THE message on her answering machine asked her to call Dr. Selby.  
They were going to seriously regret it if they tried to reschedule her 
now. Enough of that noise.  Sinking down into the corner of her couch, 
Scully reached for the phone.  Picked it up and punched in the numbers 
from memory.

Nurse Bambi, or whatever the hell her name was, came on the line.  
"Dr. Selby would like to schedule an MRI for you, Ms. Scully.  And 
he'd like you to come down to the lab again and have some bloodwork 
done."  Professional tone, crisp and clean.

"I just had an MRI," Scully told her irritably.  "You should have the 
results by now."

There was a brief silence.   "Just a moment, Ms. Scully.  Let me check 
with Dr. Selby."

Muzak replaced Nurse Bambi.  Frowning, Scully waited.  Inefficiency, 
she thought, and let her temper build.  As if she didn't have enough 
to deal with, she had to deal with people who couldn't find their 
butts with both hands.  

After what seemed an eternity spent in hell, listening to elevator 
music, a male voice replaced the female one of earlier.  "Ms. Scully? 
 This is Dr. Selby."  

Promising, at least being a bitch had the advantage of getting you 
right to the top.  "Actually, it's Dr. Scully, Doctor."  She was in no 
mood to be mollified.  "What's all this about another MRI?  I just had 
one on Wednesday.  You should have the results by now."

"Yes, Dr. Scully, we do have the results, but there were some 
anomalies in the scan."  Seamless shift to Doctor, no hint in his 
voice of any offense at the rebuke.  "I'd like to get another one, and 
I'd like to recheck your bloodwork.  The only results I have here are 
several weeks old. I'd like to have a current set of tests.  Just a 
precaution, nothing to worry about."

Her stomach knotted with dread.  "What kind of anomalies?" she 
demanded.  "Dr. Selby, I am a pathologist, I'd appreciate it if you 
didn't treat me as though I wasn't."

Brief pause.  "Dr. Scully, I recognize your medical expertise but in 
this case you are also a patient.  I ask that you respect my medical 
judgement in waiting to discuss this with you until I'm more 
comfortable with your case." 

Oh, Jesus.  It was worse than she'd thought.

Despite the sick feeling in her stomach she almost smiled.  Brandy was 
right, this guy was thorough. "Please don't take offense, Doctor." She 
kept the smile out of her voice, sure he wouldn't appreciate the joke. 
 "I'm sure you're quite well qualified but I think it might be better 
if I wait until Dr. Markham returns and discuss the results with him 
before agreeing to any more tests.  Isn't he supposed to be back on 
Monday?" She might not have much of a life, but she had better things 
to do than spend it all at the hospital undergoing repeat tests just 
to make him feel more comfortable.

The line hummed.  For a moment she thought she'd been disconnected.  
"Dr. Selby?" 

"Oh dear."  The voice on the other end of the line was flustered.  No 
trace of the calm assurance she'd heard just a moment before.  "I 
thought Helen had told you.  I'm terribly sorry."  

There must be some sort of dithering virus making the rounds.  First 
her mother, now the oncologist.  "Told me what, Doctor?" 

The calm, professional voice was back.  "I'm sorry to have to tell 
you, Dr. Scully, but Dr. Markham was killed last Thursday."

The voice was droning on but she couldn't hear.  The phone had slipped 
from her grasp, dropped to the mattress.  Killed?  It wasn't possible. 
Why would anyone kill her oncologist?  Why would anyone kill her 
sister?  She felt hysteria bubbling, stared at the phone, finally 
registered that the voice was calling her name.

"I'm here," she said, picking up the phone, tried to still the 
trembling in her voice, her hand.  "I'm sorry.  I dropped the phone." 
 Realized she was rushing, forgetting to breathe, took time to draw a 
deep breath before continuing.  "Are you saying he was murdered?  How? 
 When?"

"No, no."  Flustered again, Dr. Selby was now rushing, words stumbling 
over each other as he hastened to reassure her.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't 
mean to confuse you.  No, not murdered.  It was a car accident, last 
Thursday. Dreadful really."  He paused, proceeded more calmly.  "I 
realize this is a bit of a shock.  It's been a dreadful shock for all 
of us here as well.  I can assure you he didn't suffer.  He died 
instantly."

An accident.  There had been a time when she believed accidents were 
accidents.  Working with Mulder and the X-Files had stolen that 
innocence. "Are the police quite sure it was an accident, Doctor?"  

The rational part of her brain was trying to make her shut up, stop 
asking such stupid questions, told her she was paranoid to even 
question such a thing.  Dr. Selby must have been on the same 
wavelength.  "Excuse me?"  

"Are the police quite sure it was an accident?"  She knew repeating it 
wasn't going to make it sound any more rational but still had to ask. 

She had to give it to Selby.  Markham probably would have written her 
off as a nut, but Selby took the time to answer, somehow sensing it 
was important even if he didn't understand why.  "As I understand it, 
it was a multi-vehicle accident on the Beltway, Dr. Scully.  A drunk 
driver, rush hour traffic, there were several fatalities and a young 
girl lost her leg." He paused, finally offered, "There was a fair 
amount of coverage in the papers.  You could look it up or talk to the 
police yourself if you want more details."  

"Thank you.  I will," she whispered, feeling ridiculously relieved 
somehow, even as she ached for the waste of human life, the young girl 
who would have to learn how to walk on one leg.  Drunk drivers were 
the wild cards of life.  Doctor Markham had obviously just drawn a bad 
hand.  Tragic but a simple accident.

"I don't wish to rush you, Dr. Scully, but I really am quite busy.  
Can I give you back to my nurse so she can schedule the MRI, the 
additional blood work?"  The earlier warmth had cooled slightly.  
"Unless of course you'd like to find a different physician?  That is, 
of course, your prerogative."

"No, no, that's fine," she assured, suddenly missing the earlier 
warmth, the supportive voice.  "I'd like to stay with you for now, 
Doctor, if you don't mind.  I'm not usually this difficult.  It's just 
been a bad couple of days."  Didn't know why she felt the need to 
explain, apologize for her earlier distrust.

"That's not a problem, Doctor.  No offense taken.  As I said, it was a 
shock for all of us," he said, gentle empathy in his voice. "I'll let 
you talk to the nurse and schedule it.  I'm terribly sorry for the 
inconvenience. I've asked her to schedule it for a time when I can 
meet with you right afterwards, discuss the results.  I'll even come 
over to the hospital, meet you at the lab, so you don't have to trek 
over here.  She'll reschedule your appointment with me to match the 
time you select.  I know how hard this must all be for you."

Her eyes stung at the unexpected kindness.  "Thank you, Doctor.  I 
appreciate that."

"The least I can do," he assured and then he was gone.

The nurse came back on and she listened to her choices, selected late 
Monday afternoon, the earliest available time.  Agreed to come in 
Monday morning to have the bloodwork done.   

Hung up the phone feeling strangely bereft, despite Dr. Selby's 
warmth. Mulder, now Markham.  She didn't have much time left but it 
suddenly felt like everyone else in her life was racing her to be 
first across the finish line.











"EXCUSE me, Miss, but that seat is taken."

Tight, black, leather pants molded to slim calves and thighs, drawing 
the eye up the long legs to where the leather pulled tight across 
narrow hips with just the right degree of lush curves.  Jet black hair 
cascaded past the tiny waist, in stark contrast with the snug white 
t-shirt, vivid even in the dim lighting of the theater.  Pale, blue 
eyes glittered behind thick, dark lashes as the woman stared down at 
him for a moment before ignoring his comment and settling into the 
seat.

The Russian briefly considered moving, there were plenty of other 
empty seats, but the whore would probably follow him.  He had no doubt 
that that was what she was.  The garish clothing and overdone makeup 
combined with her odd choice of seating made it almost a certainty.  

The theater was virtually deserted and he'd deliberately chosen some 
of the poorest seating in the house, more interested in privacy than a 
good view of the screen.  His contact was due at any moment.  Maybe 
he'd just wait, let her evict the trespasser.  That could be 
interesting to watch.  After all, the theater had been Marita's 
choice, not his, let her deal with the problem.

"Would you care for some popcorn?"  The soft, cultured voice took him 
by surprise, brought his head around with a snap to stare more closely 
at the woman, one delicate hand holding out a bag of popcorn to him.  
Scarlet lips were curved in laughter, the dark brows arched in the 
pale face as her eyes looked full into his.

"Marita?"  The voice, eyes, slim build, and cheekbones were right, 
even if everything else was wrong.  He couldn't take his eyes off her. 
The tiny t-shirt left little to the imagination, was disconcerting him 
almost as much as the meeting place.

"Um hmmm," she responded, as she dropped a single kernel of popcorn 
into her mouth, watching him watch her as she slowly maneuvered it 
with lips and tongue, clearly savoring the flavor, before swallowing. 
"I do so love popcorn.  Bad for the hips but one must occasionally 
give into one's vices, don't you think?"  The question was all 
innocence, asked idly as if food was the only thing on her mind.

The lights were dimming fully now, as the credits started to scroll 
across the screen, noise masquerading as music playing in the 
background.  "What are you doing?  Why are you dressed like that?"  
He'd wondered at her choice when she'd set the meeting place, was even 
more mystified now, still couldn't adjust to how she looked, that he'd 
mistaken her for a common whore.

She laughed, kept it soft, but a man seated ten rows below still 
looked back nervously, abandoned his seat, moved to one further away, 
closer to the screen.  Perhaps he thought she'd been laughing at him. 



Glaring at Marita, he saw she was more amused than concerned by the 
man's actions, seeming to take it in stride.  "You thought perhaps I 
would wear a suit?"  Another sparkle of laughter broke lose.  "Surely 
not.  No, this is better for being inconspicuous."  She leaned back in 
the seat, took another bite of popcorn, seemingly at home in her 
chosen garb and the dirty theater.

He looked down at worsted, gray pants still visible between the gaps 
where his trenchcoat fell open, pulled the coat tighter around his 
suit.  Glanced up to find Marita watching his actions, eyes bright 
with amusement.  "Don't worry so much, Sergei, you look like you 
belong here," she whispered conspiratorially.  "The raincoat is 
perfect."  

The bright red lips were curved into a soft smile, voice so sultry it 
took a moment for the words to register.  Frowning he looked about the 
theater, trying to avoid the naked bodies writhing on the screen, 
unsure if she was insulting him or men in general, maybe both.  The 
crowd was small but most of the men were wearing trenchcoats.  "Would 
you believe me if I told you I've never been to one of these places 
before?" he asked, feeling suddenly defensive.

That same distant smile.  "Would you believe me if I told you I don't 
care?" she responded.  Before he could think of a suitable reply, she 
shifted modes, suddenly all business.  "I brought the tape. Do you 
have the money?"  She pulled a large leather bag into her lap, 
extracted the videocassette, handed it to him.

He loosened the raincoat, pulled a thick envelope from the inside 
pocket.  "Why so much?" he asked, hesitating before passing it to her. 
"Our comrades in Moscow will expect some explanation."

She extended one hand, shook it lightly, intentionally setting the 
cheap bangles on her wrist jangling against each other.  "What?  You 
think this wardrobe comes cheap?"  

The rapid shifts from her normal ice persona to temptress to tease had 
him completely off balance.  Most disconcerting of all was the 
laughter.  He'd never seen her smile before, not in all the years and 
ways he'd known her, had wondered if she even knew how. 

"Relax, Sergei.  It's the cost of doing business, nothing more."  She 
tucked the envelope in the bag, didn't bother to count.  "I may have 
to grease a few palms before this is over and want to be prepared.  
Hired help does not come cheaply, not if you want someone discrete."  
She was studying the screen, no longer looking at him.  "The tape I 
got for free. Consider it a gift."

He turned the cassette in his hand, reviewing what she'd told him on 
the phone.  "As bad as you said?"

"Worse."  She'd set the popcorn aside, was wiping her fingers one by 
one on a paper napkin, taking her time.  "They've got a top notch 
medical team there but it's still going to be touch and go.  You know 
these people.  His welfare is secondary to their agenda."  There was 
no humor on the fine features now.  "We have to get him out of there. 
Soon."

"Yes, of course, we're all in agreement on that," he assured.  "How 
did your meeting with Mr. Skinner go?  Can we count on his help in 
this?"

Feral, he'd seen eyes like that before, from train windows as he'd 
crossed through the Siberian forest.  "I believe so, especially after 
he gets his copy of the tape.  Yes, I expect Mr. Skinner will make a 
most interesting ally in our efforts."  Just a glimpse of pale, pink 
tongue as it flicked over ruby lips.  "Most interesting." 

There was a sudden moan from one of the viewers in the front, as the 
man jerked in his seat.  He pretended he hadn't noticed, knew from the 
smile tugging at those lips that she had.  "What about blood work?  
How long do we have before they notice the anomalies?"  He kept the 
question low, pitched barely loud enough to be heard over the steady 
chant of 'Oh baby' coming from the speakers.  

Marita frowned.  "I was unable to stop the first batch from going 
through.  Most likely they'll redo it, as the results won't make any 
sense to them."  She tapped the bag.  "Remember the hired help?"

He nodded, one eye on the screen, caught himself before his hand made 
it to his groin, to ease the sudden swelling there.  Forced it back 
onto the armrest, pulled his attention away from the screen.

If Marita noticed, she gave no indication.  "They're calling in some 
extra nurses.  Bruce, the courier who so generously donated the tape, 
is one of them.  He's got the same blood type as Agent Mulder and can 
be persuaded to offer his services for the right price.  Our friends 
at Tunguska get the blood samples they need and the lab gets blood 
with no trace of the antibodies."

"If money is what he's after, why did he give you a copy of the tape 
for free?"  he asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Let's just say that money is not all that motivates him, Sergei."  
Slowly opening a lipstick, she made him wait while she carefully redid 
the already perfect mouth.  "He was well paid, or at least he thinks 
he was."  

"What does that mean?" he asked, suddenly jealous.  The sexual part of 
their relationship had been over for years, but it still galled to see 
her using her body for barter, made him question if that was all 
they'd really had, a business relationship.  "Did you sleep with him?"

She turned to him with a frown.  "I did not 'sleep with him' as you so 
delicately put it.  I'm not that dedicated to the cause."  The full 
mouth quirked, relaxed.  "He slept.  I copied.  Then I thanked him and 
sent him on his way."

Confused, he scowled back at her.  "Thanked him for what?  Letting you 
copy the tape?"

"For his wonderful performance, of course."  She was watching the 
screen, not even looking at him.  From the bored expression on her 
face the couples writhing on the bed may as well have been playing 
chess.  "Wonderful drug, Roofies."

"And he actually believes that you had sex with him?"  He couldn't 
keep the skepticism out of his voice.  She must think him a fool, 
expecting him to believe that she had managed such a trick.

"Sergei, if a beautiful woman wakes you with a kiss and thanks you for 
giving her the best night of her life are you going to admit that you 
have no memory of the actual act?"  She was looking back at the 
screen.  "Trust me on this.  By now he's filled in all the details and 
convinced himself it actually happened, probably right down to all the 
positions and how many times he made me moan."

She stood, picked up the bag and slung it carelessly over her right 
shoulder.  "I'll take care of Bruce and Mr. Skinner.  You just make 
sure to tell me right away if the lab finds anything in the bloodwork 
that has them worried.  We don't want Agent Mulder dying of some odd 
infection before we can get him out."  

"That's it?  No message for Alexei?" he asked, irritated that she was 
closing the meeting.  He was supposed to be in charge but she'd held 
the reins the whole way through.  

