by Ainon
mulangst@hotmail.com
 

RATING:
SPOILERS: Post third season. Events beyond the first episode of the
fourth season are considered void as far as this story is concerned.
CATEGORY: Angst
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and
other X-Files characters used herein are the property of Chris
Carter,1013 Productions, and Fox Television Broadcasting. No
infringement of copyright is intended.
SUMMARY: Terminal illness forces both Mulder and Scully to accept
inevitable changes in their lives.
WARNING: Character dies.
 
 
 
 

Life's Simple Fate
Part 1/9
 

Scully entered Mulder's hospital room and was amused to see that he was,
quite literally, mooning her.  He was lying on his side with his back to
the door. His hospital gown had hiked up his back, and his blanket had
been kicked down to bunch around his ankles. Full exposure.

Scully came up beside the bed and very gently, started pulling his gown
down, and his blanket up. He was sleeping soundly. He had just had a
bone marrow biopsy the previous morning and he'd been in pain since. The
pelvic area of the biopsy was bruised, but no longer swollen. She
wondered if Mulder had been given something to help him sleep through
the pain.

Once she had covered him adequately enough, she sat down and watched him
sleep. She desperately needed sleep herself. For the past few days she'd
lain awake at night worrying about Mulder. And at the office she was
bogged down by backlogged case reports. This morning she had a meeting
with Skinner, who informed her that new and unfortunate developments in
the Investigative Support Unit may warrant the need to temporarily
transfer Mulder back to the ISU. If that were to happen, she could
either stay on with the X-Files until Mulder was transferred back, or
she could temporarily fill in a teaching position at Quantico for the
length of time the ISU needed Mulder. The whole thing reeked of a set-up
as far she was concerned.

Skinner had insisted on knowing what was wrong with Mulder this time,
why he had to be admitted into hospital yet again, but she managed to
avoid giving him a direct answer. She herself was still unsure about
Mulder's condition, and was not ready to say anything just yet.

"Oh Mulder, what are we going to do about you?" she said out loud.

 Mulder stirred, waking up.

Scully smiled hesitantly. She hadn't meant to wake him. Mulder shifted a
little, half-rolling onto his back. He saw her and gave her a wan smile.

"Hey," she said. Mulder rubbed at his eyes with his hands. There were
awful dark rings beneath his eyes and his face was too pale. He sighed
heavily. She could see right away that the news was bad.

Finally he spoke.

"Acute promyelocytic leukemia." He stressed each syllable. There was a
certain degree of vehement bitterness that rolled off with each syllable.

"Confirmed?" Scully asked with a sinking heart. "They're absolutely
sure?"

Mulder didn't acknowledge her. He kept his eyes averted from hers and
stared blankly at the wall.

"They are absolutely confident with this diagnosis?" Scully asked again,
her tone rising a bit.

This time Mulder responded with a derisive snort. "They better damn well
be. I have been punctured for bone marrow twice already. I do not want
to be poked there a third time." He scowled and added, "Hurts like
hell."

Scully stared back at him in silence as he rubbed at his bruised arms.
He had had so many blood samples taken for testing she was quite sure
every single large and medium-sized vein in his arms had been punctured
at least once.

How he must hate the tests and needles as everyone tried to find out
what was wrong with him.

Mulder had injured himself five days ago during a stakeout. It wasn't a
major injury - he had slipped and fallen as he was climbing down an old,
rickety, slippery ladder. He banged his arm hard against one of the
rungs, and grazed the skin of his forearm. He had been profoundly
embarrassed that Scully was witness to his incredible lack of grace, but
otherwise, it was no big deal.

It turned out to be a very big bloody deal. Very slight injury indeed,
but he bled all over the upholstery of the car afterwards. By the time
they got to the hospital, the arm of his shirt was literally drenched
with blood, and he was feeling a little faint from the blood loss.

They ran tests of course, and they found out that Mulder was severely
anemic - he didn't have enough red blood cells. They also found out he
had low platelet counts - platelets are required to stop bleeding. And
they discovered he had way too many white blood cells.

The immediate suspicion was that he had some form of leukemia. But she
hadn't wanted to believe that. Mulder being Mulder, he could have some
rare infection of some sort, or maybe someone had done something to him
with a hypodermic syringe while her back was turned. Never could tell
with Mulder.

But leukemia... no, not Mulder. Mulder wasn't the one due for a terminal
disease. Mulder got into accidents. Or got infected by alien
retroviruses. Or got beaten up by morphing aliens. Or stung by
carnivorous insects. Whatever.

"Dr. Bryant wants me to start chemotherapy next week," Mulder said,
breaking the silence. Dr. Bryant was one of two hematologists who were
dealing with his case. The other doctor was a slightly older man, a Dr.
Sullivan who was also an oncologist. Dr. Bryant was a polite man about
Mulder's age who allowed Scully to discuss medical matters with him
without thinking of her as a busybody intruder.

"Good, you should. The earlier, the better," Scully said.

Mulder continued to stare dully at the wall.

"You can be treated on an outpatient basis," Scully added. "And there
are anti-nausea drugs you can take now whenever you receive chemotherapy
to avoid getting sick. You can continue a relatively normal course of
life."

"Oh yippee." Mulder responded with thinly veiled sarcasm.

Scully pursed her lips and held her tongue. Of course Mulder already
knew all these things. He'd received his crash course in all matters
pertaining to acute myelocytic leukemias from that very first day when a
fresh-faced intern unceremoniously informed him that he had acute
leukemia. He knew as much about leukemia and its treatment now as she
ever would.

Dr. Sullivan had been the one to give Mulder a full-length explanation
in his brusque, direct way. "Your bone marrow is producing too much of
this immature white blood cell we call promyelocytes. Normally
promyelocytes remain only within the bone marrow - the body's blood
factory. But you have a lot of these promyelocytes in your blood.
Leukemic immature blood cells are present in your blood when they should
not be."

Dr. Sullivan had glanced pointedly at Scully as he said that last
sentence. Scully had refused to accept his earlier diagnosis of leukemia
and at the time was still expressing doubts over the accuracy of
Mulder's lab results. In fact she hadn't been happy about Dr. Sullivan
wanting to talk to Mulder before his diagnosis was properly confirmed.

Dr. Sullivan continued his lecture while Mulder listened in sullen
silence. "To rectify this situation we will start you on chemotherapy to
destroy the leukemic cells. Alternatively we give high doses of
chemotherapy to destroy the cells of your bone marrow, and then give you
a bone marrow transplant from a healthy donor. Now, you have to
understand that your bone marrow has basically gone haywire, hence the
production of these leukemic white blood cells. And your condition is
acute, so these leukemic changes are happening rapidly. At the same
time, your bone marrow is not performing its other functions properly so
you do not have enough red blood cells or platelets. We can rectify both
problems, should the need arise, by giving you blood transfusions..."

Mulder had interrupted at that point. "If we are dealing with acute
leukemia what complications will I have?"

Dr. Sullivan sighed sympathetically. "Well, I would worry about anemia.
Your anemia is already quite bad now, I can only imagine it getting
worse. Bleeding complications are a definite concern since your platelet
counts are so low. Leukemic white blood cells will infiltrate your bones
and organs so when this happens you have pain. These are the main
complications. There are other complications which we'll deal with when
and if they arise."

Dr. Sullivan had carried on, explaining the depressing facts to a very
quiet Mulder and a stubbornly skeptical Scully. The gist of Dr.
Sullivan's talk was that acute promyelocytic leukemia is the hardest
type of leukemia to treat. The remission rate is low. Chemotherapy will
have to be intensive.

Scully heaved a soft, sad sigh. Looked like Dr. Sullivan's lecture had
been well timed after all.

"I got a pamphlet for the American Cancer Society," Mulder blurted out
absently. "I guess I should read it. My health insurance should cover
costs of treatment. Everything costs so much. Covers for injury while in
line of duty so it should cover this too. But it is an FBI policy so
there might be fine print saying it doesn't cover... I suppose I should
have bought another policy." He rubbed his arms again. "I swear if I
never see another needle with a bore hole in it I will be the happiest
man on earth. I am telling you fate can be so crappy. If I was fated to
get sick and use up my insurance, couldn't I have just gotten a strep
throat infection?"

Mulder was jumping from one thing to the other, saying things without
expecting replies. Scully sighed inwardly. Mulder never confronted
issues. He sidestepped them, analyzed them. She wasn't any better
herself, she knew.

"Mulder," she said carefully when Mulder stopped his rambling. "Do you
feel you need time off from work? For a little while?"

He thought about it. "No, I don't think so. What was it you said once
before? I need something to put my back up against." He paused. "That is
once my back stops aching so much."

"And are you going to tell Skinner?"

"I shall have to," he said reluctantly. "He will find out sooner or
later. Might as well have him find out from me."

The lines were more or less rehearsed. For the past four days they had
already discussed what would happen if he really had leukemia, treatment
options available for him if he really had leukemia, whether he would
still be able to carry on with his work if he really had leukemia? They
had discussed the leukemia theoretically, in a distant way as though it
wasn't Mulder who was being diagnosed, but a third person individual.
Both of them had clung on to the faint hope that Mulder was actually ill
with something more mundane. Like maybe a bad case of anemia due to lack
of iron - although logically, the odds of a previously healthy male
developing that kind of problem were unheard of.

Both of them had purposely ignored facts that had been so plain to see.
Mulder had lost weight. A lot of weight. Mulder was frequently tired. It
wasn't unusual for her to look up from whatever she was reading and see
Mulder nodding off at his desk. Mulder was pale and gaunt. She had
noticed how Mulder's suits hung loose. And she had been worried enough
to wonder aloud if maybe he wasn't feeling well. Mulder had simply
replied that he was feeling crappy all right, but the flu bug should
pass soon enough.

And the bleeding problems he'd had over the past month. She recalled how
he had once asked her if it was normal for his gums to bleed. She had
joked that maybe he had been brushing his teeth to hard. On one other
occasion he had pointed out to her the dark bruises on his arms, the
result of bleeding beneath the skin. She had been a little concerned but
Mulder never mentioned the problem to her again after that and she had
simply forgotten. At the time she had assumed that he had probably
bumped against something.

Just recently he'd complained of joint aches which he had assumed was
the result of him exerting himself while running. Once he mentioned to
her that he felt like there was 'tenderness' in his bones but he'd
mentioned it casually, without any sense of alarm.

Then the blood counts. And the bone marrow slides Dr. Sullivan had
grudgingly allowed her to see. She was a pathologist for crying out
loud, and she knew abnormality when she saw it. Mulder's bone marrow was
not normal. But did she choose to accept the fact? No. Run more tests,
that was what she'd demanded. So once again in the space of two days, a
huge needle was inserted into Mulder's pelvic bone to obtain the marrow
for biopsy. Mulder had not been amused that her zeal to find out what
was wrong with him should involve so many needles.

The irony of it was that she was the one most at risk for having cancer.
Two years ago she had disappeared, literally, off the face of the earth.
No trace of her, no clues for three months. She was finally 'returned',
barely alive, to a Washington hospital. Her recovery was a medical
miracle. She was incredibly lucky to still be alive now.

She had no memory of what had happened to her. She had total and
complete amnesia of that three-month period. Then last year in the small
town of Allentown she found out there were other women like her, women
who had disappeared for months only to be returned later. They claimed
they were abductees and that they had been forced to undergo horrific
experimentation. They had had implants removed from various parts of
their bodies, small metal implants which looked very much like the
implant she had removed from the back of her neck a few months after she
was returned.  Then they had claimed that they were all dying,
succumbing to rare and lethal tumors.

She hadn't known whether to believe them or to ignore them, but they
were adamant that she had been one of them - that she was also an
abductee. Besides there was the implant she had had removed from her own
body. Under a microscope that piece of metal had looked like a
sophisticated microchip. What was it doing in her body? She had that
nagging worry ever since. Cancer. Those women had disappeared, had
returned, had gotten cancer, and died. She had disappeared. She had
returned. For now she was still healthy. She hoped.

"I don't want to burden you with this, Scully. I'm sorry."

Scully looked at him in surprise. He still wasn't looking at her,
preferring instead to continue his perusal of the wall opposite his bed.

 "What is there to be sorry for Mulder?" she asked gently.

"For getting sick on you." He glanced at her then, gave her a wry smile.
"Always a lot of trouble aren't I? And you thought when you joined
Pathology you wouldn't have to deal with live, troublesome patients."

"That was not the reason I chose Pathology as my field of expertise,"
Scully said. She meant for the sentence to come out as a resounding
retort that might make him laugh but instead her words sounded lame.
Mulder just shrugged and tried to move into a more comfortable position,
but he winced loudly when he was jolted by pain in his lower back.

