Title:  Necessary Evils (I)
Author:  Hannah Mason
Category:  XRA
Rating: A mild R for now, it heats up later
Spoilers:  The whole mytharc storyline, esp. The Pilot, Two Fathers/One
Son
Archive:  certainly, but please ask
Summary:  Just why the #@!& is Mulder still alive, anyway?  Would
Scully really do it all again?  I wonder.
Disclaimer:  Mulder and Scully are the collective property of Christ
Carter, 1013 and Fox.  Given the dastardly deeds perpetrated against
them in this story, I'm sure they'll be happy to return home afterward.

Author's Notes:  This could be considered a continuation of the world
created in "Lesser Evils", but the two stories are not explicitly
linked.  (Didn't want to give away the bad guy from LE!)  I've moved
the timeline around a bit so that Mulder and Scully were partnered
around the time we got to know them, fall of 1993.  Additionally, I
should say that this is only half of the total story.  Part two is
perhaps two-thirds completed, and I hope to have it done in a week,
assuming my wrists hold up at the keyboard. <g>

Thanks:  to Alicia K., beta reader extraordinaire and all around fun e-
mail buddy.  If she don't like it, I don't keep it.   Also to Karen,
whose ongoing insights and appreciation have helped this story no end.
I'm indebted to you both for your time and patience!

I would also like to thank Shari and Exley 61, whose discussion of
which was better--an established relationship MSR or a "first time" MSR-
inspired me to try to write one that was both. <g>

Dedication:  This one is for my parents, two terrific individuals with
the most amazing partnership I've ever seen, who read these stories
with love, if not understanding.  (Psst, Mom- Scully's the girl.)

Feedback:  hung with magnets on my fridge at hkmason@netsacpe.net


Necessary Evils I
XRA
Rated `R'
By Hannah Mason
hkmason@netscape.net

Prologue

The room was always unremarkable.  Outside could be the crowded streets
of Beijing, the sands of Egypt or the gray buildings of New York City,
but inside it was always the same.  Walls with no windows, and
hopefully no ears.  The conference table was long and black, sleek and
shiny, so that the men ringed around it could admire their faces in its
reflective surface as they argued.

A pointless quarrel, he mused to himself from his high-backed leather
chair.  But for the moment he was content to wait while the new
recruits angled for control of the discussion.  Knowledge was power,
and this time he was the one with all the wealth.

They amused him, these new recruits.  So serious, so eager.  So certain
that they would succeed where others had failed.  Was I ever that
naive? he wondered.

He had a brief flash of a dirty booth in a South Boston pub, where his
best friend sat across from him, his eyes wild and bright after six
pints of Guinness.  He had been gloating a bit, sharing some inside
information about the dirty politics of the rising Vietnam War.  Bill
had listened through three pints before he leaned across the scarred
table and whispered the words that would change both of their lives
forever.

"Do you want to know a real secret?"

That night, he had said yes.  He had not known yet that secrets could
kill.

He wondered what he would say now.  If knowledge was power, it was also
a burden, and there were times when he wished only for ignorance.  He
was closer now than he had ever been, but never more aware of what he
had left behind in his struggle.  At each point along the way, the
sacrifices he had made seemed justified, but when he stopped to add
them up the wreckage astounded even him.

In the bar that night, Bill had told him everything, or so he had
thought at the time.  It wasn't until years later that he realized his
friend had been attempting suicide with his confession, not expecting
to live beyond the telling of the tale.  Instead, the only thing that
died that night was the last real friendship he had ever known.

It had only been a matter of hours after he left the bar that They had
come to his house to make him an offer he couldn't refuse:  Burn in
heaven or reign in hell.

He suppressed a thin smile, remembering.  King me, he thought as he
surveyed the room full of new subjects.

Eventually, of course, he came to understand why They had let Bill live
that night and for so many nights afterward.  It was the same rationale
that now granted his son a similar, long-standing stay of execution.

Perhaps that was the intention all along, the Smoker mused.  Could old
Billyboy really have had that much foresight? He puffed a moment,
considering.

Just possible, he concluded after a minute.  William Mulder had
certainly proven to be a man of unexpected cunning.  In the years after
that night in the bar, he and Bill drank long and often together, until
he'd been sure that Bill could not possibly have any secrets left.
Shortly before his death, they had clinked glasses one last time, and
he had assured the others that they had nothing more to worry about
from Bill Mulder.  Termination was recommended.

But Bill had saved the biggest secret of all, and it was still out
there somewhere, waiting to be told.  The only question left was who
would stumble upon it first.

"I think we should discuss the two FBI agents."

The words, calm but clipped, brought him back into the stuffy room, and
the Smoker turned his head to see who had spoken them.

Yushi.  Of course.

Somewhere in his thirties, he was the youngest member of the new
group.  He also wore the most expensive suit.

The Smoker was not sure what to make of the new Japanese representative
with the watchful eyes and short, dark ponytail.  His money and his
connections made him a valuable asset, but it was with deep reservation
that the Smoker had taken him into the fold.  In a group of men with
fluid fealty, Yushi's allegiances were perhaps the most questionable.
So was his judgment.

Yushi was the only one of the new recruits who had declined to read the
reports on the El Rico disaster.  He had merely scoffed, saying, "What
is there to learn from failure?"

The Smoker did not know whether to admire his zeal or damn his
arrogance.  At that point, he felt only impatience for the man who
dared to second guess him on such an important matter.  He had made it
clear at the start that he was the one to make all decisions concerning
the FBI agents.  They were not subject to group discussion.

He inhaled a deep drag, aware that the men in the room were awaiting
his response to Yushi's challenge.  "What exactly," he said at last,
"do you want done about them?"

"I have read some of the reports," said Yushi in barely-accented
English.

The Smoker was unimpressed.  "And?"

"And it strikes me that you and your previous colleagues had some
rather close calls with these agents, encounters that had serious
repercussions on the work we are trying to accomplish.  I think it
might be time to reevaluate their importance in this process."

"They are of utmost importance."

Yushi shook his head dismissively.  "Mulder, perhaps, but the other..."

"There is no perhaps," the Smoker cut in.  "Mulder is more crucial than
ever.  If you have read the reports, then you must have seen how far
the project has come, and what we stand to lose now.  We have no viable
means to recover the years of lost work on our own.  Mulder is quite
literally our last, best hope."

"Ah, yes," Yushi replied in a tone that suggested anything but
agreement.  "I've heard lots about the infamous Bill Mulder and the
secret he supposedly took with him to the grave.  Are we really
convinced of the truth of his story?"  His lips pressed together in a
thin smile.  "I understand you certified yourself that the old man was
nothing more than a pathetic drunk.  It was on your word that he was
terminated, correct?"

The Smoker felt all eyes on him, and he realized abruptly that Yushi
had an agenda that reached far beyond the fate of two FBI agents.

Be careful where you step, young man, he thought.  I've been navigating
this field a lot longer than you.

"I believe Bill Mulder's story is true," he said softly, crushing out
his cigarette.  "We cannot afford to think otherwise."

This remark earned him a few nods of agreement from the other men, but
Yushi was not yet persuaded.

"Even if the rumors are correct, I don't see what you hope to gain from
Mulder's search at this point.  Half the time he is so far from the
truth it's laughable.  The other half of the time he is perilously
close to shutting down the whole project.  And lately..." he paused
significantly and withdrew a stack of photos from the folders in front
of him. "Your precious prodigal son has been far too busy with other
pursuits, and his partner is equally occupied."

The Smoker stiffened in his seat, guessing the content of the
photographs immediately.  The men around the table shared agitated
murmurs as they pawed over the glossy images, and the Smoker felt a
surge of bile rise in his throat.

He had drawn a line in the sand, and Yushi had just stepped over it.

Boiling internally, he fixed his gaze at the opposite end of the table,
where Yushi sat smugly for the unveiling of his X-rated surprise.  He
met the Smoker's ire with only a small lift of his eyebrows.  A tiny
gesture that signaled the onslaught of a very big war.

Eventually the photos were collected in a haphazard heap on the table
in front of the Smoker, who did not even glance at them.  "This means
nothing," he told the room tightly.  "I've been monitoring the
situation carefully, and they are as dedicated to the search as ever
before."

Some of the men laughed.  Others frowned.  Clearly they did not believe
his reassurances.

"Our colleague from Japan may be right," said the Italian
representative, a heavy set man with black, bushy eyebrows.  "Mulder
has been searching for six years with no success.  Why is there any
reason to suspect he will find it now, when he has other things to
occupy his...mind."

The men chuckled and hooted again, sounding more like a group of rowdy
construction workers than the most powerful executives in the world.
The Smoker cut off their laughter by pounding the table once with his
fist.

"He is close," he said tersely.  "It would be foolish to cut him loose
now."

"I agree," Yushi chimed in, and the group shifted en masse to look at
him, heads swiveling like spectators at a tennis match.  The Smoker
narrowed his eyes.  "Even if it is a slim chance," Yushi continued,
"there is still a possibility that our investment in Mulder will pay
off.  I would merely suggest that we give him some incentive to
refocus."

"We can't risk a direct hint," cautioned the tall, thin man from
Denmark.  "He must be close, but not too close."  He paused to dab the
sweat from his brow, and the Smoker suppressed a dark smile.  Helgi
*had* read the reports on El Rico.  Maybe too many times.

"Naturally," concurred Yushi.  "We couldn't draw him a map even if we
had the information available.  I'm suggesting a much more subtle
approach."

"Do tell," murmured the Smoker, eager to regain control of the
meeting.  "You apparently have thought on this a great deal."

"Indeed I have."  He paused and glanced around the table.  "We all
agree that Mulder is important to this project, at least for the time
being."  At their nods of assent, he continued, "But the woman...Agent
Scully..."

"...is also necessary," the Smoker interjected.

Yushi answered with deceptive mildness.  "I disagree.  She has served
her purpose as a test subject, and has done a rather poor job of
keeping her partner in check.  Now she is nothing more than a
distraction.  I recommend termination."

"Then you're a fool."

"You're the fool.  From what I've seen, you've been coddling these two
agents like schoolgirls, with very little in return.  It's time to give
Mulder a shove in the right direction or cut him loose for good.  Agent
Scully can be of no further use."

"I'm afraid your mouth has overreached the boundaries of your
understanding.  Agent Scully's termination would have consequences none
of us is prepared for right now.  Not even you, my friend."

There was more murmuring from the group as they awaited Yushi's
response.  When it came, it was dripping with sarcasm.  "Please don't
ply me with that tired chestnut you gave the others.  I don't for one
second believe that nonsense about turning his quest into a crusade."

The Smoker lit another cigarette, inhaled, and blew out annoyed
exhale.  This conversation was not new to him.  He had had ones like it
with the others after they had taken her the first time.  Then again
last year, following the debacle in Antarctica.  Christ Almighty, was
he really the only one who realized what happened when Mulder was
without her?

He blinked at Yushi for a moment.  "I can only repeat, you are playing
at a role you're not cut out for.  Leave Mulder and Scully to me."

"And you'll handle them." The younger man's tone was laced with
disbelief.

"Yes, of course."

"The way you handled Bill Mulder?"

The Smoker did not answer this taunt.  "If you want Mulder to remain
focused on the search, you will see to it that no harm befalls Agent
Scully.  If she dies..." he puffed for a moment, keeping them waiting.
"...only then will you understand the true meaning of the word
'crusade'."  With that, he collected the photos from the table and
stuffed them inside his jacket.  "We're done here."

"Very well," said Yushi, standing to leave.  His gaze flickered over
the Smoker. "We can try it your way.  For now.  But as you indicated,
the project is at a critical juncture, and we need Agent Mulder hot for
answers, not his partner's ass."

He left with the other men in a single file, and the Smoker remained
alone in the empty conference room.  He finished his cigarette with no
real hurry, snuffing out the remains with a sharp twist of his wrist.
Then he withdrew the pictures from his breast pocket and studied them.

After a moment he sighed, knowing there was only one choice left.  It
was time to make that phone call.

He left the room musing how carefully they had selected Dana Scully for
her slave-like devotion to logic.  He could only hope that she would
use it now.

************************************

Chapter One

"I have half a mind to mandate psych consults for the both of you.
Temporary insanity is the only possible explanation for what I'm
hearing about this case."  Skinner glowered at the two agents seated
across from him.

"Well, technically, it *wasn't* a case," Mulder started, but Skinner
cut him off swiftly.

"That's exactly the point, Agent Mulder.  What the hell were you two
doing investigating the disappearance of Richard Vanderbilt?  I don't
recall any sort of authorization on my part."

"It was..." Mulder shot a glance at Scully, who was studiously avoiding
his gaze.  "It was a favor.  Cameron Vanderbilt asked me to look into
her husband's disappearance."

Scully turned her head even further away.

"And this woman was what, an old friend of yours?" Skinner flipped
distractedly through the reports in front of him.

"No."  It was Scully who answered.

Skinner glanced up expectedly.  "Well?"

"I, uh..." Mulder shifted in his seat.  "I met her in the
supermarket."  He looked at Scully again.  "She seemed sincere enough."

"For a mass murderer," Scully added, finally meeting his eyes.  This
time it was Mulder's turn to look away.

"I see," said Skinner, in a tone that suggested he did not see at all.
"Well, let me say this...you two are going to have some time to think
about your actions of the past two days.  I don't want to see either
one of you for at least a week."

"But, Sir..." Scully sat up in her chair in protest.

Skinner held up one hand.  "It's not open for discussion, Agent
Scully.  One week suspension.  That's it."

The two agents traded disgusted looks as they rose to leave.  They had
reached the door when Skinner's voice stopped them.

"And Agents?"

They turned slightly.

Skinner sat tipped back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I
would strongly advise that you also don't see each other for the
duration of that week.  The break might do you some good."

Scully glanced up at her partner and then pushed past him out the door
without another word. She moved so quickly down the hall that, for a
change, Mulder had to work to keep pace with her. "Do you think he
knows?" he murmured at her ear.

She did not even slow down.  "Knows what, Mulder?  That we demonstrated
an ineptitude in this investigation that even a new field agent would
be ashamed of?  That we're incredibly lucky that Cameron Vanderbilt is
dead, and even luckier that we are not?  Yeah, I would say he has a
pretty damn good idea."

"Knows about us," Mulder clarified over her shoulder.  When she did not
reply, he pulled on her arm.  "Jeez, will you slow down a minute?  It's
not as though we have to rush back to work."

She came to an abrupt stop that had more to do with reaching the
elevator than his request.  "I don't care if he knows, Mulder," she
said finally, punching the button. "Right now, I don't care if the
whole damn country knows."

Mulder automatically glanced around to make sure no one had overheard
her not-so-subtle announcement.  "But Scully, we said..."

"We said a lot of things," she snapped, hitting the button again.
"Including that there would be no more running off without telling
me."  The elevator arrived at last and she stepped inside without a
backward glance.  Mulder followed.

"You weren't around to tell," he protested.  "You were so hell-bent on
proving me wrong about Cameron Vanderbilt that you weren't around when
the call came in."

"I was following the line of evidence," she shot back.

"Oh, the hell you were.  Until a few hours ago, there wasn't enough
evidence to suspect her of mail fraud, let alone murder."

Scully was like a red-headed pinball in perpetual motion as she paced
erratic lines across the elevator floor.   "There were signs, Mulder,
and I tried to show them to you.  The stain on the car seat, the
history of abuse, the bartender who spoke with her that night. I
pointed out all of these things to you.  You just wouldn't listen."

"She seemed to have rational explanations for all of those questions,
Scully."

"No, Mulder, she had explanations that weren't *mine*, and that was the
important thing, wasn't it?"

The elevator doors opened, and she once again had the lead out of the
starting gates.  "That's ridiculous," he said as he trailed after her.
They took up positions in opposite corners of the basement office,
which suddenly seemed even smaller than usual. "You actually think I
would willfully ignore evidence just because it was coming from you?"
he demanded

"Yes!" she answered.  Then, "No."  Then she paused, rubbing her
forehead with three fingers, as the fight seemed to drain from her all
at once.  "I don't know what I thought," she said eventually.  "I guess
maybe I expected that things would be different now that
we're...together.  That you would listen to me more.  That you wouldn't
keep running off without any rational reason."

He smiled at that.  "Scully, great sex may do a lot of things, but
seldom does it make me more rational."

She was not amused by his attempts at humor. "Mulder, I'm serious."

"Believe me, so am I."

She gave an exasperated sigh and moved to perch on the edge of his
desk.  "Can you honestly say that you didn't feel the same way about
me, even a little bit?  Maybe expect that I would be more inclined to
see things from your point of view now that we're...you know?"

He opened his mouth to protest that he hadn't expected that at all,
when he suddenly remembered how he'd felt when he had first suggested
the possibility of alien abduction in the disappearance of Richard
Vanderbilt.  While he hadn't exactly expected her to rise from her seat
with an "Amen, brother!" it *had* irritated him somewhat when she
dismissed the idea instantly and began rattling off her alternative
theories.  "Maybe just a little," he admitted.

She nodded her head slowly.  "That's what I thought."  Her face was
pained as she continued, "Mulder, we let our personal feelings spill
over into our professional relationship.  You can't know how
uncomfortable I am with that."

Actually, he did know.  He knew because several weeks earlier, he had
awoken alone in his motel room, with the thread-bare sheets tangled
around his waist and the taste of her lipstick still on his mouth.  Her
disappearance would have worried him if the faint glow coming from
beneath the connecting door hadn't belied her new location.  It was
still okay.  She hadn't left him yet.

Any remaining qualms he had evaporated when he finally got up to find
her.  She had indeed not gone far, and she was wearing his shirt.

"Hi," he'd greeted her with a sleepy yawn.  She had smiled at him from
where she sat scrunched in a chair, bare toes lined up along the round
table in front of her, with a legal pad on her lap.

"Hey," she had answered softly.  He had walked to the back of the chair
and peered over her shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as
he did so.

"Call it a night, would you, Scully?  I'm the one who's supposed to be
obsessed with the casefiles.  You're making me look bad."

"You're reputation is safe," she had assured him.  "This isn't work."

He'd squinted down at the precise black lettering she had printed
across the yellow page.  "Relationship rules?" he'd said.  "You never
struck me as a 'rules' kind of girl, Scully."  He'd kissed her neck.
"And it's a little late to play hard to get."

"Stop it, Mulder."  She'd pulled away. "No inappropriate touching while
on the job.  That's rule number two."

"Huh?"

"We can't keep doing this," she'd explained.  "We're blurring the line
between work and play, and that can only lead to trouble down the
road.  So I've worked out a few guidelines to make sure we behave in
the future."

He had read the list.  Teased her about the list.  Found loopholes in
the list until she was once again in his arms making those little
sounds of pleasure that drove him quietly insane.  Then the list had
been abandoned as they returned to the still-warm bed, where they had
promptly broken rules two, three, seven and nine.

It was not as if he didn't agree there was a line.   He did.  But where
Scully seemed to see a big, bold stripe with "love" on one side and
"labor" on the other, his line was more of the M.C. Escher variety:
clearly present, but difficult to follow when you tried to pin it down.

"Maybe we need to rethink that list of yours, Scully."  He moved to sit
next to her on the desk, so close that their shoulders nearly touched.
Her eyes remained fixed on her lap.

"I don't think it's going to be the simple," she said in a pained
whisper.  "It was foolish to ever think it would be."

"Ah, Scully, but what sweet folly," he murmured, and was rewarded with
a small, sad smile.  They sat in relative silence for a few more
minutes, cloaked in shadows from the dwindling evening light and
surrounded by the faint scent of mildew that always crept into the
basement after a hard rain. Finally, Mulder broke the spell. "Listen,
since we're officially persona non grata around here, why don't we take
this discussion somewhere else.  Say, a pizza at my place?"

When she averted her eyes and did not reply, he grew worried.
"Um...Scully?"

She sighed. "I think...I think that Skinner may be right about our
needing some time apart."

"What?"  He pulled on her arm until she reluctantly shifted to face
him.  "What are you talking about, some time apart?"

"A week, Mulder.  Just a week."

"I don't understand.  I don't see how not speaking to each other is
going to solve anything."

"Probably it won't," she allowed with a tiny nod.  "But I need some
time to think."

"And you can't do that with me around?"

Her arched eyebrow was enough of an answer, but she nevertheless
added,  "Mulder, I think we both know what I would be doing if you were
around."

For a split second he forgot to be upset and lapsed into a goofy grin.
"Yeah," he said softly.  "You've got a point there."

She slid off the desk and began collecting her things to leave.  He
watched her with rising panic, unable to understand why he felt such
unease at the prospect of a short separation.  It's just a week, he
told himself as she slipped on her overcoat.  Get a grip.

He snagged her hand when she moved for the door.  "Scully,
please...can't we talk about this some more?"

Her small fingers tightened around his in an affectionate squeeze.
"We'll talk in a week," she promised.

Still he did not let her go. "But what about the fireworks?" he asked,
rubbing his thumb back and forth over her knuckles.  It was Fourth of
July weekend, and the city always put on spectacular show.  They were
supposed to go together, as part of their attempt to do things that
"normal" couples did.

She gave him a tired smile.  "Mulder, I'd say we've had enough
fireworks already.  I'll see you in a week, okay?"  With one last
squeeze, she pulled her hand free and walked briskly out the door.

No, he thought as he watched her leave.  It was definitely not okay.

************************

It was a noise that woke her; she sat up immediately, tense and
expectant. Kids with firecrackers maybe?

No, it came again, and this time she recognized the sound.  It was the
distinctive scrape of a chair against the linoleum floor, and it was
coming from her kitchen.

So he couldn't wait a week after all, she thought as she slipped on her
robe, unsure whether to be angry or relieved.  He had been taking her
imposed exile perhaps a little too well.  Part of her was pleased that
he was, for once, honoring her wishes and respecting her personal
space.  The other part tossed and turned in a bed that suddenly seemed
too large for her alone.  It was this part that squeezed inside her
with painful anticipation at seeing him again as she made her way to
the kitchen.

But wait.  She froze in the hall, the hairs standing up on the back of
her neck as she realized that the person in the other room was
definitely not Mulder.  It was someone much less welcome.

She smelled him first, then saw the haze of smoke emanating like
whispery gray fog from the kitchen doorway.  Her breath caught in her
throat as she moved flat against the cool, shadowed wall.  Between
shallow inhales, she considered her options.

Call the cops.

Head for the fire escape.

Get her gun.
*****************
End Chapter One.  

Chapter Two

She hesitated only a minute before slipping silently back into the
bedroom and retrieving her weapon from the top of the dresser.  You
want answers, she told herself as she checked the clip.  Here's your
chance to get some.

Her heart pounding like a tribal drum, she crept toward the kitchen and
a confrontation that had been years in the making.  She already had her
opening line down pat.

"You have exactly five seconds to convince me that I shouldn't put a
bullet through your head."

She stood in the doorway, gun held with both hands, and the barrel
trained right between his narrow yellow eyes.

He looked up from where he had been reading her newspaper. "Good
evening to you, too, Agent Scully."

"Three seconds," she said flatly.  "And don't think I won't do it."

"I would never presume to doubt a lady with a loaded weapon."  He
showed her his palms in a gesture of subservience.  "I promise that I
mean you no harm."

Scully did not lower her gun even a fraction. "I can't think of one
reason why I should believe you."

His lips curved in a trace of a smile.  "I can't either.  But I am
telling you the truth."

"I think the you and the truth parted ways a long time ago, Mr.
Spender."

He appeared pained at sound of his name.  "Please, drop the outdated
title.  I haven't been that man for a very long time.  Sometimes I
wonder if I ever was."

"A heart-breaking soliloquy.  You still haven't explained what the hell
you're doing in my house."

"Yes, well.  A gun pointed at one's head does tend to make one somewhat
distracted. Perhaps it would be better if I showed you.  May I?"  He
indicated his breast pocket.

"Very slowly," Scully warned, tracking his movement with the gun barrel.

He removed a few photographs from his pocket and tossed them in her
direction.

The three by five glossies hit the table with a slap, fanning out like
a deck of obscene playing cards. Scully studied the images with
indifference.    This was the reason for his midnight cloak and dagger
theatrics?  If so, he had come a long way from the usual back room
dealings over the fate of the free world.  Must be a slow month on the
conspiracy circuit if my love life is headlining the company
newsletter, she thought.

She was not the least surprised to find that he knew about her new
relationship with Mulder, or even that he had documentation of it.  She
was, however, surprised to learn that she did not much care.  She and
Mulder had earned every one of those precious minutes Kodak moments,
and she was not about to give them up just because some shadow
government cronies were getting their rocks off.

Glancing once at the photos, she looked back at the man in front of her
and said, "An impressive collection.  Did you come to have them
autographed?"

He made a noise that might have been a cough or a chuckle.  "I always
did admire your spunk."

"Well, you're going to be admiring it from the kitchen floor if you
don't start talking.  What the hell do you really want?"

He tapped his ash into the juice glass he had appropriated from her
kitchen cabinet.  "Believe it or not, I'm here with your best interest
at heart."

"Oh, don't give me that shit.  What have you ever cared about my best
interests?"

"More than you might think," he answered mildly.  "I've bargained for
your life on more than one occasion."

The irony of this remark was not lost on Scully. "And I'm supposed to
be grateful?" she demanded.  "Just whose fault was it that I was in a
position to be `bargained' for in the first place?"

Her argument seemed to amuse him, because his lips twitched around the
cigarette.  "You and Mulder always did give me too much credit," he
mused.  "And too much blame."

Scully tightened her hold on the gun. "Don't you get modest on me now,
you son of a bitch.  You may not always pull the trigger, but you are
no less culpable for the atrocities committed in your name.  I've seen
it and I've lived it, so don't you dare stand here and bullshit me
about who and what you are."

He puffed a moment.  "Fine, as long as you do me the same courtesy."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about your role in this charade, Agent Scully.  You knew
at the start that your job was to keep Mulder in line, and for a while
you performed the task admirably.  In fact, you've been very valuable
to us over the years."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

He nodded at a stack of folders sitting on her counter top that she had
not noticed before.  "Visual aides," he murmured with a half-smile.
"The cornerstone of any good presentation."

Scully eyed him suspiciously for a moment before inching around the
table to see the folders, her gun never wavering from his face.  The
contents nearly stopped her heart.  Inside were hundreds of reports
that she had written over the past six years on the work she shared
with Mulder.  "How did you get these?" she demanded.

He did not reply.

"Answer me, damn it!" She moved so that the gun was inches from his
temple.  "Where the fuck did you get all of this?"

"You mean you really didn't know?" he asked, his eyes gleaming at her
in the bright kitchen light.  "I never believed you could be that
naive."

Scully pressed even closer.  "I'm asking you one last time," she said,
her voice unsteady with anger.  "How did you get all this information?"

"The where, the how and the who are not important right now.  The point
is that I do have it.  So do many others, and that is the reason for my
visit here tonight."

"I don't understand."

"And I don't have time to explain it all to you, even if I were at
liberty to do so.  Suffice to say that my friends have taken a rather
dim view of the recent turn in your relationship with Mulder."

She snorted.  "I watched your friends go up in smoke a few months ago.
They don't concern me."

"Yes, well, I always did make new friends quickly.  And this group
doesn't seem nearly as patient as the last."  He folded his hands on
the table.  "May I speak plainly?"

"If you can," she answered bitterly.

"Your reports are no longer very useful, and the group is concerned
that Mulder is becoming distracted from his work.  There is a movement
afoot to have you killed."

Her body snapped to rigid attention.  The last time she had had this
conversation, it was her sister who had ended up dead.  "I'd like to
see you try it now," she said coldly, widening her shooter's stance.

He held up his hands.  "Easy.  I'm clearly not here with that intent,
or you would never have woken up, now would you?"  He paused to let
that sink in.  "I'm here because I don't agree with the group's
assessment, and they have decided to let me try to resolve it my way
first.  So I've come to make you an offer."

"You don't have anything I want," she retorted automatically.

"Oh, no?"  His eyes glittered with promise.  "What if I told you that I
could give you your life back."

"I already have a life, thank you very much."

"Ah, but it's not quite your own...now is it?" He smiled faintly as he
touched the back of his neck.

Scully suppressed a shiver and retrained the gun barrel between his
eyes.  "You bastard," she breathed.  "You goddamn son-of-a..."

He cut her off with a tsk-tsk sound.  "Let's dispense with the name
calling until you've at least heard what I have to say, shall we?"

Scully reluctantly held her tongue, still seething inside.

"Very good," he said at length.  Then he leaned forward in his chair
and licked his lips.  "It is possible to remove the implant in such a
way as to leave no unwanted side effects.  I know a man who would be
willing to do this for you."

She shook her head, eyes narrowed.  "I don't believe you.  Why would
you want to help me that way?"

"Call it a gesture of good will."  He shrugged.  "Of course I have my
own interests to worry about as well."

"And those would be what, exactly?"

"We very much need Mulder to keep up with his work.  He won't do that
if something were to happen to you.  This way, everyone walks away
satisfied."

Scully had still not lowered her gun.  "If Mulder's work is so goddamn
important to you, why the hell do you block us at every turn?"

"It is a delicate dance," he acknowledged.  "But so far a successful
one."

"Why Mulder?  What does he have that you want so much?"

He blew out a long exhale.  "Let's just say that we lost something a
long time ago that was of great value.  Mulder may have the best chance
of recovering it."

"What?"

"No.  No more questions," he said, shaking his head.  "Are you in or
not?"

"I'm not sure I completely understand the terms of this little
arrangement--you remove the chip, and I...what?  Agree to stop fucking
Mulder?"

"Nothing so mundane," he said smoothly.  "Your freedom carries a much
bigger price, but I guarantee it is the best offer you are going to
receive."

She stared at him in silence for a moment.  Then at last the pieces
seemed to fall into place. "I have to leave the Bureau," she said with
sudden clarity.

"Yes, immediately.  And there will be no more contact with Mulder,
either."

Her heart lurched in her chest with his words.  "I...I can't do that."

He tapped the cigarette against the rim of the glass and regarded her
with casual indifference.  "You will," he said simply.  "One way or
another."

Limbs weak with adrenaline, she kept trembling fingers on the gun as
she turned the possibilities over quickly in her mind.  Run, she
thought wildly.  Just pick up Mulder and go someplace where they would
never find you.  Once you have somewhere to hide, you can figure out
what it is that these animals want so much and...

He interrupted her thoughts with a cough.  "I can see you're thinking
your options through, and you must have reached the same conclusion as
I:  you have none.  If you do not go along with my suggestion, they
will kill you.  There is nowhere you can go that you couldn't be
found.  I'm afraid it's my way or the highway, and in this case they
are one and the same."  He checked his watch.  "It's getting rather
late.  Shall we go, then?"

She wavered.  "You seem awfully sure of my cooperation."

"Your steadfast sensibility has always been impressive, Agent Scully.
I see no reason to think that it would fail you now."  He mashed out
his cigarette butt in the bottom of the juice glass and then stood to
leave.  "However, if you would prefer to become a martyr to Mulder's
cause, I cannot prevent it."

Oh God.  Mulder.  She swallowed hard.  How many times had she promised
him that she would not leave him?  Assured him that his quest was now
hers as well?  Who would continue the search with him if she were
gone?  And who would be there to pick up the pieces if, God forbid, he
never did find the answers he was looking for?

Her gun was still focus on the Smoker as he stood awaiting her
decision.  Damn you, she thought, blinking back tears of rage.  Damn
you for taking my life away from me once again.

She drew a shaky breath and allowed herself to admit the truth of the
situation.  There was nothing she could do for herself or Mulder if she
was six feet under.

So she slowly lowered her gun part way, then finally let it rest
against her side. "What do I have to do?" she whispered hoarsely.

He smiled.  "Excellent."

***********************

They took her car, which surprised her some.

Not that she had expected to be whisked off in a flying saucer, but it
was very disconcerting to see him looking weary and rumpled as he
folded his knees against the dashboard of her Ford Contour.  He seemed
almost human.

He lit one of his trademark cigarettes, and in the brief flare of the
match she caught a glimpse of the deep lines marking his face.  Then he
shook out the flame, and night engulfed the small car in thick and
suffocating blackness.  His voice floated out to her from the looming
silhouette he cast against the window.  "Pay close attention to the
route.  You will need to find it again in the dark."

Scully stiffened in surprise. She had not expected to be coming back.
"Where are we going?" she asked, glancing over at him as she started
the engine.

But his gaze was fixed out the passenger side window--at what, she
could not say.  He pinched the cigarette from between his lips with two
fingers before replying.  "You'll know soon enough."

In just under an hour he had directed her through the back hills of
Virginia into a dense wood.  There was a dirt road that wound like a
snake through the thick, tall trees, but she never would have noticed
it if he had not pointed it out.  At last they came to a stop in front
of a small stone cottage that was crumbling at one corner.  Scully
squinted in the darkness but could not make out any signs of life
within.  Beside her, her companion slid the car window down and tapped
his ash into the cool night air.

"What is this place?" she demanded.

He took a long drag on the cigarette before answering.  "When you
receive the signal from me, you will come here."

Hands still at the wheel, she leaned over the dashboard to peer again
at the strange cottage.  It appeared to have no windows.  "If you think
that Mulder wouldn't find me here," she said, "you have not been paying
attention."

The comment must have amused him, because he gave a short chuckle.
"Indeed."  He puffed a moment.  "A lesson I've learned hard and well.
So this time I will save myself the effort."

She looked across the seat at him.  "I don't understand."

"The trick," he said with a quick exhale, "is not to hide you away, but
to ensure he won't come looking.  That part is going to be up to you."

Scully shook her head.  "It won't work.  He never listens to me."

"It's you who has not been paying attention. You have more power than
you know. Did you think it was accidental that we singled you out as
his greatest weakness?  Tell him you wish to leave because the work is
unsatisfying and he will argue with you to the death.  Tell him you
wish to leave because he is unsatisfying and he will believe you.  He
will believe you because he believes it himself."

Scully sucked in a sharp breath. It was true.

Last week she had awakened in the middle of a summer thunderstorm to
find him tracing invisible ribbons over her shoulder and down her
back.  "What is it?" she had asked him sleepily.

For an answer, he had pulled her toward him and nuzzled her neck, so
close his chin scratched against the tender skin of her shoulder.  She
had stroked his hair until she had thought he was asleep again.  But
then she had felt it, a low murmur that tickled the tiny hairs at the
nape of her neck, barely audible over the rushing wind and cracks of
thunder raging outside his apartment walls.  "I just can't believe
you're really here."

The Smoker coughed then, and the memory compacted into a steely ball of
pain that sat squarely in the middle of her chest. She clasped a hand
over her mouth and turned her head.    Mulder was already so unsure of
his ability to make her happy.  To spell it out for him would be the
cruelest cut of all. I can't do that to him, she thought desperately,
IcantIcantIcant.

"He will survive," said the Smoker neutrally, as if reading her
thoughts.  "He has before."

Scully almost threw up.  Was this a veiled reference to Diana?  The
possibility made her skin crawl, and she nearly decided to call the
whole plan off.

But then she remembered her sister.  How easy it was to die.  At least
this way there was a chance.

Something in her eyes must have communicated her decision, because he
began to outline the stages of the plan.  "You must resign
immediately," he said.  "I don't care what sort of job you find as long
as it does not require contact with the FBI or Fox Mulder.  Understood?"

She nodded reluctantly, still feeling sick.

"There will be a month's trial period so that I and my colleague's can
be sure that you are following through on your end of the bargain."

Her eyes flashed with momentary anger.  This was no bargain and he damn
well knew it.

"If at that time we are satisfied with your cooperation," he continued
as if oblivious to her rage, "I will contact you about removal of the
chip.  You will drive here for the procedure."

"Why here?" she demanded, suspicious.

"Because this is where I say it will be done," he retorted lightly.  He
paused to flick the glowing butt out the window.  "Do we have a deal?"

Scully swallowed.  "Yes."  The word was thin and hollow, like a dried
autumn leaf waiting to be crushed underfoot.

He nodded and took a last look around.  "Then we can go now," he said.
"Unless you have any other questions."

She did have one.  The most important one of all.  "What about Mulder?
If he does find whatever you are looking for, what happens to him after
that?"

There was a long minute filled with only the sounds of the tree frogs
and cicadas singing in the night.  His silence stretched on so long
that she had resigned herself to never receiving an answer when
suddenly he said, "Maybe he'll be dead."

Scully flinched, her eyes squeezed shut.

Then he spoke again, softer this time.  "Or maybe he'll be saved."

Her eyes flew open so she could see him in the first gray light of
dawn.  "Maybe he'll be saved," he whispered again.  Then he looked
away.  "Maybe we all will."

***********************
End Chapter Two.  

Chapter Three

It took Scully all day to write the two letters.  The first was neatly
typed, a terse resignation from a job she had sometimes hated to love.
The second was much harder to put on paper, as she struggled to find
words strong enough to sever a six year bond.  Several times she had to
stop because the black script blurred through her tears.

When she was done, she folded the pale blue stationary precisely in
thirds and slipped it into a matching envelope.  Then she closed her
eyes and felt around to the back of her neck where the catch of her
necklace lay hidden under her hair.  She unclasped it with an ease
borne from years of practice, and drew back to watch it glitter on her
palm.  With a shaky breath, she dropped it into the envelope alongside
the letter.

She hoped that he would understand the significance of her gift.  She
hoped that he wouldn't think it was a salve to ease her nagging
conscience.  That he wouldn't think she was offering him a token
"forget-me-not" as a last act of arrogance.

She hoped he would see the necklace for what it was--a manifestation of
faith. Not in God this time, but in their eventual reunion.  So often
she had been without the necklace, but Mulder had always seen to its
return.

The envelope finally sealed, her fingers drifted to the empty place at
her neck.  Just one more time, she prayed silently.  Just one more time.

***********************

It was night before she went to see him, but he was still at work, head
bent low over his desk as he scrawled something across the paper in
front of him.  It must play hell with your social life, she thought,
this working two jobs--one for us and one for them.

She studied him from the doorway, remembering the large stack of
reports the Smoker had shown her.  Reports that she had handed to
Skinner herself.  Mulder had said to trust no one, but on this front
even he had been played for a fool.

For a long moment she stood in the shadows at the threshold of his
office, tapping the crisp edge of the envelope against her left palm.
This was one of those moments, she realized, where the decision fork
split into two radically and irrevocably different paths that would
never again intersect.  She entertained a fleeting fancy of the old
science fiction maxim that suggested each decision a person made
created a parallel universe where the opposite decision prevailed.  If
it were true, she thought, then she and Mulder had no doubt already
mourned each other a hundred times over.

One more lifetime should hardly make a difference.

But still it was against a sharp blade of anguish that she finally
chose one path, stepping inside his office, stopping just short of the
halo of light pooled on the floor around his desk.

He looked up at the slight rustling of her skirt as she moved.  "Agent
Scully, what are you doing here?  It's only been three days."

She tried, but could not say the words.  Would not say the words. They
were hurtful enough when whispered inside her head.  To utter them
aloud would be unbearable, and there was no way in hell that she was
going to give him the satisfaction of watching her break.  They had
taken nearly everything from her, but her pain was still her own.

Wordlessly, she extended the white envelope, and he stretched from his
chair to reach it.  It was crafted from high quality paper, a heavy
bond that befit the serious nature of its contents.  But still she
fought to breathe as she felt its slight weight move from her hand to
his--how was it possible that one's life work could be contained in
such an inconsequential package?

Skinner glanced up at her once, then focused his gaze on the envelope,
turning it over in his hands several times.  He made no move to open it.

After a moment, Scully figured she would spare him the suspense. "It's
my letter of resignation, effective immediately."

He blinked at her a moment.  Then, saying nothing, he tossed the
envelope lightly onto his desk and pulled off his glasses, rubbing his
eyes with one large hand.

Scully slipped slowly around to the back of one the omni-present chairs
where she and Mulder usually sat for their latest slap on the wrist.
She ran the tips of her fingers against the smooth edge, glad to have
at least small barrier between herself and the man she now recognized
was not her friend.  But she met his eyes squarely when she said, "If
you don't mind me saying so, Sir, you don't seem all that surprised
receive this letter."

He leaned reclined in his chair and scratched the back of his head.
"Frankly, Agent, I'm astonished that you lasted as long as you did."

"I would guess you had some say in that decision."  She was feeling
bolder now.  What the hell did it matter anyway?  If this was really to
be her last time inside these walls, she was going to leave with some
answers.

His eyes swept over her in a speculative look.  "I think you would be
surprised at how little say I've ever had in anything."

She suppressed a snort of disgust.  First the Smoker, now Skinner.  No
one seemed to want to take the credit for her shattered life.  Maybe it
was too small a prize to warrant a notch one anyone's belt.  The
thought caused her to stand a little straighter, angry again that she
was sacrificing everything that mattered--meager if it was, in the
grand scheme of things--while the men responsible seemed content to
believe their own beautiful lies.

"I'm surprised only that you can hop beds with such agility," she said
coldly.  "Getting it from both sides might be exciting, but as a long-
term lifestyle choice it carries an impressive degree of risk."

He frowned. "It's a calculated one."

She moved from behind one chair to the other.  "Calculated...as in
dollars?"

He did not answer her.  Instead, he rose from his chair and leaned far
across the desk, fingers curling hard into the edge of the dark wood.
"You want to judge me?" he demanded.  "You think you understand
everything now?  Well, you don't know the half of it."

"I understand betrayal," she cut in icily.

He pulled back with a jerk, his head turned away, and was quiet for a
long time.  At last, he faced her straight on and said,  "The choices
I've made were not easy--hell, sometimes they weren't even choices.
But they've served a purpose, and they've put me in a position to see
more and do more than I ever would have otherwise.  And you and Mulder
have often reaped the benefits of those choices, so don't you stand
here do your holier-than-thou act for me."

She held his gaze, eyes narrowed. "Don't deceive yourself, Sir.
They've put you in a position, all right--the bend over and grab your
ankles kind."

He barked a short, humorless laugh.  "You think I'm alone in that?  You
think there aren't others who have made questionable decisions,
betrayed loyalties, if only to keep their chips in the game?"  He gave
her a slow, assessing look.  "I would think you would understand that
better than anyone, Agent Scully."

Her cheeks burned hot with instant anger. "How dare you?" she breathed,
gripping the chair so tightly her nails left marks on the hard
leather.  "How dare you class your choices with mine?"

"Fine," he spat, his mouth twisting into a hard frown. "Pretend if you
want.  Wrap yourself in another layer of denial.  It would be a fitting
finale.  You and Mulder always were a strange combination--the man who
saw too much and the woman who never saw a damn thing, even when it was
right under her nose."  He paused and then resumed his seat behind the
desk, gathering up the papers into a neat stack.  His raked her once as
he said, "We all make choices, Agent Scully, and we all have to live
with them.  Even you."

His tone made it clear that the conversation was over, that she was
dismissed, and he picked up his pen to continue the work she had
interrupted a few minutes before.  But Scully did not leave, standing
still in the shadows, stiff with barely contained anger.  "I never
knew..." she began, and broke off when her voice shook.  She swallowed
twice and tried again, this time rigidly controlled.  "I never knew
that those reports were being used against us."

He did not look up from his work.  "That's right, you never knew," he
agreed with a sneer. "You never wanted to know a damn thing, did you?"

She moved a step closer. "Just what the hell are you implying?"

He gave a snort. "You couldn't handle the truth.  Never could."

"Oh, screw that!  What are you talking about?"

He remained silent, head still bent over a series of 302s.    She
snatched the paperwork from him with a jerk, and he finally raised his
tired eyes to her angry blue ones.

"The truth is never what you wanted, Agent Scully.  You know that, and
so do they.  Why do you think you were chosen for this job?"

Scully angrily tossed the papers back on the desk.  Half of them slid
over the edge and fluttered to the ground. "You're a fine one to
lecture me about truth, given what precious little you seem to know on
the subject."

"Hey, at least I went in with my eyes open!" he shot back.  "You spent
half your days searching for the answers and the other half covering
them up.  You want the truth?  The truth is that you don't want any
real answers.  You only want those 'truths' that can fit nicely into
your orderly little world."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Oh, no?" he asked with raised brows. "I read your reports, Agent
Scully.  Your truth is as subjective as anyone else's.  You kept the
bits you understood and threw the rest away."

"I was doing my job!"

His eyes pinned her, dark as coal in the half-light.  "Precisely," he
answered.  "So let's not pretend otherwise."

Scully sucked in a sudden, sharp breath, her anger crystallizing into
pins that prickled down her neck.  He smirked at the hitch in her
breathing and the slight tremble of her chin, apparently taking triumph
in knocking her off the pedestal and down into the mire with him.  She
vowed not to make it so easy.

"I stand by every one of those reports," she said with deceptive
mildness.  "They were written with care and included only those truths
that I could verify myself at the time.  Perhaps it is naive or
provincial of me to value such an outdated code of ethics, but if I had
to do it all over again, I hope I would make the same choices.  I
wonder how many others could say the same?"

His lips thinned to a straight line, and he looked away.  In his
profile, Scully thought she could make out the remnants of the military
man he had once been.  It made her want to cry, and she knew had to get
out of there. It was suddenly too much, looking at him across the
wreckage of their lives.

She released her death-grip on the chair and moved silently to the
door, her head bowed to create an illusion of privacy behind the
curtain of hair.  His voice, tight and gravelly, stopped her before she
could get out the door.  "What about Agent Mulder?"

Her stomach clenched at his name.  She did not turn around. "What about
him?"

"Does he know that you're leaving the Bureau?"

The other letter.  She had almost forgotten.

She let the cool metal door handle slip from her fingers as she turned
to face him once more.  "No," she whispered against the tears that
threatened even closer now.  "I...I couldn't."

Skinner lowered his eyes to his desk.  "He's going to want answers."

"I know."  The words were hoarse and raw with pain.  "I wish I had some
to give."

Skinner blinked owlishly at her for a long minute.  "What do you want
me to tell him?" he asked at last.

Scully hesitated a moment, then withdrew a smaller, pale blue envelope
from her suit pocket.  She paused to swipe at her eyes with the back of
her hand before crossing the room to give him the second letter.  She
was impressed that her hand shook only a little as she murmured, "When
he comes, give him this."

He seemed reluctant to take the proffered envelope.  Finally, however,
he pulled it from her fingers and slipped it into his top desk drawer.
"I'm sorry," he blurted out suddenly.

Scully stopped brushing aside tears to meet his eyes.  His color had
heightened in the orange-yellow light; apparently he was as surprised
by his admission as she was.  Sorry for which part? she wondered.  But
she did not ask.  She was tired and it was late.  Too late for arguing
and way too late for sorry.

She took a shuddering breath and tapped her fingers lightly on his
desk.  "Promise me," she said.  "Promise me you will look out for him."

He closed his eyes with a sigh. "There are higher powers than I looking
out for Mulder."  When she did not answer, he added, "I'll do what I
can."

She nodded slowly and turned once more toward the door.  Again, he
called after her.

"Agent Scully."

She opened the door, intent on ignoring him, but at the last second she
turned part way so that their eyes met for a final time.  She waited.

"Your job..." he began awkwardly.  Then he broke off, glanced at the
ceiling, and took a deep breath before finishing in a rush.  "You're
right.  You did it well."

Scully searched his face for any hint of sarcasm or arrogance; she
found none. Swallowing convulsively, she thought of a dozen last words
to say to him, including "you're welcome" and "I should have shot you
when I had the chance."  Instead she echoed his own advice:

"I'll be able to live with my choices."  Her eyes lingered a moment on
his face.  "I wish you luck in doing the same."

Then she left him much as she had found him, working among the shadows
in a shrinking halo of light.

************************

Journal Entry for July 5, 1999

I have left Mulder.

The words are strange to look at on the paper--perfectly legible on the
one hand, but completely incomprehensible when whispered inside my head.

If I dare to acknowledge the totality of my losses, I must admit that I
have left so much more than just Mulder.  I have abandoned any chance
at knowing what really happened to me during those three missing
months.  I will never know the truth behind my cancer or understand the
science underlying my recovery.

There will be no justice for me.  No revenge.

I will never make good on the years of silent promises to Melissa and
to Emily.

But as terrible as these losses are, I feel incapable of mourning them
now.  Perhaps it is because deep inside, I never really expected to
find the answers I've sought.  Each new investigation has brought only
more questions, and every time Mulder and I have been close to the
truth, it has turned out to be nothing but a shadow puppet that
vanishes under the bright light of day.

Last year, in the wake of the cancer, I had a recurring dream in which
I would lose Mulder.  Not to death.  Not to another woman.  But
actually *lose* him, as though he were a small, forgettable object like
an umbrella or a set of car keys.  He would eventually turn up, but
there was always a moment of indescribable panic when I grasped that he
was missing--blind terror mixed with a guilty shame that I had mislaid
him and not even realized it.  Sadness that I had let him down.

Karen hypothesized that maybe I was dealing with repressed anger at
Mulder because of the work and the cancer.  But I wasn't angry.  I was
afraid.

Now I know why.

Because it is those same feelings that grip me tonight, only more so,
like the sun beam concentrated though a magnifying glass.

