BONE weary, Skinner took the elevator to the basement, braced himself 
for the task ahead.  

He sat down at the cluttered desk that had been Mulder's and opened a 
drawer.  It seemed almost wrong, an invasion of what little had 
belonged to an intensely private man, but the goddamned attorney, 
Wyatt Burnham, had confirmed that he was executor.  That he was 
supposed to dispose of Mulder's personal effects. This task could have 
been delegated.  But he thought he should do it, penance for failure.

And maybe a way to keep Mulder's work alive, said the little voice he 
was tired of hearing.  He shut that out.  He'd already filled one box 
with more files.  Trying to make up his mind, trying to decide what, 
if anything, he could do.  Should do.

Jesus, the man had accumulated more crap than some agents do in a 
lifetime career.  The Adult Video News made him shake his head, grim 
amusement.  Mulder hadn't had much of a life, hadn't allowed himself 
much of a life.

Like he should talk, he jeered at himself and shoved a stack of what 
looked like personal notes into the first of the cardboard boxes.

The magazines followed--his mouth quirked when he found the video and 
he shook his head, amusement bubbling up as he silently asked Mulder's 
ghost when he'd been assigned a pornography case.

Mulder's ghost didn't answer him.  But Mulder was there nonetheless, 
his presence almost palpable in the gloom outside the lamp's golden 
arc. It gave Skinner the creeps.

But he filled two more boxes before he left the office.

Driving to Mulder's apartment was too familiar.  Skinner had gone 
there before, usually to figure out what the hell the silly bastard 
was up to, if he and Scully were still alive, to find out why the 
Japanese embassy was throwing stones at the Bureau.

The key turned in the lock easily and the door opened on a dark cave 
of an apartment.  Skinner stood in the doorway, remembering other 
visits, mostly nocturnal.

There was still the faint coppery odor of blood, Skinner's nostrils 
flared at it, he glanced involuntarily at the couch and floor to find 
that someone had cleaned up.  No nasty little bits of brain and bone 
lying on the floor, adhering to the leather of the couch.

"You the executor?"  A nasal voice, with the Tidewater drawl, made him 
turn to see a broad, squat man in his forties.  "I'm the super.  
Landlord says to tell you that the rent's paid up six months ahead, 
you can take your time getting rid of stuff, or you can do it quick, 
no refunds."

Arching an eyebrow, Skinner nodded.  "I'll remember that."

The man's eyes were avid, curious.  "He offed himself, di'nt he?"

"It was suicide," Skinner told him, letting his voice go cold, the 
drill sergeant tone he used when raking someone over the coals.  The 
man's curiosity repelled him.  "Thanks."  He gripped the edge of the 
door, eyed the man and the super took the message, muttering something 
under his breath as he moved on down the hallway.

Trust Mulder to live in an apartment where the super resembled the 
troll who lived under the bridge.

Putting the boxes down, Skinner closed the door behind him, the 
super's comment already being gnawed on like a bone.  Cop instincts, 
despite years of working a desk.  Six months rent.  How in the hell 
had Mulder managed to pay six months rent ahead of time?  And why?  An 
impulse before this damnable case had come up? Four years of dealing 
with Mulder's expense accounts and department budgets made him doubt 
that.  The man might have been a genius in other ways, but he was 
budgetarily and economically dyslexic.  

His footsteps sounded eerie in the quiet.  Why the hell had he come?  
The attorney had talked soothingly of having one of the charity 
services come in and clean out Mulder's apartment.  Mulder's mother 
had baldly told him that she wanted nothing, she had all the 
remembrance of her son she could bear.

But Skinner kept moving, idly examining a keepsake on Mulder's 
shelves, fingers stroking over the surface of the basketball.  In the 
livingroom.  

Videos in the office and a basketball in the livingroom--Skinner shook 
his head, bemused.

The kitchen was clean.  Opening the refrigerator, Skinner winced at 
the sight of leftovers that showed signs of turning into X files of 
their own.

A cleaning service was the way to do this.  He sure as hell didn't 
need to go through Mulder's refrigerator and clean it out.

But he opened cabinets anyway, surveying dishes and pots and pans with 
about one quarter of his awareness, not sure what he was doing or why, 
but needing--maybe just to affirm that Mulder had really lived.  

"Somehow, I always envisioned you as eating cheap takeout, Mulder," he 
mused, examining an open package of pasta.   "Of course, I don't think 
I'd ever have been a dinner guest anyway."  Canned spaghetti sauce.

No, he wouldn't have been.  He'd failed Mulder, and badly.  But he'd 
tried.  Tried and been shot down again and again.  

He'd recommended counseling after Patterson's arrest.  Recommended it 
after the death of Mulder's alleged sister, although as far as Skinner 
knew, Mulder'd never bled green in his life. 

That black humor made his mouth crimp again as he moved back out to 
the livingroom.  "Maybe the green blood came from your Dad's side of 
the family," he told Mulder's ghost.  

William Mulder.  Now there was a bastard, from what he'd heard.  "I 
never told you, I investigated your family while I was trying to 
figure out if you were as much of a loose cannon as Blevins claimed." 



Mulder's attorney hadn't understood why Mulder hadn't dealt with the 
legacy from his father, a legacy which left him more than just 
slightly comfortable, whether or not Mulder ever sold the house on the 
Vineyard.  Skinner thought he might know.  

William Mulder had been a spook, in the intelligence agency sense of 
the term.  Or perhaps not quite a spook, but one of the men who 
controlled the spooks.  That much he had gotten from his own private 
sources.  

And from them, he'd gotten anecdotal evidence to fill in some of the 
lines in the picture.  No wonder Mulder had been reluctant to ever 
deal with his father's house, with the funds left to him.

But that sparked a thought--perhaps paying six months rent in advance 
was one way of dealing with his father's legacy, although Skinner was 
at a loss to understand why Mulder chose to stay in this particular 
apartment building.  While it wasn't quite a dump, Mulder could have 
afforded better.  

On the other hand, with bullet holes appearing in the window and 
acquaintances dying on his doorstep, perhaps this was better--not so 
much visibility. The poor bastard had lived his life in the shadows.  
Lived his career in the shadows.  First in the shadows of Patterson's 
obsessive use of him, then in the shadows of the basement, the nether 
world of spy and counter spy.  

Blevins had lied to him all along, told him Mulder had contacts too 
powerful to buck and couldn't be gotten rid of.   "You were definitely 
a loose cannon, Mulder.  But not crazy."  He paused, looking in the 
aquarium with distaste.  The fish floated belly up, all of them except 
one that appeared to be caught in the fake seaweed.  It appeared to be 
equally dead.  "At least they didn't use a gun, Mulder," he muttered, 
and used the net to fish the small corpses out.

Blevins came to mind again, for no good reason, which made him smile 
bitterly as he stood over the toilet and flushed Mulder's departed 
pets, watched them swirl with the water.  No wonder he was thinking of 
Blevins.

It wasn't necessary to spend all that time and money and personnel to 
discredit someone who was crazy, you just gave them the federal 
equivalent of a Section Eight and disability and got them the hell out 
of the job.   It made at least part of Scully's story ring true.  

The part where they'd used Mulder deliberately.  Used *him* 
deliberately.

The scattering of personal items in the bathroom made him wince.  
Razor carelessly left on the edge of the sink, a small smear of 
toothpaste on the counter.  Towel hanging haphazardly over the rack, 
dry as a bone now.  

"Jesus, Mulder," he muttered, "You're a slob."  And winced, catching 
himself in present tense.  Left the bathroom alone, thinking again of 
a cleaning crew. Although that wasn't entirely fair, the kitchen had 
been spotless.

Mulder actually had a bedroom, Skinner found.  And the bed was made 
neatly.  His mouth quirked again, thinking of Spooky Mulder apocrypha, 
that Mulder hadn't owned a bed.  "What?  No bed of nails, no coffin?  
You actually had a bed?  Wait until VCS hears this."  

Expensive suits hung in the closet.  



It made Skinner's throat tighten again, suddenly remembering an early 
conflict over whether or not the FBI was going to reimburse Mulder for 
a ruined suit.  Running shoes on the floor, well worn and dirty white, 
the ends of the laces frayed.  

"Jesus, Armani suits and your shoes look like they're three years 
older than God.  Mulder--God, those ties--did you pick them 
deliberately?  I won't be able to give those away."  As quietly as he 
was speaking, it suddenly jarred him to awareness that he was speaking 
aloud.  "Christ, now he's got me talking to myself,"  

Exasperated, Skinner riffled the fabric of the suits.  No, it was 
worse, he was talking to Mulder.  

"I haven't done this since 'Nam," he sighed and took his glasses off, 
rubbed the bridge of his nose.  Not a good idea when on patrol, 
talking to dead buddies.  "Not such a good idea here, either" he told 
himself, thinking of bugs placed in the apartment before Mulder's 
death, then winced at the thought.  

Talking to himself, paranoia--Mulder was going to cost him what little 
sanity he had left.   

"Maybe it's time to get into another line of work," he muttered and 
bent to flip through the magazines in a cardboard box.   He could take 
early retirement, begin another career.  Maybe go back to being a cop 
somewhere.

Mulder's magazine collection was, to say the least, flamboyant.  After 
the videos, the nudie magazines shouldn't have surprised him.  But he 
had to bite back a rueful grin.  The silly bastard really hadn't had a 
life.  He'd relied on Celebrity Skin, and any number of other cheap 
knock-offs of Playboy.    Miss April in one was attractively, if 
impossibly bosomy, those breasts large and round and high on her 
chest.  

"Silicone," he muttered, but read the little personal blurb anyway.  
God, they all sounded like Baywatch babes, breathy and brain-damaged.

A sound from the other room turned Skinner's attention from Miss 
April, his hand dropped to his gun and unsnapped the holster before 
his mind provided the probable answer.  

Scully.

But he drew the gun anyway, moved to peer down the hall.  Faint click 
of heels and a draft brought him a strong, very un-Scully perfume.  
Moving quietly, he stood against the wall, listening as the heels 
clicked on the hardwood floor.

Blonde hair and slim--Skinner had the gun leveled before recognizing 
her.  Covarrubias.  Marita Covarrubias.  

Her hands went up, not down to a weapon.  "Mr. Skinner."   Eyes as old 
as sin and twice as knowing surveyed him from a young face that might 
have been beautiful if the use of power and intrigue had not already 
left marks.  

"Ms. Covarrubias," he acknowledged, his tone dry.

They gazed at each other and her mouth quirked.  "Would you mind if I 
asked what you were doing here?"  Her intonation was ironic.

"Not at all.  I'll answer as soon as you explain to me what you're 
doing here."  He didn't lower the gun.  He might be a slow learner, 
but he learned nonetheless.

The woman's eyes flicked away to one side.  

Skinner felt grim amusement at that, reckoning she was considering the 
lie, how to word it, what to say.  "Just cut to the chase," he 
suggested.  He'd asked her for help once.  Hadn't gotten any.  He 
wondered what part she'd played in Mulder's death.

One corner of her mouth quirked downward.  "I didn't kill him."

Curious remark, he told himself and filed it mentally.  "It's been 
defined as suicide," he told her drily.  "And you still haven't told 
me what you're doing here."

"Nor have you."

"But since I was here first, and entered using the key, I think I have 
an edge."  Skinner allowed himself a grim smile.  Only the slight 
flicker of her eyelids betrayed her surprise.  "Ms. Covarrubias?"

Marita's gaze assessed him.  "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come.  I 
trust you'll let me go without further unpleasantness."

"You don't strike me as the kind of person who gawks at automobile 
accidents," he told her drily, but holstered his weapon.  

She turned back toward the door.  Elegant, lovely, and possibly as 
dangerous as a pit viper, Skinner told himself, nevertheless allowing 
himself a heartbeat to appreciate the sway of her hips as she walked 
back down the hall.

"Did you know," he said aloud,  "Mulder's rent is paid ahead for six 
months.  That's a strange thing for someone suicidal to do, don't you 
think?"

She hesitated slightly, but didn't stop.  Didn't turn.  

"I'm his executor," Skinner called after her, grimly pleased.  "If 
you've left something here in the apartment, I'd be glad to let you 
take it."  Maybe if somebody held his feet over a fire and grilled 
them, he told himself, watching that back straighten.  "If you're 
interested, his body was found on the floor in front of the couch."

Another hesitation.  But she went out the front door, closing it 
quietly behind her.

Leaving Skinner to wonder what that had been all about.    And it was 
late and he was tired and had no stomach for going through the 
detritus of a life that had never really been Mulder's own.

So he followed her, making sure the deadbolt clicked home before 
taking the stairs.

She was waiting for him outside.  In the ink-dark shadows of the 
entry.  "I think perhaps I need to talk to you," she told him.

Her face was little more than a pale smudge in the darkness.  "So 
talk," he told her, eyes moving automatically to the street.

"Not here.  I can't swear that I wasn't followed.  I can't swear that 
they're not watching me."

Another goddamned paranoid, he told himself and the headache stopped 
leering and leapt.  Great.  Even Mulder's cloak and dagger colleagues 
could trigger it.  

"Where?"

