IT was very quiet.  Mulder could hear the sounds of a cart, the soft 
murmur of voices through the closed door.  

His stomach was knotted.  Had been since Skinner's visit.  Not quite 
panic, he wouldn't allow it to be panic.  Couldn't allow it.  

That damned drill.  He hadn't told Skinner about it.  Morphine or not, 
he was sure he hadn't.

Reaching up, he stretched, bit his lip against what that did to the 
various broken bones.  His fingers closed over the light chain.  
Stopped and loosened again without pulling.

Another thought made his stomach knot tighter.  Maybe it wasn't 
Skinner.  Looked like Skinner, talked like Skinner, hell, it even 
walked like Skinner.  A morph?  Another Eddie Van Bluhndt? 

His pulse sped, he took in several deep breaths, calming himself.  
Maybe Scully had a point.  He'd rather see aliens and mutants than 
accept the simple truth that he'd been played for a fool.  Skinner 
could have jimmied his own drawer easily enough.  He had as many 
reasons not to trust the man as he had to trust him.  Probably more.


The sling chafed, one more minor irritation.  Another reminder of just 
how powerless he was to do anything about it even if Skinner was 
dirty.  Didn't even have a phone.  Maybe they'd lied to him about 
cellulars not working in this wing.  It was hard to know who to trust 
anymore.  

He twisted slightly, craned his neck to look at the cheap, plastic 
instrument.  Useless piece of junk.  Willed it to ring.  It was almost 
more irritating having it there and broken than not having one at all.

The phone beckoned, barely visable in the subdued light.  It wouldn't 
take that much movement to reach it.  He didn't actually know they 
hadn't fixed it.  They could have fixed it and not told him.  

Paranoia, Scully's voice whispered in his ear.

"Damn straight."  One distinct advantage of not having a roommate, no 
one to hear him talking to himself, to his absent partner. The thought 
made him smile.  Virtual visitors, another side benefit of an active 
imagination.  


Private room?  Now he really was getting paranoid, seeing conspiracies 
in his rooming arrangements.  Definitely a sign he'd spent too long in 
bed.

Shifting carefully, he fumbled for the bed control.  Gritted his teeth 
and pressed the button, let it rise until he could get his right hand 
over to the sling.  

Oh, shit, not a good idea. So much for not hurting.  But he gritted 
harder and reached up to adjust the sling so that it moved where he 
wanted.   

A bead of sweat rolled down from his temple, a small chilled line that 
ran under 
the neck of the gown.  Several deep breaths and he pressed the button, 
nearly upright.  Not quite, not even close.  He couldn't face upright, 
not the way this felt.

Maybe he could reach from here.  Stretching across to the guardrail on 
his left he clasped his right hand around the topmost bar, pulled 
slowly.  Set off nerve endings the whole length of his body.  
Impossible to breathe, to move.  Inched his way back down to the bed, 
waited forever for abused nerve endings to stop screaming.

Maybe tomorrow.  Consider this the warm-up.

The blankets had fallen and he was reminded of Daly's sanctimonious 
comments about the maintenance.  Christ, it was cold in here.  It was 
fucking May, what did they have, the air conditioning on?

He was looking forward to getting outside one of these days, if only 
to warm up.

More beads of sweat, chilling him more, raising gooseflesh.  This 
really sucked. Perspiration was a biological function designed to cool 
you down, didn't his body have a clue, he didn't need cooling down 
right now.

He waited out the wave of pain and nausea, breathing through his 
mouth, refusing to let the sourness of acid get any higher up than it 
already had in his throat. 
This really sucked.

His hand was shaking when he reached the button.  He'd just ease it 
down a bit, rest a little, and try again.

Later.

A lot later.  The way he felt right now, killing him would be a mercy. 
  

But going back down felt just as evil as going up, had him searching 
for the pump control before he'd dropped the other one.

Pressing the pump button, he sighed, rode the sting out and waited for 
the morphine to start nibbling at the edges of the pain that had 
gotten very, very, very diffuse.  And large.  And overwhelming.  
And...
 
Oh, fuck, he wasn't going anywhere tonight except morphine heaven.

What the hell, he'd try going cold turkey tomorrow.  One last hit.   
His fingers relaxed, letting the pump control rest on the blanket. 

Oh, shit, he hadn't pulled them back up and he was drifting already. 
Fumbling, he managed to get the blankets up, sort of.  Smiled fuzzily. 
 No wonder people became junkies.

They were really giving him really good shit.  He'd have to remember 
to thank Deb and Maryann next time he saw them.

He didn't need a cell phone to call his dealer, just hit the old call 
button. 
That thought washed him out to the blessed relief and sleep, eyelids 
sliding shut on cue.

Nice morphine.  He'd think about it tomorrow.








STANDING in front of the monitor, Deb frowned.  What the hell had 
Mulder been doing?  Calisthenics for the disabled?  Working his 
muscles?  Whatever it had been, he clearly hadn't had a good time.  

Judging from the fact that he hadn't turned the light on, and kept 
turning to look at the door, he hadn't wanted anyone to know what he 
was doing either.  

He wasn't trying to masturbate, that was for sure.  She'd seen enough 
of that through the years and this wasn't it.  Good thing too.  He 
would have found out in a hurry that it was not a good idea for a man 
with a broken pelvis.  Not unless he found severe pain a turn on.

Glancing back at Bruce, crashed out on the cot, she was uneasily glad 
that Bruce hadn't noticed whatever Mulder was up to.
  
Looked back at the monitor.  Damn, and he'd knocked the blankets down, 
which meant another trip down the hall for her. 

The phone, barely visable on the tiny display.  Standing still, she 
bit her lip, considered why he'd been trying to reach it.  It wouldn't 
do him any good, even if he could, she knew that.  They could barely 
keep the phones that were supposed to work functioning.  

Still, it made her uneasy.  She wasn't always the one on duty.  
Someone was going to see him.  And there wasn't a goddamn way for her 
to prevent that.  

On the other hand, if he had been trying to masturbate, it was none of 
her business, certainly nothing she was obligated to report to the 
Brit.  Maybe he'd just gotten sidetracked.

She'd just go pull the covers up.  Make sure he was okay.  Maybe take 
a peek.  Her mouth curved at that thought.  

Like she hadn't seen it all already.

One more glance at Sleeping Beauty behind her and she headed out into 
the hall, still smiling.







GRAY light seeped through the edges of the blinds, barely past dawn.  
"Colonel Henderson please."  Hopefully the man was still there, hadn't 
already left for Ellens.

"Henderson."  Just the name, no effort wasted on social niceties.

Efficiency was a quality he valued.  "We may need to accelerate the 
schedule.  How quickly can you be ready to move?"  No need to waste 
unnecessary breath on preliminaries with the colonel.  

Brief pause.  He could see the man considering, counted off the 
seconds in his head.  "Thursday at the earliest."

Six seconds, perfect. "Not good enough.  I need Tuesday."  Let the man 
have the extra day.  Tuesday was soon enough, even though by his count 
it would be ready Monday.  

"I'll let the men know.  You know where to reach me."  No good-bye, 
just the click in his ear to let him know the colonel had gone.

He hung up the phone, extracted a cigarette from the pack on the 
table.  Tapping it unlit against his leg he considered the call, the 
cost of the move.  It couldn't be helped.  Fox Mulder had almost 
exposed it once.  He'd been in this game a long time and had learned 
to trust his intuition.  

It had proven to be much more dependable than the Brit's reassurances 
up until now.







IT was starting to rain lightly again.  Sitting in his car, Skinner 
glanced at his watch, ready to be irritated, but found he was still 
almost ten minutes early.

Another car pulled up behind him and disgorged his own private circus 
troupe--the Lone Gunmen.  Frohicke looked like a street person, 
dressed in a scruffy jacket, fingerless gloves, and a battered 
Austrian hat.  Langley, as always, looked like he'd taken time out 
from his job as a roadie for the Grateful Dead, and Byers was dressed 
more neatly than Skinner, suit and overcoat. 

He couldn't wait to introduce these clowns to Greywolf.  


On the other hand, he wasn't being fair, they'd gotten quite a lot 
done for him that he could not have done himself.  Not as visible as 
he was.  Not as hampered as he was by official duties.  Putting a good 
face on it, he got out of the car, nodded politely.

"Weird place, man."  Langley's head was turning this way and that, as 
if watching a ping pong game.  "Seriously residential."

"It's a safe house," Skinner told him patiently.  "Not the one where 
they'll take Mulder.  Wolf doesn't want to take that chance."

Frohicke nodded approval of this and tucked a well worn leather 
portfolio satchel under his arm.  "Lead on."

Skinner closed his eyes briefly, turned and did just that, leading the 
way up the walk, feeling ridiculously like the circus analogy was the 
best he'd come up with yet.  

He was the ringmaster.  He supposed that made Greywolf and his troupe 
the wild animals, and these guys were--the clowns. 

To his horror, Greywolf's mind seemed to work the same way.  As they 
stepped in out of the mist, a slender, dark haired woman held the door 
for them, ushered them in.  Sitting on the arm of a battered couch, 
Greywolf gave him a sardonic smile.  "Send in the clowns," he told 
Skinner and grinned.

Behind him, Byers stiffened.

"Wow, nice place."  Langley seemed untroubled.  "Like your earring, 
dude."

Greywolf's eyes flicked to Langley, took in the blonde man and came 
back to Skinner.  "You do have some interesting friends, Lazarus," he 
told Skinner, his tone lazy.  "There's coffee in the kitchen.  Help 
yourselves.  We've got a lot to talk about, and I have an operational 
plan."

"Good."  Skinner took off his coat, laid it over the back of a chair 
and took a seat.  "Let's hear it."

Greywolf smiled again, amused.  "No coffee?  In a hurry, Lazarus?"  

"Hot date," Skinner told him drily.  "Cut to the chase."

"Yes, please," Byers seconded, his tone prim.

Frohicke promptly sat down on the floor and opened the portfolio.  
"We've been able to get a good picture of the security system, more 
detail than yesterday," he told Greywolf, clearly unoffended.  "And 
Langley worked up some better sketches of the people going in and out, 
we've got a little more info on the routine."  He began to pull out 
sheaf after sheaf of papers and pass them around.  

Copies, Skinner noted, took his and passed a set to Greywolf, who 
looked as though he were trying very hard to suppress laughter.

"This woman is Debra Maddox."  Frohicke held up a sketch of the plump 
woman.  "She's got a good record otherwise, VA nursing, Viet Nam vet." 
 He put the sketch aside and picked up the second.  "This is Maryann 
Roberts. Not such a great record, she's had some run-ins with staff 
doctors, but it does look as though a lot of it was over patient care, 
not just personality clashes.  She's younger than Maddox, but they've 
worked together before, VA hospital.  You have the material on Daly?  
Daly doesn't leave the facility."  He held up another sketch, 
patrician features.  "We can't figure out who this guy is.  Brit 
accent, very chi-chi.  Public school tie, the whole drill.  From what 
we could see, he makes the rest of them wet their pants, so we'd guess 
he's in charge of the operation.  Or the lackey for whoever really is. 
 Or both."  A Frohicke shrug.


The amusement on Greywolf's face had lessened, thankfully.  "I know 
who he is," he told Frohicke shortly.  "Even though I don't know his 
name.  He's fucking dangerous, cold as a whore's heart."

Frohicke glanced up, pushed his glasses up his nose, and studied 
Greywolf for a moment.  "Now this one was a surprise."  He held up 
another sketch, one Skinner hadn't seen before.  "Late Wednesday he 
appeared suddenly, went in for about an hour before taking off again. 
 He hasn't come back and that was the only time we saw him."

Skinner's stomach turned over.  How the hell had he missed that face 
in the thumbnail sketches Langley had given him earlier?  "Oh, 
Christ."   They all looked at him, faces he didn't know, people 
Greywolf hadn't introduced yet.  And faces he did know--all three of 
the Gunmen.   "I had lunch with him the week after Mulder's alleged 
suicide.  As good as told him that Mulder might be alive. So he knows 
I suspect.  He said he couldn't help me."

"Now we know why," Frohicke gave him a long look, sympathetic and 
annoyed at the same time.  "Well, it can't be helped."

"No, I wouldn't worry about it, the good Senator isn't going to leave 
his panties at the scene or get involved any more than he has to."  
Greywolf sounded untroubled, took a sip from one of the ugliest coffee 
mugs Skinner had ever seen.  "What an asshole.  And he has a 
relatively decent rep." Disgusted tone, no trace of anger or concern.

"Okay, we don't know this guy's name, haven't been able to run him 
down yet.  We think maybe Mulder was having some trouble, he appears 
to be another of the medical staff, but we can't get close enough to 
figure out why he's there."  

Frohicke handed around a sketch, all American good looks, pale hair, 
broad shoulders.  "He doesn't appear to be armed, any more than the 
two women.  Now this guy's name is Weber, he's got a bad rep in 
research medicine.  Doesn't much care about his subjects.  Human or 
animal.  Like Daly, he's specifically interested in the physical 
process of memory, where memories are stored, all that shtick."

"What size shoes does he wear," asked one of Greywolf's people.

"Size ten and a half," Frohicke answered and pulled out another sheaf 
of papers.  

"This is a blueprint of the security setup.  You'll need specialized 
equipment to get past it, I'm afraid, but the good news is that once 
you're past the entry, you're home free.  It's specifically set up to 
set off alarms on forced entry.  Very primitive, not particularly 
sophisticated.  It almost looks like they jerry-rigged it at short 
notice for this site.  Like they were in a hurry setting up.  Supplies 
are delivered once every three days, usually around eleven in the 
morning, never later than one in the afternoon.  Mostly foodstuffs, 
but also some medical supplies from the look of it.  Again, we 
couldn't get close enough to get a good look at any of it."

Skinner was having a hard time not smiling.  He'd been an asshole, he 
had to admit, but he did wonder if Frohicke had bluffed on Weber's 
shoe size or if he really had dug that up.  Knowing the way the three 
of them worked, it was entirely possible that Frohicke's response was 
factual.

Greywolf hadn't turned a hair, but someone else had chuckled ruefully. 
  

Frohicke, oblivious to approval or the reverse, continued.  "Not much 
in the way of armed security guards.  One guy, not much a warrior, 
moves like he's on retirement from active duty."  Another sketch 
appeared.  "This is what he looks like.  The night guy looks older, 
like a night watchman. Hell, maybe he is.  His name is Jack Walden, 
age 59, not in great shape either.  He makes the rounds of the 
building around eleven at night, and again at two am, as far as we can 
tell.  We didn't actually get into the warehouse, didn't want to 
compromise Mulder's situation."

Greywolf was regarding all three with some bemusement by this time.  
"You did all the surveillance yourselves?"

Frohicke peered up at him through smudged lenses.  "Yeah."  Warily.  
"Why?"

"Good work."  Greywolf tipped Skinner a mordant grin.  "I don't 
suppose you have the poor bastard's medical records, do you?  We 
didn't have any luck, not with the time constraints."

Skinner opened his mouth, glanced at Frohicke's sudden abortive 
movement, then shook his head.  "I couldn't do it without setting off 
major internal alarms," he told Greywolf unhappily.
Frohicke blinked, bent over the satchel again and pulled out a large 
manila 
envelope, held it as if considering the contents for a long moment, 
then extended it to Greywolf.  "Yeah, here you go."