Most people when they dissolve a six-year relationship spend time
dividing up their combined assets, arguing over who gets to keep the
blender and whether she has to return the earrings he gave her since he
doesn't want the dozen ties she had given him.  In the end, they each
leave with a cardboard box emblazoned with their name, containing the
hard-won artifacts of a brief, shared passion.

I have no material things to take from my relationship with Mulder, but
my box is no less full.

In it, I will take that cold night in Alaska, when he finally opened
his eyes and I could see that they were as questioning and hopeful as
ever.

I will take tenth day of our last quarantine, when he broke up the
monotony of the endless hospital days by turning out all the lights in
our room so we could have a flashlight war on the ceiling.

I will take the rasp of his voice in my ear as he came inside me for
the first time.

These are the things I will keep to remind me that I once  knew a love
so strong it took my breath away.  Six years is much longer than some
people get, I will tell myself.

I wonder what Mulder will put in his box.

I wonder if he will hate me forever.

************************
End Chapter Three.  

Chapter Four

On his way into work the morning of the seventh day of Scully-exile, he
considered being slightly cool when he saw her.  Because even if she
had pined for him every second of their separation, Scully would be
nothing but briskly professional at their reunion.  That was simply how
she was.

Sometimes, like when he listened to her discuss tissue decomposition
and remembered that this was the same woman who had awoken in his arms
that morning like a sleepy kitten, the contrast was maddeningly
arousing.

Other times, like when he would try to flirt with her in the basement
over take-out Thai only to find himself on the receiving end of the
"quit it, Mulder, this is work" glare, it was merely maddening.

He wished often that he had her penchant for compartmentalization.
Life would be so much easier if he didn't broadcast his emotions like a
64,000 watt radio tower.  He imagined it would give him an air of
mystery, rather than the suggestion of lunacy he usually projected.
For once, Scully would have to wonder what he was thinking instead of
the other way around.

He pulled the car over to the bakery on the corner of Walnut street
with a sigh.  Joe Cool he was not.  There was just no way he could ever
pull it off.  Scully would take one look at him and know instantly that
he had spent the week bouncing the basketball on the floor and counting
the hours until he saw her again.

He checked his watch.  Less than fifteen minutes to go.

So she's not exactly the demonstrative type, he told himself as he
stood in line at the bakery.  You know how she really feels.

Her reticence had taught him to pick up on the subtle cues, like the
way her eyes tracked him around the room.  Or the way her mouth
twitched when she tried hard not to laugh at his jokes.  Maybe she
would be wearing the navy blue suit today.  That would be a good sign,
because she knew how much he enjoyed seeing her in it.

He selected a pair of still-warm croissants and ordered two giant cups
of coffee for an impromptu welcome-back breakfast. Just over five
minutes later, he was balancing the morning meal and an armful of
casefiles as he made his way toward the basement office.  The door was
already open and the lights were on; his heart picked up.

"You're whipped, my man," he muttered under his breath as he reached
the threshold.  "You're whipped but good."

But he was smiling when he entered the room, making no effort to hide
his pleasure at being back in her company.  Okay, so she would simply
smile back and offer a pleasant "good morning"...maybe let her fingers
brush his when she accepted the coffee.

She had missed him.  He knew she had.

And the anticipation of how completely she would welcome him back to
her bed that evening was easy compensation for any lopsided affection
in the office.

He stood on the threshold and scanned the room, but Scully was nowhere
to be seen.  Unconcerned, he moved to his desk and set the thick sheaf
of files down for later perusal.  He had already marked at least four
dozen passages he wanted her to read.  But first...

He took the lid off the coffee and brought it to his lips.  It was the
house special, a dark roast blend that made his nose quiver happily
just before it shook up his tastebuds with the morning's first dose of
caffeine.  After several sips of the steaming hot brew, he set the
paper cup on his desk blotter, right inside the boundaries of a pre-
existing brown ringed stain.  It was then that he noticed a small blue
envelope propped against the base of the desk lamp. The outside read
"Mulder" in Scully's loopy script.

Immediately uneasy, he glanced around again as if expecting to see her
standing in a corner watching him.  No Scully.

He picked up the envelope and realized there was an accompanying note,
this one a yellow post-it that bore Skinner's bold, slightly uneven
print:  "SEE ME."

Ignoring the note, he slit the envelope with one finger and tugged the
letter out with a frown.  "What the...?" He jerked in surprise when a
gold chain slithered out along his hand, creating a glittering web
across his fingers. "No," he breathed when he realized what it was.
"No no no."  He repeated the word mindlessly as he sank back into the
leather chair, shaking his head as if multiplying the denial would it
go away.

He guessed the content of the letter instantly, and considered just
putting it through the shredder without even reading it.  Instead, he
withdrew the pale blue pages with shaking fingers, as if controlled by
an invisible, outside force.

Clutching the necklace in one hand, he pushed apart the pages of letter
with the other.  His breath caught in his throat as he began to read:

Dear Mulder,

Please forgive me for the lack of courage in this message and its
impersonal delivery.  I've found that words like these are slightly
less painful if you don't speak them aloud.  So just let me get through
what I need to say.

First of all, please know that I regret nothing.

I need you to know this and believe this so that you do not look back
and think that everything between us has been a lie.  I have never
known a truer moment than those I've spent with you.  Indeed, it is
because of this unfailing honesty that I must be completely truthful
with you now.

We have made a terrible mistake in deepening our personal involvement.
Sweet folly, I think you called it, and you were so right, Mulder.  As
usual.

Last summer you told me that we were close to something important, and
I believe now that we were.  But then over course of this year we have
lost that momentum, and I feel we are now farther than ever from the
answers we've been pursuing all this time.  Maybe our stagnant search
is unrelated to our more intimate relationship, but I cannot help think
that there is a connection.  It is as if our personal closeness is
somehow in direct opposition to the truth--one must suffer for the
other to thrive.

Well, Mulder, if we must pick one, then it has to be the X-Files. The
work is too important to sacrifice in the name of personal happiness.

And I was happy.  Please know this, too.

There is a Chinese butterfly, Mulder,that sometimes develops with two
sets of wings due to a genetic mutation in the larval stage.
Functionally useless, these creatures just sit on the branch until they
eventually perish from starvation.  I think perhaps our relationship
was like that butterfly:  contrary to nature but somehow managed to
exist for a brief moment in time.  Rare and beautiful, yet ultimately
not meant to be.

I have resigned my position at the Bureau, and I truly think this was
for the best.  It was not an easy decision, for my life is contained in
the files as much as yours ever was.  But I cannot in good conscience
continue to work with you knowing that I am doing more harm than good.
Last week, our pride and prejudices nearly got us both killed, and I
refuse to wait around until our luck runs out entirely.  It would be
more than I could bear.

So please understand that I need to walk away now, while I still can.
You cannot change my thinking on this issue, Mulder, so I respectfully
request that you do not even try.  It's best if we part cleanly, rather
than with long hours of regrets and recriminations that would only
bring more heartache.

I will not answer any attempts to contact me, and I hope that you will
not make it necessary for me to demonstrate how serious I am on this
subject.  I am sorry if this is hurtful, but it is the only way I know
how to go about starting over.

You'll be all right on your own.  Somehow, I suspect you always would
have been.

The truth is out there, Mulder, and you can find it.  When you do, I
hope that we will have reached a place where we can sit and talk about
it, for I will have much I want to ask you.  I hope by then you will
understand my decision and will have forgiven me for it.  I hope that
you will have found peace and vindication, and that the rest of the
world will finally see what was apparent to me from the start--you are
a person of rare courage and extreme possibility.


Until such a time I will hold you in my thoughts and prayers.

Love always, Scully


Mulder swallowed against the enormous lump in his throat as he stared
at her signature.  He felt paralyzed and weak.  He felt as though he
would shatter at the slightest touch.

His hands fell limp at his sides, and the necklace slipped to the
ground with a light tinkle while the pale blue pages fluttered around
his feet.  He paid them no mind.

Inside, his heart was pounding its way into his throat and his brain
was forming a scream so loud he wanted to shout it from the rooftop.
"NOOOOOOOooooooooo!"

The sound of his voice echoing against the walls of the small office
galvanized Mulder into action.  His eyes flew open, his muscles tensed
and he snatched the remnants of Scully's letter from the floor before
barreling down the hall in a tsunami of rising rage.  By the time he
reached Skinner's office, he was sweating slightly and breathing hard.
His tie hung loose around his neck.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" he growled, waving the rumpled
pages in the air.  "Just what do you know that I don't?"

Skinner folded his hands on the desk.  "Sit down, Agent Mulder."

Mulder ignored him, pacing the worn brown carpet behind the chairs like
a caged cougar. "Something's wrong," he muttered, more to himself than
the Assistant Director.  "She must be in trouble of some kind.  That's
the only explanation."

"Agent Scully is perfectly fine."

Mulder halted his steps to skewer the other man with an angry glare.
"Have you seen her?" he demanded hotly.

"Yes, I have."  Skinner spoke as if to a slow-witted child.

Mulder felt the skin on his neck flush hot with a fresh wave of fury.
"When?"

"Three nights ago, when she gave me her letter of resignation."  He
held up an ivory colored envelope.

"Let me see that," snapped Mulder, as he pulled it roughly from the
AD's grasp.  He tore out the letter and scanned it quickly.  "I don't
believe it," he announced flatly.  "She's got to be in some sort of
trouble, I know it.  We have to find her and do something."

"Oh for Christ's sake," replied Skinner, irritated.  "We're not doing
anything.  I talked to her, and she's fine.  You hear me?  She's
fine!"  Mulder glared at him and for a moment the two men locked horns
in silence, sizing each other up across the mahogany desk.  "There's no
mystery here, Mulder," Skinner said at last.  "No hidden agenda. She's
just burned out.  We lose at least three dozen agents this way every
year."

"Not Scully."

Skinner's scowl softened and he sighed. "Even the best agents have
their breaking point, Mulder."

"Not like this," insisted Mulder through gritted teeth.  He held up the
pages of her letter, fanned out and wrinkled in his fist.  "She would
not just up and quit without at least telling me first."

"I believe she did tell you."  Skinner looked pointedly at the letter
over the rims of his glasses.

"This?" spat Mulder, tossing the pages at the AD.  "This is a 'Dear
John' letter, not a goddamn explanation!"

"Maybe it's the only one you're going to get," Skinner answered mildly.

Mulder was shaking his head vehemently as he resumed pacing.  "No!" he
interjected.  "No, sir.  I'm not going to believe any of this until I
get it straight from Scully.  This could be a forgery, or she could be
under the influence of drugs...or what about that fucking chip in her
neck?"

"I told you she seemed fine to me."

Mulder seethed. "And who the hell are you to judge?"

"Who the hell are you?" returned Skinner, rising from his chair.
"Seems to me this is exactly why you got a letter rather than a
personal explanation."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Oh, the hell you don't."  Skinner sneered openly.  "She wrote you that
letter because it was the only way she could get you to hear what she
was saying."

"That's insane!" Mulder spat.

"Is it?  You're telling me there was no indication that she was unhappy
with the work?  With you?  Or were there signs and you just chose to
disregard them?"

Mulder felt the first trickle of hesitation since he had opened the
letter.  "It's not true," he repeated, but with less assurance.
"Scully wouldn't do that...not to me."

"I'm not sure she had much choice.  The word 'no' is not exactly
foremost in your vocabulary, Agent Mulder."

He stopped pacing and ran his hand over his eyes, massaging the growing
ache at his temples.  "It can't be true," he murmured, but already the
doubt was creeping in.  He remembered quite clearly his desperate
reaction a year before, the last time she had told him she was
leaving.  Maybe Scully had remembered, too.  Remembered that he would
have said or done anything to convince her to stay.

Perhaps the letter made some sense after all.

His shuddered, shoulders drooping as his spent rage evaporated and left
him feeling raw and rubbery. "I have to find out for myself," he said
at last.  "I have to know why."

Skinner frowned. "Scully seemed to think it was best to cut her
losses.  I would strongly suggest you do the same."

At the mention of losses, Mulder flinched.  Scully did not often speak
of the horrors she had endured since joining him on the X-Files, but he
was acutely aware of them just the same.  It was the reason he cowered
at the office when she marched bravely off to every six-month check-up,
chewing pencils until she returned with a tight smile and the news that
he could breathe again for just a little longer.  It was also the
reason he averted his eyes from pregnant women, sisters with red hair
and the scar at the base of her neck.

He knew it was somewhat arrogant to blame himself--why, Fox Mulder,
you're so goddamn irresistible that this woman would sacrifice her
health and family just to live each day by your side!

Not exactly, he thought ruefully.  And yet...

He recognized that he was a large part of why she stayed, and sometimes
the knowledge frightened him to the point that he would wake up
sweating and shaking in the middle of the night--angry at himself for
needing her so much, angry at her for needing him right back.

But instead of pushing her away, he only grabbed her tighter.

Maybe that's it, he thought sadly as he made his way out of Skinner's
office with the crumpled letter in his hand.

I finally squeezed too hard.

***************

Scully sat on her couch most of the day, with her eyes trained on the
door, expecting that he would come banging at any moment.  The clock
ticked off the excruciating minutes as she waited, half-dreading, half-
welcoming the confrontation she felt was sure to unfold.

Mulder was not one to go away quietly.

Unless...

Unless he believed it, she thought, hugging her knees to her chest.
Unless he read her rejection and accepted it without question,
believing the worst about himself as the Smoker had predicted.

Misery settled in her heart like a stone, and she glanced again at the
silent white door. Prove the bastard wrong, she willed through the
wall.  Don't believe me.  I love you and you know it.

Of course it would complicate matters enormously if he did come. She
was not convinced that she could manage the charade if faced with his
anger and hurt in person.  Still, she found herself wishing fervently
that he would care enough to fight their separation.  That he trusted
her enough to see through the lies.

Because if he did not come, it would mean that he had believed the
worst of her...and himself.

The setting sun had turned the slits in her blinds to bright orange
lines, and the shadows were long and slim against her walls before she
could admit the truth:  he was not coming.

She laid her head on her knees and wept.

***********
End Chapter Four.  

Chapter Five

The club was too hot for his leather jacket but he left it on anyway,
leaning out over the iron rail so that his vodka tonic dangled high
above the dance floor.

I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought as he surveyed the twenty-
something crowd below.  And this place sucks.

The music was a noisy, repetitive techno beat that sounded like
something from a bad Volkswagen commercial, and a thick haze of smoke
was suspended over the dance for beneath him.    The strobe lights
flashed in time with the beat so that the gyrating bodies appeared to
oscillate en masse in a fractured motion, like a hyperfast, 3-D slide
show.

He stood so that he could watch the door but still keep one eye on the
Asian girl to his right, the one with the silver eye-shadow and perfect
tits.  When he next glanced in her direction, she downed three shots in
a row, tossing back a mane of black hair while her slender, bird-like
neck ripple with each swallow. Then she regarded him with hooded eyes
and slowly wiped the her mouth with the back of her hand.

Likes it hard and fast, he thought as he raised his own glass in mock
salute.  Definite possibility there.

That was one thing this young and affluent crowd had to recommend it:
dozens of hot, hard bodies bored to tears with the repetition of club
life.  Kinky sex and designer drugs no longer provided the thrill they
craved, but they came every week all the same because it was the only
thing they knew to do.  They came desperate for the next shot of
adrenaline to jolt them from their pathetic, deadened lives.

He hid a grin against the cold rim of the tumbler.

As luck would have it, fucking a one-armed man always seemed like just
the ticket.

Amused anew, Krycek rolled an ice cube around in his mouth and
maneuvered his hips so that the Asian chick was sure to get a good look
at his ass.  Then he hit the side button on his watch to illuminate the
glowing green display.

One eleven.  Fuck that.

The cube cracked under his back teeth, and he swirled the remaining one
in the base of the glass.  He wasn't going to wait around any longer.
The proposition had seemed intriguing, but his patience had limits. It
was time they learned that he was not some ass-wipe who could be used
and disposed of at will.

He ignored the cat-eyed girl's pout as he pushed through the small
round tables toward the winding iron staircase.  With easy grace, he
took the stairs two at a time until he landed squarely among the
sweaty, perfumed dancers.  Immediately, a pair of blondes encircled him
with long, pale arms.  But he pulled away absently, having just noticed
a slender figure smoking under a blue lamp near the emergency exit. It
was about damn time.

The man snuffed out his cigarette as he approached.  "Listen here," he
hissed right in the man's ear.  "If we're going to have an
understanding, then you need to start respecting my time."

The Japanese man with the pony-tail was unimpressed. "For what I intend
to pay you, you can buy all the respect in the world."

"I haven't agreed to anything yet," Krycek snarled.  "And I'm not at
all sure I intend to."

"You'll agree," replied the other man confidently.  "We have the same
basic interests at heart."

"I have no interests but my own."

The man smiled faintly. "Ah, there, you see? We are in complete accord."

Krycek hesitated.  "Let's just say I'm listening."

The man moved slightly back toward the wall, away from the dance floor
and deeper into the shadows.  "As I'm sure you're aware, the project
has reached a critical juncture."

"I've heard about the set-backs," Krycek answered tersely.  "What's
that got to do with me?"

"Patience," sighed the other.  "I'll explain in a moment."

Krycek grew angry again and jerked away.  "Your moment expired about
forty minutes ago.  I'm outta here."

"Wait!" called the man.

Krycek turned.

"I need you to kill Agent Scully."

Krycek closed the distance between them with two steps.  "What?" he
whispered hoarsely.  "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"On the contrary.  I'm afraid I'm the only one of the group thinking
clearly on this subject." He studied Krycek assessingly.  "You are up
to the task, are you not?"

"I don't know," retorted Krycek.  "Why do you want her dead?"

The man shrugged.  "Many reasons. She's the only test subject not yet
terminated, which makes her something of a liability.  It would also be
a welcome change not to have to worry about her and Mulder sniffing
around the Project compounds."

"You do realize," Krycek said slowly.  "That Mulder will come after
us.  He won't stop until he has your balls and my head on a combination
platter."

"Oh, not me," protested the other man with a smile.  "He doesn't have a
clue that I even exist.  He's going to blame this on a friend of
yours...Mr. CGB Spender?"

"We're not friends." Krycek responded automatically.

"Yes, well, I confess I knew that.  It's part of the reason I'm coming
to you with this proposition."

Krycek bit the nails on his remaining hand as he considered the plan.
"I don't know..." he said after a minute.  "What about the original
plans for Mulder?"

"Oh, you don't really believe that old horseshit about his father, do
you?" the other man spat contemptuously.  "If it ever existed, we would
have found it by now.  It's time to forget about the Bill Mulder story
and begin investing in avenues that have a snowball's chance in hell of
paying off."

"Which you already have mapped out," said Krycek, starting to see the
big picture.  "You want to take control of the group."

"Someone has to.  The old man might have been useful to the others, but
now he's just dead weight."

"So why not just off him directly?" inquired Krycek coolly.  "Why mess
around with Mulder and Scully?"

"That's the beauty of this whole scenario...every problem is solved at
once.  You take care of Agent Scully, and in his rage, Mulder kills
Spender for revenge.  The precedent is already there.  I've seen the
files."

Krycek nodded in agreement.  He could well remember what it felt like
to be on the receiving end of Mulder's fury.  "He'll be dead within
hours, don't you worry."

"Excellent. Then Scully and Spender are out of the way completely, and
Mulder goes to jail for a good long time.  I assume leadership of the
group, and you are well-compensated for your efforts.  What could be
more perfect?"

"It sounds easy enough," Krycek admitted.  "When would you like it to
go down?"

"I would have to contact you with the details.  Right now Spender's
messing about with a deal to get Scully away from Mulder, just as if
that will solve anything.  I agreed to the proposition so he would
remain occupied elsewhere, but it's going to complicate matters a bit.
Let's just say I'll be in touch, okay?  We can talk final price then,
but in the meantime, you may think of this as a starting figure."  He
withdrew a pen from his inside coat pocket and inked an obscenely large
number on a nearby bar napkin.

Krycek glanced at the sum, his expression neutral.  "Very nice."

"So we have a deal, then?" the Japanese man asked with a tilt of his
head.

Krycek considered a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess we have
a deal."  They shook hands and Krycek watched the smaller man slither
through the crowd to the door.  Then he smirked down at the napkin
before crushing it in his fingers.

Sushi-boy didn't read enough of the reports, he thought, if he thinks a
few bucks will jerk my chain.

His double dealing and information trading had long ago made Krycek a
rich man.  He dealt in a different kind of currency now, and this new
plan had the potential for the biggest possible payoff if he positioned
himself right.

He grinned as he expertly tossed the crumpled napkin into a purple
trash can.  At the very least, it would be worth the investment just to
see the old man finally go up in smoke.

************************

After four days of living in the ratty terry-cloth robe that dated back
to her years in college, Scully realized she was going to have to find
a job or go insane.  Her first interview was for a position in
emergency medicine at St. Elizabeth's, a small, teaching hospital with
a women's health clinic attached.

"This is very different work than what you have been doing," said Dr.
Rita Markham from the privacy of her book-lined office.  She was on the
plump side, with a creamy mocha complexion and long, frizzy hair that
suggested a mixed heritage, and lines around her eyes that suggested an
ability to laugh often.  She put down the resume and looked at Scully
kindly from across her cluttered desk.

Scully thought of the numerous times she had performed emergency
tracheotomies, diagnosed rare illnesses and just generally nursed
Mulder back to health.  Emergency medicine was not exactly a large
leap.  "I'm looking forward to the change," she answered finally.

"Why did you decide to leave the FBI?"

Scully had a well-prepared speech about needing to work with live
patients rather than dead ones, the unpleasantness of the grueling
travel schedule and her concern for personal safety, but the words
withered in her throat like leaves on a vine.  "I...just had to stop,"
she said haltingly.

Rita tilted her head and studied her assessingly.  "It's important to
know when to say when," she announced finally.  "At St. Elizabeth's, we
try to impress that on both the staff and the patients."  She smiled
and rose from her chair.  "Let me show you around," she offered.  "Then
we can talk some more."

The clinic was clean and bright, and everyone she met seemed to have a
ready smile. Scully realized at the end of the tour that she had not
thought about Mulder even once during the half-hour trek through the
ER, the OR, pediatrics or the nursery.

She took the job immediately.

***********************

With acceptance came the darkness.  He welcomed it each night as he lay
blinking on the couch, watching as the spidery cracks in the ceiling
faded from view with the setting sun.  Sometimes he would fold his arms
over his chest and lie like a dead man in an open casket.

Hours passed without his notice.

The first night without her, he had contacted the Gunman and explained
the situation.  They had immediately agreed to keep close tabs on her
and alert him to any possible irregularities in her behavior--just in
case there were mind-altering drugs in her water supply, hypnotic
messages in her television set, or an evil clone bent on replacing the
real Scully with an imperfect facsimile.

He had awaited each report with a bubble of hope, scanning the minutiae
of her new life for any signs that something was amiss, any suggestion
that she might have written that awful letter against her will.

But no.

There was no suggestion of foul play.  No hint of a chemical imbalance
or extraterrestrial interference. Each day was a perfect carbon copy of
the one before it.  She ate bagels for breakfast, yogurt for lunch and
ran exactly 2.5 miles every morning at 6 a.m.  She seemed to take to
medicine as if she had never really left it, and after three weeks,
Mulder reluctantly called off the surveillance.

On his couch at night, he held his hand in front of his face,
contemplating its shape in the dim light.  He moved it away a few
inches and marveled how easily it vanished into the blackness, as if it
were never there.

************************

Scully awoke instantly on the morning of August fourth, passing from
sleep to complete wakefulness without any stops in between.

It had been exactly a month.

She rolled to her side under the sheets and noted the gray light
seeping from the edges of her blinds.  The sound of rain beat against
the window pane outside. Deciding to investigate, she hugged herself
through her thin pajamas as she padded over and displaced the shade
enough to peer out at the street below.

Rain streaked down the window in rivulets.  Scully traced one from the
inside as it fell.  God's tears, she thought, remembering the stories
her mother used to tell at bedtime.

God had cried the day of her father's funeral.  She wondered if he
could be crying for her now.

With a shiver, she let the blind fall back into place.  The Smoker had
promised freedom, but she suspected that would only come with death.
Whether it was from a resurgence of the cancer after removal of the
chip, or whether he executed  her in the stone cabin in the woods, she
did not for an instant expect that he would just let her go.

So it was with a heightened sense of dread that she passed the day at
St. Elizabeth's, startling at the touch of a hand on her shoulder and
scanning each darkened corner for any hint of movement.

He did not appear all day.

She was partially relieved, but feared it only meant that she would
spend the next day with her nerves stretched taut as a tightrope.  The
next day, and possibly the one after that, and the one after that.  The
dismal prospect was almost enough to make her want to hunt him down and
have it out right then.

At the end of her shift, she returned exhausted to the small locker
room, rubbing the ache in her neck and willfully ignoring the small
raised scar she felt there.  But she stopped just inside the doorway,
frozen at the scent of a distinctive odor.

Smoke.

It devoured the air like foul incense, and Scully felt a chill travel
her spine despite the duel covering of her cotton shirt and white
coat.  Was this supposed to be her signal?  Other than the permeating
stench, she could find no trace of him in the room.  Not even a bit of
ash on the floor.

Then she noticed that the door to her locker was not tightly shut.  She
looked quickly around the room again to be sure it was empty before she
cautiously approached the blue metal door.  With two fingers, she swung
it completely open.

There, beside her pocketbook and jar of hand cream, sat a package of
Morley cigarettes--propped upright and facing out at her, plain as
day.  Scully swallowed once and quickly palmed the cigarettes in the
pocket of her doctor's coat.  Grabbing her handbag and slamming the
locker closed with a bang, she hurried out to the car without bothering
to change.

The rain pelted her with large, teary drops as she dashed across the
parking lot and slid into the relative safety of her humid car.
Breathing heavily, she closed her eyes and placed one hand over the
painful pounding of her heart, waiting for her pulse even out again.
At last she withdrew the pack of Morleys from her pocket and opened
them with only slightly shaking fingers.

Inside was a full complement of cancer sticks and a slim white piece of
paper, like from a fortune cookie.  She removed the slip and squinted
at the typed lettering.  "Two a.m. tonight," it read.  "Come alone."

She took her gun.

****************************

It was a difficult drive in the pouring rain, and she had to double
back once after missing the turn off the main road on her first
attempt.  The high beams on her car created twin spots light in which
the forest trees swayed and bobbed from the force of the howling wind.
Sharp racks of thunder shook the earth, masking the crunch of gravel
beneath her tires as she made her way deeper into the black woods.

At last, she spotted the tiny building up ahead.  It seemed more
isolated and rundown than she remembered, but the presence of a long
black car parked outside indicated that she had found the correct
place.  She double-checked the clip in her gun before leaving the car.

Her black overcoat absorbed the worst of the rain as she slipped
alongside the cabin wall toward the door.  Reaching the entrance, she
hesitated, her weapon poised and her free hand gripping the damp, rusty
handle.  Finally she took a deep breath and tugged hard, causing the
moisture laden wood door to pull from its frame with a groan.  Light
spilled out onto the bed of pine needles at her feet, and Scully
carefully peered around the edge of the door into the room.

He was there, seated on a scarred wooden bench.  Another man, younger
and much heavier, paced the floorboards anxiously.  He stopped when he
saw her, blinking at her with eyes half-hidden by his white, puffy
flesh.

"It's about fucking time," he muttered.

The Smoker pursed his thin lips.  "Please come in," he invited.  "We've
been waiting for you."

Scully took one step into the room, her gun still drawn.  There was no
one else inside.  In fact, the room was bare except for a crumbling
fireplace, a cheap wooden chair and a small, folding table covered with
a white cloth and various medical implements.  She risked another step.

"You've done well," the Smoker congratulated her as he stood.  "Now it
is time for me to keep my end of the bargain."

She eyed the tray of shiny metal tools.  "Tell me exactly how this is
going to work."

"Of course," answered the Smoker smoothly.  "It's a simple procedure,
really.  My companion here will be performing the actual removal."

The other man grunted and began busying himself at the tray, snapping
on the pair of latex gloves.  Scully kept one suspicious eye on him as
she asked, "What assurances do I have that the cancer won't return?"

"Hey, I do good work!" insisted the round little man, addressing her
directly for the first time.  "There will be no cancer."

The Smoker lit a fresh cigarette.  "You have no real assurances," he
answered after a minute.  "Only my word."  The lights flickered with an
especially loud clap of thunder.

"I want the chip."  Scully's tone was hard, and she had yet to lower
her gun.

A crease appeared over the Smoker's brow. "That's not part of the deal."

"It is now."

A long, tense minute passed while the Smoker pondered his next move.
Scully's finger was hovering near the trigger, and the fat little man
licked sweat from his upper lip, his eyes riveted to her gun.  At last,
the Smoker nodded.  "The chip is yours," he conceded.  "But we must
begin now."

Scully still hung back on the other side of the cabin, feeling great
unease at relinquishing the protective distance between herself and the
two men.  She slowly put the gun back in its holster.  "What do I have
to do?" she asked unsteadily.

The fat man indicated a folding chair near his tray.  "Sit right here,"
he ordered.  "And lean forward."

Scully shivered. Goosepimples of fear broke out over her body, and her
flesh felt cold and clammy from the soaking rain.  If they were going
to kill her, it would be now.

Somehow, she moved on rubbery legs to sit stiffly in the chair.  The
Smoker stood in front of her as the strange technician behind helped
her off with her coat.  "I'm feeling a touch of nostalgia," murmured
the Smoker.  "After tonight we will never meet again."

Scully could not suppress a tremor; his words could be taken many ways.

"Bend your head forward," commanded the man at her back.

She held her breath and did as he asked, closing her eyes in
preparation for the sharp cut of the scalpel.

*******************
End Chapter Five.  

Chapter Six

The Smoker glanced disinterestedly at the neck of the young woman
before him.  It was a pretty neck, he supposed, with creamy white skin
and soft, curling red hairs at the nape.  Mulder had been right to grab
a piece while he could.

While she quivered in anticipation, he raised his eyes to the portly
scientist standing behind her, reading the unspoken question in the
other man's eyes.  Now?

He nodded.  Now.

Then he watched in fascination as the man withdrew a long syringe from
behind his back, uncapped it quickly and stuck it quite deeply into
Scully's neck.  She gave a sharp cry and then slumped to the ground
with a thud.

The Smoker stepped neatly around her.  "Is that all?" he asked his
companion as they stared at the unconscious woman.

"Fuck no," replied the other indelicately.  "I have to work on her at
least another hour.  Maybe two, if you want it done right."

"Six years," ordered the Smoker with a frown.  "It must be at least
that much."

"It's a stretch," the man warned, scratching his belly.  "The events
since the chip's insertion will be no problem, but the others..." He
broke off with a shake of his head.  "I make no promises."

The Smoker did not dignify this with a response.  "Just get going," he
commanded quietly.  "We're running short on time."

The other man shrugged.  "It's your nickel," he said.  "Help me get her
over to the bench, would you?"  A few minutes later, he set to work.
It was over two hours before he looked up again.

"She's all set," he said as he mopped the droplets from his brow with a
wrinkled white handkerchief.  "Like I said earlier, I don't know how
effective it will be for any traces laid down prior to 1995, but you
won't be able to know for sure until she wakes up."

"And when will that be?"

"Maybe another six hours."  He grimaced suddenly.  "And I sure as hell
don't want to be present when she does.  Did you see the size of that
gun?"

"You have nothing to worry about," answered the Smoker in a preoccupied
tone.  "Is that the chip?"

The other man nodded and handed over a small glass vial containing a
tiny chip at the bottom.  "It's quality work," he offered.  "Some of
the best I've seen."

The Smoker did not reply.  He merely slipped the vial into his jacket
pocket.

"Hey, I thought you told her she got to keep that," reminded the man as
he puffed to his feet.

The Smoker extinguished his latest cigarette on the damp wooden floor.
"I say a lot of things I don't mean," he replied mildly.  "For example,
I sometimes promise people large sums of money to do my bidding."  He
gave a tight smile.  "Rarely do I have to follow through."  It was then
that he showed the fat man what he had been hiding behind *his* back.
Scully's gun was a kiddie toy compared to this. "Government issue
weapons are for pussies," he informed his newest dupe.

It was the last thing the man ever heard.

After disposing of the body, he returned to where Scully lay pale and
unmoving on the bench.  The procedure had better have been a success,
he thought.  Or this little insurance plan of his could turn out to be
the worst mistake ever.  His position with the group was precarious
enough, thanks to Yushi's impertinence.  He knew very well that the
younger man was waiting in the wings for just the slightest snafu on
his part.  A slip-up now could cost him everything.

He sighed.  Only time would tell.  Now it was necessary to proceed as
if everything had gone smoothly. His lips twitched with amusement as he
stood over the sleeping young woman.  "Fancy a ride?" he murmured with
a smirk.

She moaned a bit as he picked her up.  "Not to worry," he assured her
lightly.  "I'm sure your insurance company will cover all the
damages."  He paused to load her into the passenger side of her own
car.  "And I guarantee you won't remember a thing."

*******************

"She's waking up."

Scully blinked once, wincing when the bright white light sent shooting
pain through her unprepared pupils.  She kept her eyes narrowed to
slits as she tried to sit up in the bed.  A pair of hands pushed her
gently back down.

"Just lie still, honey."

Scully ignored the woman and continued to twist around under the
sheets, trying to get upright.  "No..." she mumbled when she again met
with resistance.  "I'm fine."

"Take it easy, there."  This time it was a man's voice, calm but
insistent.  She lay back against the pillows, panting slightly from the
exertion of her struggle.  The man, she saw, was tall and thin as an
eel.  His hair was cut too short and lay flat against his head so that
his ears stuck out noticeably.  He peered at her through round wire
framed glasses.  "How are you feeling?"

Scully assessed, rotating her arms at the elbow and shifting her legs
beneath the sheet.  "Sore," she replied at length.  "But otherwise
fine."  Her head hurt like a sonofabitch.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital?" She figured the white coats and antiseptic smell were a
dead give away.

Her answer was rewarded with a small smile.  "Very good.  I'm Dr.
Levey, and I'll be looking out for you for a while.  Do you know why
you're here?"

Probing her memory, she came up blank.  "No," she answered eventually,
feeling just a shade of panic set in.  "What happened?"

"You were in a car accident," the man told her gently.  He wrote
something on his clipboard and then smiled at her again.  "Fortunately,
it wasn't terribly serious.  You should be right as rain in no time."

Scully lay obediently still as the nurse took a blood sample, but her
mind was racing inside.  Accident?  I don't even remember being in a
car.  Tentatively, she voiced her concerns to the doctor.

"It's perfectly normal to experience some retrograde amnesia after a
head trauma," he assured her.  He gestured toward her head with the
clip board.  "That's quite a bump you've got there."

She brought one hand up to her temple, her fingers threading through
her hair to find a large protrusion on the left side; it throbbed at
her touch, and she winced.  He made another note on the clip board.
"Since you were unconscious for several hours we're going to keep you
here at least over night, just to be safe."

Scully bit back a groan.  She felt dizzy, vaguely nauseated and her
limbs ached with the slightest movement.  She just wanted to go home to
her own bed.

At that point, a tiny slip of a woman, no more than five feet even with
the benefit of low slung pumps, clicked briskly into the room carrying
yet another clip board.  Her brown hair was cut pixie-style and framed
her small face in curvy wisps.  She smiled at Scully with intelligent
hazel eyes.  "Welcome back to the land of the living," she said
warmly.  "I'm Lynn McCafferty and I'm a neurologist here at the
hospital."  She set the clip board aside and withdrew a pen light from
her the breast pocket of her white coat.  "Can you follow the light
with your eyes, please?"

As Scully obediently tracked the luminescent tip back and forth, a
feeling of unease settled in the pit of her stomach.  This seemed to be
too much fuss for a simple bump on the head.  "How long was I out?" she
asked, thinking suddenly of Rip Van Winkle.

"We're not completely sure," replied Dr. McCafferty.  "You hit a tree
over on Bellingham Road and some passers-by phoned it in."  She took
Scully's hands.  "Press against me," she instructed.

Dutifully, Scully returned the pressure.  "I don't remember the
accident," she said.  "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Not that I know of.  The police seemed to think it was weather
related, that you skidded off the road in the heavy rain.  Last night's
storm was pretty intense."

"Mmmm," Scully said absently.  She could not recall any storm.  There
was clearly something more going on here than they were letting on.
Dr. McCafferty moved to write some things down on her clip board.
Scully strained to see, but could not get more than a glimpse.  It was
frustrating to be stripped of control this way, to think that these
people in white coats knew more about her health than she did.  Time
for the secret password, she thought as she watched Dr. McCafferty
scribble her notes.  Scully cleared her throat. "My cranial nerves
check out okay?" she asked pointedly.

Dr. McCafferty's head snapped up, and Scully suppressed a victory
smile.  That's right, she told the woman silently.  I'm one of you.
And now that we understand each other, spare me any of the "you'll be
just fine" bullshit, okay?

"You're a doctor?" asked the woman.

"Yes.  Can I see my charts?"

Wordlessly, Dr. McCafferty relinquished her clipboard.  Scully scanned
the writing quickly, flipping back and forth between the pages.
Everything appeared to be just as the woman had said.  She had a lump
on her head the size of a baseball, but otherwise she was okay.  So why
then did she still feel as if there was something terribly wrong?

"It...it seems fine," she said with a small sigh, handing the charts
back over the bed rail.

Dr. McCafferty nodded her agreement.  "You should be cleared to go home
tomorrow.  I just have to complete the mental status exam and we'll be
done."

Scully closed her eyes; she had administered enough of these to know
the information by rote.  "My name is Dana Scully," she said
mechanically.  "I'm a doctor, I work at the FBI and I'm in the hospital
following an automobile accident."

"Terrific.  And the name of the doctor who treated you earlier?"

She hesitated, then it came to her.  "Dr. Levey," she answered with
relief.

"Day of the week?"

Duh, thought Scully, berating herself for not including it in her
original speech.  It was always one of the first things they asked.
She waited for the information to come to her.

Nothing.

She waited another beat.  Still nothing.

"I...uh...I'm not sure," she whispered at last, feeling a hint of color
creep into her cheeks.

Dr. McCafferty seemed unconcerned.  "That's okay," she replied
neutrally.  "How about just giving me the year."

"Sure," answered Scully, then stopped short.  This bit of trivia also
seemed to elude her.

"Dana?"

"I'm thinking," breathed Scully, trying to search her brain over the
sudden pounding of her heart.  Come on, come on, she coached herself.
You know this.

Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.  Dr. McCafferty moved a little bit
closer, worry now plain on her face.  "Dana, are you having trouble
with the year?"

No, I'm just playing hard to get, she snapped inwardly.  She covered
her face with her hands.  I know this...I do, she thought desperately.

"It's okay, Dana."  Dr. McCafferty's voice floated above her.  "We'll
figure this out."  But she did not sound nearly so unconcerned as
before.

Scully pulled her hands away and lay back blinking at the ceiling.  She
remembered medical school.  Graduation.  Mom and Dad so proud.  Then...
The FBI.  Yes, that was it.  She quite clearly recalled the moment she
decided not follow the path laid out for her, for once choosing the
unknown over the known.  It had been horrible at first--the fighting,
the tears, but ultimately there was freedom.

That was in 1992.  Was it still 1992?

It must be, she thought, relieved that she had figured it out.  She
allowed herself to relax a bit with the rediscovered knowledge.  You
were just disoriented from the crash, she told herself, already forming
the story she would give Dr. McCafferty upon her return.

Of course it's 1992, she would say, with the proper mix of authority
and chagrin.  How silly of me to forget.

******

He was in his apartment drinking single malt scotch and watching a
midnight showing of "Vertigo" when his phone rang.  It was the private
one, for business only.

Setting the cigarette down in the heavy glass ashtray, he moved to
retrieve the receiver.  "Yes?"

There was a pause, then a silken female voice on the other end.  "I
understand congratulations are in order."

He frowned.  "How did you get this number?"

"I've always been an enterprising person.  You know that.  I believe
it's why you hired me."

I hired you because you were close to Mulder and easy to manipulate, he
thought with irritation.  The nice tits were just a bonus.

He asked why she was calling.

"I already told you: to say how I impressed I am with your success.  I
understand she does not remember a thing after 1992. Mulder and the
Bureau both wiped out in a single step.  A stroke of genius if I ever
saw one."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She gave a throaty laugh that was devoid of any real humor.  "I
expected you would say that, but you and I both know better.  This
little maneuver has your sooty fingerprints all over it."

"What the hell do you want, Diana?"

"To let you know that I know, of course," she answered smoothly.  "And
to offer my help."

His eyes narrowed.  She had been trying to weasel her way back into the
organization ever since they escaped the Rebel bonfire party six months
ago.  Thus far, he had been unreceptive to her overtures--as he had
been the scapegoat for the previous groups' failures, so had she been
his.  Whenever one of the new members raised an eyebrow over the El
Rico debacle, he calmly pointed the finger at Diana.

Which made her present phone call all the more suspect.

"I'm not aware of any problems requiring your attention," he said
eventually.  "You've wasted your time."

"Then I can afford to waste a bit more," she said quickly, before he
could hang up.  "At least hear me out."

His silence was his answer.

"I know about the plan to put Mulder on the right track," she stated
after a moment.  "But so far only part of it is working.  You have
neutralized Agent Scully beautifully, I must give you that much, but
Mulder is at loose ends.  He has nearly abandoned the search entirely."

"A temporary set-back," the Smoker said, knowing full well he was
acknowledging his part in the scheme.  It might be worth it to hear
what she had to say.

"Let me handle him," she continued.  "I know him, I know how he
thinks.  He still trusts me and I believe I can use that to our
advantage."

He was unmoved by her plea. "You had your chance with Mulder.  Nothing
came of it."

"I didn't know then what we were looking for," she protested.  "Now I
do."  She paused.  "And there is more.  Much more."

"Oh?"  He picked up his cigarette again and took a long drag.  Her
tendency toward exaggeration bored him senseless.  All talk and no
action.

"Mulder's father could not have been working alone," she said, careful
to keep her voice low.

"This is not news."

"Yes, well this is."  She paused significantly.  "I found the
scientist."

"WHAT?"  He sat up in his chair, the cigarette falling to the ground.

She laughed again, this time genuinely amused.  "I thought that might
get your attention."

"Who is he?" he demanded tersely.

"Not over the phone and not until we have a deal," she answered, all
humor evaporated.  "I want back in and I want a higher position."

Dammit.  He had no choice, and the bitch knew it.  If he refused her,
she would probably go to Yushi with the information.  Or maybe pursue
it on her own.  Neither of these was an acceptable option, so he
gritted his teeth and said, "Consider it done."

***********
End Chapter Six.  Continued in chapter seven
Feedback welcome at hkmason@netscape.net

*******************
End Chapter Five.  

Chapter Seven

Scully shivered in her bed under the hospital sheets, feeling lost and
vulnerable with just a thin covering between her and the people who
were weaving the horrible nightmare around her.

Three specialists had already been in to pepper her with questions.
They poked her and prodded her, administered both a CT scan and an
MRI.  They talked a lot but said very little, and often would go into
the hall to whisper among themselves.

Six lost years.  How was it possible?

Left alone for a brief respite from the endless tests, Scully curled
inward on herself and tried very hard not to cry.  It would do no good
to get hysterical at this point, not when she should be focusing on
remembering.  They had already established that her memory was solid
through 1992, and became spotty sometime around spring of 1993.  Surely
if she just concentrated hard enough, the rest of it would come
flooding back.

She screwed her eyes shut, every muscle tense as she tried to will the
memories back into existence.  Nothing.  Even the ones she could recall
seemed scrambled, somehow simultaneously quite recent and yet very far
away. Bill got married--was that before or after Aunt Katherine died?

Scully was terrified.  I want to go home, she thought desperately, as
if familiar walls would suddenly make it okay again.

Then it occurred to her that she was not clear where home was anymore.
In 1992, it was a newly-rented Georgetown apartment.  Where was it
now?

Her lower lip trembled.  She bit down hard to keep it still.

Then sudden thought struck her, and she whipped her left hand from
beneath the covers to squint at it in the dim light.  No wedding band.
Thank God.  She released her breath with a shaky sigh.

An orderly showed up with a tray of food, but Scully turned her back to
it.  Fear had sapped her appetite.  She lay unblinking at the wall, too
exhausted to sleep, too scared to even close her eyes.  What if she
woke up with another year gone?

"Dana?"

The familiar voice was enough to make her twist violently on the bed as
she turned to see if the image matched her memory.  "Mom?"  It did.
"Mom, thank God you're here."  She sat up and her mother hurried across
the room to take her in a close embrace.  Dimly, she noted that her
brother Bill had also entered the room.

"We came as soon as we heard," her mother soothed, rocking her gently
and stroking her hair.  "I'm so glad you're all right."

"I'm not all right,"  Her voice sounded as small and frightened as she
felt.  Hot tears began to leak from her eyes as she clung to her mother
with the little strength she had left.  "I can't remember."

"I know, Sweetheart, I know.  Shhh.  It's going to be okay."

"I don't think so," Scully sniffled against her shirt.  "It's gone, all
of it.  Just gone."

Her mother stiffened but did not let go.  "You don't know it's for
good," she murmured, still rocking.  "The memories might come back."

Scully broke away and wiped at her eyes.  "Do you think so?"  The
doctors had been cautiously optimistic, but they were making no
promises.  No one had ever seen such extensive memory loss from a minor
accident before.

Her mother cupped her cheek, stroking gently with her thumb.  "I hope
so, Sweetheart.  In the meantime, you need to rest and be strong."

Eyes on her lap, Scully nodded and sniffed again. "I guess you're
right," she whispered.  Then she looked to where her brother still
hovered by the door.  "Hey," she offered, trying to manage a watery
smile.  "What are you doing here?"

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she felt sick.  For all she
knew he worked at the goddamn hospital now. But Bill did not seem to
think the question odd.  "Visiting Mom for the weekend on my way
through town," he answered gruffly.  He paused, looking uncomfortable.
"I'm really glad you're okay."

Scully gave him a real smile.  "Thanks."  She extended her hand and he
slowly crossed the room to take it.  "And I'm glad you're here."  She
clasped her mother's hand as well, and squeezed.  "Both of you."

Knowing her family was close by, she was finally able to sleep for
long, dreamless hours.  Later, when she awoke again, the nightmare
began for real.

She was alone with her mother, trying to eat the bland hospital fare
while Bill went in search of better sustenance.
"Mom?" she said, picking at the food.  "Where's Daddy?  Is he away?"

Her mother, momentarily stricken, was silent.  Scully registered her
distress, and guessed the cause immediately.

"He hates me, doesn't he?" she murmured, her eyes cast downward as she
toyed with the shriveled peas.  "He was so angry when I took the job at
the FBI.  I can believe that he's never forgiven me."

"Oh, no, honey," her mother assured her hastily.  "It's nothing like
that.  Daddy was very proud of you."

"Was?" Scully put down her fork.

Her mother licked her lips and moved forward in her chair, reaching for
Scully's hand.  Scully pulled it away.  "Daddy died, Sweetheart.  He
had a heart attack a few years ago."

Scully shook her head mutely.  "Not Daddy," she whispered finally.  "I
thought he would outlive us all."

Her mother smiled fondly and reached out to smooth her hair. "I think
we all thought that," she said.  "It was hard at first, but I'm okay
now.  He went quietly and quickly.  There was no pain."

Scully pushed her food away and did not answer.  Her last cogent memory
of her father was him slamming the door to his study after their latest
argument over her future.  His face had been pink with rage.  She had
felt angry, sad, and a bit betrayed.  He had always told her to stand
up for herself, but when she finally did so he just wanted to knock her
back down.  The bitterness had lingered for some time, and she wondered
if it had lasted until his death.

The possibility made her ineffably sad.

Her mother sat next to her on the bed and took her hand.  "No, Dana,"
she murmured, as if reading her mind.  "You made your peace with him.
Don't let regrets haunt you now."

She wanted to do so.  Really, she did.  But she was left with only
angry shards of memory.

With a sigh, she tried to smile to show her mother it was okay.  She
thought then of her sister, who had taken the family feud one step
further and left for good.  "What about Melissa?" she asked softly.
"Did she make her peace, too?"

Her mother hesitated.  "In a way."

Scully frowned, sensing a subtle change in her mother's demeanor.
"Mom, what is it?"

"Your sister did come home," the other woman began carefully, "when you
were...sick...in the hospital several years ago.  You recovered,
obviously, and she decided to stay in town. I didn't see very much of
her--I don't think she ever forgave me for taking sides with your
father about her decision to leave school--but the two of you spent
quite a bit of time together after that."

"Missy's in Virginia?"  She hoped dearly that her sister was close by.
Melissa's relentless optimism would be a tremendous help right now.

Her mother squeezed her hand hard.  "I don't know how to say this," she
said, her voice tight.

"What?"

"Melissa was killed," her mother said at last.  "Not long after Daddy
died."

