From: Dawn Date: Wed, 07 Apr 1999 18:05:32 -0500 Subject: NEW: Countdown (1/16) TITLE: Countdown AUTHOR: Dawn E-MAIL: sunrise@avenew.com ARCHIVE: MTA, Xemplary, Gossamer - others are fine, just let me know SPOILER WARNING: Various through season 6 RATING: PG-13 CLASSIFICATION: X, A KEYWORDS: MulderTorture, Mulder/Scully UST, M/S/Sk friendship SUMMARY: When an unknown assailant injects Mulder with a deadly toxin, he has 72 hours to find a cure. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and the gang do not belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions. AUHTOR'S NOTES: Thanks to everyone who was kind enough to send feedback after my first post. You showed me that the water was safe enough to take another swim. Major thanks to my beta readers Laurie and Donna. You dotted all my i's, inspired me, and kept me on track. Who could ask for more? Countdown (1/16) By Dawn Hegal Place - Apt. 42 Alexandria VA 12:03 a. m. Scully closed the laptop and sighed, removing her glasses to massage the bridge of her nose. Finished. It had taken five hours, a pizza, four cans of soda, and a bag of chips, but the backlog of paperwork that had been cluttering the X-Files office was completed. Now Skinner could stop riding them every moment they weren't in the field on a case. She slipped the stack of files into her briefcase and rose, stretching her arms above her head and groaning a little in satisfaction when her spine cracked. She and Mulder had been seated on his couch, hunched over the files for what seemed an eternity, and her muscles were protesting. Speaking of which- Scully scanned the apartment for her missing partner. He'd gotten up when she'd closed the last file, carried the pizza box and empty soda cans into the kitchen, and promptly disappeared. "Mulder?" she called. "I'm heading out now." He emerged from his newly reclaimed bedroom a moment later clad in sweats and running shoes, laces untied and straggling. "Hang on a minute, I'll walk you down," he offered, propping his left foot on the coffee table so that he could tie his shoe. Scully suppressed a grin. Mulder was the epitome of a bachelor, from the pile of dishes that seemed to perpetually reside in his sink to the dirty clothes that presumably hit the floor wherever he shed them. She watched with amusement as the right shoe received the same treatment. Amazing there weren't tread marks on that table. Her partner looked up in time to catch her ghost of a smile. "What?" he said defensively. "Nothing. You're going running now? Isn't it time for bed?" It must have been fatigue - she knew the moment the words passed her lips that she'd left herself wide open. Might as well paint a target on her chest for this one. Predictably, Mulder leered. "Oooo, Scully. Is that an offer?" Scully arched an eyebrow, determined to regain the edge. "Mulder, when I make the offer, you won't have to ask," she replied in a sultry tone. His expression was priceless. Mulder was the perfect example of the old saying "he can dish it out but he can't take it." Give him the smallest opening for innuendo and he was right there, but turn it back in his direction and he was quickly rendered speechless. Now was no exception. "Uh-you ready to go?" he asked, turning to scoop up his keys and flick off the lamp. Scully hid her smirk while she shrugged on her coat, figuring he'd suffered enough. "Ready," was all she said. Mulder had scooped up her briefcase before she could stop him and was out the door. Though she could easily have handled both laptop and briefcase, Scully stifled her feminist side and let it go. For Mulder, such gestures were not chauvinism, but an outgrowth of good manners that she could only assume were instilled by his mother. Trying to buck the conditioning was just a waste of time. She followed him into the elevator, discreetly watching him as they descended to the main floor. Things had been rough lately -- who was she kidding, things were always rough for them -- and she'd seen the weariness on her own face when she looked in the mirror. Mulder, though she had to admit he filled out a pair of sweats quite nicely, also showed the strain. His eyes were shadowed, and while he leaned against the wall in what appeared to be a relaxed posture, she knew him well enough to see the underlying tension in the set of his shoulders and the tapping of his foot. The doors slid open, and soon they were both standing beside her car in the chill night air. Scully unlocked the door and put first her laptop and then the briefcase onto the empty passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. There was a slight pause as Mulder leaned in the open door, and she regretted the current of tension that still hummed between them -- tension that had run high during the ordeal with Cassandra Spender, fueled by their polar opinions of Diana Fowley. The chasm that had opened between them had begun to close, and their time spent together tonight had gone a long way toward continuing the process. Still, the occasional awkward moment crept up. "Be careful going home," Mulder said, his hazel eyes looking almost black in the dim lighting. Warmed by his concern, Scully favored him with a smile. "I will. And don't you run too long. You look tired, Mulder, get a decent night's sleep for once." "Yes, Mom," he said, rolling his eyes, but she knew deep down inside he was pleased. One thing she'd learned about Mulder early on: he might moan and groan if she fussed over him, but inside he secretly ate it up. Scully suspected he'd received little enough of that kind of attention while growing up. He shut the car door and stepped back, arms folded across his chest, to watch as she pulled away from the curb and drove down the deserted street. As Scully looked up to catch his reflection in the rear-view mirror, a sudden chill ran down her spine and her arms broke out in gooseflesh. She brought the car to a stop and spun around to gaze over her shoulder, but he had already turned and begun jogging in the opposite direction. Someone's just walked over my grave, her mother would say. Scully hesitated a moment longer before gripping the steering wheel once more and resuming the drive toward home. The icy sensation faded, and she tried to chuckle at her foolishness. "Mulder, you're starting to rub off on me," she said aloud, her voice sounding strained in the silence. "This can't be good." *Something is wrong.* The little voice in her head was faint but insistent. "I need some sleep, that's what's wrong," she muttered. And when the little voice refused to be stilled, she turned on the radio and blotted it out. Continued in part 2 Countdown (2/16) By Dawn Alexandria 12:53 a.m. Mulder turned toward home feeling tired but content. The evening was crisp and clear, a full moon providing plenty of illumination for those areas lacking sufficient streetlights as well as a peaceful atmosphere for his thoughts. Thoughts that mainly consisted of Scully. The name conjured up a clear picture of his auburn-haired, diminutive partner, blue eyes snapping angrily when he did something that pissed her off, or shining with warmth when he somehow managed to exceed her expectations. There was no middle ground for them. Their partnership either burned like the brightest star or froze like the arctic wasteland. Lately, things had been decidedly frigid. The power he and Scully had to bring out the very best or the very worst in each other never ceased to amaze Mulder. These past few months had certainly been the latter. Scully's failure to support him before the OPR committee had cut him far more deeply than she would ever know; a betrayal of all they'd endured during the incidents in Dallas and the Antarctic. He'd literally gone to the ends of the Earth for her, yet she refused to even meet him halfway in that room full of self-important bureaucrats. The memory still stung. And he had to admit he'd allowed the hurt and anger to fester, hiding the bitterness below the surface until it welled up in his own form of betrayal -- his refusal to acknowledge the validity of Scully's suspicions about Diana. Now you know what you did to me, Scully, he'd wanted to say. How does it feel? Recalling her face shamed him even now. He should have realized that his petty attempt to hurt Scully back would only backfire. The coolness that had hovered between them turned downright frigid, resulting in too many snappish retorts and sarcastic remarks. Somehow, they'd begun to rebuild what had broken between them. Mulder wasn't sure he remembered who had been first to hold out the olive branch, and he really didn't care. It was enough that affection once again replaced irritation, and forbearance substituted for impatience. Tonight had been like old times; the easy banter mixed with business that made working with Scully not just rewarding, but fun. He felt a calmness of spirit that had been missing, and embraced it gratefully. His thoughts thus occupied, he quickly completed the six-mile loop he normally ran, and before he realized it he was in front of his apartment building. He took a moment to catch his breath, hands on his knees, breath escaping from his lips in small puffs of vapor, before straightening up to climb the stairs. He'd just grasped the handle of the door when a faint scuffling sound alerted him that he was not alone. Mulder turned quickly, right hand reaching for a gun that wasn't there. Two large shapes loomed up from behind him, faces hidden behind ski masks. Trouble. It was all he had time to think before a sharp pain tore through his head and the world exploded in a blinding white light, then enveloped him in blackness. Mulder awoke to the rough, pebbled texture of concrete beneath his cheek. He was freezing. It felt as if the cold penetrated every bone in his body. With a little effort he was able to pry his eyelids open to take in his surroundings. It was with more than a little surprise that he realized he was lying in front of his apartment building, not five feet from the front door. His head felt as if someone had tried to bisect it into two parts, and there was a warm stickiness on his cheek. But worse than the physical pain was the blank hole in his short term memory. He had absolutely no idea how he'd gotten here. Steeling himself against the pain he knew would follow, Mulder pushed with hands attached to rubber arms, easing his body into a sitting position. As expected, the pounding in his head escalated, and the world tilted crazily, as if he'd just played the child's game of spinning in a circle until too dizzy to stand. His stomach tried to climb out of his mouth, but contented itself with merely ejecting the pizza and sodas he'd consumed for dinner. When he was able to stop retching, Mulder closed his eyes against the dizziness and crawled to the door, using the handle to haul him upright. This time, with sheer determination, he was able to fend off the nausea as he leaned weakly against the cool glass. His thought processes felt as if someone had given his brain a good stir, but one concept swam into focus. Scully. Got to call Scully. Mulder had no idea how much time passed as he made his way back up to his apartment. It felt like years. The dizziness was so severe, he simply resorted to closing his eyes and feeling his way along the wall once he reached his floor. He had a moment of panic when, after making it so far, he seemed incapable of manipulating his key into the lock. The key finally slid home, and he practically sobbed with relief as he stumbled inside. His cell phone lay on his desk beside the computer, and he sank into the desk chair even as he punched in number one. The phone rang four times, causing his heart to stutter, before he heard a click followed by her voice, heavy with sleep. "'Lo?" His own lips and tongue felt thick and uncooperative. "Scully," he slurred, the sound of his own voice reverberating in his head until the pounding threatened to rob him of all thought. "Mulder?" She was instantly alert, her voice sharp with alarm. If he hadn't been hurting so much, Mulder might have found it amusing that she could undergo such a rapid transformation. He tried to continue speaking, but it was becoming harder and not easier. "Scully. Need help." "Mulder, where are you? Are you at home?" Brisk, cool-headed Scully taking over, any anxiety relegated to the back of her mind. It comforted him immensely and he nodded, stupidly forgetting that she couldn't see him. Nodding was a bad idea. Black spots danced across his vision and a buzzing sound filled his ears. All he could do was echo her words, and add one of his own. "Home. Hurry." He dropped the phone onto the desk and cradled his head on his folded arms, struggling to remain conscious. He didn't need to hear her reply. It was Scully. She'd come. Continued in part 3 Countdown (3/16) by Dawn Emergency Room George Washington Medical Center 3:49 a.m. Scully paused outside curtain area two for a moment, just watching him. Mulder's eyes were closed, but his face was far from peaceful. She knew him well enough to recognize the pain lines around his eyes and mouth, and his skin looked unnaturally pale and chalky under the unforgiving fluorescent lights. He now sported a white bandage just below his hairline on the right side of his head. A grade three concussion, the doctor said. The CT scan looked good, but he'd likely be irritable and dizzy for awhile yet. Could have been worse, though. Much worse. Scully shivered, shutting her eyes as a vivid image of how she'd found him flashed through her mind. She'd reached his apartment in record time after throwing on the first items of clothing she could grab (which explained the one blue sock and one black sock) and driving like Al Unser. His door hung ajar, the sight causing chills of fear to scamper up and down her spine. Mulder was the most paranoid person she knew -- well, other than the Gunmen, but they existed in a class by themselves. He would never leave the door open unless... Refusing to allow her imagination to replace reason, she'd pushed through, eyes scanning the living room. His desk chair was overturned, but everything else looked pretty much as it had when she'd left. But no Mulder. A small sound led her to the bathroom where she found him crumpled on the tile with his head pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet, in which he'd very obviously been sick. Shivering, only semi-coherent, and bleeding from a nasty gash on his forehead, he looked horrible. Still, at that moment one thought eclipsed all others: *He's alive!* And on the heels of that: *I can deal with the rest.* The sheer, giddy sense of relief was overwhelming. "See anything you like?" Mulder's voice, raspy and weak, wrenched Scully from her reverie with the force of a blow and her eyes snapped open. She blushed, feeling guilty but unsure why. Mulder's eyes, she noticed now, were at half-mast but still attempting a leer. Despite her mild embarrassment at being caught studying him, her heart warmed at the return of the real Mulder. He must be doing better. "How do you feel?" she asked, walking over to the bed. Her physician's eyes assessed his condition while waiting for a reply. His right pupil was still dilated, but he focused on her easily and appeared lucid. The nausea, too, had passed -- he hadn't vomited again since his apartment. "My head hurts like hell, I still have a black hole in my memory, and this hospital gown is too damn short," he groused, sticking his lower lip out in the legendary Mulder pout. "When can I get out of here?" Scully's brow furrowed with impatience. "Mulder, were you listening to Dr. Wagner? You have a grade three concussion and we have no way of knowing how long you were out! He thinks you should be admitted for observation." "Wagner is over-reacting." "I happen to agree with him." Dangerous tone, but then he liked living dangerously. "Then *you're* over-reacting. Scully, I'm fine. My CT scan was normal, I'm no longer disoriented, and my stomach has stopped trying to leave my body via my mouth. I want to go home." Scully took a deep breath and began counting to ten. She only made it to four. "Mulder, a clean CT scan does not guarantee that there isn't a problem! You have certainly had enough concussions to know that. You need to be monitored, awakened every couple of hours..." "Sculleee..." She hated the power he held over her with that coaxing, little boy voice, but resistance was futile. He'd wormed his way into her heart long ago, and she'd come to accept it the way she accepted that the sun would rise each morning. And there was more. Scully strongly suspected that Mulder's emotionally-distant parents had indulged him very rarely, if ever, once Samantha disappeared. Though plenty of times she wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into him, she also found herself exercising tolerance whenever possible. What was it her mother used to say? *You've got to pick your battles, Dana.* This wasn't one of them. "Then you spend the night on my couch," she said, her blue eyes narrowing in warning when he broke into a smile. "And you will put up with me waking you every two hours, checking your pupil response, and making sure you're coherent without so much as one whine or complaint. I mean it, Mulder." Mulder returned her glare with one of wide-eyed innocence. "Whine? Moi?" Scully snorted and rolled her eyes. "Mulder, your infamous ability for getting yourself injured is only exceeded by your propensity for moaning, groaning, and making a general nuisance of yourself once you start to feel better. Around this hospital, Mulder, you are a legend in your own time." Her partner feigned a hurt expression, hands clutching his heart. "Scully, you wound me." Before she could reply, he threw off the sheet and sat up, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. Scully watched him wince, eyes squinted against the pain, as he paused to regain his equilibrium and wait for the pounding in his head to ease. When he finally slipped off the edge, he swayed slightly and she reached out to grasp his elbow to steady him. After a moment he nodded to indicate she could let go, and walked slowly over to the chair that held the sweats he'd been wearing. He hadn't travelled more than four steps, feeling a bit like an old man, when he heard the soft chuffing sound of Scully trying to suppress laughter. He turned slowly back to face her, careful to avoid any sudden movements. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement, and her hand was pressed to her lips -- both to hold in the snickering and cover the smirk, he assumed. She was currently doing a pretty poor job hiding either one. "What?" he demanded defensively. "You forgot to mention one thing about that gown, Mulder. Not only is it too short, it flaps in the back." At this she gave up all pretense of disguising her mirth and openly waggled her eyebrows at him. Which was totally unfair -- that was his territory. Cursing under his breath he reached behind him to gather the gown together and proceeded to retrieve his clothing. Scully watched as he gathered up sweats, socks, boxers, and shoes, composing herself so that she could offer him an eloquent, if insincere, apology. Then something on the back of his left leg, just behind his knee, caught her eye, and all thoughts of the free show he'd just given her flew from her head. "Mulder, what's that behind your knee?" she asked, tone more sharp than she'd intended. "Huh?" Mulder turned, contorting his body into positions that would have been funny if not for the fact that an icy cold fist suddenly clutched her heart. "Stand still, let me look," Scully said, the authority in her voice leaving no room for refusal. She approached him slowly, almost apprehensively, and crouched down. Silent, she studied the spot for what seemed hours to Mulder, but in reality was only a minute, touching the skin with gentle fingers that caused him to shiver in spite of their warmth. Finally she rose silently to her feet, face troubled. "Scully?" Hearing the uncertainty in Mulder's voice, she clamped down on the maelstrom of emotions that in the blink of an eye left her gut churning. Now was no time to panic, even though the inexplicable nature of the attack against Mulder abruptly began to make a horrible kind of sense. "It's a bruise, Mulder," she said quietly, forcing her eyes to meet his. "From an injection site." Mulder stared at her open mouthed, and she saw comprehension slowly seep into his gaze. "Are you sure? Maybe..." "I'm sure." The silence that crashed down around them at her words existed on a surface level only. Beneath it a thousand voices all clamored to be heard: some shrieking in terror, some ranting in anger, some whimpering in despair. Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed with an audible click, fists clenching tightly before opening to hang limply at his sides. He opened his mouth as if to speak only to shut it a moment later. Scully longed to touch him; to lace her fingers with his, run her hand over his stubbled cheek, even envelope him in her arms. But what she did was to square her shoulders and wrap her doctor persona tightly about her like a warm blanket on a cold night. One touch and she might fragment into countless pieces. Mulder needed her whole. "We have to run some bloodwork, Mulder," she said, pouring the comfort of that unrealized touch into her voice instead. "You'd better sit down. I'll go and get a nurse." "Scully, wait!" His words stopped her cold; stopped her before she could leave to search for a nurse, stopped her before she could flee. Yet when she turned back, Scully saw that he was rendered speechless once again. His eyes, though -- those uniquely expressive hazel orbs that showed more by subtle changes in shade and intensity than any words could articulate - told her everything she needed to know. *I'm scared, Scully. I don't understand what's happening to me, and I'm not sure I want to find out. I need you with me. Stay.* And his unspoken need entwined with her love for him, quenching the desire to distance herself as rapidly as it had sprung to life. And though she never spoke a word, Mulder obtained what he needed from her face. A look of peace stole over his features and he relaxed back onto the mattress. Continued in part 4 Countdown (4/16) By Dawn George Washington Medical Center Room 457 6:42 a.m. Mulder drifted in the blurry, soft-focus place he thought of as "in between." Not asleep -- he could hear the quiet whisper of the nurses' crepe-soled shoes when they passed his door, the murmur of voices close enough to be audible but too far to be understood, the rattle of a piece of equipment wheeled down the hall. Not awake -- for though he could hear all these things they held no significance other than to provide a background drone of white noise to soothe him, a surrogate for the room's broken television. The in-between place contained no sharp edges or bright colors; a muted, Monet state of being where one sensation ran into the next and lost all clarity or distinction. Thanks to some extra-strength Tylenol and a respite from being poked and prodded, the headache had receded from blinding to merely annoying, though the muscles in the leg bearing the injection site had begun to ache. Scully was off-being Scully. Probably breathing down the technicians' necks to be sure his lab tests were handled to her satisfaction. Glad that for the moment he wasn't the one on the receiving end of her temper, he'd taken her threats seriously and stayed in bed like a good boy. Though he'd felt certain the apprehension over what had been done to him would nullify any fatigue he might feel, the muted lights, quiet atmosphere, and sleepless night combined to pull him into a deep sleep for a time. Now, unable or perhaps just unwilling to surface completely, he drifted. An additional presence in the room brought him the rest of the way back, sharpening his senses enough to detect another's soft breathing and a shuffling of feet. Not Scully -- his radar could detect his partner on a level far deeper than simple sight, sound, or smell. A calmness of spirit would descend over him in her presence, a sense of completeness. Wholeness. This presence emitted a business-like aura, deliberate and purposeful. Probably another nurse for another test. "Okay, which of my body parts would you like now?" he asked, his eyes still reluctant to open. "Frankly, Agent Mulder, I can't say I'm interested in any of them." Mulder's eyes snapped open and he automatically bolted to attention, desperately ignoring the spike of pain the movement provoked. "Sir! I thought you were one of the nurses." Realizing that sounded bad on any one of several levels, he stammered quickly, "I mean, not that you look like the nurses, they're actually all quite attractive-. Uh, that's not what I meant either, I-" "Mulder stop babbling." "Yes, sir." He allowed himself to slump back into the pillows while eyeing Skinner cautiously. The man was in full AD mode despite the hour; he was obviously either on his way to work, or more likely had come to the hospital from the Hoover building. "Sir? What are you doing here?" Mulder asked, puzzled. "I'm here investigating the attack of a federal agent, Mulder. Scully called to let me know why you two wouldn't be in today and to fill me in on the basics. I stopped by to see how you were doing and to hear your version of events." Mulder snorted, shifting his leg in an attempt to relieve a painful muscle cramp. "What version? I can't even remember anything after Scully and I left my apartment. There's nothing but a big void until I woke up on the front step of my building and tried to puke my guts up. 'Fraid you made a wasted trip." Skinner ignored the insolence in Mulder's tone, studying him until he could see through the attitude to the complex emotions hidden underneath. Anger. Frustration. Fear. His voice when he replied was mild, though spoken in the typical Skinner tight-jawed style. "What do the doctors say? Do they think it will come back to you?" "They did when they believed it was a side effect of the head injury. Now..." Mulder clamped down on the flood of dangerous feelings that wanted to break free. This was not only his boss, but also a man he respected and admired. There had been very few people in his life about which he could say the same. Too few. And his own father wasn't one of them. Skinner must have sensed that his psyche was a little raw. He looked away, the slight twitch of facial muscles signaling his frustration. "Mulder, we *will* find out who is behind this and why. I've already sent a couple agents to your apartment to check the scene, and..." If Skinner said anything else Mulder didn't hear it. His eyes were riveted on Scully, who had appeared in the doorway. She didn't have to say a word, her face told him everything he needed to know. Scully's expression as her eyes locked onto his was...shattered. Skinner followed Mulder's gaze to Scully, stepping back so that she could approach the bed. He watched silently as she slipped her tiny hand into Mulder's large one, never breaking eye contact. He'd seen this woman in just about every situation imaginable -- eyes sparking with fury as she pointed a gun at him, full of compassion when he'd nearly died from a gunshot wound, shadowed with weariness and pain when cancer had nearly stolen her life. But he'd never seen this, and viewing it now caused the muscles in his chest to constrict until he could hardly draw a normal breath. *My God. She's barely holding it together right now.* "Scully." It was a single word, just a name spoken, but rich with layer upon layer of meaning. Scully's hand tightened around Mulder's, but though her eyes glistened with tears not a single drop spilled down her cheek. Mulder's face was momentarily unguarded, naked in its fear and vulnerability, transparent with complete and undiminished trust. The intimacy shared in that moment was stronger than if they'd been kissing, and Skinner averted his gaze, feeling oddly voyeuristic. "It's all right. You can tell me." Mulder's voice was steady, calm. He'd brought the walls back up just a bit, more to ease Scully's distress than his own. "Dr. Wagner is coming as soon as he finishes his rounds..." "Scully." Gently, just a name, but it stopped the flood of words as abruptly as if he'd screamed it. When he saw her grasp for her composure, and succeed, Mulder continued. "I already know it's bad news. You're my doctor, Scully. The only one I want. The only one I trust. Please. I need to hear this from you." Again the connection opened between them, and after a brief hesitation, Scully nodded. Mulder could see her square her shoulders, trying to find some of the clinical detachment she'd learned in med school and perfected during the last six years on the X-Files. He'd almost forgotten about Skinner until their boss cleared his throat, looking just a bit discomfited. "I'll be outside," he said gruffly, but Mulder stopped him before he could turn to leave. "Sir, please stay. I think you'll need to hear this too." Scully took a deep breath and blew it out, pursing her lips. "I'm not sure how to say all this," she admitted, brow knotted in irritation at her own lack of eloquence. "Honestly. Don't hold back, Scully. I want it straight, no pulling punches." Mulder kept his tone flat -- he'd developed a little detachment of his own the past six years. The past twenty-six years. "The preliminary analysis of your bloodwork shows a toxin, Mulder. A neurotoxin." "A poison?" Scully nodded sharply, eyes narrowed. "But unlike any we've ever seen. The closest comparison I could make would be the venom of a black widow spider. Do you know anything about them?" "Just that they can be fatal," Mulder replied, face pale and incredibly still. "Okay, in a nutshell -- everyone has substances in the brain known as neurotransmitters whose job is to carry chemical messages from one nerve to another. One of the four main groups of neurotransmitters is acetylcholine. To put it simply, a signal travels the length of a nerve until it reaches the end, where it must make the jump to the next nerve or muscle cell. Transmitters like acetylcholine act like a bridge for the signal. The black widow spider toxin targets the junction between nerve and muscle cells where the nerves control muscle contraction. It causes a massive release of acetylcholine to the nerve terminals whether or not the brain has told them to fire. Since there's only a finite amount of acetylcholine, the supply is eventually used up." Mulder licked dry lips. "And?" "And the muscles can no longer contract." Scully's doctor faade flickered, and she bit savagely at her lip. "Ultimately - respiratory paralysis, then death." Mulder seemed to be struggling to digest this, so Skinner spoke the question foremost on his mind. "You said that this toxin is 'like' black widow venom. Can't you use the same antidote?" That broke Mulder from his private musings and he looked at Scully hopefully, only to withdraw again when she shook her head. "'Like' is the operative word. The method of action is similar, but this toxin was designed in a lab, not by Mother Nature. A spider bite generally begins to intensify after about three hours, and if there are no complications can run its course in about two days. This stuff seems to exert itself exponentially. Its initial symptoms begin more slowly but will build rapidly, like a ball rolling downhill. Producing an antidote first requires that we know exactly what's in this stuff, and in what proportions. We need a pure sample of the toxin, and we can't get that second hand from Mulder's blood." "You said ultimately paralysis," Mulder said quietly. "What comes first? Straight, Scully." Scully studied the floor tiles for a moment, the backs of two fingers pressed to her lips. It didn't work. Mulder could still see them quivering. A deep breath again, and only a slight tremor marred her smooth alto. "Pain progressing from the injection site (Mulder's visible flinch was perceived by both Skinner and his partner), severe abdominal cramps, nausea, tremors, labored breathing and speech, convulsions..." Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. "God." "I've sent a blood sample to the bureau lab. They're in way over their heads here," Scully continued, slipping her hand into his once more. "With any luck they'll be able to come up with something more concrete." Mulder shook his head. "Luck, Scully? When has that ever been a commodity we could count on?" His sardonic smile faded. "How long?" Scully blinked slowly, sighed. "My best guess would be 72 hours from the time of exposure. Maximum." Mulder nodded, his focus turning inward. "That leaves us roughly 66 hours for us to find whoever injected me and locate a sample of the toxin," he said, more to himself than Scully or Skinner. Scully began to sputter. "*US?* Are you out of your mind? *You're* not going anywhere! The best thing you can do to fight this is rest and let them try some of the conventional treatments -- calcium gluconate or the black widow antiserum. Skinner and I..." "No!" In a heartbeat fury replaced detachment. Mulder sat up rigidly, ignoring the shooting pains in his leg in favor of the all-consuming indignation that washed over him. "This is *my* life, Scully, and I'll be damned if I'm going to spend what little time I may have left rotting in this hospital room! I am sick to death of being manipulated by forces beyond my control, of them messing with my body and messing with my head! If you want me to fight this, don't expect me to do it lying on my back. I will *not* be powerless anymore, Scully. I will *not* be a victim." Mulder sank back, panting a little from the exertion of his speech and the discomfort in his leg. Scully looked helplessly at Skinner. "You've been awfully quiet, sir," she said acidly, lips thin and pressed tightly together. That slight facial twitch again, and Skinner met her glare calmly. "I was just trying to picture you in Mulder's place, Scully," he said evenly. "I have yet to conjure up an image of you laying in that bed while Mulder and I looked for a cure." Mulder snorted, his face lighting up briefly in delight. Irritation warred with amusement for control of Scully's face before she finally allowed her mouth to curve just a little in a rueful smile. "I never thought I'd see the day, Mulder. The tables have turned. Now the AD is defending *you* to *me.*" Mulder's answering grin was bittersweet. "Must be an X-File." Skinner rolled his eyes at that, turning toward the door. "I'm going to check in with the agents at your place, Mulder. I'll see you both at the bureau once you are released. I'd say we need to concentrate on developing a pool of suspects." Mulder looked both grateful and tentative. "We, sir?" "I told you already, Mulder. This was an attack on a federal agent. You'll have the bureau's full resources at your disposal." Mulder nodded, unspoken message received. *Even the assistant director.* "Thank you, sir." "I'll walk you out, sir," Scully said, giving Mulder's hand a squeeze before releasing it. "I guess I'd better hunt down Wagner for that release paperwork. He's not going to like it." "Just shoot him," Mulder said with a hint of humor. "Worked on me." She shot him "The Look," an eyebrow crawling up her forehead, before following their boss out the door. Mulder's slight chuckle in response warmed her only momentarily before the harsh reality of his situation crashed into her like a fist to the gut. Skinner saw her begin to crumple, and grasped her shoulders, turning her to face him. His grip was warm, firm, and somehow comforting, something to anchor her in the surrounding turbulence. "You going to be all right? He needs you at his back now, Scully. More than ever before." She nodded, but her expression betrayed her doubts. "Are we doing the right thing, sir? In the end, this could give him less time." Skinner's voice was steel, but his eyes were kind. "It's not just the right decision, it's the only one," he said. "Strip him of the chance to determine his own fate, and you strip him of who he is. We have to give him the power back, Scully. In the end, it could be all he has left." Continued in part 5 Countdown (5/16) By Dawn Hoover Building X-Files Office 9:02 a.m. 64 hours remaining "Mulder, it just doesn't make sense. Why now? We just got the X-Files back, and we haven't even had time to ruffle anyone's feathers. God knows Spender and Diana certainly didn't! What would make the Consortium suddenly decide to get rid of you now?" Scully perched on the edge of Mulder's desk, arms crossed and a frown creasing her forehead. Her partner reclined in the rickety desk chair at a seemingly impossible angle, one leg propped up on the desktop. The left leg, she realized. He had yet to complain about anything other than a lingering headache from the concussion, but every so often she'd catch him massaging the thigh muscles of his left leg and grimacing slightly. The sight made her heart stutter with fear. For Mulder's sake, she pretended not to notice. "Maybe it's because we got the files back. You know Smokey did what he could to prevent that, first by torching this office and then by arranging for his son to take over our work," Mulder argued, eyes narrowed and lip thrust out in that stubborn pout of his. It was an expression that normally set Scully's teeth on edge. Right now, though, she found it impossible to feel anger toward him. A clock had taken up residence in her brain -- one that ran backwards. Its ticking filled her entire being, penetrating every thought in her head and every emotion from her heart. *Time's running out* it said. *This moment may be all you have left.* "Then why not just shoot you, Mulder? Explain that. Why the elaborate method? The man who injected you could just as easily have put a bullet in your head. It would have been simpler, with less danger of being caught." She kept her voice even and reasonable, willing herself not to comment on the way he kept fingering his holster. Losing her temper with Mulder only made him dig his heels in harder, a truth it had taken her several years to uncover. Several years, and countless lost battles. She had no intention of letting Mulder go out in a blaze of glory, though at the moment he seemed determined to do just that. "She's right, Mulder." The deep voice from the doorway startled them both. Skinner moved into the office, and leaned against the wall. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders were tense. "With all due respect, sir..." Mulder began. "Mulder, think about it. You need to step back for a minute, you're making this personal." Skinner watched as Scully arched one eyebrow and scrutinized Mulder with an expression of wry amusement. Mulder, in turn, looked like a little boy who had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Skinner had no idea what he could have said to cause such a reaction. Mulder cleared his throat and looked up at him ruefully. "Sorry, sir. But last time I checked this was personal." Skinner shook his head impatiently. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. I'm breaking more than one rule, not to mention ignoring logic, by letting you work your own case. It isn't done, and it could land me in some very hot water. If I'm going to put my ass on the line for you, I need to know you can handle it. You've got to turn off your emotions on this one, Mulder. You've got to profile this guy." The argument Scully expected never came. To her surprise, Mulder was silent a moment as if considering Skinner's words, then nodded. "Okay, I'm listening." "Scully is right when she says that this doesn't fit the Consortium's M.O.," Skinner continued. "If they wanted you dead it would be a professional hit, quick and clean. And we both know that, if necessary, they have methods more exotic than this toxin." Mulder looked at him sharply, his eidetic memory conjuring up a clear picture of Skinner lying in the hospital, his skin strangely mottled and his breathing labored. More exotic, indeed. Mulder's gaze seemed to turn inward, and he pulled absent-mindedly at his lower lip while rocking slightly in the chair. Skinner started to speak again, but Scully caught his eye and shook her head. She was all too familiar with Mulder in this mode. That brilliant mind would turn inward, and when he finally surfaced it would be with some new angle or spin on things. There was no sense in trying to speak to him during these times -- you only succeeded in short-circuiting the process and making Mulder irritable. They waited silently, and after a moment Mulder's eyes swam back into focus and he brought the chair sharply forward, dropping both feet to the floor. The discomfort this maneuver cost him showed plainly to Scully, though she wasn't sure Skinner could have detected it. Mulder was a master at hiding pain, both physical and emotional, but she'd learned the language. A subtle tightening of facial muscles, a slow blink, a slight catch in his breathing...she'd learned to speak the language all too fluently over their years together. "You're right. He must have hit me harder than I thought for me not to see this from a mile away. He wants me dead, but that's not really the main objective." Scully frowned a little. "Meaning?" Mulder stood up and began to pace, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was limping slightly. "Meaning that in this case, getting there is half the fun, Scully. It's not enough for me to die. Like you said, a bullet, a knife, or even a garrote would have accomplished that quickly. But he doesn't want quick. He wants slow. He wants painful." Mulder stilled his frantic movement and his eyes skittered away from hers, but not before she saw the haunted quality in their depths. His final statement was quiet, but powerful in the room's stillness. "He wants suffering." Scully bit her lip, for the second time that day wanting nothing more than to pull him into her arms for a comforting embrace. Wishing for once they could just be two people who cared for each other, and that all the rest would go away: the FBI, the Consortium, flukemen and serial killers... A light went on. "Someone you profiled," she said, seeing affirmation in his face. "Someone your profile was responsible for catching. Someone with a grudge." "Someone sick enough to dream up this scenario," Skinner added grimly. Mulder laughed, but it was a laugh that was oddly devoid of humor. "We'll have to narrow it down farther than that, sir. You just described every killer I ever caught during my VICAP years. Sick is a prerequisite." Scully stepped closer to lay her hand on his arm, gazing up at him. "Maybe so. But this sick killer has some very extensive knowledge of biochemistry." This time Mulder's chuckle was genuine. "You may just have something there, Scully. Let's take a look at the database." Mulder turned back toward his desk and had taken two quick steps when his leg buckled, sending him to his hands and knees. Scully darted to his side while Skinner helped him into a sitting position with his back against the desk. Mulder's fingers were knotted in the flesh of his left thigh and he was panting in pain, a thin sheen of perspiration on his brow and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. No longer caring what Skinner might think, Scully swept her fingertips across his brow to brush back an errant lock of hair. Her hand then settled onto his shoulder where it rubbed small, soothing circles into the tense muscles. "Talk to me, Mulder," she said quietly. "'S okay. Easing up now," he said, his teeth still clenched but his eyes sliding slowly open. "One moment it went numb, the next I have the father of all charley horses." His eyes met hers squarely, but the fear was there. "Right on schedule, huh?" Scully blinked back sudden moisture and nodded. "Yeah." Skinner stood and extended his hand, which Mulder accepted gratefully. Once on his feet, he carefully tested the leg before limping over to his desk and settling himself behind his computer. Scully opened her mouth to speak, but Skinner's firm grip on her arm silenced the words before they could be spoken. His brown eyes were compassionate, but firm. *Remember* they said clearly. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded in resignation. Skinner gave her arm a gentle squeeze and headed for the door. "I'll notify records that you'll be coming down for some files, Mulder," he said gruffly. "You'll be given top priority." Mulder paused in his typing and looked up at Skinner. "Thank you, sir." Skinner reflected that he'd been around his agents too long. He'd actually heard all that remained unspoken in those words. "Keep me posted." A parting glance at Scully, and he strode quickly out the door and down the hallway to the elevator. Scully took a deep breath and made sure her own composure was firmly in place before pulling a chair over to join her partner at the computer. Continued in part 6 Countdown (6/16) By Dawn The X-Files Office 3:11 p.m. 58 hours remaining Scully flipped the file folder closed with a sigh, moved it to the stack on her right, and reached for another from the pile on her left. She'd had no idea, until she and Mulder began searching the database, how many serial killers her partner had helped put away. Patterson had driven him unmercifully, Mulder reluctantly admitted. It had not been unusual for him to be writing several new profiles, following up and adjusting as necessary the ones he'd already generated, and consulting for other agents all at the same time. It didn't surprise Scully that Mulder had been on the edge of a breakdown by the time he'd left VICAP. It surprised her that he hadn't fallen over that edge. She was shaken from her reverie by the sound of the elevator doors opening and subsequent footfalls. That they belonged to Skinner was apparent -- the man still walked like a marine on patrol duty. Scully dropped the folder onto the desk and moved quickly to the door of the office, intercepting him just before he could enter. She laid her finger across her lips and motioned to Mulder's side of the room. Mulder had succumbed to the combination of exhaustion, stress, and lingering effects of the concussion about twenty minutes ago. She'd noticed the way he kept removing his glasses to scrub at his eyes, which drooped as he stubbornly perused his own allotment of files. Yet he'd refused her attempts to convince him to take a break. He'd remained at his desk, head propped on a fist, until he'd just sort of folded forward. Now he slept, cheek pillowed on his arm and glasses barely held within slack fingers. Skinner took in the sight and motioned for her to join him in the hallway. Scully obliged, pulling the office door quietly shut behind her. "How is he doing?" Skinner asked, thinking that although his intent had been to check on Mulder, the man's partner looked only marginally better off. Scully's eyes bore crescent shaped shadows that testified to her own sleepless night. But that was just the obvious, physical manifestation. What troubled him much more deeply was his agent's demeanor. Gone was the calm, levelheaded, rational Scully that some had cruelly christened "The Ice Queen." What he saw before him was a woman whose world was splintering into tiny pieces while she battled valiantly to hold them together. "He's struggling," she replied, her gaze meeting his only briefly before fixing on the wall just above his left shoulder. "Fighting to be normal, to pursue this like any other case. But the symptoms are increasing, sir, no matter how much Mulder may refuse to acknowledge them. He won't tell me, but I'm sure the cramping has gotten worse and I think he's been nauseous. We ordered in some lunch, but most of Mulder's sandwich wound up in the garbage. I know he'll be furious that I let him sleep, but I just didn't have the heart to wake him. We're expecting a new batch of files in the next half hour, so it'll happen soon enough." "Any luck so far?" Skinner thought he knew the answer, but needed to ask. Scully's brow creased and she blew out an explosive little puff of air. "Nothing so far. The ones with the applicable knowledge and training are all still safely tucked away in prisons or mental institutions. And the ones that have been let out don't possess a fraction of the technical expertise to concoct a poison like this." Purely some kind of gut instinct caused the next words to pass from Skinner's lips. They certainly weren't the ones he'd originally intended to speak. "Scully. I know when you're in there you feel you have to be strong for him. But out here it's okay to admit you're hurting and scared." He could have sworn he heard the crash as a dam crumbled. Scully's wide blue eyes flooded with tears and this time they spilled over, streaming down her pale cheeks. She pressed the knuckles of her right fist savagely against her lips in a futile effort to hold back a sob that sounded as if it had come from the bottom of her soul. Skinner hesitated only a moment before drawing her awkwardly into an embrace. The fact that she allowed him to do so without stiffening or pulling away shocked him more deeply than her tears. "I don't know if I can do this," she said between hitching breaths. "It hurts so much to watch it happening, to see his pain, and be powerless to stop it. Is this what Mulder felt during my cancer? My God, how could I have been so hard on him!" Skinner waited silently until the inevitable moment when Scully regained control enough to become aware of his embrace on a conscious level and pulled back, looking a little flustered. He handed her his handkerchief so that she could swipe the streaks of mascara from the corners of her eyes, still refraining from comment. When he saw that her shaking hands had finally steadied, he chose his words carefully. "You *can* do it, Scully." His voice was steel, but it was the steel of a supporting girder. "And you are *not* powerless. Mulder is still very much alive, and that's power in and of itself. Power to keep fighting, to keep searching. You stand before me now, Scully, alive because the man in that room refused to give up, even in the face of the most daunting odds. It's all right to feel pain. It's all right to be scared. But it isn't all right to despair." Scully closed her eyes for a moment, lips pressed tightly together, breathing deeply. When she opened them she met Skinner's gaze squarely, and he was relieved to see the strong, self-assured Scully with which he was familiar. If not for the wet spot on his shirt and the tear tracks on her cheeks, he could almost have believed the past five minutes never happened. Almost. For in the depths of those eyes, tucked away in a dark corner where very few would see, was a deep and profound sadness. "Sir, would you mind keeping an eye on Mulder for just a moment," Scully asked, tucking the soiled handkerchief into her pocket and straightening her jacket. "I need to freshen up a bit." Skinner nodded without comment, understanding that before Scully reentered the office any traces of her breakdown would be erased. During the time Scully was missing he'd witnessed countless instances of Mulder flirting with complete emotional meltdown only to stop and reassert control with a nearly visible effort. Repeatedly, Mulder and Scully had each managed to pull off the impossible if it was somehow in the best interest of the other. Scully walked briskly down the dim hallway to the ladies room. Once inside, however, she allowed her shoulders to slump. She leaned heavily on the cool, white porcelain of a sink and stared into the mirror, seeing not her own face in the smooth glass, but Mulder's. *Do you believe in the existence of extra-terrestrials?* *A dream is the answer to a question we haven't learned how to ask.* *The truth will save you, Scully.* *You're my one in five billion.* *You complete me.* Ducking her head, Scully flicked on the cold water, cupped her hands to catch the flow, and bathed her face. Once certain all traces of her previous bout of weeping had been removed and the burning in her eyes eased, she reached blindly for a paper towel. She practically jumped out of her skin when one was placed into her questing fingers, her nose abruptly registering the stench of cigarette smoke. Quickly regaining her equilibrium, Scully calmly finished drying her face before looking up to stare at him in the mirror. "Are you reduced to hanging around women's washrooms now? Lo, how the mighty have fallen," she said, infusing each word with as much derision as she could muster. Cancer Man simply looked at her tolerantly while tapping a cigarette from his ever-present pack of Morleys and lighting up. "Your sarcasm is a refreshing change, Agent Scully," he said in the calm, slightly raspy voice she'd come to despise. "Your partner would have pinned me to the wall with his gun at my head by now. I've been dealing with the wrong person." A look of concern crossed CSM's face, so blatantly contrived that Scully found her hands clenching the sink in an effort to resist launching herself at him. "By the way, how is Agent Mulder?" Scully spun around to face him, her features distorted by fury. "You know exactly how he is, why else would you be here talking to me now? The real question is, what do you know about it?" CSM took a deep pull on the cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. Scully ground her teeth but remained silent, knowing he was engaging in what Mulder would call "yanking her chain." "My purpose here is two-fold, Agent Scully," he finally said, his tone silky smooth. "First, to assure you that I had nothing to do with Mulder's current-difficulties. And second, to warn you that the line of reasoning you are presently pursuing is flawed." The rage that had been slowly simmering in Scully's gut instantly came to a full boil. "You're entire existence is a lie, you bastard! Give me one good reason why I should believe a single word you say." The look of amusement in his cold stare only served to fan the flames of Scully's wrath, but his next words had the effect of a bucket of ice water. "Because, Agent Scully, Mulder will die if you don't." Seeing he'd captured her full attention, CSM flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette and smiled. "Mulder was right about one thing. The man who poisoned him is tied to his past -- but not his time with Patterson writing profiles. He needs to go farther back, to his days under Reggie Purdue." CSM dropped the smoldering butt of his cigarette and crushed it into the tile before turning as if to leave. "That's it?" Scully's voice shook with outrage. "You waltz in here and tell me to switch the entire course of the investigation, and that's all you'll give me? Why even bother?" CSM stopped without turning back toward her. "Because, though there are those who remain supremely indifferent to Agent Mulder's fate, others like myself understand the importance of his role in the events that are to come." "Then give me more. Time is too short for your games." CSM smiled smugly and reached for the pack of Morleys again. "Our 'games,' Agent Scully, may be all that extends the time we have." He lit up again and continued walking, but paused with his hand on the door. "Mulder's special talents caught Patterson's eye long before he managed to acquire him as a profiler. Look for a case that distinguished a green agent. Good luck, Agent Scully." Scully stood numbly under the harsh fluorescent lights long after the door had closed behind him, her mind scrambling to make sense of his words, her heart pounding with dread. Continued in part 7 Countdown (7/16) By Dawn X-Files Office 5:08 p.m. 56 hours remaining "This is it, the Bishop case," Mulder said quietly, opening the folder before him and lifting the first page. Scully leaned over his shoulder and snagged the autopsy report, rapidly scanning the results. "A suicide?" "An *apparent* suicide. Carolyn Bishop was found dead in her apartment, wrists slashed. At first glance it seemed routine. She'd just gone through a messy breakup with her boyfriend of three years. Friends said she'd been a little depressed. She even left a note to her mother, apologizing for checking out the way she did. Case closed." Scully studied her partner's expressionless face. "But not for you..." Skinner made a small sound of amusement from across the room and Scully looked up at him questioningly. "One of the first times I heard the name Fox Mulder," Skinner offered, grinning a little. "A young, inexperienced agent, fresh out of the academy, making a big stink over what was an obvious suicide. Insisted it was murder. Kid wouldn't let it go." Mulder watched Skinner speak, then closed his eyes with a sigh. "I was an obnoxious, arrogant, little jerk. Thought I had all the answers." He sighed again. "Was it really only ten years ago? Feels like a lifetime." "You may have been all that," Skinner said. "But you were also correct." "What made you suspect murder?" Scully asked, lifting the page that contained the police report. Mulder shrugged, mouth twitching in a slight smile. "Would you believe a hunch? I'm honestly not sure how it began. Something about the scene just didn't feel right. The pieces didn't fit together. Sure, her friends said she was a little depressed, but not despondent. And here's a woman about to kill herself, yet the kitchen was stocked with enough food to feed her for a month and the apartment had just been cleaned. You could still see those tracks a vacuum leaves on the pile of her carpet. Why would she vacuum only to slit her wrists and bleed all over the rug? And then there was the note..." "I thought you said she left a note to her mother," Scully reminded him. "She did. Only problem was, she signed the note 'Carolyn.'" "Which happened to be her name," Scully said, feeling the customary prickle of irritation she always experienced when Mulder insisted on feeding her the facts a tiny nibble at a time rather than in one large bite. "Yeah. But I spoke with her mother personally, hoping to put some of my doubts to rest. After a few minutes I realized she kept referring to her daughter as 'Callie,' and I asked her about it. Mrs. Bishop told me that although the rest of the world might have known her as Carolyn, to her she'd always been Callie." Scully nodded pensively. "It's still pretty thin, Mulder. Police report says there was no evidence of foul play. No forced entry. No sign of a struggle. And the tox screen came back negative." "It was enough to get them to take a second look at the body." Skinner snorted. Mulder looked up in irritation. "What?" "It was enough because Reggie got sick and tired of you harping on it. 'The bulldog' he called you. Said once you got your teeth in something you just wouldn't let go." Mulder's frown eased and was replaced by a look of nostalgia. "Reggie always listened, even when he didn't agree." "So you got them to do a second autopsy?" Scully asked. Mulder flipped through the folder and handed her another sheet. "External only, and for something specific." "An injection site." Mulder nodded, impressed as always with his partner's intuitiveness. "They found one hidden under her hairline at the nape of her neck. From there we repeated the tox screen with a few more exotic possibilities in mind." "And found?" "Curare. Diluted enough to cause paralysis but not death. From there it was just a matter of checking suspects. Since none of the doors or windows had been forced, we figured it must have been someone she knew. Someone she trusted enough to let into her home, and to turn her back." "The ex-boyfriend?" Mulder pulled a second file folder from beneath the first. "Cameron Cardow. A chemist for a pharmaceutical company. Brilliant, but unstable according to his employer. When no one could substantiate his alibi that he'd been working that evening, we obtained a search warrant. Found a vial of the stuff in his medicine chest." "So you were directly responsible for sending this man to prison," Scully mused, watching as Mulder jotted down some notes on a pad. He made a small grunt of affirmation, continuing to write until his fingers suddenly seemed to become entangled and he dropped the pencil. Scully bit her lip and glanced away, but not before seeing the look of pain coupled with frustration on Mulder's face. It was the fourth time he'd dropped an object in the last hour. "It was more than that," Skinner spoke up, moving closer. "Our cigarette smoking friend was right when he suggested that this case launched Mulder's career as the bureau's boy genius. Even the director heard about this one." "So Cardow would have every reason to hold a grudge against Mulder. Did you have any contact with him?" Scully asked. "I was in on the initial interview and the search of his apartment. I even testified at the trial," Mulder admitted. Scully lifted the mug shot of Cardow and scrutinized it. Thin and slight of build with lank blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. A definite lab geek. But the eyes... The eyes regarded the camera with sharp intelligence. Scully failed to suppress a shiver, dropping the picture back into the open folder. Mulder's face was still, his focus turned inward to a time long ago. "He never copped a plea," he said quietly. "Kept insisting he was innocent, right up until they took him away." He didn't mention that his eidetic memory had suddenly recreated an image of the look Cardow had cast his way, oozing venom. As a rookie, he'd been understandably shaken. "I've got Kim looking up the most current information on Cardow," Skinner said, all traces of his earlier humor gone. "He was serving a thirty year sentence. By all rights he should still be safely inside a cell." Scully pursed her lips and stared at Cardow's picture with an uneasy fascination. "He certainly fits the criteria, though." "Not to mention Smokey pointed us in his direction," Mulder growled. He started to say more but grimaced instead, face pale. Scully could see that he was forcing himself to relax, attempting to take deep breaths. "Mulder..." "I'm fine, Scully." Her own words, spoken in that same stiff tone of voice, came back to haunt her. *I deserve this* she thought sadly. *So many times he wanted to help, to comfort, and I slammed the door in his face. What goes around, comes around.