"Nothing public."

"Mulder's apartment isn't public," he told her, amused in spite of 
himself.  

"I told you, I can't swear that I wasn't followed."

Skinner considered it.  "There's a park, not far from here.   If you 
can make sure you aren't followed, I'll be there.  In an hour."  His 
mouth curved humorlessly.  Christ, he was starting to act like Mulder, 
meeting informants in the dark of night.  "I'll wait fifteen minutes, 
no more.  And less if I see anyone else.  I've no desire to end up 
like Mulder."

A faint hiss of breath.  "I didn't kill him."

"That's what you said.  But even if he was the one who pulled the 
trigger, somebody did."  Looking back over the street, old habits 
surfacing after half a lifetime, he swept it with his gaze, started 
out into the misty rain and moved toward his car.

He'd joined the Bureau to do a job and now his life was beginning to 
resemble a Le Carre novel.  

If there was an afterlife, Mulder was going to have to do a lot of 
explaining when his old boss finally got there.











"ARE you sure about this?"  The man seated at the computer was eyeing 
the disc skeptically, turning it from side to side.

The heavy man stopped pacing, fixed him with a steely gaze.  "Just do 
it. Yes, I'm sure of it or I wouldn't suggest it."  A glance at his 
watch confirmed his instinct, they were already running late.  "He has 
to be part of this and he's only going to be there for another half 
hour.  Hurry up."  

Antonio shrugged, looked to his superior for assurance, finally 
surrendering and slipping the disk into place at the other man's nod. 
The older Italian watched him work, glanced at the commands spilling 
across the screen, ignoring the other man standing at his side.

Moving away from the men at the keyboard, the shorter man approached 
the window, asked,  "Where did you get this?  Your government?"

The pacer laughed, turned from the window, explained the joke, "No, 
this one's private.  I downloaded it off the net."  He couldn't 
contain the laughter as the Asian's normally placid features twisted 
in alarm.  Let it ripple free despite the answering frown.  "Don't 
worry.  It's quite good.  Our guys in DoD have had their best people 
on it for months, trying to break the encryption, and they aren't even 
close.  All anybody tapping in will get is gibberish."  

The Japanese man shook his head, mouth twisting in amusement.  "And 
you Americans wonder why you're slipping behind, giving away such 
things for free."  

He shrugged in response, refusing to be drawn into an argument.  
"Don't blame me.  The designer's an anarchist, a deluded champion for 
personal privacy."

Abandoning the discussion the Japanese man crossed to the front of the 
desk, retrieved a chair and dragged it back to a position next to the 
computer operator's, neatly avoiding the gray haired figure standing 
behind Antonio.   His movements were economical but elegant as he 
settled into it, crossed one leg over the other, still shaking his 
head over the American's lack of business acumen, even as he turned 
his attention back to the screen.   

"Are you almost ready?"

The dark haired man at the keyboard nodded, looked up in anticipation. 
"The number?"

Crossing to the desk, the pacer handed him a slip of paper, watched 
Antonio's fingers fly over the keyboard.  Turning to the others he 
warned, "There is a slight delay due to the encryption.  Just speak 
normally, but wait until he's done speaking before you start."  The 
sound of a phone ringing echoed through the tinny speakers beside the 
computer, cutting off as the other system answered. 

"Hello."

Even with the distortion of the cheap speakers, the voice was 
unmistakably British.  The older Italian was staring at the computer, 
clearly still uncertain about the mechanics of the conversation.  
Using his considerable bulk to shoulder the other man aside, the pacer 
leaned in, closer to the microphone.  "I believe you were expecting 
our call."

"Indeed," came the calm voice over the line.  "I thought we had agreed 
upon eight.  You're running a tad late."

"Technological difficulties," explained the American, before Antonio 
could cut in with a more detailed explanation.  "How is the 
merchandise?"

Consonants crisper than usual with exasperation, the other voice 
responded, "Not well.  Still vomiting at the drop of a hat.  The good 
doctor thinks it's a residual effect from the chloroform."

"Chloroform?"  His companions looked equally confused.  This was 
clearly news to them as well.

They were all studying the gray speaker boxes, as the sigh cut through 
them, trying to gauge subtleties beyond the voice.  "It appears our 
retrieval crew had concerns that Mr. Mulder would regain consciousness 
before they reached the site and opted to chloroform him rather than 
risk exposure."  Another sigh came over the speakers.  "Apparently 
chloroform is contraindicated with a head injury."

The American suspected from the speaker's tone that Dr. Daly had been 
less than pleased at this complication and quite vocal in his 
displeasure.  He felt his own face twist into a frown, noted similar 
expressions on his companions.  

"What's the long term impact of that?"

"Probably none, if I read the good doctor's waffling correctly."  No 
doubt now, Daly was definitely getting on the Brit's nerves.  The 
voice was smoother as it continued, "However, it is making the morph's 
work difficult."   Amusement sparkled in the dry voice as it 
continued, "Apparently Mr. Mulder felt moved to share more than 
conversation with our visitor."

The American smiled at the image, tried to analyze whether he found it 
more amusing to have the hapless agent baptizing his superior or the 
alien.   Decided they were equally entertaining, wished he'd been 
there to see it.  Antonio caught his reflected smile in the screen and 
grinned in response, seemingly the only one of the three at the 
keyboard who understood what the Brit had just said.  

Apparently irritated at being left out of the joke, the older Italian 
grasped the back of Antonio's chair, leaned in towards the microphone, 
close enough to eat the damn thing.  The American found himself 
staring at the pink scalp where it gleamed through the thinning, gray 
hair, as the other man shouted into the tiny pickup, "We are concerned 
about this two week delay.  Do you agree with Dr. Daly's assessment?"

There was a long pause, well beyond the time delay interval.  Probably 
the Brit waiting for his ears to recover from the assault, the 
American expected.  "Not entirely.   I suspect he's being unduly 
cautious.  The good doctor is overly invested in his research, in my 
opinion, possibly to the detriment of our goals in this particular 
case.  However, he's quite firm in his resolve and extremely resistant 
to attempts to force him to push the schedule forward."  If the Brit 
had been tempted to shout back he'd obviously controlled the impulse. 
Bad form, no doubt, to shout.

It never ceased to amaze the American how the English could take a 
simple word like 'schedule' and break it into three separate 
syllables.  No wonder they'd lost the war.  They'd probably been too 
busy discussing their szche-du-als to pay attention to the colonists. 
The continued silence pulled him out of his reverie.  He looked to the 
Italian, realized belatedly that the man was waiting for him to take 
the conversation back in hand, apparently satiated from his brief 
foray into the world of high tech communication.  He quickly reviewed 
what the Brit had just said before asking, "And if we were to bring in 
another doctor?"

"What other doctor?"  The voice was cautious now, seemingly weighing 
the suggestion.  "I understood that Dr. Daly's expertise in this 
matter was singular.  Have I been mislead?"  Slight annoyance was 
chilling the clipped tones.  "I really must insist that I be given all 
the facts or I won't answer for the consequences."

He hastened to reassure the other man, reflecting on the aptness of 
the 'knickers in a twist' expression.  The man could be unbelievably 
prickly when he thought he'd been left out of the loop.  "Not to 
worry.  Your information was correct.  Dr. Daly is the only expert in 
his particular technique."  He emphasized the words 'his particular,' 
waited for the other man to ask. 

"Then I gather you are suggesting an alternate technique.  Just what 
did you have in mind?"  

The Brit rarely disappointed.  For all his snippety ways, the man was 
quick on the uptake.  "Dr. Weber is most interested in the case."  He 
paused, let that sink in before adding, "He suggests that it might be 
beneficial to have a second opinion in this case."

They were all watching him now, no longer staring at the speakers.  
Ignoring them he moved to the desk, retrieved the drink he'd left 
their earlier, sipped it as he waited to hear the response.  The 
Italian was going to be miffed later, when he noticed the white ring 
now marring the surface of the expensive desk.  He surveyed the rest 
of the lavish furnishings, found it difficult to feel any sympathy for 
the man.   Working at the U.N. clearly had its perks.  

"A possibility I hadn't considered, admittedly."  The modulated voice 
was slower this time, apparently weighing the new possibility.   He 
could almost see the pursed mouth as the other man conceded it.   "I 
expect to encounter considerable resistance to that suggestion at this 
end."

"Insurmountable resistance?" he asked, already knowing the answer.  

"Nothing is insurmountable," responded the smooth voice, "merely 
difficult.   There is, of course, a certain risk that Dr. Daly is 
correct in his assessment.  The merchandise may be irreparably 
damaged, rendering him useless to us.  Are you gentlemen prepared to 
take that risk?"  

The Italian was nodding already, from his position behind Antonio's 
chair.  Apparently realizing that the man in Virginia had no way of 
hearing the nod, he offered verbal confirmation, "Yes, I believe the 
risk is warranted."

The American looked to the smaller Asian man, who was staring at the 
floor, waited for him to look up, before giving his own answer.  "I, 
also, am willing to take the risk.  I believe it would be a serious 
mistake to wait two weeks.  We need that information now."  He looked 
at the Japanese man as he spoke, wondered at his continued silence, 
what thoughts were going on behind the blank features, the glare on 
the glasses effectively hiding the man's eyes.

He didn't have to wait for long.  "And what of our visitors?  Do we 
disregard their warnings?  They have indicated that Mr. Mulder is of 
some importance to them.  What reaction do you expect they would have 
to our risking his life this way?"

The room grew suddenly still, as they all considered his words.  The 
American hastened to grab the reins again, reassure them before all 
resolve was lost.  "The Greys already believe Mr. Mulder took his own 
life.  They may have their suspicions but there's been no indication 
that they hold us responsible."  He watched them slowly nod in 
acknowledgment.  "No, I think we're free to do as we like with Mr. 
Mulder at this point.  We no longer have to concern ourselves with the 
Greys in this matter.  Perhaps this memory of Mr. Mulder's is why they 
warned us away from him in the past."  

The Brit's voice cut in, coinciding with the nods of agreement from 
his associates.  "Something well worth considering but I'm still 
waiting to hear from our associate from Japan.  Does this plan have 
your backing?"

"Yes."  This time there was no hesitation, just the one word response.

"Very good," responded the Brit.  "I will need to convince the good 
doctor, of course.  How soon can you get Dr. Weber out here?"

"He's waiting to hear from us now."  The American kept his voice low, 
carefully concealing the triumph he was feeling.  The smoker would be 
furious when he got wind of the change but it would be too late by 
then.  "He should be able to get out here by the morning."

"Excellent.  Let me know his flight number and I'll have my driver 
pick him up at the airport."  There was a slight pause.  "And our 
associate in Washington?  Have you informed him of this change in the 
program?"

"No."  The other men were watching him again.  "He's busy looking 
after things at the Bureau.  Plenty of time to fill him in after Dr. 
Weber's visit. Let's not distract him now."

For a moment he was afraid the Brit was going to object, felt himself 
relax as the familiar voice answered, "Agreed.  Now if that's all 
gentlemen, I have some other business to attend to."  

"That's all for now.  We'll get back to you regarding the flight."  

"Fine.  Leave it on the machine.  You'll have my report tomorrow, 
after the treatment."  With an abrupt click, the voice disengaged.  

Antonio popped the disc, handed it back to him.  He considered it for 
a minute before handing it back.  "Keep it.  I can always get another 
one and you never know when you may need it."  Turning back to the 
window, he rotated the blinds, looked out at the New York skyline.  "I 
think we're back in business, gentlemen."  They were all smiling when 
he turned back to face them.

















THE mist turned to rain within the hour.    Skinner had stopped at a 
discount  drug store and picked up a cheap tape recorder, cassettes 
and batteries.  

Sure, it was Fruit of the Poisoned Tree in legal parlance, he was 
never going to be able to make a case on it, but he was tired of 
playing without aces in his hand.

The recorder went under the seat, he had a ninety minute tape in it, 
and the soft sound of a local jazz station covered the low hum.  

She only made him wait eight minutes, and by that time it was pouring, 
something that actually made him feel more comfortable.

A cab dropped her off on the sidewalk bordering the park. As it pulled 
away, Skinner rounded the corner and pulled up, leaning over to pop 
the passenger door open.

Marita slid in, folding her umbrella and opened her mouth, only to 
fall back, startled, as he pulled away.  "Where are you going?"

"Just around the corner," Skinner told her, amused in spite of 
himself.  "It's raining hard enough that I'd be willing to bet any 
tail you had would be having trouble.  But I'd like to see if someone 
shows up where the cab dropped you."

"They aren't that obvious."  But her lips turned up slightly.  "You 
aren't quite as simple as you've been described to me, Mr. Skinner."

"No one is."  Skinner turned into a driveway, turned the car around 
and pulled up along the curb, lights out, turning the engine off.  
"All right, talk to me."

Marita gazed at him for a long moment.  "What do you know about 
cloning, Mr. Skinner?"  She turned in the seat.  Her coat fell open 
and her skirt rode up slightly, showing a lovely expanse of thigh, 
golden skin in the amber light of the streetlight that filtered 
through the windshield.