"She's dead?" Scully whispered, her mouth twisting in pain. She jerked
her hand back.  "Melissa's dead?"

"I'm so sorry, honey.  This must be so awful for you."  Her mother's
hands fluttered around her, trying to soothe, but Scully pushed her
away.

"Who else?" she cried, with rising panic.  "Is Charlie dead, too?"

"He's fine, just fine. I promise."

But Scully did not really hear her.  She curled in her bed, crying
silent tears, then finally dissolving into deep, shuddering sobs as she
enormity of her loss set in.  Her mother stood helplessly at her
bedside, rubbing her back and murmuring nonsense words of comfort.

Eventually there were no more tears to cry.  Scully pulled the covers
high around her shoulders as she took in small, jagged breaths.  Eyes
closed, she thought of Father McCue and his belief that hell was not a
fiery furnace run by a horned man with a pitchfork but an
individualized form of torment that brought to life your worst
nightmares.

Hers appeared to be a mental time warp in which half her family was
dead.

*****************

Bill stepped inside the quiet of his sister's apartment.  The doctors
had decided to extend her stay for a few days, so he was there to pick
up a few personal items to take back to the hospital.  He shut the door
behind him and looked about at his surroundings.  It was both oddly
familiar and completely new to him.

Familiar because it reflected his younger sister's personality so
clearly, in the tasteful but utilitarian design.  New because he had
never been inside before.

He had hinted around for an invitation a couple of times, but none had
been forthcoming.  He always chalked it up as revenge for invading her
space so routinely when they were growing up.  With a grin, he shook
his head.  Dana had finally managed a "keep out" sign that he'd had no
choice to obey.

Curious about the privacy she guarded so zealously, he began to poke
through the items on her bookshelves.  Medical journals, mystery
novels, some women's fiction.  No surprises there.  He moved to the
mantle, and smiled at the sight of family photographs.  There was even
one of him and Matt at the Blue Angels show that Tara had sent along a
few months ago.

On top of the desk there were more pictures, these not framed but
sitting still inside the envelope, as if straight from the one-hour
photo shop.  He pulled them out.

The first picture was of the surf crashing against some large rocks,
near sunset.  The second was of Dana, sitting on said rocks, wearing
blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt.  It captured her profile as she gazed
out at the sea, looking solemn but serene. When was this taken? he
wondered.  And by whom?

The third picture clearly followed the second quite closely, for it was
virtually the same venue.  This time, however, Dana regarded the
camera--or the photographer?--with a look of amused indulgence.  And
love.

Bill began to feel vaguely uneasy.  He flipped to the next photo, and
his stomach clenched at the sight.

This one was of Fox Mulder, clowning around as he pretended to shove a
giant boulder off a steep cliff.

Asshole, Bill thought automatically as he scowled at the picture.
"Stay the fuck away from my sister," he warned the man in the photo.

As if in answer, the next glossy featured Mulder again--and Dana, too.
If Bill had had any delusions left about the nature of their
relationship, this image quickly shattered them.  It was the same beach
at full sunset.  Dana stood with her arms wrapped around the idiot's
waist, smiling slightly and ducking her head as he leaned down to kiss
her hair.

Bill threw the photos on the desk in disgust.  So that's how it was.
He'd always wondered, suspecting it had to be the reason she stayed
with the punk despite everything he had done to her.  Love wasn't just
blind, it was stupid.

He was jerking out pajamas from her dresser drawer, imagining his hands
closing around Fox Mulder's scrawny little neck, when another thought
occurred to him.

It was over.  Mom had said so herself.

Dana had finally left that godforsaken job and put her expensive
medical degree to proper use.  Some sort of fancy-pants women's
hospital now, wasn't it?  At least the 100K Dad had shelled out for med
school wasn't going to be a complete loss.  God damn, had he been angry
when Dana told him about the FBI.

A daughter who wants to cut up dead people and chase E.T. for a living,
he had growled at the time.  I'll be laughed out of the navy.

It was no wonder the old man dropped dead of a heart attack, Bill
thought as he stuffed Dana's clothes into a duffel bag. And he had not
even lived to see the worst of it--the gun shot wounds.  The extended
quarantines.  Melissa's death.  The cancer.

So much destruction in such a little amount of time, and all of it
attributable to that fucker with the alien complex.

He was gone now, too, Mom had said.  Dana did not see him any more.

Thank God for small favors.

Bill stopped by the desk on his way toward the door and pocketed the
photos.  It was for the best, he told himself.
The last thing Dana would need when she came home was to get reattached
to that sonofabitch. If she never remembered a damn thing about Fox
Mulder, it would be a blessing.

In fact, the more Bill thought about it, the better an idea it seemed.
Why stop with a few photos when he an opportunity to exterminate the
whole apartment?

He began rifling through the desk for any more traces, trinkets or
obvious mementos of Dana's ties to The Idiot.  I'm doing her a favor,
he repeated to himself as he removed several more photos and what
looked to be a love letter--something about finding strength in her
constancy and courage in her questions.  That the truth was going to
have to be something they found together.  Bill snorted.

There was also a reference to a giant, man-eating fungus.

He felt the first pluckings of guilt as he unearthed her diaries.
Journals, she had always called them, even as a child.  Diaries were
apparently written by love-lorn adolescent girls who dreamed of being
cheerleaders.

Whatever the term, he was sure that the leather bound volumes in the
night-stand were going to contain epics on Fox Mulder.

He hesitated, weighing the books in his hand against the heft of his
conscience.

They also contained many other memories that she might never retrieve
on her own.

...But what if she does remember? the voice inside his head whispered.
She would know what you did.  She would hate you forever...

He tossed the journals in with the rest of the items.  It was worth it
just to have her safe and sound.  These were not memories worth having,
he consoled himself.  If she could think clearly on the subject, she
would thank him.

It might take convincing, but Mom would go along with the plan to
murder Mulder's memory.  After all, she was always the one who suffered
the middle-of-the-night phone call from the hospital saying Dana's life
was on the line yet again.  And she who believed so strongly in fate
and miracles could not deny that it was an amazing fucking coincidence
that Dana's memory had chosen to selectively purge the years she spent
with Fox Mulder.

Yes, it would work.  It had to.

By the time he left his sister's apartment, Bill had absolved himself
from any wrongdoing.  God had pointed the finger; he was merely
following the path.

******

Scully asked on the fifth day, when it had become apparent to her that
she had not spent the last six years bonding with her family, making
new friends or dating anyone seriously, "About the work...is there
someone I could to talk to there?  Someone who could help fill me in on
what I'm missing?  Dr. McCafferty thinks it might help reactivate some
of the older memories."

She knew only that she had recently left the FBI to work at St.
Elizabeth's hospital.  From her mother's reluctance to discuss the
subject, she sensed that she had not resigned her job on happy terms.
But her mother always grew vague when pressed for details:  "You were
tired of the long hours, dear."

Upon her request for a contact at her old job, her mother and brother
exchanged a meaningful look.  Mom even seemed pained.  "What is it?"
Scully asked, fearful of the answer but needing to know anyway.  "What
are you not telling me?"

"You worked with the same man for six years," her mother finally
managed.

"Six years?" Scully breathed, instantly making the connection to the
amount of time she had lost.  "I should talk to him immediately, then.
How can I reach him?"

"You can't," her brother stated flatly.  Her mother clasped her hand
over her mouth and looked away.

"No," Scully said, guessing immediately.  She fought the urge to clamp
her hands over her ears.  "No, it can't be."

"He was killed," Bill said.  His eyes moved to the floor.  "That's why
you left the Bureau."

"No no no," Scully moaned, curling into herself.  Not again.

"Dana, Sweetheart..." Her mother was saying something in a high
pleading voice, but Scully couldn't make out the words over the buzzing
inside her own head.  She felt empty.  She felt numb.  It was the worst
thing she could imagine.

The world had died over night, and somehow she had been left behind,
bleeding memory into the ground.

***********************
End Chapter Seven. 

Chapter Eight

Mulder sat at his desk, staring at the wall.  The grayish white was a
change from the beige in his apartment, and that was about the sole
feature his office had to recommend it these days.  Certainly it was
not the work that drew him.

Skinner had been down several times, to lecture, to cajole, and even to
threaten.  Mulder pretended to listen while noticing that if he
squinted his eyes just right, he could pop the AD's head off between
his thumb and forefinger.  Eventually Skinner gave up and left him
alone, which had been the purpose of the head-popping exercise all
along.

Some days his listlessness would puzzle him.  After all, he did
perfectly well on his own before Scully came along.  It stood to reason
that he should be capable of managing without her now.

And he would be soon, he told himself.  Just not today.

Today none of the mysteries contained in his endless file cabinets
could compare to the riddle he tormented himself with minute by minute,
hour by hour.  Why had she left?  Was it an instant decision, or
something that had been building ever since she had set foot in his
office all those years ago?  Could he have done something to be prevent
it?

But the most haunting question was the one he reserved for the middle
of the night, when the pain of her departure began to feel more like
betrayal:  Why, when she had said that she would not leave him, had he
ever believed her?

He thought a hundred times a day of charging over to the hospital and
asking her to explain herself in person.  To confront her with the
cruelty of her actions.  To give her the big, ugly scene he just knew
she didn't want because it would be complicated, messy and involve
actual emotions.  She could slice through charred human flesh with
ease, but force her to talk about her feelings and Scully always turned
a little green.

Need made her positively squeamish.

So matter how often he considered throwing her letter back in her face,
he always stopped short of actually knocking on her door.  He was not
sure what he would do if he stood in front of her with his heart in his
hands and received only cool cordiality in return.  He did not want to
see up close how easily he had been erased from her life.

Still, he was mentally rehearsing his "how could you do this to me?"
speech when Diana Fowley came strolling into his office with that
perpetual little smile pasted on her face.  Had he ever really found it
alluring?  God.

"Good morning, Fox."

"Go away, Diana."  He really did not want to see her now, this second
reminder of just how well the women in his life seemed to do without
him.  Every time, he fell to pieces and they walked away without a
backward glance.  Appalling, really.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.  "Still licking our wounds, are we?"

"Go to hell." He ignored her, twirling a pencil on his desk.

"I could do that," she agreed.  "But what if I have a better
suggestion?"

"You want to lick my wounds for me?"  He was being snide, but he didn't
much care.  He did not care about anything anymore.

She gave a short laugh.  "Interesting proposition, but no.  Not while
you're obviously still reeling from Agent Scully's rather hasty
departure."

Mulder looked at her for the first time since she had entered the room,
fixing her with a dagger-pointed stare.  "You leave her out of this."

"Fine." She held up her hands.  "Far be it for me to pry.  I'm not here
about that anyway."  She paused.  "I have something you might be
interested in."

Mulder had gone back to twirling the pencil.  "Not anymore, you don't."

She ignored the barb and withdrew a folded piece of paper from her
jacket.  She tossed it in front of him.

Mulder looked at the paper for a long time before reluctantly picking
it up.  He opened it to find a grainy photo of a Caucasian man who
appeared to be in his late thirties.  "Yeah?" he asked sullenly.

"His name is Leonid Petrov.  He emigrated here from Kiev in 1963, then
moved to Montreal in '65.  Died in a house fire in '76, along with his
wife and two sons. Arson was suspected, but of course no one could ever
prove anything."

Mulder placed the paper back on his desk.  "And this is interesting to
me because...?"

"Petrov was a scientist with a strong background in pharmacology and
genetics, worked in a government run lab in Quebec city for most of his
career.  After his death, it came out that he was running unapproved
studies on human subjects.  Homeless people, mainly."

Mulder frowned and poked at the paper with his pencil.  "Disgusting but
not unheard of.  It was also years ago.  Why are you bringing it up
now."

"Because I have a source that tells me that Dr. Petrov did other
experiments, too...on subjects who were not so human."

"EBEs?"  He sat up straighter and took another look at the printout.

"That's the story I hear."  Her eyes flashed with something
unreadable.  "Of course it's difficult to be sure of anything from down
here; I'd like to go to Montreal and check it out.  Are you interested?"

Mulder frowned, studying the grainy image of the thin man with the
bushy mustache.  Maybe this was just the sort of distraction he
needed.  On the other hand, maybe it was just a huge waste of time and
Diana was simply spinning his wheels for the hell of it.  He took a
deep breath and looked up at her.

"I think I..." he began, but never got to complete the sentence because
the phone rang at that precise moment.

He did not go to Montreal, either.

On the phone was a doctor; it was not good news.

**************************

When Scully made the decision to go back to work at St. Elizabeth's
after only three weeks, her mother's was not pleased.  "Aren't you
rushing things a bit?" she asked.  "Dr. McCafferty said..."

"I haven't forgotten medical school," Scully snapped, not interested in
the least by what Dr. McCafferty had to say.  She had stopped listening
several weeks earlier, when the young doctor broached the possibility
that her memory loss might be permanent.

It was a relief to be at work again.  There she felt controlled and
competent, not fractured and feckless. Everyone at St. Elizabeth's had
been extraordinarily kind, albeit a tad distant, as if they were afraid
that her amnesia might be catching.  She almost wished it was.

At least that way she would be on equal footing with those around her.
She would not be the only one who felt like a walking time machine,
watching each passing face for signs of recognition--do I know you? do
you know me?---any scrap of information that could be pasted onto the
blank space that stretched across her mind like a giant white dry-erase
board.

There were nights when she dreamed things that seemed like nightmares
but felt like memories.  She often had the impression of running very
fast, usually in the dark.  Sometimes there was a man there.  He was
tall, but she could never see his face clearly.

The dreams always ended the same way:  she would sit straight up in
bed, gasping with shock, tossed abruptly into wakefulness like it was a
cool lake on a hot summer day.  Her fists bunching the covers, she
would pant and wait for the memory to come back.

But it always hovered just out of reach, teasing her from the edge of
consciousness.

***********************

They agreed to meet at midnight on the Mall.  It was both private
enough to ensure they would not be overheard and public enough to
ensure their mutual safety.  On the bench, they smoked in silence for a
minute.  Yushi spoke first.

"The mother is dead.  What do you know about that?"

"Me?" queried the older man softly.  "I thought it might have been your
handiwork."

Yushi scoffed.  "I wouldn't waste my time."

Then silence reigned once more.  As before, the young Japanese grew
impatient and broke the lull.  "Who then, if not you or I?"

The Smoker blew a short exhale that was quickly carried away on the
night breeze.  "Maybe it was just her time to go."  His companion
frowned, and the Smoker looked out at the black reflecting pool.
Yushi, he knew, was young enough not to realize that sometimes people
just died.  That nature did not always require a helping hand.

"It's not actually a bad development," he said at last.  "We just have
to wait and see how it pans out."

"The waiting is growing tiresome," hissed Yushi.  "Mulder hasn't done a
damn thing in weeks.  Admit the truth--your plan has failed."

The Smoker studied the other man critically.  "There is nothing to
admit," he replied evenly.  "I anticipated a period of unproductivity
following her departure. All will be right again soon."

"So you say.  I see no indication of it, myself."  He paused.  "Unless
you know something you aren't telling."

The Smoker thought of Diana and her news.  If it developed as he hoped,
he would not have to worry any more about a power struggle. "Call it a
hunch," he murmured at last.

Yushi uttered a derisive snort.  "There is no place for hunches in this
enterprise," he said.  "I expect to see results soon, as will the rest
of the group."

"You'll get your results," the Smoker answered impatiently, thinking
that he might get a bullet to the back of the head, as well.

Yushi stood to leave, crushing out his cigarette in the dirt by the
base of the bench.  His face was perfectly bisected by the light
shining from the Lincoln memorial.  "I hope so, for your sake," he
said, staring down at the Smoker with slanted eyes.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Yushi shrugged casually, glancing around.  "I just meant that I hope
Mulder finds it soon. None of us is exactly getting any younger."  He
met the old man's eyes in the half-light. "You never know when it might
be your time to go."

He turned on one heel and strode with quick, little steps off into the
night.  The Smoker almost smiled as he watched him go.  These days, so
few people understood the art of a good veiled threat.  The kid had
balls.

It was too bad he wasn't going to live to use them.

*******************

Teena Mulder was buried on a cool and crisp August morning that hinted
of an early fall.  After a simple graveside service, the two dozen
mourners lingered in the bracing wind, exchanging anecdotes about the
deceased and wondering together about the strange absence of her son.

*******************

Mulder arranged the six shot glasses into a triangular tower that rose
from the bar.  His hands were not exactly steady, so he missed the top
one twice before finally putting it into place.  He looked at the young
man who was wiping up the counter after another customer.  "Did you
know there is evidence that the great pyramids were built by
extraterrestrial entities?"

The boy, who had spiky brown hair dyed blond at the tips and a scraggly
goatee, nodded earnestly.  "Yeah, I saw that on Fox last week."

"A rerun," Mulder replied, pointing to the space in front of him to
order another stone slab for his diorama.  "The one with the phantom
tigers in China, right?"

"Yeah." The kid shrugged and poured Mulder another shot.  "Summer T.V.
sucks," he pronounced.

Mulder nodded sagely, thinking this comment showed extreme insight for
someone so young.  He held up one finger to lecture. "Mark my words:
when Dateline NBC spreads to every night of the week, the apocalypse
will be upon us."

"Huh?"

Mulder shook his head slowly.  Another prophet goes unheeded, he
thought.  "Never mind."  He turned back to his shot-glass construction
and studied it with bleary eyes.  He felt hot, like a fever, and
hollow, like a shell.  Since the doctor had phoned to say his mother
was dead, he had been curiously empty inside.

He expected pain, but there was none.

He waited for the anger, but it never came.

So instead he held an Irish wake, downing seven whiskeys in the space
of an hour and telling himself that the burning in his belly meant he
must still be half-alive. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes, making
his hair stand on end in the process.

"Here's a true story," he said to the scruffy bartender.  "A young
mother was making pot roast for dinner one day when her daughter asked
her, 'Mom, why do you cut the end off the roast before you cook it?'
And her mother said, 'I don't know, that's just the way my mother
always did it.'"

The young bartender was braced against the bar, arms folded over his
chest.  He looked at Mulder as if he were crazy.

But Mulder continued, "So the mother calls up *her* mother and says
'Mom, why do you cut the end off the pot roast before you put it in the
oven?'  'Well, I don't know,' says the Mom, 'that's just the way my
mother always did it.'  So then she goes to *her* mother and asks her
why she always cut the end off the pot roast.  And do you know what she
said?"

The bartender shook his head.

"The pan was too small to fit the roast."  He snorted with laughter at
his own story.  "Get it?" he prompted the boy.  "Three generations of
cut pot roasts all because of one little pan."

"My mother never made pot roast," said the bartender with a shrug.

Mulder heaved a sigh. "Mine either." Then he absently traced a finger
around the edge of the overturned glasses, where they had wet the bar
with the last remnants of his alcoholic binge.  "She did cut the edges
off of my bologna sandwiches, though."

He looked up for the bartender, but he had moved on to a dishwater
blonde with a denim jacket and long, red fingernails three stools
down.  Mulder went back to his memory.

Two slices of bologna and one slice of provolone, he thought.  Bisected
in triangles with no crust for him.  Sliced in quarters for Samantha.
Thermos filled with fresh lemonade on a hot summer day.

He blinked back stinging tears that seemed to come from nowhere.  The
memory was sparkling and vivid, yet felt so very far away, like a
distant star in the night sky.  And like the star, the light it gave
was a form of illusion-- echoes of a time that no longer existed.

His family had disintegrated such a long time ago that he supposed
there was no reason why it should hurt now, but he was surprised to
find that it did.  He had become the sole keeper of those sunny, sea
breeze filled memories, and the only one who remembered how the
laughter had changed to screams on a chilly November night. Once, he
had thought it might be possible to go back, that if Samantha returned
they could once again be the smiling family in the mantel photograph--
the one who played Parcheesi on Sunday afternoons and collected shells
together on the beach at sunrise.

Now he was the only one left from that long ago photograph.

It was time to go to Greenwich, he realized.  It was time to say good-
bye.  To his mother and his dream.

Mulder paid his tab and shuffled slowly to the front door, blinking
against the blood-orange light of sunset that assaulted him on the
sidewalk.  Still sober enough to recognize that he was too drunk to
drive, he jangled his keys impatiently and waited for a taxi.  The
street was unusually quiet for early evening, and after several minutes
with no cars in sight, Mulder began to walk.

He had gone three blocks before he realized his intended destination
was St. Elizabeth's hospital.  Just one more time, he promised himself
as his feet carried him with increasing speed.  Just to see her for a
minute.  Just to be able stand in the same room with her might give him
the strength necessary to let go.

"Mom's dead," he would tell her, and she would understand immediately.

It was a hard thing to kill a dream.

***********
End Chapter Eight.  

Chapter Nine

Though it was late, she was still there.  He knew because he was able
to locate her car in the staff parking lot at the rear of the brick
building. The slate blue metal roof was still warm to the touch, after
baking all day in the hot summer sun.  He stroked it lovingly.

Peering inside the driver's side window, he could see an open box of
tissues laying on the passenger's seat and a white plastic mug lettered
with the word "Java" perched inside the cup holder.  It was marked with
a burnt orange lipstick print along the rim.  He smiled faintly.
"Scully," he whispered, his fingers sliding slowly down the cool glass
window.

"Can I help you?"

Mulder jumped at the sound of the gruff voice in his ear.  He turned to
find a hospital security guard dressed in a drab gray uniform, his
expression suspicious, his hand resting lightly on the gun at his
side.  "I'm just waiting for a friend.  This is her car."  Mulder was
relieved to hear no slur in his voice; the alcohol must have worn
mostly off.

"She expecting you?" The portly man ran one fat finger under his nose,
scratching his thin mustache.

"Well, no, but..."

The man's lips pursed in disapproval. "Then how about you wait with me,
up near the entrance.  Wouldn't want you to get hit by a car in the
dark."

Mulder felt rising irritation at being rousted by a rent-a-cop.  "Look,
you have nothing to worry about," he said, flashing his badge.  "I'm
FBI."

The security guard glanced disinterestedly at the badge.  "And I did
twenty-five years on DC patrol.  We can swap war stories by the
entrance. Let's go."  His tone made it clear that he would brook no
argument, so Mulder heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Fine," he said shortly.  "Just so I don't miss her."

The two trudged up the cement sidewalk that ran along the back of the
building until they reached a bench by the back entrance.  "Have a
seat," ordered the guard, extending his arm to the bench.  Mulder
glowered.

"I'll stand, thanks."

The security guard shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  Just don't wander off."

Mulder paced stretch of sidewalk in front of the entrance, taking care
to avoid the rubber grid of the automatic door.  Every so often, the
guard would turn from his post to make sure he was behaving himself and
not off hot-wiring any of the MD's precious SUVs.  Fortunately, Mulder
did not have long to wait.

At quarter past eight, Scully emerged from a side door fifty feet down
from where he paced, looking small and tired in the growing twilight.
Shoulder bag in place, she started across the parking lot with quick,
precise steps, her walk not graceful but efficient, with not a movement
wasted.  So familiar, so Scully. He felt his chest tighten painfully.

It had been a mistake to come.  There was no way he was going to be
able to walk away now.  "That's her," he told the guard, starting down
the sidewalk.  "Scully!" he called loudly.

She froze at the sound of her name, then did a half-turn right on the
spot. "Yes?" she asked curiously, her eyes unblinking in the dim light.

He stopped perhaps ten feet from her, puzzled by her non-reaction. She
was so close now. He stretched out a hand, needing to touch her.
"Scully..." he breathed, his voice thick in the air.  "I'm sorry, but I
had to come."

At that point the guard caught up to them.  "I found this man hanging
around your car a few minutes ago," he said to Scully.  "He claims he's
a friend of yours."

Scully shook her head slightly, seeming confused.  "I...I don't know
him," she murmured, eyeing Mulder warily.  "Have we met?"

A chill shot through him at her words, making the hair stand up on his
neck.  She warned you, a voice inside his head taunted. She told you
what would happen if you tried to contact her.  Well, this is what you
get for not listening.  His heart contracted painfully, and he
swallowed hard, unable to believe it.  There was no way she could be
this callous.  "Scully...please, don't do this..."

"Are you saying he's *not* a friend of yours?"  The security guard
asked in a hard voice, his hand gripping Mulder's elbow.

Scully hugged her bag closer to her side.  "I don't...I don't know,"
she repeated uncertainly.  "I don't remember."

Mulder's stomach clenched.  She wasn't kidding, he realized with a
start.  He was a complete and total stranger to her.

"Scully, what's wrong?" he demanded quickly.  "What happened to you?"

She took a step back.  "Who are you?  What do you want?" she asked,
seeming frightened now.

Mulder tried to get closer, but the guard's hand on his arm prevented
him.  "Scully, it's me," he said in a low, urgent voice.  "It's Mulder."

Her eyes widened. "No!" she blurted painfully, taking another step
backward.  "That's a lie.  Mulder is dead."

Mulder shook his head vehemently.  "No, it's me," he insisted, pointing
at his chest.  "It's Mulder. You know me, Scully, you KNOW me!"

"Okay, that's enough," broke in the guard.  "You're outta here."  He
yanked hard, and Mulder was nearly thrown off balance.

"Scully, wait!" he yelled as the guard tried to drag him away.  "You
have to believe me!  I swear I'm Mulder.  I swear!"

Scully was hurrying to her car, throwing occasional looks over her
shoulder as she went. Holy fuck, Mulder thought wildly as he flailed
around in the security guard's grasp.  What in God's name was going
on?  "SCULLY!" He screamed in agony at the top of his lungs.  "PLEASE!"

All of a sudden, she stopped, the keys shaking in her hand.  She turned
and walked back to where the guard had Mulder's right arm twisted
painfully around his back.  "Let him go," she said quietly.

Mulder stopped struggling. "Scully..."

"Are you sure, miss?" asked the guard dubiously.

Relief washed through him as she nodded.  "I'm sure.  Let him go."

He was released abruptly, and his hands throbbed as the blood
circulated through them once more.  Scully stood in front of him, her
arms crossed protectively over her chest.  She was still afraid, he
recognized with a painful twist of his gut.

He took a step toward her.  "Scully, I..."

"Don't touch me."  She bristled and moved away, one hand raised as if
to ward him off.

His arm wilted in the air between them, and he let it fall limply back
at his side.  "Okay," he agreed.  "No touching."

There was an awkward silence as they studied each other in the dim glow
of the parking lot lamp.  "Scully, what happened?" he asked her gently.

She looked away.  "I was in a car accident," she murmured eventually.
"Three weeks ago.  There was some memory loss."

"How...how much?"  His words were tight and thin.

"Just over six years."

No.  His eyes squeezed shut in denial.  It couldn't be.  He looked down
at her again, and her eyes were blank and pale.  "Who are you really?"
she asked. "Why did you come here?"

He sighed heavily. "I'm Fox Mulder," he repeated, fighting the desire
to shake her until she believed it.  "I think you know that.  I think
that's why you wouldn't let the guard take me away."

She turned her head to study the rows of parked cars, and her face
became steeped in shadows. "My family said Mulder was killed, and
that's why I left the FBI.  Why would they lie?"

Shit.  He rubbed his hands over his eyes, where a headache was
beginning to form behind them.  "Wishful thinking, probably," he
answered with a short, bitter laugh.  "But still not true." He pulled
out his badge and handed it to her wordlessly.

After a moment, she took it, then flipped the leather flap open to
stare at his photograph.  She glanced up at him and then back at the
identification.  "It could be a fake," she said, but she did not sound
convinced.

"It's not."  He felt suddenly tired.  Why had he come here again?

"I...I don't understand."  Her voice was hoarse and thick with
emotion.  "You were my best chance to get the memories back.  Why would
they tell me you were dead?"

Tears glittered in her eyes, and he automatically reached out to touch
her arm.  "Aw, Scully..."

She pulled away with a jerk and walked a few feet from him, her back
turned and her head bowed. Around them, the crickets began to chirp
from the shrubs.  He scuffed his toe against the sandy grit coating the
parking lot and tried to think of something to say.

"They were protecting you," he said at last.

She looked over her shoulder, blinking back tears.  "From you?"

He closed his eyes, then opened them again.  "Yes," he breathed
heavily.  "From me and the life we shared.  It was often...very
dangerous."

She studied him assessingly.  Finally, she nodded and turned around.
"I have a bullet wound," she said as if he did not already know.  As if
he had not placed a hundred tiny kisses on it one night as he relived
four terrible hours in a cold, NY city waiting room.

"I have two," he told her with a small smile.  "One of them is courtesy
of a certain, red-haired G-woman I know."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed.  "I shot you?"

"Yup.  Right here."  He touched his shoulder.

She searched his face to see if he was kidding.  "If I shot you," she
said at last, "then you probably deserved it."

Despite his unmitigated horror, he laughed.  "Oh, Scully...I've missed
you."

Her mouth twitched and she ducked her head at his sudden burst of
affection.

As his laughter faded away he had a sudden image of her from six years
earlier, when she had walked into his office smart, sassy and untouched
by the darkness he had lived in for so long.  She had been smiling, and
her bright, blue eyes had held no trace of shadow.  Often, he had
thought that if he could go back to that first day, the kindest thing
he could do would be to send her away.

Now, six years later, fate was giving him the chance to make half-good
on his promise.  The Scully who stood in front of him was not the woman
he had met so long ago.  He could not undo the terrible things she had
suffered, or give her back the things she had lost.  But neither did he
have to drag her back into his world of ugly lies and constant danger,
where she would again be haunted by liver eating mutants, cannibalistic
townsfolk, homicidal fiction come to life, or any of the other dances
with death she had endured over the last few years.

Scully had once said she would not change a moment, but he wondered if
maybe he should.  Her family clearly thought so.

"They had no right to lie to me."  She interrupted his thoughts as
though she were sharing them.  "It's my life and have a right to know."

"Yes.  But maybe...maybe you don't want to know.  Maybe it's better
this way."  The words were hard to say, and they came out sounding to
him as though they had been spoken by a stranger.

She opened her mouth to protest, then clamped it shut.  She swallowed
hard. "Was it really that bad?" she asked softly.

He looked at the ground.  "Some of it was."

"And the rest?"

He thought of late night pizzas, of baseball in the park, and of the
thousand kinds of kisses they had crammed into seven short weeks of
bliss.  "The rest was...not so bad," he finished lamely.

"Oh."  She sounded strangely deflated.  She hesitated, then spoke
again.  "What exactly did we do?"

"Investigated the unexplained," he said carefully, and her eyebrows
lifted slightly.

"Unexplained as in unsolved crimes, or unexplained as in paranormal
phenomena?"

"Um...a bit of both."  She rolled her eyes and he smiled.  "Yeah,
that's what you thought then, too."

"I just can't believe I consented to investigate ghosts and little
green men."

"Gray," he corrected automatically, and the annoyed wrinkle appeared
between her eyebrows.  He sighed.  "Mainly, we drove around in rented
cars and did lots of paperwork.  But some days..."  He trailed off.

"Some days what?" she prompted.

"Some days we saved the world," he finished softly.

There was a short silence as she considered this.  "That doesn't sound
so bad," she murmured at length.

"I never thought so," he answered softly, his eyes lingering on her
face.  It might have been a trick of light, but he thought her color
heightened.  She averted her gaze, and for long moments they stood
staring together at the large yellow moon hovering near the horizon.

Finally, she spoke.  "Do you want to go someplace?"

Asked in the same husky whisper that always made him vibrate like a
tuning fork beneath the sheets, the question caused his groin to
tighten in immediate, reflexive desire.

He nodded dumbly, fascinated by the way the evening breeze teased
tendrils of red hair against her cheek.  His fingertips tingled with
the need to touch her.

Scully was not suffering from similar pangs, it was clear.  She held
herself stiff and away from him as she asked almost formally, "Would
coffee be all right?  There is a cafe just around the corner."

"Coffee would be fine," he answered.

As they walked past her car, he froze, his mouth gone suddenly dry.
Scully stopped, too.  "What is it?" she asked.

"Your car," he said, walking toward it.  He circled it a few times,
running his hands over it and squinting at it closely in the darkness.
"It's the same one you've had since I've known you."

"Yes."  Her lips thinned in a sad smile.  "I actually remember buying
it.  Funny about that, huh?"

He tapped his fingers lightly on the hood.  "I thought you said you
were in a car accident."

"I was.  Fortunately, it wasn't too serious.  The repairs were fairly
minor."  She tucked her hair behind her ear and tilted her head at
him.  "Is there a problem?"

"Scully," he said slowly.  "If you were injured enough to lose six
years of memory, your car should have been a wreck."

She frowned.  "The front end was badly dented..."

"Wrecked," he repeated succinctly.  He crossed the gravelly pavement,
stepping over the curb in three easy strides.  "Come to think of it, so
should you."

"What?"

"The accident was three weeks ago?  Why are you out of the hospital?"

"Because...because I'm fine," she stammered. "Other than the memory
loss, I had only a few bumps and bruises."

"Precisely the problem," he murmured, his eyes closing as a knot the
size of a cantaloupe formed in his stomach.

"Are you suggesting I'm lying about the accident?  Because I assure you
I'm not." Her voice quavering with anger and maybe sorrow.

"No, Scully," he told her softly, meeting her confused gaze.  "You are
the worst liar I've ever known."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Then what the hell are you saying?"

He tugged her a few feet to stand under the glow of the street lamp.
"Turn around," he instructed shortly.

"Mulder, what..."

"I don't think your memory loss is due to an accident.  It's too
clean.  If it were the result of a head injury, you should have at
least suffered other mental impairments--speech disruptions, loss of
motor coordination..."  She was shaking her head.  He sighed.  "Come
on, Scully, you're a doctor.  You know the drill."

"I don't think..."

"Turn around," he said again, but more gently this time.  She allowed
him to turn her by the shoulders until her back was to him.  He took a
deep breath and then pulled aside the thick fall of hair covering her
neck.  "Bend your head forward," he murmured.  Quivering under his
touch, she complied.

"What is it?" she asked, sounding frightened, and he had a brief flash
of their first case together, when she had stood half-naked before him,
barely trembling as she awaited his pronouncement.  He wished he could
be as reassuring now as he had been then.

"It's the chip."  His answer emerged on a ragged breath, and he felt
the cantaloupe swell to the size of a watermelon.

If they had not been lovers, he might not have noticed the change, but
he had given himself the pleasurable assignment of mapping every inch
of her body with his hands, his eyes, his tongue.  There was not one
curve, not one hair, even, that he did not know by heart.

She was shaking in earnest now, and he squeezed her shoulders, pressing
his lips to the top of her head.  "Scully..."

"What chip?" she asked.  She stood ramrod straight beneath his touch
but did not pull away.

He let his hands move soothingly over her neck and shoulders, trying
rub away the increase in tension that his answer certainly instill.
"There is a microchip in your neck," he whispered. "It was originally
put there when you were abducted for..."  He stopped. How much could
she stand at one time?  He decided to pull the punches for now.
"...radical scientific testing."

This time she did jerk away, so quickly that he was left with his hands
suspended in midair.  When she turned to face him, her expression was
accusatory.  "That's a lie!" she said harshly.  "You're no better than
my family."

Oh, Scully, this is why I didn't want to tell you, he thought sadly.
But it was clear now that he could not spare her the luxury of
ignorance.  If they were manipulating her with the chip again, it was
vitally important to know who was behind the tampering and why.
Otherwise she would never really be free.

"I wish it were a lie," he murmured.  "You have no idea how much I wish
it were a lie."

She continued to glare at him, hugging her middle protectively.  "There
is no chip."

He sighed, rubbed his eyes with one hand.  "Scully..."

"I'm telling you there's no chip!"

He looked at her sharply.  Her voice was desperate, laced with fear,
but it was also convincingly certain.  "What do you mean?"

"After the accident, I saw the x-rays, the CT scan and the MRI myself,"
she said flatly.  "There was no indication of anything in my neck."

He reached for her.  "Let me see again."

She hesitated, then turned and held her hair out of the way for his
inspection.  Fingers on the side of her neck, he leaned in close, so
near that his breath stirred the soft hairs at her nape.  She shivered.

"You may be right," he said after a minute.  He prodded the tiny scar
with one fingertip.  "I don't feel anything under here."  He
straightened up and she turned around again.  "Someone may have removed
it."

What he did not say, what hung heavy in the air between them, was that
the someone may have removed six years of her memory as well.  She
covered her mouth with one hand and bent her head.  When she raised it
again a moment later, her eyes had hardened to a steely gray.

"Tell me."

His breath caught. "What?"

"Everything."

He nodded.  "Come with me to Greenwich," he blurted.

"Why?"

"My mother is dead," he said, because it was true and he wanted her to
know.  It did not bring the relief he had hoped it would.

"I'm sorry."  The words were soft but automatic, and he mentally
chastised himself for his clumsy revelation. Of course she would not
care.  Of course she would not understand how many answers his mother
had stubbornly taken with her to the grave.  He glanced down at her,
small and shadowed on the sidewalk.  She was perhaps three feet away,
but he felt more alone than ever.

She shook her head.  "I should just stay here, and we can..."

He grabbed her hand.  "Come with me to Greenwich," he repeated
urgently.  Then he backed off. "It's as good a place to start as any,"
he concluded softly.

She looked at their joined hands, then slipped hers free.  "Okay," she
said.

*******************************
End Chapter Nine.  

Chapter Ten

Scully wondered absently if Fox Mulder was the reason she had arrived
home from the hospital to find a small suitcase packed with clothes and
toiletries just sitting in her bedroom closet.  Her actions would
suggest that he was, because she was presently repacking that very same
suitcase after only three short hours in his company.

But she had to go with him, this strange, intense man who was tall
enough to be the figure from her dreams.  She was compelled by the
terrible story he had begun to weave in the car and confused by her
jittery reaction to his presence.  Her skin still prickled from where
he had touched her.  When he was near, she felt the space between them
crackle with expectancy, like the saturated humid air that preceded a
summer thunderstorm.  It was as if her body remembered what her mind
did not.

I wonder if we were lovers, she thought, then felt her cheeks flush.
How gauche would it be to ask him?

The phone rang at ten to ten; it was her mother.

"Dana," she said, sounding relieved.  "I've been trying to reach you
all evening.  Is everything okay?"

Her mother had been calling nightly since she had come home from the
hospital.  At first, Scully had answered politely.  Then she had tried
screening her calls. After three nights of this, she had gone back to
answering because her mother just kept right on calling.  "I can't talk
now, Mother," she said shortly as she stuffed some extra socks in her
suitcase.  "Mulder has miraculously returned from the dead.  He's
sitting in my living room as we speak."

There was shocked silence, then her mother sounded close to tears.
"Honey, you have to understand.  Bill and I...we were just trying to
keep you safe...I'm so sorry."

Scully did not answer.  She was trying to figure out how the woman who
had taught her how to sew on buttons and whip the perfect omelet could
have betrayed her so deeply.  Even Bill, who she remembered as rather
callous, had never been so cold.  She felt sick, realizing that her
relief at seeing their familiar faces after the accident had been
predicated on a lie.  They were complete strangers.

"I'm so sorry," her mother sniffled again from the other end of the
line.  "Can you ever forgive me?"

Scully considered. "I don't know," she answered, and then replaced the
phone on the night stand.

Mulder appeared in her doorway.  "Is everything okay?" he asked
tentatively.

"Yes," she replied automatically, even though it wasn't.  She resumed
packing and could feel his eyes on her as she moved about the room.  At
last, she turned to him.

"Why did I leave the FBI, if it wasn't because you were killed?"

His facial muscles tightened as if the question pained him physically.
He blinked slowly, and when he spoke his voice sounded very far away.
"I don't know...I was..." He halted and shoved his hands deep into the
pockets of his trench coat.  "There could have been many reasons," he
murmured eventually.

Their eyes held for a long time, then finally she nodded and turned
around to close her suitcase.  As the zipper ripped through the silence
in the room, Scully realized she was not going to have to ask him if
they had been intimate.

She already knew.

****************************

He had yet to receive the go-ahead signal, but he was keeping a careful
watch on the two agents anyway.  It was always a good idea to know more
than they were telling you.

So this was how he came to be sitting in a parked black sedan across
from her apartment building when they emerged at ten fifteen with a
suitcase in hand.  Interesting.

He wondered if the little Japanese knew about this development.  It
couldn't hurt to pass on the tidbit, if only to keep stringing him
along.  Keeping one eye on the agents, he flipped open his phone and
dialed a number.  "I need to speak to Yushi," he said a moment later.
Then he hung up.

It was a full five minutes before the phone rang again, by which point
he was following Mulder's Taurus as it headed north out of town.  Thank
God he'd had the foresight to remove one of the taillights while they
were inside; the nighttime traffic was surprisingly heavy, and it would
have been difficult to follow them without detection.

"Yeah," he said into the phone.

"What is the problem?" Yushi's voice was an annoyed whisper.

"Mulder went after her.  They've got suitcases and are currently making
their way out of town.  I just thought you should know."

There was a short pause on the other end.  "Spender's doing?"

Krycek gave a dry laugh.  "I doubt that.  If what I hear is true, this
was never in his game plan."

"Well, it could not have been orchestrated better for us--the timing is
superb.  I want Mulder livid with rage at her death, and this impromptu
reunion should only serve to make him primed for the kill."

Krycek silently agreed, knowing that if he were caught with Scully's
blood on his hands, Mulder would not hesitate to slit his throat.  "So
you want it done soon, then?" he asked.

"Just pick your moment carefully.  If it can happen right in front of
Mulder's eyes, that would be the best thing."

"Hey for the amount of cash you're shelling out, you can have your eggs
cooked any which way you want."

"Anonymously," was the curt reply.  "If Mulder can trace this back to
me, it will have been for nothing."

Krycek smirked.  "I won't tell if you won't."

He hung up then, and continued to follow the Taurus in silence.  His
father had often told him:  "Three men can keep a secret when two of
them are dead."  Well, this time when the dust cleared, he was going to
be the one left standing.

****************************

"It's not that I doubt the sincerity of your story," Scully was saying
as they hurtled through the dark highways of New Jersey.  "It's just
difficult to believe in its entirety."

"Which part are you having trouble with?" he asked, feeling punchy at
the lateness of the hour and her consistent refusals to accept what he
was telling her.  He supposed it should not be surprising--after all,
any meager gains he had made in convincing her about the reality of
extraterrestrial life on Earth had been wiped out along with the
memories of giant flukeworms, astral projection and homicidal mothmen.

The Scully who sat next to him was as unconvinced as ever before, maybe
more so.  He was going to have to start all over again.

"Where would you like me to begin, Mulder?"  Her voice was thin with
fatigue, but no less certain of her position.  "It's like a bad science
fiction movie."

"The worst," he muttered over the steering wheel.  She did not hear him.

"I'll accept that it's possible that the government has been conducting
illicit research on human subjects, and that they would have obviously
conspired to keep this a secret, but the inclusion of extraterrestrial
intelligence in the mix is as preposterous as it is improbable."

"It is not as improbable as it sounds."

"Mulder, do you know the statistical likelihood of sentient alien life
evolving anywhere else in the universe, let alone within traveling
distance of Earth?"

"I can assure you that it happened, Scully.  I saw it."

"I don't doubt that you've seen some strange things, Mulder.  I only
doubt your explanations of them."

"Oh, is that all?" he asked sarcastically.  "Here I thought maybe you
were questioning my sanity."

She sighed deeply.  "The human mind is a wonderful thing, but it is
fallible," she said softly.  "It creates expectancies based on prior
experience and then uses these algorithms to account for possible
anomalies and to fill in blanks in our sensory perception.  These
illusions can seem very real.  It's why we don't notice that we have a
hole in our visual field and why David Copperfield plays to sold out
theaters around the country.  Sometimes we see what is actually there,
but mainly we see what our brains expect us to see."

That cuts both ways, Scully, he thought viciously, amazed as always by
her ability *not* to see.  Instead he asked, "Are you suggesting that I
*wanted* my sister to be abducted by aliens?"

She sat up in her seat, straining against the belt.  "Of course not."

"What, then?"

"Mulder, from what you told me, it's clear that you suffered a terrible
trauma at a very young age--a trauma that was never resolved and never
discussed within your family.  It's natural that you would seek answers
about what happened to your sister, but I'm afraid that your need for
such resolution might have made you susceptible to half-truths told by
others with their own agenda."

He responded with stony silence.

"Like that doctor who did the regression," she continued.  "Weber?"

"Werber," he corrected.

"Are you telling me he didn't have his own reasons for doing work with
recovered memory?  Fame, perhaps...maybe money?  What about furthering
his own beliefs in extraterrestrial entities?"

"That may have been an issue at one time," he admitted.  "But not
anymore.  Not with what I've seen and what I know to be true."

"I can't believe it." She shook her head slowly.  "A rogue, shadow
government that makes covert treaties with extraterrestrial beings in
exchange for access to an alien virus?  Alien-human hybrids?  It just
does not seem possible that these events could be occurring without
leaving behind a substantial trail.  Why is it that you don't have more
proof?"

"You're my proof, Scully.  Your abduction, your cancer...now your
convenient disappearance and memory loss just as we were verging on the
whole truth.  It was not accidental that they took the past six years
of your life."

"There is no concrete evidence of extraterrestrial involvement in any
of those instances.  You yourself said that there were dangerous men
with powerful connections directing this operation.  That to me is a
much more feasible explanation than E.T. run amok."

His hands clenched around the wheel.  "Scully..."

"No!" She cut him off.  "No, Mulder!  You're asking me to put aside
years worth of scientific training on the basis of a few hazy
encounters you've had with lights in the sky."

"I'm asking you to trust me!"

"I don't even know you!"

He stiffened as if struck and she was immediately apologetic.  She
reached her hand across the plush seat, stopping just short of actually
touching him.  "Mulder, I'm sorry..."

"It's late," he interrupted tightly.  "We're both too exhausted to do
this anymore tonight.  Why don't you get some sleep?  We can talk more
later."

She stared at him for a long time, then finally nodded. She turned her
head against the seat as if to settle in, but he could feel her still
awake, stiff and unblinking in the darkness.

****************************

She was sleeping when he pulled into the driveway of his mother's
house.  He cut the engine but did not remove the keys from the
ignition.  Instead he ran a hand over his stubbly chin and studied the
green grass on the front lawn.  His mother had only been dead four
days.  How could it need cutting already?

Beside him, Scully stirred and sat up in her seat.  She blinked at him
with bleary eyes.  "We're here?" she asked in a scratchy voice.

"Yeah."

She looked out the windshield at his mother's towering New England
cottage.  "It's nice," she remarked inanely.

"Yeah."  He glanced around at the neatly trimmed bushes, the pointed
roofs and the shuttered windows.  It was nice.  Strange that he had
never noticed before.

"Would you like to go in?" he asked after a bit.

She glanced at him warily.  "Whatever you want to do is fine with me."

He sighed.  So formal and rigid now.  They had been this way for
several hours, barely speaking, and using the cool, polite tone one
usually reserved for strangers.  Which, he supposed as he pulled their
bags out of the truck, was exactly what they were.

He wondered if it had been a mistake bringing her here.  It had seemed
like a good idea at the time, when she had been pale and scared on the
city street.  But instead of the warmth and familiarity he had come to
expect from her, he had received only distance and disdain.  He told
himself to be patient, to try to see things from her perspective, but
mainly he just kept hoping she would snap out of it and be his Scully
again.  He did not think he could wait six more years.

The house was filled with stuffy, dead air and Scully promptly sneezed
as they walked in the front door.  "Sorry," he mumbled automatically,
and moved to open a couple of windows.  Within minutes, a summer breeze
was billowing through the lace curtains.

"Do you want something to eat?" he asked her before realizing that he
was not sure he had anything to offer.

She shook her head, still standing near the door with her suitcase at
her feet.  "I think I'm still too tired to eat," she said with a weak
smile.  "Maybe a glass of water?"

He nodded and went immediately to the spacious kitchen to fetch one.  A
moment later he returned with two tall glasses of water, filled with
ice from the automatic ice maker his mother had praised so often.  He
handed one to Scully and drank his down while she sipped hers slowly.

"Is there going to be a funeral?" she asked at length.

He thought of his trip to the bar and looked away.  "It was yesterday,"
he murmured, thinking that it seemed more like a week ago.

"Oh," was all she said, but he could see the question in her eyes.  He
was not sure there was an answer to it.

"Let me show you to your room," he suggested abruptly, eager to change
the subject.  She nodded and picked up her suitcase.  He led her up the
carved wooden staircase and down the carpeted hall until they reached
the bedroom on the south side.  "This is the guest room," he told her,
swinging the door open with his palm.

She was careful not to touch him as she brushed past.  "It's lovely,"
she said with that same stiff formality they had shared in the car.
Her eyes swept over the cream colored walls, mahogany dresser and tiny
blue-and-white checked comforter.  A ceiling fan was suspended
motionless over the center of the room.  She turned to him with a small
frown.

"I would be perfectly fine on the couch," she insisted.  "I don't want
to take your room, if this is where you usually stay."

"I don't," he answered quickly.

One pale red eyebrow lifted in question.

