different.  I thought a lot of things at twenty-three.  Not all of 
them proved to be prudent choices."

"Oh, really?"  He was grinning at her now.  "Name one."

She considered.  "Leg warmers.  And that's all I'm saying outside 
the presence of my attorney."

They wandered out into the hall again, passing the three-story 
high T-Rex with its bulging eyes.  Mulder stopped just in front of 
the giant teeth.  "But see that's the beauty of it, Scully.  With 
time travel you could go back and undo any mistakes.  Think of how 
many tragedies we could have averted with the benefit of hindsight 
-- the Hindenberg never would have taken off, Hitler never would 
have come to power, and JFK might still be alive today."

She turned to face him.  "Of course I can see the benefits.  Do 
you think there aren't choices I would undo if I could?  But 
choices matter *because* they are unidirectional, because we can't 
see beyond them to every possible outcome or erase them after the 
fact.  If every life decision had a reset button it wouldn't 
really matter which direction we took.  Life would devolve into an 
endless, pointless loop."

"You're assuming that people faced with the fact that their 
actions could be reversed would choose inaction.  Instead it might 
be freeing, knowing any wrong choice could be eliminated."

"So could any correct choice.  All decisions would be rendered 
meaningless.  Mulder..."  She waited until he looked at her.  
"It's physics 101 -- time is precious because it runs out."

He gave her an awkward smile and looked at the floor.  "I was 
always the one who didn't want the party to end.  The last one out 
the door."

She ran her hand down his arm in affection.  "Speaking of, I think 
it's almost closing time."

"Not yet.  There's one more room."

"Mulder--"

"Come on, I saved the best for last."  

So as usual, when everyone else was walking one way, Mulder and 
Scully were walking the other.  He led her through orange doors 
into a large dark room.  At the center were twin beige towers that 
resembled silos with enormous globes stuck on top.  Between the 
towers sat a large iron cage.

"They make lightning in here," Mulder said.  "The cage gets zapped 
with a person inside.  Very cool, let me tell you.  If you sit 
close enough, you can feel your hair stand on end.  It's too bad 
we missed the last show."

She followed him down a short flight of stairs to the main room, 
using the tiny floor lights to guide her way.  Mulder slipped on 
ahead like an eager boy.   By the time she cleared the lightning 
machine, he'd disappeared.  "Mulder?"

"Back here!"  His voice floated across the huge room, and she 
traced the sound to an alcove in the corner.  Mulder rubbed his 
hands together.  "This is the best part, Scully."

Wary, she eyed the floor-to-ceiling white panels covering the far 
wall.  "What is this?"

"Stand over there, pressed against those panels."

She stood *near* the panels.  "Now what?"

"Wait."  He hit a button on the opposite wall, and a green 
countdown began.  Dashing across, he pressed himself next to her.  
The clock hit "zero" and a brief flash illuminated the tiny room.  
"Now step away!"

Scully backed up and saw that the panels had captured her and 
Mulder's silhouette.  She gave a slow smile.  "That's pretty 
funny."

"Freezing shadows!"  Mulder moved to hit the button.  "Try it 
again."

This time she put her arms over her head, and Mulder jumped up 
just as the clock hit zero.  Their shadows appeared to be engaged 
in some bizarre exercise regime.  The third try found Mulder 
walking like an Egyptian and Scully attempting the frozen jump.  
Her timing was off and the panel caught her in the crouch phase.  
Mulder snickered.  "I didn't think it was possible for you to get 
any shorter."

The panel caught her response, mid-shove, and Mulder looked like a 
whooping crane in flight.  By the end of their game, she felt 
light as a shadow herself, breathless and floating.  

"One last try," Mulder said, hitting the reset button.  They 
flattened themselves against the panels and stretched their arms 
out as far as they could reach.  "Cool," Mulder pronounced a 
moment later as they studied their silhouettes.  Their shadowed 
fingertips nearly touched.  Mulder retrieved his coat from the 
floor.  "We should get going before they lock us in here."

"Yeah."  He left the alcove but Scully stayed to watch their 
images fade from the screen.  

No, she wouldn't want to bend time like a twist-tie.  But just to 
stop it -- freeze it for a single moment -- that might be okay.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

One might say they entered the Caribbean restaurant with 
winter-kissed cheeks, if winter kissed like Great Aunt Edna, 
pinching and squeezing until you were thoroughly red.  The 
fierce heater over the door stirred Scully's hair, and Mulder 
watched in silent amusement as the strands danced over her 
head.  "Two please," he said when asked, and a dark-haired 
hostess showed them to a table against the wall.

"Martin will be right with you."

Mulder inhaled the sweet, spicy scent permeating the small 
room.  "Smell those fried bananas.  We've got to get a plate 
of those."

"Eat all you want," Scully replied, studying her menu.  "I'm 
not that hungry."

Mulder looked up.  "You've got to eat something."

"I will eat something.  Maybe a salad."  Her tone warned him 
not to press the issue.

At that moment, a lithe man arrived at their table wearing a 
white apron at his waist, which he accentuated with a quick 
snap of his hips.  His smile showed even white teeth against 
warm, caramel skin.  "I am Martin and it will be my greatest 
pleasure to serve you this evening.  Is this your first time 
dining with us?"

Mulder noted he seemed mainly interested in Scully's answer.  
Scully noticed too, and obliged him.  "Yes," she said.  
"We're from out of town."

"Fallen from heaven, yes?"  He winked at her, and Scully 
slipped a little lower in her chair.  But Mulder caught a 
hint of a smile. Martin reached across the table for the 
frosted glass jar.  "Allow me to light your candle."

"Thanks," Mulder said pointedly.  "I think we need another 
minute before ordering."

"Trouble deciding?"  Martin moved to stand behind Scully, 
leaning over her shoulder to read her menu.  "I can recommend 
some excellent specialties."

Scully turned her face toward Martin's.  "I was looking at 
the salads."

"Oh, no!  Salads you can get anywhere.  For here you must try 
the blackened catfish.  Francois makes it so it sings in your 
mouth."

"If I had a singing catfish, I'd take it to the circus, not 
deep fry it in a restaurant," Mulder said.

"It sounds wonderful," Scully said to Martin.  "I'll take 
that."

"Magnificent!"  Martin took her menu.  "And you, sir?  Did 
you still require more time?"

"No, bring me the singing catfish, too."  

Apparently it wasn't so magnificent when he ordered it, 
because Martin simply took his menu and disappeared into the 
kitchen.  Mulder watched him go, and when he returned his 
eyes to the table, Scully was fiddling the vase of tiny 
daises and smiling.

"Don't tell me you find that act charming."

"What?  He's harmless enough."

"What happened to 'I'll just have a salad'?"

"I decided to have the catfish instead."  She folded her 
hands on the table.  "I thought you wanted me to eat."

"I do."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is--"  He sat up in his chair and leaned across 
the table.  "The problem is, what kind of guy gives the hard 
sell like that?  'Let me light your candle!'  What if we were 
married?"

"We're not."

"I know we're not.  But *he* doesn't know that!"

Scully's mouth twitched with a smile.  "Oh, Mulder, I just 
don't think we give off that kind of vibe."

Mulder sat back, speechless.  He'd been vibrating like a 
goddamn tuning fork for two years.  But if she hadn't felt 
even a slight hum...

"I guess you're right."  He sighed.  So much for perfect 
pitch.

XxXxX

That night he was brushing his teeth when there was a knock 
on his hotel room door.  With the handle still sticking out 
of his mouth, he went to see who it was.  Scully stood on the 
other side in her new fluffy white robe.  Her hair was damp 
and she wore her glasses.  "Channel thirty-three," she said.  
"'African Queen' is on AMC in five minutes."  He widened the 
door to let her inside.

Scully, as always, went to the left side of the bed.  As he 
watched her curl against the headboard and stick her feet 
under the covers, Mulder wondered how two people who had 
never slept together could still have a definitive half of 
the bed.  "I'll be right there," he said around his 
toothbrush.

Scully had already turned on the TV by the time he rejoined 
her, so he stretched out on the bed and turned out the light.  
"They don't make them like this anymore," Scully observed, 
settling in.

"Yet another argument in favor of time travel." 

She smiled to show she'd heard but didn't reply.  Before 
long, Charlie Allnut and Rose Sayer had set off to test their 
mettle against the river and each other.

"So, Scully, scientifically speaking -- do you think it's true 
that opposites attract?"

She rolled to face him.  "Nature is filled with examples.  
Magnets, ions, anything with a charge will automatically repel 
similar charges and attract the opposite.  But I don't believe you 
can make the same argument for love."

"No?"

She shook her head.  "I think we're looking for our isomer, not 
our opposite."

"I think I ordered that once in sushi joint."

She kneed him from under the blankets.  "An isomer is made up of 
the same elements but arranged in a different combination, kind of 
like a mirror image."  She twisted to indicate the TV.  "Look at 
the characters here:  they're not that different from each other.  
Both are strong-willed, smart, and sharp-tongued.  They have the 
same fundamental sense of right and wrong; it's just expressed a 
little differently."

"Interesting theory, Dr. Scully.  Maybe you should get your own 
radio call-in show for the lovelorn."

"Shut up, Mulder."  

They lapsed into silence again as the movie continued.  For 
Scully, however, there was to be no love among the leeches.  He 
looked over and found her fast asleep.  "Scully," he said softly, 
reaching out to touch her hand.  She didn't stir.

He braced himself on one elbow and watched the slow, even rise and 
fall of her chest.  Time went forward, and so would he.  If this 
was all he got, he would make it be enough.  As Bogey and Hepburn 
went in for their first kiss, he reached to removed Scully's 
glasses so she could sleep in peace.  Blue light flickered across 
her face. 

He could see himself reflected in her lenses.

CHAPTER TEN

Friday evening found him wandering the apartment, crackling with 
so much static energy it was a miracle he didn't stick to the 
walls.  He kicked the basketball across the floor, and it bounced 
off the shelves that housed the fish tank.  "Sorry about that," he 
told the fish as they jumped.  They answered with swishing tails, 
moving to hide behind the Aquaman bubbler.

He heaved a sigh and plopped onto the couch.  "My life can't be 
this lame.  Even the fish have better things to do."

At that moment, the phone rang.  He was tempted to let the machine 
pick it up -- what if it was another offer for cheese steaks and 
video games? -- but decided to answer.  He had to eat anyway, and 
lord knew the wizened orange and curdled milk in the fridge 
weren't going to satisfy.  

"Yeah," he said into the phone.  "This is Fox Mulder."

"Fox, hi.  It's Miranda."

He sat forward at the warm tone of her voice.  "Uh, hi...Miranda."

"I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?  I hadn't heard from you 
in a while and wanted to know how things are going.  I'm in town, 
believe it or not.  The library just kicked me out for the night.  
Apparently, one is supposed to have better things to do with one's 
time on a Friday night than sit in the stacks."

"Not me."  He looked around the dusty apartment as if checking for 
hidden cameras.  Was this the way they ran these conversations 
now?  Jump right in with a librarian line?

"So," she said, "how are you?"

"I'm good, good."  He paused.  "You?"

"Teaching is running me ragged, but I'm okay.  Listen, if you're 
not busy, you want to get together for a quick drink?"

He scratched his head, trying to figure out what he'd done to 
deserve such personal attention.  "How much would this cost me?"

Miranda sounded both puzzled and amused.  "It can be my treat."

Well, it wasn't like he wanted to sit around all night painting 
his toenails, and Scully had sure blown him off but good.  How 
much could it hurt to go out with Miranda and see what happened?  
"You know a place called 'Black Tulip'?" he asked.

"Never heard of it."

"It's not far from here.  From my place, I mean.  I can give you 
easy directions, and we could meet -- say in an hour?" 

"That's sounds fine."

He hung up the phone and tapped on the cold glass of the fish 
tank.  "Ha ha, you suckers!  I'm going out after all."

An investigation of his wardrobe revealed an impressive lack of 
color, so he made the most of monochrome and opted for a gray T-
shirt and jeans.  After a quick shower, he slipped them on and 
patted his face.  

Better shave.  Who knew what the night might hold?

When he finished, he rooted around in the medicine cabinet and 
unearthed a bottle of aftershave that probably came of age during 
the Regan administration.  He uncapped it and took a cautious 
sniff.  The scent of fermented cloves assaulted his nose, and he 
quickly screwed the lid back into place.  Au naturel, he decided, 
checking the mirror one last time.

After all, he was one damn fine looking man.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He waited on the plush red carpet, idly running his hand down 
the smooth mahogany wall, until someone tugged on his sleeve.  
"Hey, there," said the same voice from the phone.

He turned and managed to hold back his instinctive wolf 
whistle.  Agent Fox Mulder might have an ancient apartment 
and losers for friends, but he must have been doing something 
right to merit phone calls from a woman like this.  Her dark 
eyes crinkled with her smile, and her hair smelled like 
summer rain.  When she gave him a brief hug, her breasts 
brushed his arm.

"Hi," he said, but it came out in two syllables.  Miranda 
didn't seem to notice because she was too busy examining the 
décor.  It wasn't the usual bar scene, he acknowledged.  He'd 
selected it for its cozy, half-moon booths and live torch-
song music.

"This is an interesting choice for a drink," Miranda 
commented as she handed her coat to be checked.

"You don't like it?"

"It's fine.  I'm just surprised you picked it, that's all."

"What kind of place were you expecting?"

She smiled, teasing.  "Someplace with more lighting."

Eddie felt his hopes fall to his shoes again.  So Mulder 
wasn't nailing this one, either.   Miranda met his eyes and 
Eddie favored her with his best shy smile -- chin down, head 
slightly to the side.  

It must have worked because she smiled again and grabbed his 
hand.  "I think I see a free table," she said, and led the 
way. 

Things were looking up.

He slid around the booth to sit right next to her, and if 
this move was odd, she didn't seem to notice.  She ordered 
red wine and he opted for beer.  "So," he said as he gathered 
a fistful of pretzels, "You said the teaching has been hard 
lately?"

She groaned and leaned her head on the table.  "The server 
that holds that holds the class notes keeps crashing, so the 
students are beating down my door about our midterm.  My 
overhead projector is broken, so I have to lug one back and 
forth across campus three times a week.  And Jason Randall -- 
Fox, I may have to kill him.  You have any good suggestions 
on how to get away with murder?"

Eddie considered the question.  Well, covering up a death, 
sure.  But murder was never his bag.  "What did this punk 
do?"

"He's driving me crazy.  You're lucky he didn't come for your 
lecture.  That's part of his problem, actually; he's on 
academic probation and in danger of flunking, so two months 
into the course, he's *finally* bothering to show up for the 
class.  But instead of paying attention, he's reading the 
paper.  Not doing the crossword subtly on his desk.  No.  
He's got both arms out, the paper high in the air."  She 
demonstrated for him.

"What nerve," said Eddie, leaning closer to her.  "What did 
you do to the kid?"

She sighed.  "I tried ignoring him, since it was clear he 
wanted attention.  But it was distracting to me and the rest 
of the class.  Finally I asked him to leave, saying that my 
lecture must be disrupting his reading time.  The little 
bleep lowered his paper and said that no, I wasn't a 
problem."

"He didn't!"

"He did!  And then he went right back to reading.  So I 
walked up, took the paper, folded it in half and told him 
he'd misunderstood.  It was either the paper or the class.  
He could either stop reading or leave the room."  She smiled.  
"He stopped reading."

"Go, girl!"  Eddie held up his hand for a high-five, which 
Miranda returned.  He held on when she would have pulled away 
and swept his thumb over her knuckles.  "I bet you're a great 
teacher."

She gave him a curious look and tugged her hand free.  "On 
some days, maybe.  This just hasn't been my week."

He propped his chin on his hand.  "Did you always want to 
teach?"

"Actually, no."  She sipped her wine.  "When I was little, I 
wanted to be a deep sea diver like Jacques Cousteau.  Too 
many hours of my youth spent reading National Geographic, I 
guess.  I was fascinated by all the life going on under the 
water where we can't see it."

"Fish are great, aren't they?  I have some."

"Really! I love fish."  Her eyes lit up.  "What kind are 
they?"

He wrinkled his brow, trying to remember.  "A blue one and a 
yellow one."

She shook her head.  "Hopeless.  Just hopeless.  Well, 
perhaps I can meet them some day and we can figure it out 
then."

Sensing his opening, Eddie slid an inch closer.  He ran his 
finger down her thigh.  "I can show you now, if you like."

Miranda squirmed under his touch.  "Fox..."

"Yes?"

"I thought we agreed we weren't going to do this."

Eddie had made no such agreement, so he continued tracing a 
figure-eight pattern on her knee.  Hell, she hadn't hauled 
off and slapped him, so there was still a chance.  "Maybe we 
should reconsider.  Wouldn't want to make any hasty decisions 
before exploring--" His hand crept higher.  "All our 
options."

Her lips parted and she still hadn't pulled away.  "I don't 
understand," she said.  "What about Scully?"

"Hmmm?"  He was focused on her thick, dark lashes.

"Your partner?"

The edge in her voice jolted him and he paused to reconsider 
his afternoon interactions with Agent Scully.  Polite 
distance.  Pure professionalism.  She'd barely glanced at him 
when she'd dashed off to spend a rapturous evening with her 
monograph.  Definitely no action going on there.  "Scully and 
I aren't involved."

"That's not the point."  This time, she did pull away.  Eddie 
hung his head and sighed.  

"I really think you've got the wrong idea," he said.  "I 
don't think Scully even *likes* me."

"No, apparently you have the wrong idea.  You already 
admitted you have feelings for her, and instead of dealing 
with that, you're sitting here trying to feel me up.  I don't 
know what you're even thinking!  Did you really expect me to 
be your plaything while you sit around and make up your mind 
about Scully?  God."  She set her napkin on the table and 
then dug around for her wallet.  "This was a mistake.  Maybe 
my mistake, thinking this was a manageable situation."

"Miranda, wait."

"I don't think so.  Goodnight, Fox."  She slipped a twenty 
under the edge of her half-finished wine.  "Enjoy your 
drink."

She left without another word, and Eddie leaned back in the 
booth.  So that was the missing piece of the puzzle -- Mulder 
was pining for his partner, who didn't appear to be aware of 
the situation.  Yet another hen the fox had failed to nab.

Well, he could fix that.  Eddie downed the foamy dregs of his 
beer and licked his lips.  The hunt was on.

XxXxX  

She wasn't supposed to mix alcohol with her medications.  But 
from the way Mulder sat perched on the very periphery of her 
sofa, she guessed that the slenderest rejection might send 
him scurrying away, and she was too curious about his sudden 
appearance to let him escape that easily.  So she poured.

"We never really talk much, do we?"

She handed him a glass.  "You mean like, really talk?  No, no 
we don't, Mulder."

"Well, what's stopping us?"  He gave her a winsome smile, 
which she returned with faint puzzlement.  As he reached for 
the glass, she tried to get a look at the lump on his head; 
perhaps his encounter with van Blundht had addled him more 
deeply than he'd admitted.  

"I don't know.  There's always a case to discuss."

"There's no case now."

"Well, there's van Blundht," she said.  "He's still on the 
loose."

Mulder shifted uncomfortably.  "Forget about him for now.  
He's hardly worth wasting Friday night and a bottle of wine 
on, is he?"

Scully gave a short nod of assent.  "I guess not."  She took 
a careful sip of her wine.  Either her months of prohibition 
had rendered her a cheap date, or Mulder had picked out a 
good bottle.  Her taste buds leapt and danced.  She allowed 
herself a larger draught, letting the warm, tart flavor fill 
her whole mouth before swallowing.  "So then," she said, 
"what did you want to talk about?"

He shrugged.  "I dunno.  Anything.  I was looking around our 
office this afternoon, and let's face it -- we've done some 
pretty weird shit over the years.  Me, I'm obviously in it 
for the aliens, but--"

Scully choked on her wine, and Mulder's look flashed to 
concern.  "You all right?"

"Fine, fine."  She cleared her throat.  "You were saying?"

"I guess I'm just curious about where your wall is."

"My wall?"

"Yeah.  I've got all these pictures and photos.  Bigfoot 
sightings.  Flying saucers.  A newspaper article about some 
guy who eats livers for a living.  You've just got a table 
with some books on it."

Scully frowned.  "And you're just now noticing this."

He shrugged again.  "Well, yeah.  I just got to wondering: what's 
in it for you?  We've been together a lot of years, and I don't 
know that I've ever asked."

"And so that's why you came over at--" she checked "nine-thirty on 
a Friday night?  To ask."

He nodded and gave her that goofy smile again.  She shook her 
head.  "Okay..."  She took a deep breath and settled back on the 
couch cushions, tucking her stockinged feet beneath her.  He was 
still looking at her, and she felt herself grow warm under his 
gaze.  Or maybe it was the wine.  But she was quite sure she'd 
never previously experienced such a prolonged, intense bout of 
interest from him.  "I'm...I'm not sure what to say.  Obviously, I 
think the work we do is important and I find it personally 
challenging."

"Personally challenging," Mulder repeated as he mimicked her pose 
on the couch.  "Mmm-hmm."  He seemed to be waiting for her to 
elaborate.

She straightened up and tried again.  "Medical school was 
rewarding enough, but I wanted to keep pushing my limits.  The X-
Files have given me a unique way to apply and extend my scientific 
training while still preserving the aspect of public service."

"Service," he said, nodding.  "Right."

She sighed and picked up her wine glass from the coffee table.  
"Okay, Mulder, the thing of it is...I grew up following a 
proscribed path and never much deviating from the choices others 
made for me.  I went to school, made good grades, and knew one day 
I would be a doctor.  Everyone knew it.  By the time I was twelve, 
the whole family spoke as if it were a signed and sealed decision.  
And I, I just put one foot in front of the other and never 
questioned it."

"Until later."

"Right. For once, I started looking at where my path was heading 
and asking myself if it was what I truly wanted.  I realized I 
wanted just *one* thing in my life to be unexpected.  I chose the 
FBI, and my family was, to say the least, shocked.  But more than 
that, I surprised myself.  Then the X-Files came along, and I took 
the assignment thinking it would be a temporary laugh, good for a 
few party stories and nothing more.  Instead I found the chance to 
work in realms of science I never dreamed possible.  I surprise 
myself everyday, sometimes every minute, with the things I learn 
and the choices I make."

"So that's why you've stayed," he said.  "The surprise."

"Yes, in a way."  She hesitated.  "I like that every day is a 
mystery.  I like who I am when I'm working on the X-Files.  I 
like...who I am when I'm with you."  She covered her confession 
quickly by taking a long swallow of wine.  When he didn't say 
anything in response, she dared to peek at him over the rim of her 
glass. 

He smiled.  "To mystery," he said, holding out his goblet.  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He kicked the door of his boiler room prison and hollered as 
best he could for help, but the Mulder who was more than skin 
deep had worn his vocal chords down to a thread.  "Help!" he 
croaked.  "Anyone!"

Large, wet circles had seeped into his shirt from his 
efforts; the cramped room, with its stifling temperature and 
recirculated air, had squeezed out every drop of moisture he 
had.  His swollen throat ached for relief, but there was no 
way he was going to drink the crappy orange soda Eddie had so 
thoughtfully provided.  With his luck, it was probably 
drugged.

"Dammit!"  He kicked the door three times in quick 
succession.  

"Hey, in there!"  An older man with drooping cheeks and gold-
rimmed glasses appeared in the door's tiny window.  "What are 
you doing?"

I'm FBI!" he told the man.  "I've been locked in.  Can you help 
me?"

"Sure, sure."  Mulder heard the jangling of keys on the other 
side.  "Damn if I haven't seen near everything now.  What the 
hell were you doin' down here in the first place?"  He opened 
the door, and Mulder walked out into the larger, cooler 
space.

"Thank you," he said again.

The man stared at him, blinking in a quick, owlish fashion.  
"There's a water fountain 'round the corner there.  You look 
like you could use it."  Mulder took him up on the offer and 
drank for at least one straight minute.  The janitor watched 
with naked appreciation.  "How long you been down here, 
anyway?"

Mulder wiped his mouth with his sleeve, noting the time on 
his watch as he did so.  "About seven hours.  Listen, there 
is a man running around here who looks exactly like me.  Have 
you seen him?"

"Naw, but I just came on shift about a half hour ago.  Is he 
the fella that locked you up?"

"He's the one."  The little fucker had taken his cell phone, 
too.  Mulder fought the urge to kick something again.  "And 
now I've got to figure out where he went."

The man stroked his chin in contemplation.  "Well, if he's a 
criminal, you ought to consider his M.O. -- that's his modus 
operandi -- because that always seems to work on my programs.  
They get the guy every time."

Mulder raked his hand through his hair, generating a zillion 
dark spikes on top of his head.  He started down the corridor 
with the janitor trailing after him.  "Yeah, well this guy 
makes himself look like women's husbands and knocks them up.  
I'm not married."

The janitor was nonplussed.  "Well, how 'bout a girlfriend?"

"Nope."  Mulder didn't slow down.

"No women in your at all?"  The man sounded sad for him.  

"Listen, you have a phone around here someplace?  I really 
need to call --" *no women at all?* 

Mulder stopped dead in his tracks.  "Scully!" 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully's bones were warm and loose, filled with wine, 
firelight and Mulder's teasing conversation.  She sank deeper 
into the cushions and swirled the burgundy liquid in her 
glass.  "I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"I can't believe you haven't told me before."

You never asked, she thought, but said nothing.  The roaring 
fire made his eyes seem dark and bottomless.  "I'm seeing a 
whole new side of you, Mulder."

"Is that a good thing?"

Surely for one evening she could believe this was her life.  
She could allow herself to notice the way the couch seemed 
curved to fit his body and the walls came alive to the sound 
of his voice.  "I like it."

"Do you ever wish things were different?"

"What do you mean?"

"The person you wanted to be when you grew up, when you were 
in high school -- how far off did you end up?"

"Career-wise?  Miles off target."

"Not just that." Mulder moved a little closer to her on the couch.  
"Do you ever wish you could go back and do it all again?"

She thought she'd answered this one with their time-travel 
discussion, so her brow crinkled in confusion.  "Do you?"

He set aside his wine glass and started crawling over the couch 
towards her.  Scully almost asked him what the hell he was doing, 
but something inside her silenced the question.  She froze.  
Mulder kept coming closer, and she could feel her ears grow warm.  
He wasn't, was he? 

He was.  Oh, God. 

