by Kassandra
kassxf@aol.com

website: http://home.earthlink.net/~harsesis/kassandra.htm

~~~
 

 Ferraud's expression was....peculiar. And it was only seven in the morning. Still unshaven, though he'd showered, Skinner put a finger to his lips, probably unnecessarily, and followed Ferraud into the corner.
"I have received a telephone call," Ferraud told him, his tone perplexed. "Mrs. Harrison. She has changed her mind. Again."
Skinner's jaw dropped. "What?"
Ferraud managed a shrug, classically Gallic. "Who can say? I had to tell her that we were somewhat delayed because of the difficulty with the treatment. And reminded her that we needed to retype the little one again, that the results were likely an error."
Skinner closed his mouth. Shook his head "This family is so--" Closed his mouth again sharply enough that his teeth clicked.
But Ferraud nodded as if he'd finished the sentence. "She is...apprehensive, but understands that now." He shrugged again. "She seems to be certain that the results are not an error, despite my explanation of why." A wry smile. "Perhaps her mother called her."
"I don't think so. Mrs. Scully talked her into waiting until she was calmer." Skinner kept his tone dry. He'd come to respect Margaret Scully's strength of will when Scully was missing, when she'd lost her other daughter. And never more than now, when she was instrumental in shielding Mulder from his mother's worst excesses. "She'll be here soon, I would imagine," Skinner added and smiled crookedly. "You got to deliver the bad news, I think you should deliver the good news."
Ferraud laughed. "I shall be glad to do so. Of course, we shall have to wake him."
"Ideally," Skinner agreed drily. "Thank you for telling me. It might save his mother's life when she arrives."
Ferraud's eyes glinted briefly with humour. "Surely you are not considering murder?"
Skinner nodded, grimaced. "It's crossed my mind." There were still no guarantees. The cancer still had to be beaten. But somehow, today seemed a little brighter anyhow. "Thanks again."
Another Ferraud shrug. "I am only the messenger." A brief assessing look. "How are you doing, Mr. Skinner?"
"I think you can call me Walter," Skinner sighed. "Christ knows, you know damned near everything else about us."
Faint grin. "The doctor's lot, yes? You look very tired."
"I've been better." Skinner grimaced. "Scully's taking the day off. She wants to get me out of here while he's in treatment." He rubbed his palms together unconsciously, nervously. "I don't like being gone."
"You cannot expect to be of support if you have nothing left," Ferraud told him practically. "Go with her. Get some fresh air. Have some lunch."
"Yeah. I know that. It's just hard to put into practice."
"I know," Ferraud told him gently. "But we have miles to go, yet. You cannot wear down before the finish line."
"Yeah." Skinner sighed. "Okay, lesson heard."
"Good."
He went back to the bed, stood at the foot of the bed and studied the man in it. So pale he was nearly the same color as the sheet.
Thought about Samantha and wondered again. Dismissed it. Moved to the side of the bed. Bent and pressed his cheek very lightly against Mulder's. "Hey, Fox, can you wake up a little? Dr. Ferraud's here."
Mulder's eyes opened, closed briefly before opening. Fighting his way toward wakefulness.
Skinner stepped back, listened with only half an ear to Ferraud's voice. Somehow, today, he could envision victory. Despite the fact that there were things yet unchanged.
And a long road of chemo and radiation still to go.
But he wasn't going to dwell on those things, dammit. They had a very small hope now. Maybe.
He could only keep praying.

Mulder came back from treatment looking worse, quelling Skinner's temporary optimism. They'd also inserted the parenteral tube, which gave him the inward shudders.
As pale as milk, Mulder didn't stir once they'd gotten him back in bed. Lay there, very still, barely breathing, and Skinner had to fight panic for a few moments when he wasn't sure Mulder was breathing at all.
Karen leaned over the bed, very gently touched his face, pulled the blankets up again.
Her face, behind the mask, was difficult to read, but even so, Skinner felt real terror chill him when he saw her eyes.
The cure was going to kill Mulder, he thought bleakly, long before the disease would have.
"I'm going to call Dr. Ferraud," Karen told him quietly, beckoning him away from the bed.
"He's bad, isn't he?" His mouth was dry. "How bad?"
"His vitals are still within norms, considering what we're doing to him," Karen told him and glanced at the bed, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. "But I don't like the way he looks. I want to stay on top of it." Almost apologetically, as if she didn't want to worry him, but didn't want to lie, either.
A distant part of him was grateful for that honesty. The rest of his mind was reeling, hating to face this, needing to face it. "Good." There wasn't anything else to say. Karen moved to the door, paused, then went out.
He returned to the chair, stared at his hands. At the cuffs of the gown he had to wear over his clothes.
Mulder couldn't take any more, that much was apparent, even to him.
"Listen," he said roughly, not even sure that Mulder was really awake. "Listen, I want you to know something." His throat hurt. "I know, you've given this everything you have, babe. You've been fighting all along. You've done everything you were supposed to." His eyes burned briefly, he forced himself to continue. "If you need to...." His voice cracked, he stopped, swallowed hard. "If you need to stop fighting, I understand. It's hard, you know, I want to hang on to you." And he couldn't see worth a damn, his vision was blurred all to hell and gone. "I want to keep you here with me. But this...this is too much. I can't ask you to keep on."
He didn't want to touch Mulder, knew it made the sickness worse to move at all, to try and speak, to try and move. But his hand reached out unbidden, he touched the back of Mulder's hand with a fingertip, featherlight. "I can't stand...I can't stand seeing you hurting this much." A whisper. "There's not a goddamned thing I can do except let you go. If that's what you need to do."
Mulder's hand turned, palm up. Fingers furled slightly over his. So thin. So fragile.
He clamped down, let the tears come, but didn't make a sound. Mulder didn't need to hear him grieve, not if it made the hurt worse. If it made him try to fight when there was nothing left.
That was Mulder's way, to fight and keep fighting. But he'd learned in war, sometimes you couldn't fight any longer. Sometimes, there just wasn't enough left.
Mulder's eyes opened briefly, just the flicker of a look. "....love you." Hardly any sound, any breath.
But Skinner knew what he'd said. Didn't have to lean close. "Yeah, I love you, too." Tried to smile. "Too much to put you through this any more."
Mulder's eyes closed. He left his hand there, almost no weight to the almost-clasp. Just warmth against the chill in Mulder's flesh.
Just rest, he thought, and bowed his head. Anger was the only refuge against this. He had to seek it out, find it beyond the grief.
And then, when this was over, he'd have the strength to find them. To make them pay. To make them wish they'd never heard the name of Fox Mulder.
And by God, there was going to be blood before he was through. Lawful or not, he didn't much care. Someone was going to pay.
And dearly.

 Tina Mulder knocked on the hotel room door, carefully composing her thoughts.
When Dr. Ferraud had first told her of Samantha's refusal, she'd been so angry that she'd been afraid to talk to her daughter. Afraid of saying things that could not be taken back, could not ever be forgiven.
But Samantha had called Dr. Ferraud the next morning, had changed her mind again, which made her wonder once more about Samantha's absent husband.
She had not, however, called her mother. Or called Fox, which was beside the point, Fox was in no condition to take calls.
But she couldn't bear to think about that at the moment.
She knocked again. Heard Kelly's voice, heard a low murmur in response. The door opened, revealing her daughter. Pallid, rumpled, wearing jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Eyelids heavy, bruised crescents under each eye--and a livid bruise and swollen lip.
"Oh my God," the words escaped, despite her best intentions, "Sam, what's happened?"
Samantha blinked at her. Touched her own mouth briefly. "Mom, how did you..." Her voice trailed off. "Come in." Then, summoning energy. "Kelly, look, Gran is here."
Kelly regarded her from the floor between the beds. Sitting with Jonathan, who was sucking his thumb apathetically.
What in God's name had happened? Entering the room, she closed the door. "Sam, what in the world--sweetheart, what's happened?"
Kelly went to her mother, clung to her hand. "Daddy's dead, Gran. The policemens came and told Mommy."
"And Grandpa had a doctor come and give Mommy some medicine."
She had never met Richard. But it froze her just the same. She studied her daughter, saw the marks of violence there. And carefully closed off the part of her mind that wanted to speculate. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured and took Samantha into her arms. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry."
Samantha felt as light as thistledown in her arms, frighteningly absent. God, what was she going to do? Maggie Scully--"Sit down, sweetheart. You can't stay here alone."
She was going to have to get Samantha somewhere better than a hotel room. Going to have to do something. Jonathan began to whimper. Walter Skinner wasn't going to welcome additional trouble. Not at this point.
"How is Fox?" As she eased Samantha down to sit on the foot of the bed, Samantha seemed to wake a little.
She paused, bent to pick up Jonathan. He stiffened in her arms a little, but made no protest.
God, things were always such a disaster in this family, she told herself bleakly, stroking Jonathan's hair.
Samantha stirred again, pulled Kelly into her lap. "Jonathan can save him," she told Tina. "Jonathan *is* Fox."
A statement so ludicrous that Tina stopped, stared at her.
A thin sound began, it took her a moment to recognize it as laughter, and Samantha covered her mouth with one hand, as if trying to smother it. "He's a clone, Mom. Fox's clone. Richard told me last night. He's my baby, he's Kelly's brother, but he's Fox, too."
It robbed Tina of strength, she sat down on the bed, staring at her daughter. Jonathan made a small sound, a fretful sound. And she looked at him, seeing with fresh knowledge the likeness between her firstborn child and this one. Not likeness--identical. She had only to reach into her purse, pull out the small album and open it.
Underneath the bewilderment, underneath disbelief, rage flared. They had dared this! And used her daughter?
Again and again and again, they had used her daughter. She wanted to kill someone. Jonathan's expression was tragic. As if he knew more than he could tell them. Or maybe just bewildered himself by the adult emotion in the room. "Hush," she soothed and cupped his cheek. Not Fox. Fox's...not quite twin, clone. Right down to those eyes, agelessly sad.
She pressed a kiss on Jonathan's forehead, something Fox would tolerate. If he were well. He could tolerate almost nothing right now. She held Jonathan against her, breathed in the baby scent of him, clean hair and skin. "It's all right, baby," she whispered and looked back at her daughter. Steeled herself. "Samantha, you cannot fall apart. You've got to be strong for the children."
Something flared to life in Samantha's gaze. "Like you, Mom?" Harshly. "I'd die before I let them take either of my children."
Right on target, Tina thought distantly, feeling the pain, the tearing of talons that never stopped. Like Prometheus chained to the mountain. "It wasn't my choice," she heard herself say.
Samantha's laughter was bitter. "Oh, how well I know that. But I made my choice last night." Her mouth thinned into a flat line and she rocked her daughter against her breast. "I didn't let them take either of my children."
It hurt more than anything should. She closed her eyes. Would not let herself speculate on what happened. They'd face it one step at a time, that was all. And Samantha had good reason for anger. She'd let Bill's involvement rob her of a child. Had not been there to fight for her children.
But never again. "You did what you had to do," she said more strongly, locking her own grief and guilt away, back behind the strongest doors, doors she'd strengthened on a night in November. Too many years ago.
Samantha's expression changed again, her eyes widened. And her mouth trembled. "Oh, God, Mom--" Her voice broke, she pressed her face against Kelly's hair. "I hate them. I hate them so much."
Reaching for the telephone, Tina prayed that Maggie Scully would know someone who could help with the children. Would have some ideas. Right now, she was simply too....worn. Watching her eldest child die. Watching her daughter's life fall apart.
God. There was no end to this, it was like some horrible Greek myth, not the tragedy of the Atreides, the tragedy of the Mulders.
Dialing the telephone, she kept Jonathan on her knee, unable to keep from seeing him with new eyes. Seeing him as her baby. As Samantha's baby. A weird double exposure that no one her age should ever experience. The Consortium--how interesting it made life.
And then Maggie Scully answered the telephone.

 Following the nurse's instructions, Samantha scrubbed well, put her arms into the engulfing gown. Put on the mask and looked at her mother questioningly. They both looked ridiculous, gowned as if for surgery, but it was evident her mother was accustomed to the routine, right down to the cap over her hair.
"There," her mother's voice was steady. "Now, sweetheart, I want you to brace yourself."
She nodded. He was very ill, her mother had said, far thinner and he'd lost his hair from the radiation. But it hadn't prepared her for how near death he looked.
Or that he was bone thin. As pallid as the sheets he rested on.
Bitter acid rose in the back of her throat. Dana Scully regarded her coolly over the mask, blue eyes as frigid as the Arctic wastes she'd seen on television. "Samantha."
Her brother's eyes flickered, opened. She could see the line between his brows. "Sam?" Puzzled tone.
She wanted to burst into tears. Wanted to shoot Richard all over again. Her father had told her that Richard was working for a group that wanted her brother dead, that they had infected him with the substance that had caused his leukemia.
She wanted to scream, to rage, to throw up. But she controlled it. Straightened her spine.
"Oh, Fox," mournfully and she went to the bed. Bent and kissed his forehead through the mask. "Richard wouldn't...you've got to hang on, I've brought Jonathan down, we're going to get you well."
"Sam--"
"No, just listen. Richard didn't want us to help you. But we are." She pressed her cheek against his, drew back.
He was expressionless. Staring at her. Then, finally, "Thanks, Sam. But they've got to kill the cancer, first."
"They will." She put strength into her voice, put hope into it. "I know it."
Faint twitch of the mouth. "Well, I hope so."
His eyes moved to their mother. "Hi, Mom." Wearily. Samantha stepped aside, let her mother kiss him. "You look better today, Fox."
"Marginally improved." Self mockery.
Samantha's eyes burned. Scully's hand closed around her wrist, drew her away. She saw flame in that Arctic calm, and Scully's voice was a raw whisper. "What the hell are you trying to do to him?"
"I'm trying to help." Her mouth was dry. "Richard--my husband is dead, he can't object now. I want my brother alive."
Scully's fingers loosened. Red-gold eyebrows drew together, angling downward. "I'm sorry." Far more gently than she deserved and her eyes stung. "I'm so sorry." Genuinely and Scully patted her arm, moved into a awkward semi-hug. "Oh, Samantha...."
She blinked fiercely. "Don't tell Fox. He doesn't need to know right now."
Scully nodded. "I agree."
"Where are the children?" Scully asked.
"Your mom found someone to sit with them."
Samantha tried to steady her voice. "Dana, thank you for being here with him." It was no use, her voice broke. She had to turn away, she didn't want Fox to see her cry.
Scully's hand closed over her own. "We've got a chance now," she murmured, "I really believe we do. If he's got enough strength, we've got a chance."
There was no answer she could make. But she prayed that Scully was right.

Samantha had come and wept. He'd been too sick and too tired to pay attention to it, had stayed indrawn, focused on one breath at a time.
His mother was there, as well, grimly talking to his sister. To Skinner. To Scully.
He wished she'd leave. And take Samantha with her. The crying was irritating.
And then suddenly, his mother was there, sitting beside the bed in Skinner's place, taking his hand. Even that small movement jarred him, he briefly and viciously wished she'd go to hell and leave him alone, but it got worse.
"You have to hang on, Fox." Sternly. "Don't you dare give up."
The anger flared again, a coal burning dully under his breastbone. And he couldn't speak to make her go away, his mouth didn't want to work, and his brain was clouded lately anyway.
It was clear enough to realize that she was perfectly willing to sentence him to more of this shit. When Skinner cared enough about him to let him go.
He tried to pull his hand away, found himself strengthless. Panic welled, he turned his head, gasping as a wave of nausea swept over him.
Her fingers let go. He took in a shallow breath, opened his eyes and found Skinner standing there, standing guard. "Her," he managed, "Out. Get. Out."
Skinner's eyes were all he could see. But he knew the way Skinner's mouth looked when he was angry. "Okay." Gently. "I'll take them back to the hotel, okay? Scully's here, she'll stay with you."
He didn't care who the fuck stayed, as long as it wasn't his mother. Letting his eyes close again, he breathed shallowly. Let his body settle again. Slowly.
And heard raised voices. Shut them out, not caring enough to try and listen to them. Sank back into the place where it was all distance and greyness. Where he could at least breathe.
Music came on. Mozart. Low and near his head. He followed the music instead, followed it until it carried him out of the room, away from the decaying husk of his body.

It had taken a fair amount of threat to get Mulder's mother to leave. Still furious, Skinner stopped by the nurses' station. "He's not doing very well." To Anita. Baldly.
She rose immediately. "I'll see what I can do." Reached for the phone.
He shrugged into his jacket and went the elevator. He'd managed finally to give Samantha the keys and directions to the car, and she had blessedly chivvied her mother out.
Mulder had been out again by then. He hadn't woken him. Had left him in Scully's capable hands.
But he was goddamned well told going to have more words with Mulder's mother.

They weren't in the car, they were standing by one of the pillars, talking to someone unseen. Frowning, he felt the night air brush his nape, chilling him to the bone, but walked in that direction anyway.
And saw him.
Standing there, arguing with Mulder's mother, cigarette in hand, a bright ember in the shadows.
Rage obliterated every other thought, every other consideration.
He had his arm across the bastard's throat, pressing hard, when he realized that Samantha was pulling at his arm, begging him to stop.
"Stop?" He threw Mrs. Mulder a vicious look. "This bastard is one of them. One of the ones who gave Fox the disease last summer. Who caused his leukemia." Hissed words. And Mrs. Mulder's eyes met his, he let her see his hate. "You bitch, you're dealing with him."
"Daddy didn't do it." Samantha took a step back, but her expression was suddenly doubtful. "Did you, Daddy?"
"Of course not." Choked voice. "Skinner, don't make a mistake you can't afford."
"I ought to kill you where you stand." The blood-red rage returned. "He's up there dying by inches and you have the fucking nerve to come here! You're goddamned lucky I don't have a gun."
"So is he." Mrs. Mulder's voice was eerily calm. "If you want Fox to live, Walter, you had better release him. He's the key, like it or not."
He looked at her, furious all over again. "What the fuck have you done?"
"Dealt with him." Her composure made him long to throttle her, too. "I want my son alive, Walter. You want him alive. Believe it or not," contemptuous nod toward his captive, "I think even he wants Fox alive."
He looked back into the bastard's face. Found a faint smile that made him long to kill. It was all he could do to step back. "What, some magic fucking chip? He'd rather die."
"What was done to him can be undone." The man stood, tapped another cigarette out. Lit it with a hand that only shook marginally. "It wasn't an authorized operation."
"Get the fuck out of my sight." Skinner felt dizzy, took another step backward. "If I see so much as your fucking shadow, you're a dead man."
The man looked past him, at Mulder's mother. Nodded. "I understand." Softly. And then he turned and melted back into the shadows.
Skinner watch him go, breathing raggedly. Why had he let him go? On the off chance that Mrs. Mulder was telling the truth for once in her goddamned life? Apparently. "Give me the keys," he barked, not looking at either of them.
A hand slapped them into his palm. "Now get in the goddamned car." Far from civilized. Far from honorable. But if he looked at either of them right now, he wasn't going to be completely responsible for his actions.
And when he dropped them at the hotel entrance, he said, without looking at Mrs. Mulder. "If you aren't right," he told her flatly. "I'll take you down with him."
There was a moment of silence. "If I'm not right," she murmured, "I'll welcome it."
And the car door slammed.

Ferraud came and examined Mulder as gently as he could. Sighed and shook his head. "We are going to have to wait," he told Mulder very softly. "I'm sorry, Mulder."
Faint twitch of Mulder's mouth, but that was all. He closed his eyes again, nodded so fractionally that it was nearly invisible.
Ferraud's hand was gentle on Mulder's skin. He pulled the blankets back up. "A brief respite," he sighed and looked at Skinner. Tilted his head toward the far corner of the room.
After a moment, Skinner rose, went with him.
Mulder, apparently, had drifted back into semi-awareness, semi-consciousness.
"He is very ill." Ferraud's voice was no more than a whisper. "We cannot continue. It is not a choice I like, but there is little point to killing him."
Skinner nodded. His eyes felt hot and dry, too much emotion spent earlier. "I agree, for what that's worth."
"I admit, these cells seem....prolific enough that I would rather not wait. I will be consulting with a colleague about Mulder, it can be helpful sometimes to finding a solution." Ferraud's tone was somber, dissatisfied. "There are some experimental treatments that have proven promising with other forms of leukemia. One of these may prove helpful, perhaps provide some ameliorative value while we wait for him to recover strength."
"He isn't going to make it, is he?"
Ferraud's eyes narrowed briefly. He heard the doctor sigh. "I had thought his spirit would carry him through. But I had also thought that the radiation and chemotherapy combination would prove more quickly effective."
Not an admission. Well, perhaps an admission that Ferraud didn't know at this point. Skinner nodded bleakly. "Okay, so we wait a few days. Then what?"
"We begin again."
The very idea made him sick. "If that's what he wants." Flatly.
Ferraud nodded. "Of course."
He nodded again. "Thanks." Still flat, still bleak.
He looked back at the bed, at the man lying so still. Felt his throat ache, felt his eyes burn again. So quenched, when he had burned so brightly. Always. Even at his most maddening, he'd always burned too bright for human frailty.
"All right," he said aloud, wanting to release Ferraud. Wanting Ferraud to leave him alone for what time there was left.
He moved back to his chair, to sit his vigil. Sat down and put his hand on the bed, gently drew Mulder's hand to rest atop it. Not squeezing, not holding as tightly as he wanted.
Letting go was the last thing he wanted, he wanted to rage, to roar, to beg Mulder to keep fighting. But he wasn't going to allow himself to do any of that. Not even in his imagination.
He was going to do what was right, he was going to let Mulder go, despite the grief that tore his gut to shreds.
"I love you," he said again, finding it was easier the second time. Words. Goddamned words. They were worth nothing, empty air and sound. But if that was all he could give Mulder was the knowledge that he was loved, but that he could go....blinded again, he used his free hand to pick up the book he'd been reading. Flipped a page with his thumb and began to read again, his voice very soft.

Heading out to his car, Jacques Ferraud's mind continued to worry at his problem patient. He was late for his date with Scully, but the blessed thing about a woman with a career like hers was the unspoken understanding that such things occurred.
A pity his ex-wife had never had that understanding.
Diverted from thoughts of Mulder, he found himself idly wondering what Danielle was up to these days while he fumbled in his coat pocket for his car keys.
Something cold touched the nape of his neck and he froze. Took in a breath. "My wallet is inside my jacket," he managed to say calmly. "I will reach inside and get it for you if you allow."
"I don't want your wallet." Raspy voice. Baritone. A smoker's voice, husky with the damage caused by tar and smoke. "Don't turn around."
He was most assuredly not planning on it. "No, of course not," he said evenly. "What is it that you want from me?"
"I don't want anything, Dr. Ferraud." A brief pause, the sound of a match being scraped to life. An inhalation. "In fact, I've come to assist you. You're dealing with something you don't understand in Mr. Mulder's case, aren't you."
Not a question. A statement. The hair on the back of Ferraud's neck rose slightly, he shivered. "How do you know that?"
"It doesn't matter how I know. What matters is that I convince you both that I know, and that I have reason to provide you with some assistance."
Ferraud took in another slow breath. Mugged by someone who claimed to have medical knowledge. Of Mulder. "We *are* having difficulty," he admitted. "We cannot bring the cancerous cells under control."
"Layman's terminology." Another inhalation. "That's fine, I'm not a physician myself. But I have very talented physicians at my command. And they've provided me with this."
A hand reached past him, Ferraud kept his gaze very carefully focused forward, on the top of his car. Watched as the hand place a long, narrow, styrofoam container on the top. No bigger than a carton of cigarettes.
"The dosage and schedule for the drug I've given you is also inside the container. I suggest you get it to refrigeration as quickly as you can."
Another drag on the cigarette. Ferraud could feel it, smell it as the exhalation wafted past him.
"You won't need to combine it with conventional chemotherapy, Dr. Ferraud, your conventional chemotherapy will have absolutely no effect on the remaining cells. And as for the radiation..." There was a contemptuous little cough. "You're going to kill him before the cancer does."
Anger flared in his belly, like hot coals. "If you knew this, why did you wait so long?" Fighting the urge to turn and confront the man. "Do you think I derive pleasure from watching my patients suffer?"
"Peace, Dr. Ferraud." The metal of the gun barrel pressed closer for a moment. Withdrew. "Just follow directions."
Footsteps moved away from him. Staring at the styrofoam container, Ferraud swallowed. Was it a cure? Or would it kill Mulder?
Scully had told him some things, just the sketchy report of things too bizarre for him to believe.
He found them less hard to believe at this moment. His fingers closed over the container. Lifted it. He supposed it was only wise to discuss it with her while he tried to decide what to believe.
What to do.
The thought of a cure was powerfully seductive for a man who spent his life trying to save lives. Almost too seductive to resist. But he was going to have to talk to Scully first.