"Usually stay," he explained.  "I, uh...I've never been here overnight,
actually.  So it's fine.  Really."

She looked at him a long time before she nodded her assent.  "Okay."

He knew she was probably wondering what kind of son he was to treat his
elderly, ailing mother this way.  Wondering how she could have spent
six years with such a cold and unfeeling person.  Aw, Scully, he
thought.  You just don't understand.

And there was no way he could make her.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he heaved a sigh.  He was so tired
his eyeballs ached.  He opened them to see Scully watching him closely,
and suddenly the intense scrutiny was just too much to handle.

"You should get some rest," he told her, already backing out of the
room.  "I have some things I need to do downstairs."

"Mulder," she called softly, and he stopped.  "You should rest, too.
It's been a very long night."

He searched her eyes for any hint of tenderness, any sign that she felt
the special connection they had shared and was now mourning its loss
the way he was.

Nothing.

Her calm azure gaze held only casual concern, the kind you might show a
child who scraped his knee on the school playground. He bit the inside
of his cheek to hold back a moan.  Scully might have been standing in
the same room, but she had left him more completely than the others
ever had.

"I'll be downstairs," he repeated at last.  "If you need anything."

She nodded, and he fled the room, thinking how ridiculous his last
words had sounded.  Scully wouldn't need anything from him; she never
really had.

*****************************

She slept fitfully in the strange bed in the strange room with the
sunlight bearing down against the other side of the shades.  Golden
rectangles rimmed the gray blockades and she checked her watch: three-
oh-eight.

Leaning down over the side of the bed, she stretched her full length
until the tips of her fingers just brushed against the wide leather
strap of her shoulder bag.  She hooked it under the first set of
knuckles and dragged it up onto the sheets with her. Prying it open,
she removed a fabric covered book the size of a paper back novel, and
then dug around in the bottom until she located a black pen.

She opened the book and began to write:

"Fox Mulder is not dead.  He came to the hospital to see me yesterday
and nearly got arrested in the process.  Why he sought me out after all
these weeks, I cannot say, but I suspect it might be related to his
mother's recent death.

"We argued rather forcefully on the way up here, and I find myself more
disturbed by the subtext of the argument than its explicit content.
Mulder thinks that my memory loss is related to a microchip I
apparently had implanted during a mysterious three-month absence
several years ago.  However, his account of who put it there and why is
wildly implausible at best.

"His delusions may be strange, but they are themselves manageable.  I
find it more distressing that he seems to think I should believe his
story without question.  Is this how it was with us?  Did I really
follow him willingly into his bizarre fantasy world?  If so, I may have
become someone else entirely in the past six years--someone I am not
sure I could respect. Perhaps I will never know.

"Dr. McCafferty says that keeping a record of my thoughts may aide in
retrieving some of the older memories, but I remain doubtful.  It has
been nearly a month and I still have no clear recollection of anything
after March, 1993.  People live quite well with missing parts:  an arm,
a leg, a breast.  If this trip with Mulder provides no answers, I am
sure I, too, will survive with my amputated memory.

"In the meantime, I have no choice but to follow the one person who
shared at least part of those memories, picking up any pieces that he
should drop and hoping that they will soon form a picture I can
recognize."

She hesitated a minute, the pen cap at her lips, then wrote one last
sentence: "I think Mulder is the man from my dream."

Putting the journal aside on the night stand, she lay back in bed and
thought about the new dream.  They were running again--she did not know
where to--but this time he ran on ahead of her, saying "You can get the
next mutant."  Very strange indeed.

She was on the verge of sleep again when a loud crash yanked her rudely
into consciousness, and she leapt from the bed heedless of her state of
relative undress.  "Mulder?" she called as she hurried down the hall in
the direction of the noise.  She came to an abrupt halt in front of the
door to the master bedroom.  All was completely quiet now, and Mulder
sat inside the room, a stark picture of grief among the pretty,
flowered prints.

His back was to her as he sat at the large, cherry desk with his head
in his hands.  A broken lamp lay shattered by his feet on the floor.
Scully bit her lip in sympathetic pain. His shoulders were shaking
rhythmically with silent sobs, and she nearly turned away, not wishing
to intrude on his privacy.

She hesitated, her hand on the door frame.  He seemed so alone.

The memory of his voice, screaming for her across the parking lot,
echoed through her mind and she took a step inside the room as if
pulled toward him by an invisible thread.

He did not hear her approach, and jumped slightly at the touch of her
hand on his shoulder.  His face was wet with tears.  "Mulder," she
murmured helplessly, wondering what she could do to ease the pain.  He
grabbed her suddenly around the middle, holding her tight against him
with a fierce, gentle strength.

At first, she went rigid with surprise, barely breathing as he buried
his face against her stomach.  Her hand hovered above his head for a
brief moment before she brought it down to settle in his hair. "It's
okay," she whispered, stroking her fingers through the soft strands. He
clutched her closer in answer, and she could feel his hot, shaky
breaths through the thin cotton of her nightshirt.

She closed her eyes. "It's okay, Mulder," she repeated gently, relaxing
into his hold at last, willing some of the hurt to pass through him and
into her.

"She stopped being a mother to me almost thirty years ago."  His voice
was muffled against her stomach.  "Why should I feel this way now?"

Scully squeezed him hard.  "Maybe it's not 'now' but still," she told
him softly.  "Thirty years is a long time to miss someone...especially
your mother."

"I didn't go to her funeral," he choked out.

She smoothed his hair, feeling her own chest clench at the pain in his
words.  "You're here now," she whispered.  "That's what matters."

He was silent then for a long moment, sniffling occasionally and still
holding her waist as if for dear life.  Without thinking, Scully bent
down to kiss the top of his head.  He pulled away, and she felt the
loss of body contact so keenly she nearly fell over.  He wiped his eyes
on his rumpled sleeve and gave her a shaky smile.

"Sorry about that," he said, his voice still thick with emotion.  He
nodded at her nightshirt.  "I didn't bring you here for a wet T-shirt
contest."

Scully glanced down at the wet spot around her middle, unperturbed.
She was coming to recognize that he used humor as a way to deal with
his own discomfort, and she suspected he'd had to use it a lot over the
years.  "It will dry," she answered.  She reached out to touch his
forearm with the tips of her fingers.

"You really should get some rest."

He glanced at the papers spread out on the desk and nodded.  "Yeah,
this can wait, I guess."  He rose slowly to his feet, as if he had aged
twenty-five years in one sitting.  Scully gently prodded him over to
the bed.

He sat down on the edge and tugged off his shoes.  Then she supervised
as he unbuttoned his shirt with clumsy fingers and slipped under the
light covers.  By the time she had drawn the curtains, his eyes were
already closed. "Good night, Mulder."  She was about to tiptoe out of
the room when his voice stopped her.

"Stay."

**********
End Chapter Ten. 

Chapter Eleven

She turned, her mouth already open to protest.

"Just for a few minutes," he said, regarding her with sleepy eyes.
"Please?"

She shifted nervously from one foot to the other, torn.  Mulder
waited.  Oh, what the hell, she thought finally.  At least this way she
could be sure he followed orders.  She reluctantly padded across the
room to stand near the bed.  He thumped his palm on the other side of
the mattress in invitation, and she crossed her arms reflexively over
her chest, shaking her head.  "I don't think..."

A small smile twitched his lips.  "I've had all my shots, Scully...it's
okay."

She hesitated a moment longer before making her way around the large,
four-poster bed.  In the back of her mind was the knowledge that they
had probably shared a lot of beds together.  Surely he wasn't
thinking...

No, she realized the minute she slipped under the cool sheets.  The way
he had curled onto his side, facing her in an almost-fetal position,
suggested he needed comfort, not passion.  She allowed herself to relax
a notch.  "Okay, now?" she asked.

He blinked at her in the partial light. "Talk to me," he instructed
softly.

She balked.  "You should be resting, Mulder."

"I am resting."  He tucked one arm under his head.  "Talk to me," he
repeated.

"About what?" she asked helplessly, her fingers bunching folds at the
top of the sheet.

"I don't know.  Anything.  Tell me a story."

"I don't know any stories, Mulder."  She paused, then rolled to her
side so she could face him.  "And if I did, you would probably have
heard them all, anyway."

"So much the better," he answered.  Then he waited while she thought
hard.  Finally, she blew an exasperated breath.  "Did I tell you I
worked two months on a Navajo reservation after my third year in
medical school?"

He shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow.  For some
reason, she believed him.  "Well I did," she murmured, feeling slightly
ridiculous about recounting the long ago tale now.  "It was pretty much
third-world living conditions down there--no one had a phone, few
people even had electricity.  Unemployment was high and the alcoholism
rate was even higher, but you know what?"

Again, he shook his head.

"They were some of the kindest people I've ever known. Many of the
residents were elderly and lived in remote parts of the reservation, so
this Navajo boy about my own age and I would make weekly rounds to make
sure everyone was doing okay.  He was almost as new to the job as I
was, having just graduated from the state college, and he told me that
they had stuck him with the most difficult residents--people who were
either impossible to find because they lived far from the main roads,
or people who were essentially crazy."

"The new guy always gets the scut work," Mulder commented.

She smiled.  "Exactly.  I thought he was kidding at first, until I saw
just how many tiny, winding roads we had to take to get to some of
these people.  But they were always sweet as pie.  Then our last stop
was right off the main road.  He looked at me and said 'This one's a
loony for sure'."

"And?" breathed Mulder.

"He was right.  She was this shriveled old woman in a wheel chair that
wasn't really a wheel chair.  More like a lawn chair with wheels
attached.  She lived with her adult son, who was mentally impaired
because he had been hit by a drunk driver when he was eleven.  He was
an alcoholic too, and whenever the old woman would mention something
about alcohol, she would turn around and smack him."

Mulder chuckled.  "Sounds like quite a pair."

"Yes, well, she also had the most amazing story to tell," Scully
continued, "about the time her son disappeared."  She scooted a little
closer to him on the bed.  "It seems as though the son got completely
blotto one night and decided to walk the twenty miles back from town to
the reservation.  Naturally, he passed out about two miles into the
trip, and was laying by the side of the road when some other men--Zuni
Indians--stopped in a pick up truck.  They loaded him into the back of
the truck, but they didn't take him home.  Instead, they drove him to
*their* reservation about sixty miles away."

"What Samaritans," Mulder observed, but his eyes had closed.

"It gets better.  When the son woke up, he was confused and asked for
his mother.  The Zuni told him that his mother wanted him to stay with
them and tend their sheep.  So he did, for at least ten days.  Every
couple of days, he would ask about going home, but they always told him
that his new job was to look out after their sheep, so he stayed."

"Mmmm," was all Mulder said at this point.

Scully smiled fondly.  "The mother was of course crazed with worry by
this point," she continued quietly. "But she couldn't convince the
local authorities to investigate.  Finally, she thought of a plan: her
son had a pocket radio he carried everywhere and listened to
constantly.  As luck would have it, he only listened to one station,
the local Navajo broadcast.  So she marched on down to the station and
demanded to make an announcement.  She told her son that wherever he
was, he did not belong there and he should come home immediately.
Well, the son heard her and hitchhiked home that very afternoon.  Isn't
that incredible?"

Mulder did not answer.  His breathing was even and deep by her side.
Scully reached over to pull the covers over his shoulder, then rolled
on her back to stare at the ceiling.  She wished more than anything
that she had a radio that would tell her where she belonged.  Nowhere
seemed right to her anymore.

Mulder chose that moment to stir in his sleep.  "Shh..." she told him,
smoothing the blanket back into place.  He grabbed her hand and
clutched it to his chest like it was a teddy bear.

Scully froze, now feeling his every heart beat move beneath her
fingertips.  He mumbled something, and she strained to catch it.
"Mmm...Scully....glad you're here."

She remained like that for a very long time.

********************

He awoke alone, as he had suspected he would.  The light peeking from
beneath the curtains suggested it was morning, and he yawned loudly.
His brain teased him with vague, pseudo-memories of Scully's hand on
his arm, or her thigh resting lightly on his leg. It might have been a
dream, or a remembrance of nights past, but he felt warmed all the same.

He showered and dressed in record time, eager to see her again.  She
was in the kitchen drinking a mug of coffee.  "Good morning," she said,
almost shyly.

He smiled.  "Hi."  She was wearing something he had never seen before--
a linen dress that had been dyed a pale yellow and decorated with amber
leaves that appeared to have been hand-painted.  It was an intriguing
article of clothing, since it hung to mid-calf in perfectly straight
sheathe when she stood still, but the slightest movement produced
tantalizing curves.  He was mesmerized.

"I made coffee," she was saying, "but there really isn't any food in
the house."

"We can go out," he replied, still watching as she sipped from the over-
sized green mug.  "I'm sure there must be someplace in town."

She set down her coffee mug in the sink.  "Fine with me.  I'm starving."

"Let's go right now, then."  He withdrew a small key from his pants.
"Afterward I'd like to stop by the bank."

"Safety deposit box?" she guessed, squinting at the silver key in his
hand.  He nodded.

"I found it in the safe with Mom's will, the family birth certificates,
and the deeds to this place and the house on the Vineyard.  I don't
know what else there could be to lock up, but I guess I should at least
go and see."

"Maybe it's a million dollars," Scully said lightly, and he smiled.

"In which case, breakfast would be on me," he replied with equal
humor.  But deep down, he hoped it would not contain money; he was
hoping for answers.

**************************

The two FBI agents left as silently as they had arrived, but he could
see from his vantage point that they appeared more relaxed this
morning.  He smirked, knowing they had shared a single bed most of the
night.  He would rest well, too, if he had Dana Scully to plump his
pillows.

Fortunately, they had been too busy making goo-goo eyes at one another
to notice that the kitchen window had been opened, and that he was
standing under it--waiting.

And listening.

*************************

They stood in an airless, odorless room packed wall to wall with safety
deposit boxes.  "Here you are," said the thin bank official as he
handed them the metal box.  "Take all the time you need."

Mulder walked to the center of the room and placed the box on the tall,
ceramic table.  Scully hovered by his elbow.  "Aren't you going to open
it?" she asked, and he had a flash of her jumping up and down by the
presents on Christmas morning.  He bit his lip.

"Yeah," he said at last.  He inserted the key and opened the lid.  They
peered inside simultaneously.  There was a single white envelope on the
bottom and a lot of empty space.

Mulder met Scully's eyes and shrugged.  He picked up the envelope,
turning it over in his palm.  It was unmarked.  Scully started to say
something, but he shushed her with teasing fingers.  "I'm opening it,
I'm opening it.  Sheesh."

She rolled her eyes with an almost-smile.  He slit the flap with one
finger and removed the contents.

"It's a picture," he announced, holding it up.  "Or more accurately,
half a picture."  It was an old photo that had been ripped in half.  On
the front was a man standing near a white brick building that read
"OIRE" in big, black letters.  Mulder tilted it closer to the light.

"There's writing on the back," Scully said.  He flipped the photo.

"It looks like some sort of map," he replied after a minute.  "See this
part here?  I think it's a river..but it doesn't say which one."  Then
he turned it around again to study the man on the front.  "Hey!" he
said suddenly.  "I know this guy!"

Scully squinted more closely at the photo. "Who is it?"

"It's Leonid Petrov!"

"Who?"

He slapped the torn photograph against his palm several times.  "He was
a Russian defector who emigrated to Canada in the sixties, where he did
highly secretive and highly illegal research for the Canadian
government."

"What's his photograph doing in your parents' safety deposit box?"
Scully asked, confused.

"Damned if I know."  He paused.  "But..."

She put her hand on her hips.  "But what?"

His mouth tightened.  "I don't know if you want to hear this,
considering your position on the whole idea."

"Not the aliens again."  It was more of a weary sigh than a question.

"There was a rumor he did research on extraterrestrial biological
entities, yes," Mulder replied, his chin sticking out a bit.

"Canada is a long way from Roswell, Mulder."

"Joke if you want, but my father was part of that organization I
described--the ones who made the deal to get the virus.  It's possible
he knew this man, and that Leonid Petrov might have been connected to
what happened to my sister."

"Mulder..."

He was shaking his head.  "I have to find out, Scully.  I have to go to
Montreal.  What if this is a map to find Samantha?"

She frowned, but her eyes were sympathetic.  "Mulder, that photo is at
least twenty years old," she pointed out gently.  "And you don't know
that it has anything to do with Samantha."

"It was important enough to keep locked away!  That must say something,
right?"

She dropped her chin to her chest, silent.

"I have to check it out," he repeated after a minute.  "I just have to."

"But what about the other half of the picture?" she asked.  "The map is
no good without it."

"It's all I have right now, so it will have to be enough."  He was
already studying the back of the photo intensely.  A few minutes passed
and he looked up at her.  "I'll have to drop you at the train station,
I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I have to go immediately, Scully.  This can't wait."

"Then I'll go with you."

He frowned, putting aside the photo and giving her his full attention
for the first time since they had uncovered the picture. "Scully, no.
This is my crusade, not yours.  There's no point in wasting your time,
or possibly even risking your life for something you don't even believe
exists."

"It's my crusade, too, Mulder!" She glared at him with startling
intensity.  "You said it yourself--it was my abduction, my cancer, my
memory loss.  No one wants answers more than I do, okay?  Just because
we disagree on what those answers might be doesn't make it any less
important for me to keep searching."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.  "I didn't realize."

They stood in silence for a long moment.  "Look," she said at last, "if
this Leonid Petrov person was involved in illicit research on human
subjects, it's possible I can find clues to what happened with my
memory--maybe even get it back.  And if these men are as dangerous as
you say, you're going to need someone to watch your back."

A smile played at his lips.  "No one ever watched it better than you,
Scully."

"Fine.  Then it's settled."

"Yeah, it's settled."  He checked his watch.  "We should get going
right now."

They returned the box and started out of the bank into the mid-morning
shopping crowd.  After three steps, Scully cried out in pain and fell
to the ground.  "Scully!" Mulder was beside her in an instant.  "What's
wrong?  What happened?"

"Don't know," she panted, clutching her side.  That is when he noticed
the red stain spreading rapidly through her pretty summer dress.

"Ohmygodohmygod," he breathed, instinctively pressing a hand against
the wound.

"Mulder?" Her voice was weak and thin.  "What happened?"

"It's okay, Scully," he said grimly.  "It's going to be okay."  He
looked up at the crowd of gawkers who had gathered around them on the
sidewalk.  "Somebody call an ambulance!" he barked.  "Now!"

Several people went dashing off down the street and Mulder turned his
attention back to Scully, whose eyes had drifted shut.  "It's going to
be all right," he assured her in a shaking voice.  "Help is coming."

"Hurts," she croaked.

"I know."  He brought his non-bloodstained hand up to touch her cheek.
"Hang in there, Scully.  It will be okay."

His heart skipped several beats when she did not answer.  "Scully?" He
tapped her face.  "Scully!"  Over his shoulder, he called, "Where the
fuck is the god damn ambulance?"

A moment later the siren echoed in the distance.  As the crowds parted
to make way for the EMTs, no one noticed as a man in a leather jacket
retrieved a torn photograph from where it had fluttered to the ground
amidst all the commotion.

Then he disappeared.
*************************

End Part One.  

TITLE: Necessary Evils (II)
AUTHOR:  Hannah Mason
CATEGORY:  XRA
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS:  The whole mytharc storyline
SUMMARY:  Mulder's father seems to have more than one secret.  To learn
the second, Mulder must uncover the first.  When he finally learns the
truth, it falls on Scully to decide just how much she is willing to
sacrifice in order to keep it.
ARCHIVE:  Certainly, but please ask.
DISCLAIMER:  Mulder, Scully & Co. are the property of Chris Carter,
1013 and Fox.  I take full responsibility for Yushi, bless his black
little heart.
THANKS:  To Alicia K. for her eagle eye and Karen for her endless
encouragement.  This story could not have happened without you.

Also thanks to Alicia, part I of Necessary Evils is available on my
webpage at:

 http://www.execpc.com/~spartcus/Hannah.html

Part II will not make much sense without it.



This one is still for the Vulture and the Indian, who've given me so
many good stories to tell.

This part is also for Brigitte, who astounded me when she wrote me even
when I had not posted recently, asking gently about my next effort.
You get lots of what you asked for, Brigitte...I hope you like it!

FEEDBACK:  I relish human contact!  Write me at hkmason@netscpe.net

Author's notes are at the end.
________________________________

~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter One
~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder sat with bouncing knees on the blue imitation leather seats of
the waiting room outside the Greenwich Hospital Emergency Room.
Doctors and nurses swung regularly though the wide, flapping doors, and
he craned his neck for a glimpse of the commotion hiding behind them.
It had been half an hour since he had watched Scully, bleeding but
breathing, disappear through those doors into the ER.  No one had been
out to speak with him since.

He chewed his thumbnail and contemplated heading back there with his
badge to raise some hell.  It had worked well in the past.

But just then a short, black woman in pink scrubs emerged to talk to
him.  Her expression was pleasant, and he noted with enormous relief
that she did not appear to be coated in blood.  "How is she?" he
blurted as he leapt to his feet.  "Is she okay?"

The woman smiled.  "She's going to be just fine.  You can come back and
see her if you'd like."

Mulder nodded vigorously.  He would more than like.  "What happened?"
he asked as they walked to the door.

"Your friend was shot," she replied solemnly.  "But she was lucky--the
bullet just grazed her left side so there was no serious damage.
She'll be very sore for a few days, but that's all."

Mulder closed his eyes briefly before pushing through the swinging
door.  He felt weak with relief.  "Thanks," he murmured, not sure
whether he addressed the woman at his side or a benevolent power above.

Scully was propped up in a hospital cot sipping what looked like apple
juice from a clear plastic cup.  Her dress had been replaced by
drawstring shorts and an enormous gray tee-shirt that nearly swallowed
her whole.  She was pale and wan, but her eyes were alert and she
smiled when she saw him.  "Hi," she called softly.

"Hey," he returned, taking her hand.  It was reassuringly warm.  "Just
can't stand to let me beat you at anything, can you, Scully?  Always
got to even the score."

At the rim of the cup, her mouth hinted at a smile.  "Symmetry is the
key to beauty, Mulder, and now I have a matching set."  She withdrew
her hand and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.  "Did you see who
did it?"

He shook his head.  "No, the street was pretty crowded, and I was
concentrating on the photograph."  As soon as the words were out of his
mouth, he blanched.  "Shit."  He began patting himself down, but the
search proved futile.

"What is it?"

"The photo," he answered tersely.  "I must have dropped it after the
shot."

"Oh, Mulder..." She covered her mouth with one hand, and reached for
his arm with the other.  "You should go look for it," she commanded.

His brow furrowed.  "I don't know..." he began, looking up and down at
her in the hospital bed.

"I'll be fine," she stated firmly.  She gave him a little shove.  "I
still have to talk to the cops about what happened, anyway."

He hesitated, glancing toward the door.

"Go!" she ordered.  "Find the photo."

"I'll be right back," he promised, leaning over to press a swift, hard
kiss on the top of her head.  When he went to pull away, she grabbed
his arm to stop him.

"Be careful," she said, her eyes searching his face.

He nodded.  "I will."  And then he was gone.

**************************

"I'm sorry, Mulder."  Her words were soft and pain-filled from the
other side of the Taurus.

"It's not your fault, Scully," he answered without even glancing at
her.

"I know."  She paused.  "Do you think that was the purpose all along--
to steal the photo?"

"Nothing would surprise me," he replied with a bitter snort.  "That's
the way this works.  I get one rung closer to the top, closer to the
truth, and then someone with lead boots always comes and stomps my
fingers flat."  He shook his head in disgust.  "Never fails."

She leaned her head back against the car seat and was silent for a long
time.  "That would mean someone knew the photo would be there before we
did," she said at last.  "They were waiting for us to come out with it."

"Yeah, or we were being followed by someone who just managed to get
lucky.  Either way, it's gone."

"Do you think whoever it was might have had the other half?"

Her ran his hand over his chin.  "I don't know."  After a minute, he
looked across at her.  "But whoever it was made one small mistake."

She met his eyes with questioning glance.  "What?"

"I can recreate the map."

"From memory?" she asked in surprise.

He nodded.  "We won't have the photo, of course, but as soon as you're
feeling better, we can still go to Montreal and see what we can dig up
on this Leonid Petrov guy."

"We can go right now," she replied.

"Scully..."

"I'm fine," she insisted in a determined voice.  "Whoever has the photo
already has a substantial lead, so we shouldn't waste any more time."

"Scully, we just left the emergency room.  You were shot; you need to
rest."

"I can rest in the car," she said stubbornly.  She managed a weak
smile.  "What is it they always used say in the movies...'it's just a
flesh wound'?"

He was torn.  Flesh wound or no, it still had to hurt.  And she was
still so pale.  "Maybe we can take it slow," he suggested cautiously,
remembering how awful she had looked laying on the sidewalk as her
dress became wet with blood under his fingers.  "We can always stop if
you need to."  He did not want to put her through undue strain or
stress, but she was correct about the mysterious gunman having a large
lead on them, and he was itching to hit the road.  Images from the map
swam in his mind.

"I'll be okay," she assured him, reaching over to brush his arm with
the tips of her fingers.  "It's just a car ride."

He covered her hand with his and squeezed.  "Okay, then.  Roadtrip it
is."

An hour later, they were headed north on route 93 with a fresh tank of
gas and Mulder's crudely sketched regeneration of the map laying on the
seat between them.  Scully was asleep before ten miles had passed,
having taken a good dose of Demerol before they had left.  Mulder
wondered again whether it was a wise idea to take her on such a
grueling ride with a fresh injury, but there was no way he could have
left her behind when there was a lunatic with a gun possibly lurking in
the shadows for a second chance.

He drove until his neck and shoulders ached, both from the second day
of relentless travel and the lingering tension of their precarious
situation.  As they went, he kept one eye on the road ahead and the
other focused on the cars that flitted in and out of his rear view
mirror.  It did not seem as though they were being followed.

The sun was low in the sky when they crossed the border into Quebec,
and Mulder decided to stop at the first decent-looking restaurant for
dinner.  Neither of them had eaten since early that morning, and he was
suddenly plagued by the jittery, hollow feeling that came with
overwhelming hunger.  He found a small white building with a simple,
hand-painted sign outside that read "Casa Elena" and underneath "La
Cuisine Mexicane".  Too tired and famished to question whether it was
likely to find good Mexican food this far north, he pulled the Taurus
into the dirt-covered parking lot.

Scully did not move a muscle when the engine cut off.  Her head lolled
to one side on the seat, and her hands curled around the top of the
blanket covering her lap.  Watching her, he felt a strong surge of
affection and protectiveness, awash with fresh relief that the bullet
had not been three inches to the the right.  He ran the side of his
index finger down her cheek.  "Dinner time," he murmured.

It took a moment, but eventually her eyelids fluttered open.  She sat
up in her seat and looked around as she stretched away the remaining
sleep.  He caught her painful grimace despite her swift efforts to hide
it.  "Where are we?" she asked before he could fuss.

"Just inside Quebec," he replied.  "I thought we could use some
dinner." She nodded and rubbed her stomach absently.  "How are you
feeling?" he asked.

"I'm all right."

He stared at her hard in the twilight.

"Really," she insisted, and as if to prove her point, she opened her
door.  He hurriedly exited from his side and crossed in front of the
car to go help her.

But Scully was not having any of it.  "I'm fine," she told him,
sounding slightly cross as she attempted to get out of the car without
aggravating her side.

Mulder stood over her with folded arms, watching the struggle.  It was
actually something of a relief to see her brimming with her customary
stubborness.  It gave him hope that maybe she really was okay.  With
gritted teeth, she made it out on the third try and he followed her as
she walked gingerly toward the restaurant.  "Mexican, Mulder?  In
Quebec?"

Yup, he thought, biting back a sigh.  She was fine.

He reached over her shoulder to pull open the door.  His stomach did
not have the delicate sensibility that Scully's did.  Chips with
Velveeta?  Bring it on. Salsa from a jar?  Fine by him.

Ha, vindication! he thought moments later as they stepped inside Casa
Elena.  The place was small but clean, and the spicy air tickled his
nose even  from the doorway.  The room was filled tantalizing scent of
peppers, grilled steak and cumin filled the air, and there were
sizzling sounds coming from the kitchen that mixed nicely with the
Spanish guitar music being piped in through the ceiling.  Tables were
crammed wall to wall, each covered in red plastic and decorated with a
tiny vase filled with fresh flowers in the center of each.  A rainbow
pinata in the shape of a bull hung suspended over the cash register,
where a woman with a dark bun greeted them cheerily.  "Hola," she said
in softly-accented Spanish.  "Two for dinner?"

They nodded in unison, and she led them to a table garnished with three
daisies in a glass vase.  Plastic coated menus offered the standard
Mexican fare with a few interesting twists, and  Mulder ordered the
beef enchildas while Scully opted for soft-shelled chicken tacos.  The
food appeared in record time, piping hot, drenched in melted cheese,
and accompanied by pico de gallo with just the right blend of lime and
cilantro.  They ate in silence.

"Is yours not okay?" he asked her after a bit.  He had finished two-
thirds of the spicy beef platter in front of him, but Scully had barely
eaten one taco.

"No, it's very good," she answered, pushing around a black bean with
her fork.  "The Demerol just saps my appetite, that's all."

He gulped down a swallow of iced tea.  "I'm sorry."

She shook her head to dismiss his apology. "I'll be fine tomorrow."
Then she tilted her head at him.  "Mulder, don't you think it's kind of
funny that I'm still alive?"

No.  One did not laugh at miracles.  "The guy took his best shot,
Scully, and he missed.  Thank God," he added quickly.  "But who knows,
he could have even been aiming for me, we were standing so close
together looking at that picture."

"I'm not just talking about today, I'm talking in general."

"What do you mean?" He leaned over the table.

"Well, from what you've told me, these men running the shadow
government do not take kindly to our meddling in their work, and we're
pretty much the only ones concerned enough to investigate, correct?"

"Yes, I guess that's right."

"So why haven't they killed us both a long time ago?  Seems to me it
would have solved all their problems."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not liking the direction this
conversation was taking.  "People would have asked questions if we had
been killed," he said eventually.  "These men don't like any sort of
attention."

"Who would have asked questions, Mulder, who?"  Her tone was soft, but
reproachful.  "We worked in a basement.  The FBI's Most Unwanted, isn't
that what you called us?  I don't see how our deaths would have really
caused that much of a fuss."

His stomach turned over.  This was actually something he had considered
numerous times, when he had been so close to death he could feel its
bony fingers around his windpipe, but somehow the specter always
vanished before the deed was done.  Scully, too, seemed to have a
cigarette-smoking angel sitting on her shoulder.  The Consortium pushed
them hard, but only so far.  The fact that he and Scully were still
alive meant only one thing:  they had a purpose that had not yet been
met.

"They needed you for the tests," he began carefully.

"Needed is right," she broke in.  "As in past tense.  All the other
women are dead, isn't that right?"  He was silent.  "Well, isn't it?"
At last, he nodded reluctantly.  That was another thing he did not like
to think about too much.

"So why am I still here?  And why are you?  You never had tests run."

He shrugged.  "I don't know the answer," he said, toying with the flame
in the little round candle holder.  "I guess I thought maybe it was
because of my father...loyalty to him, or whatever."

She arched an eyebrow.  "These people don't seem to care one whit about
loyalty, Mulder."

"Okay, let's hear your big theory then," he said, annoyed.

"I don't have one.  I just can't help thinking it was an incredible
coincidence that one week ago someone tells you about Leonid Petrov and
then when he turns up in your father's safety deposit box, there is
someone already waiting to shoot me and disappear with the evidence.
It makes me wonder whether the original informant knew more than he was
telling."

He was quiet, unwilling to look her in the eyes.  He had not told her
that it was Diana who had first given him Petrov's name--that bit of
information had not seemed pertinent.  Now he wondered if it might be.
It was definitely unsettling that Diana somehow managed to set off
Scully's radar even when Scully no longer knew of her existence.  This
time he could not chalk her suspicions up to professional or personal
jealousy, or even just a burning desire to prove him wrong about Diana.

"I'll try to look into it," he promised, tearing his gaze away from the
flickering orange flame.

She put down her fork.  "I didn't mean..."  She stopped, looked once at
her plate, and tried again.  "I'm not trying to tell you who to trust,
Mulder; you clearly know the situation better than I do.  I just think
it's strange that we're still walking around if these men really resent
our interference as much as they claim."

"You have a good point," he admitted softly.  "And I wish I could say
that I have a good answer, but I don't."

Their conversation lapsed momentarily, and the room was filled only
with guitar music and merry murmurings from the other tables.  "Well,
that's why we're here, right?" she asked finally.  "To get some
answers?"

His mouth tightened in a thin line, and he nodded once. She nodded,
too, and regarded him with calm, serious eyes.  "Then let's go get
them," she said simply.

He signaled for the check.

*************************

It was dark by the time they reached Montreal, and Mulder was relieved
that he had thought far enough ahead to make several large ATM
withdrawals before leaving Greenwich.  He was not interested in
announcing their presence in Montreal with a neatly tracable hotel
check-in.  Cash would do nicely, thank you very much.

He navigated the car slowly through the unfamiliar streets, glancing
occasionall at Scully, who leaned against the seat with her eyes
closed.  No twenty dollar a night shack this time, he decided
immediately.  She deserved better than scratchy sheets and paper-thin
walls with mysterious stains on them.  He selected instead a mid-range
hotel along the St. Lawrence River.

"I'll just pay in advance with cash," he told her as they walked
through the heavy glass doors of the Plaza de Montreal.  "That way
there will be nothing to trace us here."

Beside him, she tensed.  "Mulder, I have money."

"Not like I do," he returned with a smile.  She stopped short in the
plant-filled lobby and glared at him.  He sighed, moving to stand very
close in front of her.  He bent his head so he could murmur directly in
her ear, "That house in Greenwich?  When it sells, the price will start
with an eight.  Okay?"

Her eyes widened and she swallowed.  "Okay," she managed, and they
walked to the desk.  He nodded at a nearby bench covered in a thick red
cushion.  "Why don't you sit while I do this?" he asked, concerned both
that she not over-tax herself and that she not overhear what he was
about to say to the desk clerk.  Amazingly, she did not give him any
argument, but seated herself carefully on the bench.  He turned to the
clerk.

"Bonjour," said the blond man with pleasant efficiency.  "Welcome to
Plaza de Montreal; how may I help you?"

Mulder briefly entertained the idea of answering in French to further
disguise his identity, but then decided he was a long way from Mme.
Rapinac's eight a.m. vocabulary drills.  "I'd like a suite with a
living area," he said quietly, removing the sheaf of bills from his
wallet.  "I will pay five nights in advance right now, and more if
necessary when the five days are up."

"Certainly, sir," answered the clerk, seeming entirely non-plussed by
the wad of cash Mulder laid on the counter.  He typed a few keys on his
computer and then glanced at Mulder.  "I can give you room 1532, sir.
It has a king-sized bedroom, a separate living area and a kitchenette.
However, it is non-smoking.  Will this be a problem?"

"It's highly preferable," Mulder replied, dead-pan.

The clerk hit a few more keys.  "I'll just need your name and you'll be
all set."

Mulder thought for one second, then his mouth twitched as he rattled
off the pseduonym.  Three minutes later, he was retrieving Scully and
the luggage from behind a large fern.  "Room 1532," he announced waving
the key-card in the air.

Her eyebrows knit in disapproval.  "One room?  And one bed? Mulder..."

He hoisted one suitcase in each hand, and turned so she could not see
his smile.  Damn, she was an easy tease.  "We're registered as husband
and wife," he whispered by the elevator, setting down the bags and
looping one arm around her shoulders.  She stiffened immediately, and
her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hair line.

"We're what?" she choked out.  He just grinned.

The elevator opened with a soft ding and three giggling children under
the age of ten tumbled out.  Their frazzled-looking mother followed.
"It's a good cover," he told her as he punched the button for the
fifteenth floor.  "Mr and Mrs. John Brown."

She leaned against the other side of the elevator with a resigned
sigh.  "John Brown?" she repeated, frowning.  "Somehow I thought you
would have shown a little more creativity than that, Mulder."

He clutched his chest. "Scully, you wound me.  Don't you remember the
song?"

She looked puzzled and shook her head faintly.  The elevator glided to
a halt.  "John Brown's body..." he prompted, picking the suitcases from
the floor and making her wait for the pay-off.  "It was a-mouldering
the grave."

She blinked as the pun hit her full force.  Then she muffled a groan
and trailed him down the hallway.  "Haven't I suffered enough today?"
she called to his back.  She caught up with him outside room 1532.

He could feel her nervousness as he fumbled with the key-card and
almost let her off the hook.  No, this was too much fun.

"Mulder, I think we should set some ground rules," she began, then
stopped abruptly when he swung the door open.

"Home sweet home, Mrs. Brown," he announced, setting the bags down and
instantly flopping on the full-size sofa.  Scully stood in the middle
of the room looking unamused.

"There's a couch," she said shortly.

He nodded.

"You knew this."

He nodded a second time.

She crossed her arms over her chest.  "You're lucky my gun isn't handy
or you might find yourself in the lead again."

