Disclaimers and red tape in Part One

***

The Blue Diamond Motel
Spokane, Washington

 Ahhhh... freedom.

 Dr. Trish Zama sat on the couch-bed in the motel room and stretched
her legs.  She absently rubbed her sore wrist, noting that she must have
injured it in her haste to get out of the burning hell-hole when she was
oblivious to any other distractions.  Clumsy appendages inclusive.  Now
she was taking in her surroundings, her freedom, for the tenth time today.

 Agents Mulder and Scully long gone, Trish felt slightly guilty
for imposing herself on the federal agents.  Granted, perhaps Mulder
only helped her escape to get possession of the disks, but he did not
have to book a motel room for her.  He and Agent Scully did not have
to check in every night at seven o'clock just to make sure she was
okay.  Sure, Agents Mulder and Scully got the disks, but now she got
the impression that they felt partly responsible for her, at least
until she got safely out of the country.  They could have just taken
the disks and split.  Hell, she would have.

 Strangely, although she had lived her life through secrets,
deceptions and shadows, she trusted these two.

 It was a scary thought.

 She rose, lifted the mattress off the bed slightly, and felt around
with her right hand, momentarily starting to panic when she could not
feel the envelope.  When her hand finally made contact with her
passport, her airplane ticket -- her passage to true freedom -- she
slowly let out her breath in relief and scolded the inanimate objects
for being so hard to find.

 She knew she couldn't escape just yet.  Things were too hot,
Mulder had explained to her.  She had the impression both Mulder and
Scully were very experienced in these matters.  All three agreed a
week at this smoke smelling, thin walled, no cable TV'd joint, would be
adequate -- would be enough time to let the excitement go down.
 
 The phone on the night stand started to ring.  Trish smiled.

 He was calling right on time.

 "Hello?"

 "I *did* tell you about the bogeymen who are rumoured to inhabit
that rat trap didn't I?"

 "No, Agent Mulder, but I can deal with the supernatural.  I'll
put some garlic around my neck and... oh... uh... That's vampires,
right?"  Trish could hear Mulder chuckle and some background talking.

 "Well, don't worry, Scully and I stayed there before, and I only
had to kill five cockroaches."  There was a pause before Mulder
continued.  "Oh, Scully says `hi', and wonders how you're holding up."

 "I'm fine."  Trish heard a distinct sigh of exasperation from the
other end of the receiver, momentarily wondered what the hell that had
been for.  "So, how did the interviews go?"

 The joking Mulder disappeared altogether.  "Not well," came his
terse reply.  "Trish, in your research, did anyone have a delayed
onset of symptoms once exposed to the rock?"

 "Delayed?"

 "Yeah, like they didn't go catatonic, in a coma, or whatever for
a couple of days."

 Mulder's question made her eyebrows raise.  "No... no... The
effects were immediate and sudden in everyone."  His next question made
her stomach lurch.

 "Did you ever do research on children?"

 "No."  Her voice had turned into a whisper.  "We're not...
They're not that monstrous."  In the ensuing silence, she could hear
Mulder's brain working, the wheels starting to turn.  She wondered how
much this line of questioning had to do with the interview that
morning.  "There might be something on the disk, have you looked at it
yet?"

 "No, we're going to take it back to the Bureau and look at it.
But Trish... We have to talk..."

 "I know..."

 "No.  I mean seriously sit down and talk."  Mulder glanced over at
Scully and lowered his voice.  "There are some things *I* need to ask
you."

 Trish swallowed into the receiver.  "Okay.  But when and where
do you..."

 She stopped when she heard the background commotion.  Mulder's
voice was now faint, as if his head was turned away from the phone. It
then trailed off entirely, and she could tell he had put his hand over
the receiver.  The words were muffled and only occasionally decipherable.
"...Scully... nose... worry... home... fine... Mulder... ah, Trish I
gotta go, I'll call you later tonight."
 
 As Trish said her brief good byes before Mulder quickly
disconnected, the white van which had been stationed outside the motel
Mulder jokingly referred to as the `rat trap', silently drove away.

***

West 46th avenue
New York City, New York

 "We have a problem... A big problem."

 The Consortium members looked at the man who had just entered
the doorway.  The youngest of all of them, he was gradually making a
place for himself amongst the Consortium members.  He had even
disposed of *that* black man who had been leaking secrets to *that*
federal agent.  They looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to
continue.

 "I sent a dropper to the motel in Spokane.  The doctor's there."
His colleagues' faces turned somber.  "But," he hastily started again,
"I think she's going to lay low and then try to escape the country.
The doctor herself won't be any trouble.  I believe..."

 The British representative cut him off.  "So then what's the bad
news?"

 "It appears that Zama took some of the disks from the
facility.  The men went through all the vaults at the facility before
starting to identify the bodies.  Everything has been accounted for,
except for three disks.  Zama's position at the facility would have
given her access to them.  These disks document our *activities*
within the past decade.  Agents Mulder and Scully now have the disks."

 The smoker rose from his seat.  The other members were talking
angrily amongst themselves, and he rose his voice above the rapidly
escalating din.  "I said I'll rectify this."  He turned to the
informant.  "Kill the doctor.  I'll deal personally with the disks."

 "We don't want bloodshed."

 The smoker turned angrily to the British man.  "We have no
choice.  I said I'll rectify it.  It's been awhile since we've pushed
Agent Mulder's buttons anyways.  We'll get the disks.  I assure you,
gentlemen."

 The British representative matched the smoker's glare.  "I don't
need to remind you of the fine line you are walking.  No more
accidents.  No more miscalculated deals.  No more surprises.  If
this matter is not resolved quietly..."

 The smoker turned on his heels and walked towards the elevator.

 The threat was left unsaid.

***

Russian Department of Health and Research
Moscow, Russia

 Evegeny Fetisov regarded his friend and lab partner warily.

 He had heard this before.

 He regarded his friend whose feet were shifting slightly from side
to side, whose fingers were drumming inside his lab coat pockets, and whose
eyes were bright with happiness.

 Yes, this ground was all-too-familiar.

 But before, their announcement had been premature.  After the
initial human trials, which were originally encouraging, the symptoms
which they had been trying to get rid of, returned one or two months
later.  Their somber announcement that the vaccine they had developed
was, in actuality, not a vaccine, disappointed and angered the upper
brass when their hopes had been falsely raised.

 Both Evegeny Fetisov and Nikolai Semenov had been punished
severely for their part in the fiasco.

 And both of them still had physical scars -- a painful reminder of
what to do, and more specifically what not to do the next time.

 This was next time, and Evegeny was determined not to be the
scapegoat during the fallout.  He once again eyed his partner.
God, it was *so* deja vu.

 "Come!  Come!  Gene, I swear.  Come look!  It's... It's...
Come!"

 His friend rendered speechless temporarily, limited only to
words such as `come', Evegeny reluctantly pulled himself out of his
chair and walked over to the microscope.

 "Nikki, don't you remember what happened last time?"

 "Yes, yes," the blond haired man said quickly.  "Just come, come
look.  You'll see for yourself."

 Evegeny rolled his eyes and looked into the microscope.

 Pupil hit eyepiece and the image assaulted his eye.  His eyes
widened.

 "Oh my God, Nikki.  This can't be."

 The man smiled.  "It can..."  He started nodding his head, which
soon escalated in frequency until Evegeny thought his friend's head
truly was attached to a spring.  "I just did... It's gone... What we
made it worked... Hey, Gene... You look just like me, eh?"

 Evegeny momentarily stopped pondering the possible consequences
the contents between slide and cover plate held.  From his reflection
in the stainless steel cabinets, he could see that he was smiling
widely, rocking on the balls of his feet.  His eyes had the same
sparkle as his friend's, and Evegeny snorted, discovering that he couldn't
effectively silence the giggle that was threatening.

 A thought, a memory, sobered him considerably.

 "Nikki, we have to test it for sure this time.  We have to be
sure before we tell *them*."

 A cloud went over his friend's face at the reminder.  "Yes, yes.
I know."  It was barely a whisper.

 The two men looked at each other.

 Although the two men were physically different -- one blond, tall
and skinny, while the other was chunky, short and balding -- both men's
lives paralleled each other.  Mirror images.  Doctors.  PhD's in
microbiology and biochemistry.  No life except for the one they had in
the laboratory.  No wife.  No girlfriend.  Little or no social skills.
Confined to pipettes and flasks for the entirety of their adult life.
Isolated from the *real* world for almost twenty years now.

 What would this discovery do?  What could it mean?

 Most importantly, was it real this time?

 Gone was the joy that was present a mere two minutes ago.

 Both men had work to do.

 There would be no sleep tonight.

 There was extensive testing to be done.

***

Good Rest Inn
Spokane Washington

 "Scully, that's the third time your nose has bled tonight."

 "I'm fine, Mulder."

 "Scully..."

 "Mulder, I said I was fine.  Drop it, okay?"   Grabbing for
another Kleenex and placing it under her nose, Scully cursed
under her breath.  She doubted whether Mulder's brow could furrow
with worry any further.  She, meanwhile, was getting annoyed.  His
hovering -- Christ, she had to remind him that he was still on the
phone with Zama when her nose started to bleed earlier yesterday
evening -- was making her irritable and not quite pleasant to be
around.  "We still haven't talked about the orphanage yet, Mulder."

 "What's there to talk about?"  Mulder closed his eyes, waiting
for the onslaught of questions.
 
 Scully looked at him over her Kleenex.  "What they said about
you -- that whatever was them was in you too."

 Mulder sighed.  "We talked about this already, Scully.  You
think I would be here arguing with you if I had those... those things
inside me?"

 "Who said we were arguing?  I just think maybe you should get a
blood test and we can send it to Pendrell along with the kids' blood
work."

 "So you believe their story?"

 Scully opened her mouth and then closed it just as quickly.  "I
think we should be safe.  I think that we should err on the side of
caution."

 "So in other words, no.  So if you don't believe their story,
why should I get checked out?"

 "Just to be safe."

 "I'm fine."

 Scully looked at her partner, saw the bloodshot eyes, the
darkened skin underneath them.  Unbeknownst to him, had seen him cringe
when the ambulance and the sirens had arrived, had watched him cover
his ears, and close his eyes.  "Mulder, I know you're getting
headaches..."

 Mulder opened his mouth to protest, and she raised her hand to
cut him off.

 "I know that you're getting headaches.  I know that Tunguska
really bothered you.  I know that this case is very important to you.
I can piece things together too, Mulder.  I saw how you reacted at
the orphanage today.  Mulder, please tell me what's going on.  What's
really going on.  What are you looking... Oh, shit..."

 Mulder stared at her wide-eyed, alarmed at how fast the blood was
coming out of her nose now.  He ran to the box, was about to pull out
one Kleenex and changed his mind and took the whole box instead.  She
grabbed one, clearly pissed when only a small tear of Kleenex came
out when she had ripped it too fast, too zealously.

 "Fuck, Mulder..."  Her voice had acquired a nasal quality now
that a wedge of Kleenex was being wedged up into one nostril.  "Why
won't you just check yourself into hospital and get yourself checked
out."

 Mulder clenched his jaw, watched her replace a red wedge with
another one.  "I wish you were more concerned for your own welfare,
rather than mine."

 "Fuck you, Mulder... "  The voice was tired.  The argument so
old and practised now.  "I'm fine.  Back off."

 Swear words, PMS-like syndrome, Mulder knew that Scully must
have missed lunch or supper... Maybe both.  He had been on the wrong
end of Scully's wrath numerous times in Omaha.  He tried to appeal to
her rational, practical side.  He kept his voice neutral, calm.
"Scully, I think you should check yourself into a hospital.  How much
blood have you lost these past couple days?  You're going to faint or
pass out, if this keeps up, and I don't want any avoidable mishaps or
accidents.  Just for a check up.  Please, Scully."

