PLAYING FOR KEEPS   
Book 1


By the writing team of Youkneek and Wickdzoot
Youkneek@aol.com, wickdzoot@aol.com

COPYRIGHT October 31, 1997

Do not archive, forward, or distribute to any other newsgroup.

DISCLAIMER:	This story is based on the characters created by Chris 
Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without 
permission and no infringement is intended.  All of the X-Files 
characters belong to them.  All of the non X-files characters remain 
our exclusive property.

RATING:  PG-13 
SPOILERS:  First 4 seasons
CATEGORY: XA
SUMMARY:  ConspiracyAngstaram.  Minus some of the ickier details, the 
season 5 we'd like to see, one which we strongly suspect Mr. Carter is 
not going to give us.  That's all we're going to tell you.


 


THE jackhammer was back with a vengeance and despite the 45 minutes at 
the optical lab earlier in the week, the damn bridge was still 
pinching, squeezing in time with the pounding in his forehead.  There 
was a fortune to be made out there in expandable eyewear if someone 
could just figure out how to design the product.  Resisting the urge 
to remove his glasses and massage the sore spot Skinner let the final 
page fall closed and clasped his hands on top of the folder.  "So 
that's it?"


"Yes, sir."  The leather seat squeaked in protest as the speaker 
shifted his considerable weight.  "Everything's in there, but we also 
have the meeting on video, if you'd care to view that as well."      


"Video. . . of course."  Fought the bitter smile before it could form 
on his lips.  


Blevins' eyes shifted at the tone, rising from the report, to meet 
his, blank, no hint of his feelings in the matter.  "Since you were 
obviously not going to be able to attend the meeting, I made 
arrangements to have it taped for you.  Do you have some objection?"  


"To what?  This report?  The video?  The committee's recommendations? 
 Agent Scully's testimony?"  His voice sounded odd in his own ears, 
displaced, as if it belonged to someone else, someone much calmer than 
he felt.   A sudden shift in room currents and the stench of nicotine 
told him, before Blevins' eyes did, that the man behind him had 
shifted position.  Damn power games.  He was too tired for this crap 
now.  ". . . or to the fact that I had to learn about the suicide of 
one of my agents on the evening news?"   


The fat man was squirming, more mentally than physically, but Skinner 
caught the quick glance to the man lurking behind him, knew the idiot 
was looking for guidance. Like the smoking bastard was going to hold 
up a goddamn cue card or something.  


Even Mulder, who tended to wear his emotions like a fucking hair 
shirt, could stonewall better than this.  Hell, he'd seen him do 
better, sitting in that very chair, calmly denying all knowledge.

If he wasn't so pissed, he'd be amused, but the anger was good, 
cleansing, much easier than grief. "Would you care to explain why that 
was, Mr. Blevins?" He kept his voice low, deceptively soft.  It wasn't 
necessary to shout.  There were much more effective means to 
communicate displeasure.  Four years in Nam had made him a master.  
Blevins was older and fatter than most of the recruits, but he seemed 
to be getting the message just the same.

"You were on vacation, sir."  The Adam's apple bobbed, barely visible 
in the thick neck, as the older man swallowed.  "It seemed 
inappropriate to disrupt your holiday for something of this nature."  
The eyes were wary in the bland face, watching.  "Especially since 
you'd barely started it."

Crystal blue water and the crisp scent of pine trees washed fresh by 
spring rain, rich loam and the cushion of fallen needles under his 
boots.  It felt like an old memory already, obliterated by the pretty 
broadcaster's calm voice, the still of the all too familiar face.  

He wondered again what instinct had driven him to the mountain bar, 
with its accompanying television, after he'd intentionally sought out 
TV-free lodgings.  Mulder would have a theory. . .would have had a 
theory, he corrected himself, and the correction fed his anger.

His audience was waiting, starting to relax back into the chair.   
That wouldn't do at all.

"So, despite the fact that I'd expressly told you to have Kim contact 
me if I was needed, you chose not to bother.  Did it not occur to you, 
Mr. Blevins, that the death of one of my agents warranted the 
interruption?"  It was getting harder to keep the irritation under 
control, to resist the temptation to hurl the stinking report into the 
smug, complacent features.    

A sudden quirk of the plump lips, quickly controlled, hinted of 
something.  What?  

Then Blevins was speaking again, "Actually, sir, I did consider 
contacting you but your secretary took a personal day yesterday."  
Settling deeper into the chair, Blevins plucked at one pants leg, 
flicked at a spot only he could see, continued placidly, "Since she 
had the only copy of your itinerary, it was out of my hands."  He held 
up fleshy palms, as if their emptiness somehow reinforced his supposed 
innocence in the matter.  The innocent infant look didn't work with 
Blevins.  Tiny, raisin eyes in the doughy face, too small to carry it 
off.

Skinner's eyes narrowed.  That was unexpected.  Kim hadn't mentioned 
any such plans when he'd left on Friday.  Then again, he hadn't asked, 
had just assumed she'd be here while he was gone.  It was too 
convenient. He let the explanation go for now, he could always check 
with her later.  

Right now, there were other matters to discuss.  He looked pointedly 
to the report, still lying closed under his clasped hands, waited 
until the other man asked, "Then it is the report, sir?  You find 
something in there objectionable?"

"Frankly, I object to all of it." 

Blevins' stubby fingers slowly reached for the file, pulled it out 
from under his unprotesting hands, careful to avoid the steaming 
coffee mug perched next to it on the blotter. 

"The report is self-explanatory."  Calm assurance, no more glances to 
the smoker, Skinner noted.  Blevins was back to the memorized script, 
away from the improv that left him floundering so badly.  "I think 
when you have time to review it more carefully you'll agree that the 
committee came to the only logical conclusion.  While it's tragic that 
Agent Mulder felt compelled to take his own life rather than face the 
reality that he'd been duped into believing in the existence of 
extraterrestrials, it's clear that far too many of the bureau's 
limited resources have already been wasted on one man's personal 
crusade.  Closing the X-Files is the only logical decision."  

Ignoring the Section Chief's sanctimonious expression, he focused on 
the clumsy fingers as they struggled to separate pages, finally 
settling somewhere in the middle.  "Right here, in the third 
paragraph. . ." Blevins spread the report open on the desk, pointed to 
a spot midway down the page, started to read, "According to Mr. 
Kritschgau, all of the evidence and hearsay, upon which Agent Mulder. 
. ."

"I read the report, Mr. Blevins."   A sudden pursing of the fat jowls 
told him the reprimand had been received, and resented.  Not that he 
cared. The man had no real power. "So, based on one woman's testimony, 
the committee now recommends shutting down an entire division."

"A trained agent, Mr. Skinner.  Surely you don't dispute her 
qualifications."  Bureauspeak 101.  Skinner recognized the patented 
look.  He'd taken the same damned course, used it himself when it 
suited.  "She did the job she was assigned, evaluated the validity of 
Agent Mulder's work and found it to be insupportable." Another shift 
stirred drifting dust particles, set them dancing in the sunbeams 
spilling across the man's gray slacks.  "Do you feel I overstepped my 
responsibilities, convening the meeting in your absence?"  The tone 
was soft, conciliatory, carefully masking any hint of insubordination.

He let the question hang, had learned years ago how to outwait toads 
like Blevins, knew the man hated a void, would rush to fill it with 
self-justification eventually, telling him more than he should.  

Cursed silently, as the smoker stepped out from behind the desk, 
speaking before Blevins could open his mouth again.  "I'm sure Mr. 
Skinner appreciates the time you took to handle this matter, Mr. 
Blevins.  As Assistant Director he depends on your assistance and 
counsel."  Nicotine stained fingers briefly caressed the disputed 
report where it lay open on the desk.  "Isn't that true, Mr. Skinner?"

Skinner ignored the interruption and its accompanying question, 
focused his attention instead on Blevins, now leveraging his 
considerable bulk out of the chair, apparently forgetting who was in 
charge here.  That was easily fixed.  "As you suggest, Mr. Blevins, I 
will review the report more thoroughly before adding my own 
recommendation."  Blevins stopped, mid-rise, caught the unspoken 
rebuke in the steel cold voice, started to sit back down.  Skinner 
waited until his ass hit the chair, didn't let him settle. "Meanwhile, 
I have other matters which need my attention.  Please shut the door on 
your way out."  Pulled another report out from the stack at his elbow, 
and turned his attention to it.  

Head down, Skinner kept his features still, listened as the fat man 
squirmed his way out of the chair again.  He watched the two figures 
merge in the polished surface of his desk, waited until they were 
halfway across the room. "Oh, one more thing. . .about Agent Scully. . 
." Caught the sudden turn and exchange of glances between the two men 
in the mirror finish.

"What about Agent Scully?"  Raspy, not the voice he'd expected to 
respond.  

Poor Blevins.  Lost his speaking role after such a brief audition.  He 
briefly wondered if the demotion even registered.  The fool never 
seemed to realize he was only a bit player.

He let them wait this time, while he raised the coffee mug, took a 
long swallow.  Set it down.  Finally raised his mask to theirs.  "What 
are her thoughts?  Does she want the files closed?"

"She knew that was the likely course of action, given the content of 
her report."  Practiced fingers found the battered red and white pack 
without looking, tapped a cigarette loose.  The stalling tactic was 
familiar.  Make your audience wait while you find the lighter, suck in 
that first long drag.  Skinner watched the smoke still oozing from the 
speaker's open mouth as he finally continued, "Given the seriousness 
of her illness. . ." Thin lips sucked in another lungful of smoke. ". 
. .Agent Scully has been placed on indefinite leave." 

"And her treatment?"  Waited, giving the smoker time to provide the 
answer he wanted.  A placid stare the only response.  "There is no 
treatment, is there, you bastard."  It wasn't a question.  He already 
knew the answer.

Hooded eyes flicked to Blevins, as the hand holding the cigarette 
gestured to the door.  "Perhaps you should wait outside."  

That's a wrap, thought Skinner, resisting the temptation to smirk, as 
he watched Blevins start to protest, then abruptly shift and head for 
the door.  

Definitely a bit player. 

Raising the cigarette to his lips, the smoker drew on it slowly, 
waiting to hear the door latch before he released the smoke to waft 
above the desk.  "Dr. Scully has not shared with us the specifics of 
her treatment plans, Walter.  We are all concerned about her illness. 
 That's natural.  It's especially difficult in the wake of Agent 
Mulder's suicide.  Perhaps you should consider taking some time off.  
You appear . . . stressed."  Soft measured words, carefully 
considered.

"Stressed. . ."  the word felt sour on his tongue. "Like Agent 
Mulder?" Rising, he moved to the window, twisted the blinds, softening 
the glare to a more tolerable level.  His head still throbbed.

The smoker's voice was harsher now, not so solicitous.  "No, Mr. 
Skinner.  Not like Agent Mulder.  You're hardly suicidal as I see it." 
 

"Of course not."  Five stories down a cop was waving a tow truck away 
from the curb, ignoring the suit jabbering at his elbow, undoubtedly 
the owner of the slick, red BMW suspended from the tow bar.  The bar 
swayed as the battered truck lumbered back into traffic, hauling its 
contested cargo.  

Anyone who ignored the No Parking signs these days had to be living in 
a vacuum.  With Oklahoma City as a raw reminder, unmanned vehicles 
were towed away before their engines had a chance to cool.  The suit 
didn't have a chance.  

Ignoring the scene below, he turned back to the smoker.  "But then, 
you didn't think he was suicidal, did you?"  He didn't bother to hide 
his contempt.  "You wouldn't have sabotaged my orders for mandatory 
therapy if you'd sensed that he was that 'stressed,' would you?"

Blue-gray smoke spiraled upwards from the smoldering cigarette, 
caressed the still features. "That was not my decision, Mr. Skinner.  
That came from higher up."   There was no hint of irritation, from the 
smoke or the question, just that infuriating calm.


"From where?"  Angry now, sick to death of all the lies and secret 
agendas, lies that had cost the life of a man he respected, someone he 
was supposed to look after.  "'He' was stressed, God dammit.  Anybody 
could see it.  Ask his partner about that why don't you.  He should 
have been pulled after that fiasco with Roche.  Who vetoed that order? 
 Who vetoed my decision after the mess in Rhode Island?"  One arm 
lashed out, targeted the smoker.  "You?"

Dark eyes glinted, belying the calm rejoinder.  "You overestimate my 
sphere of influence, Mr. Skinner.  You always have."  The smoker 
reached past the Thank You For Not Smoking sign to drop the smoldering 
cigarette stub into the black mug, smiled in satisfaction at the 
resulting sizzle.  "No matter.  I've been an advocate of Agent 
Mulder's dismissal for years.  Be assured, I would not have blocked 
any effort to place him on leave.  Quite the contrary.  In any case, 
it's no longer your concern."

Closing the report, the smoker tossed it back to the center of the 
desk, on top of the other one Skinner had left opened.  "And I advise 
you to let this one go.  Whatever the reasons, Agent Mulder is the one 
who pulled the trigger.  Don't fall prey to his deluded conspiracy 
theories.  You filed the appropriate paperwork, Walter.  I'm sure no 
one in the bureau holds you responsible." 

"That's not the issue and you know it.  I don't give a rat's ass about 
the bureau's view of my responsibility in this matter."   He stalked 
to the desk, opened the center drawer and retrieved a file, flipped 
through it until he found the picture he wanted, threw the 8 x 10 
glossy down on the desk where the other man couldn't avoid it, caught 
the momentary flinch, quickly suppressed. "Not a pretty picture is 
it?"  The close up caught the worst of the damage, the shattered jaw, 
the gaping mess in the back where the skull had exploded, shards of 
bone mixed in with the spilled blood and jellified tissue.  "I don't 
care whose fingerprints are on that gun, that man had a lot of help 
pulling the trigger." 

A shrill beep cut through the sudden silence.  Cursing under his 
breath, he thumbed the intercom switch, barked, "I'm busy, Kim, no 
interruptions."  