He angled his head so that their mouths were even with one 
another.  His breath tickled her face with the sweet smell of 
wine.  Scully dug her fingers into the cushions, poised for 
flight.

Do I want this?  Do I? Do I?  The question pounded with her 
heartbeat.  

Slowly, Mulder closed the distance between their lips; she could 
almost taste him. 

Decide! Decide!  Yes or no.  Now or never.  

Her heart stopped inside her chest.

Just then the front door crashed open, and the Mulder population 
in her living room doubled.  The second Mulder staggered into the 
room, clearly out of breath.  Scully gasped and leapt from the 
couch.  The last time her life had contained two simultaneous 
Mulders, she'd ended up rearranging a coffee table with her face.  
"What...?"

The Mulder on the couch sighed, and before her eyes, he melted 
into Eddie van Bludht.  Scully glared at him in horror, but he 
merely shrugged.  

"Scully, are you okay?" Mulder touched her arm.

"What the hell is going on here?"

"He jumped me at the hospital and locked me in the boiler room."  
Outside, a distant siren was closing in on her neighbourhood.  
"That will be the boys in blue," Mulder told Eddie.  "They'll 
escort you to your new accommodations."

Scully covered her face with her hands.  "Mulder, I...I can't 
believe this.  You've been in the boiler room since *this 
afternoon*?"  

"Sad to say.  You're sure you're all right?"

She put her hands down.  "Yes, I'm all right."  Embarrassed.  
Angry.   The things she had told him, the way he had looked at her 
-- all time he'd been playing her for a fool.  She felt her face 
flush hot again, this time not from pleasure.   Mulder was still 
regarding her intently, and she turned away.  God, what he had 
seen.  What he must think.  Her humiliation was now complete.  

The uniformed cops appeared in her doorway.  "This the boy?" one 
of them asked, nodding at Eddie.  Mulder said that it was.

Scully swallowed hard.  "I'll just..."  She smoothed her pants 
with her hands, still not meeting Mulder's gaze.   "I'm going to 
just be in the other room.  You can show yourself out."

"Scully--"

She did not turn around. It was stupid, she knew, but everything 
had happened so fast, and she felt like the whole evening was 
still written across her face.  The wine.  Her silly stories.  His 
tentative approach for the kiss.  And, God, most of all, she 
didn't want him to see her answer: 

YES.

Mulder yanked Eddie from Scully's couch and handed him over to the 
uniformed cop.  "Get him out of here."

Eddie went willingly enough, but he turned to give Mulder a 
pitying look.  "Being you isn't as much fun as I'd thought it 
would be.  What a waste!  Two beautiful women and you can't make 
anything happen with either one."

Disgusted, Mulder waved for the cops to take Eddie away.  He cast 
a look at thedirection Scully had gone, wondering again if she 
were all right.  He had a flash of Eddie leaning over her, 
practically on top of her, and he clenched his fists.  
Then a sudden thought occurred to him.  "Hey," he said, jogging 
for the door.  "Hey, wait!"

The cops with Eddie stopped down the hall.  Mulder walked towards 
them.  "What did you mean 'two beautiful women'?"

Eddie blinked, the picture of innocence.  "Scully and 
Miranda.  They'd both go for it, you know, if you--"

"Shut up.  What did you do to Miranda?

"Nothing."

Mulder shoved himself between the cops and Eddie.  "Tell me!"

"Nothing!  She shot you down.  Are you happy now?"

"Fuck," said Mulder, twisting away.  He walked back down the hall 
towards Scully's apartment.  "Scully?  Scully!"

She poked her head around the corner.  "What is it?"

"It sounds like he got to Miranda, too."

"Oh, God.  Not...you don't think he..."

"I hope not.  Sounds like no, but I should go make sure she's all 
right.  This is not a conversation I want to have over the phone."

She hugged herself.  "No, of course not."

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Mulder, just go, all right?  He fleeced me like he got everyone 
else, but there's no permanent damage done."

Except, Mulder thought as he left, maybe to my heart.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He rang the bell a half dozen times before Miranda appeared in the 
doorway, squinting at him under the porch light.  She yawned and 
frowned.  "What are you doing here?" she asked through the screen 
door.

"I need to talk to you."

Miranda made no move to let him inside.  "It's late.  Besides, I 
think we've said enough for one night."

"That's why I need to talk to you.  The man you saw earlier wasn't 
me."  She put her hand on the door as if to close it.  "No, wait.  
It really wasn't me.  It was someone pretending to be me.  If you 
let me in, I can explain."

Miranda rubbed her eyes.  "Fox, I don't have the stamina for this 
kind of nonsense right now.  Go home, okay?"

"Please," he said, reaching for the door, "just hear me out."

"Fine," she sighed.  "You have five minutes."  The screen door 
banged behind him as he entered, but Miranda blocked him from 
going farther into the hall.  "We can talk here."

They stood near the clanking radiator as Mulder gave her a fast 
five minutes on the life and times of Eddie van Blundht, Jr.  "We 
think it's abnormal musculature that allows him to pull this off," 
he finished.  

Miranda blew out a long breath.  "That's quite a fish story you 
have there, Agent Mulder.  But I guess it would explain why you 
were...not quite yourself."

"You can ask Scully if you don't believe me.  We arrested him at 
her place tonight."

"OH!"  Miranda startled.  "Oh, dear.  Is she okay?  I think that 
might have been my fault that he went over there.  I'm the one who 
mentioned her name."

"She's fine.  It's okay."  He cleared his throat.  "Out of 
curiosity, though, what, uh...what did you say to him?"

"Nothing much.  He was putting the moves on me, and I reminded him 
that his -- I mean your -- attention ought to be directed 
elsewhere.  God, I feel terrible about that now."

"You couldn't have known."  He bit his lip.  "But that's it?  
There's nothing else?"

Miranda thought a second, then shook her head.  "Nothing else of 
note.  Why?"

Mulder picked at the chipping paint on the wall.  "Well, um, 
whatever you said, it seems to have worked.  She let him in, and 
when I found them, they seemed like they were getting ready 
to...you know."

"Oh, my god."  She squeezed his arm.  "How awful.  Come on in for 
a minute, and I'll make us some tea."

He followed her inside, where Arabella was waiting to rub against 
their legs.  Mulder sat on the sofa while Miranda went for the 
tea, and Arabella used the opportunity to wage war on his 
shoelaces.  "Hey, now," he said, scooping her up.  "None of that."  
She paced back and forth across his lap, purring.

"You see?"  Miranda said as she entered with a tray.  "You 
shouldn't underestimate your charms."

Mulder scratched the cat under her soft white chin, and she 
greedily extended her neck.  "I hate to break this to you," he 
said to Miranda, "but I think your cat is just easy."

"I'm afraid you might be right."  Miranda handed him a cup and 
then curled up on the opposite end of the couch.  "I was thinking 
about your problem in the kitchen, and I think that, if you look 
at it right, this might be the best thing that could have 
happened."

"Um, how?"

"Now you know how she feels.  She thought she was with you, 
right?"

"Except it wasn't me.  Scully would never let me..." He broke off 
and shook his head. 

"Have you ever asked?"

"Ask?"

Miranda rolled her eyes with disdain that would have made Scully 
proud.  "I get it now.  All this time, I've been thinking you're 
afraid of her saying no.  You're afraid she might say yes!"

"What?  That's not true.  I never even get as far as yes in my 
head.  How could I be afraid of it?"

"It is true.  I can see you quivering from here.  Admit it."

Mulder rubbed the cat as he considered the question.  "Okay, what 
if I say that I find both possibilities equally terrifying?"

Miranda laughed and shook her head.  "No such thing.  You want my 
advice?  Think hard on both situations, live with them in your 
head.  You spend the rest of your life as her just her friend.  Is 
it enough?  Or, you try for more.  Believe me, one of the two will 
seem less awful."  

"I don't know."

"I do.  You'll figure it out."  She reached over and plopped the 
cat into her own lap.  "And when you figure out which one it is, 
don't come here.   Go talk to Scully."

~*~*~*~*~*~


One reason Scully liked Dr. Alton was that she always let Scully 
put her clothes back on before delivering the bad news.  "So," she 
said, as she pulled up the rolling chair to sit next to Scully.  
"Here's the latest from your recent battery of tests."

Scully busied herself refastening the buttons on her cuffs.  "It's 
not good, is it?"

"It's not great, no.  We have not seen the tumor decrease in size 
as we'd hoped.  If anything, it's slightly larger.  We can try 
another round of radiation, but at this point, I don't think it 
would do much good."

Scully nodded.  In the silence that followed, she could hear Dr. 
Alton's watch ticking.  Scully tucked a lock of hair behind her 
ear.  "So what do we do now?  Is there something else we can try?"

"There are few possibilities, most of them experimental 
chemotherapies.  You would likely have to check into the hospital 
for a few days so that you could be closely monitored.  Also, 
since this is not my area of expertise, I would no longer be 
coordinating your care.  I would keep in contact with your doctor, 
of course, and you could talk to me at any time, but Jacob Arden 
would be the man treating you."

"Okay."  Scully was surprised by the sudden crush of abandonment 
that fell over her.  Her throat clogged with tears.  "Do I...I 
just call him and set up an appointment?"

Dr. Alton rolled her chair a bit closer and rubbed her hand down 
Scully's back.  "I'll let him know you're interested, and I'll 
give you his number.  I'm sure he'll want to set up a visit as 
soon as possible."

"All right."  She drew a shuddering breath.  "You said you can 
give me his number?  Do we do that now?"

"Yep."  Dr. Alton produced a card with Arden's office number 
printed on it.  "You'll have several options, and I would advise 
you to take a day or two to think about them before you decide 
which one you prefer.  Talk to me, if you like.  Talk to your 
family."

"Yes, I will."  She stood to leave, careful to give her shaky legs 
a chance to adjust to her weight before moving forward.  "Thank 
you."

"You're welcome.  And I mean it about calling.  Anytime."  She 
smiled and Scully tried to smile back.  Dr. Alton squeezed her arm 
with strong fingers.  "No one's giving up, Dana.  Don't you be the 
first."


Scully's feet navigated the steps to her apartment without the aid 
of her brain.  She felt fuzzy, disconnected, and more than a 
little lost.  In her pocket was a card that represented possibly 
her last hope.  She hadn't expected to exhaust her other options 
quite so rapidly.

As she turned the corner, she saw Mulder sitting in front of her 
door, his long legs folded like a lawn chair.  He rose when he saw 
her.  "Hey, Scully."

"Mulder, what are you doing here?"

"I have something I want to talk to you about."

Scully fingered the sharp edge of the card inside her pocket.  
"Okay, come inside.  There's something I need to talk to you 
about, too."

Inside, she took off her coat while Mulder ambled around her 
living room still wearing his leather jacket.  He appeared quite 
taken with her ceiling tiles.  "Is something the matter?" she 
asked.

He jumped.  "Matter?  No."  But he did not sit down.  Scully 
watched him fidget for another moment before walking around to the 
sofa.  When she sat, so did he.

"So," she said, "what is it?"

His leather creaked as he shifted.  "I was thinking about that key 
chain again today, you know, about how walking on the moon must 
have seemed just totally impossible right up until the moment it 
actually happened.  I mean, have you ever looked at how far away 
that thing is?  It wasn't so long ago that we all still thought it 
was made of cheese, and no one would ever think you could go walk 
around on a huge block of cheese."

Scully stared at him.  "Mulder, have you been drinking?"

He straightened.  "No.  I'm talking about making the impossible 
possible."

Scully rubbed her face with both hands, shaking her head.  
"Mulder, I don't think I have the strength to have analyze the 
philosophy of the moon landing with you right now."

"But I'm not talking about analyzing.  I'm talking about making 
things happen."

Her head hurt.  She wanted her bed.  "Okay, it happened already.  
It happened almost thirty years ago.  Can we just let it go?"

"But Scully--"

"It's been a long day, Mulder.  At any other time, I would love to 
sit here and talk green cheese and space exploration with you, but 
I've just come from the doctor's and--

He leaned towards her, still trying to interrupt.  "Scully--"

"No, Mulder, just this once, I need you to stop talking and listen 
for a second, because whatever this thing is with the moon, it can 
wait--"

"I love you."

That shut her up.  She blinked.  "What?"

"I, um, love you."  Pink tinged his cheeks and his leg started to 
bounce.

"Uh-huh.  So then what was that about the moon and the cheese and-
-"

"I don't know."

She ducked her head, smiling.  "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."  She snuck a sideways glance at him.  "I love you, too."

There was a moment of total, terrible silence.

He laughed, a sound filled with joy and relief, and she found 
herself joining in, shaking with pent-up emotion.  He grabbed her 
arm and tugged her hard against him, and she closed her eyes to 
take in his scent.  "Houston," he said to the top of her head, "we 
have lift-off."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She awoke in inkblot darkness, feeling dark and splotchy and out 
of sorts. As sleep dissolved into her shadowed living room, she 
felt still wrapped in the hazy memory of Mulder's voice and the 
steady beat of his heart under her ear.  Except in reality, the 
only thing under her ear was a firm couch cushion.  She snuggled 
down under the afghan and let her lids droop again so she could 
roll around in the dream some more.  His arm wrapped around her, 
his fingers playing at her hip.  The feel of his breath at her 
hairline.  

I love you, dream Mulder said again.  

Her eyes snapped open, catapulting her back into reality.  Not a 
dream.  Mulder had come over and said those things, and she had 
said things back and now the things were said, no going back.  
Then she appeared to have passed out from exhaustion because she 
was rather fuzzy on what had occurred after that.

"Oh, God."  She rubbed her eyes and twisted herself into the 
cushions.  Well done, she congratulated herself silently.  
Narcoleptic attacks are always so attractive.

Her fingers knotted in the fringe of her blanket as her stomach 
started an anxious twitch.  Mulder had rocked the boat, all right, 
and now she was feeling a little seasick.  Her life these days had 
such a precarious balance that she wondered how wise it was to try 
to squeeze a virile six-foot tall man into it.  Into herself.

Her face flushed hot and she burrowed further into the couch.  
They could have sex now, she realized.  It might even be expected.  
The thought made her feel breathless, itchy and invaded all at 
once.  She squeezed her knees together.  Her skin remembered his 
touch from earlier in the evening, and she felt his fingerprints 
come alive again on her body, phantom tingles that singed her very 
edges.  

But if practice made perfect, then she was in trouble because even 
her vibrator had a layer of dust on it.  Her last awkward attempt 
at mating had produced only an industrial-sized hangover and a 
frightening trip to the furnace.   She'd initiated that little 
disaster with the first kiss, had pushed him onto the couch and 
tried tofuck the angry voices out of her head. How ironic, then, 
that Ed had been attempting the very same exorcism but with more 
ferocious intent.  

How lucky for her that his dick hadn't cooperated.

Scully rolled over on her back and sighed.  Maybe she was getting 
ahead of herself, anyway.  The evidence certainly suggested she 
was.  Mulder had made his big declaration and then...what?  Swept 
her up in a passionate kiss?  Tossed her down on the cushions and 
started ripping off her clothes?  No, he'd wrapped her in a warm 
hug and kissed the top of her head.  Like always.  Then he'd left.  
Like always.

Oh.  Oh, no.

Excitement turned to dread, and she curled into a ball again, 
feeling her heart rate triple under the force of her 
embarrassment.  She'd misunderstood his intentions.  He loved her 
as a friend, as a partner.  Maybe it was even pity that had forced 
the words from him.  He'd said his piece, covered her with a 
blanket and left without so much as a note.  She reached one hand 
out to the coffee table to be sure and managed to knock the TV 
remote to the floor in the process.  There was no note.

"Stupid," she muttered to herself, determined not to cry.  She 
pushed aside the blanket and swung her feet onto the floor.  The 
action sent her remote skittering away, and she swallowed a curse 
as she turned on a light.

Squinting in the sudden brightness, she bent and stretched out her 
arm towards the remote.  The remote turned out not to work her TV 
but instead controlled the stereo, and it had a yellow sticky note 
stuck to it:  PLAY ME.  Scully sat back on the couch and aimed the 
remote at her shelf unit.  She clicked.   The CD whirred.  
Frankie's smooth voice saturated her living room.

"Fly me to the moon...and let me play among the stars."

Scully's breath escaped on a short, watery laugh.  She hugged her 
knees to her chest and let the music wash over her.  She hadn't 
been wrong.  There was no doubt:  Mulder had come a-courting.

~*~*~*~*~*~


No one could argue that they weren't two very serious people.  She 
was worth her weight in medical textbooks, and his neurons 
crackled so fast it was a wonder his skull didn't emit a permanent 
hum.  They wore dark suits and expressions to match.  They wielded 
flashlights like light sabers and illuminated corners of the world 
no one had even known about before they showed up.  

Clearly, these were not people about to star in a production of 
Two FBI Agents in Love.

So even though he did and she did too no one would have guessed 
anything had changed. She called the CDC about a fax they had sent 
her and did not make even the faintest googly eye across the room 
as she did so. He answered some email, but he did not send her any 
love notes.  Neither of them dotted their "I"s with miniature 
hearts, and there was no slow dance in the middle of the office.

But at lunchtime they did go out to the Mall where they sat on a 
bench in the spring sunshine.  When an errant cherry blossom blew 
into her hair, he pulled the cluster of petals free but did not 
toss them aside.  He set the flower on his knee as they continued 
talking about whether it would be possible to break down the human 
body into atoms for space travel and then reassemble it again on 
the other side with similar components.

"It would still be you," Mulder argued, "if it was the same 
blueprint."

"Your grandfather had an axe," Scully answered.  "Your father 
replaced the handle, then you replaced the blade.  Is it still 
your grandfather's axe?"

They continued on like that for quite some time because this was 
the way they loved each other, with arguments.  But for dessert 
Mulder rattled a bag of M&Ms.  He poured a rainbow of chocolate in 
his palm, which he extended to her as if feeding a timid bird.  
She picked out the yellows one by one and popped them in her 
mouth, surprised each time at their sweetness.

~*~*~*~*~*~


Romance, it seemed, was good for her beauty rest.  Mulder glided 
the car to a stop outside her apartment and cut the engine, but 
Scully didn't stir.  The lamplight cast tiny eyelash shadows on 
her cheeks in a world gone black and white.  He considered rousing 
her with a kiss but decided the first time she should be conscious 
for the event.  The leather seats creaked as he reached across to 
tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.  "Scully."

"Mmm?"  She shifted but did not open her eyes.  He stroked her 
pale cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Hey.  We're here."

Her lashes fluttered, shadow dancing, and she sat up.  He slid his 
hand around to the fine hairs at the back of her neck, massaging 
with his thumb.  She yawned and leaned into his touch.  "Sorry," 
she said.  "Long day."

She stretched forward to gather her things from the floor and he 
slid his hand down her spine.  "Scully..."

"Yeah?" She turned her head, and the lock of hair fell onto her 
cheek again.  He smiled fondly, sweeping his hand over her back.

"Last night," he began, and felt her stiffen under his touch.  
"You said you had something to tell me."

She straightened, hauling her briefcase into her lap, and he 
withdrew his hand from behind her.  She looked out the window 
towards her front door.  "Yeah," she said.  "My doctor thinks I 
should try a new course of treatment.  It would require a longer 
hospital stay, probably several days, so I thought I should let 
you know.  I won't be able to work, so..."

He flinched as though she'd slapped him.  "You think that's all I 
care about?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

She bowed her head.  "I didn't mean to.  I just...I won't be there 
and I want you to be prepared."

His anger melted, clogging in his throat.  "Oh, Scully."  He 
reached across the gearshift again and tugged her towards him, 
wrapping her in an awkward but fierce hug.  The briefcase slipped 
to the floor, and she shuddered in his arms.  "It's okay," he 
murmured.  "We'll figure it out."

Her fingers curled into his shirt and she sniffed against his 
neck.  "It's only for a few days."

He stroked her warm head.  "When do you have to go?"

"I have tests on Friday.  I'll know more then.  Probably next week 
some time."

"'Okay."  He mapped the slope and curve of her with his hands, 
feeling her cadence slow as the tension drained away.  "Scully, 
did I ever tell you about the cave I found when I was a kid?"

"I don't think so."  She found his ribs through the thin cotton of 
his shirt and began an idle exploration that threatened to derail 
his story.

"Yeah.  Um, I found the entrance when I was crawling around in the 
grass one day.  You could only see it down on your belly because 
of the rocky overhang.   I got a flashlight and wriggled my way 
inside.  Damn near ripped my T-shirt in half."

"Your mother must have been pleased."

"I didn't tell her.  I didn't tell anyone.  I started skipping 
school to do more exploring in the place.  I was convinced I was 
going to find ancient cave drawings.  Or, you know, Batman."

He felt her smile. "And did you?" 

"No.  I found a lot of moss and some fish with no eyes.  Then I 
flunked my Earth Sciences exam and my parents discovered what I'd 
been doing with my time.  I tried arguing that I was conducting 
actual *research*, but that didn't go over too well.  My ass was 
grounded for a month and they walled off the entrance to my cave."

"Mulder."  She pulled back a few inches and met his gaze.  "Is 
there a point to this little tale?"

He smiled. "Uh, to keep you here in the car with me?"

"I see."  Her hand slipped into his.  "In that case, it seems to 
be working."

The teasing of her thumb across his knuckles made his breath go 
ragged.  "Too bad..."  He licked his lips.  "Too bad that's the 
end of the story, then."

"Mmm-hmm.  Too bad."

Sweat broke out on the back of his neck.  Scully had a deep, 
breathy half-whisper that stirred him even when she was talking 
about kinase-kinase interactions and Brownian motion.  To hear her 
murmur "bad" in the confines of a darkened car -- well, his brain 
translated "naughty" and redirected his blood flow to a southerly 
direction.  He bent his head so their foreheads nearly touched and 
reached for her other hand.  Her fingers curled around his.  
"You've heard all my other stories by now."

"Probably so.  I should just get going." 

"Yeah."

But instead she squirmed and he lurched and they both stopped 
breathing as their lips touched for the first time.  Her hands 
gripped his in the dark warmth of her lap.  He extended one finger 
and traced inside of her thigh through her wool pants, making her 
shiver.  She pulled back, shifting for purchase on the slippery 
seat, and he steadied her with a hand on her ribcage.

"Scully..."

"Shh..."  She palmed his cheek, her thumb grazing his lower lashes 
as her fingers sank into his hair.  The prick of her nails on his 
scalp made him dizzy, and her lips swallowed his moan.  His 
fingers splayed out against her ribs to catch the rise and fall of 
her as they kissed, felt her straining to meet him.  Her mouth 
parted with a small stifled pleasure noise that caused his ears to 
burn.  

His first taste of her was slow and shallow, teasing, and she 
answered by pressing closer, drawing him deeper inside.  Steam 
rose on the windows as the pressure rose in his veins.  The heavy 
sound of their intermingled breathing spurred his pounding heart.  
He caressed the bend of her waist, then higher, sliding up, up, 
past the tiny bumps of buttons to her breast.  Her nipple hardened 
with one gentle swipe.

Scully gasped and jerked backwards.  He opened his eyes at the 
loss of her heat and touch. "Scully?"  The taste of her lingered 
on his lips, and he licked it away. 

"I need to go."  She fumbled for her briefcase.  "It's late."

"Scully, wait a second."  He rubbed her arm in what he hoped was a 
reassuring manner, but she was already turning to leave.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mulder."  She opened the door and let in 
the cold night air, shocking his still-heated skin.  

"Scully, I'm sorry..."

That stopped her.  She bent her head for a moment, then twisted 
around to look at him.  "No, I am," she said softly, her eyes 
large and dark.  She stretched back and kissed his cheek.  "I'll 
see you tomorrow."

The jolt of the slamming door punctuated her exit, and Mulder sat 
deflated in his seat.  Four years did not seem like an 
unreasonable amount of time to try for second base, but perhaps 
Scully marked her sexual scorecard differently.  Or maybe 
chemotherapy made her too sensitive for his groping.  He scratched 
the back of his head and took a deep breath.  There had been 
nothing in the cancer book about this part.

As his internal engine quieted down, he started the one in the 
car, resigned to heading home alone.  It wasn't until he reached 
the bridge that a thought occurred to him:  Scully had said she 
was starting a new kind of treatment.  His stomach clenched.  This 
meant the first round of treatment had failed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Scully curled under the thin hospital blankets and tried to snooze 
in the gray afternoon light.  An arduous day of testing left her 
poked, prodded and feeling naked as a peeled grape.  She wasn't so 
much tired as she was completely stripped of her usual psychic 
armor.  Somewhere in the building, people wearing her usual garb 
of white coats and safety glasses were measuring her samples, 
studying her scans and generally detailing the breakdown of her 
body.  All she could do was wait for her sentence to be handed 
down.

A knock at the door made her sit up.   "Come in," she said, 
wiggling back against the pillows.  Mulder poked his head and bad 
tie around the door.

"Hey," he said.  "Okay to come in?  They said you might be 
napping."

"I'm awake," she said, and he entered, shutting the door 
behind him.  He bypassed the ugly plastic chair and sat on 
the bed near her hip.  His gaze raked over her thin scrubs 
and the various Band-Aids she sported on her arms.

"Hi," he said again.  "How are you doing?"

Her lower lip threatened to quiver, so she bit it.  "It's 
been a long day."

"Yeah?"  His voice was soft and his hands were warm on hers.  
"Lots of tests, huh?"

She scooted closer to him.  "When I was little, my dad used 
to take us down to the beach at low tide and let us play in 
the tide pools.  My brothers and I took great pleasure in 
poking the sea anemones with a stick until they contracted 
into tiny balls."  She gave him a baleful look.  "I have a 
new sympathy for those poor little anemones."

Mulder made a low sound in his throat and enfolded her in his 
arms.  "I'm sorry, Scully," he said, kissing the top of her 
head.  She followed through on her sea creature analogy by 
huddling down into a ball and holding on tight.  Mulder, with 
his broad shoulders and rumbly chest, made a perfect rock.  
She closed her eyes and let him sway her gently from side to 
side.  His hand swept the length of her spine in long 
strokes, molding her back into herself again.

"How was work?" she asked the knot of his tie.

"I had ass duty today.  Eight hours behind a desk."

"Trade you," she said, and he squeezed her even closer.

"What can I do?"

"You're doing it."  Attached to Mulder, she didn't feel quite 
so small and defenseless.  "I have at least another hour 
before they give me the results and let me out of here."