 "Why don't you?"

 "I'm not the one whose gone through two boxes of Kleenex already."

 "I'm not the one who went to drug store in Omaha every second
day to get a bottle of Aspirin."  Scully got a small amount of
satisfaction watching her partner momentarily resemble a deer caught
in headlights, but his face soon turned grim, almost threatening.

 "Scully... Dana.  I will call Skinner and recommend you be put
off active duty if I have to."

 Fucking bastard.  "And I will never forgive you again if you
do."

 All pretence of a cool, rational discussion disappeared.  "What
the hell do you expect me to do?  Watch you bleed to death?  Watch you
starve yourself?"  Mulder stopped yelling, his brain threatening to
explode under the stress of the ricocheting, vibrating, echoing words,
which were still rebounding off the walls of his skull.  He raised his
chin and glared at her, and whispered, "I won't do it."

 Scully walked over to him, stood so that there were inches
apart.  "You're just like Charlie.  Look, get it though your skull.  I
do whatever the hell I want to do, whenever I want to do it.  No matter
what you say, or Charlie says, or what this yellow mass in my nose says.
You have no right pulling rank on me... no fucking right."

 Her voice had obtained a shrill quality to it -- one that grated
in his head, caused his headache to whine, to scream.  "Oh Scully,
you're such a hero to the cause.  Why don't you go to the Smoking
bastard and go smoke a joint with him, or better yet, why don't you
fuck him.  If your death wish is so bad, you might as well go
out in a bang, right?"

 Scully trembled -- was so angry, that the words she wanted to say,
the tortures she wanted to perform on Mulder, were piling too fast,
pounding against her bones so that her whole body was trembling with the
effort to keep them contained.  She would go for where it hurt.  "You
ditch me, you treat me like a piece of crap.  Your devotion to your
sister, whose birthday you can't even remember, is so... so... *crazy*
that you are blinded.  *Your* quest, Mulder, is so delusionary, so crazy,
that you don't care who you hurt.  All you care about is yourself.
Missy is dead.  I'm missing three months of my life because of your
quest.  I have an inoperable tumour in my head.  So... So yah... I guess
you could say I'm *your* martyr, Mulder."

 He wanted to cry.

 He wanted to hit her.

 "Fine... you hate your job so much... I'll finish up here...
and you can catch the next flight to Washington and go back home to
your fucking perfect family."

 Scully looked at Mulder, his right hand on his forehead.  His
voice had deflated near the end.  It looked like he just didn't care
anymore.

 "Mulder.... God, you just get me so pissed off at times..."

 "Get out of here."

 "Mulder, let's both go to a hospital."  The words were a shock
even to Scully.

 "Get.  Out.  Scully.  Now.  It's not your quest.  Go back to
fucking Washington before I call Skinner."

 Mulder watched Scully's jaw tighten and hands clench.  He heard a
whispered, "Fine" and the forced stomp of heels slamming on carpet.  She
grabbed her handbag and stormed out of Mulder's room.

 Soon as she left, Mulder ran to the bathroom, throwing up the
remains of his paper dry sandwich from the afternoon.  Blindly
reaching up towards to sink, he grabbed the now familiar bottle.  He
popped the lid, swallowed four of the white tablets dry, and laid down
on the naked bathroom floor, praying for sleep, some relief, from the
monsters in his head which refused to rest.
 

***

Margaret Scully's house
Baltimore, Maryland

 Scully stood outside on the porch, remembering a conversation
with her partner she had had on this very landing not so long ago.

 She remembered her adamant, clearly enunciated statement that she
didn't blame him -- had *never* blamed him.

 And she didn't.  It was just that, Christ, he got her so mad
sometimes.  She knocked on the door and let herself in.

 "Oh my God, Dana, where have you been?"

 Scully blinked rapidly at the advancing figure of her mother who
soon embraced her, a little too roughly, a little too quickly for
comfort.

 "Mom, I've been at Spokane.  Remember?  With Mulder?"

 Her mom nodded quickly.  "I know.  Dr. Hannah has been trying to
reach you at your apartment all day yesterday and today.  He said you
were supposed to fly out yesterday because something had happened, but
he wouldn't tell me."  Scully reflexively turned away when she saw
the anxious eyes of her mother boring into her.  "Dana, what happened?
What's wrong?"

 "Nothing... nothing happened at all."

 Margaret pursed her lips.  "Dr. Hannah says to call him right
away.  That it's urgent.  He sounded worried."

 Scully nodded, inwardly feeling her heart racing.

 Inside her nose, she swore she could hear the Cancerman
laughing.

***

Ruby's Diner
Boise, Idaho

 Trish watched the federal agent walk, no march, into the diner --
her eyes widening with every step closer he took to her.  It looked
like he hadn't slept at all; he was unshaven, his clothes looked like
they had rescued from a dumpster, and he looked very, *very* pissed off.

 "There's nothing on the fucking rock on your disks."

 Trish looked at him, thoroughly confused.  "What?"

 "Where's the information on the rock in your disks?"

 Mulder resented the shakiness that had entered in his voice.
When he had woken up, pain free, he took the opportunity to look at the
disks, pausing momentarily when he realized it would be Scully's lap
top he would be using.

 There was nothing.

 The disks talked fully about cloning, hybrids, the retro virus
from which he almost died from in Alaska.  It might have been mind
blowing.

 *Might have*.

 The phone call from Pendrell came some twenty four hours after the
orphanage had been evacuated.

 Mulder's blood had not accompanied Sara and Johnny's blood back to
the FBI lab.

 The phone call confirmed what he had been dreading.  Yes, the kids
had been infected.  No, they did not know what caused their delayed onset
of symptoms.  Yes, they were working on it.  No, they did not know when
they would have anything new to report. Yes, they'd call if there were
any new developments.

 Trish watched the fed reluctantly sit across from her.

 She wondered where Agent Scully was.

 She furrowed her eyebrows; she had no idea why the fed was telling
her things she already knew.  "There is no information on the rock on the
disks, Agent Mulder," she cautiously repeated.
 
 Mulder felt his heart constricting -- like he had been given a
death sentence.  He could feel the straps being tied around his arms,
legs and chest, could hear the lethal injection being prepared, the
guillotine being tested.

 "You said you knew the most on this thing," he hissed.

 Trish looked into her coffee, unsure of what to make of the
agent's sudden change in demeanour.  "I do."  She felt like she was
treading on a land mine; she had to choose her words carefully so that
nothing would detonate.

 "Then why isn't there anything on the disks?"  Mulder could feel
the noose tightening.

 "Agent Mulder, the rock just came in two days before you.  We
wouldn't have had time to put anything on hard copy.
 
 Mulder slammed his fist on the diner table, suddenly studying the
salt shaker and biting his lip when the startled cutomers grew quiet.
"So then what the hell do you know?"  Mulder could now hear the drums
rumbling.

 Trish frowned slightly, upset that the fed was lashing out at
her.  "I know, Agent Mulder, that the organism isn't hampered by any
current pharmaceuticals available.  The organism leaves the host
totally incapacitated.  Um... it enters through any open air body
cavity."

 "Fuck... I already knew that, Trish... What was all that crap
you said about making vaccines and everything."

 Trish glared at Mulder, hating the feeling of being interrogated.
She spoke slowly, enunciated each word so that maybe, just maybe, she
could calm the man down.  "I was talking about other virus' the project
has dealt with.  I mean, there's been many different organisms and virus'
which have come through Boise."  She thought back to her earlier days,
shuddering at the eagerness with which she had once approached each
test with.  "There's been one that eats through the nervous system.
There's one that attaches to the brain stem.  Our last one had the
ability to thicken blood.  We didn't have the rock for that long, Agent
Mulder."
 
 Mulder's head was straining, the outrage so intense.  The
frustration and the desperation were building, growing, pushing so that
his head was pounding, his heart was pumping.  The need to vent would be
coming.

 "So there's nothing... No vaccine, or cure."

 Trish shook her head sadly.  "No..."  She cringed right after her
next question, unsure of whether it would set him off.  "It meant a lot
to you?"

 Mulder smiled bitterly.  "Yah, something like that."  It was
only his life, after all.

 Trish nodded, then squirmed in the awkward silence that followed.
When Mulder spoke again, she jumped slightly.

 "Do you have any family in Japan?"

 Trish rose her eyebrows in surprise at the abrupt change in
topic.  "No... No my father died last year, and my mother died when I
was young."  She paused, remembering Darren.  "I had one friend in the
Project.  We... We were really close.  But... But he developed a
conscience -- a very dangerous thing to do.  He was threatening to go
public and they stopped him... permanently."

 Mulder nodded, all too familiar with *their* methods.

 Trish looked back into her coffee.  She started out quietly,
still partially lost in thought.  "You know, Agent Mulder, you and Agent
Scully kind of remind me of us."

 Mulder looked away, the insults he had flung still fresh in his
mind, the insults she flung, forever engraved.

 Mulder looked at his coffee, noticing for the first time how
much it looked like the stuff that was dumped on his face in Tunguska.

 Elsewhere in the back of his mind, the priest was reading
Scripture and the gallows were being built.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Andrei Stojanov gripped the cellular phone in his sweaty hand as
if it was a life line and he was a drowning man at sea.  His pace down
the deserted hallway was determined and fast, but each step was
accented with a hint of nervousness.

 *They* would be happy with the first news.

 But how would *they* react to the second part?  It was bad, kind
of.  But it was also good, kind of.  The way Andrei saw it, they had an
opportunity to catch up with the Americans.  Right?

 Christ, only three months on the job, and he was probably already
getting a god damned ulcer.

 He found the familiar door and rapped his knuckles on the cedar
plane before entering.  He loved this part.  It was an alternate
universe, an alternate world, where standard, government issue hallways
would give way to leather, oak and tinted shadows.  The faint
smell of cigars and cigarettes would slowly permeate into his nostrils.
The whole room smelt like experience... confidence...

 He was determined.

 He would be part of this world some day.

 He stood stiffly, waiting until all the men were ready for what
he had to say.  "Gentlemen, I just received a call from Intel.  The
building in Boise was destroyed.  All evidence of the rock was also
destroyed."  The old men started talking amongst themselves,
congratulating themselves for a job well done.

 The man tried to control is breathing.  The hard part was still
to come.

 The eldest of the men recognized that their gopher was still not
finished.  He quieted the others.  "There's more?"

 Andrei nodded.  "All the workers were killed except one doctor.
Intel reports she has been involved extensively with the Americans,
her father was Ishimaro."  Andrei saw a few of the men nod at the name.
If you were good -- and Ishimaro had been brilliantly, almost
Mengele-good -- *everyone* knew who you were.  "She stole some disks,
gave them to a federal agent... uh... a Fox Mulder."  He saw some the
men's eyebrows raise.  The name was oddly familiar.  "Apparently,
this disk is important.  Intel doesn't know what's on it specifically,
but the Americans are all worked up on trying to retrieve these disks.
Reportedly they've put a hit on the doctor."

 Colonel Beranek stepped out into the light from behind the older
man.  "The Americans didn't put a hit on the federal agent?"

 "No.  Apparently this has happened before."

 The Colonel's eyebrows rose further from his eyes.  "This agent
has managed to get these disks before?"

 "Yes... No... Not the disks in question.  He managed to
temporarily get a hold of the MJ files approximately a year ago."  The
men's eyebrows rose further. It was the first time all twelve men were
quiet at the same time.  He licked his lips.  God, this was really
going to throw them for a loop.  "... And he was at Tunguska."

 Andrei could now hear the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray
across the room.

 "This American federal agent was in Tunguska?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "He was... *tested*?"