~~~

Dana met him at the restaurant, still wearing her suit, looking crisp and professional, except for her red-rimmed eyes. "Hi." Soft voice as he gently embraced her. "I talked to Skinner," she confessed, her face still in his shirt, then drew away, her face composed.
Took her seat while he took his own.
"He is very ill," he admitted. Rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly exhausted. "Dana, something happened tonight."
He looked back at her, saw the brief flinch of terror before she resumed the mask. "Mulder?"
"No, no, I called from the car, he's resting, he's tolerating the parenteral feeding very well."
"What, then?" His mouth twitched. "I was....approached by someone in the parking garage. At gunpoint."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"He gave me something. Something for Mulder." He studied her face. "I did not see his face. I was careful not to, in fact."
"He put a gun to the back of my neck." he added, watching her expression shift.
The rest of the story had no less of an effect on her. "He smoked?" Her complexion had gone the same shade as Mulder's. "Oh, my God."
"Who is he?" Ferraud reached out, took her hand in his own. "Dana, what does he want?"
Her gaze went distant, seeing something he could not share. "I don't know who he is." She licked her lips. "But he gave Mulder the cure for my cancer."
He stared at her. "What cure?"
Slow blink and she turned her face away from him. "Oh, Jesus. What did he give you?"
"Twenty-four vials of some substance. To be given four times a day for six days. In place of other chemotherapy, in place of radiation."
Her eyes came back to him. "Did he tell you what it is?"
"No. Other than the assertion that it would cure Mulder."
She looked at him again. "I think we'd better go talk to Mulder."
He stared at her. "Dana, I cannot give him some unspecified substance because someone gave it to me under peculiar circumstances."
She licked her lips again. "Jacques, you need to talk to Evelyn Chapman, at the CDC in Atlanta. I think what he gave you *will* cure Mulder. I just don't know why he did it."
"I can't even *imagine* why he did it. I..I thought maybe he gave Mulder what he did to help me because he thought Mulder would...be out of control."
He considered that. "Evelyn Chapman," he repeated.
"She worked with the Army doctors when he was so sick last summer." She looked up as the waiter approached. "Jacques, we need to talk to Mulder now. We'll have to get dinner later."
The urgency in her voice fitted too perfectly with his own apprehensions. Nodding, he rose again. "Very well. But I am not sure he is really well enough right now to understand."
"We have to try." Her jaw set.
"Very well," he agreed. Put his hand in the small of her back and guided her to the lobby.
Mulder was, as Jacques had said, pretty well out of it. Fuzzed on morphine and thick-headed as a result of the radiation and chemo.
But he woke up enough to hear her out, to hear Jacques out.
Skinner's expression was furious and disbelieving. "Those bastards!"
Mulder blinked at her, frowning slightly. "He said it would cure me?" Huskily. The ghost of a voice.
His frailty terrified Scully. For the first time, she understood the rage and terror he'd shown over her illness in a visceral way, understood his denial and anger.
She didn't want him to die. If he died, she was going to have to make sure someone paid. Somehow. And remembering the man who had murdered her sister made her skin prickle with gooseflesh. She'd nearly killed him, had ached with the desire to pull the trigger.
She nodded tightly.
"I cannot simply give you something unknown, Mulder," Ferraud's voice was gently. "It would be criminal."
"Scully," Skinner spoke through clenched teeth, "Do you believe this?"
"I looked at the instructions, sir. They were prepared by medical personnel. They're very detailed, listing possible side effects, as well as indications that the drug, whatever it is, is working." She wanted to sit down, her legs felt wobbly. Forced herself to stand instead. A small penance. A small sacrifice. The nuns had always told them to offer small discomforts up to God--if she thought it would earn Mulder one more day, she'd gladly offer up more.
"Is it going to make me bleed green?" Mulder's voice was a rasp. "Do it, please. Anything is better than this."
Her eyes stung. Skinner looked away. His jaw worked silently.
She looked away from him. "Well, I don't know, Mulder. It might." Forcing humor. "It could be monkey pee after all." Scully hated having to come in here masked and gowned. Hated the fact that Mulder couldn't see her smile. Couldn't see anything but their eyes. But maybe there was truth in that.
His mouth curved, a terrible death's head grin. "What have I got to lose?"
Skinner turned back, his expression awful, grief-stricken and angry in equal parts. "It's your choice," gently, far more gently than she'd have guessed he could.
Mulder's eyes moved to him briefly. "I know it's my choice." Faintly irritated. "And I say do it." His gaze fixed on Ferraud. "I want you to use it."
After a moment, Ferraud inclined his head. "I want to test a small amount, Mulder. I cannot in good faith, in good medical practice, do otherwise."
Mulder's eyes closed, his chest rose and fell so slightly that Scully felt her eyes burn. "Fine. But we aren't going to do anything else. This is killing me. The leukemia is killing me. Between the two, I'd take the leukemia. No more. No more chemo. No more radiation."
Skinner turned away slightly, but not before Scully saw his eyes. It nearly undid her. She forced tears back. "Stubborn," she told him softly.
"My life." He looked at her, anger fading, seeking, desiring understanding.
"Yeah." Reaching, she took his hand gently, no more than a touch before releasing.
His eyes closed. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Leaning down, she kissed his forehead. "Rest, Mulder." Husky-voiced herself. Repressed tears.
And then, before she could lose that fragile control, she fled.