"You should rest," he said, smoothing her hair.  "Lie down 
and try to get some sleep."

She yawned and rubbed her cheek against the fuzz of his 
cotton shirt, tightening her arms around him so he couldn't 
leave.  "No, this is fine." He drew the covers up to her 
shoulders, and for the first time all day she was warm. The 
stark room faded away as she let herself drift to sound of 
the glubs and growls inside Mulder.  

When she opened her eyes again, they had changed positions.  
Mulder had shifted onto the bed completely so his back was 
supported.  Gone were his sport coat, his tie and his shoes.  
And apparently, she had managed to wriggle her way into his 
lap.  He felt her tense and rubbed his chin on the top of her 
head.  "Good sleep?"

"I did it again, didn't I?"  She tried to extricate herself, 
but he held her fast.  "Mulder..."

"What?"

"The doctor should be in at any moment."

"Tall man with a striped tie and a bad comb-over?  He was 
already here."

"Oh, God."  She buried her face in Mulder's neck; he 
chuckled.

"He said sleep was good for you and promised to be back in an 
hour.  That's --"  He craned his neck around to the bedside 
table.  "--about thirty minutes from now."

"Still," she said, "I should move."  

Mulder's voice teased her ear as his arms tightened around 
her.  "I'd like to see you try."  

She was glad he couldn't see her smile.  "I'll do more than 
try."  She wiggled a bit, elbowing him in the process.  
"You're going to be thanking your lucky stars you're already 
in the hospital."

"Ooo, hurt me."  His knee came up, throwing her off balance.  
She grabbed his forearm and tried to kick her way free, but 
the blankets impeded her progress.

"Mulder!"

He managed to pin both of her arms with one of his, and his 
legs trapped hers easily.  "Give up?" he asked, his voice low 
and breathless.

"Never."  She squirmed some more and tried a few additional, 
ineffective kicks.  At last, she sagged, panting.  "All 
right, all right.  You win."

Mulder laughed and relaxed his grip, and she chose that 
moment to lunge free.  "Hey!"  He snapped her back with ease, 
and this time she didn't struggle.  She laid her head on his 
shoulder and wrapped arms around him.

"I'm glad you're here."  She kissed the underside of his 
chin.  

"I'm glad you let me be here."

She rested for another moment, listening to his heart slow.  
Then she stretched, catlike, and the shift slid her deeper 
into his lap.  She froze.  "Mulder?"

"Ignore that."

His erection pressed firmly against her bottom, with only his 
pants and her thin hospital scrubs between them.  Her mouth 
went dry and her fingers clenched the blanket.  "Ignore it?" 
she whispered, not looking at him.

"I have been."  He pressed his face into her neck.  "It's 
okay, Scully."

"It's not."  She swallowed with difficulty.  His arms snaked 
out to encircle her again.

"Tell me," he said simply.

She looked at the ceiling, as if the magic words would 
suddenly appear there.  "Mulder, about...that."

"Yes?"  He gave her an encouraging nuzzle, and unshed tears 
burned the back of her throat.  Dammit.  She rubbed her eyes.

"I just don't know if I can."

She had done a little reading on the subject, tackling her 
sex life like it was just another science project.  All the 
books said the same thing, that sex was just fine as long as 
she was feeling well enough, but there were numerous cautions 
about possible pitfalls.  Lubrication, for one.  How the hell 
was she supposed to have that conversation with Mulder?  
"I've stopped menstruating, Mulder, probably due to weight 
loss, and so my hormones are all out of whack.  Make sure to 
bring a tube of K-Y with that bottle of wine!"  Then there 
was the matter of joint pain, which she often suffered at 
night.  And the three layers of clothes she wore to bed these 
days to keep her from having chills.  Attractive, no?  "I'll 
just cut a hole in these here sweatpants, Mulder, and you can 
stick it right in."

Scully wiped away a hot, trickling tear with the back of her 
hand, and Mulder hugged her from behind.  "Don't cry," he 
murmured, rocking her.  "Not over this."

She nodded.  "I want to do it.  I do.  I just don't know if 
everything works right anymore.  I don't want..."

"What?" He brushed the hair back from her face.

"I don't want to disappoint you."  She squeezed her eyes 
shut, forcing out the embarrassing words.

"Scully," he said, making her name sound like an endearment.  
His cheek scraped against hers.  "You think you have the 
market cornered on that little anxiety?  I haven't been laid 
since the Bush administration."

She painful laugh escaped her.  

"No, seriously.  I may need a road map."

She ducked her head and covered his hand with one of her own.  
"I guess that explains why you can work up such an impressive 
level of excitement in a hospital room."

His fingers stroked her belly through her scrubs.  "It's not 
the room that excites me."  He kissed her shoulder above the 
edge of her top.  

"Mulder..."

"Mmmm?" 

She felt the tip of his tongue at her collarbone, and heat 
flooded her face.  "What are you doing?"

"Practicing."  He breathed the word over her skin, and she 
shivered.  

"We're in a hospital."

"So you mentioned."

"With an unlocked door."

"Exciting, isn't it?"  He slipped one hand under her top, his 
fingers grazing the edge of her ribcage.  The slow strokes 
set her blood to humming.  Her breaths came shallow and 
light, caught between fear and arousal.

No risk of disappointment, she thought as the weight of 
desire started pulling her under.  Just a little touching.

Skin starved, her hands flexed with the need to feel him.  
She ran her palms up his forearms, thrilling at the tickle of 
his springy hairs.  A tiny adjustment put her back in full 
contact with his erection, and he nipped the shell of her 
ear.

Pure insanity, she thought, eyeing the door.  But her body 
was cooperating.  It seemed recognize the urgency of the 
situation and surged into overdrive. Her blood buzzed in her 
ears; her lips felt swollen even though they had yet to kiss.  
Hot, restless, she twisted in his embrace, leaning forward so 
he could find her breasts with both hands.

"Ah," he sighed, pleased with his discovery.  She gritted her 
teeth to keep from crying out.

"Mulder," she sounded desperate to her own ears.  "We need 
to...we should stop."

"Not yet."  His voice was tight.  "You like that?" 

She sucked in a sharp breath as he rolled each nipple between 
his fingers.  Full arousal -- her first in months -- returned 
like an avalanche, nearly making her keen aloud.  She pulled 
free and turned in his arms so they were face to face.  His 
wild, bright eyes held traces of laughter.

"I'll take that as a ye--"

She shut him up with her mouth, pushing him back against the 
pillows and the headboard.  No tentative hello this time -- 
she took him hot and deep, and he answered with a smothered 
groan that vibrated against her lips.  His hands closed over 
her back, roaming under her top again as if he were a blind 
man mapping the Venus de Milo.  Her nipples swelled to greet 
his greedy fingers.

"MulderMulderMulder."  She tried to keep his head still for 
kissing, sliding in for his rough tongue.

Her knees grew shaky so she lowered herself again into his 
lap, finding the perfect angle on her first try.  Their 
mouths met and receded, allowing her brief, needy gasps as 
she pressed even closer.  The combination of his zipper and 
his cock between her legs was almost enough.  His hips
answered her rocking with quick, erratic thrusts.

"Here, here," he muttered, yanking at her loose cotton pants.

"No, no."  Even though it's just what she needed.  She set the 
edge of her teeth to his neck, tasting the salt of him, and 
raised and inch so he could put his hands between her thighs.  
He cupped her through the thin cotton, hard fingers not 
enough, and she whined in frustration.

"No?"  He panted, hot breath stirring her hair.  She rubbed 
herself on his hand.

"Please. Oh."  Dizzily, she realized someone might come and 
see her grinding herself this way, but it wasn't enough to 
stop the madness.  Her body was on fire with pleasure instead 
of pain.

"Like this," he said, urging her forward.  She leaned down and put 
her face next to his, and he worked one hand down the front of her 
pants.  Her thighs trembled.  She buried her face in his neck, 
tensing as he sought out the pulse between her legs.  He slipped 
two fingers inside her underwear, and she twitched at the jolt of 
sensation.  "Okay?" he breathed.  She could feel the tension in 
his arms.

"Yeah."  Not as wet as she might have been, but enough not to 
hurt.  She thought she could feel every ridge of his fingertips.  
Her thighs tightened around his hand, asking for more.  He started 
a tentative rhythm that made her squeeze her eyes at the pure joy.  

"Like this?" he whispered, a naughty intern feeling her up under 
her scrubs. 

"Mmm-hmm."  She moved with him as he increased the pressure and 
the speed.  Hurry, hurry, her inner voice chanted.  Almost there.  
She clutched him.  "Don't stop."

He murmured words of praise, used his free hand to caress the back 
of her thigh.  "Look," he said, urging her away from his chest.  
"Look and see."

She looked down through the curtain of her hair and saw his tan 
arm disappear into the waistband of her pants.  She saw the bulge 
of his hand, saw the cotton move as he worked her.  Laying her 
forehead on his chest, she dug her fingers into his shirt.  "Mul-
der," she managed as waves began.  She jerked and pressed his 
fingers deep inside.  He peppered her shoulder with hot kisses.  
"Oh my God."

She collapsed full weight on him, letting the room spin as he 
stroked her gently through the aftershocks.  After a minute, she 
raised herself up enough to look at him.  "I can't believe that 
just happened."

He regarded her through heavy-lidded eyes.  "It's the scrubs," he 
said.  "I can't resist."

"Mulder."  She chuckled and shook her head.  "Wow."  

"Mmm-hmm."  His look of naked affection made her blush, and she 
curled against him, warm and sweaty and sated.

"Oh!"  The heat of his erection poked at her belly.  "Mulder, what 
about you?"

"Unless you want to show your physician how FBI pathologists 
*really * play doctor, I think I'm going to have to wait."

"I'm sorry," she said, full of sympathy.  

"I'm not.  I'm just going to have to lie very still for a minute 
and think of Skinner."

She stifled a giggle against his shoulder and relaxed.  Her 
fingers played through 
the damp silk of his hair.  "He's not naked is he?"

"God, no!"  He paused.  "He's wearing Capri pants."

"Mulder!"

"And a golf hat."

She considered.  "How about tap shoes?"

"Keep talking.  I think it's working."

"A feather boa.  Oh, and knee socks..."

	
CHAPTER TWELVE

On Monday, Scully met with her medical triumvirate while he 
tested his word power with a year-old copy of "Reader's 
Digest."  "I can come in with you," he had said, but she had 
declined his offer.

"It's easier for me if you wait here."

"Easier?"

She'd rubbed her eyes, which he knew was because she'd slept 
poorly the night before due to wracking joint pain.  The 
reason he'd known this was because he had been in the bed 
next to her.  Surely that detail should have granted him 
entrée into the inner sanctum.  

"Mulder," she had said,  "if you're there, then I have to 
listen for both of us.  This way I have a chance to process 
what they say before I talk to you.  Okay?"

So she'd gone down the hall alone and he'd stayed in the 
nappy gray chair and thumbed ragged magazines.  "Reader's 
Digest" wanted to know if he could define "prevaricate."  
Sure, he could do that.  

Prevaricate (pre-var'-i-cate) v. from the Latin, meaning to 
fuck with the truth.  1. to take what one's doctor said and 
smooth out any unpleasantries so that one's partner never 
knew what the hell was going on; 2. to "process" every 
feeling one had into two words 3. to sneak out of bed in the 
middle of the night to pop pain pills like hard candy.

Scully reappeared the waiting room with her usual faint frown 
and dark suit.  She could have been dressed for her own 
funeral.  "Well?" he asked, correcting his slouch.

"I'm fine," she said.  "Let's go."

Mulder tossed aside his magazine and followed her out the 
door.  Prevaricate, he thought.  To lie.


That afternoon it was his turn to leave her out of the loop.  
He answered his phone to discover Skinner on the other end.  
"Agent Mulder, I'd like to see you in my office."

"Right away, Sir."

Scully cocked a curious eyebrow.  "Something wrong?"

"Don't know."  He grabbed his suit jacket.  "Just me on the 
chopping block this time.  I'll be back."

Skinner's office somehow remained shadowed even on bright 
sunny days, despite his large windows.  It smelled of 
leather, stale cigarettes and rug cleaner.  Mulder noted the 
ashtray was empty.  "You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down," Skinner said, even though he himself was still 
standing.  Mulder sat.

"What's this about?"

Skinner removed his glasses, peered through the lenses, and 
began wiping them a handkerchief.  "I've been getting some 
reports.  Agent Rialla tells me Agent Scully had some 
problems during the Henderson case last week."

"A nosebleed," Mulder answered.  "It stopped."

Skinner fixed him with a long look and then put his glasses 
back on.  "Rialla said Scully was dizzy, had to leave the 
interrogation."

"It was someone else's turn to take a stab at Henderson 
anyway."

"She's sick," Skinner said succinctly.  "And getting sicker."  
When Mulder didn't reply, Skinner came around the desk.  
"Isn't she?"

Here was where Mulder realized the true beauty of Scully's 
plan:  what he didn't know, he couldn't tell.  "She says her 
latest tests came back clean."

"That's not what I asked."

Mulder scratched the back of his head.  "What was the 
question again?"

Skinner's jaw tightened.  "You want her to collapse in the 
field?  You want her to feel faint at the wrong time and 
accidentally shoot someone?  This isn't nursery school, Agent 
Mulder.  One misstep could cost Scully her life.  Or yours." 

Mulder sat forward, his face in his hands.  If he wanted to 
get even for her evasions, this was the chance.  One word to 
Skinner and he could pull her plug.  She would be safe in 
bed, where, let's face it, she probably belonged.  He tried 
to imagine the look on her face when she realized he'd given 
up on her.  His anger slackened.

"You should be talking to her about this," he said quietly.

"I'm talking to you."

He sat up and met Skinner's eyes.  "Well, I don't know what 
you want me to say.  She's sick, yes, but so far her work 
hasn't suffered.  She says she wants to be here, and I don't 
think it's our place to question that."

"I'm responsible for the both you.  It damn well is my 
place."

Mulder stood.  "Well then, Sir, I suggest it's also your 
place to tell her." 

He went back to the basement and Scully looked up from her 
laptop when he entered the room.  "So?  What did Skinner 
want?"  

With one look at her, he realized she knew.  The tense hunch 
of her shoulders, the anxious set of her mouth and the 
defiance in her eyes -- she was just waiting for him to say 
the words.  They jammed in his throat.

"Nothing, it's fine."  He tapped his fingers lightly on the 
desk at his hip.  "He, uh, he just wanted to ask a couple of 
follow-up questions about the Henderson case."

"Okay."  She went back to her typing and he settled uneasily 
in his chair.  Sometimes a little prevarication was the only 
choice one had.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He stopped the car in front of her apartment building that 
night and shut off the engine with a decisive twist.  Scully 
gave him a sideways glance.  "You're staying a while, I take 
it?"

"Dinner," he said, reaching for her hand.  He brushed her 
fingers with his thumbs. 

"Mulder, I don't think--"

"I'll cook."  He gave her a hand a quick squeeze and then 
reached across her lap to open her door.

"You can cook?" she asked when he drew back so their noses 
were inches apart.

He smiled.  "It depends on how you define 'cook.''

She huffed a laugh and he nuzzled her cheek.  Her fingers 
curled around the back of his neck, and they stayed like that 
for a moment, their faces pressed together.  At last she 
yawned, turning away, and he released her.

Scully's apartment had a quiet and calm aura that suited her, 
as if it, too, were comfortable spending a lot of time alone.  
He felt soothed inside its walls because at Scully's, 
everything had a place, so for the duration of his visits he 
must belong as well.  She took his coat with exaggerated 
formality, as if he were a first date.  Which, when he 
stopped to consider it, he supposed he was -- horny hospital 
madness notwithstanding.

Scully seemed be caught between the same sense of awkwardness 
and familiarity, because she was standing on the opposite 
side of the room from him and not meeting his eyes.  "Would 
you like something to drink?" she asked his shoes.

"No, thanks.  Just let me at the stove and I'll show you my 
kitchen kung fu."

Scully looked pained.  "I can make something, really..."

"Scully."  He crossed and put one arm around her, jostling her 
playfully.  "You 
have pasta?  I can boil water.  It's no big deal."

Her thin shoulders heaved with her sigh.  "Okay.  There should be 
pasta in the pantry, and canned tomatoes on the lowest shelf.  I 
have lettuce and--"  She broke off with another yawn.  He hugged 
her into his side.

"I'll find it.  You go lie down a few minutes, okay?  I'll come 
get you when it's ready."

"No, I should help."

He began propelling her towards the bedroom.  "I insist.  Too many 
cooks, yadda yadda yadda.  I'll yell if I need help; otherwise 
don't come out unless you hear the smoke detector."

"Mulder!"  She halted and turned to face him.

"Kidding."  He grinned and kissed her forehead.  "You rest."

He returned to the kitchen and hung his jacket and tie over the 
back of one chair.  When that didn't cool him down enough, he 
stripped to his T-shirt.  "Like a sauna, and I haven't even turned 
on a burner yet," he muttered, sticking his neck around the corner 
to peer at the thermostat.  It read seventy-eight degrees.  
"JESUS."  He tugged the hem of his T-shit free and contemplated 
taking it off, 
too. 

The Naked Chef, he thought.  I could get my own cable access show.

Deciding it was probably better to have some barrier between 
his skin and the hot oils, he returned to the kitchen.  He 
started poking around for the necessary pots and pans.  
Whistling, he located fresh basil and garlic, the tomatoes 
and a bottle of olive oil.  He debated using the food 
processor to puree the tomatoes, but didn't want to wake 
Scully.  Instead, he mashed them around the frying pan with a 
fork, managing to decorate his T-shirt in the process.  "Just 
as well I took off the good one," he said as he mopped up his 
mess.  He fared little better with the garlic; the skins 
stuck to his moist fingers, and he sliced his left thumb 
trying to dice the cloves.  "I knew there was a reason I 
usually eat directly out of boxes."

After half an hour or so, he managed to concoct a passable 
sauce, and the water was just starting to boil.  He wiped his 
hands on a dishtowel and went in search of Scully.  Feeling 
his way across the unfamiliar terrain of her bedroom, he 
stopped when his knees bumped the bed.  Scully didn't budge.  
In the diffuse streetlight coming through the curtains, he 
could make out her slight frame under the loose covers.  He 
lifted them and crawled up until he was stretched out beside 
her.  Smiling in the dark, he stroked her hair.  "Scully..."

"Mmmm?"  She shifted and curled towards him.  He let his hand 
roam from the top of her head, down the warm curve of her 
neck to the slope of her shoulder.  She drew her knees up and 
murmured something he couldn't understand.  Her breathing was 
still even and deep.

"Scully," he tried again.  He shifted so he wrapped around 
her like a question mark, his lips near her ear.  "It's time 
for dinner."

Her hand snuck up between them to rest on the center of his 
chest.  "M'kay."

He continued to draw idle patterns on the smooth plane of her 
back.  They spent so much of their time pushing against one 
another that a few extra minutes of pliant, sleepy Scully was 
indeed an unexpected treasure.  She stretched without moving 
much, just tensing and relaxing against him.  

"You smell like garlic," she said, reaching around him to 
rake her nails slowly down his back.  His eyes slid closed in 
pleasure.

"You will too after dinner.  There are three cloves in the 
sauce."

"Good thing we're friends, then."

"Good thing."

She tilted her chin up enough so their lips met, just a 
gentle press, and he felt her sharp intake of breath tickle 
his skin as they kissed.  He made a wordless sound of 
affection, which she answered with a small sigh as her mouth 
opened under his.  She tasted like warm mint, her agile, 
pointed tongue teasing him with dainty brushes.  He rolled 
her a little closer, parting his legs so she could slip a 
knee between them.

Under the covers, his hand fell to her waist.  She went rigid 
for a flash of a second as his hand delved under her 
sweatshirt, but he reassured her with lips and tongue that he 
was happy with the feel of her. 

Skinny, yes, his brain had registered that the first time, 
but he didn't let himself dwell.  Not when he had large 
expanses of soft skin and fine, strong bones to explore.  He 
let the pads of his fingers trail across her ribs.  She 
arched into him, her belly brushing his belt buckle.  Her leg 
rubbed between his.

"Agent Mulder," she said, pulling away, her breathing ragged 
and her tone suggestive.  She wriggled again.  "Is that a 
magic pickle in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

He grinned and squeezed her hard, infusing her with some of 
the joy he felt.  "I don't know.  Why don't you rub it and 
make a wish?"

She laughed through her nose, shaking in his embrace, but 
then she did as he suggested, her mouth planting tiny kisses 
up his throat while her hand slid lower under the covers.  
She raised his T-shirt, and his belly gave an involuntary 
twitch at the sweep of her fingers over his naked skin.

"Scully," he murmured into her ear.  "You don't have to."

"I know."  She worked his belt buckle one-handed.  It flapped 
open and she made quick work of the zipper after that.  Her 
small, warm hand slipped inside, causing him to suck in his 
breath in one single whoosh.  She kissed his shoulder.  
"Feels pretty lucky to me."

His eyes screwed shut, his mouth dry, he lay completely still 
under her tender ministrations.  "You have no idea," he told 
her hoarsely.  Her nimble fingers found the slit in his 
boxers and soon she was stroking him with no barrier between 
them.  The only sound in the room was the slight rustle of 
his clothes as she touched him and his own desperate panting. 
She pushed closer, her thigh rubbing on his leg like an eager 
cat, and her hand changed angle enough for her to find his 
head with her thumb.  He jerked.  "Scully!"

"Too much?" She stopped moving but her hand still pressed 
against him.  He turned his face so he could kiss her hair.

"God."  He felt her smile into his shoulder.  Minx. "Scully, 
the thing is...it's a little too lucky.  Like, zillion-dollar 
jackpot lucky after you've been living on food stamps for 
four years.  And, you know, if you want to get lucky, too..."  
He trailed off, realizing he might have been assuming too 
much.  Shifting, he met her eyes as best he could in the dim 
light.  "Um, did you want to get lucky, too?"

She leaned in and found the pulse in his neck with her 
tongue.  "God yes," she breathed.  His ears tingled.  His 
dick jumped in her hand.

"Okay then."  He nudged her free of his pants so he could 
roll her under him.  Her legs parted and he settled between 
them as his mouth found hers again.  She wove her hands 
through his hair, turning his face one way then the other, 
kissing madly while her hips began a smooth bump and grind.  
He managed to wedge one arm under her shirt -- and bra?  who 
wears a bra to bed, Scully? -- and tweaked her left nipple.  
It hardened instantly in his fingers and all of a sudden he 
was frantic to get his mouth on her.

He yanked his mouth from hers with a gasp, fumbling with 
shaking fingers at the hem of her sweatshirt.  With her 
cooperation, he raised it until it bunched at her chin, and 
he lowered his mouth to her breastbone as he reached under 
her for the clasp of her bra.  Scully arched her back to 
help.  At last he freed the catch and the cups loosened.  He 
brushed them aside, fondling her curves as he did so.  His 
nose found the powdery softness between her breasts, and he 
darted his tongue out for a taste.

She whimpered and ran restless hands over his shoulders, 
fingers bunching his shirt until it rose partway up his back.  
He kissed each breast as he would her lips, with hot open-
mouthed kisses and gentle flicks of his tongue.  Scully 
played with his ears and thrust her hips against his lower 
body, seeking purchase where there was none.  

Their twists caused his loosened pants to slip lower on his 
hips, the fabric catching in uncomfortable ways, so he let go 
of her long enough to shake off his slacks.  Scully hid her 
snicker with one hand as he flailed about under the covers.  
"Think that's funny, do you?"  He hooked his thumbs under the 
elastic of her sweatpants and tugged.  Her gasp of surprise 
made him grin, and he had her naked to the waist before she 
had time to object.  She shivered.  "Cold?" he asked, leaning 
over her.  His movements had let in quite a draft.

"It's not bad."

"Bet I can fix it."  He settled between her legs again, his 
arms on either side of her.  She hugged him and tucked her 
nose into the curve of his shoulder.

"Much better."  She squeezed him with her knees and his hips 
gave a reflexive thrust.  He reached down to stroke her warm 
flank as they exchanged a few more lazy kisses.  Scully set a 
rhythm with her hips that matched his slow caress.  He 
pressed into her gently at first, gaining speed and pressure 
as their kisses grew deeper.  At last he broke free and laid 
his forehead on hers.  Eyes closed, he could smell the heat 
and sweat of her skin.  

"Scully, do we need anything?"

She shook her head no.  Her hands slid down either side of 
his rib cage to the edge of his boxers.  She yanked and he 
wriggled and soon the boxers joined his pants in a wad at the 
foot of the bed.   His cock sprung free in the humid air 
between them, reaching towards her soft belly to rub wetly 
over her smooth skin.  He kissed her brow, her nose her chin.  
"You feel so good." 

Her hands ran down his back and tickled the sensitive skin at 
the back of his thighs.  "You too."  She parted her legs a 
big wider so he could find his place between them.  When he 
reached down to help himself along, he found her swollen but 
dry as a desert.  She hissed and flinched at his touch.

"Scully?"

"Sorry."  Her thighs closed over him, trying to force him 
out.  He held her still with the weight of his body.

"It's all right," he said against her fragrant neck.  She 
turned her head away, tense and resistant.  He stroked her 
side and kissed her shoulder.  "It's okay."

This, he had read about in the books.  His fierce desire 
abated a bit as he soothed her, her distress taking a bit of 
the wind from his sails.  He kissed her warmly and gently, 
over and over, until she relaxed again and started to kiss 
him back.  "I'm sorry," she whispered in the dark, but he 
shushed her with his fingers.  

He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, where he 
could hear her heart beating so fast there was no space 
between the thumps.  Tension coiled in her muscles as he went 
lower, finding her breastbone, her navel, the soft hair at 
the juncture of her thighs.  His head dipped beneath the 
blankets.

"Mulder..."  She reached for him, clawing ineffectively at 
his shoulders.  He kept her open to him with a hand on each 
of her knees.  "Mulder, please.  You don't--"

She stopped talking at the first touch of his tongue.  He 
couldn't believe the fire of her on his lips, burning with 
each supple stroke.  Her fingers twisted in his hair.  He 
took his time learning each fold and valley, loving her again 
and again until her heels dug into the mattress and she was 
gasping above him like a fish out of water.  

His face flamed from the cramped space; lack of oxygen made 
him dizzy. But he was harder than he could ever remember 
being, aching at the thought that he was making love to her.  
That she needed for him for this.  That she trusted him 
enough to let him do it.  True completion.

