Blood Ties Chapter 6
(Blood Ties Series)
by Dawn




Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
11:10 a.m.

"This is Skinner."

Grey coiled the telephone cord around his thumb, the steel band across
his chest loosening just a bit. Five minutes of clinging to the shreds
of his patience, feeling like a ping pong ball bounced from one
extension to another, but at last he had the man himself. Sucking in a
calming breath, he gathered his scattered thoughts.

"Walt, this is Grey. Don't talk, just listen for a minute." A quick
glance at the two nurses standing anxiously to his left, and Grey turned
slightly, lowering his voice. "I'm at Georgetown Memorial. From what I
can gather, there's a hostage situation in progress on the third floor,
the northwest wing. A single gunman, undetermined number of hostages.
I've already talked to hospital security and they've cordoned off the
area -- no one comes or goes. So far the gunman hasn't attempted
communication with anyone on the outside, but you'd better get a team
down here right away."

"Hang on." Amusement displaced fear for a moment, Grey's lips twitching
at the sound of Fox's hard-nosed boss barking orders to his secretary. A
flurry of shuffling papers and slamming drawers, then Walt was back on
the line.

"You're saving the best for last, aren't you?" he asked, but the dry
tone thinly masked his concern.

"Fox and Dana walked right into the middle of it," Grey confirmed
grimly. "I barely got out myself, thanks to Fox's quick reflexes. And
Walt... I think Elena is up there too."

A string of creative expletives gave credence to Skinner as an ex-marine
and inexplicably cheered Grey. "Has anyone called the police?"

"Not to my knowledge. So far, not many people know what's going on, and
I've been calling the shots."

"Let's keep it that way, for now. You sit tight and I'll be there ASAP."
Skinner paused, and when he continued his voice had abruptly switched
from assistant director to friend. "They'll be all right, Grey. Mulder
is a profiler, he's got years of training and experience in just this
type of situation."

Grey strove to accept the reassurance, couldn't bring himself to do so.
"Seven days ago, Fox had one foot in the grave, Walt. He's not up to
this, no matter how thorough his training."

Skinner didn't try to argue. "On my way."

Grey replaced the receiver, tamping down the overwhelming desire to act,
to return to the third floor in a foolhardy attempt to rescue his
brother. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wishing he could block out
the image of Fox, pale and gasping for breath, fighting for his life in
the ICU. Yes, he'd made amazing strides toward recovery the past week,
but he was still a shadow of his normally energetic self. Regardless of
the danger in catching a stray bullet, the stress alone couldn't be good
for Fox's fragile immune system.

Grey's morose thoughts were interrupted when the stairwell door swung
open and a group of agitated, weeping nurses tumbled through, a security
guard on their heels. Grey crossed the hallway in three long strides,
his eyes searching hopefully for his brother and Dana but finding
Elena's dazed face instead.

"Elena! Elena!" he called, one arm swinging in a wide arc to catch her
attention.

"Sir, please step back. She can't speak with you now," the guard, an
older man with salt and pepper hair and an obvious paunch, looked
half-terrified and wholly out of his element.

Grey impatiently pulled out his badge as Elena freed her hand from the
iron grip of a younger nurse and hurried to his side. "Detective
McKenzie, Raleigh PD. I know all about what's going on up there -- I'm
the one that called security. I suggest you take these ladies to the
staff lounge. The FBI is on its way, and they'll want to talk to
everyone."

Looking extremely relieved to have some instruction, the guard ushered
the little group down the corridor. Grey turned to speak to Elena,
finding himself face to face with Nick Brewer instead.

"What's going on?" Nick demanded quietly, his eyes darting from the
departing guard, to Elena, and then back to Grey. "Where are your
brother and Dana, and why do those nurses and YOU (he indicated Elena
with a small jerk of his head) look as if you just saw a ghost?"

"More like a monster," Grey muttered under his breath.

Elena looked at him, shaking her head. "Not a monster, Grey. Just a
desperate man willing to try anything to save someone he loves."

Grey's eyes hardened. "Yeah. Well, I'm feeling a little desperate
myself. I'm assuming he still has Fox and Dana?"

Elena nodded, her brown eyes warm with empathy. "And Dr. Lawrence."

"What are you saying? Will one of you please give me the secret decoder
ring so I know what the hell you're talking about?" Brewer snapped,
exasperation replacing his normally benign calm.

"There's a gunman on the third floor holding Fox, Dana, and this Dr.
Lawrence hostage. A patient's disgruntled family member?" Grey waited
for Elena's acknowledgement.

"Husband. His name is Daniel Rynne. His wife was just removed from the
transplant list. That's essentially a death sentence," Elena said,
rubbing wearily just above her right temple.

"So he's got nothing to lose," Grey mused grimly. "Not a promising set
of circumstances."

"It's worse than that. He's wearing a bomb, Grey, strapped to his chest.
He says that if Dr. Lawrence doesn't guarantee her a new heart he's
going to flip the switch. Dana agreed to look over her medical records -
trying to buy time, I guess."

Her words robbed all the oxygen from Grey's lungs, leaving him
lightheaded with dread. He sensed Brewer stiffen, heard him swallow hard
before mustering a shaky query.

"What can I do?"

When Grey didn't immediately respond, Elena reached out to wrap her
fingers around his arm just above the elbow. A gentle squeeze brought
him back from the knife's edge of panic, grounding him. He slowly drew
in a deep breath and released it, a slight bob of his head to signal
he'd regained control.

"Begin implementing whatever procedures you have for emergency closure
of this hospital. See that any incoming patients are rerouted to other
hospitals and clear out as many of the ones present but not admitted
that you can. And whatever you do, DON'T mention the word bomb unless
you want mass hysteria on our hands."

Brewer offered up a mock salute, but the tremor in his fingers spoiled
the effect. Grey watched him trot off in the direction of the main desk,
then returned his attention to Elena.

"Are they still on three?"

"Mulder talked him into moving up to the fourth floor," she began,
breaking off when Grey groaned and slapped one hand to his forehead.

"He moved *up*? Is he crazy? That's just one more floor to..."

Elena's brows drew together. "The southwest wing of four is under
construction, Grey. NO patients. And the floors beneath consist mainly
of diagnostic services and the cafeteria. It wasn't just an impulse
--Mulder knew what he was doing."

One corner of Grey's mouth turned up at the indignation in her tone.
"Okay, okay. So there's a method to his madness. Sorry I doubted him."
He ducked his head a little to study her face. "Did he seem...all
right?"

She grasped the significance of the question immediately. "I'd say he
was handling the situation quite well for someone who was circling the
drain ten days ago. Dr. Lawrence, on the other hand looked ready to piss
his pants."

Grey's mouth dropped open in shock before he burst into laughter.
"Elena, you've got a hell of a way of whistling in the dark. I needed
that."

She smiled, but her eyes were sad. "I know. I'm going to give Nick a
hand with getting the ball rolling. Page me if you need me."

Grey slumped against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets and
glancing at the wall clock. Hopefully Walt would be arriving soon -- he
was more than willing to relinquish control. His years with homicide in
Raleigh left him ill-prepared to handle a potential disaster of this
magnitude. Bad enough a hostage situation, but now a bomb thrown into
the mix.

"Least things can't get much worse," he mumbled, closing his eyes.

"For the hundredth time, I'm looking for Dana Scully! She was here with
a patient named Fox Mulder. M U L D E R! Now are they still here, or
not?"

Grey's eyes flew open. The voice rose above the buzz of emergency room
clamor, loud, angry, and all too familiar. The cap of auburn hair only
confirmed his fears.

Grey buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God. They just did."



4th Floor 
Tuesday 
11:30 a.m.


"Been married long, Mr. Rynne?" Mulder asked, one long finger tracing
patterns in the construction dust that littered the floor.

Rynne tore his eyes from where Scully sat methodically reviewing charts
and test results to squint suspiciously. Mulder's face was guileless,
his body posture a relaxed sprawl against the wall. Rynne's stiff
shoulders slackened but the gun remained pointed toward Lawrence's head.
The doctor remained rigid with terror, nearly hyperventilating.

"Twenty-three years. Got married right out of high school."

Mulder whistled low and shook his head. "Staying together that long is
no small feat. You must love her very much."

"Figured that out all by yourself, did ya, Professor? You really are a
genius," Rynne sneered, but his eyes were an open wound.

"The name is Mulder. Have any kids?"

Scully glanced sharply at Mulder from behind the curtain of her hair.
Their eyes locked, communication flowing without a word uttered.

*What are you doing, Mulder? Don't mess with this guy!*

*Trust me.*

Scully rolled her eyes, a tiny grunt of annoyance her response as she
refocused on the chart in her lap.

"Got two. Girl's a senior in high school. Boy's a freshman at University
of Maryland." Rynne's terse reply couldn't disguise his obvious pride.

"Maryland, huh? That's great, you must be really proud of him."

"First Rynne ever to go to college. Damn right I'm proud." He backed
carefully over to a window with Lawrence pressed to his chest, weapon
never wavering. To the left was a circular opening in the wall that led
to a chute used for bringing construction materials directly to the
fourth floor.  Rynne leaned against it, the cool draft of outside air
drying the sweat on his brow. "How 'bout you and Red? Got any kids?"

He should have seen that one coming -- couldn't raise the barriers
quickly enough. Mulder's eyes skipped involuntarily to Scully, but she
averted her own, ostensibly buried in the data.

"No. No kids," Mulder said quietly, his voice tight and level.