* Before she could comment, the phone rang and Skinner quickly scooped it up. "Skinner." He listened silently for several moments, expression grave. "When?" he demanded gruffly, a scowl darkening his features. "You're certain? Do we have an address?" As Kim continued to speak, Skinner snapped his fingers and mimed writing. Scully handed him a pencil and pad of paper, observing as he jotted down an address. She covertly glanced at her partner, stricken by what she saw. Thinking he was momentarily unobserved, Mulder had wrapped one arm around his stomach, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Noting that Skinner was still tied up with Kim, she reached into her jacket pocket for the bottle of painkillers that Dr. Wagner had given her when Mulder checked out. "The pain will become excruciating," he'd warned, sympathy coloring his words. "These will help -- for a while, at least." Silently she pried open Mulder's other hand, which lay clenched atop his desk, and placed the bottle into it. Mulder's eyes popped open, but they were glassy with pain and it took him a moment to process what she had done. He looked at her gratefully for a moment before firmly shaking his head and giving her back the pills. "I have to be able to think, Scully. I can't if I'm half stoned on those." Scully wanted to argue with him. She wanted to tell him that he needed the pills, that he couldn't allow himself to continue to suffer this kind of agony. But his eyes stopped her. They were full of pain, yes, but also strength and determination. Suddenly Scully had to question whether she wanted Mulder to take the pills for himself, or if it was actually for her own wish not to watch him hurt. So instead of debating his decision, she accepted the bottle without comment, allowing her fingers to linger on his palm for a moment. Mulder's lips curved gently in the ghost of a smile, leaving her certain her choice had been correct. Skinner replaced the phone in its cradle, bringing him back to the focus of their attention. Mulder searched his face, taking in the clenched jaw and the telltale shifting of his boss's eyes to the side before he began to speak. The news was not good. "Cameron Cardow was released from prison three months ago," he said. Again, a glance to his right before he met Mulder's eyes straight on. "He's been cleared of all murder charges." "Cleared?" Scully's voice was incredulous. "It seems that a witness came forward who could place Cardow at work on the night of the murder, just as he'd claimed." "Came forward? When? There was no such witness at the original trial," Mulder said in a level voice. The muscle in Skinner's cheek twitched. "The man was working in the lab that night and saw Cardow, even spoke with him. The next day he received a promotion and was transferred to their branch in England, effective immediately. By the time word of the murder and Cardow's involvement hit the press, this guy and his family were gone." "How did Cardow find him?" Scully asked. "He didn't. Three years ago he secured another transfer back to the States. A year later an old friend happened to bring up the subject of Cardow, and the rest is history. Cardow's lawyer eventually got him a new trial and he was cleared." "But the curare found in his apartment..." "Circumstantial. Cardow was a chemist, there were other strange substances found at the same time. Cardow claimed it was all related to projects at work." Mulder gestured to the pad in Skinner's hand. "That a current address?" Skinner's scowl returned. "So far as we know. Since Cardow was cleared, not paroled, he's not required to stay in touch with the authorities." "It's a start," Scully said quietly, scanning Mulder's face. Mulder had leaned back in his chair and was pulling absently at his lower lip. "It's him," he said firmly. "I can feel it." Skinner ripped the piece of paper off the pad and stood up. "You two in the mood for a trip to Virginia?" Mulder looked up at his boss, a surge of gratitude leaving him speechless for a moment. By the choice of his words Skinner had asked if he was physically capable of continuing the investigation without making him feel helpless. His admiration and respect for the man rose a notch, and despite the ache in his gut he mustered a genuine smile. "Sure we are, sir," he said, tossing Scully a conspiratorial wink. "We'll even let you drive." Continued in part 8 Countdown (8/16) By Dawn Headquarters of The Lone Gunmen 9:52 p.m. 50 hours remaining "Who is it?" The voice fairly oozed paranoia, and Scully rolled her eyes. When Mulder remained mute, propped against the doorframe, she realized he was waiting for her to answer. She recognized the cause of his silence, having observed similar behavior from him multiple times over the past several hours. He was economizing -- speaking and moving only when necessary in an effort to conserve as much of his waning strength as possible. "It's Steven Spielberg. Now open up, Frohike," she called impatiently, eliciting a smirk from her partner that warmed her heart. She counted no less than eight locks being released before the door opened to reveal the little man. "Ah, the lovely Agent Scully," he said. She noticed the leer in his eyes was brief and forced, their focus quickly shifting to scan Mulder appraisingly. Mulder had explained the situation to Byers on the phone during the drive over, so all three gunmen must know by now. Mulder evidently picked up on Frohike's scrutiny, for he pushed past him impatiently, muttering, "Down Frohike. I'm not that kind of girl." Scully followed him through the perpetually dim and cluttered maze of electronics, hearing Frohike meticulously refasten each lock. Langly was hunched over a keyboard and typing furiously, clad in a ratty Dead Can Dance tee shirt with half the letters peeling off. "Hey, Mulder," he said, his fingers halting and his eyes giving Mulder an intense look much like Frohike's. Mulder sank into the chair beside Langly, eyes sliding shut for a split second before popping open. "Whatcha got?" he asked, scanning the monitor. "It's still downloading. We hacked into Cardow's old personnel file at BioGuard, looking for information on the project he was involved with at the time of the murder." "For a small company that develops pesticides, BioGuard's security measures seem a bit extreme," Byers commented, entering the room nattily- dressed as always in a three-piece suit. He hesitated a moment, studying Mulder before asking, "Can I get you two anything?" "Yeah, the information. And you can all stop staring at me as if I'm about to self combust," Mulder growled irritably, unconsciously curling one arm around his middle. "Here it comes now," Langly said eagerly, leaning closer to the screen. Frohike, seeing that Mulder's attention was fixed on the computer, drew Scully to the side. The sadness she read in his eyes took her back to an evening years before, when Frohike had turned up on her doorstep half-intoxicated and grieving over Mulder's presumed death. "How is he doing?" he asked her gravely. Scully shrugged, appreciating Frohike's concern but loathe to discuss something Mulder was trying so desperately to conceal. "I don't know what to say, Frohike," she said quietly. "He's in a lot of pain, and it's getting worse. He doesn't want to acknowledge it, though, so it would be best if you guys would just ignore the obvious. You saw just now how he reacted to being treated with kid gloves." "Like the arrogant SOB we all know and love," Frohike agreed ruefully. The intense stare from earlier returned, this time trained on Scully. "How are *you* holding up, Dana?" The sudden lump that formed in her throat caught Scully by surprise. *I must be in bad shape* she mused, *if a show of concern from Frohike is reducing me to tears.* She immediately felt remorse for her less than charitable thoughts. Frohike certainly had his share of rough edges -- she had first-hand experience with that fact. But he was also fiercely loyal to those he counted as friends. She wondered how many women had casually dismissed the little man, never realizing that a heart of gold lay beneath the crude jokes and gnome-like exterior. "I'm hanging in there, Frohike," she said, favoring him with one of her rare smiles, "for as long as he needs me." A low whistle from Langly brought them quickly over to where the other three were bent over the computer, mesmerized by whatever data was on the screen. Mulder lifted his gaze to Scully, and she saw that his hazel eyes had gone nearly black in color. "We always wind up back in the same nightmare, Scully," he said, face blank with shock. "No matter how many times we think we've finally woken up." Baffled, Scully tore her eyes from his haunted gaze to look at Byers. "It's BioGuard," Byers explained, shooting Mulder a quick look of sympathy before turning his full attention to Scully. "We've traced them to a parent company called Gentronics. Gentronics is a subsidiary of Roush." Scully's eyes flew back to Mulder almost of their own accord. A cold sweat covered her partner's brow and his hands trembled slightly as he gripped the countertop to balance himself, stumbling to his feet. "Mulder?" "I'm all right, Scully," he snapped, heading down the hall toward the bathroom, one hand occasionally pressed against the wall for support. "Been handling this by myself since I was two." The door shut with something that was not quite a slam. Scully ran her fingers through her hair, tucking errant strands behind her ear while struggling to calm her pounding heart. The three gunmen exchanged troubled glances. Frohike abruptly started down the hall but halted, frozen by the authoritative sound of Scully's voice. "Frohike, *don't*!" He rounded on her, and Scully was shocked to see something akin to fury on the man's face. "What do you mean, 'don't!' Someone should check on him, he could be in trouble. How can the three of you, especially *you* (he gestured accusingly at her) just sit there?" Langly started to splutter but Scully stopped him with an upraised hand. "I know what he's doing in there, Frohike." Her voice was cold with anger, but trembled slightly with another emotion. "He started vomiting while we were with Skinner in Virginia, checking out Cardow's last known address. There's nothing left in his stomach now, so it's just dry heaves. He'll wait until the attack has passed and he's pulled himself together before he comes out." "I *want* to be in there with him, Frohike. I want to hold his forehead, to wipe his face with a cool cloth when he's done. But that isn't what Mulder needs. Mulder needs his dignity. He needs to be the same strong, self-sufficient man he was twenty-four hours ago. So it doesn't make a damn bit of difference what you, or I, or anyone else wants. I'm going to do whatever I can, for as long as I can, to give him that." "Are we to assume that the address you checked was a dead end?" Byers asked, breaking the uneasy silence that followed Scully's speech. "Cardow cleared out two weeks ago. He didn't leave a forwarding address." Scully's smile was bitter. "Big surprise. He also quit the job he'd obtained as a lab tech for a pharmaceutical company. Left without giving notice." "We've just started digging into this," Langly said. "It could take all night." "You two could crash here while you're waiting," Frohike offered. Scully recognized the olive branch. "Thanks, but I'm going to take him back to his place. I think he'll have a better chance at some sleep on that ratty couch of his. You boys can help by convincing him there's nothing more he can do right now." The bathroom door opened and Mulder appeared several moments later, his hair and the collar of his shirt slightly damp. Scully waited until he'd settled himself beside Langly, pointedly refraining from asking him if he was okay. "So what does it mean, Mulder?" she asked instead. "I keep trying to find a place for Roush in the puzzle, but it just won't fit." "Maybe that's because Roush, and the consortium, have nothing to do with what's happening to me right now." Scully arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me? You can't mean to tell me that you think it's just a coincidence that the man who is trying to kill you was once employed by them!" Mulder actually grinned a little at her outrage. "That's not what I said. I said I don't think they have anything to do with Cardow poisoning me. I think Cancer Man's little visit with you suggests Cardow is a loose cannon, operating outside the Consortium's jurisdiction. The question is why." Scully studied his face. "And you have a theory." "I always have a theory, Scully." The normality of his banter in the midst of this insanity left her aching inside. She buried the pain deeply and pursed her lips. "Go for it, Mulder." "I think ten years ago Cardow and I were unwitting pawns in a game that you and I have only just begun to understand. I think Cardow was condemned to take a fall, with me giving him the push. Maybe he thinks I was a willing participant, or maybe he just hates that I fulfilled the purpose they gave me. Whatever his motivation, Cardow has decided it's time I was punished for those lost years." "Why you? Why not the Consortium itself?" "Accessibility, for one thing. I make a much easier target. But it's more basic than that, I think. Through me, Cardow is able to put a face to his pain. I sat in that witness chair and gave the testimony that took away his freedom and changed his life forever. I couldn't have done a better job if I had been on the Consortium's payroll." "It wasn't your fault," Frohike spoke up. "You were doing your job. You couldn't have known it was a set-up." Mulder sighed. "I wish I could say that makes me feel better. But face it, I was instrumental in sending an innocent man to prison for seven years. How can I not own part of his pain?" "You can't own another person's pain, Mulder," Scully said quietly. "We each have more than enough of our own. Cardow may have been powerless once, but now he's the one in the driver's seat." Mulder nodded, but his expression was one of resignation. "Maybe you're right, Scully. But it was a lot easier when I could look at Cardow and see a monster. Now I just see another victim." Continued in part 9 Countdown (9/16) By Dawn Hegal Place - Apt. 42 1:27 a.m. 48 hours remaining With a deep sigh, Scully flipped onto her back, causing the waterbed to undulate gently beneath her. She stared up at her reflection; indistinct in a room illuminated only by moonlight. Her weariness was so deep it penetrated even her bones, but she couldn't sleep. Her hypersensitive ears were tuned to catch even the slightest sound from the other room, from the low drone of the television to the rustling sound of Mulder shifting restlessly on the couch. Evidently she wasn't the only one still awake. She'd managed to pry Mulder away from the Gunmen sometime before midnight, driving him home over only mild protests. She'd stopped at her own apartment briefly along the way so that she could collect a change of clothes and a box of chamomile tea. During her cancer, there had been days when a cup of the steaming liquid was all she could tolerate. She'd brewed them each a cup while Mulder showered, and they'd consumed it in a kind of numb haze around his coffee table. So far, he'd managed to keep it down. They'd retired -- he to the sofa and she to his rarely-used bed. Now she lay here, hair still damp from her own shower, staring at the woman in the mirror and wondering how she could face the possibility of losing him. When she closed her eyes, it was only to be bombarded with images of the past six years with Mulder. What had begun as an uneasy alliance between strangers, blossomed into the most significant relationship she'd ever known. He challenged her. Frustrated her. Inspired her. Aggravated her. Completed her. Footsteps padded softly into the bathroom and Scully tensed, waiting for the sounds of retching to begin. To her intense relief, they never came. When she heard Mulder resume his tossing and turning, Scully climbed out of bed and wrapped her robe around her to ward off the chill. She opened the bedroom door and slipped silently into the living room. Mulder was seated on the sofa, his legs clasped to his chest and his head resting on his knees. Scully watched him for several minutes, emotions warring inside. She firmly believed the speech she'd made to the gunmen earlier that evening. What Mulder was experiencing was certainly not alien to her. She remembered the anger at her own body's betrayal, and the humiliation of the gradual loss of self-sufficiency. Scully wanted to permit Mulder his independence for as long as possible. But another part of her ached to give him more. Just once, for him to let down his walls and surrender some of the control to her. To allow her to comfort him. To allow her to hold him. The slight trembling of Mulder's shoulders made her decision for her. She moved over to stand before him, laying a feather-soft hand on the top of his head. He went momentarily rigid at her touch, but gradually relaxed under her gentle stroking. "Say the word, Mulder," Scully said, keeping her voice as soft as her hand, "and I'll walk back into that bedroom. I'll understand if that's what you want." The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. The single word of reply, when it came, was little more than a whisper. "Stay." She sank to the couch and pulled him to her, tucking his head under her chin while she continued to run soothing fingers through the silky strands of hair. She felt the hitching of his breath taper off. He eventually pulled back to sit up, scrubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Were you ever ready, Scully? At the end, when you were in the hospital, were you ready to accept your own death?" The question came out of left field, and Scully scrambled to catch up. Mulder rarely approached serious matters head on. He deflected with humor, turning the conversation to Betty Rubble's bustline. That he'd ask such a question outright told her much about his state of mind. "I'm not sure how to answer that, Mulder," she said honestly, trying to verbalize a range of conflicting emotions. "I was angry at the cancer, and at the men who gave it to me. And it hurt to face leaving the people I love." She reached out to lace her fingers with his. "But I guess there was a part of me that had made my peace with the idea. The part that was hurting and tired. The part that wanted to believe that something better was waiting." Mulder nodded slightly, appearing to absorb her words. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but abruptly shut it. His lip quivered, and he savagely caught it between his teeth as a lone tear slipped down his cheek. Scully tightened her grasp on his hand but remained mute. It was one of the most difficult things she'd ever done. When he finally did speak, his voice was husky with emotion. "I keep trying to, Scully. To make my peace, the way you said. But I don't think I can. All I can see is failure. I haven't found my sister. Professionally, my crusade for the Truth has made me a joke to my peers, while the only thing I've uncovered has been an elaborate web of lies. As for my personal life -- frankly, very few people will give a damn when I'm gone." Scully fought the urge to tell him he wasn't going to die yet. Instead, she turned sideways, forcing him to look into her eyes. "Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Mulder?" she asked, searching his face. "I see a man who from an early age was given every reason to stop believing -- in other people, in knowing the truth, in life. Instead, I see a man who burns with a passion for all three, sometimes so brightly it hurts. I see a man with whom I can completely disagree, and yet just as completely respect. Best of all, I see a friend who has never given up on me, and never will. Even if it means literally going to the ends of the earth." "I see all those things, Mulder. But a failure? Not in any sense of the word." He didn't speak, and the tears that pooled in his eyes at her words never fell, but Mulder pulled her into a fierce hug. Mimicking her earlier movements, he tucked her head under his chin after placing a kiss on the top. Scully just let him hold her, admitting it was as much for her own comfort as for his. After a little while he released his hold on her, shifting in obvious discomfort. "You'd better go get some sleep, Scully," he suggested, voice still husky but steady. "You've been up for almost forty-eight hours now." "So have you," she pointed out, reluctant to break their closeness. "Yeah, but at least I've had a few catnaps. Go on, I'll be fine out here." Scully looked at him appraisingly then stood up. But instead of heading for the bedroom, she perched on the coffee table. "Lay down on your stomach, Mulder." "Scully?" "I know a sure fire way to help you get to sleep." In spite of his considerable pain, Mulder waggled his eyebrows at her. "Oooo, Scully. You don't know how long I've waited to hear you suggest this." Cheered by the normality of his innuendo, Scully played her part and arched an eyebrow. "A backrub, Mulder. And if you're really good I'll tell you a story, like I do for my godson. Works every time." Mulder stretched out obediently, head pillowed on his folded arms. When he'd settled himself as comfortably as he could, she slipped her hand up under his tee shirt and began gently rubbing in small circles. She braced herself for another suggestive remark, but received only a deep sigh of contentment. "That feels really good, Scully. Now how about that story." Scully smiled, thinking to herself that at the moment Mulder reminded her of a little boy. "How about the story of the first case I ever solved?" Mulder's eyes gleamed with interest. "At the bureau?" She shook her head. "Nope. It was during the summer before my senior year in college. I was doing an internship at a pharmaceutical company that made parenterals. That's intravenous solutions like antibiotics and saline." "What did you do there?" "The drugs had to be manufactured under completely sterile conditions. That meant that the facilities had to be monitored to be sure those conditions were met. So I'd test the air and surfaces for bacteria and other contaminants. The tests results had to be negative, or we faced the possibility of having to throw out any drugs that were produced." "Sounds expensive," Mulder said, suppressing a yawn. Scully smiled to herself and continued to rub his back. "It could be extremely expensive, depending on the drug. But it didn't matter, because we never had any problems. At the end of every day the fill rooms would be washed down with bleach solution from floor to ceiling, and no bacteria stood a chance at survival. From what I heard, none ever had. Until that summer, after I'd been on the job for about a month." "What happened?" "The surface