"I don't know why I should be surprised," Mulder said, contriving 
to sound gloomy, even though it was clear he was amused.

Morgan laughed and shook her head.  "I am, though.  And so are 
you."

"No kidding."  His mouth twitched when he looked at Scully.  

Scully grinned again, amazed at Mulder's appearance.  He looked 
like a buccaneer, neatly trimmed beard and luxuriant mustache, his 
hair tied back with a leather strip into a queue.  There were new 
lines of worry bracketing his eyes and mouth, and Morgan looked 
thinner and wearier than Scully had ever seen her look.

Aarin, on the other hand, appeared to be thriving.

He'd insisted on showing her his toys, his crayons and pad, and all 
the pictures he'd created.  One sent a chill up her spine, but she'd 
hidden that, she thought, not wanting the child to sense her 
reaction.

"Listen, Mulder, even my own mother doesn't know where I am 
right now.  I told Geoff I was leaving, but not where, and used, 
shall we say, alternate ID to book the flight and get on the plane."  
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a wallet and flipped it 
open.  "For the moment, I'm Elizabeth Corcoran."

Morgan laughed.  "Beth or Liz or Betty?"

"None of the above," Scully deadpanned and grinned.  "Listen, the 
guys have been filling me in on what kind of research you've had 
them doing.  Cancerman's not running the show anymore, 
evidently, they were able to find that much out this week."

"Yeah," he said drily, "I talked to them the other day."

"Those worms," Scully growled and rolled her eyes.  "They didn't 
tell me.  But they don't tell me much, and I had to pull my gun on 
them to get that much."

His eyes widened slightly.  "Scully!"

"Not really," Scully amended.  "But I sort of let them believe I'd 
shoot Frohicke."

Mulder grinned.  "You'd shoot Frohicke anyway."

"Maybe.  Anyway, they haven't been able to identify who's taken 
his place in the hierarchy."  Leaning back, Scully took a sip of 
coffee.  "But they're working on it.  I'd guess Skinner's up to much 
the same.  Mulder, I think he's really worried about you."

 Mulder looked away, clearly uncomfortable with that statement.  
"Maybe."

Morgan sighed suddenly.  "I have this vision of us just running for 
the rest of our lives.  God, what a thought."

"Hey," Mulder said, his tone offended.  "Things could be worse."

"Yeah," Morgan said and rose.  "We could really be married, 
Mulder.  Think about that and count your blessings."

Mulder frowned and lifted his hand, pretending to count on his 
fingers silently.


"So," Morgan said, ignoring this, "Is Geoff still furious?"

Scully felt her face color.  "Yeah," she admitted.  "But at me, too.  
He wanted to come with me.  Sharon's gone off on her own, but 
Emily and Jon are still at the house."

Frowning, Morgan moved toward the counter, cup in hand.  
"Where, on her own?"

"Nobody knows," Scully admitted.  "She left last week."  Her 
mouth quirked.  

Morgan gave him.  "Maybe she had a dream, too."

"Maybe."  Morgan brought the coffee pot back to the table.  "You 
know, I'm such an idiot, it just occurred to me--Ray Palmer could 
help us."

Scully looked at her, bemused.  "Ray Palmer?"

Morgan's gaze rested on Mulder.  "He's into a lot of things, 
Mulder.  He's not your typical multi-millionaire.  Not at all."

"Does he have any influence anywhere?"  Mulder's tone was dry.

"Probably.  He has a lot of influence in a lot of places you wouldn't 
expect."

Morgan sat down again, but her gaze was distant.

Mulder rose.  "Scully, let's walk," he said and ruffled Morgan's 
hair.  Morgan flicked him a look, but said nothing.

Scully nodded.  "Okay, but then I get to pump Morgan for details," 
she said, aiming for humor.

Morgan's eyes came back to her, startled, with the beginnings of 
mischief.  "Oh, yes," she breathed.  "And Dana can tell me all your 
secrets."

"Not bloody likely," Mulder said drily.  "Remember, Scully, I'm 
carrying a weapon."

Morgan's laughter followed them outside. 


Farmington:  November 7, 1996  3:18 pm

Sharon stood just out of sight beside the window of her room, her 
eyes narrowed as she studied the man who had come out of the 
room two doors down.  He looked familiar, and reeked of federal 
influence, despite his carefully casual clothing:  blue jeans and 
chambray shirt, worn with hiking boots.

"Yeah, Ray," she said into the phone.  "They're about fifty miles 
out of town, out in the desert.  And, unless I've lost my touch, 
there's somebody out here already, checking the area out for them.  
I'd guess he's not sure they're here, since he's alone, so far.  No, 
I've been looking around and he's definitely alone.  Which doesn't 
mean his people don't know where he is.  Yeah, tonight. Okay, I'll 
see you then."  Hanging up the phone, she watched the man 
saunter across the street, hands in the pockets of his coat.

This guy would have to be dealt with, and after what she had seen 
when Morgan's car had been found, she had no compunction about 
using deadly force.  A far cry from the police officer she had once 
been, but her ideals had suffered over the years.  And if this guy 
was one of them, one of those who had murdered Marc Pedersen, 
mudered those therapists, and made the attempt on Morgan's life....

"No mercy," she said softly and smiled humorlessly.  "None at all, 
you bastard." 

*****************************************************

"I'm going into town," Morgan said gloomily, late in the afternoon.  
"We need laundry done, Mulder. I wish I'd thought of it the other 
day, I'd have sent it with you."

Mulder looked at her, eyes narrowed.  "I'd rather you didn't," he 
sighed.  "I'll take it."

"You hate laundry," she told, amused, having learned this much 
about him.  

"Necessarily evil," he said humorlessly and slanted Scully a look.  
"You stay out here, okay?  Watch her back for a change, she needs 
it more."

Scully looked bemused.  "Okay.  The fewer people see me, the 
better."

He agreed with that wholeheartedly.  "And don't tell her anything 
about me, Scully.  Strictly need to know."

Scully rolled her eyes.  "She already knows about your tastes in 
videos, I presume.  What else is there?  Unless you mean,"  she 
paused, her eyes glinting, "Bambi."

Morgan's eyebrows rose.  "Bambi?  You actually dated someone 
named Bambi?"

"No, he just lusted after her.  She went off with a tall, Aryan 
specimen with a gigantic brain and an ego to match."  Scully 
grinned at him.

"Just give me the basket," he said hastily and accepted it when 
Morgan thrust it at him, still laughing.  

"I wish you'd let me go." Morgan sobered a little.  "I could call 
Ray."

"Let's leave Ray out of it for the moment."  Mulder leaned over to 
kiss her, suffered a droll look from his partner and ignored it.  "I'll 
be back as soon as I can."

"Get a haircut," Scully suggested merrily.

"I don't know, Dana, I kind of like it."  Morgan tilted her head, 
considering him.  "He looks like an arms dealer."

"Drug dealer's more like it," Scully laughed.  "Really, Mulder, you 
look dangerous."

"Good," he said, and meant it.

That quelled the laughter and he went out to the truck. 

*****************************************************
Farmington:  November 7, 1996  4:59 pm

Driving aimlessly through town, Donovan kept his eyes open; he'd 
gotten nowhere with Albert Hosteen and his family, but he hadn't 
really expected anything better.

He still had the strongest sense that he was in the right place; as he 
passed the laundromat, a scruffily dressed bearded man hauled a 
basket of laundry out of a pickup, kicked the door shut, and 
carried the basket into the laundromat. 

Something tickled the back of his mind, then; he drove a few more 
blocks before he recognized what it was.

He'd spent a lot of time around Mulder at Quantico, he knew how 
the bastard moved, knew how he walked--and that man had moved 
like Mulder, that same lanky, looseboned stride....

Turning the rental car around, he drove back past the laundromat, 
peering through the smeared windows to no avail.  Well, he'd just 
have to wait, he thought, and smiled wolfishly as he surveyed the 
street, looking for a good place to park.

The wait was tedious, but he'd sat on stakeouts before; it was 
nearly an hour and a half before the man emerged, carrying the 
basket, its contents neatly folded, the plastic detergent bottle 
sitting on top. 

When the truck pulled away, Donovan waited for another car to go 
past before pulling out to follow.

*****************************************************


New Mexico high desert:  November 7, 1996  7:37 pm

Scully had brought cash with her, a thick bundle of bills in an 
envelope.

That prosaic sight made Morgan's eyes sting.  "Dana, you shouldn't 
have--we're all right, honestly, the guys keep wiring money to us as 
we need it."

"Just in case," Scully told her seriously.  "Keep it as a stash, 
Morgan, in case you guys need to run suddenly and can't wait for a 
wire."

Morgan nodded, unable to speak for a moment.  "Do you think 
this will ever be over?" she asked finally.  "Do you think we'll find 
a way to get them off our backs?"

"Will life ever be normal again?"  Scully arched a brow.  "I don't 
know, Morgan.  Mine hasn't been, not since I met Fox Mulder.  
But then, that's not fair--you're not exactly normal yourself."

Morgan couldn't help laughing at that, caught between laughter 
and tears.  "He's pretty amazing, too, you know."

"Yeah, I know."  Scully sighed.  "Single-minded to the point of 
obsession.  I think Mulder thinks about aliens the way other people 
think about sex."

Morgan snickered.  "Oh, I don't know, I think he's pretty normal in 
that area."

Scully gave her an amused, slightly speculative look.  "Do tell," she 
said, her tone confidential.  "I've always wondered, given his 
predilection for adult videos--what's he like?"

"Dana!" Shocked, Morgan began to laugh again.  "I can't tell you 
that, honestly--but we don't use props."

Scully began to giggle.  "Props?" she asked, her voice strangled.  
"Oh, God, that's a relief.  But if you think I'm going to buy straight, 
missionary position--
"
"Dana!" Morgan said again, her eyes glinting.  "Shame on you.  I'm 
pretty experimental myself, you know."

The front door opened and Scully put both hands over her mouth, 
giggling again. 

Mulder appeared in the kitchen doorway, his expression wary.  
"What's so funny?"

Morgan grinned.  "Woman talk, Mulder."

He looked from one to the other.  "That's what I was afraid of."  
He sounded more resigned than anything.  "What kind of woman 
talk?"

"You know, the usual," Morgan said, managing to suppress 
laughter at last. "Men, relationships, and sex."

He turned scarlet, a slow tide of color that took a while to recede 
and made Scully laugh harder.  "I hope this discussion was 
generic," he told them quellingly.

That was unfortunate, Morgan reflected, as she began to snicker 
again, because Scully laughed so hard she fell off the kitchen chair.

Looking offended, Mulder took the laundry back to the bedroom.


Aarin was asleep, mostly, but he roused when Mulder came in to 
check on him.  "Shhh," he told the child and bent to kiss him on the 
forehead.  "Just wanted to check on you."

"I like Dana," Aarin said sleepily.  "She sang to me."

"Good."  Mulder ruffled the too-long hair.  "I bet you liked that."

"Uh huh."  Aarin burrowed more deeply into his blankets.  "Night, 
Daddy."

"Night, sprout."

Going back out to the kitchen, he found that the room was finally 
under control and that Morgan had fixed him a plate of stew and 
biscuits.

"Dana made the biscuits," she said ruefully, "They're edible this 
time."

He grinned at that.  "Dana's mother taught her pretty well," he 
agreed, slanting his partner a look.  "Margaret Scully's an amazing 
woman."

"She is," Morgan agreed, sitting back down.  "Dana's pretty 
amazing herself--she made an apple pie."

Scully made a comic face.  "Hey, I'm the proud possessor of many 
talents, Mulder.  I'll bet all you thought I could do was hunt down 
liver-eating mutants."

"And fat-sucking vampires," he said mildly, taking a bite and 
rolling his eyes in appreciation.

Morgan looked from one to the other.  "I don't think I want to 
know." She grimaced and shook her head.  "That's gross, and I 
don't even know the story."

"You don't want to know," Scully told her firmly.  "It was totally 
gross."

A knock at the door froze them all in place.  

Mulder looked at Scully, cursing himself.  He'd been preoccupied 
on the way back, he hadn't exercised his usual care--"You 
expecting anyone?" he asked Scully.

Scully shook her head, her gun already out.  "Albert isn't coming 
back until tomorrow."

Moving together, they went toward the door, Scully flattening 
herself out on the wall beside the door.

Gun behind his back, he nodded at her and opened it, too aware of 
Morgan in the kitchen.

"Mulder, damn, I'm glad to see you."  Michael Donovan stood in 
the 
doorway.  

Mulder's heart began to thump hard.  "Mike," he said flatly.  "What 
are you doing here?"

"I took a chance, looked through all your old cases, thought maybe 
I'd give this a try."  Donovan essayed a smile, but it didn't reach his 
eyes.  "Man, they're out after you--what the hell did you do to set 
them off?"

"Who's after me?" Mulder stepped out, closing the door behind 
him.  There was no car in the yard; Donovan had walked in from 
farther down the road, which didn't make him feel any better about 
the chance Donovan had brought company.  "And why the hell are 
you here?"

Donovan gave him a sincere look, but he'd seen that one before, 
most often when Donovan was trying to convince a woman that 
she was the only one, back in their Quantico days.  "Trying to save 
your ass, Mulder."

It was certainly a novel approach, he told himself, mildly amazed at 
the balls it took to say it with a straight face.  "My ass?  From 

whom?" 

Donovan shrugged.  "NSA, CIA--fuck, I'm not sure who they are.  
Your file says you went to England on sabbatical, something at 
Oxford.  But nobody could find you there, they kept nosing around 
asking questions about you, questions about Morgan Grayson.  Do 
you know where she is?"

"Dead, as far as I know," Mulder told him harshly and gestured.  
"Mike, I appreciate the gesture, but get out of here.  I've got 
nothing to say to you."  

Although letting Donovan go was a luxury he could not afford, he 
found it hard to consider the alternative.  