He chuckled.  "Scully, it's a cold, cold, woman who would shoot her
lover more than once."
************************
End chapter one.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Two
~~~~~~~~~~~~

She went rigid at his words, and he realized belatedly what he had
said.  Shit.  He sat up on the couch, uncertain how to explain.  It was
not like he had kept it a secret on purpose; he had just never found
the right time or the right words to tell her.  "Scully, I..."

She looked away.

Shitshitshit.  He rubbed his hands over his face.  What was he supposed
to have said?  Enough about this microchip nonsense, I want to tell you
about the great sex we had?  He had meant to say *something*, really he
had.  He just had not wanted to make her more uncomfortable than she
clearly already was, and knowing he had seen her naked did not strike
him as the best way to accomplish that.  He sighed into the heavy
silence in the room.  "I should have told you earlier."

She shook her head and turned to face him once more.  "No, I already
knew."

He jerked his head up.  "What?  How?"

"I...I don't know."  She shrugged.  "I just did."

"Do you...do you remember something?"  God, was that him sounding so
pathetically hopeful?

"No."  The word was a whisper tinged with regret.  "I wish I did."

He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, reminded again how unmatched they
were now in their intensity of attachment: to her, he was a means to
get her memory back; to him, she was a means to salvation.  It made his
throat hurt with unshed tears.

She must have sensed his distress, because she continued tentatively,
"I have dreams that sometimes feel like memories."

"Yeah?" He leaned back against he couch, interested but not hopeful.

"They're very bizarre, though, so I may only be wishing they were
real."  She shook her head.  "It's hard to tell."

"What do you dream?" he asked softly, toying with the cloth buttons on
the sofa cushion.

She clasped her hands together nervously, rubbing the joints on her
left hand with the fingers on her right.  "No, it's too ridiculous..."

"Tell me."  Still, she was silent, looking at the floor.  "Look, it
can't be any more ridiculous-sounding that a sister who was kidnapped
by aliens, right?" He tried to make light, but it came out sounding
forced and flat.

She gave one last tiny shake of her head and took a deep breath.  "I
dreamed about you," she said at last.  "We were running in the dark."

He snorted.  "That could have been any number of occasions."

"Yeah," she murmured, studying the blue carpet again.  "There's one
other part...it's kind of new."

He waited expectantly.  Finally, she rolled her eyes and sighed.  "You
said to me, 'you can get the next mutant.'  Isn't that ridiculous?"

"Really?"  His heart was suddenly beating very fast.

"Really."

He got off the couch and walked to her, grabbing her gently by the
shoulders.  "Scully, that happened.  It's a memory!"

"It is?" Her eyes were wide and bemused.

"Yeah," he murmured tenderly, rubbing her collarbone with his thumbs.
"It is."

"Wow."  She pulled away and moved to sit slowly in a nearby armchair.
"Do you think there might be others?"

"I don't know, Scully.  I hope so."

She nodded, seeming lost in thought.  He scratched the back of his
head.  "Why don't you get settled in while I go make a phone call?"

Her eyes moved sharply to his.  "Who are you calling?"

"Some friends of ours in the information business," he replied mildly.
"They've got lots and we could sure use some."

"Then you have a plan of some sort?"

He smiled. "Did you really think that I meant to wander the streets of
Montreal with a half a map until something looked familiar?"

She ignored the remark.  "So then what are we going to do?"

"I'm going to try to dig up all the information I can on Leonid
Pertrov," he answered.  "And starting bright and early tomorrow
morning, we're going to make the rounds of all the reserach facilities
in the area."

"Why?"

"You remember in the picture, he was standing near a white building
with the letters 'OIRE' on it?"  She nodded.  "Well, I think that it
might be part of 'LABORATOIRE', the French word for lab.  I also think
it might be the place the map starts."

"You think the other half might be there?"

He shrugged.  "Who knows?  It's as good a place to start as any."  He
grabbed his jacket and went to the door.  "Don't let anyone in while
I'm gone," he cautioned, and she glowered at him.  It felt refreshingly
normal.

*********************

Scully ran the shower as she carefully stripped off her clothes.  She
felt rumpled and grimy from her impromptu trip to the sidewalk and
would have loved a long, hot, soak in the tub, but the fresh bullet
wound in her side made maneuvering in and out an impossibility.  A
shower would have to do.

She winced as she peeled the taped bandage away from the tender skin of
her side, the long white strips leaving angry red marks in their wake.
Twisting slightly, she studied the damage under the bright glare of the
bathroom lights.  Not too bad.  There would be a scar, but it would
probably be minimal.  The Greenwich staff did good work.

It still hurt like a sonofabitch, though, and she swallowed three
Tylenol with some lukewarm tap water, hoping they would do the trick.
She was not interested in another Demerol-induced fog.  Mulder would
need her to be alert in the morning, and she was determined not to give
him any reason to leave her behind when he began the search for the
unknown laboratory and the other half of the map.

Mulder.  She thought about him some more as she stepped under the
stinging spray.  He possessed a strange mix of stubborn confidence and
naked vulnerability that she found intriguing.  Whatever had happened
between them romantically, his feelings were clearly undiminished.  She
could tell by the way he looked at her--sometimes wary, sometimes
hungry, as if he wanted to grab her and pull her into himself.

Well, she was hungry, too.  Not for Mulder, but for the knowledge he
had within him.  He was her only link to the six years she had lost,
and she would have gladly climbed inside him if it would let her access
those precious, missing memories.  Sometimes it was hard to look at
him, knowing that neither of them could have what they wanted.

If her memory returned, it would be like hitting a fast forward and
rewind button at the same time.  She wondered if she would love him
again, or if love was an intangible thing that could not be captured
with a mere million brain cells.  Maybe she would never know.

She turned the shower off with a twist and pulled back the white
curtain, allowing the clouds of steam to billow out into the room.  As
she gently toweled the droplets from her body, she studied her clouded
image in the mirror, wondering who she would see when the fog finally
cleared.

When Mulder returned, she was sitting on the bed, her nightshirt
bunched in one hand as she tried to rebandage her side.  She startled
at the sight of him and dropped the periwinkle cotton back into place,
realizing a second after she did so that it was rather ridiculous to
hide her body from him; there wasn't likely to be any part of her he
had not seen up close and personal many times before.

"Would you like some help with that?" he asked from the doorway.

She shifted uncomfortably, her eyes on her lap.  "Um, okay," she
murmured after a moment's thought.  It was not worth the small salvage
of pride to end up with bandages askew, antibacterial ointment all over
herself, and screaming hot pain throbbing anew in her side.  He crossed
the room and sat impossibly close to her on the bed.

"Does it hurt much?" he asked softly, his eyes searching hers so
thoroughly that she knew better than to lie.

"It hurts, but not too bad."  She gave him a small smile.  "I'm
medicated."

He nodded and picked up the gauze banadge from where she had left it on
the bed.  She watched while he expertly snipped four-inch strips of
white tape.  At last, the moment of truth arrived and she lifted her
nightshirt to just below her breasts, exposing the wounded side.  She
held completely still under his gaze.

Mulder's eyebrows knitted together, his eyes going soft with
sympathetic pain as he pressed the new bandage in place.  His gentle
fingers played along her lower ribcage, then swept low over her belly
before retreating entirely.  She allowed herself to breathe again.

"Thanks," she whispered, dropping the shirt back down.  He surprised
her by touching her again, his fingers moving warmly down the side of
her face.  He said nothing.  She let her hand steal briefly from her
lap to find his larger one, and she squeezed gently.  "Thanks," she
said again.  He smiled and ducked his head.

Then he pulled abruptly away from her and moved to the closet, where he
withdrew a pillow and a blanket.  Watching him, she swung her feet
under the covers and leaned back against the headboard.  "Mulder," she
said, and stopped short, surprised to hear herself speaking.  He turned
to face her.

"What?"

She cleared her throat and folded her hands tightly in her lap.  "It's
okay...it's okay if you want to stay in here tonight."  His face
registered shocked surprise, and she hurried to explain.  "The bed is
more than adequate for two, and it's not fair that you should have to
sleep on a couch tonight after all the driving you did."

"Um, okay."  But he stood rooted to the floor, clutching the pillow to
his middle.  "Are you sure?"

She nodded, pulling back the other side of the covers for emphasis.
"It's okay," she repeated, feeling another pang as she recognized anew
how important her acceptance was to him.  After another moment, he
moved around to her right and set the pillow down.

"I'm just going to take a quick shower, if that's all right," he said,
standing formally on the other side of the king-sized bed.

"Of course it is."

"Go ahead and turn out the lights if you want," he told her as he
headed for the bathroom.

"I'll be fine," she assured him.  "I slept all day."

Then the bathroom door closed, and she heard the shower start to run.
When he emerged on a steam cloud fifteen minutes later, his hair was
wet and spiky.  He was clad only in boxers and a gray tee-shirt.
Toweling his head once more, he set aside the damp terry cloth and
padded over to what she already considered his side of the bed.  As he
climbed in, she slid further over to the left, so that a family of four
might have joined them in the middle.  He reached over to turn out the
light.

"Good night, Scully," he said, his voice sending shivers through her in
the darkness.

"Good night," she answered from her perch near the edge of the bed.

All was quiet for long minutes, but she could tell he was not asleep.
It was like having a live wire beneath the sheets with her, as if there
were actual electrons bouncing off him and popping across to tickle the
bare skin of her legs.  She shifted restlessly.  "Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Did your phone call go okay?"

"Yeah.  The guys are going to get back to me tomorrow morning.  Skinner
is working on the problem, too, from the inside."

"Oh."  Skinner was another faceless entity in her mind, though Mulder
had made it clear they had dealt with him often.  Her fists balled in
frustration, and she turned carefully on her good side to face him in
the darkened room.  She could just make out his profile in the light
slanting in from between the barely-parted curtains.  "Mulder?" she
breathed again.

He shifted so his position mirrored hers.  "Yeah?"

"Tell me how we met."  She was not sure why it was suddenly important
for her to know this bit of trivia.  Maybe it was to compare the
experience against her current jumbled feelings, or maybe it was just
to begin at the beginning, where his memories started and hers left off.

He was silent for a long time, and she felt her chest tighten with
sudden sadness.  "You don't remember, do you?" She tried to tease, but
her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.  Under the sheets, he
stretched out a hand between them, until his warm fingertips brushed
the back of her palm.  She saw it as a gesture of apology, and
swallowed the painful lump in her throat.

His index finger traced a gentle line down her hand. "No one had ever
knocked before."  His voice was soft, and she inched closer to better
hear him.

"Wha...what?"

"You knocked on my office door; no one had ever done that.  They always
walked right in, just like it was still the old photocopy room."

"You worked in a photocopy room?"

"Yeah, for a while there was still one machine left, and people would
traipse through regularly to use it."

"How awful," she breathed, appalled by the lack of respect he had been
shown.

"Hey, it wasn't too bad.  I just emptied the coin holder when they were
done--made over fifty bucks too, before someone came to claim the damn
thing."

"Mulder..." She tried to sound reproachful, but the smile was obvious
in her voice.

"I knew it had to be you without even turning around," he continued.

"Because I knocked?"

"Because I heard your heels on the floor," he explained, and this time
she could hear the smile in his voice.  "Those are some killer shoes
you wear, Scully."

She nestled her cheek deeper into the pillow.  "Go on," she
instructed.  "What happened next?"

"We played our first-ever game of chicken: Who Was Going to Speak
First."

"Well?" She twisted to see his face in the dim light.  "Who caved?"

He chuckled.  "I guess it was something of a draw.  You waited me out
until I finally had to acknowledge your presence, but you spoke the
first words." He paused and then reached his hand up to touch her
hair.  "It was much longer then," he murmured absently, stroking the
side of her head with a heavy, gentle caress.  She felt herself grow
warm under his touch but did not pull away.  Finally, he drew back.  "I
was glad..." he mused, and suddenly stopped.

"You were glad about what?" she asked, not wanting even the tiniest
detail left out.

He shook his head.  "It doesn't matter," he said firmly.  "It was a
long time ago."

"No," she insisted, lifting from the pillow slightly.  "I want to
know...what were you glad about?"

He sighed, rolling away from her to lie on his back.  "I was glad I
didn't find you attractive," he replied at length.  "I didn't want the
distraction."

"Oh." She sucked in a breath.  His words stung like a slap.

He changed his mind, she told herself, scrunching a little further
under the sheets.  You know he did.

But still it hurt, and she was not sure why.

He must have sensed her withdrawal, because he shifted to face her
again.  "It doesn't matter now," he told her, his voice low and
urgent.  He groped for her hand and tugged it gently.  "That day I
couldn't see you properly; I was looking with my anger and my
suspicion, and all they knew was that you were there to spy on me, to
mock my work and to shut me down."

She tensed and yanked her hand back.  "I don't think I was a spy.  That
doesn't seem like something I would do."

"No, Scully, you weren't a spy," he murmured low in his throat.  "I
think they were hoping you would be, but they didn't get what they
expected."  He reached up to cup her cheek.  "Neither did I."

Sudden tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked them away.  "So you
hated me at first?"

He smiled at her, shaking his head against the pillow and rubbing his
thumb once over her cheekbone.  "On the contrary, I liked you a lot.
You were smart, knowledgable and you wouldn't let me intimidate you."

As he withdrew his hand, she managed an answering smile smile.  "Tried
the hot-shot senior agent routine, did you?"

"Oh, I pulled out all the stops, Scully.  You would laugh your ass off
if you knew how I'd behaved."  He rolled over again, his hand resting
on his belly.  Then he turned his head to look at her.  "Come to think
of it, you did laugh.  In fact, judging by the number of times you
snickered at me on that first case, I think I amused the hell out of
you."

She sidled over another few inches, unconsciously chasing his warmth
across the sheets.  "I expect it must have been mutual, Mulder," she
answered lightly, beginning to get a sense of their early dynamics.

"Yeah."  His tone was filled with affectionate nostalgia, and she
smiled into her pillow.

"So when did it change?" she asked eventually.

He rolled to face her again, so that they were both stretched to the
very edge of their respective pillows; their noses nearly touched.
"Which part?" His eyes flickered with humor in the moonlight.  "The
part about how you were a pain in the ass or the part about not finding
you attractive?"

"The first one."

"Oh, that part never changed, Scully.  You were always a pain in the
ass."

"Likewise, I'm sure," she retorted.  But it felt good to tease.  When
they talked this way, she almost felt like a whole person again.

"As for the other, I had no choice but to change my mind--you ambushed
me in my motel room and practically got naked right in front of me."

"I did not!"  She gave him a little shove to emphasize her point.  He
laughed.

"You were a wild woman, Scully.  I had no choice but to let you have
your way with me right then and there."

"Yes, I'm sure I completely overpowered you," she agreed in a tone of
utter disbelief.  "At least you had the sense to go quietly."

He hid his chuckle in the pillow.  Then he peeked up at her with one
eye.  "Actually, you did come to my motel room," he said softly.  "And
you did manage to show off your not-inconsiderable charms by dropping
your robe for my inspection."  Scully cleared her throat and averted
her eyes. God, how embarasssing.  What he must have thought. "But
that's not what hooked me," he finished after a pause.

Scully barely heard him.  "I can't believe it," she murmured, more to
herself than to him.  "I can't believe I got naked in your motel room
on our first case--I barely knew you!"

"But you trusted me." He reached across to trail his fingertips down
her bare arm.  "You were worried about some bumps on your back because
of the case we were working on," he explained.  "And you trusted me
enough to come have me look at them."  He paused.  "That's when I was
hooked."

"Oh."  Her voice was small and soft in the darkness.  "Kind of like
now," she said after a bit.   "Like in the parking lot, when I didn't
know who you were."

"Yeah," he answered tenderly, still stroking the fine hairs on her
arm.  "Kind of exactly like now."  She caught his hand in hers, lacing
their fingers together tightly.

"Thanks," she said.  "For telling me."

"Thank you," he replied solemnly.  "For listening."  Their eyes held
for a long moment and she knew instinctively he was not talking about
the past fifteen minutes.  He was still back in that motel room from
six years before.  What had they talked about then, she wondered, but
did not want to break the peaceful silence by asking him. So they lay
close together, holding hands and breathing quietly, until at last
sleep claimed them both.

**********************
End chapter two.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Three
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Mulder awoke the room was already full with gray morning light.
Awareness spread through him gradually, in a piece-meal fashion, as his
brain slowly turned up the volume on his sleeping senses.  He was in a
strange but comfortable bed, with a small, warm body pressed intimately
against his side.

Scully.

His heart picked up as he recognized her feel and scent, and it was all
he could do not to crush his arms around her.

Easy, easy, he cautioned himself, matching his breathing to the words
like a mantra.  If he startled her even the slightest bit, this would
all be over in an instant.

Her nose was nuzzled squarely in the middle of his chest, and he could
feel each light breath through the thin material of his tee-shirt.  He
could not, however, feel his left arm, which rested beneath her head at
the shoulder and had gone numb long ago.  But the slight discomfort was
a meager price to pay for the position of his other arm, which was
slung low at her waist so that his hand rested squarely on her hip,
where the elastic edge of her panties teased his fingertips.  Her
nightshirt had ridden up around her waist.

He closed his eyes tightly, lying very still and trying desperately to
think of anything besides how long it had been since he had woken to
the soft feel of her sleep-warm skin under his hands and the light
citrus scent of her hair beneath his nose.  But there was something
about holding her as she slept that always brought out his most primal
protective and possessive instincts--  Soft woman.  Good.  Mine.  His
fingers dug reflexively into to the tender flesh of her hip as he
sought to pull her closer.

Scully made an agreeable sound and obediently shifted so that her inner
thigh brushed his leg.  He bit back moan at the sudden onslaught of
early morning hormones that her simple touch aroused.  Turning his
cheek against the pillow, he bent to press an almost-kiss to the top of
her head and moved to gently coax her night-shirt back into place.

It was torture, but he somehow managed to ignore the internal urgings
of his body--"more, more, more"--and concentrate on the words they had
shared the previous night.  She trusted him, and he was not about to
abuse that trust by copping a feel while she lay unconscious in his
arms.  It would have to be enough just to have her close for a few
minutes longer.

Another minute...

And another...

They tumbled over one another so quickly that when he looked up again
nearly an hour had passed.  It was seven a.m.  Damn.

Just as he resigned himself to waking her, she began to stir against
him, shifting her legs and burrowing into his chest.

He tensed, waiting for the moment when she would remember that she did
not belong there and scrambled back across the mattress looking
chagrined and alarmed.

It never came.

She seemed content to wake slowly in the circle of his arms, her
eyelashes tickling him with each sleepy blink.  He was afraid to say
anything, afraid to even move for fear of breaking the spell.
Eventually, he brought the one arm he could still control over her
shoulders in a careful, good-morning hug.  She turned her face against
him in answer and returned the gentle pressure.  He felt the squeeze
all the way into his heart.

"You okay this morning?" he murmured into her hair.

She nodded, still warm and relaxed next to him.  He wondered if she
could hear the pounding of his heartbeat.  "Mulder?"  Her voice was a
soft vibration against his chest.

"Hmmm?"

"Do you think..."  She stopped with a small sigh.

He stroked the back of her head.  "Do I think what?" he asked gently.

"Do you think the cancer will come back, now that the chip is gone?"

He clutched her tight and froze, unable to answer.  Skinner had voiced
the same concern last night on the phone, and he hadn't had a good
response then, either.  That they might suddenly be thrown back into
the horrible days of her cancer was a possibility he was not prepared
to think about right now.  Scully apparently tired of waiting, because
she sighed and pulled free, rolling over on her back.  He watched her
profile as she stared at the ceiling.  "I don't know, Scully," he
managed finally.  "We don't really know why it went away in the first
place."

She did not look at him but nodded, as if this was the answer she had
been expecting all along.  It did not make him feel any better for
having said it.

"We should get going," she said briskly after another minute, and rose
gingerly from the bed, scooping her robe from the chair as she headed
for the bathroom.  He muttered his agreement but remained on the bed,
stretching his palm out to touch the lingering warm spot on the sheets
where she had been.

************************

The warehouse smelled of rotting wood and motor oil, and the two men
stood far apart on the damp cement floor, watching each other in the
muted light that squeezed in between the cracks in the boarded
windows.  Somewhere in the background, water dripped slowly.

"For future reference," said the older man, "this is not how it works.
We meet when I say and where I say.  I do not appreciate being summoned
by your secretary like an errand boy."

"You came," the other pointed out.  "And I think we both know why."

The Smoker withdrew his Morleys from his jacket, withdrew one, and
tapped it against his palm before lighting it.  "I know why I wish to
see you," he answered at length.  "What I can't fathom is why in the
world you would want to talk to me."

"I want a deal."

The Smoker laughed softly and it echoed through the cavernous
building.  "You made your deal a long time ago, Mr. Skinner.  Bought
and sold at least twice over, I believe."

Skinner's mouth went taut.  "Well, I have something new to auction."

"Mulder called you, of course," the Smoker answered dismissively.  "I
heard the tape myself."

Skinner looked away, not really disgusted to learn that his phone had
been tapped.  He had suspected it for a quite a while; the Consortium
kept their dogs on a short leash.  At least he had had the foresight to
call Mulder back from a pay phone.  This fortunate happenstance was
probably the only thing keeping him alive, and it was not clear how
much longer he could beat the ticking clock.

"I spoke to Mulder," he acknowledged darkly.  "He has Scully with
him."   His mouth twisted.  "Your plan went to hell, as usual."

The Smoker took a deep drag and blew a disintrested breath in Skinner's
direction.  "On the contrary, I think it is proceeding along rather
well.  I was never set against Agent Scully's involvement, and if she
manages to speed up the search, so much the better."

"You're a fucking animal, you know that?" Skinner growled around the
taste of bile in his throat.  "Mulder told me what you did to her, how
you took her memory on top of everything else.  It's never enough, is
it?  You won't stop until you break them."

"I don't think you'll have to concern yourself with Mulder and Scully
for much longer," the Smoker answered coolly, and for the first time
Skinner feared he might not make it out of the conversation alive.
Careful, he lectured himself. Stick to the plan.

So he steeled his anger and said, "I know where they are."  The Smoker
pinned him with narrow eyes.

"And where is that, exactly?"

"The deal," Skinner said.  "When it's in place, I will tell you."

The Smoker puffed for a moment, as if considering.  Apparently, he
decided his position was strong enough--or weak enough--that he could
concur.  He nodded once.  "Let's say I'm listening."

"I want the chip back, the one you took out of Scully."

"Impossible."  He dropped his cigarette into a puddle on the ground.
"The chip has been destroyed."

It was Skinner's turn to laugh without humor.  "We've been doing this
too long for me to believe that bullshit.  You wouldn't destroy the
chip; you'd keep it for insurance purposes."  He put his hands on his
hips.  "You've got it, and I want it back."

"Let's say for speculation that I do have the chip."  He pulled out his
cellophane wrapped package of cigarettes again.  "What precisely are
you proposing?"

"Once I have it, I'll tell you where they are and what they know.
Until then, we're through talking."

The Smoker's eyes flickered over him once.  "It would be no trouble
just to have you shot on the street."

"I don't doubt that it would be," Skinner agreed, scratching the back
of his head.  "But that would create a problem without solving one, now
wouldn't it?  My suggestion is mutally profitable."

"Or laughable.  How would I know that you would tell me the truth about
their location?"

Skinner shrugged.  "How would I know that you would give me the right
chip?"

"Ah, the prisoner's dilemma," the Smoker mused.  "It has a certain old-
fashioned charm, I must admit."  He walked around Skinner in a slow
circle.  "All right, I'll have the chip to you by the end of the day,"
he said at last.  "When you receive it, I'll be expecting your answer."

Skinner answered with a curt nod, wondering if this was what it felt
like when the judge handed you a death sentence.  He made a mental note
to call his mother before the day was out--just in case it was the last
time.  The Smoker turned his back, and Skinner took this as his cue
that he was dismissed.  He walked briskly across to the rickety door
where he had come in, pausing once for a final glimpse of the solitary
figure hidden among the shadows.  Then he turned away, pushing out and
into the bright, midday sun.

**********************

In Montreal, the rain was coming down in sheets, so Mulder and Scully
were soaked to the skin by the third scientific research center on
their list, having tramped around the muddy, fenced in perimeters to
ensure a good look at each of the labs.  It was past lunch time, and
they had yet to find a match with the building from the photograph.
That morning, Mulder had stood in a humid phonebooth while the Gunmen
relayed what little they knew:  officially, Petrov had worked in the
late Sixties for a government-funded facility called Technologique.  It
had been closed in 1983, but Mulder started there all the same.

He had not been surprised to find that Technologique was now a
cosmetics company and that the building was made of red brick, not
white.  "Whatever Petrov was doing with my father and the Consortium,
he was doing it behind the government's back," he told Scully as they
drove through the rain-slicked streets.

She paused from toweling her face dry.  "What did Skinner have to say?"

Mulder tightened his hands on the wheel, remembering the short, terse
conversation he had shared with the AD the night before.  Initially, he
had thought to call Diana to see if she had more information on Petrov,
but Scully's words from dinner haunted him, and at the last moment he'd
found himself dialing his boss instead.  Skinner had not seemed
surprised to hear the name, but he had not volunteered much new
information.  In fact, what he did know was eeriely similar to what
Diana had told him in the office.  "I haven't heard back from him yet,"
he said finally.  "But he promised to look into any connection between
my father and Petrov."

Scully nodded distractedly, her attention having been diverted behind
them.  He glanced in his rear view mirror to see what the excitement
was about.  Twin head lights were visible several miles down the road.
"Is there a problem?" he asked.

She did not answer immediately, still craning to see out the back.  He
watched the road in front of him with one eye as he also monitored the
car behind them.  After several more seconds, it turned off the main
road.  Scully pivoted in her seat so she faced forward once more.  "I
thought we might be being followed," she said quietly.

Mulder checked his mirror, but there was no one behind for miles.  The
other car had vanished.  "I'll pay more attention," he said.  "Did you
catch the make?"

"No, the rain made it too difficult to see."  She paused.  "And he kept
his distance."

"Fuck." Mulder pulled the car over to the side of the road so quickly
it caused a ten foot spray to arc toward the woods at their left.

"What?  What is it?"  Scully's eyes were wide.

Mulder jerked his car door open without answering.  Rain pelted him
with angry drops as he sloshed through the mud to the back of the
Taurus.  Sure enough, one of their tail-lights was out.  "Fuck," he
said again, rubbing cold, wet palms over his face.  He tramped back to
his seat.  "We were being followed," he ground through gritted teeth.
"Maybe from the beginning."

"But why now?  They have the picture."

"I don't know," he answered grimly.  "But I am damn sure going to find
out."

They both watched carefully for the rest of the day, and though the car
never reappeared, Mulder imagined that he could sense it in the
shadows...waiting, waiting...but for what?

*************************

Skinner had read the same paragraph eight times when the phone rang,
causing him to startle so much that he dropped his pen to the floor.
He glanced at the phone; it was the direct line.  Punching the flashing
red light with one finger, he pressed the receiver close to his mouth.
"Yeah."

"The phone booth on the corner of Hunter and Sixth.  Twenty minutes."

The line went dead and Skinner had his jacket on before the dial tone
chimed in.  "I'm going out," he told Kimberly shortly and hurried down
the steps two at a time.  With traffic, he would be lucky to make it in
half an hour, let alone twenty minutes.  Somehow, he managed twenty-two.

"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath as he frantically
combed the tiny booth for any sign of the chip.  Then he froze
abruptly, spotting the phone book on the lower shelf.  Glacing uneasily
over his shoulder, he pulled it out and flipped it open.  Sure enough,
a small rectangle had been carved from the pages, and inside the hole
lay a small glass vial.

It took him three tries with his large fingers to successfully remove
the delicate container.  He held it up the the light and noted the
glimmering metal chip at the bottom.  Then the phone rang loudly.
"Yeah," he said into the receiver, pivoting in the narrow cubicle to
see if he was being watched.

"You have what you want," said a familiar voice on the other end.  "Now
give me what I want."

Skinner squeezed his eyes shut.  If the decoy he had arranged was
sucessful, he might buy the time he needed to reach Mulder and Scully
in Montreal.  If it failed...

"They're in Vancouver," he said.  "At a hotel called the Metropolitan,
under the names George and Doris Farraday."  The line went dead and
Skinner checked his watch before pocketing the vial in his jacket.  He
decided to delay his departure until nightfall.


Across town, the Smoking Man paced the small office restlessly while
Diana checked out the AD's story.  She finally closed her phone with a
snap.  "Well?" he bit out.

"They're there," she confirmed.  "The hotel clerk says George and Doris
Farrday checked in last night, and the descriptions match."

The Smoker turned to look out her office window.  "I don't understand
what they would be doing in Vancouver.  It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe it has something to do with what he found at his mother's
house," she answered.  "Maybe Vancouver is the site of the actual
research."

"Maybe," said the Smoker, but he was unconvinced.

Diana frowned and rose from her chair.  "If you'd like, I can got to
Vancouver to check it out for you."

He laughed lightly.  "Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?"  Her
eyes narrowed.  "If you did find Mulder," he continued, "who's to say
that I would ever hear from you again?"

"Fine," she said in a clipped voice.  "We can go together, then.  Let's
just not waste any more time talking about it."

The Smoker nodded faintly in agreement, but when she left the room he
did not immediately follow her.  Instead, he made a phone call, which
if his suspicions were correct, might prove extremely enlightening.

***************************
End chapter three.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Four
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain had stopped by late afternoon, when the great black clouds
parted as if by Moses himself, revealing pale sunshine to the city of
Montreal.  Mulder and Scully were silent as they drove back from the
last research facility on their list, a flat gray building surround by
a high chain-linked fence.  It had not been a match.  None of the dozen
institutions they had seen even approximated the one from the torn
photograph.  Their search had only served to make them damp and
depressed.

"Maybe it wasn't taken in Montreal," Mulder sighed eventually,
referring to the missing photo.  He had needed over twenty miles to be
able to say the terrible words out loud.  They were now nearly back at
the hotel.

Scully sighed, too, runnning a tired hand over her eyes.  "Maybe not,"
she agreed.  She paused and glanced at him carefully.  "Did you try
contacting your original source for more information?"

"No."  He glanced back at her.  "But maybe I should.  What do you
think?"

She leaned her head against the seat.  "I don't know...it depends on
whether you think he is trustworthy, I guess."

"She," he corrected.

"She?"  Scully arched an eyebrow at him.  "It's a woman?"

He nodded.  "Diana helped me found the X-files division more than eight
years ago."

Scully was quiet as she digested this new piece of information.  "Why
did she leave?"

Mulder somehow managed not to flinch.  Good old Scully, he thought
ruefully, always cuts clean to the bone.  "I guess I don't really
know," he said at last.  "I always figured it was my fault, that I did
something to make her want to get as far away as possible."

Scully grasped his implication immediately.  "You were lovers?"  Her
voice was calm and even, if a bit strained.

"Uh, yeah," he said, feeling a guilty flush creep over him as he
suddenly saw the revelation from her perspective: two female partners,
and he had bedded them both.  Without any context, it did form a
perverted sort of pattern.

Scully's silence grew oppressive and finally he explained weakly, "It's
not like that...really."

"Oh, I'm sure," she agreed a bit too quickly.  Then she cleared her
throat.  "So, um, did she leave because you broke up?"

His brow furrowed as he tried to remember the conversations that had
preceded Diana's departure.  "No," he said after a minute.  "Everything
was going pretty well, I thought, but then one day she just decided to
leave for a job in Europe.  It was all very sudden and confusing, kind
of like..." He stopped abruptly.

"Kind of like with me," she finished grimly.

"Yeah."

Scully turned to look out her window.  "Do you still trust her?"

"I don't have any good reason not to," he retorted, and
Scully looked at him sharply.  He then realized he had sounded overly
defensive and regretted it instantly.  It wasn't fair to place her back
in the middle of argument she could not even remember.  "Diana believed
in me at a time when no one else did...she put her career on the line
when we founded the X-Files, and with no personal investment like the
kind I had.  What she did...it meant a lot to me."

"I see."  Scully was quiet, but there was no animosity in her tone.  He
wished they could have been this honest with one another before.  She
cocked her head at him.  "Mulder, if Diana was in love with you, then
she was personally invested, make no mistake about it."

"Maybe," he acknowledged softly, offering her a rueful smile.  "I don't
know how much she was ever in love with me, though."

Scully gave him one of her most enigmatic looks.  "I bet she was."

He thought about this statement for a long time, until Scully pointed
out a drug store on her side of the road.  "Mulder, can we stop?  I'd
like to get some more bandages and things."

Shit.  He had completely forgotten about her injury, she had been so
quiet on the subject, and thus he'd had no qualms about traipsing all
over Montreal in the pouring rain for eight long hours with only a
turkey sandwhich for lunch.  No wonder she looked a little peaked.
"I'm sorry, Scully."

"I'm *fine*, Mulder."  Her mouth twitched and he felt a little better.
He found a space close to the drug store and pulled over.  They exited
the car, looking each other up and down as they did so.  The remnants
of the mud and rain covered their damp jeans and crusted their boots.

"Well, at least they'll know we aren't here to pick up the latest issue
of Vogue," he remarked as they walked to the store.  This time, Scully
actually laughed.

Inside the store, she went straight to the medical supplies aisle,
while he perused the snacks.  His bad luck was holding strong, because
they did not carry sun flower seeds.  He chose pistachio nuts instead.
"Snack, Scully?" he called down to her.  She looked up and nodded.

"Anything chocolate," she answered, and he grinned.  The more things
changed, the more they stayed the same.  He decided to splurge and get
her the Lindt dark chocolate truffle bar.  Maybe if he was nice, she
would share.

He added a couple of Cokes to his stash and paid the clerk with a ten.
Scully was still busy in the back of the store, so he broke open the
nuts and went to glance at the day's newspaper headlines.  Lies, lies,
and more lies.

The nuts were deliciously crunchy and salty, and he began to devour
them in earnest, moving to the round metal trash can by the door so he
could dispense with the shells as he ate.  He waited, munching and
watching the world go by outside.  No sign of their earlier friend with
the highbeams.

Then something else entirely caught his attention:  a woman on a bike.
"Hey!" he called, and pushed out the door.  The nuts fell to the ground
as he rushed after her down the street, pushing aside befuddled
pedestrians as he went.  "Hey!" he yelled again, louder this time.
More heads turned to look at him, but the young woman did not even
glance backward.  He ran faster.

The woman on the bike turned a corner out of sight, and he cursed, the
air burning his lungs as he struggled to keep up with her.  "Wait,
wait!" he panted, rounding the brick storefront onto the new street.
He stopped dead in his tracks.

She was gone.

"Samantha?" he called loudly, jogging slowly up the block, his head
pivoting wildly from side to side.  There was no sign of her.

At last he stopped again, bending in half to rest his hands on his
knees.  His breath was still coming in sharp pants.  "Fuck," he
muttered.  Eventually, he straightened up and began walking back in the
direction of the store, casting occasional glances over his shoulder as
he went.  Halfway there, he met Scully, medical supplies in hand.

"What the hell happened?" she asked, sounding tense and scared.

He looked away.  "Nothing."

"Oh, don't give me that crap.  It wasn't nothing that made you run out
of the store like that."  He still did not answer her.  "What was it?
Did you see the guy who's been following us?" she pressed.

"It was Samantha."  He sighed deeply. "I thought I saw Samantha."

Scully took a deep breath, already gearing up for an argument.
"Mulder..."

He cut her off with a wave of his hand.  "I know, I know."  He let out
a frustrated exhale.  "It wasn't really her.  How it could it ever be
that easy, right?"

Scully was silent for a minute.  "Where did she go?" she asked finally.

"Off that way, on a bike."

"We could..." She cleared her throat.  "It wouldn't hurt to check it
out, Mulder."

He shook his head, already walking back toward the car.  "No.  Why
bother?  Let's just go get some rest, see if the guys have some up with
anything new.  Who knows, maybe Skinner called."

She stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer before slowly following
him to the car.  "I'm sorry, Mulder," she said as they got in.

So am I, he thought as he started the engine.  On the way home he
watched all the faces on the passing bikers, but none seemed to
resemble his own.

******************************

Back at the hotel, Mulder took the first shower.  Scully slowly
stripped off her stiff, damp jeans and traded them for loose, cotton
sweats.  She ate half the chocolate bar, then swallowed a couple of
Tylenol with her Coke.  Intending just to close her eyes for a few
minutes, she curled on the bed and waited for Mulder to finish in the
bathroom.

It was not long before the dream came.

She was someplace dark and cramped, and it smelled like cheap carpet
and gasoline.  The trunk of a car, she realized with growing panic,
trying to get out. But she could not move her arms or legs.  Tied up
and gagged, she struggled to breathe.  Help!  Somebody please help me!

"Scully, it's okay."

"Help..." she murmured weakly, still struggling.

"Scully, wake up, it's okay.  Scully!"

She sat up with a sudden, huge intake of air.  Mulder grabbed her by
the shoulders.  "Oh my God," she breathed, beginning to shake as the
adrenaline rush peaked.  "Oh my God."  Instinctively, she reached for
him.

"It's all right, Scully," he murmured at her ear.  He held her gently
against him and rubbed her back in slow circles. "It was just a dream.
You're okay now."

She nodded mutely into his shoulder, her eyes still screwed shut as she
tried to get her breathing back under control.   He gathered her a bit
closer and she could feel the skin of his neck, still damp and warm
from his shower.  The strong scent of shampoo tickled her nose.  "It
was awful," she whispered, her fingers digging into his back.

"Tell me," he suggested with a gentle squeeze.

"I was...I was tied up," she said, turning her head so it rested under
his chin.  His heart was beating nearly as fast as hers.  "I was in the
trunk of a car, and I was tied up and couldn't breathe.  I think I was
gagged."

He laid his cheek on top of her head.  "It was awful," he agreed as he
threaded his fingers fingers lightly through her hair.  "It was the
most awful thing in the world, but you're okay now."

It took her a moment to process his words. Then she pulled away. "You
mean...you mean that was real, too?  It wasn't just a dream?"

He looked at his lap, avoiding her eyes.  "Your abduction..." he
started to explain.

"Oh...my...God," she interrupted, fighting the rising nausea.  She
stared at him, aghast.  "Mulder..."

"I know," he said, reaching for her again.  He cupped the side of her
face gently.  "I know, it's terrible."

She covered her mouth with one hand and squeezed her eyes shut against
the burning tears.  After a minute, she felt Mulder pulling her toward
him, and allowed herself to be tugged into a gentle, tentative hug.
Gradually, the terror abated and her heart rate returned to normal.
She sat up once more.  "Okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded. "I still want them back, you know...all the memories."  She
paused, plucking at the blanket covering her lap.  "Anything would be
better than this...this...blank space."

"I can understand that," he murmured after a minute.  "That's probably
the worst part about what happened to Sam...the not knowing."

They were quiet for a long moment, then finally she took a deep, shaky
breath.  "So," she said.  "What do we do now that we couldn't find the
lab from the photo?"

He sighed.  "Right now, I don't have any good suggestions."

"Then perhaps you will allow me to make one."

"Yes?" he asked, squeezing her knee under the blanket.

"Dinner," she said.  "I so hungry I feel almost two dimensional."

"Hmmm, not to me you don't."  He squeezed her knee again, this time
with tickling fingers.  She laughed and swatted him away.

"I don't think you want to be standing between me and the four basic
food groups right now, Mulder," she said, swinging her feet over the
edge of the bed.  "Especially when I can still smell the remains of a
certain chocolate bar on your breath."

"I can't answer any questions outside the presence of my attorney," he
replied solemnly.

"It's too late, you've already been convicted." She retrieved a wadded
up tin-foil ball from the trash can and tossed it at him.  He caught it
expertly.

"Can I at least hope for leniency on the sentence?"

She shook her head, poised in the bathroom doorway.  "The court
suspects you of being a repeat offender.  I'm afraid you get a
mandatory ten to twenty."

"Years?" he gasped, clutching his chest.

She poked her head out from behind the door. "Minutes.  That's how long
you have to find a restaurant while I'm getting ready."

She shut the door just before the tinfoil ball bounced squarely off the
middle.

************************

They were in Chicago waiting for their connecting flight when his phone
rang.  Diana raised an eyebrow at him, and he turned his back on her to
answer the call.  It was as he suspected.

"What was that about?" she asked when he faced her again.

His mouth was a thin, tight line.  "The hotel clerk may say that
they're in Vancouver," he said, "but the chip is heading directly north
of D.C."

Her eyes narrowed.  "You think he's taking it to them?"

"I think we'd better not get on that plane.  Not until we know for
sure."

She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.  "We should
have eliminated Skinner while we had the chance," she said in a dark
whisper.

"Perhaps.  But then we would be in Vancouver chasing our tails, now
wouldn't we?"

"I think he's headed for Montreal," she announced abruptly.  "That must
be where they are."

"There is a good chance that you are right, but for now our best move
is to keep tracking Skinner; that way we can be sure."

She paced restlessly in front of him for a moment.  "You know," she
said finally, "there's a rumor afoot that Yushi is staging some kind of
coup.  For all we know, he could be up there right now, getting to them
before we do."

The Smoker snorted.  "I seriously doubt this is an issue.  Yushi's
biggest sin is arrogance; I'm sure he doesn't believe in the existence
of the notebooks.  Why would he waste his time tracking them?"

"He's a bigger threat than you know."

"Here is what I know:  the notes are out there, and when they are found
it will change this game forever.  Yushi will have no choice but to tow
the line like everyone else."

"Unless he finds them first," she answered with a gleam in her eye.

"Well, if that happens, my dear, we'd best pray to God, because by then
no one on earth will be able to help us."

****************************
End chapter four.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Five
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully emerged from the bathroom after precisely twenty minutes, newly
dressed in a navy long-sleeved tee shirt and a black, wrap-around skirt
decorated with a tiny, blue flowered print.  "You look nice," Mulder
commented, naked appreciation in his gaze.

"Um, thanks."  She colored slightly and tried to pretend that this
reaction was not the very reason she had selected the flattering
outfit.  "I'm clean, at least."

Mulder gave a wry smile.  "I was in the bathroom for most of the time
you were sleeping, trying to get all the mud off.  I can't remember the
last time I enjoyed a hot shower so much."

Whatever he'd done, it had worked, Scully thought, taking in the fresh
pair of form-fitting jeans and the charcoal gray Henley he wore.  He
shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Should we go?" he asked.  "I made reservations at a place not far from
here."  Scully nodded her agreement and followed him to the door.

As they passed a large hallway mirror, she caught their not-
unattractive reflection and realized with a start that they could have
easily passed for a married couple out for a casual evening in town.
Only the cold metal of the gun nestled deep in her overcoat pocket
hinted at the true purpose of their stay.  She knew Mulder was
similarly armed, just in case their friend from the road decided to
make a reappearance over dinner.

She shivered slightly as they waited for a taxi, and Mulder put a
solicitous hand on her arm.  "Cold?" he asked, leaning toward her a
bit.  She shook her head.

"Just a little concerned about potential company."

Mulder looked around at the bushes surrounding the hotel.  "We could
always stay in and order room service," he said after a moment.  "It
might be smarter--just in case he had any plans to make a move tonight."

Inside her pocket, her fingertips brushed her smooth steel weapon.
"I'd like to see him try," she said.  "I really would."

Mulder nodded, and she could see him reaching unconsciously for his gun
as well.  It was going to be an interesting evening.

The taxi let them out at Sensus, a restaurant/bar on the main drag
where they had stopped at earlier in the afternoon, near where he had
seen the woman who looked like Samantha.  Scully wondered if his
selection was coincidental or intentional.  The way his eyes scanned
the streets as he held open the door for her suggested the latter.  She
stepped inside the threshold, then turned, waiting for him to tear his
attention away from the stream of well-dressed people laughing and
chatting their way down the sidewalk.  At last he met her curious gaze,
and flushed slightly as he seemed to guess what she was thinking.

"The guy at the front desk recommended this place," he told her.

She tilted her head and raised both eyebrows, but said nothing.  Inside
Sensus, a youngish crowd of men and women were packed around a large,
circular bar, laughing and bending close so they could hear one another
over the din of conversation and the music coming from the ceiling
speakers.  Scully recognized it as "Paint It Black", and smiled when
she saw Mulder immediately begin tapping out the frenetic rhythm
against his thigh.  So much energy, she thought, where the hell does he
get it all?

"Hey, Scully?"  He was still looking around the room, trying to see
everything all at once.  She suppressed an affectionate smile.

"Yes?" she answered calmly.

"What do you think it means, 'I see a red door and I want to paint it
black'?"

She thought a minute.  "I don't know.  Maybe it's about destruction.
Or maybe it's about always wanting what you don't have, about wanting
change."

"Maybe."  More looking--up and down, around the corner to the tables,
all the while continuing to match his fingers to the pounding rhythm of
the Rolling Stones.  Finally she couldn't take it anymore.

"Mulder," she said, reaching out to still his bouncing hand.  "Stop."

He relaxed instantly under her touch and inclined his head toward
hers.  "You know Scully, if I saw a red door, I wouldn't want to paint
it black," he said, turning his hand so he could tug her fingers
lightly.

"No?" She shifted to look up at him.

He shook his head.  "I'd want to know what was behind it."

Scully held his eyes for a long moment and then gave him a slow smile.
"You know what, Mulder?"

He shook his head again. "No, what?"

"Me, too."

He smiled and did not let go of her hand, instead pulling her gently
behind him as the hostess finally arrived to show them to their table.

The main part of Sensus was a large room with tables clustered at one
end and half-moon, black leather booths lining the walls.  The center
was left empty, presumably for dancing when the band showed up to claim
the instruments lying dormant on the stage at the end of the room.  The
lighting was as minimal as it was unusual.  Silver lamps on flexible
metal coils curled out of the wall above each booth, and track lights
lit the large mural behind the stage, which depicted a silhouetted city
skyline against a midnight blue background.  Mulder and Scully got the
one remaining empty booth.

"I'm so hungry I don't know where to start," Scully murmured as she
scanned the menu.

"Fried cheese," Mulder answered with certainty, studying his own menu.

"What?"

He looked up.  "Fried cheese.  It's always the best place to start."

Scully frowned, imagining the hot grease and the stringy mess.  Not to
mention the outrageous calorie count.  All reasons why he probably
loved the stuff.  "You can order that if you want," she informed him.
"I'm going to start with a Caesar salad."

Mulder guffawed.  "Okay, Scully.  But five bucks says you eat half my
cheese sticks."

"You're on," she answered with narrowed eyes and then proceeded to win
the bet; she only ate a third.

Around nine thirty, the five-person band showed up and began shifting
instruments around in preparation for their performance.  The lead
singer appeared quite young, rail thin with short black hair,
impossibly tight black pants and an iridescent silver shirt.  His
glittering eye shadow was a perfect match.

Scully grimaced.  "Don't look now," she said, "but I think we're about
to experience auditory-induced indigestion."

Mulder craned his head around for a better look.  "Wow.  Do you think
Cher knows he stole her make-up artist?"

She hid a smile with her hand.  "Maybe we'd better ask for a check,"
she suggested.  But then the music started, and they were entranced.

The young singer might have dressed like a circus attraction, but it
was clear from the way he instantly captured everyone's attention that
his voice was the reason for the capacity crowd.  Smooth and warm, with
the grace of a melodic butterfly, he started with a surprisingly sweet
rendition of "Let My Love Open Your Heart".  Couples twined their way
through to the dance floor, and Scully found that this time is was her
fingers that were tapping along with the beat.

She stopped when she caught Mulder staring at her.  Fussing with her
silverware, she cleared her throat.  "We should go," she said, avoiding
his gaze.

He shook his head and smiled at her. "Dance with me," he said suddenly,
sliding out of the booth.  Scully tensed in her seat.

"Mulder, I don't think..."

"That's right, no thinking."  He held out his hand.  "Come on, it'll be
fun."

Scully made no move to get out of the booth.  "Mulder, it's been a
very, very long time since I've done this."  She frowned and crossed
her arms over her chest. "Very long."

"I'll lead," he answered mildly, waggling his hand.  "You'll be fine.
Now come on."

She eyed his hand warily. "I don't know, Mulder...it's been so long
that I might not even remember how to follow."

He grinned.  "Scully, I learned a long time ago that I don't have any
moves that you can't follow."  Stretching a bit further, he caught her
hand and tugged gently.  "Come on, we're supposed to be married,
remember?"

With a sigh, Scully laid her napkin aside and slid around the table.
"I don't think we're fooling anyone with the marriage charade," she
said as he led her toward the dance floor.  "For one thing, neither of
us is wearing a wedding ring."

"So we have a non-traditional marriage."  He slipped an arm around her
back as the singer began a soft, haunting version of "With or Without
You."  Scully put one hand on Mulder's shoulder and hesitantly placed
the other one in his warm palm.  He began to move with the beat, and
after a minute she was able to relax a little as they fell into an easy
rhythm.

"See?" he murmured in her ear. "Nothing to it."  The low words sent
tickled her nerve endings.  Suddenly she was aware of every brush of
skin as they moved in slow unison.  She closed her eyes and breathed
deeply, letting his scent envelope her with a heady mixture of soap,
warm skin and just a trace of leather.

"Mulder?" she asked after a bit.

"Hmmm?"  His hand slid over her shoulder blade and down her spine.  The
simple touch spread over her skin to warm her from the back of her neck
to the backs of her knees.  She swallowed hard.

"Did we ever talk about marriage?  I mean for real?"

She felt him tense under her touch, but he did not break the gentle,
swaying rhythm.  "No," he answered carefully.  "We weren't together
very long."  At her puzzled expression, he explained, "Not in that way,
we weren't."

"Oh," she said softly, looking away.  His hand tightened on hers, and
he pulled her fractionally closer.

"But I thought about it sometimes," he whispered at her temple.  Her
breath caught at his words.

"You did?"

"Of course."  He maneuvered her easily out of the way of another
couple.  "Why is that so surprising?"

She shook her head faintly.  "It's not, I guess," she replied, studying
his face.  "It's just that men don't usually seem to think about
marriage very much."

He chuckled softly, a low, intimate sound in the semi-darkness.  "You
mean that we don't think about *weddings* very much," he corrected.
Then he paused, looking thoughtful.  "But I think that deep down, men
want just what women want."

"And what is that?"

His eyes met hers and held.  "To find someone you can love forever."

Scully felt a flush creep up her neck and over her face.  "Mulder, I..."

"Shhhh."  He brushed his lips against her forehead.  "Just dance."

She hesitated, then slowly lowered her cheek so that it rested lightly
against his soft, cotton shirt.  The rhythm of his heart blended
seamlessly with the music, and she closed her eyes, effectively
reducing the world to just the plaintive melody in the air and the feel
of the man in her arms.  He was warm, solid, and yes, hard, as they
rubbed together with each tiny movement.  Her pulse picked up in
response, and she felt a slow heat spread from her stomach to her
fingertips.

When his denim-clad leg slid between her the slit in her skirt to brush
against her bare skin, she gasped, tightening her fingers on him
reflexively.  But then just as quickly the leg was gone, and his hand
returned to its soothing movements over her back.  The heat in her
belly began a rhythmic throb in pace with the brush of his fingers on
her spine. "Mulder..." she breathed, but then the music stopped and he
pulled away.

Scully blinked rapidly at the sudden cool air on her skin, her body
still heavy and aching for more contact.  She could still feel the
imprints his fingers on her back.  They stood frozen on the dance
floor, not quite touching, until the music started once more, and the
upbeat melody broke through their strange reverie.

Mulder reached for her hand, squeezing tightly.  "You want to get out
of here?" he asked in a low voice.  She squeezed back and nodded.

They did not speak as they paid for their meal and left the
restaurant.  Once outside, he stopped and looked down at her, a
question in his eyes.  She held his gaze silently for a long moment,
then at last he nodded and she knew he had understood her answer:
wherever he wanted to go that night, she was willing to follow.

************************

No one had to tell him she was still alive.  He just knew.

Yushi sat on the plush seat of the limo, balancing his highball filled
with scotch and soda on one knee as he pondered the unfortunate, new
development.  Krycek had not called in over forty-eight hours, which
could only mean one of two things:  he had run tattling to Spender, in
which case he was likely to be shot dead the minute he stepped outside
the limo.  Or...

He took a swallowed the remainder of the amber liquid and wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.

...the notebooks were real.

"Fuck," muttered Yushi into the sound proof cabin.  He bounced the
highball off the shaded partition, shattering it instantly so that
shards of glass littered the thick black carpet.  A moment later, the
partition was lowered three inches.

"Sir?" said the man up front.  Yushi scowled.  There was only one way
to find out what he needed to know.

"We're going to Montreal," he told the driver.  "And quickly."

"Yes, sir."  The partition slid silently closed.

"Fuck," Yushi said again, and pulled his briefcase onto his lap.  The
limo made a smooth U-turn as he clicked open the lock.  His eyes lit
from within when he removed a sleek black magnum from inside the case.
After checking it carefully, he placed the weapon on the seat beside
him and reached for another glass.

He wondered how Krycek was going to enjoy life with no arms.

**************************

They walked in silence along the river, not touching but perfectly in
step, and it felt to Scully like they were the only two people in the
world.  The surrounding murky darkness was cut only by a few distant
flashes of lighting, white forks shooting across the black sky.  As the
heavens rumbled, she risked a sideways glance at Mulder, who was
sparking off more energy than the coming storm.  She wasn't sure which
one would break first.

The thunder rolled closer, and they quickened their pace, rhythmic
steps on the wet pavement that blended with the choppy sound of the St.
Lawrence lapping against the riverbed walls.  Whispers of rain began to
fall, and moments later the storm hit with a crack of thunder that
seemed to shake the earth beneath them.  "The bridge!" Mulder yelled
over another resounding boom.  She nodded vigorously, and they ran.

The rain gathered speed as they went, rushing to the ground in torrents
that nearly blinded her, and she gasped, shielding her eyes with one
hand as Mulder grabbed the other and pulled.  They finished with a mad
dash toward the stone bridge that stretched across the river fifty feet
ahead.

Once safely inside the curving, damp cavern, Scully leaned against
wall, panting slightly and brushing the wet hair away off her face. She
looked up to find Mulder staring at her with dark eyes.  She licked her
lips.  "Mulder, I..."

He cut her off with one swift movement, pushing her urgently back
against the stone wall, his large hands warm and wet on her skin.  Her
gasp of surprise was lost under his lips as he kissed her with a
violence that matched the storm raging a few feet away.  He held her
head still with both hands, tilting her to the angle he needed and
opening his mouth on hers in a repeated, hungry caress.

Fingers scraping the wet stone behind her, she accepted the kiss
eagerly, allowing tongue inside to tease her with hot, tiny darts of
pleasure.  Unconsciously, she began to push her hips toward him, and
his right hand moved from her face down under her trench coat.   His
fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh, stopping just short of her
center.  He repeated the motion, and they both groaned softly into the
kiss.

Scully slipped her hands beneath his leather jacket, tugging mindlessly
until she felt his bare skin warm her fingertips.  She pulled him
closer so that the damp stiffness of his jeans pressed firmly against
her stomach.  He thrust upward in three swift, hard motions, and she
felt tears of need sting the back of her eyelids.  Humming nearly
continuously, she tilted her head left, then right, trying to get as
deeply inside him as she could.

Her hips had begun an instinctive rhythm that followed the pace set by
his hot, stroking fingers.  He teased the tender skin of her thighs
with caresses that always stopped just short of reaching the ache at
her core.  She whimpered.  The tiny sound of pleasure echoed off the
hollow walls, and he answered with a low moan that vibrated through to
her toes.

She moved her hands restlessly up and down the muscles of his back,
pressing into him with repeated movements that caused her nipples to
harden inside her bra as they brushed against his chest. Then she cried
out again as his fingers finally found the cotton crotch of her
panties.  She was wet already, the damp material clinging to each
individual fold.  He stroked her purposefully through the cotton with
two long fingers.

"I...uh..."  She tore her mouth from his, arching her neck back against
the wall.

"Scully," he breathed--a hot, humid whisper in the dark.

She reached for his mouth again, her hand on the back of his neck as
she guided the urgent kiss.  All the while, his hand worked her below.

She was so focused on his mouth, tasting him deeply as the heady scent
of wet leather and aroused male enveloped her senses, that the orgasm
took her by surprise.  One moment she was moving gently with the
motions of his hand, the next she was panting and arching hard and deep
into his fingers as the contractions buffeted through her.  Mulder
clutched her tightly with one arm, the other still beneath her skirt,
stroking her though each new wave of pleasure.

Eventually, she relaxed her grip on his back and leaned against the
wall, eyes closed as she tried to collect the pieces of herself that
had shattered in the air.  Mulder was breathing heavily, too, and he
slowly withdrew his hand from between her legs.  The loss of contact
made her shiver.  Over the rustling of the rain around them, she heard
him mutter, "Shit."

Her eyes opened.  He stood perhaps four feet away, staring out at the
sheets of water that were pouring down from the top of the bridge.
Blinking blearily, she murmured, "Mulder?"

Even in the dim light, she could see his mouth tighten.  "I'm sorry,
Scully."

"Sorry?" she repeated hoarsely.  Her lips felt bruised and tingly.

"I forgot," he answered in a clipped tone, his hands balling into fists
at his side.  "I forgot you don't feel what I feel."

"What?"  She was weak-kneed and slightly dizzy; her pulse still
throbbed between her legs.  Everything inside her seemed close to the
surface, and she nearly quivered with the need to touch him.  "I don't
even know how I feel," she told him softly.  "What just happened,
it..." She broke off with a helpless shrug. "It was...surprising."

"It was wrong."

The words stung and she hugged herself reflexively, still hovering near
the wall.  "Why was it wrong?"  When he did not answer, she moved to
touch his arm.  He flinched as if burned.

"Scully, don't."  He stalked over to stand at the very edge of the
water curtain rushing down over the rounded bridge.  She watched the
stiff set of his shoulders for a long time, feeling confused and alone
at his sudden rebuff.

"I thought this was what you wanted," she whispered finally.  "I
thought this was the way we were together."

He turned abruptly to face her.  "So this was what...something you
thought you owed me?  A little action for old time's sake?"

She was aghast, and completely befuddled about where his sudden hurt
and anger were coming from.  He had started the whole thing, after
all.  "Mulder, no.  How could you think that?"

He kicked the dirt with his toe.  "I don't," he admitted finally.  Then
he looked up again, his eyes unreadable in the darkness.  "I just..."
He shook his head and sighed.  "I know what it meant for me, Scully.  I
love you.  I've always loved you.  But you...you barely know me."

Pain seized her violently. "You think I would do that with just
anyone?" she asked in an anguished whisper, not bothering to hide the
tears that caught in her throat. His mouth twisted in an expression of
hurt that seemed to match her own.

"No.  No, of course not."

"Then I don't understand," she continued brokenly.  "You were the one
who wanted to dance after dinner.  You were the one who kissed me, not
the other way around.  So suppose tell me, Mulder--how am I supposed to
feel about that?  Just what exactly do you want from me?"

"I don't know!" he broke in, his voice overly loud in the low-hanging
underpass.  "I don't know what I want."  He kicked the dirt again and
then turned his back on her.  After a moment, he corrected himself.
"That's not true," he said quietly, facing her once more.  "I do know
what I want."

Her eyes held his as she waited through the painful silence for his
answer.

"I want you to know me again.  I want you to love me...like before."
He looked her over from head to toe, then swallowed hard.  "But you
don't," he finished tightly, and pushed past her out into the rain.

************************
End chapter five.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Six
~~~~~~~~~~~~

He lay on the couch, blinking in the darkness without really seeing
much.  His mind was still focused on the image of her ashen face, blue
eyes gone black with pain, as he had left her standing under that
bridge.  Turning his head on the pillow, he could just make out the
lines of the closed bedroom door across the room.  Scully, I'm sorry,
he thought, but still couldn't bring himself to go say the words to her
in person.

His hurt was still too raw.

It was foolish to resent her, he understood that.  The memory loss was
not her fault and he felt like a troll for hurting her.  She was trying
just as hard as he was to deal with the strange new twist on their
relationship, and his little up-against-the-bridge routine had not
exactly helped matters.

On cue, his brain released a cascade of heated memories:  The scent of
her hair, wet and tinged with citrus.  Her thigh, warm and baby soft
beneath his fingers.  The vibration of her mouth under his as she
moaned into their kiss.  He nearly moaned himself, recalling the way
her excited breaths had tickled his ear as he'd brought her to climax
against his hand.

His cock strained hard at the front his boxers, reminding him that he
had not experienced a similar release.  He rubbed it absently with one
hand in an effort to ease the ache, closing his eyes at the feel of the
cotton whispering against his sensitized skin.

...rememberthisrememberthisrememberremember...

His eyes flew open and his hand stopped.  It was same words he'd heard
inside his head before, when they had been making love under the
bridge:  Remember this, Scully, remember.

God.  Had he really thought he could fuck her into remembering?

