His mouth quirked bitterly.  She was right about one thing, that the 
woman who made those decisions no longer existed.  It was there in the 
opening paragraph.  
She'd always sworn she'd never lift a hand to her son, even when the 
child would have driven any sane parent to abuse.  Maybe having Bill 
out of the way freed her to release years of frustration, but he still 
couldn't see it.  Although, he'd felt his own palm itch with the same 
temptation in confrontation after confrontation, so maybe it wasn't 
surprising.   

He remembered the incident with the toilet.  Interesting that she 
referenced only the bathroom, her memory having conveniently edited 
out the soaked hardwood floors, the damage to the living room rug.  
Bill's reaction hadn't been that out of line, considering.  The boy 
had gotten off comparatively easy and he had learned not to throw 
stuffed animals in the toilet.

Setting the letter aside, he picked up the nearly empty glass, stared 
idly at the ring it left on the table, as he drained the last of the 
lukewarm scotch.  He really wanted a cigarette but his last pack lay 
crumpled in the ashtray.   It was indicative of how distracted he'd 
been lately that he'd let himself run out.  
His eyes wandered to the television, the briefcase standing next to it 
and he rose to his feet.  The latches popped free at the light push 
and he rummaged through papers, tapes, photographs before giving up 
and dumping the whole mess out on the unmade bed.  A lone cigarette 
rolled off the pile of paper onto the floor.  Back muscles strained 
from too much air travel and sitting at conference tables protested as 
he bent to pick it up.  He had it lit before he settled back into the 
chair, pulled the welcome smoke deep into his lungs.

Picking up the phone, he punched in the number from memory, waited for 
the operator to pick up and mouth her chirpy greeting.  "Katherine 
Mulder's room please."  He smiled grimly as the operator put the call 
through without protest, ruminated on the inconsistency of a woman who 
would deny her past while choosing to stay at the hotel where it all 
began.  

But Katherine had always had a taste for the finer things in life and 
a certain willingness to ignore the obvious. The operator cut in on 
the eighth ring.    He hung up before she could offer to take a 
message.  

That left Skinner.  And he'd already talked to Skinner.  He stared at 
the phone, toyed with the image of Skinner's reaction to what he'd 
say.  Tell her I said not to look at the body, it's not our son.  It 
was almost tempting to do it, despite the havoc it would cause, just 
to hear Skinner's reaction.  

But Fox Mulder was not his son, never had been, despite what she said 
in the bloody letter.  He looked at the smudge again and grimaced at 
the accuracy of the invective. There was at least a fifty percent 
chance Bill was his biological father and she herself had pointed out 
that the sperm source didn't matter.  He had no time for overgrown 
children who didn't know when to mind their own business.  

No, he had a job to do and he refused to even consider it.  If he'd 
wanted to know he could have run the tests years ago.  The boy never 
had to know.  Nobody had to know.  It could remain their secret.  It 
should remain their secret.  

Black smudges spilled from the ashtray onto cream colored paper as he 
crushed out the smoldering stub.  Picking up the letter, he shook the 
ashes free, and carefully replaced it in the envelope before tucking 
it into his inside pocket.   One hand snagged the key ring off the TV 
as he headed for the door.  

First things first.  He needed more cigarettes.  


 





SKINNER tapped at the door of the magazine office.  Waited what seemed 
a long time and raised his hand to tap again.

Langley opened it and gazed at him owlishly.  "You didn't call ahead." 
 Accusingly.

"I used a pay phone yesterday, I'm out of quarters."  Skinner waited, 
not in the mood for games.   

But Langley let him in.  "We got some good stills, like I thought we 
could.  We've been running them, got a match on the doctor dude; his 
name is Daly.  Marcus Daly.  Ran a dossier on him for you."

Skinner's pulse sped slightly.  "Military?"

"You got it.  Upper echelon, originally Air Force, Pentagon 
connections."  
Langley handed him a fat manila envelope and sank back into a sagging 
armchair that had seen better days.  "He's allegedly assigned at 
Walter Reed, but he's not there right now.  We checked."

He was finding it better not to think about how they found these 
things out.  Easier on his conscience.    "What's his area of 
specialty?"

A door at the back of the office opened and Byers came in, arched an 
eyebrow at seeing him.  "Are we talking about Daly?"

Langley nodded.

Byers leaned against a file cabinet and folded his arms, his 
expression wry.  "That's what's interesting, Mr. Skinner.  He's got 
quite an impressive medical background.  He originally went into 
orthopedic surgery, branched off into cranial study, and then into 
neurosurgery.  The last six years, he's gone in for neuro research, 
essentially exploring how the brain actually stores memory and 
thought.  How it stores experience."  Byers' expression became somber. 
 "He's even written a couple of short articles about repressed memory. 
 How to retrieve it.  How to determine if it's real or confabulation."

Skinner looked down at the military issue photograph.   "Keep digging 
on Daly, see if you can find out what he's been working on most 
recently, see if you can find his chain of command."

"Byers is on Daly already."  Langley arched an eyebrow.  "And we're 
still trying to find a match on driver's license records for the babe. 
 He called her Maryann, that gives us a little more to go on.  She 
didn't show up in DoD.  But the fat one did.  Army nurse, twenty-year 
veteran.  Supposedly retired and living in Muskogee.  What do you bet 
she's not there?"

He wouldn't bet his next paycheck on it, not with video footage in 
front of him.  Unless they'd taken Mulder to fucking Oklahoma, which 
seemed unlikely, in Mulder's condition.  

"The men in the first part of the tape--they don't seem to exist."  
Byers smiled thinly.  "So, we're continuing to run database searches 
on driver's licenses.  Most states have everything computerized these 
days, it makes it much easier."

They were probably breaking several different laws, Skinner thought 
and closed his mind to it.  Abduction was still a crime.  Assault was 
still a crime.  And if these people were military, so was conspiracy 
to deprive someone of their civil rights.  None of which did Mulder 
any good at the moment.  

Skinner hefted the envelope.  "Thanks.  I'll be in touch as soon as I 
find anything."

"You want us to call you?"  Langley leaned back, hands laced across 
his stomach.  
"Might be easier."

"I don't know that my phones aren't tapped."

A little gleam appeared behind Langley's glasses.  "Why didn't you say 
so?  We can take care of that."

At the door, Skinner hesitated, suddenly gave Langley a feral smile.  
"Good idea.  See what you can find.  I assume you already know where I 
live and what my number is?"

They both smiled at him.   

"Just stay out of my underwear drawer."

"Hey, Frohicke may be a dirty old man, but he's a straight dirty old 
man."  But Langley chuckled anyway.







SKINNER paused, his eyes searching out the familiar figure across the 
restaurant.  A little rich for his usual tastes, but Matheson was a 
senior Senator.  And this was private, not one of the gathering places 
for the powerful.  A private club.

Catching sight of Matheson, he made his way through the tables, muted 
conversations like a whisper of silk against stone, pretty people, 
rich people, insulated from the kind of things that happened out in 
the real world.  
But he felt pity, rather than contempt.

They were blind, that was all.  Some of them willfully so.  But the 
man at the table in the back was not.  Pulling out the chair, he sank 
into it gratefully.  

"Thank you for seeing me."

"Of course."  Matheson's eyes were older than his face.  "What can I 
do for you?  You said this was highly confidential."

"It's difficult to say."  The waiter moved in, leaning over him.  
"Bourbon," he muttered, "No ice."  Murmuring, the waiter withdrew 
again.  "I have reason to believe that Fox Mulder may, in fact, be 
alive."

Matheson's eyes widened slightly.  "I understood there was an 
autopsy." 

Skinner smiled thinly.  "There's some evidence that it may not have 
been Mulder's body. That he's been abducted for reasons unknown by--a 
certain faction in the intelligence arena." 

Matheson just watched him, frowning faintly.  "What kind of evidence?"

"Evidence I'm not in control of," Skinner told him softly.  "But you, 
Senator, have certain contacts.  If Mulder's alive, I want him back.  
I want him found.  I can't involve the Bureau in this for reasons you 
well know.  But Mulder was a protégé of yours."

Matheson lifted his glass to his mouth, gaze going distant.  "I don't 
know how familiar you are with Mulder's history with the Bureau, Mr. 
Skinner--"

"Familiar enough," Skinner interrupted him, impatient with this.  
"Senator, you have contacts that aren't available to me.  I need help, 
I can't do this alone.."

Matheson's gaze remained distant.  "He wasn't my protégé, Mr. 
Skinner."

Anger coiled in his belly, cold, slithering around in his gut.  "Just 
another tool Senator?  Well, this one's been stolen and broken.  I 
need your influence to get him back, to find out who the hell has him 
and where he might be."

Matheson's eyes returned to him, cool and not a little angry in 
return.  "I use my influence where it benefits me, Mr. Skinner, and I 
make no apology.  Fox Mulder has become--a liability, rather than an 
asset.  I can't help you.  Not without evidence."

The waiter appeared, setting the Bourbon down in front of Skinner.  He 
eyed it for a moment and put his fingertips against the glass.  Thick, 
heavy, the kind of glasses used in places like this.  Heavy silver 
flatware, crisp starched napkins.  The perks of being powerful and 
wealthy.  "The evidence I had isn't for public consumption," he told 
Matheson flatly.  "And it's kept safely in several different places.  
Duplicated."

"If it isn't for public consumption, it isn't evidence."  Matheson was 
glacially calm.

Skinner studied the man, fighting his temper.  "He named me his 
executor, did you know that?  I have access to his private records, 
his field journals, his safety deposit box."

Something shifted behind Matheson's eyes.  

Mulder had trusted this man, considered him an ally.  But Matheson was 
old in the ways of power, had long walked the corridors where power 
was a fact of life, wielded it gracefully enough that Mulder, 
paranoid, suspicious Mulder, had trusted him for years.  Oh, he knew 
more about Mulder's history with Matheson than Matheson was likely to 
find comfortable.  Understood how that could make Mulder trust him.

Understood it and questioned it.  God, Mulder had once thought *he* 
was the enemy, yet this man regarded him coolly, thinking of 
advantages gained and risks taken in helping Fox Mulder.

"Blackmail, Mr. Skinner?  You surprise me." Matheson finally murmured, 
and smiled silkily.  "But I've had no dealings with Mulder that would 
reflect to my discredit."  The smile vanished.  "I am sorry, sorrier 
than you would believe, but I can't help you."  His tone was pitched 
low and peculiarly emphatic.  "You're on your own.  But I do advise 
you--be very careful about who you voice these suspicions to, Mr. 
Skinner."

Skinner tasted the bourbon, felt it mellow on his tongue.  Good 
bourbon.  

Expensive.  "Blackmail, Senator?"  He smiled thinly.  "Or a warning?"

"A warning."  Matheson was somber.  "Whether you believe me or not, I 
wish I could help you.  I can't.  Not without irrefutable evidence.  
Bring me that and there may be something I can do.  Until then, be 
very careful."

Skinner took another drink, felt the liquor warm his gut.  "I'll bear 
that in mind, Senator, just as I'll bear in mind who Mulder's friends 
really are."  For the first time, he saw something besides the face of 
the politician in response.

Bringing the glass to his mouth, Matheson swallowed, gazed off into 
the distance again.  "Why did they do it?"

"I have no idea, other than to retrieve certain memories he might 
have."  Skinner allowed himself a tight smile.  "Very, very dangerous 
memories."

Matheson's jaw went taut, he looked down into his drink.  "I suppose 
they'll kill him when they've finished.  After faking the suicide.."

"No doubt.  If I can't get to him."  The anger shifted in his gut 
again, making the Bourbon burn.  "You can add that to your list of 
political honors, Senator."

Pale eyes flicked up at him, a little surprised.  "Bring me evidence I 
can use in public, Mr. Skinner.  Then maybe there will be something I 
can do.  With this kind of thing--I'm not in any position to request 
the information you want."

Skinner nodded, his jaw clenching tight.  "Oh, I understand, believe 
me, I understand."   He drank again, welcoming the burn this time.  It 
kept him on edge, kept the liquor from dulling his rage.  Pushed the 
glass away and rose.  "You'll understand I'm sure if I don't stay for 
lunch."  Shoved the chair back in and made his way back through the 
kingdom of the blind.








IT was a gloomy afternoon and Scully sighed, rose from the table.

Her mother was there again.  There was that about dying, it was more 
exhausting, both emotionally and physically, than working with Mulder 
ever had been.

Scully sighed, let her mother take the lunch dishes from her and rinse 
them.  "Mom, I can do that.  I'm not an invalid."

"No, I know that."  Her mother's voice was pleasant, untroubled.  "How 
are you doing today?"

"I'm fine, Mom."  But she sank back into her chair gratefully.

Her mother looked back over her shoulder, finished the second plate 
and opened up the dishwasher.  "I meant, how are you doing about Fox, 
Dana."

She didn't want to hear that question, let alone answer it.  "I'm 
fine, Mom."  Automatic answer.  Automatic lie.

"Honey, I wish you could find it in you to believe that his soul is at 
peace now."

Her mouth crimped.  "Mom, I don't--"  And suddenly, tears came again. 
 "I can't--Mom, don't."

Her mother was there in an instant, it was like being six years old 
again, and she was crying about that often lately.  "Let it out, Dana. 
 Don't let it fester inside."

Instead, she drew on anger again.  "Mom, I don't want to talk about 
him.  He--I cared about him, he was my friend and my partner, but for 
God's sake.  My sister is dead because of his stupid, useless quest.  
To find his sister, to find extra-terrestrial life.  A psychopath 
probably took his sister, she's probably been dead for decades, and I 
could never convince him that it was anything but aliens."

Her mother kissed the top of her head and went to the coffee pot.  
Brought it back and poured them both a refill before sitting down with 
her. "Fox's quest for his sister was admirable, Dana, regardless of 
its origins.  It may have been doomed from the start, you may be quite 
right.  But I don't think that psychopaths are any more or less 
unbelievable than extra-terrestrial life."

Rocked, Scully stared at her again.  "What?"

Her mother's smile was almost amused.  "Dana, the Church may teach us 
of the existence of Evil, but they haven't taken a position on 
extra-terrestrial life in more than a century, if I'm not mistaken.  
And why should they?  If God created life on this planet, why not on 
other planets?  And I, for one, would find it tremendously comforting 
to believe that we weren't alone in the universe."

Reality had definitely taken a holiday.  Scully felt numb.  Not angry, 
not tearful, just numb.  "I thought it was one of the church's basic 
teachings that God created man in his image.  Are you saying you think 
he also created aliens on other planets in his image?  Little grey 
men?  Isn't that a bit of a contradiction?"

"Not necessarily.  There are all manner of images, spiritual images, 
physical images.  There's room for lots of different interpretations 
of God's word, Dana.  It's within the realm of possibility that his 
sister was taken by aliens I suppose."  Abruptly, her mother's lips 
quirked.  "Or an angel, although I'm inclined to believe that God is 
kinder than that.  On the other hand, read the Book of Job.  If you 
want to get into that line of discussion, it's possible that God was 
testing Fox.  Just as he was testing me."

Dying, Scully decided, was definitely interesting, she just wasn't 
sure she was up to this today.  "Testing him," she repeated, a little 
giddily.  "Poor Fox, I think he failed."

"We don't know that," her mother told her serenely.  "God forgives 
anything, Dana.  I believe that with all my heart and soul.  And you 
don't know that in the final second, after it was too late, that Fox 
didn't regret his decision."

It was just too much.  Somewhere, she had a bottle of Irish whiskey.  
"Mom, would you like something a little stronger in that coffee?"

Margaret Scully's brows drew together.  "Dana, is it all right for you 
to drink?"