She bent down, careless of the long hair which spilled across his lap 
as she whispered in his ear, "Just give him a copy of the tape.  I 
guarantee he'll like that.  Tell him it's a present from me."  The 
faint scent of perfume lingered as she stood, moved back into the 
aisle.

"I don't think that's at all advisable."  Alexei was already far too 
fixated on his former partner.  This would just stir his bloodthirst. 
"We're having enough difficulty controlling him as is."

She shrugged.  "That's up to you then.  Just give him my love."  

He watched her leave, saw several of the men turn from the screen to 
study the sway of her hips as she made her way to the exit.  She 
tossed the mane of hair back over her shoulder as she passed through 
the door.  

Scowling at the screen he tried to shake the nagging doubts, the 
growing suspicion that he'd been used as much as Bruce.  The blonde on 
the screen turned and looked directly at him, smiled a sultry smile 
before she lowered pouty lips to capture the full cock below her.  
Whores, all of them, he thought, settling more comfortably back into 
the seat.  Might as well enjoy them.













McCRORY'S was a typical mock Irish pub.  Not even authentic, just that 
jumped up yuppie style that met the need for someplace that didn't 
serve nouvelle cuisine.

Skinner found the last booth empty, a suspicious enough circumstance 
at 7:00 on a Thursday night, and took it, sliding across the revolting 
attempt at Irish plaid without looking at it.   The waitress, a weary 
young woman who was probably working her way through school, took his 
order of Irish stew and stout without much interest or enthusiasm, 
which suited Skinner just fine.

He loathed the perkiness of waitstaff who showed up and made personal 
introductions as if they and you were buddies.

The stew was passable, but it was about as Irish as Mulder.   Nursing 
the Moulson's, Skinner leaned back and surveyed the pub, assessing 
each face he studied with a kind of distant amusement.  If anyone gave 
the waitstaff trouble tonight, he was going to let the yuppies deal 
with it.  Chivalry was now dead in the Skinner household, getting shot 
once was enough.  He wasn't Mulder, for Christ's sake, he learned his 
lessons, even if he learned them the hard way.

The man who finally entered and came toward his booth was resolutely 
unremarkable.   Despite the expensive suit, he had the manner and the 
style that Skinner associated with Euro-trash; as he passed by, he 
bumped Skinner's table and dropped a key near Skinner's feet before 
passing through to the bathrooms in the back.

Cloak and dagger.  

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Skinner studied the other 
occupants of the pub and finally dropped his credit card on the floor 
just beside the booth, as if fumbling it.  Leaned down and retrieved 
both card and key.  

His waitress, passing by with a harassed expression, paused and looked 
at him.  "Ready for the check?  I'll have it for you in just a minute, 
sir."

Palming the key, Skinner reached into his overcoat pocket, retrieved 
his keys and dropped the key.   The waitress returned, took his card 
and vanished again, then returned with the slip for him to sign.

It remained to be seen if the entire episode was worth the twenty-six 
dollars he'd had to drop on stew, beer and tip.

Once he could examine it in the car, the key proved to be to a bus 
locker.  Which at least saved him the trip out to either airport.

It was lunacy for him to go out anyway.  That was probably why he went 
alone, after figuring out where she'd aimed him.

If he was tailed, he couldn't detect it, but the suspicion that he 
probably had been raised the hackles on the back of his neck and kept 
him tense and taut, as if he were back twenty-five years on patrol.

It might have kept him safe.  He just wasn't sure.

Retrieving the contents of the locker--padded envelope, 8 1/2 by 11, 
no bigger, he tucked it into his coat and returned to his car.

Without pausing to examine the contents, he pulled out of the parking 
lot and took a long, winding way home, watching the lights in the 
rearview mirror. But he reached his apartment without any sign of 
surveillance.  That he could detect, he reminded himself and kept his 
guard up until he'd reached his apartment and gone through all the 
rooms.

Deadbolted the door, smiling at his own bitter humor.  They'd broken 
into his apartment before, without any sign of entry.  They could have 
added all kinds of marvelous toys after he'd had it swept and he'd 
never be the wiser.  

The envelope contained videotape.   A couple of cash gas receipts, one 
from just outside the metro area, another from Baltimore.  Puzzle 
pieces, and she wanted him to put them together.  Temper made him 
crush them in one hand, drop them on the couch as he rose and went to 
the VCR.

If it was one of Mulder's videos, he told himself, pushing the 
cassette into the slot, he was going to be sorely disappointed in her. 
Sitting down on the coffee table, he reached for the remote, thumbed 
the television to life.  Thumbed the VCR on, too.

Jim Lehrer gave way to an out of focus image, that gradually sharpened 
to reveal....what?  The lens dipped wildly, taking in a section of 
floorboard and scuffed linoleum, then steadied and slowly panned back 
up the white wall. Impatience made him lean forward.  What the fuck 
was it?  So far it had all the makings of one of those stupid art 
films Sharon had loved, what were they called....experiential?

"I'm waiting, gentlemen."  The voice was clipped, definitely British, 
what he'd heard called the Beeb voice, not quite aristocratic, 
softened by years in the States or broadcaster's training.

Two men entered the frame from the left, the taller one shrugging into 
a gray suitcoat, hurrying after his slim companion.  The taller man 
turned to face the camera, squinted reflexively against the light.  
"Does it have to be so bright?"  

"Yes."  The stark rejoinder seemed to galvanize the two subjects 
somehow, and they both straightened, made minute adjustments to ties 
and cuffs.  

Skinner catalogued features, brown hair, tall, blond, short, standard 
government haircuts.  Neither of them looked familiar.  The giant on 
the left had the build of a pro-wrestler, not an office worker and his 
suitcoat was not roomy enough to accommodate the combined effects of 
steroids and weight lifting.  

"Leave it unbuttoned."   Impatience thinly reined in.  Apparently the 
cameraman had noted the wardrobe problems as well.   "Do you have the 
passes?"  

Jesus, more clones, Skinner told himself, watching incredulously as 
the two simultaneously extracted the requested passes from their 
respective suit pockets and slipped lanyards over their heads, 
mirroring each other's movements as they adjusted the dangling plastic 
cards.   Maybe Mulder's suspicions about subliminal messages in 
television programming weren't as paranoid as they sounded.

"Excellent.  You at least look the part now."  

The giant didn't look like he appreciated the cameraman's contemptuous 
tone, but it was Blondie who opened his mouth to respond.  

The soft voice cut him off before he could get the first syllable out. 
"Just keep your mouths shut and don't spoil the effect." 

Blondie shut his mouth with an audible snap. Interesting.  Skinner 
hadn't seen that snappy a response since boot camp.  These two were 
looking more and more like military personnel and less like 
Rent-a-Goons.  But what he really wanted was a view of the mysterious 
cameraman with the Brit accent.

Who said, still with that edged tone, "I will remind you both that 
this would not be necessary if you had followed the simple 
instructions you were given."  

The blonde was quick to jump in this time, "But we already. . ." 

"Explained, yes, quite," said the voice behind the camera quellingly. 
The camera swung to the right, lowered, lingered on a tarp, covering a 
lumpy form.  "Unless you'd care to join your colleague with the 
outgoing trash...."   The camera swung back to catch the now wary eyes 
of the two men by the wall, "I'd suggest you dispense with any further 
'explanations.'  My associates are not interested in your inadequate 
excuses for this fiasco."  

A soft voice, female, cut in off-camera, whispered something about 
needing more equipment.  "Tell the good doctor he must make due with 
the present arrangements for now, my dear.  I'm well aware of his 
needs and the deficiencies of the current arrangements.  Supplies are 
on the way.  Just remind him to remember his role."  The camera stayed 
focused on the two men, now fidgeting, shifting nervously from one 
foot to the other.

"Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?" There was 
something about a British accent that just oozed arrogance, reflected 
Skinner, watching the two goons smolder in response.  "Ah yes, your 
past incompetence.  I trust I've made my stance clear on the issue of 
your inadequate excuses."  

The two exchanged apprehensive glances, gave brief nods in response.  

"Good.  Just remember, neither of you have speaking parts in this 
video."   Crisply.   A brief cough, then the voice continued, slightly 
altered.  "Gentlemen, you see before you our temporary news crew.  I'm 
sure they appreciate the chance to redeem themselves."  

No reaction from Blondie, but the giant squared his shoulders, stared 
steadily into the camera.  "As the individuals directly responsible 
for the change in plans, they are going to show you the mess they've 
created."  Both figures' eyes swiveled to the right, in the direction 
of their late colleague.  "As you can see, they clearly understand the 
likely consequences of any further, ah, divergence from our plans."   
The voice again shifted slightly, losing its professorial tones.  "You 
do know how to use this thing?"  

Skinner leaned further forward, elbows resting on his knees, felt his 
brows rise in surprise as the larger man nodded in response.  Not who 
he would have pegged as the more competent of the two.  Then again, 
ability to operate a videocamera wasn't necessarily indicative of 
overall competence.   He didn't doubt the Brit's competence, and he 
hadn't started out well at all.

The picture swirled briefly, revealing more linoleum and wallboard, 
before stabilizing on the toes of buffed wingtips.  "Get that thing 
away from me."  The accent all but disappeared in the harshly barked 
command.  

Skinner watched as the camera swiveled backwards, resting now on 
large, brown leather shoes, probably Rockports, no doubt covering the 
feet of the new cameraman.    

"You have your instructions.  See that you don't veer from them this 
time."  The voice was soft, but brooked no interference.  "He will 
remember this later.  Make sure you don't give him anything to 
remember that doesn't fit with our scenario or I'll have the good 
doctor autopsy you both without benefit of anesthesia."  

The camera swayed slightly, still focused on the shoes and the floor. 



"There won't be any mistakes."  It was Blondie, identified Skinner, 
recognizing the whine.  

"See that there aren't.  I'll be watching.  Now go."  

The camera swung back up, caught the back of Blondie's head as the 
shorter man, hoisting a bright lamp on his shoulder, led the way 
through a narrow corridor, past several closed doors, before finally 
stopping in front of two wide swinging doors.  "Ready?"  Blond brows 
scowled at the camera, then settled into a bland mask, before he 
turned to push wide the swinging doors, holding one wide for the 
cameraman.

It was at times like these that Skinner envied Mulder's photographic 
memory.  One pass and Mulder would have absorbed more details than he 
would in six viewings.  He scanned the screen, searching for as many 
clues as possible, a gurney, bare legs and feet strapped to the near 
end, several people in white coats blocking any view of the rest of 
the body.  

Recognized the heart monitor, a crash cart, IV poles and bags, 
assorted medical trappings which were all too familiar from ER visits. 
A curtain was pulled around most of the bed, blocking the bulk of the 
room from the patient's view, hiding the cardboard boxes, and assorted 
debris that definitely did not belong in an ER.

"He's coming around."  A woman moved at the head of the bed, giving 
him a brief glimpse of brown hair, before another form shifted to fill 
the gap.

"Get up there, you can't even tell who they're working on." Blondie's 
voice again, pitched low, probably directed at the cameraman.

The camera moved closer, shifted to come around the foot of the 
medical table.

Skinner's pulse sped again, ridiculously fast as the camera panned up 
the body.  He knew that face.  Had seen it all too recently, minus the 
familiar jaw. 

But now, it was intact, albeit bruised and swollen, badly abraded on 
the left side, scarlet saturated gauze on the forehead.  He catalogued 
the restraints holding the right arm, and both ankles, another strap 
across the bare thighs.   More abrasions across the chest, abdomen and 
hips.  A sheet thrown loosely across the lower belly and groin.  

He tried to see past the confusion of assorted hands trading 
instruments and blood soaked bandages to the other arm.  Hitting the 
pause button didn't help.  There were too many bodies in the way.  It 
was impossible to see what exactly they were doing.  Hit play as he 
flashed on new mothers, counting their infants' fingers and toes.  

He didn't want to think about what Freud might have to say about him 
trying to count Mulder's limbs.   Fortunately, Mulder didn't like 
Freud, he was safe from comments from that venue.

"Lie still, sir, we're trying to help you."  A different voice, a 
man's.   Dark hands in the camera's lens, holding Mulder's lids open, 
shining a small light into his eyes. "What's BP, Maryann?"

Maryann muttered something unintelligible on the tape and the camera 
focused briefly on her as she looked up from the reading.  

"All right, people, his vitals are acceptable, we need to get some 
X-rays.   I'm worried about the head injury, I want to rule out 
fracture before we give him anything at all.   Sir, can you tell me 
your name?"  The dark hands turned Mulder's head gently, fingers 
gently probing, measuring the amount of damage.

Mulder moaned, tried to jerk his arms free and made another sound that 
raised the hair on the back of Skinner's neck.  "Christ, don't--"

"I'm sorry, it's all right, sir, we're trying to help you."   One dark 
hand stroked the undamaged side of Mulder's face very gently.  "Don't 
move your arm, sir.  It's badly broken and you're only going to do 
yourself more damage." 

Skinner's hands had clenched into fists.  He'd been in emergency rooms 
with his people before, fought the urge to grab the staff by their 
collars and demand that they do something.   The muscles in his 
shoulder ached from tension, from wanting to make the bastards do 
something.  

A guttural moan was the only answer.  Dark lashes fluttered against 
the pale skin, opened briefly, slammed shut instantly as Mulder 
quickly swiveled his head out of the glare of the light.   Another 
groan broke through, cut short by a stream of vomit, as the body on 
the bed convulsed.

"Christ."  Skinner shut his eyes momentarily, was almost relieved to 
find the camera's view blocked when he opened them again, though he 
could still hear the sound of retching in the background. Felt his own 
gut clench in response, felt his gorge rise and swallowed acid.

"Get those cameras out of here.  No media."  The voice was male but a 
heavyset woman had moved in front of the camera, fleshy palms 
outstretched to block the lens and the offending light.  The camera 
caught her face briefly.

"Turn his head, Maryann, he's aspirating!  Fuck!"  Skinner tried to 
make sense out of the activity barely visible behind the hands but it 
was hopeless.  The voices were fading in the background as the hands 
suddenly disappeared, replaced by the familiar swinging doors.

The scene went to black for several seconds, opened on a different 
scene, another room.  Pale blush walls in the background, a dark 
skinned man in a white coat sitting next to a table, staring at the 
camera.  Little visible in the way of decoration, beyond the metal and 
glass box propped at one end of the table and assorted folders. 

His mind still on Mulder, on the blood and pain, Skinner absently 
watched the man scoot the chair down to the box and pick up a piece of 
film to snap it into place.   The elegant dark fingers were familiar, 
last seen holding his missing agent's face.  

"Are you ready?"  The voice was familiar as well, although 
considerably less stressed than when he'd last heard it, barking out 
orders in the makeshift ER.    Now he had a face to go with the voice 
and hands and he smiled ferally.  Got you, you bastard.   At least on 
film.  

The picture's focus, already good, improved slightly, and a familiar, 
cultured voice answered, "Yes, doctor.  Please explain to my 
associates the extent of Mr. Mulder's injuries and the likely impact, 
if any, to our time schedule."  

"It's difficult to know where to start, gentlemen."  Still looking at 
the camera, the doctor thumbed a switch, illuminating the lightbox and 
the attached x-ray.  

Skinner winced as the camera angle narrowed, as splintered bone 
filling the screen.  Christ, even he could see that.  