The possibility made his stomach lurch.

At that moment, the door opened quietly and Scully emerged in her robe,
a cotton-covered phantom as she crossed noiselessly over the carpeted
floor.  "Mulder?" she whispered.  Her voice was scratchy, probably from
crying, and he lashed himself again for causing her further pain.

"What is it, Scully?" he answered as gently as he could.

She was quiet for a long time, hugging her middle protectively.  "I
remember you," she said finally, and just those simple words made his
throat ache.  He said nothing.  "I remember being in the rain with you
before, in a graveyard."  She paused, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yes," he managed.

"We were looking for buried aliens."  She shifted from one foot to the
other, then sighed softly.  "I just wanted you to know," she said,
turning away again,  "that I remember."

"Scully, wait."  She stopped, and he sat up on the couch.  He flicked
on the nearby lamp so that they both squinted at each other in the
yellow light.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I was terrible to you and I'm
sorry."

She shook her head slightly, her arms still wrapped around herself.
"You were just being honest."  Then she hesitated.  "But I think
maybe..."

"What?" he asked when she did not finish.

She looked away, at the flowered painting on the wall.  "I think maybe
you're angry with me for forgetting you."

He sucked in a sharp breath.  Yes.  He was definitely angry.  Most of
the time it was okay, but every so often he had the urge to shake her
and yell, "I would have remembered *you*, dammit!"  Not fair, he
realized, but there it was all the same.

"I'm sorry, Scully."  It was all he knew to say.

"Me, too," she whispered, sounding like she was struggling not to cry
again.  He got up from the couch and went to take her in a gentle hug.
She stiffened only a moment before wrapping her arms around his waist,
holding him tightly.

He kissed the top of her head.  "We'll figure it out," he promised.
"We always do."  Against him, she nodded and sniffled.  They stood that
way for a long time, rocking slightly and holding one another close.
Eventually, she drew a shaky breath and pulled back a bit.  "Okay?" he
asked.

She managed a small smile.  "Okay."

"Good."  He smiled back and moved his hands to cup the sides of her
face, more gently than he had under the bridge.  It was supposed to be
a chaste and simple kiss, but the moment their mouths met he had to
linger.  She tasted like tears and toothpaste, and he wanted only to
let her know how sorry he was for hurting her.  So he moved slowly this
time, brushing her mouth with repeated, soft kisses.

He was surprised when she answered him back, after the earlier disaster
by the river.  But her hand caressed the back of his neck as she parted
her lips to receive his gentle teasing.  Her tongue slipped lightly
against his and he was instantly hard, throbbing against her belly.

Scully pressed a little closer, and he allowed his hands to slide down
the soft cotton of her robe until they cupped her rear end, urging her
still nearer.  Scully, he thought, love you so much.

As if in answer, she made an incoherent sound of pleasure against his
mouth and pushed her hips against his groin.  The sweet contact made
him jump, and he pulled his mouth from hers.  She stared up at him,
wary but undeniably aroused.  Her lips shone from his kisses, and he
nearly yanked her back into his arms. Instead he grabbed her gently by
the shoulders.

"Scully, I have to know...if we really do this, what would it mean to
you?"  God, he thought immediately, what kind of dumbass question is
that?  How the fuck is she supposed to know what it would mean?  But
Scully did not seem fazed by the question; she considered it.

"Everything," she said at last.

It was exactly the answer he needed.

******************************

Inside the bedroom, they kissed again, but this time with more hunger
and less finesse.  He touched her breasts through her robe, then slowly
slipped a hand inside to tease one nipple into pebbled hardness.
Scully broke the kiss, her eyes shut and her mouth parted as he
repeated the gentle squeezing on her other nipple.

Mulder felt himself grow impossibly harder.  This was always the best
part for him, watching the pleasure play across her features as they
made love.  Scully had one of the most expressive faces he had ever
seen, and it was amazing to see how every nuance of emotion registered
in the darkening blue of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks and the
quivering of her mouth.  It made him feel like the most powerful man in
the world, knowing he could bring her to this point.

He bent to kiss her again, his tongue rubbing hers as he continued the
tender assault on her nipples.  She murmured her pleasure and began
inching his tee-shirt up his back.  Reluctantly, he pulled away from
her long enough to reach one hand behind him and tug it over his head.
Scully immediately leaned in to place a soft, open-mouthed kiss on his
breast bone.  It was so sweet he nearly started shaking.

She loosened the sash on her robe, but he brushed her fingers out of
the way, eager to do it himself.  He took his time with the process,
parting the sides slowly and reaching in with stroking fingers to
tickle her belly.  She responded by bringing his face down to hers for
another long kiss.

He pulled back after a minute, resting his forehead against hers as he
continued the whispery caresses inside the loose folds of her robe.
"Is your side going to be all right?" he murmured, touching the edge of
the bandage lightly.

"Oh, yes."  Eyes closed, she clutched his arms.  "It's fine.  Please
don't stop."  She was trembling a bit and he realized for the first
time how bereft she must have felt before, when he had deserted her so
abruptly after orgasm.

Not this time, he vowed, stroking lower until he found the lace edge of
her panties.  "I won't stop," he whispered at her temple.  Her grip on
his arms relaxed, and she moved one hand down to his stomach, where his
muscles jumped at her touch. Her small warm fingers moved over him
lovingly as he slipped the robe from her shoulders.

"Oh, Scully," he murmured in wonder.  The sight of her undressed never
failed to steal his breath.  She stood before him in only a brief pair
of panties, slightly tensed at her unveiling.  He had forgotten that
this was new for her, and sought for words of reassurance.  "You're so
beautiful," he told her in a low whisper, trailing one finger down her
collar bone and then over her breasts.

She flushed in response, a delightful pink that went from her cheeks
all the way down her chest.  "So are you," she said lightly, and traced
his nipples with delicate fingers until they became taut and tingly.
Then she moved to the bulge in his boxers.

He closed his eyes to block out everything but the feel of her hand
slipping through the cotton flap to find his cock.  She rubbed the
length of him as best she could with limited space and his breathing
became shallow and uneven.  When the wet and swollen tip finally peeked
up over the edge of the elastic band, she took mercy on him and tugged
the offending garment out of the way.

"You feel so good," she murmured, stroking him long and hard.

He gave a shaky chuckle.  "I think that's my line," he told her and she
smiled a siren's smile.  Eventually, he stilled her movements with
fingers that dug into her wrist.  "Gonna come," he gasped.

"That's okay," she breathed, and his cock twitched in her hand.

"No, not yet," he insisted, removing her hand.  He closed his eyes and
took a few deep breaths.  When he opened them again, he found her
watching him with apparent humor.  He tugged her close.  "You think
that's funny, do you?  Let's see how long you last."

She laughed and tried to squirm away, but he held her close with one
strong arm.  The other went between their bodies to stroke her gently.
She pressed instantly down on his hand.  "That's what I thought," he
said, slipping his two fingers beneath her panties to rub along the
swollen folds.

He repeated the intimate caress until she began panting lightly.
Satisfied that she wasn't going to try to escape any time soon, he
knelt before her and pressed his mouth to the damp patch of material at
her center.  Her fingers clutched his hair immediately.  "Shhh...it's
okay," he whispered, gentling her by rubbing his cheek across her belly.

Pulling the scrap of cotton down and away, he squeezed her thighs once
before returning his mouth between her legs.  She gave a sharp cry at
the first touch of his tongue, her fingers bunching in his hair.  He
gave her just the tip at first, pointed and light, and she groaned.
"Mulder, please..."

Since she asked so nicely, he picked up speed a bit, licking with more
pressure and making sure he rubbed against the fat nub of her
clitoris.  She tasted clean and sweet like the summer rain they had ran
through earlier in the night.  He couldn't get enough.

Scully's hands were moving restlessly over his head and shoulders as
she pressed herself more firmly against his mouth.  He supported her at
the backs of her thighs and let her set the pace, keeping his tongue
broad and flat over her center as she jerked her way toward orgasm.

"Mullller..." He could hear her raspy breathing above him and redoubled
his efforts.  She yanked his hair.  "Mul..der!"

Pulling his mouth away, he looked up to find her face flushed, with her
eyes wide and unfocused.  "What?" he asked, breathing nearly as hard as
she.

She licked her lips, her thighs trembling beneath his hands.  "Not
standing up," she managed at last.  "Not this time."

Oh.

He nodded, pressing one last kiss to the soft fur of her mound before
rising unsteadily to his feet.  He sat on the edge of the bed.  "Come
here," he said softly, taking her gently by the waist.

Scully grasped the idea instantly and climbed carefully onto his lap,
her knees balanced on either side of his thighs.  He kissed her softly
and she reached between them to find his penis, standing hard and
ready.  She stroked him evenly and he buried his moan in curve of her
shoulder.

Rising slightly on her knees, Scully guided him to the warm entrance of
her body.  They both gasped when the tip slid easily inside.  She
shifted to place her hands on his shoulders, then slowly lowered
herself another inch.

"Okay?" she breathed, her forehead against his.  He gritted his teeth
and nodded. There was something uniquely exciting knowing that for her,
it was like the very first time.  It was all he could do to keep from
coming on the spot.

Goslowgoslow, he warned himself. There might not be a next time.

She pushed down a little further, her inner muscles clenching
spasmodically with each new inch.  He rubbed the ruby tips of her
breasts, desperate to give back some of the intense pleasure she was
offering him.  She gasped sharply and took him all the way inside.

His breath came out in a tortured hiss and he clutched her tightly,
careful to avoid her injured side.  "That's so good," he praised in her
ear.  "So good."

She panted lightly in reply and began to move on him.  Within seconds,
he was on the brink of orgasm. "Mmmmmscully...slower."

She kissed the side of his neck, keeping her even pace.  Sweet Jesus,
he was close.  He reached between them to touch her between the legs,
where she was wet and swollen. "Mulder, I need..." she said into his
neck, and he stroked her harder.

"I know, I know," he panted.  "Me, too."  He was about five seconds
from orgasm.  The feel of his cock driving in and out of Scully's hot
little body after so many weeks of abstinence was just too much.  His
hips thrust upwards faster and faster until there was no turning back.
He was coming.  "Scullyloveyou," he grunted, then groaned as the
ejaculation tore out of him.  It felt like the orgasm was going to
crack him in half.  He jerked under her several move times, panting
with release.

Scully held him close and moved more gently on his cock as the
aftershocks wore off.  He kissed her fiercely, surprised when his cheek
came away wet.  "You're crying?" he breathed with concern.  She shook
her head and touched the side of his face.

"No, you."

So he was, he discovered.  He hadn't even noticed.  "I'm sorry,
Scully," he said, hugging her close.  "I couldn't wait."

"It's okay," she whispered by his ear.  Her hands smoothed the hair on
the back of his head.  "It's really all right."  He felt her clench
when his penis softened and slipped out of her.

"It's not okay."  He shifted her gently so she lay on the bed.  "But it
will be."  He leaned up to kiss her, and in doing so brought his half-
hard cock in direct contact with her center.  She murmured her
appreciation into the kiss, beginning to arch her hips against him. He
rubbed experimentally, and her jaw clenched in pleasure.

Okay, he thought moving in a slow rhythm.  This wasn't the original
plan, but it was a pretty damn good runner-up.  Scully seemed all right
with it, too, as she squirmed and gasped beneath him.  He kissed her
deeply, moving his tongue in and out of her mouth in concert with the
slide of his penis below.  Within a few minutes, Scully went rigid,
crying out and shaking with her climax.

This time, he made sure to hold her close afterward, tucking her small
body against his larger one as the waves of pleasure wound down.  She
burrowed into him and he stroked her hair gently.  After a few minutes,
she stretched up to kiss the underside of his chin.  He gave her an
answering squeeze, then reached over to switch off the bedroom light.
She settled against him again, and he lightly stroked her arm.

"Was it the same as before?" she asked after a moment.

"It's different every time," he returned softly, trailing fingertips
down to the curve of her elbow.  He just could not stop touching her.
"But I think this was extra special."

His answer seemed to please her, because she snuggled in and closed her
eyes.  Mulder kissed the top of her head.  It might not be love, he
thought, but for now it was close enough.

*****************************

The morning sun was casting long yellow beams on the bedroom wall when
he awoke at six a.m.  He stretched with only his right arm because
Scully was holding the other one, curled next to him on her side and
still dead to the world.  With his fingertips, he stroked the soft skin
at her collarbone until she murmured something unintelligble, shifting
beneath the sheets.

"Shh," he murmured into her touseled hair.  "It's okay."  She quieted
again, and he reluctantly slipped his arm from her grasp.  It was best
to let her sleep while he made the phone calls, for they likely had a
long day ahead of them.  So he tucked the covers up a bit higher and
pressed a soft kiss to her bare shoulder.  "I'll be right back," he
whispered even though she could not hear him.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and squinted at the glowing
red numbers on the clock.  Six-oh-eight.  If he hurried, he could
probably be back before she even woke up.  Quietly he gathered his
clothes from where they had been hung in the living room to dry.  The
jeans were stiff and still a bit damp, and he made a face as he pulled
them on, mentally promoting the clothes dryer to one of the top five
inventions of the twentieth century.  He added a sweat-shirt and
sneakers, then headed for the door.

He skipped the elevator in favor of the stairs, taking them two at a
time until he reached the side exit to Plaza de Montreal.  Half-
walking, half-jogging, he traveled the two blocked to the small park
where the payphone was.  Skinner had still not been in contact, and it
was starting to worry him.  He dialed the cell phone number first.

When he got the automatic voice-mail message, he then tried both the
AD's home and office numbers, receiving recorded messages at both.  He
was about to try the Gunmen to see if they would look into the matter
when he noticed a man disappearing behind the snack shop fifty yards
away.  He only caught a glimpse, but there was something very familiar
about the way the figure moved; it was almost...catlike.

"No," he murmured to himself as he slowly replaced the receiver.  "It
can't be.  It's not fucking possible."  He watched and waited, but the
man did not reappear.  After a few minutes, Mulder removed his gun from
the back of his jeans and slipped out of the telephone booth to stand
behind a nearby tree.  His heart picked up speed as he peered around
the edge.

Nothing.

There was not another living sole inside the park that he could tell.
Mulder leaned his head against the tree, breathing shallowly as he
tried to decided what to do.  "Fuck it," he muttered finally.

Finger on the trigger, he approached the shack on the left side, where
he had last seen the black-clad figure.  He moved cautiously along the
edge, his back to the wall as he listened intently for any hint of
movement around the back.  He heard none.

Hesitating another beat, he finally whirled around the corner, gun
drawn.  There was no one there.

He was about to creep around to the far side of the shack when someone
hit him hard on the back, directly between the shoulder blades, and he
went sprawling to the ground.  His weapon skittered across the grass.

Gasping for air, he instinctively rolled over and greeted his attacker
with a well-placed kick to the groin.  Krycek groaned and doubled over
while Mulder went for his gun.

His brain registered mental congratulations that he had correctly
identified the ex-agent with a mere glance from fifty yards.  A
photographic memory and four years of seething hatred were a marvelous
combination.

Just as he was reaching for his weapon, however, Krycek recovered
enough to dispense a hard kick in the head, sending  him back to the
ground in wracking pain.  "Nice to see you again, Mulder," Krycek
sneered, standing over him.  He put one heavy boot squarely on Mulder's
chest.  Mulder coughed, dizzy from the violent blow at his temple.

"Fuck you, Krycek," he managed.

Krycek laughed.  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"  His foot pressed
harder into Mulder's ribcage.  "Tell me about the map."

Mulder closed his eyes against a wave of nausea.  "What map?"

"You know damn well what map.  The one on the picture."

Mulder shook his head weakly.  "Don't know...what you're talking
about..."

The boot on his chest pushed down another inch, and Mulder wheezed.
"This map, you fucking idiot," snarled Krycek, pulling out the torn
photo from his inside his jacket.  "Where's the other half?"

Mulder wheezed again, as if to say something.  "It's..." he trailed off
to just a whisper.  Krycek leaned down a bit.

"It's where?" he demanded, pushing again with his foot.

Mulder's mouth moved but no real sound came out.  Krycek leaned down
just a little further.  "Louder, dammit!"

Gotcha, Mulder thought with satisfaction, and rammed the side of his
arm into the back of Krycek's knee, causing his leg buckle. He lost his
balance inmmediately, falling head over heels to the ground.  Mulder
tackled him with instant fury, pinning Krycek's lower back under his
knees as he shoved his face into the dirt.

"You shot Scully," he growled, wanting to hear him say the words.  Then
he would kill him.  Krycek struggled violently in his grasp but did not
reply, so Mulder yanked his head from the ground and then smashed it
down again.  "Answer me, you sonofabitch!  Why the fuck did you shoot
Scully?"

Laughing weakly, Krycek spat dirt.  "What was it you said?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah...fuck you!"

"No, fuck YOU!" Mulder reached over to retrieve his gun and then
pressed it to the other man's temple.  "First my father, now
Scully...it's amazing the way people I care about keep ending up with
holes in them whenever you're around."  He paused, his breathing
labored from the force of his anger.  "But you know what?  I think I've
got a solution to that now."  He pushed the gun barrel more tightly
against Krycek's head.

"Mulder, no!"

***********************
End chapter six. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Seven
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He whipped his head around at the sound of her voice.  "Scully, what
are you doing here?"

Her face was white and alarmed.  "What are *you* doing here, Mulder?"
She gestured with her gun to where Krycek lay pinned beneath him.
"What the hell is going on?"

Krycek laughed bitterly.  "Just like old times, isn't it, Mulder?" he
asked.  "Is she going to shoot you again?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Mulder ordered, cementing the command with a sharp
blow to his temple.

"Mulder!"

Mulder reluctantly rolled off his prisoner and stood up, keeping his
gun barrel trained closely on Krycek's head.  "He's the man who shot
you, Scully.  He has the photograph."

Scully lowered her gun and narrowed her eyes at Krycek.  "Who are you?"
she demanded.

Krycek rose slowly to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth with
the back of his hand.  "You mean it's true?" he cackled at Mulder.
"Sweetie-pie doesn't remember?"

Scully raised her weapon again, this time focusing on the space between
Krycek's eyes.  "Sweetie-pie can shoot you dead and walk away clean,"
she informed him coldly.  "I've got the bullet wound to prove it."

Mulder grinned.  "You know, Krycek, I have to say that I'm liking this
version a whole lot better."

Scully ignored the smart remark. "Start talking," she instructed. "Who
the hell are you and what do you know about the picture?"

"I'll explain the 'who' later," interjected Mulder.  "Start with the
picture."  He glanced at the torn photo his in left hand.  "Where does
the map lead?"

Krycek was silent, and Mulder sighed with exaggerated patience.  He
walked over so he could speak directly in the other man's ear. "I said,
'WHERE DOES THE MAP LEAD?"  This time the question was accompanied by a
hard punch in the stomach.  Krycek bent in half with pain.

"I...I don't know..." he huffed.

"Not good enough."  Mulder hit him again.

Krycek winced but remained standing.  He was breathing hard.  "I'm
telling you, I don't know!"

"You're a liar!" Mulder spat, pulling the gun on him once more.  "TELL
ME WHERE THE MAP LEADS!"

"To the notebooks!" Krycek yelled at the same time, and Mulder eyed him
suspiciously.  "To the notebooks," Krycek repeated petulantly after a
moment of silence.

Scully glanced at Mulder.  "What notebooks?"

Mulder turned to Krycek. "What notebooks?"

Krycek looked disgusted and gave a short, humorless laugh.  "Christ,
you really are an idiot, aren't you?  How the fuck did you two ever
manage to find anything?"

"Is it my sister?" Mulder demanded.  "Is it about Samantha?"

"Not everything's about your fucking sister," hissed Krycek.  He
glanced at Scully.  "Sweet Jesus, how do you put up with this crap all
the time?"

Scully took a step closer with her gun.  "Tell us about the map," she
ordered softly.  "Now."

Krycek's eyes flashed with something unreadable, then he seemed to
dissolve into a sulk.  He scuffed the ground with his foot.  "It's the
vaccine," he said at last.

"What?"  Mulder was not sure he had heard right.

"The vaccine," Krycek repeated sullenly.  When Mulder moved to hover
over him expectantly, he continued, "There's been a rumor for years
that your old man worked secretly with a Russian scientist on a vaccine
against the virus.  Some people even said they were successful, and the
story was that their notes are still out there, hidden someplace."  He
raked Mulder once with his eyes.  "Why the fuck do you think you're
still alive?"

"Me?" Mulder's mouth tightened.  "They think I know where the notes
are?"

Krycek actually laughed.  "You're such a pussy," he jeered.  "Of course
they don't think you know where the notes are!  But no one wanted to
take the chance that you might trip over your ass one day and
accidentally find them."  He scowled at Mulder.  "Personally, I never
believed the notes even existed."

"Until now," Mulder retorted, looking at the picture in his hand.
"Leonid Petrov was the scientist, wasn't he?"

Krycek did not answer, and this time Mulder was too preoccupied to
deliver a reminder punch in the gut.  "So this map leads where...to a
secret laboratory?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Krycek snarled.  "It's only half there."

Mulder drummed the partial photograph against his palm absently.  "I
don't get it," he said after a minute.  "Why all the fuss over some old
research notes?  The vaccine has already been made.  I've seen it
myself."  He threw a significant glance at Scully, who frowned.

"Antarctica?" she asked.  He nodded, and she shook her head.  "From
what you've told me," she said, "that was an antidote and not a
vaccine.  A vaccine prevents infection from ever taking hold."

"So that's it."  Mulder turned back to Krycek with new understanding.
"This is much more than a bunch of notebooks we're talking about.  If
it exists, the vaccine could be used as a means for world domination."

Krycek glared at him with angry, mocking eyes but said nothing.  Scully
had yet to lower her weapon.  "Where is the other half of the map?" she
asked evenly.

Krycek snorted.  "If I knew that, we wouldn't be having this retarded
conversation."  He narrowed his eyes at Mulder.  "Your father was some
piece of work before he drowned himself in all that booze.  But
you...you've got no excuse."  He spat on Mulder's shoe.

Mulder made a sound of choked rage and started for Krycek's throat, but
just then a bullet went zinging past, shattering the window of the
snack shack into a thousand shards of glass.  Scully moved flat against
the side wall as the second bullet caught Krycek on the shoulder.  He
cursed and fell to the ground, rolling toward the nearby trees.

Gun drawn, Mulder joined Scully at the rear of the shack.  Two more
bullets whizzed past, the gunshots echoing through the park like
firecrackers.  "What the hell is going on?" she whispered angrily.

"I don't know." He peered around the edge. "Fuck."

"What?"

"Krycek's gone."  He leaned his head against the wall and closed his
eyes.  Scully moved to see for herself.

"Dammit."  She rubbed her hand over her eyes.  "Just what the fuck is
going on here, Mulder?  Who was that shooting at us?"

"Oh, it's even worse than that, Scully," he answered, checking around
the edge of the shack once again.  There was no one to be seen, and he
turned back with a frown.  "They were shooting at him."

"There are others after the notebooks," she guessed immediately.  He
nodded.

"It's the holy grail...the grand prize for everyone involved.  Whoever
finds these notebooks will control the fate of the entire world."

"If the research was successful," she pointed out.

"It must have been successful.  Why bother to hide it otherwise?"

She looked around at the deserted park.  Whoever the shooter was, he
seemed to have disappeared.  "So what are we going to do?" she asked
finally.

"The only thing we can do, Scully--we've got to find them first."

*************************

Scully sat in the car, drumming her fingers impatiently on the sun-
dappled door as she waited for Mulder to make his phone calls.  There
had still been no word from Skinner, and from the tightness in Mulder's
voice when he spoke about it, she suspected he feared the worst.

Well, she had a new fear, too.

The encounter with Krycek had vividly illustrated for her the extent of
her handicap.  Mulder had recognized an enemy with just a distant
glimpse, whereas she would not have known him if he walked right up and
said hello.  Or more likely, walked right up and killed them both.

She squinted to where Mulder stood in glass cubicle on the corner,
feeling vulnerable and useless.  Once again, she was something less
than what he needed her to be.

Vowing to compensate for her hated weakness with increased vigilance,
she monitored the few people walking past.  At seven thirty on a Sunday
morning, the streets were fairly quiet, save for the occasional jogger,
but Scully still regarded each runner with suspicion. Her memory might
be on the fritz, she reasoned but she could spot a concealed weapon as
well as the next person.

When the woman on the bike rode past, she jumped in surprise, twisting
in her seat to watch the slim figure disappear around the corner.  It
was his face, smaller and more finely boned, but after spending several
hours with his features just inches from her own, she would know them
anywhere.

She pushed open her car door and glanced in the direction of the phone
booth.  Mulder had his back to her.  She hesitated only a second before
starting after the biker in a light jog. No need to get him all excited
yet, she decided.

As luck would have it, the young woman had not gone far, locking her
bike in a rack against a red brick building.  Scully slowed her pace,
approaching cautiously for a better look.  The resemblence to Mulder
was certainly striking, but the woman seemed too young to have been
eight years old in 1973.  She appeared only in her mid-twenties.

Still, Scully watched with interest as the woman finished with her
bike, crossed the street and entered a nearby building.  Over the door
was a faded blue and white awning that simply read "Cafe".  Scully
stood rooted on the sidewalk for a long moment.  Logic dictated that
she should rule the encounter a marvelous coincidence and return to the
car.

Instead, she crossed the street.

She peered inside the plate glass window and immediately spotted the
young woman, who apparently worked as a waitress in the cafe.  She had
donned an apron over her black tank top and jeans, and was busy taking
orders from a couple of college aged girls.  Scully watched, transfixed
by the way the girl moved across the room.  It was an easy match to
Mulder's careless grace.

"What's going on?"  His voice at her shoulder made her jump.  She
blinked at him, not knowing what to say.  His brow furrowed.  "Scully?
Is something wrong?"

She shook her head and turned wordlessly back to face the window.  Time
seemed to slow as she felt him follow her gaze.  He recognized the
woman immediately.

"Oh my God," he breathed, his hand coming up to touch the glass.
"Samantha..."  He moved toward the door, but Scully stopped him with a
tug on his arm.  Annoyed, he tried to pull free.  "Let me go."

"In a minute."  She glanced into the restaurant.  "It's probably not
what it seems, Mulder."

He looked away and sighed.  "Scully, just don't..."

"No, listen to me!" she insisted, stepping closer to him.  "I'm not
saying this because I don't want it to be her, Mulder.  I'm saying it
because I don't want you to get your hopes up too high.  The girl in
there resembles you strongly, I agree, but Mulder..."  She waited until
she had his full attention.  "She's barely twenty-five.  She's too
young to be Samantha."

"Scully, with everything that could have happened to her, Sam might
still be eight years old or even much older than me.  Besides, looks
can be deceiving, and--"  He broke off abruptly.  "This is stupid,
arguing out here.  Let's just go in and see, okay?"

Still worried for him, Scully nodded reluctantly.  The door tinkled
when they stepped inside.  To her amazment, Mulder managed to appear
outwardly calm, but she could feel him working to restrain the waves of
vibrating excitement.  His eyes tracked the young woman's every move as
they slid into a booth in the back.

"It's her, Scully," he whispered, continuing to stare openly.  "I can
feel it."  He groped across the table and squeezed her hands so hard it
stopped the circulation in her fingers.

She extricated her hands gently.  "Okay, Mulder, okay."  No amount of
cautionary words would reach him now.  She just hoped he would look at
the young woman with his eyes and not just his heart.  For it was a big
heart, she knew, and the biggest ones always had the farthest to fall.

Just then the woman started toward them.  Mulder tensed, practically
popping out of his seat.  His anticpation was contagious, and Scully
felt her own pulse quicken.  What if it really was her?

"Hi," she said pleasantly.  "What can I get for you?"

Up close, the girl seemed younger and taller.  Her hair was thick,
short and the precise color of Mulder's--most of it anyway--for there
were also two large streaks of Crayola crayon red on either side of her
center part.  She work a silver pendant in the shape of a snake around
her neck and six tiny, silver rings in her left ear.  Combat boots
graced her feet, and Scully could just make out some sort of tattoo
under the thin strap of her tank top.

Mulder was too busy gaping at the woman to order, so Scully cleared her
throat and went ahead.  "Two coffees, please," she said.  "And I'd like
an order of French toast."  The girl scribbled on her pad and nodded.
Then she looked at Mulder.

"Anything else for you?"

Mulder leaned over the table.  "What's your name?" he blurted.

"Excuse me?"

"Your name," Mulder repeated.  "What is it?"

Suddenly wary, the young woman shifted uncomfortably.  "Lucie," she
answered, and for the first time Scully caught the hint of a French
accent in her voice.  "Why?"

"Have you always lived in Montreal?" Mulder persisted, not answering
her question, and Lucie's guarded expression turned to outright
suspicion.

"Why do you want to know?"

Scully gripped Mulder's knee under the table, and he sat back in his
seat a little.  "Just curious about the locals," he said mildly.
"We're visiting from the States."

Lucie folded her arms and frowned at him.  "Look, I'm not on the menu
here, okay?  So let's skip the twenty questions routine."  She snapped
up their menus.  "I'll be right back with your food."

The minute she was gone, Mulder strained across the table excitedly.
"Well, what do you think?  Is it her?"

Scully gave a helpless shrug.  "How should I know, Mulder?  I"ve never
seen Samantha.  As for this girl, she does look an awful lot like you,
but these sorts of coincidences do happen."  She paused and glanced in
the direction of the kitchen.  "Besides, I still think she's too young."

"Here," said Mulder, pulling out his wallet.  "This is what she looked
like in 1973."  He handed her a worn photo of a young girl wearing a
pink dress, pigtails and a wide smile.  She studied it closely for a
long minute, then looked up into Mulder's hopeful face.  The striking
similarity could not be denied.

"I don't know, Mulder...it could be her, I guess."

Mulder clenched his fists on the table and leaned back in the booth,
his eyes squeezed shut.  "I knew it," he muttered.  "I knew it had to
be her."

"Mulder..."

"What?"  He sat up but his attention was still focused on the kitchen
door.

She sighed and reached for his hand.  "Just go easy on her, okay?
You're going to scare her if you push too hard."

"It's been twenty six years, Scully."  He swallowed hard, and fingers
tightened reflexively on hers.  "I'm doing the best I can."

"I know," she answered, resting her palm on their joined hands.  She
patted him gently.  "I know."

They broke apart as Lucie returned with two coffees and a plate of
French toast.  She kept a safe distance from the table as she deposited
their order.  "Will that be all?" she asked, her initial friendly
demeanor replaced by stiff formality.

Mulder bit his lip, and looked once at Scully.  She closed her eyes,
nodding faintly.  "Lucie," he began softly.  "My name is Fox Mulder,
and this is Dana Scully.  I work for the FBI."  He showed his badge for
proof.  "I would like to talk with you for a few minutes, if that's
okay."

Lucie stiffened as if struck.  "What about?" she asked tightly.

"Nothing bad," he assured her immediately, his fingertips stretching
towards her across the table.  "Please...can we just talk for a few
minutes?"

The girl looked over her shoulder back at the kitchen.  "I'm working,"
she said.

"Please," Mulder repeated.  "Just a few minutes."

Lucie glanced at Scully, then at the floor.  "All right," she said
finally.  "Let me just put in these orders and ask Lindy to cover for
me."

Mulder and Scully both watched as she turned and practically ran
through the gray swinging doors.

******************************

Inside the kitchen, Lucie Carmichael leaned against the cool tile of
the wall and tried to get her shaking under control.  She would not
allow herself the luxury of falling apart.  Not yet.

You knew this day would come, a voice in her head taunted.  You knew
they were going to find you eventually.

Breathing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think of what
to do.  In the past, she had always thought she would just run if they
found her.  Head for the door and never look back.

But now there was Marion.  She had promised her too many times that she
wouldn't just up and disappear without saying good-bye.  "Mari..." she
whispered into her hands as the tears stung eyes.  She wiped them
angrily away.  It had been so foolish to get attached, so stupid to let
herself fall in love again.  Now she was going to have to pay the price.

"Dammit," she said, wishing she could just will the FBI agents out of
existence.  Why now? she wailed inwardly.  Why did they have to come
now, when she was just starting to feel safe again?

Doesn't matter, said the voice sternly.  You can cry later... right now
you have to get your ass out of here.

She wiped her face again with shaky fingers and tore off her apron.
Peering once through the crack in the doors, she assured herself that
the agents were still seated outside before rounding the corner to
where Lou was supervising the frying bacon.

"Lucie, petite, I have got your number twenty-two ready to go."  He
flipped a pancake expertly.  Lucie's throat clogged again as she
realized she was going to have to leave him behind, too.

"Lou, I've got to go," she said, squeezing one beefy arm.

He put down his spatula and wiped his hands on the stained white apron
covering his generous belly.  "What?  Lucie, is everything okay?"

"No, I'm afraid not."  She glanced over her shoulder.  "I'm sorry to do
this to you, but I can't explain right now.  I just have to go away for
awhile."  She kissed the side of his bald head and smiled through her
tears.  "Feed Henri for me, will you?  He scratches at the back door
every morning at ten."

"Lucie, what's going on?  If you're in some kind of trouble, maybe I
can help."  He looked at her with such kindness that she almost broke
down and told him the whole, sad story.  But instead, she shook her
head.

"Just feed Henri," she whispered.  "Okay?"

"God damn furball," he huffed in return.  "He can take his yowling
somewhere else."

Lucie smiled, because she knew he didn't mean it.  Henri had been a
well-fed feline before she had ever started working there.  "Bye, Lou,"
she said, giving him a swift, hard hug.  "I'll call when I can."

"Au revoir, ma petite."  He squeezed her so tight she was lifted off
the floor.  "Take care of yourself and call me if you need
anything...anything at all."

She nodded, then slipped through the kitchen and out the rear door.
She did not look back.

***************************
End chapter seven

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Eight
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully was watching Mulder as he watched the doors to the kitchen.  He
was twitching so much the table quivered under her folded hands.  "How
long has it been?" he asked at last.

She checked her watch.  "About five minutes."

"Something's not right," he said, sliding out from his side of the
booth.  "She should have been back by now."

"Mulder, what are you doing?"  He did not answer her, instead charging
across the room toward the swinging doors.  Scully followed closely on
his heels.  "Mulder, please..."  She narrowly avoided getting hit with
the heavy gray door as it came flying back at her from the force of his
fast and furious entry.

"Lucie?" he called, walking around some high, stainless steel shelves.
"Lucie, are you here?"

Just then an a squat bald man appeared from around the corner to shout
something at them in angry French, all the while waving a large, cast
iron frying pan in the air.  Scully did not need a translater to
understand that he wanted them off the premises immediately, but Mulder
was not about to leave.

"Where is Lucie?" he asked loudly over the other man's steady stream of
threats.

"You will get out of my kitchen now!" bellowed the man, apparently
deciding that the French was not sufficiently intimidating.

"Not until I talk to Lucie," Mulder answered stubbornly.  He tried to
move past the fat man, who took a hard swipe at him with the frying pan
in return.

"Hey!" Scully moved between the two of them, her hands stretched out in
either direction.  "That's enough," she told the angry chef.  "You're
going to hurt someone with that thing."  He scowled at her but lowered
his pan.  She took a deep breath.  "That's better.  Now who are you?"

Mulder did not stay to find out.  He took advantage of her interference
to push into the back of the kitchen in search of Lucie.  A moment
later, he reappeared.  "She's not here," he said, walking back over to
where they stood.  He towered over the other man.  "Where is she?" he
demanded.

The chef turned his head away and muttered something in French that
undoubtedly cast aspersions on Mulder's heritage.  Mulder heard it,
too, because he said something back in rapid-fire French and grabbed
the front of the man's tee-shirt.

"Mulder!"  Once again, Scully intervened, and Mulder slowly dropped his
hands.

"Who are you?" Scully asked the man again.  He sniffed.

"I am Louis Arinesco, and this is my kitchen you are in."

"So I gathered," Scully said, eyeing the pan he still clutched within
his fat fingers.  "What happened to Lucie?"

"I don't know," he said and narrowed his eyes at Mulder.  "I did not
see her.  I was...I was cooking."

Mulder snorted in disbelief.  "She ran out the back door and you didn't
see it?  You must really love your work."

"Yes, just like I love Lucie."  His expression softened a notch at her
name.   "She's a good girl...a sweet girl who's never given me any kind
of problem in the two years she's worked here."  He turned troubled
eyes to Scully, as if trying to enlist her help.  "Why can't you just
leave her alone?"

"We just want to talk to her, Mr. Arinesco," she told him softly.
"That's all."

He looked accusingly from her to Mulder, who was standing with folded
arms at his right.  "I don't believe you," he said after a minute.
"Why would she run away if you just wanted to talk to her?"

"I don't know," Mulder said.  "When we find her, we'll ask her.  Now
where did she go?"

The man shook his head vehemently.  "No, I can't."

Mulder sighed and pulled his badge out of his pocket, opening it
directly in front of the chef's eyes.  "Where did she go?" he asked
again.

"Is she...is she in some kind of trouble?"

"Her life could be in danger," Mulder replied, and Scully looked at him
sharply.

"What?  Who would hurt that sweet kid?"  His eyes widened with shock
and worry.

"I don't have time to explain right now, Mr. Arinesco.  Just tell
us...where did Lucie go?"

"I...I'm not sure," he stammered, putting the pan aside with shaking
fingers.  "Home, maybe."

"And where is that?"

He gave them the address, and Mulder started to the door.  Scully was
about to follow when Arinesco stopped them.  "Wait!" he blurted
painfully.  They turned.  "Lucie will be okay, won't she?  You won't
let anything happen to her?"

Scully glanced up at Mulder, whose mouth was set in a hard line.  "Not
this time," he answered softly.

On the way back to the car she said, "Do you have time to explain it to
me?"  He glanced down at her as they hurried down the street.

"What do you mean?"

"What you said about Lucie's life being in danger," she replied.  "Did
you mean it?"

"Maybe."  He frowned and moved to the driver's side door.  "If she
really is Samantha, she's mixed up in this thing as deep as the rest of
us.  Maybe more so."

Scully paused with her fingers on the door handle. "You think that they
would actually go after her?  Why?"

"Let me put it to you this way..."  He tilted his head at her across
the roof of the car.  "Where would *you* think to look for the other
half of the map?"

Her eyes widened and her breath caught as she realized the implications
of his statement.  Lucie was indeed in terrible danger.  "My God,
Mulder."

"I know," he said as they got in the car.  The engine roared to life.
"But this time it's different. I'm not twelve years old anymore."  He
glanced over at her.  "And this time I'm not alone."

******************************

Two nineteen Avingnon Lane turned out to be a sizable cottage ensconced
amid a yard full of trees.  "Not bad for a waitress's salary," Scully
commented as they trudged up the gravel driveway.  She noted a familiar
bike propped against the garage door.  "She's here," she murmured to
Mulder, and they mounted the front stairs.  Mulder rang the bell.

After a few minutes, a woman answered.  "Yes?" she greeted them
formally in a soft, French accent.  She was slender, dressed in jeans
and a tee-shirt that read "Tour de France" on the front.  Her fine
blond hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail, and her blue eyes were
rimmed with pink, as if from crying.  "May I help you?"

Mulder flashed his badge.  "We're here to talk to Lucie," he said.

Her mouth tightened and she answered, "I'm very sorry, but there is no
one here by that name."

Mulder looked away at the trees, then back again.  "And you are?"

"Marion Bonnet.  This is my house."

"Ms. Bonnet," he said softly, moving a step closer to her.  "It's very,
very important that we speak with Lucie immediately."

"I told you...there is no Lucie at this address."  The woman was
becoming more visibly upset.

"We saw her bike on the way in," Scully said gently.  "We know she's
here."

"It is my bike."

"Is that so?" Mulder murmured, peering past her into the house.  She
shifted to block his view, but not quickly enough.  "Then I guess those
leather boots are yours, too," he said, indicating the room behind
her.  She nodded uncertainly.  "And the 'Alice in Chains' CDs on the
table there?" he continued.  "I presume those are yours, as well?"

Her chin stuck out a little further.  "Yes, they are.  I'm...I'm a big
fan of hers."

"Uh-huh."  Mulder looked at Scully and sighed.  "Ms. Bonnet," he began
again, but at that moment a hand appeared on the door behind her, which
was swung wide open to reveal a very angry Lucie.

"Leave her alone."

"Hello again, Lucie."  Mulder's eyes went soft at the sight of her, and
Scully brushed his arm with a reminder warning:  *Gently*.  She knew
better than anyone how easily he could overwhelm a person with the
sheer force of his emotional intensity.

Marion murmured something to Lucie in hurried French, but Lucie brushed
her off.  "Ca va, Marion.  It's okay."  She glared at Mulder and
Scully.  "You're wasting your time, the two of you.  I haven't seen
Eddie in over two years, and I don't know where he is."

"Eddie?" asked Mulder.  "Who's Eddie?"

Lucie scoffed.  "Oh, please.  I'm talking to you, all right?  The least
you can do is be straight with me."

"I am being straight with you.  I don't know who Eddie is."

"Right."  She looked disgusted.  "The last time I saw him he did
this."  At that, she pulled up her tank top and displayed a faded pink
scar on her belly that Scully thought looked like a stab wound.  Marion
clasped her hand over her mouth and turned away, head bowed.  "I kicked
him in the balls and ran like hell," Lucie continued in voice that
shook with anger.  "Never saw him again and never want to, so can't we
just leave it at that?  I think I've paid enough."

Mulder reached out to touch the scar.  "I'm sorry you got hurt," he
said in a tight whisper.  Lucie flinched and dropped her shirt back
into place.

"Keep your hands off me!"

He held up his palms.  "Okay.  I'm sorry."  Lucie hugged herself, her
eyes closed, and Marion put a hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay, cherie," she said fiercely.  "We'll get a lawyer, a good
one.  It will be all right."

"Hold on a minute here," Mulder broke in.  "No one needs a lawyer."
Both women regarded him suspiciously.  "We're not here about Eddie,
whoever he is," he insisted.  "We just need to talk to you for a few
minutes."

"Please," Scully added when they showed no signs of relenting.  "Just
hear us out."

The two women exchanged a look that contained a whole conversation, and
eventually Lucie nodded.  "Come in," she said, stepping back from the
door.  They walked through the entryway into a small but cozy living
room.  Removing a fat gray and white tabby cat from his perch, Lucie
plopped down into an over-stuffed arm chair with the cat in her lap and
gestured toward the couch.  "So talk," she ordered. "What's this about?"

It was Mulder and Scully's turn to share a significant look as they sat
in unison on the sofa. She saw his mouth twitch with barely-restrained
emotion and felt an answering pang in her chest.  His tale was not an
easy one to tell, even to a sulking girl who might well be his long-
lost sister.  She moved just a little closer to him on the couch, and
he looked at her with relief.

It's okay, Mulder, she told him silently.  Just tell her.

He nodded, seeming to understand the message.  "Like I said before," he
began with a deep breath.  "My name is Fox Mulder and I work for the
FBI."  Lucie stiffed visibly, and Marion paled another shade.  "But
that's not why I'm here," he went on in a rush.  "At least not
directly."

He glanced at Scully again, then back.  "Twenty-seven years ago, my
sister was abducted from our family home by..." He hesitated. "...by
people doing advanced biological research," he finished, apparently
deciding not to start with the alien storyline.  "I've been looking for
her ever since."

"I'm sorry," Lucie murmured, stroking the cat in her lap.  It arched
its neck under her caress.  "But what does that have to do with me?"

"Um, well..." Mulder shifted uncomfortably on the couch.  "The thing
is, Lucie...I think you might be her.  I think you might be my sister."

There was a short, shocked silence.  Then Lucie dumped the cat
unceremoniously to the ground and rose to her feet.  "That's
impossible," she said.  "I've never even been to the States!"

"You might not remember," Mulder told her softly.  "It was a long time
ago, and these people, they can manipulate memories very well."  Scully
could feel his eyes on her as he spoke, but she kept her gaze trained
on her lap.

Lucie swallowed hard and turned away.  "Your sister...she was kidnapped
as a baby?"

"No.  She was eight years old."

"Ah, there, you see?"  She faced him with relief.  "It can't possibly
be me.  I'm only twenty-six, and I've lived in Quebec for all my
life."  With a quick, nervous smile, she added, "Sorry."

"You speak English as your first language," Mulder said, pointedly
ignoring her denial.  "Why is that?"

"My mother was not native to Quebec," Lucie replied, defensive again.
"She was from Toronto."

"And your father?"

"I never knew my father."  She looked at the floor.  "He was with my
mother for only two nights."

Mulder let out a slow exhale.  "Where is your mother now?"

"Dead."  Lucie raised haunted hazel eyes to his.  "She drank herself
into the grave while I was in high school."  Marion took a step closer
to her, but Lucie moved away.  "I think you should go now," she
announced flatly.  "I can't help you anymore."

Scully looked questioningly at Mulder, who withdrew the photo of
Samantha from his wallet.  He held it stretched out across the room.
"What is it?" Lucie asked almost fearfully.

"Just look at it," Mulder answered gently.  Lucie took it delicately by
the tips of two fingers.  She studied it unblinkingly for a moment,
then thrust it back with a jerk.

"So I look like her.  So what?  People look like other people all the
time."  She was clearly trying for absolute certainty, but her voice
quavered with the words.

Mulder stood from the couch.  "I know this must be strange for you--"

"--I'm not her!  I'm not your sister!"

"Lucie," Marion murmured softly.  Lucie glared at her.

"No!  He has no right to come in here and say these things!"  She
whirled on Mulder.  "You have no proof at all, just a stupid photograph
that barely looks like me.  I'm sorry that you lost your sister, but I
am NOT her!"

Mulder swallowed hard at her outburst.  "A blood test," he began softly.

"NO!  No tests!  Just go away and leave me alone!"  She pushed past
Marion into the rear of the house, and a moment later they heard the
back door slam.  Marion flinched at the noise.

"You look like her," she whispered, staring at Mulder.  "I see it
now."  She reached out a hand.  "May I see the picture?"

He gave it to her wordlessly.  As she studied it, he turned to Scully.
"I'm going after her," he muttered.  "She could still be in a lot of
trouble if they find her."

Scully nodded. "Go."  He gave her arm a brief squeeze before rushing
off in the direction Lucie had taken.
********************
End chapter eight.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Nine
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The small living room seemed even more oppressive in the silence that
followed Mulder's departure.  Scully buried the toe of her shoe in the
thick blue carpet as she tried to think of something to say to Marion,
who was still studying the photograph of Samantha with sad eyes.  But
at that point the cat appeared at her feet, purring loudly into the
quiet of the room and rubbing himself against her leg.

"Olivier, non!" protested Marion, reaching for him.  Scully smiled and
bent down to scratch the cat between his soft, gray ears.

"It's okay," she said, and the cat closed his eyes in ecstasy, leaning
hard into her hand.  "Aren't you a handsome boy," Scully murmured.  He
purred his agreement.

"Lucie found him on the streets a few years ago," Marion said after a
minute.  "That's how we met."  Scully looked up questioningly.  "I'm a
veterinarian," the woman explained.  "Lucie brought him to me because
he had a broken paw and a cut on his face."  She smiled down at the cat
fondly.  "He was so thin when she found him, Lucie called him
Oliver...for that orphan boy in the book, you know?"

"Oliver Twist."

"Yes, that's the one.  But then he got fat as a hog."

Fat and sassy, thought Scully as she watched him preen under her
touch.  She gave him a last scratch and rose to face Marion.  "He's a
very sweet cat," she said with a smile.  "I can see why Lucie took to
him."

Marion nodded and was quiet for a long time.  Then she licked her lips
and said, "Your friend, he misses his sister very much."

"Yes, and he wants to know what happened to her."

"I can understand this," Marion sighed, glancing at the picture again.
She handed it back to Scully.  "But she is not Lucie."

Scully looked at her sharply.  "What makes you so sure?"

"The face is similar, but not exactly the same," Marion answered,
gesturing at the photo.  "Lucie's eyes are a little father apart, and
her forehead is...how do you say?  More broad."

"People change as they age," Scully pointed out gently.  Marion shook
her head, cutting her off.

"No, it's not her.  The ears are different, too.  Whatever happened to
this little girl, she did not become Lucie."

Scully looked at the picture again and decided maybe Marion was right,
there were some slight but significant differences.  A new idea began
to form in her mind, and she asked, "How much do you know about Lucie's
past?"

"I know the parts she told you, but not much more.  Lucie doesn't like
to talk about what happened when she was young."  Marion moved to sit
on the couch, and Scully followed.  "Her mother got pregnant by an
American man she met in a bar.  I don't think he ever knew about the
baby."

"Lucie's father was American?"

"Mmm-hmm, yes.  He was a researcher or some such thing.  Her mother
never saw him again after that weekend."  Oliver jumped up on the couch
and began kneading his mistresses lap.  She stroked him absently as
they talked.  "Lucie's mother had many problems, and I think Lucie
always felt like she was one of them.  It's so sad that she died before
they could make peace with one another."