 "So far, 4% of the experimental animals survived the virus," Evelyn Chapman's voice was terrifyingly serene. "Of that number, all have developed this leukemia. Of *that* number, none have responded to our chemo and radiotherapy protocols. We managed to keep one animal alive longer when we biopsied the dead animals and realized that the leukemic cells weren't responding to the protocols, we added an additional period."
"And?" Ferraud was making notes, she'd been very good about giving him details of Mulder's illness in the summer.
"And it did kill the remaining leukemic cells." Almost reluctantly. "But the animal didn't survive."
There it was, a knell to Ferraud's last hope for avoiding the mystery provided by a smoking man in the dark of a parking garage. He had two choices: refuse to use it in the face of Dana Scully's near certainty, Mulder's certainty; or use it and risk consequences he could not imagine. "Toxicity?"
"Essentially, yes." Chapman sighed. "How is he?"
"Not good at all." He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his forehead. "Thank you, Doctor. I have some thinking and reading to do."
"Good luck," she sighed. "I'll pray for you and for him, Dr. Ferraud."
"Thank you," he told her and hung up. Rubbed his forehead again. He was going to need more than luck. And maybe the vials in the refrigerator would answer that need.
He just had to make a decision.

Skinner woke, started awake to see Mulder lying still. It terrified him, each time he slept, waking to see Mulder's position unchanged. Pushing himself up from the cot, he dry-scrubbed his face with both hands and got up, made his way to the bed.
Still breathing. Shallowly, but still breathing.
Bending, he touched Mulder's cheek. Hating the mask he had to wear.
Mulder's eyelids flickered, opened. "Hi." Huskily. "Could I have some ice?"
Had he been awake all this time, Skinner wondered, feeling a pang. "Sure, babe. How are you doing?"
Faint twitch of the mouth. "Better 'n last night." Thickly.
The morphine was keeping him pretty snowed. He stroked Mulder's cheek again. Turned to examine the pitcher and felt relief and gratitude. Someone had brought a fresh pitcher earlier, he couldn't believe he'd slept through it.
Small spoonfuls, but Mulder took it gratefully.
He doled each out carefully. Watching Mulder's face closely for clues. "Good?"
Another twitch of the lips. "Excellent." He opened his eyes and gazed at Skinner. Sucking on the ice. Another brave effort at a smile. "Hey, the good thing about this tube--I never have to stop for fast food again."
Skinner's eyes burned briefly, he forced himself to smile under the mask, knowing that Mulder could see the shape of his face change, even if he couldn't see the smile. "More efficient time management."
"Uh huh." Mulder's hand reached for his free hand, curled around it. "'S enough."
Skinner put the ice aside, kept Mulder's hand folded gently in his. "Definitely a little better today, I think."
This time, the smile was more than a twitch of the mouth. "'S long as they don't take me back to Hiroshima." Drily.
Skinner's stomach knotted. "Listen, Fox....Are you sure about this stuff? When have these people been your friends?"
Mulder's eyes, too knowledgeable and too wise, held his. "They don't want me dead. I don't know why." A sigh, without much strength. Skinner could see him gathering more, just lying there, breathing slowly, shallowly.
He wanted to argue, wanted to shout and rage and....but he couldn't. It wasn't his life, it wasn't his choice. He'd known that yesterday, letting go. But it was so fucking hard, when today Mulder had more strength, the impulse was strong to take it all back, to demand that Mulder fight.
It took all his own strength to simply nod. "Okay."
Mulder's eyes, so freighted with emotion that it made Skinner's vision blur. "Hey, Walt." Weakly. "I love you."
Hanging on by his fingernails, Skinner nodded. Cleared his throat. "Oh, yeah, I love you, too, but you'd better goddamn know that."
Faint smile again. "I suspected as much."
Christ, he never wanted to care about anyone again, it hurt too goddamned much to lose them. Instead of giving way to this sentiment, he gently squeezed the frail hand in his. "Good."
"And if this works, you'll be stuck with me." Faintly, but with those eyes still holding his.
"If this works, you'll see me at High Mass in the National Cathedral." Drily.
A cough, a whisper of sound that must have been laughter and Mulder gestured for more ice.
Skinner carefully spooned up a small mouthful, watched closely as Mulder let it melt. Swallowed.
And finally, "If this works, Walt, I'll be right there with you."
It made him smile when he would have bet nothing could. "It's an X file."

Gowned and scrubbed, Scully hesitated, bracing herself. Then moved into Mulder's room, shoulders back. But he was lying with the back of the bed slightly elevated, gazing with glazed eyes at the television.
Stubborn bastard. Her eyes burned, she had to blink to clear her vision, discovered that Skinner wasn't there. "Hi, Mulder," she said, false cheer in her voice.
His head turned slightly. "Hi, Scully." Faint smile, if you could call it that. More around his eyes than his mouth.
"Hey, I brought you some more music," she told him.
"I need to talk to you." He ignored this, ignored the CD she held. "It's important, Scully."
She immediately sat down beside the bed in Skinner's chair. "Where's Skinner?"
"I sent him out on a bogus errand. He needed to get away for a little while." His eyes were the only part of him that still....that still looked like Mulder. Blazing fiercely. "Scully, I need you to make me a promise."
Her stomach rolled into a knot under her breastbone. "Mulder, don't--"
"Shut up." With more strength than she would have expected. "Please." Contritely. "I don't have the energy, Scully. Please."
Oh, God, it hurt. "If this involves Phoebe, forget it." Tartly.
Faint twitch of the mouth. "It doesn't."
"Good."
"It's about Walt." His eyes closed briefly, he was silent for a moment. "I can't ask anyone else. Mom is...she's got her own stuff. But if this doesn't work, if I don't make it, I need you to take care of Walt."
The idea boggled her. "Okay." Carefully.
His mouth twitched again. "Yeah, I know. He's the big tough guy. But he isn't, Scully, I'm scared. I'm scared of dying and I'm scared of what it will do to him."
His eyes were too bright abruptly, she wouldn't have thought he had the strength for grief.
Hurriedly, she took his hand. "I will," she said quickly. "I will, Mulder, whatever I can do." She thought she saw relief.
He nodded fractionally. "But you gotta be careful about it, Scully. He won't want you to."
That was probably a typical Mulder understatement, she reflected, amused in spite of herself. "I'll be sneaky."
He squeezed her fingers weakly. "You'll have to be, Scully. "And listen, I changed my will before I came back in. I didn't tell him. You gotta keep my mom from going apeshit." Weakly.
By which she suspected he'd left most of what he had to Skinner. She nodded.
"I set up trusts for Sam's kids." He was tiring visibly. Hard to form the words, to get them out. "What's left goes to Walt." Faint flicker of a grin. "Except for some bequests to my partner."
Anger squeezed her knotted gut. "I don't want bequests, I want you."
His eyes closed briefly. "Doin' my best." Flatly. "And I don't want him feeling responsible. If this doesn't work....it was my choice, Scully. I don't want either of you feeling responsible."
That was it. She looked down at his hand, unable to keep from crying. Silently. No sound to make it harder on him. Bent over and pressed her cheek to his hand. God, how could friendships be this complicated? Sometimes, she wanted to strangle him. Other times...."Okay." Choked voice. "Okay, I'll do my best, I swear it, Mulder."
A sigh. "Thanks, Scully. I knew I could count on you."
Raising her head again, she fixed him with a look, never mind that she could barely see him. "Now rest. You want me to read, or is the tube holding your interest?"
Faint phantom of a ghost of a grin. "The tube for now. Just sit there, 'kay."
So she sat. Watching one of the worst movies she'd ever seen, holding his hand for dear life. Praying with all the strength that remained with her childhood faith.

Ferraud took charge of the treatments himself because, as he'd said grimly, he didn't want anyone else blamed if they failed. Or worse, he'd added, if it made matters worse.
Mulder braced himself for the burning or the taste, something he hadn't been able to get used to, which had only gotten worse with each chemotherapy session. But it didn't happen.
"That's it?" He eyed Ferraud, who was watching him closely. "I don't turn green or anything?"
"You're too pale to turn green, Mulder," Scully told him, "The best you could do would be sort of an iceberg lettuce color."
He almost managed a grin in response to that, looked at Skinner, who was standing tensely, arms folded. "Hey, this isn't bad at all. No taste, doesn't burn."
Ferraud made a noncommittal sound in his throat. "Now, we wait, we make certain you are not allergic to anything in this mixture."
Mulder glanced at Scully, saw the worry in her eyes. "I was allergic to what they shot me with in Mississippi."
"I know." Ferraud's sigh was audible. "But we shall see."
He nodded, feeling thickheaded and blurry from the morphine. Just talking took so much goddamned effort. Sighing himself, he turned on his side, eyelids heavy, held out one hand palm up.
Skinner was there in an instant, pulling his chair close. "Hey." Softly.
"This isn't bad," he muttered and let his eyes slide closed. "Wake me up if I'm allergic." Blurrily, the morphine they gave him for pain kept him pretty badly fuzzed. But not so fuzzed he didn't feel Skinner's hand around his own as he sank under again.

 After twenty minutes, there was no sign of a reaction to the substance. Scully let her breath out on a sigh, risked putting a hand gently on Skinner's shoulder. "Looks okay," she murmured and looked briefly at Ferraud, who nodded, his expression still somber.
He nodded, glanced at her. "Thanks for being here." Roughly.
"Wouldn't be anywhere else," she told him truthfully and squeezed lightly before lifting her hand again. "For what it's worth, I think it will work. They wouldn't bother to give him anything fatal, he's already dying."
"That's what I keep telling myself." Skinner's tone was dry.
"As do I." Ferraud made a noncommittal sound. "Well, we have begun. We must hope that we have not been misled, that this is indeed something inimical only to the leukemia and not to Mulder."
Mulder's eyes cracked open, just a slit. "Not s'posed to talk about somebody when they're there."
She forced herself to smile, knowing he could recognize it even through the mask. "We wasn't sure you *were* there, just at the moment."
"Never know." Mulder's eyes closed briefly again. "So, did I turn green yet?"
Ferraud snorted.
"I'm not worried about you turning green," she told him, "For all we know, it's monkey pee, Mulder." Amazingly, his mouth curved slightly. "I don't think that would turn you green. Me, maybe, but not you."
"Don't make me laugh, it hurts." He turned his head slightly, still trying to smile. "Can I have some ice?"
Skinner reached for the insulated pitcher. Scully patted Mulder's knee lightly through the blankets. "Listen, I need to get over to Quantico. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Later." He turned his head back, accepted a spoonful of ice. "Mmm." A weak wave, more a lift of his hand.
"Later," she said and blinked hard against the prickle of tears. God, she hoped.
"As will I." Ferraud glanced at the clock on the wall. "In six hours, Mulder."
"Six hours less twenty minutes." Mulder's mouth curved again.
Another quick look at Skinner and Scully moved toward the door, after Ferraud. Not wanting to leave. And having little choice.
Only Ferraud's arm around her shoulders gave her the strength to do it at all. That and her certainty that the smoking man didn't want Mulder dead.
She hoped her certainty wasn't just hope.