"Mom, I'm dying, fuck whether or not it's all right."  Reckless, she 
went in search of the whiskey, hearing her mother's gasp behind her.

"Dana Katherine, I really don't think that kind of language is called 
for."

"God forgives all, Mom," she told her, digging around in the lower 
cabinet.  
"Ah, here it is."

"I'm not talking about God, I'm talking about me."  But her mother's 
mouth relaxed anyway.  "Pour just a tot in there."

Scully paused by the table, eyeing her mother.  Opened the bottle and 
did exactly that.









THE drive to Quantico was excruciating.   Mrs. Mulder showed no 
inclination to talk, although she'd been courteous enough at the 
hotel.  As they pulled into the parking lot, she roused herself from 
her thoughts.  "Thank you for coming with me."  Very soft voice.  "I 
don't have anyone left."

That cranked up the guilt and queasiness in his gut another notch.  
"Mrs. Mulder, you don't have to do this.  Agent Scully identified 
him."

"Yes, I do."  The gaze she turned on him was tearless.  "He's my son."

He walked her in, glad he'd called ahead.  Glad they'd have the body 
out of the body bag and would have covered up the Y shaped incision 
from the post mortem.   Even if it wasn't her son, she didn't need to 
see the cruelties inflicted after death.  

There was a small room for viewing bodies; they'd put the body in 
there and curtained it off.  The morgue attendant walked them in, 
giving Mrs. Mulder a somber look before leaving.

She stared at the curtain for a long moment.  Skinner cupped her elbow 
to steady her, but those shoulders were straight.  Steady.  He raised 
his other hand to the curtain's edge.  "Tell me when you're ready," he 
told her gently.

Her mouth trembled and steadied.  "I'm ready."  Huskily.  "Open it."

He pulled it open and winced.  They had the sheet covering the body to 
the neck, but the damage to the face and head was cruelly savage under 
the fluorescent lights.

Mrs. Mulder made a soft, mournful sound.  "Oh, Fox."

He had to look away, to blink hard.  Had to fight the urge to tell her 
what he suspected.  It wouldn't do Mulder any good, and he had no 
proof anyway.  Couldn't even be sure himself.   

She pulled herself free of his hand and went to smooth back the dark 
hair from the unshattered forehead.  "Oh, son."  Her voice, thick with 
tears, made Skinner's chest hurt.   "Please," she said softly, "Can 
you give me a moment alone with him?"

He cleared his throat.  "I'll be outside if you need me, Mrs. Mulder. 
 Please--don't hesitate."  And made his escape.  Went down the hall to 
the little alcove with the vending machine and put coins in for a 
scalding cup of lousy coffee.  Needing something stronger, something 
that would take the taste out of his mouth of what he'd just done.  Or 
not done.

Sins of omission.  Christ, he was dirty up to his eyebrows these days.

Heavy footsteps went past him.  He ignored them, leaned his forehead 
against the cool surface of the machine and wished for innocence 
again.  Wished to be clean, to be honorable.  Anything or anyone but 
who he was, a man turning grey by degrees, tainted by what he touched 
and tainting everything else he touched.

"How dare you come here!"  Mrs. Mulder's voice was unmistakable, and 
unmistakably furious.  "You killed him!"

"No, I didn't, Katherine, he killed himself."

Thunderstruck, Skinner recognized the voice of the smoker.  Raspy and 
containing the faintest hint of apology.   

"Katherine, no one wanted this to happen."

Crack--the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a blow.    Skinner's eyes 
widened and his mouth twitched.  He'd have given a month's salary to 
witness that.  But something told him it would be wiser not to step 
out in the hallway at the present moment.  Not yet.

"You bastard, you drove him to it!  You killed him just as surely as 
you did his father!  You've cost me everything I loved, everyone I 
loved!"  Her voice rose upward toward the breaking point.

Skinner's eyebrows rose.  Mulder's father had been murdered--had the 
smoker had a hand in that?

"So afraid of your secrets," Mrs. Mulder's voice shook.  "I know some 
of those secrets.  Are you going to kill me now?  There's no one left 
for me to protect.  You've taken my children, one by one--if I were a 
man, I'd have killed you years ago.  Samantha would still be here with 
me, Fox would be here."

It was time for him to intervene, he could hear the thin note of 
hysteria in her voice.  Dropping the cup into the trash, he emerged 
from the room and started toward the two who stood, face to face.

"Katherine," he heard the smoker say, "Katherine, you're upset."

Her eyes flicked over the smoker's shoulder to Skinner and she 
straightened her shoulders again.  "My son is dead.  He's in that 
room.  Go and take a look at what you've done and then tell me I'm 
upset."

"Mrs. Mulder?"  Skinner felt an almost malicious pleasure at the 
smoker's startlement.  "Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you."  She drew dignity around her like a cloak.  "I'd 
like to go and talk to the funeral home now.   Amsterdam's."

"Certainly."  Skinner moved past the smoker and offered his arm.  Mrs. 
Mulder flicked him a grateful look and took it, ignoring the other 
man.  Letting his gaze meet the smoker's, Skinner kept his face 
impassive.  Held his tongue.

The smoker reached inside his jacket with a hand that trembled 
slightly.  The mark of Mrs. Mulder's hand was livid on his face.  
Skinner didn't allow himself to glance at it, simply walked past.  Put 
his other hand on Mrs. Mulder's trembling arm.

And didn't allow himself to consider the questions that crowded his 
mind until they were out in fresh air again.








SKINNER was dozing over the Berube file when the telephone rang, 
snatched for it and nearly knocked over the lamp on the bedside table. 
 "Skinner," he grated, steadying the lamp.

A faint intake of breath.  "Sir, it's me, Scully.  I--I got your 
message."

Oh.  Taking in a breath of his own, he switched modes.  "I'm glad you 
called.  Mrs. Mulder asked me to call you and inform you about the 
services.  Day after tomorrow, at 9:00 am.  She wants him buried at 
Arlington, I've pushed through the arrangements."  He licked his lips, 
feeling the silence from the other end of the line like a weight on 
his soul.  More guilt.  He was going to take it out of Mulder's hide 
when he found him, although *that* was so unfair, even he had to admit 
it.  "She wondered if you'd like to say something, Scully.  At the 
service."

"I don't--I don't think I can."  Her voice was shaky.  "I'll think 
about it."  Then, as if compelled.  "Sir, would you mind taking my 
place?  I'll be there, I have to be there, but I don't think I can 
talk about him."

His evanescent doubts of her evaporated for that moment, at least.  
The pain he heard was undeniable, the most she'd shown him since he'd 
learned of Mulder's death.  "I--yes, I'll be glad to, Scully.  I'd be 
honored to."  Which wasn't entirely true, it was just another small 
weight to carry.  "Are you--would you like me to pick you up?"

"No, thank you, sir.  My mother will want to come.  I'll ride with 
her."  Her voice was weary now.  

He wanted to ask her how she was feeling.  Wanted to know if she was 
all right, what her doctor had said, whether or not the fucking cure 
had begun.  But he was in no position to ask that.  Not right now.  
"Take care of yourself," he told her helplessly and hung up.  Furious 
at the bastards who had done this to her.  Furious at himself.  

And more grimly determined than ever that the bastards wouldn't win 
this one.




  



IMPOSSIBLY bright, the lights danced across the sky, drew his gaze 
upwards.
Mesmerizing him.   

Stealth forgotten, he let his booted feet carry him out on to the 
tarmac, follow the light source.  All his focus was on the dance in 
the sky but somehow his feet managed without direction from him.

The dance shifted, stilled suddenly as more lights flared to life, 
drew closer, closer still, revealing a dark triangle, inconceivably 
large, hovering directly overhead.  One arm thrown up to shield 
against the glare, he stared, exhilaration warring with disbelief.  

Proof, finally proof.  He wasn't crazy.

Then the lights cascaded from the sky, fell down all around him, 
chased him about the tarmac as he ran from them.   Lungs gasping, he 
spun, searching for an opening, a way out.  Too many of them, all 
around him now, reaching, grasping, trying to trap him.  

He screamed, felt the scream leave his lungs, sear his throat with its 
passage, but no sound emerged.  The earless ones heard it anyway, 
turned blank faces towards him, huge eyes staring dispassionately at 
his struggles, his silent shrieks of pain.  He spun away and fell, 
towards the tarmac, into space, no bottom, falling forever. . .

"It's okay, he's coming around.  I'll take over from here."  

A stranger's voice, unfamiliar hands.  

Mulder pulled away, grunting as the sudden movement awakened fresh 
agony.  "Oh god," he groaned, felt the words rasp raw vocal chords.  
Swallowing made it worse, not better.

"Bad dream, huh?"  The shape next to the bed drew closer, solidified, 
one meaty hand holding out the water jug, a straw.  "Have a couple of 
sips.  It will help your throat."

Eyes squinting against the light, Mulder opened his mouth, let the 
stranger position the straw, shut his eyes as he drew the welcome 
liquid into his mouth, swallowed.  The man was watching him when he 
finally let the straw drop loose, turned his head to the side to 
indicate he'd had enough.  "Who. .. .who are you?" he gasped, tried 
unsuccessfully to put some power behind the words.  

Somebody had stolen his voice, left him with this pitiful substitute.

"I'm Dr. Weber, Mr. Mulder."  Long pause before the man seemed to 
register that the name alone wasn't clarifying anything.  "Dr. Daly 
called me in on your case, to help with the seizures.  Are you aware 
that you just had another episode?"

Another?  How many had he had?  "How long?" he asked.  Brief question, 
easier to manage, easier to hide the anxiety.      

"Ninety-six seconds."  Precise, to the second, like that phone 
recording that gave you the time.  At the sound of the tone your 
seizure will last ninety-six seconds, exactly.  

Mulder tried to focus past the dread in his belly, tried to listen to 
what the man was telling him.  He'd missed most of it, wondered if 
he'd had another seizure and the doctor had somehow missed it.

". . .triggering mechanisms.  What can you tell me about that?"  

Dr. Weber had stopped speaking, was poised in the chair, pencil at 
ready, as if waiting for him to provide all the answers.  

Fuck.  He wasn't even sure what the question was.  Deb had said he 
blanked out earlier.  He hadn't asked, hadn't wanted to know.  "I'm 
sorry.  I missed. . ..can you repeat?"  Visions of a Section Eight 
made it hard to stay calm, form complete sentences. 

The pencil tapped on the clipboard, revealing the doctor's impatience 
even as the man repeated more slowly,  "As I already explained. . . " 
A deep sigh clearly conveyed his disgust with having to repeat 
himself.  ". . .you were concussed in the accident.  While the 
concussion was not a serious one, your history of past head trauma is 
cause for concern.  As I'm sure other doctors have explained to you in 
the past, head trauma is cumulative.  Any injury to the brain, no 
matter how mild, is cause for concern, particularly in a patient such 
as yourself."  He gestured toward the thick folder sitting on the bed 
table.  "I've seen professional football players with fewer head 
injuries than you have had, Mr. Mulder." 

His arm was throbbing, making it difficult to concentrate, to absorb 
what he was being told.  Part of him knew he didn't want to hear it, 
didn't want to acknowledge how close he was to permanent disability.  
It was easier to focus on the fire in his pelvis, on his arm, on the 
ribs which screamed warning at him every time he tried to draw a 
shallow breath, than to think about the time bomb in his brain, the 
real danger.  What had he been thinking to let. . .

". . . Dr. Goldstein."  As if he'd been listening in to his thoughts, 
Dr. Weber's voice took the name right out of his brain.   The flabby 
lips twisted on the doctor's name, as if the mere mention of it was 
distasteful.  Mulder forced himself to listen, pay attention.  "I 
believe that may be the triggering mechanism, whatever memories Dr. 
Goldstein's treatment unleashed."  Weber's head was bobbing as he 
spoke, more enthused now as he warmed to his subject. "That's why we 
need your help if we're going to lick this thing."   The pencil was 
poised again, as the doctor raised his brows and smiled encouragement. 
 

Mulder stared at the light brown stain on the lapel of the man's 
rumpled white coat, the badge clipped askew to the pocket.  Not the 
neatest dresser in the world and the face was all wrong for a doctor, 
nose swollen, abraded on the one side, bruises shading the eyes above. 
 He looked more like a prize fighter than a surgeon.    

He still had no idea what the man wanted.  "What?"  Pausing, he licked 
lips which had dried again, looked longingly at the carafe of water, 
out of his reach now on the table.  "What help?"  Maybe it was too 
late already. His brain felt fuzzy, like half his brain cells had 
already shut down, abandoned ship.  

The doctor leaned forward, brown eyes serious, the bruises more 
visible now.  "Try to pay attention, Mr. Mulder.  This is important." 
 Stern voice, so like his father's when he was angry.  Why was the man 
angry with him? Doctors weren't supposed to get mad at their patients. 
 

Except Scully.  She was always mad at him lately.  But technically he 
wasn't her patient so she didn't have to be nice to him.  

He'd let his attention wander again.  It was so hard to focus.  Tried 
to pay attention as the doctor continued, ". . .tell us what you 
remember of the seizures, what you're seeing.  Then we might be able 
to figure out what the triggering mechanism is which in turn might 
enable us to better control them.   
What do you remember?"

His brain skipped over the last question, fixated on something 
earlier.  

"Control them?  Are we talking medication?"  He knew the regs.  No way 
they'd let him out in the field if he was on seizure medication.  "I 
can't take that crap.  You can't make me take that if I refuse."  It 
wouldn't help.  They wouldn't let him out anyhow without a doctor's 
okay.  Panic was making it harder to breathe than the pain in his ribs 
had. 

"Relax, Mr. Mulder."  The doctor was looking concerned for the first 
time, reaching out to pat his hand.  "At present we're still hoping to 
avoid medication.  I understand your concerns about that given your 
particular line of work."  

Some of the panic receded, making it easier to ask, "Then what?   What 
are you telling me?  You said seizures."  Emphasizing the plural.  
"How many have I had?"  The cold slithered in his belly again, chill 
dread of being disabled, locked behind a desk....

Lips pursing, Dr. Weber looked down at the clipboard, studying data or 
thinking, Mulder couldn't tell which.  "This latest was your sixth, 
Mr. Mulder."

Sixth?  Shit, that couldn't be true.  "In how long?" he asked, 
suddenly realizing he'd lost all sense of time, had no idea how long 
he'd been here, when the seizures had started.  "When did they start? 
 Are they getting closer?  Further apart?"  

Suddenly he needed to know everything, physical aches forgotten as the 
questions spilled out, one on top of the other.  He needed more 
information.

"Calm down, Mr. Mulder."  Weber's voice was firm and he had that 
patented doctor scowl on again, the one that said the patient wasn't 
cooperating.  "If you'll calm down I'll answer all your questions.  
Otherwise I will have to have you sedated and we'll deal with all of 
this later."

"You can't have me sedated if I refuse."  Mulder had been in the 
hospital enough times to know the drill, recognized a power play when 
he saw one, and the words spilled out, driven by the panic and dread. 
 On the other hand, it didn't hurt to be cooperative and the man could 
leave without telling him, looked pompous enough to do it on general 
principal.  "Please, just give me the history. I'll try to be calm."  
Conciliatory, when his heart was banging painfully against his ribs.

"Fine.  Remember, we are trying to help you, Mr. Mulder."  The 
patronizing voice grated but Mulder kept the irritation off his face, 
ignored the tone, listened to the words.  "The accident occurred at 
approximately four am on Monday morning, a week ago."  

A week?  

Confusion returned as Mulder tried to put the pieces together, make 
that work.  He glanced at his left arm, something he'd avoided doing 
before now, the fresh bandages, different than what he remembered.  
Shouldn't the pain be getting better?