She was undoubtedly aware of it.  They must think he was more foolish 
now than he'd been before the hooker episode.  That poor damned bitch 
had been murdered precisely to frame him.  

"Very little," he told her.  "Genetic material is taken from a donor 
and induced to behave like a fertilized ovum.  I know they cloned a 
sheep in Scotland.  I think they've also cloned bacteria and are 
probably on the verge of being able to clone human beings."    
Although it was getting dark, he could see something that felt to him 
like secret amusement. 

"That technology already exists, Mr. Skinner.  More importantly, the 
technology has existed for some time.   And has been used since 1963."

Skinner stared at her.  "Human clones," he finally said, his tone 
skeptical.  "Seems to me I heard something like that around the time 
of the Howard Hughes sensationalism.  Wasn't he trying to have himself 
cloned?"

A soft sound, not quite laughter.  "He very nearly succeeded, with his 
Defense Department contacts.   His personal quirks convinced those in 
charge that it wasn't a wise choice."

Skinner laughed shortly.  "Quirks?  The man was as crazy as a junkyard 
rat, Ms. Covarrubias."  And he was beginning to wonder about her, he 
told her silently, although it wasn't true.  Clever and canny, but not 
crazy.  "What's your point?"

Another enigmatic smile.  Her features were losing definition in the 
gathering night.  "The one thing they haven't been able to accomplish 
is forcing the clone to mature more quickly than our genetic 
programming would allow.  We're tool users, Mr. Skinner, and our brain 
is larger and more developed than the rest of the higher primates.  
Our young stay helpless for far longer than any others in the animal 
kingdom, the payoff for having the intellectual centers we have.  You 
can't teach a child to hunt and fend for himself."

Skinner felt the first warning throb of a headache.   "I don't know, I 
saw some pretty good scavenger kids in Vietnam.  They didn't have a 
choice, they had to.  Where are we going with this, Ms. Covarrubias?"

"The only thing that can be used to force a clone to maturity more 
quickly is the use of--non-human DNA.  Of course, this has other 
flaws.  If the clone bleeds, the non-human intervention becomes clear 
quickly."

Skinner's stomach turned over and the image of Mulder's supposed 
sister came back to mind.  Green sludge in the morgue.   Even in the 
chill of the freezer, the body had deteriorated to green sludge.  Even 
Scully had been unable to offer an explanation for that.  "And?"

"But if enough time is allowed, a clone can come to maturity 
naturally, completely tabula rasa."  Her voice was soft, as if she 
were telling him secrets instead of lunacy.  "It could conceivably be 
used to harvest organs in the event that the original requires 
transplants.  Or it could be used in other, less appealing ways."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  Skinner's patience reached an 
end.  "Presumably you have a purpose for telling me this fairy tale.  
I've read better science fiction, Ms. Covarrubias."

"The clone, for example, could be used as a plant.  Its body would be 
essentially indistinguishable from the donors.  Except for the 
experiences that scar all of us."  She smiled again.  

A car passed them, tires hissing on the wet asphalt.  Skinner tracked 
it for a moment, trying to make sense of riddles, watching to see if 
the driver slowed, glanced in his mirror, to see which way it turned. 
"And what am I supposed to do with this information?"

She leaned forward to watch another cab cruise through the 
intersection ahead.    "For the moment, nothing.  Just--consider it."

Bitter laughter escaped him.  "Consider what?  A science fiction story 
about clones?  Did they clone JFK?  Elvis?  God knows, if they 
considered Hughes, maybe we have a lot to worry about."

She drew back again, not much more than a silhouette in the darkness 
past the arc of the streetlight, but he could see the sheen of her 
eyes.  "If you're intelligent enough to figure it out, Mr. Skinner, we 
may be able to help each other.  Just consider what I've told you."

His stomach knotted.   "Consider it.  Sure, I'll consider it.  What 
can you do for me, Ms. Covarrubias?  Can you tell me about the bees?  
About why the bees were sent to North Carolina?  Why children had to 
die?"

"I don't know the answer to that.  I only know that when we sent 
observers to the site Agent Mulder had marked, there were no signs of 
bee husbandry."  The faintest ring of desperation in her voice.  

Oh, yes, she was trying to hook him.  But for what?   Into what?  He 
wondered distantly what her punishment would be if she failed to 
convince him, if she failed to involve him.

Christ, he was getting more paranoid than poor Mulder.

"They came from Canada?"  Skinner leaned forward, smelling the 
expensive perfume.  She really *was* a lovely woman.  Too bad she was 
a player.  "Tell me what you know and perhaps I can consider this 
business of clones."

More hesitation.  "I don't have all the answers.  I just know what our 
observers reported.   I can only guess that it was some kind of test, 
a test of a biological weapon of some kind."

He made a dismissive gesture.  "Old news, Ms. Covarrubias.  If you 
want me to listen to you, I think you'd better come up with something 
more to the point than what you gave me in North Carolina."

Marita's face turned toward the window; his gaze followed and he saw 
that the windows were fogging just as a car turned down their street, 
coming toward them.

"Damn," she breathed, "They did follow me."

Leaning forward, Skinner pulled her close, the typical clinch, her 
breath warm on his cheek.   In an excess of bitter humor, he kissed 
her hard enough to make it look good, to obscure their faces and 
hopefully anything else that might identify her.  Hard enough that her 
lips parted, almost involuntarily, under his.

If they were watching him closely, they'd recognize him, no point in 
worrying about that.  But if they didn't see her--

The headlights moved slowly past and the car turned the next corner.  
Glancing sidelong, Skinner saw the flash of red in the side mirror, 
waited until it had vanished and released her, leaned back to look in 
the rearview mirror.  "If I were you," he told her dryly, "I'd switch 
cabs a couple of times before I tried going home."

Marita's hand came up, smoothing her hair.  "I'm going to the 
airport," she told him, sounding just slightly disconcerted.  "But 
thank you, I will.  Do you have some preferred method of contact?"

"I'll have my apartment swept," he told her, still with grim humor.  
"You can use the telephone, if you can trust your own.  But don't 
bother until you have something more than vague stories about clones." 
He checked the rearview mirror, saw no traffic coming from behind.   
"This might be a good time to duck out, Ms. Covarrubias.  You don't 
want to compromise yourself for nothing."

That got the faintest of smiles, more a quirk of the lips than 
anything else.  "Not for nothing," she told him and opened the door.  
Her skirt rode up again as she slid out and Skinner bit back a smile. 
Marita was a woman who used all her weapons, it seemed.  

The people who'd referred to Scully as the Ice Queen hadn't met this 
woman.  This woman was the Snow Queen from the fairy tale, beautiful 
and as cold as ice, as the reflective glass of a mirror.  

Somehow it made it easier to be a son of a bitch to her, he decided 
and pulled away from the curb as soon as the door slammed shut.

Clones.  Human clones, used as plants--he wasn't stupid.   But he was 
damned if he was going to hold his jaws open for the hook.  

But he took a left instead of a right, heading toward Quantico, a long 
drive at this time of night, and one which would certainly raise 
questions.   But he found he didn't really give a damn what 
construction anyone put on it.  That fat prick Blevins already thought 
he was feeling too much guilt over Mulder, let him ask, Skinner would 
gravely tell him that perhaps Blevins was right, that he was taking on 
too much responsibility for this.

That maybe--if Marita wasn't just setting the bait for him in a trap 
that he couldn't possibly escape, not with what they already had on 
him--that maybe Skinner, too, could benefit from some time off.  

And wouldn't that just be funny as hell?













MARYANN was on a tear, her normally silky voice laced with 
exasperation as she strode into the room.  "Did anyone tell you why 
we're going to all this trouble, why it's necessary to make him think 
he's in a hospital?"  

Deb snatched at the papers set tumbling in the vortex created by the 
slamming door, cursed as three of them eluded her grasp, sailing free 
to disappear under the cot on the far side of the room.  "Dammit, 
Maryann.  I just got all those in order."   

The trim blonde sighed wearily, made her way slowly to the cot and 
collapsed face down on it, one arm groping wildly underneath it for 
the elusive papers.  "Sorry, didn't mean to make a mess."  The words 
were muffled, her face half buried in the mattress.  Abandoning the 
blind search technique, she scooted further down the bed and peeked 
underneath.  "God, there's a regular dust convention down here.  
Didn't they clean this place at all?"  Leaning further, she snaked her 
arm deep under the cot, retrieved the wayward papers and held them up 
triumphantly.  "Voila!"  

Deb shook her head in amusement, felt the annoyance disappear as the 
other nurse blew on the retrieved papers, setting dust bunnies flying 
wildly.  Deb grabbed them out of her hand before she could do any more 
damage, smoothed the creases out as she put them back in order, added 
them to the stack on the desk.  "I  thought when I left the military 
I'd be done with paperwork.  I swear these guys require more 
documentation than the V. A."  Looking back to Maryann where she'd 
collapsed back onto the cot, she asked, "Patient getting to you?"

The blonde sighed and rolled over onto her back, toeing one white shoe 
off and then the other before answering.  "Yes.  No.  I don't know."  
Another deep sigh.  "It's not his fault but, yes, he's making me 
nuts."  In a fluid movement that Deb envied, she rolled into a sitting 
position, tucking her long legs into a semi-lotus.  "This is never 
going to work, not unless we keep him completely zoned all the time."

Deb smiled, glanced at the monitor on the counter.  The patient was 
certainly zoned at the moment.  She looked back to the blonde, let the 
laughter ripple through, "Oh, I don't know.  I thought you handled the 
phone thing quite well."   She laughed again at the memory.  "You 
can't blame him for being upset, especially after the TV."

"Don't remind me about the TV!"  The blonde rolled her eyes, shook her 
head in despair.  "Somebody might have warned me ahead of time.  He 
can hardly open his eyes and he's already griping about the bloody TV. 
Shit.  I don't want to think about what it's going to be like when he 
can actually see."  She sighed, frustration twisting delicate 
features.  "The whole setup is impossible.  Why do we have to go 
through all this?  Why the big charade?"

"You're the one sleeping with Daly.  You tell me."

"Ohhhh. . .low blow, girl, low blow."  Maryann smiled, eyes sparkling 
with mischief.  "I'm not pumping him for information," she teased. 

Deb laughed, played along, "Then what are you pumping him for?  
Hmmmm?"

"To see how big it can get."  Glistening white teeth flashed as the 
full mouth broke into a grin.  "All in the interest of science, my 
dear."  She licked her lips, smiled wickedly.  "Yes indeed."

A muffled groan cut through their hoots of laughter, drew both sets of 
eyes to the monitor.  The patient was twisting in his sleep, caught in 
the grips of another dream or pain.  Deb couldn't tell which.  
Frowning she watched him struggle for a minute before settling back 
into quiet slumber. 

Maryann was watching her thoughtfully when she turned back to the bed. 

"What?" she asked, trying to puzzle through the expression on her 
friend's face.

"You're not going sweet on this one are you, Deb?"  Maryann's face was 
troubled, no hint of its earlier humor. 

The spring breeze, which had felt so heavenly in the late afternoon 
and early evening, had turned icy with the rain.  Deb shivered, 
grabbed a sweater off the counter and draped it over her shoulders as 
she rose to shut the window. 

"No, not at all," she answered distractedly, searching for a memory 
just out of reach.  Sweet on him. . .she hadn't heard that in years. . 
.odd choice of words.  She struggled with the aluminum catch, barely 
avoided slamming her fingers as it abruptly released, and the window 
slid shut with a bang. "I'm just doing my job, like you." 

Maryann was shaking her head.  "Uh uh, Deb.  Not like me.  You don't 
see me getting concerned at his every twitch."

A Sierra Club calendar hung cockeyed on the stark wall behind the 
blonde's sleek head, years out of date, undoubtedly abandoned by some 
past tenant.  

She hadn't really noticed it before, dangling crookedly from a lone 
nail, found her eyes drawn to the tropical vista, dense jungle behind 
white sand and azure blue water, surrounded by a dirty, white border, 
the edges of the card stock curled by time. 

She looked back to the woman on the bed.  "That was hardly a twitch, 
Maryann.  We're supposed to be keeping an eye on him.  He's already 
pulled the IV loose once."  The flimsy plastic chair groaned in 
protest as she settled back into it, a grim reminder of too many candy 
bars and a lifestyle that no longer included exercise. "That's all I'm 
doing.  Looking after the patient. What's wrong with that?"  Irritated 
with having to defend herself.

"Nothing.  Absolutely nothing, Deb."  Voice soft with concern, Maryann 
leaned forward, pulled bobby pins loose and ran her fingers through 
the heavy twist of blonde hair, let it cascade free, sighed in relief 
at the release.  Head still down, she cocked it to one side, looked 
back at Deb through the honey blonde curtain.  "I just worry about 
you, watching you watch him.  You know how hard it's going to be if 
you let yourself care."  

She'd had this conversation before, twenty-two years before, in a rain 
soaked tent half a world away.  That was what was nagging.  'Don't go 
sweet on them, let yourself care too much. . ."  