 Dozing in the chair, Skinner started awake at a sound from the next room, stood up and walked to the door to see Frohicke, looking odder than usual in mask and gown as Karen tied the gown at the back for him.
A little rocked, he nodded acknowledgement when Frohicke's gaze met his, moved back as the little man ventured through the door, his movements cautious. "How is he?"
Skinner shrugged wearily. "Better today than yesterday. But still pretty damned sick."
Frohicke's eyes found Mulder, he heard a soft intake of breath. "Jesus." Very softly.
"Yeah." Skinner was dry. "He's in and out, have a seat."
Frohicke sat. "We've got some material for you. I think it's something you can take to the Bureau, for what it's worth, but I'm not sure how much action you'll get on it."
"You think the Bureau's that dirty?" At this point, Skinner was willing to believe it. At this point, he was willing to believe that the mystery substance would cure Mulder.
"I don't know," Frohicke told him bluntly. "But it's worth trying. You've done the groundwork on the attempt in July, you have the medical evidence. It's worth the effort."
Skinner nodded. "I take it you didn't bring it with you?" That got an incredulous look. "You didn't bring it with you." Flatly. "I'll try and get away to pick it up tomorrow, then."
"Great."
Mulder stirred slightly, cracked on eyelid open. "Walt?" Muzzily.
Skinner was up in an instant, over near the bed. He touched Mulder's cheek lightly. "Right here."
"Mmm." Mulder closed the eye, swallowed hard. "You know what I'd love?" Wistful, despite the grogginess. "One of those stupid shaved ice things. I wonder if it would hurt my throat?"
"We can sure try," Skinner told him, wondering dimly where in the hell he was going to find shaved ice in December--Christ, he'd missed Christmas, it was nearly January.
But no, he hadn't, he discovered, checking his watch, it was only December 19th, Christ, he was cracking up. But it wasn't going to be any easier to find shaved ice.
He looked at Frohicke, suddenly a little desperate.
Christ, Mulder hadn't asked for anything, except maybe to stop throwing up. "Your buddy Frohicke came to see you," he told Mulder absently, trying to calculate, trying to think. If he had to go buy one of those goddamned machines and put it in the nurses lounge, he was going to find shaved ice. "What flavor do you want?"
Mulder's eyelids flickered. "Anything but strawberry."
"Or kiwi," Frohicke put in, "It's nauseating."
"God." Mulder swallowed again. "Don't say that Frohicke. This is the first time in days I haven't thrown up my toenails."
"Sorry." Frohicke said, genuinely apologetic. "It's just cloyingly sweet."
"Why don't I go get you some while Frohicke's here?" Skinner touched Mulder's face again, trying to distract him. "Lemon? Lime? I'll check, make sure that they aren't acidic."
"Banana." Mulder licked his lips. "That sounds good."
"You've got it." Skinner nodded at Frohicke, paused on the way to the closet. "Can you stay until I get back?"
"Yeah. You know where you're going?" Frohicke's gaze was wise behind the thick lenses. "There's a place in Georgetown, open all year. Serves cappucino **cappuccino**, too, some combination."
Skinner shook his head. He could get the machine later. It would be handy to have. "Can't. It's got to be sterile." A little desperately. He looked back at Mulder. "I'll find some. And I'll be back soon."

 Karen proved to be his savior. Fruit juice combined with flavored, diluted gelatin over the crushed ice, a large cup of it.
He returned feeling jubilant, having tasted the sample Karen had given him. It was flavorful, it was mild, and God, he hoped Mulder could tolerate it.
Mulder was half-awake, Frohicke was playing with the laptop--optimizing it, no doubt, Skinner thought drily. Mulder's head turned, tracking him once he got in the door, gown and mask and cup.
His mouth curved. "Didja find some?"
Skinner nodded. "Yup. Or at least a reasonable facsimile." He smiled beneath the mask. Hooked a foot through the leg of his chair and pulled it close. "Can I raise the bed just a little bit? I sure as hell don't want to drop this down your neck."
Mulder nodded, shifted slightly as Skinner raised the bed about 30 degrees.
Skinner eyed it. "Too high?"
"No, that's okay." Another near smile.
He treasured them these days.
And Mulder's eyes closed with the first bite, he made a sound that reminded Skinner of better days, those hilariously satisfied sounds Mulder made while eating. "Oh, that's good." Faintly.
Skinner's throat tightened. "Good deal. Doesn't hurt?"
"Nope." Mulder accepted another bite.
Christ, it was the first thing he'd taken by mouth except for plain, unvarnished ice chips since the third day of chemo. Skinner felt renewed hope.
Please God, let this mystery shit work, let it kill the cancer cells so that the damned transplant could be done.
Each bite took time. Mulder let it melt in his mouth and trickle down his throat. But even that much progress was something to applaud. Something to take strength from.
Frohicke shut down the laptop. "There you go, Mulder. It should run faster for you now."
Mulder gave him a sidelong look. "It's not exactly a priority," he told Frohicke rustily. "But thanks."
"You'll want it soon," Frohicke told him stoutly, hopefully.
Skinner nodded approval at him.
Rising, Frohicke peered into the cup, shook his head. "Gotta go, Mulder. You want anything? I can stop by tomorrow?"
"Yeah, I want the heads of the assholes who did this to me." Mulder's eyes blazed momentarily.
"You got it." Frohicke's tone was flat suddenly. "We're looking, Mulder, believe me." A quick glance at Skinner. "Believe me."
But the energy had burnt out already. "Good." Another bite of the shaved ice and Mulder raised a hand. "'nough."
Skinner looked into the cup. Not quite a quarter of it gone, but it was a start. "Want me to see if they'll put it in the freezer?"
"Sure." Mulder was fading again, visibly, eyes heavy. "Thanks, Walt."
Frohicke nodded and deftly abstracted the cup from Skinner's hands. "I'll see if they will, I'm leaving anyway. I'll try to come by tomorrow."
"Thanks." Mulder's eyes closed, Skinner pressed the button to lower the bed again and saw Mulder's mouth curve slightly again. "God, that was good."
As Frohicke vanished through the door, Skinner leaned over the bedrail, brushed his mouth over Mulder's temple. "Good. You just give me the word if you want more."
"Will do." Blurrily again, already sinking down into sleep.
Skinner watched him, watched him withdraw until he was back in what Scully called the grey place. Not truly asleep, but not awake, either. A place where there wasn't any nausea or pain or exhaustion.
Letting him go was hard, but this, at least, wasn't permanent. And was the only real gift he could grant.