When he came up for air, Scully was quivering beneath him, 
her eyes dark and liquid.  He kissed her parted lips and she 
wrapped her legs around him.  Without breaking their kiss, he 
reached down and placed the head of his penis where he needed 
it to be.  Scully arched to meet him and he slipped inside.  

Tears pricked his eyes and he broke off to nuzzle her ear.  
"Hi," he whispered.

"Hi." She hugged him tight with all four limbs as they rubbed 
noses and shared a smile.  

He braced himself on his forearms and held as still as he 
could, trying to ignore her clenching and releasing as she 
adjusted to his presence inside her body.  His stomach 
tightened; his breathing grew erratic.  He felt the tendons 
in his neck stretch at the effort it took to keep control.  
Scully shifted a bit underneath him, her eyelids fluttering 
closed.

Just as he was about to ask if it was okay to move, she 
stiffened and gasped, her hands clamping at his waist.  Her 
mouth went slack and her hips gave a sharp jerk forward.  He 
felt her rippling around him.  "Oh," he breathed, amazed it 
could happen like this.  She moaned a little and he started a 
gentle rocking motion.  When she shuddered and hid her face 
in his shoulder, he bent to kiss her head.  "Okay?"

"Yes."

She hugged him again and he picked up the pace, increasing 
the sweet friction until even his teeth vibrated with the 
need for release.  Scully stroked his sleek back and murmured 
words of encouragement near his ear.  He hoped she could hear 
the love in his groan.  Shaking, he gave three more quick 
thrusts and collapsed on top of her, spent.  She kissed his 
temple and squeezed him close.

When he'd recovered enough energy, he rolled to the side and 
took her warm little body with him.  Gooseflesh covered her 
back, so he tugged down her sweatshirt and pulled up the 
covers.  She rested her head on his shoulder.  "So," he said, 
still a little winded.  "Did you get your wish?"

Scully snorted and rubbed her cheek against him.  "I'd say 
that's a bona fide magic pickle you've got there."

"Yes, I have to agree he's feeling luckier than he has in a 
long time."

He would never get enough of her laughter in the dark.  She 
poked her fingers into spaces in his ribs, tickling.  "I'm 
just sorry I won't have the energy to do this more often."

"When you're better," he replied.  "We can do it all the time 
then."

"Mulder."

"Seriously.  Night and day...we can quit our jobs..."

"We have to have some time to eat."

"Shit!"  He sat up.  "Dinner!"

Scully rolled around convulsed with laughter as he ran bare-
assed out of the room.  The sauce was fortunately just fine, 
though the water had boiled away.  He put one a fresh pot 
while Scully dressed the salad.  They dimmed the lights and 
ate at her wooden table with a makeshift centerpiece next to 
them:  his giant pickle with a single fat candle glowing atop 
the jar.

XxXxXxX

Weeks passed, and Mulder often felt like he was living some 
nightmarish version of a beer commercial:  some days were 
definitely better than others.

Scully was the one curled up and shivering in the hospital 
bed, but he had never felt smaller in his life.  He tried to 
imagine how chemicals that made her so sick could possibly be 
helping.  The horrid part was, he seemed to be no more of an 
aide. 

"Mulder, don't," she'd groaned when he sat on the bed with 
her.  "I don't want it to move."

So he'd sat in the chair, dragging it across the room so he 
could hold her hand.  She'd pulled away.  He'd brought a boom 
box and some her favorite CDs, but she didn't want to listen 
to them.  "I don't want to bring music I love into this 
room."

He'd urged her to drink some water, but she'd just thrown it 
back up again.  He'd tried just talking to her about nothing 
important, but she'd reacted with winces and groans, as if 
his words physically pained her.  He'd shut up.

When at last she'd fallen into a fitful sleep, he'd escaped 
to the cafeteria to mainline some coffee.  Her pale face, 
with its dark rings and chapped lips, haunted his brain.  He 
felt restless, caged, his legs burning with the need to run 
anywhere at all.  He had read the goddamn books, all right, 
with their just-so advice.  The truth was there wasn't a damn 
thing he could do for her when it really counted; his job was 
to sit death watch.  The graveyard shift, endless night hours 
that magnified her pain and his fear, leaving him weak and 
trembling at the dawn.

He ran the stairs back up to her room, taking a deep breath 
before returning to the gray light and fetid smell.  Scully 
turned her head as he entered.  Her hair was matted to her 
skull, and her dull eyes were only half-open.  She seemed 
dismayed to see him.

"Hi," he said, approaching her with caution.

She sighed and drew up the sheets.  "Mulder, go home.  Go to 
work.  Go anywhere.  There is no sense in both of us being 
stuck here."

His heart picked up, tempted.  Reason intervened.  "I...I 
can't."

"Please.  I just need peace right now and you're..."

"What?"

"Agitated."

"I sat in that chair for three hours and didn't move a 
muscle."

Her eyes closed and she curled into her pillow.  "I can feel 
you thinking."    

God, he prayed that wasn't true.  "I don't want to leave you 
alone."

"My mother will be here in half an hour.  Please, just go and 
do something else."  She paused.  "I'll be here when you get 
back."

He swallowed hard.  "Okay, Scully, if that's what you really 
want."  She didn't answer, but he thought maybe she was 
asleep again.  He left without saying good-bye.

XxXxXxX

They waited until the worst of her nausea had passed, she 
gave them some credit for that.  They were kind people, these 
men and women who were crusading for her life.  Dr. Alton and 
Dr. Arden came in together and asked if maybe she wanted her 
mother present, or perhaps Mulder.  She told them no.  Her 
mother would just cry and Mulder --

Well, she wasn't sure what Mulder would do.  Her stomach 
turned over just imaging the terrible possibilities.

"We have your latest test results," Dr. Alton said.

Scully had grown up enjoying tests.  They were always a 
chance for her to distinguish herself, to show just how much 
she knew, how accurately she could shoot, how strong she was.  
She had never failed a single one.

"I'm so sorry to have to say this, Dana."  Dr. Alton's brown 
eyes welled with sympathy.  "Your cancer has metastasized."

XxXxXxX

So he'd gone to work and found he'd apparently already been 
at work because somehow, someone named Fox Mulder had been 
out investigating his cases while he sat in Scully's hospital 
room.  Anger crackled inside him like kindling all day as he 
tracked his imposter, and when he learned the man's identity, 
years' worth of fury went up in flames.  He was going to 
straight to the Crystal City to demand answers from the 
wizard himself.

Skinner didn't seem surprised to see him.  Considering he'd 
broken in and was holding a gun at his boss's head, he'd 
expected a bit more in the way of fireworks.  Instead, 
Skinner just seemed worn to his bones.

Answers, dammit!  He wanted some.  You couldn't tickle cancer 
with a gun barrel.  You couldn't shake the doctors' teeth 
loose and make them tell you what you wanted to hear.  Ah, 
but this, this cold steel in his hot hand.  He'd found 
someone he could make accountable.

He aimed right between the eyes.

"You've been working with the Smoking Man all along!  You 
knew when my father got killed and you knew when they took 
Scully!"

"He set me up!" Skinner snarled back.

Mulder shook his head.  He'd seen the evidence this time, knew 
*he* was the one who had been set up.  There was nothing Skinner 
could say to convince him otherwise.

"I advised you against a certain course of action some time ago," 
Skinner said evenly. "Concerning Agent Scully.  I didn't follow my 
own advice." 

Mulder's gun wavered along with his resolve.  They said nicotine 
could age a man, and now he understood why.  He felt a flash of 
guilty relief that someone had made the deal; suppose the 
cigarette-smoking bastard really did have the power to pull cancer 
like weeds?

So he took a few puffs himself, just in case.  He helped Skinner 
cover up the cover-up.  He lied and signed his name to it, putting 
his own X on the deal to sell his soul.

Maybe the Smoker told the truth; maybe it was all a lie.

Either way, Mulder was going to hell.

	
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hospital air had a thick, dense quality and a peeling, crusty 
scent that drove her, for the first time in her adult life, 
to sneak out after dark in her pajamas.  She slipped out a 
side door into an enclosed courtyard that shielded her escape 
with shadow pockets and drooping, leafy branches.  Scully 
knew she couldn't go far, not in her bathrobe, and not with 
the plastic hospital ID bracelet looped around her arm like a 
prison shackle.  But she needed the brisk, sharp spring 
night, with its wet leaf and new earth smell.  

Behind a brambly rose bush, she found a cold stone bench and 
sat down.  She fished two items of contraband from the fuzzy 
pockets of her robe:  a lighter and one cigarette, borrowed 
from a young man with no hair in the room down the hall from 
her.  The tip flared to life, and she sat back to smoke under 
the bone-colored moon.  

She took quick, snappy puffs, the way she had years ago when 
she was afraid of being caught.  She'd known smoking was bad 
even then, but it had hardly mattered to a fourteen year old 
who was going to live forever.  

Dr. Alton was going to drop by in the morning to discuss her 
"options."  She had a few last straws to grasp at, if she was 
willing to sign up for clinical trials, but even the best of 
them promised no more than a short extension of her life.  
"You need to think about how you want to spend the rest of 
your life," Dr. Alton had said gently.  "You need to think 
about what's important to you."

So that was what Scully was doing at eleven pm in the dark, 
damp courtyard:  thinking.  Lost in thought, she didn't hear 
Mulder's approach until he came thrashing around the rose 
bush.  She jerked in surprise.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, grabbing the arm 
that held her cigarette.

She twisted but he held fast.  "Hello to you, too."

"I've been looking all over for you."

"Well, you found me."  She gave a few more fruitless tugs in 
his tight grasp.  "I didn't think you were coming back 
tonight."

Those words seemed to do the trick, because he abruptly 
dropped her arm.  "I got tangled up in something with 
Skinner.  It took longer than I thought."

She eyed him as he sank down onto the opposite side of the 
bench.  "What happened?  Is everything okay?"

He gave soundless snort.  "Yeah.  Just peachy."

"Mulder..."

"Did you get the results of the tests back yet?"

"Uh...yes."  She took another long drag on the cigarette and 
turned her head to blow out the smoke.

"And?"

She turned back to give him a thin smile.  "Just peachy."  As 
always, her heart broadcast the lie to the rest of her body 
with a racing pulse.  She would tell him.  She would.  Just 
not tonight.

"So this little habit," he said, jerking a nod at her 
cigarette.  "Is it new?"

"More like really old."

He shook his head as if bemused and took a deep breath, 
leaning forward on his knees.  "Tales of a misspent youth, I 
take it.  I suppose we can all use a little rebellion from 
time to time."  He held out one hand for the cigarette and 
she passed it to him without a word.  The tip glowed as he 
sucked in a deep drag.

"You're no amateur yourself," she observed when he handed it 
back.

His short laugh had no humor in it.  "I've had more practice 
than I'd like to admit."

She drew up one leg and rested her arm on her knee.  The 
smoke wafted between them.  "So what are we rebelling against 
this evening, Agent Mulder?"

He considered her question.  "Door number three.  When it's 
not the goat and it's not the prize, but you're stuck with it 
anyway."

She raised an eyebrow.  "Excuse me?"

"Forget it."  He took the cigarette from her again, their 
fingers brushing in the exchange.  "Skinner sends his love," 
he said after another puff.

She laughed.  "He said that?"

"Not in so many words."

"I didn't think so."

He turned his head to look at her.  "But he does, you know."

"Does what?"

"Love you."

She drew her other knee up to ward off the chill.  "No, he 
doesn't."  Dread lodged in her chest.  Let it not be true. 
She had already amassed a long list of disappointed people; 
the weight of one more was more than she could stand.

"It's true," Mulder said.  "I don't think I knew it before 
tonight, but he does."

"Did he say something to you?"  When Mulder didn't 
immediately reply, she sat up straighter and leaned across to 
him.  "Mulder, did you say something to him?"

Mulder bowed his head.  "No, nothing like that."

"Then I don't understand."  She watched as he crushed out the 
cigarette butt on the ground.

"Door number three," he said.  "Skinner wasn't afraid to walk 
through it."  He stood up and brushed his rear with his 
hands.  "Come on, it's cold out here."

She let him help her to her feet.  "I'm not following you, 
Mulder.  What are you talking about?  What's behind door 
number three?"

"Maybe nothing."  He squeezed her hand.  "Maybe everything."


He wedged himself partway into the narrow hospital bed with 
her to watch David Letterman's monologue, but she fell asleep 
against his shoulder before the first commercial.  He pulled 
the blankets up around her and rested his cheek on her warm, 
soft hair.  Muting the TV, he closed his eyes and listened to 
the faint sound of her breathing.  The click of the door 
opening made him blink, and he turned his head to see the 
intruder.

"Hi."  Dr. Alton tiptoed into the room with a large brown 
envelope.  Shadows from the TV flickered across her face.  
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to leave this for 
Dana."

"It's okay."  Scully stirred and he pressed a kiss to her 
temple without even thinking.  She sighed and relaxed again.

Dr. Alton smiled as she set down the envelope.  "You agree 
with her, you know."

Mulder smiled and shook his head.  "Oh, if you only knew how 
little that were true."

"It is true.  She's cut back on her pain medication by one-
third this month and she's even gained a few pounds.  You're 
good for her."

Mulder's breath caught in his chest.  "Does this mean she's 
getting better?"

"Oh."  Dr. Alton frowned, then seemed to will a sad smile.  
"I...no, not exactly.  It means she's feeling a little 
better, though, and that's so important."

"I see."  Still, he nurtured a secret rush: the test results 
must have been encouraging if Scully were feeling so much 
better.  Maybe she hadn't mentioned it because she didn't 
want to give him too much hope too soon.  He encircled her 
more closely under the covers.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning," Dr. Alton said.  "We can 
talk more then, if you like."

"Thanks," Mulder replied.  "Good night."

She closed the door behind her, and Mulder felt around for 
the TV remote.  He upped the volume a bit on the TV, where 
the audience was laughing at Dave's riff on the NY hotdog.  
For the first time in months, Mulder chuckled along.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Some lies came more easily than others.  As Mulder slumped in 
his omni-present plastic chair, Scully rolled over on her 
side to face him.  "I'm hungry," she said.

He brightened like a bulb and set aside the sheaves of paper.  
"Yeah?"  He placed a hand on his tummy as if thoughtful.  "I 
could go for something, too.  Want me to hit the cafeteria?"

Scully shook her head.  "Bagels from Vinny's.  Coffee, too."

"Across town?  I guess I can go."  He checked his watch.  
Scully knew without looking it was a quarter 'til Doomesday.  
"Cranberry, right?" he asked as he stood, and Scully nodded.  
"Cream cheese too?"

"Lots," she said, because she knew it would make him smile.

"'kay. I'll be back in an hour."

"I'll be here."

Which is how Scully came to be in the room and Mulder came to 
be out of it when Dr. Alton showed up fifteen minutes later.  
"Good morning," she said as she took Mulder's seat and 
scooted it even closer to the bed.  Scully propped herself up 
against the pillows and smoothed out all the wrinkles from 
the sheet.  "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Okay.  Less tired."

"Good."  Dr. Alton did a quick check of the tiny room, which 
must have been for pure show.  "Is Mulder around now?"

"He went to pick up some food."

"Downstairs?  Then we can wait."

"No, from across town."  At Dr. Alton's look, Scully raised 
her chin.  "I wanted bagels."

Dr. Alton sighed.  "Dana, you can't keep sending him out of 
the room forever, you know.  Mulder, your family -- they 
deserve to know what's going on with you.  They care about 
you and they want to help."

Scully looked her straight in the eyes.  "How?"

"How?"

"How can they help?  Three different teams of doctors haven't 
been able to do anything.  All Mulder and my family have the 
power to do is worry, and I don't see why I should prolong 
that worry by forcing the issue right now.  I feel fine."

"And I'm glad for that."  Dr. Alton leaned closer.  "I hope 
more than anything that you continue to feel fine for a long 
time to come.  But I am your doctor, and I have to look at 
your test results and advise you based on what they say.  I 
have to advise what I think is best."

"I appreciate that."  Scully looked down, picked at the hem 
of the sheet, and tried to keep her voice from shaking.  "But 
I am the one living this, and I have to live it as I think is 
best."

Dr. Alton dropped her chin in acknowledgement, if not 
agreement.  "Understood.  But at least take my advice under 
consideration.  I've been doing this for fifteen years, and 
I've seen people choose to go it alone and others who *had* 
to go it alone.  Let me tell you right now that road is much, 
much harder."

Scully tried to muster a smile.  "I can yell if I need help."

Dr. Alton captured her hand for a hard squeeze.  "Yell soon, 
okay?  While you still have some voice left."


XxXxXxX

The problem was that each day it became harder to say the 
words.  She had knotted such a twisted thicket of half-truths 
and semi-honest evasions that she could barely see Mulder on 
the other side of the bramble.  Her body aided her deception 
by making such great short-term improvement once treatments 
were suspended that she hardly felt sick any more.  A little 
tired, perhaps, and she had passing headaches that vanished 
with her extra-strength painkillers.  

"I'm all right," she told Mulder when he asked.  His belief 
bolstered her own; maybe together they could make it so.  

Then Miranda showed up and started chopping through the 
branches.  "Hi," she said, bringing cheer into their office 
on an otherwise gray Thursday afternoon.  Scully looked up 
from her computer and took off her glasses.  It was only when 
she took a good long look at healthy women that she realized 
how different she must appear.  Miranda's cheeks glowed pink 
from the outside wind.  Her long purple skirt hugged her 
curved hips and fell with a dramatic sweep down her long legs 
as she settled into an empty wooden chair.

"Hi," Scully answered, pulling at the tail of her own suit 
jacket, which hung more loosely than it ought.  "Mulder just 
took a bunch of files to Accounting."

Miranda waved off the excuse.  "No rush.  I have all 
afternoon.  God, this is great office.  I love the photos."  
She twisted in her chair to get a better view of Mulder's 
memorabilia.

"They're...quite something."  Scully glanced at the clock.  
Where the heck was Mulder, anyway?  "How's your class going?" 
she asked Miranda.

Miranda turned her attention back to Scully.  "Oh, great!  
We're going African tribal myths this week."  She leaned back 
in her chair and seemed to quiet a bit.  "How are you doing?"

Scully flushed.  Just the question made her feel somehow less 
than whole.  "I'm fine."

"Yeah," Miranda said softly, almost to herself.  She looked 
down at her hands and back up again.  "Fox tells me you've 
stopped treatment."

Scully felt her spine go rigid.  Miranda's tone was gentle, 
without accusation, but it lacked Mulder's definite zeal on 
the topic.  He thought Scully was getting better, but somehow 
Miranda knew the truth of the situation.  

*I know you're lying to him.*

Miranda had the grace not to say it out loud, but the 
implication was clear. Scully's heart rate doubled and she 
gripped the edge of the desk.  If Miranda knew, there was 
nothing to stop her from telling Mulder.  "I haven't stopped 
treatments entirely," she said carefully.  "I'm weighing 
several courses of action right now."

"I hope something works out for you.  I watched my mother go 
through it a few years ago, and I wouldn't wish that struggle 
on anyone."  Miranda leaned forward, radiating sympathy, 
which only made it worse.  Scully's stomach roiled, and a 
cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.  The air had no 
air in it.  With a jerk, she got up from the desk.

"Please excuse me."

She bumped into Mulder on the way out.  "Hey," he said, 
greeting Miranda over Scully's head.  "You made it."

"Traffic isn't bad at this time."

Scully tried to push around Mulder and out the door, but he 
stopped her with a hand on her arm.  "We're going down the 
street for lunch," he said.  "You should join us."

"No, thanks."  She could hardly hear him over the rush of 
blood in her ears.  Maybe it was better to take the coward's 
way out:  let Miranda spell it out for him what it really 
meant when a terminally ill patient stopped treatment.  "You 
two go and catch up."  She swallowed the lump at the back of 
her throat.  "I have things I need to finish around here.  
Besides, I have a sandwich."

"You sure?"

Scully didn't meet his eyes.  "I'm sure."  She escaped to the 
bathroom before he could say anything further, where she 
splashed her face with cold water and tried to calm her 
racing pulse.  Slow, deep breaths eased her nausea.  With 
trembling fingers, she dried her cheeks and smoothed her 
hair.  She went back to the office to await Mulder's return.

An hour passed before she heard his footsteps in the hall; 
Miranda didn't seem to be with him.  Scully steeled herself 
for a confrontation, but Mulder was whistling when he came 
through the door.  "You missed some great Chinese food," he 
said.  "I snagged you a fortune cookie."

Still tense, Scully tracked his movement around the room.  
"And how is Miranda?"

He tossed the cookie her way, and Scully caught it.  "She's 
good," Mulder replied.  "She had to run to the library, but 
she said to tell you good-bye."

Scully flinched.  "Good-bye," she repeated.  "That's nice." 
She tore the cellophane wrapper from around the cookie, 
focusing her attention on it rather than Mulder.  "Did she 
say anything else?"

"She talked mostly about class stuff," Mulder said, removing 
his suit coat and plopping into his chair.  "Why?  Were you 
two talking about something in particular before?"

Scully opened her fortune:

SOMETIMES SILENCE IS THE BEST ANSWER.

"Scully?" Mulder prompted from across the room.

She looked up.  "Nothing," she said.  "Never mind."

XxXxXxX

He showed up at her door with bagels and coffee before she 
was finished dressing.  "Wear something that goes with 
bowling shoes," Mulder told her as he sipped from his paper 
cup.

She stuck her head out from her bedroom, clad in black pants 
and a short gray silk sweater.  "We're going bowling?"

"Angie's Midnight Bowl."

"It's seven am, Mulder.  Not midnight."

"Well, we're not going for the pins."  She slipped on the matching 
suit jacket and raised a questioning brow.  "A woman was found 
murdered near the alley last night.  Throat cut."  

Scully disappeared into the bathroom.  "And our interest in the 
case is?" she called back.

Mulder wandered around her living room.  "I got a call this 
morning asking us to look into it."

"From the police?"

"From Angie.  He owns the bowling alley."  Scully's blow dryer 
roared to life, and Mulder sat on the edge of her sofa, still 
taking gingerly sips of his hot coffee.   
The book she'd been reading sat facedown on the cushions, so he 
slipped her bookmark in and set it on the coffee table. Further 
away on the table was a pamphlet with a heading in gray script at 
the top.  Mulder tilted his head to read upside down:  "ROSEWOOD 
CENTER."

"Why does the owner of the bowling alley want us to investigate 
this case?"  Scully came around the corner, causing him to jump 
back a bit.  She took one look at him and removed the papers from 
view.

"I think it would sound better coming from him."  

"Fine.  Let's go."

He stood and handed her the other coffee cup from the table.  
"What's the Rosewood Center?  Another treatment facility?"

"Something like that, yes."  She waited for him to leave and 
locked her door behind them.  "So when was the body found?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully learned long ago not to turn her back on Mulder's 
hunches, no matter how ridiculous they seemed, so she 
followed him to the psychiatric clinic from which the 
mysterious caller had phoned about the murder.  Mulder 
fingered an autistic man named Harold Spuller as their best 
lead, and she had to agree, but for different reasons.

"He's been diagnosed as having severe ego-dystonia, which 
would explain the switching of the victims' rings," she said 
as they pored over Harold's records.

"So why all of a sudden?" Mulder asked.

"You mean why did he snap?  I think his earlier outburst when you 
talked to him showed he is a frustrated impulse towards violence 
when placed in challenging situations."

"But that outburst didn't come until I asked if he had seen a 
ghost."

Scully repressed a sigh and took out Spuller's most recent file.  
"Harold Spuller is at this facility voluntarily, which means he 
can come and go as he pleases.  To kill those women.  To hold down 
a job.  Or both."  As she leaned down, she felt a tickle in her 
nose, and a few drops of blood fell onto the white page before 
her.

"Oh, Scully."  Mulder sounded concerned and dismayed.

"It's okay."  She pushed back her chair.

"You sure?"

"I'm fine.  I just need a washroom."

She entered the large, empty room and headed for the sink, where 
she wet a paper towel to remove the worst of the blood.  At least 
she'd managed to miss her clothes this time.  She dabbed at her 
nose and looked up to check her progress in the mirror.  On the 
glass, in dripping red letters, it said:

SHE IS ME.

Scully gasped and pulled back.  Around the corner near the stalls, 
she heard a faint moan.  Her mouth dropped open in horror.  Pulled 
as if by wire, she walked around to see what was on the other side 
of the wall.  A young woman.  Transparent and bloody.  Her throat 
slit.

Oh my God.

"Scully?"  Mulder banged on the door, startling her.  "Are you in 
there?"  He pushed inside, and when she glanced back to the stalls 
the woman was gone.  Mulder's face was grim.  "They found another 
victim.  College student with her throat cut, just about half a 
block from here."

Some part of her knew before they even arrived at the scene, but 
the rest had to see with her own eyes.  There she lay, the woman 
from the washroom, her eyes blank and her throat slit.  Scully 
looked away.

She is me.

~*~*~*~*~

As luck would have it, Mulder solved the riddle with a heart 
attack instead of a murder.  Angie Pintero turned up dead of heart 
disease and apparently Harold Spuller had seen it happen before it 
occurred.  Mulder hit on the answer at the hospital as the doctors 
verified Pintero's probable cause of death for him.  

Natural causes with a supernatural aura, Mulder thought as he 
headed back towards the lobby.  

A rack of pamphlets caught his eye on the way out.  The gray 
script writing atop one read "Rosewood Center," and he paused to 
pull it out.  He scanned the picture of the brick building and 
tree-lined property.  One handed, he flipped the slim pages open 
and read the heading inside.  "Providing Quality Hospice Care for 
Sixty Years."

Mulder's breath stopped.  He shook his head.  Crumpling the 
booklet in his hand, he shoved it into the nearest trashcan and 
strode out of the building.


He gave her another opening at her apartment, trying the ultra-
casual approach this time.  "I need your medical expertise," he 
began.  Then, "Oh, I almost forgot.  What did your doctor say?"

Scully looked at him for a moment.  "I'm fine," she said, closing 
her front door behind him.  "What do you need?"

At point blank she wouldn't lie, he figured.  Scully was a 
horrible liar.

Relief trickled through him as he sat on her couch to flesh out 
his theory:  Harold Spuller must be dying.  

"He saw Angie Pintero's disembodied soul right before or right at 
the moment of Angie's death from congestive heart failure."