The doctor continued, the slightest trace of an New York accent 
coloring his words, "For those of you unfamiliar with the finer points 
of anatomy, this is the radius....." One hand appeared, holding a 
grease pencil, hovered above the image, pointing to the larger of the 
fractured bones, "....and the ulna."  The pencil moved slightly, 
drawing an arrow to the narrower bone.  "This is Mr. Mulder's left 
arm, which, as you can probably tell, he will not be using for 
anything strenuous for quite some time."  The pencil shifted to the 
edge of one break.  "Note the angle of deflection, gentlemen.  This is 
a compound fracture, a fracture that has broken through the 
surrounding skin and musculature.  I'll spare you a visual on that."  

Thankful for that discretion, although it hadn't been for his benefit, 
Skinner waited for the doctor to continue.  Now he knew, and wished he 
didn't, the reason for all the blood in the previous clip.   His gut 
burned, even absent,  Mulder was enough to give him an ulcer. 

The camera panned back, captured the piercing dark gaze as the speaker 
stared into the lens.  "This break alone required extensive surgery on 
a man already compromised by a head injury."  Still glaring at the 
camera, the doctor snatched the film loose and replaced it with 
another picture.  The camera once again adjusted, focused in on the 
new x-ray.  Skinner recognized ribs, without having to be told, tried 
to find the damage, not seeing it until the pencil moved to circle the 
spots.  "One, two, three broken ribs, gentlemen.  Not good, not good 
at all."  Rubber squeaking on linoleum was the only sound for a 
moment.  "While these didn't require surgery, they do present 
difficulties, as they increase the patient's susceptibility to 
complications, such as pneumonia."  

Memories of Mulder's last bought of pneumonia, following the disaster 
in the arctic, provided Skinner with more of a visual on that than he 
really wanted.  The man had been sick as a dog, and it had taken him 
months to put the lost weight back on.   Weight Mulder could ill 
afford to lose.

The cameraman's voice cut in, "What exactly, is the likelihood of that 
particular complication, doctor?"  

"I can't give you percentages.  We've got him on a preventive course 
of antibiotics already, so hopefully we'll dodge that particular 
bullet."  

Tabbing the pause button again, Skinner tried to read the seeming 
concern on the physician's face.  None of this was making sense.  Why 
the concern? Why not kill him?  Mulder was dead in the eyes of the 
world already.  Still scowling at the screen, he tapped a button on 
the remote, cursed as the scene shifted into fast forward, found the 
right button as new film appeared on the lightbox.   

He briefly considered rewinding to make sure he hadn't missed 
anything, but reconsidered as the doctor started speaking, "I'm sure 
you all recognize this particular body part."  The pencil reappeared. 
"Note these marks."  Skinner squinted, spotted the two white circles 
high on the forehead, under Mulder's hairline, no easier to see for 
the grease pencil black circling them.  "Dr. Goldstein's handiwork I 
believe."  

Scooting the chair forward, the doctor glared at the lens.  "There are 
no fractures, but Mr. Mulder has suffered a concussion.  He was 
already compromised by Goldstein's work, he continued to seize for 
approximately a week after the incident.  And a concussion complicates 
matters considerably.  "

"How so?" 

"I was quite specific as to how this should be handled.  Absolutely no 
damage to the head."  The doctor leaned forward, voice rising as he 
continued, "You want me to access specific memories, memories 
suppressed for 25 years, while avoiding certain 'problem areas.'  Even 
minor head injuries can cause memory impairment, interfere with an 
individual's ability to recall events accurately.  This man's medical 
record is already littered with head injuries.  It's a wonder to me he 
can still function."  The doctor hesitated, looked back at the x-ray, 
then turned again to the camera.  "By my estimate, this injury alone 
reduces our chance of success by fifty percent or more."

There was definite concern in the Englishman's voice now.   He doubted 
it was for Mulder.  "How soon will we know?"

"There's a further complication."  The doctor's expression bordered on 
smug, as he reached across the table for yet another film.  "I've 
saved the piece de resistance for last, gentlemen.  Your little 
lackeys fucked this one up but good."  

"They've already been terminated."  The voice held grim satisfaction.

Not military then, Skinner thought distantly, watching the doctor's 
hands.  "A day too late, I'd say."  The doctor pulled the skull film 
free, snapped the new one into place.  "You wanted him immobilized.  
Well, they've certainly done that for you."  The pencil traced a 
crooked white line this time, seemingly endless.   "That, gentlemen, 
is a fractured pelvis and the only cure we have for it is complete bed 
rest."

"Why is that a problem, doctor?  We had planned a similar injury. You 
knew we needed him immobile for at least a week, probably two.  This 
seems perfect."  The cameraman's patience was clearly wearing thin.  
Skinner could hear definite irritation in the voice now.  

The doctor rolled his eyes, laughed bitterly.  "Perfect?  Hardly.  
This is not a 'similar' injury any more than a Yugo is similar to a 
Mercedes."  A brief pause.  "There is a major nerve running right 
through that break, gentlemen.  When Mr. Mulder regains consciousness, 
he is going to be in intense pain.  With high doses of morphine the 
pain will be manageable, although still unpleasant.  I cannot perform 
my tests with him on morphine."

"Then we'll just have to let him deal with the pain without the 
morphine."  The cameraman was insistent, hurrying on before the doctor 
could interrupt, "You know that the further he gets from the original 
treatment, the less chance we'll have to access those memories."   

The doctor was already shaking his head, "That's immaterial at this 
point.  The morphine is not optional.  It's essential.  You try moving 
that man, so much as an inch, without heavy painkillers, and you're 
going to be wearing his last meal.  Guaranteed."  The pencil flew 
across the room.  "Hell, there's vomit all over the treatment room.  
He will have pneumonia if he aspirates any more of that shit, 
antibiotics or no antibiotics.  Don't tell me how to do my job, 
gentlemen.  Believe me when I tell you it's a no go. That fracture is 
just this side of stable." The dark thumb and forefinger suddenly 
thrust at the camera in a pinching motion, showed only a hairline of 
light in between the digits.  "Let's not complicate this any worse 
than it already is."  

Skinner waited for the cameraman to ask, knew it was coming.  
Apparently the doctor did too, provided the response, "At least a 
week, maybe two." The video went to black, then to the grey hiss of 
static.

Another headache lurked in the wings, waiting.   Skinner stared at the 
screen, reached for the remote and ran it again, memorizing voices, 
memorizing faces.   For what good it would do him.   Christ, he had no 
fucking resources.  He couldn't take this to the Bureau lab.  Couldn't 
expose himself or Scully to what might follow.

The screen went to static again.  Leaning back, Skinner took off his 
glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  Closed his eyes and tried 
to list his options.   

When he opened his eyes again, he caught sight of Mulder's Rolodex on 
top of the files in the box at the end of the coffee table.

Stared at it.  And felt his mouth curve again humorlessly.   Mulder 
had plenty of contacts, and he was the most paranoid man that Skinner 
personally knew.  Perhaps it was time he availed himself of the 
services of Mulder's friends.















STILL half asleep, Deb was humming softly to herself as she made her 
way through the quiet corridors of the warehouse.  A whole day off to 
look forward to and she planned to spend most of it sitting on the 
beach, watching the waves come in and reading trash novels with no 
redeeming social value.

Twenty years of day shift had left her with an internal clock 
permanently stuck on 5 am.  With most of the traffic headed the other 
direction she'd hopefully make it to the coast by eight.  

She rounded the last corner and nearly collided with Maryann.

"Fuck!"  The blonde had been running, barely pulled up in time to 
avoid a collision, her white shoes squeaking on the concrete floor as 
she skidded to a stop, mouthing the one word.  Deb stared in disbelief 
at the change in the other nurse's normally pristine appearance.  

The peach colored smock and one leg of the white pants was soaking 
wet, smears of what looked like partially digested Jello dripping down 
onto her shoes and the floor below.  Looking past Maryann down the 
corridor, she could see more of the mess in spots on the floor.  The 
smell told her what the fluid was and the alarm on the other nurse's 
face pointed to the probable source.  

"Get Daly," Deb shouted, dropping her bags to the floor.   A battered 
copy of The Relic slid out on to the floor, barely missed one of the 
spots of vomit.

She didn't wait to see Maryann's reaction, could hear the sneakered 
feet pounding away from her, toward Daly's room, as she hurried down 
the corridor and flew through the door into the makeshift hospital 
room.  

The smell hit first, sour and altogether too familiar.  Even expecting 
it, she still felt her throat constrict, the uncontrollable grimace as 
her nostrils tried to shut the smell out.  The patient was still 
retching silently, his knees pulled up to one side as his body curled 
with the spasms.

A mustard colored puke catcher was lying upside down on the floor in a 
puddle of vomit but most of the mess covered the pillow and bedclothes 
around the patient's head.  

"Oh god," she muttered, careful to avoid the worst spills as she made 
her way to the bed.  

Mulder was moaning softly now, rolling his head from side to side on 
the pillow, as the spasms gradually subsided.  She needed to get him 
uncurled, back to lying flat, but didn't want to jar him anymore than 
necessary in the process.  "Mulder."  

He didn't seem to hear, eyes clenched tight as the grunts grew louder. 
Resigning herself to getting messy, she touched the cheek closest to 
her gently, spoke a little louder, "Mulder, listen to me."  

Slowly the eyes opened, turned towards her, glazed with pain.  No 
trace of the gentle smile which she'd glimpsed when she left him 
twelve hours earlier.

Then he'd been teasing her about her hot date for today.  Looking at 
the gray cast to the skin and the tight lines around the mouth and 
lips she knew there'd be no teasing this morning.  

"I'm sorry," he muttered, apologizing even as another spasm hit him. 
Groaning, he turned his head back into the pillow, but only a thin 
trickle of bile came up.  

"Hang in there, Mulder," she soothed, one hand absently stroking his 
face as she looked about the bed, tried to pinpoint the reason for the 
return of the nausea.  His right hand was clenched tightly around the 
morphine control, his thumb depressing the button on the top.  

The line looked clear, no sign of kinks or twists that would impede 
the flow and the readout indicated the pump was still half full.  She 
moved down the bed, patting his arm gently as she soothed, "Bear with 
me a minute, Mulder.  I've got to check something."  

He shivered as she pulled the covers down to his hips and carefully 
pulled the gown up to expose his abdomen.  "C. . .c. . .cold," he 
gasped.

"I know," she soothed, cursing the Mickey Mouse ventilation system 
that left the room at a temp more suited to an operating theater.  
"I'll be quick but I've got to check for something."  She was fixing 
the stethoscope in her ears as she spoke, let her left hand clasp his 
right as she placed the metal disc on his abdomen and focused on 
listening.  Frowning, she moved the disk slightly to the left, then 
lower towards his groin.  

His fingers were locked around hers and it took a moment for her to 
break the grip, ease her hand free.  "One more check, Mulder, then 
we'll see about getting you cleaned up."  Flexing her left hand she 
felt some of the soreness ease.  She'd have bruises later from that 
grip.  She pulled the scope free from her ears, let it dangle about 
her neck as she used both hands to gently palpate his abdomen. 

Despite the gentle touch, she still heard him hiss as she approached 
his pelvis, but she'd expected that.  He was shivering badly now, but 
made no complaints as she finished the check. While the results were 
reassuring, they gave her no real answers. 

Check complete, she eased the blankets back up, taking care to turn 
the soiled edges under before tucking them in around his shoulders.  
"Let's get you cleaned up a bit, Mulder" she offered, reaching behind 
his neck to loosen the tie on the gown.  

Her touch was gentle but she felt him shudder at the contact, the 
minor shift in his position.  "Shitohgodsorry."  The words were 
falling over each other, as he tried to pull away from her fingers.

Frowning she eased the gown over the good arm, slipped it free, 
careful to keep the blanket pulled high.  The room was positively 
freezing and he was still shivering.  "I'll be just be a minute," she 
assured.  Hurrying into the bathroom she turned the hot water tap on 
full, retrieved the large bowl from the cabinet beneath the sink.  

A quick glance through the open door assured her things were still 
somewhat under control, and she turned her attention back to the sink, 
added cold water to the mix.  

Grabbing two towels off the rack, she flung them over one shoulder, 
tossed the bath sponge in the bowl and carefully lifted it out of the 
sink.

"We'll have you cleaned up in no time," she promised, putting more 
cheer in her voice than she felt.

Something was seriously wrong here.

She was pulling on a pair of latex gloves when she heard the outer 
door open, peeked around the frame to see Maryann entering the room.  

"Daly's on his way," Maryann whispered, moving immediately to the 
bathroom door.  "How's he doing?"  Even as she spoke she was turning 
back to look at Mulder.

"Not good," Deb answered, picking up the bowl.  "Grab some gloves and 
lets see if we can get him out of this mess."  

The bowl went onto the bed table as she threw one of the towels on to 
the floor, used her foot to drag it through the worst of the mess 
there.  Thank God he'd been on a mostly liquid diet, though he'd been 
complaining about it since the earlier vomiting had stopped.  Now they 
wouldn't have to worry about slipping in that as they worked.  

Maryann hadn't taken time to change, was still wearing the dirty 
smock, the soaked pants, although it did look like she'd taken time to 
swab dry the worst of the damage.  She moved to the cabinets by the 
doorway, retrieved clean linens and plopped them down on the counter 
next to the bed.  

"Hey, Mulder," she coaxed, voice soft as honey, "think you can help us 
out here a bit."  She met Deb's eyes over the bed, silently mouthed a 
thank you.  

Mulder was shivering hard now but managed to nod in spite of it.  

"That's good," soothed Maryann.  "I know you're hurting but we've got 
to roll you a bit to get the bed clean.  We'll be gentle and it will 
all be over in just a minute."  A tight nod was the only response, his 
eyes still closed.  

Deb and Maryann had done this before, had the drill down to a science. 

Maryann eased the tension on the sling, signaled Deb with a nod and 
they gently eased him over onto his right side. 

A single gasp and a sudden tremor confirmed what they already knew, 
that the maneuver was hurting him, but there was no alternative. Deb 
held him in place as Maryann pulled back the dirty sheets, snapped 
clean ones in place. 

Mulder was quiet under Deb's hands, but she could feel the tremors 
running through his hips and shoulders, see the prickle of gooseflesh 
on the pale skin.  It was hard to find a spot that wasn't bruised or 
scraped to place her hands.

He started to slip and she tightened her fingers, heard a whimper, 
quickly suppressed.   "Hurry up, Maryann. I'm losing him." 

"Hang on, I'll be done in a sec." 

"What the...?" Deb asked, caught herself just in time as she watched 
Maryann shake out the blue plastic cloth.

"It was all I could find," Maryann hissed, threw a towel down on top 
of it before signaling Deb that she was ready.

"Watch the arm," Deb snapped, as they rolled him up onto his left 
shoulder and hip.  As Deb steadied him, Mulder made a faint, quelled 
sound, deep in his throat.  His eyes were clenched shut but she could 
see tears leaking at the corners.

"Hang on, Mulder. We'll have you flat in just a second." She looked 
back at Maryann with concern, wondered where Daly was. He shouldn't be 
hurting this badly with the morphine, not unless there was an 
additional complication she'd missed.

Making sure that Maryann had a good grip, she pulled her hands free, 
moved quickly to strip the dirty linen from her side of the bed.  
Threw it in a wad behind her on the floor.  The pillow was beyond 
salvaging.  They'd need a new one.

She could hear Maryann soothing Mulder as she worked, pulled the 
sheets tight around the corners of the mattress.  Nonsense words, 
repeated over and over again.

Maryann nodded at the end of the bed.

Sighing, Deb sorted through the pile there, found another sheet of 
plastic, spread it out as smoothly as she could.  She'd never seen a 
site as poorly prepared as this one, at least from a medical 
perspective.  First the problem with the meds, now no disposable 
linens.  They were making do with fucking drop cloths.  God only knew 
where they'd been.  She spread a towel over her side on top of the 
plastic.  