The next few days were calm, quiet. Mulder slept a great deal, rousing occasionally to complain of thirst.
Skinner took the opportunity to meet Scully for lunch, while Mulder's sister and mother were sitting with him, talking quietly to keep from waking him. He'd picked up the material that the Lone Gunmen had gathered. And while it was interesting, he couldn't investigate it. Not any more.
Scully, however, could.
The restaurant was nearly empty, the lunch rush having passed through like a whirlwind. Scully was seated at the back, her head bent as she read something. A file, he saw, coming up to the table.
"Hi," he muttered, noting the X on the tab. "Still weeding out the files?"
She lifted her head, a little startled. Smiled faintly. "He won't let me stop, I'm afraid. He asks how it's going every time I'm in there."
He nodded, understanding that too well. "I've got something for you. Frohicke dug it up for me. Or rather he and his friends did."
She took the manila envelope he held out. Opened it and pulled out a sheaf of computer printout, frowned at it.
"They've traced the virus back to some research done by Technogenetics, a small private research facility with some government funding." Skinner leaned back as the waiter approached, took the menu and waited until the waiter had vanished again before continuing. "They've got the financial trail mapped out. Now, the question is the who."
She nodded, already reading. "We have no idea of who did this to him," she sighed, "But the link with the engineered virus is certainly suggestive."
"Yeah." Skinner eyed the menu, pushed it away. A bowl of soup would do fine, he thought distantly.
"Find out if any of the employees at this research facility happened to be in Mississippi last June. Check the phone records. You know the drill, I don't need to draw you a picture."
She was still reading. "Oh, yeah."
When she finally looked up, there was a feral quality in her eyes. "Oh, yeah, we're going to go over these guys with the proverbial fine toothed comb, sir."
He nodded wearily. "Be very careful, Scully. Very, very careful. Don't set off any triggers, don't..." He hesitated, so tired he wasn't sure that what he was saying was even right, "Don't go by the book, Scully. Do what you have to do, but be damned careful."
Her expression was.....completely flat. She nodded, put the papers back into the envelope. "Don't worry." Fiercely. "I'm not going to take any chances."
He hoped to Christ not. And that was all he do at present. His mind was still back in the hospital room, hoping that Mulder's mother wasn't driving him crazy, that his sister was paying attention when Mulder stirred, that she had the ice water ready for him.
And even as he thought that he realized how narrow-focused his world had become. Focused on those moments when Mulder was....almost Mulder again. Trying to make jokes, trying to be in the here and now instead of the grey place Scully had told them about. He ordered soup and ate it, hardly tasting it, telling Scully about the latest medical report on Mulder. His temp was still slightly elevated. But the lab work was showing a difference in terms of the remaining cells.
"It's starting to work," Scully said softly. "Thank God."
"Thank God," he echoed drily. "Or someone."
Her fingers brushed her crucifix. "Even the devil has to answer to God," she told him drily, mordant wit in the middle of crisis.
It made him laugh. He was still chuckling to himself over it when they paid the bill.
When he got back into his car to return to the hospital.
Instead, he drove aimlessly, found himself at the house and went inside to attend to the poor neglected Cat. Scully had been cat-sitting for the last week, so Cat wasn't as desperate as he might have been.
But he butted Skinner's ankles anxiously until Skinner crouched and ruffled his ragged ears. "I know, you miss him, don't you." Softly, and Cat looked up at him.
Sighing, he rose, picking up the small animal, carried him out upstairs and began going through the drawers. Clean clothing for himself. Mulder's MUFON cap for when he was feeling better. Clean sweats for when Mulder was feeling better, and he realized that the pair he wanted had been in the hamper for weeks.
He could at least wash the contents of the hamper while he was here, he told himself, and opened the lid, found the sweats on the top. Not particularly sweaty or dank. Mulder had worn them to sleep in, but the scent of his skin was on them, Skinner held the sweatshirt to his face, breathing it in, blinded, his eyes stinging, burning.
He sat down on the foot of the bed, head bowed. "He's getting better," he told Cat roughly. "He's going to be home before you know it."
Whistling in the dark, and he knew it, but it eased the ache in his chest. Let him blink to clear his vision, let him get up and carry the load of laundry downstairs and start it.
But that was all he took time for, that and gathering the clean clothes and cap. "Sorry, fella," he told Cat, fending Cat away from the door with one foot. "You can't go with me. I wish, he'd probably be glad to see you. Soon."
The worst part of it was, he ought to feel a complete idiot for talking to a cat. It didn't bother him in the least.
That was how far he'd sunk that conversing with the damned cat seemed nothing more than normal. And that reflection made him chuckle again.
Kept his humor good until he reached the hospital. And Mulder.

~~~
 

 Mulder heard the voice in the anteroom and sighed in relief. Skinner was back, maybe he'd boot mother and sister back out, since mother and sister seemed to be sniping at each other behind polite tone and courtesy.
It was as bad as the old days, back at home, after Sam had been taken. But it wasn't pleasant. Only this time, it was Sam who sniped back, instead of his father.
And he really couldn't blame her; although he had no idea what his mother was talking about, it did seem as though there was a lot of careful fencing going on behind discussion of where Sam would live, and whether or not she should sell the house in Maryland.
And whether or not she wanted to live closer to their mother, or closer to Washington. Said archly, with a meaningful look at Sam.
He distantly supposed she meant that smoking bastard, and then remembered that the smoking bastard was supposedly dead. Certainly missing.
Skinner came in, carefully gowned and masked as always, carrying a stack of clean clothing and Mulder's Mufon cap.
He was sick of masks.
But he was feeling stronger this last few days, even if it was only because of the cessation of the radiotherapy.
And chemotherapy, he added mentally, smiling wanly at Skinner, whose eyes narrowed, studying him.
"Oh, hell," Skinner said, managing to sound chagrined. "Hell, I forgot some things."
Samantha's head turned. "Is there anything I can do?" Concerned.
It warmed Mulder in spite of everything.
Skinner sighed. "If you wouldn't mind going over to the house. I left his favorite sweats in the washer."
Samantha rose immediately. "Of course." She sounded glad to be doing something, a sentiment with which Mulder was intimately familiar.
His mother rose, too, like a jack in the box. "I'll go with you."
He'd been noticing that his mother wasn't comfortable with Skinner. Small wonder. Skinner treated her with glacial courtesy and clearly hadn't forgiven her for the scene at the house, God, months earlier.
Skinner sat down beside the bed, reclaiming his spot. "Thanks," he told them, his tone grateful.
Mulder almost smiled as the women vanished into the next room. Was too tired to find one, although he did let himself reach out for Skinner's hand. "How was lunch?"
He could see the shape of Skinner's face change in a smile. "Scully says you're working her hard, she brought a file with her."
"Gotta keep her on her toes." Mulder sighed. "Help me get up, Walt."
Skinner's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure about that? Did you check with Anita?"
Mulder gave him a long, silent look. After a moment, Skinner leaned forward, letting Mulder steady himself on broad shoulders and swing his legs out of bed. He held on for a moment, breathing shallowly through his mouth. The dizziness persisted, although the nausea settled quickly. "Wow. I've been on my back too long." Weakly.
Skinner's arm steadied him, held his shoulders. "Yeah." Softly.
He hated how much he needed steadying. "I think I'm feeling better, I'm starting to have enough energy to hate this again."
Skinner's arm tightened. "Good news/bad news sort of deal."
He nodded carefully. "I guess that's good."
The outer door opened, he heard Ferraud and Anita talking softly, heard the water running. His stomach, still chancy, rolled, wondering what the latest news was. "I guess that's my exercise for the day," he told Skinner ruefully and let himself be eased back. But he raised the bed, feeling stronger for the effort; it might have been exhausting to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, but he'd by God made it, even if he'd needed a little help.
It made it easier to smile at Skinner, easier to wait until both Ferraud and Anita appeared.
"Hey, Mulder. Walt." Anita moved to the bed, began running the standard checks. "How are you doing?"
"Not too bad," he told her, and obediently opened his mouth for the thermometer wand.
Ferraud stood at the end of the bed, his expression hidden behind the mask. "The results of your lab work are encouraging, Mulder," he said and patted Mulder's ankle. "The serum appears to be working."
Anita glanced at him briefly, eyebrows drawn together slightly. Looked back at Mulder.
"We have one more day's dosage after today," Ferraud continued and sighed. "Mrs. Harrison has agreed that tomorrow we will withdraw the marrow from Jonathan."
Mulder nodded. "Is it going to hurt him?"
Ferraud patted him again. "We are going to be very careful with him, Mulder. It will hurt somewhat, but I think we can keep him comfortable."
He nodded. He trusted Ferraud. More than less. And it was hard to remember Jonathan. His memory was as unreliable as his thought processes lately, which thought depressed him, despite the good news. "So, does that mean that you're going to do the transplant soon?"
"Yes." Ferraud sighed. "If your labwork shows what I believe it will, we will complete it the day after tomorrow. I'm reluctant to depart from the written protocol in any instance."
Skinner shifted. "Day after tomorrow." Sounding a little dazed. "Jesus, it's worked."
"It appears so. We will know for certain when the lab work is finished." Ferraud turned back to Mulder. "Tomorrow morning, Mulder."
His stomach knotted again. "Anita, can I have one of those ice things?"
She glanced at Ferraud, who nodded. "Sure thing, Mulder. What flavor today?"
"Surprise me."
"If you continue this well, we may be able to remove the tube earlier than I had thought." Ferraud sounded cheerful about that.
He wished he could be. Somehow, it was hard to imagine being able to get anything else down. "Great." Faintly.
Skinner's fingers tightened on his. "Great." More firmly.
Almost, he found the will to smile at Skinner. "Thanks," he told Ferraud.
Ferraud patted his ankle again. "Me, I did nothing except follow directions and say a great many prayers." Humorous tone. "But you are more than welcome. I will be back at 6:00 for the next injection."
Mulder nodded. Despite the low-grade fever, it had much to recommend it over the chemo.
He settled back again, eyes half-closed, watching Ferraud, letting himself slip back into that half-doze again. Content to lie still, not thinking about the future....at least, no further than the flavored ice Anita was bringing him.
 The blood work showed clean. Skinner got the news first, having cornered Ferraud before going into Mulder's room. But he let Ferraud tell Mulder, not wanting to admit that he'd browbeaten Mulder's oncologist.
Mulder only nodded. "We're done?"
"Ready for the transplant," Ferraud corrected gently. "And then some time to wait for it to engraft properly."
Mulder shifted in the bed, sighed. "So, when?"
He looked skeletal without hair, too thin, ghastly pale. And he was looking better than he had. Skinner's stomach felt like a stone, he reached out, touched the back of Mulder's hand lightly. Got a faint smile, lift of the eyes toward him.
"Tomorrow." Ferraud touched Mulder's knee lightly through the blanket. "We have the procedure scheduled for 11:00."
Mulder glanced back at him again. "Walt, will you go? I mean, with Sam? My mother is...." His voice trailed off.
He nodded. "You've got it." He knew how Mulder's mother was. Hoped he could quell the urge to strangle her.
Ferraud's expression was compassionate. He patted Mulder's knee again. "You're doing very well, Mulder." Quietly, and then he was gone.
Mulder looked at Skinner. "Am I?"
Skinner forced himself to smile. "Yes. You're not nearly as sick."
Mulder's mouth twitched. "Yeah, I can sit up for all of, what, four minutes now?"
Leaning over, he brushed his cheek against Mulder. "Hey, that's an improvement. We measure things accurately when that's all we have to go on."
A thin hand cupped the back of his neck. "I wish I could kiss you."
"You can kiss me, I can't kiss you." He drew back just slightly. Not enough to dislodge Mulder's hand.
"You know what I mean." But Mulder smiled faintly. "Thanks for agreeing to go with Sam tomorrow."
"De nada. I like your sister." Skinner rested his hip on the edge of the bed. "She's a hellion."
"She always was." Mulder let go of his neck, but took his hand. "Do you think this will work?"
Skinner nodded.
Mulder sighed, looked away, his gaze going distant. "Why would they give me a cure?"
"Who knows. Why would they give you the disease?"
Mulder's expression was amused suddenly. "That part is easy. To get rid of me. But what the fuck was I on to?"
He struggled to come up with an answer. "Fox, we may never have a clue. Why did they create a clone? And where did they get the genetic material to do so?"
"And why did they make my sister his mother?" Mulder sighed. "There's some twisted dynamic in there I feel I should comment on, but I'm too fucking tired."
"Then don't." Skinner gently squeezed Mulder's fingers. "Just rest."
It earned him another smile, even as Mulder's eyes closed.

 The process of the transplant was anticlimactic. The bone marrow went into the catheter just as blood had, Mulder dozed, woke, ate another one of the ice confections they were continuing to coax into him.
Skinner watched from beside the bed, sitting in his usual chair, reading one of the books he'd gotten for Mulder a lifetime ago. An eternity ago.
The CD player had one of the Bach CDs in it. Soothing music. Music to live by, he supposed, or to receive the gift of life.
The ice confections were still the only thing Mulder could eat still. But they were fluid at least, and a few extra calories. With any luck, his stomach would finally settle down as the effect of the radiotherapy subsides, and then the goddamned parenteral tube could come out.
He could see the faintest shadow where Mulder's brows had been. The MUFON hat covered his bare scalp, it had been an inspired choice on Skinner's part.
Even if Anita had had to run it through an autoclave first. It had definitely come out a little the worse for wear, but wearable nonetheless.
Mulder stirred in the bed, looked at him heavy-lidded. "Hi." Rustily.
"Hi yourself." He leaned forward, stroked the back of Mulder's hand with a gloved hand. Not even bare skin any more, he was that much at risk. Hell if Skinner cared. Touch was touch. More or less. "How are you doing?"
Brief grimace. "So far, the same as always. But you know, I was thinking, my stomach's not so bad, I think I'd like to try some applesauce."
Skinner's heart thumped once, happily. "Want me to buzz Anita?"
Mulder glanced up at the nearly empty bag. "Nah, she'll be in soon. Could you hand me my ice water?"
At the moment, Skinner would have cheerfully brought down the moon. "You bet."
Mulder drank thirstily, the first really healthy sign Skinner had seen. Let his head fall back on the pillow and smiled at him. "Maybe it really will be all right, huh?"
"I think so." Or prayed so, Skinner thought, and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Please, God, he thought, if you're out there--from his lips to your ears, okay?
"Would you mind reading to me some more?"
Mulder's tone was almost diffident and Skinner smiled behind the mask. "I not only wouldn't mind, I'd be thrilled."
Sitting down again, he went back to the previous chapter, marked by a folded page. "Ready?"
Mulder's smile was almost sweet. "Definitely ready."
He had to blink hard before he could begin.

 "So," Scully raised herself on one elbow to look down at Ferraud. "So, you think he's going to be all right."
"Yes, cherie, I do." Ferraud's dark hair was rumpled, damp with sweat at his temples. "I most assuredly do, but remember, I have no reason to think so, it is merely what you call a hunch."
She smiled, cupped his cheek. Leaned down impulsively and kissed him. "Your hunch is good enough for me, Jacques."
He laughed softly, snugged her against his side. "We shall see of course, but there has been nothing ordinary about this illness. My hunch....well, why would these antagonists provide a cure if not to save him, eh?"
"They wouldn't." Scully sighed. Ran her fingers over Ferraud's chest lightly, chuckled at his shiver. "Ticklish?"
"Not as ticklish as a certain woman of my acquaintance," he warned, but laughter rode underneath his tone. "Peace, cherie, the weeks to come will tell us for certain and prove me right or wrong."
"I know." Scully sighed again. Brooding was pointless. Mulder had a chance, now. There was unlikely to be a rejection of the graft, given the source. Jonathan was doing well, and Mulder was doing well.
And her investigation was proceeding.
They were all doing all they could, and Mulder's frame of mind was noticeably better. So much so that she'd cried in the car, not from sorrow, but from joy. He hadn't given up, as she'd feared. Just hoarded his strength.
As she had once.
"Stop thinking," Ferraud murmured and stroked her hair.
"I'm not thinking, I'm praying," she told him, amused.
"Ah, well, then I shall not say another word." Turning his head, he kissed her.
And as she turned back into flame, she thought that at least this good thing had come out of the entire awful period.
With hopefully yet another on the way.

 The first week, Mulder did not seemed to feel much different. The second week, however, Scully was secretly thrilled to see his color and energy improve.
And his blood work was encouraging. It looked as if the graft was taking rather more quickly than most.
And on Wednesday of the third week, she was visiting him when Ferraud appeared, his eyes alight with pleasure, his smile apparent even with the mask. "I have good news," he told them, but his eyes were on Mulder. "The graft appears to have taken very well, you have a white cell count once again."
Mulder's mouth curved. "It's working."
"It appears to have worked, as you say," Ferraud told him gravely. "If you continue as you have, Mulder, I would dare to predict that you can go home to continue recuperation in perhaps one more week. If you continue as well as you have."
For a moment, Scully couldn't see, vision blurred by tears. Oh, God, yes, she thought and took the thin hand between her own. His fingers curled over hers, when she could see again, she rather thought he looked incandescent for all his physical frailty. "Really?"
"Really," Ferraud agreed. "We must simply make sure you continue as well as you have."
"Did you tell Walt yet?" Mulder shifted against the pillows.
"I did not. He is not my patient." Ferraud's tone was light. "I will allow you the pleasure, if you like."
"Yes." Mulder nodded, squeezed her hand. "He's picking up my mother, he'll be here soon."
Scully grimaced beneath the mask. "I wish he'd let me do it," she grumbled.
Mulder chuckled. "I think it's his form of penance, he grew up Catholic, too, Scully. Instead of wringing her neck, he forces himself to be pleasant. Besides, he likes Sam and the kids."
Well, so did she, and she didn't have to be pleasant to Mrs. Mulder. Although, Mrs. Mulder was obviously doing her best in a frightening situation, she reminded herself and sighed. "I'll try and lure her away for a bit when she gets here, so you can tell him yourself first. If you'd like."
Ferraud chuckled. "I believe I can do better. We shall let Walter come in while I delay your mother, and I will discuss your test results with her. Yes?"
Mulder laughed outright, albeit weakly. "Yes."
Scully couldn't help laughing with him, her spirit soared to hear it. Oh, thank you, God, he was going to make it. It was nearly over.
At least for Mulder.
She was still following a trail, and not liking where it led. This investigation had done more to convince her that Mulder's suspicions were correct than any of their others. Like the contents of the erhlenmeyer flask from Dr. Berube's office, there were too many things that were not explained, not natural, not.....of anything she could consider of earthly origin, using her own scientific standards.
She was going to nail whoever had done this. And then it would really be over.

 Skinner duly arrived and entered unaccompanied. "Ferraud's talking to your mother," he told Mulder, trying to smother his irritation over it. He was part of the loop, had been, and now Ferraud was cutting him out and it stung, badly.
"I know." Mulder's mouth twitched suspiciously.
Scully rose, patted his hand. "I've got to get back to the office before Saul Blumenthal decides to start charging me vacation time," she told Mulder lightly, and bent to press her cheek to his. "I'll call you later."
"Thanks, Scully." He smiled at her, just the ghost of a smile, but it made Skinner's heart thump again, he let his irritation go, so glad to see even that phantom smile.
He rather thought Scully smiled at him from behind the mask, nodded at her pleasantly and took the chair she'd vacated. Leaned over and pressed his own cheek to Mulder's, felt one hand curve around the back of his neck. "Hey," he muttered.
"I've got good news. Think you could put up with me coming home in a week or so?"
Startled, he drew back, felt his smile begin, felt the weakness of relief. "Your blood work looks good," he said prayerfully.
Mulder's crooked grin was worth any amount of grief. "Yeah. Looking really good. They might actually let me out of here."
It was hard to see suddenly. He had to blink, look away to clear his vision. "Damned straight I can put up with you."
Mulder grinned again, ridiculously happy. "I know I'm gonna be a pain in the ass, but it's going to be so goddamned good to get out of here."
"You go right ahead," Skinner told him recklessly, "You're damned well entitled to it." He took Mulder's hand. "God. God, that's not just good news, it's incredible news."
"Now you just have to put up with me getting well. I mean it, Walt, I'm probably going to be a real bastard." The smile faded. "You hung in through this..." Voice trailing off.
Skinner shook his head. "Fight back, that's all. You just keep fighting, I'll live with it."
And Mulder beamed at him.
He didn't know how hard it was going to be.