Four years of experience had taught his assistant which orders to 
ignore.  "I'm sorry, sir, but Agent Scully is here to see you.  You 
told me to let you know when she arrived."

Still staring at his adversary he replied, "Tell her to wait a moment. 
 I'll be right with her."  Closing the connection he gestured toward 
the door.  "I think our business is concluded unless you have 
something more you'd like to share with me."  He waited, not really 
interested in the other man's reaction.  

The smoker could leave or he would.  The meeting was over either way. 
 He'd said his piece and knew the other had nothing more to offer that 
he had any interest in hearing.  

With one hand on the door, the older man suddenly pivoted to face the 
AD where he still stood behind the desk.  "You would do well to 
reconsider your position, Mr. Skinner."  He nodded at the photo on the 
desk.  "There are other photographs whose contents you may find 
equally. . .unpalatable.  Contrary to what you may believe, I've kept 
my part of our bargain.  Make sure you remember yours."  Not waiting 
for a reply, he pulled the door open and exited, traces of gray smoke 
still lingering in the air behind him.     




"CHAIN, chain, chain. . . chain of fools. . ."  

The last chord faded, but Daly could still hear Aretha's voice in his 
head.  It would make great background music for that arrogant 
bastard's video, he mused.  Chuckling grimly, he imagined the offended 
look on the aristocratic face if he dared suggest it.  "That's the 
trouble with you white guys. . .no sense of humor," he muttered, 
hitting play again.

The cramp in his calf was getting worse.  His left hand absently 
massaged it as he sorted through the stacks of paper with his right.  
Too much time at a desk these days, the long hours operating a thing 
of the past.  Until yesterday.  Christ, what a mess, he thought, as 
his fingers finally pinpointed the source of the cramp, dug deeper.  
He sighed as the ache began to ease, turned his attention back to the 
page in front of him.

The scrawl was barely legible, faded with age, but still discernible. 
 Tired eyes tracked down the page, stopped again at the medication 
note.  That was decidedly odd.  He checked the date scrawled in the 
right hand corner.  December 1st, 1973, four days after the abduction. 
 The boy was still comatose, totally unresponsive according to the 
record.  Why Stelazine?  He paged back four days, then forward, 
searched for any similar notations, found nothing.  That didn't make 
sense.  Unless. . .  He flagged the entry, made a mental note to ask 
his highness about it.  It was most curious, most curious indeed.  
"He's coming around again."  

Absorbed in the file, Daly hadn't heard her enter.  He leaned back in 
the chair, let his head fall back against the headrest, relaxed into 
Maryann's grip as strong fingers eased the tension in his neck, moved 
down to cup his shoulders.  "God, that feels good.  Do you have time 
for a full body massage?"  

The grip tightened briefly, then disappeared, as she withdrew her 
hands, moved around him to lean against the table.  "Not if you want a 
chance to talk to him.  He's not going to last long if last time was 
any indication."  She seemed in no hurry, despite the warning.  It was 
tempting to skip this check, lock the office door, and let those slim 
hands work their magic.  She arched her back invitingly, pushing full 
breasts into prominence before relaxing again.

A slight scoot of the chair and he was right in front of her.  He 
toyed with one pale finger, where it rested upon her slim thigh, 
marveling afresh at the stark contrast of her almost translucent flesh 
under his ebony fingertips.  A natural blond.  He glanced back at the 
open door before walking his fingers further up her thigh, closer to 
that soft nest he knew so well, the fabric tickling his fingertips.  
She shivered, spread her legs slightly, inviting him further in.  
"Any change this time?"  He spread her thighs further, only half 
listening, anticipating her response. 

The patient was still fighting consciousness, surfacing for brief 
intervals only to groan and mumble incoherently before sinking back 
into sleep.  He'd expected this, hoped it wouldn't happen but wasn't 
really surprised given the head injury and everything else.  Stupid 
idiots.  His fingers crept higher, felt her shiver.  
Her voice was throaty, already tight with arousal.  "He's talking." 

It took him a second to respond, not really processing the words, 
finally sorting through the passion to hear the content.  "He's what? 
 Why the fuck didn't you say so?"  His calves tensed, sent the chair 
backwards away from the table and her spread thighs.  "Shit."  

Already on his feet, he paused to reshuffle the papers before striding 
past her to the door.  "You didn't leave him alone, did you?" 

Pouty, crimson lips twisted into a frown.  "Please. . .give me credit 
for some sense, Marcus.  Deb's in with him.  He's in good hands." 
Hurrying past him, she led the way down the corridor.  He slowed his 
stride, enjoyed the play of her firm buttocks shifting under the white 
slacks, felt the familiar tingle in his groin as he noticed the 
absence of panty lines, smiled at the memory of what had happened to 
the panties.

Barely slowing, she turned abruptly, pushed through the wooden door, 
held it long enough for him to catch the edge before continuing 
through.  The sour smell hit before he was all the way in the room. 
Damn.  At least they'd managed to catch it this time, he mused, noting 
the meager contents of the basin on the bed table.  

"It's all right, sir.  You're going to be all right.  Just lie still 
and let me fix this." Deb's voice was soothing, but it seemed to be 
doing little to calm the patient.  The man on the bed continued to 
struggle feebly, turning his head away everytime the cloth came near. 
 Hurrying to the head of the bed, he reached past the nurse, grasped 
the patient's head and held it still.  Deb quickly swabbed the spittle 
from chapped lips, caught the bit that had dribbled down the patient's 
neck.  

Glazed hazel eyes locked on his, skipped past to catch Maryann 
standing behind him, Deb's larger form as she backed away.  "Wha. . 
.what. . .?"  The eyes squeezed shut suddenly, as the long form 
stiffened under the soft blue blanket.  "Oh god. . . hurts. . .shit." 
   

"What's he had so far?" Daly asked, leaving one hand on the patient's 
head as the other scrabbled in his pocket for a penlight, swore softly 
as he found only lint.

Maryann handed him a light as Deb answered, "Nothing." 

He paused, looked intently at the man still moaning on the bed, 
signaled Maryann to take his place and grabbed Deb's forearm, pulling 
her over to the corner, away from the patient.  "What do you mean 
nothing?  I ordered Tylenol, maximum dosage, every four hours."  He 
fought the urge to shout, squeezed the thick forearm tighter instead, 
managed to keep the question to a low hiss, one eye still on the 
patient.

With a jerk, Deb pulled free, grabbed his hand and slapped a bottle 
into it.  "You tell me how to give him these, doctor," she hissed 
back, breaking the word doctor into two distinct, contemptuous 
syllables.  He ignored the tone, stared at the familiar white bottle 
with its red and yellow label, read the word 'capsules,' as she 
hurried on,  "There are no suppositories.  Just a case of these."  

What a complete fuckup, he thought, glared at the useless bottle, 
resisted the temptation to hurl it against the wall.   He could make a 
phone call, maybe get what he needed in another four hours.  Maybe get 
some other completely useless form of the drug.  There was no 
guarantee they'd get it right the second time either.  "Why the hell 
didn't you page me?" His throat was tight with the effort to stifle 
the roar, keep it to a whisper.

"I did page you.  Repeatedly."  Blue eyes blazed, spitting mad.  "You 
didn't answer."

Still glaring at her, he fumbled at his belt, suddenly remembered 
where he'd left the pager.  In Maryann's room with the panties.  Fuck. 
 Pushing past the still angry woman at his side, he moved back to the 
bed.  

"Mr. Mulder. . .Fox. . ."  That worked.  Long lashes fluttered, lifted 
to reveal dark eyes, wild with pain, the left one a mere slit.  He 
kept his voice low, explaining as he grasped the patient's head again, 
careful to avoid the worst of the bruises, stitches, and abrasions.  
"I know you're in a lot of pain.  We're going to give you something 
shortly."  The patient tried to squirm away from the fingers probing 
the bruised left temple.  "Hold still, Mr. Mulder.  I'm trying to help 
you."  

"Maryann. . ."  He felt her shift next to him, continued as he used 
thumb and forefinger to separate swollen, bruised lids, watched the 
pupil contract in reaction to the beam of light, "Get me 5 mgs of 
morphine, IV."  She hesitated, started to speak, then turned abruptly 
and left the room.  The patient's good eye followed her retreating 
form, lingered on the closed door as it swung shut behind her, before 
looking back to the doctor.

"Where. . ." The patient coughed, licked swollen, dry lips, tried 
again, managing a raspy whisper, "Where am I?"  

Nodding to Deb where she stood waiting on the other side of the bed 
cup in hand, he okayed the ice chips, waited as she pressed a small 
quantity against the patient's lips, prodded him to open his mouth.  
"Just a little bit more, Deb," he cautioned, stared down the angry 
blue glare of response.  

"Georgetown Med Center, Mr. Mulder."  The hazel eyes moved past him to 
the shuttered window, dropped to study the plastic chair, then shifted 
again to the closed narrow door, marked 'restroom.'  With a muffled 
groan, the patient shifted his head slightly to the left and paused, 
staring confusedly at the cloth sling, the blend of flesh and steel 
trapped therein. Dulled brain synapses slowly recognized the suspended 
limb, the right eye widening in alarm as he struggled to lift his 
other arm, to confirm with touch what his vision was telling him.

Interesting, he noted.  More cognizant than he would have expected 
given the level of pain the man had to be suffering.  Maybe the 
Englishman was right.  Perhaps they wouldn't have to wait a full week 
before starting the testing.  He opted to keep that speculation to 
himself for now, as he hurried to reassure the man in the bed,    
"It's all right, Mr. Mulder.  It was a nasty break, but we've bolted 
it all back together.  You'll be back swinging a tennis racket before 
you know it."
    
"I don't. . ."  The voice trailed off, exhausted, as heavy lids lost 
the fight to stay open, and the bruised face relaxed into sleep.

". . .play tennis," he completed for the now unconscious patient, 
smiling grimly at the private joke.  "I know, Mr. Mulder.  I know all 
about you," he added quietly, grabbing the chart from the end of the 
bed to scrawl a few notes. 

Pulling open the door, he stood back to allow room for the heavy nurse 
to proceed him into the corridor, watched abundant flesh quiver as she 
sidled past him and grimaced.  Some women just shouldn't wear pants.  

He waited until the door shut behind him before letting his full anger 
loose.  "Don't you ever. . .ever. . .use that tone again with me in 
front of a patient."  Hurried on before she could speak.  "I don't 
care what you think of me personally.  If you jeopardize this 
operation with your attitude I will see that you are permanently 
retired."  He let that sink in, knew she'd seen the removal crew haul 
the other bodies away.

The anger was still there but she kept her eyes lowered as she asked, 
"And what about you, Doctor?  It's too early to give that man 
morphine.  There could still be complications from the head injury.  
You know the protocol as well as I do, probably better."   Raising her 
eyes, she glared back at him. 

"That's my call, Nurse, not yours."  With effort he lowered his voice, 
resisted the temptation to slap the self-righteous expression off the 
pudgy face.    Hearing footsteps to the left, he turned to see Maryann 
hurrying towards them.  
"Was it there?"

She held out one hand, revealing syringe and ampoule.  "Good.  Let Deb 
give it to him."  He caught the exchange of glances between the two 
nurses as the medication changed hands.  Great, now both of them were 
questioning his judgement.  He scrawled fresh orders on the chart as 
he barked, "Repeat that dose every four hours.  We'll get a pump in 
here as soon as he's able to handle it.  I want him kept quiet.  Get a 
variable pressure mattress if you can find someone in supply with a 
brain, but I don't want him moving.  That pelvis is barely stable and 
I do not want to do any more surgery on him or resort to a sling."  He 
shoved the pencil back under the edge of the clipboard, slapped the 
board into Deb's hands.  "See that you both read the chart and contact 
me immediately if there are any further problems.  Is that clear?"  

Maryann murmured, "Yes," looked like she'd like to say more.  

Deb merely nodded, lips tight, asked, "What about the nausea?  Do you 
want him on something for that?"

He pulled a paper from his pocket, shook it out, handed it to her.  
"Add that to his chart and make sure you both read it carefully.  If 
you know of something that will work that's not on that list I'm open 
to suggestions.  Otherwise forget it.  He's got enough problems 
without adding psychosis to the list.  I want all med changes cleared 
through me."

He turned his back, ignoring the wounded look from Maryann.  "I'll be 
in my office."  Let them deal with the patient.   He had other 
problems to work out.  His mind was already on the file he'd left on 
his desk as he hurried back to the office.






 

SCULLY was pale.  Tired looking, and too thin, and even the filtered 
sunlight was unkind, revealing lines of strain and illness.  But she 
still wasn't as worn or frayed as he would have expected, after being 
called in to identify her partner's body.  

It was impossible for Skinner not to contrast this with Mulder's 
frustrated rage and sorrow after her abduction, after her return when 
she lay in coma, the prognosis almost certainly death.  And that 
wasn't fair, she had always been very self-contained.

He turned the photograph face down as she came in, slid it under other 
papers and folders, the paraphernalia of bureaucracy.  Although it was 
probably ridiculous, she'd gone to Mulder's apartment and identified 
him, she was a pathologist.  She deserved better than this unsparing 
record of her partner's death.  

"Agent Scully."  He gestured to the chair in front of the desk.  
"Please, have a seat."

She sat, back straight, head high.

What to say?  He gazed back, wondering, and swallowed hard against the 
acid that rose to the back of his throat.  "I understand you're going 
to be taking indefinite medical leave," he finally said.  A beginning. 
 A way to open the door to what he really wanted to ask.

A brief nod.  "Yes, sir."  Her chin came up.

Tread carefully, he told himself and sat down, leaned forward with his 
arms on the desk.  The hidden photograph was like a goad, but he'd 
seen that chin come up before, and challenging her wasn't the right 
beginning.  He wanted to ask her about treatment, about where she was 
going, but that wasn't his right.  Not really.  And the smoker's final 
words to him hung like a smoke haze in the back of his mind.  "Agent 
Scully, forgive me, but are you certain that Agent Mulder committed 
suicide?  That no other agency was involved in his death."