The door swung open as they were easing Mulder's body back down onto 
the plastic.  Daly.

"Give me the rundown, ladies," he barked, pushing Maryann aside as he 
moved up next to the patient.

The temptation to slap the man was hard to resist. Shooting him would 
have been better, if she'd had a gun.   As it was, Deb settled for a 
glare, bit back the angry retort at the warning glance from Maryann.

"He started vomiting around 5:25 am. I was in the break room, got in 
here as soon as I could." Maryann was talking to Daly, but looking at 
her.  Trying to warn her of something, but she couldn't tell what.  
"Still not fully conscious when I came in. He knocked the bowl loose 
with all his flailing. I don't think he aspirated much. I managed to 
keep his head turned through most of it."

Daly was listening, most of his attention on the patient.  Seeing him 
pull a  stethoscope from his pocket, Deb interrupted, "I already 
checked, Doctor. Bowel sounds are good, no sign of blockage."  He 
nodded in acknowledgment but yanked the covers they'd just replaced 
back down and performed his own check as well, with considerably less 
gentleness than Deb had shown. 

Mulder's eyes were closed, squeezed tight, his right hand clenched 
around the bed rail.  "Try to relax, Mulder," Deb whispered, silently 
cursing Daly and his lousy patient interaction skills.  She slipped 
the pressure cuff around the tense right arm and inflated it, scowling 
at the reading. "150 over 85, doctor.  Pulse 140." 

Could be a simple pain reaction but the pain level was mystifying.  
Daly seemed unsurprised at the reading, acknowledged it with a curt 
nod, as he signaled her quiet.  He was focused on the patient's chest 
now, moving the scope from side to side. Mulder was barely 
consciousness, shivering continually.  As she was watching his eyes 
rolled up and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"What the hell is going on here?" Deb asked, voice rising with 
concern.

Daly was looking at Maryann. "Didn't you tell her?"

Maryann's face was flushed, eyes dancing away from Deb as she looked 
to Maryann questioningly. "Tell me what?"

"Outside with it, girls," warned Daly.  "But make it snappy. I need 
you both back in here right away."

"I have to get him cleaned up first," Deb insisted, noting how Daly 
seemed impervious to the room's temperature, the effect it had to be 
having on the patient.   "And we need to get him warm again."  She 
wanted to know what the fuck was going on, but not if it meant leaving 
Mulder lying in this refrigerator with only Daly to care for him.

Daly scowled, tucked the stethoscope back in his pocket. 

"Do it quickly then," he snapped, barely sparing her a glance before 
he turned to Maryann. "I need to see you outside," he ordered.

The water had cooled slightly but was still within the boundaries of 
acceptability. Deb had already pulled the old covers back up over 
Mulder's lower body, was smoothing the sponge across the bruised belly 
when Maryann's hand reached in to help, grabbing the other sponge from 
the bowl.

Maryann gave Daly a direct look. "I'll be with you in just a moment, 
Doctor."

That brought Deb's head around.  The patient needed her attention but 
this was too good to miss.

Daly was half turned in the door, looking back in disbelief. "Excuse 
me?"

"I'll be with you as soon as the patient's taken care of, Doctor." 
Maryann's voice held a faint edge, like finely hammered steel.

Daly's eyes narrowed as he stepped back into the room. "I said now."

Maryann's head didn't turn, and her hand was steady, gentle, as she 
sponged Mulder off.  Deb squeezed shampoo into her palm and started to 
lather his hair.

"The patient needs some attention, Doctor. I'll be with you when we're 
finished here."  The edge got sharper. Just the barest hint of 
dangerous temper.

It was Deb's turn to stare in amazement as Daly backed off, turned 
abruptly and left.  

"I'll be in the break room," he barked, his voice carrying back 
through the closing door.

Maryann gave Deb a cool smile and rinsed Mulder's skin.

"Way to go, Maryann," whispered Deb, squeezing water out of the sponge 
into his hair.

Soft laughter. "He can be such a prick when his ego's bruised." 
Muttered words, barely audible.

Deb laughed, but nodded a warning at the camera lens hidden in the 
wall. It wouldn't take Daly long to get to the break room.  She caught 
the edge of a grin as Maryann's head turned, watched as Maryann 
carefully sponged Mulder's chest and neck clean.

It was a good thing Mulder was still out of it she thought, as she 
eased his head to one side, combed her fingers through the tangled 
strands of hair.  Better he should sleep through this.

She was just about to ask Maryann about the earlier conversation when 
Mulder shuddered under her hands, groaned softly.

"S'okay, Mulder," Maryann murmured and carefully turned his head to 
wash under his ear.  "Almost done."

"Damn, I was hoping he'd stay out." Deb hurried to find a gown as 
Maryann cleaned up the remaining suds.

"Murphy's law." Maryann sighed and patted Mulder dry with a clean 
towel.

"C. . .c . . .cold. . .d...d" Mulder's teeth were chattering, his 
whole body starting to shake in earnest, despite the drying effort.

"I know, just hang on a second." Maryann's voice was soft. "Shh, come 
on, you're doing great, Mulder, we're almost finished and here's Deb."

Deb smiled at her friend over the patient, kept the smile on her face 
as she looked down at him. "Soon as we get this gown on you we can get 
some clean blankets over you, Mulder, get rid of these stinky ones." 

She slipped the wide sleeve over his limp right hand, had to lift the 
arm slightly to slide it up the rest of the way. 

She bit her lip as they shifted him again, removing towel and plastic 
so that he rested on clean linens.  He made another smothered sound 
and his eyes rolled up briefly, crescents of white showing through 
half-closed lids.

"Jesus."  Maryann's hands were gentle as she balanced him.  "Have you 
got it."

Tugging, Deb managed it, sighed with relief and tossed plastic and 
towel to the floor in the pile of soiled linen.  "Got it.  Okay, I've 
got him." 



This time, Mulder was limp, out like a light.  She felt beads of 
perspiration on her brow; patients weren't supposed to hurt like this. 
She wasn't supposed to let them.  His eyelids fluttered again once his 
body was stable, the tip of his tongue flicked out to touch his lips. 
 His mouth had to taste like shit, Deb thought and sighed.  He'd have 
to settle for rinsing it out, but she was damned if she was going to 
let him move much to do it.

"I'll go get some blankets from the warmer." Maryann's smile thinned a 
little. "I won't be but a minute, Deb."

Deb nodded, only remembering after the other nurse had left that they 
didn't have a warmer.   What the fuck had Maryann been talking about?

Maryann was as good as her word; by the time Deb had managed to get a 
mouthful of water into and out of Mulder, the gown tied on and in 
place, she'd reappeared, carrying a jumbled armful of blankets.  

Warm ones, Deb discovered when Maryann shook one out over Mulder. 
Giving Maryann a brief, questioning look, she helped cover Mulder up 
to his chin.

"Dryer," Maryann whispered, smiling.

Deb felt a laugh trying to break free, at the picture of Maryann 
stuffing blankets into the dryer in a hurry.  So that's what had taken 
her so long when she went to get Daly.  Good thinking.

Maryann's mouth curved slightly, a quick glance at her, then Maryann 
bent over the bed.  "That better?"  Tucking the folds gently around 
Mulder's shivering form.   

Mulder tried to smile.  "B. . .b. . .bet. . .ter," he chattered.

Maryann unfolded another blanket and tucked it up, flicked Deb an 
apologetic glance.  "Give me a minute, I need to go deal with the 
doctor."

Deb grabbed the remaining dry towel off the chair, used it to squeeze 
more moisture out of his hair.    

"Okay, but we still need to talk." She kept her voice soft, conscious 
of Mulder's presence.

Maryann nodded, already moving toward the door. "You bet." The soft 
sound of hydraulic hinges and she was gone.

This would be much easier with a blow dryer, Deb mused, contenting 
herself with a final squeeze. The tight lines in Mulder's face told 
her he was still in pain.  He was chalk pale, with the faintly grey 
tinge that came from pain and sickness and trying to hold on to the 
edge by his fingernails.

Mulder gave Deb a wan look. "S-s-sorry. The pump's not working like it 
d-did."

Deb looked closely at his eyes, glanced back at the pump again.

He licked his lips and turned his face into the blankets.

"Is it helping at all?" she asked, retracing the line up to where it 
disappeared into the machine.  

"N-no." Very faint voice, drawn thin with pain.  Mulder's eyelids 
flickered and he turned his head very slightly. "D-do you think you 
c-could get something else?" Still thin, but just the slightest trace 
of hope in his voice.

Cold rage blossomed beneath her breastbone.  Fuck. No way was there 
morphine in that machine.  That's what Daly had meant. Why the hell 
would he have stopped the morphine?

She opened her mouth to answer Mulder, looked up to see Maryann 
standing in the doorway, shaking her head no.

"I'll see what I can do," she told him gently, but anger was burning a 
hole in her gut.

"Thanks," he whispered, even as his fingers tightened into a fist 
around the warm yellow blanket.

Deb pulled the rail back up, didn't bother to hand him the control. 
Moving to the other side of the bed, she snapped that rail into place 
as well. "I'll be right back," she promised, waited to see his nod of 
acknowledgment before she hurried to the door.

Daly was standing out in the corridor as well, still looking pissed.

Maryann's eyes were apologetic but, if anything, that just added to 
her fury as she approached the doctor.   "What the fuck is going on 
here?"

Daly's voice was clipped. "Maryann should have told you. We had to 
take the patient off the morphine."

It was possible, just barely, that there was a good medical reason for 
that decision. Maryann's expression told her she wasn't going to like 
the reason. "Why?" 

Maryann's eyes flicked away from her, studying the gray sheetrock of 
the hallway wall.

Daly's nostrils flared, obviously pissed at the tone, but he answered 
slowly, enunciating each word with care.

"I don't like your tone, Deb. For your information we have certain 
tests to conduct today. Tests which cannot be performed under 
morphine. It was for the patient's own good."

Deb stared at him. "What kind of tests? He's in so much pain that his 
BP and pulse have skyrocketed. What kind of tests are going to be 
accurate under those kind of circumstances, Doctor?" Heavy emphasis on 
the last word, ironic tone that questioned his qualifications.

"His 'recovery' is not the only issue here, nurse. You knew that 
coming into this." Daly was seething, nostrils flared as he continued. 
 "If Mr. Mulder's health had been our primary concern be assured, he 
would not be here."

Deb stood her ground, held Daly's gaze. "Yes, I knew that. But I also 
was informed that his survival was critical. If his BP gets much 
higher, you know exactly what will happen, don't you, Doctor?" Faint 
questioning intonation, acid edged.

Daly's gaze was cold, the voice positively frigid. "I'm well aware of 
that, nurse. I did go to medical school, unlike you."  

Prudence kept her from sharing her own feelings about the relative 
value of a medical school education. "Then what do you suggest we do 
to keep him stable, Doctor." Frigid courtesy. She glanced at Maryann, 
saw Maryann had opted out of the discussion.

He took a deep breath, seemed to calm some. "You're going to monitor 
him, or rather Maryann is. We have another nurse coming in this 
morning to help as well. If his BP doesn't go down in the next hour 
we'll consider other options. Until then, it's wait and see."

Wait and see. It felt like she'd swallowed coals. "I'll stay with 
Maryann until the other nurse gets here," she told Daly, starchy floor 
nurse tone. "And I'll monitor him." Brief stony glance at Maryann.

He smiled coldly, no warmth in it at all. "That's between you and 
Maryann. I have other business." He glanced at Maryann. "Call me if he 
gets any worse."

Maryann nodded, a small tight motion that managed to avoid both Daly's 
and Deb's eye.  "It would help if you could call the maintenance guy. 
Tell him his phone repair didn't work. It's down again."  She gestured 
to the unit on the wall.

Daly made a smothered sound of irritation and swung away from them, 
back down toward the end of the hall.  Maryann caught up with her as 
Daly stormed back down the hallway.

"Why didn't you tell me, Maryann?" She tried to keep the accusation 
out of her voice, could see that Maryann was less than happy already.

But she couldn't believe her friend had kept this from her.

"We don't have a choice, Deb." Maryann shook her head, tucked a lock 
of hair back into place. "We just don't have a fucking choice."

"You had a choice about telling me. Why the fuck didn't you warn me?" 

"You were going to be gone today. I--I didn't want you upset, I knew 
you would be." 

Unbelievable. "So what? You hoped I wouldn't notice? That I'd come 
back and there'd be no sign?"

She glanced at the closed door. "Jesus, Maryann, they're going to kill 
him. Don't you care?"

"I don't know. I just wanted you to have one decent day off." 
Maryann's mouth thinned.   "We don't have a choice, Deb. Are you 
listening to me? And pissing off Daly isn't going to help, it's only 
going to get you in the same boat Mulder's in."

She used to know that, still knew it, wondered tiredly why it no 
longer seemed important. "Guess I never thought about how cold you 
really have to be to swim with the sharks," she hissed, angry at her 
friend, at her ability to swallow a compromise that suddenly seemed 
unpalatable. 

"I don't know him. I know you."  Maryann's mouth twisted. "I care 
about you, dammit. Do you think I want to have you end up dead in the 
fucking alley? Deb, they're going to kill him anyway with these 
fucking tests. There's not that much we can do about it except keep 
him as comfortable as we can. I warned you, didn't I? Don't get 
attached to them."

Deb felt her eyes sting suddenly. "Yeah, Maryann, you warned me all 
right." She suddenly realized she was still wearing the gloves, 
shuddered as she snapped them free, threw them on the floor of the 
corridor. 

Maryann sighed, dry scrubbed her face with her palms. "Let's get in 
and make sure he's getting warmer. Maybe we can get some broth for him 
later on, see how he's doing. If he's warm, it might not be so bad."

Deb felt her throat constrict, knowing it was a futile hope. "Right, 
anything's possible. My OB told me Lamaze worked. Maybe we can try 
that on him." The attempt at humor fell flat, reminded her of why 
she'd started down this road to begin with. "Oh hell, let's go see 
what we can do." Despite her frustration, it was comforting to have 
Maryann at her back as she entered the room.













HELL of a way to start a weekend.  It had taken Skinner some fast 
talking, once he'd gone through most of Mulder's things and finally 
figured out that LGM meant Lone Gunmen, which meant Lone Gunmen 
Magazine.  

A lot of fast talking--the one on the phone had firmly resisted the 
notion that Mulder had written down their telephone number until 
Skinner had desperately suggested that the man with the eidetic memory 
had done it for his partner.

That had gotten him some grudging acceptance and directions to the 
office. The three men inside were spectacularly odd.  Well, except for 
the dapper little bearded man, and even he was slightly odd, buried 
here in this cluttered, claustrophobic magazine office.   At least he 
assumed that this was the magazine office, it didn't look like any 
he'd ever seen before.

The Lone Gunmen.  How appropriate for Mulder's sources to be running a 
magazine devoted to conspiracy.

They regarded Skinner with uniform suspicion.

"How well did you know Agent Mulder?" he asked, still standing on the 
threshold. An exchange of looks and the bearded man stepped forward.  
"We consider ourselves friends of his," he told Skinner evenly.  
"We've already been informed of his death."

"That's not why I came."  Skinner considered the trio and 
reconsidered.  "Perhaps I shouldn't have."

"He wants our help," said the short balding man with the glasses 
suddenly.  "You think Mulder was murdered?"

Skinner had already taken a step back from the door.  Mulder, when I 
find you, you really are going to be dead, he told his absent agent.  
"Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"  The short balding one stepped forward.  "I'm Frohicke, 
Mulder's told us about you.  That's Byers," a stubby hand pointed at 
the bearded man, "And that's Langley."