Rynne pulled his eyes from the view to peruse Mulder's face. "Can't,
huh? That's a bitch. Kids are the only thing that make this damn life
worthwhile."

"Mr. Rynne. Daniel. What are your kids going to think? Have you
considered them?"

Rynne's face darkened and he stalked angrily across to loom over Mulder.
"Of course I considered them! You think I'm stupid? Or is it just that
you think I'm selfish, that I'm doing all this for me?" The gun dipped
to caress Mulder's forehead, right between his eyes. "My kids need their
mother, Mr. Mulder. And, by God, they're gonna have her!"

"They need their father too," Mulder persisted, meeting Rynne's
thunderous glare. "You set off that bomb and they'll lose you both.
Who's going to help pay your son's tuition if you're blown to bits?
Who's going to be there to watch him get his diploma?"

"Mulder..." Scully's voice was barely audible, yet the alarm was
evident.

"You think I want to be doing this? Think I enjoy turning myself into a
bomb? I HAD NO CHOICE! I didn't know what the hell else to do!" Rynne
maintained his chokehold on the doctor but the gun dropped to his side.
"I don't think you understand, Mr. Mulder. Theresa *is* my life. She's a
part of me now, and I couldn't exist without her."

Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed, feeling the heat of Scully's gaze
through his sealed lids.

*You make me a whole person.*

"I understand all right, Daniel. I've even been there. But this isn't
the answer." Mulder opened his eyes, saw he'd made a small chink in
Rynne's armor. "She wouldn't want this, would she?"

Rynne stared at him blankly, then brought the gun back up to Lawrence's
temple and turned toward Scully.

"I don't want to hurt anyone. I just need Red to look at Theresa's
chart, to see that she deserves that operation. Then everything will be
okay, you'll see."

At his desperately hopeful words Scully lifted her eyes from the data
and flipped the folder shut. Mulder read her expression, and his heart
plummeted.

"Mr. Rynne." She paused, obviously fumbling for the right words.

Rynne went still, then snugged the gun tighter under Lawrence's chin. "I
may not have a college diploma, but I can read people. I can tell you're
not a good liar, Red. Your face is gonna show me if you do. So you'd
better level with me and not try any of Lawrence's fancy doctor
doublespeak.  I'll know if you're just telling me what you think I want
to hear, and I won't hesitate to throw the switch."

Scully nodded, clearing her throat nervously. "Mr. Rynne," she said
gently, running her tongue across dry lips, "I've reviewed all the tests
and treatments your wife has undergone. I have no affiliation with this
hospital, nor am I acquainted with any of Mrs. Rynne's doctors,
therefore I've assessed her condition with an impartial and unbiased
eye."

"Go on." Rynne's face was lifeless, as if he sensed the blow about to be
dealt.

Scully licked her lips again, sneaking a quick peek at Mulder, who gave
a barely perceptible nod. "There was a time, as recently as a month ago,
when a transplant would have benefited your wife. That time has
unfortunately passed. The vessels surrounding the heart have further
deteriorated to such a degree that attaching the donor organ would be
nearly impossible. In addition, her general health and strength have
sharply declined, leaving her in a weakened state that makes surgery not
only inadvisable, but dangerous." She sucked in a deep breath, then
resolutely looked into Rynne's pleading eyes. "Dr. Lawrence was right to
remove Theresa from the transplant list, Mr. Rynne.  If she were to
undergo that operation now, I have little doubt that it would kill her."


Continued in part 8

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Mon, 27 Dec 1999 22:09:36 -0600
Subject: xfc: NEW: Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (8 of 18)
Source: xfc

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (8 of 18)
By Dawn

Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
11:45 a.m.


"So let me see if I've got this straight. Some crackpot with a dying
wife and a homemade bomb waltzed into this hospital and has taken a
doctor, Mulder, and my little sister hostage? And he's threatening to
set off the bomb if his wife doesn't get an operation?"

Bill's voice was even, but cold as the blue eyes that bore relentlessly
into Grey. He pressed his lips tightly together and nodded, wondering
just how Dana's brother managed to make him feel like an accomplice to
the "crackpot."

"That's right."

Bill tightened his jaw and deflected his gaze to a point just above
Grey's left shoulder, absorbing the news. Abruptly, his eyes dropped
back to Grey's face and he took a half step forward.

"Then why in the hell are you here, sitting around on your ass doing
nothing? What's being done to get her out of there?"

Fury, raw and primal in its intensity, surged through Grey's entire body
until he was blind, deaf, and dumb with it. Bill's unjust criticism
offended him on a number of levels. Anxiety and frustration with being
thrust into a position of authority in an emergency far beyond anything
he'd ever experienced in fifteen years of law enforcement. Fear for Fox
and Dana's lives. And outrage at Bill's reference to saving Dana while
pointedly ignoring Fox.

Grey took his own step forward, unaware that his hands had curled into
fists. "I've already contacted their boss at the Bureau - he has a team
on the way. They've closed the hospital and are in the process of
evacuating the floors most at risk. Everything possible is being done to
ensure Dana *and* Fox -- not to mention the hundreds of patients and
employees -- come out of this alive."

At the mention of Mulder's name, Bill's lip curled. "Once again your
brother has managed to land Dana in the middle of life-threatening
circumstances. Is it any wonder I'm not one of his biggest fans?"

Grey's jaw dropped, astonishment temporarily outweighing his anger. "You
can't honestly blame *Fox* for this? He's as much a victim as Dana
--they were both just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Funny how that seems to keep happening. Maybe it's because just being
with *him* is the wrong place and time," Bill sneered.

Grey started counting to ten, got to three, and was in the process of
drawing back his fist when he heard someone call his name.

"Detective McKenzie? There's a call for you -- he says it's urgent."

*Saved by the bell, you ignorant, pig-headed bastard.*

"Excuse me," he said with exaggerated courtesy and stalked down the
hallway to accept the receiver.

"Grey? I'm only about two minutes out. What's the status on our gunman?"

Grey let his eyes slip shut, ignoring Bill hovering at his shoulder.
"Our gunman's got a bomb, Walt. He's released everyone but Fox, Dana,
and his wife's surgeon. Seems she was eliminated as a candidate for a
heart transplant and he wants to change the doc's mind."

Skinner muttered something that sounded like an obscenity under his
breath, then asked tersely. "Elena?"

"She's safe. She's the one that told me about the bomb."

"Does she have any idea how big?"

"Big enough that Fox manipulated the guy into moving to a wing on the
fourth floor that's under construction. He did us a real favor, Walt.
It's the least populated section of this hospital, and we've already
begun evacuating the surrounding floors." Grey heard Bill hiss at his
words of praise, fought the desire to turn and flip him the bird.

"You've got to close the hospital to incoming patients and..."

"Done. Elena and Dr. Brewer are implementing disaster protocols."

"Okay, I can see the hospital now. We'll cordon off the area around the
southwest wing and. Shit!" Skinner broke off and Grey could hear the
faint wail of sirens.

"Walt? What's wrong?" Grey demanded.

"Who called the D.C. cops?" Skinner growled impatiently.
"They're converging on the hospital as we speak, complete with a SWAT
team."

The sirens grew exponentially louder, and Grey realized he was hearing
them through the ER doors and not just the phone. "Maybe one of the
security guards. Is this a problem?" he asked uneasily.

Skinner blew out a gust of air. "It muddies the waters a bit," he
admitted. "Don't worry, I'll handle things out here. Has this guy..."

"Rynne," Grey supplied.

"Has Rynne attempted to contact anyone? Has there been any communication
at all since he released the other hostages?"

"No. Elena said Scully agreed to look over his wife's medical records,
hoping to stall for time," Grey explained.

The thunk of a car door shutting, and then Skinner was speaking
authoritatively to someone on the other end of the phone.

"Assistant Director Skinner from the Bureau. I need to speak to whoever
is in charge right now." Then he was back online. "I'm sending two
agents inside to oversee the evacuation. They'll also round up any
witnesses for questioning." He paused, then said with a trace of wry
humor, "I suppose telling you to get out of there now would be a waste
of my breath."

"Save it for the D.C. cops -- you'll need it. I'm going to find Elena
and see if she can use an extra pair of hands," Grey replied.
Inspiration struck and he continued, "But Dana's brother, Bill, is here.
You'll probably want your agents to escort him out along with the
nurses."

He could barely make out Skinner's reply over Bill's belligerent refusal
mixed with slurs against his parentage.
"Be careful. I'm going to see if I can reach Mulder via his cell phone.
Do you know if he was carrying it?"

Grey snorted. "This is my brother you're talking about, Walt. I don't
think he goes to the bathroom without his cell phone."

Skinner laughed quietly. "I see your point. I'm sending a walkie-talkie
in with Agent Whiting. You can reach me on channel three. Stay in
touch."

"Will do. Now go make nice with the D.C. boys, Walt."

Grey hung up, grinning a little, only to be cornered by an extremely bad
tempered Bill.

"Listen, you son of a bitch, I am not leaving this building until I know
my sister is safe and sound! Get used to having a second shadow because
I'm going to be on your ass until she is!"

"I'm flattered, Billy," Grey returned, putting on his cheekiest grin.
"And to think Fox predicted we wouldn't get along!"

He headed down the hallway in search of Elena, a smirk on his face and a
mass of spluttering, pent-up fury hot on his heels.


Fourth Floor 
Tuesday 
11: 52 a.m.


Mulder winced at Scully's forthright declaration, ready for an eruption
of Rynne's barely leashed temper. He ran shaking fingers through sweat
dampened hair, fighting to hold it together for Scully's sake.
Adrenaline rushes only lasted so long, and he was tired...so tired.