"Hey, I didn't come all the way out here to get the brush," 
Donovan's brows drew together.  "Mulder, you're in deep shit, you 
need help."

"How'd you find me?"

Another shrug.  "Checked the records, that's all.  When you 
disappeared last year, you were out here.  Thought you might be 
again."  His eyes flicked to the door.  "She in there?"

****************************************************

When the door had closed, Scully had cursed silently and gone 
back through the kitchen, holding her finger to her lips as she 
passed Morgan.  

The back door opened with a creaking noise that made her flinch; 
stepping carefully in the dark, she went around the back and side 
of the house until she could see Donovan's back, see Mulder's grim 
expression.

"There's nobody in there, Mike.  I just don't want you in my house, 
I didn't invite you--why the hell are you here?"

"Hey, we're friends, Mulder, classmates.  I don't think you did 
anything wrong, but you're going to end up with a bullet in your 
head if those spooks have anything to do with it."  Donovan 
sounded sincere; Scully knew he was lying, just on general 
principles.  "Is Grayson in there?"

"No," Mulder said wearily and aimed his gun at Donovan.  
"Dammit, Mike, why?" 

"Mulder, are you crazy?  You treat all your friends like this?  No 
wonder your damned partner can't be bothered to look for you."  
Donovan took a step off the porch, standing in the yard, he held 
his hands out, and suddenly one of them held a gun.

"Don't jump to conclusions, Donovan."  Scully moved out of the 
shadows, into the thin light from the windows, holding her weapon 
steady as Donovan whirled to see her.  "And don't even breathe 
too hard, I'll blow your fucking head off."

Donovan was silent; she couldn't see his expression in the dark.

Mulder edged forward a little, until Donovan's gun came up 
slightly.  "Who are you working for, Mike? And how did you find 
me?"

Donovan sighed.  "You're making a mistake, Mulder.  Involving 
yourself with her is the worst thing you could have done."

Mulder shook his head.  "You stupid bastard.  Who are you 
working for?"

Donovan just shrugged.

As if the luck was going irretrievably bad, Morgan opened the 
front door then, and their eyes all moved to her; there was a flicker 
of motion and Donovan had his gun aimed at Morgan.

"Don't fuck with me, Mulder," he said, smiling a little.  "All I want 
is the woman, you can keep Scully and the kid for all I care."

"Don't be a fool."  Morgan moved out onto the porch and Scully 
cursed silently. "You can't hope to take me, you know that.  Surely 
you know what happened to Stoddard."  Her tone, despite the tacit 
threat, was distant, almost detached, but Donovan took a step 
backward.

And something changed in the air, then, something went ugly, 
Scully could feel it and suspected Donovan.  "Drop it, Donovan," 
she grated, moving closer.

Donovan snorted.  "You guys better drop yours, Scully.  Dammit, 
drop it, Mulder, or I'll shoot her."

Mulder held his gun steady.  "I don't think so, Mike.  Morgan, go 
back inside."

"No," Morgan told him and took another step forward, closer to 
Donovan.  "You know what I can do, Donovan.  You've seen the 
results.  You and Stoddard were watching me, studying me."

Scully began to sweat; Morgan was too close, now, if Donovan 
fired, she'd go down and she had moved just enough to make it 
difficult for Mulder to get a good shot.  "Morgan," she said, her 
voice falsely calm, "Go inside, okay."  And prayed.

"I want to see him," Morgan said softly.  "They've made me afraid, 
I want to see him afraid.  Do you think Stoddard had time to know 
he was burning, Donovan?  Do you think he had time to regret 
what he was doing?"

Mulder shifted on the porch, trying for a better, safer angle.  Scully 
cursed inwardly--Morgan was still blocking him.  

"Morgan," his voice was still steady, but rose slightly.  "Go in the 
house."

Donovan's expression was unreadable in the faint light from the 
doorway, but Scully could smell the acrid odor of fear sweat.  The 
bastard was afraid, now, and she wasn't sure she wanted to learn 
how he reacted to fear.

"Shut up, bitch," Donovan growled.  "Just come on, don't give me 
any trouble, and I'll even keep my mouth shut about your boyfriend 
here.  I want you, that's all."

"Donovan, drop it!"  Scully's stomach began to knot; she was 
watching a disaster about to happen, she knew it....

"The cars burned up so quickly," Morgan's tone raised the hair on 
the back of Scully's neck; dispassionate, detached, and horrifyingly 
calm.  "Just one big burst of white light and then the flames....I 
wonder if they had time to feel pain--"

 "Shut up," Donovan snapped, and Scully heard the faintest trace 
of panic in his voice.  "Just shut up."

"I didn't mean to do it," Morgan told him sincerely.  "I just shoved 
all of the fear and anger away from me, to keep from doing 
something else, something forbidden.  And it found its own place--
the cars just exploded."  

She took another step, less than arm's distance from Donovan's 
gun....

There was a flat report, the sound of a shot.

Scully fired then, at Donovan's back.  Mulder fired, she thought, 
and looked to see Morgan crumpled on the porch.  

Her ears rang, she'd lost track of who had fired and how many 
times, but Morgan was down and Mulder was still standing--
Donovan fell after that, a boneless slump that told her what she 
needed to know; still, she checked his pulse, felt it falter to a halt.  

She'd just killed another federal agent, or they had, she thought 
numbly, and moved to Morgan, feeling the wetness of blood under 
her fingertips, seeing the dark stain on Morgan's shirt, too near her 
collarbone.

Bent over Morgan, Mulder was cursing steadily, savagely, a note 
of hysteria in his voice.  "What the fuck was she doing?"

"I don't know," Scully said calmy, tearing open Morgan's shirt and 
shifting her to check for an exit wound.  It might have chipped 
bone.  It might not have--she'd have to pray for the latter.  "It's 
clean, Mulder, we can deal with this, we just need to stay cool."

It was as if he didn't hear her.  "What the fuck was she doing?" he 
raged and bent to lift Morgan into his arms.

"She was trying to read him," another voice said, a familiar voice in 
an unfamiliar place.

Stunned, Scully whirled.  "Sharon?"

"Yeah."  Sharon spared Scully a glance.  "Get her inside, I've got 
help on the way.  And I'll take care of this."  She toed Donovan's 
body contemptuously.    

Mulder looked up at her, already at the door, kicked it open and 
went inside.

Sharon nodded, barely visible.  "Go on, Dana, and take care of 
her."

After a moment, Scully nodded, and followed Mulder inside.


Aarin met them in the hallway, his eyes wide with fear, his thumb 
in his mouth; the shots, clearly, had woken him and brought back 
the memories of what had happened last summer.  

Bending, Scully hugged him and took him back to his room.  
"Mama got hurt, Aarin, but I'm going to take care of her.  
Someone came to try and take her back to Washington--he was a 
bad man and Mama got in the way when Fox tried to stop him."  

It was oversimplistic, but God knew she had to tell the child 
something.  He'd seen Morgan in Mulder's arms, limp and bloody; 
he seen her shot last summer and nearly been killed himself.

Aarin looked at her, sucking on his thumb, his eyes moving 
apathetically from her to the doorway.

"Scully?" Mulder called urgently.

Leaning forward, Scully hugged Aarin again.  "You stay here while 
we take care of Mama, okay?  I'll come back and get you when I'm 
done and you can see her again."

Aarin nodded, but she wondered if he believed her, or if he 
suddenly doubted her, wondered if he thought that either she or 
Mulder had hurt Morgan.

And since he trusted Mulder enough to call him Daddy, that 
probably meant that she was the logical suspect.

"I'll be back in a little while, honey," she told him softly and rose to 
answer Mulder's call.

*****************************************************

Mulder held onto Morgan's hand as Scully began to work.

His partner had scrubbed her hands raw under the hottest water 
their small water heater could provide, cursing the lack of foresight 
that had left their medical supplies including make-shift kit for 
sutures, and no latex gloves.

Not that he could have used the sutures himself, Mulder thought 
dimly, a thought that had passed through before, when he'd first 
checked the contents--but there was Demerol and a small fortune 
in antibiotics.

Morgan's eyelid's opened; she'd roused to painful consciousness 
when he'd carried her in, but had yet to speak.  

Now:  "S-s-sorry," she whispered and her hand tightened on his.  
"G-god, Dana, that hurts."

"The pill will kick in soon," Scully said, her tone compassionate.  
"Just hold onto Mulder, he's tough, he won't break.

"Oh, don't--"  Morgan's breath caught on a sob as Scully probed.

He was sweating, despite the fact that he felt chilled to the bone.  
"Just hang on," he told her and looked at Scully for a moment, 
entreating her.

Scully's eyes were kind.  "Did Mulder ever tell you about the time I 
shot him?" she asked conversationally.

"No."  It was a whisper; Morgan's hand tightened again, her bones 
grating against his beneath their flesh.  

He welcomed the pain, it meant she was strong enough to hurt 
him.  

Her eyes moved back to him, too bright with tears of pain.  "I'm 
sorry, Fox, I thought it was worth the chance, trying to read him.  I 
thought I could find something out....oh, God, that hurts."

It wasn't a complaint, more an expression of fact, but it made his 
chest hurt anyway.  

Taking an extra towel in his free hand, he wiped beads of sweat 
from her face, from her forehead and upper lip.  "Hang on," he told 
her again, feeling helpless, hating it with everything he was.

"I shot him right in the shoulder, right about here," Scully 
continued, after giving him a close look.  "A little farther toward 
the right, though.  Morgan, I'm just going to clean this up and try 
to stop the bleeding enough to put a dressing over it.  I'll have to 
pack it, it's going to hurt, I'm sorry."

"`S fine," Morgan said faintly and bit her lip.  "Why did you shoot 
him?"

"Bad temper," Mulder told her, grateful beyond anything that she 
could hear them, could track the conversation.  "I sorta picked a 
fight with her."

Scully laughed softly.  "Well, he was kind of under the influence of 
somebody's attempt to drug him into psychosis.  I shot him to keep 
him from shooting somebody else--though I've had second 
thoughts since, let me tell you."  She slanted Mulder a rueful 
glance and laid a couple of layers of gauze in place.  "Okay, we 
gotta do the other side, Morgan."

"Oh, joy," Morgan managed the barest trace of a smile, but it was 
weak.  "Well, at least I'll more or less match now--a scar on both 
shoulders, all within a few months."

Footsteps brought Mulder's hand back to his gun, he jerked his 
head around to see Sharon Walters again.  "What the hell are you 
doing here?"

"Tryin' to save your asses," Sharon snapped.  "Jesus--"

Mulder looked back at the bed to see Scully had cut away the back 
of Morgan's shirt.  The exit wound was ugly, about as big as a 
silver dollar and far more ragged than the entrance.  He heard 
Scully expell a breath and that shook him worse than what he saw.  
"Scully?"

"Morgan," Scully touched Morgan's hair lightly.  "This is going to 
hurt a lot, I want you to take another pill."

Morgan had raised her head to stare at Sharon.  "We have to get 
out of here," she said, her voice shaky.  "I can't be snowed, Dana.  
Sharon, how did you find us?"

"Followed Scully," Sharon told her sardonically.  "She was real 
careful, but I've had her bugged for about a week.  Got it from 
Ray."

Scully's expression was dangerous.  "Morgan, just take the damned 
pill.  We'll take care of what needs doing."

Mulder concurred silently; getting the pill, he steadied Morgan and 
the glass of water while she swallowed it.

"What's that sound?" she asked, taking hold of his wrist, her eyes 
wide.  Mulder didn't hear anything at first, but gradually became 
aware of something, more of a vibration, outside his range of 
hearing--the house trembled with it and his blood began to congeal 
in his veins as an old memory came to shocking life.

"God, what is that?" Sharon's voice was taut and she turned, 
started toward the door.

In the instant Mulder turned his head to look at her, white light 
flooded the room, the hallway--Sharon's image, frozen as she 
turned down the hall toward Aarin's room, was burned against his 
eyelids like a the negative of an old black and white photographs.

Aarin screamed in terror down the hall, galvanizing him.  He 
managed to rise--the air pressure seemed to have increased, or 
gravity, or something, it was hard to stand, hard to move.....

It drove him to his knees on the hardwood floor, then to his belly, 
pressing on him, the weight heavier than anything he'd ever 
remembered--except for one time, one time he only dimly 
remembered, and that in dreams and under hypnosis.   

Fighting it, he levered himself up enough to half-crawl, half drag 
himself into the hallway, towards Aarin's door--Sharon was with 
Aarin, their faces distorted by the light and pressure and terror.  He 
couldn't seem to breathe, couldn't seem to move any farther than 
he had, but held out a hand helplessly, wanting to reach them.

He could see them, see them falling away from him, their bodies 
twisting in the power that held him down.  Something cold and 
sharp stung the nape of his neck; the pressure didn't matter any 
more, that light was something he could shut out by closing his 
eyes.  

But oh, Aarin's voice still tore at him...."Da-a-a-d-d-dy!"

................He is twelve years old again, the cold steel of the gun in 
his hand, useless against what has come to tear his world apart.  
He is huddled in a ball, the gun clutched in his hands, letting 
himself drift somewhere where children aren't taken away in white 
light.............

Cool wetness touched his face.  "Mulder!"  Scully's voice, just a 
little too close to hysterics.  "Mulder, dammit, wake up!"

Mulder opened his eyes, reality settling around his heart like a pall.  
"God, Scully," he croaked and pushed himself up.  "Sharon--"

"She and Aarin are both gone," Scully said and he looked at her, 
saw she'd been crying.  "I thought you were dead at first--Morgan's 
lost a lot of blood, she's not in good shape, Mulder, we lost forty-
five minutes!"

"No!"  Still reeling, he pulled himself up using the doorjamb, 
staring at the small, empty bed.  

Bear was gone, he saw, and closed his eyes.  Aarin was gone, 
Sharon was gone, and Bear was gone.  Oh, God, how was he 
going to tell Morgan?  How was he going to live with this?  