"He told you about me?"  Skinner's mouth flattened out.  "I can just 
imagine what he's said."

They looked at each other then, clearly a little embarrassed.  "Well," 
Frohicke began, then cleared his throat.  "He, ah, was pretty 
convinced that you were pond scum at first, but he changed his opinion 
over time."

How heartening.  Skinner sighed.  "Look, I think it was a mistake to 
come here.  Sorry to bother you."

"Oh, I don't know," said the bearded man--Byers.  "If you're working 
on Mulder's murder, we'd like to help."

"We have a lot of resources you can't possibly imagine," Frohicke put 
in helpfully.

The blonde with the long, lank hair hadn't spoken.  Yet.  "Yeah," he 
agreed.  "We've done all kinds of analysis when Mulder couldn't trust 
the Bureau labs.  What have you got?  Trace evidence?  Fibers?"

What the hell.  Maybe they could at least tell him if the tape was 
faked.   "A videotape," he told them.  "I want you to put it through 
analysis.  I need you to identify somebody.  Maybe two somebodies."

Frohicke held out a hand.  After a moment, Skinner handed it to him.

"Holy shit."   That was Langley's only initial response on viewing the 
scene.  Frohicke vanished to return with a bottle of Scotch.  He 
poured four plastic cups and handed one to Skinner, who regarded it 
doubtfully before sitting down on the edge of the desk behind 
Langley's arcane assortment of equipment.

Byers didn't have much to say, but his expression was grim as he 
leaned over the computer, muttering suggestions under his breath.

"What's your initial assessment?" Frohicke asked Skinner quietly.  "A 
hoax?"

Skinner eyed him and took a sip of the Scotch.  "Maybe.  Maybe not.  
There were certain discrepancies on the body in the morgue."

Frohicke raised his eyebrows, inviting further comment, but Skinner 
didn't add anything.   Byers looked back, his brows drawn together.  
Frohicke gave his colleague a maniacal grin.  "I told you Mulder 
wouldn't eat his gun."

"Clones?"  Byers' tone was doubtful.

"Why not?  They've had the technology since 1948."  Frohicke's eyes 
gleamed behind the thick lenses.

Skinner blinked.  Did everyone know these things?  Where the hell had 
he been?  He was supposed to be in the upper echelon in the FBI, 
presumably a powerful organization with access to such information.  
Probably the fucking CIA and NSA knew it, but kept it locked down 
tight.

But that didn't explain how these three had come by it.  He opened his 
mouth to ask.

"Theoretically," Byers began, but Langley turned, his face alight.

"No, Howard Hughes was really working his contacts in DoD, Byers.  He 
wanted it, bad.  Immortality, of a sort."

"The clone wouldn't have had his personality."  Byers sounded wearily 
resigned to the argument.  "They'd have to reproduce Hughes' life 
experience exactly, and he didn't have that much time."

"Not if they could encourage them to earlier maturity," Frohicke 
argued.  "And it hasn't been conclusively proven that it isn't 
possible to use subliminal tapes and sleep learning to imprint a clone 
with the memories and experiences of the donor."

"Somatic memory is still a part of learning," Byers countered.

Skinner closed his mouth.   Took a sip.  The Scotch wasn't precisely 
to Skinner's taste, but it was good Scotch nonetheless.  And not 
enjoying it kept him from thinking about Mulder lying helpless in a 
hospital bed.  Or about himself, standing in a room with three 
lunatics.

"Jesus, I think it's really him."  Langley had enlarged a section of 
the tape.  "That's where Scully shot him."

Skinner's mouth crimped slightly.   "Is there a large scar on his 
upper left thigh?"

"I'm not sure I can enlarge that without losing the kind of resolution 
we need."  But Langley's fingers flew over the keys, adjusting, 
fine-tuning.

Skinner rose and came to stand behind the other two.  

"Well, if it's not a scar, he's got something on his leg."  Langley 
sounded satisfied.  "I think it's a scar.  And the tape hasn't been 
tampered with, that's the original image.  It's even got a date and 
time stamp, for whatever that's worth.  Five days ago."

Five days.  The Snow Queen clearly thought Mulder was still alive.   

The plastic cup dented slightly as Skinner held it; tossing the liquor 
back, he welcomed the burn.  "So you think it's really him."

Three faces turned toward him.  Frohicke nodded slightly.  "It 
certainly looks that way.  Where did you get this?"

"That's classified."  Skinner let himself smile grimly.  "Can you get 
anything else off it?  I suspect it's been handled too often and by 
too many people to get usable prints."

"We can get some really clear still images of the guys at the 
beginning, and of the doctor," Langley turned back to the computer.  
"And maybe of the babe on the other side of the table.  And the fat 
chick, too.  And of Mulder.  It's not completely improbable that we 
could match the photographs against the DoD database."

Did he want to know how these clowns had gotten into the Department of 
Defense database?  No, Skinner decided, he did not.  "Do it, if you 
can.  I'll check back with you."

"Don't call you, you'll call us?"  Frohicke's mouth flattened out.  
"Listen, if he is alive, there's no guarantee they'll keep him that 
way for long.  They probably want to drain his brain, Mr. Skinner."

"Maybe.  But the doctor indicated that we've got a little time.  It's 
only been six days."   Skinner eyed the little man.  "I'll call you 
tomorrow.  Don't call me.  I'm trying to do this very low profile, 
gentlemen."

Three pairs of eyes gleamed at him briefly.  "Sure," Langley told him 
happily, "Can't trust the Bureau, some of your guys probably helped 
engineer this thing."

That made Skinner's stomach clench.  "It's possible," he agreed, "But 
more importantly, I don't want anyone noticing me making inquiries.  
Going to the morgue was questionable enough."   

Three nods.  In unison.  

People were beginning to frighten him, he told himself dryly, it had 
to be subliminal programming.  "I'll call you tomorrow."

"We should have something by then," Langley told him, already bent 
over the keys again, narrowing a small white rectangle over the 
doctor's annoyed face.  "Either no go, or a match or two."

"Good."  Skinner looked at the cup in his hand and crushed it before 
tossing it in the wastebasket.  "I don't need to tell you to keep this 
quiet."

Frohicke gave him a long suffering look.  "No, you don't.  Just take 
your own advice, Mr. Skinner.  Don't share this with anyone.  Not even 
people you've trusted up until now."

Skinner paused at the door, looked back.  "Agent Scully?"

"She sold him out," Langley said bitterly.  "He was her partner and 
her friend and she trashed him."

How did these guys know so much?  Skinner shook that thought away.  
"She did what she thought was best," he told them reluctantly.  "And 
told the committee what she believed."

"Scully would never sell him out."  Frohicke's scowl was aimed at 
Langley.  "I'm telling you, it all makes sense now.  They've replaced 
both of them with clones."

Skinner's mind reeled.  These people were more paranoid than Mulder.  

"She told them that everything she'd seen was a lie."  Byers sounded 
weary suddenly.  "I knew she was skeptical, but I don't think anyone 
realized that she was denying everything to herself."

"She trashed him," Langley growled, scowling back at Frohicke.  "When 
he thought she was dying, he never stopped looking for the truth, but 
she trashed him, made him look like an idiot."

It dovetailed too neatly with his own interpretations of Scully's 
reports.  Swallowing hard, Skinner nodded and went out the door, 
closing it quietly behind him before he had to watch the two men get 
into an argument.  Behind him, voices rose, with Byers trying to keep 
the peace.

"I really am losing my fucking mind," he muttered and headed for the 
stairs.













DALY'S pacing had brought him to the window again.  The blinds were 
tipped up, effectively blocking the view of any curious passerby but 
he could still see out.  The view was depressing, abandoned 
refrigerators, rusted cars, a wasteland of garbage.  The view from the 
other side of the building was only marginally better, but at least it 
didn't feel quite so much like living in a dump over there.  

Somehow it figured that they'd placed the staff quarters over here, 
leaving the better vista to a man who was never going to see it. 

"Isn't it almost time?"  Precision voice, the Brit not Weber.  Weber 
had been surprisingly silent this morning after his first floundering 
attempts to postpone the test.  At least he'd listened to Daly's 
concerns, more than he could say of His Highness. 

Sighing, Daly turned, stared at the man by the door, made one last 
attempt.  "I really must reiterate.  I believe this is ill-advised.  
You promised to listen, respect my judgement on this."  Damn, His 
Highness was starting to rub off on him. Bad enough sounding like a 
honkey, the man had him talking like a fucking aristocrap now. "I made 
it quite clear that the test must be postponed if the vomiting 
recurred.  The patient is not strong enough to handle this yet."  He 
emphasized the 'yet,' offering the possibility of a future test.

Cold, dispassionate eyes, the ones he'd seen looking at the driver of 
the van just before the gun went off.  "Don't lecture me on promises, 
Doctor.  I think you've been less than reliable in that department 
yourself."  The stern gaze lowered, studied the paper held loosely in 
one hand.  "I'm not a physician but I can do basic math and both of 
these readings are coming down.  The patient is stable."    

Basic math?  The man's arrogance was mind boggling.  Probably learned 
all his medicine watching ER.  He looked to Weber for help, saw the 
wide shoulders shrug in resignation.  Dandy, just what he should have 
expected from a pansy ass like Weber.   

Washing his hands of it, Daly followed them out of the room, down the 
corridors to the other side of the building.  It was someone else's 
problem now.  Weber was a fool not to fight, was going to end up 
crucified when this was all done but the man seemed resigned to his 
fate.  

The new nurse was waiting outside the room, making hash marks on a 
clipboard as he inventoried the equipment lining the corridor wall.  
Daly was relieved to see the crash cart, hoped they wouldn't need it. 

He'd really hoped to have a chance at the patient himself, was furious 
to see months of research going down the tubes, wasted because of the 
Brit's impatience.  They'd probably need a pathologist to extract the 
man's memories after this test.   

Soft swish of hydraulic hinges and the door to the patient's room slid 
open, revealing Maryann.  "He's out," she informed the Brit curtly, 
studiously ignoring Daly where he stood watching.  She flipped the 
door brace down, reached out to clasp the first of the carts Bruce was 
sliding into the room.  

Weber grabbed the second one, hurried in after them, leaving him to 
bring up the rear, the final cart.  The Brit made no effort to help, 
brushed past them to claim a spot by the head of the bed.

Deb was on the other side, fussing with the sling, trying to find a 
position for it that left them room to work without compromising the 
patient.  

Daly looked to Maryann in surprise.  Deb wasn't supposed to be here.  



The responding smile was cold, told him without words to mind his own 
business.  

"Take it down."  Weber was gesturing at the sling, reaching to release 
it himself.  "I can't work with that thing in the way."

Deb moved to block his access, looked to Daly for support. 

"You heard him, Nurse.  It's in the way."  The Brit cut in before Daly 
could speak, impatient, glancing from his watch to Weber.  "Let's get 
going, gentlemen.  Ketamine is short term, he won't be out for long." 



Daly found it almost funny watching him take charge, tossing the 
vocabulary around as if he actually knew what he was saying, seeing 
how Weber scrambled to do the Brit's bidding.

The male nurse, Bruce, moved in and pushed Deb aside, carefully 
lowering the sling.  

"I really don't think that's a good idea," Daly protested.   More of 
his hard work on the chopping block.  He was going to strangle Weber 
himself if the arm got messed up.  "The swelling's barely started to 
come down."

The Brit ignored him, signaled to the nurse to continue.  Deb was 
watching Bruce's actions like a hawk, ready to step in if the man so 
much as jostled the injured limb.  Bruce's touch was gentle, carefully 
supporting the arm as he slipped the sling free, resting the metal 
bound appendage on the patient's chest before he moved back to deal 
with clearing the chains and bars from the work area.  

Daly remembered him from the ER, assisting in the surgery.  Quiet but 
efficient, just the kind of nurse he preferred. 

His gaze wandered to Maryann, lingered on the soft swell of bottom 
thrust into prominence as she leaned across the bed to retrieve bits 
of the harness from Bruce.  Feisty had advantages and disadvantages, 
he mused.  Everything considered, he'd take Maryann and her temper 
over Bruce and his efficiency any day.  His cock twitched, reminding 
him that it might be awhile before he had the chance to take Maryann 
again.  She was seriously pissed. 

Daly stepped back, let the nursing staff work with Weber, following 
his directions as to the placement of the leads.  He knew his role, 
observer only, not needed unless the patient crashed.  Until the 
patient crashed, he corrected himself.  

Nothing he'd seen so far led him to believe this would have any other 
outcome. The room was impossibly crowded now.  Hard to move without 
jostling into  another body or a cart.  They should have moved the 
whole operation down the hall to the fake ER room.  At least there 
they would have been able to maneuver.    Weber seemed oblivious, 
pushing carts and people aside as he worked, no indication he 
differentiated between the two.  

Deb had moved back as well, thick forearms folded tightly across her 
midsection as her eyes tracked the frantic activity.  The Brit looked 
up once, noticed her standing there, smiled briefly before turning his 
attention back to the melee at the bed.  

Daly had no clue what that meant. Acknowledgment of her devotion to 
duty?  Amusement at her protective stance?  It was hard to tell with 
His Majesty.  

"We're ready."  Weber was adjusting dials, checking settings. "Don't 
be alarmed if he struggles a bit when the current hits.  That's 
perfectly normal."  He'd reverted to full lecture mode, seemingly 
unable to resist the lure of a captive audience.  "It's important that 
everybody stays back during the procedure.  I'll ask for assistance if 
I need it."  He waited until Maryann and Bruce stepped back from the 
bed before continuing.  "It's extremely important that nobody touches 
him until I give the okay."  The Brit hadn't moved from his position 
by the wall, looked impatient with the time Weber was taking.  Weber, 
oblivious, continued to prattle, "Any interference can corrupt the 
memories, add spurious details, cloud the results."  

Maryann had moved back next to Deb, squeezed her arm tightly as Deb 
opened her mouth to protest.  Daly saw the Brit's lips twitch, knew 
the man had caught the interaction between the two women. 

"Let's get on with it, Doctor.  We don't have all day."  The Brit's 
voice was edged, he pushed away from the wall to move to the end of 
the bed, a position which would allow him an unobstructed view of the 
procedure.

"Of course. . .of course,"  Weber responded, suddenly nervous again.  
One final check, a minor adjustment and he stepped away from the bed, 
flipped a switch on the cart closest to the patient.  Daly suspected 
most of the buttons were for show, that Weber was using basic Shock 
Therapy but the Brit seemed impressed with the flashing lights.  

Muted noises from the patient as he started to stir, slowly rolled his 
head to one side on the pillow.  He was making gibbering noises, 
nothing intelligible.  Deb moved forward, stopped as Weber raised one 
arm, signaled her back to her corner.  "No interference, Nurse.  It's 
all under control.  Perfectly normal."  Quiet voice, never taking his 
eyes off the patient, as one hand reached behind him and moved the 
dial up a notch.

The Brit was leaning forward, trying to hear, hands braced on the foot 
of the bed as Mulder's voice climbed, cried out, "No. . .no"   He was 
moving more vigorously now, thrashing his head from side to side as he 
continued to babble.  "Bright. . ."  His right arm came up, covered 
his eyes, nearly dislodged one of the leads before Weber leaned over, 
pulled it back, warned Maryann and Bruce back with a glare as they 
moved forwards to help.

"I've got it under con. . ."  Before Weber could finish, the other arm 
came up, its bright metal cage smashing into his nose with a crunch.  
Weber sprawled backwards, blood spurting across his white smock, hands 
flailing for an anchorpoint.  One hand grabbed the cart, pulled it 
over with him as his momentum carried him with a crash into the closet 
door.