~~~
 

It was sunny, almost too bright. Wearing his sunglasses, Mulder sat in the front passenger seat and let the voices from the back seat wash over him without taking notice.
Drinking in the familiar sights as Skinner drove them home.
Home.
He hadn't expected to see it again.
Skinner's hand rested comfortably on his thigh, he was wearing sweats since none of his jeans would fit. New sweats, that didn't slide off his hips. Thermal shirt under the fleece jacket underneath his coat.
He put his hand over Skinner's without looking. Kept his eyes on the street. There was the deli Skinner liked. Here was the turn on their street. There was their house, and Skinner pulled into the driveway.
Cat sat in the front window, but vanished as the car pulled in.
Cat was smart. Cat's face reappeared at the window over the kitchen table. He smiled, traced his thumb over the top of Skinner's hand. "Home."
Turned his head to look. Saw a smile that was nearly incandescent, despite Skinner's reserve. "Home," Skinner agreed. "Ready?"
He grinned. "What do you think?"
Skinner retrieved his hand, got out and came around to the passenger side.
Christ, he hated being this weak, but he was grateful for Skinner's help in getting out. Getting across the short space to the steps. Strong arm around him, helping him up those steps, and he wanted to grind his teeth, no matter how good it felt to be upright.
But then they were in the kitchen and he could sit down while Cat went berserk over him. Or rather started to. Much sniffing and Cat wasn't sure he liked the hospital odors.
Mulder didn't blame him.
He could hear his mother and sister behind him, kept ignoring them steadfastly. Not because he was angry, just because he was too tired, and they were bickering again over whether or not one of them should stay.
Fortunately, Scully had also arrived and was ushering them past him, into the livingroom.
He took off his sunglasses and looked up at Skinner. "Get rid of them, please." Plaintively.
Skinner smiled, leaned down to kiss him. "If Scully doesn't, I will. Don't worry. They aren't staying for dinner."
"Thank God." He smiled up, leaned in, his forehead on Skinner's belly. Put an arm around Skinner's waist. "Oh, man, I didn't think I'd get here."
Gentle fingers soft on his head, the first silky bit of stubble coming back already. "I know." Very low. "You be okay here while I bring in your stuff?"
"Yeah." He tilted his head back. Just drank in the sight of Skinner looking....happy.
Got another kiss, leaned back in the chair to let Cat investigate him. His legs felt like rubber bands, and his hands were shaking slightly, but Jesus, he was in his own home, he was home.
So he sat there and let himself feel good about that. Until Skinner brought in the walker.
That knotted his stomach. Ferraud had insisted, and he'd finally given in, but he didn't want the fucking thing. Wanted to walk on his own. And knew he couldn't. Christ, Skinner had to support him, and at least the walker left him on his own, but he hated the sight of it.
More trips out and he levered himself up. Gritting his teeth. Managed to get upright and put his hands on each side of the metallic cage. Christ, it was like being ninety, but by the time Skinner had come back with the second load of stuff, he'd reached the dining room.
Sweaty and feeling rubbery, but it was progress, of sorts. Scully was standing near his mother, in the living room, her voice too low to be heard, but he hoped she was convincing both women to leave. That he needed rest.
He stopped at the archway between the two rooms to catch his breath and rest. Leaned heavily on the metal and caught his mother's expression.
It made him angrier. He took in a breath and started forward, made it to the couch--and bless her, Scully dragged his mother out of the way and kept talking to her, kept his mother from staring at him.
The couch was heaven. Paradise. Samantha tugged the afghan from the back and settled it over him as he tucked himself into the corner, offering him an apologetic smile. "Sometimes I think we forget it's you we're worried about," she told him ruefully.
It eased the irritation a little. "I'll be fine," he told her, grinned when Cat jumped up. "Now that I'm finally home."
He really *was* home.
Skinner came in with the last bags and carried them upstairs, offering him another one of those incandescent smiles on his way up.
It warmed him. He tugged the afghan up, ruffled Cat's ears. "Sam, can't you get her to go home? She can't do anything here right now, I just have to get better."
Samantha studied him. Finally smiled. "Okay, I'll do what I can. Although Dana seems to be handling her fine right now."
Sure enough, Scully moved toward the couch. "Your mother and I are going to the store," she told him, eyes glinting. "And then I'm going to drive her and Sam and the kids to the airport."
The relief almost made him woozy. "Thanks, Scully." Heartfelt.
She winked, straightened as Skinner came back downstairs. "Sir, the state of your refrigerator is depressing. We're going to the store, so if you have any particular requests, let me know."
"I'm completely open to suggestions," Skinner told her gravely. "As long as it's edible."
"It will be." She smiled.
His mother came to the side of the couch, crouched there and touched his cheek. He forced himself to smile. She'd been there for him, no matter how he felt about some of her behavior. She'd tried.
The least he could do was try in return.
"Thanks, Mom." Although the words wanted to stick in his throat.
She kissed his cheek, touched it. Smiled at him sadly. "If you need anything at all...."
"I'll have Walt call you." He was so goddamned tired, he wished she'd just leave. Please, please, he thought and let his head sink back when Sam came to sit on the edge of the couch cushions. "Hey."
"Hey." Samantha's voice was soft. "You let Walt take care of you."
He couldn't help smiling at that. "Like I have a choice?"
"Good." She patted his knee, leaned in and kissed his cheek, practically the same spot. "And get strong, you have to teach Jonathan how to play basketball one of these days."
He nodded, but his heart thumped dolefully. Jonathan. Another thing he managed to keep from thinking about. And would hopefully manage to keep from thinking about a while longer.
Scully herded them toward the door, he could see Skinner's barely veiled impatience to have them gone and smiled again, tugged the afghan around him more.
The door closed. He heard the lock click, watched Skinner return from the foyer, warm smile for him. "You want a pillow? And another blanket?"
He nodded. "Maybe a fire?" Hopefully.
"Your wish," Skinner told him and moved toward the couch first. A kiss for each of his eyelids and then his mouth, gentle kiss, and Skinner was past the couch, crouched near the fireplace, stacking wood expertly.
He shifted to his side, content to watch. Heard Skinner humming. Closed his eyes, smiling, resting his head on his arm. Felt the soft weight of Cat thump against his leg and shifted, making room.
Sometime during the humming, he slipped under, when he surfaced again, there was another blanket over him, a pillow under his head and Skinner was moving through the house. Familiar sounds and smells and he slipped his hand out of the blanket and touched the softness of Cat's fur.
Let his hand rest there when sleep tugged him under again.
The next time he woke, it was to Skinner's touch. "Hey," softly. "Think you could manage a little soup?"
He felt stupid with sleep, thickheaded. "Juice," he managed and shifted, turning his face into a warm palm. "Mmm. Maybe soup."
"Juice it is." Skinner had taken his glasses off, just the warmth of dark eyes, no disguise, no cover, and he could see Skinner's simple gladness to have him home.
Put his hand over Skinner's. "Feels nice. No gloves."
"Nope. No gloves or gowns or masks." Another kiss, this one on his temple. "I'll be right back."
He let his eyes close again, felt Cat shift and stretch and heard the soft thump as Cat followed Skinner. Listened to the crackle and hiss of the fire. No hospital sounds allowed here.
Real life.
Sort of. He hadn't forgotten the walker that still stood near the couch. But for the moment, he could ignore it.
Although he did wonder how he was going to get upstairs to bed, ultimately. Somehow, he didn't think the walker was going to be much help on the stairs. But he was damned if he wasn't going up them.
Skinner came back, carrying a tray, which he placed on the coffee table.
The smell of something savory rose to his nostrils and, for once, didn't make his gag reflex activate. "What is it?" Rustily, and he pushed himself upright.
"Nothing fancy, just beef and vegetable soup." Worried look. "That sound okay?"
He sniffed again. "Smells good," he allowed. "I'll give it a try."
Relief again.
The juice tasted wonderful, cold and just a little sweet, he'd gotten addicted to that white grape juice in the hospital. At least before he'd gotten too sick to eat or drink much of anything.
The soup stung the inside of his mouth, but not badly. He could ignore it, because for once, something tasted okay. Not great. Not as good as it smelled. But okay.
Skinner went back out, came back with his own soup and a sandwich, sitting down beside him companionably. Turned on the television.
Mulder leaned against him, luxuriating in the sensation of near normalcy. He wanted to be normal. He wanted to be walking around the kitchen, talking and ragging on each other, he wanted not to have Skinner watch him worriedly. Watch him with relief so apparent.
But it was good anyway. And Skinner didn't hover, didn't drive him nuts like his mother did. And Samantha, and Scully, although it was obvious that his sister and partner were trying hard.
Skinner glanced at him, leaned into him a moment, returning the pressure, before returning to his soup.
Normalcy.
It had never looked so far out of reach, not even in the hospital. But he was going to get there. He didn't like to lose.
Even his fingers were thin. Curled around the heavy mug, he let the heat soak into them. Put his feet on the coffee table, shoving the empty tray aside. Skinner must have taken his shoes off for him, he wiggled his toes and sighed. Thin feet.
Leaning forward, Skinner shifted his plate to the table, leaned back and pulled him close. "What was that?"
He let himself be pulled, rested his head in the crook of Skinner's shoulder. "Still got a ways to go."
"I know." Easy tone, though, no worry, no sense of frantic rush. "You've got that time now."
That much was true. He closed his eyes and shifted his legs, said the hell with it and shifted them right across Skinner's lap. Put his face in Skinner's neck.
Was tugged closer, and what the hell, he was in Skinner's lap. "You want a soak in the tub?" Softly, in his ear.
He thought about it wistfully. It would be nice. But no, not the way he looked right now. No way. "Maybe tomorrow. Did they ever get back with the groceries?"
"Yeah, I threatened to kill anyone who woke you up."
It startled him into laughter. "You didn't!"
"I did. And Scully was armed." Skinner's tone was both amused and satisfied.
He laughed again, rusty sound, he wasn't used to it. "God."
"Well, sometimes I do think Scully has a hotline there, I'm sure I could have gotten dispensation."
He couldn't stop laughing. "Lunatic."
"Obviously." Skinner's hand slid up his arm, up his shoulder, cupped the back of his head. "Velvet fuzz."
He grimaced, but at least it was growing in. "Yeah. They tell me it's going to be very weird for a while after it starts growing in. I could end up looking like a refugee from the seventies."
Skinner chuckled. "Back when I had hair."
There was a thought. He laughed again, rubbed his forehead against Skinner's neck. "How about we try the great trek upstairs. I think I feel a little steadier now than I did this morning."
Skinner sighed. "Worth a try. If nothing else, I'll just use a fireman's carry."
He couldn't help it, instead of stinging, that image made him laugh. "Asshole."
"Hey, I have to take advantage of you now, while you're still down."
A brush of Skinner's cheek over what there was of his hair and he shifted, put his feet on the floor. Let himself be helped upright and stood without support, perfectly delighted with that small victory.
Skinner's eyes moved to the walker.
"I want to try," he said stubbornly, and Skinner moved out of his way, standing close by, but not grabbing him. He did pretty well to the bottom of the stairs.
 Had to take the stairs one at a time, like a toddler, and about a quarter of the way up, had to stop.
"Will you let me help you?" Skinner was behind him, over to the other side. Quiet voice.
He almost snarled, sighed instead. "I'm not that much of a damned fool." Although he was.
They certainly made better progress with Skinner helping. And the fact that Skinner had asked took most of the sting of helplessness away.
Most of it.

Skinner thumbed the remote off, setting it on his nightstand. Looked down at Mulder, curled on his side, back toward him, clad in sweats. He wondered if it was because Mulder was cold, he'd put an extra blanket on the bed. Or if the necessity for the hospital gown had worn on Mulder, even as sick as he'd been, if the sweats were a kind of comfort he hadn't thought of for a long while.
Ferraud had warned that the most Mulder would be up to for a while was sleeping and eating, no matter what other ambitions might be harbored. He was afraid he knew what kind of ambitions Mulder was harboring. Out of the hospital meant 'well' to Mulder, he rather thought, and recalling the experience of last summer kept him aware of how hard Mulder took illness, weariness, weakness of any sort.
He was afraid they were in for a rough time for a while.
It didn't matter.
Reaching out, he let his fingertips brush the short, soft hair, just beginning to fill in. What mattered is that Mulder was here. Alive. Getting well.
Nothing else really mattered at all.
He hoped somehow he could convince Mulder of it.
Sliding down in bed, he reached up, turned off the lamp. Turned on his side, his body curved behind Mulder's.

Morning. No sound but a low purr, coming from just below his chin.
Opening his eyes, Mulder sighed. Looked down at Cat, who was curled within the curve of his body, eyes half-closed as if in bliss. Soft fur against his palm and the eyes closed all the way. His mouth twitched into a smile, but not just for Cat. For the warmth behind him, the broad chest, the arm looped across his chest.
Behind him, Skinner muttered something unintelligible, warm breath tickled the back of his neck. God, it was good to be held like this, he'd been hurting so long, too sick to bear being touched.
A yawn caught him by surprise and Skinner's arm tightened. "Mmm, you awake?" Softly, in case he wasn't.
"Sort of." He shifted to lie on his back, smiled faintly as Cat complained. "Mostly."
Scratchy nuzzle and Skinner's mouth grazed his temple. "Well, no need to hurry." Comfortable voice. "I'm only sort of awake myself."
Mulder turned into that warmth. "Okay." Laughing a little, but comforted by that admission in spite of himself.
Got hugged, as he'd half expected, and nuzzled back. "God, it's nice to be home."
"Mmmhmmm." Skinner's arm over him tightened.
Mulder closed his eyes. Not dozing, just....just soaking it in. Skinner's mouth grazed his cheekbone, moved to his lips. He shifted closer, seeking that touch. He could be kissed again, he could kiss--there were cautionary constraints, but even the cautious Ferraud professed astonishment at the quick response of his immune system. Of his new bone marrow.
He felt human again. Almost.
Skinner drew away, smiling. "Down boy, I don't think you're quite up to more than that."
Despite that fact that it was true--or perhaps because of it--it stung. Mulder frowned, pushed himself slowly upright. "Yeah, I know." Shortly. "God, I want a shower."
Skinner's expression was mercurial suddenly, worry, alarm and then a studied calm. "You want company?"
Did he? He rather thought not, given the current state of his physique. "I vant to be alone," he told Skinner lightly.
More shifting emotions visible behind the poorly maintained neutrality. "Are you...don't lock the door." And a tap at Skinner's collarbone, reminding him of the healing spot where the catheter had been.
It eased his irritation. A little. Skinner was trying, he told himself and nodded, not quite shortly. "I won't and yeah, I'll keep it as dry as I can." He stood up experimentally, sighed at how wobbly he was. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward, took hold of the goddamned Christless walker, feeling the draft at floor level through his socks. "See, I'm being sensible." Drily.
"You generally are," Skinner told him mildly, leaning up on one elbow. "I'll go down and start some breakfast, but yell if you need anything." Still with that watchful neutrality.
The only thing that kept Mulder from temper was the simultaneous amusement at Skinner's care. "I'm not so damned vain you have to protect my ego, Walt, I know, I know." Let himself lean slightly on the walker, although he felt stronger this morning.
The set of Skinner's jaw eased. "Yeah, well, give yourself some time."
"I will." That lifted his spirits again. He had the time to give, again. He wasn't sure why he was so certain of it, but if they'd wanted him dead, really wanted him dead, he'd have been dead.
He just couldn't figure out why they'd wanted him alive.
It was astonishing.
Amazing.
For a moment, he stood, leaning against the walker, just drinking in the sight of Skinner, of the room. "God, it's good to be home." Heartfelt.
And Skinner smiled, that damned incandescent smile. "Yeah," he agreed, "It is."
That smile kept him moving toward the bathroom. Kept him buoyant even when Skinner followed to make sure he had no trouble with the goddamned walker in the shower.