Scully wished she knew what to say or do. Mulder had closed his eyes,
probably waiting for the pain to subside. She stared at his thin arms.
He had lost so much weight and yet she had not noticed. He hadn't been
this thin since the hypothermia, retrovirus infection, and coma in
Alaska. She had been so scared for him then, he was so sick and she was
trying every single antiviral drug in existence and worrying that if the
alien retrovirus didn't kill him then maybe the antiviral drugs would.

What was she going to say to him now? Before they could discuss things
theoretically. Now, the diagnosis was confirmed. No more doubts. Mulder
had leukemia. They were going to have to accept that and move on forward
towards the cure. Still how does one simply accept and move on? What
could she say? 'Don't worry Mulder, you won't die! Even if you are going
to die you should at least have another two months to enjoy! Be happy!'?

Mulder opened his eyes. "I am sorry, Scully," he said slowly.
"Seriously, who knows how sick I will get, Scully? How long will I have?
I don't want to scare mom..."

He stopped in mid-sentence and swiped at his face roughly with his hand.
She thought he was going to cry, but he didn't. She knew he was scared,
just as she would be scared if she were in his place. She knew that his
mother would not know about this. In fact he had refused to allow her to
inform his mother about him being in hospital. Oddly enough she
understood. She wondered how she would deal with her mother and family
if she discovered a tumor. She'd never told her mother about the
possibility that she may be at risk for cancer.

"There is no need to be sorry for something nobody has any control
over," Scully told him. "We never know what is going to happen or
who..."

"No of course, we can't blame fate can we," Mulder interrupted bitterly.
Scully was once again silenced. Mulder's emotions were a whirled up
mess. Despondent one minute, angry and bitter the next. Perhaps she
should just let him be, let acceptance sink in.

"I've a big problem now, Scully, don't I?" Mulder murmured. He finally
looked directly at her, his eyes sad and his spirit dismayed. Then just
as Scully was about to comfort him, he gave a sudden harsh laugh.

"Did I just say what I said? I have a big problem. Now isn't that the
understatement of the year?"

Scully patted his thin, bruised arm as she desperately searched for
something to say. He was staring at the wall again. She remembered other
times he had been sick or injured, when she would sit by his side
waiting for him to wake up and heal.  Each and every time she had never
doubted that he would recover. Mulder was no loser. She knew he would
fight this with every ounce of strength he had. She just needed to
remind him.

"We'll be all right. We'll get through this." She grabbed his hand in
hers and squeezed it hard. "We'll deal with the problem, Mulder. We
always do."

She felt Mulder's fingers squeezing hers back in turn. And she heard him
reply, in his low soft voice, "I know."
 

**********
 
 
 

Mulder rested his head against the window of the car and wished
fervently that the pain in his lower back would just go away. There was
simply no comfortable position for him to be in, the pain was always
there. He had painkillers of course, carried them around with him
wherever he went, but he didn't want to take the pills too often if he
could help it.

Pain in his elbows too, and in his arms. Three months after his
diagnosis and the pain was everywhere. Amazing that he used to have a
life totally free of pain. How blissful life must have been then.

He was still working is spite of the pain and constant fatigue. He was
slow on his feet now, and slow in the head too thanks to the medication
he was on, but he needed to work, even if his definition of work now
meant him coming into the office for about half a day and then returning
home exhausted after lunch. He was finding out new meaning to the term
exhaustion.

Miserably he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the car. He was
parked outside the building, waiting for Scully to finish up her work
and join him for the arrest of Donald Webster, a pedophile and suspected
murderer of six young children whose little bodies were found discarded
in bushes beside major roads. Mulder had written the profile that helped
the FBI track down the man.

It was close to the end of his second month back with the FBI's
Investigative Support Unit as a profiler. He hated his current situation
with a passion. He had never enjoyed his time as a profiler the first
time around and he certainly wasn't enjoying himself now.

He was supposed to have rejoined the ISU three months ago when the
division lost three of its agents in a car bombing incident but he
managed to avoid the transfer by insisting that there was a lot of
urgent X-Files work to be done. Skinner, as the superior agent in charge
of the X-Files had seconded Mulder's motion. One month later, the ISU
lost yet another agent when that said agent swallowed a bullet from his
own gun. Mulder still held a grudge against that agent - the man may
have been miserable and clinically depressed and wanted out of his life,
but his suicide was now making Mulder's professional life intolerably
stressful. The ISU was short on profilers and profilers were a special
breed of people. You can't pick any man off the street and train him up
to write profiles on deranged serial killers and homicidal mass
murderers. Everyone at the ISU was severely stressed, incredibly
over-worked and permanently depressed.

The one little consolation was that when Skinner reassigned him back to
the ISU he made sure Mulder was allowed to remain in his own basement
X-Files office. Citing his health and treatment requirements as valid
excuses, Mulder was not required to physically transfer over to the
ISU's offices at the FBI academy in Quantico.

Scully chose to remain in the basement office with him but was not
working on any X-File either. She refused to teach at Quantico. She was
now something of a resident FBI pathologist for the D.C. area, spending
most of her time performing autopsies or viewing slides. Neither of them
had been out in the field together in two months, although Mulder was
sadly aware that even if they were still together investigating X-File
cases, his health would not have permitted him to work in the field
anymore.

Mulder checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Scully was more than
fifteen minutes late but she hadn't called him on the cell phone. He had
to assume she still wanted to come along. He certainly wanted her to.
God, he missed fieldwork. He adjusted the cap on his head then tried to
massage the ache out of his lower back. Damn, if Scully wasn't planning
to come then he might as well just go home and sleep.

He had started wearing the baseball cap when he started losing hair as a
side effect to chemotherapy. Not because he was vain, besides a baseball
cap doesn't exactly hide baldness - but simply because he got sick of
looking at himself in the mirror every morning and realizing that he had
less hair on his head than when he went to bed the night before.

So one morning he took the cap of the coat stand in his apartment, put
it on, and never took it off. FBI agents do not wear caps, but no one
ever said anything to him about it. He didn't know if it was because
they were sympathetic with his situation or if it was because Skinner
himself had said nothing about him blatantly flaunting the FBI dress
code. He still wore his usual suit and tie though, so technically he
wasn't actually breaking any rules. He just had that extra cap on his
head. After all in the old days FBI agents did wear hats didn't they?

The door on the passenger side of the car was suddenly yanked open.
Mulder startled awake.

"Sorry I'm late," Scully panted as she entered the car. "I had trouble
explaining some basic facts about decomposing bodies to a couple of
rookie agents."

"You have to teach?" Mulder asked. He blinked the tiredness out of his
eyes, then started up the car. He hadn't even realized when he'd dozed
off.

"No, these are qualified agents," Scully replied. She was slightly out
of breath. Must have rushed all the way out to the parking lot. "Part of
a team of agents working on that organized crime case."

She glanced over at him as he drove. "Had your lunch?"

"Yeah," Mulder lied. He hadn't actually eaten anything since he vomited
what he'd had for his dinner last night.

"Still working on that case?"

Mulder nodded and waited for Scully to nag. But she didn't. She just
heaved an exaggerated sigh and stared out her window.

He was concentrating on a case nicknamed the Christmas Children case.
Over the past five years five little girls disappeared on Christmas Eve.
One little girl a year. The girls were all five years old at the time of
their disappearance. Always the disappearance was during the Christmas
Eve shopping rush - the mother would be forcing herself through a crowd
of last-minute Christmas shoppers with her daughter in tow, then
suddenly the mother would lose her grip on her daughter's hand and the
girl would be gone. The little girl would turn up again on next year's
Christmas Eve, in another city, dead. Cause of death was of air embolism
- the murderer and presumably kidnapper would inject her in the heart
with a syringe full of air, then lay her body out on a park bench. No
other signs of abuse. Another little girl would disappear from that
city, only to reappear in the same fashion a year later in another city
far away. The pattern remained the same year in and year out.

Assuming the kidnapper kept the girl alive with him all year long,
Mulder still had several months to track the kidnapper down before he or
she killed the fifth girl, a beautiful long-haired blond named Samantha
Ann Rebecca O'Connor.  The name was a terrible coincidence, a
coincidence which Scully did not find amusing in the least. His own
sister Samantha Ann Mulder had disappeared at the age of eight and was
still missing after more than twenty years. Scully was of the opinion
that having him try to track down little Samantha O'Connor would hit him
too close to home.

Scully was right about that of course. But professionally he had a job
to do, he had to get Samantha O'Connor safely home before Christmas Eve
regardless of how much heartache the attempt might cost him.

As he waited for a red light to change at an intersection he absently
squeezed at a gnawing sharp pain in his arm. Scully watched him quietly.

"Just a little ache," he told her. The look on her face told him that
she understood that his definition of  'little' was not at all the
literal meaning. He immediately felt annoyed.

There were times when he didn't mind Scully worrying about him. At least
that meant he wasn't alone. She was his support, his pillar when things
were looking bleak. But there were other times when he wished Scully
wouldn't hover over him so much, wouldn't nag him about taking his
medication or eating proper meals or about working too hard. Sometimes
her concern for him could be plain stifling and annoying.

 Scully didn't pity him though. He was grateful for that. He hated pity
more. Inevitably, for it was difficult to hide the effects of
chemotherapy, just about everyone at work knew he was ill, and just
about everyone went out of his or her way to be nice to him. He
absolutely hated that. After all the years of people snubbing him and
making derisive jokes about him, he now had to deal with people feeling
sorry for him.

And then there was Skinner. He couldn't help but feel that his superior
could have used his authority and clout to deny Mulder's transfer to the
ISU if he had really wanted to. Mulder had been honest with Skinner
concerning his illness. Skinner had in turn expressed genuine concern
about Mulder's state of health without exhibiting any of the forced
sympathy that he often saw on the faces of coworkers. However Skinner
was also the one responsible for keeping the X-Files out of his grasp.

During the first two months after his diagnosis Mulder had gone about
feeling numb, rarely thinking about his illness. He could still pretend
things were okay - his pain was intermittent, chemotherapy was only just
beginning, fatigue wasn't a permanent state of being, he was still
working with Scully on the X-Files. Then his pain became sharper and
more frequent, chemo brought physical changes, his anemia got worse and
he was kicked back to the ISU.

Lately annoyance and anger were all he felt about a lot of things.  He
was angry that Skinner transferred him back to ISU, thus preventing him
from continuing his search for the truth. He was angry that some stupid
arsonist had the gall to blow up three federal agents - if the three
agents hadn't been killed in the first place, Mulder wouldn't be so
desperately needed by the ISU and he would still be working on the
X-Files with Scully. He was angry that in spite of intensive and
sickening chemotherapy he was no closer to remission. No indication at
all that he was winning his fight against leukemia.

He was angry at his life that seemed now to be in tatters and at his
future that now looked bleak. He was angry that when push came to shove,
there wasn't anything more he could do to salvage his own health.

Scully cleared her throat. Mulder braced himself for her annoying words
of medical wisdom.

"Light's changed," she said.

Mulder was forced to snap himself out of his ponderous self-reflection
and drive.
 
 

*******
 
 

Twelve federal agents trooped into Donald Webster's front yard. Donald
Webster lived in a comfortable house in a peaceful suburban
neighborhood. There were little green shrubs planted along the length of
the driveway, the yard was neat with the grass mowed down. The house
itself was well kept. No peeling paint, no dusty windows. There were
potted plants arranged around the porch. Not at all the stereotypical
dilapidated hovel serial killers in movies were always living in.

Agent Yothers, a large man three or four inches taller than Mulder was
the Violent Crimes agent in charge. It was Yothers who would earn all
credit if they managed to apprehend Webster today.

Mulder never bothered about who got credit though, and besides his
position was very clear - he was the profiler who provided consultation.
That was that, and that was all. He didn't even need to be here for the
arrest. But Yothers had informed them when they were moving in on
Webster and had asked would Mulder want to come along?

The perfect opportunity for him to get out of the office, and for Scully
to escape her presently mundane duties of performing autopsies. Both of
them back together in the field.  He always felt a twinge of guilt that
his illness was also affecting the quality of Scully's work. He was
reminded again of how dull Scully's life had become when he saw the
excitement on her face. He felt a little happier to know that at least
today she would have some outdoor fun.

"Looks like the search warrant is just a formality," Agent Yothers told
him. "Far as we can tell, nobody is home. He's gone off somewhere."

"Any problems getting the search warrant?" Mulder asked.

"Not at all. He fits your profile like a glove and we've had him under
surveillance for more than a week. He's our guy," Agent Yothers replied.
"Your profile was a great piece of work by the way."

Mulder shrugged absently in a manner that could be construed as modesty.
The truth was he didn't think of the profile as a particularly great
piece of work. In fact he knew he could have gotten the profile written
faster and in better detail if he hadn't been so tired from the
chemotherapy and his anemia.

Agent Yothers bounded up the front steps of the porch and jabbed down
hard on the doorbell.  Matter of protocol and formality. Then he turned
the doorknob. The door wasn't locked.