Scully seemed intrigued.  "How do you know?"

"Because I was standing right there when he saw it."

"But you didn't see it yourself."  He shook his head, waiting for 
her stream of arguments about how such visions were impossible.  
"Why?" she asked instead.

He sat forward, enthused.  "Because I don't have that 
facility."  He explained how Harold's autism may have given 
him a psychic connection to the murdered women, whom he knew 
from the bowling alley.  Even this link didn't seem to faze 
Scully.

"He was not the only one to have visions of the victims." 

"No, but he had something else in common with them.  They 
were all dying.  One of emphysema, one of cancer and now 
Angie Pintero of heart failure."

"Harold Spuller is dying too?"

"That's what I need your medical opinion on."  He stood so 
they could get going.  At last, Scully seemed ready to put up 
her usual fight.

"Well, what if he's not?"

"I'd be very surprised.  What is a death omen if not a vision 
of our own mortality?  And who among us would most likely be 
able to see the dead?"

XxX

In the end, Scully didn't need to offer her expertise because 
a layperson could have pronounced Spuller dead.  Lung 
failure, but the proximal cause could have been accidental.  
Scully seized on this as evidence that Mulder's theory was 
wrong.  "Harold Spuller wasn't dying, Mulder.  What he was 
killed as a result of what that woman took away from him when 
she withheld his medication."

Mulder held her eyes with a challenging black gaze.  "Is that 
your medical opinion?"

He was determined that she sign her own death warrant.  Fine.  
She drew a shuddering breath.  "I saw something, Mulder.  The 
fourth victim, in the bathroom, before you came to tell me."

He seemed less surprised than she'd expected.  More angry. 
"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want to believe it.  I don't want to 
believe it."

"Why can't you be honest with me?"

She was angry now, too.  "Is that what you want me to say?  
That you're right?  That I believe it even if I don't?  Is 
that what you want? 

"Is that what you think I want to hear?"

She drew back.  "No."

"You can believe what you want to believe, Scully, but you 
can't hide the truth from me.  If you do, then you're working 
against me.  And yourself."  He paused, the fight going out 
of him all at once.  When he spoke again, his tone was 
softer.  "I know what you're afraid of.  I'm afraid of the 
same thing."

Scully's chin trembled.  "The doctor said I was fine."

"I hope that's the truth." 

She fled then.  "I'm going home."  She swept past him, and he 
made no effort to follow her.  Shaking with anger and hurt, 
she walked across the dark parking lot to her car.  
Apparently, she'd underestimated the strength of his belief 
this time.  

Her car, steeped in shadows, seemed hollow and lonely.  
Ambulance sirens echoed around her as they roared out to 
fetch some other hapless victim.  How many more times would 
she be able to walk out of the hospital under her own power?  

"I've seen people choose to go it alone," Dr. Alton had said. 
"Let me tell you right now that road is much, much harder."

Hot tears welled in Scully's eyes and her lashes blinked to 
set them free.  She gripped the steering wheel to control her 
trembling.  To tell Mulder everything was to admit defeat, to 
go home and die.  How could she tell him she was giving up?

Something moved in her rearview mirror.  Harold Spuller sat 
in her back seat, faint and glowing.  Scully gasped and 
turned around.  He was gone.

XxXxX

Scully felt ghostlike herself as she climbed the dark steps 
to her apartment -- transparent, disconnected and empty.  
Half-gone and fading fast.  She slipped the key in the lock 
and pushed her door open, dropping her things right in the 
entryway.  The lights came on with a flick of her hand over 
the switch.  Scully jumped.

Mulder sat in her armchair, posed like the great statue of 
Lincoln and held equally as still.

"Mulder, you scared me."  He said nothing.  "What are you 
doing here?" she asked, taking a few steps closer to him.

He cocked his head slightly to the side and looked almost 
through her.  "You're not getting better, are you."

Her shoulders drooped.  "No," she whispered.

He gave a short nod as if he'd thought as much.  "No more 
treatments?"

"There are a few clinical trials I might be able to enroll 
in."  She came around the couch.  "Dr. Alton is looking into 
the matter for me."

"I see."

"Mulder, what on earth happened to you?"  For the first time, 
she noticed the blood-soaked towel wrapped around his hand.

He held it up to inspect it.  "I am going to need a new 
windshield."

"Oh, Mulder."  She crouched by the chair and took his injured 
hand in hers.  Up close, she could see there was glass caught 
on his wool coat.  She peeled back the towel and winced at 
the bloody cuts across his knuckles.  "Come into the bathroom 
and I'll see what I can do."

They stood close together at her sink as she rinsed him 
clean.  "I've been wrong sometimes," he said above her head. 
"With my theories." 

Scully froze in mid-wash.  "Yeah?"  She forced a melancholy 
smile.  "Name one time."

The sound of the running water filled the long stretch before 
his answer.  "I can't remember right now," he admitted.  
Scully patted him dry with a clean towel.  "But I'll make a 
list and get back to you."

"You do that."  She avoided his eyes as she cleaned his cuts 
with Bactine and got out the bandages.  "This wasn't very 
bright of you, Mulder.  You could have been much more 
seriously hurt."

"Yeah."  He paused.  "I thought it would make me feel 
better."

"Did it?" she asked lightly.

"No."  He flexed his fingers under her handiwork.  "See, 
there?  That was one place I was really wrong."

"Well, I hope you've learned your lesson."  At long last, she 
met his gaze and her heart stopped at the anguish she read in 
his eyes.

"Scully."  She could see him swallow hard.  "I hope you know 
I don't want to be right about this."

"I know."  

He enfolded her against him, her cheek brushing the warm fuzz 
of his white shirt.  She closed her eyes at the feel of his 
arms around her -- warm, solid and alive.


CHAPTER FOURTEEN


For the rest of the world, the days were getting longer, 
coming alive again under the lingering sunshine.  Blossoms 
fell away to reveal thick green leaves, and the harsh winds 
slowed to a gentle breeze.  Summer was stealing over the 
city.  

But Scully kept her focus on the twelve-hour clock rather 
than the yearly calendar, managing her life in ever-shrinking 
increments.  Tomorrow she couldn't predict; she renewed her 
confidence hour by hour.  She played Mulder's memory game in 
her head and marveled at how much life she had fit into just 
thirty-three years.  She grabbed more where she could, inking 
moments with indelible marker so she would never forget:  her 
living room at sunset, turned pink and shadowed; cinnamon tea 
with her mother served on Grandmother Scully's delicate 
china; Mulder talking to himself in the shower, his deep 
voice rumbling off the porcelain tiles.  

She still hadn't told him about the metastasis.

At work, she had begun tacking bits of mementos to his 
bulletin board, scraps of old cases and communications she'd 
amassed and somehow never quite managed to throw out over the 
years.  A picture of yellowish gunk on the ground next to a 
car tire.  There was a finger in the shot, in the goo, and 
she knew it had to be his finger because the person wasn't 
wearing any gloves and she was always yelling at him for 
stunts like that.  Their first national headline together:  
FBI INVESTIGATES DEATHS AT ICY CAPE.  A button he'd lost 
during his struggle with the beast woman that she had offered 
to sew on but never had.  

She had told her mother two days ago after dinner, reciting 
her terminal diagnosis like it was just another medical 
finding while her mother's eyes welled with tears.  "I feel 
okay for now," she had tried to reassure, but her mother was 
already in mourning, ready to go to church and pray for her 
soul.  She'd sent Scully home with chicken soup and an 
electric blanket, as though Scully were dying of the common 
cold.  Scully had eaten the soup but used Mulder for warmth 
instead.

Sometimes she suspected he already knew.  He still talked 
about their future with dogged determination --"There's a 
MUFON conference here this fall, Scully.  We should 
definitely check it out." -- but as she slowed down, grew 
quieter, he leapt forward, making more noise than ever.  
Their caseload doubled.  He talked non-stop.  When they 
walked, he practically ran on ahead, as if to pull her along 
by sheer enthusiasm alone.  As he careened from one case to 
another at breakneck speed, she barely had breath to argue 
science with him.  It was the Mulder equivalent of sticking 
his fingers in his ears and singing "la la la."  

So she waited for some silence, for a break where she could 
slip in the awful words.  She ignored the niggling voice that 
told her she was a coward.   Afraid he wouldn't stop moving 
when she needed him.  Afraid he would.  

She rolled over under the blankets, snuggling into his 
pillows and listening to him clatter around in her kitchen.  
He had the radio on to oldies songs and was half-singing 
along in an off-key echo that made her smile.  She closed her 
eyes and enjoyed the sounds of her life.

"Scully!" he called a minute later.  "Breakfast."

The scent of pancakes drifted into the bedroom, and Scully 
waited for her stomach to pass judgment.  It gave a feeble 
growl and she decided eating might be worth a try.  Wrapping 
a terry-cloth robe around herself, she padded barefoot 
towards the kitchen.  She stopped in the doorway and covered 
her smile with one hand.  Mulder wore her flowered apron over 
his boxers, and was wrangling misshapen pancakes from the 
griddle as he swayed his hips to the beat.  "Baby, 
baby...where did our love go?" 

"Good morning," she offered, and he stopped singing to grin 
at her.

"Hey, Scully.  Everything's ready."  He set the plate of 
pancakes on the table with a flourish, still moving to the 
music.

"I see that.  Nice outfit."

"Come on," he said, dancing around and extending his hand.  
"We're grooving in here."

"Mulder, no," she said, but she was smiling.

"Scully, yes."  He joined the song again, louder this time, 
and grabbed her hand.  "I've got this yearning, burning, 
yearnin', feeling inside me..."

"You're insane."

"...oh, deep inside me, and it hurts so bad..."  She allowed 
him to twirl her around slowly.   He shimmied his hips.  "You 
came into my heart...so tenderly..."  She laughed as they 
spread apart and came back together again.

"Crazy," she pronounced again, but he kept singing.

"Baby, baby, where did our love go?  Oh, don't you want me?  
Don't you want me no more? Baby, baby, baby, please don't 
leave me..."

Scully stopped dancing.  Oblivious, Mulder circled around 
her, still crooning.

"...Oh, please don't leave me.  All by myself."  She pulled 
away and backed up.  "Scully?"

"I...I need my slippers," she said.  "I'll be right back."

"'Kay."  He swayed back in the direction of the table, 
humming.  "Oh, please don't leave me..."

She left before he could see her tears.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Friday morning Mulder was extra twitchy.  He was in and out 
of his chair, up and down, back and forth around the office, 
faxing, filing and making phone calls he did not seem to want 
to share with her.  Scully just sat in the eye of the storm 
and tried not to get blown away.  By the afternoon, she was 
exhausted from watching him and so she left a little early.  
He'd muttered a good-bye from his place over the printer, his 
tie loose and his hair on-end from too many passes with his 
fingers.  Scully left with heavy footsteps, just knowing he 
would call eventually with some hot case in Timbuktu.  She 
made up her mind not to get dragged along this time.  Forty-
eight hours of rest.  That's all she wanted.  On Monday they 
could chase their tails again.

He rang almost as soon as she got home.  Scully collapsed on 
the couch with her phone, her arm draped over her eyes as she 
tried to concentrate on the conversation.  "Hey, Scully, I've 
got something I need to check out right away."

"Mulder, I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't go with you on whatever case you've drummed up for us.  
We've been working for twelve straight days and I need a 
break."

"That's why I was calling.  Take your break, Scully.  Get 
some rest.  I'll talk to you when I get back."

Scully sat up as she realized he'd never intended to invite her 
along.  "Back from where?  Mulder, you can't go off on a case by 
yourself.  It's not safe."

"It's not a case."  He paused.  "It's more of a personal discovery 
mission.  Just something I have to do for myself.  I promise I'll 
tell you everything when I get back."

She should have fought harder for details, she realized later.  
Should have realized something was wrong.  But she was so tired.  
So worn down.  All she needed was two days of quiet to get her 
energy back.  The problem was, she'd forgotten how much trouble 
Mulder could get into in two days.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Mulder, where are you?" she asked when he finally called at five 
in the morning on Sunday.

"I think I'm in a motel in Providence.  I don't remember."

The words sent prickles of fear climbing up her spine.  "What are 
you doing there?"

"I don't remember how I got here.  There's...there's blood all 
over me."

Scully was already kicking her way free of the covers. "Are you 
hurt, Mulder?"

The silence on the other end drew out for an eternity.  "I don't 
think so," he said at last.  "I don't think it's my blood."

~*~*~*~


Scully let the curtain fall shut again as Mulder roared away 
in their car.  Sheer adrenaline kept her upright at this 
point; she hadn't slept in two days, since Mulder's first 
call from the motel room.  Not your problem, Mulder had said, 
but every one of his actions pleaded for help.  Increasingly 
erratic, possibly dangerous, he'd now rushed out the back 
door and left her stranded at his mother's house.

Teena Mulder emerged from the back room looking pale and 
shaken.  "Is he gone?" she asked in a hushed voice.

Scully's answer was grim.  "Yes, and we need to find him 
before he hurts himself or someone else."

"He was acting like a madman.  The things he said."  Mrs. 
Mulder shivered, but Scully felt no sympathy.  All Scully 
knew of this frail woman was that she had not loved Mulder 
well enough.  Whatever other sins the woman might have 
committed surely paled in comparison.

"Did he say where he was going?"

Mrs. Mulder shook her head.  "No, he just ran out of here 
like he was on fire.  He was bleeding, though.  Here."  She 
touched her fingers to her scalp.  "Just what sort of 
treatment did he undergo?"

"Dr. Goldstein," Scully murmured, her heart racing.  She 
looked Mulder's mother squarely in the eyes.  "I need to 
borrow your car."


Scully's random thought as she drove up to the old abandoned 
Mulder family summer home was how odd it was that so many of 
the houses stood empty after all these years, as though they, 
too, lived trapped with Mulder in 1973.  But now it was 
Mulder's memories that held him prisoner, and it was up to 
her to get him out before the truth he sought took him to the 
grave.  Her instructions to the men waiting outside were 
short and sweet:  If Mulder should try to flee, do not shoot.

She opened the door and called his name in the darkness.

"Leave me alone, Scully."

Never, she thought, and took several more steps into the 
house.  The sight of him kneeling with his gun at his throat 
took her breath away.

"It's all falling into place," he murmured, his eyes closed.  
The gun barrel grazed his jaw.

Scully swallowed and held out her hands to him.  "Mulder, put 
down the gun."

"No, don't try to stop me."

"Please, Mulder."  

He whirled and pointed it at her.  "Get away!"

Scully froze.  She licked her lips, considered the irony of 
shooting a dead woman.  "You going to shoot me, Mulder?  Is 
that how much this means to you?"  He nodded and her blood 
ran cold.  "Mulder, listen to me.  You've been given a 
powerful hallucinogen.  You don't know that these memories 
are yours.  You've got to trust me."

The gun barrel wavered.  "SHUT UP!"

"Put down the gun," she repeated.  "Let it go."

Mulder's arm shook, and for a flash Scully thought he might 
shoot.  At the last second, he turned again and fired five 
rapid shots into the wall.  Scully's heart jumped with each 
explosion and the shock to her ears set them buzzing.  Mulder 
collapsed in on himself like a house of cards.  

As the noise echoing in her head dimmed, she could hear 
Mulder sobbing.  She crossed to him and knelt down by his 
side, laying her cheek against his back.  "It never stops," 
he said, cringing under her touch.  "It just never stops."

She held him.  "I know."


Slumped over Mulder's hospital bed, Scully didn't wake until 
Skinner touched her shoulder.  She jerked and blinked 
rapidly, trying to get her bearings.  "Sir?" she said as she 
stretched.  Her voice was scratchy from too little sleep.  
"What are you doing here?"

He frowned.  "I could say the same thing to you," he 
whispered.  "You should be in bed."

"I'm fine," she said as she stood.

Skinner glanced at Mulder.  "How is he doing?"

"Better."  She rubbed her tired eyes.  "Tests suggest there 
has been no serious cerebral damage, but we'll know more in a 
few days."

The set of Skinner's jaw did not relax.  "I heard he took a 
shot at you."

"You heard wrong.  He never fired at me."  The steel returned 
to her backbone.

"I'm not sure that's going to matter.  From what I 
understand, Agent Mulder knowingly submitted himself for 
this..."  Skinner's mouth twisted around the word.  
"Treatment.  He took a potentially lethal drug and allowed a 
man to drill holes in his head.  These actions suggest 
someone who is dangerously close to the edge."

"Sir, at the time, Agent Mulder didn't know about the side 
effects of the drug, and--"

"And you," Skinner said.  "Instead of hauling his ass to the 
nearest hospital like you should have, you played chauffer to 
his reckless behavior.  Dangerous and stupid.  I expect 
better from the both of you."

Her chin lifted.  "Yes, Sir."  If he wanted to lay the blame 
on her, that was fine.

Skinner sighed and looked over at Mulder again.  "The answers 
he was looking for," he said, "did he find them?"

Scully's gaze slid to the floor.  "I don't think so."

"A goddamn suicide mission," Skinner muttered.  He turned 
back to Scully.  "Just because I understand the desperation 
doesn't mean I have to sanction it.  The truth is that 
neither one of you should be out in the field right now.  I 
am not going to let this go on until I get a call from the 
morgue asking me to come down and identify one or the both of 
you.  I won't allow it."

"Sir, if you'll just let me ex--"

"You're going to get to explain it all to the review board.  
In the meantime, I don't want to see either of you near the 
Hoover building."

Scully bit her lip.  Mulder had been running their caseload 
on fast-forward lately, aiming a last Hail Mary pass at the 
truth as the seconds ticked out on the clock.  He would not 
be thrilled to find she'd let them get benched.  "I really 
don't think that's necessary," she said.  "We'll slow down."

Skinner fixed her with a hard look.  "I think it's long past 
necessary.  I know what's going on.  I've been reading your 
reports and watching the receipts pile up; you've been 
through eight states in the last two weeks.  You get sicker 
and he self-destructs.  If you two can't break that cycle 
then I'm damn sure going to break it for you."

Scully shook her head.  "No, it's not like that."

"Listen."  Skinner's dark whisper was urgent now.  "I 
understand your anger.  I share it.  But I am not going to 
let him compound this tragedy.  Not on my watch."

She glared at him.  "No, you'll just tie our hands and walk 
away."

Skinner went rigid, his eyes narrowing.  She could feel the 
controlled fight emanating from him, but she held his gaze 
without flinching.  "It's because I can't walk away," he said 
at last, "that I am standing here now.  But you still can."

She gave a sarcastic chuff and turned away.  "Right."

"The FBI doesn't have your answers.  Don't you see that by 
now?"

"And who does?" she demanded, whirling to face him again.  
"Tell me, and I'll go get them.  I'll go right now."  He 
bowed his head, and her mouth turned down bitterly.  "That's 
what I thought."

Skinner was quiet for a long time.  "All I know," he said 
finally, looking at Mulder in the hospital bed, "is this is 
not the way."

XxXxXxX

They arrived back in DC just in time for the intense late-
afternoon sun.  It blazed through Mulder's windows and turned 
the room yellow.  Mulder squinted as residual pain lanced 
through his skull.  Scully jiggled the key out of the lock as 
he went to wrestle with the blinds.  "I'll get those," she 
called over her shoulder.  "You sit down."

"I've got it."  He set his bag down and started for the 
windows.

"Sit," she said, brushing him aside.  He plopped onto the 
couch and rubbed his head.  The room darkened as Scully 
blocked the sun.  When he opened his eyes he found her 
looking at him, her brow furrowed with concern.  "Does it 
hurt?" she asked.  "I've got more Tylenol."

"No, it's fine."  But she was already heading for her bag.  
He sighed, irritated.  "Scully, leave it.  I don't need any 
Tylenol."

She halted for a second and then changed course.  "Okay, then 
I'll just go make some tea."

The temperature in the room was about three billion degrees 
from the hot sun that had been pounding in all afternoon; the 
last thing Mulder wanted was tea.  He'd nearly put a bullet 
in her brain, and she wanted to serve him tea.  He felt his 
inner temperature rise.  "I don't want tea," he hollered in 
the direction of the kitchen.

His only answer was the sound of running water and the 
cupboard door closing.  He pushed himself off the couch and 
walked to the kitchen.  Scully already had two mugs with 
teabags sitting on the counter.  

"I don't want tea," he repeated.

"Fine."  She removed the bag and set his cup aside.  "I saw 
some orange juice in the fridge--"

"Scully, stop it."  He grabbed her as she moved towards the 
refrigerator.  "Just stop it."

She looked up at him but managed not to meet his eyes. 
"What?"

"This fussing.  I'm fine.  I don't need it and I don't want 
it."

"Mulder, you aren't fine," she said, pulling away.  "You've 
collapsed four times in the last five days, and you were just 
released from the hospital this morning.  You need rest; you 
need to take the pills they gave you.  Let me help--"

He twitched and snapped.  "I could have killed you!"

That got her to close her mouth.

"I had my gun pointed right at you, Scully, with my finger on 
the trigger.  I could have dropped you in a heartbeat."

"No, you couldn't have," she said with quiet certainty.  Her 
blue eyes were so calm.  How could she be so calm?  She 
hadn't heard the noise in his head.  He had been set to shoot 
her; he still wasn't sure why he hadn't.  Gratitude and fear 
had been warring inside him all day.

"I was going to kill you," he said slowly, emphasizing each 
word.  "You could have been dead, Scully.  Doesn't that 
bother you?"

She moved past him to grab her mug and bring it closer to the 
stove.  "I'm not afraid of you, Mulder.  Nothing you can say 
is going to change that.  I knew you weren't going to shoot 
me."

"You weren't scared?"  God, he'd been terrified even then.

She looked over at him.  "I was afraid for you, yes.  You had 
been very seriously injured."

"Fuck that," he said, closing in on her again, backing her 
into the wall.  "I was hopped up on drugs and bleeding inside 
my skull.  You didn't know what I was capable of."

"I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

"You knew nothing," he said, his voice shaking.  "Just once 
I'd like to hear you admit that."

Anger flashed across her features at last.  "Admit that I was 
afraid?  Why is that so important to you?"

"I was psychotic and dangerous and could have killed you, and 
you're here with tea and sympathy like nothing ever happened.  
Maybe you can't admit it.  Maybe you don't want to believe 
that some seriously bad shit was going down and there wasn't 
a damn thing that Dana Scully could do to control it."

She tried to leave but he blocked her.  "Mulder, stop it."

"Nothing!" he practically roared.  "Nothing you could do!  
You could be dead and you act like that doesn't matter at 
all."

She looked at the floor.  "Of course it matters."

"And you aren't scared?  You aren't angry?" 

"You seem to be angry enough for both of us," she said, 
attempting to push free again.  "I think I should go."

"Fine," he said, releasing her abruptly.  "Go."  He turned 
his back on her, but he could still feel her presence in the 
room.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she said after a long 
minute.

He faced her again.  "Anything," he whispered, his throat 
aching.  "Say anything."

She held herself stiffly.  "I just don't see the point.  It's 
over, and no amount of words will change that."  She 
swallowed visibly.  "And they can't change the future, 
either."

She left and Mulder slammed the cabinet door shut, a bang 
that shook the whole room.  He wasn't about to let her 
disappear without a little noise.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Scully did have to wonder how it was that a dark basement 
office with pictures of aliens on the walls was one of the 
few remaining things in her life that made sense to her, 
how her own face came to blend with the freakish landscape 
of mutated frogs, spectral photographs and triangle hats.  
But after four years with Mulder, her barometer of "normal" 
now spun crazily, like a compass on a magnet, and she felt 
a sense of peace in her shadowed corner of the office that 
her cozy couch at home could not give.  So she kept 
working, promising herself just one more day until the next 
day arrived and she made her vow all over again.

Mulder buzzed around her, up and down from his chair, 
taking phone calls and pencil potshots at the ceiling in 
equal measure.  She waited for him to tell her what was 
going on, but instead he made an abrupt exit shortly before 
noon.  "I've got to go see someone for a little bit," he 
announced, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.

Her eyebrows lifted in silent question.  Please don't let 
this be like the trip to Providence, she thought.  She did 
not have the strength left to save him from himself another 
time.

Mulder must have sensed her worry because he stopped to 
give her a crooked smile.  "It's okay, Scully.  I'm just 
headed to American University.  I'll be back in a couple 
hours."

"Again?  That's the second time you've been over there this 
week.   Are you in some sort of part-time degree program 
now, Mulder?"

"Just boning up on my geology," he called over his shoulder 
as he left.  "See you later."

Scully shook her head and returned to the article she was 
reading.  Mulder hadn't been gone ten minutes when there 
was a soft rap on the door.  "Hello?" a woman's voice 
called.

"Yes?"  Scully stood up from her chair as Miranda Westfall 
peered around the doorframe.

"Oh, hello," she said when she saw Scully.  "I wasn't sure 
anyone was down here."

"No, I'm here," Scully said.  Not gone yet, she added 
mentally.  "If you're looking for Mulder, though, you just 
missed him."

"I did?"  Miranda's dark brows knit together.  "We were 
supposed to have lunch today."  She checked her watch.  "It 
is Tuesday, isn't it?"

"All day."  Scully walked around to the front of her table.  
"Could he have gotten the time wrong?"

"No, I'm pretty sure that we agreed on noon.  I guess he 
must have forgotten."

Scully dropped her chin in a small nod.  "That happens 
sometimes," she said with the world-weary tone of an old 
general breaking in the new recruits.  She did not add, 
*better get used to it.*  "He's been on the phone most of 
the morning, and I guess there was something he needed to 
follow up on that just couldn't wait."

"Well, phooey on him," Miranda said, her Southern accent 
creeping in just a tad more than usual.  She shrugged and 
then flashed Scully a smile.  "It will have to be just us 
girls then, won't it?"

Scully stiffened.  "Excuse me?"

"For lunch," Miranda said.  "It can be my treat."

Scully's mouth opened as she struggled to come up with some 
words.  Food and forced company were the last things she 
wanted.  "I...that's really nice of you, but I have so much 
work here, and--"

"You've got to eat, right?"  Miranda jerked her head at the 
door.  "Come on.  We'll go someplace close by and you'll be 
back in no time."

"No, really, I couldn't."

"Just for a little while?  It's beautiful outside."  
Miranda looked around at the dreary basement in silent, 
judgmental contrast.  "You should get out and enjoy it 
while you can."