It was the hot water that did him in, after all.
He'd gotten out earlier than he'd wanted, feeling his fucking body betray him. Feeling the wave of lightheadedness that seemed too damned dangerous these days.
And tried to outwait it, shivering in a bathsheet, until he'd finally given in. Grimly.
Skinner came when he called, so quickly Mulder suspected he'd been upstairs, listening after the water had gone off.
"Sorry." His teeth wanted to chatter, but Skinner wrapped his robe around him quickly.
"Don't be." Matter of fact tone and Skinner knelt, swiftly got the sweats over Mulder's feet and rose. "Lean on me." Still matter of fact. No shock or surprise at the scarecrow he'd become. If he was thinking clearly, he supposed he'd have thought of that earlier, Skinner had probably seen it all in the hospital.
He didn't find that reassuring, was hard pressed not to feel anger about it. Not a goddamned shred of privacy, an inner voice whispered, and he silenced it savagely, thinking instead of the haggard face he'd seen over the mask.
Sweat pants up and Skinner eased him back down. Helped him minimally with the sweatshirt and just plain put the socks on him. Rose again and got the walker, dried it.
It made his throat tight. It silenced the whispering voice in the back of his head. God, he was an asshole and he was tired of feeling like an asshole and even though Skinner was trying his damnedest, he wanted it not to be necessary.
He wanted to be well.
Skinner looked at him, clearly trying not to worry.
He pushed himself up carefully, put his hands on the goddamned steel frame and made his way doggedly back to the bedroom.
Exhausted.
Bruises, holes, gaunt in places, and flabby in others. Old man skin. He hated his body suddenly, hated it for betraying him, never mind it had been given a lot of help in doing so.
It wasn't until he got to the bed that he realized Skinner wasn't hovering.
It made his eyes burn again. He made it to the bed and sank back. Heard footsteps on the stairs. Going down.
Trusting him. Maybe hovering a little, out in the hallway.
He was too tired to feel much irritation over it. Dragged his legs into bed and tugged the bedclothes over himself. Closed his eyes.
And sank under almost immediately.

Skinner leaned against the headboard and sipped his coffee. Pretending not to notice that Mulder was....well, sulking was perhaps not the word, but it was damned close. The hell of it was that he couldn't blame Mulder.
Even though he wanted to throttle him.
Mulder lay on his side, blankets pulled up to his ears. Either dozing or pretending to doze.
Skinner suspected the former.
He would have hated having to ask for help, in Mulder's shoes, and that knowledge kept him from snarling back when Mulder's temper had been visible. That and the frailty of the man who lay beside him.
For all that frailty, he doubted Mulder recognized the gains. He could see them in small things, the shape of Mulder's wrist, no longer skin stretched over bone. Still too thin, far too thin. Nearly gaunt.
The instructions given to Ferraud by the smoker had cautioned against the usual doses of cortisone, against the usual course of post transplant drugs. Ferraud had decided to stick with the winning plan, despite his misgivings, and that meant that the false gain from steroid swelling had not occurred. Mulder was still too gaunt, but there was new flesh and shape in place of the spare lines of bone. Here and there.
Mulder didn't see it. Mulder saw a scarecrow body, saw flesh that wouldn't obey the mind trapped within.
He saw a man brought back from the brink and felt new relief with each small gain.
Somehow, he wasn't sure Mulder was going to be satisfied with those.
Sipping at the coffee, he reached for the sports section. "How are you doing?" Softly. Testing the wind.
"'M okay." A low mutter.
"You feel ready for some breakfast?" A tentative offering and he cursed his inability to play it as normal.
Mulder finally rolled over. "Yeah, I guess." Dispirited.
He leaned down, kissed Mulder's forehead. Managed an almost normal growl. "Will you for Christ's sake cut yourself some slack?"
It lightened the discontent and depression in Mulder's eyes. "I love it when you bitch at me." Lightness with only the slightest false note.
For once, he could be glad of his temper. "You're very perverse."
A genuine, if faint, smile. "Yeah, but that's what you like about me."
"I more than like it," Skinner growled and startled a brief, abortive chuckle from Mulder. "There, that's better."
"Listen to this shit," Mulder told him, his mouth still curving slightly. "The man who came back to work against medical advice after getting gutshot."
"I was only gutshot," Skinner told him drily and straightened. "I hadn't been systematically poisoned and irradiated for weeks."
Another startled sound, akin to laughter. "I'll try and remember that."
"Good." He growled it again and was unreasonably cheered by Mulder's response. Kissed him again and swung his legs off the bed. "Okay, what sounds good? Eggs?"
"Aaagh." Mulder slowly pushed himself up against he headboard. "Not even."
"Pizza?"
A horrified look. "Jesus, Walt."
Skinner arched an eyebrow. "I need some hints. Unless you want me to bring the contents of the refrigerator upstairs."
Mulder sighed, frowned. Brightened. "Lemon pudding?"
If he had to go to Maryland for it. "On the way." He thought he remembered seeing pudding, and Scully had been watching Mulder's dietary habits closely over the last few weeks.
"Where's the remote?"
He was already reaching for it, turned back to the bed. "Lean up a little."
Mulder gave him an odd smile, leaned forward and suffered more pillows to be put behind him. "Jesus, Walt."
"Don't give me any shit," he growled. Was gratified by the faint grin. And took the pleasure of that downstairs with him. < p> The days passed. Too quickly, for Mulder, who wanted to see progress more quickly. By the end of two weeks, he was still winded going up one flight of stairs, and a walk farther than the curb in front of the house was out of the question.
But it was progress.
The bruises from medical procedures were still there, only faded to a sickly yellow brown. That much was reassuring, he supposed.
Scully came by one night during the first weeks, carrying a stack of files in her briefcase.
Skinner greeted her, went in to make her a cup of tea, leaving her to perch on the coffee table beside the couch, where he was stretched out, pillows and blankets and a fire burning cozily in the fireplace.
The heat was comforting.
"Hi," she told him, smiling genuinely. "You're looking downright healthy, Mulder."
He wished. But he smiled at her anyway. "Thanks."
Skinner came back with the tea. She took it, smiled thanks. "I'm still going through files, Mulder, and I'm not sure about this one."
He pushed himself up a little. "What case?"
"The Berkheimer case. In Wisconsin."
It rang no bells. Frowning, he thought hard, racked his brain. "Refresh my memory, Scully."
"Ellen Berkheimer. Missing person, presumed dead," faint smile now, "Or abducted. Bright lights seen, she vanished crossing a local park." Her voice lifted upward, as if in inquiry."
Nothing. He felt his stomach knot. "I don't remember."
Brief surprise. "Well," she said lightly, "This is an historic occasion, Mulder. I thought you never forgot a case."
His gut lurched. "Just tell me more about it, Scully." Flatly.
Her smile faded, she pulled out the folder and handed it to him.
He read it, numb with shock. It had been one of their cases. His notes were in the folder. His handwriting. He'd interviewed several of the witnesses and could not, for the life of him, summon up even a vagrant fragment of memory, not a single goddamned image.
Ellen Berkheimer, seventeen. Vanished without a trace. Without a prayer.
He didn't remember.
Gooseflesh broke out, he tugged the blankets closer and studied the words, cold to the bone. He couldn't remember. Finally gave the folder back to her and lay back down, pulled the blankets up. "Give it to VCS, Scully." Flatly.
She took the folder and put it back into her briefcase. "Got it."
He turned on his side. "How's the investigation going?" Changing the subject.
Scully glanced at Skinner, her mouth thinning. "Well, that can wait, surely."
"I want to know, Scully." Sharply.
She sighed. "Okay. Okay. Allred came from the Sorensen Institute. And the Sorensen Institute is getting Defense Department funds, I'm sure of it. I can't prove that yet, but I'm sure that the Sorensen Institute was doing biological research for the defense department. I'm sure that they were developing bioweapons and that they developed the virus as a weapon. One of the major players at Sorensen was Jonathan Carlson, late of Pinck Pharmaceuticals, and they were doing some testing down in Mississippi. It turns out that there is a small lab outside of Jackson. It's empty now, but Carlson remembers your name and I'm guessing he panicked when he knew we down there." She looked back at Skinner, grimaced. "So they sent one Mark Adams and Harry Chapman down, both men were military intelligence operatives during the Vietnam war."
"Where are they now?" Skinner sat down on the edge of the couch near Mulder's feet, Mulder felt the warmth of one hand curve around an ankle.
Scully glanced that way, back at Mulder. "Both dead. Car crash on Highway 45 going west out of Columbus, Mississippi." She studied Mulder's face. "The reports don't suggest anything but an accident, but I'm having the Jackson office check the car, check the evidence. Both men were burned beyond recognition and identified by dental records."
"So everything is connected." Mulder closed his eyes. "Everything. What happened to me in Mississippi, everything."
She nodded. "Evidently. Not only to cover up what they did to you, but to silence every hint of the existence of the virus."
"The military again." He heard the weariness in his voice. "A weapon against whom? Jesus."
"Your sister's husband was employed by the Sorensen Institute," Scully added, very softly.
"Naturally." He tugged the blankets closer again. "They expected me to die in Atlanta."
"I think so, yes. The primate studies aren't encouraging." She glanced at Skinner again. "For whatever reason, they cloned you, Mulder. And your survival suggests you're tougher than the average human. Whoever did the cloning--and Samantha claims she didn't know until her late husband told her--clearly didn't sanction it. Or maybe they did. I don't know." She sighed, offered him a rueful smile. "The fact that they gave us the cure certainly suggests the former."
He snorted. "So where do you go from here?"
"I can't get Blumenthal to authorize further search on the financials. We need to pin down the source of Sorensen's funds. I know that Defense Department contract exists, and I want to know where they got the material that screwed up your DNA." Hard tone and her lips thinned. "I want that proof."
He nearly smiled, opened his eyes. "Watch out, Scully, you're starting to sound like a convert." When he looked, Skinner's expression was impassive. "Sounds like Blumenthal is getting pressure. Not gonna happen."
Scully's expression became almost feral. "I *want* these bastards, Mulder."
And abruptly, he felt tired. Exhausted and bitter. "Scully, what good would it do? Everyone is dead but me. And Carlson." And he was barely alive. His memory fragmented--and gooseflesh crept up on him again, he thrust that thought away.
She frowned. "Carlson had a heart attack and died on the way to the hospital two days ago."
Short bark of laughter and he shook his head. "Nobody is going to let you link Sorensen to any of it. Just another fuckover."
Her expression shifted too quickly for him to decipher it. "You think there isn't any point to pressing it?"
"I think you've gone as far as you're going to get. Anyone who could prove anything is dead. You know, I thought maybe I could prevent them from doing it to anyone else, but I can't even do that."
Scully turned her head toward Skinner. "I don't think Saul Blumenthal is tough enough to push on this, sir." Her tone suggested that Skinner was.
Mulder shook his head. "Fuck it, Scully. I'm tired of it all. I just want out, I want to live my life. Christ, I deserve that, don't I?" He shifted again, rolled to face the back of the couch, shutting them both out.
Heard Scully sigh.
Skinner squeezed his ankle. "You promised to eat something." Low growl.
He'd have protested, but he had promised. So he sat up grouchily, waited until Skinner brought him a bowl of pistachio pudding, his latest favorite flavor.
"I need to run to the store, Scully," Skinner told her. "You mind sticking around until I get back?"
"I'm not a two year old," Mulder groused. "I don't need a baby-sitter."
Skinner grimaced. "That's not what I meant." Sighed and headed for the front door, for his jacket.
Mulder watched him, still faintly resentful. Took a bite of pudding.
Scully stayed out of that, took a sip of tea. "Well, I did stop by to see you, Mulder," she told him gently.
That made him ashamed. "Thanks, Scully." Quietly, and he took another bite of pudding. Ordinarily, he loathed pudding he always had. He wondered if everything he'd once liked was going to turn his stomach from now on, if he was going to be stuck eating this crap for the rest of his life.
Skinner came back, patted his ankles again. "Any special requests?"
Something sparked. "French fries with lots of salt."
"Okay." Equably. "Anything else?"
Just thinking about that made his mouth water. "Get a lot of fries." Skinner smiled, just for him, and he felt ashamed again. "Thanks."
"De nada." Skinner headed out, toward the back door in the kitchen.
Scully tipped her tea peaceably, clearly declining to comment on the french fries. "So, how have you been feeling? Nausea going away?"
"Finally. Mostly. But my stomach's still chancy." Nice neutral topic and he sighed, took another bite. "Look, I know, I snapped at him, but he just--God, Scully, he's always watching me, making sure I don't do something stupid. Hey, I don't want to be sick, I don't want to do myself any damage, I'm a grownup, for Christ's sake." He pointed at himself with his spoon.
Scully looked askance at the pudding and shook her head. "Mulder, that isn't fair, you don't know how close it was. He never left you, not once you were really sick, he's been out of his mind over it. You don't realize what he's been through on his side, Mulder, it's amazing to me that he hung in there. That he's still hanging in there. " Her hand came out, touched his wrist lightly, and her expression was ear nest, maybe trying to take the sting out of the words. Tentative smile. "And it's not like he's getting hot sex to make up for it, right?"
He blinked at her, staring, felt as if she'd driven a fist into his gut. "No," he agreed faintly, "It isn't."
"Don't be so hard on him, okay?" Worried eyes now. "He's trying his best, Mulder, he really is. And he does love you, I can see that."
The smell of the pudding made him nauseated. He put it aside just as the front door opened, as Skinner came in. He looked at Skinner, really looked at Skinner, saw the lines of weariness, the loss of bulk--swallowed hard and looked away. "I know it, Scully." Quietly.
And then felt panic, wondering what he'd just answered, pieced together the conversation again and blinked hard.
"Mulder?" Her voice was soft, concerned. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."
He turned his head, met Skinner's smile and tried to form one of his own. "You didn't."
But she had. And the smell of the fries, disappointingly, made him sick.