They had taken Morgan's child, just like they had taken Samantha--
and as with Samantha, he had been able to do nothing, stop 
nothing.  "Oh, God," he whispered and realized that he was crying.  
"We've got to get her out of here."

"We've got to get her to a hospital," Scully told him, wide-eyed.  
"Mulder, she's in bad shape, we've got to hurry."

As if they hadn't endured enough, the front door burst open again.

"Sharon?" a man's voice called, harsh with worry.

Bending for his gun, Mulder motioned Scully to silence; with it in 
hand, he catwalked down the hall in time to meet a stranger, tall 
and broadshouldered, a day's growth of beard adding to the air of 
recklessness, a man who nonetheless held up his hands harmlessly.  
"You must be Mulder."

Mulder nodded.  "Yeah.  You?"

The man eyed him.  "Ray Palmer--where in hell's Sharon?  And 
what's going on up here?  What the hell were those lights?"

Mulder made a decision that, one which he prayed was the wisest 
choice.  "She's gone," he said and swallowed.  "And I'll tell you--
but we have to get Morgan help before she bleeds to death."

Ray Palmer stared at him for a moment.  "Let's go," he finally said.

**************************************************

Ray Palmer, as Morgan had said, had a wide network of contacts; 
a hospital wasn't necessary, but a private clinic outside of 
Albuquerque served just as well.

Morgan, Scully had told him, had come close to bleeding out on 
them; that much was evident by the pallor and weakness he saw 
when he was finally allowed in to see her.

"Hey," he said and swallowed hard, bent to kiss her forehead.

"Where's Aarin?" she asked drowsily.  "I had the worst dream, 
Mulder, I dreamt that they took him."

"It--" he began and looked helplessly at Scully, who avoided his 
eye.  "It wasn't a dream, babe, they did."

Morgan looked at him for a long moment, her expression puzzled 
and muzzy with drugs.  "No," she said, her tone reasonable.  "No, 
they didn't.  They couldn't."

"I'm sorry, we'll get him back, Morgan, somehow we will."  He 
was sweating again, or crying, or both.  "You have to get well, 
Morgan, and we can start."

Her eyes were dazed.  "No," she said, still sounding reasonable; 
pushing herself up in bed, she pushed at his chest.  "No, he can't be 
gone."

Ray Palmer intervened then.  "Morgan, I'm sorry--we'll do 
everything we can to find him.  They took Sharon, too."

Her mouth trembled.  "No!"  Tears came.  "No, oh, God, please, 
not Aarin, he's just a little boy, he's so scared--"  She began to cry 
in earnest, harsh racking sobs that tore all of them apart. 

Mulder held her, blinded by his own tears.  "I'm sorry," he 
whispered, again and again.  "We'll find him, Morgan, somehow, 
we'll find him." 

Tilting her head back, she cried out, grief and rage raw and loud.  
"Not Aarin! Oh, please, not Aarin!"

Closing his eyes, Mulder just kept holding her, unable to offer 
anything else; even his promise was empty.  

Morgan had found Samantha, he hadn't, and it had still been 
twenty-five years late.  All he could do was keep his own rage and 
guilt inside, to give her something to hold onto.

At least until he could find something else.

*****************************************************

 "Well," Palmer told him wryly.  "I own an island.  Morgan needs 
to recuperate, we can't stay here, for obvious reasons, or rather the 
two of you can't stay here."

Mulder stared at his linked hands, resting on the table in front of 
him, feeling a hundred years old.  "Where is it?"

"Offshore of Maryland."  Palmer smiled sardonically.  "Hide in 
plain sight, Mulder.  I have a security system better than the 
Pentagon's, I dare say, and I think we can keep the two of you safe 
while I do some manuevering."

Something crystallized inside him then.  "Take Morgan.  I've got 
work to do."

Scully gave him a long look.  "I don't think so, Mulder," she said 
softly.  "Go with Morgan, I'm going back to Washington, tell 
Skinner what's happened."

Palmer looked from one to the other.  "I think Morgan needs you," 
he said, equally softly.  "And she doesn't allow herself to need 
many.  Please, Mulder."

Mulder looked away from them, looked at the bed where Morgan 
lay sleeping, her eyes swollen from weeping, sedated heavily 
enough that they could have played cards on the bed without 
waking her.  

"For a while," he finally said painfully.  "But you may be wrong.  
She may not want me there."

Something stung his face hard; he stared at Scully and put his hand 
to his face, stunned.

"Goddammit," Scully told him, her tone deadly, furiously icy.  
"You didn't do this, Mulder, and I'll be double damned if I haven't 
had enough of you taking all the guilt of the world on your back!  I 
was there, remember?  If it's your fault, it's mine, too, and I don't 
think it's mine.  I don't know what happened, I can't even accept 
what happened and I was there, goddammit!"  Her expression 
softened abruptly.  "Fox Mulder, you weren't to blame for your 
sister's abduction and you aren't to blame for Aarin's.  And let's not 
forget, Sharon is gone, too.  At least we know he's not alone, 
there's someone there he knows and trusts."

For what that was worth, Mulder thought, but did not say.  And 
only as long as the two weren't separated.  It was easier to 
brainwipe a child than an adult, easier to tamper with a child's 
memories.  But looking into his partner's eyes, he nodded, 
swallowing hard.

Palmer looked relieved.  "Good.  I'm going to make arrangements, 
try and get some rest, both of you.  Dana, I'll have your rental car 
returned and take care of that.  You have a flight to catch in a few 
hours."  With a nod to Mulder, he left the room.

Scully put her arms around him and hugged him hard.  "Mulder, 
don't punish yourself, for God's sake.  And don't punish each 
other--they've been watching Morgan for a long time, Pete 
Stoddard was in one of those burned cars."

Mulder held on for a moment, remembering--God, was it only a 
few days ago--wanting normalcy, wanting work, wanting to see 
her.  "God, I'll try, Scully, that's all I can say.  I tried, I tried so 
hard to get to him, but I couldn't move."  Memory prickled.  "I felt 
something on the back of my neck, Scully, something sharp."

Drawing back, she stared at him, her eyes wide.  "Where?"

Reaching back, he touched the spot; she made him lean forward 
and examined it, tilting the lamp to increase the light.  

"There's a small red spot," she said and touched it,  "It looks like 
an injection site, Mulder."  It hurt briefly as she applied pressure, 
palpating the skin.  "No lumps underneath," she told him 
doubtfully, "Maybe we should run some blood work, Mulder."

He tilted his head.  "Wouldn't it all be metabolized by now, 
whatever it was?  I mean, I'm awake and walking around."

"Maybe."  Scully pursed her mouth thoughtfully.  "Probably.  But I 
didn't feel that--I felt like I passed out from the pressure."

"Do it," he said and scrubbed his face with both hands, shockingly 
near tears again.  "Goddammit it, why Aarin?"

"That's obvious."  Scully touched his face and he looked at her.

It was, but he didn't want to see it; Morgan would walk through 
fire for that child, and they both knew it.  She would even walk to 
her death.

It was up to them to try and prevent her. 


Excerpt from journal found abandoned in New Mexico:

November 5, 1996

"I'm tired, these days, my mind keeps going in circles, trying to 
piece together what I know to make something that I can use, that 
we can use.  I never expected to be one of the hunted.  I'm angry 
and scared and tired--I think Fox and Aarin keep me sane, these 
days.  

What did Coyote really intend?  I keep coming back to that, 
always.  He's spoken of as trickster, sometimes malevolent, 
sometimes benevolent.  I wish I'd done more reading on Native 
American mythology--I can't trust what he's told me, even if it fits 
with everything else I've guessed or considered.

Amanda said the boogeyman came and took her.  She said the 
boogeyman stuck Fox in the neck and he fell down.  The 
boogeyman sounded like the little grey men other people talk 
about.  But after millenia, I can't call them aliens.  I have to call 
them something, but if--a big if--Coyote was telling me the truth, 
they're a separate group from what we've called the Faery Folk, all 
those manifestations of the unexplainable that folklore and myth 
catalog or us.  Even so, what makes their desires any less 
inexplicable than those of Faery?

If the so-called consortium is dealing with them, why?  I doubt it's 
for the Faery gold; the legends say that Faery gold turns to ashes 
outside the hollow hills.  A metaphor, surely, since we are unlikely 
to value the same things any of them would.  Some of the old tales 
speak of them as curiously dispassionate, not understanding our 
emotional connections.

I wish I knew.  I wish I knew a lot more than I do.  I wish I knew 
some way to get out of this, to hold my hands up and say, hey, I 
don't know anything, I'm harmless, I'm an eccentric psychologist.  
But those burned cars tell them otherwise.

And I still don't know how I did that.  I ought to feel worse, I'm as 
much a killer as any of them.  First Wilson, now the men in those 
two cars.  No matter how often I tell myself that they would have 
killed us, I keep coming back to the fact that there's blood on my 
hands.

Human blood, anyhow.  Can the others be killed?  Should they be?  
Judging them by human mores is dangerous, anthropology should 
teach me that, but I can't help but find it horrible to consider that 
these abductions may actually occur.  In my arrogance, I assumed 
that most of these were delusional, and prided myself on keeping 
an open mind that a few were probably valid.  

Now, after all this, I wonder.  I never saw things before, not light, 
not power, not visitations.  I've seen Coyote, little grey figures in 
the night--and Aarin's seen them, now.  I'm so frightened for him.  
And for Fox, even though he'd hate that.  I keep looking out the 
window at night.

The more I see, the more I'm convinced that love is the only light 
in this abyss.

On the other hand, Aarin said they were frightened, too frightened 
to come in.  I warded the house again, more strongly--if I'm right, 
and they are bound by the rules of of their own stories--

Maybe, by following the ritual, by believing in it, we collapse the 
wave, setting reality into the desired structure.  God, I wish I'd 
been smarter, been able to beat the math, I'd have gone into 
physics.

It might have been safer."

*****************************************************

Skinner met Scully at a restaurant near her apartment.  She looked 
ghastly, he thought, pale and exhausted, weariness leaving purple 
crescents under her eyes, like smudges.

"What happened?" he asked, appalled.

"Aarin's been taken," she said and shook her head.  "Like Mulder's 
sister."  Her eyes were bleak.  "And Morgan's been shot again.  
Michael Donovan showed up there, sir.  He, ah, shot Morgan."

Skinner's stomach hurt.  "And?"

"He's dead, sir."  Scully looked away from him.  "Morgan's alive."

He was silent for several moments, trying to decide how he should 
react to that.  "He fired first?"  She nodded.  "That can be dealt 
with," he told her, his tone grim.  "What else?"

"They've moved again, of course," Scully told him wearily.  "I 
think Mulder's going to try to get Aarin back."

Skinner swore under his breath.  "And just how does he hope to 
accomplish that?"  She just looked at him, too tired to let her 
expression dissemble.  "That fucking lunatic, he's going to get 
himself and Morgan killed!"

That startled her.  "Sir," she began, but he held up his hand.  "You 
go back home," he said shortly.  "Does anyone know where you 
went?"

Scully's mouth trembled briefly.  "No.  Yes, Albert Hosteen."

That startled *him*.  "Mulder was out there?  Never mind, don't 
tell me, the less I know the better.  Have you got an alternate 
vacation you can document?"

She nodded, eyes wide.

"All right, back to work tomorrow."  He rose, dropping a five on 
the table for the coffee he hadn't drunk.  "Go home, Scully, you 
look like hell."

For a moment, he thought she might smile.  "Thanks, sir," she said 
instead and got up.  "Is there anything you can do?"

"I doubt it," he told her bluntly, "But I'll try."

*****************************************************

Unnamed island:  November 10, 1996

Morgan was silent for days, speaking only when spoken to, and 
giving monosyllabic replies; despite this, she did seem to need him, 
especially at night when she cried herself to sleep, as much out of 
anger at her weakness as out of grief.  

The house on the island was comfortable, well stocked, and 
surprisingly cozy for its size; despite this, Mulder lasted about two 
days before the need to do something gnawed through his sense of 
restraint.

"I'm going to go back to Washington," he told her, on the third 
morning, over the breakfast that Palmer's cook had prepared for 
them;  Palmer himself was in New York, manuevering, as he had 
sardonically told Mulder before his departure. 

"What are you going to do?"  Morgan gazed at him over a cup of  
coffee, her eyes distant.

"Try and find out who took Aarin, why, and what I can do to get 
him back."  He didn't delude himself; truth had never lost its allure 
for him, but this was more important.

"You know who took Aarin," Morgan said wearily.  "And to get 
him back, I need to walk back onto the stage."

"You don't know that," Mulder told her fiercely.  "Don't even think 
about it.  Even if you did turn yourself in to them, Morgan, what 
makes you think they'd let Aarin go."

"We don't even know that the consortium has him," Morgan said 
and sighed, setting the cup down.  "I keep trying to think what else 
I could have done--if we'd left him behind, those men would have 
taken him, maybe killed him, maybe used him to kill us.  That's 
what I kept telling myself, but maybe that was selfishness, maybe I 
didn't want to let him go."  Her voice trembled.  "Geoff was right, 
I was a goddamned fool, thinking I could play their game when I 
didn't even have the right pieces."

There was nothing he could say to that; he'd been playing with the 
wrong game pieces for years.  "What about Coyote," he said, 
reaching for something to wipe the bleakness out of her eyes, out 
of her voice.


"Who knows," she said and rested her forehead on her hands, 
elbows on the table. "Who knows what his agenda is, anyway.  
Everyone has their own."

Mulder swallowed.  "I don't, Morgan."

Morgan's face crumpled and she turned to him; gathering her up, 
heedless of the crockery, he kissed her temple.  "I'll do whatever I 
can," he whispered, "You know that."