Rynne gaped open-mouthed at Scully for several seconds before his face
literally crumpled, the lines and planes falling into pure misery.
"What?" he whispered, his voice no longer strident, but weak and
confused as that of a child. He cleared his throat, summoned a scowl.
"Are you sure?"

Scully darted a nervous glance at Mulder, took in his dark eyes and
pale, sweaty face, and grit her teeth. "Yes, I'm very sure. Mr. Rynne,
if Dr. Lawrence were to attempt the transplant it could mean the death
of not only your wife, but the next person on the list whose needs that
heart. Who could actually benefit from the operation."

Rynne tore his eyes from Scully to stare at the quivering doctor in his
arms, the gun slipping from Lawrence's throat to hang by his side. "I.I
thought. I never."

"Theresa wouldn't want that, would she, Daniel?" Mulder asked, his own
voice thin.

The soft question ignited Rynne's confusion to rage. In a flurry of
motion, he strode to Mulder's side and drew back his foot. "Shut up!
Shut up! You don't know her, know anything about us, you..."

"DON'T!"

Scully had cast the chart aside and placed her body between Rynne and
Mulder, her face clouded with anger and fear.

"Scully, no!" Mulder protested weakly, trying to push her aside,
terrified that she would bear the brunt of Rynne's ire.

Scully refused to give way and he was currently no match for her
strength. She spread her arms out in a protective shield and glared up a
Rynne, challenging him to defy her.

"This has gone far enough! How many people are going to suffer while you
attempt to assuage your own pain? This won't help her!"

Sirens, their mournful keening punctuating her question, drifted in
along with the cold air from the open chute. Rynne dragged Lawrence over
to the wall and peered out the window, his eyes widening.

"Shit, shit, shit! There's cops all over the place out there!"

Mulder firmly moved Scully to the side, standing on trembling legs.
"You're in control here, Daniel. This doesn't have to end badly. Your
son..." he trailed off, questioning Rynne with this eyes.

"Elliot," Rynne muttered, his eyes never leaving the view but the word
choked with emotion. "We named him after my father."

"Elliot doesn't have to lose his parents today, Daniel. We can all just
walk out of here right now."

Rynne ripped his eyes away from the activity outside, a hysterical laugh
escaping his lips. "Just walk out? Are you crazy? There must be twenty
cops down there! You think they're just going to welcome me, maybe get
me a cup of coffee?"

"They want a resolution to this as much as you do," Mulder persisted,
gently shrugging Scully's restraining hand from his arm and taking a
tentative step forward. "They won't shoot if you don't give them a
reason to."

Rynne's grip on the doctor tightened almost unconsciously and he waved
the gun at Mulder. "Oh really, Professor? And what makes you such an
authority on what the cops will and won't do?"

Scully flinched.

*NO, Mulder! Nonononono...*

"I'm FBI," Mulder answered gravely, hearing Scully catch her breath.

Rynne laughed wildly. "Riiiight! Why didn't you say so sooner, Mr. FBI?
Would've been nice to know I had such an important hostage."

Rynne's snickering faded when Mulder's expression remained sober and he
gingerly removed his badge for scrutiny. Paling, he staggered backward
several steps and swung the gun up to point at Mulder's head.

"Stay right there and don't move any closer," he warned. "I'll use this
if I have to."

"You don't have to," Mulder said calmly, voice low and soothing. "Listen
to me, Daniel. My boss is probably out there by now and..."

The piercing trill cut off Mulder's speech, startling all of them.
Rynne's finger actually tightened reflexively on the trigger before the
source of the sound registered and he relaxed a little.

"My phone," Mulder said, keeping his gaze locked with Rynne's as he
carefully pulled it from his pocket and, when the gunman didn't protest,
flipped it open.

"Mulder."

"I distinctly remember signing Scully's request for leave, Agent Mulder,
so that you two could go to Mexico. What in the hell have you gotten
yourself into now?"

Mulder blinked, and his lips curved. Skinner's exasperated growl was
exactly what he needed to hear. A balm to his frayed nerves, it pushed
back the weariness and renewed his hope. Just knowing Skinner was out
there, taking charge, reassured him.

"Good afternoon to you too, Sir. I was just talking about you."

"All compliments, I'm sure," Skinner replied dryly. "Just answer yes or
no. This man, Rynne -- he's still holding a gun on you, Scully, and the
doctor?"

"Yes."

"He's got a bomb?"

"Yes."

"Big?"

"Hard to tell. Enough to take seriously."

"Just yes or no, Mulder. Let's not spook him," Skinner admonished. "Is
he rational? Have you been able to reason with him?"

"Yes, and I'm giving it my best, sir," Mulder replied grimly.

"Who is that? I want to know what you're saying and who you're saying it
to!" Rynne demanded shrilly. "This isn't a 900 chatline, Mr. FBI!"

Mulder pulled the phone from his ear, raising his free hand in a
pacifying gesture. "It's my boss. As I was trying to tell you, he's
going to be the one running the show out there. If I tell him you're
coming out to give yourself up, he'll see that you're given safe
passage. No one will hurt you, Daniel. I can promise that."

Rynne studied Mulder's face, then shook his head. "I dunno, FBI. I think
you're a straight shooter, and I can see you believe what you say. But
how do I know your boss is reliable? I don't know anything about him,
and my ass is the one on the line here!"

"You'll have to take my word for it," Mulder replied evenly. "Accept
that I trust him -- with my life if necessary. And I can tell you, trust
doesn't come cheaply or easily for me."

Rynne dropped his eyes to his shuffling feet in an agony of indecision.
"I'd like to believe you, FBI. God, how did I get myself into this whole
damn mess!"

"I'll vouch for him too," Scully said suddenly, stepping around Mulder
to catch Rynne's attention. "He's my boss too."

She held out her I.D., disregarding the regret in Mulder's hazel gaze.
Rynne let out a hoarse bark of amusement, casting his eyes toward the
ceiling. "Only I could manage to take two Fibbies hostage. God, I am
such a screw up!"

Mulder's voice tightened, toughened. "Then make it right, now. End this.
For your daughter. For Elliot. For Theresa."

Charged silence as Rynne stared at Mulder as if hypnotized. Finally, he
hung his head in a barely perceptible nod. "Yeah. All right."

Lightheaded with fatigue and relief, Mulder pulled the phone back to his
ear. "Did you hear that, sir?"

Skinner's voice was colored with emotion. "I heard it. Mulder, you need
to get him to come down the stairs and out the door at the extreme
southwest end of that wing. Do you know what I mean?"

Mulder glanced down the hallway, saw the glowing exit sign over the
stairwell door. "Yeah. I see it." He lowered his voice. "I can't stress
enough the importance of keeping everyone back, sir. We're on the
razor's edge."

"I hear you. Keep this line open and take it slow, Mulder."

Mulder heard Skinner bellowing orders as he lowered the phone and
inclined his head. "It's your move now, Daniel."

"You two lead the way," Rynne ordered, the words trembling as badly as
his hands. "I'll hang back a little. Keep your hands where I can see
them and don't make any sudden moves."

Mulder nodded, trying to moisten parched lips with an equally dry
tongue. He steered Scully ahead of him, indicating the stairwell with a
jerk of his thumb. His eyes fastened on the red letters above the door,
vision tunneling until the rest of his surroundings faded to
insignificance. He was over halfway down the corridor before he sensed
Rynne begin to follow, the clunk of his boots echoing in the silence.

Scully was a mere ten paces from the door when the world turned upside
down, splintering into chaotic fragments.

"Police! Freeze!"

Mulder spun at the command, and time wound down to a snail's pace as his
brain processed the overload of sensory data.

*A man dressed in black and a kevlar vest, bearing a high powered rifle,
poking his head through the open chute.*

*Rynne half-turned with Lawrence as a shield, gun bobbing recklessly and
his eyes bulging with fear.*

*Lawrence, panicked and struggling, one hand clawing at
Rynne's grip on his throat, the other scrabbling for purchase on Rynne's
chest.*

*The snick of the rifle.*

*Rynne's desperate grunt as Lawrence's fist found it's mark, pummeling
his upper body...*

"NOOO!" Mulder screamed, vaguely hearing Skinner's tinny shouts from the
phone still clutched in his fingers.

Spinning back around, he dove forward, registering Scully's shocked,
horrified face as he covered her body with his own.

*A flash of brilliant white light.*

*A deafening thunderclap that vibrated through his entire body.*

*Darkness.*


Continued in part 9

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Tue, 28 Dec 1999 22:46:45 -0600
Subject: xfc: NEW: Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (9 of 18)
Source: xfc

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (9 of 18)
By Dawn


Georgetown Memorial
Floor 2SW
12:10 p.m.


Grey slowly lifted his head and propped himself up against the wall, the
muscles of his back screaming in protest and his ears filled with an
irritating ringing. He shook his head in an effort to dispel the
fuzziness, his eyes roving to regain his bearings. One moment he'd been
trotting down the hallway, ducking into rooms to confirm they were
vacant, and the next he was lying on the floor in a tangle of arms and
legs. He heard a grunt and turned his head to see a dazed Bill picking
himself up off the tile and fingering a nasty swelling beneath his right
eye.

Realization crashed over Grey like a tsunami, stealing the breath from
his lungs and eclipsing the physical aches and pains.

"Oh my god," he murmured, tremors wracking his body and turning his
normally mellow baritone to a painful rasp. "The bomb..."

Bill froze, his face losing color as well as expression. "Dana."