Turning, Skinner stared at the little man.  Did he want to know how 
they'd 
gotten Mulder's records?   

Oh, he wanted to ask, just to resolve his curiosity, but no, he really 
didn't want to know.  Asking them to get Scully's suddenly didn't seem 
so farfetched.

Frohicke gave him an embarrassed smile.  Byers chuckled.  "We thought 
you might be needing them."

After a moment of silence, a burly man, lumberjack style mustache, 
started to laugh.  "Good job, guys.  Now if you could get me whatever 
chart they've
kept on him, I'd die a happy man." 

Frohicke looked chagrined.  

Byers cleared his throat.  "We didn't want to take any chance that 
they'd move him," he explained diffidently.  "If they had any idea 
that we were observing, I'm afraid they would have."

"No shit."  Greywolf nodded, reached out for the envelope and passed 
it to the lumberjack.  "Okay, we're short on introductions.  This is 
Jack Carstairs, he's MOD for the duration.  That skinny guy back there 
is Tom, you sort of met Ginny at the door, they're medical staff for 
our MOD.  This is Richards."  Greywolf lifted his chin at a tall, thin 
man with greying dreadlocks.  "That big shy bastard in the back is 
Mac.  There are a couple of others who will be in the background, 
they'll divert pursuit if necessary, but this is our primary team.  
And me, of course.  You can call me Wolf."

Skinner leaned forward.  "Frohicke, Byers and Langley," he said, 
pointing at each of them.  Gave Greywolf a return of the mordant grin. 
 "You can call me Lazarus," he told Greywolf's people and heard 
Greywolf chuckle. 

Nods all around.

"Okay," Greywolf told them.  "We're going in after dark.   Just like 
vampires, kids.  We'll use you guys to circumvent the security, you 
can handle it? If you have any doubts, tell me now, because I'll cut 
your throats if you fuck it up."

Frohicke grinned at him.  "Piece of cake."

"Good."  Greywolf gave him a feral smile.  "Sharpen your pencils, boys 
and girls.  We don't have time to practice this, so let's get it down 
now. Timing is everything.  Ready?"

Skinner swallowed hard, found his mouth had gone a little dry.  Action 
again, after a long time at a desk.  Reaching into his coat, he took 
out a pad and pen and arched a sardonic eyebrow at Greywolf.  "No dry 
runs?"

"I don't happen to have a spare warehouse with the right attributes.  
And I don't want to risk anyone figuring out what we're doing."  
Greywolf gave him a hard look.  "So we get it right the first time.  
Just like in-country, Lazarus.  No second chances."


Something prickled up his spine, a feeling he recognized from about a 
million years ago.  "Best intelligence," he growled in return and 
waited until Greywolf began to lay it out for them.

This was Saturday.  

Tomorrow was the target--he just hoped that all the best intelligence 
was good enough and Mulder was still there.  Still alive.

Because if he wasn't, the Snow Queen was going to find out just what a 
bad enemy Walter Sergei Skinner could be.











THE box was empty.  Somebody had taken the last tea bag, left the box. 
Sighing she added Earl Grey Tea to the list on the counter, dug back 
through the cupboard.  Managed to grab the kettle off the hotplate 
before it started to scream.
  
The door squeaked open behind her.  "Hey, Deb, got a minute?"

"Sure."  She didn't bother to turn, concentrated instead on filling 
the mug, mixing the powdered cocoa.  "We're out of tea again, Maryann. 
 I think it's His Highness hogging all of it."

"Yeah, maybe so."  Dull, tired voice, no hint of her friend's usual 
sparkle.

Maryann was pulling a chair out from the table when she turned, 
sliding it over next to the wall.  As Deb watched, her co-worker 
kicked her shoes loose, climbed on the chair and stood on her tiptoes 
as she stretched to reach the wall grate.  

"I don't think that's going to help, sweetheart," Deb warned, finally 
realizing what her friend was trying to do.  "But go ahead and shut it 
if you think it will make it any warmer in here."

The kitchen was actually one of the warmer rooms in the building as it 
housed the hot water heater, the washer and dryer and the stove.  
While none of them provided much heat on its own, the combo of two or 
more of them running together tended to keep the room at a more 
tolerable temperature than the rest of the building.  But watching 
Maryann climb down off the chair, Deb reflected that her friend didn't 
have much fat on her, which might account for her chilled appearance.

"Here.  Drink this.  I'll fix another cup," she offered, passing 
Maryann the steaming cocoa.

Maryann grabbed her hand before she could move back to the cupboard, 
motioned her to sit.  Puzzled, Deb pulled the most stable of the three 
chairs out, and plopped her butt onto it.  "Okay, Maryann, what gives? 
 You're being really weird."  

"Shhh."  The normally vibrant green eyes were troubled, darting about 
the room, as Maryann pulled another chair out, scooted it up next to 
Deb's before sitting in it.  "Keep your voice down," she whispered, 
eyes flicking to the closed grate high on the opposite wall.

This wasn't one of Maryann's games.  She knew those moods.  Whatever 
had upset her friend, it was serious, had her badly rattled.  Deb 
pushed the cup towards her, noted how the blonde's hands shook as she 
raised it to take a sip of the hot liquid.  "Okay, Maryann, I'm 
listening.  Tell me what your trouble is," she whispered, careful to 
keep her voice low, pitched so only Maryann could hear.

The combo of the drink and her whisper seemed to calm the blond, 
stilled the trembling.  Still, the green eyes were serious when 
Maryann looked up from the cup.  "It's your trouble, Deb, not mine."  
It all came out in a rush, allegretto, words spilling over each other. 
 "They're going to kill you.  I heard Daly and the Brit talking.  I 
wasn't going to tell you but I can't not tell you.  Oh God, you're my 
friend, Deb."

Deb felt her jaw drop, a sudden rush of fear at the panic in Maryann's 
voice, her face.  Her friend must have sensed it, hastened to reassure 
her, "Wait.  Don't worry.  I've got it all figured out."

The urge to flee was overwhelming.  She found herself looking at the 
grate in fresh understanding of the other nurse's strange behavior.  
"Why?  What. . .what are you saying?  Are you sure?"  She couldn't 
believe it.

"I warned you."  Anger in the green eyes.  "You wouldn't listen to me. 
 Daly thinks you're a risk, Deb, too emotionally involved in the 
patient."  Fury she'd never seen before in the fine features, the 
fierce whisper.  "The bastard told the Brit, convinced him you're a 
danger."

"When?  How?  God.  How long have you known this?"  It was the scene 
in the corridor all over again.  Maryann keeping secrets.  That time 
she'd claimed she did it to protect.  She couldn't claim that this 
time.  "Why didn't you tell me?"  Hard to keep the hurt out of her 
voice, the sense of betrayal.

"Jesus, Deb, don't you think I wanted to.  For God's sake listen to 
me.  The Brit was talking about killing me too.  I'm fucking scared.  
That's why I didn't tell you."  The grip on her hand tightened as 
Maryann's voice started to rise.

"Shhhh," Deb whispered, feeling the paranoia sweep over her as well.  
"Okay, okay, then tell me now.  When?  How much time do I have?"  She 
didn't want to die like this, not now, not in some filthy warehouse, 
dumped in the night like a piece of garbage.  She'd seen these guys 
work, had no illusions that she could negotiate with them once the 
order went down.  

Only the need to know, to get as much information as possible, kept 
her from jumping to her feet, running out of the building now.

Maryann was calmer, almost methodical now that she had a chance to lay 
out her plan.  "Not 'til tomorrow night, Deb.  You don't have to 
panic.  I have it all figured out."  The blonde dipped a slim finger 
in the cocoa, raised the coated digit to her lips and sucked it clean, 
smiling slightly as she did it.  "I wouldn't do this for just anybody, 
Deb, so don't waste the opportunity."  The smile grew broader, new 
firmness in the voice.  "I haven't slept with Daly since I heard them 
talking, won't even give him the time of day."

The doctor's snappish behavior of the last few days suddenly made 
sense, the way he'd been growling at her, at Bruce, at everyone but 
Maryann.  His behavior with her had been nothing short of pathetic, 
like a dog after a bone and she'd treated him like a dog.  Deb had 
written it off to residual pissiness about the whole blowup over 
Mulder.  

It all made more sense suddenly.  "I can't say I blame you, Maryann, 
but I don't see how that helps."  

"Well. . ."  The blonde was sitting back in the chair, suddenly 
looking like her old self as she smiled again, eyes sparkling 
wickedly.  "I've told him it's because I'm tired of never getting to 
go anywhere with him.  That I want to have a date, like a normal 
couple.  So we're going out tomorrow afternoon, lunch at that new 
Greek restaurant downtown, followed by some fun and games at his 
apartment."  The green eyes were cold.  "He's about to find out what 
having a Mistress is really all about."


It could work.  Maryann had made no secret of Daly's fetish for 
bondage, the occasional spanking.  Looking at the gleam in Maryann's 
eyes she found herself smiling in response, despite her fear.  "You 
are bad, Maryann, truly twisted."

Wariness warred with laughter on Maryann's face.  "Just don't waste 
it, Deb.  I'll try to get him out of here by noon, 1 at the latest.  
Bruce comes on at 3 and I have no idea whose camp he's in, so you 
should plan on being out of here before he comes.  I can't help you 
out with John.  You're going to have to figure that one out on your 
own."  

"I can take care of John," she whispered, staring at the cooling 
cocoa.  The guard had a serious chocolate addiction.  He wouldn't even 
notice the Syrup of Ipecac going down.  It wouldn't kill him either, 
just make him wish it had.
"What about His Highness?"  The mere thought of seeing the Brit was 
enough to set her shaking again.  Thank God, Weber had gone to 
California for the weekend.


Maryann was holding a finger to her lips again, pointing to the grate. 
 "Not to worry.  His Lordship will be gone all day, won't be back 
before 5."  Flash of white teeth.  "I'm telling you, Deb, I've got it 
all thought out."

"Except John," Deb reminded her, smiling grimly in response.  "But I 
can take care of him." 
"I'm sure you can."  Maryann was frowning, hesitating over whatever it 
was she wanted to say next.  She toyed with the chocolate ring on the 
table, sighed.  "And whatever you do, Deb, don't go noble on me here. 
 Get yourself out, forget him.  You can't save everybody."

Twist of her gut as she remembered the patient, the reason behind her 
death sentence.  God, she hadn't even thought of Mulder, hadn't 
considered what would happen to him after she left.  

Her head was shaking no before she even thought about it.

"Don't even go there, Deb."  Maryann's voice was furious now, urgent. 
 "He's dead already.  You can't save him.  I am putting myself on the 
line here for you.  Don't kid yourself."  The red nails were digging 
into her arm, leaving little crescent marks in the pale skin, hurting 
her.  "They might not come after you.  They will go after him.  Leave 
him.  It's your only chance."

"What about you, Maryann?  Who's going to look after you?"  The 
corpses were piling up in her mind.  Mulder, Maryann.  She'd been 
trying to ignore this for years, the downside of the great paycheck.  
 

"Don't worry about me, Deb."  Maryann's voice was bitter.  "I've been 
looking after myself for a long, long time and I don't suffer from 
your attacks of conscience.  I'll be just fine."

"What do you call what you're doing now if it's not suffering an 
attack of conscience, you idiot?" Deb asked, unable to resist.

Maryann took one last sip of the cocoa, grimaced at the taste.  
"Looking after a friend, Deb.  That's a whole different thing."  She 
pushed the cup away, staggered to her feet and crossed the room to 
retrieve her shoes, yawning as she slipped her feet into them.  "I've 
got to go relieve, Bruce.  Just remember, keep it cool and we'll all 
be okay."

"Sure.  Thanks, Maryann."  Hoped her friend could hear the real 
gratitude in the words.  

That got a gentle smile, one that reached the eyes.  "That's what 
friends are for, Deb."  

The blonde was out the door before she could respond, leaving her 
alone to think about friends and what one owed them. 









THERE was no logical reason why the blade on the passenger side should 
outlast the blade on the driver's side but it always did.  Maggie 
tried slumping a little lower in the seat, found a somewhat clear spot 
that didn't throw her neck into spasms.  

They just didn't make wipers like they used to.  

Bill would have laughed to hear her say it, reminded her of that old 
Dodge truck they had in the sixties, with its single, one-speed wiper. 
 Still, she missed that truck, the good times they had in it, making 
love by the side of the road while they waited for the rain to slow 
down.  

Mostly she missed Bill and his laughter, especially his laughter. 

The rain slick streets were still congested, even mid-morning on a 
Sunday.  
Somehow it seemed unlikely that most of them were headed to or from 
church.   More likely they were out for bagels or coffee, the religion 
of the nineties.  

A bright, blue Miata pulled out down the block, tore through the stop 
sign with no indication the driver even saw it.  Brakes squealed as a 
dark, green sedan slid part way through the intersection, narrowly 
missing the speeding car.  She could dimly see the driver gesturing 
angrily at the fleeing sports car.

The Camry pulled a little to the left as she tamped her own brakes in 
reaction, reminding her that it was overdue for alignment.  "Crazy 
drivers.  It's a miracle someone wasn't hurt."  

Her companion's silence had been so absolute she'd almost forgotten 
there was another person in the car, someone who might hear her 
comment.  She jumped at the sudden voice.  

"Imagine that, Mom, another miracle.  You better hurry up and tell 
Father McHugh so he can get it on next Sunday's agenda."  

The hard bitten words pulled her head around just in time to glimpse 
an angry profile turning back to look out the side window.

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Dana."  Years of training with insolent 
teens kept her voice level, helped her resist the temptation to snap 
back in kind.

"That wasn't sarcasm, Mom.  I'm just trying to be helpful, do my bit 
for the church and all."  

The car swerved slightly on the slick pavement as her hands clenched 
on the wheel, bone white with the effort not to slap the insolence 
away.  Spotting an opening on the right, she turned the wheel sharply, 
felt the tires rub against the curb in her haste to park the car.

"Why are we stopping here?"  Querulous voice, cutting in before she'd 
turned the engine off.

"Because I can't argue with you and drive at the same time.  I think 
we've both had enough of hospitals recently and I have no wish to end 
up as a traffic fatality because I'm not paying attention to the 
road."  It was like looking in a mirror sometimes, seeing that blaze 
of blue in her daughter's eyes.  

Odd how they'd turn so vibrantly blue when she was angry, fading to 
softer hazels and greens during calm.  Mood eyes, like those rings 
that were so popular in the sixties.  

Even as she glared back they softened and the anger retreated back 
behind a tight wall of control.

"It's okay, Mom.  We don't have to talk about this now.  Just take me 
home."  The pinched face turned back to look out the window.

No way.  She knew this child too well for that.  Give her a chance to 
regroup and she'd bury her anger even deeper, deny she'd even felt it. 
 "I don't think so, Dana.  You started it.  Now finish it."

The fine jaw went tense, stubborn point to the edge of the chin, all 
sharp angles where once she'd been so soft.  Little flesh now to cover 
the bone.  

"No, Mom, really.  It's okay.  I'm just tired.  I'm sorry if it upset 
you.  I just want to go home, go back to sleep."  A slim hand brushed 
across eyes that did indeed look tired, the normally clear whites now 
crisscrossed with fine red capillaries.  