 "Yes, sir."

 Vladimir Kabalevsky, in all his fifty years in the Russian
Consortium had never heard anything so puzzling, so bizarre.  The
situation had turned so very promising and profitable in such a
short period of time.

 And despite the placid emotion his face showed at the moment,
his innards were in turmoil.  Mulder... The name would be forever
etched in his memory.  It was a reminder of a time he had stood in
this very room, forehead sweating, palms shaking.

 It had been his first assignment.

 And it had been *important*.

 The Mulders.  Well, wonders never ceased.  Undoubtedly, this
agent was the elder Mulder's son.  He had to be, if the Americans in a
blink of an eye would order a hit on a doctor who had worked for them
all her life, but yet would hesitate to kill a simple federal agent
who had stolen some disks.

 And if it was him who had caused so much trouble in Tunguska,
then it meant that the young man would be suffering soon, if not
already.

 "Are Krycek and Filipova still in the States?"

 "I believe so, sir."

 "I want you go to Research, get some product, send it to the
States.  Tell Krycek what it is and tell him it's for the federal
agent.  Tell him about the disks, as well.  He should know what to do;
he'll piece it together."

  "We're going to deal for the disks, sir?"

 Kabalevsky smiled.  The young ones had so much to learn.
"If the Americans are so eager to get the disks, that they are willing
to kill one of their own employees, those disks must be important.
Whatever is important to the Americans is also important to mother
Russia."

 The others in the room nodded in agreement, wondering if the
younger Mulder has a history half as compelling as his father's.

 It had been his first assignment.

 Kabalevsky's face grew grim.  He would make the smoke sucking son
of a bitch pay.

 He reached out to the messenger, just as the young man was about
to leave.  The warmth and strength in his grip defied his true age.

 "Andrei, get Intel to pull as much information as they can on
this federal agent Mulder.  I want to know why his life is so
significant to the Americans."  He paused momentarily, as if caught up
in some memory, then shook his head.  He nodded his assurances to the
young man.

 "And it's important."

***
Good Rest Motel
Boise, Idaho

 Mulder picked up his cellular phone, wincing slightly as the
chirp of the plastic object reached the now-sensitive auditory section
of his brain.  "Mulder."

 The silence unnerved him.

 "Mulder?"

 "Scully?"

 "Where are you?"  There was a tense laugh when both agents
realized they had asked the same question at the same time.

 Mulder shifted eyes his downward, feeling ashamed.  "I'm still
here in Boise.  But... I think I'm done here."  Mulder could hear
Scully thinking throughout the lengthy pause, could hear her trying to
put words into her mouth that she did not want to speak.  "Why?  Where
are you?"

 Scully held the receiver closer to her ear, glancing at her mom
as she did so.  She could feel the tears threatening when she thought
back to her meeting with Dr. Hannah.  "Um... Mulder."  She tried to break
up the mood.  "I took your advice... for once.  I... The tumour has grown.

It... I mean... The reason why I'm calling is that... I was wondering
if you could come before they start chemo... There are some things I
want to say, and there are some things I want to take back.  I want to
do it before they start to poison me."

 Mulder took a deep breath, difficult to do with the lump that had
formed in his throat.  He nodded into the phone, Scully's macabre
humour not funny at this time.  "I'll be right over."

***

Miami Airport
Miami, Florida

 Alex Krycek didn't care if people saw him and his partner making
out in the airport terminal.  God, he loved the very essence of the
woman in front of him.  Compelled to take a stopover in Miami, before
they flew directly to Russia, the two agents were `taking advantage' of
their free time.

 Both were oblivious to the gawking, the parents shielding their
children's eyes, and the occasional, `God, get a room'-like comments.

 Krycek groaned inwardly when his cellular phone began to ring.
Lips still intertwined, he grabbed for the cell phone in his jacket
pocket.  God damn, sex had taken a turn for the more difficult ever
since Tunguska.  "Ungh... Popov."
 
 His partner watched, no felt, Krycek slowly start to disentangle
himself.  It was obviously not the call he was expecting.  She watched
him get off of her, start pacing the airport floor, muttering his
`okay's, `I understand's, and `Yes sir's into the cell.  With a final
nod he punched the `end' button, evidently pissed.  She looked up at
him, concerned.  "Lexi, what is it?"

 "We have unfinished business."

 She looked at him quizzically, and waited for him to continue.

 "Our two favourite American agents have some very important
disks.

***
Holy Cross Hospital
Washington, DC

 Resting comfortably under the sheets, Scully smiled when her partner
entered the room, wearing the embarrassed, sheepish grin he did
whenever he was nervous.

 He sat down on a vinyl chair next to her, it creaking underneath
its new weight, and took a deep breath.  "Kiss and make up time?"

 Scully smiled.  "Something like that."

 He looked at the small figure in the bed.  Too pale.  Too thin.
Too frail.  She was supposed to have been safe in Spokane.  He had
promised.
He looked at the clear solution that was hanging above her bed, going
through the possibilities of what it could be, what it could represent.
"Is that... that..."

 Scully saw his alarm and quickly shook her head.  "No.  No chemo
drip yet.  It's just a preparatory drip."

 Mulder nodded his head, pausing slightly before he continued.
"Scully, you know what I said... I didn't mean it."

 "The same applies to me."

 Mulder nodded his head, instantly regretting it, as he awakened
whatever monster had been temporarily sleeping.

 "Although, Mulder... I do find the prospect of having sex with
the Cancerman very appealing."

 Mulder chuckled, as did Scully, but it died down too quickly,
the joke hitting too close to home, too close to recently mended wounds,
too bitter tasting to be funny.
 
 She felt like she was fourteen years old and at confession -- felt
like she was back at that booth speaking to Father McQue and admitting
her fascination with cigarettes.

 "I have to admit something.  I was admitted here yesterday, and
given a transfusion because I fainted in the airport."
 
 She heard Mulder sigh and watched him close his eyes momentarily.
He looked back to her with a pained expression.  "Why didn't you tell me?"
 

 She glanced at the opposite wall, absently wondering why it seemed
all hospitals painted their walls beige.  "I know... I knew... I should
have checked myself in last week.  Maybe even during Omaha.  I... uh..."
Her lips twitched with the effort it was taking to confide in the man
in front of her.  "I didn't want to admit that I was slowing down.  I
didn't want to give into this... this... disease."  She managed to spit
the last part out.

 Mulder nodded as if he understood, and then winced when his
cellular phone rang.

 "Mulder."

 "It's me Trish."

 Oh shit.  "Oh damn, I'm sorry I forgot to call you last night I
had an emergency and had to leave."

 "Oh."  Mulder heard the relieved sigh at the other end of the
line.  "That's okay.  I was feeling bad for keeping you in Boise
anyways."  Trish tried to pass her concern off casually, but she still
remembered the haste in which the federal agent had left the diner, his
poorly concealed anger, the fidgety ticks and nuances that came with
desperation.  It was an understatement when she proceeded to casually
state to the federal agent, "I was worried after you left the diner."

  Mulder looked towards his partner, who was half listening, half
pulling up the covers further in a feeble attempt to stay warm
underneath the paper thin covers.  Her presence cut down immensely all the
things he could say, all the questions he wanted to ask, just for one more
time -- get one more chance to get an answer that wasn't there.  "It's
okay.  *I'm* okay.  The disks are fine, Trish."

 "Are you sure?"

 "Of course."

 Trish could hear the cadence in the man's voice which indicated
he was tightly wound, walking a thin line.  It was an abrupt change
from the man who had joked around with her all of forty eight hours ago.

 Although it had been awhile since she could honestly say she
cared for someone, she felt for the federal agent -- felt bad that
something was bothering him so much, that she could almost hear his body
sag from the other end of the line.  Mental note taken that the bad
thing about leaving a life in a laboratory was that you no longer dealt
with nameless test subjects, Trish was at a loss as to how to ease this
man's grief.  She owed him -- *them* -- a lot. How could she repay them
for helping her salvage some sort of semblance of a normal life?

 She had to thank them.  But how?  What was the going rate for
someone who helped save your life?  "Agent Mulder, I'll make you a deal.
Once things settle down, I'll treat you and Agent Scully to a great
sushi place I know.  It's nothing, really, but I... I... just
appreciate everything you've... well... you know."  Trish, surprisingly
found herself blushing.

 Mulder smiled sadly into the phone.

 Sushi was the last thing he was thinking about.

 He pondered, thought of an excuse to turn down her offer.
Somehow the excuse `I have a headache' wouldn't really cut it.  A
phrase replayed in his mind.

 ...I'll make you a deal...

 Krycek had dealt, had sold the secrets on the MJ files --
encrypted or not encrypted -- to the highest bidder.  Krycek and the
countries he did business with did not deal in bills or coins.  Their
currency was secrets...

  Trish easily bartered with her disks.  The research she did on
retro virus', extraterrestrial beings, cloning, hybridization was her
ticket out of Boise.

 ...secrets that perhaps Mulder could, like Krycek, use to deal.

 With the devil himself.

 The thought gave him hope.  The thought made him sick.

 He was dealing for Scully's life because safe Spokane was safe
no longer.  Because he could never make anyone *safe*.

 One gamble, for a jackpot that held three chips.

 Cure her cancer.

 "Hello?  Mulder... Did you hear what I said?"

 "Hmmm?  Oh, that sounds great."  Mulder vaguely remembered a
conversation about sushi.  "I have to go, Trish."  He disconnected the
phone with more optimism than he had had at the beginning of the
conversation.

 "That was Trish?"

 "Yeah."

 "What'd she want?"

 "Jealous are we, Scully?  Um... it was just a check in."  His
phone chirped again.  "Christ, I'm popular today."  With only his right
hand holding the phone, he thumbed the 'on' button. "Mulder."

 "It's Trish."

 "Again?"

 "Fox, you got rid of the disks right?  Like I told you to?"  The
name sent off warning bells off in Mulder's head.  Trish had never
called him Fox.

 Mulder stood up, feeling Scully watch his movements carefully.
His next words would have to be chosen carefully -- would need to be
strategically used.  "Yah, I got rid of them like you asked."

 Mulder heard whispering on the other end of the line.  "...We're
not stupid... disks... bitch."

 He jumped when he heard the shot and the strangled cry.  The phone
was shuffled around for the next couple of agonizingly slow seconds.

 The hairs in his cochlea were straining for any sound.  He swore
he could hear Trish apologizing to her father.

 When the phone was finally picked up, the voice on the other
line gave him chills.  Mulder could practically smell the smoke on the
phone.  "I'm afraid, Agent Mulder that Dr. Zama is dead.  Ironically,
very much like her father.  You do remember her father don't you,
Mulder?"

 "What?"  Scully was looking more concerned as Mulder's voice had
gone from humour, to alarm, to anger in the space of thirty seconds.

 "Don't you remember a certain Japanese doctor on a certain
train in Iowa?  Killed by piano wire if I remember correctly."
Mulder's sharp intake of breath confirmed that he did, indeed, know
what the Cigarette Smoking Man was talking about.

 Mulder closed his eyes momentarily.  Perhaps death had been a
a willing companion to Trish and her immediate family.

 "His daughter."  It was not a question.

 "None other.  But enough with this idle chatter, I recommend you
turn over those disks, Agent Mulder."

 Mulder swallowed.  So the deal had begun.

 "Let me think about it."

 Mulder could hear the surprise in the silence that ensued.

 The Cigarette Smoking Man paused momentarily, cigarette hanging
from the left side of his mouth.  Mulder considering a deal?  This had
been a man who had been willing to burn in a box car for the MJ
documents.  And now, a year later, he was seriously considering a deal.
The Cigarette Smoking Man knew why.  "You do know, Agent Mulder, that
perhaps we'd be willing to deal... for perhaps the life of your
partner."