"Mr. Donald Webster! We are agents with the Federal Bureau of
Investigation!" Yothers announced loudly as federal agents entered the
foyer of the house. "We have a warrant here, allowing us to search your
premises!"

Silence. The inside of Webster's house was just as neat as the outside.
Lacy curtains framed the windows, carpets covered the floor. Magazines,
old newspapers and books lay scattered around, but otherwise everything
else appeared to be in order.

Federal agents spread out to start their search, some going back outside
to the yard, others checking the rooms and basement. Mulder nodded at
Scully as she went off into the den. Yothers came up beside Mulder.

"You want to search the living room?" Yothers asked.

Mulder shook his head. "No, I want to check his bedroom. Where he
sleeps."

"Oh we can cover that for you," Yothers said. "Stay down here. Should be
an easy search downstairs."

Mulder could see where this was leading. Yothers wanted to be kind to
him without actually admitting that he knew how sick Mulder was. People
like Yothers seemed to think that it was okay for him to spend days
thinking like a killer to catch the killer, but these same people were
concerned that climbing up stairs or crawling around looking for clues
under furniture would make him sick while he was in their company. Like
these people ever gave a damn about him before when he wasn't wearing a
cap on his head to cover up the straggly wisps of hair he still had
left.

"I need to see what he does every day in his room," Mulder said in an
absent-minded tone. Then without waiting for Yothers' reply he headed
upstairs to the bedrooms.

There was another agent who smiled faintly at Mulder when he entered the
first bedroom by the top of the stairs. Mulder tried to remember the
agent's name... Agent Wilkins.

"Anything yet, Agent Wilkins?" he asked, looking around the room. It was
the master bedroom, a very large room with a huge queen-size bed and a
beautiful oak dresser set. Carpet on the floor. Connecting bathroom.
Freshly worn shirt thrown carelessly on the loveseat by the window.
Rumpled sheet with the comforter bunched up at the foot end of the bed.
This had to be Webster's bedroom.

"Well, I've only just stepped into this room myself," Wilkins replied.
"I was about to check the closet."

The closet was very big, the type of closet that could pass for a room
by itself. Wilkins slid the door panel open and stepped inside. Mulder
decided to tag along.

Lots and lots of dresses, blouses, skirts, slacks, sweaters, coats - all
belonging to Donald Webster's deceased wife. The woman had died more
than five years ago but her widowed, childless husband still kept her
clothes. She had had a lot of clothes. Wilkins ran his hand past the
dresses and clothes. Then one of the sweaters fell down.

Well actually, when Mulder had time to think about it, it looked more
like the sweater jumped out.

Wilkins stumbled back against the other side of the closet, falling back
onto a rack of shoes. Mulder suddenly found himself face to face with
the number one suspect himself: Mr. Donald Webster, a spry-looking
middle aged accountant with a bushy moustache and gray eyebrows. The
suspect gave a snarl and before Mulder could even think of doing
anything, he was punched in the stomach.

All the wind was knocked out of him. He coughed and tried to bend over,
but Webster slammed him back against the wall of the closet. He choked,
because of the punch to his stomach just now, and also because Webster
had an arm pressed against his throat.

"Sons of bitches," Webster growled into his face. Mulder was starting to
see purple spots before his eyes. He slammed his hands hard into
Webster's face, pushing him away. Webster grunted and lost his grip on
him, but just as Mulder started gasping for breath, Webster punched him
in the belly again.

Ignoring the terrible exploding pain, Mulder kicked at Webster as hard
as he could. Webster grunted - Mulder had gotten him on the kneecap. He
gave Mulder one final hard shove, then hobbled as fast as he could out
of the room.

Mulder slowly sank down to the floor. He could hear the commotion out in
the hallway. Other agents were going to get Webster, there wasn't
anywhere Webster could run. Webster must have underestimated the number
of federal agents who'd arrived to search his house. Either that or he'd
just gotten scared of hiding and decided to chance his luck and bolt for
it.

Mulder pulled himself into a ball and rested his head on his knees,
trying to catch his breath. His chest and stomach ached. Great. More
pain to live with. He was so glad that Webster hadn't tried anything
more gung-ho, like grabbing his gun.

"Mulder?" He was temporarily disoriented. It wasn't Scully calling him.
He looked up and saw Wilkins squatting in front of him, looking
concerned. That was something new. Wilkins was one of those agents who
would usually not want to be seen breathing in the same room as Spooky
Mulder.

"Just let me catch my breath," Mulder gasped. Wilkins patted him on the
shoulder.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Nah," Mulder shook his head. "But he knocked the wind out of me real
good."

"Well, he gave me a good bump on the head," Wilkins said sourly. "I
think I hit my head on an alligator skin shoe."

"My God, he has alligator skin shoes? I'll say that proves it. He's our
killer." Mulder was mildly amused when that statement made Wilkins laugh
out loud.

Scully entered just then. Wilkins made way for her and she came into the
closet to crouch beside Mulder.

"I'm fine Scully," he told her before she could say anything. She helped
him stand up. His stomach and chest still hurt badly but he managed to
stand up reasonably straight. He was looking around for his cap when he
realized that it was still on his head.

I've just been punched up for the hundredth time in life, but that's
okay, no one saw me bald, he thought giddily. Scully was looking at him
worriedly. She was going to suggest that he be taken to the hospital. He
could see it coming.

"I think I'd like to go home now, if nobody needs me here anymore?"
Mulder huffed. Best way to distract Scully from the idea of
hospitalizing him was by admitting that he wasn't okay. Weird, but it
seemed to be the best method to stay out of hospital.

It worked. Scully was still worried but at least she didn't look like
she wanted to check every single rib in his chest for fractures. He had
a vague idea that Scully would have done that already if Wilkins and
another agent weren't in the room.

Agent Yothers came in. "We have him," he stated simply. He touched
Mulder's shoulder. "You okay? They say he attacked you?"

"He rushed at me," Mulder said. Oh boy, his chest hurt. "He was hiding
in the closet."

"Hiding in the closet?" Yothers shook his head in amazement. "Now
there's a very friendly way to react when federal agents visit your
home."

"You doing the interrogation later?" Mulder asked.

Yothers nodded. "There may be some interesting things in the basement
that I can ask him about. And it will certainly be very interesting to
find out why he felt it necessary to hide from visitors from the good
old bureau of investigations. There's your profile to taunt him with too.
Hey, Mulder, are you okay?"

Mulder couldn't quite keep up his charade of feeling fine anymore. He
sagged against the wall behind him. Scully was already reaching up to
feel his face. He managed to hold her hand off.

"You're trembling, Mulder," Scully said, deep concern in her eyes.

"Yes, well, Webster has a very bad effect on me, you know," Mulder said
calmly. The pain in his chest was constricting, each breath was hurting
him more and more.

"Where did he hurt you?"

"He surprised me, I fell back against the closet wall. That's all. I'm
just feeling dazed. A little dizzy." Mulder couldn't help but feel
impressed with himself. Wonderful liar he was, even under circumstances
of severe pain.

The other agents in the room were politely leaving the room. Apparently
they felt Mulder and Scully needed to be alone together or something.
Yothers was the only one who remained.

"Hey look, go home," he said to Mulder.

"Oh, sure," Mulder snorted. "Chasing me off your turf are you? After all
I've done."

"Yeah, I'm claiming all credit for the capture of Donald Webster,"
Yothers grinned. "Get out of here, Mulder. Get some rest. You sound like
my asthmatic son. And look at you - you're shaking like a wet dog."

Yothers certainly had an apt way of describing things. Mulder silently
wished yet again for those good old days when pain wasn't his permanent
best friend. Scully tugged gently at his elbow to take him home.
 

*******
 

The knocking on his door was persistent. Very determined visitor. Scully
would have used her key by now. Since the visitor wasn't Scully, he
wished the visitor would quit the knocking and go away.

The knocking stopped. Mulder waited, then heard the sound of a key
turning in the lock. So it was Scully after all.

She walked in slowly, her heels tapping gently with each step she took.
He heard her step up near his couch and heard the clunk of keys being
placed gently on the table. There was silence, he knew she was watching
him and wondering if he was asleep. He opened his eyes and looked up at
her.

She looked exhausted, but her smile brightened up her face.

"How are you?" she asked.

Mulder sighed, not moving from where he lay on the couch. "I hate Donald
Webster."

"Everyone hates Donald Webster," Scully said grimly. "He's threatening
to sue the bureau, claims he's a decent tax-paying American being framed
for crimes he did not commit."

"Hmm, well I suppose it is every decent American's precious right to
hide in the closet if he so desires. Found any hard evidence?"

"There were signs that children had been in the basement," Scully said.
She took off her coat and sat down, grateful to finally get off her
feet. She kicked off her shoes and leaned back.

"There was a small cot down there, a few toys, and a washroom. But there
were no prints at all. Webster must have wiped everything clean.
Forensics did find hair and fiber but it will take quite a while before
we know whose hair, and whose clothes. Meanwhile Webster has called his
lawyer who is apparently some big hot shot with ties to our esteemed
Director."

"How convenient."

"His lawyer is threatening to have every agent who touched his client
fired. And he's planning a separate suit for those 'agents who
physically assaulted and brutalized' his client."

"Those are the lawyers who get to go straight into hell without having
to line up," Mulder observed dryly.

Scully made a face. "Well, the Director has yet to say anything, and
Yothers should have something concrete by tomorrow. Webster must have
suspected that the authorities were onto him - he deleted his computer's
hard disk, and destroyed his floppy disks but our computer guys might be
able to undo what he's done to the hard disk. We are also trying to find
out which websites he frequents, and if he has a homepage of his own
dedicated to pedophile activity. But smart as he thought he was he
wasn't able to destroy all his evidence. Our guys found film negatives
in his trash."

"No kidding? I wouldn't have thought that he would be so careless."

"Not so much carelessness as pure coincidence combined with his bad
luck. For whatever reason, garbage truck never came around to pick up
his trash this morning. He must have only thrown things out last night."

"He should have known better. He should have burned his negatives.
Honestly, I thought Donald Webster was a smarter man than that."

"Don't complain. If the negatives reveal pictures of all the kidnapped
children then we can book him straightaway for kidnapping and murder. We
can put him away forever and ever. Makes our job so much easier. We've
also talked to his neighbors, but they claim to know nothing. That's
amazing apathy for you. He must have kept each child hostage for months
at a time in his basement but nobody realizes anything is wrong."

"Neighbors are usually the last to know, Scully."

Throughout the discussion, Mulder's discomfort was increasing. The pain
in his chest kept flaring up each time he took a breath before speaking.
He had to speak slowly, and had to keep pausing between sentences.
Scully was staring at him suspiciously. He was still dressed in the
shirt and pants he'd worn to work, and he hadn't eaten nor had anything
to drink since he came home. He must look all rumpled up and pale and
sick.

"Are you still dizzy?"

"No," Mulder said truthfully. His head was fine. It was his chest that
was killing him.

Scully got up and came over to the couch. She felt his neck. "You have a
fever."

Mulder brushed her hand aside when she tried to remove his cap to feel
his head. But when he did that the pain made him wince.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't touch my cap. It's mine."

"No," Scully said, exasperated. "Are you in pain?"

Real bad pain actually, Mulder thought. The pain in his chest had gotten
steadily worse since his little encounter with Webster. From the time
Scully had dropped him off at his apartment, he had lain on his couch
keeping as still as possible. That lessened the pain to a gentle
continuous throb. Painkillers did not work.

Well, time to confess. "He sort of punched me in the midriff... now my
chest hurts."

"You didn't say anything about him punching you!" Scully exclaimed. She
tried to unbutton his shirt so she could examine him but he brushed her
hands aside again and tried to sit up.

Very bad move. He almost passed out. The pain was so bad he didn't want
to breathe because breathing would move his chest muscles and expand his
lungs and he could feel his heart thudding in his chest but he wished it
would stop because the thudding of his heart amplified the sharp
throbbing pain in his chest. He heard Scully screaming his name but he
couldn't answer her because he needed to save the air for his lungs.

"Don't," he managed to gasp when Scully grabbed the phone to call 911.

"Mulder, you are going to the hospital!" Scully snapped as she punched
the numbers.

"No, no, I've been in hospital enough times," Mulder whined. "I don't
want to go."  Oh he shouldn't talk too much. He really needed to
conserve his oxygen.

"You have to," Scully insisted. She relayed the necessary information to
the emergency unit, then scooted over to his side again. He was turning
a pasty gray color. She tried to get his pills for him.

"They don't work," Mulder moaned. She tried to make him swallow the
pills anyway but he gagged. The abrupt jerking motions tripled his pain.

Scully had never seen him in so much pain but there wasn't anything she
could do for him, all his painkillers needed to be ingested orally.
Nothing she could inject to relieve his pain. She wiped the tears away
from his cheeks and could only hold him as he suffered through the
onslaught of unbearable pain.
 