"Why?  So you can pull the covers over your head, Dana?  Block out 
everyone who cares about you?  Go back to being the superwoman who can 
cope with anything that comes her way, even your partner's suicide."  
She hadn't meant to be so harsh, had no idea that much frustration was 
there until she unwittingly tapped into it.  

Stubborn, stubborn child, so different from Melissa, more pliable on 
the surface but absolutely rigid in the mindset underneath.  Bill 
would have understood her better, even if he hadn't been any better at 
dealing with it.

The fire was back, blazing full force.  "This isn't about Mulder, Mom, 
and you 
know it.  This is about you and Father McHugh, setting me up as the 
poster child of the Catholic Church.  Well, I'm not going to play that 
role.  Do you hear me?"  

"I could hardly miss hearing you when you shout like that, Dana."  A 
lone jogger, slogging past in the rain, paused as he cut across the 
street in front of them, stared in open curiosity at the two women 
arguing in the car.  

Turning too late, he was caught in a spray of dirty water from a 
passing car, which left him thoroughly drenched.  She turned back to 
her seatmate, noted the tremble in the thin shoulders, the way one 
hand clutched and released the bunched fabric of the trenchcoat 
shielding the slim form.  "And I did not set you up."  She spoke 
softly in the quiet cocoon of the little car.  "I had no idea Father 
McHugh was going to do that.  I wouldn't have approved it if he'd 
asked me.  I'm hurt that you'd even suggest that, Dana."  She was too, 
irrationally disappointed that Dana would even think it.  "I know how 
you value your privacy and I respect that."

It was so hard to stay calm, to resist the temptation to pull the 
huddled form close, to stroke the soft hair away from where it 
shielded her daughter's face.  She knew Dana would pull away at a 
touch in her current mood, had seen that response countless times 
before.

"Then why did you make me come with you?  Why?  If you didn't want me 
to hear that?"

Shutting down the immediate denial, she tried to review, remember 
their conversation honestly, what words she'd used to urge her 
daughter to join her.  
"I didn't make you come, Dana.  Frankly, I don't even know how I'd 
accomplish such a thing.  You're an adult, free to make your own 
choices."  She felt a small smile form, remembering past Sundays, 
another redhead firebrand.  "I couldn't even get Missy to go to church 
with us when she was still living at home.  I don't know how you think 
I'd make you go now."

Dana had turned from the window, flinched at the mention of Missy's 
name.  The soft voice was tight with frustration as she asked, "You 
don't even see it, do you, Mom?  How you pour on the guilt, make me 
feel like my leaving the church was a personal slap against you."  

"I make you feel guilty?  How, Dana?  By inviting you to join me in 
thanking God for giving me back my baby girl?  Is that what you mean 
because that's all I did."  The world outside had disappeared, windows 
obscured with condensation from the heat of their bodies, all the 
talk.  Only the outside chill seeped into the car's interior, frizzing 
their hair with its dampness.  

Dana was angrily smearing tears away, still trying to maintain that 
tight control, clearly frustrated with her tear ducts' refusal to 
cooperate.  "I'm not your baby girl, Mom.  I'm all grown up."

She did have to smile at that, the pouty lips so similar to baby 
pictures of long ago.  "I realize that, Dana, but to a mother a part 
of each child is always the memory of that warm, chubby body we first 
held."  She could almost smell it, the memory so close, her nose 
buried in incredibly soft skin, the down of the fine red hair, 
inhaling the wonder that was a newborn baby.  "That doesn't mean I 
don't respect you as an adult."

"That's just it, Mom.  I can't ever be an adult with you.  Just like I 
couldn't with Daddy."  Now there was a definite sniff.  "I was always 
having to prove myself, be the best, and still it wasn't ever good 
enough.  I can't help it if my faith is different than yours."

Sighing, she studied the tear-streaked face across the car, prayed for 
guidance, help in finding the right words.  "It's not about proving 
anything, Dana.  Not to me, or to your father, at any rate.  I know 
you think he disapproved of your choice to enter the FBI."  Tear 
filled eyes demanded the truth.  "All right, he did disapprove, but 
not for the reasons you probably think.  Your father loved the 
military, believed in a life of service, but he saw the flaws in the 
system, despite those beliefs, he understood the problems inherent in 
such an old boy network."  It felt almost disloyal to Bill to admit 
that, it was something he'd never voiced publicly.  "You'd already 
fought so hard, Dana, to make it as a woman in medicine, right down to 
your chosen specialty, pathology, a field dominated by men."

Dana had gone still, no longer crying, eyes wide as she listened.  Why 
had it taken her so long to tell her daughter this?  She should have 
tried to explain it years ago, while Bill was still alive.  

"He wasn't so much disapproving as concerned, Dana.  He didn't want to 
see you hurt.  You were his favorite.  You know that."  Missy was 
gone, Bill was gone, there was no longer any need to maintain the myth 
of impartial parenting.  
"Sometimes it even made me jealous, to see how important you were to 
him."

Dana interrupted, "You know he loved you, Mom.  He adored you."  All 
softness now, the deep groves which had carved her forehead moments 
before now gone, as Dana's face relaxed in memories of happier times.

"I know, sweetie."  She had to laugh, remembering.  "I'm not saying it 
was rational.  God knows I wasn't always rational where your father 
was concerned."  She could almost hear Bill's ghost laughing as she 
admitted to it.

Dana wasn't laughing.  "But what about you, Mom?  Why can't you just 
accept my 
right to have my own faith, my belief in science?  Why do you have to 
keep on pushing me back to the church?"
	
"By inviting you to go with me?  That's pushing?"  She felt herself 
growing irritated again, the calm of moments before fading away.  "All 
I did, Dana, was issue an invitation.  You made the decision to come 
with me on your own.  If I'd realized you felt this way I never would 
have asked you."  It was hard to keep the hurt out of her voice.  This 
was too much like countless arguments she'd had with Melissa through 
the years.  

Dana was fussing with her hair, the strands that refused to stay 
hooked behind her ears, probably unaware she was doing it.  

She waited for her daughter to answer, realized she'd retreated again. 
 "You know, Dana, you ask me to respect your faith, your belief in 
science and I've tried to do that but it doesn't seem to be so much a 
faith as a denial of faith."

Confusion furrowed Dana's brow, clouded her eyes.  "What?"

"You heard me, Dana.  Father McHugh's belief that your recovery is 
part of God's plan, a modern miracle, offends you.  He was wrong to 
speak of it publicly without your permission, but I won't argue with 
his faith.  How do you explain what happened?  Less than three weeks 
ago the cancer had metastasized and now there's no trace of it in your 
body.  What explanations does your science offer for that?"


"There are multiple possibilities, Mom."  The stubborn look was back 
on Dana's face, that tilt to her jaw that boded ill for anyone bent on 
making her listen to alternatives.  "Spontaneous remission, the body's 
immune system attacking the cancer, perhaps a belated reaction to the 
treatment I had in Allentown."

There was no quaver to the voice, no hint that what was being said was 
utterly ludicrous.  

"And that's your 'science,' Dana?  It sounds like a lot of guesswork 
to me."  She didn't trouble to keep the ridicule out of her voice.  
Let Dana answer to the same standards by which she measured Father 
McHugh.  "Basically, what you seem to be saying is that you don't 
know, do you?  Your science doesn't have an explanation for what 
happened."

"That's not fair, Mom.  Just because science doesn't have a definitive 
answer for what happened doesn't mean there's not a scientific 
explanation.  We just don't fully understand the phenomenon yet."   

"You don't understand it but you're sure it's not a miracle."  She'd 
had this kind of debate before, with others, had grappled with the 
same inconsistencies in their arguments.  "Just how are you sure of 
that, Dana, if you don't understand what happened?"  

Honest curiosity.  She did want to understand, wasn't trying to be 
argumentative, regardless of what her daughter thought.

"Look, Mom, it doesn't matter what I think.  If you want to believe 
it's a miracle, you go ahead and believe whatever you want."
  
"Don't you patronize me, young lady."  She'd been shivering a moment 
before, thinking of turning on the engine, starting the heater.  Fury 
at the condescension, the arrogant dismissal of her faith as nothing 
more than a child's belief in Santa Claus, had burned the chill away. 
 "I don't ask you that you share my beliefs.  Is it too much to expect 
that you grant the possibility that my belief system is every bit as 
valid as yours?  You hold up science as God, Dana, but that's not 
science, not as I understand it.  Science is about exploration, about 
discovery, about exploring possibilities, not about destroying 
everything around you.  I used to think you knew that.  You're not 
even being a good scientist, Dana."

Her fingers found the keys, the metal chill against fingers half-numb 
from the cold.  She switched the ignition on, suddenly weary of the 
whole discussion.  The engine sputtered, then caught, flared to life. 
 She turned the wipers on high, which cleared the rain off the outside 
of the glass but did nothing for the steam clouding the interior.  

She was digging through her purse, searching for Kleenex, when Dana 
handed her a handkerchief.  

"Why are you being so cruel, Mom?"  

Scrubbing at the windshield, Maggie kept her eyes focused on the task, 
didn't need to look to see she'd upset her daughter.  She could hear 
the tears choking the soft voice.  

The soft cotton cloth seemed to smear more than absorb, but she 
persisted, determined to clear a path, get the car moving.  

"I thought you'd be happy that I'm better, pleased about my new job.  
Why are we fighting?"

"Maybe because you are better, Dana."  The defroster was finally 
starting to kick in, the warm air slowly clearing the water from the 
windshield.  Sighing, she folded the handkerchief, relieved to have a 
task to occupy her hands.  "I've watched you over the past months, the 
past year, Dana, pushing everyone away.  I don't pretend to understand 
all of what you've been through.  I've just tried to be there for you, 
in whatever way I can."

A soft sob cut through the silence.  "I know, Mom.  You've been 
great."

"No, Dana, I haven't been great."  The shoulder strap caught and held 
as she tried to turn to face her daughter.  She fumbled briefly with 
the catch, sighed in relief as it released.  "I've wasted precious 
time, I realize that now.  With you getting sick so soon after we lost 
Missy I was terrified.  I didn't know if I could bear to lose another 
child."  There had been too many hospital rooms in her life in the 
past few years, Bill, then Dana, then Missy, then Dana again.  She'd 
grown to hate the smell of hospitals, of clinics, shuddered when she 
even passed one these days.  "Missy and I argued the day she was shot. 
 Did you know that?"   

It still hurt to remember those angry words, Missy's acid response as 
she slammed the door.

Dana shook her head slowly, started to speak, "Mom, you don. . ."

"Yes I do, Dana.  It's important that you understand."  The secrets 
seemed so stupid now.  No wonder her daughter had so much trouble 
facing the truth.  She was partially to blame for that.  "The last 
words Missy and I spoke were words of anger.  I didn't want that to 
happen with you so I've held my tongue, traded honesty for smiles, 
soft words for truth.  All so you'd know that you were loved."  She 
tried to smile, still trying to soften the truth.  "But that's not 
fair, Dana.  I realize that now.  I shortchanged you.  I owed you the 
truth."  Looking into her daughter's eyes, she caught the flash of 
puzzlement.  "What?  

"I thought you were being honest, Mom."  A sudden smile curved the 
full lips, erased some of the strain.  "You mean when you come to 
Allentown and yelled at me for not telling you earlier about my 
cancer, that was your version of being nice?"  There was no malice in 
the smile, just a gentle tease.

Maggie laughed softly.  "Okay, so my Saint Maggie routine needs some 
work.  I expect I don't have the proper temperament to be a true 
martyr.  Too much Irish in me."  She laughed again at the 
ridiculousness of the image.  

Dana was smiling again, probably remembering other transgressions, 
occasional sharp words to Bill, to the kids.  "You must admit though, 
I did pretty well overall."

"You did, Mom.  You were a champ."  Dana glanced out the window, 
looked back with a shy glance.  "I probably shouldn't say this, but 
all that compassion and understanding was making me a little nuts."

She felt her jaw drop, quickly recovered.  "Dana Katherine, I'm 
shocked, and here I was trying to be so nice."  She chuckled at life's 
contrariness.  "Just as well you recovered.  They would have had to 
commit both of us before long if we'd had to keep up our parts any 
longer."  It was amazing that she could laugh at it all now.  A week 
ago she'd felt like she'd never laugh again.  She glanced down at the 
dirty, sodden bit of cloth in her hand, held it out to Dana.  "I'm 
afraid I ruined your handkerchief."  Her thumb toyed with the soft 
fabric.  "Since when do you carry handkerchiefs, Dana?  You never used 
to."  

Dana didn't answer immediately, clutching the folded bit of cloth for 
a moment before carefully tucking it back in her purse.  Her voice was 
soft, when she did finally respond.  "It's not mine, Mom.  It's 
Mulder's."

Her smile faded.  She should have guessed, had seen him offer Dana one 
just like it several years before, when she was recovering in the 
hospital.  That time it had been to wipe away tears of laughter at 
some outrageous thing he'd said.  Found she didn't know what to say, 
had no words of comfort to offer.  

Dana was trying to smile, but the curve of her lips didn't match her 
eyes.  "He loaned it to me, for a nosebleed, a few days before. . ."  
She stopped, couldn't finish.  Maggie could see her swallow hard, 
choke back the tears.  "Ummm, I meant to give it back, after I washed 
it, but then. . .oh God."  One hand covered her lips, stopped their 
trembling as tears spilled over and she turned away, leaned her face 
into the window.

Maggie did reach across this time, pulled her daughter's body in tight 
against her, felt the thin shoulders shake with tears.  This had been 
a long time coming and it was a relief to see her finally give into 
it.  She didn't say anything, let her hands talk instead, stroking 
hair and shoulders.  

It was a long time before Dana finally pulled away.  She let her go 
immediately, found the Kleenex which had eluded her earlier and handed 
them to Dana, smiled at the unladylike honk as Dana blew her nose.  "I 
guess I needed that," Dana whispered, still busy wiping tears away.

"I guess you did," Maggie responded.  "It's okay to miss him, Dana.  I 
miss him too."

"You do?"  Dana was still dabbling at tears, the remaining Kleenex 
barely adequate to the task.   "I thought you hated him."

"What?"  It came out louder than she intended.  She forced herself to 
speak more quietly.  "I 'hated him?'"  Where did you get that idea, 
Dana?  I never hated him."

"Because of Missy, Mom."  Tears all cleaned up, Dana was brushing her 
hair back, trying to restore some order to her appearance.  "She'd 
still be alive if I hadn't gotten involved in the X-Files, in Mulder's 
work.  I know you blamed him for that, for my abduction, for my 
cancer."  

So that's what Dana had alluded to on the phone last week.  

She'd wondered at it at the time, had been distracted by the 
discussion of the rosary, had let it go last Sunday when it came up 
again.  "I think perhaps, Dana, you've confused my feelings with 
yours."  Dana had been looking in the mirror, swiveled to look at 
Maggie at the softspoken words.  "That's right, Dana.  I've never 
blamed him for that, but I think you did."

"I did not!"  Maggie let the words hang, let Dana hear their 
stridency, gave her time to acknowledge the cause.  "I didn't, Mom."  
Softer now, slight quaver to the voice.

"Didn't you?  That's not what I saw, Dana."  She'd promised herself 
she'd be honest.