Long level look.  "I think the forensics evidence speaks for itself, 
sir.  And yes, another agency was involved, the men who used him for 
their own purposes."  He could hear bitter anger beneath the cool 
tones.

The Ice Queen, they had called her at Quantico. He'd overheard that 
somewhere.  In the halls, in the cafeteria, he couldn't remember 
where.  "Kritschgau," he murmured, studying her face.

He saw her shoulders stiffen slightly.  "Yes, sir.  The men Kritschgau 
works for."

He considered that.  "Agent Mulder accepted Kritschgau's story, the 
evidence--"

"Agent Mulder is dead, sir."  Flat even voice, denying grief or loss 
or whatever the hell she felt.  It made his stomach knot again. "He'd 
devoted his life, all of his energy and intelligence to a fraud 
perpetrated by people who used him, who deliberately convinced him, 
step by step, who used the pain and grief of his sister's loss to 
build an elaborate hoax."  Scully's eyes were dry, they met his gaze 
without hesitation.  "And when he discovered that hoax, when he was 
convinced that it had all been a lie, that his entire life had been 
wasted on it, he took his own life."

"Kritschgau was that convincing?" he asked, not troubling to cover his 
disbelief.

Scully's face went still.  "Yes," she agreed after a moment, her 
expression impassive.  "He was."

"They're closing the X-files division."  He kept his own tone even at 
some cost, kept the rage that helplessness brought well-leashed.  
"Agent Mulder's work is now considered without basis and a waste of 
Bureau funds."  He'd voice his objections of course, but already knew 
they'd fall on deaf ears.  The decision had been made.

Not a flicker of reaction.  Except--she glanced down, her mouth 
flattened out and she laced her fingers together in her lap.

It gentled his voice.  "Scully, did you see this coming?  Did you have 
any inkling that he was suicidal?"

Her gaze moved past him, past his shoulder.

"I knew he was upset, sir.  He blames--"  Faint hesitation, she caught 
her breath and blinked hard, straightened her shoulders again.  "He 
blamed himself for my illness. He was desperate to solve his sister's 
disappearance.  He was desperate to find some answer for me.  I 
wish--I know he was out of control during the Roche case.  I 
recommended counseling in my report on the Connecticut murder-suicide. 
 But the seizures had stopped, I thought--I thought he was all right."

There wasn't much to be said to that.  Mulder's behavior *had* been 
out of control, like the loose cannon Blevins had always accused him 
of being.  And having holes drilled in his skull certainly didn't 
speak to a rational state of mind....

He leaned back in his chair, studying her.  Wishing he knew her 
better, could read her better.  Her eyes were still dry, despite the 
hesitation in her speech, her fingers were laced together loosely, no 
sign of strain.  Except she was too thin.

Perhaps Kritschgau...

His fingers caressed the folder that contained her final report on the 
X-files division.  Pulled it toward him.   "You're saying that none of 
the cases you and Agent Mulder investigated were founded on solid 
fact?  That Kritschgau's story covered everything?"

Her shoulders stiffened again.  "I submitted reports on each of our 
cases, sir, and my conclusions generally differed considerably from 
Agent Mulder's."

"Even on the Pinck Pharmaceuticals case?"   He'd had that smoking 
bastard in his office on that one, too.    "Or the Kevin--was it 
Kryder?"

Faint nod.  "If you'll revisit my reports," she told him evenly, "I 
believe you'll find that my conclusions contain no hint of the 
paranormal, sir.   Kevin's father was a paranoid schizophrenic, sir, 
and Kevin had been through a great deal.  It's hardly surprising that 
he manifested stigmata.  His father's religious beliefs coupled with 
Kevin's feelings of guilt over his father's committal and removal from 
the household--"

He waved a hand dismissively.  "Yes, I'll do that, Agent Scully.  What 
about Eugene Tooms?"

Scully took in a deep breath.  "A preliminary examination of Eugene 
Tooms showed gross anomalies in both skeletal and muscular system."

"And Agent Mulder's allegation that Tooms hibernated for thirty years 
at a time?"  Skinner arched a questioning brow.  

"There was never any solid evidence to prove that Agent Mulder's 
theory was correct."  Scully's fingers tightened on each other.

"Aside from toothmarks on the recovered skeleton that matched Tooms' 
own dental x-rays."  He was trying not to sound like an inquisitor.  
Trying to keep his voice low and interested, trying to sound honestly 
curious.  He *was* honestly curious.

She was staring just past his shoulder at the window.  At the sun that 
spilled through the blinds, the dancing motes--"It's not completely 
improbable that Eugene Tooms was the grandson of the man who committed 
the murders in 1933."

The headache was making him vaguely nauseated.  "No, of course not."  
 Taking his glasses off, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and pressed 
on his forehead above his brows. 

"With all due respect, sir, are you questioning my conclusions now?  
It's all in the reports, you yourself reviewed them at the time.  If 
you review them, I don't think there's any contradiction between my 
statement to the committee this morning and my conclusions already 
stated."  Her chin came up, challenging him.
Skinner put his glasses back on and sighed.  "No, Agent Scully.  I 
just...."  Pushing the folder away, he leaned back in his chair, 
dismissing it.   

"Kritschgau was very forthcoming. Did he give you some idea of what 
could be done to combat your illness?"
Her mouth trembled slightly.  "The cancer has metastasized, sir.  
There's not a great deal to be done, except for the traditional 
methods."  

She was so thin.   She looked bone-weary.    And the sudden sheen of 
tears in her eyes made his stomach knot.  

"I want you to take the rest of today off," he told her abruptly.  "I 
know you're taking medical leave, just consider that it begins today."

Her eyes widened.  "Sir, I have work to finish up--"

"Which can be done later just as easily," he overrode her, letting his 
voice turn to iron.  He wasn't good at the velvet glove routine, never 
had been.  But the iron hand--oh, yes, he could do that easily.  
"That's an order, Agent Scully."

Scully's mouth flattened out into a thin line, but he could see the 
faintest trace of bafflement in her eyes.  "Yes, sir."

"Go home, get some rest, try not to worry about it."  He purposely 
gentled his tone.  "Take care of yourself, Agent Scully."

After a moment, she nodded and rose.  Gazed at him for a moment.  "I'm 
sorry he's dead," she told him and he could almost hear the echo of 
childhood in her voice, I didn't mean it, I take it back.  

"I am, too," he agreed, and felt his head throb again.

The door closed behind her and he sat, waiting for his head to explode 
and wishing he'd never laid eyes on Fox Mulder.




THE shuttle was twenty minutes late getting into La Guardia but the 
car was  right where it was supposed to be.  The driver was sitting 
unconcerned behind the wheel, alternating between studying the folded 
newspaper he held propped against the steering wheel and quick scans 
of the exit doors.  Their eyes met and the driver pushed the limo's 
front door wide, using its mass to shift the harried businessman who 
was blocking its path.   

He had a Morley lit before he made it to the passenger door of the 
limo, inhaling deeply.  The deprivation grated still, more than ten 
years after the No Smoking regs had gone into place.  He made life and 
death decisions on a daily basis, involving million of lives, and 
still had to put up with a bunch of health-conscious FAA bureaucrats 
legislating him out of his basic right to enjoy one of life's few real 
luxuries.  Perhaps it was time to talk to his colleagues again about 
bringing some pressure to bear on the FAA.  Nothing was written in 
stone.

He glanced again at the black, plastic case in his hand.  Probably not 
the best time to bring up the FAA business.  He took another long 
drag, felt the warm smoke fill his throat and lungs, soothing jangled 
nerve endings.   
  
The driver had the door open, waiting, eyed the lit cigarette with 
barely concealed loathing.  He took the opportunity to exhale, making 
sure the driver got the full effect as he stepped through the open 
door.  The door swung shut, immediately closing out the blaring horns 
and general mayhem of weekday afternoon traffic.  Sinking back into 
the plush leather seat, he finished the cigarette, lit another from 
the end of it and waited, one hand impatiently tapping the videotape 
against his knee.   At this time of day it was going to take a good 45 
minutes to reach the club, plenty of time to view the contents of the 
tape.  His eyes skipped to the TV/VCR combo in the corner, noted the 
large screen.   The Japanese had finally come through with the 
promised flat panel.  Took them long enough.

A sudden rush of traffic noise and exhaust filled air, and the driver 
slid into the front seat, pulled the door shut with a slam.  Muttering 
under his breath he abruptly shifted the car into drive, and neatly 
cut into the stream of cars circling the airport.  

An airport cop was visible through the dark tinted rear window, 
arguing with the same businessman who had blocked the car earlier.  As 
he watched, the cop walked away, left the man on his own in the middle 
of the lane, still brandishing his fist at the retreating car.  "Was 
there a problem?" he asked disinterestedly, picking through the well 
stocked bar.  

Irritation mixed with a trace of Brooklyn accent as the driver glanced 
over his shoulder and pulled into the next lane.  "Just some asshole 
who took exception to my extended stay in the pick up zone, a wannabee 
cop with a hard-on for people who abuse the No Waiting clause."  He 
felt the car pick up speed as it moved onto the highway.

"Hmph. . .you should have let the cop deal with him.  That's what we 
pay them for."  Ice cubes floated to the top as he poured amber liquid 
into a glass, took a long sip of the whiskey before continuing, "We're 
already running late."  

"I'm aware of that, sir.  Don't. . ."  One flick of his finger and the 
intercom switched off, cutting off the driver's reassurances.  They 
would get there on time.  Of that he was sure.  How the driver planned 
to make up the lost time was immaterial.  The man was well paid and 
knew the penalty for tardiness.

Opening the case, he removed the tape, slid it into the VCR, found the 
remote.  
The dark screen flared to life.  He settled back to watch, adjusting 
the volume slightly as the familiar, well-modulated voice began to 
speak.  Half listening, he leaned forward, studied the image 
carefully, checked for distortion in the corners.  The video was crude 
but the screen looked excellent, every bit as good as the Japanese had 
promised. 

The film moved on and he found himself reaching for the bottle of 
Glenlivet.  He poured another snifter full as the image shifted again, 
sipped slowly as one x-ray after another filled the screen.  The Brit 
hadn't exaggerated.  His associates were not going to be pleased at 
this change in plans.  

He hit rewind, ran the last section again, felt his lips curve up as 
the screen faded to black.  Then again, it gave him more time, time 
which he desperately needed.  At this rate they'd never recover those 
memories, which suited him just fine.  Some things were better left 
buried.  






WHAT was it the Brit had said?  Something about knowing the future 
because they invented it.  He'd only been half listening at the time, 
distracted by all the mess with the MJ tape.  He remembered thinking 
then that the fool had sadly underestimated Dana Scully, handing her 
that truth so casually.  Puppets were only useful if they never saw 
the strings.  Enlighten them to their true function and they tended to 
try to twist away, tangling the lines, which inevitably limited their 
usefulness.  

She'd disappointed him in the end, his chosen marionette, dancing so 
beautifully in response to their tugs and pulls.  It had taken awhile 
to figure out the subtleties, exactly how much pressure was needed to 
move her in the right direction.  Once or twice she'd come close to 
breaking free, but in the end she'd been like all the rest, clinging 
to the lines that bound her, without ever suspecting they were there. 

The denouement was an unexpected bonus, more than they'd hoped for, 
but it made sense in a way, he supposed.   So much easier to cast 
one's partner in the puppet's role.  It was the only possibility if 
she accepted Kritschgau's story and, after all, that script had been 
written especially for her.  It was a given that Mulder would reject 
it.

Mulder had never been a satisfactory puppet, constantly breaking free, 
careening wildly off in directions the puppeteers never intended, 
refusing to follow instructions.  A little like that wind up spider 
the boy used to play with so incessantly.  If the arms weren't 
perfectly aligned when you set it loose there was no telling which way 
it might go.   It never seemed to bother the youngster, he'd just 
retrieve the toy and try again, constantly making adjustments, 
seemingly fascinated with the unpredictability of the cheap trinket.  
He supposed it was still there at the beach house, probably long 
forgotten in a drawer somewhere.  

It was almost amusing.  Even now the boy was managing to twist free.  

The massive man pacing at the window was visibly agitated.  From 
across the room his large face looked bland, but the smoker could see 
the assessment going on behind the dark eyes, calculating a time-table 
gone badly awry.  

Ten feet away, the eldest members of the group sat across from each 
other at the broad conference table, their aging bodies dwarfed by the 
red leather chairs.  The bald man was tapping an unlit cigar against 
the polished wood, seemingly unconscious of the occasional glares of 
irritation from his white haired companion at the drumming sound.  

They all saw the truth in the video.  The fox was escaping again, 
before they could retrieve the information.  The smoker let the screen 
go blank, took time to light a fresh cigarette, savor the first long 
drag before he
retrieved the tape.  

The giant was the first to speak, the soft voice at seeming odds with 
the massive frame.  "And our friend from Richmond, where is he?"  
Watching the man pace, he wondered if he avoided sitting 
intentionally, ever conscious of the war he'd have to wage with 
gravity to rise again.  "Wasn't he supposed to join us?"

The clone was distributing drinks.  Still slightly buzzed from the two 
scotches in the car, he waved him away, watched him make his way 
around the room.  He couldn't remember which model this was. . . 
fifteen, sixteen?  It was about time to make a change.  Maybe next 
time they could use one of the redheads, he was growing tired of the 
goatee look, even if its phone manners were exquisite.  If nothing 
else, the clones made excellent hired help, infinitely reproducible 
and easily disposed of when they'd heard too much.   If they could 
only teach them to drive properly, they'd be able to replace the damn 
chauffeur.

He let his gaze drift back to the man in front of him.  "Given the 
unexpected complications, he felt it would be unwise to leave the 
site." Brushing past the larger man, who had paused abruptly in his 
path, the smoker took his customary chair, relaxed into it before 
continuing, "The video is self explanatory.  He didn't want to leave 
the merchandise in the hands of any more amateurs."  