"Don't let them kill you," Morgan wept, "I can't bear another loss, 
Fox, I can't.  Oh, God, Sharon came to help us, both of them--I 
want to kill someone, Fox, I want to kill something.  I want to 
raise my hand and burn everything to the ground, I'm so angry and 
so afraid--"

Rocking her in his arms, Mulder shoved his fear for her down, 
thinking of burned out cars on a Maryland road.  "Maybe you were 
right, Morgan, maybe we need to make them afraid."

"How?"  Morgan's voice was muffled in his chest.  "I don't know 
how I did it, it just happened."  Drawing back, she raised a hand to 
touch his face.  "Be careful," she whispered.  "Please."

Mulder kissed her mouth, unable to make false promises.  Careless 
is, he thought, with mordant humor, remembering what she had 
said to him months earlier, and careful tries.

But careful stays, his memory reminded him, and careless dies. 

*****************************************************

"Sir," Skinner's secretary waved at him as he came in the door.  "A 
call for you, says it's urgent, won't give his name."

Skinner looked at her for a moment before striding into his office.  
"Put it through," he said gruffly and punched the button when it lit 
up, cradling the phone to his ear.  "Skinner."

"Walt, it's Will Graham."  Mulder's voice was spuriously cheery.  
"I'm gonna be coming into town tonight, wondered if you and 
Sharon could put me up.  Sure would be great to see you again."

Skinner closed his eyes; he was going to throttle Mulder himself, 
he thought grimly.  "Sure thing," he said, his tone mild.  "What 
time?"

"It's gonna be late, I'm afraid.  11:30 too bad?"

"Not at all."  Skinner opened his eyes and picked up a pencil, a 
good old wooden number 2 pencil.  "We'll look for you then, 
Will."

"Terrific, Walt," Mulder told him, "Give that pretty wife of your a 
kiss for me."

The pencil snapped.  "I'll let you give that a try yourself," Skinner 
said wryly and tossed the pieces in the wastebasket.  

Mulder had better have a goddamned good reason, he thought 
listening to the dial tone; on the other hand, Mulder generally did.  
It was his definition of good that often diverged from Skinner's.

*****************************************************

Rockville:  November 10, 1996 

The apparition who appeared at Walter Skinner's door at 11:31 pm 
bore no resemblance to the agent who had turned in his gun and 
ID.  Bearded and wearing a ponytail, albeit a stunted ponytail, he 
gave Skinner a morose look. "All clear?"

"All clear," Skinner said mildly.  He had called in some favors and 
the house was being watched by men he could trust.  If so much as 
a stray tomcat moved in the neighborhood, they'd know about it.  
Moving aside, he motioned for Mulder to come in and surveyed 
the street for a moment after Mulder moved past him. 

Sharon came into the room in her robe, staring in astonishment.   
"Mr. Mulder, I don't believe I'd have known you."
 
"I can't stay long," Mulder told her apologetically, but closed his 
mouth when Skinner looked at him.

"The car should be in the garage," Skinner said drily and led the 
way to the garage.

Once the rental was closed up tight, the garage secured, and the 
two of them back in the house, he took hold of Mulder's arm.  
"You owe me an explanation," he told him gruffly, "So don't 
expect to skate out of here without giving me one.  And I want it 
complete, Mulder.  Scully gave me only the bare bones--Aarin's 
been abducted?"

Mulder gave him an uncertain look.  "I'll tell you what I can," he 
finally allowed.

"Come on, Sharon's going to leave us alone, let's have a drink."  
Keeping hold of Mulder's arm, he led him into the room that 
served as office/den.  "Sit."

Mulder sat obediently.  Pouring the Scotch, Skinner studied him.  
He looked feral, now, more truly himself than he'd ever been.  
"Where do you want me to start."

"When you walked into my office and handed me your job," 
Skinner said drily.  "That's a good place."

Mulder rubbed his chin, fingertips rubbing the short beard.  "I 
didn't know she was alive then.  I just wanted out." He slanted 
Skinner a look and accepted the Scotch.  "I didn't know for 
another week."  His expression went bleak suddenly.  "They'd tried 
to kill her and Aarin, damn them.  She surprised them somehow, 
she's still not sure how, the motherfucker fired right into the car."  
He eyed Skinner.  "She said she blew up the their cars, she's not 
sure how.  That startled the shooter, and she got her gun into his 
face and blew his fucking brains out."

Skinner sat down in his own chair, considering this.  "She blew up 
the cars?  That's hard for me to swallow."  He took a sip, 
remembering Harcourt House.  "On the other hand--what then?"

Mulder shrugged.  "She doesn't remember all of it.  She was 
bleeding, the shooter bled all over her, she got Aarin out of the car.  
She said she had just enough mind left to know that two people 
walking around with blood all over them was going to attract 
attention and grabbed her carryall.  She carried him right off the 
road into the woods and changed their clothes, got something 
wrapped around her arm to slow the bleeding and called someone 
she knew."  He gave Skinner a wary look.  "That's confidential, sir, 
I can't give them to you."

Skinner waved it away.  "It doesn't matter, they're probably 
compromised anyway.  The other side's been hunting you for 
months, they've been a few weeks behind you most of the time."

"Damn."  Mulder took a swallow of the Scotch, looking unnerved.  
"I didn't know they were so close."  His hands trembled briefly and 
Skinner looked away. "Anyway, her friend called me, said he had 
something for me.  I figured, what the hell."  He looked down, 
going silent for a moment.  "She was there, and Aarin, they'd 
gotten some undercover medical help for her.  I converted a lot to 
cash--I bought the car, stocked up, and ran for the border."

There was another silence.  "Will Graham?" Skinner prompted, 
bemused.  

"Oh, uh, well, I've got some odd friends, too, they got us papers.  
We were McKenzies. first."  Mulder drank again.  "Will and 
Maggie and their son Aarin."

He looked past Skinner, the gaze he'd seen a thousand times at  
war.  "We headed for the Rockies, stayed there until Morgan was 
healthy again.  I got a twitch around late September, we got out of 
there and just kept going west.  Picked up new ID in Calgary and 
drove through to Oregon as American citizens again."

"Tired of running?"  Skinner kept his voice gentle.

"Yeah."  Mulder gave him an honest, furious and scared look.  
"But I'm going to do something about it."

"Don't be a fool--"

"She's not some tame animal they can put down when they want 
to, she's not theirs!  And they took Aarin, damn them!"  Mulder's 
voice rose.  "Did Scully tell you what happened?  What really 
happened?  It was just like my sister, Skinner, only twenty-five 
years later."  He smiled, almost ferally when Skinner shook his 
head.  "Let me tell you, then," he said and leaned forward....


Standing on the beach, Morgan pulled her coat more closely 
around her, staring at the ocean, watching the waves crash on the 
rocks.  On the whole, she preferred the mountains; there was 
something pure about being up so high, something clean.

Bending, she picked up the small bowl of salt and sprinkled it 
around her in a circle, going back to the earliest teachings she had 
known.  The housekeeper had given her four waxen pillars, these 
she placed at the compass points, moving through the ritual almost 
automatically.  

Until she invoked.

This time, her voice rang loudly, no whispers in the desert.  The 
voice of grief and rage, crying out against the sound of the restless 
sea, echoing in the night with all the power Morgan could pour 
into it.

And this time, she took a ritual blade and cut her palm, letting the 
blood drip on the small shirt at her feet.   "By this blood am I 
bound," she said softly, "To this, my child's.  By this blood, I am 
tied to him."  Taking in a deep breath, she reached within and 
pulled up the last of her strength, pouring it out in a surge of 
power that made the blade glow white.

Then, while her palm still dripped, she slammed the knife into the 
shirt, into the ground, earthing the power and letting it spread out 
around her, traversing the salt water that separated them from the 
mainland, letting it go in all directions.

It drew her with it, taking her nowhere and everywhere; she was 
vaguely aware of her body, crouched on the damp ground over the 
quivering blade, vaguely aware of the shapes that coalesced 
outside her circle of salt.

"Why do you do this?" asked a man's voice, curious, 
unthreatening.

She seemed to be above her body, but it still worked; she heard 
herself answer.  "Because I must."

He was tall and fair, uncannily beautiful, and his arm gleamed in 
the faint candlelight--Nuada SilverHand, she knew and tried to pull 
back into her body, but could not.

"The child is gone," Nuada told her gravely.  "We will not fetch 
him back for you.  That would bring open warfare, and that would 
not benefit any of our peoples."

"Then tell me how to find him," she demanded, feeling like 
Orestes, "Show me how to fetch him myself."

"Tell her," came a harsh voice, a woman's voice, and another shape 
moved out of the shadows.  "How long has it been since any called 
on us?  How long has it been since we have been honored?"

Nuada looked at the woman; Morgan bowed, still that much in 
control.  "Lady of Battles," she breathed.  "I beg you, arm me 
against my enemies, whether of my folk or yours."

"Our kinsman told you too much," Nuada said mildly.  "He was 
ever so.  I cannot arm you against your people, child, that is 
beyond me.  We are not, as you would understand it, physically 
present on your world."

"I know that," Morgan whispered.  "But what of the others?"

Nuada was silent.  The Morrigan turned to her, a woman of severe 
visage, black hair the color of the night, the color of the raven who 
stood on her arm.  "Take this against them," she said harshly and 
Nuada sighed audibly.  The blade clattered to the ground.  "This 
will kill them, if you strike aright."  The cloak fluttered to join the 
blade.  "And this will protect you from their sight."  

Dark eyes met hers.  "Are you strong enough to walk the 
Otherroads with me?" 

Morgan pulled her ritual blade from the ground, felt her strength 
return.  "Yes," she said, steeling herself.

A slow cruel smile answered her.  "Take these up, then, and follow 
me."

"She will surely die," Nuada said, his tone uninflected.  "Lady, she 
cannot walk the Otherroads across the sea, not as we can."

Another long look came Morgan's way.  "Perhaps not," the 
Morrigan said grudgingly.  "Then she must cross it in the mortal 
way.  Take the blade and cloak and summon me, daughter, and I 
will come to lead you."

Morgan bowed again, reaching out with one hand to touch the rich 
fabric that lay on the ground.  It was real enough, she could feel 
the weight of it, the heavy nap.  "I thank you," she whispered, 
awed in spite herself.

Nuada sighed again and melted back into the darkness.  "I trust 
you will not regret it, child," his voice said and faded out on the 
last word.

The Morrigan stood a moment longer.  "It is a poor king who 
seeks war," she said regretfully.  "But war is sometimes needed."  
And was gone.  

Standing in the dark, the candles flickering in the night breeze, 
Morgan shivered and reached again, gathering cold metal and 
heavy cloak against her.

*****************************************************

Skinner sat silently, remembering Mulder's grief, understanding the 
feral look Mulder now had.

Mulder swallowed hard.  "Did you get that package to anyone?"

That wasn't what he expected.  

Oh, he'd expected Mulder to ask for his help, but not this.  After a 
long, long silence, he nodded.  "Yes.  She may be safer than you 
know, they've taken an interest in keeping the two of you alive."  
And he still didn't entirely understand why, was just grateful that it 
was true.

Relief made Mulder slump back in the chair.  "Thank you."

After another moment, Skinner opened his desk and tossed a well 
worn wallet at Mulder.  "You're still an active agent, Mulder.  
Don't fuck it up."

Something blazed in Mulder's eyes; fury? gratitude?  He wasn't 
sure.  "But--"

"As far as the official record's concerned, you've been on 
sabbatical. Administrative leave, technically.  In England.  
Additional psych courses."  Skinner's mouth twitched.

Mulder began to laugh weakly.  "You--I can't even call you an 
asshole, it's insubordination!"

"Try and remember that," Skinner told him drily, feeling that 
damned lunatic fondness for the lunatic in front of him.

Mulder stroked his beard again.  "No one's going to believe it, not 
with spooks going around questioning my friends."  Thoughtful 
voice, amused expression. 

Then,  "Do you think I could have my gun back again?" he asked 
slyly.  "It'd be nice if at least some of my firepower was legal."

Skinner closed his eyes briefly.  "I don't want to know," he said 
gruffly and reached back into the drawer, leaning across to hand it 
to him.  "I can't help you with anything else.  For God's sake, don't 
throw your life or theirs away on this."

"I won't."  Mulder's expression hardened.  "But I won't let them be 
murdered, either."  After a moment, he drank again.

"I hope," Skinner said, his tone deliberately mild, "You're planning 
on shaving and getting a haircut before you come back to work.  
You look like a goddamned drug dealer."

"Really?"  Mulder lifted an eyebrow.  "I thought I looked like an 
arms dealer." 

"Drugs, Mulder," Skinner said firmly, "It's that crazy glint in your 
eye."  He smiled finally, letting Mulder see his amusement.  
"Although it's a new look for you."

"Very different," Sharon said from the door.  "Are you two done 
plotting?  The guest room is ready for you, Fox.  And don't give 
me any argument, we'd already discussed it before you came."  Her 
eyes moved to her husband.  "Walter?" 

"Go on," Skinner said softly and Mulder unfolded from the chair, 
setting the glass aside and passing Sharon with a small, 
embarrassed smile.

"What is going on?" Sharon asked softly.  "Can you tell me any of 
it?"

He shook his head.  "I need to make some calls and go out for a 
while," he said softly.  "But I'll wait until he's asleep--or he'll think 
I'm selling him out."

Her eyes questioned him.

"I can't not help them," he said, even more softly.  "I'm sorry I can't 
tell you."

Sharon came and sat on the arm of his chair.  "It's all right.  Maybe 
I'd rather not know.  But can you help them?  He looks so--bereft."

"He has reason," he said and put his hand on hers.  "But I'll do 
what we can."

*****************************************************

Washington DC:  November 11, 1996 1:03 am

"Morgan Grayson's son has been abducted," Skinner told the 
shadows in front of him.  "And Mulder's back in town, trying to 
find him."

"We're aware of the child's abduction," Smith told him and moved 
forward, to stand visible in the faint light.  "As to Mulder, what 
course does he plan to take?"

