HELEN held the door open for her, led the way down the corridor, 
treated her to a running monologue of Dr. Selby's various 
imperfections which seemed to primarily revolve around his inability 
to work within the hours of 9 to 5.  

By contrast Markham was apparently some sort of paragon, rapidly 
approaching sainthood in his nurse's memory.  It was a relief to 
finally reach Dr. Selby's office, to have an excuse to thank the woman 
and escape.  Somehow she doubted she'd be seeing much more of Helen, 
regardless of the biopsy results.

"Ah, Dana, come in please."  The man was positively beaming, rising 
from behind his desk to greet her.  "I'm just looking over the lab 
report."

Scully felt suddenly lighter, her steps quickening as she hurried into 
the room, relaxed into the chair.  No way this could be bad news, not 
with that smile.  She felt her own mouth curl as she met his eyes, 
knew some of the excitement she saw there was reflected in her own.  
"Good news, I trust?"   

"Excellent news."  Plucking the topmost paper off the mound in front 
of him, the doctor held it out to her.  "Take a look yourself.  This 
is just preliminary of course but it all looks clean.  No sign of the 
cancer."  

She looked down at the page, felt her eyes sting as they scanned the 
numbers, the tech's summary of results.  Euphoria warred with 
disbelief.  "How is this possible, doctor?"  

Much as she wanted to believe it, she needed a better explanation than 
spontaneous remission.

Hair rumpled, wire frame glasses sliding down the long nose, Selby 
leaned back in his chair, reminding her of Mulder as he put his feet 
up on the messy desk and considered the question.  "Dana, the more 
time I spend in medicine the more I believe that just about anything 
is possible.  Most of my time is spent trying to help patients, such 
as yourself, beat incredible odds.  Thirty five years ago, when I was 
doing my residency, cancer was a death sentence."  

Gray hair aside, the man didn't look that old to her.  Even relaxed 
back in the chair, the tall, slim body had the coiled spring of an 
athlete.  By contrast she felt lethargic, out of shape, old, no match 
for the sparkle of curiosity and passion visable in the dark eyes.  

Framed commendations, numerous awards were scattered about the room, 
some of them on the walls, more lying haphazardly on bookcases 
overflowing with medical journals and piles of paper.  There were 
additional awards on the floor, propped up against the wall with even 
higher stacks of papers and journals.  Barely controlled chaos, the 
room vibrated with the same energy as the man.  Mulder would have 
liked this man, understood him.  Kindred spirits.

It made her eyes sting.

". . .cure rates."  She'd let her attention wander, missed some of 
what he was saying.  That used to happen with Mulder as well.  It was 
so hard sometimes to keep up, follow his twisted leaps of logic.  "In 
your case, I can't honestly say, Dana.  We don't have all the answers 
yet but the answers are there, I honestly believe that."  He had all 
her attention now.  "We just have to get better at finding them."

It was eerie, hearing her own words, or close to them, come from 
someone else.  
Selby had stopped speaking, head cocked to one side as he studied her. 
 "What?  Did I say something wrong?"  He laughed.  "You got me on my 
soapbox, Dana.  I'm afraid I tend to run on a bit at times."  Dropping 
his feet to the floor, he leaned forward in the chair, rested his 
elbows on the desk instead.  "Feel free to tell me to shut up."

"No, Doctor."  A smile on her face, in her voice.  "It's not that at 
all.  You were just reminding me of me actually.  That's my belief as 
well, that science holds the answers.  We just have to keep looking." 
 

Selby was laughing again.  "Ah, I never said science held all the 
answers, Dana."  Suddenly serious.  "Medicine is a useful tool but for 
all our tests and fancy equipment we're still operating in a pretty 
primitive theater in my opinion."  He smiled, shook his head.  "No, 
I'm a hack at best, Dana, a snake charmer, using poisons to heal but 
I'm not so arrogant as to believe I'm the one making the difference.  
I'm a great believer in the power of the human spirit.  I don't 
pretend to have an answer for why your cancer is gone anymore than I 
understand why it was there to start with."

Considering his words, she smiled.  "You sound more like a philosopher 
than a scientist, Dr. Selby.  Didn't they teach you in medical school 
that we're never supposed to admit we don't know." 

"That's the advantage of being an old codger like me, young lady."  
Giving the lie to the 'old codger' designation, Selby sprang to his 
feet, moved over to the window.  "I've been out of school long enough 
to realize that most of what I learned was crap."  Running one hand 
through his hair he turned back to look at her, leaned back against 
the narrow ledge, and folded his arms across his chest.  "I expect the 
secret of your miracle cure lies somewhere in you, Dana.  Whatever the 
explanation though, it's an incredible gift."  He shrugged.  "If 
you're really interested I did review your file with several of my 
colleagues last night and they'd love to get their hands on you, run 
all kinds of tests."

"No thank you, Doctor."  The truth might be out there but she wasn't 
willing to go through any more tests to find it.  "So long as you're 
satisfied the cancer is gone, I've had enough tests for the time 
being."  She suddenly remembered something.  "I was wondering though, 
I had another nosebleed last Thursday.  I was going to mention it when 
I came in for my appointment but then that got canceled."  She'd 
almost forgotten, hesitated to bring it up now, risk more tests.  

Already back at the desk, Selby was paging through her folder as he 
sat back in the chair.  "Thursday you say?  That's curious."  Seconds 
passed, turned into minutes while he paged through the file, muttering 
to himself, finally looking up.  "I don't think it's necessarily 
anything to worry about, Dana.  It could just be residual damage to 
the nasal passages from the pressure of the tumor.  If you like I can 
refer you to an ENT.  Have someone else take a look at it."

Visions of more doctors appointments, more exams, spurred her to ask, 
"Is that necessary?"

"Not in my opinion, no, but I can understand why you might want to 
check it out."  The same gentle empathy she remembered from their 
first conversation.  "Tell you what.  Why don't you do this instead.  
Let it go for now.  If you have a recurrence, give me a call and I'll 
get you in to see someone.  How's that?"

"That's perfect."  Relieved to be let off the hook.  "There is one 
more thing you can do for me though, Doctor."  It had seemed 
presumptuous this afternoon but she was glad now that she'd thought to 
bring the forms with her.  She pulled the papers from her bag, handed 
them to him.  "A touch of paperwork."

Dark eyes scanned the form, looked up at her with a smile.  "No 
problem.  I'll take care of this later.  How about if you stop by 
Friday and pick it up?  Take the rest of the week off."

"Can you do it now?"  She hated to ask, knew Helen was probably fuming 
out at the desk.  It was past 6:30 but Selby seemed oblivious of the 
time.

"Now?" he asked, already reaching for a pen, shaking his head.  "I 
tell you, Dana.  Half the world is trying to figure out how to get out 
of work and all my patients want to jump right back into it the minute 
I tell them they're cured."  Spiky black script appeared as the pen 
moved from box to box while he talked.  "I try to give them the 
opportunity for a little breather and all they can think about is 
getting back to work.  Nobody knows how to relax anymore."

With a final flourish he scrawled something approximating a signature 
on the lower right hand corner, handed the forms back to her.  "That 
should do it.  You're all set."  Rising again, he came around the 
desk, took her hand in his as she turned towards the door.  "It's been 
a pleasure meeting you, Dana Scully.  I wish you all the best with the 
rest of your life."  

He smiled wickedly.  "Now, would you do me an incredible favor and 
tell Helen she can go now?  She scares me."

The man was an imp.  She had to laugh.  "I'll tell her, Doctor.  Just 
remember, you were the one talking about people not knowing how to 
relax."

He was still smiling as he moved back to the desk.  "But that's the 
secret of my success, Doctor Scully.  My work is my relaxation."  

Leaving him to his relaxation, she followed the exit signs to the 
reception desk, smiled at the scowling nurse as she passed on the 
doctor's message.  
The sense of bliss lasted until she got to the car, thought about whom 
she most wanted to call with the great news.    






"YOU didn't call," Langley muttered, letting him in again, but he 
sounded resigned.

Skinner didn't dignify that with a reply.  "Anything new?"

All three of them were there, including the little gnome, Frohicke, 
still wearing his suit from the funeral.

Frohicke gave him a feral grin.  "Well, we checked out those gas 
receipts you gave us.  Naturally, when we ran the tag number from it, 
we came up with a perfectly innocent teenager from Silver Springs and 
his Camaro."

"Naturally."  Skinner accepted the offered chair and leaned back.  
"And?"

"We did a little checking," Langley put in, turned his own chair 
around, sitting down to rest his chin on the chairback.  "The kid's 
clean.  And we don't think they stole his Camaro.  Somebody stole the 
kid's tag more than two weeks ago."

"Charming."  Skinner took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  
"According to my source, they were driving a van when they took him.  
Hit him with it."

"Assholes," Langley muttered. 

"That explains the injuries," Frohicke said morosely.

"A van."  Byers rested a hip on his desk, his expression thoughtful.  
"Even a van is bound to suffer damage in a hit and run.  These people 
hit, but didn't run.  And Mulder was bleeding, they're going to have 
damage to the vehicle and blood on it."

"Body shops."  Langley brightened.

"If they've bothered to get it fixed," Frohicke took another sip from 
the cup he held.  "But it's worth looking into."

Skinner's youngest nephew watched the Animaniacs.  He simply couldn't 
decide who to cast as Dot, watching them.  Sighing, he put his glasses 
back on.

The Snow Queen said they wanted to find out why Mulder hadn't been 
taken, why his sister had.  Why hadn't they done that years ago?  Had 
his father barred the door to them?  Why not at Oxford?  He didn't 
delude himself that these people didn't have multinational resources. 
 Why not years earlier, why hadn't they used Heitz Verber as a tool?  
Or had they tried and failed?