"Daly's hardly an amateur."  The cigar was now lit, smoke curling 
lazily above the bald man's head as he spoke, adding to the growing 
haze in the room.  "Unlike those clowns driving the van.  Good God."  
He took a frenetic drag on the cigar, exhaling immediately in his 
haste to continue,  "That gas should have knocked him out in seconds. 
 There's no way he should have gotten away."  Ash flicked across the 
table as he furiously tapped the cigar against the edge of the 
ashtray, repeating, "No way."

"Absolutely correct, provided of course that Agent Mulder behaved 
according to plan."  Widening his gaze, the smoker let it capture all 
of them, tapped a Morley free and lit it before adding,  "You will 
recall I advised you of the riskiness of this course of action from 
the start."   He was blameless in this particular mess and relished 
the opportunity to get a little payback.  Let somebody else sit on the 
hotseat for a change.  "The target apparently left his apartment to go 
for a run just before the gas was released so only his fish were there 
to experience its effects.  They are undoubtedly sleeping still."

The white head bobbed furiously as the oldest of the group leaned 
forward, skull like features twisted into a scowl, "At 3:30 in the 
morning?  I think not.  He must have suspected a trap."  Beady, dark 
eyes swiveled to meet the smoker's, voice a low hiss.  "Nobody goes 
running at that hour."

"Agent Mulder does."  They were definitely going to have to reconsider 
eliminating the old man.  His senility was becoming an increasing 
problem.  "I mentioned his erratic running habits when this plan was 
first conceived.  You all knew it could be a problem."   There were 
reluctant nods of agreement from the giant and the cigar smoker.  He'd 
been quite vocal in his opposition, no way they could deny it.

Confusion clouded the older man's features as he sank back into the 
chair and retrieved his drink, muttering, "I still say it's not 
normal."  

He let that pass, turned his attention to the other two.  
"Unfortunately, the retrieval team took the instructions to intercept 
Agent Mulder a little too literally and ran into him with the van.  I 
trust the next team will be better trained."  Pausing, he looked to 
the large man at the window.  "I vote we wipe his brain now and forget 
trying to retrieve the memories.  Mulder's a time bomb just waiting to 
go off.  It's too risky to wait two weeks.  We need to act now, before 
he's fully aware."  He watched the larger man through hooded eyes, 
careful to keep his own face blank.  

The other man was studying him, seeming to consider his response 
carefully before finally speaking.  "That seems unduly hasty.  Does 
our associate in Virginia agree with your recommendation?"  Silence 
answered his question.  "Ah, I thought not.  You've been against this 
agenda from the start.  Is there perhaps something in Mr. Mulder's 
memory that you'd prefer he not share with the rest of us?"

The vultures at the table were watching the exchange with hooded eyes, 
alert for signs of weakness or wavering.  He'd be damned if they saw 
any.  The fat man was just fishing, trying to diffuse the blame.  "My 
objections have nothing to do with the content of any memories you may 
retrieve, however reliable they may be.  I have nothing to hide."  
Relaxing further into the soft leather, he brought the cigarette to 
his lips, took a long drag, waited for the nicotine to soothe jangled 
nerves.  "I'm merely concerned that certain parties have let their own 
personal quest for information put our work at needless risk.  There's 
more at stake here than Agent Mulder."

The heads at the table swiveled towards the fat man, focusing on new 
prey.  "Of course," the pacer agreed, deftly turning the conversation 
to less dangerous territory.  "However, you must concede that the 
information would be invaluable, if Agent Mulder does indeed hold the 
memory of what happened that night.  That's why we all agreed to take 
the risk."

One could almost admire the man's skill if he wasn't such a danger, 
neatly stressing the group decision.   The smoker watched the elders 
nodding their heads in agreement.  No matter.  They'd remember later, 
or at least the bald one would.  No telling what would be retained in 
the sieve of the other one's brain.

The bald man was still nursing his cigar, a half glass of whiskey 
loosely clasped in his other hand.   "However, the benefit is not so 
clear now.  Can we still retrieve those memories?  A two week delay 
will put us well outside the time window if I remember Dr. Goldstein's 
report correctly." 

The man at the window jumped in, before the smoker had a chance to 
confirm the report.  "I had Dr. Weber review Goldstein's records and 
he feels that Agent Mulder's case is unique."   

This was an unforeseen complication.  The fat man was better prepared 
than he'd expected.  "Dr. Goldstein's time estimates were based upon 
his other cases, none of whom had two treatments, as Agent Mulder did. 
 Additionally, Agent Mulder's extraordinary memory may benefit us in 
this particular case.  Weber has one case in his group, a woman, who 
had two treatments like Agent Mulder and that patient was still 
accessing memories a month after the treatment."
"We're approaching the one month mark now.  How does that help us?," 
the bald 
man interrupted.

"Let me finish."  The soft voice droned on, slightly more emphatic 
than before.  "Dr. Weber reports the patient's memories were still 
quite acute at that phase, acute enough to drive her to suicide.  Her 
death was the limiting factor on the one month window, not her ability 
to access the memories."

Finishing his drink, the cigar smoker set the empty glass aside before 
responding, "That still doesn't answer the question of whether we can 
count on them being available in another two weeks.  It just adds 
another
complication.  What's to keep Mulder from killing himself before we 
access the memories, if indeed we can access them?"  Ever efficient, 
the clone appeared and refilled the empty glass before moving back to 
his customary position by the phone.

Exasperation was creeping into the heavier man's voice.  "That's 
hardly a risk in his current condition.  If the doctor's to be 
believed, he's not going to be able to move well enough to kill 
himself.  Besides, he's being
monitored round the clock."   

The smoker watched them spar, tried to anticipate the fat man's next 
move. 

"There's a good chance Daly will still be able to access the memories 
two weeks from now.  Our main problem is going to be maintaining the 
hospital illusion for the duration.  It was never meant to be more 
than a temporary blind.  We'll need to add two more shifts of nursing 
staff."  He stopped abruptly, seemed to consider something and the 
smoker found himself suddenly wary.  He didn't like the look on the 
larger man's face, the slow smile stealing across the doughlike 
features.  "There is another possibility we haven't considered."  The 
dark eyes were almost gloating as they turned on the smoker.  "The 
morph."

The words seemed to hang there, suspended in the smoke, twisting in 
front of him as he tried to gauge their meaning.  Where was the man 
going with this idea?  
"What about the morph?"  His own tone revealed puzzlement, nothing 
more.

Playing to the more receptive audience, the giant moved closer to the 
table, waited until he had the elders' full attention before 
answering.  "Our visitor has also expressed interest in accessing 
those memories.  I expect he could be enticed to come to our aid, if 
approached correctly."  He leaned on the table, practically whispering 
now.  "I think Agent Mulder would appreciate some visitors during his 
recuperation, some friends and co-workers to keep him company, someone 
he can talk to."

Years of experience kept him outwardly calm, no tremor in his hand as 
he raised the cigarette to his lips again, let fingertips linger there 
as he took a slow draw.  He should have anticipated this possibility. 
 This is what came of letting oneself get distracted by personal 
concerns.  Damn that letter.

The bald one was puffing away on his stogy again, obviously warming to 
the idea, talking in between tokes on the cigar.  "Excellent 
suggestion. Excellent."  He snapped his fingers and the clone was 
instantly at his side.  A few whispered instructions and the clone 
nodded, turned and left the room abruptly.  The elder looked back to 
the group.  "Frederick will pull together the necessary materials.  
How soon can you set up a meeting?"

All eyes were on him again. He scanned the faces, weighed 
possibilities, alternatives, didn't see any good way out.  "I don't 
know.  It depends on the morph.  Possibly tomorrow."  Possibly never 
if he had his way.

"I can join you if you like."  Soft, supportive voice, carefully 
hiding the venom he knew was behind the suggestion.  

He was almost tempted to take the fat man up on the offer, knew he was 
terrified of the morph and only made the suggestion because he was 
sure it would be refused.  That could be interesting.

Then again, it was probably best to keep the giant out of it.  "No, I 
think it would go better if I approach him alone."  Perhaps there was 
still a chance to turn this to his own advantage.   




 


SCULLY scowled at the pan.  When had she lost the ability to prepare a 
simple sauce?  

No doubt Michael Field would have an explanation for why the flour was 
now bonded in a semi-solid paste to the sides and bottom of the 
saucepan, instead of mixed smoothly with the anemic looking liquid.  
She'd seen autopsy samples that looked more appetizing than the mess 
now bubbling in the ruined saucepan.   

Wondering why alfredo sauce had ever sounded appealing to start with, 
Scully flicked off the burner, and picked up the pot.

"Shit!"  The ringing of the phone was lost in the clatter of pan and 
spoon crashing to the floor.  "Damn, damn, damn!"  Stepping past the 
mess, she swung the faucet handle around to the right and pulled it 
all the way up.  

The cool stream of water brought immediate relief, leeching some of 
the heat from her palm.  Ignoring the ringing phone, she let the 
counter absorb most of her weight as she pushed the injured hand 
further under the water, while trying to unbutton the cuff of the 
blouse.  Fought to keep the tears at bay, as water saturated the 
sleeve before she could push it out of the way, adding to her general 
frustration.   

Over the rush of water, she heard the machine pick up in the other 
room, go through its recorded message to the inevitable beep.  "Dana? 
 Dana honey, are you there?  Pick up the phone. . ."

"Double shit!"  Not bothering to shut off the faucet, she sidestepped 
most of the mess, nearly colliding with the doorframe as one sneakered 
foot skidded in a random splatter of sauce.   Regaining her balance, 
she briefly considered letting the call go.  


Her mom would call back if it was really important.

"Dana?  It's important."  

Grabbing the portable from its cradle, she settled it to her shoulder 
and started back to the kitchen.  "What is it, Mom?"

"Dana?  Are you all right?  You sound upset."  The voice was soft with 
concern.  Chronic concern.  It was really starting to grate.

"I'm fine, mom.  Just had a slight cooking disaster," she choked, 
fighting the hysteria that threatened at the thought of her mother's 
reaction if she could see her daughter's normally pristine kitchen.  
Wouldn't be winning any Martha Stewart awards tonight.  It felt 
wonderful to stick her hand back under the water, let it numb the 
burn.   The mess could wait.

"Oh. . . well, if you're sure you're all right."   She let that one 
go, not bothering to respond, knowing her mom would eventually get the 
message and come to the point.  "The reason I called, Dana, I've asked 
Father McHugh to say a rosary for Fox, and thought you might want to 
attend.  It's at eight o'clock tonight.  I could pick you up."

Count to ten, Dana, count to ten. . .no good. . .the sigh was out 
before she could prevent it.  "Mom. . . "  She paused, struggling to 
find words that wouldn't offend, gave up the effort.  "Mom, Mulder 
didn't even believe in God.    He committed suicide.  I know the 
church's stance on that.  What the hell good is a rosary going to do 
him?"  She pulled in a long breath, struggled for calm, shut out the 
last view she'd had of his shattered face.  "Look, mom, I know you 
mean well, but I'm not even sure of my own faith these days.  I really 
don't think I could handle a rosary service for Mulder."  

She'd learned control from a pro.  If any offense had been taken, 
there was no sign of it in the calm voice. "Are you saying you think 
Fox would have objected?" 

"Objected?"  Now there was a question.  Just what would Mulder's views 
on this be?  He'd probably recognized her mom as an X-file years ago. 
 "No, mom.  I don't know that he would.  He'd probably be touched that 
you cared, especially after all that's happened."  Or amused, but her 
mom didn't need to know that.    

"I never held him responsible for Missy's death, Dana.  You know 
that."  Amazing how her mom lit on that particular incident so 
quickly.  "He was a tremendous source of strength to me when you were 
missing.  He never gave up."  She faltered, "I. . ."  

Shutting off the water to hear better, she caught the slight quiver in 
the voice.  "You what, mom?  What were you going to say?"

"I did."

"You did what?"  

"I gave up."  

She sighed.  "Mom, we've been through all that.  My instructions were 
clear.  You did exactly what I wanted.  Mulder should have backed you 
up.  He knew my wishes.  I'm sorry if he made you feel guilty."  She 
wondered if they were going to have to go through every death and near 
death experience in the family in this phone call.

"I'm not talking about cutting off the life support, Dana."  Her voice 
was  stronger now, no longer hesitant.  "I'm talking about when you 
were gone.  I never told you this and I asked him not to tell you.  I 
don't know why.  It seemed important at the time.  I guess I was 
ashamed."

"Tell me what?"  

Now the sigh was on the other end of the line.  "It had been so long, 
Dana, and there was no word, seemingly no hope.  Fox didn't want to do 
it, but I asked him to come.  He only did it for my sake."

This was getting really irritating.  It had taken time, but eventually 
she'd come to accept the missing months, go on with life.  She really 
didn't need this now, when she was trying to grapple with his death, 
with her own mortality.  

"Mom, can you please get to the point."  

"I had a gravestone made, Dana."  

She felt her knees give way, let the cupboard support her as she slid 
to sit on the floor, nearly dropped the phone.  "You what?"  Her brain 
was on overload, unable to absorb what she'd just heard.  

"It was just a marker.  I needed something, Dana.  Something to hold 
onto, so I could move on.  Maybe it was selfish.  I don't know.  I 
just wanted to start to heal and I didn't know how to do it without 
some form of closure."  

Pain in the voice, and guilt.  She couldn't believe her mom had 
carried this secret around for two and a half years.  

Her fingers tightened on the phone, as she struggled for words.  "It's 
okay, Mom.  It was a bit of a shock. . ."   Understatement of the 
year.  She wondered briefly if her mom still had the stone tucked away 
somewhere, decided she didn't want to know.  "It's perfectly natural. 
 I expect anyone would have given up hope at that point."

"Fox didn't."  