"I don't know."  And wouldn't say if he did, Skinner thought 
grimly.  "I'd guess he's going to face down our smoking friend."

"That will prove singularly disappointing."  Smith shook his head.  
"Morgan Grayson is presently safe.  However, we'll have people 
watching Mr. Mulder, for his own good.  He's going to step into 
something far too dangerous for him."

"Then do something about it," Skinner growled.  "I've heard a lot 
of talk, but I've still got one agent out there in danger, a missing 
child, and another friend in danger."

Smith gave him a long, silent look.  "I understand your 
impatience," he told Skinner drily.  "And your frustration.  But this 
situation is only a part of our concern.  A small part, I'm sorry to 
add.  This structure of lies has been in place for fifty years, and 
some of the forces which comprise its power base have been here 
far longer than that.  But I will urge action on this--both Grayson 
and Mulder have value, you may rest assured of that."

"And the child?"  Skinner clenched his fists, unseen in the dark.

"The child is another matter--one over which we have no control, 
nor resources to retrieve him.  At least, not now.  If he is put into 
the hands of the consortium, we may have other options.  But 
remember, not even we were able to locate Samantha Mulder."  He 
vanished back into the shadows.

Skinner listened to the sound of his footsteps receding, feeling very 
real fury and an equal amount of helplessness.

*****************************************************

Unnamed island:  November 11, 1996  9:30 am

Ray knocked on Morgan's door in the morning, his expression 
somber.

Sitting on the bed, she set her book aside, heart beginning to 
thump irregularly, mouth went dry with fear of what she saw in his 
eyes.  "What?"

It was no more than a barely audible whisper.  

Ray put his hands in his pockets, looking unhappy.  "Sharon's body 
was found in the desert, Morgan," he said softly.  "I got a call in 
New York, I didn't want to tell you on the phone."

The world went grey; when Morgan could see again, she was 
sitting on the bed, her head between her knees, with Ray's hand 
resting on her back.  

"Stay there," he said softly.  "They're doing an autopsy, Morgan, 
there's no obvious cause of death."

Aarin, Morgan thought and closed her eyes, aching with grief and 
suppressed fury.  "Mulder went back to Washington."

"Karin told me."  Ray stroked her back for a moment.  "You okay?  
Sit up, come on, let's talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."  Morgan's lips were numb, her face 
was numb.  "This is my fault.  If I hadn't gone to California, none 
of this would have happened."

Ray's expression was grave and he shook his head.  "Yes, it might 
very well have happened, Morgan.  Someone's taken an interest in 
you.  Well, actually, two groups have--have you ever heard of the 
Illuminati?"

Morgan looked at him warily.  "Sure, who hasn't?   A secret 
society, supposedly controlling world events according to their 
own agenda.  Christ, there's even a game based on the Illuminati 
myth."

Ray smiled faintly at her and touched her cheek.  "No, there's a real 
group calling itself the Illuminati, but they're not powerful, 
Bavarian gnomes controlling world destiny.  This is a far more 
recently formed organization, Morgan, since the last world war.  
Supposedly formed by those members of intelligence services in 
opposition to the Majestic group."

Morgan opened her mouth, closed it again and gazed at him.  
"And?"

Ray shrugged.  "They've evidently taken an interest in you, 
Morgan.  I was contacted in New York--I've, ah, had dealings with 
them in the past, very peripherally."

Feeling lightheaded again, Morgan put her head back down on her 
knees.  "So, the other group--a multi-national consortium linked to 
Majestic?"

Ray nodded.  "They've been observing you for a while, I'm told.  
And are responsible for what happened last summer to you."  
Reaching out, he touched her shoulder.  "Whatever else I know, I 
think that the Illuminati are--moderately trustworthy."

"Isn't that like being a little bit pregnant?" Morgan asked faintly.  
"How can they be moderately trustworthy?"

"The information I've received from them has always been good," 
Ray said mildly.  "What their agenda is--I have no idea."

So now she could count four teams--five, counting herself and 
Mulder.  

Sighing, Morgan raised her head again.  "Why are you telling me 
this?  Can they help me get Aarin back?  Is Aarin even alive?"  Her 
voice broke upward on that question and she closed her eyes 
against the tears that spilled over.  

She heard Ray sigh.  "I don't know, Morgan.  I was asked to set up 
a meeting with you.  I told them I'd try, but that I'd make no 
guarantees."  

After a moment, she sat up again.  "What choice do I have?" she 
asked bitterly, and he could give her no answer.


Washington DC:  November 12, 1996  1:05 am

Mulder had found the place easily, once the Lone Gunmen had 
traced the phone numbers from his mother's telephone records.  

God, he was such a fucking fool, he could have had him before 
this, before Morgan had been threatened, back when his mother 
had been in the hospital.  He'd stormed in and demanded the 
information from Skinner when all the time it could have been 
found on his mother's phone records.

Using the tools Byers had given him, Mulder easily popped the 
lock on the apartment door and drilled out the deadbolt, all silently 
enough that it made him smile fiercely.

Slipping into the darkened apartment, he waited for his eyes to 
grow accustomed to the darkness before moving further.  The 
fucker was alone, his lights were out, but he wasn't going to take 
stupid chances; he moved through the rooms as if he were going 
into a crime scene.

When he found the bedroom, he felt more than contempt.  With all 
that lay on his conscience, the black lunged son of a bitch was 
sleeping like a baby.  

The touch of cold steel woke him quickly, and the barrel of 
Mulder's gun kept him from lunging upright.

"Mr. Mulder, I presume," the husky voice said in the dark.

Mulder smiled ferally.  "Good guess.  Haven't screwed anybody 
else, lately, you even know who might show up in your room late 
at night."

"This is about Morgan Grayson and her son, I suspect."  Mulder 
had to hand it to the rat bastard.  He was a cool one; his voice was 
uninflected in the dark, unworried.  

Moving back slightly, Mulder shook his head, bemused.  "Get up.  
No sudden moves, naturally."

"Naturally."  The sound of movement came from the bed.  "I don't 
know where she is, Mulder."

"Thank God for that," he said flatly.  "Out of bed, move slowly."

"There's a chair in the corner if that's what you want."  The voice 
was amused. 

"That will do," he agreed and prodded the pale shape in the 
darkness.  "Go on, then."

The rest was accomplished fairly quickly.  Once he had his captive 
seated, he used the cuffs and manacles Frohicke had given him to 
secure him before turning on the light.

"What do you hope to accomplish?"   They blinked at each other 
for a long moment.  

"I hope to get you to call off your hunters, I want Aarin back" 
Mulder told him pleasantly.  "And if you want to live past tonight, 
you'll meet those demands."

There was a trace of amusement, no, amusement mixed with 
apprehension in the bastard's eyes.  "You seem to be operating 
under some misapprehensions.  I *have* had her watched, but I've 
sent no one after her.  And I certainly don't know anything about 
the child."

"Liar,"  He held the gun steady, close to the bridge of his captive's 
nose.  "They tried to kill her once, but she turned the tables.  So 
you sent your ace card after her, just the way you took Samantha!"

A drop of sweat rolled down the side of the man's face.  "It wasn't 
my people, Mulder.  It wasn't my doing."

Mulder stepped closer, his stomach roiling, not believing it for a 
minute.  "Whose, then?"

"I don't know.  I'm not the only player in this game, you know 
that."  Another drop of sweat followed the first.  "And this--I can't 
even guess.  I've been wondering when you'd come after me, 
Mulder, but I expected you months ago.  When she vanished."

"Give me one good reason to believe you."

"I wasn't at all sure she was human, Mulder.  That's one of the 
reasons I was watching her."

That touched too deeply on his own betrayal of Morgan, however 
brief it had been.  "So when has that ever stopped you?"

A pained grimace.  "She clearly didn't belong to any group I am 
familiar with.  I don't have any way to prove to you that I am not 
responsible for her abduction, I can only assure you that Peter 
Stoddard didn't work for me.  I can, however, give you the name 
of his--shall we say, mentor." 

"Why would you give that to me?" Mulder asked drily.  "An act of 
kindness in memory of my father?"

"I didn't kill your father, either," the man said, and took another 
breath.  "Although I didn't try very hard to save him, either.  Your 
father's self-destructiveness kill him as much as a bullet ever did."

"Don't tempt me to pull this trigger," Mulder hissed.  "And while I 
find the concept of you guys at each other's throats an attractive 
one, it's no easier to believe than any of your other fairy tales."  

He tightened his finger on the trigger, wanting to kill this bastard, 
needing to do it--but he was still himself, still too empathetic to do 
murder.  His eyes stung; he still couldn't kill the fucker in cold 
blood.  "If I see any of you coming, you bastard, I'll show no 
mercy.  Call the hounds off her, because I won't stop until you do.  
Leave her the fuck alone, and don't try to stop me from finding 
Aarin."

"I wish I could."  The eyes that regarded him with that strange hint 
of fear again.  "Averill Preston should be your target, Mulder.  Go 
after him, not me." 

"Yeah, I'll bet."  Releasing the trigger, Mulder swung the weapon, 
barrel first, and struck hard, metal impacting on flesh and bone 
with an unpleasant sound.  "Cocksucker," he said, standing over 
the fallen body.

But he'd never seen fear in those eyes before and it made him 
wonder if maybe the shadow government was more faction ridden 
than he'd guessed.  Maybe Cancerman actually had something to 
fear.  Which meant that maybe, just maybe, this mysterious Averill 
Preston really was responsible for what had happened to Morgan, 
for what had happened to Aarin.

That was his next move, anyway.  He had nowhere else to go.  
And just maybe, he thought, regretting his loss of control, just 
maybe this bastard could lead him there.

****************************************************

Annapolis:  November 12, 1996  4:15 am

Scully's sleep was broken, as it had not been in months, not since 
Mulder's disappearance and presumed death, not since her post-
abduction nightmares had eased.  

But the memory of what had happened at the small house in New 
Mexico kept her from sleep, or drove her to dreams in which she 
heard Aarin's scream, heard her partner's painful cry as he tried to 
reach Aarin.  She doubted he had even been aware he had cried 
out, not with the unconsciousness that had followed.  It had driven 
her under, that cold prickling touch at her nape, and her neck 
prickled even now, despite Geoff's comforting warmth behind her.

Scully didn't know what had happened.  And that not-knowing was 
a piece with the not-knowing what had happened to her.  She was 
an adult, a grown, practical-minded, reliable woman, and still felt 
nothing so much as stomach-roiling terror when she tried to 
remember what had happened to her when they'd abducted her.

How much worse would it be for a four, nearly five year old child?  
How much worse for a child who had only recently begun to trust, 
who had trusted Mulder enough to call him Daddy.

And while she was on *that* subject, how much worse would it be 
for her partner? 

As she closed her eyes for the fiftieth time--wanting sleep,craving 
it, and fearing it at the same time--the phone rang.  

It was Skinner.  "Is he with you?" he asked bluntly, no preamble, 
no courtesies. 

"No."  Her stomach tightened again and she sat up, gently 
disengaging herself from Geoff's embrace.  "I thought he was 
staying with you?"

"He ducked out on me," Skinner growled.  "Sharon said he got a 
call before got home from work, someone he called Langley."

Scully swallowed hard.  "One of his contacts."

"Scully, I've just come into some information that suggests 
Mulder's about to do something fatally stupid."

"When doesn't he?"  She bit her lip.  The words had slipped out 
before she could stop them.  With no way of calling them back, she 
hurried on.  "Do you have some idea of where he might be?"

"No, but I'm working on that.  Try and get some sleep, I'm sorry to 
wake you." 

She listened to the click and the dial tone for a very long time.

*****************************************************

Washington DC:  November 12, 1996 3:00 pm

The man who met Morgan and Ray Pamer at the restaurant was 
wearing an Italian suit; his beard did not disquise his craggy 
features, and his eyes, disconcertingly, were different colors.  

Morgan found herself wondering if he'd forgotten and put the 
wrong contact in.

"You may call me Mr. Jones," he told her, taking her hand.  "I was 
very sorry to hear about your son, Dr. Grayson."

Morgan retrieved her hand as soon as possible.  "Yes, I'm sure," 
she said acidly.  "What, precisely, can you do to help me get him 
back?  If he's still alive.  After all, Sharon Walters is dead." 

Jones looked unhappy.  "I regret to say, we can do nothing."

"Then we have nothing to say to one another," Morgan told him, 
but her vision blurred.  No, she told herself fiercely, I have other 
ways.

"But I can tell you that Fox Mulder is in grave danger."  Jones' 
eyes rested on her, unblinking.  "He's trying to find the man who 
gave the orders to have you taken."

Morgan held his gaze, even though the tears blinded her.  "Fox 
Mulder is an adult," she said, though her chest hurt.  "And not 
your concern."

"Quite the contrary," Jones said, his expression shifting from 
congenial concern to intensity.  "He is very much our concern.  As 
you are, Dr. Grayson."

"Can you get my son back?" she asked, her voice steel.  "No?  
Then I suggest to you that I am not your concern.  Ray, I'm sorry, 
I need to get some rest.  Mr. Jones."  Rising, she slipped away 
from the table without looking back. 

****************************************************

Washington DC:  November 12, 1996  4:57 pm

"I hope you have a good reason for this," Skinner growled, as the 
man slid onto the bar stool beside him.  "I've got a situation on my 
hands with Mulder and I don't need delays."

"I can help you with that," Jones said mildly and slid an envelope 
toward him.  "He'll be going here.  Our smoking friend appears to 
have vanished, though he was seen leaving his apartment just a 
short while ago by his neighbors, accompanied by a tall thin fellow 
with a beard.  Sound familiar?"

Skinner's stomach tightened with unease.  "Going where?"