**********
 
 

The night air was cool against his face. He tilted his cap back. He
missed having soft breeze ruffle his hair. Funny the things you take for
granted in life. He had never really cared about his hair. Cut it when
it gets in his eyes, shampoo every once in awhile. He probably inherited
male pattern baldness, sure, but that wasn't supposed to happen till he
was in his forties.

The straggly wisps of hair left covering his scalp he covered with his
cap. Wearing the baseball cap was now more a habit than anything else.
Skinner had done a double take the first time Mulder went to see him in
his office with the cap on, but had the discretion not to say anything
about it. Following Skinner's lead, the rest of the FBI had tolerated
his breach of protocol too.

He hugged himself to keep himself warm. He had on a double layer of
clothing and a jacket on top of that. He shouldn't be this cold. It was
a beautiful night, and despite the brightness from the lights of the
city he could look up and see the stars twinkling above. There were
couples strolling about, and couples making out on nearby park benches.
Mulder sat alone on his bench, noticing for the first time how
beautifully different the flowers in the park looked under the glare of
artificial light.

The last time he'd sat here waiting for someone was after the hacker
broke into the Defense Department's computer files and stole the MJ
Files. That was the catalyst that led to his father's death. He pondered
about what he was about to do now and wondered if he'd finally lost his
marbles after all.

Terminal disease can do that to you.

He spent two weeks in hospital following what turned out to be a case of
internal bleeding. Donald Webster had punched him very hard indeed. For
the first few days he was in so much pain they doped him out of his
misery. When he was finally lucid enough to recognize he was in the
hospital, the first person he saw was his Scully, fast asleep with his
hand by her cheek. The first thought in his head was, "She's here. She
loves me after all."

He didn't know where that thought came from.  He was given a week to
recuperate at home and the recuperation was strongly enforced by Scully.
In fact he was quite worried that she might call him at home and suspect
something amiss upon finding out he wasn't in. Today was his last
'holiday' before trying to start work again tomorrow. He'd have to risk
her wrath.

The days in the hospital had forced him to deal with a fact he had been
purposely ignoring since he was diagnosed with AML. He was dying. There,
he could say it now. He was going to die. Unless he achieved remission
through chemotherapy or got cured through a bone marrow transplant or
unless some miracle kicked in, he was going to be dead before the end of
the year.

Never mind the Truth, it didn't care if he died. His sister Samantha...
maybe she was dead, maybe she was still alive out there somewhere -
maybe he would die without ever finding out. So never mind that. He had
been searching for her all his life, but if his life were to end, then
the search would also end.

He could deal with not understanding the truth, of dying without
answers. If he tried hard enough, and cried long enough, he could deal
with it. But this didn't mean he was giving up. Far from it. He was
determined to win this fight. He wasn't going to let leukemia kill him.
He wasn't going to die now. Too much work to do. Scully to think of.

Still, facts were facts. He was dying. No more denial and curiously
enough, no more anger either. And when one accepts the fact that death
is no longer a mere rhetorical suggestion one has to make sure that
things will be okay should the fight for life be lost. No more
postponements. Time to write the will. Time to get the insurance.

He smelled the cigarette smoke before he felt the presence to his right.
He didn't bother to turn around.

"Nice evening."

"I would agree, Agent Mulder," said the man who had come to stand beside
him. A long pause. "I heard that you aren't feeling well."

Mulder gave a mirthless chuckle. "Amazing the accuracy of the things you
hear."

"Accuracy is a matter of importance to me." There was a soft smack of
the lips. "Also I heard through the grapevine that you wanted to meet
me."

Mulder was mildly surprised. Straight to the point, no beating around
the bush, no dancing of words.

"Effective vines you have," he said. He hadn't been sure how he could
successfully arrange a meeting with this man. In fact until the man
actually materialized beside him a minute ago, Mulder had doubted that
the meeting would actually take place.

The man beside him lit a cigarette, but otherwise did not move. Mulder
didn't offer him a seat. Smoke drifted towards him but he wasn't
particularly concerned about second hand smoke now. He already had his
own special cancer, why harp about lung cancer?

The two men remained silent for a long moment. Mulder fidgeted as he sat
on the bench. Finally the cigarette-smoking man coughed, once.

"Very lovely night, Agent Mulder. But I doubt your health would permit
you to stay here very long."

Mulder wondered if he should feel angry about the man speaking of his
health that way, then decided that if he had to wonder whether he should
be angry or not, then he shouldn't even bother.

He shrugged. "I wanted to talk to you. About truths, and answers."

"There are only answers when there are questions."

"Oh I have the questions. I assure you."

Ring of cigarette smoke floated up into the night. "You are certain that
I would know the answers to these questions in your mind?"

"Simple questions really."

The man sneered, "So many simple questions still unanswered after all
the hard work through the years?"

"Real truths are hard to find, sir." Mulder said, finally turning to
look at the cigarette-smoking man. "For the moment I'd settle for your
version of the truth."

"There is only one truth, Agent Mulder." The man seemed to be having fun
with the play of words.

"Is it a truth you would share with me?" Mulder asked. Cancerman simply
stared at him as he inhaled on his cigarette. "You would tell me about
Agent Scully? Her truth?"

Mulder noted the incredulous look on the man's face. "Agent Scully?"

"Her abduction. What happened to her. What will happen to her."

"You want to know about Agent Scully?" There was no mistaking the
surprise in the man's voice. As Mulder stared back at him, the
realization dawned on him. Cancerman had expected Mulder to ask him for
help in getting a cure for AML. He expected Mulder to demand to know
where Samantha was, because if Samantha were alive, she could possibly
be his bone marrow match and thus donor and savior. The man expected
Mulder to use this meeting as a way of saving his own life.

"What is there to know about Agent Scully?"

"I think you know," Mulder said. "I'm sure you know. This matter
concerns her health in the near future? Perhaps you could be of help."

The man sniffed. "I know nothing about Agent Scully. Besides, why should
I help you help her?"

"Because you like her. And you like me too," Mulder said as a sarcastic
reminder. That was what Cancerman had claimed once, as Mulder was
holding a gun against his head, demanding to know the truth following
Scully's 'return' after disappearing for three months. He saw the mix of
emotions on the man's face. Most apparent was disbelief. The man was
still trying to understand why Mulder wasn't using this opportunity to
save himself, or to find out something for his own purposes.

"Information like that will require time to..."

"I am afraid I cannot guarantee you the luxury of my time," Mulder said
rudely. He saw the other man start. "I'm not trying to burden you here.
I'm merely asking for Agent Scully's life. I would appreciate your help.
I would pay your price, if it is a price I can afford."

The man wanted to say something, but changed his mind. He dropped the
cigarette stub onto the ground and for a while just looked at his
fingers. Then without a glance at Mulder he said quite gently, "Go home,
Fox. You should rest."

The man walked off. Mulder watched him go, wondering if anything good
would come out of the meeting. He had expected Cancerman to demand
something perhaps, or argue the issue further. At the very least he had
hoped the cigarette-smoking man would drop a hint or two about what
Mulder had to know. He was certain that Cancerman knew the truth about
the abductions of so many women, including Scully's. And he was quite
sure Cancerman was aware of the cancer risk Scully now faced.

He hadn't known what else to do. All he had been sure of was, regardless
of whether or not he survived AML, he wasn't going to let Scully suffer.
He wasn't going to allow her to go through the cancer pains he was going
through. He was going to find her a cure, and keep her safe. That was
his insurance policy for her.
 

**********
 

Mulder was back in hospital three days later. Pneumonia.

Things had been going so well too. After almost a month Donald Webster
finally gave up his FBI frame-up theory and confessed to the sexual
abuse and murder of six children over a course of seven years. He even
disclosed his methods, which were eerily exactly what Mulder had
described in his profile. It was sweet revenge for Mulder - the man who
literally caused him so much pain was now going to rot in jail forever.

Then he developed a mild fever, and started coughing. Nevertheless he
insisted on working. Until the very moment he 'collapsed' in Skinner's
office.

He was presenting this profile on the Christmas Children case to Skinner
and an FBI senior liaison agent from California, a middle-aged man named
Andrew Thorne. Andrew Thorne was trying very hard to understand Mulder's
profile.

"You are saying that this man kidnaps all these girls because he misses
his own little girl?"

Mulder nodded patiently and tried to ignore the tightness he felt in his
chest.

Andrew Thorne frowned. "He is from a normal family, you say, nothing
that would indicate he'd grow up to become a serial killer. He married
young, probably divorced a few years later but had the time to father a
little girl."

"Bitter divorce, and denied custody of his child," Mulder said. This was
all in his profile, and they'd gone over this already. He was getting
restless.

"I say again, why should that make him want to go around kidnapping cute
little girls on Christmas Eve? A lot of estranged fathers out there are
denied custody of their children. You don't see them dragging other
people's kids home to pretend as their own."

"I never said this man was like other people," Mulder reminded Thorne.
He coughed, then continued, "For whatever reason, his separation from
his wife and child was incredibly harsh. His wife is likely to have
remarried and relocated, taking the girl with her. His daughter is
permanently out of his reach. He misses her, and he wants her back.
Somehow he thinks by kidnapping these little girls every year, he can
keep her with him."

"He kills them," Skinner said, joining the discussion. "Why would he do
that? You suggested that the man cares for the girl as though she were
his own daughter. Why kill her then, on Christmas Eve?"

Mulder had to finish another bout of coughing before he could answer. "I
believe his final meeting with his daughter took place on Christmas Eve.
That was the last time he saw his daughter, perhaps the last time ever,
literally. She must have been fond of him then, but wherever she is now,
she no longer remembers him. He is heartbroken about that  - his
daughter has grown up and forgotten him. He takes a child to keep as his
own, but he cannot keep her forever. He has to kill her at the end of
the year because that is the only way he can keep her pure."

"He loves her but he kills her?" Thorne asked incredulously. "And
explain this pure thing to me again, will you?"

"He thinks the girl can remain his and his only as long as she is a
sweet young child, innocent and pure. He associates her growth with
betrayal - he cannot afford to lose her that way. She has to remain
pure, to remain as his. That is why his method of murder is so quick and
bloodless. And he lays her body out in her most lovely frock, with
ribbons in her hair. He cares for the child deeply, but he has to send
her to heaven. That way she will never grow up and rebel, or forget
about him. She will, in essence, remain his forever. But then he'll have
to choose a new sweet angel to care for for another year."

Skinner and Thorne silently digested Mulder's words. Mulder meanwhile
was starting to feel oddly lightheaded.

"You are certain this man will be in California?" Skinner asked.

"Positive, sir. The nature of his job allows him to travel from city to
city, relocating every New Year. I surmise he must be a freelance
writer, or perhaps a photojournalist. He is professional of some sort
definitely. Male between the ages of thirty to forty-five, married very
young but divorced before he was even twenty-five. He tries to pass
himself off as the kidnapped girl's father. I don't know how, but he has
managed to succeed in pulling that off. The girls accept him, and he
never mistreats them. I am also positive that this time, with his fifth
'daughter' he will try to send her to school. He is confident and secure
in his methods now, and he feels he should provide his 'daughter' with
all the life he can give. That's how we'll get him."

"I still need to know why you say he's in California," Skinner said.

Mulder coughed a couple of times, then insisted hoarsely, "I just know."

"Look Agent Mulder," Thorne began, shaking his head. "If you say he's in
California, then maybe he is. If you say that he is crazy enough, or
confident enough, or whatever, to send this girl Samantha O'Connor to
pre-school, then I suppose weird things can happen. Why won't the girl
squeal on him though?"

"As far as she is concerned, he is the one who feeds her, loves her and
cares for her. She truly does adore him. She still misses her own
family, but she has learned to live with him. It is possible that he
keeps promising her that she will meet her family again soon. She won't
squeal on him. Nor will anyone suspect anything. There are many cases of
single fathers raising their daughters on their own."

"Therein lies the problem, Agent Mulder," Thorne sighed. "There are just
so many single men raising children on their own. As there are so many
single men moving in and out of California on assignment. And there are
so many little girls with long blond hair who go missing every year."

"I have already suggested..." Mulder was unable to finish the sentence
because he started a fit of coughing.

"Yes, yes, the face on the milk carton," Thorne said when Mulder
stopped. "We do that for so many kids already. We simply do not have the
manpower to comb the entire state in search of this little girl. And for
all you know, she may not look anything like she was when she was with
her parents. He might have dyed her hair or something."

"Do it for Samantha," Mulder wheezed. He saw Skinner's worried frown.
Thorne was getting uncomfortable. "Her face on every milk carton. He
won't change her. He has to keep her pure, straight through till death.
Distribute her picture to every single pre-school in the state. Every
single one."

"Do you realize how much..." Thorne didn't finish his sentence. Mulder
started coughing and hacking so hard he had to hunch over in his chair.
In fact Mulder was coughing so hard he wasn't able to breathe.
 