An audible crack pulled Daly's attention back to the bed just in time 
to see the patient arch impossibly high, tendons straining as he 
suddenly seized.  

"Christ!"  This was worse than he'd anticipated.  He hurled the Brit 
aside, kicked Weber out of the way, only to find his access blocked by 
the maze of downed equipment.  Deb was reaching in from the other side 
but wasn't quick enough to catch Mulder's arm before it smashed into 
the bed rail.  Metal on metal, clanging ominously as he saw the 
flexator twist, heard the patient shriek as bone and sutures pulled 
apart.  

He didn't bother to push the cart aside, climbed on top of it, clasped 
the injured arm hard, held onto it as Mulder continued to scream, 
tried to pull free.  Deb had Mulder's other arm, was leaning into his 
shoulder, practically sitting on him, trying to hold him still.  Bruce 
and Maryann were at the other end of the bed, their hands full as they 
tried to keep his hips down, minimize the damage to his pelvis.  

"Weber!"  He couldn't see the man, hoped he hadn't been knocked 
unconscious.  He'd kill him later.  Right now he needed another set of 
hands, sensed instinctively the Brit would be no help, wouldn't want 
to sully his fine suit. White freckled hands moved in next to his, 
mirrored his grasp.   "I've got him, Doctor.  Move it."  

He was already moving before he realized who'd spoken, that it was the 
Brit not Weber who had stepped in.   

No time to worry now if the man would be able to do the job, hold the 
arm still.  He combed through the jumble of supplies now strewn across 
the floor, found the box he wanted, a hypodermic needle.  A quick 
glance back at the bed told him the IV was still in place. He'd 
half-expected to find that torn loose as well, was relieved to see it 
still there.  

No way did he want to have to wait for an IM injection to take hold.

Flicking the orange cap free from the needle, he let it fall to the 
floor, felt plastic and glass crunch underfoot as he crossed to the IV 
port.  Mulder was still thrashing, eyes open but unseeing as he 
struggled against his captors, his screams drowning out Deb's words, 
her efforts to calm him.  The Brit was frowning, all his attention 
focused on hanging onto the arm, now slick with blood.  Daly cursed 
under his breath as he jammed the capsule into the chamber, found the 
IV port and plunged the needle home.  What a colossal fuckup. Despite 
the heaviness of the dose it was several minutes before the patient 
calmed completely, slipped back into unconsciousness.  

Weber had finally made it to his feet, he could hear him in the 
bathroom, moaning something about his nose.   Daly hoped it was 
broken, would have broken it for him if he had the time.

"I think you can all let go now," he finally said, as Mulder's body 
stopped twitching. Crossing to the other side of the bed, Daly waited 
for the Brit to move down off the cart before he shoved the machinery 
out of the way, stepped in next to the bed.  Carefully turning the 
arm, he studied the damage, shook his head in disgust. "Fuck."   

They were going to need another fixator.

Bruce was suddenly beside him, passing him fresh compresses, reaching 
in to help.  Daly stepped aside, let the nurse take over, surveyed the 
rest of the room, glared at the Brit and Weber, now standing together 
at the bathroom door.  Weber's hand still covered his nose, blood 
bright red on his fingers, the white washcloth. 

No time for them now, he'd deal with them later.

"All right, people."  Disgusted, he turned back to the group by the 
bed.  "Let's get him out of here.  X-rays first. I want fresh films on 
that arm before I do anything and you better redo the pelvis and ribs 
at the same time.  God only knows what we're going to find there." 

They were moving before he finished speaking, clearing a path to the 
door before easing the bed from the room.  Daly moved to follow them, 
his mind already on the coming surgery.  

"Dr. Daly."

He turned, glared at the Brit, impatient at the interruption.  

"Can I offer you some assistance?"

Daly surveyed the man in front of him, tried to think past his rage to 
any value the man had to offer.  "Yeah," he snapped.  "Shoot.  Him."  
Practically spit the words out as he looked pointedly at Weber, 
cowering in the bathroom door. "Then get on the phone and find me a 
god damn fixator.  That one's beyond repair."  

He was halfway down the hall before he remembered that Maryann had 
said something about how they'd sent two with the original order.  
Better still, he'd get what he needed and the Brit would get a taste 
of what it meant to have someone else waste his fucking time.  

If the man wasn't ready to kill Weber now, he would be by the time he 
got done dealing with the supply crew.















THE basement was quiet.  It usually was, but there were always people 
down here, looking for something.  There were a few offices down the 
way that were used by Mail Fraud.   

But today, Scully shivered, feeling the quiet as unearthly.  

She'd left a couple of books there she wanted.  And maybe it was time 
to show some Scully spine, face the office.  The key fit into the lock 
with a click that made her nerves jump.  Clicked open.

It was like entering a tomb.  Someone had already cleaned out Mulder's 
desk.  Even the name plate was gone.

It was like being six again and going to the graveyard with her 
brothers, scared and anticipatory, but lacking the edge of excitement.

She took in a deep breath, caught the faintest drift of--she wasn't 
sure.  Not quite a smell, not quite anything she could categorize.  
But it was Mulder and it made her eyes burn again.  

"Leave me alone," she whispered, irrationally and blinked hard.  His 
overcoat hung on the coat rack, that was it, the coat smelled of his 
cologne and wearing the same suit two days in a row and stakeouts.

She was standing there, touching it, before her brain processed that 
she'd moved, tears blinding her so that she couldn't see what she was 
touching.  

"Jesus."  She jerked her hand back, took in another breath and turned 
toward the file cabinets.  She thought she'd left the books on top, 
under the clutter of Mulder's obsessions.

Although much of that clutter was gone now, she found the two books 
easily, sitting neatly on top of the end cabinet.  

The photographs were gone from behind Mulder's desk.  The room didn't 
look right.  

Abruptly, she yanked open the file cabinet drawer that held the file 
on her abduction, forcing herself to move, to stop standing like an 
idiot, staring at the changes.  

She didn't want her file in these drawers anymore, didn't want to be 
an X-file, to think about X-files, to remember any of the goddamned 
impossible cases they'd closed.

But her file was gone.  A chill catwalked down her spine, making her 
hand tremble.  Someone had taken the it, she thought stupidly and 
blinked hard, then thumbed through the tabs, double checking.  
Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  

She shivered, rubbed her arms, as if Mulder's suicide had warped 
reality.  Which was absurd, the goddamned thing was probably misfiled. 
Mulder'd been upset at the time, just because his lunatic filing 
system worked like clockwork once you'd figured out how his mind 
worked.....fuck it, it was childish of her to care, there was no 
goddamned reason for her to worry about it at all.

The drawer slammed shut, she held the books to her chest, short, 
staccato steps to the door, which she also slammed.  Wanting nothing 
more but to get out of there.  Skin prickling with gooseflesh.

Four years of her life had gone down the tubes chasing will o' the 
wisps.  She didn't have enough time left to waste finding new ones.







"SIR?"

Daly's eyes snapped open, stared at the man bent over him.  "Huh?"

Bruce was already backing away, moving back towards the bed. "He's 
coming around.  I thought you'd want to be awake."

Of course he wanted to be awake.  Why did the idiot think he was 
sleeping in this lousy excuse for a chair instead of in a bed, like a 
normal person.  He yawned, heard the telltale click on the left side 
reminding him to keep it small or risk dislocating his jaw.   Every 
joint in his body seemed to protest as he stumbled to his feet, 
followed the nurse across to the bed.  It had been years since he'd 
slept in a chair.  He didn't remember it being this bad when he was a 
resident.  

Rolling his head he tried to work the kinks out of his neck and 
shoulders, as he stretched his other limbs.  The patient seemed to be 
going through a similar exercise on a smaller and much more painful 
scale, judging from the half-smothered sounds coming from the bed.  
Small, painful sounds, as if fighting to hold on to sleep, 
half-whimpers, half moans. 

Bruce was over on the right side, already starting through the checks. 
"BPs 120 over 75," he noted, slipping the cuff free.  He had one hand 
on the patient's wrist, counting out his pulse, even as he was tucking 
the cuff back into the rack next to the bed.  "Pulse 72."

Daly grunted in response, still yawning as he moved to check the 
patient's left arm.  The sounds intensified as Daly adjusted the 
sling, turned the arm to view it better, and thin slits of green 
looked up at him beyond the mangled limb.  "Look who's awake," he 
said, forcing humor he didn't feel into his voice.  "How are you 
feeling, Fox?"

Dazed eyes still glazed with anesthesia--and Weber's so-called 
treatment--opened wider, turned in panic as Bruce moved in from the 
right with the Thermoscan.  "It's okay, Fox.  I'm just going to take 
your temperature," Bruce soothed, holding the instrument out where the 
patient could see it.   

Despite this reassurance, Mulder still moaned in protest when Bruce 
touched the instrument to his ear, tried to pull his head away.  

Concerned, Daly waved Bruce back, signaled for him to hold off for a 
minute.  "Fox, can you hear me?" he asked, taking care to form each 
word loudly and clearly.  His fingers itched to begin his own checks 
but he wanted the patient calm first.  God only knew what he was going 
to find.  The damage to already broken bones had been bad enough.  No 
small wonder if the guy's psyche was a little scrambled as well.  The 
question that remained was whether or not anything more had been 
scrambled.

"I. . ."  Mulder winced, tried again to make his voice work.  "It . . 
..hurts."  The right hand waved feebly in the general direction of his 
throat.  

Bruce was already moving in with the water jug, positioning the straw 
so Mulder could take a sip.  Daly watched in sympathy as the patient 
seemed to brace himself before drawing some of the liquid into his 
mouth and swallowing.  His own ears were still ringing with the echoes 
of the morning's screams.  The man's throat had to be torn raw.  

"Take a little more," Bruce soothed, trying to slip the straw back 
into the man's mouth.  Mulder was having none of it, pulling his head 
away everytime Bruce came near.

"Never mind, Bruce," Daly sighed, signaling the nurse back.  "I expect 
it hurts his throat to swallow.  Maybe later."  A small nod from the 
bed told him he'd guessed right. Daly fought another yawn, glanced at 
his watch.  Almost eleven.  Shit, no wonder he'd fallen asleep.  The 
patient should have been awake hours ago.  

When he looked back at the bed, Mulder was still watching him, eyes 
slitted, good hand tightened over a fold of the sheet. "Fox, I'm going 
to have Bruce go ahead and take your temperature while I ask you some 
questions and run a few checks of my own.  Think you're up to that?"  
He was going to run the damn checks regardless, but it was always 
easier to do with the patient's cooperation.

"Not Fox, Mulder," rasped the patient, but he turned his head just the 
same, kept his protest to a grimace of discomfort as Bruce gently 
inserted the Thermoscan.  Daly made a mental note to check later for a 
possible ear drum rupture.  Probably nothing, but they were battling 
enough complications already that he didn't want to overlook anything.

"So, Mr. Mulder, I see you know your own name.  That's a good start." 
Actually better than he'd expected, or dared to hope.  "I'm just going 
to check your pupil reflex here."  He flicked the penlight on, was 
pleased to see the patient turn towards him, towards the light.  
"We've done this one before so you know the drill," he soothed, 
started with the left, shifted to check the right eye next.  
"Excellent." 

Mulder remained surprisingly passive through the checks, turning his 
head when asked, following the light's motion, providing one word 
whispered responses to his basic questions.  Daly had expected to see 
some resistance when he produced the otoscope but even that went 
unchallenged.  The right ear drum looked a little red, possibly 
accounting for his earlier reaction.  "Make a note on the chart, 
Bruce, we've got some inflammation here," Daly muttered, adding it 
mentally to the growing list of problems.  Damn Weber and his stupid 
test.  A quick check of the throat showed just what he expected.  No 
wonder the guy didn't want to swallow.  That had to hurt.  Still. . . 
"Mr. Mulder....:"  The patient's eyes slid back open.  Despite the 
intrusiveness of the tests he'd been slipping back into sleep, 
probably wouldn't even remember this later.  "I want you to take a 
little more water.  I know it hurts but it will help keep the soreness 
down."

Mulder nodded, swallowed as ordered.  The effort seemed to exhaust him 
and his eyes started to drift shut again.  Daly sighed, considered 
letting Bruce check the arm later, decided that was just laziness.  
Might as well get it over with.  It was going to be unpleasant no 
matter when he did it.

"Don't!"  The protest was more violent than he'd expected, given the 
care he'd taken to avoid jarring the limb.  The patient's face had 
gone gray and he was shaking, trying to get his right hand up to push 
Daly away.  

Bruce had anticipated just that reaction, had the right limb locked 
down in an iron grip, was doing his best to soothe the patient.  
"Easy, Mulder.  The doctor has to check it.  I know it hurts.  It will 
just be a minute."

Daly nodded approval of the quick response.  Neither of them wanted a 
replay of the morning's disaster. "Has he had any morphine yet, 
Bruce?" he asked, running calcs in his head.

"Not yet," Bruce answered, not letting go of the arm.  "There were no 
orders for it on the chart."

Perfectly proper.  Nice to see that at least one of the nursing staff 
knew how to follow orders.  "Let's give him 5 milligrams."  

He could feel the patient relax at the mere mention of the drug.  Daly 
turned back to look at him.  "I'll wait to check your arm until that's 
had a chance to kick in.  Okay, Mulder?"

Bruce waited until Mulder nodded before letting go of the arm, moving 
off to get the drug.  

"You've had a rough time of it, Mr. Mulder."  Daly kept his tone 
light.  He'd seen the patient look towards the pump.  "It seems the 
pump isn't working properly.  We'll get a new one in here tomorrow.  
What's the last thing you remember?"  The subterfuge was probably 
unnecessary, but it was easy enough to cover all the bases and made a 
perfect sequel to something he wanted to know anyhow.

The diversion worked.  

Mulder's face turned back toward him, away from the pump, a line 
forming between his eyebrows as he tried to remember.  "Deb was. . . I 
was sick. It was cold."  Rough sandpaper voice.  Despite the layers 
covering him now, he shivered, seemingly chilled by the memory, eyes 
distant. 

"Yes, well, we've been having some trouble with the central heating." 
Daly shivered in sympathy, suddenly conscious of the chill in the 
room. He'd have to speak to the Brit about that, see if something 
couldn't be done.  "Are you warm enough now or do you need another 
blanket?"

"Nuff," Mulder muttered, eyes flicking past him to track Bruce as the 
nurse hurried back through the entryway.  

"We'll have you feeling no pain in a jiff, Mulder," Bruce promised, 
swabbing the IV port with alcohol before he pushed the needle through, 
depressed the plunger.  "You might feel a slight sting as that goes in 
but you'll be in dreamland before you know it."  

Daly caught the flinch as the solution hit, started his mental 
countdown as he glanced at Bruce.  "Make a note, Bruce, to have 
Maryann keep an eye on the temp in here.  Can't have our patient 
catching pneumonia because of inefficiencies on the maintenance crew, 
can we?"  He could see the telltale morphine glaze starting as the 
drug started to take hold.  He'd give it a couple more minutes. 
Snagging the chart off the table, he moved towards the door, motioned 
Bruce to follow.  Mulder's eyes were slipping closed as Bruce joined 
him but he kept his voice low just the same.  "I'm going to switch 
antibiotics on him.  See if we can't get that fever under control, 
knock out that ear infection before it gets started."  The chart was 
already fifteen or twenty pages thick, frustrating his efforts to find 
what he wanted.   "Where's that inventory list?"  