When he turned his head back, Dr. Weber was watching him, smiled at 
the confusion in his face.  "Ah, the arm. . .you're wondering about 
that?"  Weber didn't wait for verbal confirmation, must have read the 
answer in his eyes.  "Your first seizure was rather violent."  The man 
gestured at his own face, the swollen nose, turned his head so Mulder 
could see the gash on one side.  "I'm afraid you did yourself some 
injury before we could control it."  The smile was cold, didn't quite 
reach the eyes.  "You pack a vicious punch, Mr. Mulder."

"Sorry."  He couldn't remember.  No wonder the man had been so angry 
with him earlier.  Swallowing, he wished again for the water.  "I 
don't remember. . ."

Weber interrupted before he could finish, waved the apology aside.  
"It doesn't matter, Mr. Mulder.  No offense taken.  As I was 
explaining, that was the first seizure. . ."  He lifted one arm, 
turned it to look at the heavy wristwatch.  "That was approximately 34 
hours ago.  You suffered four more seizures in the next 24 hours, with 
the duration decreasing with each one and the intervals increasing 
between the episodes."  The pencil was tapping again on the clipboard. 
 "However, this last episode was longer than the previous three, which 
frankly, has me concerned.  Can you tell me what you remember?"

His head was pounding, making it hard to think, to remember.  "Ummm, 
lights."  He shut his eyes, tried to recall.  "I was running. . .no I 
was looking at the sky."  A swirl of images crowded in, one on top of 
the other.  He tried to sort through them, pick just one.  "A ship.  
It was huge."  His right hand shook as he tried to raise it, draw the 
image in the air for the doctor.  "A triangle.  Hovering, just 
hovering.  Then the men were there.  They chased me."  Something was 
nagging at his brain, just out of reach.  "There were too many of 
them.  I couldn't get away."  His heart was racing at the memory, 
shortening his breathing.  It had seemed so real. "They've got a 
needle.  I can't get away."  Present tense, so fucking real.  

The room was silent, absolutely still.  He opened his eyes, caught the 
doctor staring at him, eyes wide, eager.  Too eager.  

His stomach tightened again.  Something wasn't right here. 
Something.... 

"What then, Mr. Mulder?"  Weber had looked away, was making furious 
notes, scribbling for all he was worth on the pad in his lap.  

"That's all I remember, " he answered, watching the doctor's face 
warily.  

A brief hint of disappointment, quickly masked, as Weber lifted his 
head, leaned back in the chair.  The brown eyes showed only concern as 
the doctor reassured him, "You're tired, I expect.  Perhaps you'll 
remember more later."

"Yeah, tired. . ." Mulder answered.  No need to fake that.  He was 
exhausted, couldn't remember when he'd felt so tired.  The pain was 
the only thing keeping him awake.  That and a nagging sense of unease. 

"Try to get some rest," the doctor counseled, rising to his feet with 
some effort.  He straightened the rumpled coat, tucked the pencil 
behind one ear, the notebook in his pocket as he looked down at 
Mulder.  "We'll talk more later."

Mulder didn't answer, let his eyes slip most of the way shut.  The 
doctor picked up the file, lumbered towards the door, looking as tired 
as Mulder felt.   One look back before leaving, concern evident on the 
heavy features.  No trace of malice, just the normal concern of a 
doctor for a patient.

He was too suspicious.  He'd imagined the danger, the sense that 
something was wrong, he told himself, curled his fingers around the 
morphine control, searching out the reassuring shape of the button 
with his fingertip, needing some relief before his eyes could close 
for real.  His fingers tightened, had depressed the button when it hit 
him.  

He tried to still his hand but it was too late, the familiar rush of 
warmth hit his veins, nibbling at the edges of pain, dulling his 
thoughts.  But not enough.   Weber had said that Daly called him in 
for help on the seizures.  

Why had Weber been there during the first seizure then?  

The drug clouded synapses already dulled by pain and exhaustion. He 
let the drug take him down, no sense in fighting it, he was tired and 
god, he was hurting.  
Later.  He'd deal with it all later.







IF he'd taken his vacation as planned, this would have been his first 
day back.  Funny, he didn't feel rested. Skinner got into the office a 
little later than his norm, around 7:45.  Kim was already there, she 
looked at him, concerned, as if she suspected he was sick. 

It almost made him smile.

"Good morning, sir.  Is everything all right?"  She followed him into 
his office and handed him his day's schedule.

"Fine," he told her absently, surveying it.  "I've just had a little 
trouble sleeping, that's all.  What the hell does Rossiter want?"

"He didn't say, sir, he just asked if you had some free time on your 
morning schedule.  I penciled it in, but I can call and put him off if 
you like."  Kim's expression was still worried.

Skinner sighed.  "No, let it stand.  I'll get it over with."  Rossiter 
was a blue-flamer, so hungry and ambitious that people had to stand 
out of his way or get run over.  And with a division head gone--the 
shuffle for new rank was going to be interesting.  "I'm fine, Kim," he 
told her gently.

Kim bit her lip.  "I'm very sorry about Agent Mulder, sir.  But you 
did your best."

If she only knew, he thought, determinedly not letting his expression 
change.  

"My best wasn't good enough, Kim.  I have to live with that.  The 
people who didn't follow my recommendations have to live with that."

Her mouth quirked.  "I haven't noticed them having any trouble 
sleeping, sir."

He did smile then.  "Thanks, Kim.  I'm fine, really.  Tell Rossiter 
I'm on a tear today, I want him nervous when he comes in."

Kim chuckled, handed him his mail and went back out to her desk.

Sighing, he reached for the first thing in his inbox and smiled when 
he saw his coffee cup steaming on the corner of the desk.  He'd never 
have asked her to bring it, but she was one in a million.

And it was strong enough to jump start him.










LETTING her knuckles brush against the unyielding surface of the 
closed door, Deb whispered a silent prayer that he wouldn't be there, 
that she could just slip the note under the door and be gone.  

Let Daly deal with it.  

She was already bending to slip the folded paper through the crack 
when a sharp voice called through the door,  "Enter.

Damn.   Hard enough to face Daly with this, she really didn't want to 
deal with the Brit.  Truth be told, she didn't want to deal with it at 
all, had considered telling Mulder she couldn't do it.  Too late to 
back out now, she told herself, turned the brass knob and pushed the 
door open.

Daly and the Brit.  

She hadn't thought the day could go much further downhill.  So much 
for thinking.  

The desk was littered with file folders, paper and books, but it was 
the picture lying face up on the corner closest to the door that 
caught her eye, froze her in her tracks.  The hazel eyes seemed to be 
looking right at her, much too sad for such a young face.  

"Deb?"  The sound of her own name cut through the fog, brought her 
head up with a snap.  They were both staring at her, impatience clear 
in Daly's features, his voice, as he continued, "Did you need 
something?  We're busy here."  He waved a hand at the mess in front of 
him as if that somehow reinforced his point. 
 
The Brit was seated behind the desk, had somehow managed to usurp that 
position from Daly.  Daly looked less than happy with his demotion, 
legs sprawled awkwardly to the side as he tried to find a comfortable 
position on the smaller, rigid plastic chair, one knee knocking 
against the side of the desk.

One hand still on the doorknob, she started backing from the room.  
"Never mind.  I can come back later when you're not so busy."  The 
paper felt hot in her hand, against fingers suddenly damp.  "It's not 
important."  

The Brit was up out of his chair, out from behind the desk in seconds 
without ever seeming to hurry.  "Perfectly all right, Nurse.  We're 
not that busy."  
Somehow she found herself further in the room, heard the door click 
closed behind her.  "I'm sure Dr. Daly would like to hear whatever you 
have to say."
He was leaning against the door when she turned, effectively blocking 
her exit.  The room suddenly seemed smaller, claustrophobic. 

Pulling her eyes away from the man at the door, Deb looked back at 
Daly. The scowl on his face reassured her somewhat, leached some of 
the tension from the room.  "I have a request from the patient, 
Doctor.  He wants me to call someone."  The words were coming too 
fast, spilling over each other.  "He gave me some numbers, a name.  
You said to tell you if he asked.  I'm telling you." 
The paper seemed to leap from her hand, was in Daly's lap before she 
could think about pulling it back.  

Large hands, dark against the white paper, shook the note out.  
"Senator Matheson?" Daly's voice was incredulous, matched the brown 
eyes, the scorn she read there.

"Don't look at me."  Her exasperation was real.  Bad enough betraying 
her patient's trust.  Did Daly honestly think she'd make up something 
like this?" She sighed, wished herself anywhere but here.  "Look, 
Doctor, I'm doing what I was told.  Just tell me what lie you want me 
to give him and I'll go back and do my job."

Steel glint in the dark eyes.  "I don't care for your tone, Nurse."

Yeah well, I don't care for yours, she thought, clamped her jaw tight 
before the words could break free.  Fuck these assholes.  She had to 
do the job, she didn't have to like it, couldn't even begin to pretend 
that she did.  "I'm sorry, Doctor.  It's been a long shift."  Angry, 
she stared him down, dared him to question the grudging apology.

A soft touch on her shoulder nudged her aside.  She shrugged away from 
the touch, feeling contaminated despite the cotton separating her 
flesh from his. 
"Doctor Daly, there's no need to bark at the staff."  Soft, unctuous 
voice, pitched to soothe, sent shivers up her spine.  "Mustn't shoot 
the messenger.  May I see the note please?"  Slim, elegant fingers, 
the hand extended languidly towards the doctor.  Perfect nailbeds, 
edges filed smooth, an aristocrat's hand, so different from hers, 
constantly red and chafed from too much scrubbing, a life with no time 
for manicures.

It let her keep hold of the anger.

Daly handed him the paper, sat back with arms folded while the Brit 
read the note.  "Your writing, I trust, Nurse?"

She almost rolled her eyes, caught the impulse just in time.  "Yes."  
Like Mulder was up to writing anything.  He could barely manage a 
spoon.

Viciously, she shut out the memory of that soft voice, so tired as he 
recited the numbers, pleaded with her to make the call, eyes frantic, 
still clouded with whatever image had pulled him from sleep so 
suddenly.

"Interesting," the Brit responded, let the word hang in the air, no 
explanation of what he found so interesting.

A quick glance at her watch confirmed what she already suspected.  
Time she didn't have to spare wasted while the supposedly busy men 
contemplated Fox Mulder's fate.  "Excuse me, Gentlemen, but I really 
do need to get back to my patient.  Shall I just tell him there was no 
answer?  That the Senator was unavailable, wouldn't take his call, 
left for Outer Mongolia, what?"  It wasn't like she couldn't 
manufacture a lie on her own.

Daly didn't seem to appreciate the help, was scowling again.  "You may 
tell him that the Senator. . ."

". . .said he'll be by in the morning to see him," the Brit finished, 
cutting Daly off mid sentence.  

Open-mouthed, Daly spun to look at the Brit.  "He'll what?  How the 
hell are we going to explain that when the Senator doesn't show?"  
Slow shake of the dark head.  "No, I can't agree.  Better to tell him 
now that the Senator wouldn't take his call.  The man's a U.S. Senator 
for Christ's sake.  Surely Mulder can accept that he's not going to 
take time out of his schedule to visit an FBI agent."

"On the contrary, Doctor," The Brit's voice was smooth, confident.  
"Senator Matheson will be most interested in whatever Mr. Mulder wants 
to tell him, eager to meet with him.  No, he'll be by in the morning. 
 I can promise that." 
 
Deb looked at the Brit, the smug smile, felt innocence she didn't know 
she still had die.  "Matheson is dirty?"   A whisper. 

Daly seemed equally stunned.  Good to see she wasn't the only fool who 
had fallen for the man's White Knight public image.  Should have known 
better just the same.  After all, the man was a politician.

"Even so. . ." Daly was practically sputtering, clearly still 
struggling with the whole notion that the Brit controlled someone as 
powerful as Matheson.  ". . .wouldn't it be better to call the man 
first?  You can't be sure he'll be able to make it here tomorrow 
morning."

Hands clasped loosely behind his back, one still holding the note, the 
Brit trapped both of them in his gaze, smiled enigmatically.  "Not 
necessary.  It will all be taken care of."  The thin lips twisted as 
he looked directly at Deb.  
"Tell, Mr. Mulder, that the senator said he'll be by around 10.  If he 
wants more details tell him the man was in a hurry, didn't have time 
to talk but promised to come by tomorrow."  The smile hardened, grew 
cold.  "You can manage that, can't you?" 

"Yes, sir."  Kept it crisp, anxious now to leave the room, distance 
herself from the Brit as soon as possible.   Chilled.

"Good."  The man moved back behind the desk, slipped into the chair. 
"That will be all then.  Back to your patient."  He didn't look up, 
waved his right hand in dismissal, the other already flipping through 
the thick stack of papers in front of him.

The knob felt awkward under fingers grown cold and clumsy, fought her 
attempts to turn it.  Finally the door opened and she was through, 
hurrying down the corridor.  She told herself she shouldn't feel so 
guilty.  Whether the Brit called the senator or she called him the 
message was still getting through, the man would be coming as Mulder 
requested.  

But the eyes in the picture still haunted her, reminded her of 
innocence lost, the pain associated with that loss. 

No sense in getting so worked up over it.  This wasn't the first 
betrayal he'd suffered obviously and judging from what the Brit had 
just revealed, it wouldn't be the last.  

Why then did she feel so dirty?



 





"YOU want what?"  Skinner arched an eyebrow, unable to believe what he 
was hearing.

"I'd like the X-files, sir."  Rossiter fairly gleamed this morning, 
well on his way to a Mulder impression.  Expensive suit, although it 
didn't hang with the same deceptive elegance on Rossiter's 5' 8" 
frame.  His haircut was better than Mulder's last one though, and 
Skinner would almost be willing to swear the bastard's nails were 
manicured and buffed.  "I've certainly got the qualifications for it, 
if you'll check my record."

Skinner looked down at the file involuntarily.   What qualifications, 
he wondered, with lunatic amusement, he didn't recall that Rossiter 
had ever confessed to having a family member abducted by aliens.  Not 
that he was supposed to know that Mulder had, mind, but it was amusing 
to consider nonetheless, and provided him with the brief antic vision 
of Rossiter being turned down by aliens in favor of a less obnoxious 
member.

Which wasn't fair.  Rossiter did good work.  He'd worked hard in VCS, 
learning analysis skills, working on profiles.  "I see," he nodded, 
keeping his tone even.  "There's only one problem, Agent Rossiter.  
The question of the X-files is still open, but there are strong 
indications that the Bureau will close the division down as a waste of 
manpower and money."

Rossiter leaned forward, his expression earnest.   "Sir, whatever I 
may have thought of Spooky's style of investigation, I've never 
doubted that the X-files cases could be brought to a satisfactory 
conclusion with proper investigatory techniques."

Spooky.  

Skinner eyed Rossiter with cynical detachment.  This junior G-man 
would shit his drawers if he knew what Mulder had dealt with over the 
years.  Would wet himself if he'd come face to face with some of the 
things Mulder and Scully had faced.  Proper investigatory 
techniques--well, hadn't he himself called Scully in to rake her over 
the coals on their procedures?  

"That may be true," he agreed, "Although Agent Mulder and Agent Scully 
certainly achieved a resolution rate above the Bureau average.  I take 
it you think you can better that?"

Rossiter beamed.  "I do, sir.   For one thing, I'm not as isolated in 
the Bureau as Agent Mulder was.  I have resources that he didn't have 
available without a great deal of negotiation."

Skinner thought of the three in the magazine office and his mouth 
quirked.  "Networking," he suggested.

"Yes sir."  Rossiter was practically salivating.  A solve rate above 
the average wouldn't hurt Rossiter's career, any more than the 
sycophancy he'd already shown in seven years.  "Exactly that."