"You think I blamed him?"  Soft grey-green now, wide eyes stared back 
at her, begged her to deny it.

"Didn't you?"  This was a truth her daughter needed to face on her 
own, not something she could be taught.

"I don't. . ."  Turning away again, Dana stared out the front of the 
car, watched rain track down the windshield.  "Maybe a little. . .I 
just."  She turned back, asked, "Is that so wrong?  To blame him for 
some of it?  Missy wouldn't have been killed if it wasn't for his 
'cause.'"  The stubborn pout was returning, as she seemed to find some 
justification for her feelings.  "I know he was misguided, Mom.  I 
understand that now.  It all makes sense after hearing Kritschgau and 
everything he had to say."  She was nodding her head now, slowly as 
she spoke, as if all the pieces were finally fitting together in her 
head, making sense.  "You're right, Mom.  I did blame him and that was 
wrong of me.  He was every bit as much a victim as Missy was, as I 
was.  I can't blame him for that, for falling for their lies.  They 
used him."

The funny thing was, it all made sense.  

She could see that, could follow Dana's trail of thought, had listened 
to her rail against Kritschgau and the men in the shadows, their lies 
and deceits.   
"Is that how you see yourself, Dana, as a victim?"

Dana cocked her head, raised one brow in inquiry.  "I was, wasn't I, 
Mom? That's pretty clear."  She seemed to think about it, nodded her 
head.  "What else would you call it?  I didn't believe the lies, like 
Mulder did, but that didn't stop them from taking me, from giving me 
that disease, from using me in an attempt to hurt him."  She paused.  
"But I was wrong to blame him for that."

Studying the calm face before her, she hesitated.  It would be so easy 
to slip the car into gear, take Dana home, let the conversation end 
here.   Maybe Dana deserved that peace and Fox was beyond being hurt 
by it anymore.   

God knew, they could all use some peace.

Soft voice, calm voice.  "Thanks, Mom, thanks for helping me see 
that."  

The peaceful smile did it.  Angry words or not, at least she and Missy 
had both meant what they said, hadn't pulled their punches.  Missy had 
known she was loved, she knew that.  It was part of what allowed her 
to be so argumentative.  She knew her mom's love was unshakable, could 
weather the storm of angry words.  
She steeled herself before speaking.  "You're still blaming him, 
Dana."

Dana flinched, as if she'd been slapped, eyes hurt.  "What do you 
mean?  I'm not.  I just explained that."

She sighed, shook her own head in exasperation.  "You're so blind 
sometimes, Dana.  You've just found a way to make it so he's not 
responsible for his beliefs, while still making him responsible for 
what happened to you."  

Pausing, she tried to find the right words.  "Whether you agreed with 
his beliefs or not, you made the decision to accompany him on that 
journey, to explore the validity of those beliefs.  You've decided now 
that it was all lies."  She shrugged her shoulders.  "That's all 
right.  Maybe they were, maybe not.  But you're not wrong because you 
blamed him when he was just 'misguided.' You're wrong because you're 
blaming him for something that was never his fault.  You made the 
decision to join the X-Files and to take the risks that went along 
with that.  It doesn't matter whether his belief system was valid or 
not.  He wasn't responsible for your choice, you were."

Blue eyes widened.  "You think his beliefs may have been valid?  After 
everything I've told you.  Mom, there's no scientific proof to back up 
anything he said."

"Dammit, Dana.  Have you heard anything I've said?"  She was beginning 
to feel real sympathy for her daughter's ex partner, wondered if he'd 
felt this same frustration, couldn't imagine that he hadn't.  "It 
doesn't matter."  She paused.  "We discussed this last week.  I 
certainly don't dismiss his theories out of hand, like you seem to.   
I don't see it as a threat to my belief system to acknowledge the 
possible validity of his."  

The rain had abated temporarily, although the sky had darkened with 
the promise of a greater deluge later on.   

She took in a breath.  "You should have heard him talk about you while 
you were gone, Dana."  She smiled at the memory, the earnest 
expression on the young man's face.  "He missed you so much, not just 
your friendship, but having someone next to him who believed in him, 
respected his ability as an investigator.  I gather he'd had some 
unfortunate experiences in the past.   He told me once that you made 
him a much better investigator because you challenged him to prove 
what he was saying, to search for hard evidence."

"He told me that once."  Dana's eyes were distant.  "Told me I'd 
taught him that, that he needed evidence."

"Exactly, and he respected that, Dana, respected you."  She smiled 
again.  "How could I hate someone who obviously held my child in such 
high regard?"  The next words would hurt but she didn't know how to 
soften the blow.  "I haven't heard that same respect from you, Dana, 
not in the past year or two.  Frankly, I don't understand why you even 
stayed with the job, given your disdain of your 
partner's sanity."  She could see the stubborn look returning.  "No, 
listen to me, Dana.  It's important that you hear this.  If you didn't 
think he was sane, and God knows you had cause at times to question 
that, then you owed it to him to tell him that straight out and get 
out of the X-Files.  But you didn't.  You stayed.  You chose to stay, 
but you stopped listening to him.  I don't know why.  I'm not sure you 
know why.  But you owe it to yourself to look long and hard at why you 
made that choice."

"He wasn't crazy, mom."   Arms clenched across her chest, Dana was 
staring fixedly out the window.

"I know that, Dana, but I'm not at all sure you do."  Red-gold hair 
swung as Dana turned sharply, glared at her.  Something suddenly 
occurred.  "How would Fox have explained your cure, Dana?  What 
explanation do you think he would have offered?"

"Can we just drop this, Mom?"  Hard bitten, tension across the jaw 
again.  "Mulder's theories are irrelevant."

"No. . .no, I don't think they are, Dana.  I'm honestly curious."  
Perhaps she could better explain it this way, get Dana to see what she 
was saying.

Dana sighed, gave in.  "Fine.  You're so interested.  Let me think."  
She frowned.  "Some sort of conspiracy would probably be at the top of 
the list.  Mulder was big on conspiracies."  A short bark of laughter, 
quickly bitten off.  "Of course, given Kritschgau's story, he had 
cause now that I think of it.  But it would most probably involve 
aliens and missing time."  She was glaring across the car now, clearly 
furious.  "Is that what you wanted to hear, Mom?  That aliens abducted 
me and cured my cancer?  Let's see.  Does that qualify as a miracle?  
God works in mysterious ways after all."

"I guess Fox and I have a lot in common then."  She put the car in 
gear, reclasped her seatbelt, waited until Dana did up hers as well.  
Pulling away from the curb she continued, still mulling over the 
similarities in her head.  "I guess we're both fools.  He believed in 
aliens, I believe in God."

The silence stretched for several blocks.  Dana didn't say anything 
until they turned onto Braddock, approached her apartment building.  
"It's not the same, Mom.  I don't think you're crazy because you 
believe in God."

She pulled in next to the curb.  Hit the door release button.  "I rest 
my case, Dana."  She waited, curious as to what Dana would say.  Saw 
her struggle for words, finally open the door and gather her coat 
around her before stepping out.

Dana bent down, leaned back into the car.  "I'll think about it, Mom."

She smiled.  "That's all any of us can do, sweetheart.  You call me if 
you need me, okay?"

Dana grinned back.  "I thought you were going to cool it with the 
compassion, Mom."

"I can't just go cold turkey, dear.  You've got to let me wean off it 
slowly."  

She was still smiling as Dana closed the door and hurried up the 
steps.  Maggie waited until her daughter had disappeared into the 
building before pulling away from the curb.  The rain was starting 
again.  

Maybe she'd just go home and take a nap too.  Even mothers needed to 
rest now and then.










"SHIT!"  Deb's heart was pounding, threatening to jump right out of 
her chest at the near collision, knees rubbery with the adrenaline 
surge. "Jesus, Bruce, you scared me.  I didn't think anyone was here."

"Whattaya mean, I scared you?"  Bruce clutched the small cardboard box 
he was holding closer to his chest, pantomined a heart attack.  
"You're not the one who nearly got run over.  Where the hell are you 
going so fast and why are you wearing your coat?"

Deb's heart had started to slow, accelerated again at the question.  
"My coat?"  She looked down at her sleeve as if she'd just noticed it. 
 "Oh, my coat."  Could he hear the tremor in her voice?  No, he was 
still too busy dealing with his own startlement.  "It's the only way I 
could stay warm in here."  The building temperature, already cold, had 
dropped another five degrees with the storm, making it easy to produce 
a shiver to embellish the lie.

Broad shoulders shrugged under a thick, brown, leather jacket as Bruce 
smiled.  "Must be a bitch when you have to take it off to go in 
Mulder's room."  One brow arched in amusement.  "You do take it off 
before you go in there, don't you?"

"No, of couse not."  Calmer now, she managed to keep her voice light, 
sarcastic.  "I figure he's already accepted the phone, the TV, and the 
skitzoid central heating.  Why not see if he'll go for trenchcoats as 
a standard part of our nursing uniform?"  She paused.  "Why are you 
here anyhow?  I thought you weren't on until three."  This is what 
comes of letting a blonde plot your escape plan the voice in her head 
chimed and she found herself fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. 
 

"I'm not."  Bruce grimaced, glanced at his watch, looked apologetic.  
"And I'll be lucky to make it back by then."  He held out the box.  "I 
overslept, meant to come by earlier to get this to take to the lab.  
I've got a bunch of errands to run,too--can you cover for me if I'm 
late?" Already headed for the door, walking backwards, he begged, 
"Please, Deb? I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Oh, get out of here."  It was easy to appear irritated, harder to 
hide the wash of relief flooding her system.  "I'll cover but don't 
think I buy that errands excuse for a second.  I can tell by that 
gleam in your eye just what sort of errand you have in mind."  Keep it 
natural, keep it natural. The voice was getting louder, making it hard 
to improvise.

He was halfway down the corridor before she finished speaking, threw 
her a wicked grin over one shoulder.  "No later than 3:30.  I 
promise," he shouted, pulling open the outer door.  Perhaps fearing 
she'd change her mind, he ducked through without waiting for an 
answer.

The door slid shut quietly, blocking out the brief taste of rain.  Deb 
leaned her head against the metal frame, whispered a silent prayer of 
thanks to the mystery woman in Bruce's life.  She'd panicked seeing 
him in the kitchen, half expected him to suddenly produce a gun, tell 
her the Brit had sent him.  

He didn't look the part but the best ones never did.

The building was eerily quiet.  John's room was all the way around on 
the other side.  It had been easy to convince him to let her look 
after things once the Ipecac hit.  He'd taken the proferred bowl and 
staggered off to his room without protest, too sick to wonder at 
anything.

Which left Mulder.  

Maryann was right.  She was an idiot to even consider helping him 
escape. She told herself that all the way down the corridor to his 
room.

He'd raised the bed to a gentle recline, high enough to be 
uncomfortable from the looks of it.  "What's a guy got to do to get a 
meal around here?" he asked plaintively as she swept through the door. 
 His eyes widened at the sight of her outfit.  "Are you leaving?"

"No, I'm not leaving.  I'm cold," she snapped, putting all the 
frustration of the past 15 hours into her voice.  "Not everyone has 
blankets you know."  

Hazel eyes darkened in confusion.  "Sorry."  Contrition mixed with 
hurt in the quiet voice.  His right hand toyed with the blankets 
covering the bed, separated the top one from the rest, held the edge 
of it up.  "You can have one of my blankets if you want."

The gentle grin nearly toppled her resolve but she'd thought this 
through, knew her limits.  If he asked her to help him, she'd have to 
do it, take him with her, and she couldn't do that, couldn't afford 
it.  

This way was better.  He'd have a chance, more of a chance than he'd 
have here at any rate.  She held that thought as she hurried to the 
bed, carefully avoiding his eyes.  

He didn't say anything but sighed in relief as she lowered the sling. 
The sigh turned into a hiss as blood rushed back into the limb but he 
still didn't complain, just looked to her for an explanation.

"Daly want's to see how you do without it elevated," she explained, 
kept it brusque, but took care settling the limb onto a pillow at his 
side.  "How's that?"  He was biting his lip, she couldn't not ask.

"Okay."  Soft answer, stepping carefully.  "Better I think."  She 
still didn't look directly at him as she moved around to the other 
side of the bed.

He'd lost weight in the last two weeks, bruises from the IVs marred 
the loose skin on his hand and forearm.  They'd had to reset them 
after the last seizure.  

"Say goodbye to the pump, Mulder.  We're taking you off IV."  Her 
finger found the edge of the tape, heard him hiss as she pulled the 
tape and needle free.  She'd tried to be gentle but her hands were 
shaking, making it difficult.

Mulder's voice was tentative in her ears, as she wrestled with the 
tape for the second needle, the slick surface fighting her efforts to 
pull it loose.  "Why the change?"  Another gasp as the second needle 
pulled free.  "Not that I'm complaining but it's kind of sudden isn't 
it?"  

She wished he'd shout, tell her she was hurting him, fight back.  

It would make it easier.  

"You can talk to Daly about it later, Mulder.  He doesn't tell me 
everything."  Kept it angry as she snapped a bandaid over the puncture 
from the IV.

"I guess not."  Irritation was replacing some of the earlier apology 
in Mulder's tone.  "Let's try something easier.  Can you tell me what 
happened to my lunch?"  

Ignoring the question, she pushed the IV stand back against the wall, 
shoved the pump up against it, kicked a cord back under the bed, out 
of the way.  

Soft sigh from the bed behind her.  "Have I done something to piss you 
off here, Deb?  I know I can be a jerk at times but you've gotta help 
me out a little here.  Is this about the coat?"  

It was the voice of a man who'd been down this road before, more than 
a few times, knew the pitfalls.  It wrenched at her, she steeled 
herself against it.

"Pissed?"  The chill of the room hit as she shrugged free of the coat, 
flopped it angrily on the bedtable.  "Why should I be pissed?  You 
bitch about breakfast not being to your liking, refuse to eat it, 
whine that your lunch isn't here right on time and then criticize my 
choice of dress. Why should I be pissed?"

The expression on his face was almost humorous.  Complete and utter 
bafflement.  "I. . ."  He stopped, after the one word, brows knit in 
confusion, couldn't seem to decide what to say.

Before he could recover, Deb grabbed the empty water jug off the tray, 
the urinal sitting at the other end, felt liquid slosh in that as she 
moved it.  "I'll bring these back when I have a chance.  If you want 
lunch so badly, try your call button or wait til the shift change at 
3." 

She didn't give him a chance to answer, fled the room with her bounty, 
stopping only long enough to empty the urinal in the toilet, dumped 
both receptacles in the sink. 

He didn't call her back as she stomped back through the room and out 
the door, but she could feel his gaze, burning the back of her neck.

Her hands were shaking badly by the time she reached the break room.  

Visions of Daly and the Brit watching the whole interchange on the 
monitor there had played in the back of her mind, left her palms 
sweaty, her knees shaky.  

But the room was empty, silent, no sound from the monitor on the 
counter. When she glanced at it, almost against her will, Mulder was 
still staring at the door, glancing from it to the coat, then back to 
the door again.  

"C'mon, Mulder.  Figure it out.  I know you can figure it out," she 
whispered, watching the monitor.  Her eyes moved to the cot, the pile 
of bags there.  She'd go ahead and load the car.  