 Mulder looked at Scully whose blue eyes were blazing, boring a
hole into his forehead.  He would -- he *could* -- do this.  But not
in front of her.  Not in front of the woman who was fiercly determined and
brave and strong.  Not in her earshot range.  She would be so ashamed.
*He* was so ashamed.  He took a deep breath and imagined the rewards of
dealing with the devil.

 Cure her cancer.

 "I know."

 He could hear the smile spread across the phone, the lecherous smoke
hitting the teeth as the man exhaled.

 Cure her cancer.  It had already become a mantra.

 "I'll let you think about it, Agent Mulder.  Give my regards to
Agent Scully.  I hope she gets well soon."  The man smiled when there
was no reply.  He continued, "I'll be talking to you soon, Agent
Mulder."

 As the dial tone assaulted his ear, Mulder could still feel
Scully's eyes on him.

 "Trish is dead."  It was a statement of fact, not a question.

 He nodded.

 "And they know about the disks and want them."

 Mulder nodded again.  He would not reveal anything about the last
half of his conversation.  Scully's nose had started to bleed again,
but not to the extent of the gusher the previous night.  He wordlessly
handed her the Kleenex box, their eyes acting as words as they replayed
the same conversation over and over again.

 I worry about you...

 I'm fine.

 He watched her dab absently at her nose with one hand.  To
Mulder's relief, the nosebleed ended almost as fast as it had started.

 He continued staring, alternating glances beween the frail woman
in the bed, and the reflection of the man in the window.  The comparisons
started almost immediately -- apples to oranges, but Mulder didn't care.

 For while she had so much to live for, he could only find
comfort in an empty, intangible quest that may never be fulfilled.

 For while she had a family, he had managed to forget Sam's,
Samantha's, the butt munch's birthday.

 For although she could be married -- at least most certainly have
a boyfriend -- and be safe, she was currently tied down, bogged, drowning
in her commitment to the X-Files, to *his* quest.
 
 Scully called his name, and Mulder snapped out of his reverie,
smiling his reassurances weakly.

 This time he wouldn't ask Skinner to set up the meeting.  He'd do
it himself.  If he waved the disks around long enough, they'd most
likely come running.
 
 His new found hope flickered when he looked back at his partner,
frail figure in a thin nightgown, underneath thinner blankets.

 Turning away from his thoughts and glancing back at Scully, the
scattered Kleenexes with dots of red, served to remind Mulder that the
time to deal was now.

***

 Scully awakened suddenly, painfully, lost in memories she wasn't
sure were her own.  She tried to calm her breathing.

 She looked at the clock.  There were seven more hours till chemo.
What little experience she had with the poison was enough.

 She thought back to Penny -- courageous Penny.  The woman who had
given her hope when she thought there had been none.

 Her thoughts then turned to the murderous bastard Scanlon.  She
shuddered, remembering how Byers had run into the room, had told her
about the oncologist's duplicity.  Breathlessly, the Gunman had also
told her about Mulder, and her heart had fluttered when the bearded
man told her he was still stuck at Lombard.
 
 But Byers never told Dana about the look of desperation his friend
had obtained in those tense hours.  He had never seen it before, and so
help him God, he never wanted to see it again.

 Scully licked her lips, turned her gaze to her partner.  He was
sitting, rather uncomfortably, in a faux-leather chair with his long legs
stretched out in front of him.  He had his palm against his forehead,
his head leaning back on the backrest of the chair, and his eyes closed.
Apparently the headache which Mulder insisted didn't exist, had come
back with a vengeance.

 "Mulder?"

 "Hmmmm...."

 Scully stared absently at the wall across from her.  "Do you
think Dr. Hannah could be one of them?"

 Mulder opened his eyes, squinting when the light suddenly did a
full frontal attack on his pupils.  He shrugged his shoulders.  "We both
scouted him, as did Skinner.  I think he is... But I don't think we'd
ever be able to get a doctor who we were one hundred percent sure of.
Right?"

 Scully nodded.  She turned away from the opposing wall, expecting
to be met by the eyes of her partner.  Instead, she saw him sitting
back again in the chair with his palm still to his forehead, moving it
in small circles to relieve whatever it was that was in his head.
"Mulder, quit the mind games.  Go to the nurses' station and get
something for the headache.  You look like you've been run over by a
dump truck."

 Mulder sighed.  She was right.  She was also dying.

 Cure her cancer.

 He got up from the chair and immediately grabbed for the bed
table in front of Scully when the room tilted dangerously, his
partner's face distorting hideously.

 "Mulder?"  The alarm in her voice made him will his knees to
stop shaking, the floor to stop vibrating, his head to stop pounding,
the dizziness to subside.

 He let go of the table and tried out his legs.  "Just got up to
fast, Scully."  He smiled shakily at her.  "Not quite a dump truck, maybe
more like a high speed locomotive."

 Scully smiled back nervously, causing her lips to form more of a
grimace.  Worry still etched her face as her partner unsteadily left,
but there was also some semblance of relief in that he had finally
admitted his malaise without any subterfuge.  She watched as Mulder
left in search of the nurses station -- at the same time an unfamiliar
uniform entered her room.
 
***

Holy Cross Hospital
Washington, DC

 The nurses, having seen the dishevelled federal agent approaching
their station and politely asking for something to ease his headache,
gave him two Tylenol and directed him to the water fountain.

 Mulder walked towards the fountain, debating whether he should
just take the pills dry, or expend precious energy walking to the water
fountain.
 
 He caught the familiar shape of an altogether familiar man.
Pills and exhaustion forgotten, he sprinted to the form of Alex Krycek
while at the same time unholstering his gun.

 He pointed the gun at the smug man's head.  "Krycek," he
managed to pass through clenched teeth.  "Well, isn't this a
surprise."

 Krycek grinned at Mulder.  "Hi... Fox.  I was just in the area,
and thought you might want to chat.  I'd put that gun away, boy genius.
The nurse you passed while going to the nurses station is my partner.
I assure you, Mulder, she is quite armed."

 Mulder reholstered his gun, leaving the snap of his holster
undone.  "What do you want?"

 "Well, since you asked, I want those disks."

 "I guess you'll just have to wait in line."

 "I have something you want."

 Krycek looked at his former partner.  It was obvious he was
waiting for him to continue.

 "Agent Mulder, are you suffering form chronic headaches, spells
of dizziness, and exhaustion?"  The corners of Krycek's mouth turned
up when he saw Mulder blink and his jaw tighten.  Krycek continued
casually, "I'm sure you're aware of the fact that your country was
unable to find a vaccine before the facility had that unfortunate... what
was it the media said?... oh yeah, gas leak.  Or maybe they did, but it
just got the snot burned out of it.  I really don't care.  Anyways, I'm
getting off topic.  As of five hours ago, Mulder, Russian scientists
found that vaccine..."

 "Bull shit."

 Krycek continued to smile at the edge that had crept into
Mulder's voice.  "True, Mulder.  I'm sure you've been told already
about the side effects of the crap we gave you in Tunguska.  And I'm
sure you know that within a few days you could be lapsing into a state
of incurable catatonia.  But, that was also a childhood habit of yours,
wasn't it, Mulder?"  He looked in amusement at the fleeting look of
pain which crossed the American agent's face.  "If you do not give us
these disks, you will not be cured, Mulder.  The headaches you have now,
are nothing compared to the ones you'll be having soon."

 Mulder saw Krycek's eyes shift off his face and towards Scully's
room.  He saw a nurse approaching them, who was in turn smiling at
Krycek.

 She smiled sweetly at Mulder.  "You'll be happy to know, Agent
Mulder, that the patient is doing fine."

 Mulder could only return a sneer in her direction.

 Krycek smiled.  "I have to go now... Fox.  There'll be something
of interest for you back at your apartment.  I highly recommend you
look at it.  Carefully."  Krycek wrapped one of his arms across the
waist of his female companion.

 "I'll keep in touch, Mulder."
 

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 The room was mess.

 The chairs had been turned over, the drawers pulled out, the
kitchen utensils scattered.

 And when there was nothing left in the living room or kitchen,
the mattress in the barely used bedroom was upended, the takeout of how
many weeks ago scattered haphazardly across the floor.

 And the cause of all that destruction, Agent Fox Mulder was
sitting passively, cross legged, hands clasped and lying loosely in his
lap, in the middle of the same mattress he had managed to upend.

 Krycek was right.  There was something of interest for him when
he got back.  Popping the video cassette into the VCR he saw the
Tunguskan geologist, the one who would not give the Russian bastards
the satisfaction of his suicide, the one who had given the federal
agent his knife, his only possession, his only potential ticket out of
that hell hole.

 He saw that man, screaming in pain, holding his head, yelling
indecipherable Russian words.  Lying on the floor of his cell in a
fetal position, he would scream for an agonizingly long period of time,
stopping only to catch his breath, which were by now painful grunts.
Then the tirade would continue again.

 And then... then the screams stopped.  Not died down, or slowly
decreased in volume, but stopped entirely in one breath.  In one
heartbeat.  The eyes, once bulging, and fever bright with pain would
cloud over and stare blankly into space, the movements -- the head
holding, the metronome-like rocking -- would stop entirely.  The
silence, the stillness... they were worse than the screams.

 Mulder paused the tape and stared, wondered if that's what he
had looked like under the chicken wire in that cockroach infested
gulag.

 He did not want to become that man.

 But, he had already planned what he was going to say.  He had
already planned what he was going to do.  Scully said that she was
his martyr.  In return, he would be hers.  He would deal with the
devil.  Reap the rewards.  Take satisfaction that he could give
his partner *something* other than heartache, death and a dead end job.

 It had become his mantra for the past twelve hours.

 Cure her cancer.

 But Krycek had threatened to upset the delicate equilibrium that
he had found.  He had offered Mulder a cure, had given him a choice
between saving his own life or his partner's.

 This decision came easily.

 The mess in his apartment was not because of this.

 Then he saw the note -- the innocent-looking paper which had been
hidden inconspicuously underneath the video cassette, and which hadn't
been noticed until the video had been watched.  It was a transcript of
a conversation, obviously recorded by a third, outside party.  The
beginning and end had been cut out, but it was the date and place of
conversation that had made Mulder's stomach drop -- Martha's Vineyard,
April 12, 1995.

 The night before Bill Mulder was murdered.

 Although the persons involved were only identified as A and B, it
didn't take Mulder long to figure out who the two men were.

 A:  MY NAME IS IN THOSE FILES.

 B:  THE FILES HAVE BEEN ENCRYPTED OF COURSE.  WE HAVE A CERTAIN
  LUXURY OF TIME.  WE ENDEAVOURED TO PREVENT THAT FACT FROM
  EVER COMING TO LIGHT.

 A:  <PAUSE>  YOU WOULDN'T HARM HIM.

 B:  I'VE PROTECTED HIM THIS LONG, HAVEN'T I?

 Mulder cautiously turned over the paper, scared of whatever other
skeletons it could reveal.  A handwritten note had been attached, along
with a four by six inch photograph.  He recognized the wooden deck, the
familiar green patio umbrella.  In fact, it was still most likely stored
somewhere in what was now their own little house of horrors.

 It was their summer house in Maine.  And Sam was lying back in one
of the lawn recliners, desperately trying to imitate her mother who was
sunbathing beside her.  Mulder remembered that bathing suit.  He
remembered Sam had a little pot belly which gave a certain rotund
dimension to the clown's face which was printed on the belly region
of the suit.  There was a rough circle drawn hastily by a red marker
over a particular spot on the patio glass.  The reflection of the man
who was holding the camera could be seen.

 Bill Mulder was never that tall.

 He was never that lean.

 He never smoked cigarettes.