The questions made his head ache.  They could have taken Mulder at any 
point in his career and had no one be the wiser, just taken him, 
drained his brain and dropped him off in his apartment again.  Mulder 
was always getting into trouble, no one would have thought twice.  

Unless there was something else.  

"What did Mulder tell you about his trip to Ellens Air Force base?  
Scully wrote the report, I think she conveniently edited for Blevins' 
consumption.   I was in New York at the time, I hadn't taken this 
slot."

Langley sat up.  "He said he couldn't remember.  He said they wiped 
his memory of whatever the hell it was he saw.  He thinks it might 
have been something made from scavenged ET tech, but he couldn't 
remember.  And the NSA pukes exposed his film before he could get the 
pictures developed."  Langley arched an eyebrow.

Skinner rested a hip on the edge of the desk.    "He got onto the 
base, Scully says.  He must have seen something, or they wouldn't have 
kept him for more than twelve hours.   So, even if they do want to 
drain his brain over his sister's abduction, this could be related to 
something more."  Frustration made his jaw clench.  "But why the fuck 
would they fake suicide?  Unless they had plans to kill him later and 
just wanted to work at their leisure."  He rubbed his chin.   "And how 
the fuck does Goldstein come into it, Daly sounded like he knew who 
Goldstein was, like he knew what Mulder had let Goldstein do to him."

Byers looked baffled.  "Goldstein?"

"The guy who drilled the holes in Mulder's head."  Skinner looked from 
one uncomprehending face to the other.  Sighed and gave them a précis 
of the events as he knew them.  "Scully would probably know more of 
the details," he added reluctantly, "But I want her kept out of it."

Langley looked smug.  "I don't blame you." 

Skinner opened his mouth and closed it.  Everytime he thought about 
Scully, his head ached.  It was impossible to suspect her, she'd lied 
to him on more than one occasion to protect her partner.  But the 
report she'd made sat like a big, indigestible lump in his gut.

"Check Goldstein out."  Skinner leaned forward, elbows on his knees 
and brooded.  "She said that they wanted to find out why he wasn't 
taken.  Evidently, he was supposed to be taken instead of his sister. 
 They want to know what happened that night."

They all stared at him again.  But only Byers spoke.  "His sister's 
abduction?  They want to question him about his sister's abduction?   
That's strange, they're the ones supposedly dealing with the Greys.  
And from what Mulder remembers, it sounds like it was the Greys who 
took his sister."

"The Greys?"  Skinner raised his eyes, arched his eyebrows in 
question.

"You know, the Greys."  Langley gestured impatiently before Byers 
could open his mouth again.  "Little grey men, the ones with the big, 
dark, almond shaped eyes.  Greys."

That air of surreality that had dogged him through the burial 
returned.  "Oh, the Greys."

"There's a wide variety of reported types.  The Greys, the 
shapechangers, the Nordic types, the reptilian types."  Byers sounded 
amused.  "You've never heard of any of this, have you?"

"Thankfully, no."  Skinner hoped his tone was quelling.  He didn't 
really want to hear it now.  "So, why is it so bizarre, and what do 
you mean, they're the ones dealing with the Greys?"

The three exchanged another look.  Langley leaned forward in his 
chair, his face serious.  "Well, this black shop organization, some 
people call it Garnet, they've been involved with the Greys since 
Roswell.  The question is why, and the MJ tape might have told us some 
of that.  They killed the Thinker, who used to work with us, after he 
hacked in and pulled the MJ data down.  The story is that Truman made 
a deal with the Greys."  Langley shrugged.  "I'm not sure Truman would 
have, but he might....more than likely, it was the military industrial 
bloc that dealt."

More paranoia.  "If they're dealing with the Greys, and the Greys took 
Mulder's sister," Skinner said aloud, slowly, trying to ignore the 
lunatic sound of the words, "Why would they want to question him about 
it?"

Byers sighed.  "Exactly my question.  Even if there was a change of 
plan, if they decided to take his sister instead of Mulder, Garnet 
should have known about it beforehand."

After a moment, Skinner shook his head.  "Why is really irrelevant, it 
just makes it that much more imperative that we find him.  A source of 
mine thinks his injuries actually give us a little more time.  
Evidently, they can't question him effectively when he's injured, if 
we're to believe Dr. Daly."

"If," Langley agreed sardonically.

Skinner leaned back again.  "I've tried contacting an old acquaintance 
of mine, he's allegedly a highly skilled mercenary.  I'll let you know 
what I find out."

Frohicke jotted down a note, nodded.  "You want to use him to get 
Mulder out?"

"If he agrees.  He owes me a favor."  Skinner's mouth curved slightly. 
 "If he remembers.  If he doesn't--well, my source might be interested 
enough in getting Mulder out to foot the bill.  We'll have to see."

"If you can trust your source," Langley told him darkly.

Skinner laughed shortly and rose.  "I've been taken over by Mulder's 
alleged ghost.  I don't trust anyone."  Brief smile.  "Not even you 
guys."

"Oh, that's all right," Langley told him, "We don't really trust you."

He laughed all the way down the stairs and out of the building at 
that.  Little riffs of laughter kept trying to escape as he walked to 
his car, earning him more than one peculiar look from passersby.  

Christ, he really was turning into Mulder.  He had to get him back 
just so he could go back to being Walter Skinner again.

It had to be an X-file.







KIM was working at her desk when Scully paused at the door.  It felt 
strange to be back up here, which was ridiculous, it hadn't been that 
long.

Kim glanced up and her brows rose in surprise.  "Agent Scully--what 
are you doing here?  I thought you were on leave."

To Scully's horror, she actually found herself flushing.  "I, ah, I 
was.  But I'm back.  Is he in?"

Kim's expression shifted to distress.  "No, I'm sorry, he's out this 
morning, he had an appointment.  He'll be back in this afternoon, 
would you like me to make an appointment for you?"

Scully opened her mouth to say yes.  Shook her head instead.  Skinner 
was--Skinner was acting a little strange with her.  That interrogation 
in his office after her testimony to the committee had unnerved her 
badly.  Despite his kindness, she felt awkward with him.

Too, Blevins was technically her section head.  Not that she was over 
fond of him.  "No, thanks, Kim.  I'll try and catch him later.  Maybe 
tomorrow.  Thanks."

Kim nodded, a faint line between her brows.  "Agent Scully, are you 
all right?"

Scully manufactured a bright smile.  "I'm fine, Kim.  Thanks.  
I'll--I'll call tomorrow, try and schedule some time.  Thanks."

Kim nodded, leaving her free to go.  She walked slowly down the hall, 
then picked up her pace, straightening her shoulders.  

What the hell was she skulking around here for, she ought to be 
dancing with joy.  

But coming in the lobby had been hard, she had seen people look at her 
and glance away.  Losing a partner was bad luck.  Losing one to 
suicide--she wasn't sure how that was viewed.  And when she'd passed 
by the VCS bullpen, she'd seen several of them glance at her, then 
away.

Maybe they saw her as Jonah.  Maybe it would be hard to settle in with 
a new partner.

Tears blinded her for a moment and she swallowed hard, swung left to 
enter the restroom.  Stood in front of the mirror staring at herself 
until she had the waterworks under control again, then went back out, 
head high, shoulders back.  
Whatever happened, she was alive.  And that was a damned sight more 
important than what anyone else thought.


 




THE bar was an ordinary working man's bar.  Skinner was glad he'd 
hadn't worn his suit to come here, he'd have stuck out like a sore 
thumb.  Leather jacket, cap on his head, he wasn't attracting any 
notice, other than the waitress, leaning against the counter with an 
interested look on her face.

He let his eyes travel across the room, saw a dark, sardonic face in 
the back at a booth.  Two fingers raised in recognition.

Nodding at the waitress, he moved back, slid into the booth across 
from a man he hadn't seen in more than eighteen years.

"You haven't changed much, Lazarus," Greywolf told him, leaning back 
in the booth to stretch his legs out across the seat. "Still as white 
bread as ever."
Dark skin, bronzed more deeply by the sun.  Black hair tied into a 
queue.  
Aquiline nose--neither had Greywolf changed much.  Longer hair, face 
broadened from years of maturing.  Body still as hard as a rock.  
Skinner sighed.  "If we're going to exchange insults, I love the 
earring."

A big hand came up to touch it, a death's head hanging from a small 
silver hoop inlaid with tiny pieces of turquoise.  "My sister made it 
for me."  Greywolf's teeth showed briefly in a smile.  "It's very 
nontraditional."

"I would imagine."   The waitress sauntered over and Skinner ordered a 
beer.  It wasn't going to work to play FBI with Greywolf, he'd have to 
work himself back into a mindset he'd rejected more than twenty years 
ago.

"So you became a cop."  Greywolf took a drink from his own bottle.  
"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

Skinner shrugged.  "I saw enough killing in country.  I thought I'd 
try and stop some of what goes on here."

"And have you?"  Greywolf arched an eyebrow. 

"Some of it."  Skinner accepted the beer, handed over the money and 
told the waitress to keep the change.  "Not as much as I'd like.  
There's one killing in particular I need to stop.  And I need your 
help."

"That's why you called your chip in."  Greywolf's mouth curved 
sardonically.  

"Not something you would have ever done otherwise, I imagine."

Skinner smiled in return, just as sardonically.  "Probably not 
something I'd have ever needed if I'd just stayed a cop.  Instead of 
joining the Bureau."

Greywolf nodded and swung his legs down, slid out of the booth and 
rose.  "Grab your beer, this isn't a good place for talking."

Skinner followed him, back behind the bar, through a warped and 
weathered door and down a hallway that smelt of stale beer and old 
whiskey spills.