Come back and see how he was doing, maybe sweep the corridor.  He'd 
need help with the outer door.  That she could do, but not if it meant 
her staying here past 2:15.

The call buzzer sounded as she picked up the first bag, made her 
smile. "Way to go, Mulder.  I knew I could count on you."















OVERALL, it hadn't been as bad as he'd expected, getting out of bed.  

It had been a thousand times worse.  

Clinging to the bed table, the good arm wrapped tightly around the 
imitation walnut, the other resting precariously on the coat Deb had 
left slung across the tray, Mulder tried to bring the room back into 
focus. The wheels were slipping back and forth on the linoleum, 
threatening to slip out from under him at any moment.  

He swallowed hard against the overwhelming nausea.  

Good thing he'd skipped breakfast.  It would be on the floor by now if 
he'd eaten it.  He supposed he should be grateful for the late lunch 
too, that he wasn't now standing in a pool of his own vomit, but 
gratitude was for when you didn't feel like complete and utter shit.  

His head was resting on the table, face turned towards the bed, his 
prison for the last week.  Two weeks?  

He'd lost count somewhere in the haze of morphine and vomit and more 
morphine and whatever the fuck else they'd been pumping into his 
system without his knowledge.  Now that he was finally free of his 
prison he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into it, lie down 
flat, never move again.  

Gradually the steady beat of rain on the window made it through the 
noise in his head, the running argument as to whether he'd just made 
an utter fool of himself, set back weeks of treatment with his 
paranoia.  

So what if Skinner seemed more alien than he normally did, if the 
phones didn't work, if the food service was bizarre.  He'd only ever 
seen three nurses but maybe he'd slept through the rest of them.  

Hell, maybe they were all sleeping now, or busy with other patients.  
It wasn't like he was the only patient.  

So what if lunch was late.  Maybe the cook quit.  Judging from 
breakfast they were having serious problems in the kitchen.  

All the reasons that had seemed so rational lying in the bed now 
looked like the ravings of a lunatic, a lunatic who was about to 
crash.

The cart slipped, threatened to tip and he had to step forward. No 
choice. It was that or risk ending up on the floor and the floor 
looked a long way down and unforgivingly hard.  The sudden shift made 
him gasp, bile flooding his throat as he lost the battle against the 
nausea, doubly sour for the lack of any other liquid in his stomach.  

God, he was tired of the taste of his own puke.  

Still fighting the sway of the cart, he followed it across the floor, 
dragging more than lifting his feet, finally crashing into the far 
wall, his face against the closed venetian blinds.  Sprawled across 
the table, its mass trapped in between him and the wall, he finally 
had some stability.  

It was hard to breathe, the pressure of the cart stabbing against half 
healed ribs, making anything more than a shallow breath impossible.  
He opened one lid, felt his lashes brush against the plastic blind, 
too close to focus properly. 

This was definitely one of the stupider things he'd ever done.  It was 
amazing how lucidity hit once it was too late to do anything about it. 



Deb had left the door propped open and he could hear a cart passing in 
the hall, a woman's voice calling Dr. Lee to the ER.  STAT.  

Good thing he wasn't Dr. Lee.  No way was he going anywhere STAT.  

From where he stood. . .where he leaned, he couldn't quite see out 
into the hallway.  If he could just let go of the cart he'd be able to 
reach the pull for the blinds, open them, look out into the world.  
That's all it would take, a glimpse of Pennsylvania Ave. the cherry 
trees and he could hobble back to the bed, deny all knowledge of the 
stream of bile across the floor, blame it on Tooms or another visiting 
mutant.  

Deb probably had PMS.  Maybe she was psychotic.  If that was PMS he 
wasn't sure there was a difference.

The plastic was cold against his cheek.  He could hear the rain 
against the roof, the glass.  It was oddly comforting.  Lifting his 
head slightly, he felt the plastic catch against his cheek, glimpsed 
water on the glass as the blinds parted, asphalt and dirt.  Asphalt?  

Suddenly alert he nudged the blind up higher, stared out at the 
windswept corporation yard, the hulk of corrugated steel dimly visible 
beyond the chain link fence.  

Fucking A.  He wasn't crazy.  

Before he could savor the victory, a cold wash of fear hit.  How long 
had he been standing at the window?  Deb had mentioned shift changes, 
someone else taking over at 3.  It was 1 when Deb showed up, probably 
less than ten minutes later when she left.  He looked at the clock on 
the wall, almost 2 and he had no way of knowing if that was right.    
   

Fear was a powerful stimulant.  

Two minutes before making it back to the bed had looked impossible. 
Without planning, he found himself lurching across the room, focused 
on nothing more than making it out the door.  The squeak of the table 
wheels seemed impossibly loud now, advertising his escape effort to 
anyone who might be in the building.  

He couldn't think of that.  Had to keep moving, table first, drag the 
left foot forward, small step with the right.  Anchor it and repeat 
the process. Found himself counting seconds, minutes, cursing the 
slowness of his progress.

His left foot slammed against the wheel of the bed as he passed, pain 
graying out his vision temporarily as he spun, clutched the tray table 
closer, barely kept his balance.  He could hear a small animal 
whimpering somewhere.  

Another step and a gasp cut the whimpers short. Slippery warmth on his 
left foot, probably cut it on the bed somehow.  Too much effort to 
look, wasted effort.  He didn't have time to do anything about it, no 
time even to try to find shoes, something to cover his feet.

Six more feet to the door.  

His vision had narrowed to the bright rectangle, framed by a short 
entryway of peach colored sheetrock.  Dimly he registered the concrete 
flooring beyond the door, the edge of linoleum stopping at the 
entrance, a thin metal strip marking the boundary between illusion and 
reality.  

They'd never planned for him to leave the bed, must have known the 
whole charade would fall apart if he ever got this far.  

The realization kept him moving, allowed him to shut down the nerve 
endings screaming for him to stop.

A black plastic rack protruded from the wall in front of him, forced 
him away from the anchor of the sheetrock, the extra balance it 
provided. Gentle push of the cart to steer him on his way and the 
wheels skidded, pulled him away from the wall, nerves shrieking in 
protest as he scrambled to keep up.  Sudden impact with the open door, 
the crash echoing through the room, into the corridor beyond.  

The sound sent nerves prickling with fear, even as the jarring motion 
threatened to overwhelm his tenuous balance, his stranglehold on the 
pain. He felt himself slipping, grabbed with the left hand for an 
anchor point, felt his fingers close on plastic an instant before the 
pain hit, darkening his vision.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. . ."  A soft chant, the words an anchor, 
mindless distraction from the agony.  Tears blurred his vision, no 
hand free to dash them away.  Blinking rapidly he stared at the limb 
in front of him, scarlet seeping through the gauze wrapping, a thin 
trickle coursing a path across swollen flesh, migrating around the dam 
of the stainless steel rod. Despite the pain he held tight to the 
plastic rack, waited for rubbery legs to answer the order to move, 
line up with the cart, take some of his weight.  

Ventured finally to relax the death grip.  

He'd read stories of people using broken limbs, high on adrenaline.  
He'd never expected to be one of them.  Definitely would have passed 
on the opportunity given half a chance.

His fingers brushed against a clipboard, sheets of pink paper covered 
with scribbles, odd notations.  The name at the top took what little 
breath he had left away.  Leaning forward he grasped the clip at the 
top in his teeth, pulled the chart free of the rack, let gravity carry 
it to the table in front of him.  

A little light reading for the trip.  

Grimacing he turned towards the door, let the trusty little table 
carry him through.  The sound of a door opening spun him to the left 
as fear flushed even more adrenaline into his overloaded system, left 
him shaking in reaction.  He clung to the tiny table, shivered as cool 
air, laced with damp bathed his face, his bare legs.  

Half a football field down the dingy corridor a steel gray door gaped 
wide, rain spilling in through the opening, turning the concrete dark 
where it touched.  Squinting he could make out a figure hurrying away 
in the rain, wide expanse of white clothing, dark hair.  

Deb. 

She didn't look back, climbed into a tiny red sedan as he watched.  He 
was already lurching towards the door when he heard the car engine 
turn over, roar to life.  

Knew before the car tore away that he was on his own in this.  She'd 
given him all the help she was going to.  Left him the clues, the 
coat, the open door, the chance at freedom. 

Just like the oatmeal, it was his job now to keep from spilling. It 
was going to take a hell of a lot more than a bath to repair the 
damage if he lost it now.  

The corridor stretched further with each step, impossibly far.  Well 
past exhaustion he searched for markers, milestones.  Just make it to 
the speaker box, still spewing pages for imaginary doctors, past that 
to the outlet, past that to the broom someone had left propped close 
against the wall.  

The floor had been recently swept, odd piles of dust and debris tucked 
up against the baseboard became additional markers, bases to be 
touched and passed as he continued stumbling towards home. 

His feet were numb now, barely registering the chill of the concrete 
flooring.  He flexed stiff toes, felt the left ones stick, a sudden 
sense of warmth as he separated them.  Definitely trashed his foot on 
the bed. One more injury to add to the list.

The gray walls wavered, disappeared, replaced by a long open highway, 
cornfields interspersed with occasional billboards.  

......he could hear Samantha shouting, her high voice declaring 'Z,' 
excited at the unexpected victory.  He'd seen the Z, had let it pass, 
curious to see if she'd spot it.   

Her long braids swung as she turned to look at him, eyes bright with 
suspicion, wanting the win but afraid to trust the ease of it.  He 
scowled in response, stuck out his tongue, laughed inside as her face 
split into a grin of triumph. Sighing, he agreed to a rematch, caught 
his dad's grin from the front seat, knew he hadn't fooled him.  

A highway marker flew past and his brain made the calculation, 
subtracted the miles even as he shouted, "A," his voice overriding 
Samantha's.  

Sixty-seven miles to go before they reached Des Moines and she was 
probably going to make him play Billboard Alphabet the whole way....

A shock of rain broke the reverie, pulled him back into the present.  
He'd made it to the open doorway.  

Rumble of thunder in the distance, the sun hidden behind thick clouds, 
incessant drizzle.  He had no way of telling what time it was, no 
watch, the clock in his room far behind.  

Deserted warehouses separated by uneven pavement, wide potholes filled 
with dirty rainwater.  No sign of life, not even the distant sound of 
traffic. He might as well have been on the moon.

The thin cotton gown gaped open in the back as a blast of wind lashed 
more rain through the doorway.  Teeth chattering, he looked longingly 
at the trench coat trapped beneath him, the cream colored cloth now 
stained with blood and vomit.  He tried to avoid looking at his arm, 
didn't want to think about what further damage he'd caused, the 
possible long-term cost of this escape effort.  

The coat had shifted on the tray, now covered the chart, protected it 
from the worst of the rain.  He'd forgotten all about the chart, was 
surprised to see it still there.  His mind struggled with the puzzle, 
how to extract the coat without losing his balance, without sending 
the cart plunging to the ground where he'd never be able to retrieve 
it.  

Part of his brain said let it go but Scully's voice piped up, told him 
it was important, to hang onto it if he could.  

Good old Scully, even when she wasn't there she nagged him.  

Now or never he told himself, bracing his back against the metal 
doorframe. The steel was freezing, icy wet against bare skin where the 
gown gaped open.  Bracing himself on legs that shook with the effort, 
he finally let go of the cart, put his full weight on shaky legs, 
groaned as something grated in his hips, his pelvis, sending fresh 
flares of agony up and down his legs, his chest and spinal column.  He 
tasted blood as teeth cut into his bottom lip, forced his jaw to 
relax.  

"Hey, man."  The gravelly voice sapped what little energy he had left 
and he felt himself start to teeter, legs collapsing beneath him.  

He'd been so close, the story of his life.  He didn't want to look, 
see the security guard, the doctor, whoever had found him.  All that 
effort to end up like this.  

Damn Deb for letting him try.

Something caught him before he hit the ground, pulled him upright 
against his protests.  

He struggled feebly, tried to break free.  "No, no. . ."  It was 
useless but he couldn't stop, couldn't just give in, let them take his 
life away. 

"Mellow out, man.  I'm trying to help."  Whiskey breath and an oddly 
familiar stench.  Unwashed body, whiff of ammonia, memories of a hotel 
room traded for a night in a cardboard shack.  

He struggled to lift his head, met smoky blue eyes staring into his, 
deep sockets lined with groves, a bristled jaw.  "You shouldn't be out 
here. I'll help you back inside."  

"No."  Clearing his throat, he repeated the word, more force behind it 
this time.  "No, I don't want to go back in there."  Let the man take 
his weight as he turned his head, glanced back down the long corridor. 
 "I've got to get away."  

He knew he sounded crazy, barely able to get the words out through the 
chattering of his teeth, standing in the rain dressed in nothing but a 
hospital gown.  "You've got to help me."  Just another crazy.   DC was 
full of them.  He felt a laugh start to break free, knew he was losing 
it.

Sudden warmth as something soft fell across his shoulders, wrapped 
around his shaking torso.  The other man hadn't spoken, was still 
propping him upright as he stretched one arm around Mulder, pulled the 
coat tighter.  

"Better put your coat on first then, man," he finally said, lifting 
Mulder's right arm to slip it through the sleeve.  

The stranger bent lower, slipped a bony shoulder under the 
unprotesting limb, tugged on the thin wrist to anchor it across his 
shoulder and started to pull Mulder along, away from the doorway.  
Mulder tried to turn, find the cart, the chart.  "Wait.  The chart."  
It was all Mulder could do to gasp the words out.

The man stepped back, half lifting Mulder in the process.  "Digger has 
it, man.  Not to worry."  Rain was dripping from his hair now, he 
tried to blink the worst of it away, saw another man in front of him, 
mangy beard, the folded table tucked under one arm.  As he stared the 
man waved the chart under his nose before turning and ambling across 
the yard, away from them.

Before he could protest they were moving after him, his rescuer doing 
most of the work.  "Let's make tracks," the man hissed, pulling 
Mulder's arm more firmly around his shoulders.  

Mulder struggled to make his feet work, to help.  Every step jarred, 
woke nerves he never knew he had.  The aches were no longer specific. 
 They'd merged into a cacophony of pain.  

But each step took him further away from the known danger and that was 
all that counted.  

Time blurred, consciousness wavering in and out as they made their way 
across the open yard.  A sudden turn and they slipped between two 
buildings.  

It was darker in the narrow alleyway, darker still as his eyes slipped 
closed and the world fell away into nothingness.

















THE black sports coupe tore into the lot, pulled up next to the 
building with a screech of brakes.  

The light was on in the outer office, the back room.  Marita grabbed 
the cooler off the seat, hurried through the rain to the building.

"Where were you?"  Bruce was watching for her, holding the door open 
as she dashed through it.  "You were supposed to be here an hour ago." 
 The lab tech was sitting at the table, quietly labeling the filled 
vials.  

Suppressing a smile, Marita put on an apologetic look.  She'd timed it 
just perfectly.

"I'm so sorry, Bruce."  Let her body melt into his as she returned his 
kiss, before she pulled away.  "My flight was late and the traffic was 
terrible with this storm."  

She could feel the heat of his gaze as she walked away from him, 
crossed to the table.  "Any problems?"   

Setting the cooler on the table, she tucked the vials into the 
enclosed rack as the tech silently passed them over.  Bright red 
sloshed inside the glass tubes, rich velvet color in the light of the 
desk lamp.  