Deciding to yank the line a bit, Skinner leaned back in his chair.  
"You think that Bureau resources were withheld from Agent Mulder 
because of his--pursuits in the paranormal?"

"Well, yes, I do, sir."  Rossiter nodded earnestly again.  "And I'm 
not at all convinced that the paranormal ever came into play.  That 
was Agent Mulder's prejudice--I think it hampered some of his 
investigations."

"Ah, but Agent Scully has no such prejudice, Mr. Rossiter."  Skinner 
arched an inquiring eyebrow.  "Agent Scully was the pragmatic member 
of that team.  And, I remind you, she is still assigned to the 
X-files."

Rossiter was suddenly acutely uncomfortable.  "Yes, sir.  But I, ah, 
understand that her medical leave is indefinite, you'll need someone 
who is on active duty.  And I, that is, I think it's possible that her 
personal bias in favor of Agent Mulder may have led her to soft pedal 
the more practical side of their investigations."

Skinner let his other eyebrow rise.  "Spit it out, Mr. Rossiter.  What 
personal bias?"

Rossiter flushed.  "Well, sir, I believe you'll find that the 
prevailing opinion is that Spooky and Agent Scully were, ah, 
intimately involved."

He couldn't help it, he smiled in response to that.  "Agent Rossiter, 
that's the biggest line of bullshit I've ever heard.  They were 
friends and partners.  A lot of partnerships are like that, and they 
don't involve sex.  I was paired with a damned good field agent during 
my first three years and we got damned near that close--believe me 
when I tell you we weren't intimately involved.  Whatever may have 
been said about J. Edgar."

Rossiter was scarlet now.  "I may be mistaken, sir," he told Skinner, 
with reasonable dignity.

Taking pity, Skinner nodded.  "Of course.  Well, I can't give you an 
answer at this point, Agent Rossiter, not when I'm not sure what the 
future of the division is.  But I'll be in touch with you.  I 
appreciate," he smiled again, still not quite able to prevent it, 
"your honesty.  I'll keep you in mind."
Relieved, Rossiter nodded.  "Thank you, sir.  That's all I'd ask."

Skinner put the personnel folder aside in his outbasket and watched 
Rossiter walk to the door.

Pompous little asshole, he told himself, then shook his head.  He 
wasn't being fair.  

Not fair at all.  

Mulder had completely destroyed his ability to deal with less 
temperamental, more ambitious agents.  He measured them against the 
man with a self-destruct fuse and a reckless tendency to give his 
superiors lip.

First, he was going to make the necessary calls to see that Mulder--or 
the not-Mulder, as he preferred to consider the body--could be buried 
at Arlington.   
And then, he was going to get some lunch.  And not from the diner down 
the street.   








SHE was getting tired of catching the commuter flight from New York.  
Long legs flashed under the short skirt as she walked out of the 
terminal to hail a cab, catching several appreciative glances that 
made her lips quirk.

They were all drones, ultimately, and about as satisfying as--well, 
they weren't, that was the problem.  Nothing was as satisfying as 
power, nothing was as erotic as using it, and she'd climbed through 
enough beds to get where she was to be certain of that fact.

The cab driver, naturally, spoke broken English.  She told him where 
to take her and he did.  His driving and navigation were better than 
his English, he had her at the door of the private club in less than 
thirty minutes.  An improvement over the last time she'd taken a cab 
from the airport.

She tipped him generously in recognition of that fact, slid across the 
seat and out of the cab, regretting again the transfer from London.

London cabbies usually opened the door for her.

The club's interior was dim and smoky.  Quiet.  The hushed sounds of 
conversation, the clink of expensive silver, the rustle of equally 
expensive, starched linen.

It heated her blood far more than the hot eyes of a drone.  This was 
the true seat of power, where the brokers bargained and made deals and 
sidestepped disaster.

It had nothing to do with money, although money was a nice side 
benefit of it.
Very few glances here, although she was well aware of her own 
attractions.  A thin smile graced her face as she caught sight of the 
man she was meeting.  He, like the others, had better things to think 
about than sex.  She admired that.
"Ms. Covarrubias," the smoker greeted her, not rising.

She inclined her head in acknowledgment and let the waiter, appearing 
as silently as a genie, pull out her chair.  "I trust you had an 
important reason to call me down here?"

He exhaled, smiled faintly.  "Of course.  Have I ever called you down 
for no reason?"

Thin smile in return.  "Of course not.  How is the merchandise?"

His smile faded.  "Things aren't going well there.  There was some 
difficulty.  
My judgement was overruled, unfortunately, and now we're all paying 
for it."

"Daly?"

"Daly appears to have been correct in his assessment, but Daly wasn't 
the problem here."  An ironic look cut deeper grooves in the wrinkled 
face.  "Regrettably some of our more reckless colleagues opted to go 
with a second opinion, an alternate technique.  Daly thinks the 
premature treatment may have set the timetable back even further."

Her heart hammered abruptly.  So Bruce's report was accurate.  That 
was going to make some people very unhappy.  And possibly increase the 
pressure simply to eliminate Mulder.  

But she only nodded, as if the news wasn't troubling.  "There are 
still those who think the merchandise should be disposed of quickly."

"True."  He took in another deep inhalation.  "But I think that would 
only compound the mistakes made.  Mrs. Mulder has come down, Agent 
Mulder's funeral is tomorrow.  She seems to have an ally in AD 
Skinner."

Her pulse sped again, briefly.  Long practice at such matches enabled 
her to slow it.  A few carefully regulated breaths, an arched eyebrow. 
 "He *was* Agent Mulder's supervisor.  That's not all that unusual, is 
it?"

The smoker's eyes narrowed.  She wasn't sure if it was smoke or her 
comment.  
"Agent Mulder made AD Skinner his executor.  I'm concerned about that. 
  Skinner appears to have taken the suicide far too personally."

She arched the other eyebrow.  "He can't possibly suspect anything.  
The body *was* Agent Mulder's."  For all intents and purposes. 

"Yes."  The smoker's gaze went distant, as though he were seeing 
something she could not.  "Yes.  Well, I want you to keep an eye on AD 
Skinner.  I want to be certain that his activities on behalf of Agent 
Mulder's estate don't lead him down, shall we say, the wrong avenues. 
  His divorce is final, he lives alone.  He's proven susceptible to 
women before, and he's had some contact with you in the past.  It 
won't appear too unusual if you contact him, if you appear to be 
sounding him out as to whether or not you can use him instead of 
Mulder as an information conduit."

Only long years of experience at the game kept her from smiling 
outright.  
Skinner was a man who understood the uses of power.  She was an old 
hand at separating business and pleasure, but it might, just this 
once, be interesting to mix it.  "Do you have a particular script in 
mind?"

"Just keep him busy."  The smoker smiled, a feral curve of the lips 
that did not enhance his features.  "I'm sure I can trust your 
imaginative approach to problems."

That made her smile again, faintly.  She allowed herself to remember 
the feel of muscle beneath the bureaucratic uniform of white shirt and 
suit.  The taste of his mouth on hers.  Skinner didn't smoke.  "Short 
of a final solution, I take it."

"Absolutely."  

His eyes had all the sheen of river pebbles, she decided and accepted 
the menu.  "So, what would you recommend today?"

His teeth showed briefly.  "Steak tartare."









THE chicken and rice soup was clearly considered a treat, Bruce noted, 
watching Mulder struggle one-handed with the spoon.   "Doin' okay?"  
He let his tone rise just a bit.

Mulder tipped him a slightly foggy grin.  "Yeah, this is great.  
Better than last time I was here.  'Did they fire the dietitian?  Even 
the pudding was good."

Bruce grinned.  "You aren't supposed to eat your dessert first, 
Mulder."

"Figured I needed strength to deal with the soup," Mulder told him and 
took another bite of soup, the spoon moving slowly back to the bowl, 
hardly any tremor in the hand that held it.  "It's so bland usually, 
it's really sick."

"Low sodium is not a bad thing," Bruce told him mock seriously and had 
to laugh again at Mulder's expression.  "You want some more juice?"

"I wanna watch television."  Mulder gave the black screen a scowl.  "I 
can't even catch up on what the Sox are doing.  Can't you scrounge me 
a newspaper?"

Bruce rolled his eyes.  They'd warned him.  "Sports fan, huh.  How'd 
you like their last win?"  

Mulder smiled crookedly.  "I'm not sure I can remember that far back."


The wry look made him laugh.  "Ouch."  Teasing him now.  "And you call 
yourself a fan." 


"Actually, you're the one who called me a fan.  I think of it more as 
a glutton for punishment."  Another slightly loopy grin and a faint 
line appeared between Mulder's eyebrows.  "What day is it?"

"Monday."  Bruce leaned against the foot of the bed.  "Yeah, you 
missed the weekend sports action.  I'll tell you what, let me see what 
I can find."

The intercom out in the hallway carried on with the sounds of voices, 
pages, and the other usual hallway sounds.  Mulder's head turned that 
way.  "That would be great."  More wistfulness.  "Hey, you know, I had 
tickets to a game before I ended up here."

Patting a knee through the blanket, Bruce chuckled.  "Okay, okay, I 
get the hint.  I'll be back soon."

Mulder smiled at him beatifically.  "I'll give you my firstborn kid, 
if I ever have any."

Still chuckling, Bruce went out, down the hallway and into the 
breakroom. Nobody was there, but a Post lay abandoned on the round 
table in the middle of the room.    Couldn't hurt to let the poor 
bastard have the sports pages, he decided, and shook the section free. 
 And it would probably lower any tendency towards suspicion or 
wariness.  

How the hell they expected to keep up the fiction of broken 
television, nonfunctioning telephone, and no radios available, he 
wasn't sure, and was sure he didn't want to know, not if it involved 
applying more electrodes to the patient's head. 

Appearing again in the room, he held up the relevant section.  "Found 
a lost sports section.  That's the joy of mostly working with women, 
they don't generally give a shit about the sports scores."

A slow smile spread and Mulder's eyes actually lit a bit.  It was the 
happiest Bruce had seen him since his own arrival in this slapjack 
hospital setting.  "Oh, man, you definitely get my first born."

"Better check with your wife," Bruce told him and carefully laid the 
folded pages across Mulder's knees.  "And finish eating first."

"I'm done."  Mulder pushed the tray table back with his fingertips.  
"Honestly, I am."

Bruce looked.  "Okay," he agreed and pulled the table out of the way. 
"Enjoy.  And don't get so worked up over the scores that you hurt 
yourself." 

Mulder's gaze moved to the sling.  "Oh, yeah."  Heartfelt.

Grinning, Bruce picked the tray up, carried it to what passed for a 
kitchen in the back of the building.  Deb sat there, eating her own 
lunch, eyes flicking up as he came in.  "Hey, he finally finished a 
meal." 

"That's a start."  Deb's smile looked a little taut.  "How is he 
feeling?"

"I think he's actually starting to feel a little better, despite 
Saturday's disaster.  I'm starting to think this guy would bounce if 
they dropped him off the building."

The sound Deb made was noncommittal.  "He's just stubborn."

"Whatever.  He's starting to get antsy, wanted to know about the 
television again."

Deb took a sip from her coffee cup and arched an eyebrow.  "He *is* 
feeling
better, then."

"I'm telling you, it's the shaving thing.  There's nothing quite like 
a good shave to make you feel good."

"Oh, right."  Deb rolled her eyes.  "I thought it was something else. 
 Maybe it depends on the person."

"True."  Depositing the dishes in the sink, Bruce went back to the 
door.  "I'm off at two, right?"

She nodded, regarded him over the edge of the coffee cup.  "Uh huh.  
Hot date?"
"I can only hope," he told her expansively and went back to his 
patient.







SKINNER ended up grabbing a hot dog from a vendor.  As he was dousing 
it with mustard and onions, a voice said, "Those are terrible for your 
health."

Woman's voice, familiar perfume.  He turned and slanted the Snow Queen 
a look.  "Not any worse than my work," he told her dryly.  "And I have 
an allergy to diners these days."

Her mouth quirked.  "No doubt.  Did you get my package?"

"I did."  He gave her a bland look.  "I'm having it verified."

That got a long, level look.  He turned and walked toward the Mall, 
letting her keep up or not, whatever she preferred.  

A few quick steps and she was beside him.  "Verified how."  Tense 
voice.

"Private resources," he told her and took a bite.  God, his stomach 
was going to give him endless grief, but it was tasty.  Especially the 
onions.

She considered that, keeping pace with him.  "All right.  I'm still 
trying to locate him.  I haven't had any luck."

"Why was the tape made?"  He took another bite, waiting for her 
answer.  Walked casually, as if he were just enjoying a lunch hour 
stroll with a lovely woman.

"To prove that Mulder was alive.  There's a great deal 
of--disagreement on how to deal with him."  She gave him a warm smile 
for the public eye, reached out and touched the corner of his mouth as 
if they were lovers.  "You had a spot of mustard there."

The people passing them walked on.  "Thanks."  Dry tone, betraying 
nothing more than amusement.  "I take it there are people who would 
rather see him dead."

"I knew you were intelligent."  Her tone was faintly mocking.

"So, they wanted to make sure that those people hadn't gotten the 
upper hand?"

"Something like that."

"Why did they have to hurt him so badly? It seems an unusual way to 
ensure his well being."  He made his own tone mocking.  "Are your, ah, 
lower echelon employees always that forceful?"

Discomfort ghosted behind the lovely smile, behind the ageless eyes.  
"That was unplanned.  They improvised, unfortunately, when the 
original plan went awry, and improvised badly.  They, ah, intercepted 
while he was out running and hit him with the van."

"With a van."   He took another bite, wiped the corner of his mouth 
himself as he chewed, although it tasted like sawdust now, thinking of 
Mulder again.

A faint line appeared between her brows.  "Yes.  Well, it changes 
things.  It gives us more time."

He arched an eyebrow and swallowed.  "How so?"

"They have to wait until he's stronger to begin with him."

"Begin with him."  Tasting the words, Skinner lost interest in the 
last bite of hot dog.  Tossed it into the corner trash receptacle.  
"Begin what with him?"

She turned and looked at him, her mouth crimping.  "There are those 
who want to know what really happened twenty-five years ago, Mr. 
Skinner.  Why his sister Samantha was taken.  Fox Mulder was supposed 
to be taken.  And no one knows why he wasn't."

Skinner's gut knotted again and he felt a chill catwalk down his 
spine.  

"Supposed to be taken," he repeated.  "Taken by whom."

That got a fractional shrug.  "I'm not in line for that information.  
I've only gotten that much.  They want to question him under drugs.  
They want to finish the job that was begun at Ellens Air Force base.  
And there are those who would rather see him dead than answer the 
questions, those who would rather see him dead than bother wasting 
time on wiping his memories."

Ellens Air Force Base.  

Skinner vaguely recalled Blevins telling him something about that.  
Vaguely.  But it was hard to think past the certain knowledge that 
Mulder was supposed to have vanished at the age of twelve.  Only his 
sister was taken instead, turning the boy who witnessed it into the 
most persistent gadfly the Consortium had to bear.

What a fucking mess.  "I can't do anything about it unless I know 
where he is.  And even then, how do you expect me to do anything if I 
can't use official Bureau investigatory resources?"

"Use your private ones.  Using official Bureau manpower would be a 
mistake."

"Right."  Skinner wiped his fingers and balled up the napkin.  "I 
still can't do anything without some idea of where they're holding 
him."

"I know that.  I'm working on it."  Underneath the coolness, he 
thought he heard that faint sound of desperation again.  "But you need 
to be ready, Mr. Skinner.  You need to have your, ah, resources 
ready."  She turned toward the corner, looked back over her shoulder. 
 "I'll be in touch."