Pulling a keyring out of his pocket, Greywolf unlocked a metal door.  
Opened it and gestured.  "Welcome to my office, Lazarus."

Skinner eyed him and went in.  Very modern office, he noted the 
computers and the various bits of equipment on the shelves that lined 
the walls.  "Very high tech," he commented and sat down in an office 
chair.

Soft chuckle.  "What were you expecting?  Something like camp?"

"Not in this part of the country."  Skinner looked around, felt his 
mouth quirk again.  "The hallway wasn't promising, though."

Greywolf sat down behind the desk and grinned at him.  "No, I keep it 
that way on purpose."

Skinner nodded, wanted to ask if he owned the place, closed his mouth 
on questions.  Waited.

Greywolf took another sip of beer.  "You know what I always liked 
about you," he finally said, "Unlike most white-eyes, you know when to 
keep silent.  All right, tell me."

"It's a long story."  Skinner sighed again.  "One of my agents 
allegedly committed suicide.  His body was identified and buried.  But 
he's alive.  He was abducted by--"  He stopped, choosing his words 
carefully.  "The least melodramatic way to describe them is government 
affiliated."

Greywolf's eyes narrowed.  "Government affiliated?"  Another sardonic 
smile.  
"You mean the guys who run in the shadows.

Skinner's eyes narrowed.  If Greywolf had been successful this long at 
what he was doing, it was odds on he knew precisely what he was 
talking about.  "I've been told that they're called Garnet."

"Yeah, I've heard of them."  Greywolf took another drink from the 
bottle.  "Hard cases.  But they hire other people to do their dirty 
work.  Like to keep their hands clean.  Never worked for Garnet, 
though I've worked with a few of their--"  A thin smile.  "Sister 
shops."  Abruptly, Greywolf leaned forward.  "Let me make sure I'm 
understanding what you just said, Lazarus.  One of your guys 
supposedly offed himself--the guy on the news a couple of weeks ago?" 
 Skinner nodded again.  "And he's not really dead?"

"Right."  Skinner's mouth twitched.  "He's being held by these people, 
they want to retrieve some memories he has."  It sounded just as 
insane as he thought it did.  

There was a long silence.  "To debrief him."  Greywolf's voice was 
lazy.  "And then, I expect, they'll either wipe him or terminate him." 
 He leaned back again, swung his feet up on the desk.  "You know how 
they do that?  Wipe someone?  I'd be kind of interested in finding 
that out."

Skinner shook his head.  "Supposedly they did it to him earlier."  He 
took a drink of his own beer.  Swallowed, considering how much to give 
Greywolf.  "He saw something he shouldn't have seen, is the theory.  
And they wiped his memory of it.  My gut feeling is that his partner 
interrupted them, but I don't know.  She wrote her report very 
carefully."  He held Greywolf's gaze.  "He's one of my people, I want 
him back.  Alive."

"And you want my help getting him back."  Greywolf sounded almost 
amused.  "Why can't you guys get him back, aren't you federal?"  Faint 
tone of irony under the amusement.

Skinner eyed him.  He was glad someone could find amusement in the 
situation.  He was betraying the oath he'd taken when he'd joined the 
Bureau, to uphold the law.   "The Bureau is badly compromised, I don't 
know who's trustworthy."

More silence.  "Compromised," Greywolf muttered.  "Lazarus, I gotta 
admit, you've surprised me.  It takes a lot to surprise me these 
days."  He held the bottle up to the light, examined it and sighed.  
"So, give me a rundown on what you want."

Skinner's smile was humorless.  "I want him retrieved.  I need people 
to help me with it.  I don't think I can just walk in there with my 
service revolver and get him.  Not if I want either of us to survive 
the experience.  I want you and some of your handpicked people to go 
in with me."

"I don't think they're just going to open the door and welcome you 
in," Greywolf agreed, and his eyes narrowed.  "How far are you willing 
to go, my friend?"

For a moment, Skinner sat very still.  "As far as it takes," he 
finally said roughly and rolled the bottle between his hands.  "As far 
as we need to go.  If lethal force is required, that's what we do.  
But it's not my first choice.  I'd rather disable them.  Once we get 
him out, I need a safe place to keep him until I collect enough 
bargaining chips to make sure he can come back and stay alive." 

Greywolf drained the bottle.  "Lazarus, if I'm going to take Garnet 
on, I'm going to do more than disable them."

Skinner shook his head.  "It's medical staff, Wolf.  A doctor and two 
nurses.  And whoever else they have on guard.  They don't need much.  
Mulder's pretty well immobilized.  They hit him with a fucking van, 
he's in bad shape."

"Great."  Greywolf's mouth quirked.  "You don't ask for much, do you?"

Skinner shrugged.  "It's up to you."  He'd saved Richard Greywolf's 
life a thousand years ago.  In the jungle on patrol.  In a dirty war 
that had stripped him of faith and honor both.   He'd worked hard for 
nearly twenty-two years to ensure he was never there again. 

Laughing softly, Greywolf swung his legs down, wheeled the chair to a 
file cabinet.  "We've got some photos of some of the black hats, 
Lazarus.  I want you to look at them, tell me if you can identify 
them."

Skinner shrugged, grimacing.  "I only know one, Wolf.  He's affiliated 
with the Bureau."

Greywolf looked over his shoulder.  "Late fifties?  Smokes like a 
chimney?  Yeah, he was involved in a bloodbath about twelve years ago, 
alleged terrorists.  Only they weren't."  Reaching into the drawer, he 
pulled out a folder.  "We can't seem to find out much about him, 
despite the fact that he's supposedly connected with the Bureau.  And 
the NSA.  And the CIA.  Just a jack of all trades."

Wheeling back toward the desk, he reached into the folder and slapped 
down a handful of photographs.  Leaning forward, Skinner smiled 
grimly.  "It's him all right.  Younger, there."

"He's developed an allergy to cameras," Greywolf told him drily.  
"Some of the people he had eliminated were mine.  Any chance he's 
dirtied his hands on site?"

"Doubtful."  Skinner raised his gaze.  "He's very careful.  And very 
smooth."

"Too bad."  Greywolf's mouth curved again.  "So, how do you know him, 
Lazarus?  
I thought you were always one of the White Knights."

"Grey at best," Skinner told him, smiling humorlessly, thinking of 
just how dirty his own hands were these days.  

Bad enough, he'd had to walk the fine line in the early days, before 
he was sure just what Spooky Mulder was.  Bad enough he'd unwittingly 
set things up so that Alex Krycek had been able to maneuver Dana 
Scully's abduction.   But lately, it was hard for him to look at 
himself in the mirror.  Too hard.  "Some of the things I've had to 
do--not a White Knight, Wolf.  Not even fucking close."

Greywolf eyed him.  "You workin' with Garnet?"

"No."  Skinner's jaw clenched.  "Not deliberately.  But I made a 
bargain for another one of my people, I'm in things up to my neck.  
They went back on that deal, anyway, as far as I can tell.  She's 
dying of cancer, induced by whatever they did to her two years ago."  
 Greywolf's eyebrows rose, inviting further details.  Skinner shook 
his head.  "It's not important.  It's not related to this.  But I 
can't let them win this one.   If you won't help me, I'll find another 
way."

After a long moment of silence, Greywolf sighed.  "Where is he?"

Relief made him take another swallow of beer.  "We're still trying to 
get that information.  But I need to be ready to move fast."

Greywolf's expression didn't change, dark eyes assessing him.  "I want 
all the information you can get me on how well they're defended, on 
what kind of arms they have, you know the drill.  I need recon."

"I'll have it for you."  Christ, it really was going to work.  Skinner 
nodded gravely.  "Everything I can come up with."

"You'd better, or there's no go.  Your guy's going to need a medic.  
I'll see what I can do if you can't come up with anyone."

Skinner shook his head.  "I only have one medical contact and she's 
out of it." Pulled a copy of the video from his pocket, passed it 
across the desk.  "You can have this if it will help.  You'll see why 
he needs a medic."

Greywolf picked up the tape, swung his legs up to the desk, shaking 
his head.  

"So, we'll need a medic.  Okay.  I can get someone."

"More than that, Wolf.  I also need a safe house.  He's badly injured 
and he needs care, but I can't bring him public."  He was repeating 
himself, he knew Greywolf enough to know that the man had taken in 
that detail from their conversation.  But he didn't want any 
misunderstanding.

Greywolf nodded.  "All right, that can be done, too.  But I'm not 
giving you a yes until I get more information, Lazarus.  Don't jump to 
conclusions."

Skinner found himself believing that he might have the chance to pull 
this off.  To get Mulder back in something close to one piece and 
alive.  "I understand.  How do I get in touch with you?"

Greywolf considered.  Finally fumbled a card out of the desk drawer 
and wrote on the back of it.  "Call my sister.  She can reach me 
anywhere, anytime."

The area code was the same as Greywolf's mother's.   Sighing inwardly, 
Skinner nodded and rose.  "So, do I go back out the front?"

Greywolf set the beer aside and rose with him, walked him out to the 
hallway.  And out the back door.  "You realize that Garnet isn't going 
to let those people live, don't you?"

Skinner eyed him.  "That's their business, not mine, Wolf.  I have to 
live with myself."

Greywolf's grin was feral.   "And you used to be so by the book, 
Lazarus.  Such a good little Marine."  Gibing at him.

"Fuck you, Wolf."  Skinner kept his voice even.  They hadn't gotten 
along that well in country, but combat forged unbreakable bonds.

"Not in this lifetime."  Greywolf grinned and closed the door in his 
face.

There was a trash barrel standing there.  Tossing the beer in it, 
Skinner started back for his car.