 Mulder numbly shifted his gaze to the handwritten note.

 THEIR WORK MUST CONTINUE.
 THEIR PROJECT MUST CONTINUE UNABATED.
 WE ALL KNOW HOW IMPORTANT YOU ARE TO THE EQUATION.

 His blood ran cold, his stomach knotted, the headache had been
reduced to a buzz.  The message could have meant anything.  Perhaps
Krycek recieved some sort of sexual gratification from screwing with
his head.  It had happened so many times already that Mulder was tempted
to think so.

 Krycek was trying to show him something, trying to lead/mislead
him into some logical conclusion from the three garbled messages he had
given him.

 The implications were dangerous.  The implication that the smoke
sucking son of a bitch was more involved with Sam, with his mother,
with him, than anyone had dared to suggest.  Krycek was a traitor.
He couldn't -- he *wouldn't* -- believe, because the implications of those
fibres intertwined to make certain colours, shapes, pictures, words had
the power to destroy everything his life had been based on.

 The picture was surreal.  It was so... family like.  His mother
was lying back, sunglasses on, iced tea beside her, smiling for the man
who was holding the camera.  Sam was lying back as well, arms straight
at her sides, legs militarily straight and together, a mock-seriousness
on her face.  The picture screamed Norman Rockwell.

 Mulder put a hand up to his mouth in response to the bile he
felt forming at the back of his throat.

 It was a picture a father would have taken of his family.

 So, it was one more implication added to a pile which was steadily
accumulating.  Even though his bastard father had beat the snot out
of him, he was beating the snot out of his own son... wasn't he?  Bill
Mulder would not have blamed Fox Mulder for the disappearance of
his only daughter if he hadn't been his own biological son... or
would he?

 And if Bill Mulder wasn't...

 And if the Cigarette Smoking Man was...

 A Pandora's box Krycek had given him -- one wrapped in a garish
black bow, waiting only so that its demons could be unleashed.

 It was another choice.  It was the truth or Dana Scully.

 Each argument, each rebuttal was accompanied by one utensil
flying, one piece of furniture upended.  The rampage and its intensity
was only equalled to those thrown by one Bill Mulder some twenty years
prior when alcohol and guilt threatened to consume him.

 The truth vs. Scully had quickly metamorphed into one man he
couldn't trust vs. a group of men he couldn't trust.

 It was the coversation in Oregon all over again, except it was
the shadow government that knew about Scully's cancer.  And that he had
to find out what they were protecting, and God, did nothing else matter
to him.

 It was the truth vs. Scully.  It was a father who twenty five years
later could still make his son cry vs. a family that despite the daughter
and father they had lost, was still living -- was far from the stagnant,
silent relationship that could characterize certain *other* families.

 He remembered Krycek double crossing him when he was a federal
agent.

 He thought back to the words passed between himself and Charlie
seemingly years ago.

 He remembered the militia group, and the part Krycek had played
in delivering the appropriate bomb materials.

 He remembered offering his hand to Mrs. Scully when her youngest
daughter had been abducted, only for her to recoil in horror when she
saw the blood on it.

 He remembered Krycek double crossing him again in Russia.

 He remembered holding his partner in that hospital, how Scully
was wearing slippers that dwarfed her feet, a robe which threatened to
engulf her.

 Krycek was a rat.  Krycek would suck cock in an attempt to get
what he wanted.

 The search for Samantha, his father's involvement in the
conspiracy, extraterrestrials -- the X-Files in itself -- had become
as much a part of Scully as it had him.

 The truth would not matter if *she* wasn't here.

 The ringing of his cell phone brought him out of his delirium.

 "You're a hard man to find, Agent Mulder."

 The timing was perfect.
 
***

Holy Cross Memorial Hospital
Washington, DC

 Scully stared at the spotted tile of the hospital ceiling,
prayed that her gaze wouldn't move, prayed that she wouldn't have to
blink.  Every slight change in movement, every adjustment her eyes
had to make, would send her stomach tilting, her throat convulsing.

 She couldn't talk, one of the chemo drips had left painful sores
on her mouth.  They were most sore when her lips were dry, but the pain
caused by licking her lips proved to be too much of a deterrent.

 Noises and sounds would be loud and unbearable one moment, and
then in the next passage of time, the silence would be so palpable --
almost tangible -- that on one occasion, she believed she was already dead.

 And the pain.  She would not have believed such levels were
medically possible, would not have believed that Penny could have
suffered this long in silence.  She would have reached for the call
button, if not for the three seconds of agony she would have to endure
in reaching for it.  She would have breathed deeper, but that would
have added to her nausea.  She would have liked to scream, but she
didn't have the energy.

 She heard the door open, and soon her mother's worried face swam
into view.  Scully's eyes asked the unspoken question.  Her mother
sadly nodded her head.
 
 Mulder hadn't visited yet.

 Although her mother had tried numerous times at his home and his
cellular number, no one would answer, the monotone of his answering
machine would be heard, or she would hear the mechanical voice stating
the number was currently out of range or out of service.

 Scully was too sick to worry.

 She thought back to their last meeting together, not even twenty
four hours ago.  The pills.  It had all changed when he went to get the
pills *she* had told him to get.  He came back some five hours later,
withdrawn and quiet.  She asked him if he had gotten some pills and he
had mentioned something about the headache disappearing.

 Something had happened.

 Something which made him gaze at her as if this was the last time
they'd see each other.  Something which made his eyes dark and
unreadable.  Something which made her partner fidget excessively from
wringing his hands, to shaking his legs, to constantly looking back
towards the door.

 She joked with him that his fidgeting was making her nervous.

 He took her comment seriously enough.  "I'm sorry.  I should
probably go.  I'm bothering you."

 Her objections fell on deaf ears.

 "Scully... I... there's some unfinished business back at the motel
where Trish was staying that I should take care of anyways.  Your
lap top... is um... I should get it.  I'll come visit as soon
as I can.  I'm sorry."

 And with that he started to leave, gently leaning over to kiss
her forehead.  "It'll be okay, Scully, we can get through this.  I'll
make sure of it."

 Scully was about to ask him what he meant by his last ominous
phrase, when he doubled over and raised his hands to his head.  "Oh
God. *God*.  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!"

 Scully was reaching for the call button when she felt his hand
gripping hers.  "No, Scully."  He was making an effort to control his
breathing, to try and not look distressed.  "I'm okay.  I have to go
now."  He stumbled out of her room, missing the door frame by about an
inch, with his palm still at his forehead.

 Scully sadly realized it was a sight she was quickly getting
used to.

 And now, a day and a half later, he still hadn't come.  He still
hadn't called.  There were no flowers stolen from a man with a broken
leg.  There were no journal entries on her part.

 She could no longer wait for him.

 *They* were probably laughing.

 *They* had won.

 As another wave of nausea hit and the pain, in return,
intensified, she uttered a silent prayer of mercy, waiting only for
Cancerman and his Duane Barry induced cancer to finish her off.

***

Boscher's Run Park
Alexandria, Virginia

 Mulder shifted from foot to foot, looking at his watch for the
seventh time in as many minutes.  Considering the bottle of painkillers
he had taken today, he was fully aware that his concentration was less
than spectacular.

 His head still felt like it was being ripped in two.

 He heard a set of approaching footsteps behind him.

 "Agent Mulder."

 Mulder nodded at the man standing in front of him.

 "You have the disks?"

 Mulder pulled out a locker key and showed it to the man.  When the
man reached out to grab it, Mulder pulled his hand away, gripping the
key tighter in a fist.

 "For Agent Scully's life."

 The man smiled, while lighting his cigarette.  "My, my, my, Agent
Scully sure seems to have her way with the men in the Bureau."

 Mulder frowned.  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

 "Your boss seems to think..."  Mulder saw the eyes avert and the
face suddenly turn into a frown.  "What are you doing here?"

 "I came for the disks."

 "I'm afraid Mulder has made a deal with me."

 Krycek looked in Mulder's direction and feigned disappointment.
"Oh, Fox.  I'm so disappointed.  I could have told you the answer to my
little riddle."

 "I'm not interested."

 "I could cure you and give you the truth, and yet you'd rather
save the bitch?"

 Mulder hesitated, then clenched his jaw.  "Yes."  He turned back
to the Cigarette Man.  "We have a deal?"

 "Mulder..."

 "Krycek shut up."

 "The truth, Mulder..."

 "I said *shut up*, Krycek."  Both dealers tried not to act startled
when Mulder suddenly stepped towards the man with the cigarette.  The
man had to inwardly smile when he heard the desperation that had crept
into the federal agent's voice.  "So, do we have a deal?"

 The grin was Cheshire-like.  "Of course."

 "I'm sorry there's been a change in plans."

 Mulder turned around to see Krycek's partner approaching, with the
gun barrel pointed to his chest.  "Give him the disks or I kill you."

 "No."

 Krycek could see a stalemate fast approaching.

 Stalemates were bad for business.
 
 It was time to turn the tables and pull out the wild card.

***

Holy Cross Memorial Hospital
Washington, DC

 Margaret Scully had seen her husband die, was in the hospital
when her eldest daughter joined him, and stayed by her youngest
daughter's bedside when she was comatose.

 She was watching her daughter again, bedridden, wracked in pain
from the tumours which were exponentially growing and spreading.
Watching her daughter's eyes water with the effort to remain perfectly
still so that there could be a few minutes of respite from the endless
cycle of retching and dry heaves.
 
 "Oh, my baby girl..."

 Margaret suspected -- rather, she *knew* -- that Dana secretly
understood why she was being overrun by cancer, that it had been directly
related to work and the X-Files.  She knew that Dana's work was dangerous,
which was why she and Ahab had been so reluctant at first to see their
youngest daughter, their tomboy, their Starbuck leave for Quantico,
Virginia and the FBI Academy.

 She assured them she would do forensics work -- autopsies,
reports, teaching the occasional class.

 And she did.

 Then she was paired with Special Agent Mulder.

 Margaret had never seen such a determined man.  Had never seen
so much compassion and dedication to a singular, life long goal.

 She had also never seen someone with such guilt.  Self
Reproach.  She doubted whether Dana had seen his carefully hidden
dark side.

 Margaret had.

 Dana's abduction had been hard on her.  She had barely eaten,
barely slept.  Kept herself busy -- kept herself from going crazy -- by
calling the rest of the family with updates, by calling her husband's
old naval officers to push for information, to do their own researching,
to try and find her little girl.

 Her helplessness was increased a hundred fold in the case of
Fox.

 She looked at her sleeping daughter again.  'A self absorbed
paranoiac' she had described him when they first met.  Since then,
they had been through everything, had conquered almost everything.
They had done it together.  Maybe separated by states or by temporary
reassignments, but these physical or workplace barriers had left no
visible dents in their armour.  Sure, there were battle scars underneath,
some more fresh and raw than others, but as long as they were together,
there was a mutual strength, a mutual longing to find what was not
necessarily meant to be found.

 Now... Now... She was dying.

 And Fox was not here.

 In her morphine induced haze, she would ask for him, which was
answered by the now standard response of "he's coming, he's coming".
The mantra had been learned by the doctors, by the nurses, by anyone
who was present in the room when she would ask for him.

 Margaret wrapped the sweater tighter against her body.

 But he wasn't coming.

 "Mrs. Scully."

 She turned around to see the broad figure of her daughter's and
her daughter's partner's boss approaching.  The tears she thought she
had finished shedding were threatening again.

 "Mr. Skinner."

 Skinner looked at the frail figure on the bed, felt his jaw
automatically clench when he remembered the Cancerman's smug words, the
way his ashes dropped on top of Mulder's files, the way he sauntered back
towards the elevator.

 He fought the urge to slam his fist against the wall.  "What is
her condition?"