Skinner panicked when he saw that Mulder was coughing up blood. He
immediately called an ambulance and then he also called Scully and told
her, in what would no doubt go down in history as one of the greatest
innocent exaggerations ever told, that Mulder had 'collapsed'.

Scully's instinct and imagination immediately supplied her with the
worst images possible - him dying of respiratory failure or him dying of
respiratory distress, or him dying of whatever means available. She was
there at Skinner's office about five minutes after the paramedics
arrived, an amazing feat considering she was actually in a mortuary at
the other end of the city. She must have broken every speed rule in her
haste to get to the J. Edgar Hoover building.

Anyway, by then Mulder was on the floor, propped against Skinner's desk,
breathless and sick to the pit of his stomach but feeling very sheepish
nonetheless about the whole fuss. The coughing fit had passed. The blood
Skinner had seen him cough out wasn't really blood from his lungs. What
had happened was that when he started his coughing fit he had clenched
his pen too hard and somehow, had managed to impale himself in the hand
with the tip of the ball pen. What one would call a freak accident.

Outside Skinner's office a crowd had gathered, breaking strict protocol
for the sake of curiosity. The paramedics were giving him oxygen and
were waiting for him to feel clear-headed enough so he could follow them
down to the ambulance. The pair of paramedics were kind and experienced,
and understood that he still needed to retain a bit of his dignity, and
that he would prefer to walk if he could, rather than be wheeled flat on
a stretcher past the crowd of agents outside. Besides, pneumonia was not
a condition where he was going to keel over and die so soon.

Skinner was unrepentant however, and was convinced that he had saved
Mulder from the very threshold of death. When a distraught Scully barged
in, Mulder couldn't help but roll his eyes heavenward and wonder what in
the world had he sinned in life that would require such cruel
humiliation as punishment.

At least she calmed down quickly upon seeing that he was upright and
conscious. The blood on his shirt, tie and hands alarmed her, but since
he was still breathing, with a steady pulse and a lucid enough state of
mind to be stubborn regarding his rights to walking out of Skinner's
office, she concurred with the paramedics that death wasn't interested
in him just yet.

With the paramedics' assistance, he was walked out of Skinner's office
ten minutes later, quite bloody, but dignity intact. Diagnosis of
pneumonia was confirmed by doctors at the hospital, and like it or not,
he was once again a bedridden patient.

Mulder still wondered sometimes what Special Agent Andrew Thorne thought
of the whole thing. As he recalled, the senior agent had leaped out his
chair and stayed as far away from Mulder as possible while Mulder was
coughing his lungs out. He probably thought Mulder had AIDS, or
tuberculosis. Mulder certainly was pale and sickly-looking. Andrew
Thorne had looked at him very strangely when he came into Skinner's
office with his cap on. Mulder couldn't really be bothered though. He
just needed that agent to help him search for Samantha O'Connor.
Unfortunately he had yet to hear anything from California. Or maybe
Skinner and Scully were suppressing the information from him.

Didn't matter. Today was his last day in hospital. He'd been allowed
home leave. The pneumonia had cleared up after huge doses of
antibiotics, but on the other hand he was becoming even worse - he
needed a bone marrow transplant and he needed it quick. His name was
already on the list for urgent bone marrow transplant and they were
trying to find a donor for him through the National Registry of bone
marrow donors.

There was nothing more that could be done until a bone marrow donor was
found.  That would probably take quite a while. The donor would have to
an anonymous, non-related donor since Mulder had no relatives who might
provide him with the marrow he needed. Well, maybe his sister Samantha
could have, but well...

Meanwhile, he had developed ulcers in his mouth and throat. Painful
white ulcers that made it hard for him to swallow his own saliva, what
more swallow food. He gave up solid foods. The only reason he drank
anything was because Scully literally forced the fluids down his throat.
And if Scully weren't around to do that, the sweet nurses on his ward
were more than happy to do so on Scully's behalf.

The nurses were otherwise simply wonderful, fun and gentle. They flirted
with him shamelessly and gave him sponge baths, and shaved him even when
he didn't need shaving. Best of all, they allowed him to wear his own
T-shirts and sweatpants rather than hospital gowns. Another unexpected
source of joy was the company he got from his fellow patients in the
ward, most of whom he'd gotten to know from the numerous times he came
for chemotherapy and checkups.

These new friends knew what life was really like for someone with
terminal illness. He could talk to them about things he would never even
broach with Scully. He could grumble about the pain. He could complain
about his lost freedom. He could compare withdrawal symptoms when nurses
were late with the drugs. He could crack jokes about death and not worry
about mortified expressions on the faces of his listeners. Finally, at
this stage of his life, he had found the perfect ensemble of friends to
hang out with. Now, if only they wouldn't keep dying on him...

Scully visited him often enough that more than one person had asked if
she were his wife - now that was among the more amusing propositions
he'd heard in his life. Scully's mom came to see him once in a while,
bringing flowers to cheer up the room each time she came. Skinner
dropped by when he could, and was always sending his regards through
Scully. The Lone Gunmen came to see him when they were certain there
were no government surveillance teams at the hospital. His room was
decorated with more than a dozen 'Get Well Soon' cards, most from people
he never imagined would care. A few colleagues from the bureau had
visited him also, much to his pleasant surprise. Even the Director of
the bureau had sent him a personal Get Well note, as well as a letter of
commendation that his profile had aided in the capture and arrest of
Donald Webster.

So many people wishing him well. When previously so many people just
wanted him out of the way. While it was nice to have visitors to help
break the monotony of hospital life, he was oftentimes embarrassed if
the people visiting him were not close personal friends. They could
never hide the pity in their eyes whenever they talked to him. He was so
thin now, and so pale. And weak. He hated that most. Weakness was not
something you wanted others to see.

His own mother remained naively unaware of his deterioration. He had
informed his mother about the leukemia the day before he started his
first round of chemotherapy. Her reaction had been one of severe grief.
She came to see him twice, and both times she had fussed over him like
he was a child. She hadn't paid that much attention to him since he
graduated from high school. While he called her fairly often, every two
or three days, he would tell her the same reassuring words each and
every time; that he was feeling fine, that he was responding incredibly
well to treatment, that he had no problems at work. White lies so his
mother wouldn't know the painful truth.

It hurt to have to lie to his mother so consistently but he felt that
having her know the truth was just as damaging. He had always felt an
urge to protect his mother, a behavior response that probably stemmed
from his earlier failure in life to protect his sister. His mother
hadn't actually seen him since her last visit more than a month ago. He
had since lost a further fifteen pounds and was now pale as a ghost. The
last thing he wanted his mother to have to deal with was him looking
like a wraith.
 

*******
 

Scully rapped loudly on Mulder's door before opening it. She made it a
habit to knock first before entering ever since that day she had walked
in while he was having his urinary catheter inserted. He hated the whole
process, the whole indignity of it and he had been mortally embarrassed
that she had seen him.

Scully came in carrying a paper bag. Mulder grinned. She hadn't
forgotten. Since the ulcers in his throat and mouth prevented him from
eating solid foods, Scully had suggested that maybe she should feed him
ice cream.

He was sitting in bed, propped up against a couple of pillows. She came
up beside the bed and lifted out a small tub of chocolate ice cream from
the bag. She also picked out two plastic spoons, one for him, and one
for her. Mulder took the proffered spoon and scooped a bit of ice cream.

"Good?" she asked as Mulder slowly swallowed and licked his lips.

"Can't tell you if it's good or not, Scully," Mulder said honestly. "But
I can tell you that I like it." The sweetness of the ice cream countered
the awful bitterness of drugs on his tongue, and cool ice cream slid
down his throat without friction against the ulcers. Taste was the least
of his concerns. His taste buds were pretty dysfunctional after all the
drugs he'd been consuming.

"That's what a girl wants to hear. That her man likes the ice cream she
feeds him."  She swallowed her own scoop of ice cream. Mulder chuckled.

"How's work?" Mulder asked. He desperately missed being with her during
the day. She came to see him during lunchtime only if she were free, if
she were busy then he'd have to wait till evening for her to visit. By
then she would be tired and he would be drugged up because his pain was
always worse in the evenings.

"Oh Mulder, one word," Scully said, rolling her eyes. "Boring. I'm
turning into the resident forensics expert. Never a chance to step
outside the office. Simple, routine investigations. Nothing that taxes
the mind."

"So get an X-File," Mulder suggested.

She was surprised. "Get an X-File? You mean get a new case?"

"Yeah. Skinner has anything against a new X-File?"

"Well, no," Scully said slowly. "You know he doesn't. In fact he asked
me about it the other day. He jokes that he misses the feeling of
absolute confusion he used to get after reading our case reports."

"Then go back and pick out a case, investigate. Skinner needs humor in
his life. Humor him."

"No Mulder, you need rest. You're in absolutely no condition to
investigate anything. No chasing after alleged alien life forms."

Mulder sighed. Was she being obtuse on purpose here?

"Go get a case and investigate it yourself, Scully. On your own."

"Investigate an X-File on my own?" Scully echoed. She sounded doubtful.

"Yes, Scully. Skinner will approve whatever case you want. You are the
other half of the X-Files. And the X-Files have been kept in cold
storage for long enough, don't you think?"

"But Mulder, I have never investigated an X-File all by myself!"

"Scully," Mulder said patiently. "Sooner or later, 'they' will shut down
the X-Files if nothing is going on. The X-Files will be an inactive
division existing for no known purpose. It would be the perfect excuse.
Now I don't want them to win on account of my being sick and not being
able to work in the field. So one of us will have to keep the X-Files
active, keep producing results. Solve cases."

Scully remained silent so Mulder continued, "Once they shut us down this
time I don't think there will be an easy way to get the X-Files back.
Who knows how long I'll be sick? And once I'm well enough to work
Skinner'll probably assign me permanently to the ISU or Violent Crimes.
You will be part of the permanent teaching staff at Quantico, or
assigned a different partner in a different division. It'll be so easy
for them Scully, to be rid of us without any mess or scandal."

"I have never investigated an X-File by myself." Scully repeated.

"So? Now you can."

Scully opened her mouth, took a breath, then clamped it shut again
without saying anything. She looked down into the tub of ice cream.

"Tell you what. You choose what cases you think will be worth your salt.
You can bring the case files home to me. We can still discuss the cases
together even if I can't follow you around. Then, once I'm strong
enough, I will follow you around, be your driver. Promise I'll stay in
the car and keep away from large men with huge fists."

Scully smiled sadly. What she could not say to Mulder was that she did
not want to investigate an X-File by herself. She did not want to solve
a case by herself. Maybe there had been times when she wished to be
recognized as her own person rather than Mrs. Spooky, but now she only
wanted to work with him. She didn't want to be alone in the middle of
the night on some deserted stretch of highway tracking down clues. Her
heart would break if she had to work alone.

"Okay?" Mulder asked gently.

Scully gave a slight nod, very slight inclination of the head. She would
have to think about this when she got back to the office. Mulder
accepted her nod as agreement, and went back to his ice cream.

"So tomorrow you can come home," she said, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Oh yeah," Mulder said dreamily. "And first thing I do when I get home,
I'm gonna sleep with the TV left on, without anyone waking me every two
hours asking if I need a sleeping pill." He paused, glancing at Scully.
"You don't mind me sleeping with the TV on?"

He would be going back to Scully's apartment, not his own. He needed
someone to be with him should he run into an emergency or become sick.

"So long as you behave yourself and not watch anything I would never
watch," was Scully's answer.

"You mean I can't watch arm wrestling championships?"

Scully snorted. "You know what I mean," she said firmly. She was fully
aware of Mulder's fascination with naked women prancing around doing
who-knows what in X-rated movies.

Mulder shrugged absently and maintained his innocent expression. Then he
asked, "You took my clothes already?"

"Yes." She eyed him carefully. "You realize most of your clothes are
going to be too loose for you."

Mulder sighed. "I know. You think I can still wear my suits?"

"You aren't thinking of going to the office?"

"Well, you know I can't Scully. I'm too sick. But I do miss the FBI.
Believe it or not, I miss the smell of exhaust smoke in the bureau's
basement parking lot?"

Scully chuckled and shook her head in wonder. "I frankly do not
understand the things you choose to miss."

"Well there are so many other things. I miss being with you, that's
another thing I miss. And I miss swimming. I miss rain. I miss getting
wet with you in the rain. I miss wearing my overcoat and walking around
with you. I miss anyplace that does not smell of antiseptic. I miss you
not agreeing with me."

He missed her. Scully felt her heart lighten up to know that. He missed
her, he missed doing things with her.

"I don't always don't agree now do I?" she chided gently. "Don't you
miss when I agree with you?"

"You've been agreeing with me a lot lately," Mulder said. He had stopped
eating although the tub was still a quarter full of melting ice cream.
She didn't try to force him to finish it.

"You haven't been stubborn lately," Scully said lightly as she put the
tub aside. She didn't notice the sudden sadness in his eyes.