"No one knows." Jones tapped the edge of the envelope that still 
showed beneath Skinner's elbow.  "But I would suggest here.  I've 
also got a list of men you can trust, in case you're uncertain."  He 
rose.  "By the by, we believe that the man mentioned in that report 
also has Morgan Grayson's little boy."  He slanted Skinner a brief 
smile before vanishing back into the smoke and dimness of happy 
hour.

Skinner read the sheet of paper in the men's room before shredding 
and flushing it.  Undue paranoia, perhaps, but since his own 
experience with the shadow agency, he preferred to take few 
chances.

Averill Preston, he mused, pushing his way back through the bar.  
CEO of a corporation that manufactured everything from TV 
dinners to microchips.  

And, if this was to be believed, a top man in the Garnet agency, 
one of the blackest of the black shops, multinational and with ties 
to Bagdhad as well as Whitehall.  All of which was fascinating, but 
the important piece of information was Preston's home address.

If that smarmy bastard had told Mulder where to locate Preston, he 
was certain at heart that it wasn't out of concern for Mulder's 
welfare.  

And the man who didn't hesitate to give order for wet work was 
hardly likely to be frightened by a man driven to the edge by grief--
he hadn't been before, while Scully lay comatose in an intensive 
care bed, and he doubted seriously if Mulder had gotten any more 
frightening than he had been that night.  No, if he had aimed 
Mulder toward Preston, it was for an agenda of his own.

Whatever else he owed Mulder--respect, friendship, truth, God, 
even loyalty--he owed him the chance to escape from the web 
freshly woven around him.

Even if it meant that bastard would live to smoke Morleys for a 
long, long time.

It was time to make some calls, and not to any of the names on 
Jones' list.  He knew men who could be trusted, the same men 
who'd done him the favor of watching his home.  And now he 
would tell them the truth.  Or what he knew of it. 


Georgetown:  November 12, 1996  6:43 pm

Back in Morgan's hotel room, sleep deserted her, though she had 
tried to rest, tried to gather her strength.

Her shoulder hurt, even with the pain pills she'd allowed herself to 
take, if only to get through the next few days, to get through what 
she must do.

Lighting the candles, she sat in the middle of the floor and 
meditated for a long while before she invoked.  No crash of waves 
this time, only the low hum of the air ducts; she whispered her 
invocations, closing her eyes and pulling all the power she could 
bear into herself.

"I am here, daughter," a harsh, feminine voice said.

Morgan opened her eyes to see the tall figure and rose to her feet 
to bow.  "Lady of Battles," she whispered.

"Your child is no longer in our world," the Morrigan told her.  The 
raven was not with her, but she was dressed as a warrior, leather 
armor with small diamond shaped bits of metal--something silvery 
that resonated just off key enough that Morgan recognized it as 
something else, something that was not what it looked. Like the 
dagger she held.  "You must walk with me, nonetheless, if you 
would have him back.  But you will not need the dagger--these are 
men of your folk, your power will suffice."

Morgan swallowed hard and offered the blade back, hilt first.

"You respect the old ways," the Morrigan said approvingly and 
sheathed the blade at her belt.  "Come, put on the cloak, you will 
need it to walk these ways."

Slinging the heavy material around her shoulders, Morgan 
shivered, despite her sweater, despite her leggings and boots, 
despite the heat in the room.  "I am ready," she said softly.

"Not quite," the Morrigan extended a long, pale hand and touched 
her forehead. "Share my strength, daughter.  You will have much 
to do."

Morgan was grateful for a moment.  Then, as the power flooded 
into her, as light and heat seared her nerves, she remembered that 
gifts of Faerie were always double-edged, always to be grasped 
with care.

But careful tries, she told herself dimly, drowning in what the 
Morrigan gave her. 

When the power settled into her bones, she felt lightheaded, 
detached and distant from her humanity.  Perhaps, she thought, a 
cool amusement stealing her desperation, perhaps the old tales 
about Celtic blood were true; she had enough of it, had always 
joked that it was the source of her strangeness, of her gifts.

Perhaps that was why the Morrigan called her daughter.

"Come," said the lady, standing tall and dark, like a shadow, only 
the metal she wore catching the light from the candles.  Raising 
both hands, she cast a shadow impossibly tall and intoned in a 
language Morgan didn't recognize, but which sounded hauntingly 
like Gaelic, like what little Gaelic she knew. 

Reaching out, the Morrigan grasped the light and tore open a dark 
space in the room, utterly lightly, a void so profound that Morgan 
was reminded of black holes, of gravity sinks.

Without so much as blinking, she followed the Morrigan in.

*****************************************************

Somewhere in the Virginia countryside:  November 12, 1996  7:00 
pm

They had spent the day together in a twisted parody of friendship, 
Mulder and his old enemy.  And whether it was through threats of 
death, or something else, he had won the information he wanted 
and the escort he needed.

They had left the car just outside the gate which controlled 
entrance to Preston's home.

"Call him," Mulder grated, "Call him and ask him to meet you out 
here."

That earned him a sardonic smile, but the cell phone beeped as the 
numbers were dialed.

"It's me," the man told his colleague, slanting Mulder another 
sardonic smile.  "I've got something for you, I need you to meet 
me at the gate.  Something I think may please you.  Yes."  He 
disconnected the phone and looked at Mulder.  "Satisfied?  Be 
careful what you wish for, Mr. Mulder, you may get it."

Mulder ignored this, focused on the gate beyond.  He stood just to 
one side and slightly behind, his gun hidden by the other man's 
body. 

"Mind if I smoke?"

"I don't give a rat fuck if you smoke," he snapped, and held out the 
lighter he'd retrieved earlier.  "I'll light it for you."

That made the man smile again.  "Such paranoia, Mulder.  How do 
you sleep at night?"

He jammed the barrel of the gun into the man's back.  "I don't," he 
said softly.  "I haven't since I was twelve, remember?  When 
Samantha was taken."

A light showed up the long drive and he could hear the sound of a 
car starting.  It drove slowly as his captive bent for the light, 
slowed even more as the lights caught them both.

"I'd say he's mildly surprised to see you, Mulder."  The man inhaled 
deeply, the ember glowing read in the near-dark.

"I'd say you might be right."  Mulder shoved the lighter back into 
his coat pocket, forcing himself to stand still, to wait for the 
moment.

The car stopped a few yards short of the gate and two men got 
out.

"I forgot to tell him to come alone."  Another sardonic smile.  
"Imagine that." 

"Shut the fuck up," Mulder said softly, through clenched teeth.  
"And just play it like I told you."

"Certainly."  The cigarette dropped to the ground to be crushed 
out and the man straightened.

One of the men carried a gun.  The other, a dapper, slight man who 
looked to be in his late forties, came closer to the gate.  "You look 
dreadful, old friend," he said, conversationally.

"I've had a long day," answered his captive ironically.  "Mr. Mulder 
seems to feel some pressing need to speak to you."

Preston seemed amused, more than anything.  "Really, old friend, 
this was unwise."

"I tried to dissuade him," said the smoking man and laughed, 
softly, raising a hand; this close to him, Mulder saw it tremble 
fractionally.

"On the other hand, Mr. Mulder, this is most opportune," Preston 
said and reached into his jacket.

Baffled, Mulder stood, nearly too long; when Preston pulled the 
gun out of his jacket, he threw himself against his captive, hurling 
them both to the ground as Preston fired.

For a heartbeat, he lay there, eye to eye with his victim.  "Damn 
you, Mulder," the man said thickly, "I always knew you'd be the 
death of me."

He drew back, automatically checking the other man's wound; 
seeing that it wasn't mortal, and hearing the gates open, he turned 
to shout,  "You killed your colleague, Preston!"  Quixotic as 
always, he thought, cursing himself, and ran, knowing it was futile.

He'd miscalculated, and badly.  

It didn't take them all that long to get him, although he was 
moderately satisfied that he caused them some trouble.  Cursing 
himself, Mulder followed the men Preston had sent after him, 
nursing a bruise on his jaw and his pride.

"Mr. Mulder," Preston greeted him genially at the door of the 
house.  "Please, come in, I have something to show you.  
Something I believe you're looking for, if I'm not mistaken."

That geniality froze his blood; nevertheless, he followed with 
apparent coolness as Preston led the way upstairs, followed as 
Preston led him into a room off the main hallway--

And froze again, physically, as he took in the contents of that 
room.  Medical equipment, monitors, oxygen--a hospital bed on 
which a small, still form lay, the mask discarded at the side of the 
bed.

Mulder made a sound in his throat.

The gun prodded his back.  "Go on, Mr. Mulder."

But he would not.  The monitors were flat.  Without conscious 
memory of moving, he found himself restrained by Preston's thugs, 
one thick arm blocking his windpipe.  Preston's mouth was bloody.

"Don't be a fool, Mulder," Preston said, his tone carrying amused 
contempt.  "We didn't kill him, he was dying already when we 
found him in the desert.  Near that woman's body--that friend of 
Grayson's.  Children don't always do well, I'm afraid, especially so 
young.  Fright, perhaps, or shock."

The arm around his throat loosened fractionally, enough for him to 
drag air back into his lungs.  He surged up again, mindless fury 
driving muscles that still quivered and burned with exertion.  
"Bastard," he said thickly, grief still lurking in the shadows to tear 
him apart--"I'll kill you."

"I very much doubt that," Preston wiped his mouth with a linen 
handkerchief and gave Mulder a wintry smile.  "Teach him the 
realities, gentlemen.  I'll be back shortly."

The beating which followed was no worse than he'd endured at his 
father's hands, and the pain distracted him from a greater agony.  
He was numb, in any case, too aware of the small body on the bed, 
even as the blows rained down, splitting and bruising his flesh.

They left him after that, leaving him curled on his side on the floor, 
welcoming bruised flesh and broken ribs as an anodyne to what 
awaited him yet.  

When he thought he could bear it, Mulder forced himself up, 
wincing a little, and hobbled to the bed.  

It *was* Aarin, he hadn't been wrong, hadn't dreamt it, hadn't 
hallucinated it--"Oh, sprout," he whispered and went to his knees, 
grief driving him down.  "I'm so sorry, sprout," he said, voice 
cracking upward, and wept, gathering the small body to his chest, 
rocking back and forth as this loss shredded him anew. 

By the time they returned for him, his eyes were dry.

*************************************************

On the Otherroad:  Otherwhen

The most shocking thing about what Morgan perceived on the 
Otherroad, as the Morrigan had called it, was the clear 
juxtaposition of--failing other words, she called them whens.  

She caught brief flashes of a primeval forest, of freshly cleared 
farmland, of small native villages, of Washington's urban sprawl, all 
piled one on top of the other, all mixed together in a nightmare 
blend that would have made her shiver if she was still human.

But she was not; there was more of Faerie to her now and she 
regarded it with calm fascination, understanding that all time was 
now, that she was ordinarily trapped in sequential perceptions.  It 
drew her, almost fatally, but that small part of her that was still 
human, that still mourned Aarin, that loved both the child and Fox 
Mulder, kept her from stepping off the road into another time, into 
another day.

The Morrigan closed one cool hand over her wrist and drew her 
through another tear in the world, drew her out into darkness, the 
asphalt road a pale grey in the night beneath her feet.  A man 
leaned against the car, his breathing a rasp in the night.

"Go, daughter," the Morrigan whispered and touched her forehead 
again, freshly infusing her with power.  "Avenge."  And was gone.

She regarded the man, tasting his fear, smelling the blood in the air, 
*knowing* him as an enemy.  

"You," she said and reached out a hand to him, touching him.  The 
knowledge came to her, Fox was in that house.  "If you touch me 
or mine again, I will kill you," she told him and walked through the 
closed gate, still so much on the Otherroad that it hindered her not 
at all.  The door was likewise no hindrance; following the spoor of 
hate and fear, she went up the elegant staircase.


Somewhere in the Virginia countryside:  November 12, 1996 8:30 
pm 

They brought in a chair and strapped Mulder into it; Preston's 
anemic, ferret-faced aide fumbled an IV tube into place, injected 
something into it, and capped it off.  

His arm burned with whatever it was; he closed his eyes, drawing 
deep inside, remembering how he had done it when he had been 
small, escaping from his father's fists.

They waited for the drug to take effect, then asked him innocuous 
questions: his name, his age, what his favorite food was.  Then, 
without much transition, the voice outside the dark asked him,  
"Where is Morgan Grayson?"

Muzzily, Mulder considered that.  "I don't know," he said 
truthfully, one small part of his mind grimly pleased that the truth 
was bound to make them very angry.

Confirming this, there was an angry murmur above him.  "When 
did you last see her?" the voice asked, sounding less than pleased.

In spite of himself, he felt badly about displeasing; the drug, he 
supposed, and his training at William Mulder's school of 
obedience.  "Three days ago, in the morning."

"Where?"

The image came to his mind.  "At breakfast, at the table."  If he 
focused on the details of the image, he could tell them the truth 
without betrayal.

Another irritated murmur.  "Where was the table?"

The image persisted.  He could almost smell the coffee in his cup.  
"In the dining room," he said obediently and tried to concentrate 
on the pain in his arm and hand.

"Dammit--" a new voice said, but the first voice hushed it. 

"Where?"

Mulder fought hard, suddenly frightened, torn between needing to 
answer, wanting to obey, and his heart's desire, to keep at one 
thing safe from them.  "In R-ray's house," he finally said, sweating, 
his pulse racing with the effort to deceive.

The second voice growled again.  "This is useless, he's resisting, 
give him another dose."

"But he doesn't know where I am," Morgan's voice came from 
behind him, entirely calm, and almost amused.  

The restraints loosened as he opened his eyes to see her, just fell 
away from his wrists and from the chair.  "Fox, can you get up?"

Sickness roiled in Mulder's gut as he tried to straighten.  
"Morgan," he whispered and looked at her, fear for her and fear of 
her warring.  She was surrounded by a faint lambent light, as if her 
skin had begun to glow.

"How did you get in here?" Preston asked, sounding pleased and 
terrified at the same time, like a kid on a roller coaster.