Grey squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the rush of tears. Rynne had
detonated the bomb, and Fox and Dana were with Rynne, therefore... His
mind shied away from the logical conclusion to those thoughts, but his
body ached in response. A vivid picture of the two at breakfast
imprinted itself in his brain -- Fox's relaxed, easy banter, Dana's
constant, loving touches. He felt liquid warmth on his palms, realized
he'd curled his fingers so tightly into fists the nails had sliced his
skin.

"They must be dead," Bill intoned, voice as blank as his face. "No one
could survive that."

He gestured to the jumbled and overturned equipment, the cracked,
buckled ceiling and drifting clouds of plaster dust. Grey numbly fumbled
through his pockets until he located the walkie-talkie and pressed the
button with clumsy fingers.

"Walt? Walt, this is Grey -- can you hear me?" He barely recognized his
own voice, heavy with grief and tears.

Skinner's response was a collage of rage, horror, sorrow, and guilt.
"Grey? Grey, where are you? Are you all right? Are you injured?"

Grey struggled to answer, the words catching in his throat. "I'm on the
second floor. The concussion knocked us down and we're a little banged
up, but okay. Walt, what happened? Why did he set off the bomb?"

Skinner cursed, but Grey heard anguish, not anger in the epithets. "They
were on their way out, Mulder talked Rynne into giving himself up. Some
damn eager beaver on the SWAT team thought he'd be a hero and took
matters into his own hands. He went up the chute used to transfer
construction materials to the fourth floor and tried to apprehend Rynne
himself. He must have spooked him into setting off the bomb."

Grey turned his back on the mute suffering in Bill's eyes, leaning his
head against the wall. "How bad is it, Walt?"

Silence -- oppressive and damning. "It looks pretty bad,
Grey. Rescue crews are assessing the situation now, but the fifth floor
appears to have collapsed down onto the fourth. Inadequate support due
to the construction caused it to crumble."

Grey bit his lip hard, shaking his head though he knew Skinner couldn't
see it. "I won't accept that they're gone until I see the bodies," he
choked, swiping at renegade tears with the back of his hand. "They could
still be alive up there, Fox has more lives than a cat, you know that,
and if he managed to get clear of the immediate zone of impact, if he
was able to protect them from..."

"Grey." Skinner uttered the name with fierce compassion. "You need to
get out of there now and let the rescue crews take over. They're the
professionals; it's their job. That
whole wing is unstable and you could..."

"NO!"

Skinner bit off his attempt to calm, shocked by the vehemence.

"I will not sit by while Fox and Dana might be trapped, still alive! I'm
going up there, Walt. I'm going to find them."

"You don't know what the hell you're doing, Grey!" Skinner hissed,
furious. "You could cause more damage, blundering around aimlessly, not
to mention get yourself killed. You and I both know odds are
overwhelming that they didn't survive! You need to clear out of there
right now. I can make it an order if I need to."

Grey bared his teeth in the semblance of a grin. "You can try. Look, no
one else is invested in finding them the way I am, Walt. They've already
written them off -- hell, even you have! They'll concentrate on the
obvious survivors first. Well, I have my own priorities. I'll stay in
touch."

"Grey! Grey, don't you sign off on me, damn it..."

Grey thumbed off the receiver and turned to see Bill regarding him with
a predatory smile. "Wouldn't have thought you had it in you, McKenzie,
but lead the way."

Grey's mouth worked impotently for a reply so he settled for adamantly
shaking his head. "Uh uh. No way. I don't want or need a partner on this
one."

Bill's smile widened. "I told you before, hotshot. Until Dana's safe and
sound (he faltered, the smile less feral and more brittle) or until I
find her body, you've got more than just a partner. You've got a damn
Siamese twin."

Grey moaned, dropping his chin to his chest in defeat. "I can't believe
this is happening. All right, I give. Let's get started."


Georgetown Memorial 
Floor 4SW 
12:30 p.m.


Something was wrong. Scully lay very still, grasping for elusive
thoughts that tried to drift away like dandelion seeds on a breeze. She
could feel Mulder's warm solidity at her back, the soft puff of his
breath on her neck. But instead of pliant, warm flannel under her cheek
she felt cold resistance. Instead of fabric softener and Mulder, she
smelled dust and ash. And she hurt -- her whole body a cacophony of
aches and pains, but especially her left arm that was somehow twisted
beneath her.

Scully slowly opened her eyes, an involuntary whimper escaping as the
pounding in her head turned from solo to ensemble. She battled heavy
eyelids to focus in the semi- darkness, at first unable to make sense of
the confusing jumble of metal beams, broken tiles, and chunks of
drywall. Something warm and wet trickled into her eye and she sluggishly
lifted her free hand to swipe at it, bringing away crimson stained
fingers. And then, like the flip of a switch, it all fell into place.

*Rynne.*

*The bomb.*

*MULDER!*

Panicked, she desperately tried to wriggle out from under Mulder's
oppressive weight, at first succeeding only in dislodging a few loose
ceiling tiles and irritating her already excruciating arm. Forcing
herself to relax, she lay motionless until the shifting debris settled,
then gingerly wormed her way free and sat up.

Spots flashed, obscuring her vision, and the banging in her head
switched to a high-pitched whine for several minutes. When her sight
cleared and her stomach ceased doing somersaults, she was able to reach
out and touch Mulder, for the moment just confirming that he still drew
breath, that his heart still beat.

Cradling her injured arm against her chest, she ran her eyes over his
body, only making it as far as his torso before recoiling in dismay.

"Oh, Mulder," she whispered, tears spilling to mix with the blood on her
cheeks.

By sheltering her with his body, Mulder had borne the brunt of the
fallout. Blood matted his silky brown hair and dripped down his pale
cheek, his right arm appeared to be pinned beneath a large, wooden beam,
and his left side...

Scully closed her eyes and swallowed thickly, taking deep slow breaths
until the resurgence of panic receded to a more manageable level. A
half-inch metal pipe, probably part of the sprinkler system, had pierced
his left side and embedded itself in the tile, pinning him to the floor
like a bizarre specimen in an insect collection. Blood steadily oozed
from the wound and pooled on the floor in a sticky crescent.

Mesmerized by the steady trickle, Scully stared for several minutes
until her paralysis wore off and the need for action became imperative.
She turned her head, her eyes panning a full 360 degrees and even above
them, her drive to find help shattered by reality. The fallen beams,
sections of wall and ceiling, and other rubble contained them in a
precarious pocket of safety so small she could not even rise to her feet
without hitting her head. Occasionally she could hear a creaking groan
followed by a crash as somewhere a damaged support gave way.

She bit her lip hard, forcing down the overwhelming urge to dissolve
into tears, and cautiously slipped out of her jacket and flannel shirt,
grunting in pain as she worked the material over her damaged arm. Clad
only in a white tee shirt, the swollen, already bruising flesh from
elbow to wrist confirmed at least one broken bone. She loosened her
leather belt and slipped it from her jeans, refastening it to bind the
limb to her body with her hand elevated as much as possible. The
discomfort flared into white-hot agony, and she had to pause twice,
panting and willing herself not to pass out.

Impatiently brushing sweat and blood from her eyes, Scully used teeth
and her functioning hand to tear two strips from the flannel shirt. The
first she converted into a makeshift bandage for the gash above her left
temple, tying the material in a manner similar to the headbands she and
Charlie used to create when stuck playing Indians to Bill and Missy's
cowboys. Taking the second strip in trembling fingers, she tenderly
cleaned the worst of the blood from Mulder's face and then the cut on
the back of his skull, which had already begun to clot. Mulder didn't
even twitch, and she couldn't help pressing two fingers to his throat.
Weak, but steady -- small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

Steeling herself, Scully folded the already hiked-up leather jacket to
expose the wound in Mulder's side. The sharp steel had sliced cleanly
through the skin above Mulder's left hip but below the diaphragm. The
positioning looked to be dangerously close to the area of the spleen, or
possibly the kidney. She longed to wrap her hands around the invader
violating her partner's body and remove it, but the doctor in her
realized that to do so would likely initiate severe hemorrhaging. Though
every fiber of her being screamed against it, she left the pipe in
place, laying the remainder of her shirt over the open area of the wound
and pressing firmly.

Mulder moaned, a bottomless, fundamental cry of torment. His eyelids
fluttered and his unfettered arm and legs jerked spasmodically as the
fresh infliction of pain dragged him to consciousness. Terrified that he
would aggravate the already grave injury, Scully restrained his arm by
looping her leg over it and leaned close.

"Shhh. Mulder, be still. I know you're in pain, but if you keep moving
you'll make it worse," she murmured, her words both commanding and
calming. Ignoring the nauseating throb in her arm and head, she skimmed
her fingertips across his cheek and kept up a continuous patter of
reassurances until his body stilled and his eyes finally remained open,
though clouded with pain and confusion.

"Scully? Where..."

"Shhh. Don't try to speak, love, just listen. We're at Georgetown
Memorial, remember?"

She could see the bewilderment vanish, sorrow and regret replacing it.
"Rynne," he said softly. "The bomb."

He tried to shift then, to twist his body so that he could better see
her face. Scully's hand shot out to arrest the motion but her own
reflexes were sluggish. Mulder screamed, his eyes flying open is if they
would pop, then slamming shut as his face contorted in agony. His
fingers clenched into an impossibly tight fist and he pressed his ashen
face into the floor while tears leaked from beneath his lids and mingled
with the dust, grime, and dried blood.

"Slow it down, Mulder. Concentrate on my voice and slow it down," Scully
said over his frantic pants for air. "Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out.
That's it, love. In. Out."