She could hear the quaver again in her mom's words, felt her own eyes 
fill, then overflow with tears.  "No, mom, I'm sure he didn't," she 
whispered.  Didn't have the energy to try to explain that stubborn 
core that allowed her partner to persist through the seemingly endless 
adversity.  She still couldn't believe that he'd finally given up the 
fight.     

"Dana?"

"Hmmm. . ."  She suddenly felt incredibly tired.  Every joint ached.  
She absently massaged the burn, letting her eyes drift shut.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?"

She fought the lassitude slowly stealing over her limbs, struggled to 
make sense of the question, finally made the connection.  "To the 
rosary?  No, mom, I don't think so."  Her eyes were drifting shut 
again as she stifled a yawn.  "Look, Mom, go ahead and do your rosary. 
 Don't worry about me.  I'll stop by tomorrow and see you."

"Aren't you going to work?"

"No, I'm on medical leave."  She hurried on, not wanting to deal with 
that can of worms tonight, "Look, mom, I'm really tired."  This time 
there was no stopping the yawn.  "We can talk about it tomorrow.  I'll 
fill you in then.  Right now I need to go to bed."

"Of course. . .I'm sure you're exhausted.  Go get some sleep and I'll 
talk to you in the morning."  The briefest pause.   "Goodnight, Dana."

"Night, mom."  Thumbing the off switch she dropped the phone to the 
floor before struggling to her feet.  She flicked the lights off on 
her way out of the kitchen, ignored the voice that told her she'd 
regret leaving the sauce cleanup until the morning.  


Hell, maybe she'd hire a service and let them clean up the damn mess. 
 
Right now, all she wanted was sleep.  Toeing off her sneakers, she 
left them on the living room floor and continued on through to the 
dark bedroom.  Not bothering to undress, she peeled back the comforter 
and collapsed on the bed, let the darkness pull her down into 
oblivion.






IT wasn't difficult for Skinner to get the key to the basement office. 
 He was, after all, AD.   The door opened on a dark room and he 
reached inside, flicked the switch.

The usual Mulder disarray.  Books and files and photographs.  Crime 
scenes and UFOs and abduction sites.  Mulder's working style might be 
disordered, but the mind behind it had been sharp, intelligent, and 
not above questioning his own prejudices.

He couldn't believe that Mulder killed himself because Kritschgau said 
it was all a hoax.  Mulder wasn't that credulous, no matter what 
anyone else might think.  

Out of control, though, and careening down a dangerous slope, reminded 
the little voice in the back of his head that generally kept silent 
until three am on a sleepless night.  

But it was still easier to think of it as murder, regardless of that 
little voice.  Easier to sleep at night.  Easier to look at himself in 
the morning in the mirror as he was shaving.

Murder was out of his hands.  Suicide meant he hadn't done enough.  
Going through channels--he was by the book, he always had been, but it 
hadn't been enough.

Walking across the room, Skinner reached out to rifle through papers 
on the cluttered desktop.  Mulder's notes to himself, aimless doodling 
of something that looked more and more like a vision from Buck Rogers 
everytime he drew it.  

Moving behind the desk, he sat down, rested his forearms on the desk 
and tried to think why he'd come down here.  Some quixotic notion?  
What really could he accomplish in this chess game when he'd never 
gotten beyond pawn status himself?
Reaching out, he thumbed the cards in Mulder's rolodex and pulled it 
toward him.  Mulder's contacts.  An occasional handwritten card with 
only a woman's name and telephone number.  

Shaking his head, Skinner leaned back in the chair, caught himself 
before it  tipped him backward, swallowing a curse in the silence of 
the basement office.   
"I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him," he quoted out loud, 
ironically.  Mulder was dead and there wasn't a goddamned thing he 
could do about it.  Not even to avenge him.  

If Scully's tale was true, Mulder had been deliberately bent and 
broken to do their work for them.  If it wasn't, he'd been 
deliberately bent and broken anyway, to get rid of him.

Skinner himself already knew how well they--the ever faceless 
they--could do that.

The picture of two children caught his eye.  The young Fox Mulder, and 
his sister.  The sister whose loss had driven Mulder so hard.  His 
hand reached out, independent of thought, and closed over the frame.  

Rising suddenly, he picked up both photograph and rolodex.  His mother 
might want the photograph back.  And the rolodex--well, who knew when 
there might be cause to need some of Mulder's contacts.

Without consciously thinking about it, Skinner moved toward the file 
cabinets.  Opened one at random.    Mulder's filing system was more 
arcane than the Dewey Decimal System, according to area.  Ghosts and 
phantoms in one section--he pulled out a few from there, opened one 
and grimaced.  

The alleged nursing home rape.  Serial murders with a twist--the 
vampire case in Los Angeles, the alleged John Barnett case.  He even 
had Monty Propps in there, although Propps was strictly minor league. 
 No shape changing, just a psychopath with a fixation on the occult.

His own case, lumped together with Duane Barry, Jeremiah Smith, Dr. 
Berube. . .Conspiracy, evidently.  

It ought to frighten him that he understood the way Mulder's mind 
worked.  It didn't.

Pulling folders out, he left some, but gathered up others.  Opened a 
drawer and rifled through it.  

"A little light reading, Mulder," he told Mulder's ghost, or his 
office, or the goddamned file cabinets, they were all the same.  

Another drawer, another bundle of files, until he felt he had enough 
to give him some picture of whether Scully honestly believed their 
work had been baseless.   Or whether she had been gulled by Kritschgau 
deliberately to destroy Mulder.  

Skinner's footsteps were the only sounds as he crossed to the door.  
Pausing, he looked back and felt his throat tighten.  

It wasn't as if he'd been Mulder's friend.  He'd been his commanding 
officer, in the quasi-military way of the Bureau.   He'd come down 
here once to keep Mulder from throwing his career away.   He only 
wished that the powers in the shadows had let him keep Mulder from 
throwing his life away.

The light clicked off, leaving the office in darkness.   It was late, 
most people had gone home, given up the good fight in favor of their 
families.  He no longer had a family, except for the Bureau.

They'd take that from him if they could.

The question was how far he was willing to go to prevent them.





THE click was barely perceptible, drowned out almost immediately by 
the persistent buzz of the alarm as the numbers slipped over from 
11:59 to 12:00.   
Deb reached out reflexively, eyes still closed and swatted at the 
array of buttons covering the top of the clock.   The buzzer stilled 
momentarily, replaced by a blare of horns and the voice of someone in 
terrible pain.  
Opening her eyes she grabbed the black, matte box off the counter, 
flipped it over and hit the off switch.  

Tom Jones at 2am was more than she could handle.  Why, why, why 
indeed.  It was no wonder to her that Delilah or whatever her name was 
split if she was going to have to listen to him go on like that.  She 
marveled at graveyard disc jockeys and their odd taste in music.  Must 
have dug that one out of a vault somewhere.

A quick scan at the bank of monitors on the counter and she relaxed 
back onto the cot.  The patient was still asleep.  Nothing quite like 
a heavy dose of morphine on top of a head injury to send one off into 
La-La Land.  Worked like a charm.  Judging from the grimaces and 
occasional grunts though his sleep was less than pain free.  That was 
to be expected, given the nature of the injuries.  

This double shift business was for the birds, she reflected, tossing 
the blanket aside and half rolling off the flimsy cot.  Daly would 
have a cow if he knew she'd been sleeping but Daly was safely 
distracted boffing Maryann.   No way she expected to see either of 
them before 5 at the earliest.   

Bending, she picked up the magazine lying open on the floor, tossed it 
on top of the blanket.  It fell open to the picture of Mel Gibson 
spouting off about his upcoming movie and his own views on government 
conspiracies.  "Not even close, Mel.  You cuties in Hollywood have no 
idea."   Then again, she wouldn't mind having him as a patient.  The 
man looked positively lickable in the hospital still.  Just cut Julia 
out of the picture and it would be perfect.  Her eyes wandered back to 
the TV monitor on the counter.  

Actually, her own patient wasn't bad looking either, once you looked 
past the road burn.

Yawning, she raked tired fingers through the close cropped curls 
covering her head, whispered silent thanks to the hair gods who had 
seen fit to compensate her for the curse of piano legs by blessing her 
with wash and wear hair.  Not much compensation but it was better than 
nothing and it did make her life easier.  She grabbed the supply belt 
from the counter on her way out the door and buckled it into place as 
she made her way down the deserted corridor to the patient's room.  

Picking her way past abandoned toolboxes and open cardboard crates, 
overflowing with components, she idly traced the bundles of wires 
running up and down the hallway, listened disinterestedly to the 
sounds coming over the loudspeakers, wondered if they'd actually sent 
someone over to Georgetown to tape the corridor noise.  

However they'd done it, they'd managed to get the right blend of 
phones, pages, cart noises and all the rest.  Of course the illusion 
would go right down the tubes if the patient ever made it out of the 
bed and got a look out the window or into the dirty, jumbled corridor. 
 Still, their thoroughness was impressive, that they'd gone so far as 
to consider that level of detail.

The heavy door swung open soundlessly in response to her push, 
spilling light into the dim room before it swung shut behind her.  A 
muffled groan and a short stream of gibberish replaced the 
manufactured chatter of the speakers in the corridor.  Trapped in his 
drugged sleep, the patient was anything but peaceful.   Moving further 
into the room, she snagged the chart from its place by the door, and 
doublechecked the medication notes.  

"No, Scu. . .no. . .not me, not. . ."  The patient's face contorted 
under the dim night light as he shifted minutely under the thin, blue, 
hospital blanket, groaning in earnest now.  The groaning grew more 
pronounced as he shifted again, caught in the grips of some nightmare.

Sighing, Deb leaned forward, kept her touch gentle as she smoothed 
back sweat dampened bangs where they'd fallen across his bruised 
forehead.  Fourth time's a charm she noted, as long lashed lids slid 
slowly open.  

Earlier attempts to rouse him from similar dreams by more conventional 
methods, firm prods to shoulder or arm, had set off his startle 
reflex, leading inevitably to paroxysms of agony as nerve endings 
screamed in protest at the sudden shift in muscle and bone.  Three 
months of clinical experience with rape victims half a lifetime ago 
had led her to try the alternate method.  

The gender was wrong but he had the same skittishness that she 
remembered from those teenage girls huddled under blankets in stark 
examining rooms so long ago.  

The dark eyes clouded with confusion, studying her face intently 
before wandering away in search of something. . .someone else.  
"Scully?"  If she hadn't been standing right next to him she would 
have missed the thin whisper, the frantically searching eyes.  

"No, Mr. Mulder, it's me, Deb."  She kept her voice low, the tone 
soothing, as his eyes swiveled back to her face, fixing her in his 
oddly lopsided gaze, the left lid still badly swollen, black thread 
elongating the brow.  "You're in the hospital.  Remember?"  She 
captured his right hand in hers as she talked, found his wrist and 
counted off his pulse in her head as she waited for him to respond.  
Noted the too fast pace even as it started to slow.

"Wh. . ."  He coughed slightly, gasped in pain at the modest movement. 
 

Deb waited for him to settle again before offering the carafe of 
water, placed the plastic straw between chapped lips and let him take 
a long, slow pull before she tugged it away.  "That's enough for now," 
she soothed, moving it back to the bedside table, well out of his 
reach.  "I'll give you a little more later if you keep that down."  At 
least he hadn't puked yet.  That was definite progress.

His eyes tracked her movements as she wrapped the pressure cuff around 
his bicep, inflated it and took the measurement.  For someone who'd 
been groaning in pain minutes before he was being remarkably quiet 
now.  She noted the sporadic winces and the way he'd suddenly catch 
his breath at odd intervals and knew he was still fighting it.  At 
least he wasn't a screamer.  That made her job a lot easier.  Then 
again, there were still two hours to go before his next morphine dose. 
 

Pulling the Thermoscan from her utility belt, she held it up where he 
could see it, smiled as he slowly turned his head in response, 
providing her with easy access to his right ear.  "You're a regular 
pro at this, aren't you, Mr. Mulder?"  She waited for the beep, 
frowned at the reading.

"Mulder, just Mulder."

"Hmm?"  She looked up at the raspy whisper, paused in scribbling the 
temp on the chart, noted the slight flush on the pale cheeks.  Daly 
wasn't going to be happy being woken for this but he should have 
thought of that before he snapped at her about the Tylenol earlier.  
If he wanted all med changes cleared through him from now on, that's 
what he'd get.  Served the pompous ass right.

The patient was talking again.  "Don't need the mister. . .just Mulder 
is fine."  He started to smile but suddenly grimaced and clutched at 
the blanket with his free right hand as a spasm rocked his body.   
"Sh. . .shi. . ."   Ivory teeth clamped down hard on his full bottom 
lip, turning the surrounding tissue white and cut off the expletive 
before it was completed.  Muted grunts still made it through the 
clamped jaw.

"Go ahead and curse if it makes it any better.  I doubt you can come 
up with anything I haven't heard before," she encouraged, covering his 
hand where it clutched the blanket.  He immediately let go of the 
blanket, clamping onto the proffered hand like a lifeline.  "Try not 
to tense, it will just make it worse."  Easier said than done, she 
reflected, watching him try to follow her directions, felt the 
stranglehold on her hand loosen slightly.  God, she hated pelvic 
injuries.  They were the absolute worst.

The grunting gradually subsided and his teeth slowly slid back, the 
now swollen lower lip sliding free.  One of the scabbed areas on the 
left side had pulled free and was slowly oozing blood.   Sighing, she 
patted his hand before going to the bathroom where she found a 
washcloth, doused it in cool water and wrung it dry.  He was going to 
need stitches in that lip if this kept up.  The hazel eyes were closed 
when she returned, but snapped open at the first touch of the cool 
cloth against his forehead, relaxed shut again as she gently wiped the 
pain sweat away from his face.

God, his face was a mess, she noted, taking extra care as the cloth 
skimmed the 
worst of the abrasions.  He'd been lucky though.  She'd seen a lot 
worse.  Asphalt did not make the best facial scrubber.  