"Did she ever try to find her father?"

Marion shook her head.  "No, but..."

"But what?" Scully pressed gently.  Marion still hesitated, as if
reluctant to disclose further intimacies.

"Lucie has never left Montreal, despite all the bad memories and the
worry that Eddie might come back at any time, or that the police would
find her.  I think it's because of her father that she stayed.  I think
maybe she was hoping he would someday come back."

Scully felt suddenly hopeful.  "Does she have a picture of him?"

"Oh, no."  Marion gave her a sad smile.  "Lucie has always thought that
she would know him in her heart, but I don't know..."

"I do," Scully said quietly.  "That's how Mulder feels about his
sister, that he would recognize her anywhere."

"He feels this way about Lucie?" asked Marion curiously.

Scully nodded.  "Yes, he does."

Marion fell silent, petting Oliver's belly as he lay sprawled across
her lap.  "They are alike in more than looks, then."  She regarded
Scully with serious eyes.  "Perhaps I was wrong, and Lucie is the girl
in the photo.  People do change over time.  Perhaps she is his
sister."  She cocked her head.  "What do you think?"

Scully took a deep breath and a last look at the picture.  "I think,"
she said carefully, "that you're both right."

*********************************

Mulder tracked Lucie through a small woods to the edge of a pond, where
he found her hurling rocks far out into the water.  He stopped about
ten feet away and simply watched how easily she managed each throw.
Samantha had never had an arm like that, but then again she had only
been eight years old.

Finally she turned to face him with a scowl, and for a second he feared
she was going to start throwing at him.  "I am not your sister," she
said.  "Can't you just go away now?"

"I'm afraid not."  He walked a bit closer, still giving her a good
amount of space.  "There is a possibility that you could be in some
danger, Lucie."

She bowed her head.  "It *is* Eddie, isn't it?  I knew it had to be
about him."

"No," Mulder answered, remembering her scar and thinking that if Eddie
ever did try anything again he would personally remove the guy's liver
with a butter knife.  "Who's Eddie?  What happened with him?"

Her eyes scanned the water and she picked up another rock.  "I used to
work for him," she said, skipping the stone three times along the
surface.

"What?"  Mulder thought he might be sick, his stomach clenched so
forcefully.  Lucie felt his horror and mirrored it.

"No, not like that!" she assured him quickly.  "God, no."

"Oh."  He hoped the relief on his face was not too obvious.  He wanted
her to be able to tell him anything, even if it hurt.

"Eddie ran con games.  Street cons mainly, but he was willing to do a
little long-term action if the circumstances were right."  Her lips
twisted into a tight frown.  "Eddie taught me to be able to pick the
easiest mark in any crowd with just a quick look."  She glanced at
Mulder and then away.  "I never realized that was the way he had found
me."

"You were young," Mulder told her.  "It's easy to be fooled then."

"Yeah, well, I guess you could say I was looking for it, in a way.
It's just such a classic shitty story that I'm ashamed to admit it even
happened to me--little girl lost and all that crap."  She kicked the
dirt at her feet.  "I thought I was so tough, hanging with Eddie and
his boys, working the streets...the dupes didn't matter to me then.
They had plenty of money and if they were stupid enough to take on
Three Card Monte, then they got exactly what they deserved."

She stopped suddenly, and Mulder walked a little closer, joining her at
the water's edge.  "What happened then?" he asked softly.

"It escalated.  Soon we were running pigeon drops.   The money was
great, but I started feeling a little funny about the whole thing.  We
weren't just taking people for twenty bucks anymore; sometimes we wiped
out their whole savings."  She glanced over at him.  "Are you going to
arrest me after this?" she asked abruptly.

"No, Lucie, of course not.  I told you that's not why I'm here."

"Yeah, well you wouldn't be the first liar I'd ever met."

He regarded her silently for a long moment, wanting to tell her so many
things.  I would never lie to you.  I understand it's hard to trust
people when you've been burned in the past.  It's okay to screw up
sometimes...it doesn't mean you aren't still a good person.  "I'm not
going to arrest you," he repeated gently.  "What happened with Eddie?"

She gave a casual shrug that he recognized too well.  It was the same
one he used to cover up the deepest hurts.  "I told him I wanted out.
He didn't exactly take the news with a smile, if you get my meaning."

Mulder swallowed hard and kept his eyes trained on the water as he
asked, "Is that when he cut you?"

"No, he just smacked me around some then.  He told me that I was in
just as deep as he was, and if I didn't stick with the group, either
the cops would get me or the streets would eat me alive.  He said he
was wanted back in the States for running rackets there, and that he
had even killed someone."  She paused, her voice becoming smaller with
the memory.  "He convinced me I would be accountable for everything
he'd ever done.  So I stayed."

Mulder closed his eyes against the painful words.  "How did you get
out?" he asked finally.

She breathed a shaky sigh.  "We were doing a drop on this Indian guy.
I was working as the drag bond--the one who flashed the Mich roll for
the mark."  He looked at her questioningly and she half-smiled.  "The
money roll," she explained.  "With hundreds on the outside and ones in
the middle."

His lips twitched in response.  "I didn't realize there was an official
name for it."

"Every self-respecting business has its jargon," she remarked dryly.
Then she continued, "Anyway, this time the mark made us half-way
through the con and didn't want to give up his money.  Usually that
just ended the deal, and we moved on to someone else.  But with this
guy, Eddie just wouldn't take no for an answer.  He went into a
screaming rage and ended up doing the guy right on the spot."  She
shrugged again.  "He had to leave town after that, and I told him I
wasn't going with him."

"I guess that didn't go over so well."

"You got that right," she replied bitterly.  She shook her head in self-
disgust.  "I never even saw the knife coming."

"Is that when you kicked him in the balls?" Mulder asked, imagining the
scene with some satisfaction.

"And hard."  She held up one foot encased in leather combat boots.
"Believe me when I say that Eddie will always remember this baby."

Mulder grinned with a sudden surge of brotherly pride and noted
somewhere in the back of his brain that she was going to get along well
with Scully.  No shrinking violet women in his life, nosiree.  "Eddie's
probably doing time somewhere by now," he told Lucie.  "If he's not,
you can be sure that he will be soon."

Lucie's eyes widened.  "Oh, no.  Please don't, okay?  I just don't want
any more trouble."

Mulder was quiet, not sure he could promise her that he wouldn't go
after the animal who had hurt her.  She shifted from one foot to the
other, regarding him with watchful eyes.  He wondered what she was
thinking.  Finally, he nodded.  "I won't do anything you don't want me
to, okay?"

But this assurance did not seem to make her happy.  Quite the
opposite.  Her mouth tightened with pain and she turned away.  "I'm not
your sister," she said again.  "By now you should be glad about that."

He was silent for a long time.  "There is an easy way to know," he said
after a few minutes.  She did not turn around.  "Samantha has a birth
mark on her right hip," he continued with effort.  "It's about the size
and color of a strawberry."

Lucie stiffened a moment, then her shoulders sagged.  He waited.  "I
don't have the mark," she whispered at last.  "I'm not her."

The words wrapped like coils around his chest, making it hard to
breathe.  He blinked away sudden tears.  Not again.  "Are you...are you
absolutely sure?"

She nodded.  Then she turned to face him.  "I'm sorry," she blurted,
and clasped her hand over her mouth.  They looked at each other through
a haze of tears.  He shuddered and scrubbed his face with his hands.

Of course it had been too much to hope for.  He should have known that
from the beginning.  "I'm sorry, too," he managed, and was about to
turn away when she stopped him.

"Wait..."

He faced her again.  "What is it?"

"Your hands," she murmured, reaching for them.  He gave them over
willingly.  She turned them once over and then held his right palm up
and placed hers against it.  "They're just like mine."

They were, Mulder noted with some amazement.  Almost exactly the same.
What the heck was going on?

Lucie drew a shaky inhale and pulled her hand away.  "Your father," she
said softly.  "Was he a researcher of some kind?  Someone who was here
on business in the summer of 1972?"

Holy shit.  He started to tremble.  "Yes, he was away a lot during that
year.  Do you think...?"

"I don't know," she replied, hugging her middle.  "It might be."
Unconsciously, they both took a step back.

Mulder cleared his throat.  "We should probably get that blood test,"
he said in a voice he barely recognized as his own.  This time, Lucie
nodded dumbly, still in shock.

"I can't believe it," she whispered.  "I wondered sometimes if he might
have a family somewhere else, but I never really thought...wow."

He barely heard her above the buzzing in his head.  Not Samantha.
Lucie.  He wondered if his father had known that as he was sacrificing
one daughter another was just coming into the world.  Just how many
other fucking secrets did you have, Bill? he thought sarcastically.
We're two for two on the day.

Lucie eyed him with a mixture of interest and trepidation.  "We should
go back to the house," she said at last.  "They're probably wondering
where we are."

"Yeah."  He stood rooted to the ground despite his agreement.  When she
moved to pass him, he grabbed her hand--the one that was so like his
own.

"What?" she asked with a sharp inhale.  His fingers bit into her wrist.

"I want you to know," he said brokenly, "that I would have looked for
you. If I had known you were out there, I would have looked for you,
too."

She broke away with a choked sob and ran toward the house.  He followed
close behind, determined never to lose her again.

********************************

After an hour of sitting in his car and watching the hotel, Skinner
decided to risk going inside.  Every second lost decreased his
probability of success.  They would find him soon, if they had not
figured out his ruse already.

He could almost feel the eyes on him as he walked through the front
doors of the Plaza de Montreal.  A few minutes later, a youthful desk
clerk with a mane of frizzy curls told him politely that Mr. and Mrs.
Brown had checked out earlier that morning.

He swallowed a curse and considered this unfortunate development.
Where the hell had they gone to?  He decided to check his messages back
in D.C., though he couldn't imagine they would be careless enough to
leave their whereabouts.  If this move did not produce results,
however, he was going to have to risk calling Mulder on the very
traceable cell phone.

Which just might prove to be the death summons for them all.

*********************************

Back at the house, Lucie disappeared upstairs the minute she walked in
the door.  Marion tried to go after her, but Mulder stopped her with a
gentle hand.  "Give her a couple of minutes," he suggested quietly.
"It's been a long morning."

Marion held his eyes for a minute and then nodded.  "Would you like
something to eat or drink?" she asked.  "I can make sandwiches."

Mulder smiled in relief.  "That would be wonderful, thank you."

"Mulder, what happened out there?" asked Scully when she had gone.  "Is
everything okay?"

He squeezed her hands.  "I hardly know where to begin, Scully.  It's
just so incredible."

"Mulder, about Lucie..."

"She's not Samantha," he cut in.  "I know."

Scully drew back in surprise.  "You figured it out, too?"

"Yeah, we pieced it together outside.  We're both still reeling pretty
hard."  He walked on rubbery legs over to the couch and sat down with a
plop.  Scully joined him.

"Did you ask her about the photograph?" she asked.

"No, not yet.  I don't want to spring everything right at once.  I'll
ask her when she comes back down."  Then he looked over at her.
"Scully..."

"Hmmm?"

He kept his voice to a low whisper.  "With everything that has been
going on, we haven't had a chance to talk about last night."

"It's okay," she assured him quickly, her color deepening just a bit.
He reached for her hand.

"I just want you to know that it meant a lot to me...that *you* mean a
lot to me."

She gave his hand a hard squeeze.  "Me, too," she whispered back.  They
shared a smile.  "It's really all right, Mulder," she said.  "I
understand that Lucie and the notebooks have to come first right now.
The fate of the free world is clearly more important than our personal
relationship."

"Yes."  He flashed her a quick grin and leaned across the cushions.
"But just barely."  He kissed her lightly on the mouth, pleased when
she answered it.

They were once again behaving themselves on opposite ends of the sofa
when Lucie returned carrying three plastic bowls.  She set them down on
the coffee table in front of Mulder and then knelt behind them.  Her
expression was unreadable.  "The Shell Game," she said.  "Just like
Three Card Monte.  Ten gets you twenty and twenty gets you forty.  Just
keep your eye on the ball."  She slipped a little red ball under one of
the over-turned bowls.  "Who wants to play?"

Mulder looked at her with amusement.  "I heard it from a good source
that this game's only for suckers."

Lucie's mouth twitched also.  "Depends on which side you're playing,"
she replied tartly.  "Are you in or not?"

"I'll play," Scully said, holding up a crisp ten.

Lucie nodded and again displayed the red ball.  Then she mixed up the
bowls on the table.  "Which one?"

Scully leaned over, considering.  "That one," she said, pointing to the
far right.  Lucie turned it over, and it was empty.  Mulder laughed.

"Never knew you were such an easy touch, Scully."

She made a face at him and Lucie smiled.  "Try again," she encouraged
Scully.  Scully pointed at the one in the middle.

Nothing.

Mulder chuckled once more, and Scully rolled her eyes and smiled,
pointing at the last one.  Lucie raised the bowl to reveal half a
photograph.  It was of a white brick building with the letters "LIBERTE
LABORAT" on the side.

*****************************
End chapter nine.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Ten
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I thought you said you didn't tell her," Scully muttered.  Mulder
frowned at Lucie.

"I didn't," he replied, snatching up the partial photograph.

"Tell me what?" Lucie demanded, looking from one to the other.

Mulder ignored the question.  "Where did you get this?" he asked
instead, arching his hips from the couch so that he could access his
back pocket.  He pulled out his half of the picture, and it was indeed
a perfect match.  "Well?" he pressed when Lucie did not immediately
answer.  She sighed.

"There was this glass ball my mother had, one of those stupid souvenir
things that you by on the street with a scene from Montreal inside the
ball.  If you shook it, snow came down."

"What does this have to do with the picture?" Mulder asked impatiently.

Lucie looked annoyed.  "I'm getting to that part."  She got off the
floor and moved to sit in the over-stuffed arm chair again.  "She said
the ball was from my father, that he bought it for her the night they
were together.  It sat on the top of her bureau and she never let me
touch it."  She sighed again.  "But after she died, I kind of threw it
against the wall."

"Kind of?"

"Okay, *really* threw it against the wall.  And it broke."

"This was inside?" Mulder guessed immediately, glancing at the
picture.  Lucie nodded.

"It had been folded up and hidden in the bottom part.  I didn't know
what it was or who put it there, but I kept it anyway."  She looked
over to where he was holding the two pieces of the photo together.  "I
guess now it's a good thing that I did.  Whoat does it mean?"

Scully leaned over Mulder's shoulder to study the back of the two
halves, which formed a crude map that seemed to depict an area along
the St. Lawrence River.  "It must be north of here," she said.

Mulder bent his head closer to hers and nodded. "Yeah, and this looks
like a mountain of some sort."

"What is the map for?" Lucie asked leaning forward in her seat
impatiently.

Still they ignored her.  "Now that we have the name of the center,"
Scully said, "it might be easier to track it down.  Even if they aren't
listed in the phone book, the power companies should be able to provide
us with at least a billing address."

"Good idea," Mulder returned absently, studying the photograph.  "I'll
ask the Gunmen about it as well.  What do you think this line over here
means?"  They were so involved in their discussion that they did not
notice when Lucie gave a disgusted sigh and left the room.  She
returned moments later with a map, which she tossed face up on the
table in front of them.

"It's right there," she annouced flatly, pointing to a black X on the
map.  "It's on the north side of Mount Logan, inside Parc Gaspesie.  As
far as I could tell, it's only accessible on foot or by
helicopter...about a day's hike from the main trail."

Mulder and Scully glanced at each other and then up at Lucie.  "You've
been there?" he asked quickly.

She nodded, folding her arms over her chest and looking from one to the
other with a hard stare.  "So who's the guy in the picture?"  Her face
faltered a bit and she added, "Is it him?  Is it my father?"

Scully turned her eyes to her lap, and Mulder shook his head slowly.
"No, Lucie, it's not."

"Oh."  She moved to sit down on the edge of the chair, rubbing her
hands over her thighs nervously.  "Then who is it?"

Mulder explained a little bit about Leonid Petrov and the possible
existence of the notebooks.  "Do you think that you could find the lab
again?" he asked when he had finished.

She shrugged.  "Sure.  After the three years it took me to find the
place, it's not like I'm going to forget where it is."

Marion entered with a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade.
She had apparently been listening from the kitchen because lines of
worry creased her forehead.  "The men who want this photograph," she
said to Mulder, "are they responsible for the marks on your face?"

He touched his swollen cheek self-consciously, aware that he must have
a sizable bruise from his earlier encounter with Krycek.  "Yeah," he
murmured, and her mouth thinned to a grim line.

"Lucie, you can't go with them."  She reached out and took her hand.
"It's too dangerous."

"I have to go," Lucie protested.  "I'm the only one who knows where it
is."

Mulder felt his stomach twist.  It was true that Lucie's guidance would
be a valuable asset in navigating the forest, but he did not want to
put her in any more danger than she already was.  "Maybe you could just
draw us a better map," he suggested quietly.  Beside him, Scully went
very still, and he knew she sensed what he was thinking.  Frankly, if
it were up to him, he would keep both women somewhere safe, but he
could just picture Scully's response to that idea.

Lucie herself was doing a fair approximation of that rebuttal, standing
over him with her hands on her hips.  "I know the route much better by
sight.  Besides, how can you expect me to just stay home after
everything you've told me?"

Scully rose from the couch.  "Do you know how to fire a gun?" she asked.

Lucie looked her up and down before replying.  "Better than you, I'm
sure."  Scully crossed her arms, and he made a mental note to be
somewhere *far* away if they ever decided to settle that particular
question.

"Okay, you can come," he said shortly, rising as well.  He pinned her
with a long look.  "But you do everything I tell you to, understand?"

Lucie's chin stuck out in direct objection to the order--out of habit,
he supposed.  But at last she nodded reluctantly.  "I'll try."

"Lucie..."

"Okay, okay!  Yes, already!"

At that point Marion got up and left the room.  Immediately, Lucie's
face lost its defiant glare, fading into regret and concern.  "Attend,
Mari..."  She looked at Mulder and Scully "Excuse me one minute," she
murmured, seeming flustered.  Then she hurried off in the direction
Marion had taken.

"Well," said Scully after she had gone, "she certainly inherited your
audacity."

Mulder looked at her sharply, then saw that the edges of her mouth
twitched in a near smile.  He grinned.  "Yeah, she's something else."

"Mmm."  She cocked an eyebrow.  "You think I'll ever see that ten
dollars again?"

He chuckled softly.  "I don't know...care to bet on it?"

"I only make one sucker bet a day, thank you very much."  She glanced
at the photo and the map that had been abandoned on the coffee table.
"Mount Logan is at least a six hour drive from here," she commented.

He joined her by the table and nodded.  "Yeah, we should get going
pretty soon if we're going to make any progress into the forest before
nightfall."

"Maybe we should..." Scully began, but was interrupted by the soft
beeping of his cell phone coming from his jacket on the couch.  He
looked at Scully, and then they both looked at the phone.  He moved
without a word to answer it.

"Hello?"

******************************

Diana had been sitting in the rented Dodge in back of the Plaza de
Montreal for nearly five hours when the idea finally came to her.  It
was a risky move, but the payoff could be enormous.  Besides which, it
would be worth it just to get off her ass and finally do something more
than sit in the goddamn car watching the back of the hotel.  Maybe it
was good enough for Smokey, but she had bigger aspirations.

Skinner, bless his bald self, had led them straight to the hotel where
they all three now sat in various vehicles awaiting the appearance of
Mulder and Scully.  What a crock.

Anyone with two neurons to rub together could see by now that they
weren't going to show.  So she decided to let the boys play on their
own for a while.  She was going proactive.

Removing the slim cell phone from her jacket, she hit "memory six", not
stopping to examine very closely why she still kept his number on
automatic dial.  He answered after the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Fox," she said, smiling in the privacy of her car.  "I'm so glad I
caught you."

There was a short silence on the other end.  "What do you want, Diana?"

"I'm in Montreal," she replied.  "When I couldn't reach you at home or
at the office, I thought maybe you had decided to come up and
investigate the lead we talked about."

Another silence.  Then, "As a matter of fact, I did.  I'm here as well."

She noticed he did not mention that Scully was with him.  Interesting.
"And?" she pressed.  "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing I can talk about over the phone," he replied neutrally, and
her pulse quickened.  He had the map.  Holy shit, this was going to be
better than she originally planned.

"Maybe we could meet," she suggested quickly, then winced.  A little
too quickly.  But he seemed not to notice.

"I don't know...I'm pressed for time."

She thought fast.  "But there's something I want to show you.  I have
some pictures that you will be interested to see...some of them are of
your father and Leonid Petrov."  There.  If *that* didn't get his
attention, nothing would.

"Where are you exactly?" he asked after a minute.

"Where are you?" she countered, nearly breathless with anticipation.
He gave a short, humorless laugh.

"Uh-uh.  I don't play this game anymore."

She barely held back a sigh.  Never the trusting sort, he had become
even less so over the years.  She wondered how much she had had to do
with that transformation.  "Okay, let's meet in town."

"Where?"

She named a park not too far away.  There would be enough trees there
for cover, should she need it.

"I know where that is," he answered.  "I'll be there."

The phone went dead and she leaned her head back against the seat.
Years ago, when he had lain panting in her bed after a round of
particularly energetic sex, he had looked at her in the moonlight with
eyes wet and soft from their lovemaking.  "I would do anything for you,
you know," he had murmured to her then.  "I would give you the world."

She smiled a bit, remembering.

He was about to make good on that promise.

***************************

Scully watched his face closely as he hung up the phone, but she could
not find any indication of what he was thinking.  In fact, he seemed
suddenly far away from her, in an inexplicable way that made her feel
very uneasy.  "What did she want?"

"To meet with me about my father and Leonid Petrov."

She hesitated.  "Are you sure that's a good idea, given her possible
connection to what's been going on?"  When he was silent, she tried
again.  "What is she doing here in Montreal, Mulder?  Don't you think
that is just a little bit odd?"

"She was coming here originally," he answered absently, seeming lost in
thought.  "Before I ever found the picture."  He shook his head as if
to clear it.  "I have to go talk to her."

"Mulder, no."  She was not sure why she could be so certain, but
nevertheless she knew in her bones that this was a bad idea.  "It could
be a trap."

Again, he gave her an inscrutable look.  "Diana would never do that to
me."  He picked up his jacket and began moving toward the door.

"She left you, Mulder," Scully blurted out.  He turned abruptly to face
her.  "She left you and the X-files a long time ago," she told him more
softly.  "You don't know *who* she's with now."

His mouth tightened in a thin line.  "I'll be back in an hour," he
said.  "You and Lucie can get everything ready."

"Mulder..." she pleaded again, panic rising as she realized he was
serious about the meeting.  "At least let me go with you."

"No.  I'll be fine, Scully.  Just stay here with Lucie."  And he left
then, before she could give him further argument.  The sound of the
door slamming echoed in her ears for a long time afterward.

************************

In the car on the way to the park, he offered a silent apology to
Scully for shutting her out.  This little escapade rated at least an
eight on the ditch meter, but he soothed himself with the knowledge
that he had no other option.

There was no way could have let her come.  After all, she had stopped
him from killing Krycek that morning.

He was not about to make the same mistake with Diana.

**************************

Mulder had been gone less than five minutes when his phone rang again.
Scully startled at the sound, and picked up the slim black case from
where it had fallen between the couch cushions.  She answered it half-
hoping it would be Diana.  There were a few choice things she wanted to
say to the woman.

"Hello?" she said briskly.

Silence on the other end.  Then a man's voice, low and gruff.  "Scully?"

"Yes," she replied tentatively. "Who is this?"

"It's Skinner."

"We've been trying to reach you for days," she breathed, taking a seat
on the edge of the couch.  "Mulder was worried."

"Where is he?"

"He's not here.  He's with Diana."  The long silence that followed made
her stomach turn over.  "Sir?  Is there something you know about her?"

"Not now," he answered brusquely.  "It's too dangerous.  Where are you?"

After a moment's hesitation, she told him.  "Mulder should be back
soon," she added.

"It's you I've come to see," he replied cryptically, and then the line
went dead.

****************************

He was not surprised to see the car start up across the parking lot,
since he had suspected the phone call might mean he was soon to be on
the move.  From the angle, he guessed that Diana could not see that
Skinner was driving away.

How absolutely perfect, he thought with a small smile as he followed
the Assistant Director onto the main road.  The cigarette dangled
loosely from his lips.

People always said that in heaven it was the meek and the virtuous who
were rewarded, but fortunately in his experience, life on earth worked
exactly the opposite.

*****************************
End chapter ten.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Eleven
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was standing in some thick bushes when she finally arrived.  Dimly,
he remembered that she was often late.  "I'll be late to my own
funeral" she had said to him once, though at the time he had never
dreamed he would be the one responsible for the event.  Now he found
himself anticipating it with great relish.

She walked slowly into the park, looking about for him as she went.  He
noticed her hand was not far from her own weapon.  Swallowing hard, he
squeezed his eyes shut, surprised that her betrayal still had the power
to wound him.  But it was one thing to accept it mentally, it was
another thing entirely to see the proof of it with his own eyes.

He raised his gun as she walked past.  The barrel slid out between
leafy green branches to press close against her temple.  "Hello, Diana."

She froze.

Her nostrils quivered; she licked her lips.  "Fox...what are you doing?"

"The question is, what the fuck have you been doing?" he asked with
barely-contained rage.  "All these years, I've been kicking myself for
how it ended between us, thinking that I had done something
wrong...that I didn't even *deserve* you, dammit!  And all this
time...all this time, you were just a goddamn spy."  The gun barrel
trembled under the force of his anger.  "Just another whore in the
Consortium stable, that's what you were."

"If that is what you need to tell yourself, Fox, I'm okay with it," she
said calmly.  "But the truth is more complicated."

"Oh, don't bother me with your truth!" he snapped.  "I know everything
I need to know already."  He pressed the gun harder against her
temple.  "Give me your weapon."

She smirked. "We used to play that sometimes, remember?  Good cop/bad
cop..."

He remembered and was nearly sick.  Perhaps it should have been a tip
off, how often she wanted to be the one in control.  "Just give me your
gun," he ordered icily.  She did as he asked.

"How did you know?" she queried after a moment.

"I didn't."  The words were tight and angry.  "Scully made you from the
first moment, but I was your dupe right up 'til the very end, when you
tipped your hand with Leonid Petrov.  Sloppy, Diana.  Very sloppy."

"Ah, yes, Dana Scully," she said with a sigh.  Her eyes moved to glance
sideways at him.  "It's kind of fitting, in a way, since I was the one
who selected her."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"  He pushed through the pushes,
lowering the gun to her chest.  "What do you mean you 'selected' her?"

Diana shrugged.  "As your partner, of course.  There were a number of
possible candidates, but I thought she would be the best match."  Her
eyes narrowed slightly.  "It seems that I was right.  Tell me,
Fox...does she like to be tied up, too?"

"Why, you goddamn..."

"Oh, please," she said, cutting him off with disdain.  "You knew what
she was from the start.  You told me so yourself.  I still have the
letter you wrote to me expressing your 'deep concern' that you were
getting a partner who would try to curtail your work."

"Turns out I was a bit too late," he growled.  "And your plans went all
to hell...Scully wouldn't do the work you'd laid out for her."

"I didn't much care," she answered lightly.  "I was busy elsewhere at
that time.  It's only recently that I've had to face the consequences
of my unfortunate selection."

Well, make no mistake about it, he thought bitterly.  You're facing
them now.  "Did you have anything to do with what happened to her?  Did
you steal her memory?"

"No."  Her mouth formed a twisted smile.  "I merely applauded from the
sidelines."

His arm moved without volition, striking her across the face with the
gun handle.  She cried out in pain and clutched her cheek.  "Who,
then?" he breathed harshly, closing in on her.  "Who took the chip?"

She looked at him sullenly.  "I think you know."

Yes.  Deep inside he had always known.  "Spender."

Something like greed flickered in her eyes.  "He's here, too.  Why
settle for me when you can add his scalp to your belt?"

"I'll take you both," Mulder answered shortly.  "Where is he?"  She did
not answer. He grabbed her roughly with his free hand and once again
shoved the gun to her temple. "I said, WHERE THE HELL IS HE?"

She laughed, a short sound laced with hysteria.  "It's too late," she
murmured.  "He's been tailing Skinner."

"Tailing him why?" Again, she did not reply, and Mulder shook her until
her teeth rattled.  "WHY?"

"Because Skinner has the chip!" she managed, huffing in his grasp.  She
glared at him with barely contained contempt.  "And I'll give you one
guess where he's going with it."

Mulder dropped his hands instantly.  "Scully..."

"Too late," Diana said again, and in a flash he was running toward the
car, dragging her roughly behind him.

************************

Scully watched out the window as Marion and Lucie readied the backpacks
for them to take into the mountains.  Occasionally she would glance
back at the two young women and marvel at their flawless rhythm as they
navigated around the kitchen without ever bumping into one another.
Whereas Lucie was jittery with nervous excitement, and Marion was just
nervous.  She seemed determined to prove her love in food, loading
Lucie down with bottled water, trail mix and thick turkey sandwiches.

Eventually Lucie chuckled and hugged her lover tightly from behind.
"Ca va, Mari!  Enough.  I can't carry more than 40 kilos."

Scully smiled softly and turned back to the window, thinking how like
Mulder Lucie was--wary with most people, but fiercely loving with those
close to her.  How wonderful it was that they had found each other
after all this time.

Just then, a car rolled slowly up the gravel driveway.  "Stay here,"
she instructed Lucie and Marion.  "I'll be right back."  She pushed
through the screen door and onto the front stoop.  A well-dressed man
got out of the car, looking tense and weary.  He squinted at her from
behind wire-rimmed glasses.

"Scully," he said, his eyes flicking over her once.  "How are you?"

She thought she detected a hint of real concern in his voice.  Perhaps
they had been friends as well as colleagues.  "I'm fine," she replied,
wishing that she had some memory to match with his face.  Some unnamed
force crackled in the air between them, different from what she had
felt with Mulder, but no less charged.

He nodded to the back.  "Let's talk over there.  It's less open."

She appreciated his directness and the economy of his words.  Whatever
he wanted to talk to her about, there would be no bullshit.  They
tramped over the soft grass until they reached the small woods at the
edge of the property.  When Skinner ducked in among the trees, she
glanced over her shoulder and followed.  "What is it?" she asked when
they stopped on a bed of dried pine needles in a small, round clearing.

He looked at her closely through his round lenses.  "Is it true?" he
asked quietly.  "You really remember nothing?"

"Yes," she replied, and had the urge to add "I'm sorry."  She did not
know why.  "The six years are pretty much all gone."

He nodded grimly and stuck his hand in the pocket of his trench coat.
He withdrew what looked like a small glass vial, which he clenched in
his hand.  She waited for him to explain.  "It's the chip," he said at
last, holding the vile up between his thumb and forefinger.

"From my neck?" she breathed, her eyes wide.  His mouth tightened into
a thin, humorless smile.

"Well, maybe," he conceded, looking away.  "If there's such a thing as
truth in advertising."  Then he held out the vial to her, and she
accepted it wordlessly.

"How did you get this?" she asked as she examined the tiny metallic
chip at the bottom.

His mouth twitched in wry, self-deprecating humor.  "Are you familiar
with Faust?"

A deal with the devil, she realized with alarm, regarding the man in
front of her with serious eyes.  "If you're in trouble," she said,
stepping toward him.  "Maybe we can help."

He took a step back and shook his head tightly.  "No, no.  It's too
late now.  You and Mulder need to concentrate on finding the
notebooks."  He looked intently at her face, seeming as if he wanted to
say something further.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

He sighed, closing his eyes.  "If you remember again..." he said at
length, then broke off and shook his head.

"Sir?"

He looked past her, at the line of trees.  "Never mind," he muttered
finally, waving his hand dismissively.  He glanced around them in the
woods.  "It's probably too late anyway."  He raked her one more time
with his gaze and cleared his throat, "I should be going now."

"Wait," she said, and stilled him with a hand on his elbow.  He glanced
down at her with dark, unreadable eyes.  "Thank you," she whispered
after a moment, squeezing his arm.  "Thank you for doing this."

He ducked his head, as if embarrassed by her display of emotion.  "I've
got to go," he repeated gruffly.  She released his arm, and he had
taken two steps before a gunshot whizzed through the trees and hit him
directly in the chest.  He cried out and clutched at the wound,
staggering further away from her.

"Get down!" she yelled as a second one shot echoed through the woods,
tearing rapid fire through the trees and sending bits of leaves
fluttering to the ground.  The third shot hit him again in the torso,
and he collapsed with a groan.  Breathing hard, Scully lay flat on the
pine needles, her eyes moving quickly from the direction of the shots
to the man groaning in pain six feet away from her.

"Hang on, I'm coming!" she called, crawling over to him with gaze still
on the trees.  The shots seemed to have stopped, and she rose on her
knees to assess the damage.  "It's okay," she said automatically, even
though she could see instantly that he had been gravely injured.  She
cradled his head in her lap and tugged open his coat.  Two red blotches
stood out in stark relief against his white shirt.  "Hang on," she
breathed again, pressing her hands over his wounds.  He moaned,
struggling for breath.

Scully glanced wildly around them for a glimpse of the shooter, but
there was no one to be seen.  A second later, Lucie appeared at the
edge of the clearing, carrying a small silver hand gun.  "What the hell
happened?" she demanded.

"Call an ambulance," Scully ordered in reply.  "And stay inside until
it gets here!"  Lucie hesitated a second, then took off through the
trees, and Scully turned her attention to the man bleeding in front of
her. "Take it easy," she murmured as he tried to move under her touch.
"Lie still." Her palm created red prints on his chest, like a child's
finger painting.

"Scully..."

"Shhh," she said.  "Don't try to talk."  She looked up in futile hope
for the ambulance.  He was losing blood fast.

"No..."  He broke off in a painful grimace.  "You were...you were
right."

"Please," she replied.  "We can talk later."

He continued as if he had not heard her.  "There are some choices
that..."  He gasped.  "...some choices you just can't live with."

"Yes, you can," she said determinedly.  "Just hold on a little longer."

His eyes slipped closed for a moment, his breath now a shaky rattle
that caused spurts of blood to ooze beneath her fingers with every
exhale.  "No..." he said, and his eyes opened, black pools that seemed
to look right through her.  "They cannot hold me now..."  He closed his
eyes once more, going limp under her.  Then all was silent.

Scully bowed her head and drew a shaky breath. He was gone.

"Scully!"

Stricken, she looked up at the sound of Mulder calling her name.
"I...I couldn't stop it," she told him helplessly as he ran toward
her.  "Someone started shooting, and there was nothing I could do."

"Scully," he repeated, rushing over to crouch down next to her.  "Are
you okay?  Are you hurt anywhere?"  When she shook her head, he focused
on the man lying unmoving on her lap, his shirt soaked through with
blood.  "My God," he breathed.  "Scully, what happened?"

"There was a shooter," she managed, lifting a red stained hand to point
into the woods.  "Somewhere over there.  I couldn't see..."  At her
words, he took off running into the trees.  "Mulder, no!" she yelled
after him, but he did not stop.  In the distance, the ambulance siren
wailed loudly.

After a moment, Scully gently eased Skinner's head from her lap and
rose unsteadily to her feet, wondering if she should chase after
Mulder.  She looked around for him in the woods.  It was then she
noticed the tall woman with dark hair standing on the edge of the
clearing, looking as if she might bolt at any moment.

Diana, she realized immediately, and their eyes locked from twenty feet
away.  Scully felt a rising tide of anger.  Mulder be damned, she was
doing this her way, now.  "Don't move," she commanded, raising her gun
until it was even with the woman's chest.  "Or I'll kill you."

At that moment, Mulder returned, winded from his run through the
woods.  "He's gone," he announced flatly.  Joining Scully, he held up a
the remains of a freshly-smoked cigarette.  "But the sonofabitch did
leave his personal calling card."  Scully noted that he did not seem
upset to find her holding a gun on his former lover.  Their talk in the
park must have been particularly eventful.

Lucie reappeared at that moment, this time with Marion and the
paramedics.  Marion blanched at the sight of Skinner lying on the
ground.  "Mon Dieu," she whispered, and turned away.  Lucie glanced
from Mulder to Scully.

"What the fuck is going on?"

"Get some rope," he told her in a hard, even voice.  "And then get the
car.  We have to leave immediately."  Lucie was gone in a flash.

"Mulder, we can't leave him," Scully murmured, glancing back to where
the paramedics were examining Skinner.

"We have no choice."  His tone was still cold with rage, but his eyes
flashed with regret.  "We have to get to the notebooks as soon as
possible."  Diana looked away.

Lucie returned with two lengths of rope, which she handed to Mulder.
Instantly, he jerked Diana against the closest tree.  "Fox!" she
exclaimed in surprise.  "Fox, what the hell are you doing?"

"Hey, there!" called one of the EMTs, alarmed.  He stood to intervene.

"Federal Agent," snapped Mulder, pinning Diana with one arm as he
flashed his badge with the other.

"Mulder, what are you doing?" breathed Scully, fearing he was about to
do something rash.  He ignored her and continued to tie Diana to the
tree.

"That man was my friend," he ground out as he cinched the knots
tightly, "and someone has got to pay."

"But I..." Diana started to protest.  He cut her off by grabbing her
chin with biting fingers.

"You did it," he said, his face pressed right into hers.  "You may have
had help, but you did this just as surely as if you'd pulled the
trigger yourself.  And don't think I won't prove it."

She looked at him with disdain.  "You've got nothing."

He laughed lightly and traced her features once in a twisted imitation
of a lover's caress.  "Not anymore, I don't."  He turned to Marion.
"Tell the police I want her held for questioning in Skinner's death.
She is not to be released from custody under any circumstances."
Marion nodded, still hugging herself around the middle.

Then no one spoke as they watched while paramedics loaded Skinner's
body into the back of the ambulance.  Scully took a step closer to
Mulder, glancing up at him, but his gaze was still focused straight
ahead, his mouth set in a hard line.  She squeezed his forearm gently,
and he startled.  He looked down at her and their eyes held for a long
moment.  Then with a last glance at the ambulance, he repeated, "We've
got to go now.  Before the cops get involved."

Scully nodded and looked down at red smears still coating hands.
Mulder might want to blame Diana and the men who tracked them, but she
couldn't help feel partially responsible for the blood on her hands.
It was for her that he had risked his life.  She swallowed with
difficulty and vowed not to let him have died in vain.  They would find
the notebooks. "Just let me get cleaned up," she said in a hollow
whisper.

They started back toward the house, but Mulder stopped once more in
front of Diana.

"Was it worth it?" he asked, his eyes flicking over her face.  She
turned her head away, refusing to look at him.  He stood for another
minute and then nodded to himself.  "That's what I thought."  Then he
put a hand on Scully's shoulder as they walked away.

He did not look back.

*********************************

From his position down the street, the Smoker watched as the police
cars arrived and the Taurus took off at top speed.  The incident with
Skinner had been regrettable, but necessary.  His actions had to be
punished swiftly or there would soon be others like him, thinking they
could double cross him at their leisure.

Diana would have to learn this lesson as well, he noted as he lit the
end of his cigarette.  But not right now.

Now he had simply to wait until the call arrived revealing the chip's
new location...and thus the location of the notebooks.

Not so badly done after all, my friend, he told the dead man silently
as the ambulance drove past.  Not so badly done at all.

********************************
End chapter eleven.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Twelve
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was chilly in the mountains, especially since the sun had
long since disappeared over the horizon.  The pink sky had
faded to an inky gray, signaling the onset of twilight. The
three hikers navigated the steep trail slowly, since it was
rocky and slippery from the recent rains. Lucie was in the
lead, and Mulder followed close behind.  With her shorter
legs, Scully had to work harder to keep up with the siblings
as they climbed the side of the mountain with facile grace.

Her fingers were raw and cold, but still she was sweating
with exertion under her black Gortex pullover.  Her side
twinged with pain at every movement, and she wondered if it
might be possible to sneak a couple of Tylenol without
putting Mulder on full alert.  The last thing she needed now
was to have him coddle her.  Or worse yet, decide to leave
her behind.

Just then Lucie came to an abrupt halt.  "The official trail
goes here to the left," she said, pointing, "but the lab is
up father and over to the right. We're going to have to
break off from the path."

"Can we make it before it gets totally dark?" Mulder asked.

Scully saw her shake her head in the dim light.  "No way.
It's another five hour's hike from here at least."

Mulder looked up at the sky through the leafy branches.
"We've got maybe another half an hour before it's completely
black," he said.  "Then I guess we'll have to camp until
dawn."  He turned back to face Scully, looming dark and
taller than usual due to the slope of the trail.  "How are
you holding up?" he asked, his voice businesslike but his
eyes kind. She knew then she had not been fooling him with
her silence.

"I'm fine," she replied, and tried to smile reassuringly. It
came out as more of a grimace.

He stared at her hard in the gray light and then handed her
his water bottle. "Take the pills, Scully, okay?"

Her eyes flickered over him once, and she accepted the
bottle wordlessly.  The cool water tickled her tongue with
minerals, but it was vastly refreshing. She handed it back
in silent thanks.   A few minutes later, they were on their
way again, moving even slower now that they had to navigate
through thick, prickling brushes and low hanging branches.

After perhaps another forty minutes, the natural light had
vanished, so they used Maglights to try to determine a good
place to set up camp for the night. When the tent had
pitched, they sat cross-legged on their sleeping bags and
devoured the simple supper Marion had sent along.

"So I don't understand one thing," Lucie said between bites
of turkey sandwich, and Scully thought she was doing pretty
well if there was just the one thing.  "If our father
thought giving Samantha up for testing would save her,"
Lucie continued, "why didn't he give you away, too?"

Scully glanced at Mulder's face, where it was shadowed in
the lantern light. His eyes flashed with an unreadable
emotion.  "It was supposed to have been me," he said after a
long moment.  "He changed his mind."

"Oh," murmured Lucie, looking at him sympathetically. Then
she flushed.  "I'm sorry about all the questions...I
shouldn't pry."

"No, it's all right," Mulder assured her swiftly, grabbing
her hand in a squeeze.  "You have a right to know."  She
ducked her head in response.

"I thought you said that your father changed his mind about
the whole thing," Scully said after minute.  "That was why
Samantha was abducted from your house, right?"

He blew a long breath and nodded.  "I guess now we know
*why* he changed his mind...he had the vaccine."

They finished their meal in silence then, each lost in
private thought. Later, when the lights were out and they
were tucked inside their sleeping bags, Scully learned what
Mulder had been thinking.

"Hey," he murmured, reaching out to touch her face.  "Are
you awake?"

"Mmm-hmm."  She did not tell him that every time she closed
her eyes, she saw Skinner's white face and bloody shirt.
"What is it?"

He inched a little closer to her, and she obliged him by
doing the same.  His voice was an intimate whisper on her
face.  "Scully, I was thinking..."  He broke off and
squeezed her hand tightly.  She returned the welcome
pressure.

"What?"

"My father was away so much after Samantha was gone," he
said after a long pause.  "When I was younger, I thought it
was because of me...that he couldn't stand to look at me
after I let Samantha be taken."

Her heart clenched at his words, which were laced with
childhood pain.  "Oh, Mulder..."

"Shh..." He broke in, leaning over to rub noses with her.
"It's okay now." She closed her eyes and nodded, breathing
in his now familiar scent.  He brushed her lips gently and
then pulled away just a bit. She opened her eyes.

"Go on."

He sighed.  "Well then for the past few years, I thought he
was away because he couldn't stand to look at me and my mom
because *he* had let Samantha be taken."

"And now?"

"Now...now I wonder if maybe he could have been searching
for her, too...all that time."  He squeezed her hand again.
"Do you think it's possible?"

She considered for a moment.  "I think it's very possible,"
she told him softly, cupping his stubbly cheek in her palm.
He covered it with his own and leaned his forehead against
hers.

"I love you," he murmured low in his throat.  She swallowed
convulsively and pressed closer.

"I know."  Hot tears formed behind her eyelids.  "I...I.."
Her breathing was shaky, and she just could not form the
words.  They would not come no matter how hard she willed
it..

"Shhh," he said after a moment, gently but sadly.  "It's
okay."

She nodded, sniffling against him, but knew very well that
it was not okay. What the hell was wrong with her, anyway,
that she couldn't give him this one, simple thing?  After a
minute, he moved away to lie on his back once more.

"Good night, Scully."

"Good night," she answered hollowly.  It was a long time
before she slept.

********************************

It was not difficult to find Spender.  When the old man had
first come sniffing around his father's tech company in
Tokyo, looking for money and the very latest in tracking
devices, Yushi had obliged him with a smile and some of the
newer equipment in development.

New, yes.  But not the newest.  Those particular gadgets he
had saved for himself.

So although Spender had enough wits about him to scramble
the calls from his cell phone, it was a trivial matter to
detangle the codes and track him down, especially given that
he was already known to be in Montreal.  However, the
purpose of his visit was rather confusing to Yushi.

He had been watching the old man surreptitiously for over an
hour, but he just sat in his car smoking.  At first, Yushi
had thought perhaps he was following Mulder and Scully, but
that did not seem to be the case. He was not watching any of
the nearby houses with any degree of interest. What the
hell? scowled Yushi to himself.

This sitting around with his thumb up his ass did not appeal
to him in the least.  The notebooks were out there
someplace, and he wanted them.  Now.

He was about to go confront the old man about what he knew,
when the subject of his surveillance received another phone
call.  This time when he hung up, the Smoker extinguished
his latest cigarette and started his car.  Very interesting.

Yushi followed the black sedan at a safe distance as they
headed north on route one thirty two.  Someone had sure lit
a fire under the old man's ass, he thought as noted the
speedometer climbing past eighty miles per hour.  After
several hours on the highway, a distant name teased the
edges of his brain. There had been a research center around
this area, hadn't there?

Liberty Labs.  Of course.

He smiled in the darkness and took the next exit, feeling
magnanimous enough to signal as he did so.  By the time the
old man figured out what had happened, it would be too late.

******************************
Scully awoke with a start, disoriented at first by the total
blackness inside the tent.  The air was warm and close, and
she could hear Mulder's deep breathing beside her, almost
but not quite snoring.  His hand rested on her sleeping bag,
directly over her hip.  She smiled fondly and closed her
eyes again, intent on getting some more sleep.

But the noises of the woods seemed magnified in the dark,
each rustling sending thoughts of wild animals racing
through her brain. Or worse, there were cracks of branches
that might have been footsteps of a human nature.  Her eyes
sprang open.

There was definitely something wrong.

But the problem was that the noises were too few, not too
many...only two people breathed inside the tent.   With a
jerk, she twisted to her left.  No Lucie.

At that point, the wind blew, causing the flaps of the tent
to slap open with the breeze, and Scully shivered.  It had
been closed up tight when they had gone to sleep.

Shit.  She sat up in her sleeping bag, her heart pounding as
she tried to decide whether to wake Mulder.  She felt around
at the edge of the tent for Lucie's boots, but couldn't find
them.  Deciding to investigate further, she silently slipped
on her own shoes and pulled a jacket over her head.
Flashlight in hand, she exited the tent into the cool night
air.

The clean scent of the forest tickled her nose with a blend
of wet dirt and pine needles.  And something else...smoke?
Her heart stopped completely as she saw the glowing tip of
the cigarette twenty feet away. It moved, as if drawn to a
person's lips.

Scully hesitated only a moment before shining her flashlight
directly on the smoker's face.

"Hey!" Lucie called out, squinting back at her.  "It's just
me."

With enormous relief, Scully made her way over to where
Lucie stood at the edge of a small stream.  "What are you
doing out here, Lucie?  It's not safe."

Lucie looked amused.  "You think I'm safer inside a plastic
tent?" she asked, and Scully had to concede she had a point.

"I didn't realize you smoked," she said after a moment.

Lucie blew out a delicate exhale.  "I don't.  Not really."
She glanced once at Scully.  "Marion made me quit a while
ago, but she lets me keep one...just in case of emergency."
She drew another puff and smiled weakly.  "I figure this
qualifies."

Scully answered her smile and dropped her chin to her chest.
"That it does," she agreed.  Then she tilted her head at the
younger woman.  "Couldn't sleep, huh?"

"Naw, I'm way too wired," Lucie replied with a shiver. "This
has been some kind of day."  She paused.  "Sorry if I
worried you by sneaking out here."

"It's okay," Scully said lightly.  She smiled.  "You're just
lucky I found you and not Mulder.  He would have had a fit."

"Mmmm," Lucie said, appearing troubled all of a sudden. "I
don't know."

The comment had not really seemed directed at her, but
Scully answered it anyway.  "Don't know what?" she asked
softly.

Lucie shrugged.  "He called me Samantha on the way up here."

Oh.  Scully hesitated, trying to think of what to say.
"He'll get better, Lucie.  It's just going to take some
time...for both of you."

"Yeah," Lucie said, but she did not sound convinced.  She
dropped the butt and crushed it out with her shoe.  "I'm
just afraid..." she said slowly, then stopped abruptly.
Scully waited patiently.  Finally, Lucie continued in a
halting voice.   "The girl with pigtails in his picture...I
was never that way.  No dresses or shit like that.  I played
hockey in the street, not Barbies in the sandbox."  She
looked away.  "What if I only end up disappointing him?"