IT felt odd to be back here, sitting where it all began.  The chair 
even felt the same, perhaps was the same chair she'd sat in four years 
before.  It had the same rounded arms, the slippery leather seat.  
Even the pile of folders under Blevins' arm looked the same.  All that 
was missing was the audience, the men in the shadows.  She felt a sigh 
of relief escape at their absence.  

"You look well Agent Scully, but I must admit I'm surprised you want 
to start back to work so soon."  The glasses magnified his dark eyes, 
the concern and compassion she saw reflected in their depths.  Four 
years ago she would have taken that at face value, believed that was 
all that was there.  

Four years ago she'd been an innocent.  

Her gaze wandered to the nearby file cabinet, wondered if the watcher 
was still lurking somewhere out of sight.  Blevins was sorting through 
her forms when she turned back.  "However, it's your decision to make 
and your paperwork is all in order. Have you given any thought to what 
you would like to do?" 

She flinched slightly, looked to him for clarification.  The answer 
seemed obvious.  "I thought I'd be busy wrapping up the remaining 
X-Files cases, sir.  Beyond that, I confess I haven't really 
considered it.  I'm not sure how I feel about staying with the X-Files 
now that Agent Mulder is no longer here."   She was sure, knew it was 
a lie as she said it.  The X-Files were her past now, someone else 
would have to take over there, carry on Mulder's quest.  She fought 
the sting of tears, kept them from welling.  This was harder than 
she'd expected.

Blevins' chair creaked as the man shifted his weight further forward, 
folded both hands on top of the paperwork.  "The X-Files will be 
closed, Agent Scully, are closed for all intents and purposes.  As you 
yourself pointed out, it was a waste of the Bureau's resources from 
the start."

Had she ever said that?  She tried to remember, felt her eyes sting 
again at the memory.  "I don't think I ever said that, sir."  She 
heard the tentativeness, fought to bring her voice under control.  "My 
testimony was on the validity of Agent Mulder's pursuits, not the 
whole issue of funding.  Even if we accept Mr. Kritschgau's testimony 
as fact, there still remains the issue of the forces who manipulated 
Agent Mulder.  Those men should be brought to justice, made to pay for 
what they did."  She felt her own doubt of the man in front of her, 
wondered what part he'd played in the destruction of her former 
partner.  

Peculiar that even now, his was the only name she knew from that long 
ago meeting.  

Blevins leaned back in the chair, waved his hands in a dismissive 
gesture. "Be assured, Agent Scully, we will be looking into that.  We 
all feel badly about what happened with Agent Mulder.  Despite his 
unorthodox pursuits in recent years, he was one of our own.  We aren't 
going to ignore what happened to him.  Trust me.  We will see that the 
guilty are punished."  

The tone was right, righteous indignation barely restrained.  Why then 
did she still not trust him?  Too many years with Mulder probably.  
She wished Skinner had been in his office, regretted the impulsiveness 
that had driven her to seek out Blevins in his absence.  This would 
have been easier with Skinner.  

Despite his odd behavior recently, she knew he cared for Mulder, 
respected the man if not his work, that had been clear in his eulogy. 
 She had no real way of knowing what Blevins' thoughts were beyond the 
obvious.

If the older man sensed her doubts, he seemed unconcerned, was hunting 
through the stack of folders on his desk for something.  Relaxed back 
in the chair as he found the one he wanted, opened it and studied the 
contents for several moments before speaking.  "There is a 
possibility, a position ideally suited to your unique combination of 
skills and experience.  Are you familiar with Agent Spillar?"

The room wavered as she heard the question in stereo, one version 
asking about Agent Spillar, while another voice whispered, "Are you 
familiar with an agent named Fox Mulder?"  She did have to blink this 
time, barely kept the tears from spilling, had to look away before 
answering, "Nancy Spillar?  At the Academy?"  Her voice sounded 
strained, unnatural to her ears.   She looked back to find Blevins 
watching her, brows drawn together in puzzlement.  

She met his gaze, emotions now firmly under control.  "I had her as an 
instructor."  Shut down the image of laughing with Jerry Lamana and 
Mulder about the Iron Maiden.  She didn't need Jerry's ghost, she was 
having enough trouble dealing with Mulder's.

Two agents were chatting in the hall, visible through the open blinds 
behind Blevins' desk.  She saw them glance in the window and fought 
the sudden paranoia that made her think they were talking about her, 
watched them hurry off down the hall as Blevins calmly stated,  "She's 
retiring."  

It took her a moment to process the statement, realize what Blevins 
was implying.  "Are you suggesting I take her place?"  She'd 
considered going back to forensics, possibly teaching at the Academy, 
had never envisioned something of this magnitude.  "Surely you have 
more qualified applicants for her job."  Searching, she tried to 
remember names, faces, latched on to one.  "What about Agent 
Tomlinson?  He's got years more experience than I do."

"True," Blevins conceded.  "Agent Tomlinson has years of teaching 
experience.  However, he lacks your field experience and Agent 
Spillar's position requires both.  She had actually recommended you 
for the job initially, was most distressed to learn of your illness.  
We had been considering several other applicants but I'm sure you'd 
still be Agent Spillar's first choice for the job.  Of course, I 
haven't had a chance to let her know of your recovery.  I'm sure 
she'll be eager to meet with you."

He was already reaching for the phone.  

Scully reached out a hand, stopped him before he could pick it up.  
"Just a moment, sir.  This is all moving a bit fast for me."  She 
tried to marshall her arguments, wondered why she was questioning her 
own qualifications.  It was a primo job, one most agents would envy.  
She braced herself before continuing,  "I hope my testimony regarding 
Agent Mulder's work doesn't have anything to do with this offer."   

Questioning a superior's motives was definitely frowned on in the 
Bureau, as evidenced by Blevins' facial expression.   She resigned 
herself to kissing the job offer good bye, hurried on before she lost 
her courage.  "That testimony reflected my own analysis and was not 
made in any attempt to curry favor."

The earlier compassion was gone, no trace of it in the angry face.  
"Agent Scully, in light of your recent illness and the stress of Agent 
Mulder's death, I'm going to overlook the implied insult behind what 
you just said. I'm sure, once you have a chance to reflect on this 
conversation, you'll regret your choice of phrasing."

"I'm sorry, sir.  I didn't mean to offend."  

"Regardless, you did."  The section chief sighed, seemed to let go of 
the anger, looked back at her with a shadow of his former concern.    
"When I spoke earlier about the X-Files being a waste of the Bureau's 
resources, Agent Scully, I was not referring to money, although that 
obviously is part of the equation.  But our most valuable resource is 
our agents, and your talents, as well as your partner's, were sadly 
wasted on the X-Files.  There is no need to look for hidden motivation 
in this offer."  His voice lost some of its stridency, as he leaned 
closer, trapped her in his intense gaze.  "Agent Spillar's position 
requires an unusual blend of forensic experience, familiarity with 
field work and investigative technique, as well as an ability to lead. 
 I believe you have those qualities.  Agent Spillar obviously believes 
you have those qualities.  You seem to be the only person who doubts 
your ability to do the job."    He sighed, closed the folder, and 
leaned back in the chair.  "Perhaps we were mistaken.  If you don't 
want the opportunity, say so, and we'll look for something else for 
you."

"That won't be necessary, sir."  His angry response had done much more 
to allay her doubts than all the compassion.  She found herself 
suddenly believing him, believing in herself, her own abilities.  No 
more Mrs. Spooky. "I'm very interested in the job.  When would it 
start?" 

Blevins' stiff face relaxed into a smile.  "Almost immediately.  Agent 
Spillar has given notice for the end of the month, although she might 
be persuaded to stay on a little bit later if you feel you need her 
guidance."

Gone was the earlier ambivalence.  "I'm sure that won't be necessary, 
sir. As you say, I do have the experience."  She found herself 
smiling, relishing the opportunity to prove herself in a fresh 
setting.  

"Excellent."  Blevins was beaming, reaching again for the phone.  
"I'll give her a call now, see if she's free for lunch."  He glanced 
at this watch.  "Do you have any other engagements?"

"No, sir," she answered, already looking forward to the lunch and the 
new job.  Vacations could wait.  For right now, it felt good to be 
back at work. 








THE smoker leaned against the washroom door, waited until the other 
man had his hands full at the urinal before speaking.  "You did well, 
Mr. Blevins."  

Blevins started, turned in surprise, cursed as his aim went astray and 
a stream of urine sprayed wide, droplets dousing his grey suit.  
"Dammit."

The smoker kept the smile inside, enjoyed watching the other man 
flounder, grapple with the awkwardness of his position.  Extracting a 
cigarette, he calmly lit it, waited for Blevins to finish his 
business, tuck everything back into place.  The man was unbelievably 
modest, careful to keep his back turned until he was zipped.  

That was fine with him, he had no designs on Blevins, certainly none 
of that sort.

The other man had moved to the sink, was busy scouring his hands, all 
the while scanning the room, bending to check for legs under the 
stalls.  

"Don't bother," he assured, irritation building.  "There's no one 
here.  I made sure of that before you came in."  He inhaled, let the 
smoke burn his lungs before releasing it.  "I just wanted to 
congratulate you on a job well done."

Blevins looked up from dabbing at his pants, the wet paper towel still
clutched in one tight fist.  "Thank you.  I think it went rather well 
myself." He made one more pass at the damage before sighing and 
tossing the towel into the overflowing trash bin.  "Did you hear 
everything?"

"Oh yes," he answered, smiled inwardly at the fool's ignorance of the 
video feed.  He'd balked enough at the audio hookup.  Besides, this 
was better. Give the man a camera to play to and he'd be looking at it 
all the time, giving the game away.  It might be smart to leave the 
camera there for awhile.  