In the days following Scully's visit, Mulder grew more morose.
Skinner didn't altogether blame him. He himself was thoroughly enraged, and hard pressed to keep it hidden. He did, however, begin making tentative noises of acceptance in his conversations with the Deputy Director; he'd extended his leave, but suggested he was amenable to persuasion.
He wanted the bastards who had done this, but the principal actors were dead. In lieu of that, he wanted to make certain that Sorensen Institute came down. That the parties in the Defense Department came down. He didn't care if it was public and covered up, he wanted them destroyed.
The only way to do that was to curry favor and build his power base. And the only way to do that was to go back.
He wasn't sure how Mulder would feel about it, although Mulder's shock at his announcement of impending retirement seemed reassuring.
It wasn't anything he wanted to discuss with Mulder at the moment, he wanted Mulder's mind on getting well.
When the morose behavior became snappish and temperamental, he bore with it, kept his silence, and began to leave Mulder alone for a few hours to go to the gym.
He had started going to answer Mulder's accusations of hovering and had found it helped him, too. Not as much as the bi-weekly visits to the therapist, secretively worked in with his gym trips, but it helped.
By the time Mulder was through the recovery period, he was going to be in better shape than he had been in years, he rather thought.
If for no other reason than the fact that he imagined throttling Mulder when he lifted weights.
"It's not that I don't understand," he told the therapist, Dr. William Cargill. "I do. But he's making me nuts."
Cargill's mouth curved slightly. "That's pretty natural at this point. Will he talk to you about it?"
"Hell no." Ruefully. "Neither one of us is good at talking."
Cargill chuckled. "You're men."
"So we posture instead?" He liked Cargill. A lot.
"Well, socialization and testosterone do combine sometimes." Cargill was still chuckling.
"He's the psychologist, not me."
"Abnormal psychology, from the sound of it, that's generally the drill for the kind of work he's done in the past." Cargill's tone was rueful. "Besides, didn't you know, we all go into this field to figure out our own problems."
Skinner laughed outright. "Yeah, I think he's said something to that effect." Laughter faded and he shook his head. "Well, dammit, I'm hanging in there. He doesn't get rid of me that easily."
"I don't think he wants to, although since I haven't seen him, that's difficult to judge." Cargill's expression was thoughtful. "We've talked about the stages of healing and the behaviors you're likely to see. Has his mother been around?"
"No, his sister has been keeping her busy. Samantha has called, though, and talked to him, but I doubt she's stressing his fragility to him. He gets so goddamned frustrated." Skinner looked at his hands. "And he's doing so well, it really does drive me up the wall."
"Would he come in to talk?" Cargill arched an eyebrow.
Skinner looked at him in disbelief. "We've had that conversation."
Cargill grinned. "But have you had it with him?"
"I can try." Skinner shook his head. "I'll try." Heard the doubt in his own voice and shoved it away. It was worth trying.
Anything was worth trying at this point. He wanted to see a smile on Mulder's face with more hunger than he'd ever felt for his lover's flesh.
"Do that." Cargill glanced at the clock. "Two weeks?"
"Yeah, unless I can talk him into it. I'll call." Skinner rose, shrugging back into his jacket. "Believe me, I'll call. Gotta strike while the iron is hot."
Cargill rose with him, walked him out. "I'll leave a note with Janie. Tell her this one is priority."
"Thanks." Skinner eyed him. "For a lot more than that."
"Don't thank me, Walter, you're the one doing the hard work."
He grinned outright at that. Headed home, feeling better, as illogical as that was.

Mulder was on the couch, scribbling in the journal he had lately begun.
Dropping the gym bag at the laundry room door, Skinner came out, smiled a greeting and got a curt nod.
Sighed inwardly and went over to the couch anyway, leaned over and kissed Mulder's temple. "How are you?"
"You've only been gone three hours, Walt." Truculently. "I'm the same as I was when you left."
His own temper flared. "Consider it a rhetorical question, a form of greeting." Tightly.
Mulder stopped writing. Stared at the page. "I'm sorry." Quietly.
It caught at his heart, he palmed Mulder's skull briefly. "It's okay."
Quick look and Mulder's mouth relaxed. "Thanks."
"De nada. What sounds good to your appetite tonight?"
Mulder shrugged. "Soup sounds good."
"What kind of soup?" Skinner sat down on the coffee table, shrugging back out of his jacket.
Mulder considered. "Do we have tomato soup? A grilled cheese sandwich, maybe."
He wondered about that, given that the smell of the french fries had turned Mulder's stomach, but they'd never know without trying. "You got it."
"You know, you can eat whatever you want." Another quick look.
"I'm too lazy to be a short order cook. One meal for both of us is fine, I'm not that much of a gourmand."
Faint smile, almost shy. "Okay."
He treasured it, shy or not. It was the first one he'd seen in days, and it somehow seemed a good omen. "What else sounds good?"
"I'll be lucky to get the soup and sandwich down." Matter of fact and Mulder began writing again.
The intense focus on the journal worried him, but Mulder clearly didn't want to talk about it.
He nodded, rose and took his jacket to the closet, went back to the kitchen. To make tomato soup and grilled cheese.

Mulder rolled the pen between his fingers. Stared at the page, trying to remember. What had happened at the hotel, after he'd danced with Phoebe? He did remember flame, but that's all. Damned holes big enough to accommodate a fleet of trucks in his memory. Scully had made a joke without intending anything more, but it scared him.
Not to remember. What was he but the sum of his experiences, and if he couldn't remember them.....
He shivered, forced himself back in time, felt the warmth of Phoebe's lying mouth on his own. Heat of flame, he'd gone up into it to do what? Get the children?
Fuck, he couldn't pull it back. He needed the files. He'd have to admit to Scully and have her bring him the files. He needed to reconstruct it, although the Berkheimer file hadn't done anything to help him remember.
He shouldn't have snapped at Skinner. He snapped at Skinner a lot lately and even though sometimes Skinner snapped back, it didn't make him feel better about doing it.
He wished he knew why Skinner put up with it. With him. Christ, Scully was right, he wasn't even getting laid as recompense.
He didn't like thinking about that, so he riffled through the pages of the journal. Looking back on what he did remember. He remembered being sick in Mississippi only vaguely. Remembered the day they'd moved into this house. Odd fragments of the time between hospital stays.
He couldn't remember why Skinner might put up with it.
The thought depressed him. Putting the journal aside, he reached for the newspaper. Turned to the classified ads, he'd been thinking about this for a week. It was time to stop letting events control him and take control again.
Apartments for Rent.
He'd have to start looking.
It was only fair.

"I mean it, Daddy. If anything happens to Fox...."
The smoker hid his surprise by walking to the window. Winter had melted to early spring, but it was still cold and grey. It suited his frame of mind, at the moment.
It wasn't like Samantha to give ultimatums, he reflected distantly and sighed. "I'm not in control of everything, you know."
"I know." More ironic tone than he'd have expected from her. "But you know the people who are."
There was no denying that. "I'm not going to pass on threats, Samantha." Firmly and he turned to face her. Jonathan sat at her feet, playing with blocks. Kelly was watching a cartoon. "You mustn't make threats, Samantha, you have too much at stake." A meaningful look at the baby.
She flinched. "I'm not making threats, Daddy. I'm making promises. I'm sure Mother knows a great deal more than she's told, aren't you? And she's feeling fairly determined at the moment. If anything happens to me or the children or to Fox...I'm not sure what she'd do."
He knew the answer to that, far too well. "I see."
And then Samantha smiled. "But I don't want to fight, Daddy. You don't get over often enough, the children have missed you."
He eyed her warily. Unexpected bite, he supposed, but then she was her mother's daughter, too. Her mother had always had a fine sense of when to apply the blade.
Oddly, he felt some pride. Samantha wasn't nearly as bland as she'd appeared for so long. There was strength underlying the sweetness. She was her father's daughter, too.
He'd have to try and insure that she didn't need to exercise that strength.
Damned emotional attachments were going to be the death of him yet.

~~~
 

Mulder flatly refused to see Cargill.
It didn't surprise Skinner, exactly, but it disappointed him nonetheless.
He was more blunt than he should have been in telling Mulder he was going back to the Bureau, Mulder went even more silent than he had been for the previous weeks, and that was saying a great deal.
He'd begun to feel like he was living with a ghost. That the real Mulder had died and he had a specter who walked the house, who slept beside him, wearing layers of clothing.
It was a relief to go back to the office, to focus on the day to day administrative details of an Assistant Director.
It was just as much of a relief to go home and find Mulder obsessively scribbling in his journal.
He thought about that one night, driving home. He'd left a little earlier than was his wont, Saul Blumenthal had handed the office back to him gladly, which suggested that Scully's insistence was beginning to worry Blumenthal.
That amused him. He'd gotten Scully the go-ahead on the financial forensics, and she was working with the accountants now, tracing funds. The justification was easy, possible misuse of federal funds, of Defense Department funds.
He felt grim satisfaction in signing off on it.
Mulder wasn't on the couch.
It hit him like a blow to the gut, he went up the stairs with his stomach clenched like a fist, found no sign of Mulder.
The cat followed him, complaining piteously. The damned cat had gotten spoiled by Mulder's presence at home during the day. The complaints told him that Mulder hadn't been home for a while.
He came back down the stairs in a rush, cold to the bone, grabbed the phone and punched in Scully's cellular number.
"Scully," she answered, her tone weary.
"It's me," he told her gruffly. "Have you heard from Mulder today?"
"No." Her voice sharpened. "He's not at home?"
"No."
"Dammit." Real fear underlying her anger. "Any sign--"
"No. No struggle, nothing out of order. Whatever the hell that means."
"I'll make some calls," she told him tightly.
"So will I." The sound of a car pulling into the driveway drew him to the window, he saw a cab, saw the passenger door open. "Jesus, wait a minute, Scully, he's here, he took a cab somewhere."
Long sigh. "Okay, okay." Another long sigh. "He shouldn't be going out yet, I don't think."
"I'll deal with it." His hands were shaking as he disconnected. He shrugged out of his overcoat and suit jacket. Tugged at the tie.
Sound of the key in the lock and he couldn't stand it, he moved fast, yanked the door open, not troubling to hide his temper. "Where the hell have you been?"
Faint startled look and Mulder blinked. "You're home early."
"Damned straight. Where have you been?"
Wariness settled over Mulder's expression, frosting it. "I went out."
"I noticed." Temper, temper, he cautioned himself, leashed it in. "Mind sharing where?"
Mulder came in, walked past him to the livingroom. A ghost. "I was looking at an apartment."
That shredded his control. He slammed the door, seeing matters in a haze of red. "You what?"
"We need to talk." Faintly.
"Damned right." It came out as a subdued roar. "What the fuck is going on?"
Mulder sat on the coffee table, faced him. More or less. The hunched shoulders didn't suggest defiance or bravado. "Look, Walt, you've been....amazing. But I'm a shit, I know it, and you shouldn't have to put up with this. You aren't getting anything back." The voice went softer, he had to move forward to hear it. "Let's face it, this isn't fun any more."
"Fun?" He managed to keep himself from shouting. "What the fuck are you talking about?" Quelling the urge to shake Mulder senseless.
Mulder's chin came up then. "Look, Walt, this whole....we were good in bed together."
He stared. Putting things together. Appalled by the shape they were taking. Took two steps forward and did grab Mulder's shoulders, brief, brutal shake. "Is that what this is about?" Incredulous and furious. "You can't really believe this, goddammit, you know how I feel about you, you know I love you, what the fuck do you want from me?"
Mulder's expression shifted from shaky determination to something that could only be described as poleaxed.
He shook at Mulder again, let go of him, too afraid of hurting him, took two steps away again, toward the armchair and turned to face him. "You stupid bastard, what does *fun* have to do with anything? You listen to me, you aren't getting an apartment, you aren't running away, if I have to get those goddamned freaky buddies of yours to seal this house, if I have to get goddamned chains and a firepole and chain you inside!" No holding back, he was shouting, he was furious, and Mulder sat there looking pale and shocked.
He hated himself. "Do you read me loud and clear, Mulder, you aren't going anywhere."
One hand came up, Mulder rubbed at his chin, nodded slowly.
His rage receded. His terror receded, but he still felt the chill of it in his bones. Hated himself. "Jesus."
"A firepole?" Mulder's tone was....amused.
It nearly made his temper flare. "I was improvising, I figured it was more economical. One chain and you could be upstairs or downstairs."
Mulder made a sound like laughter. "And the guys didn't do such a hot job of keeping the bad guys out, Walt, how are they going to keep me in?"
He scowled fiercely. "I'll figure something out."
Shaking his head, Mulder rubbed his face with both hands.
"If the only reason I wanted you here was to stuff your ass, I'd have chosen someone who was a lot less trouble," Skinner growled. Sat down in the armchair, suddenly shaky.
Mulder grimaced. "I'll bet."
"Don't push it." He glowered at Mulder.
After a moment, Mulder pushed himself up, sighed and came toward the armchair, rested a hip on the arm. "I'm sorry." Very, very softly.
He glowered again, but he wasn't proof against Mulder in apology mode. Took the thin hand that reached for his. "Don't try it again."
Wan smile. "Bars on the windows, bolts on the doors?"
"I was thinking of one of those electronic bracelets." But he squeezed Mulder's hand.
Mulder's eyes moved away. "You don't know...."
"I know." He sighed, tugged Mulder into the chair with him, waited out the startle reaction. "I know I don't, Fox. But don't pull this shit again. I promise you, I'll hunt you down and get that chain."
Mulder sighed, leaned into him, face turned against Skinner's shirt. "Walt, I can barely make it upstairs without help, what the hell am I going to do with a firepole?"
"The bracelet might do." He curved his palm around the back of Mulder's head. "Give you more mobility."
Mulder laughed softly. "Oh, thanks."
They sat together like that for a few moments. "You have to be exhausted," he murmured finally. "Apartment hunting. Jesus."
"Okay, okay, I promise, I won't look at the For Rent ads again."
"You'd better not. Your name is on this mortgage, too."
"Asshole."
"Look who's talking?" He leaned his head back in the chair.
Mulder sighed. "Yeah." Ruefully.
He didn't answer, just slid his hand down to Mulder's nape. "You hungry?"
"Not even."
"Good. Let's go upstairs."
"Your wish is my command."
"Good," he approved, "Major attitude adjustments are always good."
Snort of laughter and Mulder got out of his lap, tugged him up. "Don't push it."
H