Bruce had moved behind her, pressed up against her as she worked, the 
hard bulge in his pants tight against her bottom.  "Just this," he 
whispered, pressed a little harder.  

The tech watched the whole display indifferently, no interest in the 
dark almond eyes as she held out her hand, waited for Marita to press 
the envelope into it.  "Tuesday?  Right?" she asked, slipping her 
chair back from the table. 

Marita moved Bruce's hand away from her waist, slipped out of his 
grasp again.  "That's right.  Tuesday."  She put the table between 
herself and Bruce before adding.  "Same time."  Watched the woman 
leave before turning a regretful pout on her victim.  "I'm sorry."

He glanced at his watch, sighed, gave her a hopeful puppy smile and 
leaned foward to kiss her again.  She tolerated his groping for a 
moment, then leaned back, laughing lightly.  "We do have the worst 
luck, don't we, darling.  I have a meeting at four and it's quarter of 
now."  Leaning up, she kissed the tip of his nose.  "I'm so sorry.  
The damned airlines get more inefficient all the time?  Maybe tonight? 
 I'll call you from the hotel if I can get out of the dreadful embassy 
cocktail party."

"Another one?"  His disappointment hadn't affected his ardor.  Still 
pressing his hips against hers, he contrived to kiss the side of her 
throat. "Can't we steal a moment here?"

"Bruce, don't ever lie to yourself.  Women aren't in favor of 
quickies."  But she made it a joke, throaty voice.  "We like to take 
our time and thoroughly explore the territory."  She could swear, his 
neck grew to twice its size under her gaze, his eyes darkened as if he 
were imagining that.  "And you have to get back, don't you?"

Another glance at his watch and he accepted it with good grace.  "But 
you'll call me tonight, won't you?"

"Of course," she purred and kissed his mouth lightly.  "Count on it." 
 She supposed she'd have to toss him that much of a bone.  Besides, 
Skinner was an itch she couldn't scratch, perhaps Bruce could prove 
amusing.  "We'd better not be late for our respective appointments."

He pulled her close again for one last kiss before shrugging back into 
his jacket.  "Deb's going to kill me," he told her ruefully and his 
mouth curved in a boyish grin."

"Just bat your eyelashes," Marita told him, laughing softly, "Given 
her appearance, I doubt she's had that much excitement in years."

His grin grew wider.  "You're very bad."

"But I'm so good when I'm bad."  Herding him toward the door, she 
picked up the cooler and set the lock.  "Tonight."

"Tonight."  His tone made it a vow.

The fool.  She fiddled with the door to let him go ahead, then pulled 
it shut, suddenly irritable.

It was to her benefit that he was a fool.  Skinner was more of a 
challenge. Perhaps she should give him a call, let him know she was in 
town again.

The idea made her smile, despite the grim weather.




 



THE conference room had gone utterly still.  They were all looking at 
him when he turned, had obviously been listening, putting the clues 
together.

"He's gone?"  Shock had softened the giant's voice to a whisper, 
barely
audible even in the silent room.  "How can that be?  I thought he 
couldn't be moved."  The broad face darkened.  "He wasn't even 
supposed to be strong enough for Daly's test.  How the hell could he 
get himself out?"

Panic was not going to fix the situation.  The Brit stared at the 
group, overrode the jabber of mixed voices as the two at the table 
tried to cut in over the speaker.  "Obviously he didn't get out on his 
own, gentlemen.  As you no doubt overheard, there is a nurse missing 
as well, the one we had planned to eliminate tonight."  

He now wished he'd taken care of it the other day, quashed that 
thought
immediately as irrelevant.  Done is done.

Smoke from a discarded cigar curled past the bald one's head, as he 
leaned forward, hissed, "You better have a solution.  The Greys think 
he's dead, his own people think he's dead."  Anger faded to 
nothingness in eyes suddenly cold.  "He cannot suddenly come back to 
life.  That won't do."

The senile one was nodding, either agreeing or confused.  It didn't 
matter.  They were all looking to him anyhow, even the giant, waiting 
for him to give the order.  

"I agree."  The Brit looked down at the phone, weighed assets against
liabilities, lifted his head.  "Find the nurse, we find Mulder.  It
shouldn't be all that difficult."  

He was already calculating who needed to be called when the giant's 
voice cut in.  "And what then?  What do we do when we find them?"  
Slight hesitation.  "What do we do with him?  Start over?"

"No.  I think not."  Kept his own voice cold, dispassionate, void of 
the rage seething inside.  "It's time to terminate that particular 
project."  

The nods of agreement were cold comfort.  It was the right decision 
but
much, much too costly.  Someone was going to have to pay, multiple 
somebodies.







DIRT smudged across one cheekbone, bruising already from where he'd 
struck her, Maryann was a far cry from the woman who had tormented him 
so exquisitely earlier in the afternoon.    

"I can't find it.  I've looked everywhere."  Small, scared voice.  
Vulnerable, panic written across her pale face.  

He shouldn't have hit her, it wasn't her fault.  She'd been as stunned 
as he was when Bruce called, interrupted their play.  Terrified, she 
hadn't wanted to come back to the site, fought him when he tried to 
push her into the car.

"It will be all right, Maryann."  Daly was calm, knew he was safe 
despite the Brit's anger.  They needed him and he needed Maryann, 
especially after this afternoon.  His cock twitched at the memory.  
She just needed to listen to him and she'd be okay.  "Forget the 
chart.  I'll make up another one.  His Lordship will never know the 
difference, believe me."

A hint of the familiar sparkle in the blue eyes.  "I hadn't thought of
that."  The sparkle faded as she backed towards the door, watching him
warily.  "I'm leaving now, Marcus.  Bruce was right.  They'll kill 
us."

It was easy to stop her, catch one slim wrist and hold her still.  
"No. They'll kill him, not us."  She couldn't see it, had let Bruce 
scare her silly.  The coward had barely waited until they got back, 
had fled while he was talking to the Brit. "You're with me.  They need 
me.  There's no need to panic.  You're perfectly safe."  

He waited until she nodded before releasing her wrist, handed her one 
of the boxes from the desk.  She watched silently as he stacked the 
other two, picked them up together.  He surveyed the room, desk, 
floor, table, and chairs.  The lightbox and desklamp were expendable. 
 He had what they needed, all the paperwork.  The Brit had been 
adamant about the paperwork.

"Let's get out of here."  He didn't have to say it twice, she beat him
through the door.  Not that he minded.  It was one of his favorite 
views.







IT was Scully's fourth trip to the kitchen in twenty minutes.  Looking 
back at the living room, she half expected to see tracks worn in the 
polished floor, some evidence of her prowling.  

The smooth surface was unmarred.

The Post lay open on the kitchen table, next to an empty carton of 
yogurt.

Blackberry.  

That had been three trips ago.  

Running one finger around the inside edge of the carton, she idly 
flipped through the paper with her other hand.  National news, 
International news, local news, editorials, fashion, comics, she'd 
read it all or at least everything of interest.  She wasn't quite 
desperate enough to tackle the personal columns.  

Yet.
 
The apartment which had welcomed her so warmly on Wednesday was slowly
driving her batshit.  It was still raining, more weather than she 
wanted to run in but she needed to get out, do something, get away 
from the damn phone which had been ringing all day.  Friends of her 
mother, friends of the family, her brothers, all of them wanting to 
share how happy they were for her.  

Madison Avenue had nothing on Father McHugh when it came to spreading 
the word.  They should hire him for their next advertising blitz.  

Another page flipped as she licked the last of the yogurt from her 
finger.  

Julia Roberts was back, big hair and all, plastered across the movie 
page.  It had been ages since she'd gone to a movie, maybe that's what 
she needed.  If nothing else there'd be something other than yogurt to 
eat.  Her eyes scanned the showtimes.  If she left right now she could 
still catch the seven o'clock show. 

My Best Friend's Wedding, the perfect antidote for My Best Friend's
Funeral she thought wryly, felt her eyes sting.  Maybe not.

The phone rang in the living room, made the decision for her.  
Snagging her purse off the chair, she barely paused to grab a jacket 
and slip her feet into well worn loafers before she slipped out the 
door.  The machine picked up as she closed the door, locked it behind 
her.







THE cloud cover had increased, blocking out the full moon, as 
intermittent drizzle progressed to steady downpour.  Water poured off 
the edge of the flimsy overhang in sheets, fed the growing stream 
below.  Bits of debris, some natural, most of it man-made, the 
leavings of a society glutted on waste skimmed on the top of the dirty 
water flowing down the gutter.  

The water was lapping close to the lip of the concrete curb, 
threatening to spill over and drench the four men tucked under the 
shelter.

The smallest of the group turned a pock marked face towards the leader 
of the bedraggled band of men huddled against the wall.  "Rain's get'n 
worse, Cap.  Gotta move soon."  Flash of a gap toothed grin in the 
dark face as he added, "'Less you got a boat tucked away somewheres 
that you ain't told us about."

The man he'd addressed as Cap looked down to his left, at the man 
lying
close up against the wall on the concrete pad. Despite Cap's efforts 
to
shelter him from the worst of the rain with his larger body, the 
prostrate form was drenched by the moisture the wind whipped in under 
the roof of the plywood shack.  

Long lashes lay still against the pale face, features slack, unmoving, 
even when a particularly vicious gust threatened to tear the roof off 
the shed.   

Cap sighed, tried to think of alternatives, ones that would protect 
the
stranger at his side without endangering his friends .  "Got any 
ideas,
Hector?" he asked the thin man sitting at the edge of the shelter.  
Even sitting, the size difference between the two men was easily 
discernible to any onlooker.  As Cap shifted from butt to knees and 
turned to face the smaller man, he appeared to loom over him in the 
darkness.  "I'm open to suggestions."  

Slouched against the wall, Hector seemed to consider the question.  
The
steady thrum of rain on the fiberglass roof the only sound as seconds
stretched to minutes.  "'member that place Percy used t' crash, down 
at the old glass factory?"

"Yeah."  Filthy dirty as he recalled, but the basement stayed dry, 
even in the really bad storms.  "But how does that help?  Last time we 
went by there, it was all chained up, locked up tighter than your ex's 
thighs."  

A wheezy laugh cut through the shelter, as the bearded man to Cap's 
right cut in.  "Got you there, Hector.  How're you gonna get in there 
if you couldn't even get your old lady to open up for you?"  

Still grinning, Hector thrust his middle finger in the air, told them 
both what he thought of their humor.  "You ain't met my old lady, 
Digger.  Gettin' into that glass factory is a breeze compared to 
gettin' that bitch to put out."  The grin grew wider.  "Sides, I was 
talkin' with Marv last week and he let slip that the lock on the roof 
door is busted.  Looks like it's open for business again."  

Cap looked back down at the man by the wall, saw the lashes flicker
slightly. "Well that works for us, but I don't know about dragging him 
up there, not in the rain and all."  He turned back to Hector.  "Any 
chance you can get the basement door open from the inside?"

"Cap, why don'cha just. . .?"  Even in the dim light, Hector must have
caught the sudden frown, the hardening of his jaw.  "Sure, Cap, I'll 
go
check it out.  Want I should try an' call that chick again?"  

A peace offering, Cap recognized it as such.  "Yeah, Hector, that 
would be good. Don't forget to call both numbers.  Remember what 
you're supposed to tell her?"

"Easy," responded Hector, face growing serious as he recited, "Come 
alone.  Trust no one, Scully.  Then I tell her where to come get 'im." 
 He squinted suddenly.  "Odd name for a broad, don'cha think?  
Scully?" 

Cap ignored the question, reminded the other man, "And wait till 
you're sure it's her, Hector.  I don't know who this guy is but 
there're some bad looking dudes casing that joint he busted out of."  
He felt the body beside him stir, start to shiver.  "Hopefully she'll 
be there soon though 'cause I think this dude needs a doctor bad."

"Back in a flash," promised Hector.  Pulling the hood of his coat 
tighter around his head, Hector stepped out into the rain, made his 
way down the alleyway, taking care to avoid the worst of the puddles. 
 Despite his promise of speed, he seemed in no hurry.  

Cap could hear Hector's tell tale whistling, even after the slim form
disappeared around a corner.  Frowning he tried to place the tune, not 
one of Hector's regulars.  

"Secret Agent Man," the man at his feet whispered.  

Cap crouched down next to him, stared at the fever bright eyes.  How 
the hell had the guy known what he was thinking?  

A series of racking coughs shook the lean body, rendered the question 
moot before he could ask it.  Even if the guy could mind read, that 
particular skill wasn't going to help him now.

"Hey, buddy.  How're you feeling?"  He didn't really need to ask.  The
coughing seemed to have awakened fresh pains, had left the guy curled 
on his side with his right arm wrapped tight around his rib cage as if 
to ease the ache.  

Whatever the fuck was wrong with his left arm looked bad, real bad.  
Cap was afraid to touch the metal cage, didn't  want to jar the rods 
impaling swollen flesh, settled for shifting the old army blanket to 
better cover the patch of forearm left uncovered by the man's shift in 
position.  The shift left bare feet sticking out again but it seemed 
more important to cover the arm. "Feeling up to a slight move?" 

The man's eyes slid closed, opened again slowly.  "Sure."  He shifted
slightly, tried to turn onto his back, winced at the effort.  "Did you 
get, Scully?"  He paused, shut his eyes, took another shallow breath. 
 "Is she coming?"

Cap hesitated, considered lying.  The guy probably wasn't going to 
make it anyhow and he looked so hopeful.   But, no...feeling like a 
bully, he finally responded, "No, man.  No answer yet on either phone, 
but Hector's gone to try again."  He caught the disappointment, the 
raw misery before it was quickly hidden.  "Hey, you got anybody else 
we can call?  Maybe she's out for the evening or something?"

"Maybe," the man answered, didn't seem to believe it.  Cap couldn't 
tell what he was thinking, the reason for the dark frown, the flash of 
sadness, until the man continued,  "She may really be sick.  Maybe 
they weren't lying about that."
 
"That could be," Cap offered, feeling out of his depth, tried to 
switch the subject.  "So maybe we should call someone else, man, 
because I think you need more help than I can give you."  He gestured 
at the measly shack, the thin blanket.  "Not that you're wearing out 
your welcome or anything."

Another series of coughs cut off the answering laugh.  It took a few
minutes for the man to get his breath, whisper a response.  "Good 
point."  Gasping for air, he managed to choke out another number, 
brief instructions before he slid back into unconsciousness.

Taking off his own coat, Cap spread it out across the sleeping form,
repeating the number in his head as he worked.    He'd done all he 
could.  They'd try the other number.  Hopefully Hector would be back 
soon with an easy route into the glass factory.  Looking at the 
sleeping man, he wondered if he'd survive the trip.  

Digger was staring at him when he looked back up, puzzlement written 
across his broad features.
 
"What?" Cap asked.

"Did he say Frohickey?"  Digger asked.  "What the hell is a 
Frohickey?" 








THE van was dark.  It was worse than dark, it was pitch black, parked 
in the shadows between warehouses.  

The other van was just as dark.  They'd put Frohicke with Carstairs 
and Tom in that one.  It had been Skinner's own suggestion, because 
Mulder didn't really trust him, not by a long shot.

He still couldn't figure out why the silly bastard had named him 
executor.

All of which was irrelevant.  