tests started failing. And we're not talking by a little. Bacteria were popping up in the test tubes and agar plates like we were *trying* to grow them. Management was tearing their hair out, trying everything they could think of to get rid of the problem, but nothing worked. They cleaned more often, increased the strength of bleach, checked the sterile gowning of all the employees -- nothing made a bit of difference. Even after completely sanitizing the area the night before, a sample taken first thing the next morning would be crawling with germs." "But the intrepid Dana Scully figured it out," Mulder mumbled. His eyes were at half-mast now, occasionally slipping shut for several seconds before popping open. "Purely by accident, I must admit. I was in the lab late one night to finish up some paperwork. On my way out the door I happened to glance through the window into one of the sterile fill rooms. What I saw almost made me fall over. There, in the middle of the room, was one of the men hired to clean the offices and other lab areas. No sterile gown. No gloves. Mopping the floor with one of those disgusting rag mops that have all those little strings on them, and eating a sandwich." Mulder smiled, though he let his eyes remain closed. "Guess you were quite the hero." "My boss *was* suitably appreciative," Scully admitted, laughing softly. "It really wasn't the poor man's fault. He'd been hired to clean, after all, and no one considered the fact that he was Polish and couldn't read any of the signs that said 'Sterile Area. Authorized Personnel Only.' Once we realized what had been happening, warnings were added in Polish." When Mulder was silent she leaned a little closer, noting that his breathing had become deep and even. His lips were still curved in a slight smile. "Works every time," she said, easing her hand from his back. She tugged the afghan from the back of the couch and tucked it securely around him, brushing away the stubborn lock of hair that, since his short haircut, existed only in her mind. "Sweet dreams, Mulder," she whispered. "I think tonight we both deserve a few." Continued in part 10 Countdown (10/16) By Dawn Hegal Place, Apt. 42 9 a.m. 40 hours remaining "Damn it!" Scully looked up from her laptop in time to see another ball of paper fly toward the wastebasket, only to land on the floor. Mulder massaged his right hand for a moment, flexing the fingers, before picking up his pen and beginning to write. A cooling mug of tea and a piece of dry toast with two bites missing sat on the desk at his left elbow. An open e-mail from the Lone Gunmen filled the computer screen. She observed him for several minutes. Crescent shaped shadows marred the flesh beneath his eyes and fresh lines of pain etched his forehead. He'd been chewing on his lower lip again, and it now bore a small raw spot. The tremors in his hands had grown more pronounced and were contributing to the lack of dexterity in his fingers. Hence the muttered curses and crumpled paper as he attempted to jot down some notes. The simple fact that he was taking notes at all held significance, since Mulder's eidetic memory normally made writing things down superfluous. His level of pain must have reached the point where it was affecting his concentration. Scully stood up and moved behind him so that she could read over his shoulder. She held back only briefly before giving in to the impulse to lay her small hands on his shoulders. Finding the muscles knotted with tension, she dug her thumbs into them in what she hoped was a soothing massage. To Scully's surprise, he paused in his writing and let his head hang forward so that she had better access to his neck. "Those hands are being wasted on corpses, Scully," he said, groaning a little when she worked a particularly tight spot. Scully smiled at his appreciation but chose not to comment. "What did the boys find?" "Plenty. They finally accessed the files on Cardow's work at BioGuard. On the surface it looks legitimate. Cardow was supposed to create a toxin able to completely wipe out some sort of infestation. There's a project number listed -- SPEC 426." "Probably refers to the protocol under which he was operating," Scully guessed. She dropped her hands when Mulder turned his chair to face her. "From what I can tell, the toxin had a very specific method of action. One with which I'm becoming all too familiar." "It mimicked black widow spider venom." Mulder nodded grimly. "All the results of his initial experiments are here - the way the effects increase exponentially, the symptoms I'm experiencing right now, even the success rate. It was 100 percent lethal in the initial trials. There's just one thing missing. There's no data on the formula of the toxin." Scully sighed and sank back down onto the couch. "You said it seemed legitimate on the surface. What did you mean by that?" Mulder frowned. "Something is odd about the rest of the data. Like I said, the initial trials were all successful. Makes it look like BioGuard should have been handing Cardow a medal. But then there's a second set of data, and the results are completely opposite from the first. Total failure." He handed Scully several sheets of numbers printed out from the Gunmen's e-mail. "The project was scrapped two weeks after that. Cardow evidently had trouble accepting the decision. There are several memos from him protesting the closure of the project, as well as responses from management insisting he terminate his experiments and turn in all related materials." Scully was studying the pages of data, brow creased in puzzlement. "I don't understand this. They conducted the initial trials on rats, but no subject is specified in the second set. Whatever it was must have had a radically different physiology from the rats if the toxin had no effect." Mulder, who had been slouched in the chair, absently rubbing his stomach, abruptly sat bolt upright. He stared straight through Scully for a moment, attention far away, before finally focusing on her intently. "What if it was more than just *different* in physiology, Scully? What if it wasn't even terrestrial?" Scully gave him "The Look," her eyebrows climbing so high they were practically hidden by the sweep of her auburn hair. "Excuse me?" "Just bear with me a minute. We know BioGuard is tied into Roush, which is in turn connected to the Consortium. What if Cardow's project was an early attempt at finding a weapon to stop alien colonization? What if Spec 426 stands for species 426. What if it was the black oil?" "Are you suggesting you think this might have been an early attempt at a vaccine?" "It makes sense, Scully. We know the consortium has been trying to develop one for years. Cardow is assigned the task of synthesizing a neurotoxin that will work on the alien colonists. He comes up with a nifty little poison that looks very promising, until he gets to the point where it's time to try it on a real, living EBE. It fails miserably, and Cardow is ordered to move on, but he just can't let it go. He's spent months, maybe years creating the toxin -- it's his baby -- and he wants to keep working on it, perfecting it. Maybe he even continues to do so on the sly, after hours when he won't be observed. But someone sees him and rats him out to his boss. He's become a liability now; someone who can't take orders and pursues his own agenda. So a decision is made. Cardow has to be removed from the equation." Mulder grimaced. "Enter a nave, arrogant agent ready to make a name for himself, the perfect tool to assist them in insuring that Cardow will be put somewhere he can't cause any more trouble. They even get rid of the person who saw Cardow's unauthorized dabbling -- and who, coincidentally, was his only alibi -- with a sudden promotion and transfer out of the country. All loose ends are tied up. Case closed." "Except something unforeseen happens," Scully mused. "A series of coincidences that leads to an acquittal of Cardow, and his subsequent release from prison." "And boy is he pissed," Mulder finished wryly. "Even if you're right, Mulder," Scully continued, "where does that leave us?" Mulder's faint smile faded. "It leaves us nowhere, Scully. Knowing the possible reason Cardow was framed ten years ago unfortunately does nothing to help me right now. The boys are going to keep looking, but I really don't think they'll find Cardow's formula. My guess would be that he took it with him when BioGuard cut him off." Three sharp raps on Mulder's door brought Scully to her feet. "You expecting one of the Gunmen?" Mulder shook his head, closing the e-mail. When he started to rise, she raised her hand. "I'll get it. Save your strength." Scully cracked the door, one hand poised over her weapon. When she saw who it was, she relaxed and opened the door wide. Skinner stepped inside and waited while she shut and locked the door behind him. He didn't say the words, but his facial expression made the unspoken question obvious. "It was a rough night," she said quietly. "The nausea and abdominal cramping is severe, and kept him from sleeping longer than about an hour at a time. He can't eat either. All he's been able to keep down is some chamomile tea." "Any luck with the investigation?" "Nothing that's going to help Mulder," Scully said wearily. Skinner actually smiled. "Then follow me. I have some good news." Despite Scully's earlier admonition, Mulder stood when he saw Skinner. Skinner waved him back to his chair and sat down on the couch. "To what do I owe the honor, sir?" Mulder asked, the wry grin back on his face. "I think we may have the break you've been looking for, Mulder. Forensics was able to recover a single bloody thumbprint on the sweatshirt you were wearing the night you were attacked. We ran it through the system and hit the jackpot." "I'm listening." "You said you had the impression you were attacked by two men, is that correct?" Mulder nodded. "I don't really remember anything concrete. It's just a general sense of two shadows coming at me, then nothing." "The print matched those of a man named Larry Reardon. Reardon is a career criminal, he's been incarcerated for a variety of crimes including burglary, fraud, and car theft. He was in the Cumberland Correctional Facility up until about three weeks ago." Scully perked up. "Cumberland?" Skinner nodded. "I made some calls. He was Cameron Cardow's cellmate for 18 months, right up until the day Cardow was released." "I don't suppose we have a current address..." Mulder trailed off, expression carefully neutral. Skinner grinned. Scully blinked, feeling surreal. *Skinner just *grinned* she thought. *Somebody alert the media.* "He has an apartment in Arlington. Arlington PD issued a warrant and had two officers waiting for him when he got home from work last night. They even found a shirt stuffed in the bottom of his laundry basket that was covered with blood. We're reasonably certain that analysis will show it's yours. He's in custody as we speak." "I want to talk to him." Skinner nodded again. "I knew you would. I told the captain we'd be in sometime before noon." Mulder swallowed to rid himself of the sudden tightness in his throat, touched by Skinner's willingness to become personally involved in a matter that could have been left to subordinates. "Sir, I don't know how to thank you." Skinner's face was grave, but his brown eyes betrayed amusement. "That's easy, Agent Mulder. You can let me drive." Continued in part 11 Countdown (11/16) By Dawn Arlington Police Department 10:45 a.m. 38 hours remaining Scully sat at the wooden table, perched on the edge of the uncomfortable chair. Even in this position, her feet barely reached the floor. She hated when that happened. It made her feel like a little girl playing at being a federal agent. Mulder, however, was going to appreciate the construction of the overly large chairs. She glanced at the empty chair to her right, trying not to worry. He'd abruptly excused himself, as the three of them were about to enter the interrogation room, muttering that he needed to use the restroom and would be right back. That was five minutes ago, and the knot in the pit of her stomach had transformed into an object roughly the size of a large boulder. "You want me to check on him?" Skinner, who had been leaning against the wall behind her and perusing the wanted posters, straightened and moved to stand beside her. Scully hesitated, torn by her own worry for Mulder and her commitment to give him the space he needed. If she could check on him personally, she would, but that was hardly on option here. She allowed both gratitude and reservation to show on her face as she looked up at Skinner. "Thank you. But sir..." "Scully, I've known the man even longer than you have. I'll just check -- no hovering." In spite of her anxiety, Scully smiled ruefully. "I promised myself I wouldn't fuss over him when things started getting bad. Mulder hates that. I need to be his partner and friend right now. He already has a doctor." Skinner paused with his hand on the door. "Being a doctor is part of who you are, Scully. If Mulder knows you half as well as I think he does, he'll understand that." Skinner got a detective to direct him to the bathrooms, steeling himself before pushing the door open and stepping inside. Despite his words to Scully, he knew she was right. Mulder hated to admit weakness or vulnerability, and he could be insufferable in such situations. At first glance, the room appeared empty and silent. Skinner briefly wondered if there was more than one set of bathrooms in the building and if he'd been directed to the wrong one. Then his ears caught the faint sound of rapid breathing. He walked along the line of stalls until he came to the last. The door was ajar, and he pushed it gently open. Mulder was slumped on the tile in front of the toilet; his forehead resting on the porcelain and his breath coming in short pants. The toilet bowl was bright red with blood. At the sound of Skinner's sharp intake of air, Mulder wearily raised his head. His lips were flecked with blood, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. "Don't tell Scully." Skinner had faced more than his share of trauma, and his training kicked in. The initial shock and panic that he'd felt when seeing the blood disappeared and his cool, rational side took over. He silently bent to grasp Mulder's left arm and sling it over his shoulder. Once he'd pulled the agent to his feet, he lowered the toilet lid and helped him to sit down. Skinner then went to a sink and wet a paper towel before returning to hand it to Mulder, who accepted it gratefully. He waited patiently while Mulder used the towel to bathe his face and wipe the blood from his mouth. When he finally finished, Skinner braced himself for the fallout from the words he felt compelled to speak. "Mulder. You should be in a hospital." Other people rarely surprised Skinner. He'd seen enough in his forty-odd years to make him immune to the crazy things people did and said. Mulder was different. One of the agent's qualities that Skinner found himself both inspired and irritated by was his consistent ability to catch him off balance. Now was no exception. "You're just figuring that out now, sir?" Skinner opened his mouth to reply, realized he was speechless, and settled for glaring at Mulder instead. Mulder pretended not to notice. "I know I belong in a hospital. You and Scully only have to watch while my body falls apart, but I'm the one living it. I also know I can't spend the short time I have left doing nothing but counting ceiling tiles and wondering what new experience this toxin will inflict upon me. I have to be *doing* something, sir. Don't take that away from me." Skinner rebelled against the crushing sense of empathy Mulder's words engendered. He was the man's boss; the one responsible not only for Mulder's safety, but Scully's as well. He couldn't allow a feeling of kinship with Mulder to influence what should be an objective decision. "Mulder, you just vomited blood..." "It's not as bad as it looks. A little blood looks like a lot, even Scully will tell you that. And I didn't actually vomit blood. I probably ruptured some blood vessels because of the dry heaves. The doctor warned me it could happen." Skinner glared at Mulder. Though he gave every appearance of stern disapproval on the exterior, inside he felt deep admiration for the man before him. Mulder's face was ghostly pale except for the dark circles beneath his eyes. He wore the pinched look of someone enduring a high level of pain, and his hands trembled when he forgot to clasp them tightly together. But his gaze was clear, lucid, and determined, lacking any fear or self-pity. How many men could have weathered any of Mulder's past experiences, let alone the last ten minutes, and kept going? The man's sheer courage under fire was remarkable. "I should yank you out of here right now and deposit your butt into the nearest hospital," Skinner growled, internally already admitting defeat. "But you aren't going to," Mulder finished for him, the relief on his face so intense Skinner felt he had to look away. "Thank you, sir. And I meant what I said earlier. Please don't tell Scully about this. There's nothing she can do, and it will only upset her." "She's already upset, Mulder." "You know what I mean." Skinner thought it over before nodding reluctantly. "I won't volunteer anything," he warned. "But I won't lie to her." Mulder pushed himself slowly to his feet. "I can accept that." Skinner watched without comment as Mulder splashed water on his face and used his damp hands to finger-comb his hair. When he'd straightened his tie and turned around, Skinner had to admit that the man looked amazingly composed and well put together. Skinner couldn't help feeling a flicker of amusement -- at both the sharp look Scully gave Mulder when they reentered the interrogation room and his agent's feigned ignorance. Before Scully could actually comment, however, the opposite door opened and a uniformed officer escorted Reardon into the room. The man slouched insolently in the chair with his gaze fixed on the table, ignoring the three pairs of eyes fastened on him. His long brown hair was gathered into a ponytail, and his eyes were so dark they appeared nearly black in color. He was tall in stature, with the muscular build of someone who worked out regularly. After the guard had left the room, Reardon looked up. His eyes skipped quickly over Skinner, but Scully saw a brief flash of recognition when they rested on Mulder before quickly skittering away. Mulder looked at Scully from the corner of his eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. Guessing that he wanted to be free to observe Reardon for the moment, she initiated the first question. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," she said. "The man next to me is my partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder. But you already knew that, didn't you Mr. Reardon." It was a statement, not a question. Skinner had removed himself to the background once again, and on a sudden impulse Scully decided not to introduce him yet. Skinner might just prove to be a trump card later on. "I don't know what you're talking about," Reardon said sullenly. "How the hell would I know some Fibbie's name?" Scully smiled, but it was the smile of a shark sensing its next meal. Mulder suppressed a smirk. *Be afraid, Reardon. I'd turn back if I were you.* "I'm sorry, Larry. I just assumed that having someone's blood all over your shirt indicated prior contact with him. Am I wrong?" Reardon glared at her and looked about to refute her words, but evidently decided it would be useless. Instead he leaned forward and rested his folded arms on the table, a smug smile replacing the hostility. "Guess there's no use denying it, sweetheart. You've got me dead to rights. I'll just have to place myself at your mercy." He .followed the words with an exaggerated wink. Scully saw Mulder's knuckles turn white, but to his credit he remained stone-faced. She knew what it cost him. Mulder hated it when a suspect treated her disrespectfully, and Reardon was pushing that particular button with eerie accuracy. "There's only one thing I want from you, Mr. Reardon," Scully replied coldly. "I want the location of Cameron Cardow. Now." "I don't do anything unless there's something in it for me." "You helped Cardow, and it landed you here," Mulder spoke up. "What did you get out of that?" "Cam was my buddy when we were inside," Reardon answered, shifting his gaze from Scully to Mulder. "He helped me out of a couple tight spots and I owed him. Besides, he offered me a couple hundred bucks just to put you out of commission long enough for him to give you that shot." He shrugged and grinned. "I needed the money." "If he was such a pal, why didn't he just loan you the money?" Scully muttered. Mulder shot her a warning glance. "Why did he do it, Reardon? Did he discuss it with you?" Reardon rolled his eyes. "Did he *discuss* it with me? Man, you were all he talked about the entire time we shared a cell! I was glad when they finally released him. If I had to hear the gory details about what he was going to do to you one more time, I think I'd have lost my mind." If it was possible, Mulder paled. "Tell me." "He *hated* you, man. Said you were responsible for putting him away, knowing he was innocent. Real paranoid crap too, he kept talking about *'Them.'