Scully's throat closed off with emotion and she nodded.
"I've had the same feeling myself," she whispered to Lucie.
"If that helps any."

Lucie looked her, plainly shocked.  "You?  That's
ridiculous!  He's crazy for you, it's so obvious."

Scully shook her head slightly, angry that the tears had
returned again.  "He loves someone I can't remember," she
murmured thickly.  "I don't know how to feel about that."

"I'm sorry."  Lucie's tone was soft.  "I forgot."

Her words struck Scully as suddenly funny and she gave a
watery chuckle.  "Me, too," she said, "that's the problem."
Lucie laughed with her then, and they smiled at each other
in the glow of the flashlight.  For some reason it made
Scully feel a lot better.  "I'm going to head back to the
tent," she said. "You coming?"

Lucie nodded and followed her back through the trees. Once
safely back inside her sleeping bag, Scully settled in to
sleep immediately. She was about to drift off when she felt
a warm, feminine hand close over hers and squeeze tight.

Thank you, it said.

She squeezed back.  You're welcome.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Thirteen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder blinked sleepily at the dark green ceiling of the
tent and scrunched further down into the warm of his
sleeping bag.  Outside, a hundred species of birds held
their morning concert.  He withdrew his hand and felt around
for his watch.  It was almost six a.m.  Raising his head
from the ground a few inches, he looked over at Scully, who
was still sleeping soundly.  There were dark circles under
her eyes, so he decided to let her rest a bit longer and sat
up quietly to dress.

Lucie was apparently already up.  Her sleeping bag was gone
and so were her clothes.  Mulder pulled on his jeans and
drew a navy blue Henley over his tee-shirt.  Slipping on his
hiking boots, he went in search of his sister.

She was kneeling by the stream, washing her face with the
cool water. "Morning," he greeted her.  She toweled her face
dry and rose to her feet.

"Morning," she returned, looking him over from head to toe.
The inspection seemed to go on just a little too long.

"What?" asked Mulder, peering at down self-consciously.

"I was just wondering," she said slowly, "how I could be
related to someone who dresses like an advertisement for J.
Crew."

Mulder looked up sharply and realized by the light in her
eyes that she was teasing him.  Amazing.  "Remind me to go
shopping with you at the Salvation Army next time," he
returned, chuffing her head affectionately.  She grinned and
pulled away.

"We should get going soon," she said, turning serious.
"There's still at least four hours left to go."

He nodded and moved toward the tent.  "I'll just go wake
Scully."

"Wait!" she blurted, and he stopped, looking at her with a
puzzled frown.

"What is it?"

She bit her lip.  "Uh...it's just...oh, hell."  She scowled
at her own hesitancy.

"Lucie?"

"I don't know what to call you," she said in a rush.  "I
mean, she calls you 'Mulder,' but..."  She broke off, then
tried again.  "What did Samantha call you?"

A smile twitched at his lips.  "Butt Munch," he replied
succinctly.  Lucie blinked in surprise, and he smiled all
the way back to the tent.

***************************

He was waiting for them when they reached the lab.  Once the
technician at the Project headquarters had told him the chip
was settled inside Parc Gaspesie, he had guessed the
location of the research center immediately.  What a fool he
had been for not making the connection sooner.

But no matter.  It was all going to be over in a few more
minutes anyway.

He watched with interest as they navigated the high, chain
linked fence.  Who the hell was this third woman?  He
withdrew his binoculars for a closer look. When she finally
turned her face toward him, he gasped aloud.  It could not
be.  There was simply no way she could have escaped the
compound without his notice.  He looked again.

Tracking her movements across the open field toward the
white brick building, he realized his mistake.  This was a
totally different woman.  Younger and a bit taller, but the
resemblance to the other was uncanny. God damn, he thought,
there's another one...how incredible.

Bill, you fucker, what else were you keeping from us all
these years?

Then he smiled, a new plan forming in the back of his mind.
It was perfect.

******************************

Liberty Labs had been abandoned for a long time, but Lucie
was surprised to see it in such disrepair.  "When I was here
three years ago, the fence was wired with electricity and
there were at least two guards outside the building."  Now
there were only waist-high weeds. Paint was peeling off the
bricks, and several of the windows had been broken.

"Well, whatever was going on here, it's been terminated,"
Mulder said grimly. He stood on tip-toe to peer inside one
darkened window. "I can't really see much of anything."

"What does the map say?" Scully asked before taking a swig
from her water bottle.  Mulder pulled out the photograph
that they had carefully taped back together.

"If that's north," he said pointing, "then we're supposed to
start from the south side of the building."

Lucie shaded her eyes and scanned the woods from which they
had emerged.  "Do you think we've been followed?" she asked.

Scully paled suddenly at the words.  "Oh my God," she
breathed.  "I didn't think..."

"What?"  Mulder turned to her sharply.  "What is it?"

She closed her eyes and withdrew the small glass vial from
her pocket.  "The chip," she whispered.  "They could be
tracking us easily with this."

"Fuck," he muttered, summing up her feelings on the issue as
well.  He ran a hand through his hair and squinted at the
distant trees. "We're just going to have to move quickly, I
guess, and be very careful."  He looked at Lucie. "You stay
close, understand?"  She nodded and began to follow him
around to the back of the building.

"Mulder."  Scully was still rooted to the spot, the vial in
her hand.  He turned back to face her.

"What?"

She swallowed hard. "Maybe...maybe I should leave it here,
or throw it off the mountain.  Maybe that would be safer."

His eyes went wide, and he moved through the tall grass to
stand in front of her.  "Scully, no," he told her urgently,
grabbing her shoulders.  "You can't leave it here.  It's
your only chance at getting the memories back."

She licked her lips.  "We don't know that," she said
carefully.  "We don't know for sure this is the chip, and
there is certainly no guarantee that if we put it back in my
neck that the memories would automatically return."

"But without it, there is no hope at all," he argued.

She nodded.  "I realize that.  But it might not be worth the
risk just to find out."

"No."  He was insistent.  "You have got to hang on to it.
We're just going to have to be very careful not to be
followed, okay?"

"Okay," she relented finally.  She stuck the vial back in
her pocket, but imagined she could feel it burning through
the material to her skin.  They moved silently around to the
back of the building to find the starting point of the map.

"It starts there," Mulder said a few minutes later,
indicating a boulder about thirty feet from the back
entrance.  He led the way past the giant rock and back to
the woods once more.  Scully stopped on the edge to look
back over her shoulder, but there was no one to be seen.

She followed him into the trees.

******************************

Half an hour later, Mulder stopped in front of a narrow
opening in the rock. "This should be the place," he said,
his stomach twisting with anticipation. He took out his
flashlight and went inside.

The cave was actually quite sizable, despite the tiny
entrance.  It was dark and damp, with moss growing
everywhere.  The air was musty and stale.  "Spread out and
look around," he suggested to the women.

"What are we looking for?" Lucie asked as they criss-crossed
beams of light around the cave.

"Damned if I know," he answered.  "But we'll know it when we
see it."  He began feeling the walls with his fingers.  The
spongy moss did not seem to be concealing any hidden
passageway.  Five feet down, Scully was conducting a similar
examination.  "Anything?" he asked after a bit.

She shook her head.  "No, it's just rock under here."

"Maybe it's on the outside," Lucie suggested and headed for
the door.  Mulder consulted the map again as she left.

"No," he said to Scully.  "See here?  I'm pretty sure we're
supposed to be looking *inside* this rock."

"What about the ceiling?" Scully asked, looking up.  "We
haven't checked there."  They both trained their flashlights
on the low hanging roof of the cave.  Sure enough, in the
back there was a small metal door inserted in the ceiling.

"Hold this," Mulder said, handing his light to Scully. She
held it steady on the door as he reached up for the tiny
handle.  It took two tries, but finally he pulled it open.
A metal strong box came tumbling to the ground.  "Shit!" he
exclaimed, jumping out of the way.

Their eyes met over the box.  "Do you think they're inside?"
she breathed.

"Only one way to find out," he answered over the pounding of
his heart.  With a deep breath, he attempted to open the
lid.  "It's locked," he said through gritted teeth,
straining to pry it open.

"Stand back."

He put the box on the dirt and moved out of the way, at
which point she shot off the front clasp.  They shared
another significant look, and he bent to pick up the box
with unsteady hands.  He pulled back the cover.  Then he
closed his eyes.

"Well?" Scully asked when he did not say anything.  "What is
it?"

For an answer, he turned the box over.  Ashes fell out and
landed in a dirty pile at their feet.  "It's nothing," he
said bitterly. "We've risked our lives for a bunch of
goddamn ashes."  He felt like the world's biggest dupe.

"You think someone got here first and burned the notebooks?"
Scully was watching him with worried eyes, as if he might
finally go insane right there on the spot.

"How the fuck should I know?" he snapped, throwing the box
against the cave wall.  It clattered to the ground.

"It doesn't make any sense," Scully murmured to herself as
she knelt to examine the ashes.  "Why would anyone burn the
notes and then put the box back?"

Mulder was not really listening.  He was still too angry to
process much beyond the fact that he had failed.  Again.  He
kicked the wall.  "God damn it!"

"Mulder," Scully said, and this time something in her voice
made him turn to look at her.

"What?" he growled.

She glanced at the mouth of the cave.  "Where did Lucie go?"

The four simple words were enough to evaporate all his anger
and send chilling fear racing through his veins.  "My God,"
he breathed and ran for the door. Scully was close on his
heels.

Outside in the light, his stomach experienced a wrenching
sort of deja vu. Not far away stood Lucie, and behind her
was the Smoker.

He wore a small smile and held a very large gun.  Mulder
froze.

"I'm sorry," Lucie said softly.  "I was stupid."  The Smoker
wrenched her arm more tightly.

"Shut up."

"Leave her alone!" Mulder hollered, starting toward them.

"Ah-ah," cautioned the Smoker, and placed the gun squarely
at Lucie's temple. "One more step and she dies."

Mulder stopped in his tracks, breathing hard with the force
of his anger. "Let her go," he commanded in a tone cold as
ice.  "This is between you and me."

The Smoker's mouth curved in a ghost of a smile. "Actually,
it's between me and your father," he corrected.  "You just
happened to get caught in the middle."

"Let her go," repeated Mulder.  "Or I will kill you."

"Indeed I have no doubt of it."  The man's eyes narrowed.
"But only after I have put a bullet through the young lady's
head."  He jerked her arm again, and Lucie winced.  "You
wouldn't want to part with yet another sister, would you
Fox?"

Mulder seethed inside.  "What the fuck do you want?"

"Put down your weapons," he instructed coldly.  "Slowly."
After a moment's hesitation, both Mulder and Scully complied
with his wishes.  "Excellent.  Now kick them over there."
He nodded off to the right.

"Now what?" Mulder growled when they had done as he asked.

"Now I want the notebooks, of course," said the Smoker
smoothly.  Mulder answered with a dry laugh.  He had not
been the only one fooled.

"You're out of luck," he told the man.  "There are no
notebooks."  He saw a flicker of doubt cross the Smoker's
face before it settled once again into an icy mask.

"It will do you no good to lie now," he said.  "I will have
the notebooks one way or the other."

"He's telling you the truth," Scully argued from behind
Mulder's shoulder. "There weren't any notebooks in the cave.
If they were ever there at all, they've been burnt to
ashes."

"That's ridiculous!" snapped the Smoker, nearly twisting
Lucie's arm off as he spoke.  "Who would burn them?"

"Probably one of your back-stabbing friends," Mulder said
angrily.  "Or maybe it was my father who burned them, just
to ensure that they would never fall into your hands."

The Smoker wavered.  "I don't believe this nonsense.  Why
would Bill destroy everything he worked so hard to gain?"

Mulder gestured toward the mouth of the cave.  "See for
yourself," he invited. "There's nothing there."

For a long minute, the Smoker did nothing but glance from
Mulder's face to cave's entrance.  At last, his mouth
tightened and his eyes narrowed.  "Very well, then.  It
seems as though the latitude we have allowed you over the
years has been for nothing." He paused and looked down at
the young woman twisting in his hold.  "But you must
understand," he continued, "when I came here, it was to end
our association once and for all.  I'd hoped it would be a
peaceful parting...a reward, if you will, for a job well
done."

Mulder's gut convulsed as he realized the direction the
conversation was heading.  The Smoker's hand was trembling
on the gun, and Mulder watched riveted and unable to move.
Inside his mind, there was a never-ending stream of repeated
words: notagainnotagainnotagainnotagainnotagainnotagain

He quivered.

"Unfortunately for you," the Smoker went on in his hatefully
calm voice, "it's not going to work out that way."  He
leaned around to speak directly to Lucie. "Say good-bye to
your brother."

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" screamed Mulder at the same instant Lucie
brought her boot down hard on the Smoker's foot.  He cried
out and she yanked free.

"Lucie!" Scully called, waving her over, and Mulder rushed
at the Smoker.  He tackled him so forcefully that the two
men tumbled to the ground, rolling around on the smooth rock
with the gun trapped between them.

"You sonofabitch," snarled Mulder as they struggled. Scully
went for her gun. The men grunted and rolled closer to the
edge.

"Watch out!" screamed Lucie, but they went right on
fighting.  Scully retrieved her weapon and hurried back to
the clearing. She was just an instant too late.

The gun went off and Mulder cried out, jerking in pain and
surprise, as he continued to kick against his opponent.
With a grunt, the Smoker lost his balance and tumbled over
rocky edge of the cliff, screaming as he plunged down the
mountain side.

"Mulder!" cried Scully, rushing over to him.  He lay on his
back, panting toward the sky.  "Mulder, are you okay?  Oh,
my God."

"Help him," pleaded Lucie, hovering over them. "Please...
you've got to do something!"

"Lucie, go get help," Scully ordered, already applying
pressure to Mulder's wound.  "Try to get the cell phone to
work and call in our position."  Lucie nodded through her
tears and sprinted into the woods like a deer.

Mulder moaned on the ground, trying to clutch at his chest.
Scully batted his hand away.  "Stop that," she scolded him,
pressing against his chest with the heel of her palm.

"Scully..." he groaned.  "Where am I hit?"

"Just above your heart," she replied quietly.  "Now stay
still."

He closed his eyes, pain crushing his chest.  "Lucie's
okay?" he asked in a slightly slurred voice.

"Lucie's fine," she answered, brushing his hair off his face
with tender, shaking fingers.  "She went to go get help."

"Mmmm...thasgood."  It felt like the inside of his chest was
on fire, but he struggled to open his eyes.  If these were
going to be his last moments on earth, he wanted to spend
them looking at Scully.  God, she was beautiful. Even when
she was crying, like now.  He tried to summon the strength
to touch her face.

"Scully donecry," he murmured, wiping her cheeks with his
thumb.

"I'm not," she lied, trying to smile for him.  It was
glorious.  "Now stop talking and save your strength."

He blinked slowly, and a thought occurred to him.  "Hey,
Scully...I win."  She looked concerned, like maybe he had
lost touch with reality.  "Three times," he explained,
gesturing weakly toward his chest.  "Ima winner."

She smiled weakly, but still looked pained.  "Yes, Mulder,
you win.  Can we call off the contest now?"

"Deal," he told her solemnly.  Then he shuddered.  "Iss cold
up here, Scully."

"No Mulder," she whispered.  "You're probably just going
into shock."  She shifted so that his torso was supported on
her knees, her small, strong hands still trying to hold the
life inside him.  His eyes slipped shut again.

"Wish the notebooks were real," he managed.  "Wouldabeen
great."

"Shh, Mulder.  Please."

He nodded and lapsed into silence.  Anything to make her
happy.  Love you Scully, he thought dizzily.  Love you so
much.  Be happy, okay?

Just then a black chopper sounded overhead.  He made a last
effort to pry his eyes open.  "Help?"

"Thank God," breathed Scully, her thighs shaking with relief
under his head. The chopper drew nearer and nearer, until it
set down in the clearing on the other side of the cave.
Mulder squinted against the strong wind from the revolving
blades.  Maybe he was going to live after all.

Then a slim Japanese man appeared around the bend, dressed
in a neat, gray suit and carrying what looked like an
penlight.  He felt Scully tense, and shared her fear.  This
man was not a medic.

"Where are the notebooks?" he said when he reached them.

"Not this again," muttered Mulder, and Scully pressed more
tightly on his chest.

"There are no notebooks," she said angrily.  "They were
burned."

"You're lying," snapped the man, his eyes narrowed.  "Does
Spender have them?"

"Spender went over the cliff," Scully told him with a jerk
of her head.  She trembled again.  "Please, there aren't any
notebooks...can't you just help us? This man needs immediate
medical attention."

He gave a short laugh.  "Tell me where the notebooks are,
and I'll think about it."

"Fuck you," Mulder managed, panting in pain.  "Fuck you and
the notebooks."

The man scowled and pointed his pen-like device at them like
it was a laser. "I'm asking you one more time...where are
the notebooks?"

"Are you deaf?" cried Scully.  "There are no goddamn
notebooks!  They were NEVER HERE!"  A second later, Mulder
was hit by a crackling beam of electricity.  He convulsed
under its force as it traveled through him and into Scully.
When it was over, he tasted blood in his mouth.

Scully was shaking hard now, her hands unsteady on his
chest. "Please...I'm telling you, there weren't any
notebooks!"  The man raised his weapon again.

"I don't believe you," he stated flatly, and a second bolt
went charging through them.  Mulder nearly passed out.  Only
his fear for Scully was keeping him conscious at this point.

"Stop," he breathed hoarsely.  "Leaver 'lone."

"Give me the notes," the Japanese man sneered.  "And then
I'll be on my way." There was a pause, then he made as if to
zap them once more.

"Wait!" cried Scully suddenly.  "Here..."  He felt her
moving around behind him.  "There were no notebooks, okay?
We only found this."  With Herculean effort, he managed to
open his eyes to slits, enough to see her stretching out the
vial with the chip at the bottom.

"Scully, no."

Her voice shook as she said, "It's the only way, Mulder. We
have to give it to him.  We have to give him the notes."

The man accepted the vial and studied it closely.  "This is
what the map directed you to?" he demanded suspiciously.

"Yes, that's all we found in the cave.  There were no
notebooks."  She had gone rigid behind him, and Mulder
fought the encroaching darkness as he struggled to stop her.


"Scully, don't...don't do this."

She answered him with determined silence.  The Japanese man
nodded finally and pocketed the chip.  "This makes more
sense than a bunch of paper anyway," he announced with a
satisfied little smile.  "So long."  He glanced once to
where Mulder was shivering from shock and smiled thinly.
"And good luck." Mulder blinked slowly, and when he opened
his eyes again, the man was gone.  In another minute, the
chopper lifted from the ground and disappeared over the
trees.

Mulder huffed against the pain.  "Scully..." he said, his
voice reproachful. "Shouldna done that.  No memory now."

"Stop it," she said, clearly crying hard.  "It's okay.  I
know everything I need to know."  She brought her face right
down to his. After everything they had been through, she
still smelled sweet.  "It doesn't matter."

He tried to argue some more that she should not have
sacrificed her only chance at the lost memories, but his
mouth did not seem to work anymore.  The darkness
overwhelmed him in a wave, crushing him tight, then set him
free.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Fourteen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To Scully, the clock on the wall seemed to be ticking out a message
with every passing second.  Wake. Up. Wake. Up.

But Mulder did not hear it.  He had been unconscious for nearly two
days, having passed out right before their rescue by Lucie and the real
medical alert chopper.  He was breathing on his own, which was a
hopeful sign, but he had not moved a muscle since his arrival at St.
Sebastian's hospital.

Scully fought her own body's demands for sleep by pacing the brown
speckled floor of his small room.  Sometimes Lucie joined her, sitting
in the uncomfortable wooden chair and chewing her nails as she watching
the rise and fall of Mulder's chest with worried eyes.  Other times she
had the sterile white room to herself, as Lucie would go back into the
waiting room to sit with Marion for a while.

It was terrible of her, she knew, but Scully found it difficult to talk
to the other two women right now.  If Mulder died, they would at least
still have each other.  She chided herself harshly for the selfish and
unkind thoughts--Lucie clearly wanted Mulder to recover as much as she
did--but she could not bring her feelings for Mulder under the umbrella
of reason.  Logic just did not apply.

With a tired sigh, she walked slowly to the edge of his bed and studied
his face, searching for any sign that he might be waking up.  Nothing.

She took his cool, limp hand and rubbed it gently between hers to try
to imbue him with warmth, with life.  "Mulder," she whispered, "I need
you to wake up now.  There are so many things I have to tell you."  She
squeezed his hand, but there was no return pressure.  "Please,
Mulder."  Her voice was low and urgent.  "I know it's hard, and I
wouldn't ask you if it weren't so very important...please wake up."

He did not stir at her words, and she blinked back tears of
frustration.  She thought of what she had realized on the mountain, as
his blood had oozed warm and wet over her fingers.  It had been only a
gut feeling then, but now she had proof.  How horrible it would be if
he died without knowing the truth.  She leaned closer, lecturing him in
a breathless voice.

"Mulder, if you die now, it will have been for nothing.  Do you hear
me?  We will have struggled for nothing!"  His silence weighed on her
like a stone slab.  After another tense moment, she drew a shaky breath
and patted his hand.  "Okay, Mulder...you think about it, all right?
Just don't take too long."  She smoothed his hair off his brow with
gentle fingers, and then went into the small adjoining bathroom

She did not want him to hear her crying.

Covering her face with her hands, she leaned back against the closed
door and slid slowly down to the floor, crouched as the hot tears
trickled over her fingers.  What good was a medical degree if it didn't
let you save the person you loved the most?

She wept brokenly for long minutes, until her cheeks were hot and her
eyes were swollen.  She reached over and pulled off a length of toilet
tissue and used it to blow her nose.  Rising unsteadily to her feet,
she took several deep, jagged inhales to try to even out her
breathing.  The neurologist was going to be by to see Mulder any
minute, and she had a dozen new questions to ask.

Wearily, she turned the knob and walked back into the quiet, white room
where Mulder lay.  He was blinking at the ceiling.  "Mulder?"  She
raced over to his side, and he turned his gaze on her.  "Mulder!" she
cried, not bothering to hide her joy.   She gripped his hand tightly,
still smiling down at him. "Thank God you're okay."

"Scu-lee," he managed to croak out, weakly smiling back at her.

"You want some water?" she asked, reaching for the plastic cup on his
night stand.  He nodded a bit, and she helped him raise his head enough
to take a few sips through the straw.  "More?"  He declined, his head
falling back on the pillow.  She stroked his hair.  "I should get the
doctor," she murmured, and started for the door.  His hand stopped her.

"Scu-lee," he breathed with effort.  "Scully, didjoomeanit?  Know
everything that matters?"

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.  "Yes," she whispered
hoarsely, bending over to kiss his forehead.  "I meant it."  It wasn't
"I love you."  Not yet.  But she trusted he understood her meaning.

He smiled and closed his eyes.  "Scully," was all he said, and she
smiled.  She kissed him one last time before going outside to spread
the good news.

Lucie's shout was heard all the way in the next wing.

********************************

Scully wanted to tell him something.

Last night he had fallen asleep before he could ask her about it, but
he had known even then that she had something to say.  It was written
all over her face.  "Tell me," he'd wanted to order her yesterday, but
after Lucie and the doctors, he had been completely sapped of
strength.  He had managed to say about three words to his sister before
passing out again for another eighteen hours.

Getting shot just isn't what it used to be, he thought wryly as a
freckled nurse changed the bandage on his chest.  Scully was
supervising with a watchful eye.

He tried to reassure her mentally that he was ready to listen.  I'm
going to stay awake this time, he willed to her across the bed rail.  I
want you to tell me, whatever it is.

He glanced up at her face to see if she had received the message.  She
was studying his bullet wound.  "You're lucky it's not infected," she
commented in her best Dr. Scully manner.  He would have sighed, if it
didn't hurt so damn much.  Their telepathy was apparently not working
that day.

"Done now," he told the nurse, practicing his out-loud words so that
when she *finally* left he could talk to Scully.  The nurse just
snorted and continued fussing at his chest.

"Behave," Scully ordered gently, and gave him the eyebrow treatment.
He smiled cheekily and held out his hand to her.  If he had to lie
sunny-side-up while a complete stranger sponged down his chest, at
least he could finagle a little hand-holding action while he waited.

Scully slipped her small, warm hand in his.  Much better.  He squeezed
and she smiled, squeezing back.  Tell me you love me again, he
commanded her mentally, trying out the telepathy one more time.  She
didn't answer, but he did get another hand squeeze.  Good enough for
now, he thought.

At long last the nurse packed up her things and went for the door.  He
looked immediately at Scully, eager to get things under way before the
pain killers addled his brain and sent him off to La-La land for
another twelve hours.  "What is it?" he asked her.  "What's going on?"

Her eyebrows lifted and she moved to sit next to him on the bed.  "What
makes you think anything is going on?"

"Scully, you know that game show...'To Tell the Truth'?"

She nodded.  "Yeah."

"Well, don't ever audition as a contestant.  You would have better luck
playing the slot machines."  She smiled and ducked her head.

"Okay, okay."  Then she looked at him seriously.  "Mulder, I think I
may know who burned the notebooks."

"What? Who?"  He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back onto the
pillows.

"Stop that."

He grabbed her hand and tugged.  "Who burned them?"

"I think..." She took a deep breath.  "I think you were right,
Mulder...I think your father must have done it to make sure no one else
from his group could get their hands on the vaccine."

Mulder frowned, remembering again how angry he had been to find only
ashes in the strong box.  "Well, if that was the plan, it worked," he
said.  "The only trouble is that no one gets it now."  He met her eyes
and found her looking at him intently.

"No, Mulder," she whispered after a moment.  "Someone did get it."

In that instant, he knew, too.  "Me?" he croaked in surprise.  She
nodded.

"Yes, I think so.  I think once Petrov and your father had a working
vaccine, he must have injected you with it...then burned the notebooks
so no one else would have access to it."  She cleared her throat.  "I
took the liberty of having some of your blood analyzed.  You have
antibodies to a virus that is currently not classified by the CDC."

Mulder heard her, but just barely.  His heart was pounding in his
ears.  "My God," he breathed.  "It's been there all along.."  He looked
at her in wonder.  "How did you know?"

"I didn't, not at first," she replied, licking her lips.  "It was just
something that occurred to me on the mountain, when you were bleeding
so much.  I thought about what you said about your father intending to
give up Samantha if it would have saved her, and then I thought...why
would he only want to save one of his children?  Then I just sort of
knew."  She shrugged.

"Wow," was all he could manage.  It was incredible.  All this time he
had been searching the world--the stars, even--trying to find the
truth.  He had never once thought to look inward.  "Wow, Scully...it's
amazing," he told her, his fingers caressing the soft skin of her
wrist.  She smiled.

"Yeah, it is," she said, and he saw something other emotion flicker
across her face.

"What is it?" he asked quickly.  "Is there more?"

She hesitated, shifting on the bed.  "No one seems to know who the
Japanese man is that took the chip."  He closed his eyes tightly at her
words.  Shit.  He had completely forgotten about her sacrifice.

"Scully, I..."

"Shhh," she replied, placing gentle fingers on his mouth.  "It's okay.
I don't regret it for an instant.  Now let me finish."  Obediently, he
fell silent.  "The Japanese man has disappeared," she said again, "and
so has the Smoker."

"What?"  Again he tried to sit up.  She stilled him easily.

"I looked over the edge of the cliff before we left the mountain, just
to see," she said.  "He was gone.  There was a search crew sent up
there, but so far no body has been found."

"And there won't be one," Mulder replied bitterly.  "You can't kill the
devil."  He looked away.  "God damn."

"It's all right," she soothed.  "We can find him.  And in the meantime,
there's the task of trying to recreate the vaccine from your blood
samples."

His eyes flickered over her once and he gave a tiny sigh. "Yeah." She
smiled at him, sort of wistfully, and he feared she might be regretting
the lost memories.  He touched her thigh.  "What?" he asked softly.

"I was just thinking about what you told me about our work, about
saving the world."  Her hand slipped through his again.  "I think maybe
you will."

"Maybe."  His fingers tightened on hers convulsively.  "But I can't do
it alone."

She smiled.  "You don't have to."

He closed his eyes, feeling jittery and achy and utterly exhausted.
But there was one more important thing he needed to do before he
slept.  "Pants," he said to Scully, becoming monosyllabic again as the
painkillers wove their spell.

The little wrinkled appeared between her eyebrows.  "Mulder, you're not
going anywhere for a while," she said.  "You need time to heal."

"Pants," he repeated insistently.  "Where'd they go?"

With an exasperated sigh, she rose from the bed and went over to the
ugly brown wardrobe in the corner.  He was not surprised to find she
had hung his jeans neatly over a hanger, despite their smattering of
dirt and blood.  He only hoped that the tiny bag had not fallen out
somewhere along the way.

"Satisfied now?" she asked him as she laid the soiled jeans on the
bed.  He groped with his right arm until he found the pocket in
question.  Ah, good--it was still there.  He withdrew the clear plastic
bag and held it out to her.

"What is it?" she asked, puzzled.  He waved at her weakly, too
exhausted to form more words.  She opened the bag and let the delicate
gold chain slid out onto her palm.  "This is mine," she breathed,
looking up at him.  He nodded, trying to tell her with his eyes to put
it on.

This time the mental communication worked, and she fastened the cross
around her neck.  He managed a last smile.  Now she looked like Scully
again.  "Same Scully," he whispered to her as he closed his eyes.

She brushed her lips to his forehead just as he was dozing off, and he
would have sworn he heard her murmur, "Yes."

*******************************

He was sulking and watching the rain from the bedroom window when Lucie
came to bring him lunch.  "Hope you like grilled cheese and bacon," she
said, setting down the tray by the bed.  He squinted at her.  Something
was different.

"Your hair," he declared after a minute.  "It's different."  The bright
red streaks had been removed, leaving only a dark chestnut brown.  It
was a little wavier, too.  More feminine.  Kind of like...oh.

Lucie had colored a bit.  "I just needed a change," she said with a
shrug.  "I thought I'd maybe grow it a little longer.  What do you
think?"  Her tone was casual, but her hazel eyes were anxious.

"Lucie, sit down a minute, will you?"  He patted the bed next to him.
She looked wary.

"Uh, okay.  For a minute."  She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, as
if ready to bolt at moment's notice.  He could tell she had been
outside earlier, because she still smelled faintly of summer rain.

"You know I'm going to be able to go home to DC in a couple of days,"
he began slowly.  She picked at the bedspread and nodded.

"Yeah, I know.  Scully mentioned."

He touched her arm with one finger.  "Do you also know how much I'm
going to miss you?"  She looked at him sharply in disbelief.

"For real?"

"Of course for real.  You're my sister."

"Not..." She broke off and swallowed hard.  "Not the one you were
looking for."

"No," he allowed softly.  Then he smiled at her.  "But the best one I
ever could have found."  She bowed her head, and he hesitated before
continuing, "I'm still going to keep searching for Samantha.  Until the
day I die, I will not give up on her.  And now, when I do find her, it
will be even more incredible, because you will be there, too."

She looked up at him, and he caught the sheen of moisture in her eyes.
"But what if, when you find her, she's not like you remember?"

He stroked her arm for another moment.  "I'll love her anyway, no
matter what.  Because she will always be my little sister."  He
paused.  "Just like you."

There was a moment of silence, then she twisted and threw herself
across his middle, holding on tightly.  He felt tears sting his eyes as
he gently smoothed back her hair.  "No matter what," he whispered to
her again, and she shuddered against him.  After another minute, she
sat up and wiped at her eyes.

"You better come visit," she warned.

"Naturally," he replied tugging on the end of her hair.  "I'm going to
have to check out the new 'do."

"What if I decide to dye it green?" she asked, but this time it was
clear that she was teasing.

"I'll bring sun glasses for the glare," he returned, deadpan.  She
laughed and moved around to the other side of the bed, propping herself
up against the pillows next to him.

"Hey," she said, eyeing his sandwich.  "You going to eat all that?"

He grinned and handed her half.

*************************
End chapter fourteen.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Fifteen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder lumbered out of the bedroom in his robe, knowing he probably
looked like Frankenstein's monster with his spiky hair, angry red scar
and lurching walk.  Truth be told, he felt like adding a deep groan or
two, just to complete the effect.  It was Sunday afternoon, and he was
bored to tears.

Scully had not been helping matters with her polite inquiries,
pampering him from afar ever since they had returned from Montreal ten
days before.  She offered him magazines.  She offered him tea.  She
offered him total control of the television remote.  In fact, she had
offered him every damn thing in the apartment except the one he really
wanted:  her.

She had been friendly, loving even, but also rather distant.  He
wondered if she could be regretting her hasty words, but decided that
could not be the case.  Her expression when he had first woken up in
the hospital said it all, and Scully's face never lied.  She loved
him.  Now if only he could get her to do something about it.

He found her in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt and
scrubbing determinedly at a brown spot on her countertop.  From what he
could see, the stain was holding strong, but he knew that smart money
would still be on Scully.  She put her hands on her hips and glared at
the counter.

"Hey," he said, coming up behind her.  She jumped and he put his arms
around her waist.  "Scully, do you think you're ever going to touch me
again?" he asked by her ear.  She smelled like bleach.

"What are you talking about?" She squirmed free.  "I touch you all the
time."

He stifled a snicker.  "Scully, I'm all for playing doctor, but we seem
to be operating with different ideas about what that game entails."

"Mulder..." She tried to look stern, but he caught a glimpse of humor
in her tone.  "How can you possible be thinking about sex already?
It's too soon.  You were practically dead three weeks ago."

"Scully, didn't you know?  Death is the only thing that stops men from
thinking about sex.  Practically dead just means we have to be on the
bottom."

"I see."  She crossed her arm over her chest, now looking thoroughly
amused.  "So I should have ravished you in your hospital bed, then?"

He closed his eyes briefly and allowed himself to imagine that one.
Mmmm, yes.  Definite fantasy material there.  He opened his eyes again
and smiled at her.  "Well, since you didn't, I can be gracious enough
to allow you to make it up to me now."

"Ha.  That is generous of you."  She tossed her dishrag on the
counter.  "Just what did you have in mind?"

His heart picked up as he realized she might actually play along.
"Well, Scully," he murmured, stepping closer to her.  "It's been well-
documented that a fellow human's touch can speed up a person's healing
process."

"Hmmm," she said, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.  "I have read
something to that effect."

He nodded solemnly.  "It's true.  And I would think as a doctor, you
would want to do everything in your power to ensure the well-being of
your patient."  He moved so that were less than three inches apart.

"You could be right, Mulder," she said, her voice a low vibration in
her throat.  "I certainly would not want to be accused of providing
substandard care."  He willed himself not to quiver.  It felt like
forever since they had been together this way.  "Tell me..." she
continued, lifting one pale eyebrow.  "Where does it hurt?"

Oh, yeah.  He lifted his hand to the base of his throat, parting his
robe slightly to reveal the small hollow located there.  "I've kind of
had this ache," he said.  "Right here."

Immediately, Scully's soft fingertips moved gently over his skin.
"Here?" she breathed, stroking him lightly.

"Mmm-hmmm," he managed.  She moved another inch closer him.

"Well if it hurts," she said, "I really should get a closer look."
Then he felt her breath teasing over his throat.  An instant later, her
tongue came out to lave the dent in his collarbone.  He moaned.
"Better?" she asked.

"A little," he answered, beginning to really enjoy the tease.  "But now
it hurts more to the right."  He pulled the robe off to one shoulder,
and Scully dutifully moved to his new "injury", planting soft kisses on
his skin.  Her hand slipped inside his now-gaping robe to touch his
ribcage, directly below his heart.

"How about here?" she asked, skimming her fingers over him lightly.
"Any pain here?"  She punctuated the question with a light kiss to his
jaw.

"Oh, yes," he told her with a groan.  "Lots of pain there."  Unable to
refrain from touching her any longer, he slid his hands under her tee-
shirt to caress the supple muscles of her back.  Scully pulled away.

"I'm sorry, sir," she told him with a wicked gleam in her eye.  "I
completely forgot about your physical therapy.  Hand exercises, wasn't
it?"

He nodded vigorously.  "Lot and lots of them," he agreed, running his
hands down to squeeze her rear.  She smiled and pulled the tee-shirt
over her head, revealing a pale peach bra.  For a moment he wondered if
they might have carried the patient bit a little too far, because the
sight of her was making him dizzy.  She undid the clasp and the bra
fell away.

"Here, try this," she suggested, guiding his hands to her breasts.  As
he cupped them gently, she leaned up to press her mouth to his.  Their
tongues twined lightly as he rubbed her nipples into pebble hardness.
She tasted tart and sweet, like the lemonade she had with lunch.

He kept up his tender assault on her breasts until she murmured
incoherently into their kiss, pressing her hips closer to his.  As he
arched to meet her thrusts, his swollen cock pushed out between the
folds of his still loosely-belted robe.  Scully took him gently in hand.

"How about here?" she panted, breaking free from the kiss.  Her lips
were red and shiny, and her eyes dark with arousal.  He groaned again,
licking his own lips to capture any lingering taste of Scully.

"Mmmm...yes," he managed to say.  "That hurts most of all."

She chuckled, a low sexy sound that shivered through his ears. "I think
I can make it better," she murmured.

"Oh, I know you can," he breathed through his smile, allowing his eyes
to drift close as she continued to pleasure him.  He stroked the soft
skin of her stomach.

"You seem rather feverish," she commented after a moment, and leaned in
to lick his neck.  "Perhaps you'd better sit down."

Sitdownsitdown.  He nodded weakly and shuffled backward until he felt a
kitchen chair at his knees.  Sinking down on the seat, he let the robe
fall completely open, revealing his proud standing erection to her
hungry gaze.  He pulled her to him, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses
against her stomach.

She trembled and guided him to her breasts with a gentle pressure on
his chin.  He complied by taking one rosy tip in his mouth, licking
with just the pointed part of his tongue until she cried out and pulled
his head closer.  He sucked more deeply.

"Oh, that's so good," she crooned, and he stole a look up at her.  Her
head was tipped back, her jaw slack and her eyes closed.  It was
glorious.  He went for the snap on her jeans.

Her hands moved to help him, and soon she was standing before him
wearing only a hi-cut pair of pink panties.  He tried to get those off,
too, but she stopped him, breathing hard. Instead, she knelt in front
of him, caressing his erection with both hands now.  He jerked into her
hands.  "Scully..."

"Doctors usually recommend moist heat for injuries of this sort," she
told him huskily.

Ohyesohyes.  Please.  He swallowed hard and his hips jerked once more
under her touch.  Her eyes never wavering from his, she leaned forward
and took the very tip of him in her mouth, never stopping the gentle
motion of her hands.  A low moan tore from his throat.

Encouraged, she moved closer and allowed him to slide deeper into her
mouth.  Her tongue swirled over the head. He reached for her shoulder,
needing to touch her as she was giving him such incredible pleasure.
He stroked her with one hand, unconsciously matching the rhythm of her
mouth on his penis.

He wanted to keep his eyes open and see her head bobbing sweetly in his
lap, but the sensation was too intense.  His eyelid felt heavy and his
toes tingles.  He squirmed in his seat, not wanting to choke her but
needing to move with the hot suction of her talented mouth.  "Mmmmm,
Scully..." he panted, his hands tangling in her hair.  "Sogoodsogood."

Oh, too good!  He was about one second from orgasm.  "Scully,
Scully...gonna come."  He meant to push her head away, but only ended
up drawing her closer.  His eyes parted to slits, and he saw her
looking up at him with a dark blue gaze and flushed cheeks.  That was
all it took.

He hissed, clenching his ass off the chair and gripping fistfuls of her
soft hair with his hands.  Scully stayed with him, sucking him strongly
and then with less pressure as the climax wound down.  Eventually she
released his cock and pressed a kiss to his thigh, leaning her head on
his leg.  Dazed, he rubbed her soothingly as he waited for words to
return.  Scully recovered first.

"So did the touch therapy work?" she asked, looking up at him
innocently from her place on his thigh.  "Are you all better now?"

He laughed weakly and groped for her fingers, which he kissed.  "I
think you went to far in the other direction.  I think you killed me."

She laughed, too, and stood up.  "In that case, I prescribe lots bed
rest," she said, tugging him to his feet.  He hugged her close, and
they swayed together gently.

"You know that I love you, right?" she whispered against his chest.

Yes, he knew.  But it was another thing entirely to hear that *she*
knew it, too.  He kissed the top of her head.  "I thought it was a
miracle that you would love me once," he murmured, wondering how he had
managed it yet again.  She hugged him hard.

"I did," she said, planting a kiss to his breast bone.  "I do."
Another kiss, this one on his chin.  "And I will."  She found his
lips.

He held the kiss for a long, sweet moment before pulling away.  "You
know, Scully..."

"Hmm?"  She smoothed fingers over his chest, not really listening.  He
grinned.

"You don't look so well yourself," he said.  He felt her body leap to
attention at his words.  "I think you could use a little of this touch
therapy, too."

She tilted her head at him, as if considering.  "Come with me to the
bedroom," she repeated at last.  "These kind of illnesses should be
evaluated lying down."

He followed her immediately to the tangled sheets, where he performed
such a thorough examination that Scully awarded him an honorary degree
on the spot.

***************************

Scully was awakened from her light doze by the sound of her doorbell.
She blinked sleepily at the clock, and wondered who could be calling on
a Sunday afternoon.  Reluctantly disentangling herself from Mulder's
warm, naked body, she slipped on a robe and went to answer the door.

"Mom," she said in surprise when she saw who was on the other side.
Her mother gave a tight smile.

"Hello," she said awkwardly, glancing past Scully into the room.  "Have
I come at a bad time?  I can always come back..."  She started to turn
away.

"No, wait," Scully blurted, and her mother froze.  "Come in," she
offered after a second.  "Please."  Mrs. Scully stepped gingerly over
the threshold, as if she were afraid she might be shot on sight.
Scully gathered her robe more tightly around her and gestured toward
the couch.  "Won't you sit down?" she asked formally.  Her mother
nodded and perched on the very edge of the sofa.

Scully waited silently for her to begin.

"I came to tell you again how sorry I am that I lied to you," her
mother said finally.  "And also, I wanted to give you these."  She
withdrew several leather-bound books from her shoulder bag.  "Bill took
them when you were still in the hospital."

"My journals," Scully murmured, accepting the books with amazement.

"He was wrong to take them," her mother confessed.  "And I was wrong to
go along with it.  We never should have kept these things from you.
I'm sorry, Dana."

Scully sighed, looking from her mother to the books in her lap.  "It
was a terrible thing you and Bill did to me," she said quietly.  She
pinned the other woman with a hard stare.  "And to Mulder."

"I know, I know."  Mrs. Scully swallowed several times, tears in her
eyes.  "We just thought we were keeping you safe.  These past few
years...well, they've been very hard...on all of us."

Scully flipped through one of the books slowly.  "I understand that
better now," she said after a minute.  "Mulder explained some things to
me.  It still does not justify what you did."

Her mother nodded.  "Of course, you're right.  I think Fox Mulder is
actually a very decent person, it's just..."  She broke off and licked
her lips delicately.  "It's just he leads a very dangerous life."

"Yes, he does," Scully agreed simply.  "But the fact remains, no matter
what you think he might have done to me in the past, you owed it to me
as your daughter to tell me the truth."

"I'm so sorry," her mother said in an anguished whisper.  "You're
right, we should have told you the truth."  Then there was a long,
awkward silence and finally Mrs. Scully stood to leave.  "I should be
going now.  I hope that you can forgive me for hurting you...I promise
that was never my intention."

Scully nodded.  "I'll try," she promised, at the same time noticing
that Bill had not been by to offer similar words of regret.  As much as
she wanted to assure her mother that everything was forgiven, she knew
that it was going to take a lot of time to mend the rift.  "I will call
you next week sometime," she said as she walked her mother to the
door.  "We can talk more then."

Her mother nodded, tears still glimmering in her eyes.  For a moment,
Scully thought she might try to hug her, but then she simply left.
Scully closed the door gently after her and returned to the couch where
her journals lay.  She looked at them for a long minute before deciding
to rejoin Mulder in bed.

Later she would read the story of her life.  Right now she was too busy
living it.

***********************
End chapter fifteen.  

~~~~~~~~~
Epilogue
~~~~~~~~~

Columbus Day, 1999

Indian summer is such a glorious phenomenon, and this year I'm enjoying
it in style.  I'm sitting on a beach towel at Martha's Vineyard,
digging my bare toes into the hot sand while Marion lies napping beside
me.  I think I may catch a small one myself very soon.

The warm day has drawn many of the locals down to the water to play
under the last rays of summer sun, but Mulder and Lucie have seen to it
that we stand out in the crowd.  No one else can claim to have a black
beach umbrella.

This weekend has been good for Mulder and Lucie, I think.  They have
been all over the island together, and I suspect it was a nice change
for Mulder to share the happy parts of his childhood.  As I write this,
he looks more like an over-grown twelve year-old than the future hope
of the human race, as he and Lucie are taking turns dunking each other
in the waves.

I am so pleased that he is well enough to play again.  I could listen
to the sound of his laughter for days and never tire of it.

Lucie seems more relaxed, too.  After a series of awkward starts, I
think she has finally settled on calling him "Mulder", which makes him
smile when he talks about it.  Though he has not lost hope of finding
the sister who used to call him "Fox".  This unrelenting certainty that
he will see Samantha again is just one reason why I find him so
incredible.

Now, of course, he is amazing for not just who he is, but what he is.
The vaccine in his body can be isolated if we have the time and the
resources to do it, and it shocked us both when Walter Skinner provided
the means for us to accomplish this task.  It turns out that he carried
a life insurance policy of two million dollars, of which Mulder and I
were the surprising beneficiaries.  The money will go a long toward
defraying our start-up costs.

As we have probed a little deeper into Skinner's past, Mulder and I
have uncovered some things that I suspect he would not have liked us to
know.  I think I now understand his parting words to me, and I am doing
my best to honor them.  Should I ever recover my lost memories, I will
be selective about which pieces I use to assemble my picture of him,
making sure the light hits only the strongest parts.

Diana is only a memory now, too.  Mulder campaigned hard for an
investigation into her possible role in Skinner's death, but ultimately
there was no solid connection between her and CGB Spender.  There was,
however, enough evidence to charge her with treason.  Quite an
accusation, considering the problem was not that she had loyalties to
another government, but that she had no loyalties at all.  Likely it is
this last part that got her killed--a car bomb that went off two days
after her initial indictment.

Mulder did not want to talk about her death with me, though he awoke
sweating and shaking every night for a week.  Finally, he went to visit
her grave, and he was gone quite a long time.  What he said to her, I
don't know...he would not say...but the nightmares went away after that.

As for me, I have accepted that I may never regain the memories of the
years I lost, but like Mulder, I have not given up hope.  The chip is
out there somewhere, and maybe we can find it.  In the meantime, Mulder
gives me back a piece of those memories each night, stitching together
our adventures like a quilt as we touch toes in the darkness.

I make him tell me everything, even when it hurts.

In his memories, I am everything from a nagging harpy to an Amazon
warrior.  I fight with him and for him, and we always seem to arrive at
the truth together, somewhere in the middle.  He says that I am what is
best in him, and I know it is the same for me.

If I do get the chip back, the greatest part will be suddenly having
six extra years with the most extraordinary man I have ever known.  It
is enough to make me keep looking for a long time to come.

Right now, however, I think I'm going to go put my feet in the water
and enjoy the rest of this visit with Marion and Lucie.  The next time
we see them, it will be for Thanksgiving in November, when they come to
see us in D.C. for a few days.

And God help us all, because Mulder is making the turkey.

*****************************

THE END

Author's notes:  Sorry for the delay in posting part II.  All I can say
is there was an unfortunate incident involving me, a steep mountain
trail and a slippery rock.  I am now doing a fairly good impression of
Igor. <g>  Necessary Evils was a challenging project for me, given how
new I am to the X-Files community, but it has also been immensely
rewarding.  I thought if I was going to tackle the mytharc, I should
attempt a reasonable answer as to why Mulder was not killed by the
Consortium in the second episode.  (okay, okay, I know the *real*
reason...CSM gets bribe money from the Fox executives--but that's such
a boring story!) Chris Carter's version seems to be something about
Mulder getting psychic abilities from an alien artifact, and personally
I find this VERY unsatisfying.  Mulder is an exceptional man, but he is
still just a man.  That, for me, is a big part of his charm.  If I
wanted super-powered crime fighters, I would watch the Saturday morning
cartoons.


Mulder, Scully, and I put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into this
work, and I certainly would like to know what you thought if you made
it through to the end.  If you'd like to reach us, we'll be catching
the last summer rays on the beach(after 494K, we've earned that R&R!)
Please come by and pull up a towel-- we'll be the ones with the black
umbrella. =)

Thanks for reading!  I hope you enjoyed it.

Hannah