What was the lieutenant's name?  Sanders?  No, Saunders.  She'd 
shipped out three weeks after her arrival, ships passing in the night. 
Four days in Nam and all she wanted was to go home, far from the 
constant rain, boys screaming in pain, crying for mothers, girlfriends 
and lives that were never going to be the same.  Saunders had found 
her sobbing in her tent, stuffing gear willy nilly into her duffel, 
determined to hitch a ride on the first jeep headed back to Saigon, to 
home.  

"It will get easier," Saunders had promised, turning her to sit on the 
cot, pulling the duffel out of her hands.  "Everyone has a hard time 
at the start.  You've got to grow a little armor, protect yourself.  
It's the only way you can get the job done."  She didn't want to think 
about those years, remember all the losses.  Saunders was wrong.  It 
never got easier, not with the young ones.  And they were all so young 
there, just boys.

Her eyes wandered back to the monitor, the man sleeping down the hall. 
"He doesn't look 37, not when he's sleeping.  Hard to believe he's 
that old."  Talking more to herself than to Maryann, she startled at 
the sharp bark of laughter, turned to see the blonde laughing 
bitterly.

"They all look young when they're asleep, Honey.  And innocent.  Don't 
let that fool you." Emerald green lost its sparkle, turned suddenly 
cold, bitter.  "He's just a man, like all the rest.  More heartache 
than they're worth." 

Yawning, she stretched slim arms high over her head, knocked the 
calendar behind her, set it swaying.  She seemed to shake off the mood 
with the stretch, looked back at the monitor and grinned.  "He is kind 
of cute when he sleeps though.  Maybe I should try pumping him."

Deb rolled her eyes, relieved to be back on more comfortable ground.  
"Right, Maryann.  I can see it now.  You pump, he pukes."  

"Yuck," Maryann grimaced, "you really know how to ruin a good 
fantasy."  She smiled.  "Ah well, there's always Daly."   She yawned 
again, stretched out on the cot, pulled the thin blanket over herself. 
"I'm going to grab a quick nap.  Wake me if he needs anything."  Not 
waiting for a response, she rolled to face the wall and pulled the 
blanket higher, shutting out the light and further conversation.

Rising to her feet, Deb fought down a yawn of her own, eyed the empty 
coffee pot across the room.  "Coffee, then paperwork," she muttered, 
glancing at the clock.  Three hours to go before shift change.  It was 
going to be a long night.













NO one asked questions at the morgue.  They just gave Skinner a sober 
look and let him in.  Mulder's body was already on the slab, evidently 
they were getting ready for the post-mortem.   He hadn't thought about 
the weird hours FBI pathologists worked.

At least Mulder was covered by a sheet.  

The attendants left him alone after he gruffly requested it.  Christ, 
he'd never really seen Mulder naked, except in the shower room, or 
passing in the locker room on rare occasions, and then usually with a 
towel wrapped around his waist.   He had no idea of why he'd come.  
Cold flesh mocked him, he lifted the sheet from the side, and there 
was a puckered scar on Mulder's left shoulder where Scully had shot 
him to keep him from shooting Krycek.  

She'd asked to be in on the autopsy and he'd been prepared to flatly 
forbid it when the word came back, No.  No and no and no, she was too 
close, they wouldn't allow it.

Thank God.  That was the last thing Scully needed to do at this point. 



Reaching out, he felt the chill through the latex gloves and shivered, 
not even sure what he was looking for.  

"I must be bug fuck crazy," he told Mulder's ghost gloomily and 
sighed, pulling the sheet down further, wincing a little as he saw the 
scar on Mulder's thigh.  "That bastard got you good in North Carolina, 
didn't he, Mulder.  Didn't anyone ever tell you that standing on a 
pier and yelling FBI was like saying Shoot Me?"

Circumcised, the scar faded away to near invisibility, like most 
little boys born after the second World War.   He shook his head at 
his own folly, pulled the sheet back over to cover Mulder's thigh.  
The Snow Queen had yanked his chain good and hard and he'd gone 
hunting for little green men just as surely as Mulder ever had.

Maybe it really was time to get into another line of work.  

"Sorry, Mulder," he muttered and started to straighten the sheet 
again.  Froze suddenly and leaned down, examining Mulder's upper arm. 
Frowning, he went around the table and checked on the other arm.   

"Jesus Christ."  A prayer, not profanity.

The sheet came off again, he managed to ignore the shattered face.  

Nothing on the front of the thighs.  Grimacing, Skinner slid his hands 
under the body to roll it over.  This was beyond strange, a degree of 
intimacy with Mulder's naked body that he'd never wanted to consider. 
"Sorry, Mulder, just have to be sure," he muttered and felt ridiculous 
for saying it.  

The exit scar from the thigh wound was just as bad as it had looked in 
the shower room; but he didn't find what he was looking for.   

He sure as hell hoped the attendants didn't make an appearance while 
he was bent over searching Mulder's thighs and buttocks for marks or 
scars.   They'd really think he was stressed then, and the notion of 
what the rumor mill would do with it made his mouth quirk.  

He rolled the body over again, without apology this time.   

Standing back suddenly, Skinner stripped off the gloves.  Tossed them 
into a nearby receptacle and folded his arms, controlling the sudden 
speed of his pulse by breathing deeply.  Stared at the corpse, 
suddenly anonymous, suddenly not who he had thought.  

Maybe.

Jerking the sheet back up over the body, he turned toward the door, 
pushed through them into the hallway and interrupted the two morgue 
attendants in talking baseball teams.  "Thanks," he told them 
brusquely and jerked his chin toward the door behind him.  "Take good 
care of him, he was one of ours."

They nodded soberly and went back in, the doors swinging with just the 
faintest sound as Skinner walked back down the corridor, needing fresh 
air badly enough that he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first 
button on his shirt.

Christ.

Maybe the Snow Queen wasn't just jerking his chain.  Maybe there was 
something darker going on here.

He still wasn't sure it wasn't all a lie.  But he didn't think that 
the corpse on the table was Mulder.  

And it should have been.













THE black man's powers of concentration were phenomenal, explained 
much to the Brit of the man's ability to rise to the top of his 
profession so quickly, despite the prejudice he must have encountered 
due to the color of his skin.  

A glance at the Rolex on his wrist confirmed that he'd been standing 
in the doorway watching him for almost ten minutes and the doctor had 
never looked up from the files strewn across the desk, one hand 
furiously making notes on the yellow, legal pad as he read.  His left 
foot was tapping to the beat of the music blaring from the CD player 
perched on the edge of the desk.  The only thing the Englishman knew 
about the music was that he didn't care for it personally.

He rapped his knuckles loudly on the open door, waited for the doctor 
to look up before he crossed to the desk, found the volume control and 
turned down the music.  "I hope you don't mind but we need to talk and 
I don't wish to shout to be heard."  A shrug of the broad shoulders 
was the only response, as Daly's eyes wandered back to the page in 
front of him, made a final notation before flipping the folder closed.

"Did you get an answer about the Stelazine?" 

He'd actually completely forgotten to ask the American about it, 
couldn't fathom why the other man thought a lone medication note from 
twenty-five years before was relevant.  "They're still working on it." 
They would be too, once he told them about it, and he had no wish to 
start off this conversation with a shouting match.  That's where it 
would go if Daly found out he'd forgotten to ask.  The man might be 
brilliant but his manners left much to be desired.

Daly was tapping his pencil against the desk, still keeping time to 
music only he could hear.  The habit irritated him to no end and he 
suspected the doctor knew it, did it intentionally just to see him 
react.  "It's important.  I hope you made that clear to them."  The 
tapping slowed momentarily as Daly paused, his eyes focused somewhere 
in the distance, beyond the confines of the stuffy office.  "Perhaps I 
should talk to them directly.  It's possible the actual history is 
quite different than what we've been led to believe."  

"I believe that's why you were hired, doctor, to explore that history, 
separate fact from fiction."  Not giving the man a chance to respond, 
he shifted the discussion.  "Which brings me to a separate matter, the 
real purpose of this meeting.  Our associates in New York are 
concerned that you are being overly conservative in your time 
estimate."  The dark brows were drawing into a scowl before he 
finished the sentence.

"Have you explained the situation to them, updated them on the 
patient's condition?  God damn idiots, any fool looking at the tape 
shouldn't need a further explanation."  Sharp, angry voice, already 
rising in volume.  The Brit sighed, pushed the door closed. "I'm 
telling you, the risk is too great.  The drug puts a tremendous strain 
on the heart and in his current condition I don't think his system 
could handle it, even if we could use it in conjunction with the 
morphine.  He's running a low-grade fever already and we haven't been 
able to pinpoint the source of the infection.   His bloodwork is a 
mess.  I've asked the lab to rerun it.  There are some anomalies that 
make no sense.  Your associates in New York don't have medical degrees 
if I remember correctly.  Perhaps they should leave the doctoring to 
people who know what they're doing."  

He'd anticipated that response, already planned for it.  A second 
chair was tucked up against the long table on the far wall.  
Retrieving it, he scooted it next to the desk, relaxed as best he 
could into the hard plastic surface before answering.  "I've told them 
all that, doctor.  Unfortunately they're not here, close to the 
situation, as you and I are.   I have absolute faith in your medical 
judgement, but find myself stuck in the middle of an exceedingly 
awkward situation."  Sincerity came easily when one did it for a 
living.  He could almost feel the anguish of his supposedly impossible 
dilemma.  "They are insisting on sending in another doctor for a 
second opinion."  Daly had pushed back from the desk, discarded the 
pencil, both arms clasped across the broad chest now, fingertips 
pressing hard enough into the ebony forearms as to fade the pigment to 
white.  "I'm afraid I'm powerless to stop them."

"Fuck that noise."

Perhaps the conciliatory approach was a mistake with this man.  
"There's no need for profanity, Doctor.  I don't think you want to 
lose me as an ally." The angry posture shifted minutely, a trace of 
wariness at the cold warning.  "That's right, Doctor.  Remember that 
my associates do not share your medical ethics.  Don't make the 
mistake of thinking you are irreplaceable." 

Daly exploded from the chair, shoved paperwork across the broad 
surface of the desk as he pushed away from it, stalked across the room 
to gaze angrily out the window.  

The Englishman let him be, bent to pick up a folder that had fallen to 
the floor, its contents fanned out across the bare linoleum.  A 5x7 
photo caught his eye as he shuffled the packet together.  He pulled it 
loose, studied the couple lounging on the riverbank, the young man's 
head resting in the woman's lap.  

Phoebe Greene.  

He'd forgotten how much softer she'd looked at twenty-two, her face 
sparkling with what appeared to be genuine pleasure, probably was 
pleasure.  She'd always enjoyed her work, a natural at it, even then. 
Fox Mulder never knew what hit him.

"I'll quit."  Daly had turned from the window, was glaring at him from 
across the room. 

Children and fools, that's what he had to deal with, children and 
fools.  "You'll quit?"  He threw the folder back on the desk, sighed 
as it slid off the other side and back onto the floor.  What was it 
about scientists that they could puzzle out obscure mysteries and 
still not see what was right in front of their noses?  "Nobody quits, 
Dr. Daly.  I thought you understood that."  He'd had enough, no longer 
cared whether the fool agreed or not. "You can adapt to the change in 
plans or you can be retired.  Permanently.  Those are your only 
options."

Rising to his feet, he crossed to the door, pulled it open.  "Dr. 
Weber will be here at two this afternoon.  Please see that you have 
the necessary paperwork in order for him."  He didn't wait for an 
answer. They both knew the subject was closed.  Daly would do as he 
was told. 













THE appointment card on the refrigerator was an annoyance.  She was 
supposed to see Karen Kossef this morning at 11, and there was no way 
she was going.

What difference did it make to talk about it?  And Karen would want to 
see her grieve for Mulder, would keep gently prodding at her to talk 
about her feelings.  How about this, Karen, she told the card 
silently, how about I'd like to drive out to Quantico and open up the 
drawer with his body and shoot him again.

Tears came out of nowhere, not just the watery overflow that afflicted 
her so often of late, but sobs that caught her by surprise, an ache in 
her belly that curled her over, down on her knees on the floor, that 
pulled muscles and hurt. The cool of the refrigerator against her 
forehead didn't help.

But she was good at control, got it in hand quickly.  Sank back on her 
heels and wiped futilely at eyes that still wanted to leak.  "It's 
going to be better now," she said aloud, "He--I'll be able to actually 
have a life."  Even if it was short.  "I can plan things," a little 
desperately.  "I can count on people.  I couldn't count on him."

The sobs wanted to come back, but she drew in a deep ragged breath, 
letting rage replace the hollow feeling in her gut.  "He fucking 
ditched me again, he didn't have the guts to go the distance.  He was 
a goddamned coward!"  Her voice had risen, she wondered distantly if 
this was what they meant when they told her to feel angry about dying. 
Instead, she was feeling angry at Mulder.  

But it was better than curling up in a huddle on the floor and having 
hysterics over him.  

"No more goddamned crop circles," she said aloud, more calmly.  "I'm a 
real person again."

And that thought seemed to quench the last of the grief.  Fed the 
anger that had taken its place.  But she still wasn't going to see 
Kossef.

Standing up, she took the card and tore it in half before dropping 
both halves into the wastebasket. 