"No doubt."  He looked after her for a moment, shook his head as a car 
pulled up beside her and she got in.  Goddamned cloak and dagger.  

Ellens Air Force base.  He had something to go on, maybe.  Just maybe.









THERE was definitely no trace of it on any of the images.  Most 
puzzling.  Selby ran tired fingers through hair that felt brittle from 
too little sleep, a diet of fast food and coffee.  Strands of gray 
eluded his fingers, fell back to block his view of the screen.  Time 
to get it cut again, past time.

"Is it possible there was a mix-up on the earlier results, Mei?" he 
asked the tech sitting in front of the keyboard.  "This just doesn't 
happen."

The pretty, Vietnamese woman sighed.  He saw her slip her feet back 
into her shoes before she pushed the chair back, rose and motioned for 
him to follow her into the next room.  She left the overhead light 
off, flicked on the lightboard which covered one wall, throwing the 
images clipped on it into stark relief.  

"Look for yourself, Doc.  It's a perfect match."  Using her index 
finger as a pointer she let it rest on the image on the far left.  
"This one's from the MRI in February.  You can see the mass quite 
clearly."  The finger flicked over twelve inches, tapped the next 
image.  "This is April.  Despite the treatments she had in Allentown, 
it's grown here, nearly ten percent larger."

Almond eyes met his, mirrored the bafflement he felt.  "The one on the 
right is from last week.  Perfect match to the one we took today.  No 
trace of the mass."  She shrugged, flipped long, black hair back 
behind her ear.  "I can't explain it either but I assure you, that's 
the same skull in all three images.  I don't need the name on the 
bottom to tell you that."

A light knock followed by the hiss of hydraulic hinges from the outer 
room told him the patient had arrived.  He glanced at his watch, 
impressed with her promptness.  She must have dressed in record time. 
 Light tap of heels on linoleum as she crossed the room, called out, 
"Dr. Selby?"

Hastening back to the doorway, he caught her looking at the image on 
the monitor, frowning slightly as she studied it.  She was shorter 
than he'd expected, much smaller overall.  The force of the 
personality he'd sensed on the phone had led him to expect a larger 
woman, someone more substantial.  
She turned suddenly, blue-green eyes locking with his, brilliant in 
their intensity.  

"I'm Dr. Scully."  Soft, no-nonsense voice.  She held out one slim 
hand, clasped his lightly.  "I guess you caught me snooping."  A wry 
smile curved the edges of lush lips, softened the sharp angles of her 
face.  "Sorry, thought it was mine."  She glanced back wistfully at 
the image.  "I guess not."

Seeming to shake off the mood, she let go of his hand, stepped back to 
lean against the desk, hands braced to either side.  "Well, may as 
well get it over with.  What's the bad news?"  

He felt Mei slip into the room behind him.  The patient's eyes flicked 
to her momentarily, moved back to him.  "Doctor Scully. . ."  He 
paused for a moment, searched for the right way to approach this.  
He'd hoped to have a few more minutes to prepare.  ". . .perhaps you'd 
like to sit down."  He grasped two of the desk chairs, scooted one 
over to her, seated himself in the other.  
She looked poised to refuse it for a moment, only settling into it 
when she saw him sit.

Despite the calm exterior, he detected a slight tremor in her hands, 
her voice, as she leaned forward.  "Look, whatever it is, Doctor, I'd 
really rather you just come out and tell me.  I'm a pathologist.  I 
know the likely outcome so don't feel you have to soft pedal it for 
me."  Still, except for her hands, which moved continually, twisting a 
handkerchief in her lap.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Scully.  I'm handling this badly."  He finally found 
his voice, shook off the indecision which had kept it prisoner.  "You 
weren't snooping, or at least not in the way you mean."  He smiled at 
the puzzled response, gestured at the monitor.  "That is yours.  I 
can't explain it but it looks like the tumor is gone."  

Blunt, but she'd asked for blunt, thrown him for a loop with her 
direct approach.

For a moment he thought she was going to faint.  Already pale, he 
didn't think she could get any fairer but her face went white, patches 
of freckles standing out sharply against the fair skin.  She waved him 
away as he moved towards her, recovering rapidly as she looked back at 
the monitor, rose slowly to her feet.  He followed her across the 
room, watched in silence as she studied the image, traced one delicate 
finger across the screen, lingering on the area where the tumor had 
previously appeared.  

The face that turned back to him was baffled, eyes clouded with 
suspicion, doubt.  "How?  Are you sure?"  She grabbed the back of the 
chair, wavering slightly.  Grasping her elbow, he led her back across 
the room, forced her to sit in the chair.  "That's impossible," she 
exclaimed, eyes wide as she looked from him to the display.

Keeping one hand on her shoulder, he reached back with the other, 
found his chair and pulled it closer before sitting.  "I'm not sure.  
I've never seen anything like it, although I've read of cases like 
this.  Spontaneous remission."  Letting go of her shoulder he held his 
hands wide, invited her to participate.  "I don't pretend to have all 
the answers.  Frankly, at this point, Doctor, I'm as confused as you 
are."

"Dana."  She was looking more calm now, a slight flush to her cheeks. 
 "Call me Dana."

"Fine, Dana." He smiled, slightly amused at the abrupt shift, not 
really surprised.  "I was just going over the results with Mei."  He 
gestured towards the woman leaning in the doorway.  "Perhaps you'd 
like to see what she was showing me?" Mei moved to one side, invited 
the other woman to join her.

"Yes. . .definitely."  Still sounding dazed, the redhead rose to her 
feet in one smooth motion, hurried across the room, stopping in the 
door to stare at the images on the lightboard.  She hesitated a moment 
before moving the rest of the way into the room.  

"I was just explaining to Dr. Selby that these are the pictures from 
your MRIs in February and April."  Mei glanced at the patient, waited 
for her nod of understanding before continuing.  "The one on the right 
was taken last week."  Mei moved to the light switch, turned on the 
room lights revealing the clutter of a working office.  "Naturally I 
called the doctor's office right away, told them what I'd found."  She 
nodded in Selby's direction, smiled.  "Doc here, being the cautious 
type, insisted we repeat it.  I think he doesn't really trust my 
machine.  It's too high-tech for his taste."

Dana was still looking at the images on the light board, nodding as 
she listened.  "Are you sure these are all mine?" she asked, mirroring 
Selby's earlier question.  

Selby smiled at Mei as the tech rolled her eyes and sighed.  "Sorry," 
she murmured, as Dana turned at the sigh, eyes questioning.  "It's a 
good question.  I just went through the same question with Dr. Selby." 
 

Picking up a large, brown envelope from the desk, she moved back to 
the lightboard, unclipped the films and slid them into the envelope.  
Turning, she offered the packet to Dana.  "I'm satisfied they're the 
same image but you're welcome to run them through whatever checks you 
like."  Her friendly smile made it clear there was no offense taken at 
the question.  "Dr. Selby tells me you're an FBI agent and a doctor.  
It's a great little mystery."  She laughed lightly.  "Let me know if 
you find anything.  I'll try not to let my ego get too deflated if I'm 
wrong."

The redhead accepted the packet, stared at it for a moment, before 
looking back at Mei.  "It's not that I don't trust your judgement."

"Hey, that's cool."  Mei's smile grew wider.  "No need to explain.  If 
it was me, I'd want to know."

Dana seemed to accept that, smiled in return before turning back to 
look at him.  "How about the other tests?  The bloodwork?  What did 
that show?"  One hand moved to her left armpit, seemingly without 
volition, lingered there for a moment before dropping to her side. 
"What does this mean?"  Hope warred with uncertainty, shimmer of tears 
in the wide eyes.

He didn't really know this woman, wondered how well Markham had known 
her.  She still seemed shell shocked, unwilling to trust her good 
fortune, which was probably for the best.  He wasn't sure he trusted 
it himself.  

"White count's back to normal, no trace of the cancer," he assured, 
hastened to add, "But just to be sure, I feel we should repeat the 
biopsy.  I hate to put you through this again but we could do it 
tomorrow morning if you like.  I'll have the lab guys rush it through. 
 I know this must be hard for you."

Thirty odd years of battling cancer had taught him how good the beast 
was at hiding, mutating.  Better to keep her hanging a little longer 
than send her off with false assurances.  

Dana was nodding, agreeing, her hand once again fingering her armpit, 
probably checking the lump the Doctor Markham had biopsied two weeks 
ago.  "Tomorrow. . . no."  Suddenly flustered.  "I mean, I agree, 
let's do it as soon as possible but I've got a conflict in the 
morning.  Can we do it tomorrow afternoon?"

His afternoon schedule was hellish, Markham's receptionist was going 
to shoot him if he asked her to reschedule all those appointments.  
"The morning is better.  Can't you reschedule whatever it is?"  he 
asked, tried to convey that he too was busy, had schedules to keep.

Tears spilled unchecked as something inside her seemed to break at his 
suggestion.  She turned away, fumbled with the handkerchief, dabbed 
her eyes clear before looking back.  "No.  It's not something which 
can be rescheduled."  Slight sniff as tears threatened again.  "Make 
it Wednesday then.  Just call and let me know.  I'll be here."  

Clutching the envelope tightly against her chest she was halfway to 
the door when his voice caught her, stopped her motion.  "I'll fix it 
for tomorrow afternoon, Dana.  Would two o'clock work for you?"  He'd 
buy the receptionist flowers or something, mollify her somehow.

Gratitude shone in the smile she turned back on him, transforming her 
face from attractive to luminous.  "Thank you, Doctor.  I'll be 
there."  The smile was already fading as she turned back towards the 
door, squared her shoulders and fled the room.

Staring after her, he wondered what had upset her so about his request 
to reschedule.  Impossible to know.  Cancer had a way of eroding even 
the toughest spirits.






COMING back into the office, Skinner looked at Kim.  "Cancel my 
afternoon appointments," he told her flatly.  "I've got some work to 
do."

Eyes widening, Kim nodded, already reaching for her copy of his daily 
agenda.  
"Yes, sir.  Reschedule?"

"That will be fine."  Going into his office, he found the key to 
Mulder's office in his locked pencil drawer and went back out.  "Kim, 
if there's an emergency, I'll be downstairs, in Agent Mulder's old 
office.  But only if there's an emergency, and you call me there 
yourself, don't tell anyone where I've gone."

Her eyes widened further.  "Yes, sir."  Her eyes questioned him.  Kim 
had proven herself before, but even Kim didn't know the depth of the 
pit Mulder had ventured over.  Kim had no idea of what he'd done to 
himself to try and ensure Scully's cure.  And never would, if it was 
up to him.  Some people deserved to keep their innocence preserved.  
Some people deserved protection.

Kim was one of them, one of the reasons he wanted this job in the 
beginning.  

He smiled reassurance at her.  "It's fine, Kim.  But I need to check 
some things."

She wasn't reassured, but she nodded anyway.

Downstairs, he dug through Mulder's Conspiracy section until he found 
what he was looking for.  Opened it up and leaned against the cabinet 
as he read.   

Goddamned Mulder had a death wish, breaking into a military 
installation.  

Scully had gotten him out of that one--he wished he could see beyond 
her flat prose to what had happened--secured Agent Mulder's release, 
he read and his mouth quirked slightly.  Probably at gunpoint.

She'd nearly killed the man who'd tried to stop the ambulance and give 
the  Consortium a final solution to the problem of Walter Skinner.  
Come very close, from all accounts.

Suddenly closing the folder, he reached in and began grabbing file 
folders at random.  Sat down in Mulder's chair to read them until he 
glanced at his watch.

He didn't dare leave these here.  Right now, they sat harmlessly.  No 
one appeared to consider them of any importance.  Not that anyone knew 
he'd taken some of them.  And was going to take more.

He retrieved an empty box, once filled with printer paper, and started 
stacking files into it.  Filled it with the Conspiracy files, the 
Abduction files, and added Samantha Mulder's file on top at the last 
moment.  Maybe that would tell him something.

Mulder and Scully had once told him of a facility, a mine in West 
Virginia.   Rows upon rows of file cabinets.  Files.  They were 
probably gone.  But the report might tell him enough to go on.  To 
lead him elsewhere.

He only wished they would lead him to Mulder.

The box went out to his car.  He went back in to his office.







MARITA waited, watching while the technician smoothly worked the 
needle into Bruce's vein.  Her contacts had done well, come up with 
the young woman and equipment as she'd requested.  Rather elegant how 
well everything had come together, having the smoker pay for a trip 
she'd planned to make anyhow.

Too bad it was in such a dingy site.  Looking around the dusty office, 
she took care not to let her clothes brush any of the furniture.

After all, Bruce couldn't be expected to handle drawing blood from his 
own arm, not after a hard day's work tending Mulder.  Although he was 
watching the young Asian woman critically, as if judging her work.  

"So," Marita asked, drawing his attention back to her.  "He's doing 
better.  And the ah, treatment was a wash?  How did the good doctor 
react to that."

Bruce laughed shortly.  "What a prick.  Both of them are, but," a 
quick glance at the tech, "the new one's more of a prick than the 
first one.  The patient broke his nose for him."

Marita's mouth curved slightly.  "How amusing.  He's such a vain 
little man."

"Yeah, well now he's making up for the loss of dignity, I guess.  
Trying to make it appear as if something the rest of us did interfered 
with his treatment.  Fortunately, ah, the powers that be know better." 
 He winced as the tech unknotted the rubber tourniquet and took the 
cotton pad from her before she pulled the needle out.  "Anyway, once 
that tack didn't work, he's been pretty subdued."

"Thank you."  Marita took the last vial of blood and smiled at the 
tech, waiting until the young woman had retrieved her coat and 
equipment before handing Bruce the plain business envelope, stuffed 
fat with bills.  "And thank you, Bruce."

He was already rolling his sleeve down, eyes alight with anticipation. 

Really, they were so tiresome once they'd decided you found them 
desirable.  Setting this meeting in a neutral place had really been 
one of her better ideas.

"So, what are you doing this evening?" he asked, predictably on cue.

"Oh, darling, I'm terribly sorry, I have a function I have to attend 
as a representative of the UN.  One of those tedious diplomatic 
affairs where Lord Something or Other makes a long speech about the 
Bosnia situation."  She sighed, contriving to make it sound genuinely 
regretful, reached out to trail fingertips delicately across his jaw 
line.  "You know, I'd much rather spend my evening doing something 
else, but I don't have any choice." A quick look to her watch for 
effect.  "I'm going to have to run or I'll miss my flight." 

His eyes glazed, as if imagining what that something else might be, 
even though his expression shifted to disappointment.  "Another time?"

"Of course."  Leaning forward, she let her lips brush his very 
lightly. "But now, you need to go.  It wouldn't do for us to be seen 
together, not at this point."

It clearly wasn't enough for him, but he sighed, refrained from 
grabbing her and nodded.  "Call me?"

"Certainly.  Just as soon as I have a free moment, I promise."  
Seductive smile, deafening him to the boredom in her voice.  It was 
pointless to compare Bruce to Skinner, who was far more than Bruce 
could ever dream of being.   So much more that her nipples tingled, 
just thinking about the stalwart AD and that kiss in the car.  

Even Mulder was more attractive than Bruce, despite his obsessiveness, 
despite the fact that he was a pawn.  Bruce hadn't even advanced that 
far, he was merely, as she had thought before, another drone.  Good 
looking but a drone nonetheless.

"I'll be looking forward to it," he told her huskily and reached for 
his coat.

"Don't forget the blood," she reminded, as she slid the new vials into 
the vacant slots in the box, replaced the vials of Mulder's blood 
which were neatly nestled in the padded envelopes in her purse.

Bruce accepted the box and another kiss, made his way reluctantly to 
the door. "Next time," he promised.