"It's too tiring to be stubborn now," Mulder said quietly.

Scully heard the resignation in his voice. She straightened up and gazed
at him, taking in the pale haggard face, the cap on his head, the
hollows of his cheeks. There wasn't much of him left, really. How much
did he weigh now? A little over a hundred and ten pounds? On a six foot
frame. She made a soft clucking sound at the back of her throat. She
reached out, stroked his arm.

"You should gain weight, Mulder," she said. "When you come home with me
I'm going to make sure you eat everything I cook for you."

"Make sure you cook mush then."

"Oh Mulder, you want me to go all mushy over you?" It was a corny
attempt at a joke, a mild attempt to cheer him up but it worked. He
laughed. The fleeting feelings of self-pity were wiped away.

Scully gave him a pat on his cap, picked up the paper bag into which she
had deposited the dripping ice cream tub and stood, ready to leave.

"It's time to go?" Mulder asked, surprised.

Scully smiled and said, "Well, yes. I was hoping to take a little walk
with a friend of mine before going back to the office. I hope you don't
mind."

Mulder twitched his lips. "Mind? Now why would I mind if you wanted take
a walk with someone instead of staying in this room?" He injected a tone
of indignation into his voice but his eyes were merry.

"Good then," Scully said. "I was worried you wouldn't approve."

"Can't decide what things you ought or ought not to do now can I?"
Mulder said sulkily even as he accepted Scully's outstretched hand. She
helped him get out of bed, then helped him with his sneakers.

"So it'll be all right for me to go?" Scully asked once he had his
sneakers on. She held the walker ready for him.

"Oh sure," Mulder sniffed. "Go ahead. Obviously I can't force you to
stay."

Scully laughed. She slipped her free arm around his waist and together,
they walked slowly down to the lobby of the hospital and from there to
the small garden on the hospital grounds.

**********

Scully knew something was wrong. She stepped out of the elevator half
expecting shouts of panic and medical staff in chaos. She didn't know
why the deep feeling of foreboding should haunt her. Mulder was fine. He
was coming home with her tomorrow.

She was late in visiting him this evening. After spending time with
Mulder in the hospital garden she had to go back to the office for the
afternoon, but promised to return to the hospital by dinnertime.  Once
at the office she found out that she had been saddled with the duty of
performing an autopsy on a gruesome body left in a drainage pipe for
more than two weeks. The body stank terribly and the stink permeated her
clothes and hair. Disgusting. She had gone home for a shower and a
change of clothes before coming to the hospital. She had gone home,
ignoring the feeling in her gut that she should go to the hospital
instead, no matter how much she stank or how dirty her hair and skin
felt.

Her stomach growled. Her feeling of unease had been such that she had
rushed out immediately without having dinner first. She had broken out
in cold sweat as she was driving to the hospital, it took all of her
willpower not to break the speed limit.

The corridor was calm, no shouting, no emergency alarms. Everything was
fine. Mulder was fine.

Scully berated herself for almost giving in to irrational fear.

She walked past the nurses' station. There was only one nurse there,
bowed over a patient's chart, jotting something down. The nurse didn't
look up as she walked past. For no fathomable reason Scully started
walking faster. She had to get to Mulder's room. She had to get there
fast.

His door was ajar. A nurse aide was leaning against it. She heard voices
inside the room. Nurses were in there, and Dr. Bryant was beside the bed
giving orders.

Oh God, she was right. Something was wrong with Mulder.

"What is this?" She demanded to know in her most authoritative voice. It
came out sounding high and shrill instead.

Dr Bryant turned around, saw her and came towards her, effectively
blocking her view of Mulder.

"He had a seizure," he told her. She gaped at him.

"Why?" She demanded.

Dr Bryant shrugged. "Don't know. He was fine half an hour ago. Was given
his painkiller and sleeping pill. Seized suddenly. Grand mal seizure.
Things are under control now. You understand this means he can't go home
tomorrow."

"No, no, of course not," Scully said, without really caring what Bryant
was saying. She needed to see Mulder, needed to comfort him. Oh God, why
the seizure? She tried to push Bryant aside so she could get to Mulder.
Bryant gave way to her.

Mulder was sprawled on the bed, his limbs limp, his face turned to one
side. His breath hitched in his chest. He was otherwise silent and
still. The blanket was twisted around his legs, the sheet was pulled out
in one corner and someone had removed his pillow. He was bleeding.
Somehow his IV needle, which had been left in his wrist even though he
wasn't actually being given anything intravenously, had been yanked out
while he was seizing. Blood all over his hand and arm, all over the
sheet, blood on his T-shirt and face.

He was going to loose a lot of blood if nobody did anything about that
bleeding, Scully thought in a detached clinical way.

She knelt down beside the bed so that her face was level with Mulder's
face. His skin was gray. His chest rose and fell with each gasp. She
touched his cheek and called his name softly.

His eyes flickered open. Glazed eyes, not quite focussed. She could see
that he was in pain. His lips quivered as he tried to speak.

"Shhh," Scully whispered, stroking his head. "It's okay." Out of the
corner of her eye she saw someone trying to staunch the bleeding from
his wrist.

He was trying very hard to keep his eyes on her. His lips moved and she
heard something, very soft, but she couldn't make out what he said. More
like a gentle exhalation of air.

"No, don't say anything. I'm here. You'll be fine." Meaningless words
that she hoped would comfort him.  Beside her the nurse was finding out
that he wouldn't stop bleeding. She heard someone order one unit of
blood and one bag of platelets for transfusion. Dr. Bryant was leaving
the room.

His lips moved again and this time she read his lips. He was trying to
say her name. He was trying to say 'Dana'. She realized he wanted to
apologize to her for causing this trouble, he didn't want her to have
this new extra burden.

She placed her finger on his lips, silencing him. She moved closer to
him and whispered into his ear, "I know, Mulder. It's all right. I
know."

Her lips brushed his forehead. When she drew back he was still looking
at her, but he was quiet. She continued to stroke his cheek and whisper
sweet nothings.

Suddenly she felt his body jerk. He turned away from her and moaned. She
flung an arm over his chest, thinking he was going into another seizure.
He jerked again but this wasn't a seizure. She stood up and touched his
face, trying to get him to look at her.

"Mulder?"

His eyes were wide, vacant, not really seeing her. He whimpered and
tried to pull away from the two nurses holding on to his arms. It was
the pain. The pain was getting bad.

"Where's his painkiller?" Scully snapped. The two nurses were still
fighting to hold on to Mulder's arms, who was fighting even harder
against them. A nurse aide was standing by the foot of the bed, holding
a new saline bag.

Scully growled at the aide, "Get him morphine now! He's in pain damn
it!"

The nurse aide gawked at her for a second, long enough for Scully to
start yelling again. The aide hurried out of the room, leaving the
saline bag on the trolley. Scully could not believe the sheer stupidity
of the night staff to rush in to attend to a cancer patient without
bringing any painkiller along.

Mulder was thrashing in bed, a sure sign that the pain in his back was
so bad he had lost all control to rationalize or wait.

Scully recognized very well the stages of Mulder's pain. At the very
beginning he would fidget and shift about as the pain caused discomfort
rather than distress. Then he'd become still and quiet, if he spoke his
words would be monosyllables with his gaze averted from her eyes. As the
pain progressed he would start to clench his hands into fists, or take
to grabbing handfuls of blanket to clench, all in an effort to maintain
control and stop himself from screaming.

It frightened her to see how bad the pain was this time. He was
whimpering, crying. She was trying her damnedest to comfort him and stop
him from thrashing about even as she cursed the aide for being slow with
the morphine. The nurse holding on to his bleeding wrist had let go of
his arm, or maybe her gloves slipped because of the blood on her gloves
and his arm. He was bleeding freely, yet another thing for Scully to
curse about. Where was that unit of blood and where was that bag of
platelets?

The aide finally returned with a syringe, together with two nurses and
Dr Bryant. It took four people to hold him still long enough for Dr
Bryant to inject the morphine. Then it was almost five minutes before
Mulder stopped thrashing and just lay there, spent.

Scully wiped the tears away from his cheeks. He was still awake, barely
coherent. But he tried to smile when he saw her. She smiled back and
furiously blinked the tears from her eyes. She didn't say anything
because there wasn't anything to say. He was drugged now. That was what
was important. No pain till morning.
 

*******
 

The loud rap on the door startled her. She turned around and saw
Assistant Director Skinner standing awkwardly by the door.

"Agent Scully," he said.

"Sir," she responded politely. He came into the room slowly, hoping, she
supposed, not to wake Mulder up. But she already knew that Mulder wasn't
going to wake up any time soon.

"You applied for emergency leave today," Skinner said as he settled down
into the chair beside her. "Since I had some time to spare I decided it
would be best to come and see if everything was all right."

"Thank you for your concern," Scully said quietly.

Skinner nodded towards Mulder. "I thought he was going home today."

"We both thought he was going home today," she replied as she stroked
Mulder's arm. "But it looks like he'll have to stay a few extra days."

Skinner frowned. "What happened?"

"He suffered a seizure last night."

Skinner paled visibly. "My God," he exclaimed. "Is he all right?"

"He'll be okay," Scully said. She shook her head sadly. "But it's just
not fair, you know," she added softly. "He was getting so much better."
She looked up at Skinner's concerned face.

"There's a bit of a problem with his blood coagulation - the clotting of
his blood. Disseminated intravascular coagulation. DIC."

"Is this problem related to his... um, illness?"

Scully noted that even after four months Skinner still had trouble
saying the word leukemia out loud. She nodded in response to his
question.

"There is a connection. You see the clotting of human blood is
accomplished when a cascade of coagulation factors react with each other
to trigger the blood-clotting mechanism which works in tandem with the
body's platelets to stop any bleeding. Normally the cascade of
coagulation factors, which you can think of as chemicals, is set off
upon injury. In Mulder's case though, leukemic promyelocytic cells are
releasing the chemicals that trigger the clotting cascade. The clotting
mechanism takes place in the absence of any injury. So small tiny clots
form throughout his circulation and within the organs."

"Cascade?"

"The release of one chemical will initiate the release of another
chemical, that will then initiate the release of yet another chemical,
so on and so forth. All these chemicals react together to accomplish
blood coagulation. A cascade of coagulation factors."

"Resulting in his blood clotting even though there is no injury?"
Skinner guessed.

"Yes." Scully nodded. "And since there is no injury for the clots to
cover up, the clots lodge within the body's internal organs."

"Is this condition fatal?" Skinner asked hesitantly.

Scully paused before answering his question. She gazed at Mulder as he
slept his drugged sleep - he had been given more morphine early in the
morning, and he wasn't expected to wake up any time during the day.

"DIC can be fatal," she said, keeping her voice steady. "But it is
treatable. He's being given anticoagulants intravenously. Anticoagulants
will prevent further formation of clots and dissolve the clots already
present in his circulation. Ironically enough, at the same time that he
is having these coagulation problems he is also bleeding internally due
to lack of platelets. His body is not producing enough platelets which
are necessary for blood clotting and preventing him from bleeding some
more. We'll need to maintain a careful balance of platelets and
anticoagulants for transfusion."

"What about the seizures?"

"Probably the result of clots in his brain," Scully answered. She
sounded professional and clinical but she feared that her calm facade
might crack at any moment. "Clots can be in the brain, in the lungs, in
the kidneys. Can lead to organ failure, but since Mulder will be
monitored very closely from now onwards this isn't going to happen
again. He'll be fine."

She kept her face averted from Skinner. Tears were brimming in her eyes.
Everything was crashing in on her. She had willingly accepted the burden
of being the close friend of a terminally ill person, but she hadn't
been prepared for the emotional anguish that accompanied Mulder's steady
deterioration.

In the beginning she had been optimistic and supportive. She learned to
steer clear of Mulder when he was feeling depressed, but remained by him
when she felt he needed her company. She checked that Mulder was
receiving the proper treatments, that he was taking his medication and
his vitamins. They rarely spoke about his illness, but they both knew
she was the one watching over him. She was the strength Mulder depended
on.

But he kept losing weight, and his appetite dwindled away to almost
nothing. Her heart ached to see him wither so quickly before her very
eyes. He came to work, but he became weaker and weaker. His pain
escalated but she could do nothing. Her heart broke that day when she
walked into the office and saw Mulder wearing his cap for the first
time, but he had been jovial about the whole thing and she was forced to
fake her humor for his sake. And her heart was heavy to accept the fact
that Mulder's gray pale pallor was permanent, that rosy pink cheeks were
not something she should expect to see in his face in the near future.

She blinked the tears away. Skinner was saying something about the
X-Files.

"I feel perhaps it would be for the best," Skinner ended. She'd missed
the earlier part of what he had said.

Scully glanced at him. "Sir?"

"For you to take over at this point."

"The X-Files sir?"

"Yes," Skinner said. "You will officially be the agent in charge as long
as Mulder is on sick leave. Then once he's ready to come back, he'll
have to re-qualify as field agent but we can settle that when the time
comes."