Now if she could just figure out what she was going to do instead.









LATE afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds in the room, across 
the conference table, across the blank faces of the two agents sitting 
in front of Skinner's desk.

Blank, cookie-cutter faces.  Properly respectful.  Lots of Yes Sir and 
No Sir.  

They were boring the shit out of him, Skinner realized and sighed.  
Even the report was properly written, every I dotted and every T 
crossed.   "So, you got a warrant for Luchese and then what?" he 
asked, wishing he were anywhere but here.  Oh, he'd worked hard to 
rise in the Bureau, paid his dues, and right now he was seriously 
beginning to wonder if the Snow Queen's cloning technology had been 
used to create the last several Quantico classes.

"We then went to Mr. Luchese's place of business and arrested him, 
sir."  Agent Russell had to be close to thirty.  And still didn't look 
like he shaved regularly.

Clearly, Skinner thought, he was getting old.  Wasn't it a sign of age 
when you thought your subordinates weren't old enough to handle a 
razor, let alone a gun?    Only these two could make a child 
pornography case sound like accounting.  Was he getting hardened to 
this shit?  And if he was, what did that say about him? "And what did 
you find on the premises?"

"We found photographic equipment in the back room, sir.  And a great 
deal of undeveloped film, in addition to quite a substantial cache of 
photographs.  There won't be any problem taking the case to trial, 
sir."

Of course not.  Skinner closed the folder, idly wondering what they'd 
do if he told them to drop and give him fifty.   Probably, they'd do 
it.  

God, he missed Mulder.  

Mulder had ruined him, that was rapidly becoming clear.  He longed to 
see that sullen, schoolboy expression while he read the report in 
front of him.  Longed to hear that insubordinate son of a bitch giving 
him grief.  At the very least, it relieved his stress to growl at 
Mulder.  

"Good work," he told the two in front of him, struggling to put some 
enthusiasm and approval into his voice.  "Give that to my assistant on 
your way out."

They rose, practically synchronized in their movements.  Jesus, it had 
to be subliminal programming.  Mulder had obviously managed to escape 
it somehow.

As the door closed behind them, Kim buzzed him.  "I have your call, 
sir," she told him through the speaker.  "From Vineyard Haven."

Put it through," he told her, sitting forward again.  Picking up the 
handset, he punched the button, introduced himself as Assistant 
Director Skinner of the FBI.  "I need to speak to someone who can 
check the school records for one of my agents," he told the woman on 
the other end.  

"I can help you," she told him, no nonsense voice.  "What is it you 
need to know?"

"The student in question is Fox Mulder.  I believe he attended school 
in Chilmark from his primary school days through high school."   
Skinner flipped open Mulder's personnel file and ran his finger down 
the relevant page.   "It looks like he was enrolled in the summer of 
1965, in kindergarten."  Christ, in 1965, he'd been in the seventh 
grade, himself.  

"Just a moment please."  The woman put him on hold.

Good, maybe she wasn't going to give him a hard time, maybe being 
Assistant Director counted somewhere, beyond a nice parking place at 
the goddamned bureau.  Leaning back, Skinner waited, eyeing the 
photograph of the impossibly young Mulder, taken at Quantico.    He 
really was getting old, Mulder himself hadn't looked old enough to 
shave then.

"All right, Mr. Skinner, what is it that you need to know?"

He bit his lip and leaned forward again.  "Were his immunization 
records in order when he was enrolled?"

He heard the faintest sound from the other end.  Then, after a long 
pause, "Yes, it looks like he had all his shots before he started 
kindergarten at Menemsha School.  That's actually the only school in 
Chilmark itself.  He switched to West Tisbury School in sixth grade 
and then of course to the regional high school."  The woman's voice 
was puzzled.  "Is there some question of that?  Is Mr. Mulder ill?"

"We just need to recheck it," Skinner told her, smiling grimly, 
half-afraid she'd give him a detailed breakout of the whole Martha's 
Vineyard school system if he encouraged her.  "And his boosters, are 
they also recorded there?"

"Certainly.  Just give me a moment."  The sound repeated.  "No, they 
look like they're in good order, Mr. Skinner."

"Excellent.  Does that include smallpox and--"  He fumbled for the 
knowledge, smiled again, "Tetanus?"

"Yes, it does."  The woman's voice was no less puzzled.  

"Thank you," Skinner told her, "You've been very helpful."  And he 
hung up.   

Leaned back in his chair and chewed on his lip.  Medical records would 
be harder to get hold of.  And he couldn't involve Scully at this 
point, not if he was wrong.  Not if it was an elaborate hoax.  

But he was damned well willing to bet that the Snow Queen could get 
them.  Without comment or trouble.

He just had to wait for her to call him again.











A HEAVYSET man, navy coveralls stained with grease, poked his head out 
of the utility closet as they passed, stared in open curiosity at the 
raised voices.  Sighing, the Englishman hurried the two bickering men 
down the hallway, practically pushed them into the empty office.  

In the time it took him to follow and shut the door, Weber had already 
moved to the desk, was picking at the piles of paper spread out there. 
With an angry curse, Daly furiously thrust him away, snatched the 
papers out of his hand.

Weber backed away, arms spread.  "Never mind, Dr. Daly, I won't touch 
your precious papers," the shorter doctor sneered, all bulldog 
obstinacy as he scowled at the black man now leaning against the desk, 
his arms spread protectively, blocking any further attempts to reach 
the papers.  "I was just curious to see if you'd taken the trouble to 
read my report, the results of my research with Dr. Goldstein, or if 
you were just dismissing it out of hand." 

Daly swiveled, scanned the cluttered desktop for a moment before 
picking out a thick folder, turned back.  "This?  You call this 
research?  By what criteria?  This has no basis in science.  It's pure 
quackery" 

The doctor was all motion, striding across the room, grabbing page 
after page from the thick file, hurling them at the other man.  
"Seventy six percent of your subjects committed suicide, half of those 
murdering other people before they killed themselves.  And you dare to 
question my ability to properly assess the patient?   Where the hell 
did you get your medical degree?  Cancun?" Long, angry strides chewed 
up the limited floor area as he crisscrossed the narrow room, still 
plucking papers at random from the file and spilling them in his wake.

A rush of cool air tickled the back of the Englishman's neck.  
Finally.  The heater had been running at full blast all day, a model 
of over-efficiency.  Maybe the cooler air would help defuse some of 
the tension between the two doctors.  Anxious to curb the fight before 
it got out of hand he stepped in between the two men, fought for calm 
he didn't feel.  "Dr. Daly, there's no ne. . ."  

Short and squat, Weber bowled past him, sent him bouncing back against 
the door, blocked the black man's path back to the desk. "I went to 
Hopkins, you asshole.  So don't go strutting over me with your Ivy 
League airs."  He bit the words off, one square finger stabbing into 
Daly's chest only to be slapped away.

Daly was shouting again, droplets showering the shorter man as he 
leaned in to spit out each word.  "The man hasn't even fully recovered 
from the fucking concussion and you're proposing boring more holes in 
his head.  This is lunacy!"  Weber was standing his ground, his 
expression darkening as Daly added, "You're shooting in the dark.  
Admit it!  You don't have a fucking clue whether this will work or not 
and you're willing to kill the subject on the off chance that it 
might."

This was past tiresome.  "Children, that's enough!"  Both doctors 
turned as one to stare at him, stunned into silence.   He hadn't meant 
to shout, had honestly meant to say 'Doctors,' only realizing his 
mistake when he heard the word leave his mouth.   The American 
influence no doubt.  He really did need to move back to Britain, away 
from this rabble.  Glaring at them, he let all the frustration of the 
past four days spill forth.  "This is getting us nowhere.  I want you 
both to sit down and shut up."  

Where hours of diplomacy hadn't worked, a straightforward dressing 
down proved nothing short of miraculous.  Both of them scowled but 
followed the instructions, choosing chairs on opposite sides of the 
room.   Fine, he knew how to deal with spoiled schoolboys and that's 
what these two most resembled.  "We are going to discuss this, like 
gentlemen, not like preschoolers fighting over a toy."  

Lower jaw out thrust, Daly protested, "I did everything you requested, 
put the papers together, gave him the grand tour, let him examine my 
patient.  Hell, I even put up with him pontificating on everything 
from toilet paper to surgical technique but I'll be damned if I'm 
going to put up with this bullshit.  You let him 'practice' on that 
man and I won't have anything other than a corpse or a vegetable to 
work with when he's finished."   Dark eyes shimmered with rage, glared 
across the room.

"Don't come off all holier than thou with me, Doctor." 

Daly had a point, the Englishman reflected.  Weber did tend to 
pontificate, arrogance coloring everything he said.  

"I'm familiar with your work.  You could start your own produce 
section with your former test subjects," Weber growled.

Daly jumped to his feet, glared at the other man. "I've resolved most 
of those problems."        

"Don't make me laugh!"  Weber was standing as well, starting across 
the room.  "You know it's a one-shot deal and if you don't get the 
information then you can kiss it good-bye because you'll be lucky if 
Fox Mulder will remember how to brush his teeth, let alone what 
happened when he was twelve.  At least with my technique, we can try 
again if we're not successful the first time."

"Again?  Jesus fucking Christ.  You want to try this more than once?" 
Practically stuttering with rage, Daly looked ready to burst at the 
seams, a large vein visibly pulsing in the high forehead.  Weber 
wasn't much better, one hand extended to push the larger man away.

"Silence!"  The barked command had the desired effect, sent them both 
scurrying back to their seats.  The accompanying icy stare shut both 
their mouths before they started back in on the argument.  "I am going 
to ask the questions and you will answer civilly.  You will only speak 
when called on.  Is that understood, gentlemen?"  

Both heads nodded grudgingly.  His old headmaster would have been 
amused, watching this performance, seeing his most troublesome charge 
play disciplinarian.  They should be grateful he was only going for 
tone.  At least they'd be able to sit down after this. 

"Fine."  He moved to the desk, perched on the edge of it, careful to 
put most of his weight on his left flank, the one without the bruise 
from the encounter with the doorknob.  "Now, Dr. Weber. . ."  The man 
was already smirking, clearly anticipating some form of apology or 
vindication, ". . .I share some of Dr. Daly's concerns in this case.  
I cannot agree to anything as invasive as drilling more holes in Mr. 
Mulder's head."  Weber's smirk had darkened, the corners of his mouth 
twisting into a frown, as he opened it to interrupt.  "You haven't 
been asked a question yet, Doctor.  Please shut your mouth."  With an 
audible snap, cutting through the sudden silence, the jaw flapped 
shut.   

"And lest you get any ideas that this means I'm not going to consider 
the rest of his suggestion, Dr. Daly, I suggest you think again.  I 
appreciate your concerns and respect your ability to judge the limits 
of your particular technique.  If you tell us the patient isn't strong 
enough for it now, I have to believe that."  He rubbed forearms now 
prickling with gooseflesh, regretted leaving his suitcoat halfway 
across the building.  It looked suspiciously as if they were going to 
be stuck with temperature extremes in this bloody building, no middle 
ground.  The doctors seemed oblivious to the shifting temperature, 
maybe their tempers were keeping them warm.  Sighing he turned back to 
the black man.  "Dr. Daly?"

"Yes?"  All politeness now, the hostility carefully held in check.

"You have stated that Mr. Mulder needs a full week to recover, 
preferably two before you attempt any memory retrieval, is that 
correct?"

Dark eyes looked past him, back again, clearly sensing some sort of 
trap.  He kept silent, waited for the other man to speak.  "Yes. . .at 
least that was my initial assessment."  Far less definite than his 
earlier answers.  

He raised one brow, silently invited the doctor to elaborate.  

"The patient appears to be managing the pain better than I expected.  
It is perhaps feasible that we could taper him off the morphine, see 
how he handles it."

Daly's constant need to equivocate irritated him immensely.  Even now, 
faced with the likelihood of Weber's alternative treatment, the man 
was still waffling.  "When?" 

"That's difficult to say.  It's a day to day thing and there'd still 
be the risk to his heart.  As I explained earlier, the drugs I use put 
a considerable strain on the heart muscle."  

He kept the irritation from his face, fixed the man with a cold stare. 
"Dr. Daly, you don't seem to grasp what I'm trying to do here.  I'm 
giving you an opportunity to convince me of the validity of your 
methodology.  I need absolutes."  Daly opened his mouth to protest, 
closed it without saying anything.  The Englishman could hear slight 
shifts behind him, knew Weber had to be squirming with impatience, 
waiting for his turn to speak.  "I'm waiting, Doctor."  He moved 
across the floor, found an oasis of warmth where the late afternoon 
sun spilled through the open blinds.

"How critical is it to you that the patient survive the experiment?"

He considered.  "The first test?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely critical."  He'd seen the gleam in Daly's eye, had read 
the man's data, knew what was going on behind the dark eyes.  Daly's 
fine sense of ethics didn't prohibit the sacrifice of Fox Mulder if it 
meant he'd get a chance to try his technique ahead of Weber.  
"Depending on what information you retrieve regarding his abduction 
experiences, there may be additional memories we wish to access,"   

"Experiences?"  Weber had caught the plural, was straining with the 
effort to stay seated.  "Are you suggesting there was more than the 
one incident?"