He'd have to consider that possibility.  "It was good that we 
anticipated her reaction, planned for that eventuality.  You were most 
convincing in your response."

The other man smiled, acknowledged the praise, before asking, "You 
don't think we're making a mistake do you?  Perhaps it would have been 
better to kill her."

The smoker dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushed it underfoot, 
smiled grimly at the smear the black ash made on white tile, before he 
bent to pick up the stub, tossed it in the trash.  "We may have future 
uses for Agent Scully, Mr. Blevins.  Far better to leave her alive.  
She'll be suitably distracted with her new job at Quantico.  I don't 
think we'll have to worry about her interference."  He joined the 
other man at the bank of sinks, studied his own reflection in the 
mirror, adjusted the knot of his tie.  "No, she's ready to move on and 
despite her passionate protest to the contrary, she did earn the 
promotion." 

Blevins' reflection scowled in confusion.  "You mean she was part of 
it?  I thought she was a pawn."

He was already headed to the door, turned back to explain, "That was 
her part, Mr. Blevins."   The idiot was still confused.  He kept the 
irritation from his voice as he clarified.  "Don't you know?  The best 
pawns never even realize that they're being used."  He left Blevins to 
contemplate that as he hurried out the door.  



 




REAL silverware, linen tablecloths, glasses without straws, and a 
dessert to die for.  Dana smiled, took another bite of the hazelnut 
flan, savored the velvety texture.

"What are you smiling about?"  Short reddish-brown hair, streaked with 
grey, inquisitive brown eyes with just a touch of gold in them.

She'd never dreamed the other woman could look so warm, so interested 
in what she might have to say, had certainly never seen this side of 
her at the Academy.  
"The surroundings believe it or not."  Still smiling, Dana swept a 
hand around the room, marveling afresh at the packed restaurant, 
familiar faces mixed in with strangers, all of them finding time in 
busy schedules to eat a civilized lunch.  "I'd almost forgotten what 
it was like to have a business lunch that didn't come in a paper bag."

The older woman's face relaxed into a smile.  "Spoken like a field 
agent, Doctor Scully." Dropping her voice she whispered 
conspiratorially, "Don't get too used to it.  It's all a plot really, 
to suck you into the job.  Normally I eat at my desk, a slave to my 
work."

"I bet."  She had no doubt of it.  From what Nancy had told her so far 
the job sounded incredibly demanding.  "However, I'll just pretend for 
now that this is one of the standard perks.  Don't spoil my fantasy." 
 

The dark haired waiter interrupted their laughter.  "Would you ladies 
care for 
some more dessert?  Coffee?" 

Nancy shook her head no, looked to Dana.  "No, it was delicious, but 
no."  Only traces of caramel sauce remained on the flan plates.  Her 
taste buds still craved more of the exquisite dessert but her stomach 
felt stuffed.  "I don't think I'll eat for a week.  I normally don't 
eat dessert."

"Don't worry about it," the waiter replied, scooping up the two empty 
plates in one smooth motion.  "It's a secret recipe.  The chef takes 
all the calories out before we serve it."  White teeth gleamed in the 
tan face as he smiled.  "I'll bring you the check in just a minute."  

Dana's eyes lingered on the muscular form as the man wove his way back 
towards the kitchen, maneuvering around diners and tables like a 
dancer.  It was nice to notice things like that again.

"So, what do you think, Dana?"  Nancy was watching her when she looked 
back, amusement in the amber eyes.  "Or is our charming waiter so 
distracting that you can't think about the job offer now?"

It felt odd to be smiling so much.  She'd thought she'd forgotten how. 
 "He is charming," she admitted, not bothering to try to hide that 
she'd been enjoying the view.  "But I'm actually much more interested 
in the job.  Would it be possible for me to go back with you this 
afternoon?  It sounds perfect but I'd like to have a chance to meet 
some of the other people with whom I'd be working."

"Great minds think alike I see."  Nancy had her wallet out, was 
removing her credit card.  "Just let me get this bill and you can 
follow me over."  

The enthusiasm was flattering.  She let herself bask in it, tried not 
to think about Mulder, about hazel eyes behind wire rimmed glasses, 
eyes that challenged her to prove herself as he called her a spy.






THE afternoon passed quietly enough for Skinner.  

It was budget time and he found it marvelously ordinary, after what 
he'd been doing the last several days, to be going over figures and 
paring the initial budget estimates down to the bone.

He hated this time of year.  He wasn't a goddamned accountant.

And he had other things on his mind, to boot.  He'd penciled in a 
budget for the X-files division after Mulder's--disappearance.   After 
Rossiter had come in and given him an excuse to do so.  The final 
decision was the Director's, not his.  And he'd submitted a report 
along with Scully's using this excuse.

It wouldn't do to have Mulder come back from the dead and have no 
budget for the crazy cases that came his way. 

"Oh, sir?"  Kim stood at the doorway.  "I nearly forgot to tell you, 
Agent Scully dropped by while you were out.  She didn't leave a 
message, and I think she stopped by Mr. Blevins' office."

Looking up, Skinner frowned.  "She didn't say anything about why?"

"She just asked if you were in, she wanted to talk to you."

Probably about Mulder or the funeral or his status as executor.  "I'll 
give her a call in the morning," he told Kim and sighed.  "I'm going 
to take these home with me, I think."

That got a disapproving look, but that was Kim.  She thought he worked 
too many hours, worked too hard, and didn't have a life.  She was 
right, in essence, but that was the job.  He smiled faintly and waved 
good-bye as she left, looked back at the budget sheets and frowned.  
On the other hand, he'd do well to get a decent night's sleep.

First, though, he needed to stop by at the Lone Gunmen office.

Sighing, he tucked the sheets into his briefcase.  Slipped his jacket 
back on and started for the door.

No one stopped him, no one summoned him for a last minute opinion and 
he was just starting to relax when the elevator doors opened and the 
smoker stepped out.

"Leaving early, Mr. Skinner?"  The reptilian smile made his stomach 
tighten.

Skinner looked ostentatiously at his watch.  "On time, for a change.  
It's after six."  Thin smile in return.  "It's been a trying few 
days."  Small jab, referencing the funeral.

"Ah, yes."  The man's smile faded slightly, then broadened.  
"Hopefully things will be easier now."

Now that Mulder was dead and Scully was out of the way, Skinner 
reckoned and held the thin smile, counting inwardly until he was sure 
he wouldn't lose his temper.  "For some of us, anyway."  

The man's smile didn't fade at all.  "Definitely, Mr. Skinner."

There was a smarmy sort of undertone in his voice that Skinner didn't 
care for.  He held the smoker's gaze for a moment, unsettled by the 
amusement behind the usual flat sheen.  He nodded curtly and stepped 
around, into the open elevator.
His stomach was knotted by the time he got to the ground floor.  
Christ, he hoped they hadn't moved too slowly.  That Mulder was still 
alive.






"WRONG.  Harrison Ford."  

"You're lying, let me see that."  

Bruce pushed the chair back, away from the bed, moved the magazine 
behind his back.  "Not on your life, Mulder.  I got royally reamed for 
letting you have those sports pages."  He still didn't believe that 
the newspaper had triggered the seizure but he had no wish to try the 
Brit's version of remedial training either.

Mulder was scowling, looked ready to challenge him on it for a second, 
finally relaxed back against the pillows with a sigh.  "It's been over 
a day now.  Can't I at least look at the pictures?"

The guy was incorrigible.  "It's US magazine, Mulder.  There aren't 
any pictures worth seeing.  Wait until Daly gives the okay.  I'll 
bring in some of my magazines instead of this crap Deb and Maryann 
read, show you some pictures worth looking at."  The dinner tray was 
almost empty and Mulder had managed most of it on his own once Bruce 
cut up the chicken for him. Only the peas remained stubbornly 
untouched.  "But only if you eat your veggies." 

That got a smile.  "Fraid not, Bruce.  Don't you know?  Real men don't 
eat peas."

"That's not what I heard," he laughed.  "But, hey, far be it from me 
to argue with a guy who confuses Harrison Ford with Meg Ryan."

"Unfair."  Mulder somehow managed to smile and look wounded all at the 
same time.  "I'm injured.  I can't be held responsible for that.  
Besides, she looks like she does her own hair."

Bruce rolled his eyes.  "Which just shows what you know about women, 
Mulder."

Maryann poked her head around the doorway. "Daly wants to see you when 
you have a minute, Bruce.  Are you two almost done in there?"  She 
stepped further in the room, glided over to the bed and frowned down 
at the tray.  "You didn't eat your peas, Mulder."

"Not you too," Mulder groaned, pushing the tray further away with his 
good arm. "God, you'd think you were both working for the Vegetable 
Counsel or something."  He smiled suddenly.  "Hey, Maryann.  Who said, 
'I don't do my own stunts.  I do my own acting and I do my own 
hair.'?"

She picked up the tray, careful to tuck the silverware back on it.  
"Harrison Ford, Mulder.  Everyone knows that."  The grin she gave him 
was wicked.  "I'll be back in a bit to run some checks.  Don't go to 
sleep on me. I'll just have to wake you up."

Bruce looked at Mulder, caught him mid yawn, struggling to hide it, 
open his eyes wider.  "No problem, Maryann.  I'm not sleepy."

Bruce followed her to the door, looked back to find Mulder's eyes 
drifting closed.  "Night, night, Mulder."  Mulder yawned again, waved 
feebly at him as he turned his head further into the pillow faked a 
snore.

Laughing Bruce stepped out into the corridor, nearly collided with 
Maryann.  "Whoa.  Sorry," he apologized, stepping back.