She could sense him lock onto her words, see his respiration drop
accordingly, but the aftermath left him shivering helplessly, his skin
cool and clammy to the touch.

*Shocky* she thought absently, disregarding the little voice in her head
that warned her own condition was marginally better. She tucked her
discarded jacket around him as best she could and threaded her fingers
through his hair. The odors of acrid sweat and coppery blood mingled and
filled her nostrils, forcing her to breathe open-mouthed to assuage the
queasiness roiling in her gut.

"Gonna be sick," Mulder gasped, mirroring her thoughts.

"It'll pass," she told him with more conviction than she felt. "Just
keep breathing, love."

Time lost any meaning, so Scully was uncertain how long it took for his
respiration to even and her stomach to settle. She felt disconnected,
drifting, her only anchor the feel of Mulder's hair sifting through her
fingers.

"What's wrong with me?"

So wispy and colorless, but the question tugged her back to reality with
a jolt.

"There's a piece of metal pipe embedded through the flesh
 just above your left hip," she replied through numb lips.

"Hurts," he groaned. His hand flailed, then clamped around her wrist in
a crushing grip. "Pull it out, Scully. Please, pull it out."

The thin cry for help coupled with eyes glassy with agony left Scully
feeling as if her insides had been filled with broken glass. She took a
gulp of air that hiccuped into a whimper, blinking furiously.

"I can't, Mulder." What was intended to sound both strong and
compassionate fizzled to a beseeching moan. "Right now the pipe is
acting as a cork, preventing hemorrhaging. If I remove it you could
bleed out before anyone finds us."

Mulder didn't speak, but his vise-like hold loosened and his thumb moved
back and forth in a gentle caress. "'S okay, babe. I understand."

Scully saw him try to meet her eyes by twisting his head without moving
his body, and gingerly stretched out beside him with her good side
pressed to the frigid floor. His gaze sharpened, losing its vagueness,
and he slid his hand across until the index finger traced the edge of
the cut peeking from her homemade bandage.

"You all right, kemosabe?" he murmured.

As always, his sense of humor even in the midst of a nightmare, seeped
through the cracks in her defenses, liberating her tears.

"I'm fine," she choked, then made a face at his look of disbelief. "My
arm is broken," she amended. "And I think we both have concussions."

He showed his teeth in a sort of grin. "Scully, this is the first time
we've had matching head injuries! Cements the bond, dontcha think?"

Playing her part, she rolled her eyes. "Most couples just exchange
rings, Mulder."

He chuffed a little, but stiffened, biting down hard on his lip. "Can't
laugh, babe," he said tersely. "Better start talking about Bill. That'll
do the trick."

"Shhh," she replied, automatically shifting into her method for soothing
him, rubbing lightly up and down his arm.

Like a Pavlovian response, his eyes lost focus and the lids began
drooping. The doctor in her knew that in his shocky condition falling
asleep could be dangerous, but denying him the respite from pain was too
cruel to contemplate.

"Just rest, love," she crooned, her throat tight with a fresh surge of
weeping. "I'll listen for the rescue crew."

He didn't argue, didn't acknowledge, just slipped away from her. Scully
studied his beloved face -- the sweep of dark lashes against a milky
cheek, the lines of pain around his generous mouth that remained even in
slumber.

She told herself that she wasn't letting him down. That she fervently
believed they would be found in time. That allowing him to sleep against
her better judgement wasn't giving up.

It felt like a lie.


Continued in part 10

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Tue, 28 Dec 1999 22:48:34 -0600
Subject: xfc: NEW: Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (10 of 18)
Source: xfc

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (10 of 18)
By Dawn


Outside Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
1:28 p.m.


Skinner was not having a good day.

The chaos surrounding the hospital, reaching epic proportions during the
immediate aftermath of the explosion, showed no sign of ebbing. Sirens
blared as a steady stream of ambulances evacuated Georgetown's current
patients, as well as those injured by the blast, to other facilities in
the area. Machinery roared as rescue workers struggled to gain access to
the most severely affected floors, still cut off from help. Reporters
and television news crews threatened to overflow the barriers as they
shouted questions, thrust microphones, and flashed cameras.

Skinner hated the press.

And through it all, through the noise and confusion, barking orders and
making decisions to achieve some damage control, Skinner grieved. For a
small, fiery-haired woman whose grit and determination were only
exceeded by her loyalty and integrity. For a man, hounded by loss and
tragedy but possessing a brilliant mind and an ability to think outside
the box that made him one of the best agents
Skinner had ever had the privilege of working with.

A senseless loss, and completely avoidable.

And that's where Skinner's grief blended seamlessly into fury. The
entire incident had been a hair's breadth from peaceful resolution, no
doubt due to Mulder's uncanny ability to profile his adversary. No
casualties needed to occur -- especially not the two he'd privately come
to regard as friends and not just colleagues. Until the action
of one overzealous cop blew it all to hell. Literally.

A tragedy, said Chuck Draper, captain and officer in charge of the D.C.
cops whose arrival had coincided with Skinner and his agents'. A
well-meaning but inexperienced officer makes a poor judgement call that
costs not only his own life, but others as well. A deadly object lesson
in the necessity of following the chain of command.

Draper was a good man, and Skinner publicly accepted his assessment and
his condolences. Privately, however, he nursed more than his share of
doubt and resentment. He'd had dealings with Mike Fenton, the SWAT team
leader, before. Skinner closed his eyes, lifting his glasses to massage
the bridge of his nose. And remembering...

**Thirty-two and SAC of his first big case, a bank robbery gone bad. Ten
hostages -- one critically injured. Two gunmen packing assault rifles
with mile-long records of breaking and entering and armed robbery.

His negotiator establishes a dialogue with the gunmen, feels confident
he can talk them into surrendering peacefully.

Fenton, all bluster and bravado, has a different opinion. The criminals
will never willingly give up, he argues. The only way to save lives is
to go in, and to go in full throttle. He's territorial -- resenting
Skinner's involvement from the beginning. He flaunts his additional
eight years on the force, eight years in the trenches to Skinner's
comparative inexperience.

They argue bitterly until Fenton undermines his confidence to the point
where he acquiesces. Fenton's commandos go in with teargas and blazing
guns.

Both gunmen die, but not before killing three hostages. Fenton is coolly
ambivalent. He points out the seven lives saved and uses terms like
"acceptable losses."

Skinner can't forgive himself -- even sixteen years later.**

Skinner sighed and opened his eyes, staring across the sea of activity
at the empty SWAT van, its inhabitants now assisting with crowd control.
Fenton had the good grace to give him a wide berth and he was wise
enough not to seek a confrontation -- at least not here and now.

He'd once told Grey that there were times he was certain that life was
just a single series of events endlessly repeated. Well, this time
through he was not an inexperienced rookie, lacking confidence. This
time, by God, he'd see that Fenton accepted responsibility for his
actions.

"Assistant Director Skinner? Sir?"

The light, feminine voice, overlaid with anxiety, pulled him from his
dark rumination. He swiveled his head toward the sound and was
confronted by an attractive young woman with honey blonde hair and wide
blue eyes. Not just a woman, but an agent with which he was all too
familiar.

*Damn.*

"Agent Harding," he said gruffly. "I seem to recall assigning you the
Winkler file. Is it finished already?"

Normally a stickler for protocol, she ignored him -- a fact that clearly
attested to her state of mind. "I heard about the explosion, rumor has
spread all through the Bureau. They're saying Agent Mulder and Agent
Scully are dead. Is it true?"

The fresh stab of pain at her words surprised him. "It looks that way,"
he confirmed through tightly clenched teeth.

Kristen dropped her eyes and nodded, projecting composure, but he could
see her hands tremble before she slipped them into the pockets of her
navy pantsuit.

"Was he with them?"

He had to admire her strength -- the question was uttered with a level
tone, only a slight break at the end betraying emotion.

"No. But," he lifted a hand to quell her sigh of relief, "he was inside
the building when the bomb went off. And he disobeyed my directive to
come out and let the rescue teams conduct the search. He's convinced
they may still be alive, and he's taken it upon himself to look for
them."

Kristen pursed her lips, a mixture of worry and affectionate
exasperation on her face. "He's incredibly hard-headed sometimes."

Skinner's eyebrow lifted. "I have to admit, I thought you'd be more
upset. That building is completely unstable, and sections are going to
continue to collapse. He's placed himself in serious danger."

Kristen's eyes slid away from his, and he realized that the fear was
present, just carefully masked. "Of course I wish he were here, sir, out
of harm's way. But I love him. And that means I have to accept that he'd
walk through fire -- or in this case a collapsing building -- to save
his brother."

"And what if there's no one left to save?" Skinner muttered.

She lifted her head, straightened her slumped posture. "Then I'll be
here to help pick up the pieces."


Stairwell 
Tuesday 
2:30 p.m.


"This isn't working."

Grey used his arm to brush sweat and damp, curly tendrils of hair from
his brow. He glared over his shoulder at the man sprawled on the
landing, sipping from a bottle of water.

"And it never will if you just sit on your butt and leave me to do all
the work!" he retorted. "Your sister is up there somewhere -- or have
you forgotten?"

Bill slammed the plastic bottle to the floor, leaning forward. "Of
course I haven't! But I'm smart enough to recognize a useless
expenditure of energy when I see it. We've been trying to clear a path
through that rubble for over an hour and you'd never know it. Face the
facts, McKenzie. We aren't going to get through that way."