He turned a cold eye on Weber, conveyed his displeasure with the 
interruption, considered ignoring the question.  Sighed as Daly 
started to interrupt.  "Gentlemen, gentlemen, settle down."  He waved 
one hand, waited for them to settle back in their respective chairs.  
"Yes, we have reason to believe that there was more than one 
incident."  He had their attention now.  "The Greys have shown an 
unusual interest in the subject and his family from the start of the 
project.  Certain irregularities in Mr. Mulder's history suggest past 
visits, possible repeat interactions with the Greys.  While abduction 
memories are generally unreliable, colored by the individual's 
inability to accurately recall events over time, Mr. Mulder's eidetic 
memory makes him somewhat unique."

Weber was nodding agreement, his appetite clearly whetted by this 
additional nugget of information.  Daly had extracted a notepad from 
his pocket, was furiously scratching notes to himself.  "As you are 
both aware, we need to understand why the Greys deviated from the 
original plan, why they took his sister and not him.  We believe the 
key to that information lies buried in Fox Mulder's memory.  What I am 
telling you now is that there may be additional information, of equal 
importance, information that will help us understand the importance of 
this man to the Greys.  Believe me when I tell you that my associates 
will be very unhappy with anyone or anything that blocks their access 
to that information."  

Where they'd been all eagerness to interrupt each other before, the 
two researchers were now eyeing each other warily, reassessing the 
situation.  They both looked to him for assurance, found none in the 
cold look he returned.  

Weber spoke first.  "I may have been a bit hasty in my earlier 
assessment."

Irritation pulled the corners of the Englishman's mouth down.  

Weber caught the shift, squirmed a little on the hard chair.  "Given 
the patient's general physical condition and your need to possibly 
repeat the procedure, I would have to agree with Dr. Daly.  It would 
be inadvisable to make any additional entry holes at this time."   
Weber looked across the room, silently asking Daly for support.  The 
black man shook his head, leaned back in the chair and crossed his 
arms, a slight smile tugging at the full lips.  "Perhaps it would be 
better to go with Dr. Daly's technique first."  A gracious smile 
played across Weber's face as he neatly tossed the grenade back into 
Daly's lap.

This was absurd.  He had no time to play hot potato with the two men, 
had wasted enough time on them already.  "Dr. Weber."  The shorter man 
straightened in the chair at the sharp tone, eyed him warily.  "I am 
weary of this game.  Can you or can you not access those memories?"  
He held up one hand to stop the man's response, before the first word 
was fully formed.  "Remember, Doctor.  We have invested considerable 
time and effort in your research, in bringing you out here.  My 
colleagues do not look kindly on poor investments.  You assured me, 
less than an hour ago, that there was minimal risk to the patient's 
long term recovery with your technique.  Are you now telling me that 
was a misrepresentation, less than the truth?"  

He noted the tremble in Weber's hands, saw him flinch at the softly 
spoken question, knew he'd caught the anger behind it.  Good.  Maybe 
now they'd get the truth.  Daly was quiet, dark eyes carefully blank. 



"No. . ."  Weber hesitated, started again.  "It wasn't a 
misrepresentation, of course not."  He leaned forward, spread his 
hands wide in supplication.  "But you have to understand.  I never 
said there was no risk.  I said minimal risk."

"That's true.  You did say minimal risk."  Nodding at the man, he 
continued.  "And now you're indicating we can reduce that risk further 
if we don't bore a hole in Mr. Mulder's head.  Is that correct?"

Sharp nod of agreement as Weber relaxed a little in the chair.

"So. . ."  He paused, let the tension build again.  "What I need to 
know, Dr. Weber, is if your technique will work without the additional 
surgery?  Think carefully before you answer.  Remember that my 
patience is running short."  

Weber was eyeing the door longingly, looking very much as if he 
regretted ever accepting the invitation to Virginia.  The Englishman 
let him sweat, noted with amusement how Daly had seemingly lost all 
interest in beating the other man to be first.  

It was several minutes before Weber spoke.  The quiet voice bore 
little resemblance to the earlier bluster.  "It lowers the chance of 
success.  Definitely."  He paused, seemed to consider.  "We would have 
to take him off the morphine and Dr. Daly would have to approve that." 



The Englishman looked to Daly.  

"I'm willing to agree to that, with the understanding that we put him 
right back on it if the vomiting starts again."  Daly was making notes 
as he spoke, running some sort of calculation it looked like.  "It 
would be better if you could hold off at least one more day, give time 
for the swelling in his arm to go down a bit further."  He finally 
looked up, closed the notebook.

An additional day was going to push them dangerously close to the one 
month limit but he didn't see any immediate solution.  Despite Daly's 
earlier blustering he did respect the man's ability to evaluate the 
patient's overall health.  If Daly said they needed another day then 
they needed another day.

"Can his system handle the Ketamine in your opinion, Doctor?"  Weber 
had bypassed him, was speaking directly to Daly, all professional 
courtesy now.

Daly didn't even open the notebook this time, merely nodded.  "Yes, I 
expect so.  It's not ideal, but he should be able to handle it."

"You do understand, sir, I can't make you any absolute guarantees."  
Weber was looking back at him, practically pleading.  "There are 
certain risks inherent in the procedure, even on a fully healthy 
individual.  I can't guarantee he'll survive."

"But the risk is minimal, correct?"

"Y. . .yes."  A bare whisper.

"Then I suggest that you spend the time in between now and Saturday 
figuring out how to further minimize those risks."   He moved to the 
door, had already pulled it open when Weber spoke again.

"Yes, of course, I'll do my best.  You do realize though that Mr. 
Mulder might not fully recover, might even die?  I hope you won't hold 
me responsible if that happens." 

He kept his voice quiet, spoke slowly and carefully.  "Let us both 
hope that doesn't happen then, Doctor Weber."  He pulled the door shut 
behind him, cutting off any further protest.  

If he hurried he'd have time for a brief ride before dusk.  Just a 
slight detour to pick up his coat and he'd be on his way.  A half hour 
on the new stallion was just what he needed after an afternoon spent 
with jackasses.













"IT hardly seems fair that a man that yummy is gay, does it.  I expect 
God really is a man, hogging someone that delicious for the men of the 
planet."

Torn from her reverie, Scully looked at the thin woman in the next 
chair, dark eyes sparkling with amusement.   She noted the tell-tale 
scarf, wrapped artistically around the no doubt bald head.   "Excuse 
me?"

If the woman noted the utter confusion, she was in no way put off by 
it, laughing instead as she gestured at the magazine laying open 
across Scully's lap.  "C'mon, girl.  You can't tell me he's not 
gorgeous." She laughed again.  "But maybe you don't go for tall, dark, 
and handsome, with just a touch of vulnerability to keep things 
interesting."

Eyes dropping to the open magazine, she found the picture under 
discussion, smiled in appreciation.  "Oh no, I could make room in my 
schedule for the likes of him."  Her eyes scanned the text, looked 
back at the man smiling seductively from the glossy picture.  "I'm 
sure he's making some young man very happy."   She'd only picked up 
the magazine to avoid just this sort of encounter, having found that 
pretending to read generally shut out any overtures from the other 
patients in the waiting room.    

On impulse she stuck out her hand, felt the other woman clasp it in a 
surprisingly firm grip.  "I'm Dana Scully."  Noted how the flesh 
stretched tightly across the other woman's hand, exposing bones too 
close to the surface, tried not to see how thin her own hands had 
grown in the past few months.

The woman grinned impishly.  "Brandy Alexander."  She laughed again.  
"Don't say it.  My parents had a twisted sense of humor."

It felt like so long since she'd laughed like this, relaxing in a 
simple conversation.   And she'd thought the Scully jokes were bad.   
This woman's high school years must have been hell.   She hesitated 
before nodding at the brightly colored scarf.  "I guess I'd better 
start shopping for some of those as well.  I'm not sure I'm really 
ready to face the world bald."  It was amazingly freeing to finally 
say it, verbalize the fear, admit to the vanity.

The other woman reached out, asked with her eyes before letting her 
fingers touch the soft strands.  The touch felt familiar and strange 
all at the same time, reminding her hauntingly of other fingers, 
another person's hand, one who had made the same gesture so recently. 
She closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears, willing away 
the moisture before it could spill free and give her away.  There was 
no way she was going to start bawling here in the doctor's office.

"I'm sorry," the other woman whispered softly, letting the strands 
fall free.  "I didn't mean to upset you.  It's just so beautiful."  A 
gentle smile crossed the thin features.  "You could be really brave 
and shave it all off ahead of time, have a wig made."  

"No, it's not that."  She looked around the alcove, realized they were 
virtually alone, the receptionist busy jostling phone calls across the 
corridor, the other chairs deserted.  There were distinct advantages 
to having one of the last appointments of the day.  "I lost someone 
recently.  He used to do that, touch my hair that way."  She could 
still feel that touch, like an amputee with lingering nerve sensation.

"That must be difficult.  Were you close?"  Full, dark lips curved 
upwards as the woman hastened to apologize, "Sorry, I seem to have 
lost my ability to do small talk.  Must be the time pressure."  Scully 
leaned closer, trying to catch the soft words as the woman added, "I 
always want to cut straight to the chase now, forget about pussy 
footing around forbidden topics."  She grinned again, looking back at 
Scully, voice rising,  "Makes for interesting conversations though, 
you've gotta admit."

"Uh huh."  Scully kept it non-committal, reflecting on what the woman 
had said, studied her more closely, with a physician's eye this time. 
Looking past the bright smile and the sparkling eyes she could see how 
the silk blouse caved where it should have clung over soft swells, how 
the belt was cinched tight on the narrowest setting, yet still hung 
loosely in the pant loops, noted the gray cast to the dark skin. It 
wouldn't be long now.  

"How much longer?"  She flushed suddenly, felt her face flood with 
heat as she realized she'd said the words out loud.  Her mother would 
be appalled.  

The laugh was fuller this time.  "That's the ticket, Dana.  Now you're 
catching on."  She smiled at the confusion Scully knew was evident on 
her face.  "C'mon, girl.  I've been watching you for months.  You need 
to cut loose."  She laughed again.

"I what?  You've been watching me?"

"Well, not as a career or anything."  The dark head bobbed, indicated 
a seat across the room.  "I normally sit over there.  You probably 
never even noticed but our appointment times tend to overlap.  "You're 
one of Dr. Markham's patient's aren't you?"  

This was surreal.  She couldn't believe she'd been so unobservant.  So 
much for being a trained investigator.  "How did you know that?"

"Easy.  After enough time in here you get to know which nurses go with 
which doctors.    Markham's is the bossy brunette with the legs.  
Thinks she's God's gift to men."  The dark brows raised archly as she 
rolled her eyes.  

"Helen," Scully volunteered, smiling at the apt description.  The 
woman did bear a marked resemblance to Bambi Berenbaum and made the 
most of it.

". . . of Troy, I'm sure," continued her companion, rolling expressive 
brown eyes.  "Now today, given that you're still sitting here at. . ." 
she paused, pivoted one slim wrist, squinted at the watch face, "5:45, 
I would guess you're seeing my main man, Dr. Selby."  Scully smiled 
acknowledgment, waited for the woman to continue.  "Unlike Markham, 
Dr. Feely is never on time."

"Dr. Feely?"  She was almost afraid to ask.

Brandy lost it completely, curled over in a ball gasping for air.  
Scully was ready to call for the nurse when she finally raised her 
head, one hand dashing tears of laughter off the dark brown cheeks.  
"Not that kind of feely.  God, you should have seen your face."  She 
started to giggle again, squeezing out the words in between gasps of 
laughter.  "As in . . .how do you feel, today, dear?  I think he OD'd 
on Prozac or something.  The man is way too happy for an oncologist 
and entirely too sensitive to be a physician."  She caught Scully's 
concerned look.  "Oh, don't worry.  He's an excellent doctor, 
incredibly thorough.  I actually like the fact that he takes the time 
to listen to what's on my mind."

She looked at her watch again, sighed.  "He's worse than usual today, 
but I still prefer waiting to Markham.  God, that man is a machine, 
everyone must stay on his time schedule.  I don't see how you stand 
him."

Scully had never really considered it, had generally appreciated being 
able to get in and out in a hurry, almost dreaded the coming encounter 
with Dr. Selby.  She did not want to discuss her feelings.  Not today. 
"I'm generally in a hurry so his approach actually works pretty well 
for me."

"Well, it obviously has to work for someone or he wouldn't have any 
patients."  She paused, seemingly lost in thought, her large brown 
eyes on the landscape on the far wall.  "Two months at the outside.  
Three if I'm lucky."  

Dana struggled to switch gears, find something soothing to say, 
couldn't really think of anything, finally settled for what she really 
wanted to know.  

"You seem awfully calm about it."

"It takes time."  She looked down at her blouse, at the flat chest.  
"I was angry at the start.  Couldn't believe it was happening to me.  
My mom died of breast cancer so I really shouldn't have been that 
surprised, but I always thought I was immortal."  Leaning back against 
the chair she let the jacket fall open, made no effort to cover the 
flat chest.  "I tried falsies at first, couldn't stand the thought of 
more surgery.  They were too irritating.  I just gave up after awhile. 
It seemed so pointless."  