Bruce took the chart from him, found the desired page in seconds, 
handed it back.  Scanning the proffered page, Daly found the drug he 
wanted, was already flipping back to the front page when something 
caught his eye.  A quick glance at the bed assured him the patient was 
zoned.  "M-16s?" he hissed, sure he'd misread it.  "Is that a joke?"

"Nope," Bruce assured, mouth twisting in amusement.  "A whole case of 
them.  We've also got enough sanitary napkins to outfit a maternity 
ward in case our patient gives birth while he's here."  A shrug of his 
shoulders conveyed what he thought of the supply crew.  "Of course, we 
still can't get the Tylenol suppositories you ordered, so he better 
not start puking again."

Shaking his head in disgust, Daly scratched the med change order on 
the chart before handing it back to Bruce.  "Let's get a look at that 
arm now, before Sleeping Beauty wakes up again," he sighed, eager to 
get it over with, get back to sleep.

Despite the morphine, Mulder still moaned in his sleep as they removed 
the dressings.  

Looking at the limb, Daly could see why.  He'd managed to fix the 
damage without removing most of the rods, but the flesh around the one 
rod he'd had to redo looked nasty, inflamed and hot to the touch.  The 
incision didn't look much better and the swelling had increased, 
despite the elevation.  Worse than back to zero, they'd moved into 
negative numbers on this one.  

"I want these dressings redone every 6 hours. Clean it thoroughly and 
notify me at the first sign of infection."  Anger kept his words 
tight, clipped despite the soft voice. "This man came in here with all 
his limbs and I intend to see that he leaves with all of them."  He 
pressed on the incision site gently, noted with relief the lack of 
pus.  The gentle pressure drew a slightly louder groan from the 
patient.  Still sleeping, just not quite as comfortably.   

Yawning, he headed back to the door, waited for Bruce to join him.  
"Refill that pump with morphine and see that Maryann sets it up for 
him when that shot wears off.  And I'm not kidding about the 
temperature checks either.  This place is like a fucking icebox.  Make 
sure the call button is where he can reach it easily if he gets cold. 
You'd better get a couple extra blankets in here just in case."

Bruce was writing it all down, nodding as he wrote.  "Got it, Doc.  
Why don't you go get some sleep?  We'll take care of things here."  
Smiling, so eager to please.

"See that you do," Daly muttered, in no mood to be pacified.  Right 
now all he wanted was sleep.  Sleep and maybe a one on one session 
with Weber and one of those M-16s.  

He was yawning again as he headed out the door, turned towards his 
quarters.  Thinking of Mulder's likely fate, he mused that it was 
probably a waste of effort trying so hard to salvage the arm.  Still, 
he didn't like to lose. And certainly not to an asshole like Weber.  















THE message light was blinking on Skinner's answering machine, pulses 
of soft red light visible through the kitchen door.   He'd spent time 
in the office after leaving the Lone Gunmen, then rattled around town 
for the rest of the afternoon, attempting to follow the most innocent 
of routines.

Shared a beer with friends.  Done some shopping.  Gone to the movies. 
Nothing that anyone could find particularly suspicious.  Dull, 
perhaps, but not suspicious.

The digital clock on the microwave read 12:39, but he pressed the 
button anyway.  Winced as he heard Mulder's mother's voice, asking him 
to call, whatever the hour.

He'd given her his number, told her if there was anything he could do 
to call him.  But he hadn't expected her to use it.

Sighing, Skinner jotted the number down.  It was local, a hotel room 
extension.  He'd call her in the morning, not tonight.  She wasn't a 
young woman and she'd been through a bad shock and he wasn't prepared 
to talk to her right now, not when he was sure her son wasn't dead 
after all, but certainly in grave danger. Or so his instincts told 
them.  The Consortium must be bickering over what to do with Mulder or 
Marita wouldn't have hooked him into it.

None of which was relevant.  Relevant was keeping Mrs. Mulder--what 
the hell was her first name, anyway, he could never remember--from 
coming down here and putting herself through any more grief than 
necessary.

God knew, he was putting himself through enough of it for any three 
people. But on his way back to his bedroom, he picked up another file.











THE chart wasn't where it was supposed to be.  Deb scowled and looked 
in at Mulder, sleeping with his head tilted away from her, toward the 
window.  His hand was wrapped loosely around the bedrail, as if he'd 
been having a bad time.  She almost went in to check on the pump, but 
knew that would tell her nothing.  Instead, she sighed.  Maryann had 
been on last night, the chart was probably in the break room.  Daly 
would have bitched her out it if Deb had left it in there, but 
Maryann--her mouth curved slightly--Maryann had certain privileges 
that Deb was just as happy not to have.

Maryann was asleep on the cot.  The new guy, Bruce, was sitting at the 
table, reading the chart, glanced up at her and gave her a brief 
smile.  "Hi, Deb."

"Hi."  Deb lifted her chin at Maryann.  "Bad night?"

"Yeah, I guess he was seizing all night."  Bruce looked back down at 
the chart, made a quick note.

Seizing all night?  Deb's head turned back toward Bruce.  "All night?"

Bruce glanced up again.  "Sorry, exaggeration.  He had three, one 
at--"  His eyes dropped to the chart again.  "12:15, lasted about 80 
seconds.  Not grand mal, but he was pretty out of it.  Another one at 
1:45, same duration.  And another one about 4:00.  That one was 
shorter.  Forty seconds."

"I thought he looked out for the count."  Sighing, Deb took her coat 
off and hung it up, then went to stand over Bruce's shoulder.  "What 
has Daly got him on?"

Another brief glance upward.  "Nothing.  Weber's calling the shots on 
that and his orders are not to give him anything for the seizures."  

That coal started burning under her breastbone.  "And Daly's going 
along with that?"

Bruce shrugged, held up the chart.  "According to this.  They are 
diminishing, getting less severe," he pointed out.  

There was no way to argue with that logically, and God knew Mulder was 
already on morphine.  She pinched the bridge of her nose, glanced back 
at Maryann.  "No wonder she's out like a light."

"Yeah."  Bruce made a few notations and handed her the chart.  "I'll 
see about getting him some breakfast of one kind or another."

Deb examined the notations, read back up over the night's report.  
"Yeah," she told him absently.  "His vitals are better."

"Blood pressure's back down.  The wonders of pain medication."  
Bruce's tone was dry.

Deb snorted.  "Amazing, isn't it?"  Without saying anything more, she 
left the break room, stopping to pick up towels and clean linen from 
the cart in the hallway.  

Mulder stirred as she came in, eyes opening to gaze at her dully.

"Good morning," she told him softly and came to the bed.  He had the 
pump  control tucked under his hand, hardly surprising.  "How are you 
doing?  I notice you had kind of a bad night."

Mulder blinked, fingers curling around the rail.  "Had better," he 
admitted."

"I would hope so."  She smiled faintly.  "I thought we'd see about 
getting you cleaned up after breakfast.  Maybe get you shaved."

His tongue moved over dry lips.  "Uh huh."  Blink.  "Could I have 
something to drink?"

"Absolutely."  She touched his cheek, no trace of fever.  "How's your 
stomach doing this morning?"

"Better."

He was still groggy as hell, hardly surprising.  Between seizures, 
morphine and a second surgery, he was tracking amazingly well, 
watching as she put the clean linens and towels on the chair.  "Does 
your head still hurt?"

His lips curved slightly.  "Can't tell."  Self-deprecating tone.   
"I'm pretty stoned, Deb."

"Good, that means it's working."  She came back to the bed, adjusted 
it slightly, raising it in small increments to let his body have the 
time to adjust to the shift.  "Your breakfast should be here soon."

"I wish they'd get the TV fixed," he told her wistfully, wincing as 
the tension on the sling pulled slightly.

Moving to that side of the bed, Deb adjusted it.  Eyed the fresh 
bandages and tamped down on the anger burning a hole in her gut.  
Sure, it was a job, just a job, but it had been so goddamned 
unnecessary.  She found that her intense dislike of Daly had shifted 
to the Brit.  Smiled to cover her feelings.  

"Better?"

"Thanks, Deb."  Faintly, his head turning toward the door as Bruce 
came in. "I hope it's not Cream of Wheat."  Resigned tone.

Deb chuckled.  "Probably.  Live with it.  At least it's light solids, 
not just Jello these days."

Bruce grinned.  "I'm afraid so.  Hey, we were running out of different 
kinds of Jello, we like to offer patients a variety."

Mulder grimaced.  "Does this mean I get real soup instead of plain 
broth today?"

"We'll see how you do," Deb told him, still smiling.

Abruptly, Mulder's good hand rose to his forehead, a line formed 
between dark brows and his face twisted in pain.

"Oh, shit," Bruce set breakfast hastily on the tray table.

"Mulder?"  Deb leaned in, saw his eyes were focused on nothing at all. 
A thin sound came from his throat, and his lips trembled slightly, as 
if he were trying to speak, but nothing came out, nothing escaped the 
grip of the seizure. At least it wasn't grand mal, she told herself.

"That's number four," Bruce muttered.  "He went a little over three 
hours this time."

"Yeah."  Deb waited, watched.  Mulder's face went slack and he leaned 
his head back against the pillow, blinking in confusion.  "It's okay, 
Mulder. You blanked out there for a minute.  How are you feeling now?"

More blinking.  "Okay."  Rusty voice, with the faintest fear 
underneath.  "I blanked out?  I can't...."  His voice trailed off and 
he looked away from her, more blinking, eyes too shiny.

"It's probably residual from the head injury," Deb told him, keeping 
Daly's lie alive.  "Not to worry."

Bruce gave her a mild, questioning glance.

Mulder tried to smile, couldn't seem to make his lips cooperate.  
"Yeah?  Hope you're right."

"You ready for that cream of wheat?"  Turning, Bruce rolled the tray 
table over to the bed.  "And apple juice, Mulder.  You're on a roll."

"Maybe. . ."  Mulder's voice trailed, lids drooping as he eyed the 
tray without enthusiasm.  "I'm kinda tired.  Not really hungry."  He 
started to reach for the spoon, let his hand fall back to the bed as 
the arm began to tremble. 

Bruce glanced at her, she shook her head, kept the motion small, hoped 
Mulder didn't see it. "Why don't you let Bruce do the hard work this 
time, Mulder?" she said cheerfully.  "You just concentrate on eating." 
It was going to take him a day or two to bounce back after yesterday.

"'kay."  Slight shrug, no real show of interest, but he opened his 
mouth as Bruce offered the first spoonful, grimaced slightly at the 
taste."

"Not exactly gourmet fare, is it, Mulder?" Bruce had apparently given 
up on trying to sell Mulder on the finer points of the breakfast, but 
kept shoveling the food into his mouth as he talked.  "Personally, I'm 
not much on breakfast myself."

"When you bring me a Danish, I'll be happy," Mulder muttered, pushing 
the spoon away finally.  

The dish was less than half-empty but Bruce read her look, didn't 
fight it, offered the juice instead.  "I'll see if I can sneak you 
something when Deb's back is turned," he offered, smiling at her as he 
helped Mulder drink.

"Don't count on it, Mulder," she gibed, laughing at the two of them as 
Mulder's eyes widened hopefully.  "He's got an appetite like a horse. 
All you'd get would be crumbs."

"I'm wounded," Bruce exclaimed, face twisting in mock disappointment. 
"I tell you, Mulder.  Never work with women.  They just don't 
appreciate our finer qualities."

Glimpse of a smile before the eyes turned contemplative.  No quick 
rejoinder this morning.

"Think you could do the honors and shave him, Bruce?  He complains 
that I don't get all the spots."  Deb switched the topic abruptly, 
away from the dangerous ground of co-workers, 

"No sexism intended, Deb," Bruce told her, laughing softly, "But you 
don't know all the spots to get.  Hell, women only shave their 
legs...."

Mulder's mouth curved, let the straw slip free.  "I think it's true, 
Deb.  And my legs don't need shaving."

"Oh, I don't know, you have pretty nice legs, they'd probably 
benefit." Deb kept her voice arch, was gratified to get a phantom grin 
from her patient.  Turning, she checked the pump.  "Time for a refill. 
I'll be back, gentlemen.  No fair ganging up on women behind my back."

"We'll do it right in front of you," Bruce assured her, straight 
faced.

She'd seen Bruce as just another toady of Daly's.  Had been irritated 
over his flirtation with Maryann.  But maybe he was all right after 
all--God knew, the grin Mulder gave him was a sign of strength she 
hadn't expected this morning.  Not after yesterday, not so soon after 
that last seizure.

"Good," she agreed tartly, "Then I can be here to defend us."  Winking 
at Mulder, she moved around the bed and toward the door.

"But it's two against one," Bruce joked, behind her.

Mulder made a sound like laughter.  "I think Deb can hold her own," he 
told Bruce hoarsely, making a feeble grab for the cup. "God, this is 
more exciting than I thought.  Real juice."

"We aim to please," Bruce told him genially.

Still smiling, Deb went out the door, but it faded as soon as she was 
in the hallway.  It was fine to appreciate Mulder's resilience and his 
sense of humor, but it was impossible not to wonder how long it would 
remain intact.

Especially after yesterday.















THE grounds were pristine, well manicured, like everything else about 
the Brit.  White rails lined the gravel drive, stark against the green 
pastures. The stable loomed ahead of him, every whitewashed board in 
place, no trace of the rawness or clutter he remembered from the farms 
where he'd grown up.  All of it incredibly tidy, obsessively so, just 
like the man.

No sign of his colleague out by the paddock, not that he'd expected to 
see him there.  His sources reported the Englishman was between 
fillies at the moment, no sweet young things in his bed, in his 
pastures, to distract him from his other obsessions.  

The smoker's mouth twisted in amusement as he considered the Brit's 
peculiar tastes.   Horses and adolescent girls, it was so damned 
trite.  Riding lessons all around and the consortium there to mollify 
outraged parents with money or threats if anyone dared complain that 
the bargain was less than equitable.  Generally threats were 
unnecessary, the parents rarely looked beyond the opportunity to have 
their darlings schooled by a 'cultured gentleman,'  the manners, 
dress, and accent the only guarantee they needed of his honorable 
intentions.  

And the girls kept coming, a new one with each season, like so many 
mares to his stable.  Turned out to pasture when they began to bore, 
to lose their bloom of innocence.  Better riders in more ways than 
one, he was certain of it.  Put through their paces by an aristocrat, 
what more could their parents ask?

Mouth curving, he got out of the car, shut the car door quietly.  No 
need to advertise his presence, give the other man time to marshall 
his defenses.  The stable door had been left ajar, confirming what he 
already suspected.  

So predictable, everything according to schedule.  Riding, grooming, 
fucking, meetings, even torture sessions, with the Brit it was all on 
a schedule. 

Inside, muted, soft light, dark in contrast with the early morning sun 
outside.  The smoker paused inside the doorway, waited for his eyes to 
adjust, let his ears sort through the snickers of the horses, the 
clatter of hooves as they shifted in their stalls.  Faint odor of 
manure, overlaid by fresh hay, the smell of oats.  Even to nasal 
passages dulled by decades of cigarette smoke, the smells were 
powerful, reminding him of a life he'd run from forty odd years 
earlier.  He'd had no cause to ever regret that decision.

Pulling a cigarette loose from the pack in his suitcoat, he waved it 
beneath his nostrils, took time to smell it before placing it between 
his lips, let the scent of tobacco overwhelm the other odors.  He was 
searching for matches when a soft voice caught his attention, stilled 
his hands momentarily. 

Damn. He hadn't wanted an audience, had counted on catching the Brit 
unawares, without his usual lackeys.  He slipped the cigarette back in 
his jacket pocket.