Grey set aside another chunk of drywall, watched his hands jitter with
fatigue. He stomped down the four steps to the landing and threw himself
to the ground beside Bill, curling his arms around his folded legs and
resting his head on his knees.

He was furious. Furious that a glory-seeking kid had snatched defeat
from the jaws of victory. Furious that Bill was right, that their hour
of hard labor had succeeded only in sapping their strength. Furious at
the traitorous tears that clogged his throat and hovered constantly
behind his eyelids in spite of his determination not to break down in
front of this man.

"I haven't heard any brilliant ideas from you," he growled, fueling the
anger to sublimate the grief.

Surprisingly, Bill didn't allow himself to be baited. "I never claimed I
had any."

Silence filled the space between them. Grey tried to quiet the
Pandemonium in his spirit, but images of Fox kept interfering.

"He nearly died a week ago. He's still so weak." Grey bit off the words,
horrified that he'd spoken them aloud.

An elbow nudged his arm and a bottle of water was thrust into his hand.
Still embarrassed by his admission and confused by Bill's small gesture
of kindness, Grey turned his head and took a long pull from the
container. The water was lukewarm but delicious.

After another brief silence, Bill spoke. "If anyone could pull him
through something like this, Dana can. God knows, she refuses to let go
of him no matter what happens."

It was a grudging, left-handed offer of comfort but Grey accepted it
with grace. Another few minutes of stillness before he broke it.

"He would, too, you know. Don't forget that he went all the way to
Antarctica to bring Dana back safely."

"Course, she wouldn't have wound up in Antarctica if not for his damn
quest," Bill pointed out, an edge to his voice.

It added tinder to the dying spark of Grey's anger. "How can you
continue to hold Fox responsible for every bad thing that happens to
your sister?"

"Because he is! Dana had a good life before she became mixed up with the
X-Files and your brother! She was close to her family and she knew where
her responsibilities lay. She was content!"

"They do an important job, Bill, a job that makes an impact against the
evil in this world. I've seen it!"

"But at what cost? She's nearly paid with her life more times than I can
count!"

"You have such tunnel vision, Bill!" Grey exploded. "You think that it's
been a picnic for Fox? Every time I see him he's added a new scar to his
collection! It's what they *choose* to do. The least we can do is
respect that choice."

"Why should I respect a choice that has brought so much grief to Dana
and to our family?" Bill snarled.

Grey leaned his head against the wall, staring into space. "Martin
Luther King, Jr. said that unless you've found something worth dying
for, your life isn't worth living," he mused quietly.

Bill snorted. "You think little green men are worth dying for?"

Grey cast him a sidelong glance, lips twisted in a rueful smirk. "Do you
honestly think it's the *quest* she's willing to die for? You're even
denser than I thought, Billy boy."

Billy gaped, open mouthed, until Grey's meaning sank in. Flushing a dark
red and jerking to his feet, he yanked the stairwell door open and
paused on the threshold.

"I'm going to see if I can find another way up," he snapped, the words
clipped and delivered without expectation of a response. "You can sit on
your ass or come along -- I really don't care which."

He stalked out the door, leaving Grey to replace the water bottles in
his makeshift backpack and heft it onto his shoulder. The overtaxed
muscles of his arms protested loudly, sending little jolts of pain as an
expression of their discontent.

"With a gracious invitation like that, how could I possibly refuse?" he
replied, resisting the latent, school boy portion of his psyche that
wanted to make faces at Bill's back.

Instead he swiped the sweat from his face and counted to ten, this time
making it all the way. "Brace yourself, Grey," he muttered. "If all goes
well that idiot could be your brother-in-law someday." He affected a
mock shudder, pulling open the door. "Now *that's* an X-file."


Continued in part 11

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Tue, 28 Dec 1999 22:50:04 -0600
Subject: xfc: NEW: Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (11 of 18)
Source: xfc

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (11 of 18)
By Dawn


Floor 4SW
Tuesday
4:17 p.m.


"Thirsty."

Startled, Scully carefully shifted to face him. She'd been lying on her
back, staring at the deepening shadows as day waned and the light faded.
Mulder's eyes gleamed from beneath heavy lids and his tongue slipped out
in a vain effort to moisten parched flesh.

"Me too," she admitted, reaching out to brush the pad of her thumb
across the swell of his lower lip. "Welcome back."

Mulder gingerly tried to shift his upper body, grimacing. "Never thought
I'd say this, babe. But I was hoping to wake up in a hospital. A
different one, of course."

Scully's thumb moved up to caress the arch of his cheek before her
fingers trailed down the length of arm and entwined with his. "They'll
be coming soon," she said quietly. "Grey and Skinner will move heaven
and earth to find us."

Mulder's gaze skittered away. "Unless Grey was caught in the explosion
too."

"There's no reason to assume the worst, Mulder," she chided. "Skinner is
out there, right? And we know Grey was responsible for calling Skinner.
I think it's reasonable to assume that he was with him -- or at the very
least, a safe distance from the blast."

Mulder accepted her reassurance with a perfunctory nod, but his teeth
worried the inside of his cheek and his expression remained troubled.
Scully watched him brood for several minutes, longing to ask a question
that had been troubling her, but loathe to upset him further.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"What happened? Why did Rynne set off the bomb?"

Mulder's mouth tightened into a thin line and his eyes narrowed. "Daniel
didn't do it. Lawrence did."

Scully blinked, his answer knocking her completely off balance. "*Dr.
Lawrence*? I don't understand. How...why would Dr. Lawrence set off the
bomb?"

"Somehow a cop came up that materials chute by the windows. Looked like
SWAT or some other Special Forces unit. Daniel got scared and turned
back so Lawrence started struggling, hitting him. He must have tripped
the switch."
The lengthy speech overtaxed Mulder. He broke off, panting for air and
shivering.

Scully fumbled for the bloody strip of flannel and tenderly blotted the
beads of perspiration from his brow. "Easy. You keep forgetting to
breathe, love," she murmured.

"Daniel was going to give himself up, Scully," Mulder puffed, ignoring
her admonition. "Skinner guaranteed his safety. *I* promised him. Why
would they renege and send someone in like that?"

Scully shook her head, searching for the words to comfort but coming up
empty. Mulder's use of Rynne's first name was not lost on her. He'd done
it again, his unique gifts of profiling and empathy forming a connection
with a criminal until the lines between guilt and innocence, blame and
absolution blurred beyond recognition.

"Skinner wouldn't have authorized it, Mulder," she said, capturing his
fingers once more. "There must have been a misunderstanding,
miscommunication between him and the police. But regardless of that,
Rynne strapped on that bomb and he is still the responsible party. Not
the police, not
Doctor Lawrence, and certainly not you."

Mulder's eyes played keep away again, dropping to their joined hands.
"That may be true, Scully. But two kids just lost their father, and
maybe their mother. And it didn't need to happen."

She had no reply for that, and knew he wasn't really expecting one.
Scully pushed herself upright, wanting to check the wound in his side
before darkness made it impossible. She shivered as a draft of cold air
teased her bare arms to gooseflesh.

"Put your coat back on, Scully."

Irritated that he'd glimpsed the evidence of her discomfort, Scully
chose to ignore the weak command and concentrated on carefully removing
her improvised pressure bandage. Despite her soft touch, Mulder sucked
in a sharp breath of air and shuddered helplessly. She stared unhappily
at the wound; the edges inflamed an angry red and still steadily oozing
fresh blood. She refolded the shirt in a useless attempt to press a
clean side to the injury, biting her lip hard when Mulder whimpered.

"Sorry," she whispered, scooting around to lie down beside him once
more. She cautiously snuggled into his side, both to give and receive
additional warmth.

Mulder gradually regained control of his breathing and opened eyes that
had clamped shut. Scully saw him scrutinize her thin cotton tee shirt
and the frown on his face deepened.

"Take back your jacket, Scully," he repeated, pushing the words past his
lips with as much force as he could muster. "I mean it."

"I'm fine, Mulder..." she began, only to gape when Mulder used a word
she'd never heard him utter in her presence, let alone direct toward
her.

"You are *not* fine! You're injured, you're only wearing a tee shirt,
and it's getting cold in here! Now take the damn jacket or I'll..."

Mulder reached awkwardly over his shoulder, groping for the coat, but
inadvertently twisted too far. This time he didn't even scream. The
small amount of color remaining in his cheeks evaporated and his eyes
rolled back in his head, the lids fluttering shut.

"Mulder? Mulder, don't zone out on me!"

Scully ran her knuckles briskly across his cheek and was rewarded by a
small moan and a glassy stare. He blinked languidly twice, finally
focusing on her frightened face.

"Smooth move, Mulder," she scolded, giddy with relief. "Now lie still
and stop causing trouble."

Amazingly, though he could barely lift his head, Mulder picked up where
he'd left off. "Take coat...please."

Tears stung the back of her throat, but she tenaciously held on to
rationality. "Mulder, your condition is much worse than mine. You're
still losing blood, and you're in shock. You need that coat more than I
do."

In the end, as always, it was his eyes that undid her. She could have
her mind made up, her responses set in stone, and yet one moment of
immersion in the intensity of his gaze left her defenseless.

"For me," he croaked, and Scully was dismayed to see he also was close
to tears.

She silently lifted the coat from his back and slipped her uninjured arm
into the sleeve before draping it around her. Relief and gratitude
smoothed the creases from his forehead and he seemed to slump further
down onto the tile.

"Thank you."

"Why?" Scully asked, hating how wonderful it felt to have the soft
material enveloping her again. "Why couldn't you let me do this one
little thing for you?"