* Said it just like that, with a capital "T." He said They put you .up to the whole thing to stop him from completing his work on some project. Said you worked for Them. That's why he wanted you to die. He claimed you were real important to Them, and that by killing you he'd be hurting Them at the same time. Two birds with one stone, so to speak." Mulder leaned back in his chair and ran a trembling hand through his hair. Seeing that he was visibly rattled by Reardon's words, Scully jumped in. "So you admit that Cardow's intention was to kill Agent Mulder." Reardon snorted. "*Kill* him? Yeah, but that was just a side benefit. What Cam really wanted was to make him suffer, and have a front row seat. Like picking the legs off a bug, one at a time, he used to say. You stretch it out, make it last. You don't actually squash the bug until the very end." Mulder closed his eyes a moment before lurching to his feet and heading for the door. "I need some air," he muttered. Scully forced her own mask of detachment to remain firmly in place, though she badly wanted to wipe the look of amusement from Reardon's face. "I'm glad you find this entertaining, Mr. Reardon," she said coldly. "Since you'll wind up doing some serious time for this one. What is the standard sentence for first degree murder, sir?" She tossed the question casually over her shoulder, proud of the fact that her voice never wavered. "We're talking a minimum of life in prison, Agent Scully. The fact that Mulder is a federal agent adds to the seriousness of the crime. I'd say the death penalty is certainly a possibility." Scully only wished she had Mulder's eidetic memory so that she could savor the memory of Reardon's reaction over and over in the same glorious detail. Every bit of color drained from the man's face and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Wait a minute, wait a minute! Cam was the one who injected him with that stuff! All I did was knock him over the head. I figure that's assault, maybe, but not murder!" "You participated in an act that may cause the death of a federal agent. An act that was premeditated, I might add," Skinner said gravely. "Oh, this is Assistant Director Skinner," Scully said, barely containing the glee in her voice. "I guess I forgot to introduce him." It was at that point that Reardon began to babble. Mulder was leaning against the car when Scully and Skinner finally exited the building. His eyes were closed, his face tilted up to absorb the warm rays of the sun. Scully joined him, her arm brushing his companionably. "Jackpot," she said quietly. Mulder opened his eyes and arched one eyebrow. "He doesn't know where Cardow lives, but he knows where he works. He's got a job at Georgetown University, as a custodian for the medical school. The graveyard shift." "Where there just happens to be plenty of empty labs stocked with chemicals and equipment," Mulder mused. "How'd you get him to talk?" Scully grinned at her boss. "Believe it or not, Skinner and I make a pretty good team." Mulder smirked. "Let me guess, sir. She was the 'bad cop,' am I right?" "Mulder, I had no idea how ruthless your partner could be. I can only say one thing -- be grateful she's on our side." Mulder looked at his partner, her expression, for the moment, relaxed and cheerful. He waited until he'd caught her eye before speaking. "I am, sir. Every day." Continued in part 12 Countdown (12/16) By Dawn Georgetown University The Research Building 12:00 a.m. 25 hours remaining "Why is orange the only color that's also a flavor?" Scully turned her head to take in her partner's profile, barely visible in the darkness. "What?" "You heard me. Why is orange the only color that's a flavor? I mean, think about it, Scully. Red things are cherry, purple things are grape. Why don't we call cherries reds? Or grapes purples?" "Mulder, we are sitting here in the dark, waiting for a deeply disturbed man who has injected you with a deadly toxin. What in God's name made you think of that?" Mulder shrugged. "Just the way my mind works, I guess." In the stillness of the deserted building, the labored quality of Mulder's breathing was unmistakable. When they'd returned from Arlington, and Skinner had left to check on things at the Bureau, Mulder had come to her for one of the painkillers prescribed by Dr. Wagner. He'd refused to meet her eyes, simply swallowing the pill with some chamomile tea and stretching out on his couch. As he'd predicted, the medication knocked him out, and he'd slept a full five hours, barely stirring. The respiratory problem must have developed during that time, for she'd noticed it immediately when he woke up. Scully tried not to think about the fact that it was gradually becoming more pronounced. He was still functioning well when sitting or lying down, but walking at more than a snail's pace had him panting as if he'd run a marathon. They hadn't spoken of it, since the implications were obvious. Skinner had shot Scully a worried frown when he'd returned an hour ago, but had said nothing. They'd called the university to ascertain Cardow's schedule, learning that he was due to work in the Research Building tonight. Now they waited, with Scully and Mulder positioned just inside the back entrance and Skinner covering the front. "You let me know if you have any other deep thoughts, Mulder," Scully said, feeling amused at his ruminations. Amused, yes, but so much more. Fearful. Heartbroken. Because a little voice inside her head, the one that listened to the relentlessly ticking clock, wouldn't stop whispering. *I'm going to miss him terribly. How can I even contemplate doing this without him? Baseball games on the radio. Discussing the gunmen's latest conspiracy theories. Debating whether Batman or Spiderman would win in a fair fight...* *All the ways his incredible mind works.* *I can't do this.* "Well, since you asked, there *is* the problem with the expressions people use. Have you ever really listened to them? None of them make a bit of sense, but everyone repeats them anyway. Sick as a dog. What's that supposed to mean? From what I can see, dogs rarely get sick." "Mulder?" "Yeah, Scully?" "I changed my mind. Shut up." She heard the slight chuffing sound of his laughter before he fell silent. She listened to the sound of his breathing for several minutes and wished with all her might that she were merely having an amazingly vivid dream. She wanted to wake up. Now. "Mulder?" "Hmm?" "I still wouldn't change anything." As always, he was right there with her. "Just the flukeman thing, huh?" She shook her head, feeling him fumble for her hand in the darkness. "Not even that. Mulder, I need you to know..." "*Don't*, Scully." The sharpness of his tone shocked her to silence. But when he spoke again his voice was warm and wistful. "There's a lot that's remained unsaid, Scully. On both sides. And someday we *will* say the words. But not here, and not now, like this. I don't want to wonder if you've said things because I may not be around tomorrow to hold you to them. And I don't want you to ever doubt my motives." Scully squeezed his hand, blinking back the tears that threatened. "I know. You're right. Anyway, once we catch Cardow tonight, we'll have all the time in the world for talking." Silence descended between them once more, and Scully found herself staring at the door, willing it to open. Mulder shifted restlessly beside her. "Hey, Scully?" "Yeah, Mulder." "Me too." The sound of footsteps and the jingle of keys aborted the smile that had begun to form on her lips. Scully scrambled to her feet and drew her weapon, sensing Mulder mirroring her actions. "Wait until he's all the way in the building," Mulder said sotto voice. "We don't want to lose him." The door opened, revealing a single figure silhouetted briefly by the moonlight before stepping inside and closing the door. Even in the poor lighting, Scully recognized the long hair and slight build from the police photo. It was Cameron Cardow. "Federal Agent! Don't move!" she warned, automatically lowering the pitch of her voice for more authority. The next ten seconds exploded in a kaleidoscope of fragmented images to which she could only react, allowing her training to take over. Cardow brought his hands up as if in surrender, but a sudden intense beam of light flared. Momentarily blinded, Scully fought the reflex to close her eyes against the piercing beam. She heard Mulder fire a warning shot, shouting for Cardow not to move, but then the light was flying in her direction. Something heavy narrowly missed hitting her in the head, and she heard the sound of retreating footsteps. Mulder was by her side in an instant, panting. "You all right?" "I'm fine. What *was* that?" Mulder stooped and picked up an object near her feet. It was a large, halogen flashlight, rendered useless by its impact with the floor. "He went into the stairwell. Call Skinner and let him know what's going on. There should be another stairwell near the entrance. Have him meet us on the second floor. With any luck, we can trap Cardow in between." Mulder's terse instructions were broken by gasps for breath. Scully could just make out a fine sheen of perspiration on his brow, and the hand holding his weapon trembled slightly. "Mulder..." "We're wasting time here, Scully," he cut her off sharply, reaching for the door to the stairwell. "Call Skinner." He'd disappeared before she could respond, and she swore softly under her breath while punching number four on the speed dial of her cell phone. "Skinner." "It's Scully. We surprised Cardow at the back entrance, but he gave us the slip. If you take the stairs to the second floor we may be able to flush him in your direction." She could feel Skinner hesitate, and knew his reservations only echoed her own. But all he said was, "I'm on it." Tucking the phone back into her pocket, Scully entered the dark stairwell and climbed swiftly and silently to the second floor. She paused just inside the hallway, trying desperately to get her bearings in the darkness. A long corridor stretched before her with doors on either side, spaced at intervals of about thirty feet. "Take the right side." Mulder's voice was so soft it was nearly inaudible. "He's here. I heard footsteps." Scully nodded, though she was doubtful Mulder would be able to see it. Raising her weapon, she cautiously pushed the first door open and slipped inside. She could detect the interior of a lab, aided by the light from a row of windows on the far wall. Several long lab benches filled the central portion of the room, with large pieces of equipment lining the walls. She moved catlike around the periphery, even checking in the kneehole of the large oak desk. Satisfied it was empty, she moved carefully out the door and down to the next. In retrospect, she should have noticed that the shelving unit was not flush with the wall. A chemical spill, she learned much later, had necessitated moving the unit an additional foot away from where it normally rested so that the floor could be cleaned. A man the size of Mulder could never have fit into the small space, but Cardow was a good thirty pounds lighter and small-boned. Scully hadn't traveled more than three steps past the unit, when she was seized from behind. Cardow pulled her close to his body, one hand clasped roughly over her lips and the other pressing a razor sharp object to her throat. "The tables have turned, Agent Scully," he whispered, pressing his mouth close to her left ear. "Now it's *your* turn to freeze." His breath smelled faintly of alcohol, and Scully couldn't repress a shudder at the feel of it against her skin. "You may as well turn yourself in, Cardow," she said with more assurance than she felt. "You aren't going to make it out of this building." Cardow chuckled, and she felt her skin crawl in response. "I don't want to make it out of the building. I must admit, this isn't exactly what I'd planned, but now that you're both here, I'm warming to the idea. Let's find Agent Mulder, shall we?" She complied, her mind working frantically for some alternative. She allowed herself to be shuffled out into the corridor, wincing once when Cardow pressed a little too firmly on her neck. She felt a warm trickle that signified he'd drawn blood. "Agent Mullllderrrr!" Cardow called in a slightly sing-song voice. "Come out, come out! It's time to renew our acquaintance." Scully struggled not to let her feet tangle as Cardow turned in a slow circle, searching for her partner. She could feel the man practically thrumming with nervous excitement, and her fear for Mulder ratcheted up another notch. The little she'd seen of Cardow so far had only served to confirm their suspicions that he was extremely unstable. "I'm right here. Let her go." Mulder's voice was thin and raspy, a pale imitation of his normally smooth tenor. Cardow spun quickly to face him and Scully stumbled, gasping when the blade pierced her flesh a second time. In the deep shadows it was difficult to get a good look at Mulder, but what she saw alarmed her. He leaned heavily against the doorway from which he'd appeared, and even from a distance she could hear how labored his breathing had grown. All she could see of his face was the occasional glitter of his eyes when the light struck them just so. "Hey, Agent Mulder. How are you? You don't look so good." Cardow's voice dripped honey in an obscene parody of concern. "This is between you and me, Cardow. Agent Scully has nothing to do with it. Let her go and we'll talk." Cardow's face twisted into a sneer. "You're wrong. She is a part of this, because you made her one. Now put down your gun and kick it toward me." "Mulder, don't!" Scully pleaded, only to be cut off by the blade at her throat. Mulder silently did as ordered. The gun skittered down the hallway before coming to rest about six inches from Cardow's left foot. "You're wrong about me, Cardow," Mulder said. "They used me just as much as they did you. I was only doing my job. I believed you were guilty." "Don't lie to me!" Cardow shrieked, spittle flying from his lips. "You think I don't know whose son you are? You honestly expect me to believe you weren't part of their agenda? I'm not a fool, Agent Mulder, despite what you all may think! Ten years ago you helped them take away a project that meant more to me than my own life. Now the fruits of that project will bring about the end of yours. How does it feel?" At the far end of the hallway, behind Cardow, Mulder saw a flicker of movement. Despite the sudden flare of hope the sight ignited, he deliberately kept his eyes on Cardow. Keep him talking. He can't figure out Skinner is behind him or he'll hurt Scully. "The project was to create a toxin to kill an alien life form, wasn't it?" "They told us we'd be responsible for saving the earth," Cardow spat. "That we'd be revered by future generations, just like Einstein and Pascal. Then they threw it all away! One bad test run with the black stuff they found in that rock, and they gave up. They wouldn't even listen when I told them I could fix it if given a chance. Five long years of blood, sweat, and tears, and they were determined to throw it all away after one bad trial!" "But I wouldn't let them. I turned in all my notes except for the actual formula for the toxin. I hid it on a disk and took it home so that I could come back and work on it after hours, when no one was around." "But someone saw you," Mulder said. Through the periphery of his vision he could see Skinner was closer now. "Yeah, and that's when they brought you in, isn't it? They killed Carolyn -- or were you in on that too? Poor, sweet Carolyn, whose only mistake was having cared about me. They killed her just to get rid of me! And you made sure I took the fall for it." Something in Cardow's demeanor changed, and Scully could feel it in the sudden calm that replaced the tension in his body. The nearly hysterical anger he'd been venting just a moment earlier abruptly evaporated, and he actually laughed softly. "I think I've just had an epiphany, Agent Mulder. I've so enjoyed the past two days, watching as my little creation slowly takes you apart piece by piece. Hard to conceive of it getting any better, but I just thought of a way." "You helped them take away the most important woman in my life, Agent Mulder. What if I return the favor?" He slowly lifted his free hand to caress Scully's hair, grinning when Mulder made an aborted lunge toward him. "She takes care of you, doesn't she? Making you tea when you're too sick to eat. Rubbing your shoulders when the muscle cramps are so painful you don't think you can bear it. But losing her would hurt far more than any of those physical torments, wouldn't it, Agent Mulder? From what I've seen, she's all you've got." "Cardow..." It was meant to sound threatening, but the name came out as a breathless, terrified, moan. Mulder could feel himself begin to hyperventilate, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. "They spilled Carolyn's blood, remember Agent Mulder? Slit her wrists and left her there to slowly bleed to death, paralyzed and helpless. Agent Scully's death will actually be much more merciful. It doesn't take long to die once your jugular has been severed..." "Freeze, Cardow!" Skinner roared, startling Cardow into spinning around to face him. Yet he retained the presence of mind to keep Scully as a shield. "You'll have to shoot through her!" he warned, a high note of panic in his voice. Almost on autopilot, Mulder staggered to a crouch and removed the gun from his ankle holster. "I have my gun pointed at your head, Cardow," he gasped, blinking to clear vision that wavered in and out of focus. "It's over. Let her go." Cardow glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "You won't shoot me, Mulder. I'm your only hope. There is an antidote -- did I forget to mention that? Kill me, and any chance of a cure dies with me." The hand holding the blade twitched closer, biting more deeply into the pale skin of Scully's neck. "Stop, Cardow!" Skinner bellowed. "I'll shoot! Do you hear me?" Mulder screamed, the gun wavering as he struggled to hold it steady. "Mulder, don't!" Scully cried. The shot rang out before she'd finished speaking the words. Scully felt the body behind her convulse, and the pressure on her neck increased slightly before abruptly ceasing. Cardow slid to the floor with a muffled thump. She knew before turning around that he was dead. Cardow lay crumpled on the tile, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and a large part of the back of his head missing. Skinner was at her side an instant later, a steadying hand on her elbow when she swayed slightly. "Easy, Scully. Deep breaths." Which brought her as quickly back into focus as if he'd slapped her. "Mulder?" He'd slid down against the wall until he was seated on the floor. His face was bathed in sweat, and his respirations were little more than ineffectual gulps for air. Even in the darkened hallway she could see that his lips were turning blue from lack of oxygen. "Call 911," she told Skinner, removing Mulder's tie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt with trembling fingers. Mulder turned glazed eyes on her face. "You...okay?" Scully bit her lip hard to stave off the tears. "Thanks to you." Mulder lifted his hand to trace the cut at her neck with his index finger. "Bastard." The full impact of the last 30 minutes finally caught up with her, and Scully could no longer rein in her emotions. Tears filled her eyes and overflowed as she reached out to cup his cheek. "Why'd you do it, Mulder? He was your only chance. You could have tried for his leg, his shoulder..." Mulder's expression was weary, but peaceful. "Too risky. Cardow...was right. You...all I've got." As Mulder's eyes slipped shut, Scully heard the wail of sirens in the distance. Continued in part 13 Countdown (13/16) By Dawn Georgetown Medical Center 8:04 a.m. 17 hours remaining He barely recognized her when he stepped into the small ICU waiting room. If not for the bright curtain of auburn hair that effectively concealed her facial features, Skinner would have thought he was looking at a stranger. The Dana Scully he knew was strong, retaining her composure in even the most horrendous situations. Some mistook this strength for coldness, snidely whispering nicknames like "Ice Queen" behind her back. Skinner knew they couldn't be more wrong. Dana Scully had a warm and loving heart. And right now it was shattering, even as he watched. She sat on the hard plastic chair, slumped forward with her face buried in her hands. He could just catch a glimpse of white at her throat, indicating that someone at the hospital had been brave enough to convince her that the throat wound should be treated. When the paramedics had arrived at the scene, she'd become nearly hostile at the suggestion that she allow one of them to look at her injury. For Scully, Mulder's plight eclipsed all other concerns, rendering them inconsequential. When after several minutes she hadn't raised her head, Skinner cleared his throat. "Scully?" She showed him a face stained with despair and old tears. "Sir." Skinner sat down beside her, feeling all the words he wanted to say dry up and crumble to