"That's okay.  How is he?"  She was looking past him, towards the open 
door.  Only the foot of the bed was visible from where they stood. "He 
looks a lot better."

"That's the drugs mainly but what the hey.  He's eating better.  I 
think he likes your cooking."  She was holding the tray on one hip, a 
stance which pulled the fabric of her shirt tight across the high, 
firm breasts.  Bruce groaned inwardly, cursed Daly silently for 
stealing the best of the staff.  What a waste of a beautiful woman.  
"What does Daly want anyhow?"  

"Hmm?"  Maryann was still looking at the open doorway, seemingly lost 
in thought.  "Oh, I'm not sure.  I think he just wanted to talk about 
running another set of bloodwork on the patient.  Something about 
wanting to double check the latest results."  Slight dimples appeared 
as her smile widened.  "Don't worry.  He's in a good mood whatever it 
is."

"Thank god for that."  No need to fake the relief in his voice, heart 
still hammering from the mention of the bloodwork.  "Let's hope he 
stays that way."  

"You and me both, honey, you and me both."  Maryann sighed.  "Be 
grateful you're not sleeping with him."

The image of that joining struck him speechless momentarily before he 
burst into laughter.  "No worries on that front, Maryann.  His virtue 
is safe from me."  He was still laughing as he hurried down the 
corridor.






STEPPING into her apartment, Dana Scully allowed herself a moment of 
just pure pleasure.  Her place.  And she was going to be around to 
enjoy it a lot longer than she'd thought.

Leaning back against the door, she smiled senselessly.  A new 
position, one in which she'd earn some respect, one which would get 
her career back on track.

Between one breath and another, her joy fled.  All she'd had to pay 
for this was Mulder's death.   And her mother's conviction that it was 
a miracle.

"Fuck that, Mom," she said aloud, her tone bitter.  "If God requires a 
sacrifice for each miracle, fuck that."

Tears came again, but she was getting used to that.  She didn't even 
have a fucking photograph of him, and asking his mother for one 
somehow seemed predestined to fail.

She couldn't think of anyone else to ask--no, wait, Frohicke might 
have one.  

Wiping her eyes, she settled on the couch, reached for the telephone. 
 Punched in the number, hoping she remembered it right.  

Langley answered.  

"Turn off the tape, Langley."  The words came automatically and made 
her eyes sting again.  "It's Scully."

There was an unexpected silence.  "It's off," Langley told her 
shortly.

"Is Frohicke there?"  Her voice trembled despite her control.

Another brief silence.  "I'll check."  

She heard a muffled voice, presumably Langley had put his palm over 
the receiver.  Frowning, she examined her fingernails, worried at a 
hangnail with her teeth, waiting.  Waiting.

Finally, Langley came back on.  "Sorry, he's not here."  His voice was 
unusually abrupt.

"Can you ask him to call me?"  Langley's tone made her own more 
tentative.  More conciliating.

"Sure."  The phone clicked.

For a moment, she didn't get it, not until she heard the dial tone.

The son of a bitch had hung up on her.  






DEB glanced up from the chart at the first faint sound, peered at the 
monitor to see Mulder turning his head from side to side.  Sighing, 
she levered herself up from the chair.  

Another goddamned nightmare.  It was beginning to look like the 
seizures had passed, thank God, but the nightmares were nearly as bad.

It was sometimes hard to tell the difference.  Especially when Mulder 
was asleep.

Her footsteps were almost silent as she approached the bed.

"Nnnnooo..." Plaintive sound, barely coherent, and Mulder's right hand 
twitched, the fingers curling into a loose fist.

Leaning, she brushed back sweat damp hair.  It needed washing again. 
Between the fever and the nightmares, it was lank, almost greasy with 
sweat.  "It's all right," she soothed, "Just another bad dream, 
Mulder. C'mon, wake up for me a little."

Harsh intake of breath, brief tension in the muscles under her 
forearm. "Whazzat?"

"Just a dream," she repeated softly.  "It's Deb, Mulder.  C'mon, shake 
it, open your eyes for me."

Eyelids fluttered.  The swelling had gone down in the bad eye, he 
could see out of it just fine now.

The tip of his tongue touched dry lips.  She never had found any salve 
for his lips, briefly thought of digging in her own bag for the little 
pot she kept there and dismissed it.  If that didn't give away the 
game, handing out her own personal stuff...."There, that's better."

"Um."  Mulder turned his head slightly, blinked at her groggily.  
"Deb?"

"One and only," she told him, smiling a little.  "Another bad one, 
huh?"

He licked his lips again, grimaced.  Turning, she reached for the 
glass of water, held the cup so he could guide the straw to his mouth. 
 Several gulps of the tepid water and he sank back again, sighed.  
"You a mind reader, Deb?"

She chuckled.  "Just observant.  While you're up, I'm going to go 
ahead and run some checks on you, make sure you're not running low on 
oil."

The faintest grin.  "Is there some secret medical fascination with my 
temperature, Deb?"

She winked at him.  "Just be glad we have the Thermoscan these days, 
Mulder.  When I first went to nursing school, all the thermometers 
were rectal."

A rusty sound that might have been laughter and Mulder's eyes closed 
briefly.  She saw his throat work in a swallow, held the cup again as 
he leaned forward for more water.  "How's your ear when you swallow?"

Mulder grimaced.  "S'okay, Deb, my throat's just dry."

"Well, you won't mind if I have a look at it, will you?"

Settling back again, he blinked.  Sighed.  "Sure, Deb, if that's what 
trips your trigger."  The phantom of a wicked grin ghosted across his 
lips. "Although I gotta say, not many people care about my throat."

"The rest of you is still too bruised to be attractive," she teased 
and was pleased to get that rusty sound again.  "Just keep getting 
better, you'll see how many people come down to give you your sponge 
baths, Mulder. They'll be lining up in the hallway."

It was clear that the exchange had cleared away whatever shadows 
lingered from the nightmare.  Running through the usual checks, Deb 
made her notes on the chart, checked Mulder's throat and sighed 
inwardly.  

Still red and inflamed.  

Daly's antibiotic wasn't cutting it, and the patient was unwilling to 
admit how much discomfort it was causing him.

On the other hand, maybe the pain of broken bones overwhelmed a little 
soreness in his throat and ear.  Smiling at Mulder, she turned the 
light back down.  "All done.  I'll let you get back to sleep."

"No, don't."  He raised the good hand, looking oddly vulnerable in the 
dim light.  "Turn it back up, Deb. I don't want to go back to sleep."

She studied him, a line forming between her brows.  "Mulder, you need 
rest.  We've finally got you to where you can sleep, more or less."

His eyes were haunting.  As sad as the ones she'd seen in the picture. 
 He licked his lips again.  "Deb, I just--I don't want to go back to 
sleep right now.  I don't suppose there's any chance I could get 
something to read, is there?"

"No."  Deb shook her head, sighed again.  "I'll tell you what.  It's 
slow tonight.  And we're pretty well staffed."  Liar, liar, taunted 
her inner voice.  She forced it to silence again.  "Why don't I read 
to you."

He looked away for a moment, blinked hard.  "That would be great."  
Hoarsely.

"I can't promise you great literature," she told him suddenly, 
mischievously.  "The patients get the good stuff, all I've got is a 
Cosmo from '95.  But think of the education you'll get."

Another rusty sound.  "I'll bet."  But his eyes were less haunted, 
showed both gratitude and amusement.  "Bring it on, maybe it'll help 
my batting average once I get out of here."

"Huh.  I'm sure that's never been a problem for you.  Just give them 
that soulful look."  Chuckling again, she went back to the break room, 
retrieved the Cosmo and took it back to the room.

"Okay, Mulder, these are your choices."  Her mouth curved wickedly.  
"29 Ways in Which Men Embarrass Women and How To Deal with Some of 
Them.  When Sex is Out of Sync.  The Great American Breast Implant 
Hoax.  Male Stars Tell How They Feel About Doing Nude Scenes.  And 
last, but not least, Why Women Need Chocolate."

He craned his head.  "Oh, come on, Deb, doesn't this one have one of 
those quizzes?"

She surveyed the list of articles.  "Nope.  Oh, wait, here's one.  
Noses...Shall We Give Credit Where It's Due?"  One eyebrow arched 
wickedly. 

His eyes widened.  "You're kidding."

"Nope.  Here's the description.  Cosmo thinks that this underrated 
facial feature can be, in some ways, as arousing as a penis."

His eyes got wider and that rusty sound turned into a spill of 
laughter. "No way." 

Deb grinned.  "Way."  Flipping through the pages, she had to suppress 
her laughter.  Mulder's nose was definitely not one of the understated 
variety.  Her grin spread as she surveyed the article.  "Okay, brace 
yourself."

Another choked sound and Mulder waved his hand.  "Do your worst, Deb."

"'Looking for a new area of him upon which to focus attention," she 
began, trying to keep her voice steady, "Consider the marvelously 
sensuous(truly it is) male nose.'" 

Laughter, however rusty, was far more welcome than groans of pain.  
And hadn't the research shown that laughter produced endorphins?  

She grinned at him briefly before looking back at the page.  Just as 
long as he didn't hurt himself with it, it had to be better than 
morphine and nightmares.








SKINNER had arrived well before Kim, at 6:30, in fact, and had worked 
his way through the contents of his In basket by the time she arrived.

God, he was coming to loathe paperwork and to really appreciate 
Mulder's take on it.  Maybe he really was possessed by Mulder's--not 
ghost, but doppelganger.  
What a revolting thought.  

He'd always loathed budgeting, but not until recently had he really 
developed a distaste for all the other managerial details required of 
him in his present position.  