More words, rhythmic cadence, too soft for him to discern a pattern, 
to make out more than occasional syllables.  He kept to the center of 
the stable as he made his way to the back, careful to stay clear of 
the horses craning noses out over their stalls in anticipation of a 
treat.  

Stupid beasts, maybe they confused his suit with the Brit's, thought 
all businessmen kept sugar in their pockets.  He sneered at one 
particularly bold bay, shrugged his shoulder out of the animal's reach 
before the horse could nudge it.  His mind identified each breed, even 
as he carefully avoided any interaction.  

Useless information, remnants of a life he had abandoned, from which 
he'd severed all connections.

The voice was growing clearer, sorting into actual words, nonsense 
phrases.  The Brit was talking to himself.  

No, it was worse than that, the man was talking to the horse.  All his 
lofty, superior airs and the Englishman was actually talking to a dumb 
animal.  

The smoker grimaced, amazed afresh at the man's continuing power 
within the group, despite his odd proclivities.  

The stallion noticed him first, nostrils flaring in alarm as the horse 
shied back, tossed his head from side to side.  

A brief annoyed glare the only sign that the Brit even saw him before 
the man turned back to the horse, voice soothing as he used hands and 
brush to calm the beast.  "Whoa, boy.  Easy."  All his attention was 
on the massive animal at his side.

The smoker hung back, watched in amusement as the older man continued 
to soothe, always conscious of the movements of the horse, careful to 
stay one step ahead, out of reach of the deadly hooves.  It looked 
effortless on the surface but the smoker could see a fine sheen of 
sweat on the Brit's brow, the tension in the man's shoulders, sensed 
the fury under the calm words.  

His mouth curved slightly in recognition.

The chestnut gradually calmed, accepted the Brit's departure with a 
gentle toss of his head, a whinny of protest as the Englishman eased 
the stall door closed, tested the latch before turning.  "What are you 
doing here?  I don't believe you were invited."  Icy, cold voice, no 
attempt to disguise the contempt.

"I wasn't aware that I needed an invitation," the smoker responded, 
let the man hear the taunt behind the words.  "Our mutual associates 
wanted a progress report."  He shrugged carelessly.  "I offered to 
make the trip down here, see how things were going.  Surely you have 
no objection." 

The Brit's eyes narrowed, locked with his briefly before flitting 
away.  "No, of course I don't object," he finally told him, tone icy. 
"I'd prefer you stay out of the stables when you come."  He had turned 
away, still speaking, long legs striding towards the stable door.  
"You should have called ahead though.  I could have saved you the 
trip."

The smoker held his ground, took the time to find the elusive matches, 
light his cigarette.  

The Brit spun at the sound of the match, hurried back to his side, 
gestured furiously at the cigarette.  "Bloody hell.  You can't smoke 
in here."   One booted foot slid forward, found the match he'd dropped 
to the floor, ground the smoldering ember out.  



The smoker leaned back against the wall, returned the man's glare 
placidly as he drew in a fresh lungful, relished the twin pleasures.  
The tobacco soothed his nerves even as it jangled the Brit's.  

The pleasure was short-lived.  The Brit's lips thinned, then curved 
into a cold smile before he turned on his heel and strode briskly from 
the stable without looking back.  

The smoker sighed, followed more slowly.  The Brit wasn't going to 
play that game.  No matter, he'd already won that particular round and 
the Brit knew it.

He expected to find him hovering outside the door.  It took a moment 
to spot his adversary across the yard, back to the stables as he 
leaned on the paddock rail.  A lone chestnut was prancing around the 
enclosure, ignoring the man at the fence.  

Apparently tuned to his approach, the man started speaking before the 
smoker reached the paddock.  "Dr. Daly has revised his estimate, I'm 
afraid.  The patient has suffered a setback of sorts and he now feels 
we will need to wait another two weeks before we attempt to retrieve 
the memories."  Faint tinge of annoyance with Daly's caution in the 
voice. 

The smoker kept his response mild as he took a place at the Brit's 
side. "Really?  Did he have any theories as to what caused the 
setback?"  He let his tone take on an ironic shade.

The other man's eyes were wary, suddenly sensing a trap in the mild 
question.  "Several. . . "  He paused, stared off in the distance, 
seemed to weigh his answer.  "You know Daly.  The man always has 
theories." 

"Indeed."  Eyes fixed on the ember glow of the cigarette, the smoker 
asked, "And have you had any luck accessing the memories?  Has Mr. 
Mulder been able to tell you why the others took his sister?"  His 
source had said not but his source was not omniscient, not even close. 



"No, I'm afraid not," the other man responded, sighed in seeming 
frustration.  "The morph has been unsuccessful in his attempts to 
gather that information."

"Interesting."  Letting the spent cigarette drop to the gravel walk, 
the smoker pulled another from the pack, ignored the Brit's sneer of 
distaste as he lit it.  "And how about Dr. Weber?  Has he been any 
more successful?"   

A slight stiffening of the other man's shoulders told him it was 
unexpected.  

No one had reached the Brit yet, warned him of the smoker's early 
morning visit to the clinic.  His gut burned with the memory of that 
visit, what the nurse had told him about Mulder's seizures.  Each 
seizure brought with it a new piece of the puzzle he never wanted 
Mulder to solve.

But the Brit was no Blevins, he had to give him that, he recovered 
quickly, was staring at him now, smiling slightly, as if amused.  
"No," he finally acknowledged.   Just the one word, no attempt to 
apologize or explain. 

"You fool."  Even as he gave way to the anger, he knew it was a 
mistake, could see the triumph in the other man's eyes.  "Mulder's a 
time bomb and you just lit the fuse.  We're close at Ellens, very 
close.  It would set that operation back months to have to move it."

"Because of Mr. Mulder?"  The Brit was staring at him in outright 
scorn. "I think you overestimate his abilities.  The man can barely 
feed himself.  I'm sure your sources have already told you that 
yesterday's seizure reinjured his pelvis. He's got no phone, he can't 
walk.  As far as the rest of the world knows, he's dead."  Patronizing 
tone, ticking off the points one by one, as if to a particularly slow 
child.  "The man is no danger to us." 

Looking at the other man he knew he had no answer, no way to explain 
the unsettled feeling, the sense of impending doom.  He'd seen Mulder 
slip free too many times, against seemingly impossible odds.  

"See that he stays that way," he finally responded, torn between a 
nagging remembrance of a promise to a dead man and terror at the 
thought of the havoc Mulder would create if he escaped with the Ellens 
memories intact. "I want those memories buried again before he can 
walk, whatever the cost to your personal agenda."

Getting no acknowledgment from the Brit, he left him standing at the 
rails, walked back to the car.  The Englishman would do what he 
wanted, just like always.  He'd have to find another way to control 
this situation before it was too late.

















SKINNER slept later than usual on Sunday morning.  Got up and padded 
into the kitchen, started coffee and headed back to step into a nearly 
scalding shower, needing caffeine and hot water in equal measure.

Christ, he was tired.  Mortally tired.  But the wheels in his mind 
kept turning, wouldn't let him rest.  When he did sleep, he dreamt of 
Mulder, either blowing away the dental work his parents had paid for, 
or lying on that table while the doctor told the video camera what had 
happened and illustrated each bit by having the camera focusing on the 
injured part of Mulder's anatomy.

He'd contacted Senator Matheson, persisted until the senator had 
agreed to see him, to meet him at an exclusive club for a late lunch. 



It was nearly 10:45 before he sat down on the couch and grabbed the 
phone, dialed it, gave the operator the room number.  It only rang 
once before she answered it.

He'd had to call and tell her the news.  Had to tell her that her only 
living child had taken his own life.   "This is Walter Skinner, Mrs. 
Mulder.  I'm sorry I didn't return your call last night, but I got in 
very late."

There was a brief silence.  "Mr. Skinner, I want to see my son.  
I--I'm sorry, I know it's--I wasn't very receptive when you offered 
your help.  They called me from Quantico to ask me what I wanted to do 
with his body."  The faintest tremor shook the even tone.

Christ, he'd thought they were past this danger.  When he'd called 
her, she'd been vehemently opposed to coming down, he'd been relieved, 
thinking of the photographs.  

And now she'd changed her mind.  He licked his lips, tried to choose 
his words carefully.  "Mrs. Mulder, I strongly discourage that.  It's 
better to remember him the way he was, he's--the damage from the 
bullet was very severe.  I wouldn't want you to have that image in 
your memories, better to think of him the way you last saw him."

"The last time I saw him, I slapped him."  Her voice went steely.  "I 
need to see him, Mr. Skinner.  Try to understand, he's been declared 
dead before.  You called me over the incident in New Mexico yourself. 
My daughter was taken and we've never been sure if she's dead or 
alive.  I need to say good-bye, I need to have some closure.  I have 
to have some closure."

Her voice trembled toward the end and Skinner's stomach clenched 
around the damned eggs and toast he'd eaten for breakfast.  "I 
understand," he began and took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes, "but 
Mrs. Mulder, I wouldn't want--"

"I want to see him.  You told me if I needed anything to call.  I need 
something.  I need to see my son."

Skinner closed his eyes.  What a Christless mess.  "All right.  I have 
a block of time free late this afternoon.  I'll--I'll take you out to 
Quantico, they want a decision on where to send the body.  Do you want 
him buried in Connecticut?"  Stalling, hoping to put her off.

"I want him buried here."  Her voice trembled again.  "He wanted to 
undo what his father did.  He was a hero, Mr. Skinner, even if it 
drove him to suicide.  I want him buried in Arlington."

"I can see to that," he muttered, counting up the favors he could call 
in.  

"I'll have to work fast, but I'll pick you up at 4:30, will that be 
all right?"

"It will have to be."  Her voice had gone cool again.  "I'm staying at 
the Four Seasons, Mr. Skinner."

It figured.  William Mulder had probably left some of his ill-gotten 
gains to his ex-wife.  "I'll be there," he told her and hung up.

Christ, until he'd spoken with her, he'd forgotten about the funeral. 
Maybe he should have it videotaped for Mulder.

The telephone rang under his hand, startling him a little.   Grimacing 
at his own nerves, Skinner picked it up.

"Good morning, Mr. Skinner."  That cigarette smoking sonuvabitch.  
Skinner could almost see the cool smile.

"Is it?" he asked ironically.

An audible inhalation as the bastard drew smoke into his lungs.  "I 
understand you paid a visit to Quantico the other evening."

"Yes."  Skinner arched an eyebrow, leaned back into the couch.  "And 
I'm taking Agent Mulder's mother out there this afternoon.  She 
insists on seeing his body."

For the first time since--Christ, since the MJ mess, he'd taken the 
bastard by surprise.  The silence was a long one.  "Surely that's 
unnecessary.  His body has been identified, she shouldn't have to see 
it."  

Was he imagining it?  Or was there the slightest hint of a tremor in 
the voice on the other end?  

"I suggested that she wouldn't want to.  I tried to tell her that it 
wasn't an image I'd want my mother to have.  But she insisted.  Said 
she needed closure.  That the last time he was declared dead, he 
wasn't."  Skinner smiled thinly, hoping that he wasn't imagining 
things.  "She's his mother.  I can't deny her that right.  I told her 
I'd go with her.  She shouldn't have to do it alone."

Another inhalation.  "I agree."  A little calmer now.

Skinner wondered.  "So, you had something to talk about?  If not, I 
have to meet someone in fifteen minutes."

"I was wondering why you went out there."

"He was one of my agents.  One of my people.  Not quite a friend, but 
he saved my ass when someone tried to frame me."  Skinner's voice was 
cold.  "Maybe I needed some closure, too.  Scully had to identify him 
for the detectives.  The least I owed her was to see the same thing 
she'd seen."

"You get too involved with your people, Mr. Skinner."  His composure 
recovered, the smoker even managed to put some sincerity into his 
voice.  "It's going to be the death of you."

"It's the Marine Corps training," Skinner told him.  Smiled again, 
just as thinly as before.  "It seems I can't escape it."

There was another long silence.  "It's a habit you might want to 
consider breaking, Walter, for your own well being."

Skinner's right hand clenched into a fist.  "I'll bear that in mind."

There was a click.  But he was sure he hadn't imagined it.  The son of 
a bitch had been--disconcerted about Mulder's mother.  His pulse sped, 
thinking about it, wondering if they'd missed something else, 
something a mother would notice.  And he couldn't decide if he was 
hoping they had, or hoping they hadn't. And now, he was going to try 
and get some other work done.  Before he had to deal with a grieving 
mother.









THE edges of the envelope were no longer crisp, creases lined the fine 
linen paper, more pronounced across the right hand corner, where a 
dark russet stain all but obscured the stamp.  With shaking fingers he 
slowly separated the edges, extracted the single sheet of paper, 
careful not to tear it any worse than it already was.  

No matter how many times he slid it in and out of the envelope it 
still tended to stick, reminding him of the first time, when the paper 
was still wet, glued together with sticky, warm blood.

Damn the boy and his infernal probing.  

More readings than he cared to think about and he still couldn't 
believe she'd actually told him, been willing to blow the myth to 
smithereens after almost forty years of silence.  He looked past the 
still folded sheet to the black phone, lying silent on the battered 
end table next to the ashtray.  

Was this the reason she'd insisted on seeing the body?  She had to be 
wondering if it had pushed him over the edge, driven him to pick up 
the gun, pull the trigger.

Skinner's explanation had made sense but he doubted she'd told Skinner 
about the letter.  No, that wasn't her way.  She'd had years of 
practice keeping secrets, with him, with Bill, and with the boy.  
Samantha had been easier to fool, the boy was always the problem, was 
still the problem.  

He sighed, unfolded the page, shook his head over the familiar loopy 
script.  The rich chestnut hair had faded to white, gravity had taken 
its toll on the flesh, but the handwriting was still that of the 
twenty-five year old beauty who had married his best friend, not him. 
Pushing aside the memories the script conjured, he started at the 
beginning, searched behind what was written for hidden meanings.  
There were always hidden meanings with her.



Dear Fox,

It's difficult to know what to say.  I suppose I should apologize for 
slapping you but I find I can't quite do that.  You were pushing for a 
response and you got one.  I'm sorry if it's not the one you wanted.  



Yet, knowing you as I do, I know you're not going to let this 
particular question go, no matter how much I wish you'd leave it 
alone.  You've never been one to leave things alone, have you?  You 
were a holy terror as a toddler, always into everything.  Do you 
remember flooding the bathroom when you were two, testing the flush 
limits of the toilet? Maybe you remember your father's reaction.  
Maybe not.  Maybe that's why you want to know so badly.

You asked me who your father is.  The truth is, Fox, there's no such 
thing as a father.  It's a myth sold to little girls.  We play mommy 
and daddy when we're little but it's mostly the girls playing.  The 
boys have better things to do than play house, so the girls end up 
playing both roles.  Nothing really changes later.  The men still run 
off to play at their war games and the women stay home with the kids 
and pass the daddy myth onto another generation. 

You have two fathers, you had no father.  Either, both.  You choose.  
I made my choice a long time ago and for good or bad, I stuck with it, 
probably past where I should have.  It's ancient history for me, Fox, 
and I no longer care whose sperm was involved.  

That you even asked the question indicates you already know who the 
other possibility is so spare me any questions on that.  If you want 
to pursue this you'll have to do it on your own. Don't bother me with 
your answers if you find them.  They're both dead as far as I'm 
concerned.

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for the passions of 
my youth.   It was a long time ago and the woman who made those 
choices no longer exists.   I am sorry that my actions have caused you 
pain.  That was never my intention.  

Mom