His lips were really cracked and dry now.  She made a mental note to 
check the boxed supplies for some salve for his lips, couldn't 
remember seeing any in the stuff they'd already unpacked.   "Who's 
Scully?" she asked, more to keep him awake than out of any real 
interest.  She still had a couple of checks to run him through and 
didn't want him drifting off before they were completed. 

"My partner," he rasped. "Short. . .red hair."  Succinct words, broken 
by soft pants, shallow breaths.  The dark eyes searched the room 
again, reflected confusion.  "You haven't seen her?"  

"Nope," she answered, hastening to add, "but she may have been in to 
see you on one of the other shifts."  Not likely but possible, she 
reflected, wondering if his partner was in on whatever they had 
planned for the poor bastard.  

She'd learned not to inquire too deeply years ago.  It was easier to 
sleep at night that way.

The answer didn't seem to offer any satisfaction but he changed the 
subject abruptly, asking instead, "What happened?  Why am I here?"  
His gaze once again shifted to his left arm where it hung suspended, 
quickly looked away.

One hand pulled a penlight from her belt, flicked it on as she 
answered, "Don't you remember?  We talked about this the last time you 
were awake."  Both pupils responded normally to the light.  She tucked 
the light back in her belt, held a finger out in front of his face.  
"Track my finger," she instructed, moving it slowly from side to side, 
watched his eyes follow it as instructed, a fraction slow but that 
could be the morphine, both eyes moved together.

"I can't remember," he muttered, deep lines suddenly furrowing his 
forehead as he searched for the memory.  "Wait, I've got it."  A slow 
smile took ten years off the tired face, gave her a hint of the child 
he must have once been as he rasped out, "Car go beep, beep, run over 
jogger."  

She felt an answering smile break out on her face as laughter bubbled 
free at the sick joke.  The humor was totally unexpected.  Jokes 
tended to be few and far between in her current line of work and the 
last person she expected to see cracking them was the patient.  

She was going to have to be extra careful with this one, stay focused 
on the money, avoid the trap of personal involvement.  That was a 
luxury she couldn't afford, not if she wanted to stay alive.   

The patient's eyes were sliding closed again, the soft smile slowly 
disappearing as he drifted back into sleep.   This time she let him 
go.

She was yawning as she headed for the door, wishing she could grab 
another quick nap.   She'd make the call to Daly, report on the memory 
problems and let him decide what he wanted to do about the fever.  
Then she'd snag the blanket and magazine and hightail it back to the 
patient's room.  

She had a feeling he wouldn't be out for long this time.



 



BRIGHT yellow swirled across white china, flowed unchecked until it 
hit the twin barriers of bacon strips and hash browns.    The brown, 
vinyl booth and battered linoleum table were sadly out of step with 
the current DC breakfast scene but that was part of the appeal.   
Besides, nobody made eggs like Maggie's.  He'd discovered the place by 
chance eighteen years before and had been a regular ever since. 

He savored one final drag before adding the cigarette stub to the 
growing pile of butts in the ashtray at the edge of the table.  
Exhaling, he used his fork to mash the various piles of food together, 
scooped up a forkful of the mixture and raised it to his mouth.  He 
savored the mixture of flavors as he chewed.  Cholesterol and 
nicotine, a true breakfast of champions.  Taking another bite, he 
looked across the booth, met the brown eyes watching him 
dispassionately.
  
Vicky had offered his companion a menu, taken it away when the offer 
was politely rebuffed.  She'd still poured two water glasses though.  
 Only one had been touched so far.   It mattered naught to him if the 
bastard didn't want to eat but it suddenly occurred to him there was 
another possibility he hadn't previously considered.  He swallowed 
another bite before asking, "Aren't you hungry?"

"Not for eggs."  No change of expression on the broad features and the 
voice lacked all inflection.

It was tempting to drop the matter, move on to the purpose of the 
meeting, but the problem intrigued him.  They'd made basic assumptions 
which might not be right.  "There are other items on the menu than 
eggs.  Perhaps you'd prefer a bran muffin.  I understand they're 
excellent."  Finishing his coffee, he signaled Vicky who brought a 
fresh pot over, left it with him.  She was well trained.

The creature watched the interaction, waited until the waitress moved 
out of earshot before answering.  "There is nothing on the menu I 
want."   

Curiosity, once roused, did not subside.  "What do you eat, anyway?"  
Did they consume organic substances?  He suddenly wondered how many 
misapprehensions had been accepted as fact.

Resting thick forearms on the table, his companion leaned forward, 
smiling ferally.  "Do you really want to know?"  He looked pointedly 
at the plate, still half filled.  "You might want to finish your 
breakfast first.  You humans tend to be somewhat squeamish and you 
might not like my answer."

His fork froze in midair.  A number of less than palatable 
possibilities came to mind-images of cattle mutilations were bad 
enough, but when he considered their view of humans....his gorge rose, 
he had to force down the bite already in his mouth, past tonsils which 
fought to expel the mixture.  No easy task.  

Swallowing, he grimly regretted the impulse that had led him to ask.  
 Pushing the plate aside, he signaled Vicky to come and take it away. 
  

The waitress hurried over, her brow furrowed under the perky, blonde 
bangs.  "Was there a problem?"  

More concern for the size of her tip than his enjoyment he expected, 
but he hastened to reassure her just the same,  "No, I'm just not 
hungry."  He pulled out a five, handed it to her.  "Bring me a pack of 
Morleys.  You can keep the change."  

Her face relaxed at the sight of the cash, confirming his suspicions. 
 No matter.  Relationships based on money were so much simpler.  He 
found he actually preferred them these days.

The alien had leaned back against the vinyl booth, was watching him in 
what certainly looked like amusement.  Fine time for the bastard to 
develop a human sense of humor.  He'd seen no sign of it before now, 
had thought the thing incapable of anything so subtle, so emotional.  
 There were other people in the organization who could research the 
thing's breakfast preferences.  He found the subject no longer 
interested him.   

Vicky returned with the cigarettes, handed them to him and left to 
take care of another table.  He opened the box hurriedly, nostrils 
flaring at the scent of fresh tobacco.   A match flared and he leaned 
forward, accepted the offered light, kept his hand from shaking.   It 
was probably a waste of effort.  The thing could probably sense the 
revulsion.  Damn the others for sticking him with this meeting.  This 
particular mess wasn't even of his making.  Next time the fatman could 
damn well deal with the morph himself.

He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, took a sip.  "We have a 
slight problem, one which needs your help."  The cigarette was 
helping.  He felt the queasiness abate.

"Define problem."  That flat tone.  

He took another swallow of coffee, considered his words before 
answering, "The goods were damaged during delivery.  The nature of the 
damage is such that the original plan had to be put on hold.  My 
colleagues wish your assistance in attempting to gather the necessary 
information through an alternate route."  Raucous laughter from one of 
the front booths all but drowned out the softly spoken words.

The alien seemed unperturbed by the background hubbub.  "And why 
should I cooperate?"

"It is in your best interest as well, I believe.  Your reasons for 
wanting the information are different than my colleagues but you had 
previously indicated the information had value to you."   The alien 
was looking across the room, watching Vicky joke with two customers at 
the counter.  She laughed at something they said.   "Perhaps I 
misinterpreted your interest."

"Perhaps."  The waitress apparently forgotten the creature stared back 
at him.  "What do they want me to do?  Repair the merchandise?"  The 
dark brows drew together in a scowl.  "No.  I told you that after the 
last time."

"As I already explained to my colleagues."   The coffee was growing 
cold.   He set it aside.  "The injuries are not life threatening.  
However, the subject is in a great deal of pain and would undoubtedly 
appreciate visits from certain friends and colleagues, people in whom 
he might be led to confide."  He picked up the packet lying where he'd 
placed it on the seat when they'd first entered the diner, passed it 
across to his companion.

The alien tipped the packet, watched the contents slide onto the 
table, set the tapes aside and studied the photographs instead.  
Pausing on the last one, he traced a blunt fingertip across the image, 
seemed to consider it carefully.
The clock over the counter was pointing to eight.  He had other 
meetings to get to, needed to hurry this one along.  "Is that a 
problem?  Can you do her?"

This time there was a definite smirk.  "Define do."  

The bastard was definitely toying with him.  And when the hell had he 
started learning human slang?   "I believe you know the answer to that 
question.  What are the limits of your abilities?"  Too late, he saw 
the new trap he'd stumbled into, caught the creature's grin and 
rephrased.   "Can you morph into a female form?"  The time for 
subtleties had long since passed.   

"The difficulty is not in the gender transformation."  Still talking, 
the creature slid the photo back across the table.   "It's the height 
and mass difference.  Agent Scully is out of my range."  Two of the 
cassettes joined the photo.  Large hands gathered together the 
remaining photos and tapes, slipped them back into the envelope. 
"These two I can do.  When can I start?"

The sudden eagerness was setting off his internal alarms.  The humor, 
the familiarity with common parlance--it was a mistake to think they 
could control the morphs.  A chill unrelated to the temperature 
briefly prickled his skin to gooseflesh.  

Perhaps it was time to reconsider that whole alliance while there were 
still just a few of them.   In the meantime, this would keep him busy 
and divert the other members of the group from exploring alternate 
options, ones more likely to be successful.  

He folded the photo, slipped it into his jacket pocket with the 
rejected tapes.  Sliding out of the booth he threw a twenty on the 
table.  "This afternoon.  The Englishman is expecting your call at 
noon.  The usual number."  He waited for the alien to rise before 
continuing, "He'll give you the necessary details."  
He followed the alien to the door, eyes drawn unwillingly to the base 
of that broad neck.  His tongue flicked across lips suddenly dry, 
thinking in terms of maintaining control.   They'd given the morphs 
too much leeway; it was time to remedy that situation.





BUREAU business went on no matter who had fallen.  

Skinner was able to busy himself in the minutiae of management for 
most of the morning, determinedly not thinking about the empty office 
in the basement, not thinking about Scully, not thinking about the 
bastard who had left his office with the faint stench of stale 
cigarette reek.

"Sir?"  Kim stood at the door, her expression puzzled.  "There's a 
messenger 
here, says he needs your signature for something."

Rising, Skinner frowned.  "A messenger from whom?"

"A law firm, he says."  Kim stepped back, let him through.

The messenger, a skinny kid who couldn't be more than twenty, handed 
him a clipboard with a form on it.  Nothing fancy, just accepting 
delivery of a letter in a creamy vellum envelope.  Not the usual plain 
white business envelope.  

He eyed it as though it might be explosive, took the proffered pen and 
signed.  

"What is this?"
"Dunno, sir," the kid told him, retrieving the pen.  "I just deliver 
them."  He flicked Skinner a quick smile, erasing the almost sullen 
look of youth.  

"Thanks."

It even felt explosive, Skinner thought, turning it in his hands.  
"Thanks, Kim," he told her absently and went back into his office.  
Laid the envelope on the desk for a moment and stared at it.  The 
return address, 'Wyatt, Haynes and Lincoln,' was not familiar.  

Sighing, he used the letter opener to slit the damned thing open, 
unfolded the sheet within and stared at it as the typed words sank in. 
  
Christ.  Bad enough Mulder's ghost haunted him, the bastard had also 
named him executor of his will.  

The headache that usually accompanied thoughts of Mulder leered at him 
from the wings.

Stabbing the intercom button, he barked, "Kim, see if you can get 
Agent Scully at home."
"Yes, sir."

If Mulder wasn't already dead, it would have been nice to kill him.  
Or at least hurt him a little.  No, that was ridiculous, and a sign of 
just how badly Mulder's suicide had rattled him.   Maybe Scully didn't 
need to know this--he reached back for the intercom, realized that 
Scully had Mulder's keys.  Key.  Whatever.

And he'd need them.

"I've got her, sir, I'm putting her through," Kim's voice was tinny 
and attenuated on the intercom, never mind that she was just outside.

Picking up the handset, Skinner leaned back in his chair, holding the 
letter with his thumb and forefinger.  Thin smile, considering himself 
as Mulder's choice of executor.  Trying to choose the words carefully. 
 "Agent Scully, do you still have Agent Mulder's keys?"

There was an audible intake of breath.  "Yes, sir, I do."  She sounded 
tired, even sleepy, as if Kim had woken her.

"I wonder if I could stop by to pick them up."  He hadn't known he was 
going to say that, but it seemed a logical enough plan.  "It seems 
he's named me his executor."

A silence followed.  He tried to visualize her reaction, wondered what 
she was thinking.

"I-I didn't know that," she finally told him, her voice a little 
shaky.  "I thought--he must have changed his will when...."  She let 
the last words trail.
Skinner's stomach tied itself into a knot.  

When they'd discovered she was ill.  Of course, pragmatic even in the 
midst of his lunacy, Mulder would have realized that statistically the 
odds were higher he'd outlive Scully.  Of course, statistics didn't 
generally factor in eating a gun.  "I'm sorry," he told her gently, 
"If you'd rather just mail them in, Agent Scully, that should be soon 
enough.  I suppose I'll have to meet with his attorney first anyway."

"Of course, sir."  Faint voice, ghostly on the telephone.  "But I'll 
be out today, I'll drop them by your office."

He tossed the letter on the desk.  "Thank you, whatever's most 
convenient."  His doubts wavered, but there were so many things 
unexplained.   Offering an apology for bothering her, he hung up the 
telephone, dissatisfied and unsettled at once.
Mulder had damned near driven him crazy while alive.  Mulder dead 
seemed to be working hard to achieve the same goal.






FUMBLING, cursing under her breath, Scully managed to get the phone 
handset back on the cradle.  Trust Skinner to call and wake her up 
early in the morning on her first full day off.  She was on medical 
leave, that meant rest, what the hell was he thinking?

Unfair, really, he'd sounded pretty stunned to discover that he was 
Mulder's executor.  Mulder must have done it after finding out about 
her cancer.  But it hurt nonetheless.