She managed to keep the dewy-eyed look of desire on her face until he 
went through the door.  "Not likely," she sighed and buttoned her own 
raincoat.  "Not any more likely than last time."  

Mouth quirking, she opened the door and went out into the night.









DEB checked the clock for the third time in as many minutes.  Where 
the hell was Daly?  He'd said he'd be right there.  She pivoted when 
she heard the small, faint sound, moved away from the door, to the 
bedside, saw Mulder's eyelids lift.

"Hi," she murmured.  "How are you doing?"

Glazed look and Mulder licked cracked lips.  "'Kay.  Better.  M'head 
hurts."  

If that was all that hurt, he was lucky, Deb reflected and briefly 
touched his cheek.  "I'm not surprised.  How's your stomach feel? 
Think you could handle some water?"

He considered that, nodded very fractionally. 

She tried to feed him the straw, but true to his nature, he reached 
out, insisted on helping, gave her the ghost of a crooked grin.  

"Okay," she told him, more relieved than she'd expected.  He was still 
all there.  Fogged and a little short circuited, but still all there. 
 Typical post seizure, but this last one was bad, not as bad as the 
first but longer than any of the previous five. "But if you spill that 
down your neck, I'm blameless."

Another phantom grin.  "Uh huh."

She held the cup for him-he still didn't have the grip to manage the 
smooth container on his own-waited till he pushed the straw away, 
sighed with exhaustion.  "Thanks." 

The door swung open.  Daly, no doubt, she thought, not turning to 
confirm it.  Took him long enough.  Prick.

"How is he?"

Mulder's eyes moved to him.  "M' okay."  Bafflement was clear on his 
face. 

Daly leaned in over him like a vulture, flashed a light into his eyes, 
each one in turn.  "Excellent.  Deb reports you had quite a seizure 
just now, Mr. Mulder.  Did you realize that?  That you just seized 
again?"

Mulder's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment and Deb saw a flicker 
of what looked to her like fear, quickly quelled.  "Um.  No."  Clear 
panic in the hazel eyes.  "I didn't realize. . .didn't know. . .Dr. 
Weber said it might be from the treatments-with Dr. Goldstein."  Shaky 
voice, still husky from all the screaming he'd done in the first 
seizure.  

Deb backed up a little, primarily to keep from snatching after Daly.  
She'd already made her feelings too well known.  If she did any more, 
she might well be booted out, and somehow, she didn't think Daly's 
retirement plan was great.  
Besides, Maryann was too pragmatic to protect Mulder from all these 
guys.  Not that she was in any position to do much better.

Mulder's voice strengthened a little bit.  "He, um--drilled holes in 
my skull, applied electrical current, I think."  His eyes tracked Deb, 
returned to Daly, still confused.  "I don't remember having a 
seizure."  Very faintly, apprehension returning.

"Nothing at all?"  Daly sounded bemused.  "Dr. Weber indicated you 
remembered something from the last one.  Nothing this time, Mr. 
Mulder?  I confess, I'm surprised you don't remember anything."

Mulder's eyes tracked her again, slid away and over to the window, the 
shuttered blinds, blinking fast.  "I-I. . .it's all a blank.  There's 
nothing there."

"Hmmphh."  Daly nodded, sounded satisfied.  "I'm afraid we did have to 
do some more work on that arm, Mr. Mulder, after the first seizure."  
Daly's face relaxed into what looked like a genuine smile.  "You ended 
up damaging a little more than Dr. Weber's nose.  How is it feeling?"

Glazed look at the device holding the bones in place.  "Hurts."

"I'd expect so.  Does your head hurt?"  Daly bent over him again. 
"Hopefully, the seizures are residual from the combined effects of the 
head injury and the  insult already suffered with--the unorthodox 
treatment."  Brushing Mulder's hair back from his forehead.  "I saw 
the marks on the x-rays of course-the doctor who did that ought to 
lose his license."

Sanctimonious voice.  Deb turned away to keep her emotions from 
showing on her face.  

"He was--a psychologist."  Mulder sounded mortally tired again.  "But 
they stopped."

"The seizures?  Well, hopefully they'll stop this time as well."  
False reassurance and Deb dug her fingernails into her palms, moved 
aimlessly around the room, not wanting to leave Mulder alone with 
Daly.  

She glanced back, saw Daly checking Mulder's pulse and came back to 
the bed, automatically reaching for the cuff, stepped in to slip it on 
Mulder's good arm.  
Daly stepped over to the table, out of her way, made a note on the 
chart, pulled a folded newspaper loose from underneath it. "Where did 
this come from?"  

Accusation in the voice, anger in the eyes he turned on her.

"Don't look at me."  Sudden movement from the bed pulled her eyes that 
way.    

Mulder was frowning at Daly, trying unsuccessfully to push himself up 
on the bed.  "Don't yell at Deb."  Licked dry lips before continuing, 
"Bruce got it for me, so I could check on the game.  What's the big 
deal?"
 
The attempt at movement had cost him, sapped the little energy he had. 
Slow blink, a faint line between his brows as he struggled to add, 
"Bad enough there's no TV."

Daly sighed, pulled the chair next to the bed and sat down, the folded 
newspaper still in his hands.  He looked from it to the patient, 
ignored Deb.  "The difficulty with the television has been corrected, 
Mr. Mulder."  

Mulder's eyes flicked to the TV, back to Daly, clearly puzzled at the 
news.  So was she.  What was Daly up to?  Nobody had mentioned 
anything about this to her.
"Then why?"  Mulder reached for the control.

"That won't work, Mr. Mulder."  Daly leaned forward, tapped the folded 
newspaper on the bedrail.  "Until we get these seizures under control 
I don't want you watching TV."  He held up the paper.  "And I don't 
want you reading."

If Mulder had looked panicked before, now he looked stunned.  His gaze 
moved from Daly to her, back to Daly.  "How long?"  

"That depends on you, Mr. Mulder."  There was a warning under his 
tone.  "All of us want you to get better as soon as possible.  The 
more you cooperate with us, the easier that's going to be.  Can I 
count on your cooperation?"

Mulder frowned faintly, trying to puzzle something out, or maybe just 
assessing his options, finally nodded his head slowly.

Daly smiled, patted him on the leg as he rose.  "That's good.  Just so 
long as we're all on the same page."  His gaze lifted, included Deb in 
it before returning to Mulder.  "Don't worry, Mr. Mulder.  You're in 
good hands."  He left the chart on the table, took the paper with him 
as he moved across the room.
At the door, he stopped.  "Oh, Deb, when you have some time, I'd like 
a
word with you."

Not if she could help it.  "Certainly, Doctor," she told him, keeping 
her voice neutral this time.  "I'll be there as soon as Maryann comes 
off break."

Turning back, she found that Mulder was losing the fight to stay 
awake, zoning out.  As she watched, his eyes closed all the way, 
breathing deep and even.  With luck, she could skate out of here 
without talking to Daly.  

When Maryann came on.

Her eyes were gritty with exhaustion anyway.  She wasn't going to be 
much good to Mulder if she was dead on her feet and these constant 
shift changes were killing her.  Maryann was a good nurse, she 
couldn't fault her there.

Tucking the blankets up around Mulder again, she took the chair Daly 
had vacated, sat down heavily and leaned back herself.  Not to sleep. 
 To stare at the insipid painting on the wall.  Wondering how in the 
hell she'd gotten herself into this.

And how the hell she was going to get herself out.






THERE was a fat folder in his In basket.   On top.  When he picked it 
up, he found it was all paperwork, all related to Mulder's death, most 
of it from Human Resources.  Death benefits.  Insurance verifications. 
 

His head was starting to throb again.  Sorting through the forms only 
made it worse.  Mulder alive was a paperwork nightmare, he'd had to 
threaten Mulder with wire-tap duty on more than one memorable occasion 
if a report wasn't delivered on time, if expense sheets weren't 
properly documented and filed within the same fiscal month.

And this wasn't the worst thing.  If he succeeded in retrieving 
Mulder, the paperwork to bring him back to life was going to be 
hideous.

Idly thumbing the edge of the folder, he wondered if it might be 
possible to stall on filing this stack.  If he could get away with 
sort of sliding it under the other things in his In basket.  Or 
reroute it to the basement accidentally.  
Or--no, not after reaming three quarters of the agents in his line of 
command over late paperwork.  If he stalled it, he was undermining his 
own authority.

Taking his glasses off, Skinner rested his forehead on his hands.  
There had to be something he could do to Mulder once Mulder was back 
and on his feet.  There had to be some perfectly justified 
disciplinary action he could take against a man who had been hit by a 
van, badly injured, and abducted.  

Right.

There was the soft sound of a cleared throat.  Skinner glanced up to 
see Kim standing there, her expression concerned.  "Sir, if you like, 
I can take care of some of that paperwork for you."

He could have kissed her, but that would only have caused him more 
problems.  

"Kim, that would be wonderful.  The funeral is tomorrow at 9:00, by 
the way.  Amsterdam mortuary."

Kim nodded solemnly.  Inched over to his desk and abstracted the 
folder from between his elbows.  "Sir, if you don't mind my saying so, 
you look tired.  Why don't you take off a little early today?"

He sighed and rubbed his chin.  "I've got things to do, yet.  I'm 
waiting for someone to messenger over the confirmation for the 
gravesite, and I'll bet you your next week's salary that they're 
already cursing my name and Mulder's while they work overtime with a 
backhoe."

Kim hesitated.  "But they're going to bury him at Arlington."

Skinner nodded.  "They are.  I've used up plenty of favors today.  And 
I told his mother I'd go with her tonight to make the final 
arrangements.  Christ, I didn't send out an email to the division.  
Kim--"

"I'll do it right now."  Her voice was sympathetic.   "Would you like 
some more coffee?"

"I'd love some more coffee.  But if I do, I'm going to be popping 
antacids more than I already am."  He offered her a crooked smile.  
"But thanks, Kim."

She nodded and took the folder back to her desk.  Thankfully.

He wondered gloomily if that counted as undermining his own authority. 
 
Somehow, it hardly seemed to matter when he was going to have to fill 
out paperwork to reverse it all.

He refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that he might 
not have the opportunity to curse over the paperwork bringing Mulder 
back.

He didn't intend to fail.








SITTING straight in the chair, Bruce was too aware of Daly at his back 
and
genuinely afraid of the man who stood before him.

"I want to hear it again," the Brit told Daly, looking past Bruce's
shoulder.  "I want to hear precisely what occured."

Daly made a sound, contempt and anger mixed.  The glacial gaze fell on
Bruce.  "Go over it again."

Bruce cleared his throat.  "I gave him the sports section of the 
newspaper.
He was agitating about the television and the sports scores, and I
couldn't see any harm in letting him have it."

A spasm of distaste passed over the Brit's patrician features.  Bruce
quelled the urge to look back at Daly.  Took in a breath and 
continued,
"He was perfectly happy with it.  I cleared away his lunch, let him 
read
it.  I checked on him later, and he was asleep, the paper was folded 
and
tucked at the side of the bed.  I checked on him, checked the pump and 
set the paper on the tray, where he could reach it if he wanted it 
later.  I went off shift at two.  He was fine when I left." 

The Brit looked back at Daly.  "How bad was the damage this time?"

Daly made another sound.  "It could have been worse.   He had a 
nosebleed, a
few bruises.  Deb got in there quickly, kept the damage to a minimum. 
 The X-rays look clean, and he didn't jerk his arm free, it wasn't as 
severe."

"Good."  The Brit's gaze came back to Bruce.  "There will be no 
further
kindnesses done. If he wishes to know the sports score, you may read 
them
to him.  If he asks why, you may repeat what Dr. Daly has already told 
him, that the reading triggered a seizure. Do you understand?  Or is 
remedial training required?"

Bruce's mouth was dry.  "No, I understand."

"Good.  Get out of here." 

By the time Bruce had straightened shaky knees and risen, the Brit had
forgotten him, was talking to Daly in a low, tight tone that made him 
glad
he'd been forgotten.

He just hoped it stayed that way.







THE funeral was an ordeal.  The bronze casket in the front of the room 
was closed, naturally, no effort had been made to restore the 
shattered face.   It accused Skinner silently nonetheless, adding to 
the atmosphere of unreality.  
 
Seated beside Mrs. Mulder, Skinner did not begin to feel suspended in 
a surreal universe until the minister showed up.   Scully's expression 
was startled behind the weary sorrow etched into her face, so he 
assumed she shared his astonishment.

This was weirder than anything he'd experienced in Vietnam while 
seriously stoned, Skinner told himself, listening to the minister talk 
about God welcoming Fox Mulder.  Sure, right up until the time Mulder 
started investigating the Man himself, he thought, with crazed 
hilarity, and then they'd kick Mulder's ass out through those pearly 
gates....thank God this guy wasn't a bible banger, he wasn't sure he 
could have maintained his composure through that.

Mulder would have been astonished at the turnout.  Christ, even 
Rossiter showed up.  Making points, Skinner reckoned.  Agents from 
VCS, from the Investigative Support Unit.   A good number of women 
from the Admin pool, which made Skinner's mouth quirk sardonically.  
At least Blevins hadn't shown up.  He wasn't sure he'd have maintained 
*his* composure if Blevins had shown up.

At last, it was time for him to speak.   

Standing in front of the black draped lectern, he looked at his notes, 
cleared his throat.  "Integrity is an old-fashioned concept, one that 
has been eclipsed by ambition and the drive for success.  Agent Mulder 
was the embodiment of integrity.   He was driven, frequently 
maddening, sometimes insubordinate, so tightly focused on his work 
that he sometimes lost sight of the rest of the world.  But he never 
lost sight of the victims, never lost sight of why he'd entered the 
Bureau, never lost sight of the fact that bringing the truth to light 
is a part of our task.    Occam's Razor tells us that the most 
probable solution to any puzzle is the simplest, the one that fits all 
the points of the puzzle piece without extraneous data.  Agent Mulder 
operated under that law, whether or not the explanation met the needs 
of his peers and colleagues, whether or not it met the desires of his 
superiors.  He sought truth, whether it was popular or unpopular, 
whether it brought him acclaim or reprimands.   He put himself at risk 
again and again to do so, once on my own behalf.   Whatever my 
disagreement with his methods, I admired and respected his integrity."

Mrs. Mulder was crying silently.  Shoulders straight back.  Mulder 
must have gotten some of his strength from her.  He sure as hell 
didn't get his brutal honesty from her, that must have been Mulder's 
own.  Even an outright question to her about the confrontation outside 
the morgue had been evaded.   

Scully was watching him, her eyes too large in a face that was 
steadily growing thinner.  More haggard.  She looked worse.  But maybe 
it was just not seeing her for three days.  Her mother held one thin 
hand between her own, with her own expression that peculiar mix of 
steel and serenity that he'd noted in Scully at times.

"There are indications that his search for the truth was turned 
against him, that he was misused and deceived.  That does not 
undermine the validity of his focus, it does not detract from the man 
he was.  It cannot take away the central fact that Fox Mulder was the 
most honest man I've had the privilege to know in my lifetime."  
Mulder was never going to let him hear the end of this if it was ever 
repeated to him.  Only that carried him through his closing.  "There 
are too few men of integrity in the world, and the world is poorer for 
his loss.  We are diminished through it."

And that was that.  Sitting down beside Mrs. Mulder, Skinner pulled 
out a clean, folded handkerchief and pressed it into her hands.  The 
minister came back and completed the service.  Skinner barely noticed, 
his eyes skimming across the room.  That smoking bastard was in the 
back, looking mildly troubled.

Other faces showed sadness and regret.  Rossiter looked stunned, and 
it was hard not to smile at that.  He wasn't sure why he'd stunned 
Rossiter, surely the fool hadn't expected him to get up there and call 
Mulder Spooky in front of his mother, or talk about Mulder's more 
out-there statements and beliefs.  