A tap on his shoulder brought his head around.  "Easy, Lazarus," 
Greywolf's voice was soft.  "It's a go, they got the security system 
disabled.  Weird, though, the Deadhead says the place is as quiet as a 
tomb."

Weird indeed.  The whole fucking thing was weird.   Not all that much 
past sunset and the area was deserted.

Well, mostly deserted.   The usual smattering of homeless people for 
whom this area probably qualified as prime real estate.  Little bands 
of them scattered throughout the district.  Society's outcasts, mostly 
drunk, disabled, or drug addicts.  The three Ds.  

Greywolf had noticed them first, and his gaze had drawn Skinner's, 
both of them dismissing the groups as unimportant.  Not a target, not 
a problem.

Funny how old habits came back so easily, even after all the years.  

Greywolf edged past him, a big man hunched over because of the van 
ceiling.  Popped the back door open, letting in the cool damp air.  

Skinner followed him out, both of them moving smoothly and silently, 
taking the lead.

Richards came up behind them, carrying an Uzi, for God's sake.

Skinner didn't want to think about that.  He'd brought his own gun, 
but Greywolf had insisted on issuing him something anonymous, a Glock, 
rough along one edge where the serial number had been filed off.  Even 
though it had been uncomfortable, he'd finally taken it.  

After what they'd tried to do to him before, it was only good sense.

No shadows against the side of the building, the night was complete 
here. Until they turned the corner.  Still dark, there was 
nevertheless some leakage from the street, casting distorted phantom 
shadows, black on black as they moved up.

Another phantom detached from the far wall and moved toward them, pale 
smudge above resolving into Byers' face.  "Clear," he told them, an 
almost soundless whisper, and moved past, back to the van.  

Greywolf took the right side of the door, signaled one, two, three, 
and Skinner and Richards slid the heavy door open.  No tell tale 
sound, the thing slid up smoothly as if it had been specifically 
lubricated for their purposes.

Mac appeared soundlessly, deceptively graceful for all his bulk.  He 
raised a hand, gestured them in, taking up the rear as Greywolf 
slipped past him.

Skinner was already moving down a long corridor, dimly lighted.  
Silent. The atmosphere was--dead.  No sense of people moving, no sense 
of anyone at all.  Amazing how those receptors came back under stress, 
he noted distantly, remembering moving through the jungle, his skin 
nothing more than a network of antennae, telling him there were other 
living beings there with him.  Radiation of heat, movement of air, 
he'd never figured it out, but it was all missing here.

He stopped at the doorway, more light spilling out across the hall 
floor. Greywolf nodded, signalled, and Richards ghosted past on the 
far side, opposite the door, silent as smoke.

One finger, two, then three, and Skinner swung around, swept the room 
from the doorway.  

Empty of life, but it was a hospital room.  A reasonable mockup.   
Sheets torn half off the bed.  Scattering of debris, a plastic cup and 
urinal thrown carelessly in the bathroom sink..... 

"Fuck."  It escaped him, a hiss of a whisper.  

Greywolf looked at him, quick flick of a glance and went past.  After 
a moment, Skinner followed him.  Sick at heart, gut churning--

Empty room, cot with rumpled blankets, monitor showing the empty 
hospital room, one of Greywolf's people at the edge of the picture.  
Newspapers on the table, scattered as if someone had been interrupted 
reading them.

Empty office, lacking clutter, lacking any evidence of use other than 
the naked lightbox perched at the end of the long table.  But Skinner 
recognized it from the video, and from Greywolf's expression, so did 
he.

Empty kitchen.  Scatter of what looked like flour, bread crumbs on the 
counter, smear of mayonnaise or butter.  Nothing more.  

"Fuck."  Greywolf sounded tired suddenly.  "Sorry, Lazarus, they 
fucking moved him."

"Hey, Wolf, Richards wants ya."  Mac appeared in the kitchen doorway, 
still holding his weapon at the ready.  "Says he found something 
weird."

"Weirder than this?"  But Greywolf went, moving fast.

Richards was bent over the floor near the doorway of the hospital 
room. "Look at this, mon.  Blood smears and somethin' else.  Look to 
me like wheel marks."

Greywolf bent, pulled a penlight from his belt and shone it on the 
marks. "I'll be goddamned," he murmured.  "You might be right, 
Richards.  That's what it looks like."  He moved the light.  "Comes 
from the bed?"

"Look that way, Wolf.  There be stuff look like puke on the floor over 
there."  Richards rose.  "I think whoever it was moved that way."  
Thin arm, thin hand, signpost down the corridor back toward the door.

"If we didn't fuck up the tracks coming in," Greywolf agreed 
grudgingly, "We might be able to tell.  He moved the arc of light, 
whistled softly.

Skinner stood watching, rubbed his chin.  What difference did it make? 
So, they dragged the poor bastard out-he looked back at the empty bed, 
the empty room.  Something was missing.  Wheelmarks.  No table at the 
bed.

He and Greywolf looked at each other at the same moment.  "Could he 
have gotten himself out?" Greywolf whispered, sounding bemused.  

"If anyone could," Skinner told him harshly, "It would be that crazy 
bastard---Jesus, we drove right past the fucking thing."  

"Mac, get everyone in the vans, back down the road, that old bus 
shelter by the glass factory."  Greywolf's grin was antic.  "Let's go 
rescue your boy from himself, Lazarus.  It's raining out."

But Skinner was already ahead of him, long strides down the corridor.

He really was going to kill Mulder when they found him.



















HECTOR lingered at the bus shelter, watching the game.  Shivering, he 
eyed the rain streaming off the edges of the roof.  Thunder sounded in 
the distance, promising worse weather ahead.  He was thoroughly soaked 
from the climb up to the roof, but the door was busted, just like had 
Marv told him.  It had taken him awhile to work his way down to the 
basement, lots of visiting on the way.  It looked like he wasn't the 
only one Marv had told about it.  

The basement was mostly deserted when he finally got there, some rats, 
one of the crazies.  It had taken some work to pop the hasp off the 
door but it finally tore loose under his efforts, sent him sprawling 
backwards on his butt.  He rubbed a sorespot absently as Fisher moved 
a white knight, knocked over one of the Russian's pawns.  

He'd learned the names of the pieces, basic moves, but still didn't 
understand the game, not like Fisher and the Russian.  Fisher said it 
took years, claimed he'd been playing it since he was a little kid and 
was still learning but he beat the Russian every time.

The two men were intent on the game, seemingly oblivious of the storm 
going on around them.  "It's getin' worse, guys.  You sure you don' 
wanna move?  I could help ya with the chair, the table."  They'd 
adjusted the table, had it set between them, with captured pieces 
neatly lined up on either side.  "Good find, huh?" Hector added, 
pointing again to the table.  They'd had this conversation before.

Dark eyes flickered behind thick lenses, glanced at him briefly before 
moving back to the board.  Only the eyes moved, no shift in the hooded 
figure.  "I already told you, Hector.  We want to finish the game."  
The heavier man in the wheelchair didn't bother speaking, not even a 
grunt to show he'd heard.  No surprise there.  Far as Hector knew, 
he'd never said a word, English or Russian.  Fisher was the one who 
said he was Russian and Fisher should know.  Fisher knew everything, 
more'n the Cap.

Vague shadow across the board as the Russian finally lifted his hand, 
inched the black rook forward, kept his hand on it for a minute before 
releasing it. Hector squinted at the board, tried to remember what 
Fisher had told him about the rook, its moves.  It was getting hard to 
see the board, most of the light from the flickering streetlamp 
obscured by the walls and ceiling of the shelter.  

Movement down the block, someone shouting, hard to hear through the 
drumming of the rain on the metal roof.  He stuck his head outside, 
into the rain, winced as droplets pelted his face.  Digger and Cap, 
staggering slightly, a bundle slung between them.  He loped slowly 
down the street towards them, reached in to help.

"No."  Cap was gasping slightly, shifted his grip on the body as he 
shouldered Hector out of the way.  "We've got him.  Did you get it 
open?" Digger had the guy's legs, seemed to be having an easier time 
of it.  

"Yup."  Hector walked backwards alongside them, squinted down at the 
body.  "Is he dead?"  He looked dead, face all gray and slack, like 
that corpse they found by the tracks in April.  

Cap looked worried, hunched further over the body as he walked, trying 
to keep the rain off the dead face.  "Not yet.  Did you make the 
call?"  

Hector looked back at the shelter, the gamesters hidden from his view, 
flushed guiltily.  "I forgot, Cap.  I'll go do it now," he hastened to 
offer, catching the sigh of exasperation.  He pointed through the 
rain.  "Just another block, Cap.  The door's open."  Tore across the 
street to the payphone.  If he hurried, he'd be done before they got 
to the factory.

He punched the number into the phone, followed it with the other 
numbers the guy had given them, the credit card.  That had come in 
handy already.   He hadn't told Cap about the call to his brother but 
the Cap'n wouldn't mind.  Better not to tell him though, just in case. 



Someone had thumped on the phone good, left little dents all over the 
sucker but it still worked.  He'd made the call enough times he knew 
how many rings before the machine would cut in, was already moving to 
hang up when the phone clicked, a breathless voice spoke in his ear.  
"Hello?"

Brakes screeched down the block, by the bus shelter.  He rubbed a spot 
clear on the glass, tried to see what was going on.  "Hello?"  The 
woman's voice again, louder now, sounding annoyed.

"Yeah, hang on a sec."  Impossible to tell from here what was 
happening.  Screech of rubber on wet asphalt as a second van pulled in 
behind the first. "I'm looking for Scully.  Are you Scully?"  Most of 
his attention was on the action down the street only half listening 
for her response.

Long pause before she answered.  "I'm Dana Scully, yes.  Who is this?"

He turned back to the phone.  "I've got a message for you, from 
Mulder. . ."  

Shouts from down the street. Pivoting on one foot, he saw people 
running, more shadows spilling out of the vans.  "Shit."  He slammed 
the receiver down, felt it nestle in the cradle, was out of the booth 
and running full tilt across the street before he realized he hadn't 
given her the message.  Too bad.  He'd call her later.











DANA'S fingers were shaking badly, fighting her efforts to tab the 
button to off.  She finally got them to cooperate, threw the phone on 
the couch as if it was diseased, contaminated beyond salvage.  Arms 
clutched around her midsection she tried to still the tremors, the 
cries trying to break free.  

Some sicko's idea of a joke.  She knew that, had taken enough reports 
of similar incidents in her years with the Bureau.  Grieving 
relatives, targets for predators who got their jollies from feeding on 
other people's pain.  This was worse, had to be someone in the Bureau, 
someone who knew he called her Scully.  The thought made her ill, that 
they'd hated him that much, hated her by association.

The front door to the apartment gaped wide, still open from her mad 
rush to the phone.  She hurried across the room, slammed it shut, slid 
the deadbolt home.  Shivering, she flicked on the light switch by the 
door, moved to the kitchen, turned the lights on there, from there to 
the hallway, hitting every light switch in her path.  Even with all 
the lights on the phone still looked malevolent lying on the couch.  
It was tempting to shove it underneath the cushion, hide it.

Instead she collapsed into the chair next to the couch, hugged her 
knees to her chest.  The movie had depressed her, the phone call had 
just been the final blow to a rotten day.  She was still shivering.  
Stretching, she snagged the afghan off the couch, wrapped it 
carelessly about her body.  

Things would be better tomorrow.  She stared again at the phone.  Who 
would do such a thing?  

It was a long time before she could make herself move.  Rising from 
the chair, Dana turned her back on the phone, moved across the room to 
turn off the lights.  She couldn't think about it tonight.  She'd 
think about it tomorrow.















KNEELING between the two front seats in the van, Skinner saw the 
outline of two men carrying--carrying a body toward the darkened 
buildings that lined the streets.  Saw the other van stop and disgorge 
Frohicke and Langley.

"There!" he barked.

Richards had already seen them, slammed on the brakes near the bus 
shelter.  

Greywolf threw his door open--someone was shouting in alarm--Skinner 
spared a glance, went after Greywolf.  Two figures were hunched over a 
chessboard under the bus shelter.  Too big, too small, not Mulder.  

The shadows carrying the body disappeared into the gloom of the 
buildings.  A small figure darted after them waving his hands, 
shouting, Frohicke--Skinner swore under his breath and began to run.

Langley went after Frohicke, younger legs eating up the distance.  The 
circus analogy resurfaced as Langley disappeared as well.  More 
shouting, something crashing in the darkness up ahead, chaos, sharp 
contrast to the smooth silence of the earlier assault effort.

"Fucking amateurs."  Greywolf went past him, but not by a lot.  

Richards loped alongside him, looking enragingly relaxed.  Behind 
them, Skinner heard more shouting, heard Mac's voice raised above the 
din.

Not his problem.

Ahead, he could hear other voices echoing, the creaking cry of a door 
that hadn't been opened in a long while.

Greywolf sprinted ahead of him into the darkness, vaulted over spilled 
garbage cans without breaking stride.  Skinner followed, sharp twinge 
in one thigh as he landed, ignored it and pushed on.

The voices went more distant, hollower--they'd made it inside one of 
the buildings.

Skinner caught up, felt the beginning of a stitch in his side, too 
much goddamned time behind a desk.  They were in darkness, now, out of 
the reach of the streetlights.  

The door creaked again, opening a darker space in front of them.  

"Fuck."  Guttural growl and Greywolf vanished into it, swore again.  
"Watch your step, Lazarus, stairs down."

He slowed, cursed himself, and took the steps down just as fast as he 
dared. Faint glow of light ahead, he could hear Frohicke's voice low 
and urgent.

Greywolf stopped so suddenly that Skinner ran into him.  "Wait."  Low 
voice.

Skinner waited.  Frohicke's voice went conciliatory, still too low to 
make out.

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see more in 
the arc of the flashlight.  Saw a stick thin form lying too still on 
the floor and felt his stomach turn over.  Mulder, Jesus Christ, it 
was Mulder.  He looked dead, pale face, dark lashes spiky with rain.  
Lying in a soaked hospital gown and what looked a muddy trenchcoat.  A 
bearded man crouched at his side, eyes darting rapidly from form to 
form.

They hadn't gotten here in time, he was abruptly sure.

"It's okay," Langley, Jeff to Frohicke's Mutt in the shadow play.  
"We're the good guys."

Frohicke's head bobbed up and down, casting a lunatic shadow on the 
wall. "We're here to help him, we've been looking for him."

"We don't know that," growled the biggest of the derelicts huddled 
around Mulder as he looked past Frohicke and Langley, surveyed 
Greywolf's group.

A thinner man pushed through the group suddenly, slipped past Skinner 
before he could grab him.  "We seen these guys before, Cap," he 
interjected, pointing to Langley and Frohicke.  "'Member?  Turkey 
san'wiches, 'member the san'wiches."  

The big man scowled, looked down at Mulder, back at Frohicke and 
Langley, eyes sliding past them to gaze suspiciously at the men 
standing further back in the shadows.  

Frohicke nodded again, energetically.  "That's right, Cap, remember?" 
Frohicke was looking at Mulder too, quickly panned back to the big guy 
but not before Skinner caught the flash of despair. "And we've brought 
a doctor to help him."

Skinner had almost forgotten about Carstairs, glanced behind him to 
see the man standing silent by the door, eyes fixed on the body on the 
floor.  