Curling on her side, she pulled the pillow closer and sighed, reaching 
for the blessed oblivion of sleep, shoving thought aside.  But sleep, 
unlike last night, wasn't cooperative.  Instead of relaxing back into 
sleep, her body began complaining, the voice in the back of her head 
started reminding of all the things that needed to be done.  

Most notably, the cleanup in the kitchen.  Pot, sauce, and floor.  Her 
eyelids opened and she stared at the wallpaper on the wall, dully 
aware that the cooled sauce would probably have taken on the texture 
of cement.  She'd be better off having it sandblasted off the kitchen 
floor.  

But even concentrating on the kitchen didn't prevent her from thinking 
of what Skinner had said.  Or from thinking of Mulder. 

Damn him anyway, she thought, blinking hard.  The ultimate ditch.  
Eating his fucking gun.  If he wasn't already dead, she'd kill him 
herself.   She'd needed his support and instead of giving it, he'd 
ditched her again.  The permanent way.  

She had asked to be a part of the autopsy team.  Why, she wasn't sure, 
maybe just for closure.  Sawing open what remained of Mulder's skull 
would certainly have been cathartic.  But the tears spilled over 
anyway and she pressed her cheek to the pillow, angry and sad and 
generally feeling like shit.

Damn Skinner for calling her.  Damn him for telling her that Mulder 
had changed his will.  And damn Mulder, not only for leaving her 
behind, but for failing to tell her.

He was always raving about the truth, but he'd had a fair problem 
telling it to her.

Rolling over, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feeling 
sticky and uncomfortable in her clothes.  Sleeping in a bra was not 
recommended, she decided, adjusting herself slightly and standing up. 
 All right, if she couldn't sleep, she'd take a shower and get cleaned 
up and get Skinner the fucking keys.
The bathroom seemed a hundred miles away.  And turning on the bathroom 
light wasn't the brightest notion she'd had recently.  She looked as 
crappy as she felt, purple crescents beneath each eye.  Tired.  Worn. 
 And on the verge of haggard.  

The hot water, on the other hand, felt like heaven.  Standing under 
the spray, flatfooted and unmoving, she turned her face up to it, 
hoping that whoever had come up with the concept of hot showers had 
been canonized.  At the very least, beatified.

By the time she emerged, she was feeling almost human again.  Not 
quite, but almost.  

She left the discarded clothes on the floor and wrapped a towel around 
herself before trailing her way back to the bedroom.  Clean underwear, 
clean bra, t-shirt and jeans-no reason to dress up, not just to drop 
keys off at the front reception desk of the Bureau.

Damn Skinner.  What the hell time was it, anyway?  Sitting down on the 
edge of the bed, she lifted the clock she'd knocked over with the 
phone and stared at it, suddenly shaky.  

It was far from early, it was nearly noon.  Jesus Christ, she'd slept 
more than twelve hours.  She thought her mother had called around 6:30 
or 7:00 the previous night.   Jesus, about sixteen hours.  

She owed Skinner a mental apology at least.   Even if she had no 
intention of ever telling him what she'd thought of him when she'd 
picked up the telephone and heard Kim's voice.

The telephone rang again, as if some demon had been invoked and she 
reached for it, sighing.

Her mother's voice.  "Hi, honey, are you feeling a little better 
today?  I thought I'd go with you to your MRI appointment this 
afternoon."

Shit, she'd forgotten that, or thought it was tomorrow.  "Mom, I'm 
fine, I can get myself there and back, it's just routine."  Trying to 
deflect her mother was like trying to hold off an armored troop car by 
herself.  "Mom, how was the rosary?"

"Very nice, sweetheart, we had a nice turnout."

The world was definitely getting surreal.  "A nice turnout," she 
repeated, trying to imagine Frohicke saying the Hail Mary.  "Who 
turned out, Mom?"

"Some of the other women in the Altar Society.  I told them it was for 
a friend of yours."

A bubble of semi-hysterical laughter rose in Scully's throat.  "Mom, 
you-"  No, her mother had a right to mark Mulder's death if she 
wanted, it wasn't fair to say she shouldn't have.  But she resolutely 
refused to think what Mulder would have said about it.  "Listen, Mom, 
I need to get dressed, I've got to take Mulder's keys to AD Skinner.  
It turns out that Mulder named him executor."

There was a brief silence.  "Dana, I'm going with you this afternoon." 
 The trace of steel that revealed her mother's background as a Navy 
wife.  "I won't be kept in the dark."

"Mom, I'm not trying to keep you in the dark."  Cradling the phone 
between her ear and shoulder, Scully began to dress.  She was too 
tired to talk to her mother.  Too tired to think of cleaning the 
floor.  Too tired to make it down to the Bureau to drop off the keys. 
 Maybe she'd just drop them in the mail.  Maybe she'd call Skinner 
back and have him come and get them.

Flopping on her back, only one part of her mind listening to her 
mother's assertions, she felt her eyes fill with tears again.  "Fine, 
Mom," she broke into her mother's monologue.  "Just come over and get 
me and we'll both go.  All right?  Is that what you wanted?  Jesus 
Christ, Mom, you can't do this for me, I wish you'd understand that."

This time, the silence was profound.   A tear spilled over, ran down 
the side of her face, she felt it trickle into her ear.  "I'm sorry, 
Mom."   Humbly.  "I'm just-I'm just so tired right now."

"I know that, Dana."  Her mother's voice was even.  "I'll pick you up 
around 2:00, shall I?"

"All right."  She closed her eyes, felt another tear roll down into 
her hair.  Now there was an interesting scientific puzzle, why hadn't 
it taken the same path as the first? "I'll see you then, Mom."  Chaos 
theory in action, her brain volunteered.

She was definitely going to call Skinner back, she told herself, but 
her fingers refused to cooperate and press the buttons.  She didn't 
want to talk to him again, didn't want to hear his worry or sympathy, 
didn't want to see his face or be reminded of why she was giving 
Mulder's keys to someone else.  Didn't want to have to see the Bureau 
lobby.  

Letting the telephone fall from her hand, she rolled onto her side, 
wearing only bra and panties.  Suddenly chilled, she yanked the quilt 
over herself sideways.
Dana Scully was supposed to be so smart, she jeered at herself, why 
worry about the mail or facing Skinner? There was a better way, she'd 
have her mother drop the keys off while she was in with the doctor.  
And that would prove a dual stroke, keeping her mother out of her hair 
while the doctor provided her with more information about her death.




 

THE tread was heavy behind him, sending chills up and down his spine. 
 There shouldn't be anybody else in the house.  He'd left Samantha 
whimpering in the loft, could still see his mother huddled on the 
couch behind his father as the door had slammed in his face. 

"Little spy, little spy, little spy. . ."  The whispered accusation 
spun him around. . .smoke, and more smoke.  The whole room was full of 
it.  He looked back to find the door gone, no trace of it, nothing but 
choking, black smoke.
 
Trying not to breathe, he flailed, fingers searching desperately for a 
reference point, tried to ignore the distant crackle of flames.  He 
couldn't see them but they were already burning him, heat flaring up 
and down his
body.  

"Foooooooooooxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. . ."  

Lungs starved for air betrayed him, gasped in a choking breath and his 
world exploded into pain.

Fingers scrabbled on the soft linen, searching for the plastic control 
before he was fully awake, struck cold metal, identified it as the bed 
rail.  Eyes still closed he tried to control his breathing, focused on 
relaxing muscles and joints locked tight with pain, as his fingers 
madly continued their search for the device.  Memory told him the 
nurse had wrapped it around the upright of the rail, in easy reach of 
his fingers, but the rail was smooth now, no trace of the coiled cord. 
 

He really didn't want to open his eyes.  If he could just find the 
damn control, a couple pumps of the button would send him back under, 
into blessed oblivion, far away from this onslaught of pain.  He felt 
the grunts start to emerge before he heard them, knew he was losing 
the fight as they broke free, sighed in relief as his fingertips 
finally touched plastic.  The relief was short lived, as he identified 
the slim rectangle, hurled it away in frustration, gave up and started 
to open his eyes.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Eyes snapping wide, he swung his head to the right, in search of the 
speaker, instantly regretting the action.   The boulders in his head 
shifted with the sudden move, tumbled to the right side and exploded, 
setting off the familiar nausea.  He felt his throat convulse, tensed 
involuntarily and lost all control.

Sour liquid flooded the back of his throat, spilled out into the 
mustard colored, plastic bowl.  He didn't care where the basin came 
from, who was holding it, just tried his best to aim for it.  Let the 
nausea run its course before he dropped his head back against the 
pillow, too exhausted to care about the disgusting taste in his mouth, 
the slime coating lips and chin.  Content to have the spasms stop, the 
pain subside slightly.
 
When he finally opened his eyes again, Skinner was standing by the 
bed, a washcloth in his hand.  

Mulder tried to reach for it, gave up in frustration as his arm 
refused to cooperate, still shaking with exhaustion.  Closed his eyes 
again as Skinner took over, cleaned up the mess with AD like 
efficiency.   His technique was considerably less gentle than Deb's 
but made up for it with speed.  Through half closed lids he watched 
him refold the cloth and swab it across the sleeve of his suitcoat, 
which looked suspiciously wet.  

Mulder searched his tired brain for the proper protocol for having 
puked all over one's supervisor, wondered what excuse Bush had made in 
Japan, found he couldn't remember if he'd ever known.  "Sorry, sir."  
It wasn't much, but all he could really manage at this point.  A more 
formal apology would have to wait for when he felt better, a lot 
better.

The normally severe face relaxed, smiled back at him.  "That's okay, 
Mulder.  I suspect you've probably wanted to do that for years."  

Skinner was smiling, teasing him.  It had to be a morphine 
hallucination. The 
face didn't even look like Skinner's when he smiled.  He tried to 
remember if he'd ever seen the AD smile, realized he had no basis for 
comparison.  No wonder he looked strange.

"It really is all right, Agent Mulder." He watched the older man pick 
up the basin and move to the bathroom, heard the toilet flush and the 
faucet run briefly before shutting off.  Skinner emerged again, a 
flimsy paper cup clutched in one hand.  Mulder was relieved to see he 
was no longer smiling.   "I apologize if I startled you.  I was just 
curious as to what you were doing. "

Mulder looked for the plastic widget, saw only the cord dangling from 
the top bed rail, and sighed.  "I was trying to find the morphine 
control."  He craned his neck slowly, trying to find the pump without 
aggravating the pounding in his skull, gave up as the nausea 
resurfaced.  "Can you. . ." he paused, took small, shallow breaths 
through his nose, prayed for the pounding to subside, ". . .the 
control, can you find it?"  

Watching through half closed lids, he saw Skinner cross to the bed in 
two long strides and set the cup on the bedside table before bending 
to search for the control.  Mulder stared idly at the square hand 
clutched around the bed rail, the only part of Skinner still in his 
line of vision, wondered why it was taking so long.  It had been a 
long time since Skinner had spent any time in the field but even a 
bureaucrat should be able to handle something this simple.  

"Are you asleep?"  He forced his good eye open.  It was still hard to 
make the other one obey his instructions.  Skinner was standing next 
to the bed again, the TV control clutched in one hand.  His face was 
slightly flushed, making Mulder wonder just how long the man had spent 
bent over, looking for the control.  Long enough for him to fall back 
asleep was all he knew for sure.
Grimacing, he swallowed, tried unsuccessfully to will the bad taste 
out of his mouth.  "I was asleep."  He put the emphasis on 'was,' let 
the irritation he felt at being awakened show.  "And that's the wrong 
control." At least Scully knew better than to wake him up when he was 
asleep.  

Scully.  

Skinner could tell him about Scully, why she wasn't here. 

Before he could clear the scum in his mouth enough to ask, Skinner was 
holding out the cup he'd brought out of the bathroom.  Without asking 
he slipped one large palm behind Mulder's head and lifted.  "Just 
swish it around and spit it out.  You'll feel better."

Mulder seriously doubted that but followed the instructions just the 
same. It was marginally better.  Skinner eased his head back down on 
the pillow, set the cup aside.  

Skinner as Nurse Nancy, something he'd never envisioned.  

Still, it did feel better, but it wasn't any easier to ask, "Sir?  
Where's Agent Scully?"  He hoped Skinner wrote the strain in his voice 
off to his medical condition.

The older man looked away, seemed to come to a decision, and turned to 
meet his eyes.  "She's ill, Agent Mulder.  She asked me to come and 
see you instead."
He'd been half expecting the answer but it still knocked what little 
wind he had out of him. Skinner had his best sphinx face on now, which 
told him it probably wasn't the flu, but he had to ask.  "The cancer?"

"Yes."  If Skinner was upset he was doing a damn good job of masking 
it, his voice as calm as if he were giving a weather report.  
"Apparently it has metastasized, gone to her bloodstream.  I'm afraid 
the treatment is making her quite ill.  She did ask me to send her 
regards, hopes you will come and visit her when you're better."  

'Her regards.'  God, he wondered if Scully had actually said that, 
didn't want to ask Skinner.  It was so Scully, or at least the Scully 
she'd become in the past year, pushing him away with a wall of 
formality.  Not that he blamed her.  He didn't want to think about how 
sick she'd looked in the hospital in 
Allentown, how scared she had to be facing this alone. 

Metastasized.  

Jesus.  He felt his eyes sting, turned his head away from Skinner, 
rubbed his face in the pillow before turning back.

"She was concerned you might think she didn't care," Skinner was 
continuing.  "Wanted me to assure you that she would be here with you 
if she could."  Metal screeched on linoleum, as Skinner pulled the 
plastic seat up next to the bed, draped his suit jacket across the 
back of it before sitting down.  "She wanted me to check how you were 
doing, was concerned that the head injury might have triggered more of 
those seizures you were suffering from in Rhode Island."  

Skinner was talking to the floor now, no longer looking at him, 
seemingly fascinated with the TV control he was turning from hand to 
hand between his spread knees.  

He had to smile at that.  Ever the doctor, even when she was sicker 
than he was.  
At least now he understood why Skinner was being so solicitous.  
Scully put him up to it.  He'd have to tell her about throwing up on 
him.  She'd pretend to be offended, but he knew she'd secretly enjoy 
the story.  The smile faded at the memory of her bouts with nausea in 
Allentown.