"Did Mulder express this desire to you?"

Skinner looked puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did he ask you to do this?"

"No," Skinner said, somewhat taken aback. "I thought this would be the
best course of action. I assumed that you and Agent Mulder would agree
with this change."

Scully knew for a fact that Mulder would support the change. "Will I be
working alone?"

"If you feel you need additional hands to help, then you can send in a
request later. I think you'll be just fine. Mulder handled the X-Files
by himself for quite a while before you joined him."

"I see," Scully said. So she wasn't going to have a have a rookie agent
around to debunk her work.

"Is he getting better? I mean, aside from this... problem?"

Scully looked at Skinner thoughtfully. This man had helped them through
so much. He really did care about them. His concern for Mulder was
always genuine.

"We can cure his leukemia," she responded vaguely. She didn't want to
mention the bone marrow transplant until she was certain that it was
definitely going to happen. Somehow by not talking about it, she didn't
have to keep her hopes too high up.

"The seizures won't affect him? I mean, no brain damage or anything?"

"It was just one seizure," Scully corrected. "Just a seizure. Not a
stroke or a major head trauma. He'll be all right, really. We can handle
this."

"Well I'm sure he'll pull through. Nothing seems to keep him down for
long," Skinner observed optimistically. He patted her shoulder
affectionately. Then he mentioned that he had to get back to the office
for a meeting, and wished Mulder a speedy recovery.

He left and Scully sat alone beside Mulder's bed, watching the gentle
rise and fall of his chest. So now she was the one in charge of the
X-Files. What a day. First her partner suffers a grand mal seizure - bad
news. Next her boss tells her she's just been promoted - great news,
even if she didn't exactly cherish the thought of working alone without
Mulder as her partner.

Wonderful even balance of distress and jubilation, but no one to talk to
about it.  She felt so lonely, so sad. She stared at Mulder's gaunt
face, at the permanent dark shadows beneath the eyes, at the protruding
bones of his elbows, and wondered idly if she might have cancer one day,
and become like Mulder, and how she would handle it. Mulder handled
things rather well, all things considered. He had continued to work for
as long as he was able, rarely complaining. He didn't speak too much
about the future, nor did he dwell too much on his past.

But how would Mulder handle it if she became sick too? She pushed that
thought aside. After all, there was no solid evidence that said she was
prone to developing tumors. Might be all pure coincidence - she wasn't
really an abductee like the rest of those women. She couldn't be.
 

**********
 
 

Every few days a cleaning lady would come into Mulder's hospital room
and wipe clean smooth surfaces, the window, and the windowsill. She used
a mild disinfectant to wipe surfaces after she was done cleaning them.
He didn't much like the smell of the disinfectant but he had to live
with it, the smell would linger for days - and just as the smell was no
longer noticeable the cleaning lady would return.

There was one thing he secretly enjoyed about the cleaning lady coming.
Whenever she wiped the window the dampness on the windowpane would
reflect the sunlight in a certain way, reminding him of soap bubbles
floating in the wind on a summer day. The dancing colors in the window
never lasted more than half a minute, for the windowpane dried quickly.
He had to be alert when the cleaning lady moved over to the window.

He also loved the sunbeam that streamed through his window in the
mornings. The sunbeam would light up his room, then track slowly across
his bed, but stopped short of shining full on his face if he were lying
down in bed. The sunbeam was warm, a pleasant visitor to welcome for
about an hour each morning. And when the windowpane was wet as the
sunbeam passed through, he would see soap bubbles floating in the wind.

That was a sweet memory, the memory of when he was a ten-year old
blowing soap bubbles in a wide open field as his six year old sister
shrieked with glee. Samantha had chased the bubbles, and kept asking him
to blow more - "Bigger ones Fox! Make them flyyyy!!!!"

He was a ten-year-old big brother babysitting his little sister during
summer. And as he blew soap bubbles on that warm summer day he had loved
her. He had loved the way her big shining eyes watched him blow bubbles
that followed the wind to far off places, he had loved her unabashed
adoration, he had loved the way she skipped about him, her pigtails
bouncing up and down, and he had loved her love for him. On that day she
was his little sister and he would have done anything for her. She
wasn't just a whining little girl who distracted his mother's attention.
She was his sister. And he loved her.

The memory was bittersweet, for they never ever played in that field
together again. They had spent the whole day there, waiting till the sun
set and the sky turned a beautiful orange purple yellow hue before
returning home for dinner. He had always wanted to take her there again,
but for him school started, then she grew up and he grew bored of her
clinging to him. They had been to the field before that day, but he had
introduced her to soap bubbles only on that special day, and so that
made all previous trips to the field obsolete.

There were soap bubbles dancing in the window now. He could hear
Samantha giggling as he told her he was going to make color lights fly
into the wind. She'd called him a big fat liar. He told her to wait and
see. Then he blew the bubbles into a soft breeze and she had gasped in
wonder and astonishment. "Fox!" she exclaimed. "They're so beautiful!"

He treasured the memory jealously. His memories of Samantha now were no
longer of her screaming his name as a bright light whisked her out of
his life. Instead he remembered Samantha as a toddler trying to catch up
with his bicycle. He vaguely remembered his mom and dad announcing that
the little baby in his mother's arms was a baby girl, not a baby boy and
that all babies looked like that when they were just born. He remembered
his father cradling his sister in one arm and hugging him tight with the
other as they watched shooting stars from the front porch of their
house. And he remembered Samantha's first day at pre-school when she'd
rushed home to tell him that Fox wasn't a name, it was a furry doggy
animal with this really nice bushy tail.

The last memory always made him chuckle. How was it that his little
sister had learned to read before the age of four and yet never ever
came across any references to foxes? And then he'd remember one spring
day when the two of them had wandered together, looking at birds on
branches and tagging after little furry animals.

Only now was he appreciating the wealth of happy memories he had of his
sister during their short time together. There was no need to brood over
the screams of a frightened eight-year-old girl. He had enough tiny
pieces of happy memories to cherish. He had enough laughter to fill his
mind.

Was he letting go of his obsession of finding her? He still wished to
see her again, alive. He wanted to see Samantha Mulder, his little
sister - not another bunch of pseudo-Samantha clones. But realistically
speaking, that was merely a wish that wasn't going to come true any time
soon.

Lately though he'd caught himself praying to God to keep Samantha's
soul, to keep her safe and warm. He didn't believe in miracles or God,
preferring instead to believe in Truth and whatever paranormal phenomena
fascinating enough to give him hope that if these strange things really
did happen, then whatever he thought happened to Samantha must have
happened and she must be out there, alive, somewhere.

He didn't know why he should turn to God now, although psychologically
he was aware that revival in faith was a natural process for terminally
ill people. But he wasn't contemplating death was he? He wasn't praying
for his own soul after all. He wasn't thinking of death. He planned to
live. He planned to find his truths and answers. He wasn't looking for
salvation just yet.

The sunbeam had moved on and the dancing color lights in the window were
gone. The cleaning lady left his room without shutting the door
properly. He frowned at her back as she left but was too lazy to call
out to her to shut the door.

The workmen were staring their work. He wondered how long he'd hold out
against them this time.

Mulder had started identifying his stages of pain as what work of
torture the 'workmen' residing in his lower back and in his bones were
doing. It was important for him to identify his stages of pain so his
painkiller doses could be adjusted accordingly. And of course he wasn't
just going to grade his pain on a scale of 1 to 10 without any creative
interpretation.

If painkillers did their work, Mulder was relatively free of pain, but
somewhat groggy and disoriented. Then, as the protective effects of the
drugs ebbed away, and he became more alert, the workmen would start to
chip away at his spine with little picks and hammers. He was used to
that pain by now, really. In fact he was so used to having some degree
of constant pain he could no longer remember what it must have been like
to live a life totally free and blessed from pain.

Eventually the workmen would chuck aside their little picks and hammers
in favor of big sledgehammers that they would slam into his back in
unison. He imagined there were between ten and thirty workmen assigned
to give him this misery, depending on just how badly the pain throbbed.

Then another group of workmen would join the team. These new workmen
loved to drag their steel rakes up and down his back and along his
bones. That was terrible. When he'd first experienced that level of pain
he had wanted to just die straight away. But now, that level of pain was
a 6 on his scale.

The workmen had more methods of torture to implement. Power drills,
joining the steel rakes and sledgehammers. Huge power drills, not the
little ones for drilling picture-frame holes in thin-plaster walls.
These were the big power drills used at construction sites, to drill
through metal.

When he got to that stage of pain, he wouldn't have given a second
thought about signing a form for euthanasia. If somebody were to shove a
gun against his head he would beg the person to just pull that fucking
trigger and be quick about it. If someone gave him a knife, he'd try to
stab himself in the back.

He never tried to imagine what the workmen were doing for stage 10 pain.
By then he'd be too crazed by the pain and or already passed out. Or
he'd be begging in all earnestness for death to come take him out of his
misery.

Right now the workmen in his back were using their little picks. Slowly,
he raised one hand and tucked it beside his cheek, then tried to shift
his body a little to get comfortable. The workmen in his back didn't
quite approve his move. The sudden spontaneous hammering of twenty picks
in his back made him wince.

He tried to concentrate on the TV. Goofy, Mickey and Donald were trying
to make their own ship out of a DIY kit. Amusing enough. He was finally
going to leave the hospital tomorrow, one week after his seizure. No use
keeping him in hospital anyway. He hadn't had any more seizures. Scully
could take care of him at her place, she'd just bring him in every two
days for his medication and blood transfusions.

Scully wouldn't be coming till late afternoon. She was still doing
forensics work, procrastinating the start of her first solo X-Files
investigation by explaining that she wanted to have him home and out of
hospital before she started. Her excuse made absolutely no sense to
Mulder but he didn't bug her about it. At least she already had a case
in mind to investigate.

Still no good news in the search for Samantha O'Connor. It would take
weeks for the FBI and the police in California to comb through all
pre-schools in the state to find her.

Minnie Mouse was joining Mickey and his pals as they prepared to cast
off in their brand new DIY ship. Pretty impressive ship too, Mulder
thought. Then he noticed the faint smell of cigarette smoke. He turned
his face towards the open door.

"You shouldn't smoke in a hospital," he said to the man standing on the
doorway. Cancerman. Fascinating name to call him by, based simply on the
fact that he was a long-term cigarette smoker. But who was the one with
cancer now, ladies and gentlemen?

The man shrugged absently.  "I am not."

Indeed he wasn't. The smell of cigarette smoke came from the man's
clothes. Mulder purposely ignored the man, paying attention instead to
the difficulties Mickey and his crew were facing as their DIY ship
started coming apart in the water.

The man shuffled his feet a few times. When that failed to get Mulder's
attention he moved closer to Mulder's bed.

"How are you?"

"That has got to be a rhetorical question, right?"

Cancerman actually had the decency to look embarrassed. "I'd like to
talk to you."

"So?"

"If you feel all right about it."

Mulder simply stared up at the man, wondering why the man even bothered.
Like Cancerman was going to care if Mulder were half-mad with pain, he'd
probably do whatever gloating he wanted to do anyway.

"What do you want?" Mulder asked finally, tiredly. Personally he wanted
to watch the Disney cartoons.

"I believe this is what you want," the man said, almost slipping back
into his usual slimy haughtiness. "We need to talk about Agent Scully."

"What about her?"

"As I recall you wanted to know. I am telling you now that there is
reason to believe she will not be in her best of health for long."

Mulder closed his eyes. He wasn't really surprised. He had taken the
trouble to investigate the alleged abducted women of Allentown and knew
enough about them and their deaths to know what could happen to Scully.

"Are you telling me this because you can help her?"

"There may be a method ... which is actually experimental at best. There
is a doctor here who might be able to explain things better."

As if on cue, a red-haired man wearing a lab coat walked into the room.
There was something familiar about the man that Mulder couldn't quite
place. The man closed the door before coming up beside the bed.

"Agent Mulder, I am Kurt Crawford," he said as he extended his hand.
Mulder ignored it.

Kurt was unperturbed by Mulder's lack of civility and went straight to
the point. "You have a friend who was abducted two years ago?"

Mulder nodded warily.

"Okay, now, most abductees who return develop tumors. It's actually a
side-effect." Mulder thought of asking 'side-effect to what?' but Kurt
continued, "You have heard of cancer-suppressor genes? These are
switches in the human DNA - turn off the switch and that person develops
cancer. Of course that is just a simple way of describing it.

"The main point is, your friend's switch has been turned off. Her
cancer-suppressor genes are inactivated.  We don't want that to happen,
but we can't seem to stop it from happening. Fortunately, we may have
found a way to reverse it, to turn the switch back on."

Mulder wondered if he was being strung along, or if he should take the
chap seriously. "How?"