Scully sucked in a sharp breath that Miranda must have 
heard because her face instantly melted to apology.  "Oh my 
god, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean that the way it sounded.  
It's just such a gorgeous spring day outside and we don't 
get too many of those before the summer heat sets in, and 
you know, I hate to eat alone so I just thought·"  She 
trailed off.  "Now I'm babbling."  She gave Scully an 
embarrassed smile.  "This floor doesn't open up and swallow 
people, does it?  Because now would be a good time for such 
a mechanism to appear."

Scully took a deep breath and returned the smile.  "It's 
okay.  Really."  She looked at the gray light streaming in 
through the clouded basement windows.  "You're right.  It 
is a lovely day outside."

"So you'll come?"

Scully hesitated.  You owe me, Mulder, she thought.  "Yes, 
I'll come."

They walked to the same sandwich shop where she had first 
relayed the story of the Magic Pickle.  Miranda bought them 
both chicken salad clubs, which came on plates stacked high 
with chips and colored toothpicks peeking out at the top.  
As she watched the other woman open wide to take the first 
bite, Scully knew she would be doing well to finish half 
the food in front of her.  Gamely, she took up half a 
sandwich.  "So how is the teaching going?" she asked.

Miranda, her mouth full, rolled her eyes.  "It's exhausting 
right now," she said when she had swallowed.  "Finals are 
coming up so I'm swamped with students in my office every 
minute that I'm there."

"It sounds like a lot of work," Scully agreed.

"It is.  But I love it.  I was one of those geeks who 
always loved school.  Each year, I had my pencils all 
sharpened and my outfit picked out two weeks before the 
first day rolled around.  I thought if I could find a way 
to stay in school forever, I could be truly happy."  She 
smiled.  "So that's what I did."

Scully lowered her sandwich from her mouth in a gesture of 
some surprise.  "I was the same way," she said.  "I 
couldn't wait to get back."  After a long summer of chasing 
after her brothers, always begging to be included and 
enduring constant reminders that she just wasn't quite up 
to their snuff, she relished the chance to dive back into 
the schoolbooks.  So much to know, so little time.  And 
there was the added bonus that no one -- not her 
schoolmates, not her siblings -- was able to master the 
information quite as well as she did.

She tried to adjust her image of pretty, slightly flaky 
Miranda into someone more like herself.  Miranda caught her 
squinting.

"What?  Do I have something in my teeth?" she asked, eyes 
wide.

Scully smiled and shook her head.  "No, I was just 
thinking."

Miranda plucked the pickle off her plate and extended it to 
Scully.  "Mulder said you're a fan.  I certainly won't eat 
it."

"Thanks, but I have all I can handle right here.  I'll be 
talking half with me as it is."

"Yeah."  Miranda grew less animated.  "How are you 
feeling?"

The knot in Scully's stomach tightened again.  No one 
seemed to understand her reluctance to answer that 
question.  For months now she had suffered nearly every 
physical invasion known to man as the doctors tried to 
treat her illness.  They stripped her for weighing, for 
inspection.  They poked her and prodded her at will.  
Injected her with strange dyes.  Scanned her with noisy 
machines.  And just as her medical warriors attacked from 
without, the cancer ate away at her from within.  Her body 
was caught in a tug of war, but her feelings were still her 
own.  Untouched and private.

As kind as Miranda seemed, she was still just an 
acquaintance.  Mulder's friend, if Scully were to classify 
her at all.  She looked across at Miranda, assessing her 
anew.  Being Mulder's friend over the long haul would take 
some work, and she wasn't sure what to think of this new, 
untested prototype.  

Scully cleared her throat and took a sip of water.  "I'm 
managing all right, thanks."

Her biggest worry these days was Mulder, for he was an 
independent variable she couldn't cram into the equation.  
Sometimes, she thought it was silly to be so concerned -- 
the man had managed thirty years on his own without her 
help.  Surely he would carry on just as well if she were 
not around.  

But then he would do something astoundingly foolish, like 
drilling holes in his head, and she would have nightmares 
of Mulder self-destructing at her grave.  Or perhaps he 
would just disappear into the haze like a balloon that lost 
its tether.  A colorful little dot that became smaller and 
smaller until no one saw it or remembered it anymore.

She wasn't going to round up reserves and make them swear 
to take care of him.  Selfishly, perhaps even foolishly, 
she hoarded that job for herself.  No one nearby seemed 
able to do it half as well.  Miranda lacked depth.  Skinner 
had too many pots to stir already; would he really be able 
to jump in every time Mulder's fervor threatened to boil?  
And deep down, she had to think -- as long as she was 
necessary, she had to remain here to follow through.

"I hope you don't think I'm overstepping," Miranda began, 
and Scully froze.  Just those few words already crossed her 
comfort line.  "Fox mentioned you were still looking at 
treatment options."

Looking for treatment options was more like it.  Dr. 
Alton's resources seemed pretty much exhausted.  Scully 
said nothing.

"Anyway, I have a name for you, if you're interested.  Ron 
Zuckerman.  He works over at Trinity Hospital.  My mom 
talked to him a couple of years ago, and he had some useful 
things to say."

Scully tried to recall if Miranda had said whether her 
mother had survived or not.  "What kind of treatment does 
he offer?"

"He does clinical trials with new cancer drugs, so there's 
no kind of guarantee.  I'm not sure if he specializes in 
just breast cancer or not, but I'm sure he could put you in 
contact with someone else over there if need be."

"You say his name is Zuckerman?"  Miranda nodded, and 
Scully sighed.  "Okay, thanks.  I'll ask my doctors about 
it."  

One more box to check off, she thought.  One more door to 
close.

XxXxXxX

Her lights were on so Mulder let himself inside her 
apartment.  Some classical piece was playing on the stereo 
in the living room, but there was no sign of Scully.  
"Scully?" he called as he stripped off his suit coat and 
tossed it on her couch.  "You here?"

No answer.

Mulder tugged at his tie and walked toward the kitchen. A 
pink mug sat by the sink, along with a small plate bearing 
toast crumbs.  Mulder rinsed them both and put them in the 
dishwasher, and then opened the refrigerator door.  He 
selected the nearest juice container and drained it 
straight from the waxy cardboard lips.  Tossing the empty 
box in the garbage, he wandered back towards the bedroom.  
"Scully?"

The covers were pulled down and rumpled, but Scully wasn't 
in the room.  He checked and found the bathroom door 
closed.  No noise came from within.  Knocking gently, he 
called her name a third time.  "Scully?  It's me."  When 
again he received no reply, he frowned and rapped on the 
door a bit louder.  "Scully, are you all right?  Answer 
me."

He tried the handle and it turned, so he pushed into the 
room.  "Scully?"

She lay naked and still in the tub, unmoving.  Her lips 
were blue.

"Jesus," he muttered, crossing to her.  "Scully?"  He 
plunged his hands into the tepid water to grab her skinny 
arms.  "Scully!"

Her eyes opened at his touch, her lips parting on a gasp as 
she blinked at him with confusion.  "Mulder?"

His heart sunk to his shoes and his arms went weak with 
relief.  "You're okay," he told her happily, rubbing his 
hands from her shoulders to her elbows.

"I must have fallen asleep."  As if for emphasis, she 
yawned.  Her teeth chattered as her jaws came back 
together.  "What are you doing here?"

"Getting you out," he said, helping her to sit up.  "This 
water is freezing.

She stood, still in the tub, and allowed him to wrap her in 
an enormous blue towel.  He seemed large and clumsy as he 
dried her small form, but Scully didn't mind.  She stood 
still as he patted and rubbed, then tucked the ends of the 
towel around her.  He kissed her forehead and she leaned 
into him.  "You all right?" he asked, sweeping his hand 
down her back.  

She nodded.  "Just really tired."

"Then let's find the bed."  He lifted her free and clear of 
the tub, but did not set her down on the cold tile floor.  
She wiggled as he marched toward the bedroom.

"Mulder, I can walk."

"Yeah, but see we're here already.  Argument avoided."  He 
lowered her carefully down onto the bed and she turned to 
burrow into the covers.  "Pajamas?" he asked, looking 
around the room for them.

She shook her head against the pillow.  "Not tonight."  She 
looked up at him with sleepy eyes.  "You ditched me again 
today."

He felt a twinge of guilt at leaving her out of the loop, 
but he didn't want to say anything out loud until he was 
sure.  "Yeah, I'll explain about that soon.  It's kind of 
complicated to get into right now."

Scully's eyes drifted shut and she made a small humming 
noise as she curled deeper under the covers.  A jolt of 
affection gripped him so strongly he felt his heart 
squeeze.  He tucked the comforter up around her shoulders 
and then reached to turn off the light.  Stripping down to 
his boxers and T-shirt, he climbed in next to her.

She inched closer to him, and he turned on his side so they 
face one another in the cave of covers.  His hand grazed 
her bare knee where it stuck out from the hem of the towel.  
"Are you warm enough?" he whispered.  Lying like this, with 
so little between them, it was hard to deny how thin she'd 
become.  He stroked her soft, damp skin.

"Mm-hmm."  Her eyes opened again.  "You stood up Miranda 
today, too."

He winced.  "Shit.  Totally slipped my mind."

"So I gathered.  I had lunch with her instead."

"You did?"  He squeezed her knee.  "Thanks, Scully.  You 
saved my ass."

"Again," she added sleepily.

"Again," he agreed, his voice still tender.

"Actually it turned out to be a useful meal," she said.  
"She gave me the name of a doctor doing some clinical 
trials at Trinity Hospital, and I made some calls this 
afternoon.  He might be able to work me into a study he's 
doing now."

"Scully, that's great."  He reached up and stroked her 
cheek with his thumb.  "Really great."

"It's a long shot," she murmured, her eyes sliding closed 
again.  "But it's a shot."

"It sure is."  Such a thin thread of hope she was offering, 
almost invisible, but he had always been good at seeing 
things that weren't there.  He grabbed that golden line 
with both hands and reeled her in, tucking her into his 
arms and holding her close.  She nuzzled his breastbone and 
slipped an arm around his ribs.  In answer, he rested his 
chin atop her curling hair, which was scented and still wet 
from her bath.  Her breathing evened into deep sleep but 
Mulder remained awake for a long time, wired and reeling.  

First proof of his life's work, tantalizing close after so 
many years.  Now a possible cure for Scully's illness.  He 
hardly could contain both ideas in his brain at one time.  
It seemed impossible.  Amazing.  Wondrous.

He knew he should be waiting for the other shoe to drop; it 
always did.  But in the quiet night with Scully wrapped 
around him, Mulder let himself believe.

XxXxX

"I'm so glad you could come tonight, honey."

Scully paused from slicing carrots for the salad and smiled 
at her mother.  "I am, too.  It will be nice to see Bill 
again."

"Oh, and he's so looking forward to seeing you.  He said so 
when I talked to him last week.  He's got some exciting 
news to share."

Scully looked up again.  "What?"

"It's best for Bill to say."  But her mother was glowing.  
Scully wondered if her brother could have been transferred 
again, somewhere closer to home.  The thought made her 
twitch.  Bill was fine in small doses once a year; it would 
quite another thing to have him in the same city, breathing 
disapproval down her neck at every turn.

"Is he moving here?" she asked.

Her mother just continued her secret smile.  "He'll be here 
soon enough.  I'm sure he'll tell you then."

Scully slid the carrots from the cutting board and into the 
salad bowl in a rain of orange confetti.  "I...I have some 
news, too," she said, not meeting her mother's eyes.

"Oh?"

"I've enrolled in a clinical study at Trinity Hospital.  A 
man named Zuckerman has a program underway to evaluate a 
potential new treatment.  The drug has had some success in 
shrinking tumors in animal studies, and they're just now 
starting the testing in humans."

Her mother wiped her hands on a dishtowel and walked over 
to Scully.  "Just now testing in humans?  Is that safe, 
Dana?"

"They think it should be reasonably safe.  There will be 
side effects of course, but I've already been through that 
so I don't see how this would be any different."

Her mother frowned.  "I don't know, sweetie.  It sounds 
awfully risky."

Scully sighed and looked directly at her mother.  "Mom," 
she said softly, "risky is all I have.  Dr. Alton has 
nothing else to offer me.  It's this or nothing."

Mrs. Scully's mouth tightened as her eyes grew wet.  "Don't 
say that."

"But it's the truth."  She reached out and took her 
mother's hands.  "At least this way, there's still a 
chance.  Right?"  Her mother didn't answer, so Scully 
squeezed her hands.  "Right?"

"Right."  Her mother pulled her hands free and wrapped her 
arms around Scully.  "You're in my prayers," she said into 
her hair as she rocked her back and forth.  "Every night."

"I know."  Scully returned the hug, breathing in the 
familiar rose and aloe scent of her mother's skin.

Her mother sniffed and drew back.  "When do you start the 
new treatment?"

"I'm supposed to check into the hospital on Thursday 
morning."

Mrs. Scully forced a smile.  "I'll be there."

The doorbell rang then, breaking the moment, and Scully 
patted her mother's arm.  "I'll get it."  Six doorbells and 
half an hour later, Bill arrived in full dress uniform.  He 
grinned at her and Scully was surprised to feel her heart 
swell at the sight of him.  It really had been a long time.

"Look at you my big brother," she said as they hugged.  He 
nearly lifted her off her feet.

"Did you get my birthday card?" he asked.

She smacked him playfully on the chest.  "I did.  Thanks 
for remembering this year."

"Once a decade," he teased.  The door opened again and they 
both turned to see her mother admit Father McCue.  He was 
dressed in his full uniform, too.  Bill sobered and looked 
down at her.  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Scully said, ducking the question.  "Let's get 
some dinner, okay?"

Bill followed her to the table and took the seat next to 
her.  "Mom wasn't sure you'd be able to make it tonight," 
he said.  "She told me you're still working pretty hard."  
His tone was a strange kind of steely concern.

"I'm working the same as usual," Scully answered.  

"Dana, I really think--"  Bill didn't get to finish his 
thought because Father McCue took the seat on the other 
side of Scully.

"Dana," he said warmly, "it's so good to see you."

Scully favored him with a tight smile.  "And you, Father.  
I hope you've been well."

"I have been, thank you."

Her mother reappeared then, with the roast in hand.  
Everyone at the table praised its look and savory smell, 
but Mrs. Scully brushed off their comments.  "Before we 
begin," she said, "I believe there is something Bill wanted 
to share with us."

Bill's news, Scully remembered.  She sneaked a sideways 
look at her brother and saw he was flushed with pride.  In 
a flash, she guessed the news.

Bill rose with his glass in hand.  "I'd better get it out 
before Mom beats me to it," he said with a chuckle.  "Tara 
and I are expecting a baby in December.  A boy."

Loud congratulations echoed through the room as everyone 
got up to hug Bill.  Her mother was practically bouncing 
with joy.  Scully's feelings were more muted, confusing.  
Bill and Tara had wanted this for a long time, and she was 
happy for them.  But a strange ache gripped her stomach.  
She managed a wide smile as she hugged her brother again.  
"That's wonderful news," she told him.  "Please tell Tara 
how happy I am for you."

He squeezed her hard.  "You'll have to come out and visit.  
See the baby."

The ache rose to her throat.  "I'd like that."


When the phone rang for her after dinner she knew 
immediately who it was.  The frown lines on Bill's forehead 
said he knew, too.  She took the receiver from him.  
"Hello?"

"Hey, Scully, it's me.  Sorry to interrupt your dinner."

"No.  Is something the matter?"

"I need your help with something.  A guy named Arlinsky 
from the Smithsonian has contacted me about something he 
found on a mountain in Canada."

"What?"

"I don't want to get into it over the phone.  I need you to 
come down to the Smithsonian and meet me."

Bill frowned and walked off.  Scully sighed.  "I'm on my 
way."


Arlinsky turned out to be a man with quite a story.  He 
showed them slides of what appeared to be a frozen alien 
corpse buried long ago in the side of a Canadian mountain.  
"I know what your first thought was," he said.  "But the 
St. Golias range?  That's a long way to go for a hoax."

"If you're going to go, why not go all the way?" Mulder 
asked.

"I thought that myself," Arlinsky admitted.  "But the ice 
core samples can't be faked.

"You have the ice core samples here?" Scully asked.

He rose and went to the freezer.  "One taken from each side 
of the body with seven layers of sediment intact.  It is my 
sincere belief that what we have here is the complete 
corpus of an extraterrestrial alien entity."

XxX

Scully took the winding marble steps at such a clip that 
Mulder had to hurry to keep pace with her.  "You think it's 
foolish?" he asked.

"I have no opinion actually."

"You have no opinion?"

"This is your Holy Grail, Mulder, not mine."  She stopped 
suddenly and turned around.  Foolish seemed too mild a 
word.  Arlinsky, by Mulder's own admission, had been 
involved in one alien hoax already.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It just means that proving to the world the existence of 
alien life is not my last dying wish."

"How about Santa Claus or the Easter bunny?  This is not 
some selfish pet project of mine, Scully.  I'm as skeptical 
of that man as you are.  But proof?  Definitive proof of 
sentient beings sharing time and existence with us?  There 
is no greater revelation imaginable.  No greater scientific 
discovery."

"You already believe, Mulder.  What would proof change for 
you?"

"If someone could proof the existence of God would that 
change you?"

"Only if it had been disproven."

He fixed her with a hard stare.  "Then you accept that the 
belief in God could be a lie?"

"I don't think about it actually, and I don't think it can 
be proven."

"But if it could be proven, wouldn't that be knowledge 
worth seeking?  Or is it easier going on believing in the 
lie?"

Scully hesitated, and then allowed herself to admit the 
hard truth at the crux of their argument. "I can't go with 
you, Mulder."

It wasn't even the treatment schedule that was the real 
problem, though that certainly entered into it.  She was 
tired.  Mulder's answers weren't going to help her and she 
didn't have energy to spare for more searching.  With each 
passing day she grew more certain that the X-Files were not 
going to contain her salvation. She stayed on the staircase 
and listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps echo 
off the marble.

Mulder had his truths, and she had hers; they just couldn't 
look for them in the same place any more.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Her cell phone rang as she was driving to work, and she 
fished it out with one hand.  Mulder, she figured, calling to 
leave her some final marching orders before he left for the 
mountains. She envisioned him as the proud fisherman, holding 
the rubbery gray body up by its feet for photos, finally able 
to let go of all the stories about the one that got away. 

"Hello?" she said as she glided the car to a halt at a 
stoplight.

"Dana, hi.  It's Mom."

Scully leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes.  
She had forgotten to call and apologize to her mother for 
leaving the dinner party early.  After her meeting with 
Mulder and Arlinski, she'd returned home and slept like the 
dead.  "Hi, Mom.  Sorry I didn't call you back last night."

"It's okay.  I assumed your meeting ran late.  Is everything 
okay now?"

Scully knew better than to relay details of Mulder's latest 
alien emergency.  "Yes, everything is fine."

"Good.  I was calling about Friday.  Is Fox taking the day 
off from work, or do you need me to come and pick you up?  
I'm happy to do it."

Mulder had not asked about the treatment and she had not 
volunteered any information.  If she asked him to stay, he 
might resent her for it later.  Her heart squeezed.  If she'd 
asked him to stay, he might have refused.  The alien versus 
partner coin toss was not one she was sure she would win.  

A car honked behind her.  Scully moved forward through the 
intersection as her mother's worried voice carried through 
the line.  "Dana?  Are you there?"

"No, I'm here.  Uh, yeah.  If you could pick me up on Friday 
that would be great.  I have to be there by nine."

"Mulder has to work, then?"

Better to bite the bullet now than have her mother wondering 
all day tomorrow when Mulder might show up.  "He's out of 
town, Mom.  He'll be back Saturday or Sunday."

"Oh." Her mother could infuse years of disapproval into one 
small syllable.  

"It's not like that," Scully said.  "He doesn't know.  I 
didn't even tell him I was going to be in the hospital 
again."

"For heaven's sake, why not?"

She thought of Mulder's face when he'd seen the pictures of 
the alien body.  Scully, he'd said, this could mean 
everything.

"He'll be back in three days," she told her mother.  "Three 
days hardly matter, and I can talk with him then.  I'll see 
you Friday morning, okay?"  Already she was late to meet Dr. 
Vitaglianoe at the American University Paleoclimatology Lab. 
If Mulder had indeed won the alien jackpot, it would be up to 
her to punch his ticket and verify his prize. 

XxXxX

Mulder hadn't called.  She wasn't sure if that was because he 
was still on a mountain somewhere, away from the nearest cell 
tower, or if it was because the body was a fake and he was 
off nursing his latest disappointment.  When she did see him 
again, she was prepared to offer an apology.  Hoax or no, his 
instincts were right again:  whatever secrets were up in that 
mountain grave, someone was ready to steal and possibly kill 
to protect them.

But he hadn't called and she wasn't on the mountain.  So she 
started her search back in the stairway where she was 
attacked.  The lab boys collected a metric ton of 
fingerprints and soon she had name to go with the weasel face 
she saw when she closed her eyes.  

Michael Kritchgau, government employee, Pentagon research 
division.

Hardly even a surprise, she thought. They'd been knocking her 
down the stairs for years, one way or another.  This was just 
the first time she had a chance to hold someone accountable.

"Thanks," she told the lab tech who gave her the information.

Scully drove to the Pentagon.  And waited.

XxXxX


Kritchgau showed his face near the end of the day, looking 
like any other government schmoe on his way home from work.  
Scully wondered if he'd been brazen or stupid to leave his 
fingerprints behind.  Either way, he was about to receive his 
reckoning.  Kritchgau walked towards the parking garage, and 
Scully started her engine to follow him inside.  

The roar of her speeding car made Kritchgau stop and turn 
around.  Scully did not slow down.  He wobbled left and 
right, trying to decide on a move, but she had him cornered 
against the wall.  Her tires screeched as she halted inches 
from the man's knees.  He took the opportunity to run.

"Federal Agent!" she hollered, freeing her gun.  Kritchgau 
did not stop.  Weapon drawn, she tracked his footsteps 
through the echoing concrete room until she heard an engine 
turn over.  A squeal bounced off the walls as Kritchgau 
pulled out of his space and made his escape.

Not this time, you don't, Scully thought, running for the 
stairs.  Her heart was pounding and she felt light-headed, 
but the energy charging through her crackled down to her 
fingertips.  She beat Kritchgau to the exit and ran out to 
block his path.  He stopped.

"Get out of the car!"  He didn't move.  "NOW!"

Hands in the air, he kicked the door open and exited the 
vehicle.  "Please don't shoot," he said.  "I didn't mean to 
hurt you.  I had no choice."

Scully bent him over the hood with a hard shove.  "You're 
under arrest for theft and assault."

"If you arrest me, they'll kill me," he said as she frisked 
him.

Still breathing hard, Scully pulled away.  "I don't know what 
you're talking about."

"The same people who are trying to kill you," he explained.  
"The people who gave you your cancer."

XxXxX

It felt a little bit like a betrayal, letting some stranger 
do the autopsy, but he didn't want to bring Scully in until 
he was absolutely sure.  As the exam went on, it grew harder 
not to pick up the phone and share his excitement.  The body 
passed test after test:  foreign tissue type, pulmonary and 
cardio systems intact but clearly not human.  The Holy Grail, 
as Scully had called it.  He could not wait to show her.

Just when he thought he had to tell, his phone rang.  
"Mulder," he said.

"Mulder, it's me."

He grinned at the sound of her voice.  "Scully, you're not 
going to believe this.  It's the most amazing thing I've ever 
seen, and you know me -- that's saying a lot."

"Where are you?"

"I'm back in DC.  Our trip was successful, Scully."  He could 
not hide his glee.  "I don't want to say too much over the 
phone, but I think you should come down here and see for 
yourself.  It's the genuine article this time."

She didn't answer right away.  "Mulder, I need to see you."

"You will, you will!" He broke in before she could say more.  
"I've got Arlinski here with me and the body -- Scully, the 
body is incredible.  I can't say enough."

"No, Mulder.  I need you to come here."

His euphoria evaporated.  "Are you okay?  Are you in the 
hospital?  What's going on?"

"Nothing like that.  I'm fine.  I have a man here who has 
story that I think you need to hear."

Mulder looked over at the body on the autopsy bay.  "Can it 
wait?"

"I don't think it can."

"Okay, then."  He sighed.  "I'm on my way."

XxXxX

When he opened the door to his apartment the first thing he 
noticed was the welt on her cheek.  "What happened?" he asked 
crossing quickly to her.  "Scully, are you all right?"  He 
touched her face with gentle fingers but she pulled away.

"I'm fine, Mulder.  It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing to me.  Who did this to you?"

Her eyes slid to the third person in the room, and for the 
first time Mulder took note of the man sitting in his 
armchair.  "It doesn't matter now how it happened," Scully 
said, touching Mulder's arm.  "What matters is what this man 
has to say."

"And who is this man?" Mulder asked, his eyes meeting the 
stranger's from across the room.

"His name is Michael Kritchgau, and I think you need to hear 
what he's told me."  Mulder didn't move, holding Kritchgau's 
stare.  Scully squeezed his arm.  "Sit down," she said.  "And 
listen."

Mulder walked over to his couch and took a seat.  "Okay, I'm 
listening," he said somewhat belligerently. 

Kritchgau leaned forward in his chair.  "The lie that you 
believe, that they have cleverly led you to believe, Agent 
Mulder, is that there is intelligent life other than our own 
and we've had contact with these life forms."

"So you're saying this is all a hoax."

"Which you have been used to perpetuate."

Mulder's tone was flat, disbelieving.  He'd heard this all 
before.  "You come by this knowledge how?"

"Working for the DOD.  Watching a military industrial complex 
that operated unbridled and unchecked through the Cold War, 
create a diversion of attention from itself and its continued 
misdeeds by confabulating enough believable evidence to 
convince passionate adepts like yourself that it really could 
be true."

"And just by chance you run into Agent Scully?"

Kritchgau's lips thinned and he gave a miniscule shake of his 
head.  "That's just like you, Agent Mulder.  Suspicious of 
everything but what you should be."

"Why come to me now?  Why not four years ago?"

"I have a son who is very sick. He served in the Gulf War."  
When Mulder did not say anything, Kritchgau took a deep 
breath before continuing.  "The lies are so deep that the 
only way to cover them is to create something more 
incredible. They invented you.  The regression hypnosis, the 
story of your sister's abduction, the lies they fed your 
father.  You wanted to believe, and who could have blamed 
you?"