"Ummm. . .no, no seizures, sir."  The least he could do was give her 
an honest report.  "You can tell her that I've given up on drilling 
holes in my head and Ketamine, and now prefer morphine.  It makes for 
some amazing dreams."  No need to mention the particulars.  Let Scully 
continue to believe that nothing gave him nightmares. Although he'd 
probably blown that image already with the Roche case.

Skinner's expression was familiar, the one from the early years, that 
frown that said he knew Mulder wasn't being totally straight with him. 
  Shifting away from that intense gaze, he tried to find a more 
comfortable position, one that eased the growing ache in his left 
shoulder.  Even the minute shift set nerve endings screaming all up 
and down his body, forced him to clamp his jaw against the scream that 
wanted to break free.  

Skinner's voice came from a long way off.  "Are you all right, Agent 
Mulder?"
No, I'm not fucking all right, he wanted to shout, couldn't unclamp 
his jaw enough to get out the words, had to make do with a series of 
grunts instead, finally managed to gasp out, "The morphine. . .I need. 
. .oh shit."  Fuck protocol, couldn't the man figure out to call the 
nurse.  "Christ, please, sir, give me the control."  Skinner's fingers 
brushed his, felt cool against his fevered skin.  His finger found the 
right button before the unit left Skinner's hand, kept it clamped 
tight, even when he heard the door open, Deb's familiar tread.

"It's all right.  Try to relax."  She was pulling on the plastic, 
trying to uncurl his fingers, abandoned it as he clamped down harder, 
heard someone whimpering as the fire blazed, consuming his lower body, 
burning him alive. 
"Morph. . ."  he managed to squeeze out, tried to finish the word with 
his eyes, saw Skinner's head snap around, look sharply at him over 
Deb's shoulder, and then the familiar warmth tingled through his arm, 
spread quickly and he raced to meet it, let it take him deeper, into 
the dark, away from both of them.







DALY had mentioned that Mulder's supervisor would be stopping by for a 
visit, described the figure now standing in the doorway, looking back 
at the man sleeping in the bed. "Mr. Skinner I believe?"
   
He turned at her query, shrugging broad shoulders into an expensive 
looking, gray suit jacket.

"Yes?"  The deep baritone voice expressed polite interest, nothing 
more.  

She hesitated, remembered Daly's instructions. . ."Leave them alone to 
talk." 
Fine, she'd done that, taken advantage of the welcome break 
opportunity the man's midday appearance had offered, ducked into the 
kitchen for something to eat, returned to the steady buzz of the call 
button.  Now she wanted some answers.  "I left that control wrapped 
tightly around the bedrail, just like you saw me fix it now.  I'm a 
bit confused as to how it came undone, ended up halfway under the 
patient's bed.  I don't suppose you could explain how that happened, 
could you?"  Daly hadn't mentioned any plans to tinker with the 
patient's pain medication and there was no way that control had come 
detached by accident.  She'd all but tied it on there.

The full mouth twisted disdainfully, as brown eyes surveyed her 
coldly.  "Are you suggesting that I had any part in its becoming 
dislodged?"   

The man was full of crap if he thought she was going to be put off 
that easily.  "Yes, I am.  I checked on the patient five minutes 
before your arrival, and it was in place then."   Let him explain 
that, she fumed.  She could see Maryann's head poking out of the 
kitchen, obviously curious about the commotion.  She pulled the door 
shut to the patient's room, lowered her voice.  "I think you owe me an 
explanation."

The brown eyes turned even cooler.  "Obviously you are mistaken."

She wondered if he meant she was mistaken in her belief that he owed 
her an explanation or in her suspicion as to his involvement, had no 
way to gauge the flat response.  "I'm not sure what exactly is going 
on here, Mr. Skinner, but I will be bringing this to the doctor's 
attention.  He's the one who ordered the medication."  

Maryann had disappeared, probably back into the kitchen, maybe off to 
get Daly.  A manufactured voice was calling a code on a non-existent 
room behind her back.  
The man in front of her was staring at the speaker, the glare of the 
hallway fluorescent reflecting off the polished lenses of his glasses. 
 "Make whatever reports you like, Madam.  They're of no concern to 
me."  He looked down at her, suddenly seemed to loom even taller, 
although she knew that was a mere trick of the light.  "In the 
meantime, I suggest you refine your securing technique."  

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as the man looked 
directly at her, pinned her in his gaze.  She'd seen warmer eyes on 
corpses.

He turned abruptly, long strides taking him rapidly down the hall.  
She was still shivering when he disappeared through the outer door.  





SKINNER had counted thirty-seven graphics and it didn't look like 
Nichols was anywhere close to the end.  From the glazed expressions on 
the sixteen other people seated at the table they weren't any more 
dazzled with the wonders of PowerPoint than he was.  Budgets were 
still budgets, and scrolling bullet points didn't make them more 
interesting.  It just made it take forever to get through a line item 
that should have taken ten minutes at most.

"Mr. Nichols?  Is this going to take much longer?"  Thank God for AD 
Regina Scanlin.  He knew half the Section Chiefs hated her, couldn't 
stand Regina's assertiveness, or as they were fond of calling it, 
aggressiveness, but he relished her contempt for bullshit.  And it 
kept the meetings shorter, having her as the chairwoman.  A lot 
shorter.

Section Chief Nichols was frowning, irritated at the interruption in 
his carefully planned presentation.  "I just have a few more slides," 
he huffed, as another bar graph filled the screen.  It looked 
suspiciously like the previous one to Skinner.

"That's all very well," Scanlin responded, brushing right past his 
protest, "but unless you can convince me that the next graphs will 
provide us with a detailed analysis of the potential source of this 
funding you're requesting, I think we can dispense with them."  Her 
gaze moved beyond Nichols, to capture the entire audience.  "I was not 
being coy in that note, people."  Skinner felt his mouth quirk at the 
image of Regina being coy, saw several other mouths twitch around the 
table.  "Our people on the hill have made it quite clear that the lab 
is the only area getting any more funding until we start getting 
better press."  She paused.  "And in case any of you are contemplating 
trying to increase your funding through a public demonstration of 
ineptitude, I would advise against it.  That's not the path to 
advancement."  A wry smile took some of the sting out of the words.

The laser eyes swept back down the table, spied Nichols, remote still 
clutched in his hand.  "Pare that proposal down to essentials, Mr. 
Nichols, and bring it back to next month's meeting.  We'll look at it 
again, see if we can't squeeze some funds from some other area.  But 
try to keep it to ten slides or less."  There was no accompanying 
smile.

A quick glance at the agenda on the table and her eyes came back up as 
she started to speak. "That's about it, people, except for new 
business."  She scanned the group, found the target she wanted at the 
far end of the table.  "Mr. Blevins?  You requested some time. You're 
on."

Nichols started to protest, realized he'd already lost his audience, 
and dropped the remote to the table.  Regina had the projector powered 
down and the lights turned up before he slumped back into his seat. If 
she noted the glare he threw her way, she chose to ignore it.   

Blevins was pushing his chair back, eyeing the projector hungrily, a 
disc clutched in one hand.

"A summary will be sufficient, Mr. Blevins."  She didn't bother 
pushing the plastic frames further up her nose, let gray-blue eyes 
find their target over the top of them.  "I think we've all had enough 
visual presentations for the afternoon and we're running short on 
time."

Skinner's eyes studied Blevins as the man settled back into his chair, 
pulled it closer to the table.  The few times they'd made eye contact 
since the meeting started, Blevins had been quick to find somewhere 
else to rest his beady little eyes.  This had to be a last minute 
addition, no mention of Blevins on the agenda.  

Something told Skinner, he wasn't going to like whatever the man had 
to say.

"Ahem," They all had to wait while Blevins cleared his throat, put his 
glasses back on.  "I do have hard copy."  Blevins split a stack of 
stapled forms, several inches thick, into two piles, handed the new 
piles to his seatmates to pass around the table.  "I've drawn up a 
proposal as to how the savings from closing the X-Files office might 
be distributed around the various departments.  If you review my 
proposal, you will note that several key sections have been woefully 
short of funds in recent years, necessitating staff cutbacks and 
delayed maintenance.   If you turn to pages 3, 4, and 5, you'll see a 
detailed listing of just a few of the areas where the money might be 
spent."  He smiled slightly at the group.  "And since this money has 
already been approved, we don't have to go crawling to the folks on 
the hill." 

The pile had finally reached Skinner.  He snagged the top document off 
the pile, passed the remaining two to his left, felt his fury growing 
as he flipped through the pages.  No way had this been thrown together 
in the last two days.  Blevins had had help, lots of help in this and 
time to prepare.  

Mulder's suicide was looking suspiciously convenient.  The body was 
barely cold and they were already fighting over the spoils.

"This is very impressive, Mr. Blevins."  Regina's sharp tone was at 
odds with the compliment, drawing his eyes back to where she sat, 
across from Blevins.  "I must confess, I'm surprised at the speed with 
which you managed to compile these figures."  The rest of the group 
was still, sensing a coming storm.  "I had understood a final decision 
hasn't been reached on the proposed dissolution of the X-Files 
division.  Am I mistaken?"   

There was no warmth in the polite smile that accompanied the inquiry.

"That is correct, Ma'am."  Blevins was on his bureaucratic best 
behavior today, Skinner noted, no sign of the floundering which had 
plagued him yesterday.  "However, given the committee's report and 
Agent Scully's testimony, as well as Agent Mulder's death, I think we 
all know how the decision is likely to come down.  I felt it best to 
be prepared."  Skinner could see several other department heads 
nodding their heads in agreement, no doubt salivating about the 
windfall they might hope to reap from the closure of the X-Files.  
Still reviewing the document as Blevins prattled on, he found himself 
grimacing at item number 102, a $49,000 request from Nichols for new 
multi-media computer systems for his entire group.  Fucking bullshit.

"Mr. Skinner?"

"Hmm?"  He looked up at his name, found Regina looking at him, 
realized he must have missed something in his rage over the document 
in his hand.  "I'm sorry.  I was reading the report.  I didn't hear 
your question."

He thought he caught a spark of amusement in the blue-gray eyes, 
decided not as she asked seriously, "I was asking what you thought of 
Section Chief Blevins' proposal."  She was flipping through the pages 
again.  "I assume he shared this with you, as his supervisor.  I must 
say, I'm impressed with the people you have working under you, Mr. 
Skinner.  This is quite thorough given the short time period Mr. 
Blevins had to put it together." 

"Isn't it," he answered, pinning Blevins in his glare before the man 
had a chance to smile at the implied compliment.  He looked back to 
Regina, the quintessential professional from her elegantly styled, 
frosted hair to the dark blue linen suit.  She'd fought hard to make 
it to the fifth floor and had no patience for fools.  

There was more going on in that fine head, than was showing in the 
demurely folded hands on the table.  She knew Blevins had set him up, 
was giving him the chance to call the bastard on it.  "Actually, this 
is the first I've seen of it.  I expect Mr. Blevins had planned to 
share it with me before the meeting and must have run out of time."  
He kept his voice hard, let the group at large hear his displeasure 
with flimsy excuses.

Regina was rising to her feet, neatly stacking reports together to 
slip them into her tooled, leather briefcase.  "Yes, I expect that is 
what has happened. Well, Mr. Blevins, I'm sure you understand that we 
can't consider your proposal unless you run it up through the proper 
channels first."  The normally austere face softened in genuine warmth 
as she smiled at Skinner.  "I'm sure you'll be happy to make some time 
for Mr. Blevins, give him a chance to explain his proposal to you, 
won't you, Mr. Skinner?"

He felt the corners of his own mouth twitch in response, already 
planning exactly what he would say.  "Of course, Ms. Scanlin.  
Although my schedule is very full this week."

"Take whatever time you need," she responded.  "We'll put it on the 
agenda for the June meeting.  Perhaps by then it will be a non-issue. 
 No sense wasting time on it before we know what the final decision is 
on the X-Files, is there?"  Clearly not expecting a response, she 
snapped the briefcase closed, surveyed the group still seated at the 
table.  "I'll see you all back here on the 11th, 1pm sharp.  I'll need 
the mid-year budget reports from each AD on disc, by the 5th so we'll 
all have hard copy for the meeting.  There were a few groans around 
the table as the room descended into a blur of assorted conversations, 
the various department heads, ADs and Section Chiefs breaking into 
chatter as they gathered together their belongings.  

Skinner was busy fielding questions about Mulder and his suicide, 
accepting condolences, as Blevins ducked out the door.  He let him go, 
knew he could find him later, after he'd cooled off.  It was a good 
thing there was a full month before the next budget meeting.  He'd 
probably need that long before the rage subsided. 





MRIs were never a treat.  

Lying in the gown on her back, Scully took some deep breaths, fighting 
claustrophobia.  No matter how used to medical procedures you got, 
these things were--disconcerting.

The little mirror gave the illusion of being able to see out, a 
concession to the all too human fear of being enclosed, of being 
buried alive.

Her eyes prickled suddenly and she blinked hard, fighting self-pity.  

Despite everything, despite her rage, she still wanted to call him, 
hear that uncertain voice ask her how she was, if she was all right.

And she, of course, would tell him she was fine.  A lie that served 
everyone.  He didn't have to see that she was dying if she told him 
she was fine.  She didn't have to let her rage out if he believed her.

The plastic mask chafed.  She dutifully held still, wondering dully 
what difference any of this made.  They weren't going to find a 
miracle cure.  It was inoperable, too well advanced, why the hell was 
she even doing this?

Because she was still Dana Scully, she supposed.  Science was still 
her god, medicine her religion.

Too bad it didn't bring her any surcease from pain.

"All right," the voice said, over the mike.  "We're finished, Dr. 
Scully."

Thank God.  

With any luck, her mother would be back from the Bureau and she could 
get on with the business of dying.