Now, they only had to get through the burial.  Of the body that wasn't 
Mulder's.  He could see Mulder's mother off and get back to matters at 
hand.  Not that he wasn't already doing that as well.

An AD's work was never done.  The thought made his mouth twitch again 
and he slid a look sideways to Mrs. Mulder, who had composed herself. 
 Who still sat straight, her posture impeccable.  

Christ, he hated funerals.  He always had.  And he was going to have 
to present the goddamned flag to Mulder's mother, as if that was going 
to take the place of her son.

Mulder was going on nothing more strenuous than wiretap duty when he 
returned.   There was no way Skinner was going through all this again.






SKINNER'S eulogy had made Scully cry again.  Her mother's hand had 
closed over hers, but her mother's face had been serene.  

She envied that faith.  Even though her mother was such a goddamn 
traditional Catholic, her mother had told her on the way over that she 
believed that God understood why Mulder had done it, that there was 
always forgiveness.  

That explained the rosary, Scully supposed.

She hadn't had the strength to go up and speak to Mulder's mother 
before the service had started.  But after the service, as people 
filtered out, she saw Frohicke go up and that made her stomach clench.

Reminded her of Frohicke bringing her flowers, not that she'd been 
aware at the time.  But Mulder had described the little man and how 
he'd dressed in a suit to come and see her at the hospital.  

And he was holding Mrs. Mulder's hand between his own, speaking softly 
to her.

All right, Dana, she told herself, the jeering tone that lately seemed 
to accompany her efforts to do anything, even down to getting out of 
bed, let's bite the bullet.

Mrs. Mulder was haggard.  Skinner appeared magically at her elbow and 
murmured in her ear, and Mrs. Mulder nodded.  Frohicke had vanished as 
suddenly as Skinner had appeared, and Scully worked her way through 
the crush of people until she could reach the older woman, now 
standing alone again.

She looked for Skinner, wishing he was still standing there, and saw 
him heading toward the minister.  Briefly, hysteria threatened--a 
minister for Mulder's funeral--and she forced it back down, forced 
herself to take that last step forward and hold out her hand.  "Mrs. 
Mulder?  I'm Dana Scully, I don't know if you remember--"

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Mulder's voice was soft and she didn't offer 
her own hand.  "I remember you, you came and saw me when Fox was 
missing.  And when Fox came up just a few weeks ago, you were with 
him."

Sharp eyes, despite the soft voice.

Scully let her arm drop.  "I wanted to say how sorry I am," she began 
and those eyes dried the words up before the rest could be spoken.

"It must have been difficult for you to work with Fox, considering 
that you didn't think his work was valid."  Soft, compassionate tone, 
while those eyes remained stony.  

Scully opened her mouth and closed it again.  Stunned.  Finally 
managed, "Mulder respected my objectivity.  I respected his passion 
and dedication, I simply disagreed with his interpretations."

"Of course, you did."  That soft tone was deadly, masking a rapier and 
a dagger.  "He did respect you, a great deal.  He trusted you, and Fox 
didn't find it easy to trust many people.  He believed in you."

Each word was like a blow.  Scully straightened her shoulders.  "I 
trusted him, too.  More than anyone I've ever known.  He was my 
friend."  

A wintry smile. "Fox was sometimes unfortunate in his friends.  I 
wonder how he felt during the years you worked together, knowing you 
dismissed everything he'd worked so desperately to uncover as 
unfounded. Unscientific."

It made her angry.  "I'm not responsible for the evidence, Mrs. 
Mulder.  Or lack of it.  In the years we worked together, there was 
never one shred of evidence that his beliefs were founded in 
scientific fact." 

Mrs. Mulder's laughter was bitter.  "There never is, my dear.  They 
make sure of that.  He searched so desperately for the truth, and you 
aided and abetted them at every turn."

"Did you give him the truth?"  Scully's voice came out unexpectedly 
loud, several people turned their heads and she was abruptly aware 
that she was talking to her dead partner's mother.

"Touche."  Mrs. Mulder's eyes, if anything, grew colder.  "I knew a 
part of it and I never gave it to him.  I wish I could turn back 
time--" Her voice seemed to tremble minutely, but steadied quickly.  
"But surely you know that regret, Ms. Scully?  All the things left 
undone and unsaid?  Or the things already done and said and you can't 
call them back.  My son is dead.  It's too late."  One hand came out 
and closed over Scully's wrist.  "I grieve for his death, but I am 
grateful that he was spared knowing that you viewed him as nothing 
more than either a credulous fool or worse."  The fingers tightened.  
 "But I forgive you, my dear.  Thank you for coming."  

Oh, Christ, the woman was an expert.  She knew now where Mulder had 
inherited his talent for scathing invective.   

Fury made Scully tremble, she wanted to throw things back in her face, 
things Mulder had let slip over the years.  Things she didn't think 
he'd realized he'd let slip, that she'd never asked about, or let 
herself think about.

That half-heard accusation while she'd waited in the hall, at his 
mother's house.  She wanted to ask Mrs. Mulder who Mulder's father 
really was.  Who Samantha's father had been.  But Jesus, this was 
Mulder's funeral, and despite everything, she was still Dana Scully.

Control.  

Turning, she started back to join her mother at the back, had to wait 
for the other attendees--she couldn't think of them as mourners, many 
of them had jeered at Mulder wile he was alive.

And her vision blurred, not the fucking tumor, but tears again for the 
bastard who had eaten his gun instead of digging further into the 
truth.

The only thing that kept her from simply bulldozing through the crush 
was the sound of a voice, not quite familiar.  And Mulder's mother in 
response.

"You have no right to be here!"  Mrs. Mulder's voice was overloud in 
the hush of the mortuary.  "Get out!"

Scully turned her head, blinked hard and saw--saw the smoking man.  
The man who had once spent as much time in Skinner's office as 
Skinner.

Nearby, on his way back to Mrs. Mulder, Skinner had paused, his 
expression appalled.

"Katherine," the man said, but the rest was inaudible.  Funereal 
whisper.  His hand closed over Mrs. Mulder's elbow.

"Get out!  Or I'll have you thrown out!"   Mrs. Mulder jerked her 
elbow away.  "You've cost me both of my children, get out.  Get out 
and don't show your face to me again!"

Other heads were turning, there was a kind of murmuring whisper as 
people commented.  Scully blinked again.  Mulder's mother knew the 
smoking man.  He'd called her Katherine.

Abruptly, nausea replaced the fury that had left her shaking.  The 
room smelt of decaying flesh, which was nonsense, it was the tumor, 
pressure on nerves, only apparently there was no tumor.  It was making 
her ill nonetheless.

"Katherine," she heard again, soothing tone, placating tone.

But Mrs. Mulder wasn't having any of it.

"Excuse me," Scully choked.  "Please let me through, I need to get 
through."
Katherine Mulder knew the smoking man.  Mulder had asked her who his 
father had really been.  

She tasted acid in the back of her throat.  

"You took both of them from me," Mrs. Mulder's voice really was loud 
now, scandalously so.

The way parted in front of Scully, she edged through, desperate to get 
to fresh air.  Rotting flesh and rotting flowers, she thought she 
might faint, there was a swimmy sort of disorientation taking over, a 
kind of woozy semi-awareness....
"Dana!"  Her mother's voice penetrated the fog, "Come on, honey, take 
deep breaths."

"Agent Scully?"  The arm around her waist was Skinner's.  He lowered 
her to the front step of the mortuary and let go of her as if burned. 
 

Scully put her head between her knees.  

Not very ladylike, thank God she'd worn the black pantsuit instead of 
a skirt.  Fresh air in, smelling of nothing more than fresh cut grass. 
   But Skinner's hand was on her shoulder, a tentative weight.  "Agent 
Scully."

"I'm all right," she told him shakily.  "I just--it was just hot in 
there.  And the flowers."

Her mother sat down on the step beside her and stroked the back of her 
neck.  "Better now?"

"Yes."  The wooziness receded and she sat up.  "Yeah, much.  I'm 
sorry, sir."

Skinner's expression was hard to read.  "Quite all right, Agent 
Scully.  It *was* stuffy.  There were a lot more people than I 
expected from the division."
"Some from Behavioral, too, I thought."  Scully took in shallow 
breaths, felt the sickness receding.

Skinner made a noncommittal sound.   He shifted his weight, lifted his 
hand.  "I'll see you at the burial, I need to get back to Mrs. 
Mulder."

"Thank you," her mother said, over the top of her head, looking up.

Another noncommittal sound.  Her mother's hand felt cool.  "Dana, are 
you sure you're up to this?  You've paid your respects, you don't have 
to stand out in the sun."

She fought the urge to hilarity.  "Mom, the sun isn't going to kill 
me.  And I owe him that much."  And besides, she was going to spit in 
Mrs. Mulder's eye and be there.  Damned if she was going to let the 
woman succeed in making her feel guilty.

Not when there was so much to go around.

But in the car on the way to Arlington, she thought she heard the 
ghost of her old self, the inquisitive self, still repeating, Mrs. 
Mulder knew the smoking man....








NO chance to linger and observe this time.  

Mulder's eyes were open, fixed on the entryway, spotted him before he 
made it through the opening.  Four days since he'd seen the patient 
and the man looked worse, not better.  Both eyes open now, less 
swelling around the left one, the lurid purple and blue bruising 
slightly faded, blended now with reds, greens and yellow.  Black 
sutures still spiked through the left eyebrow, extending past the 
outside tip, giving his face a somewhat lopsided appearance.  

Mulder made no effort to raise his head off the pillow, merely lifted 
one finger to beckon him into the room.  "Shut the door."  Raspy, the 
voice barely carried across the room.  

The door resisted his tug.  Looking down he spotted the stopper, 
kicked it loose, let the weight of the door pull it closed behind him 
as he crossed the floor.  

"Sorry I can't get up to greet you, sir."  Thin smile to match the 
voice. Soft pants between the words.

"That's all right, Fox."  Smiling down at the man in the bed he put 
concern in his voice, asked, "Why didn't you call me sooner?  Let me 
know you were hurt."  

Someone had moved the chair back into the corner, out of the way.  He 
retrieved it, pulled it up close to the bed, folded his new body into 
its plastic cocoon.  
Oddly the furniture didn't fit this form any better than it had 
Skinner's. 
Curious.  He wondered what body type it was designed for.  

"Not important. You're busy."  Closer now, he could see how much 
effort went into forming each word, lines of exhaustion or pain 
clearly etched in the face, contributing to the haggard look he'd 
spotted from the door.  "Need your help."
So easy to smile, project compassion, tap into the countless nuances 
of Matheson the Greys had shared with him, imprinting far superior to 
the Humans' flimsy photos and audio tapes.  

The chosen were always easier to mimic.  

"Of course, Fox.  Tell me what you need."  The temptation to touch was 
distracting, disconcerting in its intensity.  Leaning back in the 
chair, he pulled away from the bed, avoided the hand clutched tightly 
around the bed rail.  "But first, tell me what happened to you."  He 
let his eyes wander across the long form, noting the new dressing on 
the elevated limb, slight differences in the metal cage, finally 
coming to rest on the worn face.  Even the man's skin looked tired, 
slack, but the dark eyes burned brightly in bruised sockets, locked 
with his.

"Out running.  Car got me."  Mulder seemed to sink further into the 
pillow, grimaced at the slight movement.  "Dumb.  Should have looked." 
 A slight shrug of the bony shoulders, another wince of discomfort.

"Aren't they giving you anything for the pain, Fox?"  The morph leaned 
forward, gave into temptation and lightly stroked the fingers clenched 
around the steel rail.  Incredible sensation, deliciously foreign, 
strange beyond imagining.  He shut his eyes for a moment, held the 
connection, before pulling his hand away reluctantly.  "You seem to be 
in distress. Should I call the nurse?"  

No tingling, nothing to remind him of that heady rush as he rubbed 
nerveless fingers slowly together, tried to imagine living every 
moment in such a sensitive vessel.  Amazing that these humans managed 
at all. 

"No, it's okay," Mulder gasped, eyes closing slightly.  "I need to 
think. Can't think on morphine."  Mulder's right hand had wandered 
down the rail, was toying with the plastic control as he continued to 
speak.  "I have to tell you first."
The morph nodded, made a show of turning his wrist, glanced at the 
primitive timepiece which encircled it.  "Then perhaps you'd best tell 
me whatever you have to tell me.  I can't stay for long."  Untrue but 
best to get the information now, while the man could still talk.

The reminder had the desired effect, snapped Mulder's eyes back open. 
 "Of course.  I'm sorry, sir.  It's about Ellens."  Excitement charged 
the tired face, erased some of the weariness.  "I remember what they 
took from me. The memory."  Fever bright eyes flicked away, lit on the 
bed table as Mulder licked his lips.

Following his gaze, the morph spotted the water jug, reached for it. 
"Ellens?  Ah yes, Ellens.  You're remembering?"  Not Samantha, Ellens. 
 Who was Ellens? Hands that looked like Matheson's held the cup where 
Mulder could reach it, helped him grasp the straw, careful not to 
touch as the morph urged, "Tell me from the beginning."    

Mulder pushed the straw aside, barely pausing to swallow before 
speaking. "Remember I told you how I couldn't remember."  The morph 
nodded, wondered how the Grey's had missed the interchange or if 
they'd just neglected to share it with him.  "They took the memory, 
drugged me.  I don't know how exactly.  That's still foggy."  
Shivering slightly, he bunched the blankets in his right fist, frowned 
at the memory.  "Just this huge needle or drill.  It's all I can see, 
then nothing, a blank." 

Motion at the entryway.  The morph frowned as a nurse backed into the 
room, arms laden with towels and blankets.  He'd heard the footsteps 
in the corridor, had figured she'd pass without stopping.  The Brit 
had assured him they wouldn't be interrupted.  

The woman turned, surprise etched on her features.  "Oops.  Sorry.  I 
forgot about your visitor, Mulder.  I wondered why the door was 
closed."  Bright green eyes sparkled as she sashayed into the room, 
plopped the pile of linens on the counter next to the bed.  

"You must be Senator Matheson."  Crimson lips curved into a smile, 
parted to reveal gleaming, straight, white teeth.  "I'm Maryann, 
Mulder's nurse.  It's a pleasure to meet you."   Polish to match the 
lipstick on the long talons she extended towards him.

The morph rose, accepted the hand, shook it gently.  "A pleasure to 
meet you as well, my dear.  I hope you're taking good care of Fox."  
The man in the bed was watching them both, smiling slightly, seemingly 
amused by the exchange.  "I'm not sure your hospital agrees with him." 
 

The nurse released his hand slowly, frowned prettily at her patient.  
"No.  I don't think it does."  A flurry of motion, she pushed past him 
to the bed, hips brushing him as she passed.  "You don't look well, 
Mulder."  She flipped open the top of the pump, tapped the readout, 
frowned, reached for the control.

"No."  Showing surprising strength, Mulder got there first, pulled it 
away from her grasp.  "I don't want it.  It's okay, Maryann." 

Intrigued, the morph sat back in the chair, watched the interplay.  

The nurse was frowning in earnest now, hands on her hips as she glared 
at the patient.  "What gives, Mulder?  You know you need the 
morphine."  Steel in the soft voice but she smiled, softened it as she 
continued, "Don't tell me you're going for that tough guy crapola.  
Your body's been through a lot this past week.  The drugs are there to 
help you heal, to let you rest. Let them do their job, okay?"   

Mulder sighed, looked to the morph in apology before turning back to 
the nurse.  "After my visitor leaves, Maryann, okay?  I promise, I'll 
use it then."  A smile crossed the thin face but the morph noted he 
didn't let go of the control.