She leaned forward again, rested elbows on knees.  "But it's been 
three years now and I've been through more procedures than most lab 
animals.  Surgery, chemo, radiation, marrow transplant, hell, I've 
tried them all.  I even tried that Laetrile stuff."  She sighed, 
smiled softly at the memory.  "After a while it's just not worth it 
anymore.  I opted for quality instead of quantity.  I don't want to 
spend my last months wasting away on a hospital ward."

Turning to look directly at Scully she asked, "Your friend?  Was it 
cancer?"

Scully hesitated, considered not responding, felt her mouth shape the 
words, almost without volition.   "No. .  .no, he committed suicide." 
She waited for the inevitable words of comfort.

"Well that sucks."

She stared, unable to believe what she'd just heard.

"Well, it does doesn't it?  I mean, shit, here we are trying 
desperately to hang on and there are people just offing themselves.  
It doesn't seem fair does it."

"No. . .no, it doesn't."  She found herself defending him, trying to 
explain.  "He had a difficult life.  I think he was very unhappy."  
This was really getting unpleasant.  She hated making excuses for him. 
She looked across the room, willed the receptionist to return, take 
her away to a cubicle, away from people asking hard questions.  She 
did not want to have this conversation, was beginning to regret that 
she'd ever looked up from the magazine.

"No excuse."  The voice was firm, no trace of its former softness.  "I 
mean look at it this way.  It's not as if your life is a bed of roses 
these days, is it?  Pure selfishness, that's what it is."   She looked 
at Scully.  "Tell me you're not mad at him."

Scully opened her mouth, prepared to refute it, deny it, mumble more 
of the platitudes she'd been mouthing for two solid days.  "I'm . . . 
upset."  She finally compromised, settled for something innocuous.

"Not too keen on the truth, are you, girl?"  The other woman was 
studying her closely, looking beyond the blank mask she'd worn all 
day, seeing the truth she'd kept so well hidden.  Her mom hadn't 
guessed, had just prattled on about poor Fox and the damn rosary until 
she wanted to scream at her, scream out her frustration with his 
having deserted her.  How did this stranger know?

"No, I'm not."  It was true.  There were some things she didn't want 
to face.  She tried to explain, "I'm afraid, Brandy.  There's so much 
anger inside I feel like I'm going to explode.  Everyone is offering 
sympathy, expressing their concern for him, for how he must have felt, 
how desperate he must have been to shoot himself like that.  What 
about me?"  She felt her voice rising, fought to bring the hysteria 
under control.  "It's my turn, not his.  I'm the one who's sick.  I'm 
so tired of fighting this thing and all they can talk about is him, 
his 'pain.'  You bet I'm angry.  It sucks.  It majorly sucks.  He 
wimped out and I hate him for it."  

Brandy said nothing.  Just waited, relaxed back in the hard plastic, 
like it was the most comfortable chair in the world.  She waited for 
condemnation, for the other woman to chastise her for her 
heartlessness, but there was none of that, just calm acceptance.  

"I haven't told anyone that," she whispered, still shaking from the 
release.  She felt oddly lethargic, as if admitting to the anger had 
actually let some of it drain away.  "Some days I feel like the anger 
is all that keeps me going anymore.""

Brandy smiled, rose slowly to her feet, "Some days it is, girl, some 
days it is."  

She watched the other woman cross to the receptionist's desk, the thin 
back straight and tall under the loose, linen jacket.  She was tall 
enough to be a model, and certainly thin enough.  The conversation 
with the receptionist was brief.  She saw her nod, accept two slips of 
paper.

"It appears we have been rescheduled.  Dr. Feely is stuck at the 
hospital, won't be back this afternoon."   She held out one of the 
slips, waited till Scully reached to take it.

Scully studied the proffered pink slip, noted the new date and time, 
groaned.  "Monday?  Nothing until Monday?"  She had wanted to start 
treatment immediately.  It wasn't as if she was going to be able to 
enjoy anything else with the prospect of chemo and radiation hanging 
over her head.  She looked at the slip again, noted the doctor's name. 
Selby still. . .when the hell was Markham due back?

Brandy picked up the Daytimer she'd left on the seat, smiled softly in 
sympathy.  "Sorry, they're reshuffling appointments like crazy over 
there."  She held up her own slip.  "Mine's not 'till Tuesday if that 
makes you feel any better.   She extended her hand .  "Well, in any 
case, it was nice to finally meet you, Dana.  You hang in there.  
Sorry you didn't get to see Dr. Feely."  

Scully took the proffered thin hand, squeezed gently.  "That's okay.  
It was educational."  Was surprised to find she meant it.













MULDER'S files were interesting.  Oh, Skinner had known that, it was 
the reason he'd reopened the X-files, the reason he'd given Mulder 
that cigarette smoking bastard's address once he'd gotten it.  The 
reason he'd gone down to the basement to tear up Mulder's resignation.

But Scully's conclusions, although based on evidence and scientific 
thought, weren't quite as clear cut as she might want to remember.

Reading through the case reports was depressing.   He'd poured himself 
two fingers of bourbon after dinner and now sat on the couch, reading 
Mulder's report on Duane Barry.

Scully hadn't been around to draw conclusions on that one.

"It's still an interesting spin on the Nuremberg defense," he said 
aloud and winced.   He might still be talking to Mulder's ghost for 
all he knew.  The body in the morgue could have been switched.  
Although the why of that was certainly problematic.  

The phone rang, distracting him from speculation.  The woman's voice 
on the other end was familiar, even after only a few conversations.  
"Well, Mr. Skinner, have you considered our conversation?"

Leaning back against the cushions, Skinner smiled grimly.  "I have.  I 
think it's time for you to tell me what you know.  Before I make this 
a Bureau matter."

"If you do, you've as good as signed a death warrant!"  Her tone was 
urgent, her voice rose.  "Perhaps even your own.  You can't rely on 
your normal resources, you ought to know that."

Skinner's pulse sped again.   He'd had the apartment swept, he'd 
checked the phones, but what the hell did that mean if they were 
watching him?  Or listening to him?  "Where the hell--if you know 
what's going on, why don't you people just--"  Took in a breath, 
thinking hard of what to say, what was ambiguous enough in tone.  "Why 
don't you just take care of it yourself?  What the hell do you need me 
for?"  The bitterness in his tone made him stop.  

He heard her take in a long breath.  "There's only so much information 
that I can find."

An admission of weakness.  Skinner's mouth curved humorlessly.  "Your 
resources are better than mine," he gibed.  "What do you think I can 
do that your people can't?  And why the hell should I trust you?  
There could be more than one explanation for what I saw."

"I told you you were intelligent enough to figure it out," she told 
him, just the faintest edge to her voice.  "Why don't you have dinner 
at McCrory's tomorrow evening, Mr. Skinner.  The last booth on the 
back side of the pub."

He'd patronized McCrory's on occasion.  Not recently, not for a long 
while.  Considering it, he leaned back.  "All right.  What am I going 
to find there?"

"As much information as I can give you," she snapped, long past false 
courtesy.  "What you do with it is up to you, Mr. Skinner.  I'll be in 
touch."

The phone disconnected.   Slamming it down, Skinner picked up his 
drink and sipped at it.  Thinking.   Wondering.

He didn't trust the Snow Queen.  Never would.  But this 
was--suggestive, to say the least.  And he wanted to see what she had. 
What she knew.

Alone was probably stupid.  But if she wanted his help, or even if she 
wanted to entrap him in something, he was safe enough.

He still couldn't involve Scully.  Not at this point.   

Not if he wanted her to get the cure he'd sold his soul for.  Not if 
he wanted to find out what this was all about.  The woman who'd 
written those reports might have hedged.  The woman who'd reported to 
the committee would not.  Would not believe.  Hell, maybe she 
couldn't.

For the moment, he was in this alone.

Reaching out, he picked up another folder.  Stared at the number on 
the front without seeing it.  Smiled slowly.  "You bastard, you're 
alive.  That's one for the damned files, isn't it?  So you'll be in 
there twice, just like your partner."  The smile lasted as long as it 
took to open the file and begin going through Scully's conclusive 
report on another case.















HE ducked back behind the entryway as the patient turned his head away 
from the nurse and muttered, "No."  Even that small movement was 
clumsy, slow enough that the spoonful of food caught against his cheek 
as he moved.

Some of the pasty substance spilled against the bristled jaw before 
the nurse righted the spoon, pulled it back with a curse.   "Dammit, 
Mulder, don't do that."  She set the spoon down, caught the mess with 
a washcloth before it migrated down into his ear.  "I know you want to 
do it yourself but you're not ready yet, believe me."  

The nurse was familiar but the expression she had turned on the man in 
the bed was altogether different from the glare she'd given him the 
other day.  Even the tone of her voice was different, irritated but 
not suspicious, not angry.

The morph searched for the right word.  Frustrated, that's what it 
looked like.  

The man was turning back towards her, starting to speak, his voice 
soft but insistent.  "Just let me try.  That's all I ask."  There was 
a small hesitation as he took a deeper breath, winced slightly.  
"Please."

As he continued to watch, the humans stared at each other for a 
moment, oblivious of his presence sheltered behind the wall.  He felt 
his mouth twist as the nurse sighed, gave in first, adjusted the tray 
table to a lower level and pulled it up close to the bed.  

"I'm only doing this because you haven't had your bath yet, Agent 
Mulder.  If you spill the whole mess all over yourself don't blame 
me."  Despite the stern words, her movements were gentle as she 
wrapped his fingers around the spoon, lowered the bed rail and scooted 
the table a little closer.

The man's hand was shaking slightly as he lifted his arm towards the 
tray, rested the bony wrist on the table and carefully dug the spoon 
into the porridge.  It looked as if it was taking every ounce of 
energy he had to balance the slop on the spoon as he carefully levered 
it back towards his mouth but he didn't spill.  A slow smile curved 
across the chapped lips.  "Told you," he whispered, moving the spoon 
back towards the tray, slightly surer in his movements this time.

"That's great."  The nurse was laughing now, seemingly at the patient. 
"At this rate, you'll be done with breakfast by lunchtime."  

Maybe she found the human as fascinating as he did.  He'd never seen a 
human with the persistence this one showed.   None of the rules the 
others had taught him worked with this one.  He'd thought it was just 
his own inexperience with humans.  Watching the nurse, he was now 
suspecting the answer was more complicated.  

If the agent minded being laughed at there were none of the usual 
indications.  He'd seen how the smoker had frowned at his answers the 
other morning, knew the man sensed the ridicule that lay beneath the 
words and resented it.  Humor was still largely a mystery to him but 
there was something satisfying in this sport of words that humans 
played at.  

Fox Mulder just smiled, apparently sharing the joke whatever it was, 
as he continued to slowly feed himself.  The smoker hadn't laughed, 
maybe he found humor as foreign as the morph did.

The nurse was leveraging herself out of the chair.  "I'll just go get 
the things for your bath while you finish up."  She turned away from 
the bed before Mulder could respond, started for the bathroom.  
Shifting in the doorway, the morph moved partway into the room.  "Mr. 
Skinner."  He sensed her sudden fear, quickly controlled but not 
before she'd backed up a step, one hand pressed against her ample 
breast.  For a race as quick to startle as these creatures were, their 
senses were surprisingly under developed.  A veritable feast for the 
taking, just waiting for a serious predator.  

"You startled me."  She looked past him, then back again quickly.  "I 
wasn't told that you'd be visiting."

Striding past her into the room, he seated himself in the chair she'd 
just vacated, its plastic seat still warm from her body.  "Are you 
generally informed regarding Mr. Mulder's visitors?" he asked, knowing 
what response she'd have to give if she wanted to maintain the 
fiction.

The nurse frowned, blue eyes narrowing.  "No, of course not," she 
responded.  "But you're outside of normal visiting hours."  Mulder had 
stopped eating, was watching the interchange with interest.  "We have 
a schedule to keep.  Generally people who need to visit outside of the 
normal hours arrange it ahead of time."  The familiar hostile edge was 
in her voice now, barely sheathed.  "I was just about to give the 
patient his bath."

"Go right ahead.  I'll wait."  He remained in the chair, noted with 
interest the startled reaction from the patient as Mulder stared at 
him before turning to the nurse. 

"I don't think. . ."   Mulder seemed uncertain, glancing from him to 
the nurse, clearly uncomfortable.  

Before he could finish the sentence, the nurse was interrupting, dark 
brows drawing together in irritation.  "I expect Mr. Mulder would 
prefer some privacy for that, Mr. Skinner," she rebuked.  

Whatever she expected as a reaction, his blank response clearly wasn't 
it.  He had no intention of leaving.  Her wishes in the matter were 
immaterial.  With a deep sigh she turned from him to the patient, her 
voice softening.  "Have you had enough, Mulder, or should I leave this 
here?"  She glanced back at him, clearly unhappy at the prospect of 
leaving her patient in his care.  The morph didn't trouble to 
manufacture a smile, saw no sense in wasting the effort on a drone.