 He watched the mother struggle with her emotions -- to try and
quell the shaking in her voice.  "Not good.  They say... they say it
probably won't be long."

 Skinner noticed for the first time that they were the only ones
in the room.  "Where's Mulder?"

 Prompted by the question, Dana's mother's face contorted, anguish
writ on every feature, every wrinkle on her face.  "I don't know... I
tried calling... he's not... not there..."  The elder Scully started
sobbing, recalling her inability to answer her daughter's endless
pleas -- having to watch her face fall each time.  "...I can't answer
her.  He's coming... I don't know!  But he's coming... He has to
come..."

 Skinner glanced around uncomfortably.  Since `Nam, he had never
been good at reading emotions.  He didn't know whether Mrs. Scully
wanted comfort or privacy at the moment.  He had also never been good
with women; his divorce from Sharon was still a painful memory.  He had
only come to the hospital to *privately* get an update on Scully's
condition.  The smell of smoke had started to become a more constant
companion this past week, so much so that he could still smell it on
his clothes.

 He looked at the pale face of the figure on the bed, and the
tears streaking down the face of her mother.  He thought he had made a
deal.  The man had honoured the deal which allowed Mulder and Scully to
return in exchange for the much sought after MJ files.  Perhaps he was
naive to believe that the man would honour this one as well.  Fuck, to them
she was only a federal agent, an abductee, a failed experiment, a
worthless human life.  She and Mulder were pawns in a game where there
were no rules, no mercy, no holds barred.  He awkwardly stepped closer
to the dark haired woman, and when she didn't step back, wrapped his
arms around her.  "Mulder will come... he always does."

 He was reminded of the time in Maine when Mulder had managed to
arrive at his mother's bedside, reeking like gasoline, God only knew
why.  In shock and barely coherent, he still managed to find his
destination.  He was sure Mulder could, *would*, do it again.

 He heard the older woman sniff, and looked down to meet her eyes,
now sunken and hollow with worry.  "Mr. Skinner... I need to know...
Is Dana sick because of her work?  Is it that dangerous?"

 Walter tore his eyes away from the woman's.  Even though he tried
to protect his agents, *they* still... well, this shit still happened.
He felt manipulated in every sense of the word -- a regular run of the
mill Pavlov's dog.  "I don't know, Mrs. Scully."  Fuck, he was such a
shitty liar.  "I really don't know."

 Margaret closed her eyes, and shook her head.  The man was a terrible
liar.  She was not as clueless or fragile as Dana and her boss seemed
to think she was.  She knew Fox and Dana had made powerful enemies --
enemies to whom justice was no deterrent as *they* were above the law.
No, Dana had never mentioned this to her.  She just knew; it was just
like William and his enemies in the navy.  She extracted herself
Skinner's arms, momentarily embarrassed.  She looked out into the
hallway again.  Just to check.

 Fox was still not here.
 
 Skinner knew who the older woman was looking for, and upon her
return, both stood silently shoulder to shoulder, keeping vigil
over the sleeping figure in front of them, sharing similar thoughts.

 Both knew, witnessed for themselves during her abduction, the
darkness in which Scully's partner had submerged himself.  Both had seen
him tread a thin line, and both saw his willingness to sacrifice his
singular passion -- the X-Files -- for her return.

 Both had no doubt he would do it all over again.

 And that perhaps his absence wasn't as mysterious as both
originally thought it was.

 They had no doubt that that was what he was doing now.

 Even if it cost him the X-Files.

 Even if it cost him his life.

***

Boscher's Run Park
Alexandria, Virginia

 "Lana, wait."  Krycek held out his hand so that it pointed toward
the gun -- a silent signal for patience.  "Mulder,"  he began smiling.
"Fox.  Don't you want to know what the meaning of what I sent you?"

 Mulder steeled himself.  "You're a liar and a rat, Krycek.  How
do I know that that picture wasn't doctored?"

 Krycek pursed his lips.  "Of course, you're completely right, boy
genius."  He paused to glance at the smoker a few feet away.  "But, why
don't you tell our little Cigarette Smoking friend what it is you saw."

 Mulder's headache was starting to grow.  He glanced back to the
Cigarette Man, who was still puffing on his cigarette, if not slightly
nervously.  Mulder swallowed.  "It was a picture in Maine.  Sam and mom
are sunbathing.  You took the picture."  He recited the quote flawlessly
from memory.  "Their work must continue.  The project must continue
unabated.  We all know how important..."  Mulder trailed off when the
cigarette had been hastily thrown to the ground and stepped on.

 "I advise you, Mulder, to hand over the key now.  If you want
what's best for Agent Scully, that is."

 Krycek laughed manically.  "Oh God, Mulder... you really don't know
the big picture, do you?"

 Mulder's quiet "no" went rebounding through his skull, and
the federal agent wished he had brought more codeine.

 Krycek smiled.  "Do you know, Mulder, that in 1958, an elite
Russian group -- a government within a government, as you say -- hired a
man to spy on your father.  We must thank Bill Mulder very much, because
through him, we got to him."  Krycek pointed his finger at the tall,
lean figure who, unbeknownst to anyone, was trying to control his
breathing.  "He's been a very naughty boy.  You think he's going to tell
you the truth?  Especially when he's played such a big part in
manipulating *your* family's life?"

 Mulder placed one hand on the top of head in a feeble attempt to
stop the incessant throbbing.

 "Bill Mulder went through twenty years of being spied on, up to
and including the day of his unfortunate demise.  He went through
six Russian spies, a record for anyone who's counting, who have all seen
various aspects of the Mulder clan."  Krycek paused.  "Mulder, you
seriously do not believe Bill Mulder was your father, do you?"

 Both men turned their heads when the Cigarette Smoking Man was
suddenly attacked by a coughing fit.  Both men watched almost passively
as the Consortium member, while hacking, pulled out another cigarette
and put it to his mouth.

 The coughing subsided.

 There was a grin playing at Krycek's lips.  "Fox, do you remember
a summer day in, oh, it would have been September, 1975.  You were
just starting school again, and came back from playing catch with
some of your friends.  Your *dad* came home late that night, was drunk.
He threw some dishes, some cups -- standard stuff by now it was.  Then
he went upstairs, got his belt, beat the boy who was sleeping in that
bedroom."  Krycek's voice had obtained a therapist-cadence to it.

 Mulder looked down at the cement underneath him.  He remembered
that night, as vividly and clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
Mulder's whispered "so what" had Krycek smiling.  The fed had taken
the bait.

 "Bill Mulder found out something that night.  Something about
Samantha, him and Fox.  Sam's abduction was no accident, Mulder.
Your family had to choose.  Don't you want to know why it wasn't
you?"

 Mulder looked up at Krycek suddenly, causing red flares to appear
before his eyes.

 He reached into his pocket with his one hand and pulled out a vial.
"Mulder."  He waved the vial in front of Mulder's eyes to draw his
attention to it.   "You see this vial?"

 There was a whispered "yes".

 "It can cure you.  I can give you the truth.  I can give you
more... I can give you the truth about Sam.  About the conspiracy
plaguing your family.  All you have to do is give me the disks."  He
waited.

 Mulder looked to the Cigarette Smoking Man, and back to Krycek.
Back to the Cancerman, back to his former partner.  Just as Bill Mulder
had been forced to make a choice so many years ago, history had come
full circle.  He could picture Scully, blazing and defensive like when
he had first met her; sad, almost defeated when her hair was a stark
contrast to the white of Missy's hospital bed; determined, and
amazingly stubborn, even when dressed in a white housecoat and slippers,
threatening to disappear into Lombard's walls.

 Mulder looked up.  Truth's allure was beckoning, but it was
clouded and tarnished by the garish light of chemo and radiation
treatments.  The truth meant nothing if she wasn't here.

 Cure her cancer.

 The Cigarette Smoking Man growled, his words forced between lips
and an impatient cigarette.  "Do we have a deal or do we not, Mr, Mulder?"

 Time slowed down.  Mulder saw the Cigarette Man fall.

 His father?

 He saw a big gaping hole in his head, where his left eye used to be.

 Scully's saviour?

 He saw him fall, the cigarette dropping from his mouth and hitting
the pavement, mere milliseconds after the body.  Then he heard the surprise
grunt of the assassin, Krycek's partner, and watched her chest explode.
Mulder felt the warm blood flick onto his face.

 Then Krycek began to fall.

 Instinct took over.  If Krycek was falling, then the vial was
falling too.  Mulder dove, could hear the air molecules colliding in his
auditory canel, his breaths coming out as a roar.  He could feel his head
jar as his body hit the pavement cruelly, with one arm outstretched, the
other futiley attempting to cushion his fall.  His head throbbed as he
watched the vial.  His skull pounded as Krycek's still body hit the
cement, as the Russian's head rebounded off the hard surface, only for
gravity to pull it back down again.

 Mulder's leather jacket was scratching, rubbing against the sand
of the cement, nails on chalkboard amplified one thousand times over.
His eyes remained open, even though the black jackets of the men around
him had turned white, even though the sky looked red, and the sun green.
His hand remained outstretched, his faltering eyes tracing the path of
the falling vial.  There was a resounding thud as his hand came in contact
with the glass, his warped nerves closing his fingers around the seemingly
hot then cold glass enclosure.

 Then there was a crack, a splinter, a noise of a thousand glass
lamps hitting a brick wall.  His hand throbbed, pounded, forced the
blood to his head as it collided with the pavement.  The vial broke,
shattered, and a green then orange then red then black substance lazily
sloshed out, dissolved into the grey oblivion of concrete.

 There was a cry, a sob, and Mulder's head screamed its protests
once again when his lips pressed against each other.

 And then there was nothing.

 Silence.

 Hope dying.  Scully dying.

 Catatonia.

 Nothing.

 Mulder looked at the three down figures.  Looked towards Krycek's
partner, her eyes rolling like marbles in their sockets.  She was alive,
but not for much longer.  Looked towards Krycek.

 The truth?

 Looked at the old man.

 His father?

 Not a breath.  Not a movement.

 All dead.

 There was a truth.  But the only man who had the answers was
dead.

 There was a cure, but the only man who had it was dead.

 The vial had cut Mulder's hand.  He stared at it dully as if the
hand was not his... he no longer cared.

 He tried to sit, tried to force his screaming, aching arms to
obey, feeling the dispair that it had all been for nothing.
He apologized, apologized ten times over plus infinity, to Scully that
everything had eventually been for nothing.  Gone for naught.
 
 There was a man approaching.

 Mulder recognized him, his British accent gave him away.  He had
met him just before he and Scully had gone to North Dakota.  He was
accompanied by a man dressed in black -- a sharpshooter.  Mulder didn't
want to know if the Cigarette Smoking man slash maybe father
had known if his colleague and fellow assassin had been spying, waiting
for any screw ups, preparing to eliminate any problems.  Permanently.
They approached him, gun trained on Mulder's chest.

 "The disks, Agent Mulder."

 Mulder couldn't think for the buzzing in his head.  "For Agent
Scully's life,"  he managed to croak.

 The British man reached into Mulder's pocket and took the key.
The agent was too overcome by pain to try and fight him.  He turned
back to his sharpshooter.  "Take him to his apartment."  The British
man leaned over so his mouth was directly over the agent's ear.  The man's
hot breath made the hair on the back of his neck crawl.  "For Agent
Scully's life,"  he agreed.

***

Scully's Apartment
Annapolis, MD

 It defied science.

 It defied medicine.

 It defied all train of rational thought.

 Yet, she was alive, and Dr. Dana Katherine Scully, for
once in her life, did not give a second thought to the logic that
her recovery had been nothing short of miraculous.

 She remembered waking up every morning in more pain than
she had been when she went to bed.