The blond nurse laughed, the sound quite different than the barking 
laugh of the other one, the larger nurse, but the source of the 
amusement was just as confusing. 

The morph looked for further clues as she relaxed, leaned forward to 
run one hand through the patient's hair.  "All right, Mulder.  I'll 
let it go for now but you better be good and do as you promise later 
or Deb will kill me when she comes on shift."  Her smile was teasing. 
 "I think you've bewitched that woman."  

"Not guilty," Mulder rasped, finally relaxing his grip on the control. 
 "Guys don't bewitch people, Maryann.  That's a girl thing.  We just 
put the whammy on them."  

"Ahhh, the whammy. . ."  Maryann's grin grew wider.  "Is that what you 
call it?  Well, whatever it is, you've got her believing you can do no 
wrong." 

Turning, she looked back at the morph, turned the teasing smile on him 
as she walked past.  "I'll be leaving you boys alone to talk.  Maybe 
you can tell me later how you got him to let you call him 'Fox,' 
Senator."  

"Maybe," the morph promised, dismissing the woman from his thoughts 
before the door closed behind her.  Mulder was still smiling when he 
turned back to the bed.  "What?"

"She's a power junkie, Senator."  The smile widened.  "She'll eat you 
for lunch if you're not careful."

The morph smiled, finding amusement in the image.  "I don't think so, 
Fox.  I can look after myself.  Much better than you apparently can," 
he added, looking pointedly at the caged arm.  

"Good point," Mulder conceded, seemed to deflate slightly.  "About 
Ellens, sir. . ."  The smile disappeared.  "I saw a ship there, an 
alien ship or a ship using alien technology."  He turned away, eyes 
darting around the room, lifted his right hand off the blanket, 
reached towards the bed table. "Is there a paper?  Pen?  I can show 
you.  Draw it." 

The likelihood of that seemed questionable, given the pronounced 
tremor in the raised hand but the morph scanned the table, spotted a 
pad of paper. Setting the pad of paper lightly on Mulder's belly, he 
retrieved a pen from his pocket, removed the cap and held it out to 
the agent.  Mulder's fingers brushed his as he accepted the pen, 
jolting him so he almost dropped the pen.

"Are you all right, sir?" Mulder asked, frowning as he fumbled to hang 
on to the pen and manage the bed control.

"Let me do that," the morph offered, careful to avoid any physical 
contact as he pulled the plastic box loose, found the button to raise 
the bed.  "Is this what you wanted?" he asked, depressing the button.

Mulder nodded tightly, lips thinning as the head of the bed came 
slowly up, face twisted in a rictus of pain.  "That's enough sir," he 
finally gasped, when the head of the bed was about a third of the way 
up.  Eyes closing, he moved his lips soundlessly, repeating something 
over and over again.

The morph leaned closer.  "What are you saying?"  

Slits of hazel peered out at him from under thick lashes.  "Nothing.  
It doesn't work anyhow."

"What doesn't work?"

Slight upturn of the chapped lips.  "Vulcan mind control."

The morph felt his eyebrows slide upwards, knew the senator's face 
reflected his confusion.  

"Mr. Spock," Mulder explained, apparently catching the gesture.  
"Never worked for him either.  Too much human blood."

Frowning the morph considered that, wondered if this tendency to talk 
about imaginary beings as if they were real was unique to Mulder, or 
something peculiar to the whole species.  It made intelligent 
conversation difficult.  

Mulder seemed to have regained some measure of control, Vulcan or 
human, was making marks on the paper, biting his lip in frustration as 
his hand continued to shake.  "This is a little rough, sir, but you 
get the general idea."  He turned the page toward the morph, continued 
to draw.  "There were lights. . .here, here, and here."  The pen 
skittered from one corner of the triangle to the other, made marks 
roughly circular in shape.  "It could move incredibly fast or hover 
without moving at all."  Abruptly, fingers clenched in spasm, released 
the pen, let it roll off the pad.  "I'm sorry.  That's the best I can 
do."  

Another spasm hit.  The morph saw it travel through the long form 
beneath the blankets.  "Please  . .the bed. . ."  Mulder was motioning 
towards the control, fighting the spasms that gripped his body. 

Already sensing the problem, the morph had the control in hand, was 
easing the bed down.  Mulder's eyes stayed closed when it reached 
level, his right fist clenching and unclenching on the covers.  

He didn't seem to notice when the morph lifted the pad of paper off 
his belly, retrieved the pen.  Tapping the pen on the chair arm, the 
morph studied the drawing, wondered if the Greys knew of this little 
project.   

A long shuddering breath from the bed.  "Can you send someone out 
there?
Get pictures? Proof?"   

The morph looked back at the bed, studied its frail prisoner, 
considering Matheson's likely response to such a request.  "I don't 
know, Fox.  There are difficulties.  Why not Agent Scully?  Mr. 
Skinner perhaps?"  

Mulder was shaking his head in frustration, gasping for air as he 
interrupted, "No, sir.  Scully's sick.  Skinner. . .I don't know.  
Skinner's. . .  I'm not sure I can trust, Skinner."

There it was, what he wanted to know.  "Why not?  I thought you 
trusted him."

"Something he said. . ."  Mulder was looking past him, through him. 
"Skinner's complicated."   Mulder shut his eyes again, fumbled in the 
rumpled blankets, found the morphine control.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I 
can't explain."  Twitch of lashes, and the heavy lids lifted, 
revealing thin slits of glazed eyes.  "Can you help?"

"I'll see what I can do, Fox.  Right now you need to rest."  He 
pocketed the pen, leaned forward and grasped the hand holding the 
morphine control, depressed the button in the same motion, kept his 
hand around the agent's as the drug coursed through his veins.

It was a long time before he pulled his hand away, rose to his feet.  
Tapping the pad of paper against his thigh he looked down at the 
sleeping man, reflected on what he'd learned.  

The Greys had lied.  

He understood now why they hadn't wanted to share their real motives, 
the reasons for their interest in this species.  The others would be 
very interested.  

He looked back at the sleeper, the drawing on the paper.   But for 
right now, it was his secret alone.  The thought made him smile as he 
slipped from the room.







THE burial was anticlimactic, Scully told herself, watching as the 
coffin was lowered into the grave.  Now, if the straps holding it were 
to break, if the coffin were to roll down the hill and come to a stop 
against one of the gravestones, the lid flying open to reveal its 
contents, she would have come full circle.

In the back of her mind a ghost with a cocky grin told her, "That's 
why they put the I in FBI."

Her mouth trembled briefly before she reasserted control.  She was 
*not* going to mourn the son of a bitch.   Not when he'd taken the 
easy way out, not when he'd deserted her when she most needed him.
 
Her mother's hand linked with hers; she let it.  Watched as the coffin 
disappeared into the grave.   All the control in the world couldn't 
prevent her from shivering, thinking of Mulder down there in the dark. 
 But his mother wouldn't have cremated him, not the way Mulder had 
felt about fire.

Mrs. Mulder had accepted the flag from Skinner, who looked distinctly 
unhappy.  If his jaw tightened any more, he was going to require 
medical intervention to get it open, Scully thought distantly.

Mrs. Mulder was a far cry from the poised woman Scully had met at 
William Mulder's funeral.   A far cry from the woman who hadn't 
appeared all that distraught over her missing son.  The sunlight was 
cruel, showing the violet crescents under the older woman's eyes, the 
redness and puffiness of her eyelids.

The rest of the mourners were filtering away, it was unseemly to stand 
and watch the coffin sink into the ground, to watch as the men waiting 
to cover it came forward from under the trees.   Her mother tugged 
lightly at her hand, but Scully resisted.   Watching.

Skinner had outdone himself.  The plot was shaded, on a shallow hill. 
 A nice view, a green spot that belied the presence of the dead.

Taking Mrs. Mulder's elbow, Skinner coaxed her away, gently led her 
back toward his car.  He passed by them, hesitating.   "Agent Scully," 
he told her gently, 
"It's over."  His gaze passed over her to meet her mother's.  Mrs. 
Mulder walked on alone, rather than recognize or address her.   
Skinner's hand came out to touch her shoulder.  "Let's go."

She turned for him, rather than for her mother.  Let her mother guide 
her back to the car.  "His mother hates me."

"I'm sure that's not true," her mother murmured and unlocked the door, 
pressed the powerlock to unlock the passenger side.

Scully snorted softly, opened the door and sank into the passenger 
seat, suddenly so tired that she just wanted to go home and crawl into 
bed.  Wanted to pull the blankets over her head and sleep.  "Mom, she 
blames me."

Her mother put the key in the ignition and sat silently for a moment. 
 "Grief is a harsh thing, Dana.  It makes us say and think terrible 
things that we know aren't true."   Low voice, almost guilty.

"I know this is true," Scully told her bitterly.

"No, that's not what I meant.  I meant it may make her say and think 
terrible things."

The engine started.   The Scully who had once been was curious enough 
to turn her head and examine her mother's face.  She licked her lips. 
  "What terrible things did you think, Mom?  After Missy?  After Dad?"

There was no guilt in Margaret Scully's expression.  "I was angry with 
your father for leaving me, just when we finally had time together."  
A brief glance sidelong.

"What about Missy?"  She knew, but had to hear her mother say it.  
"Did you blame me?"

That got an horrified look.  "Dana, no.  I never blamed you."

"Mulder, then."  The bitterness of the words tasted good.  "I wouldn't 
blame you if you did."

Another sidelong look.  "Dana," her mother began.

"Did you blame him when I was abducted Mom?  I found this goddamned 
chip, that's probably why they took me.  To shut me up.  To get the 
chip."  She couldn't see, her eyes were blurred with tears.  Hot and 
bitter.  "Oh, Jesus, Mom--"  Nausea struck again.  "Pull over!"

Her mother did.  Opening the door, Scully hung out over the gutter and 
threw up.  Not that she'd eaten much.  But it felt like the bitterness 
was coming up, too.  Tasted like it.  She sobbed and retched and her 
mother held her head as she had when Scully was small.

"Shhh, Dana," her mother murmured.  "Let it come out, sweetheart, 
you'll feel better."

A tissue magically appeared when she had done, just as if she were 
still small Dana and her parents invincible.  Sitting back, she wiped 
her mouth.  Blew her nose.  Still crying.  Leaning across her, her 
mother pulled the door shut and pulled away again.

They found a fast food drive through and her mother ordered ice water 
and iced tea, then pulled up into a parking slot.

The iced tea made her cry again, but she used the water to sluice out 
her mouth, opened up the door and spat onto asphalt.

"I'm so angry with him."  She finally risked looking at her mother.

Her mother's smile was bittersweet.  "I know, sweetheart.  I do."

"Mom, we weren't lovers."  Exasperation overpowered everything else 
for a single moment.

Her mother sighed.  "I know that, Dana.  I also know that some 
friendships are closer than some love affairs.  I was afraid--it's 
unfair, but I was afraid your work with Fox was consuming you.  That 
you'd never have any kind of normal life.  Especially after Missy was 
killed."

Scully looked out the passenger window.  Saw children in the play 
area.  Bitter laughter bubbled up.  "I still won't, Mom.  It was too 
late the day I was abducted, and Missy was still alive."  Even if the 
latest MRI was right, it was too late.  She couldn't bear to hope that 
it was right, to let herself hope, hadn't told her mother.

Her mother's hand was warm on her wrist.  "We don't know that, Dana."

She jerked away.  "Mom, I--I can't.  I can't look forward.  I have to 
take it one day at a time."

"That's all we're expected to do, sweetheart."  After a moment, her 
mother started the car and backed out.

Her mother's faith sometimes made her want to scream.  Leaning against 
the window, Scully stared out at the street.  Numb again.  

It wasn't until she got home afterward that something struck her as 
strange.

Standing just inside the door, she realized she hadn't spoken to 
Frohicke at the funeral.  It was just as well, she told herself and 
shook her head.  It would have been too hard today.  

But as she changed out of her suit and into jeans, she found herself 
remembering when Frohicke had come by with a bottle of whiskey after 
Mulder's disappearance in New Mexico.  Tears blinded her for a moment, 
she leaned against the clothes rail in the closet, her hands curved 
around it.

She'd had a dream about him then, dreamt he was still alive, that he'd 
spoken to her.  And woken, knowing he was alive.

Irrational, whispered the little voice in her mind.  Fantasy, it added 
silkily.
She closed her mind to it, pushed the images out of her mind and put 
on her sweatshirt.  Walked barefoot out into the kitchen and tried to 
consider what she should eat.

Nothing appealed.  She wasn't hungry.  She wanted to go to bed, to 
pull the blankets over her head and just go back to sleep.  To clear 
her mind of thought, to stop thinking about Mulder or the second MRI 
or how angry and unkind Mulder's mother had been.

About Mulder and his sister and whether or not that smoking bastard 
was their father.  Was Mulder's father.  Oh, she was still a good 
investigator, all the little things had tied themselves together in 
the underpart of her mind and now danced merrily, trying to attract 
her attention.

The fact was, it didn't matter if the smoking man was Mulder's father 
or Samantha's father, or if Mulder's mother had screwed the smoking 
man in Macy's window on the day of the Thanksgiving parade.

Mulder was dead, Samantha was almost certainly dead, and she might 
still be dying herself, could soon be past caring about any of it.  

She found she was staring into the refrigerator.  "And when she got 
there, the cupboard was bare," she quoted aloud and giggled, 
disconcerting herself.  Okay, it had been a bad day.  That didn't mean 
she had to come unglued.

The bedroom was calling her.  She wished she could answer that siren 
call but  there was no time for a nap.  Instead, she closed the 
refrigerator door and leaned against it.  Her mind wandered back to 
Frohicke.  "A redwood among--"  She bit her lip, trying to remember 
what Frohicke had said of Mulder.

God, right now, she'd welcome the sight of the little troll.  

A tear burned on its way past her nose.  "Oh, Mulder."  It wasn't 
quite a sob.  
It had been bad enough to walk into that cave of an apartment and 
identify his body.  At least his mother hadn't been demented enough to 
have an open casket funeral.  She wished they'd let her do the 
post-mortem.  As bad as it would have been, it would have been real.  
It would have let her work through this rage at him.  Maybe.

Instead of eating, she wandered through the apartment, and picked up 
her keys and purse and jacket.  Pushed her sockless feet into loafers 
worn as soft and shapeless as moccasins.  

She still had to go to the goddamned hospital and go through another 
biopsy.  If it was still there, she wanted to know.  She had to know. 
 Maybe it was time to bite the bullet and get the rest of her affairs 
in order, just in case.

But why hadn't Frohicke approached her at the funeral?








SKINNER went home after taking Mrs. Mulder to the hotel.  He'd offered 
to take her to the airport, but she put him off.  Said she'd take a 
cab.

Of course, now he was in a thoroughly foul mood.  Having acted out 
that farce for the better part of the early afternoon, there wasn't 
anything left to differentiate him from the smoker.

He was dealing in lies.  Lies upon lies upon lies.  And he really 
rather doubted that the Snow Queen was interested in helping Mulder 
out of altruism.   His head hurt, trying to figure out what her 
motivations were.  

She'd told him to get his resources lined up.  He hadn't a clue what 
resources she expected him to have, but he was damned sure that she 
was dreaming. 

She thought he was a player.  Well, maybe he was, now.  Maybe it was 
time to reach out and touch someone--his mouth curved grimly.  

He hoped to God Sharon hadn't thrown his old address books away, that 
they were packed in some of the boxes still in the back of his closet.

Richard Greywolf.  Apache.  Former Marine.  Present mercenary.  A man 
who owed him something from a long time ago.  Another life.  

It remained to be seen if Richard still valued the old debt.

And then he was going to see the Lone Gunmen.