Mulder was looking confused, probably sensing something was wrong but 
obviously unable to figure it out.  "No, that's okay."  He had dropped 
the spoon onto the tray, was now feebly pushing the table back from 
the bed.  "I've had enough."  He glanced again at his boss, back at 
the nurse.  "Thanks, Deb."

The voice was thin, lacked the stridency he remembered from their 
encounter in the sub, much more subdued, more tentative.  Perhaps 
Assistant Directors of the FBI scared the man more than aliens.  It 
certainly looked that way from the uneasy looks Mulder was sending his 
way.

The woman was looking decidedly displeased, no longer trying to hide 
her hostility.  She raised the rail at the side of the bed, pulled on 
it slightly as if to test its stability.  Retrieving the control for 
the morphine pump from where it nestled in the rumpled bed clothes, 
she secured it more firmly to the rail before handing it to the 
patient.  She waited to see him wrap his hand around it.  "Don't lose 
that this time, Mulder," she cautioned, just a hint of tease in her 
voice, a gentle smile on the broad face.  

The morph caught the stern glance she threw his way, wondered if she 
expected him to be influenced by it.  Maybe humans actually respected 
such warnings.  

Mulder nodded acknowledgment, clearly still puzzled at the sudden 
tension in the air.  She moved to the other side of the bed, made some 
minute adjustment to the sling arrangement for the patient's left arm. 
"Is that better?"  she asked, lowering it further as Mulder sighed in 
relief at the shift.  "I'll have to raise it back up later if the 
swelling increases again," she warned, "so don't get too comfortable 
with it."  Reaching across the bed she retrieved the tray, settled it 
on one broad hip.  "I'll leave you two to talk," she finally said, 
looking past the patient to give him one final glare before turning 
and leaving the room.

It took a moment before Mulder turned from watching the door, looked 
directly at him.   "Sir?  Why are you here?"  

Judging from the man's reaction he wasn't used to getting visits from 
his boss during his hospital's stays, seemed uncomfortable with the 
whole notion of it.  

"I have a few questions I need to run by you, Agent Mulder."  The AD's 
role was a relatively easy one for him, requiring only minor shifts in 
expression and tone. 

Mulder seemed to relax back into the bed at the curt response, the 
earlier tension forgotten.  "Is Agent Scully all right?"  

He'd expected that, already had his answer prepared.  "As well as can 
be expected, Agent Mulder.  I gather she's still having some problems 
with side effects of the treatment but apparently is responding well 
other than that."  The response was accepted, Mulder nodding slightly. 
Message received but he had no idea what the nods meant, what was 
going on behind the moody green eyes.  He decided it didn't really 
matter.  "I wanted to ask you about your experience in Rhode Island, 
if you'd remembered anything more?"

Mulder was looking at him in confusion again.  "More?  Is there a 
problem?"

"Just some issues surrounding the internal inquiry.  Frankly there are 
still some concerns regarding your part in that whole affair, your 
mental stability.  It would help a lot if I could provide some answers 
as to what made you seek this treatment to start with."  The 
Englishman had suggested the approach, assured him that Mulder would 
expect this sort of thing from Skinner.

"I don't see how that's relevant."  Mulder was shifting slightly in 
the bed, grimacing with each movement.  "I thought I'd been cleared.  
Are you saying there's still some question regarding my guilt?  That 
they think I shot those people?"  

He could sense the agitation, see the struggle as the patient fought 
to bring it under control, to relax.  The right thumb moved towards 
the button on the morphine control, pulled back without actually 
pushing it.  A thin film of sweat glistened on the pale forehead.  

"Nobody is suggesting that you shot the Cassandras, Agent Mulder."  He 
needed to get the man calmed down.  The black man had been adamant on 
that subject, warned him not to upset the patient.  Such fragile 
creatures, these humans.  He wondered again at the others' interest in 
them. "They just want reassurance that this isn't going to become a 
habit, letting people drill holes in your head every time you have 
time off."  He wondered if the AD would smile, decided he wouldn't and 
kept his face stern.

"No, I'm not."  

He could hear the strain in the voice, the slight gasps for air in 
between the words, wondered if Mulder would have offered a more 
detailed defense if he'd been in better health.  Looking at the man in 
the bed he couldn't decide.  Mulder was in obvious pain, toying with 
the morphine control.  

It was curious that he hadn't pushed the button yet, when he had an 
easy solution for the pain right in his hand.  Maybe he didn't feel 
pain like the other ones, the test subjects on the ships.  Learning 
the language was simple, understanding it was considerably more 
complex.

The metal cage, enclosing the patient's left arm, gleamed under the 
fluorescent light, catching his attention.  He could see where the 
rods disappeared into the flesh, coming out on the other side.  The 
doctor had said it was the only way to fix the damage to the bones but 
it looked suspiciously like some of the devices the others used to 
test pain responses in the humans.  "That looks painful.  Does it 
hurt?" he asked, rising to walk around the bed where he could more 
closely examine the device.

"Sir?"  Mulder's eyes were tracking his movements, growing wary as he 
approached the sling.   The morph wondered if the data he had from the 
Englishman was correct.  Human history was littered with examples of 
physical torture being used to extract information.  Supposedly the 
FBI did not employ such methods in its employee relations, but the 
agent in the bed was clearly distressed, trying to pull away as he 
reached out to run one finger up the forearm, careful to avoid the 
long incision.  The sensory overload nearly made him withdraw.  No 
question, the human was in pain, considerable pain as he understood 
it.  "Please. . .don't"  Mulder's eyes were closed, his breath coming 
in short gasps, as he tried to pull the arm away, had nowhere to go.  
The sling effectively trapped the limb.

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder."  Concern, he thought, felt his own body 
shift as the stern face softened, the voice changed cadence.  "I 
didn't mean to hurt you."  The touch had been light, nothing that 
would have caused a pain reaction normally.  "I gather from your 
reaction that it does hurt."  He kept the concern in the voice, mixed 
with apology.  

The agent was starting to recover, opening his eyes slowly as the 
morph settled back into the chair.  He still hadn't pushed the button 
on the morphine control.  The hazel eyes were wary now, watching him 
closely.  "Let's just say, I don't aspire to be Arnie."  The eyes 
narrowed further at his blank response.  "Don't tell me you haven't 
seen Terminator, sir."  

"Ah, Arnold Swartzenegger," he responded, finally understanding the 
reference.  "Somehow I can't see you as The Terminator, Agent Mulder. 
Even when you're in a lot better shape than you are now."  The mouth 
quirked in reaction without him having to think about it.  "Although 
the smoker would probably disagree."  It was dangerous to play with 
this one.  He knew it, but it was seductive, much more interesting 
than toying with the minds of the ones who were supposedly in charge. 



"Is that where the questions are coming from?  Cancerman?"  Mulder had 
pounced on the last comment, voice climbing as he continued, "He's 
trying to shut us down again, isn't he?"

"Calm down, Agent Mulder," he counseled, waved one hand in 
reassurance.  "He's not going to shut you down."  Leaning forward, he 
lowered his voice conspiratorially.  "You might be able to shut him 
down if you can just remember more details of what happened in Rhode 
Island.  I understand from talking to Agent Scully that you feel you 
were close to remembering more specifics about your past, something to 
do with your sister's abduction."

The withdrawal was subtle, a slight shift in how the patient held 
himself, increased suspicion in the eyes.  "Scully told you that?"  

He waited for further hints of what he'd said wrong, saw that none 
would be forthcoming.  "She did.  She wanted me to ask you about it, 
to see if you'd remembered anything more."  Kept the tone sincere, 
he'd learned that nuance well.  The patient was still eyeing him 
suspiciously.  "Does that surprise you?"  

"It. . .I. . .hurts. . ."  A sudden wince accompanied the words but 
something was wrong.  This wasn't physical pain, not as the morph 
understood it.  Before he could react, the agent depressed the button 
on the morphine pump twice in quick succession, relaxed before the 
morph's eyes as the drug made its way in through the IV.  "Tired,," he 
mumbled, barely finishing the word before dropping off to sleep. 

Something had gone wrong and the morph wasn't sure what.   He reviewed 
the interchange in his head.  Did Mulder suspect Skinner or suspect he 
wasn't Skinner?  Looking around the room he wondered if the man really 
believed he was in a hospital.  It must be Skinner he suspected and 
that suspicion had something to do with Agent Scully and what he'd 
just said.  It was beginning to look as if the consortium members 
really didn't know what was going on in Washington.  Either that, or 
they were lying to him, something they would live to regret.















HE walked past Skinner's secretary, who gave him a sidelong look and 
nodded.  She might not like him, but she knew better than to stop him. 
He liked it when people knew their places; it made things simpler.

The office was empty, but steam rose from a cup of coffee in the 
center of the desk.  Ah, not far away then.  Moving closer to the 
desk, he looked at the folder lying there open, saw the notes Skinner 
had made in the margins. Short, curt and to the point.  So Skinner.

It amused him.  But then there was a lot about Skinner that amused him 
these days, including the fact that he had a leash on a man who 
couldn't be leashed, except by proper procedure.

Ironic, considering Skinner's early career.   Smiling, he reached into 
his jacket, extracted the pack of cigarettes and shook one free.   
Reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his lighter, flicked it 
to life, his eyes moving over Skinner's notes as his mouth curved.

Scully had given them one hold on him, his noble request for Scully's 
cure. He laughed softly, thinking about it.

A man's voice outside, talking to the secretary.  Soft scuff of 
leather on carpet and he felt, rather than saw, Skinner in the 
doorway.  

"I see why they're afraid of you," he told Skinner lightly and turned 
to look up, tapping ash on the polished surface deliberately.  "You 
don't show any patience with them."

Skinner stood there, regarding him stonily, then came in and closed 
the door.  "What can I do for you?"  Flatly, voice uninflected.

"We need to talk."  Smiling again, he took the armchair near the desk. 
Leaned back comfortably and watched as Skinner moved toward the desk, 
took his seat as if alone in the office.

"I fail to see why."  Brusquely.  Not looking at him, Skinner pulled 
the file folder toward himself, picked up a pen again and began making 
quick notes.

"The budget meeting."  He let his voice harden.  "You short-circuited 
Blevins.  You know very well that the X-files section is closed."

Brief glance.  "Not until the Director says it is."  Calmly, but a 
muscle twitched in Skinner's jaw.

Yes, that was a problem.  "I think the Director will come to see the 
necessity with the right information."  He took a long drag on the 
cigarette, welcoming the nicotine.   "But you haven't given it to 
him."

"I think the Director can make his own decisions."   Still making 
notes.

Damn the man.  "I don't see that you have a choice."  Time to show the 
steel inside the glove.  "I want you to write a recommendation and 
send it through to the Director."

Skinner looked up, but not at him.  At the opposite wall.  Smiling 
just a little.  "Oh, I have."

Enough to make him nervous.  He was going to have Blevins' balls for 
this if what he suddenly feared was true.  "Oh, really?  Good."  
Deceptively casual, but he narrowed his eyes, watching Skinner's 
profile.

"Yes, I recommended that the section be kept open for the time being 
until independent auditors could evaluate their validity."  Now, 
Skinner wheeled the chair around, gazing at him calmly.  "I pointed 
out that Agent Scully's illness, and her shock over Mulder's suicide 
might well have lent some unreliability to her evaluation."

The sheer effrontery of it took words away for a moment.  He stared at 
Skinner, temporarily dumbstruck.  Then, managing to collect his wits, 
he scowled.  "Don't play games, Mr. Skinner.  You'll lose this one, I 
guarantee."

"Threats?"  Skinner arched an eyebrow.  "Didn't I read somewhere that 
threats were the last resort of the essentially powerless?"  Skinner's 
mouth curved very slightly.

"Don't ever underestimate me," he told Skinner harshly.  "You have 
before, to your disadvantage.  I notice you came to me when Scully's 
illness was diagnosed."

Skinner's gaze was dispassionate.  "And you failed to come through 
with your part of that bargain.  Contract canceled."

"I think you might find that a mistake."  

Skinner's mouth curved again.  "I might.  Or you might." The chair 
wheeled again and Skinner went back to work. "I'm sure the Director 
will come to some decision shortly."

He definitely was going to have Blevins' balls.  Mounted on his office 
wall. For the moment, he had other matters to attend to.  "I suggest 
you recall that we have evidence that you would certainly prefer not 
to have out in the open."  Very softly.  The velvet glove again.

"Photographic evidence can be faked."  Skinner glanced up. 

Something had happened.  He was abruptly glad that Marita was going to 
be watching Skinner.  "Don't be too certain of that, Mr. Skinner.  I 
would suggest that you rethink your attitude. "

He'd taught Skinner some hard lessons, but the man didn't seem to want 
to learn.  Pity you had to break them before they learned.   The 
question was, how to break a man without ties.  It would require some 
thought.

Turning, he went back to the door.  Stopped and turned.  "At the next 
budget meeting, I expect the matter at hand to be dealt 
with....properly."

The only answer was another brief glance.   But he trusted that he'd 
made his point.

He hoped he had.