A small sound from Mulder's throat and Skinner tried to push forward, 
came up against Greywolf's unyielding bulk.  

"Chill," Greywolf hissed, then sighed.  "I can't believe I have a 
dwarf negotiating for me."

Skinner opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.  "I prefer 
to think of him as a gnome."  It made him feel better to say it, but 
it got him a deadly glance back.  He ignored it, eyes on the Mulder's 
still form.

"Yeah," Langley was saying, sidling past Frohicke.  "Can we let the 
doctor have a look at him, man?"  Less restrained than Frohicke, 
Langley was inching forward, trying to get around the bigger man as he 
spoke.

After a moment, Cap nodded grudgingly, stepped aside. 

"I guess we won't need the guns," Greywolf muttered.  "They look 
pretty harmless."

Skinner prudently put his back in the holster.  Flipped the jacket 
over it. Hoped he'd set the safety right, he wasn't used to the Glock.

Carstairs brushed past him.  On the floor, Mulder made another pained 
sound.  His eyelids fluttered and Carstairs knelt beside him, turning 
back to give Greywolf one incredulous look before he bent back over 
Mulder.

Frohicke crouched beside Carstairs, speaking too softly for Skinner to 
hear.

Carstairs looked back over his shoulder and another man moved past, 
carrying a paramedic's case.  The nurse, Tom, he remembered him from 
the meeting.

The trio of homeless men had stepped back but the big man watched 
intently, relaxed as it became apparent that Carstairs knew what he 
was doing.

Skinner glanced behind, saw Richards and Mac ease back through the 
door with the gurney.  Greywolf's people thought ahead, no lagging 
back and waiting for orders.  He respected that.  Turned back and 
nudged Greywolf out of the way, moved to stand at Mulder's feet, 
hearing a paper thin voice answering Carstairs.

"I know you're hurting a lot," Carstairs said softly.  "We've got 
something we can give you, but I need to know what they've had you on. 
 Do you know?"

Mulder made that sound again, stared at the doctor, longing warring 
with suspicion in the dark eyes.  Relaxed finally at Frohicke's nod of 
reassurance.  "Yeah."  A ragged breath.  "Um, morphine."  

He'd seen dead men that looked healthier.  Mulder's hair was wet, 
spiked in all directions.  The hospital gown clung to flesh gone 
pallid with chill. Bruises and abrasions showed on the bare, thin 
legs, blood and dirt encrusted on one foot, and it was evident that 
he'd had one helluva shiner, one side of his face was still healing 
from its collision with the road.  Fever bright eyes were fixed on 
Carstairs, who held the good hand, fingers on the underside, counting 
the beats of Mulder's pulse.

Abruptly, unaccountably, Skinner's eyes stung, he glanced away, angry 
at himself, at Mulder, and most of all, at the smoking son of a bitch 
who thought he was still pulling the strings.



Tom rummaged in the case, latex gloves giving his hands a ghostly 
appearance in the dim light.  With swift movements, he retrieved a 
syringe, uncapped it, and lifted one corner of Mulder's gown, sinking 
the needle into the muscle of the lean hip.  More bruises and scrapes 
there.

Another painful sound, slight panic in the dark eyes.  Frohicke was 
still talking to him, too low for Skinner to make out anything more 
than the cadence.  

Capping the syringe, Tom rose, glanced briefly at Skinner and went 
past him, past Greywolf.  

Mulder's gaze tracked him, brushed past Skinner and came back.  Dark 
eyes widened.  "God," a movement Mulder shouldn't have made and his 
eyes rolled up briefly, fingers closing on Carstairs' hand.  "No!"

Frohicke bent, patted his shoulders.  "It's okay, Mulder, you're safe 
now." Louder, more forceful.

"No!"  Mulder let his head fall back, stared hard at Frohicke.  "You 
don't understand."  The eyes came back, showing fear and anger.  "You 
bastard," he told Skinner, still in that whispery voice.  "You were in 
on it."

Frohicke's head turned toward Skinner, eyebrows drawing together.  
"Who, Skinner?"  Spun back to look at Mulder.  "Mulder, he came to us, 
he's been working with us."

Langley had turned to regard Skinner with narrowed eyes.

"He was in on it, he was there in that...."  Breath failed and Mulder 
closed his eyes, dragged in air and began to cough harshly.

Skinner's stomach abruptly rolled, the sickening sensation of having 
the floor drop out from under him.

Langley had been looking back at Mulder, turned again, considered 
Skinner, Frohicke's frown only deepened.

Sliding an arm under Mulder's shoulders, Carstairs lifted him, 
snapped.  "Mac, Richards, bring me that gurney."

Tom appeared first, carrying what looked like blankets, the space age 
silver blankets of a more conventional ambulance.  Bafflingly, he 
handed Carstairs scissors.  Carstairs began to cut the sodden gown 
away, the snips slicing through the thin cotton with practiced ease.

Skinner looked away, feeling faintly nauseated.  They'd already fucked 
with his memory, given Mulder new ones, fake ones, convinced Mulder 
that he'd been there. God only knew what they'd taken from him.

It didn't bode well for the rest of this little enterprise.

The coughing ebbed finally, leaving the poor bastard gasping for air. 
"God."

"The morphine should be kicking in," Tom told him, low, comforting 
voice. "And we'll get you moved.  Excuse the scissors, Fox, we don't 
want you in that wet gown."  He was shaking blankets over the 
shivering form as Carstairs pulled the shreds of the wet gown loose, 
working in tandem, mere flash of bare flesh as thermal blankets 
replaced the wet cotton. Tom set the silvery one aside.

Mulder blinked at him.  Took in more ragged breaths.

Frohicke's hand was still resting on Mulder's shoulder, voice urgent 
now.  "When, Mulder?  When was he there?"  Langley had moved behind 
him, was staring back at Skinner, hostile.

"Today's Sunday?"  Confusion in the dark eyes as Mulder watched 
Skinner, feebly pushed Carstair's hands away as the doctor tried to 
calm him, make him stop trying to move.  

Frohicke nodded.  "Yes, that's right, Mulder, Sunday."

Thin gasp from Mulder as he shifted again, hand clenching on the 
blanket.  "Friday, Friday afternoon."  Still staring suspiciously at 
Skinner.

Nothing he could say, no way to prove to the man on the floor that 
he'd been in Washington Friday, busy maintaining the illusion that he 
had no knowledge of Mulder's true status.

Frohicke saved him from feeble excuses, jumped to his defense.  "He 
couldn't have visited you there, Mulder.  We were watching the 
building.  We have sketches of everyone who went in or out.  Including 
Senator Matheson."

Mulder's gaze moved back to Frohicke, slightly glazed, still feverish. 
"What?"

"He's clean," Langley assured him, looked back at Skinner with an 
expression that threatened violence if it wasn't true.

Frohicke glanced at Skinner, the flashlight catching on the lenses of 
his glasses briefly, obscuring his eyes.  "Very clean."  A tone of 
amusement, almost.  "Practically a boy scout."

Mulder's expression was doubtful.   

Skinner crouched at the bare feet.  Put a hand on Mulder's ankle very 
gently.  It might be a mistake.  It might not.  The sudden flinch and 
withdrawal told him it was.  He let go immediately, but not before he 
felt the tremble under his fingers, the chill in the damp skin.

Mulder's eyes came toward him, still wary, mistrustful.  "Mulder, it 
wasn't me."  Careful not to touch.  His throat felt tight, it made him 
angry again, made his voice brusque.  "I've spent the last two weeks 
trying to find you and get you the hell out of that warehouse.  
Typical, you couldn't even wait for us to rescue you."

For a moment, he wasn't sure it would work.  It didn't, not all the 
way. But Mulder's gaze lost some of that trapped look.  Only some of 
it.

"Okay, let's shift him onto the gurney."  Carstair's patience had 
expired, the voice clearly telegraphing that he was in charge now.  
"Wolf, I need you and Lazarus, just do exactly what I tell you when I 
tell you."  Carstairs gave Greywolf a fierce look.  He and Tom deftly 
rolled Mulder with the blankets, out of the rest of the gown, off the 
muddy coat.  Mulder groaned, his good hand knotting into a fist.  
Then, in what seemed seconds, the two had him swathed in white and 
silver.  

"You take his legs," Carstairs told Skinner brusquely.

"Time, Wolf," Richards snapped, from near the doorway.  "We're moving 
too slow."

"Gotcha," Greywolf nodded.  "Let's do it, guys, and get the fuck out 
of here."

It was done in a heartbeat, thankfully, and despite the morphine, it 
appeared that Mulder had passed out.

But the eyelids fluttered again, the eyes searched.  "Frohicke?"  
Faint voice.

"Right here, Mulder."  Frohicke's tone was warm, his voice almost 
gentle. "Right beside you.  They're going to take you to a safe 
place."

Mulder's eyes closed again.  

Throat still tight, Skinner led the way back out into the night.  
Byers was waiting by the van, holding the back door open.

Mac and Greywolf worked the gurney, lifted it almost effortlessly into 
the back of the makeshift ambulance.  Tom climbed in first, leaving 
Carstairs to turn, to regard both Skinner and Greywolf with something 
that looked very much like anger.  "He's in a lot worse shape than I 
expected.  Wolf, I'm going to need a portable X-ray machine, we can 
get that from Lacy.  Tell him I want it at the house stat."

"You got it."  

Rapid footsteps behind them and he and Greywolf turned, weapons drawn.

The thin ragged figure yelped and held both his arms up in the air, 
whatever he'd been carrying clattered to the ground.

"Sorry," Greywolf muttered and reholstered.  "Quieter operation than I 
expected, Lazarus."

Frohicke gave them both a chiding look and walked to meet the ragged 
man. Picked up the thing that had fallen to the ground.  Low voices 
again and Frohicke nodded, patted the other man and hurried back to 
the van.  "Here you go, Doctor," he told Carstairs, sounding weirdly 
gleeful.  "You wanted his current chart, it seems he brought it out 
with him."

Leaning against the side of the van, Skinner felt another headache 
coming on.  "Only Mulder."

Frohicke's grin was maniacal.  "He's a man who thinks ahead."

Carstairs snorted, climbed into the back of the van, already flipping 
through the chart.  Greywolf slammed the door, cut off his view of 
Mulder unconscious on the gurney.  Turned to look at the Lone Gunmen. 
"You and you and you, into the other van.  You, too, Lazarus.  Mac and 
Richards are taking him, I'll give you all a ride back to your cars."

For a moment, Frohicke looked mutinous, but Byers briefly clasped the 
smaller man's shoulder, moved toward the van.  Greywolf thumped twice 
on the back of the van and the engine flared to life almost instantly.

Greywolf smiled faintly at Skinner.  "So far, so good.  Don't take 
Jack too seriously, he's one of the best.  Your man's in good hands."

"How'd you get one of the best?"  Skinner rubbed his forehead, stepped 
away from the first van as it started to move.  Stared at the rear 
door, retreating tail lights as it moved rapidly down the alley, 
turned onto the street.

"Easy.  He lost his license about seventeen years ago, shooting 
smack." Greywolf's stride was easy, leading the way back to the other 
van.

Skinner stopped.  "He what?"

Greywolf glanced at him, chuckled.  "Do you really think I'd have a 
junkie on the team, Lazarus?  Shook him out of an alley, cleaned him 
up and out and gave him a job.  He's stayed clean since, and it hasn't 
been easy. Goes to those meetings whenever we're between jobs.  Even 
after all this time."

Skinner nodded, followed Greywolf through the alley, to the bus 
shelter where the other van stood waiting.  The chess players had 
left, taken the hospital table with them.  Something occurred to him, 
something he'd noticed before.  "And the other one--Tom.  Is he gay?"

"Does it matter?"  Greywolf cocked an eyebrow at him and opened the 
driver's side door.

Well, of course not.  Skinner sighed and opened the passenger door, 
got in and looked back at the Gunmen.  "Good work," he told them 
gruffly, his mind still on his absent agent, the botched but 
ultimately successful rescue operation.

Frohicke beamed at him.  Langley gave him a thumbs up and Byers simply 
nodded, looking weary. 

Turning back, he fastened his seat belt automatically, realized how 
ironic the action was and began to chuckle.

"Safety first," Greywolf grinned.  "Yeah, Tom's gay.  He keeps his own 
business to himself.  I never knew you to be a bigot, Lazarus."

"I'm not," Skinner told him dryly.  "I was just noting what a 
culturally diverse group you have."

"Especially with you and those three," Greywolf agreed mildly and 
started the van.

Letting his eyes close, Skinner reminded himself that it was only half 
the battle.  Getting Mulder back had been easy.  Keeping him alive, 
and making sure he had a life to return to was going to be a lot 
tougher.

And he was never going able to forget the fact that the silly bastard 
had essentially escaped on his own.  The next time the Director asked 
him why he couldn't control Fox Mulder, he was going to use this 
evening as a precise example of why.





CAP stood in the shadows, watching the van pull away.  

"They were careful with him, Cap.  And he knew the little guy."

Cap nodded absently.  "Called him Frohicke."

Digger's eyes widened in dawning comprehension.  "Oh, so that's a 
Frohickey?"

Cap looked at him, started to laugh.  "Yeah, Digger, that's a 
Frohickey."

Hector joined them again, still shivering in a combination of fright 
and cold.  "Those bastards had guns, Cap!"

Cap watched as the vehicle moved out of sight, turned in the opposite 
direction from the earlier one, disappeared into the night and the 
rain.  "Long as they didn't use 'em on us," he finally growled.  
"C'mon, let's get in out of this rain and try to get warm again."



End of Book 1

(Archivist's note--there is no Book 2, nor will there be, according
to the authors.)





AUTHORS' NOTES: Many thanks to Mo, Pat and Linda for their medical 
assistance.  Any medical errors are ours, not theirs.  Feel free to 
tell us where we've gone wrong in that department.  We're still both 
learning, primarily that we should have followed Mo's advice when she 
told us that people without medical backgrounds shouldn't try to write 
Charlie Traumarauma stories:) Thanks for trying to help us anyhow, 
guys.

Book 2 is still very much in the plans although Zoot and I have both 
gotten distracted by the ongoing demands of real life.  Clearly we've 
left some loose ends:) We've gotten a real education in why most 
writers avoid the whole conspiracy arc type stories.  Hopefully you've 
enjoyed this one and will come back to read Book 2 when it's 
completed.  We should warn you that this is shaping up to be a 3 book 
series.  There are a number of players still watching the game who 
have chosen not to jump in yet.

Additional thanks to Goo, who didn't kill us when we wouldn't let her 
read it or give us input:) We teased her mercilessly and she was a 
good sport through it all, allowing us space to follow our own muses. 



Comments, input, critical and otherwise are welcome.  We're both 
trying to sharpen our limited skills here so critiques are welcome.  
If you hate what we've done with the characters feel free to share 
that as well.  We had our reasons for shaping them the way we did, 
which we'd be happy to explain if you're curious.  

And, for anyone who's despairing about where we've left certain key 
people, remember the wise words of Ashleigh Brilliant, "It was all so 
different before everything changed."  

And a final note of thanks to Chris Carter for giving us such great 
characters to play with and for the contradictory and frequently 
irritating third and fourth seasons.   After all, it was frustration 
with the show that led to the birth of this story.