"Don't want you to make another sacrifice for me, Scully," he answered.
"God knows, you've paid enough."

She frowned, bewildered by his words and the strength of the emotion
underlying them. Then, abruptly, she recalled their conversation after
Mulder's failed basketball outing and it all began to make sense.

"The deal I made with Spender for the serum," she said, searching his
face. "That's what's really bothering you, isn't it? You can't get past
the fact that I willingly placed myself in his hands in order to save
your life."

Mulder squirmed a little but immobilized as he was, he could do little
to avoid her. Settling for closing his eyes against her knowing gaze, he
curled his fingers as if trying to dig them into the floor beneath his
cheek.

"You shouldn't have done it, Scully."

Tired, thirsty, and hurting, his perpetual self-deprecation drove her to
anger. "Why, Mulder? Why the double standard? You've repeatedly put your
life on the line for me without giving the matter a second thought. You
broke into that research facility and the DOD looking for a cure for my
cancer. Despite a gunshot to that hard head, you dragged yourself
halfway 'round the world to find me and bring me home safely. And I
happen to know that the only thing that stopped you from making your own
bargain with Cancerman was Skinner. Why is it so hard to accept that I'd
do the same for you?"

"Because it scares the hell out of me."

The fragile, hushed reply annulled her anger and laid bare her heart.
Scully traced one finger over the delicate skin of his closed lids with
a gossamer touch until he hesitantly opened them.

"Why, love?"

Slipping into a conditioned response, Mulder tried to deflect with
humor. "You mean other than the fact that I'm a wuss?"

Scully's steady, unrelenting stare was his only answer. His heart,
already fluttering at an abnormal rate, lurched and the twisting
sensation in his gut temporarily eclipsed the fire in his side. Then her
soft palm cupped his face, her thumb exploring the boundary between the
stubble of his jaw and the smoothness of his cheek, and even his
stubborn, screwed up, overcautious brain could read the elemental love
in her eyes.

For a split second Mulder's mind turned inward, to a place he sometimes
visited when the demands of day to day existence left him feeling
confused and adrift...

**Brilliant golden sun, warm brown sand, cool azure water. He sits on a
large, flat rock, the crash of the waves filling his ears and the breeze
kissing his sun-flushed cheeks.  A small, dark haired boy stands on a
pier, his red swim trunks a bright splash of color against the weathered
boards. Mother and father, already in the water, are calling
encouragement. Even from a distance, he can see indecision warring
within the child as he remains poised above the surf. It's written in
the hunch of small shoulders, in toes curled tightly over the edge of
the planks.

To jump, or not to jump?

Love and trust pull him forward. Fear holds him back.

And then mother swims closer, planting her feet against the tug of the
waves and raising outstretched arms. "You can do it," the gesture says
clearly. "I'll catch you."

And immediately, without hesitation, the boy jumps.**

"Mulder?" Scully's hushed utterance of his name was questioning,
uncertain.

Mulder blinked, coming back to the stench of plaster dust, the gloom of
approaching darkness, and the bite of the metal in his side. Yet he
could still feel the lingering warmth of sunshine on his cheeks. He
looked into Scully's eyes, recognizing love, recognizing safety, but
immobilized by fear.

And decided it was time to jump.

"I'll tell you why, Scully." He reached up, wriggling his fingers until
they'd slipped neatly between her own. "It terrifies me because it means
that you really could love me as much as I love you. And I don't
think...I *know* I can't live up to that. Eventually, I'll wind up
disappointing you, babe. I always have. And I always will."

Scully's fingers clamped down convulsively on his and a tear trickled
down her cheek, but her words were tinged with humor. "Mulder, you are
such an idiot. In fact, I sincerely doubt that a bigger idiot exists.
Even on Reticula."

Mulder's lips curved in spite of his morose mood. "Don't pull any
punches, Scully. Give it to me straight."

"Just exactly what kind of ideal do you think you need to live up to? I
believe I have a right to know, since it would seem only fair that I
achieve the same level of perfection -- don't you agree?"

Rather than irritate, her exaggerated sarcasm acted as a salve to his
raw emotions. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, babe."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh really? So you don't mind when I nag you about
leaving the toilet seat up and getting shells all over my coffee table?
Or what about when I'm grouchy because I haven't had enough sleep and I
argue with practically every word out of your mouth? Are you telling me
that none of that bothers you, makes you want to grab hold and give me a
good shake?"

Mulder's mouth twitched. "Well, sure. I suppose there are times that you
get on my nerves, but I'd hardly consider them important in the greater
scheme of things! I mean, I love you, and nothing else really..."

He broke off, confounded by Scully's smug expression, both copper
eyebrows arched.

"You were saying, love?" she prodded sweetly.

"I...It's not the same, I..."

"Got you, Mulder. Big time. Now I suggest you come to terms with the
fact that this is an equal partnership -- even in love -- and get over
yourself."

Mulder appeared struck speechless, a rare occurrence indeed. He tugged
their joined hands to his lips, pressing kisses to her knuckles. After
several minutes of silence, he cleared his throat.

"Scully, this is the last time I'm going to ask about this. I promise to
accept whatever answer you choose to give me, and I won't bring up the
subject again."

Scully frowned at the reticence in his face. "What is it, love?"

"What happened to you while you were with Cancerman?" When her face
darkened with impatience and...something else, Mulder rushed onward.
"I'm not trying to beat myself up about this, Scully, I swear I'm not! I
just... Scully, nothing could be worse than the images I've come up with
in my own mind. I would really like to know the truth."

She sighed, anger draining out of her expression to leave a tension
around her mouth that spoke of weariness and memories best left buried.

"What do you want me to say, Mulder? That it was horrible? It was. That
they drugged me just enough so I knew what they were doing to me but
couldn't stop them? They did. Poking and prodding and strange machines
and needles until I didn't think I could stand anymore."

Scully stopped herself, trembling. Mulder's face was granite, impassive,
but his eyes bled. He nodded, then tried to speak, but at first his
voice failed him. Scully braced herself for guilt, for
self-recrimination.

"Thank you."

Not just an expression of gratitude for her honesty, but an
acknowledgement of her gift to him. His simple reply astonished her.
Healed a wound she hadn't realized she bore.

"You want to know the worst part of my time with Spender, Mulder?" she
asked softly, leaning more strongly into the comfort of his body until
her face rested only inches from his own.

A tiny jerk of his head, teeth tormenting his lower lip.

"Not being able to see you, to touch you. Wondering if I'd be too late,
and terrified that you could slip away without allowing me the chance to
say goodbye. To be sure you knew that in spite of the bumps in the road,
I've never regretted this journey."

Mulder's eyes shone but he pursed his lips. "Bumps in the road, Scully?
There've been a hell of a lot of potholes, I'd say."

Scully grinned and brushed her mouth across his in a feathery kiss.
"Especially the flukeman thing."

He bit back a chuckle. "Sculleee! Don't make me laugh." Carefully
burrowing his face into the crook of her neck, he drew in a deep breath,
then slowly released it. "There's no one else I'd rather make the
journey with, babe," he mused drowsily. "'M sorry you got stuck in this
particular hole, though."

She pressed another kiss to the crown of his head, wishing for two good
arms to hold him tight. And watched as the last pale threads of light
gave way to darkness.

Continued in part 12

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Tue, 28 Dec 1999 22:51:58 -0600
Subject: xfc: NEW: Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (12 of 18)
Source: xfc

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (12 of 18)
By Dawn


Floor 2SW
Tuesday
5:00 p.m.


"I'm not sure this is a good idea."

Grey rolled his eyes and bit back ten different wise retorts. He was
tired, he smelled, and he was damn sick of
William Scully, Jr. Blowing out a long breath of air, he lifted his
hands, palm up, in a gesture of frustration.

"Then what? We've been over this floor at least five times. Both
stairwells are impassable -- as you so eloquently pointed out. We're
losing the light, and these pissant little penlights aren't going to be
real helpful. We need to do this, or just pack it in and give up."

Bill's brows drew down until it seemed they'd brush his nose and his
lips thinned. "I am NOT giving up on my sister, hotshot."

"Then get over here, put your hands together, and stop bellyaching,"
Grey snapped.

Looking as if he were sucking on a cactus, Bill stomped into the
elevator, his footfalls echoing down the shaft. Grey ignored his
muttering and stepped into the proffered hand, shoving aside the access
panel in the ceiling and hooking his arms over the edge.

"Boost," he grunted, and nearly flew through the air when Bill heaved
upward with more force than necessary.

He wriggled over the lip and rolled onto his back, gazing upward.
Amazingly, the shaft remained intact for as far as he could see in the
dim light. Flipping back onto his stomach he peered through the opening
to regard Bill's upturned face.

"Looks good." Scooting farther over the opening he extended his right
arm. "Take my hand, I'll pull you up."

Bill snorted, his lip curling in disdain. "Just step back. I'll get
there on my own power."

Grey shrugged and did as he was told, reflecting on the sheer mystery
that Dana shared genes with this man. He heard Bill's guttural explosion
of breath as he launched himself upward, followed by the sight of
fingers curled over the sides of the open hatch. Red-faced and dripping
sweat, Bill hauled himself up, first securing his elbows and then
worming forward.

"Piece of cake," he said, puffing heavily.

Grey lifted an eyebrow. "Right. Well then why don't you head right up
that cable, Billy boy? Wouldn't want to waste all that energy."

He didn't wait for Bill's inevitable sour response, just settled the
backpack more firmly on his shoulders, swiped his sweaty palms over his
denim-clad legs, and wrapped his fingers around the steel. Feeling the
weight of Bill's less than supportive stare, he took a deep breath and
began shimmying upward, hand over hand.