"Well, I can't describe everything to you right here, not enough time
and certainly not enough physical evidence or material for a more
comprehensive lecture," Kurt said. Mulder's sense of deja vu was
increasing, as Kurt spoke. Where had he seen or heard this guy before?
"What I can tell you, is that with our intervention, her chances of not
developing cancer at all will be eighty percent."

"Only eighty?"

"That will actually place her in a position better than most of the
general population. Of course we do aim for a hundred percent protection
but we haven't had enough subjects. Your friend will be the perfect
subject. The protection I speak of is total. We eliminate all oncogenes
and repair all mutations that may be present in the genome of her
somatic cells. I can see that I have lost you. Oncogenes are genes whose
protein products are associated with neoplastic transformation. That is,
the development of cancer. And genomes, well that's what genes are.
These oncogenes and genomic mutations are also inevitable and
regrettably unfortunate side-effects of our experimentation."

Cancerman stood by the side of the bed, listening but not interrupting.
Kurt Crawford looked at Mulder expectantly, waiting for Mulder to agree
to hand Scully over to him for more experimentation. Crawford saw Scully
as a new subject for him to test and prove his theories. He didn't
actually care. But Mulder cared. He cared deeply.

"You sons of bitches think this is some on-going study? You took three
months out of her life, you are suggesting that you used her like she
was some lab rat, and now you are pitching me this idea as though..."

"Please, Mr. Mulder, there is no need to get upset. I agree our methods
seem somewhat devoid of ethics..."

Mulder made a choking sound.

"But I suggest you take this matter into serious consideration.
Admirably enough your friend remains healthy. We suspect she has not yet
manifested any signs of cancer and that makes her the suitable candidate
for our trial. Rest assured that I use the word trial here very loosely.
We are confident in our methods - she will be receiving the benefits of
years of our research."

Mulder was speechless. The impunity of this man to talk and to think of
Scully as no more than a test subject, another series of data on a lab
sheet!

"If she will come and see us," Kurt added, ignoring the pained horror
and barely controlled anger on Mulder's face. "We shall be able to tell
her more. My friend here," Kurt gestured at Cancerman. "Can assist her
in arranging an appointment with us. She needn't even need to know who
we really are if you don't want her to."

"I don't know who you are," Mulder retorted, teeth clenched. "I don't
know if you can be trusted."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "I have no evil intentions. There are no
ulterior motives. I only wish to meet her, and proceed with a plan for
prevention of neoplasia. Therein lies the purpose of my meeting you
here. We are her best, and I dare say, only hope for long-term survival.
We wish to accomplish that goal, and I was made to understand that is
also your wish."

There was no chance for Mulder to respond. Kurt was already moving out
towards the door, being shepherded along by Cancerman. Kurt gave Mulder
one last nod before stepping out into the hallway. Cancerman hesitated
for a just a moment longer.

"This is not a trick, Agent Mulder."

"I suppose I should take your word for that?" Mulder snapped.

The man met his gaze, but lowered his eyes a moment later. "It will be
up to you. I have done what I can. You have met the doctor and he has
told you, in the simplest way he knows, what you asked me to find out
for you. If you wish to pursue this, then we can arrange another, more
proper meeting."

The man turned to go, but he hesitated again. "Is there anything else I
can do?"

"No. But I thank you. For Agent Scully's life. If that is what we are
talking about here. I sincerely do thank you, though thanking you is not
something I ever thought I'd do."

"I mean, for yourself. I can help?"

Mulder shook his head. "I am already in your debt."

"I am doing this for a child I knew once," Cancerman said, almost
tenderly. "This child was the son of a friend of mine. This child was an
adorable child, a lovely child. He knew me once too, this little child,
and I think he quite liked me. At the time."

Mulder stared at the man standing in the doorway. He didn't know what to
say.

"There will be no debt," Cancerman said. "I consider this a favor for
that little boy I used to know."

"I can help." He repeated it as a statement this time, not a question.

Mulder shook his head again, slowly. The Cancerman sighed sadly but said
no more. He stepped out of Mulder's room, pulling the door shut behind
him.
 

**********
 
 

The television droned on, it was a documentary about wild life in
tropical forests. Scully tried to pick the remote control out of
Mulder's hand but he seemed to sense what she wanted to do and grasped
it tighter. Scully gave up.

She changed out of her office clothes before going into the kitchen to
prepare a cup of coffee for herself, and brew medicinal herbal tea for
Mulder. Then she scooped some ice cream into a bowl and took it out to
the living room where Mulder was sleeping on her couch.

He was lying on his side, huddled under a blanket. The cap remained on
his head, which rested on a pillow that her mom must have taken out of
the bedroom. She shook his shoulder gently.

"Have something to eat," she whispered. Mulder sighed and opened his
eyes.

"Back already? What time is it?"

"Just after three." She placed the bowl of ice cream on the small table
beside the couch, within his reach. The table was cluttered with bottles
of medication and tissue paper, along with a can of ice cream soda that
her mom must have left open for him. She picked up the can. It sloshed,
half-full. Well, at least he drank some.

Mulder wasn't quite able to care for himself now. Though he was
reluctant to burden Scully and her mom with nursing duties, he didn't
have any other place to go. He didn't want to remain in hospital and he
didn't want to burden his own mother, who had suffered a stroke a few
months ago and was still recuperating. Besides, Scully had a feeling
that Mulder didn't want his mother to realize how sick he was now. She'd
overheard quite a few of his phone conversations with his mother and he
always maintained fake cheeriness and optimism while speaking to her.

"How is the case?"

She was finally working on her first solo X-Files case, investigating an
alleged alien abduction. Mulder had been amused that she would pick an
alien abduction case to investigate on her own.

"So far, I'll have to insist that our alleged abductee was either
totally stoned and somehow was picked up by someone and then dumped
twelve miles away from her home, or she is a delusional schizophrenic."

"But she has been assessed by psychiatrists who validate her sanity, and
you have not found any traces of drugs or alcohol in her blood or
urine."

"Well, I am not about ready to claim that this girl was abducted by
aliens," Scully said sourly. Mulder just smiled at her. If they were
working together on this they would have started arguing already. How
she missed those days. Now she was the one who had to think of both the
paranormal and scientific possibilities for a case. And she wouldn't
have anyone but herself to debate the issues with.

Mulder was too tired to pursue the line of argument further despite his
obvious interest in the case. He merely listened as she recounted her
day's events, sometimes making a comment or two but never actually
embarking on a long discussion of the case with her.  He just wasn't
able to anymore.

The pain had reached a point where he was permanently drugged. So he was
also permanently groggy, barely able to concentrate for more than five
minutes at a time. He spent most of the time at her apartment huddled on
her couch fast asleep with the TV on. He only ate ice cream or mashed
potatoes, or her mom's soups. He drank cola drinks because he preferred
the hyper-sweet taste to the tastelessness of plain water. Caring for
him wasn't too hard. There was no need to get a live-in nurse. He could
still do things for himself in the bathroom but he did need help getting
to the bathroom. The only times he left her apartment were for his trips
to the hospital and when she took him back to his own apartment for a
short visit and for him to retrieve a few more of his things.

He was going back to the hospital tomorrow. A bone marrow donor had at
long last been found. The donor was of course, anonymous, and while not
exactly a perfect marrow match for Mulder, it was the closest they could
find.  A bone marrow transplant can still take place even if the donor
and the recipient are not a hundred percent compatible, but of course
post-transplant complications are more likely to occur the more
incompatible the two are.

Scully patted Mulder's arm, prompting him to roll over onto his back.
She helped him balance the ice cream bowl on his chest, then she went to
the kitchen to take her mug of coffee and his mug of herbal tea.

A friend who had successfully battled breast cancer and survived had
recommended the medicinal herbal tea to her. The tea was supposed to
balance the body's yin and yang, and purify the healing spirit, and
lessen pain as the body healed itself. Whatever. It was helpful in a
way, which was why she insisted that he keep drinking it. Before Mulder
always had difficulty sleeping through a whole night. Pain always woke
him up. Since he started drinking the tea, his night sleep was no longer
interrupted, and he slept quite peacefully during the day as well.

Of course it may not necessarily be the tea that was helping him sleep.
His worsening anemia probably contributed to him being dead tired enough
to sleep through even the worst pain.

Mulder hated the tea because it was bitter but took it anyway just to
humor her. The tea did provide him some relief from pain when he was
awake. But again, that may be due to the fact that Mulder was just too
tired to complain about his pain anymore, rather than the tea being
effective. She tried to talk him into going to see an acupuncturist to
relieve the pain, but after more than four months of needles, tests and
infusions of this and that, Mulder was absolutely adamant about not
having anything to do with little tiny acupuncture pins.

There was one other thing for her to do - hang her late sister's charms
and crystals in the room he was sleeping in. Mulder had given her
strange looks while she was doing that, and in fact, Scully felt
ridiculous about it too. But well, her sister had been really into
charms and healing crystals, and yin and yang, and had always gone on
and on about how effective these things were spiritually so Scully
figured there wasn't going to be any harm in trying. Regardless of how
stupid the idea sounded.

Mulder patiently put up with her alternative methods of therapy. His
reluctance about non-medicinal cures surprised her in a way, she would
have expected Mulder to be the one who would actively search for his own
cure. Instead he seemed strangely uninterested. On the other hand,
Scully was the one who had suddenly become fascinated by alternative
methods of treatments, reading up on folk cures and herbs and mushrooms.
During the first two months she had put Mulder's disinterest down to the
fact that he was in denial and thus wasn't willing to acknowledge that
he needed a cure. She supposed that presently he was too sick to be
bothered with actually expending his energy to search for his cure when
he knew Scully was doing that on his behalf.

Besides her sudden change in opinion about the effectiveness of
alternative methods of treatment provided some form of amusement for
Mulder. He was frequently chiding her for being gullible enough to fall
for the various alternative treatments she recommended for him.

Mulder was licking his spoon when Scully sat down in the chair beside
him. She placed his mug of tea on the table. Mulder pretended not to
notice.

One of her alternative methods of treatment did work. She brought back
some black powder, apparently watermelon frost, for his mouth and throat
ulcers. He hadn't been happy about that either at first - the powder had
to be dabbed directly on the ulcers and that hurt like hell. The powder
really did heal the ulcers though, there were none now.

"Why are you watching this?" Scully asked, indicating the nature
documentary on her television. "I never thought you had much interest in
orangutan mating habits."

"Hey, just because I am forced to be totally celibate now doesn't mean I
can't watch other guys having fun."

"I told you to behave while you're at my house," Scully reminded him
with a smile.

"I am behaving myself," Mulder said. "This is nature, mind you. I am
trying to commune with nature."

"Fine, commune all you want, but be careful with that bowl of ice
cream."

Mulder hadn't eaten much of the ice cream, and what was left was pretty
much melted mush sloshing in the bowl. He shrugged and handed the bowl
to her. She took the bowl and put it back on the table in case he
changed his mind and wanted some more.

"Is your mom coming again later? When did she leave?"

"She left when I got back just now. And yes, she's coming back later.
She'll be bringing that chicken soup you like."

"Okay," Mulder said. He turned back onto his side and shifted down on
the couch, careful not to jostle the cap off his head, and closed his
eyes. His blanket was wet from where the ice cream bowl had been but he
pulled the blanket up around him anyway. Scully sipped her coffee. She
should make him drink his tea first before it got cold, but she didn't
want to force him into a sitting position once he was so obviously
comfortable. Besides he had already fallen asleep. Just like that. After
all those years of insomnia he sure was catching up on sleep with a
vengeance. At least he had relinquished control of the remote control so
she was able to switch channels and find something to watch to keep her
company.

There was a documentary on another channel about recent advances in the
detection of breast cancer in women. The commentator was speaking of the
genetics of cancer - the likelihood of a woman having breast cancer
increased substantially if other female members of her family had had
the cancer as well.

"Do you take care of yourself?"

Scully was surprised to hear Mulder speak. So he hadn't fallen asleep
yet. His question was also a surprise, although she instantly knew
exactly what he was talking about. He was asking about her health, her
possible risk of developing cancer following whatever it was that had
happened to her during her three month disappearance after she was
kidnapped by Duanne Barry. She knew Mulder worried about her as much as
she worried about him, but they had never spoken about this matter
before. Never ever.

"I make sure I'm okay," she answered. Mulder was still lying on his
side, watching her intently.

"Do you go to a doctor?"

"Mulder, I am a doctor."

Scully's little joke only earned her a slight twist of Mulder's lips.
She turned her attention to her mug of coffee, trying to ignore Mulder's
scrutiny. She wasn't about to tell him how much time she spent in front
of the mirror every night, checking her body for the slightest
discoloration, or the smallest lump. She wasn't going to admit that she
now watched her weight fanatically to ensure there wasn't any
unexplained weight loss - Mulder had lost almost twenty pounds in under
two months without anyone noticing anything wrong. She worried if she
felt unnecessarily tired at work - Mulder had been incredibly tire