"With a little help from my friends," Morgan told him, her voice as 
hollow as the wind in the desert.  "No one you would know, I'm 
afraid, you have another group of allies entirely."  She drifted to 
the bed where Aarin lay, covered with a sheet, and drew it down.  
"Ah, sweeting," she said softly and bent to kiss the small, pale 
brow, one hand resting on the tousled hair.

"Kill him," Preston told his aide, "Go on, give him the dose--"

They seemed to have forgotten the restraints were gone; 
nevertheless, still dizzy with drugs and pain, it was all he could do 
to keep the needle from him, from the IV tube.

>From the corner of his eye, he could see Morgan turn, could see 
Preston raise the gun--"Morgan!" he cried out hoarsely, nearly 
despairing.

He need not have; raising her hand, palm outward, Morgan 
murmured something under her breath.  Light flared, opalescent, 
from her palm, and Preston dropped the weapon with a savage 
curse.  Then, she turned her gaze to the aide, who slumped 
bonelessly to the floor.

"You miscalculated, Mr. Preston," Morgan said, her expression 
dispassionate, almost disinterested.  "Quite badly, I'm afraid.  You 
harried me, drove me like an animal--you stripped me of hope, of 
humanity.  What choice had I but to turn to other, more dangerous 
roads?"  She raised her other hand, as if she warded off a blow.  
"Do you like what you've created?  Does it please you?"

Preston had begun to look afraid.  "Listen, you bitch," he growled, 
and bent for the gun.  

To Mulder's horror, she let him.  As Preston straightened, 
however, she took another step forward. "Does it bring you 
happiness, Mr. Preston?  Contentment? Lives destroyed, souls 
burnt out by grief and fear and hate--does it feed you?"

Preston raised the gun in a shaking hand.  "Back off!" he shouted.  
"Now, goddammit, or I'll kill Mulder."

"I think not."  Morgan took another step forward, her hands still in 
that placating, warding gesture.  "Look inside your heart, Mr. 
Preston.  See what you have become, feel what you have become.  
And feel the grief you have caused others."

Light lanced from her hands, then, another shimmering of colors 
that looked entirely benign; Preston's face twisted.  "No!" he cried.

"Yes," Morgan breathed, her gazed fixed on him.  "Oh, yes.  I 
condemn thee, Averill Davison Christian Preston.  Thrice do I 
name thee cast out. Cast out of heaven, cast out of earth, and cast 
from the Wheel.  Cast into the abyss, ever aware, ever alone, in the 
blackness of chaos."  Her eyes glittered with madness and rage.  
"Thrice, as priestess, as judge, and as victim."

Preston screamed, a high-pitched, lunatic scream that nearly 
unmanned Mulder; his testicles made a very serious attempt to 
crawl back into his body.  "Morgan," he begged hoarsely, 
"Morgan, come back to me, don't do this."

She spared him the barest glance as the door burst open.  Two of 
Preston's men raised their guns.

Morgan's smile was terrible.  "Cry havoc," she cried, almost gaily, 
"And loose the dogs of war!"

The room burst into flame, sudden and horrifying.  But the worst 
was the three human torches, screaming as they stumbled, the 
smell of cooking flesh making Mulder gag.

Even his horror of fire could not stand against his engulfing fear 
for Morgan. 

"Morgan!" he screamed, against the roar of the fire, and took hold 
her shoulders, shaking her hard.  "Goddammit, Morgan, we've got 
to get out!"  

Staggering, he dragged her to the door, the searing heat making 
him flinch, making his inward mind gibber in instinctive terror; they 
had just reached the hall when the oxygen exploded, sending the 
fire out, as if it sought those who had escaped.

Mulder could hear shots downstairs now, and quailed at that; he 
was too undone to face that, shaking so badly he could not stand.  
As if she had returned to sanity, Morgan put an arm around his 
waist, half-carrying, half dragging him down the hallway to the 
stairs.  Impossibly fast, the inferno came after them, came after 
him, licking at their heels.

****************************************************

As Scully braked the car, Skinner leapt out, leveling his weapon at 
the man who leaned against the car, recognizing him in the glare of 
the headlights.  "Where's Mulder?" he snapped.

The man gestured toward the house.  "Mr. Mulder has met his 
fate," he said hoarsely, sounding almost amused, despite the blood 
and his pained expression.

The other two cars behind hers stopped and other men emerged; 
Scully recognized only a few faces, from the Bureau--startlingly, 
from VCS--but the others were strangers, evidently men Skinner 
knew.

"Call an ambulance," Skinner told one of them, sounding almost 
regretful.  But cuff him to the car--I don't want him taking off." 

Scully gave him a startled look; he almost smiled at her, his 
expression grimly satisfied.  "Let's go," he said, and led the way.

*****************************************************

Still dizzy with drugs and from the beating, Mulder nearly fell on 
the stairs, had to stop and steady himself on the banister, despite 
the instinctive terror of fire that made him trembled.  As Morgan 
slipped her arm around his waist again, he made the mistake of 
looking backward to see the entire second floor turn into hell.  

The sight turned his limbs to water; the entire second floor was 
ablaze, as if Preston's house had been made of tinder.  He 
understood now why Stoddard and his people had been unable to 
escape their cars.

Morgan pulled his weight onto herself again and hurried pell mell 
to the bottom, as the front door exploded inward.  She stopped, 
utterly still, as silent as she had been since....he couldn't bear to 
think of that now, he told himself, shaking, not now.  Maybe not 
ever.

It took a moment for Mulder's mind to register what he saw, who 
stood there, guns drawn and aimed:  Skinner, Scully, some of his 
former colleagues from VCS.

That shocked him enough that he didn't move, didn't pull at 
Morgan.  The world greyed out around him for a while; when it 
came back, Skinner was easing him down on the ground, out in the 
fresh air, out on the road, his senses blearily told him. 

Scully was bent over Morgan.  "She's out, sir," she said and looked 
up at him. "Mulder?"

"`M okay," he said, though he quite patently was not.  "Is she?"

"She's unconscious, Mulder."  Scully rose.  "Sir?"

A wiry man, a complete stranger, came up to sit on his heels beside 
Skinner. "Another ambulance on the way," he said briefly and 
flicked a look at Mulder. "Nobody alive in there, I'm afraid--no 
way to get to them if they are."

Mulder closed his eyes, sickened by the smell of smoke on his skin 
and clothes, by what he had seen, by what he remembered.  "God," 
he breathed and let Skinner push him down; he was lying with his 
head on someone's jacket.

Another man walked up, his features tugging at Mulder's sense of 
familiarity.  "Agent Mulder," he said softly and hunkered down.  
"You remember me?"

His jaw dropped.  "McIlheny?"

"In the flesh."  The detective arched an eyebrow.   "Had some hard 
times, I hear.  You could have trusted me.  Walt did."

Skinner made a small sound of amusement in his throat.  "He 
doesn't entirely trust me, Matt."  He looked down at Mulder.  
"More than he used to, by far."

"Morgan," he said, his eyes going back to Scully.  "She wasn't 
hurt, they didn't hit her."

"I think she fainted," Skinner said, sounding troubled.  "She doesn't 
look like she weighs more than ninety pounds, Mulder."

Mulder looked up at Skinner, exchanging a look that spoke of their 
knowledge.  

Tears stung his eyes.  "The Morgan Grayson Weight Loss plan," 
he said and his throat tightened too much to speak.  Just as well; 
the smoke had scorched his lungs and throat and he didn't feel 
much like talking anyway.

"Aarin's dead," he told Skinner.  "That bastard in there--"  It was 
true enough, true enough for McIlheny."

Skinner's shock and sadness drew his to the surface; he closed his 
eyes, unable to talk about it, unable to allow himself to think about 
it.

He had learned that lesson too well while young; drawing inward 
again, he let himself drift.

****************************************************

Georgetown:  November 13, 1996  1:00 am

"Aarin's dead, Scully," Mulder told her, after they'd bound his ribs, 
pronounced his few burns first degree and salved them, shot him 
full of painkillers, and set him loose in a wheel chair.  "They--he..."  
His voice trailed off and he fought for control, fought the tears that 
blinded him.

"Oh, God."  Scully went white.  "Oh, God, no, Mulder."

Mulder's tears came then.  Bending his head, he put his hands over 
his face, the sobs tearing loose of his chest.  Dead and burned, he 
thought numbly, remembering the flames consuming the room.  
"Morgan saw him, Morgan knows."

Scully's arms went around him, the comfort she had offered a 
thousand times, even when he had rejected it.  "Oh, Mulder," she 
mourned, her voice thick with tears of her own.

The door opened then, and Skinner came in, his expression grim.  
"Mulder--oh, God, Scully, what is it?"

"Aarin," Scully said and firmed her voice.  "Aarin's dead, sir.  
Preston."

He'd already told Skinner.  But it wasn't really true, at least he 
didn't think so.  Preston's words had held the ring of truth, and the 
medical equipment told its own story.  They'd tried to save Aarin, 
at least long enough to lure Morgan in.  But it might as well have 
been Preston.  

"How's Morgan, sir?" he asked, raising his head again. 

Skinner's expression was somber.  "Ah, I'm not sure, I just came in 
to see how you were."

Mulder's senses, sharpened by months on the run and months spent 
with Morgan, rang all his alarms.  "Sir?"  Skinner was lying about 
something.  "What's wrong?"

For a moment, Skinner evaded his eyes; then, with the air of a man 
condemned, he came to Mulder, putting a hand on his shoulders.  
"They don't know, Mulder. She's unresponsive, Geoff Montrose 
says she's comatose now."

"No," Mulder whispered, "No!"  Slamming his hands on the 
wheelchair, shaking his head, feeling hysteria rise in his chest, 
stealing breath and thought--

"Mulder," Scully held onto him.  "Mulder, don't, you're going to 
hurt yourself."

"Do you think I give a goddamn?" he asked her, tears scalding his 
face.  "No, I can't, Scully, I can't accept that, she's going to be all 
right."

She was crying in earnest now, scared for him, grieving for them 
all.  "Mulder, calm down or I'll get someone in here to sedate you."

Mulder recoiled, turning to Skinner.  "I want to see her," he said, 
then, "I need to see her," almost pleading.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Scully began, but Skinner nodded 
and gestured at her.

"Scully, I'll take him."

She was silent then, struggling for her own composure.  "I'll go 
with you," she finally whispered.

There for him as she always was, he thought and closed his eyes 
again.  

Oh, God, not this, he prayed, remembering Morgan's eyes, 
remembering the light.  It had eaten her up, just as Joe Cronin's 
sickness had tried.  This time, another kind of sickness had gotten 
her, but it was no less evil.


It was nearly dawn before Mulder discovered that his nemesis had 
survived, lay in a hospital bed not all that far from Morgan's room, 
and distressingly close to his own.

Scully told him, once she had managed to chivvy him into bed, 
once Geoff had grimly come and ordered him there, with threats of 
sedation again.

But after hearing that, Mulder would almost have welcomed drugs.  
Once Scully had left, he fumbled his way back into clothes reeking 
of smoke and dark with soot before making his way down the hall.

To his horror, Skinner was there, talking to the man who lay in the 
bed, his expression as arrogant as always.  Skinner turned when he 
saw Mulder, his eyes surprised, but unworried.  "You should be in 
bed," he said firmly.

Mulder had eyes only for his enemy; he swore to himself he could 
see the bastard's eyes glitter.  Rage made him sway; he detached 
himself from the door jamb and staggered over, leaning on the 
back of an unoccupied chair.  

"What are you doing here?" he demanded of Skinner.  "With him?"

Skinner's smile was wintry.  "Reaching some compromises," he 
said flatly.  "He's agreed to leave your sister alone."

That pushed Mulder's buttons satisfactorily enough for everyone; 
he was like one of Pavlov's damned dogs, he thought distantly, 
feeling his adrenalin surge.   

"Don't interfere with me," he told his enemy hoarsely, "My sister's 
coming home and if you even so much as blow smoke in her 
direction or mine, I'll fucking kill you."

"Old news, Mr. Mulder," Cancerman said flatly.  "I've already cut a 
deal with your AD.  She's yours, for all the joy you'll have of each 
other.  And so is Morgan Grayson.  Just don't interfere with 
*me*."

A deal?  Mulder made it to his feet, gazing at Skinner with hate.  
"A deal?"

"In your favor, Mulder," Skinner said harshly.  "Is the truth more 
important than human beings?  Don't you want her to be safe?"

Samantha, Mulder thought, reeling, and leaned down, resting his 
head on his folded arms.  "Yes," he said faintly.  "He's never kept 
any bargain he ever made, Skinner."

"I let you live," his enemy said and coughed.  "Even when I was 
urged, more than once, to kill you."

"Fuck you," Mulder told him, raising his head.  "You never did 
anything you didn't want to do, you bastard.  You had my father 
killed--"

"That was unavoidable, the matter was out of my hands.  I tried to 
warn him."  The man's gaze was chilling, unperturbed, his tone 
uninflected.

Skinner came to him, putting a strong hand on his shoulder.  
"Mulder, let's go, you aren't in any shape for this."  He leveled a 
look at the man in the bed.  "He'll keep his word, believe me.  He's 
in no position to do otherwise."

Rusty laughter sounded.  "Mr. Mulder doesn't quite realize, 
Skinner, that a new player has entered the game."  There was no 
laughter in his eyes.

Skinner's hand was comforting, perish the thought, he told himself 
and managed to stand upright.  "Not one look in her direction," 
Mulder repeated, and wasn't entirely sure who he meant.

"Mulder, you kill me, you really do."  The man laughed again, 
began to cough.

Skinner guided him out, rather forcefully.  "Yeah, I know, you 
want to hear everything.  After you've slept, dammit.  Do you 
realize, you're almost solely responsible for the rise in the medical 
insurance rates the Bureau has to pay?"