It was harder than he expected. The cable was slick under his hands and
didn't give the way a rope would. He paused once he reached the doors to
the third floor, panting and blinking against the perspiration trickling
down his forehead to sting his eyes. Carefully tilting his head, he
squinted upward.

"Gonna go all the way," he huffed, licking his lips and tasting salt.

"Are you crazy?" Bill's question held incredulity, not anger. "If you
fall from that height I'll be scraping you off this thing!"

"Aww! Knew you cared," he called, forcing his tired arms to start
pulling again.

Bill uttered a string of curses worthy of a sailor, which he steadfastly
ignored. At last double doors bearing the number 4 slid into view. He
hung there for a moment, muscles quivering with exhaustion, while he
gathered courage to take the next step.

Gripping more tightly with both hands, Grey kicked out, swinging his
legs with all his strength. When his toes cleared the lip of the doorway
he pushed off with both arms. Both feet connected with solid ground but
his weight remained distributed toward the cable and he sensed himself
begin to careen backward toward the shaft. Flinging both arms wide he
scrabbled frantically for a hold while trying to compensate by lunging
forward.

Just when he thought all was lost, his right hand found purchase and he
righted himself, blood pounding in his ears and breath hitching in his
lungs. He let his head drop down to rest against the closed doors and
concentrated on the solidity.

"What's going on? Can we get through?"

"Just extracting my heart from my mouth," he replied sarcastically, the
words bouncing and wavering until they reached their destination. "Give
me a minute."

When his heartrate approached normal and his legs ceased trembling, he
pushed his fingers into the crack between the doors and pulled hard.
They resisted at first, then slid slowly open with a creak of protest.

Something large whizzed past his left cheek, and he reflexively jerked
backward, nearly losing his balance and tumbling down the passageway. A
second later he heard a bang and Bill's shout of alarm.

"What the hell was that?"

Grey stared glumly at the jumble of boards, insulation, and other debris
that completely blocked entrance to the fourth floor.

"That was me getting ready to come back down. Fourth floor is completely
obstructed."

He eyed the chasm with distaste, aware for the first time that in order
to retrace his path to the third floor he would have to jump and catch
onto the cable.

"Just how are you planning on getting back down, Einstein?" Bill called.
"Did you stop to think about that?"

"No, this was a one-way idiotic plan," Grey muttered under his breath.
Aloud he called, "Ready or not, here I come."

The jump was perfect -- not too far so that he overshot his goal but far
enough for his hands to connect easily with the cable. Grey had a spit
second of exultation before his hands lost traction and he plunged
downward, leaving his stomach behind.

Reflex saved him again, prompting his legs and feet to wrap frantically
around the metal and his fingers to tighten convulsively. His hurtling
decent slowed, then stopped just a few feet below the third floor doors.
Squeezing his eyes shut against tears of pain, Grey tried to disregard
the streaks of fire licking across his palms, exacerbated by his
death-hold on the cable.

"McKenzie? You all right?"

Bill's voice was soft, tentative. Grey zeroed in on it like a lifeline,
a reminder of why he was in the present predicament.

"Yeah. Yeah. Just..." He broke of, unable to bite back a small groan of
pain.

"I'm coming up."

"NO!"

Grey could hear Bill literally screech to a halt at the panic in his
voice, evoking a cartoonish image in his warped brain that caused him to
nearly erupt in hysterical laughter. He pictured little puffs of smoke
rising from under Bill's heels.

"You'll shake the cable," he said, shoving the thought away and
regaining some composure. "I can't... I won't be able to hold on. Wait."

"Fine, fine. I'm waiting. Just don't fall on top of me," Bill growled.

Grey longed to make use of his middle finger, settled for inching
deliberately upward.

"You are one crazy son of a bitch, McKenzie," Bill's harsh words
concealed a grudging admiration.

This time when he swung his legs across the gap one hand slipped free
and he slammed to his knees, pinwheeling his arms furiously. Then,
whether from depleted strength or simply because they'd jammed, the
doors stubbornly refused to open until he'd peeled back a nail and
further injured the screaming flesh of his palms. Yet when he tumbled
through the opening onto the chaotic wreckage of the third floor he
could have danced for joy.

"Hello! Mind giving the rest of us an update?"

Until Bill's acerbic voice burst the bubble.

Grey cast one hurried glance down the murky, rubble-filled corridor
before leaning through the doors and swinging his arm in a welcoming
arc.

"C'mon in, the water's fine."

Bill's puckered expression of scorn further lifted his flagging spirits
and compensated for the fire in his hands. He'd begun to enjoy this
sport of brother-baiting and couldn't seem to scrape up an ounce of
remorse for his behavior. Well, maybe an ounce...

"Careful," he warned as Bill curled his fingers around the cable. "It's
a lot smoother than a rope, and easier to slip."

"Thanks for the advice," Bill growled, in a voice that meant anything
but. "I don't need a backseat climber."

"Whatever," Grey sighed, leaving Bill to his acrobatics and switching
attention to his lacerated hands.

A narrow, angry red line of inflammation bisected the tender skin of
each palm, oozing small droplets of blood in some places. Grey hooked
one finger into the pocket of his jeans to fish out a handkerchief and
gingerly wound it around his right hand, the more severely damaged of
the two.

After securing it in place, he lifted his eyes to find Bill clinging to
the cable directly opposite him.

"Move it or lose it, hotshot, I'm coming through," he cautioned, looking
as if he hadn't broken a sweat.

Grey stepped aside with an exaggerated bow and a smirk. "Oh *do* join
me, Billy, I thought you'd never get here."

It was destined to become fodder for his occasional bouts of insomnia
--wondering whether the needling might have thrown off Bill's timing.
Whatever the cause, instead of landing squarely at the mouth of the
doorway the way Grey had, Bill released his hold too late and fell
short. Grey watched in horrified slow motion as the tips of Bill's
sneakers brushed past firm ground and he dropped like a stone toward the
elevator car beneath.

"NO!" he screamed, lunging forward to clutch at something, anything. A
limb. A swatch of clothing. Even the flimsy excuse for a backpack if it
halted the man's plunge. The tips of his fingers skated across a cotton
pullover, snagging for a split second before it tugged loose. Bill's
momentum slowed a fraction, but he continued to freefall, eyes wide with
terror. His hands shot forward, groping for the ledge as he sank past
it, and, miraculously, they locked on. With an abrupt and
muscle-wrenching jolt he aborted the fall, legs swinging wildly over
thin air.

"Hang on!" Grey dropped to his belly, reaching over to clamp his hands
around Bill's arms just beneath the elbow. He could only see the carrot
top of his head, Bill's gaze trained on the shadowy mass of the elevator
car beneath.

"Bill, look at me!" Grey ordered sharply.

Sluggishly, reluctantly, Bill complied, his face pale and sweaty.

"You have to let go of the edge and grab onto my arms," Grey said
slowly, recognizing that the man was on the verge of panic.

Bill shook his head wildly, an action that caused his body to sway back
and forth until Grey nearly lost his grip. "NO! I can't let go, I'll
fall!"

"You'll fall if you don't! You can't hang there indefinitely, you're
tiring already," Grey argued, his own arms now singing as loudly as his
hands. "BILL. Trust me. I *won't* let you fall."

Bill scrutinized him for a very long moment before ducking his head in a
small nod.

"All right. On three," Grey huffed, sending up a silent prayer. "One.
Two. THREE!"

Without hesitation, Bill released his grasp on the edge and clutched at
Grey's forearms, transferring his entire weight. For an instant Grey
felt himself slide forward, toward the drop-off, and he scrambled
desperately to plant his feet against the tile. The rubber of his Nikes
finally caught and he gradually, slowly squirmed backwards.

Once Bill snagged an elbow over the edge, he ceased being a dead weight
and through kicking, dragging, and slithering, managed to work his way
completely to safety.

For a very long time both lay pressed to the beautiful solidity of the
floor, Bill on his back and Grey his stomach, gasping like fish.
Eventually Grey hauled himself to his knees and pawed through his
backpack until he'd extracted a bottle of water. After taking a long,
satisfying draught he offered it to Bill, bemused by the way the fluid
sloshed wildly in his jittering hand. Obviously in no better shape, Bill
succeeded in spilling a good portion of the liquid down his chin as he
attempted his own drink. Scowling at his ineptness, he glared at Grey's
grin, which rapidly transformed to a snicker.

"You think that was funny?" he blustered, though it came out thready and
insincere.

"I think we both almost pissed our pants," Grey answered, little riffs
of laughter still escaping. "And I'm glad you're still alive, Billy boy.
Who'd a thought?"

Bill stared at him, then smiled. Which became a grin. A chuckle. And
then they were both rolling on the ground, roaring like idiots.

Finally Bill sat up and dry washed his face, smearing the sweat and
grime. He looked over at Grey, still flat on his back and intermittently
snickering, and sobered.

"Thanks, McKenzie. I owe you."

Stunned into his own sobriety, Grey extended a hand and let Bill tug him
upright. "You're welcome, Bill. As for owing me... You may want to
reconsider. I don't think you'll like how I choose to collect."

Bill's baffled expression melted to understanding and mild annoyance.
"Huh. Well if what I just saw in that elevator shaft is any indication,
we'll be even before I have to worry about it. You always take risks
like that?"

Grey's smile faded. "Only in times of extreme circumstances," he
answered grimly. "I think this qualifies."

Bill stood, offering his hand. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm with you on
that."


Continued in part 13