dust. What do you say to someone who is about to lose half of herself? "What's his condition?" Scully's voice was as dull and colorless as the walls around them. "He stopped breathing twice on the way here. They've got him on a ventilator, but he's seized twice in the last several hours. One was four minutes long. They'd be concerned about brain damage except at this point it really doesn't matter." Skinner closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Not for the first time, he wished it were easier for him to express his feelings, to offer comfort. His father had been a good man, but one who firmly believed that to be strong meant to bury your feelings deeply. He supposed such training had served him well in certain situations. This was not one of them. Scully's next words, however, brought that particular wall crashing down. "After everything we've seen, after everything we've been through, it shouldn't end like this. He's spent his entire life trying to help other people in one way or another. It's not fair that he's going to die because of something he never even did. He deserves so much better." Scully's voice caught, but she ruthlessly held back her tears. "I feel as if I've let him down." Skinner's arm slipped around her shoulders almost of its own accord, surprising even him. "Scully. I've known Mulder for ten years. I've seen what he was before you came into his life, and I've seen what he's become since. He was floundering before you became partners, Scully. You've focused him, grounded him. He's a better agent because of you. In no sense of the word have you let that man down." A single tear slipped down Scully's cheek and she brushed it impatiently away. "Thank you, sir." After taking a deep breath she seemed to pull herself together. "You wrapped up things at the university?" Skinner nodded, relieved to be discussing facts rather than feelings. "There'll be an inquiry into the shooting, of course. It's just routine. Mulder had every justification for using deadly force." He hesitated momentarily before continuing. "We searched Cardow and his vehicle, Scully. There was no sign of the formula or an antidote, and no indication where he's been living. I have men still going through the building, but frankly I'm not hopeful." Scully nodded. "I expected as much. Cardow was a lunatic, but he was a brilliant lunatic." Before Skinner could reply, the door to the room opened and a doctor stepped inside. Skinner recognized the man from Mulder's previous stay at George Washington Medical. Evidently the man had privileges at Georgetown as well. "Dr. Wagner." Scully was on her feet and across the room before Skinner had finished processing the man's identity. "How is he?" Wagner nodded at Skinner as he joined them, before turning his attention back to Scully. "He's stable, but very weak. We had to switch the ventilator to 100 percent; he's incapable of sustaining any respiration on his own. The seizures appear to be under control, for now, but I'm sure you realize there's not much we can do at this point." "Is he conscious?" Wagner made a see saw motion with his hand. "He's in and out. We've got him on some pretty heavy painkillers, but we can't eliminate the pain entirely. All we can do is try to keep him as comfortable as possible." He shifted uncomfortably. "I've seen Agent Mulder's living will. The terms for termination of life support are quite specific. When the time comes, I'll have to abide by them. You're aware of this?" His words pierced Scully's fragile composure, and she pressed her hand tightly to her mouth for several moments before she could speak. "We filled out our living wills at the same time. I'm aware of what Agent Mulder wants. Can we see him?" Wagner nodded, his face radiating compassion. "I've instructed the ICU nurses to suspend the usual rules regarding visits. As long as the other patients aren't disturbed, he can have visitors at any time." "Thank you." The words were little more than a whisper. Wagner nodded again. He turned to leave, but paused. "I'm very sorry, Dr. Scully. I wish I could do more." Skinner held the door for Scully before following her down the long hall. The hushed atmosphere and grave expressions attested all too clearly to the dire circumstances of the patients on this floor. "Have you called his mother?" he asked quietly. Scully nodded. "She hasn't been well. She wants to be here, but wasn't sure she could make the trip in time." They'd reached Mulder's cubicle, and Scully went immediately to his bedside. Skinner took in the plethora of machinery and his agent's limp, nearly lifeless form. He swallowed thickly, unable to reconcile the form in the bed with the vital, passionate man he knew. Scully slipped her hand into Mulder's and stroked the back gently with her thumb. "Hey, Partner. You gonna wake up for me?" At first there was no response, just the beeping of the heart monitor and the hissing of the respirator as it rhythmically filled and emptied his lungs. Scully blinked rapidly, reaching her other hand to smooth his hair. "Come on, Mulder. Show me you're in there." His eyelids twitched, causing hope to spring up within her. "That's it. You can do it." They finally slid open after several aborted attempts. As his gaze locked onto her face, Scully saw he wasn't even attempting to fight the ventilator. She realized, with an ache that was almost physical, how truly weak he must be. "Wagner says they've got you on the good stuff," Scully said, trying to sound cheerful. She failed miserably, even to her own ears. "Do you need anything?" Mulder blinked once. It was an old system they'd devised during a time he'd been on a ventilator previously. One blink meant no, two signified yes. "I called your mother, Mulder. She's trying to get here, but it's hard with her health problems." Mulder rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated. No words were needed to communicate that thought. His gaze softened, and in spite of his weakness he managed to raise one hand enough indicate the bandage at her throat. "I'm fine, Mulder. It was just a scratch, didn't even require stitches. Guess I won't be sporting the Frankenstein look this season." One corner of his mouth curved slightly, but his eyes were already slipping shut. Scully could see him struggling against the sleep that wanted to pull him under. "It's okay, Mulder," she said, unable to mask the tremor in her voice. "You sleep now." She let her fingers weave soothingly through his hair, watching as he slid back into a drugged slumber. The tightness in her chest was unbearable. She wanted to scream and curse and throw things. She wanted to punish someone. "I wish that son of a bitch were still alive," she growled, turning to face Skinner. "I wish I could make him suffer every bit as much as Mulder, and more. How dare he inflict this horror on another human being and then watch-" Skinner saw a look of shock descend over Scully's previously enraged face. "Scully? What is it? Are you all right?" "He watched us," she murmured, almost to herself. "I know. He was deeply disturbed, Scully, there's no other explanation-" Scully shook her head, impatience making her appear angry. "NO! You aren't getting it! Cardow watched Mulder and I. Do you remember what he said? She makes you tea when you can't eat. She rubs your neck- Sir, those things happened inside Agent Mulder's apartment. How could he have known?" "Unless he could see into Mulder's place from wherever he was," Skinner said, understanding. "There's an apartment building right across the street from Mulder's," Scully said, excitement replacing shock. "Then we're wasting time, aren't we?" Skinner said grimly. Flashing him a look of gratitude, Scully turned back to Mulder. Ignoring the fact that Skinner was just behind her, she leaned over to place a soft kiss on Mulder's forehead. "I'll be right back, Mulder," she whispered, stroking his pale cheek. "Don't you dare leave me, or I'll never do a single one of your expense reports." Leaving him now was one of the hardest things she'd had to do; yet a sudden, bright spark of hope balanced the ache in her heart. Continued in part 14 Countdown (14/16) By Dawn Wilshire Towers - Apt. 407 10:53 a.m. 14 hours remaining Scully stood back to allow the manager to use her passkey. She tried desperately not to fidget (a behavior unbecoming to a federal agent) but realized she'd lost the battle when she found herself shifting her weight back and forth between her two feet. Her one consolation was that she'd noticed Skinner unconsciously drumming his fingers. "I really find it hard to believe Mr. Connors could have done those things you mentioned," clucked Mrs. Bruett, oblivious to the tension in the two people behind her. "He really seemed like such a nice young man. He never played loud music and he was always so polite." Clenching her teeth to avoid screaming, Scully smiled thinly. "Well, that's how it is with some criminals. They project a falsely positive image to most of the people who know them. Only upon careful examination is their true nature revealed." Mercifully, the key finally slid home and the door swung open. "Can I be of any more assistance to you folks?" Norma Bruett asked, craning her neck a little to catch a glimpse of the apartment. Though partly horrified to learn that a murderer had lived in her building, she was also more than slightly intrigued. After all, she'd never been in the apartment of a hardened criminal before. Stepping between Norma and the inside, Skinner shook his head politely. "We can handle it from here, Mrs. Bruett. It would be best if you just go back downstairs and leave us to do our jobs." "Very well then, Mr. Skinner," she said with a slight huff. "Never let it be said that Norma Bruett obstructed justice." In any other instance Scully would have felt amusement at the elderly woman's nosiness. But all she could see was Mulder's white face, his chest mechanically rising and falling with each forced breath. All she could hear was the ticking of the clock as the minutes slipped by at what seemed to be an ever-increasing rate. She followed Skinner into the apartment, her eyes roaming to take in every detail as they walked through the galley style kitchen and into a dining area with a small table and two chairs. The rooms were Spartan in their neatness and in the lack of furnishings. Evidently Cardow had not been concerned with making this apartment a home. When they reached the living room, however, one object commanded their complete attention. The living room contained one big picture window that overlooked the street and, ultimately, Mulder's apartment complex. Positioned directly in front of the window was a large and undoubtedly expensive telescope. Skinner watched as Scully silently crossed to the device and looked through the eyepiece. What she observed caused her to pull back suddenly, as if burned. "It's lined up perfectly," she told Skinner, horror written on her face. "You can see right through the window by Mulder's desk. Mulder likes to keep those blinds closed, but whenever I'm over I make him open them..." Seeing that Scully was understandably shaken, Skinner decided to give her some space. "I'll check the bedroom." Scully nodded and numbly set about searching the room for anything that might lead her to the antidote. She was perusing several of the books on the shelf when Skinner called her. "Scully. I think you'd better see this." Alarmed at what lay unspoken in his words, Scully immediately replaced the book and followed the sound of his voice down a short hallway to the single bedroom. She halted just inside the doorway, speechless. Cardow had a shrine -- except you couldn't really call it that. A shrine was meant to honor or revere, while the effect achieved here was the exact opposite. A rolltop desk was the only piece of furniture aside from the double bed. On the desk lay an expensive camera with a telephoto lens. On the walls surrounding the desk Cardow had pasted the products of the camera. Pictures of Mulder. Mulder with his eyes screwed shut in pain. Mulder lying on the ground outside his building, unconscious and bleeding from the blow to his head. Mulder on his hands and knees, vomiting. Mulder sitting at his desk, weeping, never knowing a camera was recording the rare display of tears. Scully swallowed hard, resisting the brutal wave of nausea that crashed into her at the sight. She sagged against the wall, grateful for its support. "We thought he was unstable," she said, feeling as if the words came from a great distance. "We had no idea what we were dealing with." "There's more," Skinner said, grimly apologetic. He handed her a thick scrapbook, and she felt her skin crawl at the feel of the smooth leather. Irrational as it might be, she suddenly wanted nothing to do with the book. Steeling herself, she flipped open the cover. A newspaper clipping caught her attention. "FBI Profile Leads to Arrest." She scanned the article quickly, already knowing what she would find. "It's the Monty Propps case. Mulder's case." "They're all Mulder's cases, or articles dealing with Mulder. He's even got copies of the articles Mulder wrote under that pen name. There three of these volumes," Skinner said, gesturing to two more identical tomes. Scully flipped through the pages, seeing Mulder's life over the past ten years unfold before her eyes. "He must have been saving these the whole time he was in prison," she said, both amazed and repulsed. "To say he was obsessed is an understatement," Skinner observed dryly. "My guess is that Cardow was always a few cards short of a full deck. It was the loss of his work and his subsequent murder conviction that pushed him 'round the bend." Scully stared at a photo of the two of them, taken after a case from the early days of their partnership. Mulder's hand was raised in the classic "no comment" gesture, but he was looking down at her with a slight smile. She traced his face with a trembling finger, thinking how young they both looked back then. At the moment, standing before Cardow's sick gallery, she felt as if she'd aged a hundred years rather than just six. The sound of Skinner opening desk drawers snapped her back into focus. Scully placed the book with the other three and scanned the room, frowning. "There's got to be a computer. Cardow said he had the formula on a disk." "Laptop, next to the bed on the other side," Skinner said. She booted up the computer while Skinner continued to search. The files on the hard drive were straightforward and completely useless. Addresses. A resume. Nothing to indicate Cardow was continuing his nasty little experiment on a human subject. Nothing to help Mulder. A loud crash pulled her attention from the laptop to Skinner. He stood with the contents of the desk strewn about his feet, cursing under his breath. Feeling Scully's eyes on him, he looked suddenly embarrassed by his outburst. "Any luck?" Scully shook her head, feeling the bright spark of hope she'd been nursing begin to flicker and die. "Nothing." "It has to be here," Skinner growled, glaring up at the wall of photos. "I can just see him using these damn photos for inspiration while he worked." A strange expression crossed his features, and he strode closer to the wall. Reaching out with both hands, he began to run them over the surfaces of the pictures, face intent. A moment later he had ripped one from the wall and was approaching Scully with a disk in his fingers. She plugged it into the drive only to groan in frustration. "It's password-protected!" She immediately began typing in possibilities, fingers flying over the keys. At each harsh beep of rejection, they shook a little more. "What about the three stooges?" Skinner suggested, trying not to hang over her shoulder but unable to help himself. "That will take time, and Mulder's is running out." Another beep of refusal and Scully barely restrained herself from flinging the laptop across the room. Instead she scrubbed at her eyes, wiping away tears of frustration. "I've tried every word I can think of, every variation of Mulder's name, anything that Cardow would relate to his obsession with Mulder. Nothing is working!" Skinner laid a calming hand on her shoulder. "Step back for a minute, Scully. We're closer than we've ever been. Don't let this rattle you." Scully sighed deeply and Skinner could see her physically forcing herself to relax. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Cameron Cardow. Unfortunately, the image that sprang immediately to mind was of being tightly clutched against the man's body, a sharp blade pressed to her throat. She could hear him vividly, ranting about Mulder's supposed crimes against him and threatening to spill her blood just like... "Could it be that simple?" she muttered. Very carefully she typed each letter. C A R O L Y N With a shaking hand she hit return. And with a soft chime Mulder's life was placed back into her eager hands. Continued in part 15 Countdown (15/16) By Dawn Georgetown Medical Center 3:00 p.m. 10 hours remaining Death hovered at Mulder's side like a concerned friend, a nearly tangible presence. Skinner caught the disapproving glare of a nurse and forced himself to stop pacing, dropping into the chair at Mulder's left hand. For the fifth time in as many minutes, he checked his watch. *Hurry Scully. Hurry or it will be too late.* He was unable to look at the man before him without feeling as if he'd been sucker punched. Skinner was a little surprised by the intensity of emotion. Surprised, and perhaps unwilling to accept just how far Mulder had gotten under his skin. His normally very thick, very impenetrable skin. Skinner held no illusions about himself. He realized he tended to remain emotionally isolated from those closest to him. It was the chief cause for the slow breakdown of his marriage. Though his father's similar detachment was certainly a contributor, Viet Nam had taught him a powerful lesson about the consequences of opening up to others. It was ironic that Fox Mulder, the bureau's problem child, had succeeded where even Sharon had failed. Why, was an X-File in and of itself. Skinner only knew that he couldn't reveal pieces of his soul to someone he didn't respect, and the list of those he did was short. Mulder and Scully had earned a place on that list. Skinner looked at the still form, so unlike the Fox Mulder he'd come to know. Many of the rumors he'd heard before becoming Mulder's supervisor were true. Yes, the man was a maverick, not above breaking any rule he thought foolish or unnecessary. Yes, he could be arrogant, abrasive, and downright rude. And yes, he could spout a theory that sounded as if he'd gone completely 'round the bend, looking you straight in the eye the entire time. All those observations were true; and they were the reason Mulder, universally acknowledged for his brilliance, occupied a basement office about as far off the fast track as you could get. Those who made such observations did so by barely bothering to scratch the surface of the man before dismissing him. Skinner knew that with Mulder, the carefully-crafted exterior was deceptive. You had only to dig to find gold. Scully, fortunately for her partner, had rolled up her sleeves and pulled out a shovel. Mulder might break the rules, but his motives were usually pure. Skinner was an ex-marine who believed deeply in rules and the importance of following them. Mulder's lackadaisical treatment of procedure infuriated him, but even he had to admit that often, Mulder's instincts were correct. Mulder's abrasiveness was simple for Skinner to understand. Where Skinner used a rigid and stern demeanor to hold others at arm's length, Mulder just tried to irritate the heck out of them. Underneath, however, was a soul scarred by a myriad of abuses, yet still able to empathize with the wounds of others. Mulder truly absorbed the pain of a victim, sometimes until he bled inside. As to Mulder's bottomless supply of outlandish theories, well, he had an uncanny habit of being right. Skinner discovered with great amusement that he'd been coming up with a few extreme possibilities himself. Footsteps, and Dr. Wagner pulled aside the curtain to approach Mulder's bed. He lifted Mulder's chart and then began to silently examine him, waving for Skinner to remain seated. Skinner watched uneasily as Wagner checked Mulder's pupil response and poked him several times with a large, needle-like object. When he finally replaced the blanket and turned to Skinner, his face was grave. "Will Dr. Scully be joining you soon?" "She's at the bureau labs, working with them on the antidote we found," Skinner answered, rising to his feet and placing himself between the doctor and Mulder in an unconscious gesture of protection. Wagner sighed, and glanced around the room as if searching for the right words. "Mr. Skinner, I won't pull any punches. Mr. Mulder's condition has continued to deteriorate. He's slipped more deeply into a comatose state. Right now he's very close to achieving the conditions outlined in his living will. We'll be required to make a decision soon, and as his next of kin, Dr. Scully needs to be here." Skinner's mouth went dry. "You can't give up on him yet. There *is* an antidote to this toxin. Dr. Scully is overseeing its synthesis and determining a treatment plan at this very moment." Wagner had been nodding his head in commiseration, but when Skinner finished he pursed his lips and frowned. "I can understand wanting to believe in a magic cure, Mr. Skinner. But frankly, I can't conceive of anything that could save Mr. Mulder at this point. His systems are shutting down, sir. I think you need to accept the inevitable." Though he knew the doctor meant well, anger flared in Skinner at the man's words. "Listen to me, Dr. Wagner. That man has never given up on anything in his whole life. I've seen him go literally to the ends of the earth to save his partner, when anyone else wouldn't have been able to get out of bed. I will *not* give up on him. And I won't let you, either." "What do you mean, give up?" Scully's voice, breathless and tinged with panic, caused both men to startle. Skinner moved aside to make room for her. She seemed unable to drag her eyes from Mulder, and when she did they were haunted. "Is he..." "Hanging in there for us," Skinner assured her. He noticed she was clutching an insulated container, and his heart leaped in hope. "Is that it?" Scully nodded, hope and fear warring for control of her features. "It's a risk, of course. We had no time to wait for the results on the lab trials. But Cardow's notes were very specific and it feels right." She blushed a little at the un-Scullylike nature of her words. "Whoa, slow down, " Wagner said, holding up both hands. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. You just concocted some...substance, based on the notes of a man you yourselves have called crazy, and you intend to *inject* Mr. Mulder with it? Have you lost your minds?" *Uh-oh* thought Skinner. *Bad choice of words, buddy.* Scully's lips thinned. "Not only do I *intend* to inject him, Dr. Wagner. I *will* inject him. A minute ago you were talking about removing him from life support. The way I see it, we have absolutely nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. So I suggest you step aside and let me proceed. I'd hate to have to use my gun." It took an enormous amount of self-control for Skinner to hide his smirk, and he congratulated himself on his success. Wagner looked amazingly like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. While Scully moved over to the bed and began to remove a vial and syringe from the pack, the doctor sidled closer to Skinner. "She was just kidding...wasn't she?" Skinner adopted his most grim assistant director look. "Well, she did shoot her own partner once. It's wise not to upset her." Wagner gulped. "I have to finish the rest of my rounds. I'll check back in a little while." Skinner watched him go before breaking into a grin. *Mulder, you would have loved that.* Scully had injected the contents of the syringe directly into Mulder's IV, and now stood scanning his face anxiously, his hand clasped between her own. "We've done our part, Mulder," she murmured. "Now, you have to do yours." One hour crawled by, then two and three. By the end of the third hour, the monitors began to show gradual improvement. At four hours, Mulder moaned when Wagner stuck him with his torture device and his pupils responded to light. At Scully's request, Wagner allowed her to draw a blood sample that Skinner sent by courier to the bureau lab for analysis. Six hours after the initial injection, they waited anxiously for the results. When Scully's cell phone finally rang, the nurse sent them a malevolent look and Skinner nearly jumped out of his skin. He shamelessly attempted to eavesdrop, but Scully's responses were either to obscure or too technical. Still, it was completely unnecessary to ask the results when she closed the phone and met his questioning gaze with a blinding smile. "It's working!" she said, a look of wonder on her face. "Randy said it's incredible. The antidote is binding with each individual molecule of the toxin and rendering it inactive. The process is gradual, but the effects of the toxin are gradually being turned off." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "We did it, sir. He's going to make it." Skinner looked at Mulder, shaking his head. "He deserves half the credit, Scully. He managed to hang on, if only by a slender thread. I'm beginning to think he has more lives than a cat." Scully closed her eyes wearily, fatigue settling over her slumped form. "Please sir, don't even say it. I'd rather not have the opportunity to test that particular theory." Skinner smiled wryly. "I'm going on a coffee run. If I have to drink any more of the sludge around here I may just wind up hospitalized with him. Can I bring you a cup?" Scully looked as if he'd offered her a million dollars. "That's without a doubt the best offer I've had all day." Amused by her eager acceptance, Skinner stood up. "I won't be long." Scully settled back into the chair, smothering a yawn. She needed sleep desperately, but refused to give into the fatigue. Mulder's vital signs showed a steady progression toward regaining consciousness, and she was determined to be awake when he did. "You did good, Mulder," she said softly, moving to perch on the bed. She laced her fingers with his and used her other hand to stroke his cheek. "Now, I just need you to come all the way back. Think of it as my reward for finding Cardow's little secret." To her delight, the feel of her knuckles on his cheek seemed to be causing him to surface. His eyelids fluttered and the monitors beeped accordingly. Scully continued the action, keeping up a steady flow of encouragement. After several minutes he managed to raise his eyes to half-mast. They stared through her uncomprehendingly for a moment before sliding in to focus on her face. Then he did the most wonderful thing Scully could imagine at that particular moment. He began to fight the respirator. Scully pressed the call button but a nurse had already arrived, alerted by the change in the readouts. Wagner had agreed to attempt the removal of the respirator once Mulder regained consciousness, so he was quickly summoned and within five minutes he'd removed the tube and Mulder was breathing on his own. When at last Dr. Wagner had completed the required neuro checks he shook his head in amazement. "I've never seen anything like it," he admitted a bit sheepishly, avoiding Scully's pointed stare. "I've never seen such a rapid reversal of symptoms in someone in your condition, Mr. Mulder." Scully looked into her partner's tired but peaceful gaze. "I tried to tell you, Dr. Wagner," she said, smiling. "You have to believe in extreme possibilities." Mulder actually grinned. Once Dr. Wagner and the nurse actually left them in peace, Mulder looked at Scully searchingly. "How?" The single word was barely audible, and he grimaced at the effect on his abused throat. Scully reached for the cup of ice chips and spooned a few into his mouth. Mulder sighed in pleasure as they melted, sending cool liquid to soothe the raw tissues. "How did we find the antidote?" Scully asked, offering him more ice. Mulder nodded, accepting another spoonful. Scully shrugged. "It was actually Cardow who gave me the clue I needed. Remember when he was ranting about me taking care of you, making you tea? I realized he couldn't possibly have known those things unless he was actually able to see us." Understanding seeped into Mulder's face. "The building across the street," he rasped. Scully nodded, putting down the cup and slipping her hand into his. "He had a telescope trained right on your window, Mulder. The entire time we were at your place, he was enjoying the show." She noted the way he closed his eyes, swallowing hard, and decided Cardow's bedroom decorations could wait for another day. Mulder was already tiring, and he looked as if a strong breeze could blow him away. "It took a little creative thinking, but Skinner found the disk with the formula and the rest, as they say, is history." Mulder's eyes seemed to be developing a mind of their own, determined to slip shut despite his struggles to prevent them. Scully ran her fingers gently up and down his arm, amused when the action had a magnifying affect on his inability to stay alert. "Sleep now, Mulder. I promise I'll give you all the details later." His lids remained shut and his breathing steadied and deepened. She was certain he'd dropped off until his voice startled her. "Didn't think I was gonna wake up, Scully," he mumbled, sounding only marginally awake. Scully's throat was suddenly painfully tight. "I'm not letting you go that easily, Mulder. You're not sticking me with that stack of reports you owe Skinner." Mulder's eyes cracked open briefly, just long enough for her to see them gleaming under his lashes. "Thanks, Scully." He'd slipped into a deep slumber almost before the words passed his lips. Scully gazed at him, drinking in each tiny detail like a glass of water on a blistering summer day. The warmth of his long fingers twined with hers. The soft, natural rise and fall of his chest under her small hand. And the steady beep of the heart monitor, which to her grateful ears seemed to be endlessly repeating one joyous word... *A-live* *A-live* *A-live* "Any time, Mulder," she whispered. "That's what partners are for." Concluded in part 16 Countdown (16/16) By Dawn Georgetown Medical Center Room 327 20 hours later Skinner heard Scully laughing softly as he approached Mulder's room. He paused a moment to savor the sound. It was a rare pleasure to experience. Scully rationed her laughter, more often bestowing a slight curve of her lips or even a smirk. Therefore when she did laugh, you didn't take it for granted. Today, it spoke volumes about her joy and relief over Mulder's steady recovery. Skinner entered the room to find Scully perched on the edge of Mulder's bed, reading from one of the trashy magazines found predominantly at grocery store checkouts. She was dressed casually in jeans and a white tee shirt with her hair pulled back in a small ponytail, a few stubborn wisps falling forward to frame her face. Skinner couldn't help but think how she seemed to have shed ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Her blue eyes sparkled, the circles beneath them already fading. Mulder, though much improved, still looked like hell. It had been close this time, far too close. He had literally been on death's doorstep, and it would take time for him to regain full health. Though he'd been able to move off the respirator late last night, tests continued to show reduced lung capacity. The I.V. in his arm still carried a hefty amount of morphine for the muscle spasms, but thankfully he'd remained free of seizures. What he needed the most now was rest so that his abused body could recoup. Skinner found it slightly amusing that Mulder, the world's worst insomniac, could only remain awake for about thirty minutes at a time before crashing. "Conducting research for your next 302, Mulder?" Skinner asked, folding his arms and indicating the magazine with a tilt of his head. "You never know, sir," Mulder said, voice still raspy from having a tube down his throat. "Today's tabloid headline may just be tomorrow's flukeman." The remark was tossed off lightly, but Skinner looked at Mulder sharply. Something in the man's tone was wrong, a sharper edge of sarcasm that didn't fit with the words. He studied his agent, taking in the lines of pain and exhaustion around the hazel eyes, and chalked it up to a bad case of fatigue. "Literally," Scully said, wrinkling her nose as if she'd just detected a particularly bad smell. "We never did find that thing, after all." Mulder's eyes warmed with affection as he listened to Scully speak, and Skinner decided he'd definitely imagined the melancholy he'd sensed earlier. "I just bumped into your doctor, Mulder," he said conversationally. "He's pleased with your progress. Said if you keep this up you'll be home in a few days and back to work in no time." This time he knew he wasn't imagining the shadow that fell over Mulder's face. "That's good to hear, sir. I wouldn't want things at the office to fall apart during my absence." Again, the comment was innocent, and yet Skinner sensed an undercurrent of darkness. Mulder's eyes skittered away when he tried to pin them down. *He's trying too hard* Skinner thought. *Something's not right.* "...were dehydrated, Mulder. You need to keep pushing fluids." Skinner pulled himself out of his own thoughts in time to hear Scully speaking to her partner in voice that was half coaxing, half doctor's orders. He watched as Mulder put on what he thought of as the "abandoned puppy" face, lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout and eyes soulful. "They don't have anything but juice and lousy water from that crummy little pitcher, Scully. Why can't I drink something I would enjoy, like iced tea?" Scully, obviously also aware of the purpose for that look, rolled her eyes. "Caffeine, Mulder. No tea or soda yet, remember?" When he continued to pout, she relented, her stern expression softening. "I've got a couple of bottles of Evian in the car. Will that do?" "Thanks, Scully. I owe you." "I'm keeping track, Mulder," she teased, getting to her feet. It was meant strictly as a joke, but Skinner caught the expression of sadness in Mulder's eyes before his carefully constructed mask slipped back into place. Scully leaned over to plant a quick kiss on his forehead before moving toward the door. Skinner waited until she'd left the room before feigning that he'd suddenly remembered something. "Hang on a minute, Mulder. I need Scully to bring me some paperwork from her briefcase." He caught her just before she reached the elevators, nearly knocking over a nurse in his haste. Scully pulled her hand away from the buttons, arching an eyebrow questioningly. "Did you need something from me, sir?" Skinner took hold of her elbow and drew her aside to a quieter corner of the hallway. "I was hoping you could shed some light on whatever it is that's bothering your partner," he said, trying to sound concerned and not demanding. Scully searched his face only a moment before sighing. "You noticed it too." Skinner nodded. "Not that he isn't doing his best to hide it," he observed. Scully pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them, Skinner saw a worry that mirrored his own. "I don't know what to tell you, sir. I noticed after he woke up the first time; at least, the first time he was over the initial shock and really lucid. The man should be on the top of the world -- he's just been given his life back. He tries to appear happy, but he's only putting up a good front. Underneath I sense..." "Depression," Skinner finished. Scully nodded. "I've tried find out what's wrong, but he's not talking. Not to me, anyway." "He's been given a lot to absorb over the past few days, and sustained a significant trauma in the process. It's easy to become overwhelmed. I've seen it before." Scully studied his face, not missing the oblique reference to Skinner's combat experience. "Maybe he'd talk to you, sir." Skinner looked comically stunned at the idea. "Me? Scully, you're the closest friend he has. If he won't talk to you, what makes you think he'd talk to me?" Scully shrugged. "Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm too close. Sometimes a little distance can be just what you need. I know that he respects you, sir. It's certainly worth a try." Silently asking what he'd just gotten himself into, Skinner reluctantly acquiesced. "I'll make the offer, Scully. But I refuse to push him into revealing anything if he's not ready." Scully walked back to the elevators and hit the down button. She turned back to face Skinner, an expression of amusement causing the corners of her mouth to twitch slightly. "Sir, not even an assistant director of the FBI could push Mulder into saying anything against his will. Trust me on this one." The truth in her words hit home, and Skinner found himself chuckling softly the whole way back to Mulder's room. His good humor must have been evident; for Mulder gazed at him curiously as he made his way to the chair by the bed and sank into it. "Something you'd like to share, sir?" Skinner met his gaze, still smirking a little. "Just glad you're alive to hunt liver-eating mutants another day, Mulder. That's worth smiling about, isn't it?" "Let's throw a party." A joke on the surface, but a deep sadness at the foundation. "Sounds more like a wake is in order," Skinner replied quietly. "How about you, Mulder? Something you'd like to share?" "Meaning?" "Meaning for a man who just came out a winner, I keep getting the distinct feeling you're conceding defeat." Skinner was prepared for just about anything but the response he received. White hot fury, so intense that Mulder's entire body thrummed with the force of it. "Came out a *winner*? Why, because I walked out of this with my life? Forgive me if I don't see the correlation." "What are you saying, Mulder? That your life doesn't matter?" Mulder's clenched his fists around the blanket as if to keep himself from using them. "I'm saying that it isn't *my* life! That it never has been!" With a sudden shift of mood that was alarming, he slumped down on the mattress, all traces of anger replaced by weary resignation. "I'm finally beginning to realize it may never be." Skinner shook his head, completely confused by his agent's words. "You've lost me, Mulder. What are you saying?" "I'm saying that I'm tired of being manipulated -- of being allowed the illusion that my choices are my own, only to have that illusion shattered repeatedly." Understanding flooded Skinner. "You're upset because they used you to falsely convict Cardow." "Yes! No. I mean, it's so much more than that. I've lived my whole life a slave to a name that I'm no longer sure is mine. When Cardow told me he knew who my father was, all I could do was wonder if he meant Bill Mulder or that cigarette smoking SOB. But as bad as it may be to question if my name is my own, it's worse to wonder if my actions are." Skinner was shocked to see something very close to tears in Mulder's eyes as he continued. "Scully's cancer. Dallas. And now Cardow. He told Reardon I was important to them. Well, I refuse to be their tool. I'll give up the X-Files first." Skinner clenched his jaw, struggling for the words to penetrate Mulder's darkness. The man had a knack for glossing over his many successes only to focus on the failures. "When I went to 'Nam, I was certain I was doing the right thing. I'd heard all the horror stories about the evils of communism and oppression, and I was determined to do my part to overcome them. To uphold justice and ensure personal freedom." He chuckled bitterly. "The only problem was, no one mentioned that some of those evil communists would be women and children, and that I'd be required to blow the head off a fifteen-year-old boy. Or that 'police action' was really just a polite term for war and I'd watch all my buddies die before I made it home again." "I was manipulated, Mulder. I was only given the information that would encourage me to enlist. And sometimes it still makes me angry. But I have to tell myself that I operated as best I could under the information I was given. I can only hold myself responsible for my own actions. You see where I'm going with this, Mulder?" Mulder had folded his arms defensively across his chest, and he refused to meet Skinner's eyes. "It isn't the same." "The situation is different, yes, but the principle is the same. You were provided with information. You acted on that information in good faith. What else could you have done, Mulder? Even knowing what you do now, can you honestly say you did anything wrong? Did you make any mistakes? Miss any vital pieces of evidence?" Mulder lifted his eyes to search Skinner's face. "I want to believe what you're saying. I need to." "Then believe it. I don't care whose genetic material was responsible for your conception; it doesn't change who you are. Mulder, I've worked with you and I've seen you make those bastards sweat. None of that was by their design. If you quit now, they win." The soft smile that spread over the man's face was a total surprise, and Skinner wondered exactly what he'd said to provoke it. "Yeah," he acknowledged quietly. "I've heard that before." Mulder must have achieved some sort of catharsis, since fatigue now hit him abruptly and with great force. He sank into the mattress, eyes struggling to remain focused. Skinner glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes. Mulder had just set a new record. He grinned to himself. "Get some sleep, Mulder," he said aloud. "I'll have Scully save that water for when you wake up." "You'll tell her that when she gives you the papers, right sir?" Mulder said, suppressing a yawn. "Papers? What are you..." Mulder's eyes gleamed under their heavy lids. "Busted." Skinner scowled. "All right, so there were no papers. Satisfied?" "Only with the fact that you're a lousy liar," Mulder mumbled. "Guess that bodes well for our little discussion. I can live with the fact that you and Scully were plotting against me." This time Skinner actually allowed Mulder to see his grin. "Not against you, Mulder. For you. Count on it." Mulder didn't answer, having lost the struggle to remain awake. But he didn't really need to. The ghost of a smile on his agent's lips told Skinner all he needed to know. The End