Mulder nearly snorted aloud.  He wasn't so naïve as to think 
he was really that important. Besides, he now had solid proof 
of the very lies this man was selling.  "The body that was 
found?" he asked him.

"Meticulously constructed out of biomaterials through the 
hybridization of differentiated cells -- what are called 
chimeras -- frozen into place over the course of a year using 
sediment and materials that will bear out its age."

More lies.  He glanced at Scully, but her gaze was focused on 
the floor.  "They would have known that body would have been 
carbon dated, that it would have been proved a fake."

"The body will never be tested, Agent Mulder.  You were only meant 
to see it, to make you believe the lie.  So that you might finally 
commit and go public the information."

Mulder looked over at Scully.  For this, she had pulled him away 
from the body?  After four years together, he found it hard to 
believe she would switch allegiances so quickly.  "This is man is 
a liar."

"You can see for yourself, Agent Mulder.  The body is already long 
gone."

Mulder got up from the couch and grabbed his coat.  He left Scully 
without another word.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


Scully dragged herself home after midnight.  She had three shots 
of whiskey in her and not much else, but it was enough to stop her 
hands from trembling and to burn away the ache her in her chest.  
In the morning she would enter the \hospital for a treatment that 
was more likely to kill her than save her, and a few hours ago she 
had laid her death squarely on Mulder's sagging shoulders.  She 
no more thought he was responsible for her illness than she 
thought he could hold back the tide; she thought him guilty of the 
same sin he accused her of committing so often -- willful 
ignorance.  If she could just make him see how far they would go 
to keep him a believer, she had a chance to free him from the lies 
once and for all.  But anger had twisted her tongue.

With a weary sigh, Scully closed her door.  She couldn't remember 
her exact words, but she was pretty sure they had translated to 
"I'm dying and it's your fault, Mulder."  She wasn't sure how one 
even began to take such a thing back.

She checked her machine to see if he'd called:  no messages.

Shedding her jacket, she walked through her dark apartment to her 
bedroom.  She'd gotten her shirt halfway off when he spoke.  "Keep 
going, FBI woman."

Scully jumped and turned.  She could make out his silhouette in 
the shadows.  "Mulder?  What are you doing sitting in my bedroom 
in the dark?"

"It's too crowded in my apartment.  I couldn't sleep."

"I'm not kidding, Mulder."

"Neither am I.  There's a dead guy on my floor and it's only a 
matter of time before he starts to stink the place up."

Her whiskey-induced fog disappeared in an instant.  "What are you 
talking about, 

He closed her blinds and turned on a light. "Apparently 
someone thinks my life is interesting enough to put on 
videotape.  My apartment had been under electronic 
surveillance for at least two months." He pulled out a badge.  
"Courtesy of the US Government."

Scully looked at the badge and saw a man who could have been 
Kritchgau's cousin -- same receding hairline, same dour 
expression.  The name read Scott Ostelhoff.  "This is the 
dead man in your apartment?  How did he die, Mulder?"

"Gunshot wound to the face."  Even the words made her blink.  
"Ostelhoff worked for the military," Mulder continued.  "Are 
you beginning to get the picture? Do you see what's happening 
here?"

"That the hoax is connected to the military just like 
Kritchgau said it was."

"The hoax, your cancer, everything."  Mulder's voice rose.  
"And it just doesn't lead back to the military, it leads 
right back to the FBI."

Even when he showed her the evidence, it was hard to believe.  
The man spying on Mulder's apartment made regular calls to 
the Bureau's PBX number.  "Mulder, these men," she said, 
putting the phone records aside on her kitchen table.  "You 
give them your faith.  "You give them your faith and trust 
them with your life."

He knelt beside her.  "There are those who can be trusted.  
What I need to know is who among them is not.  I will not 
allow this treason to prosper.  Not if they have done this to 
you."

"Mulder, you can't go to the Bureau with this."

"No, but as they have lied to us, we can lie to them.  A lie 
to find the truth."

Her breath caught.  "What are you proposing?"

"This," he said as he scooped up Ostelhoff's ID from the 
table, "is our ticket inside.  I take it to the Pentagon and 
do some looking around.  I just might be able to figure out 
who the man inside the FBI is."

"Mulder, as soon as they realize he's dead, his ID will be 
deactivated.  You'd be arrested on the spot."

"That's where you come in," he said, his expression growing 
more guarded.  "No one will know that he's dead."

She frowned.  "How?"

"Because they'll think that it's me.  Ostelhoff and I have a 
similar build, and he's now missing his face."

"Oh, Mulder."  Already she was shaking her head.

He put his hand on her knee.  "Just hear me out.  When they 
find the body in my apartment, they'll believe it's me, that 
I committed suicide.  Almost certainly they will ask you to 
make the identification.  This will buy us at least a day to 
gather evidence."

"And when they find out I lied?  We'll both be jailed for 
obstruction and maybe more."

"By then it may not matter.  If we can prove there is a mole 
inside the FBI, we may finally be able to bring these men 
down.  Obstruction of justice charges will be the least of 
their problems.  This is our chance, Scully, our chance to 
get some answers."  His thumb swept the inside of her knee.  
"And maybe some justice along with them.  What do you say?"

One last case together, she thought.  One last blind stab at 
the truth.

She could deny him nothing.

"Okay," she said, nodding.  "I'll do it."

"Okay," he agreed softly.  They regarded each other in the 
dim light.  His fingers continued a slow caress of her knee.  
"I was thinking of when we first met," he said at last.  "Do 
you remember?"

"Of course.  You practically peed a circle around the 
basement marking your territory."

"Well, if I was peeing, you were jumping through hoops to 
show off what you knew."

She arched an eyebrow at him.  "And just who was holding 
those hoops, Mulder?"

He grinned and shook his head.  "Okay, okay.  I may have been 
a little reluctant to take on a new partner.  But I came 
around eventually."
 
"Eventually," she agreed.  "After you stopped laughing at 
me."

"Scully, you laughed at me way more than I ever laughed at 
you."

She smiled a little.  "I had a crush on you back then, you 
know.  But you were oblivious."

"Oh, you did not."

She laughed and touched his hair.  "See?  Oblivious."

He took her hand from his head and kissed the center of her 
palm before closing her fingers over it.  "You're sure you 
want to go through with this, Scully?  Say the word and we'll 
call it off."

She squared her shoulders.  "No, I want to do this.  Someone 
has to make them pay, Mulder."

"Yeah."  He reached for her and she shifted willingly, 
closing her arms around him and burying her nose in the warm 
cotton of his T-shirt.  His large hand stroked the back of 
her head.  She sighed and kissed the hollow of his throat.  
"Agent Scully."  His voice rumbled low and deep through his 
chest.  "Have you been drinking?"

She pulled back to look him in the eye.  "Yes."  His hand 
came up to cup the side of her face and she covered it with 
one of her own.  The pain in her chest swelled again.  
"Mulder, about tonight..."

"Shhh," he said, leaning in so they touched foreheads.  
"Forget about it."

"I can't," she answered thickly.  Hot tears clung to her 
lashes.  "I'm so sorry."

"Shhh," he repeated.  "It's all right."  He kissed her to 
stop her desperate choking sounds.  She squeezed her eyes 
shut and the tears ran down between them, welding their 
cheeks with salt water.  He gripped her closer and she opened 
her mouth under his.  She tasted her tears, her own sorrow 
magnified in his groan, and she wanted to crawl inside him.  

"Please," she whispered, yearning with a need she couldn't 
name.  The refrigerator kicked in with a grinding hum.  She 
kissed his eyebrows, his jaw, his mouth.  His hands skimmed 
her injured ribs, and she quivered in his arms.  Hollowed 
from the inside out, she begged a dead man to bring her back 
to life. "Please," she said, a hot rush against his salty 
skin.  "Mulder."

"Scully."  He rose from his crouch, taking her with him, and 
her arms slipped to his waist.  With greedy fingers, she 
found the taut skin of his stomach.  She worked quick magic 
with his zipper and soon his jeans gaped open at the front.  
He brushed her arms several times, kissed her fevered brow.  
"You're hurt," he murmured.

"No...no."  She pressed her lips to the prickly underside of 
his jaw.  His whole body strained toward her, caught in a war 
between giving in and backing away.  She tugged at the loose 
waist of his jeans.

"Scully, wait."  

She didn't need the orgasm, wasn't chasing pleasure.  She 
wanted to feel him under her hands and between her legs, hard 
and hot and everywhere at once.  Anything to stem her 
hemorrhaging despair.  She shoved his jeans down and reached 
inside his boxers. Heavy and full, he sprang into her hand.

His sucked in his breath as one long hiss.  She stood on 
tiptoe and sealed his mouth again, her busy hand trapped 
between them.  He steadied her with strong arms and calmed 
her with slow kisses.  Her pulse grew less erratic.  His 
fingers slipped under her shirt and splayed across her back.  
Pulling his mouth from hers, he kissed her once just in front 
of her ear and set her on her feet again.

She leaned into his broad chest and closed her eyes, 
snuggling despite the odd angle.  He made low noises against 
he top of her head as his hands worked at her belt.  A moment 
later, her slacks slid down to her ankles.  They caught at 
her boots, but she shook them free one leg at a time.  
Mulder's lips trailed down the side of her throat.  "Sit 
here," he breathed, coaxing her onto the table.

The cold wood on her bare legs made her shiver.  Mulder 
stepped forward and the rough denim scraped against her 
knees.  Somehow it was more erotic with her half-naked while 
he remained nearly dressed.  A first flash of real sexual 
need radiated through her.  They kissed with less urgency 
until she was sighing into his mouth.  He stroked the 
delicate skin on the insides of her thighs and they parted 
without her even ordering it.  "So pretty," he whispered to 
her.  She answered with a sad smile she knew he couldn't see 
in the dark.

He crouched down again and Scully tensed.  His hot breath 
sent tingled skittering across her skin as he kissed first 
her right knee and then her left.  "Mulder, please."  She 
wanted more than his mouth on her.

But Mulder didn't have oral sex in mind.  Instead, he simply 
drew off her boots one at a time.  Scully bit her lip at the 
tender gesture and touched her fingers to his soft, springy 
hair.  He stood up and pressed his lips to hers.  "There," he 
said.  "Much better."

She answered with her tongue and he wrapped one arm around 
her hips again, scooting her closer to the edge of the table.  
His penis brushed her thigh.  She rocked against him, trying 
to remove her underwear with one hand as she used the other 
to hold him in place for their kiss.  He stilled her efforts 
and drew long fingers over the top her thigh to find the damp 
cotton in between.  Tugging it aside, he shifted his hips so 
the broad head of his penis could push inside.  Scully helped 
him find the right angle and they both sighed.  She held 
completely still as he pushed forward in steady increments, 
until she could feel his full length pulsing inside her.

Her heels locked behind his knees.

He dropped his forehead to meet hers, and her hands gripped 
his strong biceps.  Slowly, he began to rock his hips.  The 
friction bordered on uncomfortable at first, but his fingers 
found her nipples through her shirt and the added stimulation 
ratcheted up her arousal.  She kissed the side of his neck as 
her arms stole around his back.  Their sounds of pleasure 
bounced off the hard kitchen surfaces, creating an echoing 
soundtrack of heavy breathing and needy gasps.  

He fucked her in quick strokes that left her leg muscles 
aching as she tried to open ever wider.  She squeezed him as 
close as she could, her cheek pressed to his breastbone.  His 
fingers joined his cock between her legs, and Scully's 
breathing turned to a Lamaze sort of panting, high and fast.  
Above her head, she could hear Mulder struggling through 
gritted teeth.  "Oh," she said, her eyes sliding closed.  Her 
legs trembled around him.  She hadn't wanted it, but orgasm 
was coming anyway.  She nipped his T-shirt between her teeth 
and gripped his back.  Ironically, it was the soft kiss he 
placed on the top of her head that sent her careening over 
the edge, his T-shirt slipping free as she sobbed into his 
chest.

He slowed a moment, rubbing her gently all over and murmuring 
words that her brain didn't understand but her heart did.  
When she relaxed and hugged him again, he quickened the pace 
and soon she was the one murmuring encouragement as he shook 
himself to pieces in her arms.

They slumped against one another, all tangled limbs and harsh 
breathing in the dark kitchen.  When her abused leg muscles 
started to twitch he backed away.  She made a wordless sound 
of protest, which he quelled with a lingering kiss to her 
temple.  She grabbed hold of his shoulders and hid her face 
in the sweaty curve of his neck.  He rocked her awkwardly.  
"I have to go," he said, his voice low and gruff near her 
ear.  She nodded but did not release him.  "Scully..."

"Okay."  She let go and drew back, wiping her eyes with both 
hands.  

"Okay?"  He rubbed her upper arms.

"Yes."  In a few short hours, she would have to identify his 
body.

He refastened his pants with quick, efficient motions and 
then scooped to retrieve her slacks from the floor.  He 
draped them across her lap.  She felt the weight of the 
moment stretch and bend inside her fuzzy head as they put 
each other to rights again, these strange courtship rituals 
between the man who was dead and the woman who was nearly so.

"I'll call you when I can," he said.

"Be careful," she urged.  Her voice came out gravelly, 
battered and crushed from all the other words she was holding 
back.  

He grabbed Ostelhoff's ID from the table with one hand and 
squeezed Scully's hand with the other.  "See you on the other 
side," he said.  And then was gone.

XxXxX

Her phone rang at five-thirty AM, shattering her sleep.  She 
groped for the receiver, and it fell from the base into her 
hand.  "Hello?"

"Agent Scully."  A man's tight voice rasped in her ear.  
"This is Sergeant Billings of the Alexandria Police 
Department.  I'm sorry to bother you at this hour."

Scully sat up, instantly awake.  This was it.  "Yes, sir.  
What can I do for you?"

"Early this morning I received a call from Hegel Place.  A 
woman reported hearing a gunshot on the fourth floor.  Your 
partner Agent Mulder lives on the fourth floor, is that 
correct?"

Scully closed her eyes.  "Was anybody hurt?"

"Yes."

Silence stretched through the line; he seemed to have no more 
words.

"Sergeant Billings, was Mulder hurt?"

"We think so, Ma'am.  Christ.  A man is dead in Agent 
Mulder's apartment.  Apparent self-inflicted shotgun wound.   
I'm sorry for this, Agent Scully, but we need you to come to 
Mulder's apartment as soon as you can.  We need someone who 
can...someone to make the identification."

The knot in Scully's stomach swelled.  Even though she knew 
it wasn't true, it felt real.  "I'll be there right away." 

XxX

Like moving through her nightmares, she thought.  Perception 
slowed, rolling in waves like a stormy sea.  She noted the 
musty smell of the hallway, crowded with cops and curious 
onlookers.  The bright morning light warmed his yellowed 
walls.  Faces of men with no sleep tracked her every movement 
as she told herself, just keep moving forward.

No one said anything to her.  They parted like the red sea to 
reveal the body covered in a white sheet.  Someone pulled 
back the makeshift shroud.

Scully nodded.  That's him.

She turned to leave before she threw up all over Mulder's 
floor.

On the way out, she met Skinner, who seemed strangely unmoved by 
the news of Mulder's demise.  Almost like he knew what was really 
going on. 

Scully ducked his questions and hurried to the elevator.

Work fast, Mulder, she thought.  Resurrection day is coming sooner 
than you think.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As often as they'd mocked him, the FBI executives could never 
seem to stay away when Agent Mulder was involved.  Lurid 
curiosity always got the best of them.  Scully looked around 
at the faces of the joint panel.  At least two-dozen men and 
women had crammed into the small conference room to hear her 
detail the downfall of Agent Fox Mulder.  Vultures come to 
pick apart the remains of his good name.

A lump rose in her throat and she swallowed to force it back 
down.  They believed she mourned his death, when really she 
ached for his life, the way he had so assiduously honored the 
truth while everyone around him fed him lies.  

Her head buzzed and her heart beat double time.  She gripped 
her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking.  
With effort, she forced out the awful words:  "Agent Mulder 
died late last night from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot 
wound to the head."

Skinner arrived seconds too late, missing her performance.  
He stood in the doorway with folders she could only guess 
contained the proof of her lie.  Blevins forced her focus 
back to the meeting.

"Agent Scully, these accusations that you've made, that 
you've been given a disease -- they are very serious 
charges."

"Yes, Sir, but I have proof."  Against the men behind this.  
Of the lies that I believed."  Her legs felt weak, but she 
stood up anyway, her voice rising.  She pulled out the blots 
that showed the foreign virus matched the one in her 
bloodstream.  "What I have here is proof undeniable that the 
men who gave me this disease were also behind the hoax.  A 
plot designed to lead to Agent Mulder's demise, and my own, 
planned and executed by someone in this room.  What I have 
here..."  A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she braced 
herself on the table in a struggle to continue.  "What I have 
here is scientific evidence."  

Fat drops of blood fell from her nose and onto the blots.  
She swayed on her feet.  As blackness closed in, she felt 
Skinner's hand on her back.  "You," she whispered as she 
sagged.

"Someone get a doctor."


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mulder broke approximately thirty-two traffic laws in his race to 
get to Trinity Hospital.  Abandoning the car with its left front 
wheel on the curb, he ran through the emergency room doors, his 
heart at his throat.  He tried the first official-looking person 
he saw.  "Excuse me, I'm looking for a woman..."  

She gave him a blank stare and moved on, so Mulder rounded the 
corner to the main desk.  "Excuse me, I'm looking for a Dana 
Scully..."  The woman behind the desk did not put down her phone.  
Mulder raised his voice.  "Is there an admitting nurse here?"  
People turned to stare, but nobody answered him.  "Look, can 
somebody help me here?"

At last, a young doctor approached him.  "You're going to have to 
calm down."

"I will calm down when someone gives me a reason to calm down!  
I'm looking for a patient who was admitted to the ER."

"Dana Scully.  I heard you the first time."

"Where is she?"  Mulder did not lower his voice.

"I have her in the ICU?"

"Where is that?"

"Look, you're going to have to tell me who you are..."  Mulder 
brushed him aside, intent on finding the ICU on his own.  Just 
then, Skinner rounded the corner with four other government suits 
trailing being him.

"Agent Mulder."  Mulder did not slow down.  Skinner called after 
him angrily, "Where are you going?"

"ICU."

"You're moving pretty good for a dead man," Skinner said as he 
fell into step beside him.

Mulder pushed through the doors to the ICU.  "I'm only half dead."

He wove past gurneys and nurses to find Scully lying unmoving in a 
hospital bed, tubes protruding from her mouth.  The light and the 
distance rendered her skin almost transparent, and sight of her 
next to the large machines took his breath away.  His steps 
slowed; he bent over double.  

He flexed his fingers, a sense memory of her in his arms the night 
before, and searched himself to find what he had missed:  how 
could she have been this sick, and he hadn't even known?

Skinner came to stand next to him; Mulder couldn't take his eyes 
from Scully.  "What happened to her?" he asked the other man.

"She went into hypovolemic shock," Skinner said.  "She's lost a 
lot of blood."

Blood could be replaced, Mulder thought immediately.  Maybe that 
was the reason for all the tubes.  "Due to what?" he asked 
Skinner.  Skinner said nothing.  Mulder turned to him at last.  
"Due to what?" he practically shouted.
 
"She's dying." 

 Mulder froze, blinked.  It was the first time anyone had ever 
said the words to him.  

Skinner's expression softened, and he tugged Mulder's arm.  "Let's 
go." 

Desolation welling inside him, Mulder shook him off.  "Let go of 
me."

"There's nothing you can do!" Skinner grabbed him fully and Mulder 
struggled, shoving back.  

"Get the hell off me!"

"Don't do this," Skinner barked.  "Don't make me put you under 
arrest!"

Mulder relented, relaxing.  Jail didn't scare him; being locked 
away from Scully did.  Reluctantly he dragged himself towards the 
door under Skinner's watchful gaze.  He kept his own gaze on 
Scully, hoping for some small sign of life from her.  His 
scattered mind raced through the past hours to try to pull out 
their last conversation -- his last words to her, had they been 
enough?  Did she know he would be here?

The words rang back at him all at once.  His stomach dropped like 
a stone and he halted just inches from the ICU doors, his eyes 
squeezed shut.  "See you on 
the other side," he'd said.

See you.

"Keep moving," Skinner said roughly, and shoved him through the 
doors.


In the dark car, Mulder sat in the passenger seat, his wet eyes 
trained out at the passing night scenery.  Skinner drove in 
silence.  

"How did you find out?" Mulder asked the window.

Skinner did not need any clarification.  "I didn't find out," he 
said after a long pause.  "I knew the minute the cops told me it 
was self-inflicted."

Mulder shifted so he could see Skinner's shadowed face.  Skinner 
glanced over to meet his eyes. "I knew you wouldn't do that to 
her."


Scully heard murmuring around her but she couldn't see who was 
talking.  Dimly, she realized her eyes were closed but she wasn't 
sure she had the strength to open them.  She mustered her 
concentrations and was pleased to feel her eyelids flutter.  Light 
assaulted her, and she blinked.  Her mother's face came into view.

"Dana," she breathed.  Warm fingers stroked Scully's cheek.  "Hi.  
How are you feeling?"

"Not much of anything," Scully whispered, although her head felt 
like lead.  She moved it fractionally to look around.  "Hospital?"

"Trinity," her mother answered, still keeping her voice soft. "You 
were brought here after you collapsed at work."

The evidence, Scully remembered, every muscle in her body seizing.  
She struggled to sit up.  "I have to get back..."

"Hush, now."  Her mother gently helped her to lie back down; 
Scully's world spun in dizzy circles.  "You need to stay here for 
a while.  You lost a lot of blood."

Tears pricked Scully's eyes.  "No, you don't understand..."

"I do."  Her mother cupped her cheek.  "I do understand, and I'm 
so sorry I was short with you yesterday.  I didn't know."

"Know?"  Scully saw her mother's was holding back tears as well.

"About Mulder.  Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry."

Scully started to tremble; her chin quivered.  "What about 
Mulder?"  Again, she tried to sit up.  "Is he okay?  What 
happened?"

Her mother blocked her again.  "Dana, Dana, you can't do this.  
You have to lie down."

"What happened to Mulder, Mom?"  Desperation added to her 
weakness.  She grabbed her mother's arms.  "Tell me.  Please."

Her mother's lips thinned as she worked to hold back the emotion.  
Scully's heart monitor beeped overtime, and an alarmed nurse 
appeared in the doorway.  "What's going on here?" she asked.

Mrs. Scully brushed her daughter's hair away from her face.  
"Let's talk about this later, okay?  You need to rest.  Everything 
will be fine."  She pushed Scully back into the pillows, and 
Scully had no strength to resist.  She sank down.  The nurse 
watched them both carefully for a moment and then walked away.

"Mom."  Scully raised her eyes to her mother's.  "Please."

Her mother hesitated, her hands reaching out to stroke Scully's 
hair again.  "He died, sweetheart.  Last night.  I heard about it 
on the news and tried to reach you but you weren't answering your 
phone.  I'm so, so sorry."

Relief washed through Scully's veins like a drug.  The news.  Of 
course.  She searched around until she found her mother's free 
hand and squeezed.  "It's okay, Mom."

Tear-tracks streaked down her mother's pale face, and she sniffed 
to hold back more.  "I'm sorry," she said again.

"No," Scully whispered.  She could lie to the joint panel but not 
to her mother.  "It's okay.  Mulder's all right."

"Oh, Dana..."

"He is."  She patted her mother's hand as her eyes closed.  
"You'll see."

~*~*~*~*~

Mulder left the Hoover building and went immediately back to the 
hospital.  Six hours with no new information left him breathless 
and wobbly. 

So intent he was on his ultimate goal of ICU that he didn't notice 
the people he was brushing past until one gasped his name.  "Fox!"

Mulder stopped and turned and saw Mrs. Scully staring at him with 
a mixture of wonder and horror.  "Hi Mrs. Scully," he said, 
walking over to her.  "How is she doing?"

Mrs. Scully pulled back her arm, nearly recoiling, and she 
searched his face with wide eyes.  "You're alive," she said.  
"Dana was right."

Mulder allowed himself a weak smile.  "She usually is."

"Thank God."  Mrs. Scully seemed to thaw a little, almost 
slumping.  "When I heard the news..."  She shook her head and put 
her hand to her chest.  "Thank God it wasn't true."

"How is Dana doing?" he asked softly, and Mrs. Scully became a bit 
more animated.

"They're going move her out of the ICU.  If she's strong enough, 
Dr. Zuckerman is going to begin treatment this afternoon."

"That's great news."  He glanced down the hall.  "Can I go see 
her?"

"I'm sure she would like that."


Mulder grinned when he saw her.  Machines still flanked her bed, 
but the worst of the tubes had vanished and her eyes were open.  
He waved through the window but Scully did not return his smile.  
Her frown increased the dark circles ringing her eyes.

"Mulder, what are you doing here?" she asked as he entered the 
room.

"I heard that you were being moved out of the ICU, that you were 
feeling better."

"But someone is going to see you here."

He sat down on the edge of her bed and took her hand.  "It's 
okay."  Leaning down, he placed a kiss on her paper-fine cheek.  
"I'm officially among the 
undead."

Worry lines remained etched across her face.  "What happened?"

"I did not come here to talk about that," he told her gently.  He 
rubbed his thumb across the back of her cool hand, but Scully 
would not be soothed.

"Mulder don't try and protect me.  I need to know."

"There's not much to talk about anyway.  I'm going to testify to 
everything I know in front of the FBI assembly -- the conspiracy, 
what I believe is its purpose."

"Did you find out who in the FBI is involved?"

Mulder hesitated a beat.  "No.  But that doesn't matter now."

"Yes, it does."

He smiled at her again.  "Hey, Scully, how 'bout those Yankees, 
huh?"

"Mulder, Skinner has evidence against you.  He knows that you 
killed that man in your apartment."

"Yeah, but Skinner's been withholding it."

She gave him a reproachful look.  "Mulder, Skinner's dirty.  He is 
not your friend.  I'm almost positive he's the man inside on all 
this.  He will use it to ruin you."

"No, not Skinner."  She blinked hard, clearly frustrated, and he 
touched her temple with gentle fingers.  "If I don't testify, they 
will start to bury the truth."

"Well, then you have to lay it on me.  You have to tell them I'm 
the one who killed that man in your apartment."

Her slender shoulder already carried too much; he would not 
compromise her further.  "I can't...I can't do that."