Budgeting, on the other hand, was a given.  Proposed budgets from 
several sections, all off them showing serious signs of puffery as a 
result of the rumors about the closing of the X files.  It had given 
him a great deal of almost vindictive pleasure to use his red pen to 
trim that puffery down to lean and mean.  Slicing away expenditures 
that existed only in section heads' imaginations.  They seemed to 
think that the X-files closing meant a bonanza for them, the idiots. 

Kim greeted him and went about her morning business.

Tagging the completed budget sheets, he put them in his Out basket for 
her to distribute.  She always enjoyed seeing their faces when they 
got them back. 
Scully.  Jesus, he hadn't called her last night.  And it was still a 
bit early, it would be unkind to wake her.  

So, instead of picking up the phone, he turned back to the stack 
beside his In basket.  The last few reports he had to sign.  Christ, 
white collar crime was tedious.  Insurance fraud, Medicare scams--the 
kiddie porn bust, though, had been well done, despite his lunatic 
disenchantment with agents who worked by the book.  The agents on the 
case deserved a few well-noted accolades above his signature.

The satisfaction engendered by that gesture of good will took him 
through the rest with a minimum of pain.  He was on his fourth cup of 
coffee when he remembered Scully again and reached for the phone.

No answer and his stomach knotted, despite any number of reasons why 
she wouldn't be home.  She might be at her mother's.  She'd been upset 
enough after the burial that she might have gone there to stay.  But 
the other, less pleasant possibilities crowded the back of his mind.

He hung up the phone before the machine picked up.  

"Here you are, sir."  Kim came in with his interoffice mail and 
deposited it in his In basket, picking up the report files and the 
budget sheets with a small smile.  "You came in early today, I see."

"I needed to catch up," he agreed and leaned back.  "How did Agent 
Scully seem when she came in yesterday, Kim?  Did she seem to be 
feeling all right?"

Kim was one of the few people privy to the truth about Scully's leave. 
 She was his assistant, she handled the forms, she had to be.  She 
looked at him then, thinking about it.  "Actually, sir, I don't think 
I've seen her looking quite that well in a long time.  Her color was 
good, but she was a little subdued.  Not that I've ever seen Agent 
Scully behave anything but professionally."

He nodded.  Reached for the first item in the stack.  Interoffice 
envelope from that prick Blevins.  "I'll try her again later."

She nodded and went out, leaving him to open the envelope.  Christ, 
Blevins was anal retentive, he had to unwrap the thread that closed 
the envelope four times before it came loose.  He wondered how much 
you could tell about a man's character by studying the way he handled 
interoffice mail.

He recognized the form at once, a transfer request.  The name of the 
requesting agent froze him in place.  

Dana K. Scully.

Attached to the form were the forms ending medical leave and the 
letter from the doctor releasing her to full duty.

His head throbbed painfully.  This one had hit like a thunderclap.  
Right out of the blue.

He ought to be jubilant to see these forms.

Reading the doctor's release didn't make him jubilant.  Reading the 
medical leave forms didn't make him jubilant.

Something stank to high heaven.  What was it that Hamlet had said?  
Something rotten in the state of Denmark?  How about something rotten 
in the state of Dana Scully?

She hadn't had any treatment.  She'd told him about the two MRIs.  

A miracle cure.  And transfer to a plum job at Quantico.  Debunking 
the X-files.  Mulder's alleged suicide.

He hadn't wanted to doubt her.  "That bitch," he whispered, more 
appalled than he'd been since--since her diagnosis.  

Since she was returned to Georgetown Medical Center in a coma.  Since 
she'd been abducted.

Reality wavered.  What the hell was he supposed to think now?  
Blevins, that smarmy son of a bitch, had passed it to him without any 
notation.  

Without comment.

Telling him that he'd sold his career and his soul for someone who was 
a player.  That she'd screwed him and Mulder both.  

Almost blindly, he reached for the phone again.  Punched in a number, 
his eyes still on the doctor's letter.  Markham.  He didn't have 
Mulder's eidetic memory, but he remembered the name from Scully's 
original tests.  Had called Markham once to determine if he felt 
Scully was still fit for duty.  But the letter was signed by his 
partner, Selby.

He disconnected abruptly, punched in the number on the letterhead.   
Asked for Markham and had to wait on hold, listening to elevator mood 
music until a masculine voice came on, sounding harried.

"This is Dr. Selby."

Interesting.  "Dr. Selby, this is FBI Assistant Director Skinner.  I'm 
calling Dr. Markham about one of my agents, who is a patient of his."

There was a silence.  "I'm afraid Dr. Markham is no longer with us," 
Selby finally said, his voice hushed.  "He's, ah, passed on."

Skinner closed his eyes.  He could hear his pulse in his ears.  "He's 
dead?  How?"

Another brief silence.  "Yes, he's dead.  The funeral was last week.  
As to how, I'm afraid you'll have to contact the family, I'm not at 
liberty to discuss that."

Oh, Christ.  Skinner rubbed his forehead.  "Well, then, I guess I'll 
speak to you.  I have a release here from you for Dana Scully, 
attesting to her fitness for duty.  Yet a week ago, she indicated to 
me that her tumor had metastasized.  Can you give me a bit more 
information?  I understand about patient 
confidentiality, but the forms are all here and they haven't been 
completed appropriately." A slight exaggeration but dealing with the 
federal government had taught him that there was always room for 
interpretation in exactly how a form should be completed.

There was another brief silence.  "Mr. Skinner, Agent Scully is 
perfectly healthy.  I believe that's what I said in my letter, and 
that's what I meant.  She's perfectly fit to return to a normal, 
active lifestyle, and that includes her work.  I'm afraid I cannot 
tell you any more than that."

He could hear his own pulse thudding hollowly in his ear.  "Perfectly 
healthy.  I see.  Thank you, Dr. Selby."

The phone slid back into the cradle.  He stared at the letter.  Sick 
at heart and sick to his stomach.  

They'd all been gulled.  Himself, Mulder, God only knew who else.  No, 
he couldn't be sure, it wasn't fair not to be sure.

But he sure as hell wasn't going to call from his office to reach the 
people who could find out for sure.







THE scalpel sliced through the brown tape like butter, straight as an 
arrow from one end of the box to the other.  "I should have been a 
surgeon."  Her voice sounded odd in her ears, flat in the cavernous 
room, sort of like listening to it on a machine.  Thrusting four 
fingers into the slit she'd created, Maryann tugged lightly, felt the 
tape at the edges give way.  

Styrofoam beads gushed out, spilled onto the floor like mutant 
popcorn.  

Sighing she pushed the pellets aside, already sure she wasn't going to 
find what she needed.  Even the idiots at supply wouldn't pack 
dressings in styrofoam.  She pulled a box free from the white beads, 
stared at it in disgust, barely resisted the temptation to hurl it 
across the room.  Petri dishes.  

Unfuckingbelieveable.  Great, they could start their own lab now. Just 
what they didn't need.

The floor was littered with packing material, upended boxes.  Her 
right knee protested as she brought her heels to the floor, calves and 
thighs protesting as she straightened from her prolonged crouch.   

Great.  Barely thirty and her joints were already giving her grief.  

She dropped the scalpel on top of the box, rubbed arms chilled from 
too much time in the cold room, scanned the floor in search of an any 
unopened boxes.  
Metal on metal and she heard a door open, a voice drifting her way.  

"Come on in for a minute, there's something we need to discuss in 
private." 

Frowning, she looked to the closed door, cocked her head to one side. 
Daly's voice but where was he? 

"Make it quick, Doctor.  I'm already running late."  Her rubber soled 
shoes were quiet on the cement floor as she crossed the room, stared 
up at the grate in the ceiling.  She could hear the door shut, 
realized the vent must lead right to Daly's office.  


Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered Bruce's smile yesterday, the 
wink he'd given her when she'd come on duty.  Fuck, he'd been doing 
inventory on Tuesday when she and Daly had been. . .  

Fuck was right she thought, stifling a sudden giggle.  Felt a tingle 
pulse through her crotch at the thought of what he'd probably been 
doing instead.  
Inventory indeed.

". . .Maryann?"  The mention of her name stilled her laughter, pulled 
her attention back to the grate.

"Not Maryann.  Deb."  Daly's voice, low and angry.  "She's a danger, 
clear and simple.  Too emotional.  I think it's time we consider 
replacing her."

Her pulse was pounding suddenly, every shift of her body causing 
slight noises that sounded deafeningly loud in the sudden silence.  

"Just what are you suggesting, Doctor?  I understood she came highly 
recommended, had done good work for us in the past."  Maryann tried 
not to move, 
hardly daring to breathe as the Brit continued, "And she did tell us 
about the Matheson request."

Familiar squeal as one of them leaned back in the desk chair, no way 
to tell which one.  "Reluctantly and it was clear she didn't like it. 
 I think she should be transferred to another project."  Daly's voice.

"Transferred."  The Brit's voice was amused, slowed, considering.  
"But she's established a rapport with the patient that has been most 
helpful.  I really hate to waste that."  A long sigh whistled through 
the grate, set the short hairs on her neck on edge.  "Very well.  I 
trust your judgement on this, Doctor. But I can't get a replacement in 
here until Monday at the earliest."  Panic threatened as Maryann heard 
the chair creak again, the sound of the doorknob turning.  "I have 
appointments in New York on Sunday.  They'll take up most of the day. 
 What shift is she scheduled for on Sunday?"

Shuffle of papers.  "Seven to seven.  Bruce comes on to help at 3."  

"That will work out well."  The voice was calm, could have been 
planning a dinner party.  "I'll be back around 6 which will give my 
men plenty of time to set it up, dispose of the body."  Slight pause. 
 " I'll bring some people with me, take care of it then."