 She remembered pushing her mom to tears when she had yelled
at her because she was breathing too loud.

 She remembered feeling the overwhelming urge to die, the desire
for oblivion, when the pain and nausea got so bad she could barely
breathe.
 
 She remembered feeling an overwhelming loneliness, even
when surrounded by her family and friends, because Mulder
wasn't there.

 Then she woke up one morning, and she felt minutely better.  She
passed it off as death's calling and hoped the wait and suffering would
be brief.

 The next day, the retching and dry heaves disappeared.  Scully
believed her stomach, her oesophagus had finally given up the fight.
Again, she hoped the wait and suffering would be brief.

 The next day, there was no morphine.  The opiate was no longer
needed, nor was it missed.  The day after, there was solid food, there
was talk of going home.  Much to her mother's jubilation, and her own
medical denial, the doctors sent her home the very next day.

 She took home a copy of the X-rays.

 It was a complete remission.

 But... But she was still lonely.

 Mulder hadn't visited her.  At all.  Hadn't seen him in a week.
Hadn't heard from him in a week.  After his sudden departure, there had
been no communication.  Not that she had tried contacting him.  She was
silently fuming, angered that her partner couldn't get past his guilt and
depression to visit her.

 She got up from her couch and put on her jacket.

 Time to straighten it out once and for all.

***

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

 She stepped into his apartment, always amazed at the gothic,
dark apartment which reeked of dark-Mulder, of the Mulder who made
her worry and tense and stressed.

 Like now.

 The first thing she noticed was the painful grunts of her
partner from the couch.

 The second item of notice was the various empty pill bottles
littering his floor.  The apartment looked like it had been ransacked.

 "Mulder?  Mulder?  Oh my God!"  Scully saw his darkened eyes and
the pain lines in his face.  He had lost weight.  An impossibly
large amount of weight in the short week she hadn't seen him.  "Mulder,
I'm going to call an ambulance.  Mulder, can you hear me?"

 His response was to move his hands from his head onto his ears.
"God... don't... talk... hurts..."  She reached out to feel his forehead,
but he let out a keening wail and recoiled as if burned.

 She called the ambulance, her voice barely above a whisper.  The
beep as she disconnected earned her another groan.

 She glanced back around his apartment.  It could have been a
botched robbery.

 She saw the pill bottles and shuddered.  It could have been
suicide.

 She felt a touch on the sleeve of her arm.  "You're... alive..."

 Scully didn't know if Mulder wanted an answer.

 His hand remained on her sleeve, it was the only contact he allowed,
until the ambulance and its sirens arrived.  She cringed when the
paramedics started barking orders at each other, into the walkie talkie,
at her, at him.  His agony at the noise made Scully wonder if he was
suffering from a tumour.

 Oh God, the headaches.

 Scully silently berated Mulder and his stupid martyr complex.

 Then as fast as they had came, they had left.  Considered distraught
company, extra baggage in a crowded ambulance, they didn't permit her
to accompany them, told her to meet them at the hospital.

 After getting a frantic call from her daughter to pick her up,
Margaret Scully found Dana standing in the middle of her partner's
living room, crying and praying for the life of her partner.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 "Gentlemen, Comrade Krycek and Lana Filipova are dead."

 Colonel Beranek sat upright in his chair.  "What?  How?"

 "Botched deal.  There was a standoff, the Americans got the disks
eventually."

 "What about this Mulder?"

 "Suffering from the after affects of Tunguska, probably."

 "I think we should save him."

 The room turned silent.  They all looked over to the most elderly
man.

 "I've examined what Intel pulled up on this man.  It's quite
impressive.  Of course, he's a Mulder... and we're all familiar with
that family."

 At the mention of an all too familiar name, the older men began
to murmur amongst themselves.  How ironic.  Bill Mulder's son.  A thorn
in the American's side.  The son of the man who helped develop the
Project, now the main opponent of that white bread, old timer's club.
And yet he was spared.  Interesting.

 "He causes our American friends quite a bit of trouble.  He's the
man who got hold of the MJ documents. And yet the Americans did not
kill him.  They didn't kill him this time either even though he was
stuck in the crossfire.  He's important, gentlemen.  We all know about
the American's lofty goals -- their *Project*."  The mention of the
American Consortium and their future plans brought about smirks from
the elder Russian men.  "Maybe this young man doesn't know it yet, but
this Mulder fellow is important.  We could exploit that in the future,
perhaps?"

 Some of the men nodded in agreement.

 One gentleman shook his head in disbelief.  "He killed two of
our spies."

 "Krycek was a rat.  He couldn't decide whether to be American
or Russian from one day to the next.  Filopova?  As long as you had a
bigger dick, she would do anything you told her to.  No.  Those two
were a potential liability -- we can cut this loss easily. We need this
Mulder.  He's much more important than Krycek would have ever been."

 Beranek took a deep breath, maybe brown nosing would get him a
better position.  "I agree, we should dispatch another team to America."

 Kabalevsky nodded.  "Then it's agreed."

***

Holy Cross Memorial Hospital
Washington, DC

 Scully looked towards the sleeping figure of her partner.

   Finally, he was asleep. Only in a morphine induced slumber, would
his brow unwrinkle and grunting subside.

  Although it was accomplished with an almost obscene amount of the
opiate.

 Scully sighed, rubbed hand over a makeup-less face -- wondering,
still wondering what the hell her parther had done.

 She looked around his room.  The room was a carbon copy of the
room she had been in only a week before.

 The hospital was getting eerily familiar.

 Her remission, sudden, quick, abrupt -- she didn't know what the
hell to call it -- was no coincidence in Scully's mind.  She should
not have beat it.

 She saw the MRI's and the CAT scans.

 She should be dead.

 But here she was, at her best friend's, partner's, confidante's
bedside.

 There was no scientific explanation why she was sitting at her
partner's bedside in perfect physical condition.

 There was also no scientific explanation why her partner was
laying beside her wracked in pain in far less than perfect physical
condition.

 She saw the MRI's and the CAT scans.

 He shouldn't be like this.

 There was nothing the doctors could diagnose.

 The two factors fit together perfectly.  The questions ran
endlessly through Scully's mind.

 If he dealt, then what could he have dealt with?

 Could he have traded himself, his body, to them?  Give them a
chance to experiment, to test, to implant, to... Hell, there were
probably no words to describe the kinds of procedures they could
do on the human body.  The still vivid memory of Ellens Air Force Base
caused her to shudder, prompted her to wonder if *they* had done
something to his brain.  And instead of selected memory loss,
they wired his brain so that he would be in absolute, complete agony.

 But, the headaches were occurring before her cancer reached its
climax.

 Scully was almost tempted to believe the prone figure in front
of her didn't deal.  But the lack of blood on her shirt collar, the lack
of fatigue, the return of some semblance of appetite dictated
otherwise.

 Scully sighed again.  The puzzle she was trying to solve was
getting more and more complicated.  Only Mulder would have the answers
she would need to extract herself from this labyrinth.

 She heard a shuffle.

 The sight of her partner, eyes glazed, totally passive, only
occasionally coherent, was almost as bad as seeing him doubled over
in agony.

 Almost.

 "Hey," she whispered to him.  When she tried normal talking
yesterday, his shoulders would tighten and his eyes would close
tighter.  Sometimes the light was so bright he wouldn't even open his
eyes.

 She could see him trying to process the word -- saw him thinking
what the word meant, trying to formulate a reply.

 "...It doesn't hurt."
 
 She nodded slightly.  If the non-tumour, non-aneurysm, non-migraine
didn't kill him, the morphine would.

 "...You're better."

 It wasn't a question.

 He just knew.

 Scully's mouth trembled slightly, the desire to know what had
transpired in the past couple days so severe.  "Mulder.  I need to
know.  Did you deal?  Is that why it's gone?  God, what could you
have dealt with?"

 She suddenly noticed that her agitation was causing her nails
bore holes into the vinyl chair arm rests.  The barrage of questions
had also left her partner momentarily confused.  She took a deep breath.

 "Mulder, did you deal with them?"

 There was a pause, more thinking, then a whispered "yes".  Scully
could swear he looked ashamed.
 
 "What did you deal?"

 Mulder turned his head away slightly before responding.  "... disks."

 The damn disks.

 Scully inwardly berated herself for being so blind.  *They* had
wanted the disks.  She remembered back to one particular night in another
hospital room two floors up.  A "I know" and a "I'll think about it".
God, the clarity was frightening.

 Had they waggled her in front of him?

 Had they threatened him?

 Had they...

 "Mulder, I know it's going to be hard.  But, what happened?"

 He licked his lips and closed his eyes.  His voice was so soft that
Scully had to lean in to hear him.  "Headache... father... Krycek...
vaccine... father... took disk... Cancerman dead... you... cancer..."

 A tear was fast forming in the corner of Scully's eye.  The man
was on so much morphine that he was agitated and incoherent -- even
deluded.  Cancerman dead?  Krycek and his father?  Was *anything* he
just said even relevant in his drug induced haze?  Whatever it was, it
had served to upset her partner enough.

 "Scully..."

 Scully looked at him, hopeful, wanting him to tell her more.
"Yes?"

 "I... my head hurts."

 The tear managed to escape from her eye.  She forced a smile, but
a sudden onset of sniffles distorted it into a grimace.  "I'll get
the nurse."

 She got up to open the door when a male nurse was entering at
the exact same time.

 "Sorry, ma'am."

 The man was carrying a large basket of vials, caplets, gauze
pads, alcohol swabs, and syringes -- assorted sizes and colors for
everyone's viewing pleasure.

 He leaned over Mulder's beside.  Apparently he was experienced
with this patient.

 He was whispering as well.

 "How are we doing, Fox?"

 "I... my head hurts."

 The man nodded sympathetically.  "I know, I have something that'll
make you feel better."

 Scully closed her eyes.  She would not watch her partner be
drugged into submission.  She could hear the syringe being unwrapped,
could hear the alcohol swab being ripped from its foil package.  She
could hear the IV port being cleaned and the syringe being filled.  How
long would she have to endure this?  How long could she watch him endure
this?

 How long?

 She could hear the equipment being thrown away.  She allowed her
eyes to finally open.

 Mulder looked the same.  Although she knew from personal
experience that morphine did take a few minutes to take effect.

 "He won't be hurting for awhile, ma'am."

 She gave him her thanks.

 She gave no second thought to the Russian accent which caressed
each word the man spoke.
 
 Nor was she aware that the vial that the man used did not
contain morphine, nor methadone, nor pyramorphine, nor any *earthly*
analgesic known to man.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC
 

 Assistant Director Walter Skinner was ambivalent.  He found he
could not really identify the emotions he was feeling at the moment.

 So the black lunged son of a bitch was dead.

 *They* had made sure he had found out.  Of course, there would be
no obituary.  Certainly, there would be no funeral.  Only a handful of
people knew that three men had engaged in a shootout over three plastic
objects which contained damning information in the space of a thin film
of electromagnetic material.

 Was he happy?  Was he antsy because he felt an overwhelming urge
to dance?

 Was he scared for his life?  Was his life unimportant now?  Was
he antsy because his flee reflex was in full effect?

 Was he angry?  Angry because the son of a bitch was killed and
not brought to justice?  Was he angry because Walter Skinner couldn't
serve and protect and hold the shadows accountable for their actions,
like he'd like to think he could?  Was he antsy because he had wanted to
do nothing more than beat the crap out of that man every time he lit up?

 "Sir, Agent Scully's on line two."

 Kim's tone was more high pitched than it usually was.  She was
thinking the same thing he was.

 He had been to the hospital.  He had seen her.  She was in no
shape to be at a telephone.  Unless... Walter hastily dismissed the
thought.

 "Skinner."

 "Sir?  It's Agent Mulder..."