"Yes, you can."  As washed out and fragile as she appeared, the 
usual steely Scully strength carried through in her voice.  She 
squeezed his hand.  "Mulder, if I can save you, let me.  Let me at 
least give some meaning to what's happened to me."

Before he could answer, her mother appeared at the door with a man 
Mulder could only guess was brother Bill.  Mrs. Scully had 
acquired a full shopping bag, and she smiled at him.  "Hi, Fox."

"Hi, Mrs. Scully."

Her eyes slid to where his hand was joined with her daughter's.  
"I hope we're not interrupting."

"No."  He squeezed.  "I was just on my way out."  He pressed a 
good-bye kiss to Scully's fingers and got up from the bed.  On his 
way out, he introduced himself to Bill.  Familiar blue eyes 
assessed him with a cool gaze as they shook hands.

"I know something of what Dana's been through with you," Bill told 
him.  Mulder nodded.  "So let's leave the work away from here, 
okay?  Let her die with dignity."

Speechless, Mulder watched Bill join Scully and their mother 
inside the hospital room.  Scully took Bill's hand and smiled up 
at him, clearly unaware that he had just written her off for good.  
Mulder turned away.

If you love someone, set them free, the teaching went; but Mulder 
didn't understand that kind of love.  Love meant you went down 
fighting, clawing and squawking and hanging on just as tight as 
you could.  Mulder's love made noise.  Drew blood.  Dared anything 
or anyone to get in its path.

Because if you loved someone, you never stopped waiting for a 
miracle.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~


When the Smoker showed up at Trinity hospital, Mulder didn't even 
bat an eyelash in surprise.  He'd been out to destroy them for so 
long that of course he could scent their desperation on the wind.  
Besides -- a corpse, some top-secret surveillance and an FBI 
assembly scheduled to behead Mulder's career -- this was the 
Smoker's kind of party. 

"Please tell me you're here with severe chest pains."

The Smoker answered with a thin smile.  "You should be glad why 
I'm here, to pay you some respect."

Rage flashed though Mulder, hot and quick.  "Go to hell."

"For your cleverness," the other man continued as if he hadn't 
spoken, "for what you've managed to do for Scully."

Mulder eyed him.  "What are you talking about?"

"For breaching the security at the Department of Defense.  Finding 
the cure for her disease."

"What I found was useless."

"On the contrary, it's essential for her survival.  If you like, 
we might step outside so I can explain myself?"  

If this animal gave her that disease, then he could damn well take 
it away, Mulder thought.  It was enough.  He followed the Smoking 
Man outside.

They walked away from the building, toward a small cluster of 
trees, and the Smoker paused to light up.  A stiff breeze blew the 
smoke directly into Mulder's face.  "I'm surprised at you," the 
Smoker said after a puff.  "After all these years, after what 
you've seen, that you would be so easily convinced that none of it 
is true."

Mulder shoved his hands into his coat pockets, turned his face 
away.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

The Smoker glanced at him and smiled that strange smile.  "We can 
play it that way for now, if you like."

"I'm not here to play anything, you sonofabitch," Mulder informed 
him coldly.  "You did this to Scully, and right now I don't even 
care *why* you did it -- I just need to know if it can be undone.  
Anything else you have to say to me is inconsequential."

"Okay."  He took another long drag.  "But ask yourself this, Agent 
Mulder -- why would anyone go through such an elaborate hoax to 
convince you of extraterrestrial life?  You were the original true 
believer."

Mulder shot him a disgusted look.  "You're not going to try to 
tell me that body was real."

"I'm telling you it wasn't for you."

"Who then?"

The Smoker puffed in silence.  "You have the key to Scully's 
illness already in your hands.  The water wasn't in the vial 
because it was special, it was there for protection."  He paused.  
"Of a chip."

"What kind of chip?"

"Check the vial again, Agent Mulder.  You'll find it."  He dropped 
his cigarette to the ground.  "And when you do, we'll talk again."


She dreamed in color these days, vivid stories painted in 
brilliant blues, rolling greens and rich, harvest reds.  Mulder 
popped up often, with his hair askew and his eyes winking brightly 
at her.  Gone were the nights where she had to chase him, panting 
and yelling his name as he rounded a corner and vanished from 
sight.  Now she just had to think of him and he appeared.  They 
talked dream nonsense together, like two friends who had known 
each other always.  He showed her how to fold tiny paper cranes.

Scully rubbed her eyes as she surfaced from sleep into her 
hospital room.  The peaceful dream melted away and the dull, heavy 
drugged feeling returned.  When she moved, her limbs flopped like 
beached fish.  

"How are you doing?" her mother asked.  Bill turned from his post 
by the window.

Scully made an effort to smile at them both.  "I'm hanging in 
there."  Her mother reached for her hand, and Scully gave it 
willingly.  "Thank you for bringing my things."

Scully's Spartan room now contained her glasses, her fuzzy robe, a 
few family 
pictures, and Mulder's giant pickle.

"I was happy to do it."

Bill walked over to the ledge where the pickle sat.  "I'm not sure 
I even want to 
ask about this," he said, rotating the jar with his fingers.  The 
pickle bobbed 
inside.

Scully turned on her side so she could get a better view, smiling 
into her pillow.  "It's a long story."

"You know what this reminds me of?" Bill asked as he studied it.  
"That story Dad used to tell about the pickle in Puerto Rico.  You 
remember that story?"

"I remember."

Bill shook his head and smiled.  "Dad sure could shovel the BS 
when he wanted to, that's for sure."

Just then there was a quick knock at the door and Mulder entered.  
"Hey," he said, only to her.  She smiled back.

"Hey."

"Is it okay if I come in?  There's something I need to talk to you 
about."

Bill opened his mouth to speak, but Scully beat him to it.  "Of 
course it's okay."  She scooted over on the bed to make room for 
Mulder.  "What'sgoing on?"

"Why don't we give you some privacy?" her mother said as she rose 
from her chair.  "Bill can buy me a cup of coffee."

They left and Mulder joined Scully on her bed, taking his place at 
her hip.  He 
smiled at her but it didn't quite reach his eyes.  Worry fluttered 
in her stomach.  
"What is it?" she asked him.  "Did something happen?"

"I found this."  He extracted a small silver vial from the pocket 
of his coat.  For a 
moment, he just stared at it in the palm of his hand.

"Mulder?"

"It's a microchip."

A microchip?  He'd been out of her sight for three hours.  Where 
the hell had he 
turned up a microchip?  "Where did you find it?"

"Inside the Pentagon the other day.  I didn't realize it what it 
was until just a few 
hours ago.  The guys worked it over with their toys, and it 
appears similar to the 
one you removed from your neck last year.  I found it deep inside 
the DOD storage facility."  He paused.  "In a box with your name 
on it."

A chill passed through her like a ghost.  "And you think this 
means what?"

"I don't know what it means.  They had millions of boxes stored 
down there, including one for Kritchgau's son.  He seemed to think 
the contents of the box might be able to cure his son of whatever 
illness he contracted during the Gulf 
War."

Blood rushed to her face, making her face flush and her ears roar.  
"And you think that the chip in this vial might be able to cure 
me."

He met her eyes without hesitating.  "I think it's worth a shot.  
We know you didn't start to get sick until you removed the 
implant; maybe that removal is what triggered your cancer."

Medically, it made no sense.  What Mulder proposed was akin to a 
witch doctor treatment for the twenty-first century:  put this 
under your skin and don't ask too many questions.  But it stood to 
reason that if man had engineered her disease, then man could 
manufacture the cure as well.  She plucked the slim vial from 
Mulder's palm.

"I don't know," she whispered, glancing at him.  

"You believed Kritchgau before," Mulder answered.  "I think you 
should believe him now."

Scully held the vial up for inspection.  One side makes you grow 
taller, she thought, the other side makes you grow smaller.  She 
decided to try to pass through the looking glass.

"I don't trust Kritchgau," she said.  "I never did."

Mulder's face fell.  She reached for his hand, enclosing the vial 
between their palms.

"But I trust you."


CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mulder's back ached from the hard plastic chair, but he couldn't 
summon the energy to move.  When his phone rang, he groped for it 
with one hand.  "One sorry son of a bitch speaking. "

"How's our patient?"  The Smoker's voice slithered over the line.  
Mulder rubbed his tired eyes.  "You did find the chip, didn't you 
Agent Mulder?"

"Yes."

"I can imagine there must have been a question as to its medical 
value."

"There still is." 

Mulder heard the intake of a puff on the other end.  "And so I 
have yet to earn your trust... in spite of my gesture." 

"You could say that, yeah." 

"Well, I have something else to offer you. I've arranged a meeting 
I think you'll 
want to attend, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder sat back.  "You thought wrong.  Until I see some proof that 
Scully's getting better, I don't have anything more to say to 
you."

"I wouldn't be so hasty.  We both know that Agent Scully's well-
being is not the only thing on your wish list."

"And what are you, my fairy god-mother?"

Another pause as the man took a drag.  "Not your mother, no.  I'm 
just one man who is in a position to know some things, Agent 
Mulder, things that I think you might also want to know.  Surely 
you must have given my earlier question some consideration."

"All the consideration it deserves."

The Smoker named an address outside of the city.  "Meet me there 
in two hours.  I promise it will be worth your while.  After that, 
if you still don't wish to speak to me, I'll let the matter drop."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"Two hours, Agent Mulder.  I can't keep her out much longer than 
that."  And the line went dead.


Mulder didn't order anything in the diner because his stomach was 
locked tight as a drum.  Any food would have been summarily tossed 
back up again.  He fidgeted to work off nervous energy and 
wondered for the millionth time in ten 
minutes why he had left the hospital on the Smoking Man's say-so. 

Because he said "her," the little voice in his head reminded.  She 
was going to be here.

A car drove up and the glare of headlights filled the diner.  
Mulder blocked his eyes and squinted at the human shapes inside 
the vehicle, trying to make an identification.   The Smoker killed 
the lights and Mulder saw there was a grown 
woman sitting in the car.

"You know him or something?" a curious waitress asked.

Mulder's heart froze.  "I think that's my sister."


He did his best not to pounce.  She already seemed the frightened 
rabbit, hunched on her stool with her eyes darting around the 
room.  A thousand questions tangled with his tongue.  "You don't 
remember anything about that 
night?" he asked as gently as he could.

"I remember...you."  He smiled, encouraging.  His pulse danced a 
techno beat and made him light-headed.  "I remember 
something...men and...and then nothing."

"I can help you."  He leaned forward.  "You were abducted, 
Samantha.  I can 
help you remember."

She shook her head slowly, as if in pain.  "I don't want to, Fox.  
I don't."

Mulder drew back.  "Then why come here at all?"

Her lower lip quivered; her hands bunched in her lap.  "My father 
told me that he'd found you, you wanted to see me very badly, that 
you'd been looking for me for a long time. Is that true?"

Tears welled in Mulder's eyes.  It was the deepest truth.  He 
nodded at her.

"I'm so sorry, Fox. And I wish that I'd known how to find you."

"Samantha, I want you to listen to me.  What you've been told by 
that man out there might not be true."

"Why do you say that?"  She looked as though he'd wounded her.

"Because he's known where to find me for a very long time."

She shook her head.  "No, I don't believe you.  Why wouldn't he 
tell me?"

"I don't know, but I believe he's kept things from you."  He 
inched forward again, 
trying to block out the man smoking outside in the car.  "I want 
you to come with 
me to see Mom."

Her features twisted.  "Mom's alive?"

"Yes, and I know she'd would very much like to see you."

"I can't."

Pain lanced through Mulder's chest.  "Why not?"

"It's too much. I didn't want to come here at all, Fox. I was 
afraid to see you. I 
have another life now, I have children of my own."

She rose to leave and Mulder couldn't stop himself; he grabbed her 
arm.  "No, please, don't go." 

"I can't stay here right now," she said, sobbing. 

"All right, just tell me how I can find you.  Please." 

She tried to pull free.  "I need some time." 

"Just ... just tell me where to find you."  His fingers bit into 
her arm.

"Please don't, Fox! Let me go. I promise you that I'll think about 
it."

Somehow, he managed to relax his grip and Samantha ran.  The 
doorbell tinkled as she fled outside to the car.  Mulder rose in a 
stupor to watch the Smoker touch her face.  Twenty-three years of 
searching.  It never occurred to him that she might not want to be 
found.

The headlights flared again, blinding him, but this time Mulder 
stood at the window took the pain.  When his vision cleared at 
last, she was gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When the Smoker demanded another meeting, Mulder did not hesitate.  
"What do you want from me?" he asked as they walked along the 
crowded street.

The Smoker looked offended.  "Want from you?"

"You give me these things, the only things I ever wanted, and I 
can't think of any reason for you to do so."

"It's true that no act is completely selfless.  I come not to ask 
but to offer.  To offer the truth you've so desperately sought."

"I know the truth."

"Do you?"

Mulder put his ace on the table.  "I spoke with one of your men."

The Smoker nodded, unsurprised.  "This man you spoke to, Michael 
Kritchgau, he has deceived you with beautiful lies.  He's told you 
that everything you believed about extraterrestrial life is 
untrue.  I'm offering you a chance to know the truth."

"In exchange for what?"

"Quit the FBI.  Come work for me."

Mulder snorted.  "No deal."

"After all I've given you?"

"What, what have you given me?  A claim of a cure for Scully's 
cancer, but is she cured?  You show me my sister and then take her 
right back."

"I intend to keep my promises, but I need something from you."

"You murdered my father!  You killed Scully's sister.  If Scully 
dies, I will kill you.  I don't care whose father you are."

The Smoker flicked his ash into the wind.  "Well, you're certainly 
capable, so I've been told.  I understand you have a hearing 
tomorrow where you'll have to testify 
to those murderous impulses of yours."

"Fuck this," Mulder muttered under his breath.  He started to walk 
away.

"When you reconsider, the offer still stands!"

Mulder halted.  Turned around.  "You say the alien hoax wasn't for 
me," he said, walking back.  "Who was it for?"

"Why, for her of course.  Can't you have guessed that?"

"For who, Scully?  She never saw the body."

"She wasn't supposed to.  She was only to talk to Kritchgau."

"He said you didn't want her to live long enough to examine the 
body, that you timed the hoax with her cancer."

"On the contrary, Agent Mulder, we needed her very much alive.  
How else was she to testify to the illegitimacy of your work?  At 
last Dana Scully was going to do the job for which we first 
positioned her:  shutting down the X-Files permanently.  In fact 
we had to move up the project because her health was failing so 
rapidly."

"You bastard."  Mulder lunged at him, but the Smoker sidestepped 
him.  Mulder stumbled, panting, and caught himself against a tree.

"So you see Kritchgau was in on it all along.  You see he can't be 
trusted."

Mulder turned and glared at him.  "And you can."

"I can make you assurances that he cannot.  That no one can."  
Mulder looked away, but the Smoker continued.  "Your safety.  Your 
sister's."  He paused.  "Agent Scully's.  Think on it for a while, 
and I'm sure you'll see the many benefits of my offer."  He 
crushed out the cigarette with a twist of his heel, blowing one 
last plume of smoke in Mulder's direction.  "I can't wait to 
welcome you to the family."

~*~*~*~*~*~

His apartment was a crime scene, and Bill had Scully's place.  
Mulder drove around in the dark for an hour before pointing his 
car north on 95.  He stopped on her quiet street and cut the 
engine.  The gate squeaked as it always did, and 
he trudged up the stairs, not at all sure what he would say when 
she opened the door.  He rang the bell.

The light came on and he could see her silhouette through the lace 
curtain hanging on the window of the front door.  She paused 
halfway down the hall to wrap her robe about her, and a moment 
later the door opened with a whoosh.  "Oh, my God," Miranda said.

"I'm sorry it's so late."

"Fox.  Jesus."  She held the screen door open with her palm.  
"Come in, come in.  I can't believe it.  I heard on the news..."

He stepped into the narrow hall.  "Rumors of my death have been 
greatly exaggerated."

"I see that."  She scrutinized his face.  "Are you all right?"

He wasn't sure he could even process the question.  "I'm sorry to 
bother you at this hour.  I wasn't sure where else to go."

"It's fine," she said, slipping an arm around him.  He gripped her 
to his side in an iron vise hug.  Gingerly, she hugged him back.  
"It's okay.  Come inside to the living room and I'll make us some 
tea."

Arabella recognized him and wove in between his legs, purring.  
Mulder collapsed into the deep sofa cushions and covered his face 
with his hands.  He remained like that while Miranda went to the 
kitchen to make the tea.  She returned with steaming mugs that 
gave off a faint hint of orange and jasmine.

"Here you are."  The porcelain burned against his palm.  She took 
the other end of the couch and curled her long legs under her.  
"Tell me what happened," she said.

He looked over at her.  "We would need much more than tea for 
that."

"I've got stronger stuff."

He shook his head.  "This is fine."  When he didn't say anything 
further, she tried again.

"How is Scully doing?  I had lunch with her the other day."

"She's in the hospital.  Very sick."  He took a large sip and let 
the hot liquid singe his insides.  "There's not much more anyone 
can do."

She laid a hand on his shoulder.  "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah."  Arabella jumped into his lap and began kneading him with 
tiny kitty feet.  He stroked her silken fur.  On the coffee table 
in front of him lay a half-dozen books on mysticism in Thailand.   
He nodded at them.  "What if it's all a lie?"

Miranda paused in mid-sip.  "If what's a lie?"

"All of it.  Ghouls and goblins.  ESP and Bigfoot tromping around 
in the woods.  Aliens."  He hesitated.  "God."

Miranda blew out a long breath and shifted in her seat.  "I don't 
know.  I mean, who's in a position to say it's a lie?  Who has 
that kind of all-encompassing knowledge?  But even if it were all 
lies, I'm not sure it would change much about the way I live my 
life."  She smiled.  "Might have to get a new job, though.  Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Crisis of faith?"

Arabella extended her neck so he could scratch beneath it.  
"Something like that.  I'm thinking of making some changes."

"Ah."  She nodded.  "Change can be good if it's for the right 
reasons."

Annoyance kindled in him.  "How do you know what my reasons are?"

"I don't.  Why don't you tell me?"

He sighed and dropped his hands away from the cat.  "I could but 
then I'd have 
to kill you."

"That's not funny."

"I know."  He sent her a hard look.  "I'm not laughing."

She studied him from behind her mug.  "I'm sorry you've had such a 
hard time," she said quietly.  "I wish I could do something to 
help."

"Well, you can't."

"I'm beginning to see that."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.  He hadn't come there 
to make her angry.  "I just..." He leaned down and picked up one 
of the books.  Arabella scampered away.  "The stories in this 
book...and this book..."  He tossed them into her lap.  "And this 
one.  All of them.  No hard evidence of anything in any of them, 
and yet we continue to believe.  Why is that?"

Miranda was quiet for a long moment.  "I can only give you my 
perspective.  I don't for a second believe that everything written 
in these texts is the gospel truth, but I do believe they get at a 
real *kind* of truth.  Those things you named, aliens and souls 
and God, I believe they are real.  They are the truth."

"But how do you be sure?"

She bent her head.  "It's like the conversation between the 
evolutionary biologist and the creationist.  The evolutionary 
biologist looks at all the wonders of nature, the marvelous 
intricacies of life, and says, 'I don't see how anyone could look 
at this and not believe in evolution.'  The creationist looks at 
the same magnificent world and says, 'I don't see how anyone could 
look at this and not believe in God.'"  She shrugged.  "We've 
learned so much.  I just think that, looking at all we've learned, 
there has to be so much more out there to know."

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.  "And if you're wrong?  
If we're all victims of our own imagination?"

"I don't think you can ever be a victim of imagination."  She 
paused.  "You're afraid of looking foolish."

"I'm afraid it's been a waste of time.  That the sum purpose of my 
life has been to advance a lie at great personal cost to the 
people around me."

"Like Scully."

"Exactly like Scully."

Miranda picked the books off her lap and stacked them on the floor 
next to her.  The empty mug she set atop them.  "Scully doesn't 
believe in these things, does she?" she asked at last.  "The UFOs 
and mystical encounters, strange little men who steal children in 
the night?"

Mulder rolled his head around to look at her.  "Scully remains 
highly skeptical."

"I gathered.  But she does the work with you anyway.  Why?"

Mulder sat up.  Blinked.  "I don't know."

"I think when you find that answer," Miranda replied.  "Then 
you'll know what you should do."

~*~*~*~*~*~

All eyes rested on Mulder as he prepared to hand them the rope for 
his hanging.  Chief Blevins fixed him with a stern look.  "Agent 
Mulder, Agent Scully lied straight face to this panel about your 
death."

"She lied because I asked her to.  Because I had evidence of a 
conspiracy."

Blevins frowned.  "We've already heard testimony to these 
allegations, Agent Mulder.  Now.  Did you shoot the man found dead 
in your apartment?"

"I will answer, Sir, as soon as--"

Another senior agent stepped in.  "Did you shoot Scoot Ostelhoff?"

"I will answer that question, Sir. I will answer that question 
after I name the man who is responsible for Agent Scully. A man I 
want prosecuted for his crimes!  A man who is sitting in this very 
room!

"Agent Mulder, Chief Blevins asked you a question and you WILL 
answer."

"I can't do that, Sir.  I can't do that because Chief Blevins is 
the man I'm about to name."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~


In the war between elation and exhaustion, fatigue was gaining 
ground.  Scully's lids slipped shut every few seconds, and then 
she would remember and jerk awake again.  Her mother reached out 
and rubbed her back.  "Get some sleep," she whispered.  "I promise 
we'll wake you when he gets here."

"Mmmm...no.  I'm fine."

Her mother gave her an indulgent smile.  "Okay, dear."

Satisfied, Scully closed her eyes again.  She imagined Mulder's 
face when she told him the news only four hours old:  The tumor 
was gone.

She practiced saying it silently, over and over, each time letting 
herself believe a little bit more that it was true.


Her mother touched her again, this time tracing wisps of her hair 
with loving fingers, and Scully swatted the offending hand away.  
"M'fine."

"I see that."

At the deep voice, she forced her eyelids apart.  Mulder's face 
blurred and then came into focus.  She gave him a slow, wide 
smile.  "Hi."

He sat on the bed with her and swiped one last bit of hair away 
from her face.  "Hi.  Your mom said I should wake you.  How are 
you doing?"

Still sleepy, she yawned and curled into his touch.  "I'm good.  
I'm well."

His voice floated over her, soft and tender.  "I'm glad."

"No, I'm really well."  She looked right at him.  His hand stilled 
in her hair.  Reaching for it, she brought it down and kissed his 
knuckles.  "I'm better, Mulder.  The tumor is gone.  There is no 
trace of the cancer in my bloodstream."

She felt the tension in his arm.  His mouth fell open but no sound 
came out.  Giddy, she rolled around still clutching his hand.  
"It's true!"

"Scully, that's wonderful.  My God."  He leaned down and crushed 
her in an awkward hug.  She wrapped all four limbs around him, and 
he laughed into her neck, his voice muffled.  She squeezed him 
tighter to transfer her delight.  He stroked her side through her 
thin gown, rocking her gently on the bed.  "Scully."

The one word vibrated through her, and tears clouded her eyes.  
Sniffling, she burrowed even closer to him, running her hands over 
his shoulders and through his fine hair.  "I love you," she 
whispered, her other, not-so-secret joy.

He nipped her neck.  "Back at you."  He pulled back a bit and 
rested on his elbows, looking down at her.  She smiled her best 
crinkly smile and played with his tie.

"And the hearing?" she asked, sobering just a bit.

He traced the shell of her ear with an idle finger.  "It's over.  
Blevins is the mole."

"You're kidding me."

"I wish I was.  He saved the Bureau the embarrassment of a trial, 
though -- committed suicide this afternoon."

She shook her head.  "Mulder, what about you?"

"No charges.  With Blevins's guilt on record, Ostelhoff's death 
classifies as self-defense."

She relaxed again.  "So we're home free."

"We sure are."  He kissed her nose and then, more lingeringly, her 
mouth.  She sighed and positioned him a bit better as a blanket.  
He laid his head on her chest and she trailed her fingers over his 
scalp.  He felt more worn-out than she did.

"So what made it go away?" he asked, his breath tickling her skin.

She continued her massage.  "No one knows.  Dr. Zuckerman actually 
used the word miracle."

He turned his head so he could look her in the eyes.  "What do you 
think did it?"

She considered.  "Faith."

"In God?"

"In God, in justice."  She touched his cheek.  "In you."

He ducked his head and nuzzled her collarbone.  "Don't forget 
yourself."

"Yes, me too."  She hugged him again and he relaxed into her with 
a sigh.  For long moments they lay together in silence, breathing 
in sync. 

"Of course," he said without moving, "I think we both know the 
real culprit."

"We do?"

"Uh-huh."  He raised his head and she followed his gaze to the 
ledge across the 
room.  From its jar by the window, the giant pickle looked back at 
them.

"Mulder, you're nuts."

"Hey, it's your story."


EPILOGUE

"You made it!"  Miranda walked across the noisy lecture hall and 
welcomed Mulder in the room.

He grinned.  "I wouldn't miss this for the world.  The new 
recruits look like a good bunch."

She made a crazy face.  "Class size almost doubled this year, can 
you believe it?"  Tugging his sleeve, she teased, "It's not too 
late to sign up to lecture you know. You were a big hit last 
year."

"Nah."  He tugged on his tie.  "I don't think I can bring the same 
kind of enthusiasm to the subject these days.  Besides, today's 
subject isn't my area of expertise."

"Come sit with me down front," she said.  "I saved you the best 
seat."

Mulder sat in the fold-up chair and rested his arm on the battered 
desk.  Shifting to get comfortable, he prepared to enjoy the hour.  
The clock slipped past three, and the class quieted as Scully 
approached the lectern.  Mulder's heart danced with a mix of pride 
and mischief.  He'd double-dog dared her to do this, and from the 
tiny frown on her face he knew he would pay for it later.

"Good afternoon," she said.  "My name is Dana Scully and I'm a 
forensic pathologist with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Her voice echoed strong and clear, and her deep purple suit clung 
to every re-emerging curve.  If he hadn't known better, Mulder 
never would have guessed she'd been sick.  A smile playing across 
his features, he sat back to listen.  Scully clicked on the slide 
projector.

"I'm here today to talk to you about unexplained medical 
phenomena..."


The End

Special disclaimer:  some dialogue in the later chapters was 
lifted directly from the episodes Gesthemane, Redux and Redux II.  
No infringement is intended.