Knees turned to jelly, threatened to give out as Maryann gasped, 
smothered the sound with her hand before it could escape.   

"Body?  You're going to kill her?"  Shock in Daly's voice.  "Christ.  
I wasn't suggesting you kill her, merely that she be transferred to a 
less sensitive project."

Frozen at the wall, Maryann held her breath, found herself childishly 
crossing her fingers, mouthing silent prayers.  A sigh floated through 
the grate, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room.  "Doctor, 
for a smart man you seem to have trouble grasping the basics of this 
operation.  This isn't Walter Reed.  We don't transfer difficult 
employees to another department.  We eliminate them."   Another 
exasperated sigh.  "I trust this means you don't want Blondie to 
know?"

Stab of pain in her palm, as nails dug deep.  She forced her fists to 
relax.   "God no, not if you're going to kill the woman.  Definitely 
not.  However you manage it, please see that she's not involved.   
I'll come up with something to tell her."  Rattled voice, barely 
recognizable as Daly's.

"See that you do, Doctor, and make it plausible."  Heart pounding, 
Maryann pressed tight to the wall.  "Unless you want to add her name 
to the list as well."

"That won't be necessary," Daly's voice was surer, shades of the more 
familiar arrogance.  "I can control her."

"See that you do then."  She heard the door open, the voices fade as 
it closed behind the two men.  Terror kept her against the wall as 
they passed the door of the supply room, continued down the hall. 
 
By the time she could move again, the building was quiet.  No sound of 
life except the furious pounding of her own heart, the swish of blood 
in her ears.
 
She couldn't think past the noise in her head.  Needed to get out of 
there, to someplace that felt safer.  

Dressings forgotten, she took care crossing the floor, kept her steps 
light, hesitated at the door before quietly easing it open.  

The corridor was deserted.  

Closing the door behind her she made her way stealthily down the hall, 
forced herself into a more normal gait as she turned the corner.  By 
the time she reached the break room she was breathing normally again. 
 No need to panic.
She had until Sunday to think this through.  Everything would be okay 
if she just stayed cool.







"LANGLEY, it's me, turn off the tape."  Skinner cradled the pay phone 
against his ear and watched the corner for anyone showing too great an 
interest in one of the Bureau's assistant directors who might be 
standing outside using a pay telephone.

"It's off."

He wondered.  "I want you to hack Scully's medical records."  Quashing 
a qualm.  He had to know.  Had to be sure.  "Dr. William Selby.  Dr. 
Leonard Markham.  I need to know what the latest test results showed. 
 She just had an MRI the afternoon before the funeral."

"Can do," Langley told him.  "By the way, your office is clean now, 
you can call from there."

Skinner closed his eyes again.  Did he want to know how the Three 
Stooges had gotten into the Bureau to do a sweep on his office?  No, 
he decided, he did not.  
For apparent lunatics, they commanded a wide variety of skills.  

"All right," he agreed, his tone even, "I'll do that.  I'll call in an 
hour, try and get what you can."

"You got it."  The phone went dead.

Hanging up, he decided that he was going to need to pick up some more 
antacid before he went back to his office.  And the first thing he was 
going to do after that was find Dana Scully.







"KIM, I want you to call the front desk and have them notify you when 
Agent Scully comes in."  Skinner kept his tone even with an effort.

Kim gave him a startled look.  Evidently, he hadn't kept his tone even 
enough.  "Do you want me to have them tell her to come up?"

"No."  He throttled down on his temper.  "Just have them let you know 
where she's going.  I'll--I'll get in touch with her then."

Going back inside, he sighed.  

Kim clearly thought his behavior was a bit--out of the ordinary.  On 
the other hand, maybe he was catching Mulder's paranoia.  Scully had 
come by yesterday to see him, it wasn't unusual for him to try and 
make that connection.

At least he hoped he was just catching Mulder's paranoia.




THE shrill ring of a phone shocked Mulder awake.  

He'd almost forgotten what one sounded like up close, squinted through 
half closed eyes at the beige plastic unit on the wall.  The bell 
peeled again as he tried to shift, roll up onto his left shoulder so 
he could reach past the sling to the instrument.   

Any illusion that the morphine would cut all pain disappeared with the 
maneuver.

"Don't move, buddy.  I'll get it."  Eyes widening he stared at the 
burly figure hurrying into the room, wondered if he was possibly 
dreaming all this.  Shades of Eddie Van Bluhndt as the man used one 
hand to hitch up the sagging jeans, the heavy toolbelt, as the other 
reached out to snag the phone.

He'd never seen the man before, certainly had no idea who he was.  
"That you, Mac?"  The stranger was frowning at the wall, ignoring 
Mulder as he listened.
"Damn."  Slamming the receiver back in the cradle, he abruptly turned 
and left the room.

Has to be a dream, Mulder decided, blinking furiously, trying to clear 
his head of the cobwebs.  

No, Deb had promised the phone repair crew would be here on Thursday. 
 It must be Thursday. 

Either that or he really was dreaming.

"Where'd the phone guy go?"  Bruce was peering around the entryway, 
eyes scanning the room.

"Is that who that was?"  Mulder asked, relieved to finally see someone 
he knew, get a clue as to what was going on.  "I have no idea.  He 
just stormed out of here."

"Figures."  Shaking his head, Bruce crossed to the phone, picked it up 
and listened, held it to Mulder's ear so he could hear the hiss of 
static before he too slammed it back into the receiver.  "Ten days to 
get someone out here and then they send Abbott and Costello.  Monopoly 
or not, I miss the good old days of AT&T." 

Mulder's mouth curved slightly, pulling at chapped skin.  "You're not 
old enough to talk about the good old days, Bruce.  You have to be at 
least 30 for that."  

A wide grin split the tanned face as Bruce checked the water jug on 
the tray.  "I'll have you know I'm 29, Mulder.  That's close enough." 
 Made a show of juggling the empty container as he crossed to the 
bathroom.  "I'll just go fill this for you."

Lifting his head, Mulder grimaced.  "Besides, they got it to ring.  
That's more activity than I've seen out of it since I've been here."  
His sore throat  protested as he raised his voice to reach Bruce over 
the water running in the bathroom.

"Don't remind me."  Water jug in hand, Bruce was wrestling with the 
cap on the thing, clamping it in place as he came back into the room. 
 "They've been testing the phones all over the ward, driving the 
patients and the staff nuts.  Believe me, they're idiots."  He set the 
jug back on the tray, made sure the table was close enough for Mulder 
to reach it.  "I only filled it halfway this time, Mulder.  Didn't 
want a repeat of this morning's little accident."

Mulder lifted the jug experimentally, made sure he had a good grip 
before moving it off the tray.  "I was just trying to help Deb out," 
he protested. Managed to get the straw in his mouth on the first try, 
felt the soreness ease some as the cool liquid soothed his throat.

Bruce was already at the door, looked back with a grin.  "Right, 
Mulder. You just felt like a cold shower instead of a sponge bath." 

Another phone rang somewhere outside the door as something crashed in 
the hall.  Bruce disappeared momentarily, poked his head back in to 
add, "I'll be back in a bit.  Don't get your hopes up about that 
phone.   It's a zoo out here."

Another crash and the sound of raised voices.  He took another sip, 
stared longingly at the phone on the wall.  It was progress of sorts. 
 

Just in case he'd better start working on a plan to get them to move 
the bed so he could reach it.




 



THE tape went to black on the small television screen.  Leaning back 
in his chair, Richard Greywolf put his feet up on his desk and turned 
his head to look at the man sitting on the other side of the desk.
Jack Carstairs, his renegade physician, was still staring blankly at 
the dark screen, absently stroking that ridiculous handlebar mustache. 
  "Tell me again why we're doing this?"

Greywolf closed his eyes briefly.  "Because it's an old debt." 

"What does Mary say?"

He sighed.  "Mary says we have to do it."  He wished to hell he'd 
never told Carstairs about his sister, the mystic, the seer.  "But I 
would have done it anyway, I owe the bastard."

Sharp look.  "Lazarus?"  Another thoughtful silence.  "Okay, it's been 
what, two weeks?"

"Just about, if the date stamp on the tape is right."  Greywolf waited 
comfortably.  

After a moment, Carstairs nodded.  "I'll need his medical records, 
Wolf.  I need to know about allergies, all that shit.  I have that for 
our guys, and this guy is hurt badly enough I don't want to take 
chances.  Although, after two weeks, we should see a fair amount of 
healing--he's still going to be one hurting puppy."

"Yeah, that was my impression."  Greywolf's voice was dry.  "Those 
bastards jobbed him pretty well.  With a van this time--they must be 
cheaper than I thought, running out of ammo."

Carstairs snorted.  "Yeah, well, I get the impression that their 
little improv backfired big time.  I don't think they were supposed to 
hurt him that bad."

"That's Garnet, ever practical."  Greywolf put his hands behind his 
head, laced the fingers together and let the muscles stretch out.  
"So, you got enough to make a list?"

"Yeah."  Carstairs was still staring at the screen.  "Pain meds, 
absolutely.  Hospital bed.   The usual drill, we've got most of it 
warehoused already.  How long are we supposed to nursemaid him?  We 
might want to consider a variable pressure mattress if it's going to 
be long." 

Greywolf arched a questioning brow.

Carstairs rolled his eyes.  "Bedsores, Wolf.  Nasty shit.  And sure as 
hell a possible source of infection, we don't need that.  Okay, by now 
there should be some healing in the bones, and the head injury should 
be pretty well resolved, although it can take up to four weeks to 
really get past the concussion.  You remember--"  Hint of a grin, 
quick flash of white teeth.

Greywolf rolled his eyes, remembering too well.  "Thought I was 
getting fucking senile."