Mulder was just exhausted enough that it diverted him.  "It isn't my 
fault people keep trying to kill me," he muttered and swayed 
enough he was afraid he would fall down; Skinner's arm came 
around his shoulders and guided him back down the hall, back to 
his bed.

Skinner gave him very little help, watching him get back into the 
hospital gown with ill-concealed amusement.  "I'd like you to try 
and remember something, Mulder.  I don't owe you an explanation 
for everything I do.  And not everything I do will be 
comprehensible to you.  But I would like you to try and believe 
me--I'm on your side, or at least mostly."

Mulder gave his boss a bleary look.  "I thought you were standing 
right on that line."

"That was before they gave me a shove," Skinner told him acidly.  
"Now get in bed before I sic your partner on you."

Mulder rolled back, grimacing against the pain of his ribs.  "All 
right," he said, his mind still only half tracking.  "But this concerns 
me.  You do owe me an explanation for this."

Skinner's expression softened slightly, became human.  "Yeah, I 
do.  And you'll get it, I promise.  But not now.  Patience is a 
virtue, Mulder."

Mulder had heard that before, most notably from his partner.  On 
the other hand--"I'll try," he whispered and closed his eyes, sliding 
under with alarming speed.....

*****************************************************

"She just keeps sinking," Geoff said somberly.  "She's on a 
respirator now, Dana.  But she's left instructions, I can't keep her 
that way forever."

"What's wrong," Scully asked and paced back to her apartment 
window, staring out at the November bleakness.  It matched her 
heart, she found and closed her eyes.

Mulder was quenched, completely, bereft of lover and adopted 
son; only when she spoke of his sister did the light come back to 
his eyes, but even that was muted by what had overtaken him.  
While giving with one hand, Fate had taken back with another, and 
she raged against that every waking moment since it had happened.  

Seven short days, she thought and closed her eyes briefly.  Morgan 
had fallen to the floor of the entryway when they had broken down 
the door, and Tyler had gotten to her before her head hit the wood.  
No head injury, no brain injury, no internal bleeding, no nothing.  
Just Morgan, fading daily before their eyes, unconscious and still, 
in a hospital bed.

"Nothing, evidently."  Geoff sounded utterly exhausted.  "Nothing 
anyone, nothing any test can find.  It's as if she's decided to die.  
Dana, has Fox told you what happened in there?"

Scully stood, taut, undecided whether she should tell him.  "He's 
not sure," she finally said, and moved restlessly around the room, 
touching books, straightening curtains and pictures.  "He was 
under the influence of drugs, Geoff, concussed and and in pain.  
What he thinks he saw--Morgan just appeared in the room, he 
says, and killed four men with light from her hands."  

Her mouth trembled, remembering Mulder's dull voice, stubbornly 
recounting the details.  "At the last, she said something--he 
couldn't remember it all, but she condemned Preston to hell, she 
cast him out of heaven and earth, and something else, I don't 
remember."

Geoff was very pale.  "The Wheel," he said softly and closed his 
eyes.  "She's condemned herself, Dana, that's why she's dying.  She 
took vengeance and she's condemned herself."  His voice trembled 
briefly.  "She won't forgive herself." 

Scully whirled on him.  "That's so much garbage," she raged.  "She 
can't condemn him to hell, she can't!"

"She killed them," Geoff said, equally stubborn.  "And she won't 
see it as justice, because she feels tainted, by choosing, by acting as 
judge.   Dana, you have to know, she killed them, that's what she'd 
become, powerful enough to do so.  That's what she did to that 
police officer in Massachusetts, the one who tried to kill her."

"No," she said, shaking her head, only barely aware that she was 
crying.  "If that's true, she's become a monster."

Geoff rose, his expression taut.  "Has she?  They killed Aarin, 
Dana.  A child, a little boy who'd lived in fear for most of his life, 
Morgan gave him love, gave him safety, and they took him and 
killed him.  Does that make her a monster?"  His voice had risen.  
"Does it?  What does it make Fox for shooting that Cronin?  Is he 
a monster."

Scully shivered, not knowing what to think.  "Vengeance is mine, 
saith the Lord."

"Saith the Lady," he agreed, with a flicker of grim humor.  "So 
Morgan says. But sometimes she leaves it to her servants, Dana.  
God, if I could reach her...."

She tried to consider it, tried to understand, but reason kept 
snatching away whatever intuitive understanding she could reach.  
"God," she whispered.  "Don't let her die, Geoff."  

And knew suddenly Morgan was not a monster, knew that she had 
been driven past endurance.  


Mulder slept here on her couch at night, what time he wasn't at the 
hospital, not wanting to go back to his apartment.  Now, in 
addition to his nightmares about Sam, she heard him cry out for 
Aarin, heard him wake and weep again.  It tore her heart out.  
"Keep her alive, somehow."

He came to her, put his arms around her.  "I'll do what I can," he 
murmured. "But I think only Fox's need is keeping her here now."

****************************************************

Georgetown:  November 17, 1996 10:00 am

Morgan lay very still, the only sound in the room the respirator.  
They had been worried about her lungs, after being in the smoke, 
and she had been having difficulty breathing alone.  

Mulder could never forget seeing that light and power consume 
her, hearing her voice so utterly detached.   She looked frail, 
having let herself be consumed, looking, as Scully had said, as if 
she weighed no more than ninety pounds.  But, oh, God, she was 
important to him, he'd forget it all if it would bring her back....

"Sam's going to come out here," he told her, holding a slack, 
unresponsive hand between his own.  "She wants to see you again, 
she says you helped her a lot. More of her memories have come 
back, just fragments and bits and pieces.  I talked to her, Morgan, 
and she wants to see me.  I have to tell you, I'm a little scared.  
What if she doesn't like me?  What if we don't like each other? 
That would be a helluva note, wouldn't it."  

He talked to her everytime they let him in here, remembering that 
he had talked to Scully, remembering his conviction, and Scully's, 
that she had heard his voice, had been drawn back by what he had 
said.  Morgan was far, far away; he wasn't sure how much she 
could hear, so he talked to her all the time. 

"I'm still with the bureau, if you can imagine that.  I need to get a 
new apartment, I can't keep sleeping on Scully's couch.  I was 
thinking about getting a bigger place, you know, just in case we 
decided we could put up with each other after living together for, 
God, four months.  I'd need to get more furniture, I guess, 
although I could get rid of my bed--I think I slept better in yours."

The door opened and Geoff came in, accompanied by another 
doctor, an older man.  He gave them a fierce look.  "What?"

Geoff cleared his throat.  "Fox, Morgan left instructions, a Living 
Will." 

The hackles rose on his neck.  "No," he said dangerously.  "No, I 
won't let you."

Geoff exchanged a look with the other doctor, who melted back 
outside.  "Fox, let's talk about this.  Do you think she would want 
to go on like this?"

Rage warred with grief.  "I won't let you unplug her, dammit.  
She's still alive."

"She's unresponsive, Fox."  Geoff came and knelt beside his chair.  
"For what it's worth, I'm not sure she's ready to go.  But she has to 
decide on her own, Fox.  We can't decide for her."

"No," Mulder whispered and held her hand more tightly.  "You 
don't have the right."

"I do, Fox.  I'm her executor."  Geoff put a gentle hand over his.  
"And I gave her my word, Fox.  I have to keep it."

The room echoed with what had happened to Scully, what had 
happened two years earlier.  "No," he said again, blindly staring 
ahead.  Inspiration struck.  "I'm her husband, dammit, commonlaw, 
you can't make that decision."

Geoff's mouth quirked.  "Well, I'd have to check the legalities of 
that, Fox--but you weren't using your real names, I think that 
might void that option."

"Please," he said raggedly.  "Don't do this."

The door opened again.  "Mulder," Scully's voice was soft.  
"Mulder, do you want to stay with her?  I'll sit with you."

Mulder had no choices, he thought, closing his eyes.  It was out of 
his hands and it made him crazy.  "If you touch that respirator," he 
growled, half-mad with helplessness, "I'll kill you, I swear I will."

Scully's hand touched his face gently.  "Mulder, you have to let her 
go."   Her voice was very soft; he could tell she was trying not to 
cry.  "Let her decide, Mulder, not the machines."  Her fingertips 
brushed his hair back.  "Mulder, for her sake, not for yours, not for 
ours, not for anyone else's.  Just Morgan's."

It touched him somewhere when he didn't want it to.  He could still 
hear Morgan's laughter, rich, nothing contrived about it, see her 
looking down on him in bed, her gaze intense.  

Her eyes laughed at him in his memory; this pale shadow on the 
bed bore no relationship to her.  With great care, Mulder brought 
the limp hand to his mouth and kissed the palm before laying it 
back on the bed; without looking at any of them, he rose carefully, 
painfully, and went out of the room.

****************************************************

"How is she?" Skinner asked Scully, seeing her red-rimmed eyes. 

"She's still breathing," Scully said wanly.  "Mulder left, he couldn't 
watch it.  I couldn't find him--but Geoff did.  He's still at the 
hospital."

Skinner nodded silently.  "When is his sister coming?" he asked 
softly.  The poor bastard deserved something in his life, something 
good, something that wasn't torn away from him.  

Mulder's life had been a goddamned Greek tragedy, and he found 
himself suddenly determined that it was time for change.  As much 
change as Mulder would allow. 

"Tomorrow, I think."  Scully's mouth quivered.  "She's not going 
to come out of it, sir."

Cursing himself, Skinner nodded.  "I'm beginning to think that's 
true.  I, ah, had a long talk with Mulder, Scully.  I think it would 
be good if we could get him back at work."

"Work."  Scully laughed shortly.  "That's his salvation, isn't it?  
You know, I'm not sure I really believe there's a reason for what 
happens to us, sir.  I'm beginning to believe that if there is a God, 
he or she is a sadist."

Skinner had come to that conclusion long ago himself, but it didn't 
keep him from believing in justice, in what was right.  Maybe it had 
led to him selling bits and pieces of his soul to get where he could 
work for those things; did the ends justify the means, he wondered, 
not for the first time in his life.  As always, he found no answer.

But they had to.  He was grimly certain of it. 

*****************************************************

National Airport:  November 23, 1996  2:01 pm

Scully slanted her partner a worried look; the plane was late, 
naturally, which pretty much confirmed her growing conviction 
that Ellison's view of God as a maniac was true.  

Naturally, Mulder was grimly convinced that the plane had gone 
down, been blown up, vanished into a cloud over the Nevada 
Triangle--not that there was such a thing, of course, but it was the 
type of arcana he was prone to come up with at a moment's notice.

He'd changed his clothes three times after her arrival at his 
apartment, was gloomily convinced that Amanda Fortenberry 
wouldn't like him, and was still in the throes of grieving over 
Morgan's condition.  

It wasn't the time she would have personally chosen for a family 
reunion, but then she hadn't been waiting almost a quarter of a 
century.  Four days less than a quarter century, to be precise.  

Moving over to where he sat, she ruffled his hair as if he were a 
child.  "Stop worrying, Mulder.  They had headwinds, it's that time 
of year."

Mulder darted a look at her, drumming his fingers on his knees, 
unable to sit still.  "Yeah," he said shortly and looked at clock that 
hung above them.

The garbled sound of an announcment made him start; tilting her 
head, Scully managed to make the sounds resemble human speech 
and grinned suddenly.  "Hey, that's her flight.  Now approaching 
the terminal, chum."

Relief made Mulder look like a boy again.  "Don't call me chum," 
he said, flicking her a shamefaced grin.

"Chum," Scully repeated and ruffled his hair again, unable to 
repress it.

That earned her a sidelong look.  "Chill, Scully.  She still might not 
like me."

Rolling her eyes, Scully glanced away from him and froze in 
surprise.  

Walter and Sharon Skinner were approaching, and from Skinner's 
intent gaze, Mulder was their destination.

Mulder saw them, too, and rose, jamming his hands in his coat 
pocket.  "Sir?"

"Mulder," Skinner said, sounding amused.  "I just wanted to be 
sure this goes off without a hitch.  I'm not *that* credulous."

Mulder went scarlet, something she wondered about, and had 
wondered since he'd been closeted for nearly the whole previous 
day in Skinner's office and returned with a dazed look.  "Um, 
thanks."

"Yo, partner."  Scully tugged at Mulder's sleeve.  "There it is.  
Wanna hang out at the window and see if you can recognize her?"

Mulder shook his head, looking nervous again.

Sharon laughed softly.  "Ah, but will she recognize him, Dana?"

Skinner gave his wife what Scully recognized as a quelling look.

Mulder looked even more apprehensive.  "Maybe I should have 
made a sign.  God, I have to remember to call her Amanda, Scully, 
she's been Amanda for a lot longer than she was Sam."

"Mulder," Scully told him, her expression droll.  "You could 
probably call her butt munch and she wouldn't mind."  She couldn't 
help laughing out loud at his expression; he was never, she was 
sure, going to confide in her again if she wasn't careful.

Skinner looked bemused.  "I won't ask," he told Mulder gravely 
and nodded at the gate.  "They're starting to get off."

Mulder shifted from one foot to the other, his face pale.  "What if I 
don't know her?"

"You'll know her," Scully said, taking pity on him; putting her arm 
through his, she squeezed gently.  "Your heart will know."

That earned her a look almost worthy of Mulder in a normal state.  
"Scully, that's so lame--"  He froze when he looked back, seeing a 
tall, striking woman, her dark chestnut hair hanging loose.  "Oh, 
God."

Scully let go of him, watched him walk, or tried, inasmuch as tears 
were blurring her vision.  They approached each other cautiously; 
she heard the woman say, "Fox?"

"Sam," Mulder said, his voice cracking upward and they drew 
together, both crying, both laughing, neither talking.

But then, after this, what could there be to say?

Turning, Scully began to walk back down the corridor, smiling 
through her tears, leaving them alone together.

The quest for the unreachable had finally concluded.  And even 
Sancho had *some* discretion.

FINIS