 Skinner could not believe he was hearing this woman.  Other
than the sniffles and the teary voice, the female agent sounded fine.
"Agent Scully, aren't you... shouldn't you..."  Walter couldn't
remember the last time he was at a loss for words.

 "I'm fine, sir.  There was a complete remission, and... Sir, I'm
calling about Agent Mulder."

 If it wasn't one, it was the other.

 "And that is?"

 "He... he's suffering from... I don't know."  The voice echoed
utter helplessness.  He winced, reminded of a similar feeling that
night at the hospital with the caller's mother.  "I think *they* know
what he is suffering from."  The voice came out slower, more
controlled, the professional Scully temporarily overshadowing the
emotional Scully.  "I know you've done it before, and if you could,
I was wondering if you could find out through unofficial channels...
sir.  Please... it looks really bad."

 "Scully."  He took a deep breath.  A complete remission.  She
should be happy for Christ sakes, and now it had been reduced to a
passing remark.

 Shit, he hated his job -- the official and now-up-in-the-
air-*unofficial* one.  "Scully, the Cigarette Smoking Man is dead.
He was involved in a shootout with Alex Krycek, who is also dead."
Skinner could swear he heard the female federal agent's face
falling, her body sagging.  "I... I really don't know what's happening
now.  I'm sorry."

 "Oh my God."

 "Agent Scully..."

 "I have to go, sir."

 "Agent Scully, wait..."

 "Thanks for everything, sir."

 The dial tone assaulted his ear.

 Mulder in the hospital.  Scully is fine.

 Even though the Cancerman was dead, he still ended up winning.

 They played God everyday -- manipulated people's lives, were
puppeteers in every sense of the word.  They had vast knowledge of
chemicals and bio toxins that even the greatest chemists had no idea
existed.  That had been the perpetuators of the greatest cover ups and
lies ever imagined.

 And no one knew they even existed.

 He got up suddenly from his office chair.  On his way out, he
passed his secretary.  "Kim, I'm taking the rest of the day off.  I'll
be at the Holy Cross if something comes up."
 

***

Holy Cross Memorial Hospital
Washington, DC

 "Sir, this is a surprise."

 Skinner could swear he was looking at a ghost.  But she was alive,
looking a bit haggard, but here, alive, none the less.

 He looked at the still figure in the bed.  He looked... fine.
"Agent Scully, what's his condition?"

 "He... I... They don't know.  All the tests come back normal.
But when he's awake, he's in so much pain.  He's on so much morphine,
and I don't know how I can help him... and... is he really dead?"

 "Yes."

 "Krycek too?"

 "Yes."

 Scully rubbed her eyes -- partly in frustration, and partly to
remove the heaviness that lack of sleep was causing.  She rubbed harder,
and then stopped when the flares got too bright.  "Mulder mentioned
something when he was semi lucid.  He said something about the disks we
had, and that Krycek and Cancerman was dead.  He also mentioned something
about his father, but I don't know if that was related.  He also
mentioned my cancer.  I think... I *know* he dealt."

 The son of a bitch.  Skinner was instantly angry at the prone
figure lying in the bed.  He had expressively told Mulder not to deal,
and the federal agent hadn't even listened.  The federal agent had... hell,
Scully would have probably done the same thing if the roles were
reversed.

 Hell, Walter Skinner didn't even take Walter Skinner's own advice.

 It was not supposed to happen like this.  Weren't you supposed to
go out with a bang, not a whimper?  He looked back at the prone figure
just in time to see a fist clenching.

 "Scully..."

 By now, Mulder was convulsing was into full seizures.  He heard
Scully calling for a nurse and she joined his side.  The spasms were
violent and he heard Scully gasp.  "Oh my God... He was right."

 "What!"

 Scully was sobbing.  She could not imagine Mulder turning into
those children.  "The orphanage... The worms..."

 The doctors were now flooding into the room, a mass of
green scrubs armed with syringes and vials.  Strong arms were hastily
reaching out and failing to restrain the figure on the bed, to quiet
the bed springs that were squeaking in protest.  A rough, hairy hand
emerged from the fray and was now roughly attempting to disentangle
the IV line the patient had dislodged.  The arm had managed to tie a
tourniquet, when the seizures suddenly stopped.

 Scully cried -- openly sobbed, not caring who saw her loss of
control -- cried for the loss of her friend and partner.  Inwardly
scolded him for being so stupid.  Inwardly damned him because he had
kept this secret for so long.  Inwardly cursed God for being so cruel.

 She would not look at his eyes.  The unfocused look he would have
would not be due to morphine or drugs, but from something more
unimaginable and horrible.

 "My head hurts..."
 
 There was the initial shock of hearing his voice, and then there
was the realization that the voice had a body to match. The realization
that he was alive came milliseconds later.

 "What!"  Yelling and laughing at the same time, Scully felt her heart
would burst when she saw him wince, when she saw his hands stay by his
sides and not move to cover his ears.

 He didn't answer.

 Her laughing quelled.

 The silence was unbearable until he broke it.  "You're alive."

 It was the third time he had stated the phrase in as many days, but
finally he was well enough to receive a response.  "Yes, I'm fine."

 He nodded his head in satisfaction.  "Good."

 Skinner stepped in.  He was still recovering from seeing his
subordinate agent going into full convulsions.  "Mulder, what the
hell happened?  You know that Cancerman and Krycek are dead?"
 
 The reply was soft.  "Yes."

 Both Scully and Skinner waited for him to add details.

 Mulder's jaw clenched.  Scully could see him replaying whatever
it was that happened in his head.  From the way he started to pick and
pinch at the hospital blankets, Scully gathered the experience hadn't
been pleasurable.  He swallowed convulsively.  "I don't want to talk about
it."

 "Mulder..."

 "Scully, I don't want to talk about it.  I have to... sort
it out.  Maybe later, okay?"

 Scully looked at the man in front of her -- passive and silent one
minute, convulsing the next, and then proceeding to argue with her.

 God, she loved it.

 "Are you okay?"

 Mulder put more thought into the question than she had thought
would be necessary.

 "I think so.  Slight headache.  Tired."
 
 She nodded.

 Skinner kept altering his view, watching the exchange between the
two federal agents.  He still had no idea what the hell was going on.
Mulder knew.  Scully had some idea.  He wasn't sure if he wanted to
know.

 He quietly left the two to themselves.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, DC

 Mulder walked into the X-Files office and breathed deeply.

 He never thought he would see it again.

 He felt Scully waiting patiently behind him.  He eased himself
into his chair.  There was no headache.  It had been so long since he
had not had the company of pain.

 It was a nonsensical understatement, but he felt good.

 Scully lowered herself into her chair, and both stared at each
other, lapsing into a comfortable silence.

 Both were healthy.  One hundred percent healthy.

 And their greatest enemy was dead.

 Scully broke into a nervous chuckle.  "Did you ever imagine we'd
survive all of this?"

 Mulder shrugged his shoulders in response.  "No... yes... I really
don't care now."

 Scully nodded.  He still hadn't told her all that had transpired
that fateful night.  She implored him with her eyes.

 Mulder saw her look, and reflexively looked away.  He couldn't
tell her.  It was too painful.  He remembered Krycek's story... yarn...
truth.... He wasn't sure what it was.  And the only people who could
tell him were dead.  He wasn't sure where the line that separated fact
from fiction was drawn, wasn't sure how much of what Krycek said
about his father, or rather, Bill Mulder, Sam, the Cancerman was true.

 When the not knowing got too painful, or the second guessing
started to grow, Mulder only had to look at his partner -- take
pleasure in her wolfing down a salad, a sandwich, whatever -- to
know that the reward had been worth the sacrifice.

 "Scully, you and I are healthy.  Or as far as we and the doctors
know, we are healthy.  Cancerman is dead.  Krycek is dead.  What's past
is past.  I want to move on.  I want to investigate an X-File."  He
paused and started to smile.  "What we need, Dr. Scully, is another
liver eating mutant!"

 The corners of Scully's mouth quirked into a slight smile, which
soon somberly straightened itself out.  She sighed in resignation.
"Will you ever tell me?"

 Mulder refused to meet her gaze.  "When the time is right."

 Scully thought that this time was as good as any, yet she kept her
mouth closed.

 He was right.

 She wanted to move on too.

 She looked at the top of Mulder's desk.  The paperwork they had
been doing after Omaha was still on it.  The sheet of paper with his
signature and the date which had started everything, was still lying
innocently on top of another pile of papers.

 Mulder followed her gaze to the paper, and smiled, a tinge of
bitterness accenting the corners of his mouth.

 "Hey, Scully, do you want to go out and get a drink after work to
celebrate the really belated birthday of my sister and her brother's
and brother's partner's miraculous medical recoveries?"

 Yes, a miracle it was that they were both here, she thought to
herself.  "I'd love too."

 "Great.  I have to tell you..." he paused momentarily, caught
himself before he said it, thought for the space of a few milliseconds,
and dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come.  "uh... I have a
great story about Sam's sixth birthday party, a donkey,and *my*
father..."

***

EPILOGUE

West 46th Avenue
New York City, New York

 The Well-Manicured Man looked around to meet the eternally grim
faces of his cohorts.

 "What now?"

 The British gentleman turned to face the large frame of one of
the older members.  "We've finally gotten rid of one of the more
clumsy members of the group.  We have complete control now."  The
man paused, replaying the events of a few nights ago in his head.
"He's no longer an obstacle.  We have full access to Mulder now."

 The other gentleman nodded his head.  "The Project must continue
unabated."  He faced the other members, the air more clear from the
absence of smoke.  "And we all know how important Agent Mulder
is to the equation."

 At their nods of approval, the Well-Manicured Man snapped
his fingers to the gopher, signalling for the cellular phone.

 "What are you doing?"

 The man's face turned pensive.  "The Russians have been quiet.
I don't like it.  We've killed two of their own, and they haven't
retaliated.  They're up to something."  He started dialing a familiar
number.  "I think we must accelerate the progress of the Project.  You
said yourself the importance of the role Agent Mulder plays... I think
it's time we stop coddling the federal agent and start forcing his hand."

 The larger man stared at the Consortium member standing directly
across from him, confused.  "You think it's time we told him everything?"

 "Only what he needs to know.  Only what his responsibilities
are.  I..."  The man suddenly stopped talking and raised his free hand
to cease any conversation.  An all too familiar person picked up the other
line.

 "Walter Skinner's Office, this is Kim speaking, how may I help
you?"

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 Kabalevsky flipped through the FAXed transmission once again.

 SUBJECT HYPERSENSITIVE TO LIGHT AND SOUND, BLOOD TESTS,
MRI's AND CAT SCANS DO NOT CONFIRM ANY SORT OF DIAGNOSIS.
15 mg MORPHINE EVERY 4 HOURS WITH NORMAL SALINE SOLUTION...

 He skimmed to the bottom... he was all too familiar with the first
part.

 ...CONVULSIONS THEN A SUDDEN REMISSION OF SYMPTOMS.  SUBJECT
COMPLAINED OF FATIGUE AND SLIGHT HEADACHE, DISCHARGED 24 HOURS
LATER.

 It was his first assignment.

 Fox Mulder, his first assignment's son had been discharged
yesterday with a clean bill of health.

 He looked at the accompanying folder and its contents.  C NMR,
H NMR, and IR spectrums come into his vision.  Peaks, valleys, and
lines, which he could not make sense of, showed the chemical structure
of the organism that had cured a certain American federal agent.

 There was a small handwritten comment on the last spectrum.

 "It's real"

 It put his mind at rest

 And it was *important*.

 Kabalevsky leaned back into his chair, and lit a cigarette.

 Mother Russia finally had something the Americans did not have.

 The Bear was back.

***
***

FINIS

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